WAS it _Mackay_’s regiment, quoth my uncle _Toby_, where the poor
grenadier was so unmercifully whipp’d at _Bruges_ about the ducats?—O
Christ! he was innocent! cried _Trim_, with a deep sigh.—And he was
whipp’d, may it please your honour, almost to death’s door.—They had
better have shot him outright, as he begg’d, and he had gone directly
to heaven, for he was as innocent as your honour.——I thank thee,
_Trim_, quoth my uncle _Toby_.——I never think of his, continued _Trim_,
and my poor brother _Tom_’s misfortunes, for we were all three
school-fellows, but I cry like a coward.——Tears are no proof of
cowardice, _Trim._—I drop them oft-times myself, cried my uncle
_Toby_.——I know your honour does, replied _Trim_, and so am not ashamed
of it myself.—But to think, may it please your honour, continued
_Trim_, a tear stealing into the corner of his eye as he spoke—to think
of two virtuous lads with hearts as warm in their bodies, and as honest
as God could make them—the children of honest people, going forth with
gallant spirits to seek their fortunes in the world—and fall into such
evils!—poor _Tom!_ to be tortured upon a rack for nothing—but marrying
a Jew’s widow who sold sausages—honest _Dick Johnson_’s soul to be
scourged out of his body, for the ducats another man put into his
knapsack!—O!—these are misfortunes, cried _Trim_,—pulling out his
handkerchief—these are misfortunes, may it please your honour, worth
lying down and crying over.
—My father could not help blushing.
’Twould be a pity, _Trim_, quoth my uncle _Toby_, thou shouldst ever
feel sorrow of thy own—thou feelest it so tenderly for
others.—Alack-o-day, replied the corporal, brightening up his
face——your honour knows I have neither wife or child——I can have no
sorrows in this world.——My father could not help smiling.—As few as any
man, _Trim_, replied my uncle _Toby_; nor can I see how a fellow of thy
light heart can suffer, but from the distress of poverty in thy old
age—when thou art passed all services, _Trim_—and hast outlived thy
friends.——An’ please your honour, never fear, replied _Trim_,
chearily.——But I would have thee never fear, _Trim_, replied my uncle
_Toby_, and therefore, continued my uncle _Toby_, throwing down his
crutch, and getting up upon his legs as he uttered the word
_therefore_—in recompence, _Trim_, of thy long fidelity to me, and that
goodness of thy heart I have had such proofs of—whilst thy master is
worth a shilling——thou shalt never ask elsewhere, _Trim_, for a penny.
_Trim_ attempted to thank my uncle _Toby_—but had not power——tears
trickled down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them off—He laid his
hands upon his breast——made a bow to the ground, and shut the door.
——I have left _Trim_ my bowling-green, cried my uncle _Toby_——My father
smiled.——I have left him moreover a pension, continued my uncle
_Toby_.——My father looked grave.