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Never Bet The Devil Your Head By Edgar Allan Poe
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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.

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