Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze

  of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge

  suburban temples of Intemperance - one of the palaces of the fiend, Gin.

  It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still

  pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy

  the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original bearing,

  and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among the

  throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the

  doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was

  something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the

  countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously.

  Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced

  his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he

  fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to

  abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun

  arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most

  thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D---- Hotel, it

  presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely inferior to

  what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid the momently

  increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the stranger. But, as

  usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not pass from out the

  turmoil of that street. And, as the shades of the second evening came on,

  I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer,

  gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his

  solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in

  contemplation. "This old man," I said at length, "is the type and the

  genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. [page 228:] He is the man of

  the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him,

  nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the

  'Hortulus Animæ,' {*1} and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of

  God that 'er lasst sich nicht lesen.' "

  {*1} The "_Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis_" of

  Grünninger

  ~~~ End of Text ~~~

  ======

  Never Bet the Devil Your Head

  A Tale With a Moral.

  "_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 midêhed -- 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 f
rom 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