Now, my dear friend _Garrick_, whom I have so much cause to esteem and honour—(why, or wherefore, ’tis no matter)—can it escape your penetration—I defy it—that so many play-wrights, and opificers of chit-chat have ever since been working upon _Trim_’s and my uncle _Toby_’s pattern.——I care not what _Aristotle_, or _Pacuvius_, or _Bossu_, or _Ricaboni_ say—(though I never read one of them)——there is not a greater difference between a single-horse chair and madam _Pompadour_’s _vis-a-vis;_ than betwixt a single amour, and an amour thus nobly doubled, and going upon all four, prancing throughout a grand drama——Sir, a simple, single, silly affair of that kind—is quite lost in five acts—but that is neither here nor there. After a series of attacks and repulses in a course of nine months on my uncle _Toby_’s quarter, a most minute account of every particular of which shall be given in its proper place, my uncle _Toby_, honest man! found it necessary to draw off his forces and raise the siege somewhat indignantly. Corporal _Trim_, as I said, had made no such bargain either with himself——or with any one else——the fidelity however of his heart not suffering him to go into a house which his master had forsaken with disgust——he contented himself with turning his part of the siege into a blockade;—that is, he kept others off;—for though he never after went to the house, yet he never met _Bridget_ in the village, but he would either nod or wink, or smile, or look kindly at her—or (as circumstances directed) he would shake her by the hand—or ask her lovingly how she did—or would give her a ribbon—and now-and-then, though never but when it could be done with decorum, would give _Bridget_ a— Precisely in this situation, did these things stand for five years; that is from the demolition of _Dunkirk_ in the year 13, to the latter end of my uncle _Toby_’s campaign in the year 18, which was about six or seven weeks before the time I’m speaking of.——When _Trim_, as his custom was, after he had put my uncle _Toby_ to bed, going down one moon-shiny night to see that every thing was right at his fortifications——in the lane separated from the bowling-green with flowering shrubs and holly—he espied his _Bridget._ 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.