Louis-Léopold Boilly, Tartini's Dream, 1824
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 muypoco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras" -- meaning, in plainEnglish, that, provided the morals of an author are pure personally, itsignifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We presume that DonThomas 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 "AmatoryPoems" get out of print, or are laid definitely upon the shelf throughlack of readers. Every fiction should have a moral; and, what is more tothe purpose, the critics have discovered that every fiction has. PhilipMelanchthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon the"Batrachomyomachia," and proved that the poet's object was to excite adistaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going a step farther, shows thatthe intention was to recommend to young men temperance in eating anddrinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself that, byEuenis, 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 ahidden meaning in "The Antediluvians," a parable in Powhatan," new viewsin "Cock Robin," and transcendentalism in "Hop O' My Thumb." In short, ithas been shown that no man can sit down to write without a very profounddesign. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, forexample, need have no care of his moral. It is there -- that is to say, itis somewhere -- and the moral and the critics can take care of themselves.When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended, and allthat 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 therest that he clearly meant to intend: -- so that it will all come verystraight in the end.There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me bycertain ignoramuses -- that I have never written a moral tale, or, in moreprecise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics predestinedto bring me out, and develop my morals: -- that is the secret. By and bythe "North American Quarterly Humdrum" will make them ashamed of theirstupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution -- by way ofmitigating 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 titleof the tale. I should have credit for this arrangement -- a far wiser onethan that of La Fontaine and others, who reserve the impression to beconveyed until the last moment, and thus sneak it in at the fag end oftheir fables.Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, and Demortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction -- even if the dead inquestion 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 istrue, and a dog's death it was that he died; but he himself was not toblame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his mother. Shedid her best in the way of flogging him while an infant -- for duties toher well -- regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies, like toughsteaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the better forbeating -- but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be left-handed, anda child flogged left-handedly had better be left unflogged. The worldrevolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a baby from left toright. If each blow in the proper direction drives an evil propensity out,it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks its quota ofwickedness in. I was often present at Toby's chastisements, and, even bythe way in which he kicked, I could perceive that he was getting worse andworse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my eyes, that therewas no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he had been cuffeduntil he grew so black in the face that one might have mistaken him for alittle African, and no effect had been produced beyond that of making himwriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer, but went down uponmy 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 heused to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At sixmonths, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he was inthe constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eightmonths he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperancepledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until,at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearingmoustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, andfor backing his assertions by bets.Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I hadpredicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had "grown withhis growth and strengthened with his strength," so that, when he came tobe a man, he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it witha proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid wagers -- no. I will domy friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. Withhim the thing was a mere formula -- nothing more. His expressions on thishead had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple if notaltogether innocent expletives -- imaginative phrases wherewith to roundoff a sentence. When he said "I'll bet you so and so," nobody ever thoughtof taking him up; but still I could not help thinking it my duty to puthim down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a vulgarone- 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. Iimplored -- 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 thatexperiment again.Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency ofDammit's mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor, andthis was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions aboutbetting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that Iever heard him make use of such a figure of speech as "I'll bet you adollar." It was usually "I'll bet you what you please," or "I'll bet youwhat you dare," or "I'll bet you a trifle," or else, more significantlystill, "I'll bet the Devil my head."This latter form seemed to please him best; -- perhaps because it involvedthe least risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious. Had anyone taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have beensmall too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure thatI am right in attributing them to him. At all events the phrase inquestion grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of aman betting his brains like bank-notes: -- but this was a point which myfriend's perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend. Inthe 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 ofdevotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am alwaysdispleased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force aman to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was somethingin the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to hisoffensive expression -- something in his manner of enunciation -- which atfirst interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy -- something which,for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to callqueer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kantpantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical.I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was in a perilous state. Iresolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to servehim as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is said to have served thetoad, -- that is to say, "awaken him to a sense of his situation." Iaddressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself toremonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt atexpostulation.When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in somevery equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent, merelylooking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head toone side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he spread outthe palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked withthe right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he shutthem both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very wide that Ibecame seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb tohis nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with therest of his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended toreply.I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be obliged tome if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised allmy insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I stillthink 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, ina word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put thislatter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himselfto abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my motherknew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would bewilling to bet the Devil his head that she did not.Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he leftmy presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that hedid so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused. Foronce I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have wonfor the Arch-Enemy Mr. Dammit's little head -- for the fact is, my mammawas very well aware of my merely temporary absence from home.But Khoda shefa midhed -- Heaven gives relief -- as the Mussulmans saywhen you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I hadbeen 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 ofthis miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with mycounsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although Iforebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give uphis society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his lessreprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found myselflauding 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 usin the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to crossit. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and thearchway, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As weentered the passage, the contrast between the external glare and theinterior gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of theunhappy 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 -- somuch so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is notimpossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not wellenough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak withdecision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends ofthe "Dial" present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certainspecies of austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend,and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would servehim but wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that camein his way; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of oddlittle and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all thetime. 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 thetermination of the footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstileof some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around asusual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insistedupon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in theair. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. Thebest pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, andas I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done byToby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was abraggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to besorry afterward; -- for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his headthat he could.I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with someremonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, aslight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation "ahem!" Istarted, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into anook of the frame -- work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a littlelame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more reverendthan 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 downover a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a girl's. Hishands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and his two eyeswere carefully rolled up into the top of his head.Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silkapron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought veryodd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular acircumstance, 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 aQuarterly 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 gentlemansays '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 isparticularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he ispretty sure to look like a fool."Dammit," observed I -- although this sounded very much like an oath, thanwhich 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 notthink it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of ourspeeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our owneyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, orknocked him in the head with the "Poets and Poetry of America," he couldhardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with thosesimple words: "Dammit, what are you about?- don't you hear? -- thegentleman says 'ahem!'""You don't say so?" gasped he at length, after turning more colors than apirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. "Are youquite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and mayas well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then -- ahem!"At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased -- God only knows why. Heleft his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a graciousair, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all the whilestraight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated benignitywhich it is possible for the mind of man to imagine."I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit," said he, with the frankest ofall smiles, "but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake ofmere form.""Ahem!" replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying apocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountablealteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing downthe corners of his mouth -- "ahem!" And "ahem!" said he again, after apause; and not another word more than "ahem!" did I ever know him to sayafter that. "Aha!" thought I, without expressing myself aloud -- "this isquite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt aconsequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme inducesanother. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable questionswhich he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him my lastlecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals.""Ahem!" here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, andlooking like a very old sheep in a revery.The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shadeof 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. Waithere, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you goover it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don't omit any flourishes ofthe pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say 'one, two, three, andaway.' Mind you, start at the word 'away'" Here he took his position bythe stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked upand, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of hisapron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word asagreed 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, likethat of Mr. Lord's reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he wouldclear 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 makeany other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? Ifhe asks me to jump, I won't do it, that's flat, and I don't care who thedevil he is." The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a veryridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at alltimes -- an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when Iuttered the four last words of my remark.But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only aninstant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby hadtaken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor ofthe 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 thetop of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thingthat he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair ofa 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 thestile from which he had started. At the same instant I saw the oldgentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapt upin his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of thearch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I hadno leisure to think, for Dammit lay particularly still, and I concludedthat his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of myassistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what mightbe termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of hishead, which after a close search I could not find anywhere; so Idetermined to take him home and send for the homoeopathists. In themeantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of thebridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet justabove the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path soas to constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with itsbreadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served tostrengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of thisbrace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had comeprecisely in contact.He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not givehim little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitatedto take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to allriotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinisteron his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses of his funeral,sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrelsrefused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him fordog's meat.
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