Chapter C: H a P. IX

——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.