VII
вЄїMy young master in London is dead! said Obadiah.вБ†вАФ
вЄїA green sattin nightgown of my motherвАЩs which had been twice scoured, was the first idea which ObadiahвАЩs exclamation brought into SusannahвАЩs head.вБ†вАФWell might Locke write a chapter upon the imperfection of words.вБ†вАФThen, quoth Susannah, we must all go into mourning.вБ†вАФBut note a second time: the word mourning, notwithstanding Susannah made use of it herselfвБ†вАФfailed also of doing its office; it excited not one single idea, tinged either with grey or black,вБ†вАФall was green.вБ†вЄЇвБ†The green sattin nightgown hung there still.
вАФO! вАЩtwill be the death of my poor mistress, cried Susannah.вБ†вАФMy motherвАЩs whole wardrobe followed.вБ†вАФWhat a procession! her red damask,вБ†вАФher orange tawney,вБ†вАФher white and yellow lutestrings,вБ†вАФher brown taffata,вБ†вАФher bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns, and comfortable under-petticoats.вБ†вАФNot a rag was left behind.вБ†вАФвАЬNo,вБ†вАФshe will never look up again,вАЭ said Susannah.
We had a fat, foolish scullionвБ†вАФmy father, I think, kept her for her simplicity;вБ†вАФshe had been all autumn struggling with a dropsy.вБ†вАФHe is dead, said Obadiah,вБ†вАФhe is certainly dead!вБ†вАФSo am not I, said the foolish scullion.
вЄЇвБ†Here is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim steppвАЩd into the kitchen,вБ†вАФmaster Bobby is dead and buriedвБ†вАФthe funeral was an interpolation of SusannahвАЩsвБ†вАФwe shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah.
I hope not, said Trim.вБ†вАФYou hope not! cried Susannah earnestly.вБ†вАФThe mourning ran not in TrimвАЩs head, whatever it did in SusannahвАЩs.вБ†вАФI hopeвБ†вАФsaid Trim, explaining himself, I hope in God the news is not true.вБ†вАФI 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.вБ†вАФOh! heвАЩs dead, said Susannah.вБ†вАФAs sure, said the scullion, as IвАЩm alive.
I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a sigh.вБ†вАФPoor creature!вБ†вАФpoor boy!вБ†вАФpoor gentleman.
вАФHe was alive last Whitsontide! said the coachman.вБ†вАФWhitsontide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon,вБ†вАФwhat is Whitsontide, Jonathan (for that was the coachmanвАЩs 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)вБ†вАФand are we notвБ†вАФ(dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a moment!вБ†вАФвАЩTwas infinitely striking! Susannah burst into a flood of tears.вБ†вАФWe are not stocks and stones.вБ†вАФJonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.вБ†вАФThe foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was rousвАЩd with it.вБ†вАФThe whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.
Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our constitution in church and state,вБ†вАФand possibly the preservation of the whole worldвБ†вАФor 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 corporalвАЩs eloquenceвБ†вАФI do demand your attentionвБ†вАФyour 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, вАЬwe were not stocks and stonesвАЭвБ†вАФвАЩtis very well. I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were,вБ†вАФbut men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations;вБ†вАФand 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,вБ†вАФgives a smarter stroke, and leaves something more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either conveyвБ†вАФor sometimes, get rid of.
вАФIвАЩve gone a little aboutвБ†вАФno matter, вАЩtis for healthвБ†вАФlet us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality of TrimвАЩs hat.вБ†вАФвАЬAre we not here now,вБ†вАФand gone in a moment?вАЭвБ†вАФThere was nothing in the sentenceвБ†вАФвАЩtwas 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 headвБ†вАФhe had made nothing at all of it.
вЄївАЬAre we not here now;вАЭ continued the corporal, вАЬand are we notвАЭвБ†вАФ(dropping his hat plump upon the groundвБ†вАФand pausing, before he pronounced the word)вБ†вАФвАЬgone! in a moment?вАЭ The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneeded into the crown of it.вБ†вЄЇвБ†Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it,вБ†вАФhis hand seemed to vanish from under it,вБ†вАФit fell dead,вБ†вАФthe corporalвАЩs eye fixed upon it, as upon a corpse,вБ†вАФand Susannah burst into a flood of tears.
NowвБ†вАФTen 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.вБ†вЄЇвБ†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,вБ†вАФor in the best direction that could be given to it,вБ†вАФhad he dropped it like a gooseвБ†вАФlike a puppyвБ†вАФlike an assвБ†вАФor in doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked like a foolвБ†вАФlike a ninnyвБ†вАФlike a nincompoopвБ†вАФit had failвАЩd, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.
Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns with the engines of eloquence,вБ†вАФwho heat it, and cool it, and melt it, and mollify it,вБ†вЄЇвБ†and then harden it again to your purposeвБ†вЄЇвБ†
Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think meetвБ†вАФ
Ye, lastly, who driveвБ†вЄЇвБ†and why not, Ye also who are driven, like turkeys to market with a stick and a red cloutвБ†вАФmeditateвБ†вАФmeditate, I beseech you, upon TrimвАЩs hat.