At five months of age he used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At six months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he was in the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until, at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and for backing his assertions by bets.
Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. Not that he actually laid wagers--no. I will do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With him the thing was a mere formula--nothing more. His expressions on this head had no meaning attached to them whatever.
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They were simple if not altogether innocent expletives-imaginative phrases wherewith to round off a sentence. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgar one- this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by society--here I said nothing but the truth. I remonstrated--but to no purpose.
I demonstrated--in vain. I entreated--he smiled. I implored--he laughed. I preached- he sneered. I threatened--he swore. I kicked him--he called for the police. I pulled his nose--he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil his head that I would not venture to try that experiment again. He was detestably poor, and this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn.
Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have been small too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure that I am right in attributing them to him. I am always displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account.
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Mysteries force a man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his offensive expression--something in his manner of enunciation--which at first interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy--something which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted 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. Dammits soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my eloquence into French attributing: attribuant. Edgar Allan Poe 43 play to save it. I vowed to serve him as St.
Once more I betook myself to remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt at expostulation. 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.
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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 his character? Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal parent aware, in a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence?
He would put this latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother knew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be willing to bet the Devil his head that she did not. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he left my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused. For once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have won for the Arch-Enemy Mr.
French abide: demeurer, endurer, attendre, demeurent, endurent, demeures, demeurez, endure, demeure, endures, endurez. It was in pursuance of my duty that I had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me, however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I forebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up his society altogether.
I even went so far as to humor some of his less reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found myself lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyesso profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross it.https://diotosirossse.ga
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It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the archway, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare and the interior gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped.
He seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively lively--so much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain species of austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend, and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself.
Nothing would serve him but wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that came in his way; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the time.
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I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him. At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the termination of the footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. He insisted upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut French archway: arceau, arcade.
Edgar Allan Poe 45 a pigeon-wing over it in the air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done by Toby Dammit.
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