APDL Eductation Resources/APDL Eductation Resources.iso/text/authors/poe/nevrbetdev/NEVRBETDEV

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                           1850
               NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD
                    A Tale With a Moral
                    by Edgar Allan Poe


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.



                          THE END