“If you proceed in this manner, you will make us all Cartesians,”[[63]] exclaimed the vicar.
“I shall illustrate my subject by means of a new toy which I have lately invented,” said Mr. Seymour, “and unless I am much mistaken, it will afford as much amusement to the elder as to the younger members of our party, although the vicar may perhaps regard it as a more hostile instrument than even that of the wooden horse which filled unhappy Troy with an armed enemy. It is a small machine,” continued Mr. Seymour, “which is well calculated to furnish us with some capital puns.”
“With puns!” exclaimed the horrified vicar, who no sooner heard this appalling declaration, than like another Laocoon, he deprecated the introduction of the “donum exitiale” within the walls of Overton Lodge. But his hostility was soon disarmed, not by the circumvolutions of a snake around the body of the enraged orator, but by the embraces of little Rosa, who threw her arms around the neck of the vicar, with such supplicating grace, that at length he exclaimed, “Well, well; if it be the decree of the Fates, I must submit.”
During this altercation, Mr. Seymour had procured the “wooden engine” from his study.
“I will first,” said he, “exhibit the toy in its original state, and then show you the improvements which have been effected in it.”
“Let us hear the account of its operation,” said the major, “which I perceive is enclosed within the box.”
“True,” replied Mr. Seymour; “and I think you will agree that I have given a very plausible explanation of its effects.”
“Plausible,” muttered the vicar, “plausible enough, no doubt; oh the Sinon!”
Mr. Seymour then proceeded. “This toy is termed the THAUMATROPE.”
“Of Grecian origin!” observed the vicar. “‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ as Virgil has it.”