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of a fiddle stick!—quoth my father,—which follow and succeed one another in our minds at certain distances, just like the images in the inside of a lanthorn turned round by the heat of a candle.—I declare, quoth my uncle Toby, mine are like a smoak-jack.—Then, brother Toby, I have nothing more to say to you upon the subject, said my father.
CHAP. XIX.
— What a conjuncture was here lost!—My father in one of his best explanatory moods,—in eager pursuit of a metaphysic point into the very regions where clouds and thick darkness would soon have encompassed it about;—my uncle Toby in one of the finest dispositions for it in the world;—his head like a smoak-jack;—the funnel unswept, and the ideas whirl-
