As the corporal thought there was nothing in the world so well worth shewing as the glorious works which he and my uncle Toby had made, Trim courteously and gallantly took her by the hand, and led her in: this was not done so privately, but that the foul-mouth'd trumpet of Fame carried it from ear to ear, till at length it reach'd my father's, with this untoward circumstance along with it, that my uncle Toby's curious draw-bridge, constructed and painted after the Dutch fashion, and which went quite across the ditch--was broke down, and somehow or other crushed all to pieces that very night.
My Father, as you have observed, had no great esteem for my uncle Toby's hobby-horse; he thought it the most ridiculous horse that ever gentleman mounted; and indeed unless my uncle Toby vexed him about it, could never think of it once, without smiling at it--so that it could never get lame or happen any mischance, but it tickled my father's imagination beyond measure; but this being an accident much more to his humour than any one which had yet befall'n it, it proved an inexhaustible fund of entertainment to him--Well--but dear Toby! my father would say, do tell me seriously how this affair of the bridge happened.--How can you teaze me so much about it? my uncle Toby would reply--I have told it you twenty times, word for word as Trim told it me.--Prithee, how was it then, corporal? my father would cry, turning to Trim.--It was a mere misfortune, an' please your honour;--Iwas shewing Mrs. Bridget our fortifications, and in going too near the edge of the fosse, I unfortunately slipp'd in--Very well, Trim! my father would cry--(smiling mysteriously, and giving a nod--but without interrupting him)--and being link'd fast, an' please your honour, arm in arm with Mrs.
Bridget, I dragg'd her after me, by means of which she fell backwards soss against the bridge--and Trim's foot (my uncle Toby would cry, taking the story out of his mouth) getting into the cuvette, he tumbled full against the bridge too.--It was a thousand to one, my uncle Toby would add, that the poor fellow did not break his leg.--Ay truly, my father would say--a limb is soon broke, brother Toby, in such encounters.--And so, an' please your honour, the bridge, which your honour knows was a very slight one, was broke down betwixt us, and splintered all to pieces.
At other times, but especially when my uncle Toby was so unfortunate as to say a syllable about cannons, bombs, or petards--my father would exhaust all the stores of his eloquence (which indeed were very great) in a panegyric upon the Battering-Rams of the ancients--the Vinea which Alexander made use of at the siege of Troy.--He would tell my uncle Toby of the Catapultae of the Syrians, which threw such monstrous stones so many hundred feet, and shook the strongest bulwarks from their very foundation:--he would go on and describe the wonderful mechanism of the Ballista which Marcellinus makes so much rout about!--the terrible effects of the Pyraboli, which cast fire;--the danger of the Terebra and Scorpio, which cast javelins.--But what are these, would he say, to the destructive machinery of corporal Trim?--Believe me, brother Toby, no bridge, or bastion, or sally-port, that ever was constructed in this world, can hold out against such artillery.
My uncle Toby would never attempt any defence against the force of this ridicule, but that of redoubling the vehemence of smoaking his pipe; in doing which, he raised so dense a vapour one night after supper, that it set my father, who was a little phthisical, into a suffocating fit of violent coughing: my uncle Toby leap'd up without feeling the pain upon his groin--and, with infinite pity, stood beside his brother's chair, tapping his back with one hand, and holding his head with the other, and from time to time wiping his eyes with a clean cambrick handkerchief, which he pulled out of his pocket.--The affectionate and endearing manner in which my uncle Toby did these little offices--cut my father thro' his reins, for the pain he had just been giving him.--May my brains be knock'd out with a battering-ram or a catapulta, I care not which, quoth my father to himself--if ever I insult this worthy soul more!
