hope—said Trim , explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true.—I heard the letter read with my own ears, answered Obadiah ; and we shall have a terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the Ox-moor.—Oh! he’s dead, said Susannah .—As sure, said the scullion, as I’m alive.
I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim , fetching a sigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy!—poor gentleman.
—He was alive last Whitsontide! said the coachman.— Whitsontide! alas! cried Trim , extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,—what is Whitsontide , Jonathan (for that was the coachman’s name), or Shrovetide , or any tide or time past, to this? Are we not here now, continued the corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability)—and are we not—(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!—’Twas infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears.—We are not stocks and stones.— Jonathan , Obadiah , the cook-maid, all melted.—The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rous’d with it.—The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.
Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state,—and possibly the preservation of the whole world—or what is the same thing, the distribution and balance of its property and power, may in time to come depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of the corporal’s eloquence—I do demand your attention—your worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it at your ease.
I said, “we were not stocks and stones”—’tis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were,—but men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations;—and what a junketing piece of work