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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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