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to call queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical,
Mr. Kant pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson
hyperquizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was
in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to
save it. I vowed to serve him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is
said to have served the toad,--that is to say, "awaken him to a sense
of his situation." I addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I
betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final
attempt at expostulation.
When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in
some very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent,
merely looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his
head to one side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he
spread out the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he
winked with the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left.
Then he shut them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so
very wide that I became seriously alarmed for the consequences.
Then, applying his thumb to his nose, he thought proper to make an
indescribable movement with the rest of his fingers. Finally, setting
his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.
I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be obliged
to me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He
despised all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself.
Did I still think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say any thing against
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