"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, importa 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.
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