I am always
displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. 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. 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.
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