by Edgar Allan Poe
(1850)
CON tal que las costumbres de un autor," says
Don Thomas de las Torres, in the preface to his "Amatory Poems"
"sean puras y castas, importo muy poco que no sean igualmente
severas sus obras"- meaning, in plain English, that, provided
the morals of an author are pure personally, it signifies
nothing what are the morals of his books. We presume that Don
Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would be a
clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him
there until his "Amatory Poems" get out of print, or are laid
definitely upon the shelf through lack of readers. Every
fiction should have a moral; and, what is more to the purpose,
the critics have discovered that every fiction has. Philip
Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon the
"Batrachomyomachia," and proved that the poet's object was to
excite a distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going a step
farther, shows that the intention was to recommend to young men
temperance in eating and drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo
has satisfied himself that, by Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate
John Calvin; by Antinous, Martin Luther; by the Lotophagi,
Protestants in general; and, by the Harpies, the Dutch. Our
more modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows
demonstrate a hidden meaning in "The Antediluvians," a parable
in Powhatan," new views in "Cock Robin," and transcendentalism
in "Hop O' My Thumb." In short, it has been shown that no man
can sit down to write without a very profound design. Thus to
authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for
example, need have no care of his moral. It is there- that is
to say, it is somewhere- and the moral and the critics can take
care of themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the
gentleman intended, and all that he did not intend, will be
brought to light, in the "Dial," or the "Down-Easter," together
with all that he ought to have intended, and the rest that he
clearly meant to intend:- so that it will all come very
straight in the end.
There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge
brought against me by certain ignoramuses- that I have never
written a moral tale, or, in more precise words, a tale with a
moral. They are not the critics predestined to bring me out,
and develop my morals:- that is the secret. By and by the
"North American Quarterly Humdrum" will make them ashamed of
their stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution-
by way of mitigating the accusations against me- I offer the
sad history appended,- a history about whose obvious moral
there can be no question whatever, since he who runs may read
it in the large capitals which form the title of the tale. I
should have credit for this arrangement- a far wiser one than
that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the impression to
be conveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the
fag end of their fables.
Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a law of the
twelve tables, and De mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent
injunction- even if the dead in question be nothing but dead
small beer. It is not my design, therefore, to vituperate my
deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad dog, it is true, and
a dog's death it was that he died; but he himself was not to
blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his
mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an
infant- for duties to her well- regulated mind were always
pleasures, and babies, like tough steaks, or the modern Greek
olive trees, are invariably the better for beating- but, poor
woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, and a child
flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. The world
revolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from
left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an
evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite
one knocks its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at
Toby's chastisements, and, even by the way in which he kicked,
I could perceive that he was getting worse and worse every day.
At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes, that there was no
hope of the villain at all, and one day when he had been cuffed
until he grew so black in the face that one might have mistaken
him for a little African, and no effect had been produced
beyond that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could
stand it no longer, but went down upon my knees forthwith, and,
uplifting my voice, made prophecy of his ruin.
The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful.
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. The fashion had "grown with his growth and strengthened
with his strength," so that, when he came to be a man, he could
scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it with a
proposition to gamble. 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. They were simple if not altogether innocent
expletives- imaginative phrases wherewith to round off a
sentence. When he said "I'll bet you so and so," nobody ever
thought of taking him up; but still I could not help thinking
it my duty to put him down. 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. It was forbidden by act of Congress- here I had
not the slightest intention of telling a lie. 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.
Poverty was another vice which the peculiar
physical deficiency of Dammit's mother had entailed upon her
son. He was detestably poor, and this was the reason, no doubt,
that his expletive expressions about betting, seldom took a
pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I ever heard
him make use of such a figure of speech as "I'll bet you a
dollar." It was usually "I'll bet you what you please," or
"I'll bet you what you dare," or "I'll bet you a trifle," or
else, more significantly still, "I'll bet the Devil my
head."
This latter form seemed to please him best;-
perhaps because it involved the least risk; for Dammit had
become excessively parsimonious. 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. At all events the phrase
in question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross
impropriety of a man betting his brains like bank-notes:- but
this was a point which my friend's perversity of disposition
would not permit him to comprehend. In the end, he abandoned
all other forms of wager, and gave himself up to "I'll bet the
Devil my head," with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of
devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. 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.
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 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.
Mr. 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. Dammit's little head- for the fact
is, my mamma was very well aware of my merely temporary absence
from home.
But Khoda shefa midehed- Heaven gives relief- as
the Mussulmans say when you tread upon their toes. 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
eyes:- so profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil
talk.
One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in
arm, our route led us in the direction of a river. There was a
bridge, and we resolved to cross it. 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 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. The stile was not very high, like
Mr. Lord's- nor yet very low, like that of Mr. Lord's
reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would clear
it. And then what if he did not?- ah, that was the question-
what if he did not? "What right," said I, "had the old
gentleman to make any other gentleman jump? The little old
dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he asks me to jump, I won't do
it, that's flat, and I don't care who the devil he is." The
bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very
ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo
about it at all times- an echo which I never before so
particularly observed as when I uttered the four last words of
my remark.
But what I said, or what I thought, or what I
heard, occupied only an instant. In less than five seconds from
his starting, my poor Toby had taken the leap. I saw him run
nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of the bridge,
cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up.
I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just
over the top of the stile; and of course I thought it an
unusually singular thing that he did not continue to go over.
But the whole leap was the affair of a moment, and, before I
had a chance to make any profound reflections, down came Mr.
Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same side of the stile
from which he had started. At the same instant I saw the old
gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught
and wrapt up in his apron something that fell heavily into it
from the darkness of the arch just over the turnstile. At all
this I was much astonished; but I had no leisure to think, for
Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded that his
feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my
assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received
what might be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had
been deprived of his head, which after a close search I could
not find anywhere; so I determined to take him home and send
for the homoeopathists. In the meantime a thought struck me,
and I threw open an adjacent window of the bridge, when the sad
truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just above the
top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so
as to constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying
with its breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that
served to strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With
the edge of this brace it appeared evident that the neck of my
unfortunate friend had come precisely in contact.
He did not long survive his terrible loss. The
homoeopathists did not give him little enough physic, and what
little they did give him he hesitated to take. So in the end he
grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous livers.
I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister on his
family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses of his
funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the
transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had
Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dog's meat.