Dead, your majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.
One of the best of Dickens’s illustrations of gratitude for sympathy is the case of Phil Squod, Mr. George’s assistant in the shooting gallery. He was a mere child in everything but years of hard experiences, but he was devoted heart and soul to Mr. George for a kindly word of hearty sympathy. So devoted was he that he attached himself to Mr. George and became his faithful servant, and found his truest happiness in his service of love.
Phil recalled the story to Mr. George.
“It was after the case-filling blow-up when I first see you, commander. You remember?”
“I remember, Phil. You were walking along in the sun.”
“Crawling, guv’ner, again a wall——”
“True, Phil—shouldering your way on——”
“In a nightcap!” exclaims Phil, excited.
“In a nightcap——”
“And hobbling with a couple of sticks!” cries Phil, still more excited.