news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim
stepp'd into the kitchen,--master Bobby is dead and buried--the funeral
was an interpolation of Susannah's--we shall have all to go into
mourning, said Susannah.

I hope not, said Trim.--You hope not! cried Susannah earnestly.--The
mourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it did in Susannah's.--I
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
of it there is, betwixt these and our seven senses, especially some of
them, for my own part, I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice
to affirm, that of all