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 CATAPULT 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 PYROBOLI, 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!
At other times, when my uncle Toby was so unfortunate as to say a syllable about cannons or bombs, my father would expound upon the Battering-Rams of the ancients. - He would tell my uncle Toby of the Syrian Catapults, which threw such monstrous stones so many hundred feet, that they shook the strongest bulwarks to their very foundation: he would describe the wonderful mechanism of the Ballista - the terrible effects of the fire-hurling Pyroboli - the danger of the Terebra and Scorpio.
'But what are these,' he would say, 'to the destructive machinery of corporal Trim? No bridge that ever was constructed can hold out against such artillery.'
My uncle Toby would never attempt any defence against this ridicule, except by smoking his pipe with redoubled vehemence. In doing this, he raised so dense a smoke one night, that it set my father into a fit of violent coughing.
My uncle Toby leaped up without feeling the pain in his groin - and, with infinite pity, stood beside his brother, tapping his back, and holding his head, and from time to time wiping his eyes with a clean handkerchief. The affectionate manner in which he did this cut my father to the quick for the pain he had just been giving him.
'May my brains be knocked out with a battering-ram,' quoth my father to himself, 'if ever I insult this worthy soul again!'