please your reverence, has been standing for twelve hours together in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water, or engaged,’ said I, ‘for months together in long and dangerous marches—harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day-harassing others to-morrow—detached here—countermanded there—resting this night out upon his arms—beat up in his shirt the next—benumbed in his joints—perhaps without straw in his tent to kneel upon—may say his prayers how and when he can. I believe,’ said I, for I was piqued,” quoth the corporal, “for the reputation of the army; ‘I believe, an’ please your reverence,’ said I, ‘that when a soldier gets time to pray, he prays as heartily as a parson, though not with all his fuss and hypocrisy.’ ” “Thou shouldst not have said that, Trim,” said my uncle Toby; “for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not; at the great and general review of us all, corporal, at the day of judgment (and not till then), it will be seen who have done their duties in this world, and who have not; and we shall be advanced, Trim, accordingly.” “I hope we shall,” said Trim. “It is in the scripture,” said my uncle Toby; “and I will show it thee to-morrow; in the meantime we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort,” said my uncle Toby, “that God Almighty is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it, it will never be inquired into whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one.” “I hope not,” said the corporal. “But go on, Trim,” said my uncle Toby, “with thy story.”

“When I went up,” continued the corporal, “into the lieutenant’s room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, he was lying in his bed, with his head raised upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambric handkerchief beside it. The youth was just stooping down to take up the cushion, upon which I supposed he had been kneeling. The book was laid upon the bed; and as he rose, in taking up the cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it away at the same time. ‘Let it remain there, my dear,’ said the lieutenant.

“He did not offer to speak to me till I had walked up close to his bedside. ‘If you be Captain Shandy’s servant,’ said he, ‘you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy’s thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me; if he was of Leven’s,’ said the lieutenant. I told him your honour was. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him, but ’tis most likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me. You will tell him, however, that the person his good nature has laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus’s—but he knows me not,’ said he a second time, musing—‘possibly he may my story,’ added he—‘pray tell the captain I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife was most unfortunately killed with a musket shot, as she lay in my arms in my tent.’ ‘I remember the story, an’ please your honour,’ said I, ‘very well.’ ‘Do you so?’ said he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief, ‘then well may I.’ In saying this, he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied with a black riband about his neck, and kissed it twice. ‘Here, Billy,’ said he—the boy flew across the room to the bedside, and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand, and kissed it too; then kissed his father, and sat down upon the bed and wept.”

“I wish,” said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, “I wish, Trim, I was asleep.”

“Your honour,” replied the corporal, “is too much concerned; shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe?” “Do Trim,” said my uncle Toby.

“I remember,” said my uncle Toby, sighing again, “the story of the ensign and his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omitted; and particularly well, that he, as well as she, on some account or other (I have forgot what), was universally pitied by the whole regiment. But finish the story thou art on.” “’Tis finished already,” said the corporal, “for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour a good night: young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But, alas!” said the corporal, “the lieutenant’s last day’s march is over.” “Then what is to become of his poor boy?” cried my uncle Toby.

It was to my uncle Toby’s eternal honour, though I tell it only for the sake of those who, when cooped in betwixt a natural and a positive law, know not for their souls which way in the world to turn themselves—that notwithstanding my uncle Toby was warmly engaged at that time in carrying on the siege of Dendermond,