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gether—I fear 'tis poor Tom. My father's and my uncle Toby's hearts yearn'd 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;—pri'thee begin the sentence again.]—"Behold this helpless victim deliver'd 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 inPortugal.]
