His hands were clasped
pensively
together over his stomach, and his two
eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
Poe - 5
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. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping
the stile, and said he could cut 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. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a
braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be
sorry afterward;--for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his head
that he could.
I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a
slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation "ahem! " I
started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into
a nook of the frame--work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little
lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend
than his whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of black,
but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down
over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl's.
His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two
eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very
odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
circumstance, he interrupted me with a second "ahem! "
To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact
is, remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known
a Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word "Fudge! " I am not ashamed to
say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.
"Dammit," said I, "what are you about? don't you hear? --the gentleman
says 'ahem! '" I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him;
for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is
particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he
is pretty sure to look like a fool.
"Dammit," observed I--although this sounded very much like an oath, than
which nothing was further from my thoughts--"Dammit," I suggested--"the
gentleman says 'ahem! '"
I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did
not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our
speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own
eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb,
or knocked him in the head with the "Poets and Poetry of America," he
could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with
those simple words: "Dammit, what are you about?
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. Dammit. He insisted upon leaping
the stile, and said he could cut 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. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a
braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be
sorry afterward;--for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his head
that he could.
I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a
slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation "ahem! " I
started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into
a nook of the frame--work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a little
lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverend
than his whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of black,
but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly down
over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl's.
His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two
eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very
odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
circumstance, he interrupted me with a second "ahem! "
To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact
is, remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known
a Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word "Fudge! " I am not ashamed to
say, therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.
"Dammit," said I, "what are you about? don't you hear? --the gentleman
says 'ahem! '" I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him;
for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is
particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he
is pretty sure to look like a fool.
"Dammit," observed I--although this sounded very much like an oath, than
which nothing was further from my thoughts--"Dammit," I suggested--"the
gentleman says 'ahem! '"
I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did
not think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our
speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own
eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb,
or knocked him in the head with the "Poets and Poetry of America," he
could hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with
those simple words: "Dammit, what are you about?
