He is, an’ please your Honour, replied _Trim._ Pugh! said my father, smiling. Sir, quoth Dr. _Slop, Trim_ is certainly in the right; for the writer (who I perceive is a Protestant) by the snappish manner in which he takes up the apostle, is certainly going to abuse him;—if this treatment of him has not done it already. But from whence, replied my father, have you concluded so soon, Dr. _Slop_, that the writer is of our church?—for aught I can see yet,—he may be of any church.——Because, answered Dr. _Slop_, if he was of ours,—he durst no more take such a licence,—than a bear by his beard:—If, in our communion, Sir, 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!