When my uncle Toby first mentioned the grenadier, my father, I said, fell down with his nose flat to the quilt, and as suddenly as if my uncle Toby had shot him; but it was not added that every other limb and member of my father instantly relapsed with his nose into the same precise attitude in which he lay first described; so that when corporal Trim left the room, and my father found himself disposed to rise off the bed--he had all the little preparatory movements to run over again, before he could do it. Attitudes are nothing, madam--'tis the transition from one attitude to another--like the preparation and resolution of the discord into harmony, which is all in all.

For which reason my father played the same jig over again with his toe upon the floor--pushed the chamber-pot still a little farther within the valance--gave a hem--raised himself up upon his elbow--and was just beginning to address himself to my uncle Toby--when recollecting the unsuccessfulness of his first effort in that attitude--he got upon his legs, and in making the third turn across the room, he stopped short before my uncle Toby; and laying the three first fingers of his right-hand in the palm of his left, and stooping a little, he addressed himself to my uncle Toby as follows: