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. C H A P. XL IS this a fit time, said my father to himself, to talk of PENSIONS and GRENADIERS? C H A P. XLI