ishment in it."
"We all stand in need of regeneration, Solomon, and should desire
improvement, even as the hart panteth for the water-brooks; be it
improvement of body, or improvement of mind. There was a wise King of
Israel of thy name."
"What! Grundy, sir? the Grundys were of Lancashire," said the gratified
compounder of kitchen-stuff.
"Not Grundy; heard ye ever in Scripture of a name like that?" retorted
the preacher. "It was Solomon the wise."
"I remember him now; he had a many wives. But you can call to mind,
sir, when I only wanted to put away old Joan, and marry Phoebe Graceful,
you, sir, wouldn't let me. But them old Christians had a deal more
liberty."
"Peace, fool!" exclaimed Fleetword, somewhat in anger. "Solomon was a
Jew."
"A Jew!" repeated the cook--"I wonder at your holy reverence to think of
such wickedness; surely your reverence does not want me to be like a
Jew?"
"Solomon, thou art a fool--in bone, in flesh, in marrow, and in spirit.
Have I not told thee of the ungodliness of these thoughts?" replied the
preacher, as he finished his last morsel. "But, unless I answer thee
according to thine own foolishness, I cannot make thee understand. Get
me a flagon of double-dub."
"With a toast in it?" demanded Grundy, slily peering out at the corner
of his eye.
"Thou canst comprehend _that_," replied Fleetword: "truly--truly, the
creature comforts have absorbed thy whole stock of ideas. Thou art like
a sponge, Solomon--a mere fungus. Thou may'st put in the toast. And hark
ye! if ye see Barbara, tell her I would speak with her; not here--not
here--that would be unseemly--but in the oak parlour, or the library, I
care not which."
"Now do I wish for Robin Hays," muttered the shrewd yet ignorant cook;
"for he would expoundiate, which signifies, make clear--why a parson
must not meet a maid in the buttery.--But he is not a parson--Then he is
a man--But not only a man, he must be something else, methinks. But why
not Barbara go to the buttery? Just in time, here comes Robin; so I'll
e'en ask him.--Give you good day, my Kentish man; it was a pity you were
not here last night, as you so love a fray. The handsome youth, who had
been staying on a visit, was cooped up, because he and Sir Willmott
fought about my Lady Constance. And then the Major--he has been here two
or three times, and they call him Wellmore--although worthy Jabez
Tippet, the boatman, swears--no, not swears--declares, that no such
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