——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 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 the senses, the eye (for I absolutely
deny the touch, though most of your _Barbati_, I know, are for it) has
the quickest commerce with the soul,—gives a smarter stroke, and leaves
something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either
convey—or sometimes get rid of.
—I’ve gone a little about—no matter, ’tis for health—let us only carry
it back in our mind to the mortality of _Trim_’s hat—“Are we not here
now,—and gone in a moment?”—There was nothing in the sentence—’twas one
of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day;
and if _Trim_ had not trusted more to his hat than his head—he made
nothing at all of it.
——“Are we not here now;” continued the corporal, “and are we
not”—(dropping his hat plumb upon the ground—and pausing, before he
pronounced the word)—“gone! in a moment?” The descent of the hat was as
if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it.——Nothing
could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the
type and fore-runner, like it,—his hand seemed to vanish from under
it,—it fell dead,—the corporal’s eye fixed upon it, as upon a
corpse,—and _Susannah_ burst into a flood of tears.
Now—Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand (for matter and
motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be dropped upon
the ground, without any effect.——Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast
it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall in any
possible direction under heaven,—or in the best direction that could be
given to it,—had he dropped it like a goose—like a puppy—like an ass—or
in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a fool—like
a ninny—like a nincompoop—it had fail’d, and the effect upon the heart
had been lost.
Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the
engines of eloquence,—who heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and
mollify it,——and then harden it again to _your purpose_——
Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having
done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meet.
Ye, lastly, who drive——and why not, Ye also who are driven, like
turkeys to market with a stick and a red clout—meditate—meditate, I
beseech you, upon _Trim_’s hat.