Trim, before I would level my musket at them, I would loose
my life a thousand times.--Here's a crown for thee, Trim, to drink with
Obadiah to-night, quoth my uncle Toby, and I'll give Obadiah another
too.--God bless your Honour, replied Trim,--I had rather these poor
women and children had it.--thou art an honest fellow, quoth my uncle
Toby.--My father nodded his head, as much as to say--and so he is.--

But prithee, Trim, said my father, make an end,--for I see thou hast but
a leaf or two left.

Corporal Trim read on.)

'If the testimony of past centuries in this matter is not
sufficient,--consider at this instant, how the votaries of that religion
are every day thinking to do service and honour to God, by actions which
are a dishonour and scandal to themselves.

'To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the prisons of
the Inquisition.'--(God help my poor brother Tom.)--'Behold Religion,
with Mercy and Justice chained down under her feet,--there sitting
ghastly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks and instruments of
torment. Hark!--hark! what a piteous groan!'--(Here Trim's face turned
as pale as ashes.)--'See the melancholy wretch who uttered it'--(Here
the tears began to trickle down)--'just brought forth to undergo the
anguish of a mock trial, and endure the utmost pains that a studied
system of cruelty has been able to invent.'--(D..n them all, quoth
Trim, his colour returning into his face as red as blood.)--'Behold this
helpless victim delivered up to his tormentors,--his body so wasted with
sorrow and confinement.'--(Oh! 'tis my brother, cried poor Trim in a
most passionate exclamation, dropping the sermon upon the ground, and
clapping his hands together--I fear 'tis poor Tom. My father's and my
uncle Toby's heart yearned with sympathy for the poor fellow's distress;
even Slop himself acknowledged pity for him.--Why, Trim, said my father,
this is not a history,--'tis a sermon thou art reading; prithee begin
the sentence again.)--'Behold this helpless victim delivered up to his
tormentors,--his body so wasted with sorrow and confinement, you will
see every nerve and muscle as it suffers.

'Observe the last movement of that horrid engine!'--(I would rather face
a cannon, quoth Trim, stamping.)--'See what convulsions it has thrown
him into!--Consider the nature of the posture in which he how lies
stretched,--what exquisite tortures he endures by it!'--(I hope 'tis not
in Portugal.)--''Tis