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A MORAL TALE. —— BY EDGAR A. POE. —— [column 1:]  "CON tal que las
costumbres
de un autor," says Don Tomas 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 Torres is now in Purgatory for so
heterodox an 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, our modern critics have discovered
that
every
fiction has. These ingenious fellows demonstrate a hidden
meaning
in "The Antediluvians," a parable in "Powhatan," new views in "Cock
Robin,"
and transcendentalism in "Hop O' My Thumb." It has been proved
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
bye
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. [column
2:]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, 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
Melnotte frocks,
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 [page 125:] 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 — but in vain. I
entreated
— he
smiled.
I implored — he laughed. I preached — he sneered. I
threatened — he
swore.
I kicked him, and he called for the police. I pulled his nose — he blew
it, and he bet me that I dared not do it 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
you 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 be
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's
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 you
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. Carlisle
[[Carlyle]]
twistical,
and Mr. Emerson hyper-fizzitistical. I began not to like it at all. Mr.
Dammit's soul was in a perilous state. I resolved to bring all my
eloquence
into play to save it. I vowed to serve him as Saint Patrick, in the
Irish
chronicle, is said to have served the snakes and toads, when he
"awakened them to a sense of their situation." I addressed myself to
the [column
2:] 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, as if he was trying to crack nuts between the
lids. 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 heads of his discourse.
He
would be
obliged
to me if I would keep my opinions within my own bosom. He wished none
of my advice. He
despised
all my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I
mean to say anything against his
character?
Did I intend to insult him? Did I take him for an idiot? Did I
still
think him baby Dammit? Was I a fool? — or was I not? Was I mad? — or
was I drunk? 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 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 his little head. My maternal parent was very well aware of
my temporary absence from
home. Khoda shefa midêhed — Heaven gives
relief — as the
Musselmen
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 forbore 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, [page
126:] and
the arch-way, 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 me his head that I was
hipped.
He seemed to be in an extravagantly 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 austere species of 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 everything 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 foot-way, 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 while 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 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 afterwards —
for
he straightway bet me 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 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 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 of his I was not immediately prepared
to
reply. The
fact
is, remarks of this nature [column 2:] are nearly
unanswerable. I have
known
a profound Quarterly Review stumped by the word "Fudge!" I am
not ashamed to
say 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
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 farther 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 one of Doctor McHenry's epics, 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 that 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 in 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 a countenance of the most unadulterated
benignity
which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine. "I am quite sure you'll 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 devil the 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 my friend, Toby Dammit,
and is no
doubt
a consequence of his great 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 reverie. 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," [page 127:] 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, they looked
down, then looked
up, and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the
strings
of
his apron, then took a long look at Dammit, then put his fore-finger to
the side of his nose, 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 style [[stile]] was not very high, like Mr. Pue's — nor yet to say
very low like
that of Mr. Pue'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 of time. 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 [column 2:] moment, as they always say in the crack
historical novels, 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 wrapped 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 Mr. 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 homœopathics. 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 and sharp 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
homœopathics 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
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