ver his surprise, and entered upon his harangue,--had Trim got upon his
legs, to speak his sentiments upon the subject.

A curious observer of nature, had he been worth the inventory of all
Job's stock--though by the bye, your curious observers are seldom worth
a groat--would have given the half of it, to have heard Corporal Trim
and my father, two orators so contrasted by nature and education,
haranguing over the same bier.

My father--a man of deep reading--prompt memory--with Cato, and Seneca,
and Epictetus, at his fingers ends.--

The corporal--with nothing--to remember--of no deeper reading than his
muster-roll--or greater names at his fingers end, than the contents of
it.

The one proceeding from period to period, by metaphor and allusion, and
striking the fancy as he went along (as men of wit and fancy do) with
the entertainment and pleasantry of his pictures and images.

The other, without wit or antithesis, or point, or turn, this way or
that; but leaving the images on one side, and the picture on the other,
going straight forwards as nature could lead him, to the heart. O Trim!
would to heaven thou had'st a better historian!--would!--thy historian
had a better pair of breeches!--O ye critics! will nothing melt you?

Chapter 3.VII.

--My young master in London is dead? said Obadiah.--

--A green sattin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice
scoured, was the first idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought
into Susannah's head.--Well might Locke write a chapter upon the
imperfections of words.--Then, quoth Susannah, we must all go into
mourning.--But note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding
Susannah made use of it herself--failed also of doing its office; it
excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,--all was
green.--The green sattin night-gown hung there still.

--O! 'twill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah.--My
mother's whole wardrobe followed.--What a procession! her red
damask,--her orange tawney,--her white and yellow lutestrings,--her
brown taffata,--her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable
under-petticoats.--Not a rag was left behind.--'No,--she will never look
up again,' said Susannah.

We had a fat, foolish scullion--my father, I think, kept her for her
simplicity;--she had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.--He
is dead, said Obadiah,--he is certainly dead!--So am not I, said the
foolish scullion.

--Here is sad