ir, a man was to insult an
apostle,--a saint,--or even the paring of a saint's nail,--he would have
his eyes scratched out.--What, by the saint? quoth my uncle Toby. No,
replied Dr. Slop, he would have an old house over his head. Pray is
the Inquisition an ancient building, answered my uncle Toby, or is it
a modern one?--I know nothing of architecture, replied Dr. Slop.--An'
please your Honours, quoth Trim, the Inquisition is the vilest--Prithee
spare thy description, Trim, I hate the very name of it, said my
father.--No matter for that, answered Dr. Slop,--it has its uses; for
tho' I'm no great advocate for it, yet, in such a case as this, he would
soon be taught better manners; and I can tell him, if he went on at that
rate, would be flung into the Inquisition for his pains. God help him
then, quoth my uncle Toby. Amen, added Trim; for Heaven above knows,
I have a poor brother who has been fourteen years a captive in it.--I
never heard one word of it before, said my uncle Toby, hastily:--How
came he there, Trim?--O, Sir, the story will make your heart bleed,--as
it has made mine a thousand times;--but it is too long to be told
now;--your Honour shall hear it from first to last some day when I am
working beside you in our fortifications;--but the short of the story
is this;--That my brother Tom went over a servant to Lisbon,--and then
married a Jew's widow, who kept a small shop, and sold sausages, which
somehow or other, was the cause of his being taken in the middle of the
night out of his bed, where he was lying with his wife and two small
children, and carried directly to the Inquisition, where, God help him,
continued Trim, fetching a sigh from the bottom of his heart,--the poor
honest lad lies confined at this hour; he was as honest a soul, added
Trim, (pulling out his handkerchief) as ever blood warmed.--

--The tears trickled down Trim's cheeks faster than he could well wipe
them away.--A dead silence in the room ensued for some minutes.--Certain
proof of pity!

Come Trim, quoth my father, after he saw the poor fellow's grief had
got a little vent,--read on,--and put this melancholy story out of thy
head:--I grieve that I interrupted thee; but prithee begin the sermon
again;--for if the first sentence in it is matter of abuse, as thou
sayest, I have a great desire to know what kind of provocation the
apostle has given.

Corporal Trim wiped his face, and returned his handkerchief into his
pocket, and, making