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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
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