——To us, _Jonathan_, who know not what want or care is—who live here in
the service of two of the best of masters—(bating in my own case his
majesty King _William_ the Third, whom I had the honour to serve both
in _Ireland_ and _Flanders_)—I own it, that from _Whitsontide_ to
within three weeks of _Christmas_,—’tis not long—’tis like nothing;—but
to those, _Jonathan_, who know what death is, and what havock and
destruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about—’tis like a
whole age.—O _Jonathan!_ ’twould make a good-natured man’s heart bleed,
to consider, continued the corporal (standing perpendicularly), how low
many a brave and upright fellow has been laid since that time!—And
trust me, _Susy_, added the corporal, turning to _Susannah_, whose eyes
were swimming in water,—before that time comes round again,—many a
bright eye will be dim.—_Susannah_ placed it to the right side of the
page—she wept—but she court’sied too.—Are we not, continued _Trim_,
looking still at _Susannah_—are we not like a flower of the field—a
tear of pride stole in betwixt every two tears of humiliation—else no
tongue could have described _Susannah_’s affliction—is not all flesh
grass?—Tis clay,—’tis dirt.—They all looked directly at the
scullion,—the scullion had just been scouring a fish-kettle.—It was not
fair.—
—What is the finest face that ever man looked at!—I could hear _Trim_
talk so for ever, cried _Susannah_,—what is it! (_Susannah_ laid her
hand upon _Trim_’s shoulder)—but corruption?——_Susannah_ took it off.
Now I love you for this—and ’tis this delicious mixture within you
which makes you dear creatures what you are—and he who hates you for
it——all I can say of the matter is—That he has either a pumpkin for his
head—or a pippin for his heart,—and whenever he is dissected ’twill be
found so.