I am not well
      enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with
      decision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of
      the “Dial” present. 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. 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?—don’t you hear?—the
      gentleman says ‘ahem!’”


      “You don’t say so?” gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a
      pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. “Are you
      quite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may
      as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then—ahem!”


      At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased—God only knows why. He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a
      gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all
      the while straight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated
      benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine. “I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit,” said he, with the frankest of
      all smiles, “but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of
      mere form.”


      “Ahem!” replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying a
      pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable
      alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing down
      the corners of his mouth—“ahem!” And “ahem!” said he again, after a
      pause; and not another word more than “ahem!” did I ever know him to say
      after that. “Aha!” thought I, without expressing myself aloud—“this
      is quite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt
      a consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme
      induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable
      questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him
      my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals.”


      “Ahem!” here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and
      looking like a very old sheep in a revery. The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade
      of the bridge—a few paces back from the turnstile. “My good fellow,”
       said he, “I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait
      here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go
      over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don’t omit any flourishes of
      the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say ‘one, two, three, and
      away.’ Mind you, start at the word ‘away.’” Here he took his position by
      the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked up
      and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his
      apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as
      agreed upon—


            _One—two—three—and—away!_


      Punctually at the word “away,” my poor friend set off in a strong gallop.