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Edgar Allan Poe: Diddling
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
DIDDLING
Considered as One of the Exact Sciences
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Hey, diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
SINCE the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote a
Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has been much
admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a small way. The other gave
name to the most important of the Exact Sciences, and was a great man in a
great way–I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways.
Diddling–or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle–is
sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing diddling, is
somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however, at a tolerably distinct
conception of the matter in hand, by defining- not the thing, diddling, in
itself–but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he
would have been spared the affront of the picked chicken.
Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken, which
was clearly "a biped without feathers," was not, according to his own
definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any similar query. Man is
an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. It will
take an entire hen-coop of picked chickens to get over that.
What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling is, in
fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats and pantaloons. A
crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is
his destiny. "Man was made to mourn," says the poet. But not so:–he was made
to diddle. This is his aim–his object- his end. And for this reason when a
man's diddled we say he's "done."
Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the ingredients are
minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, nonchalance,
originality, impertinence, and grin.
Minuteness:–Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small
scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should
he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his
distinctive features, and becomes what we term "financier." This latter word
conveys the diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A
diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto–a "financial operation,"
as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to "Flaccus"–as
a Mastodon to a mouse–as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
Interest:–Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle
for the mere sake of the diddle. He has an object in view- his pocket–and
yours. He regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You are
Number Two, and must look to yourself.
Perseverance:–Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily discouraged.
Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues
his end, and
Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto.
so he never lets go of his game.
Ingenuity:–Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He
understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would
be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent rat-traps
or an angler for trout.
Audacity:–Your diddler is audacious.–He is a bold man. He carries the war
into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would not fear the daggers of
Frey Herren. With a little more prudence Dick Turpin would have made a good
diddler; with a trifle less blarney, Daniel O'Connell; with a pound or two
more brains Charles the Twelfth.
Nonchalance:–Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He
never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He is never put
out–unless put out of doors. He is cool–cool as a cucumber. He is calm–"calm
as a smile from Lady Bury." He is easy- easy as an old glove, or the damsels
of ancient Baiae.
Originality:–Your diddler is original–conscientiously so. His thoughts
are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another. A stale trick is his
aversion. He would return a purse, I am sure, upon discovering that he had
obtained it by an unoriginal diddle.
Impertinence.–Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms
a-kimbo. He thrusts. his hands in his trowsers' pockets. He sneers in your
face. He treads on your corns. He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he
borrows your money, he pulls your nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses
your wife.
Grin:–Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees
but himself. He grins when his daily work is done–when his allotted labors
are accomplished–at night in his own closet, and altogether for his own
private entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself
of his clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head
upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no
hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason a priori, and a diddle would
be no diddle without a grin.
The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the Human Race.
Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we can trace the science
back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have
brought it to a perfection never dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors.
Without pausing to speak of the "old saws," therefore, I shall content
myself with a compendious account of some of the more "modern
instances."
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for
instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses. At length
she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and
invited to enter, by a polite and voluble individual at the door. She finds
a sofa well adapted to her views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised
and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her
expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt,
leaves her address, with a request that the article be sent home as speedily
as possible, and retires amid a profusion of bows from the shopkeeper. The
night arrives and no sofa. A servant is sent to make inquiry about the
delay. The whole transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold–no money
received–except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford
every facility for a trick of this kind. Visiters enter, look at furniture,
and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one wish to purchase, or to
inquire the price of an article, a bell is at hand, and this is considered
amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed individual
enters a shop, makes a purchase to the value of a dollar; finds, much to his
vexation, that he has left his pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so
says to the shopkeeper-
"My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle
home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing less than a five dollar
bill, even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the
bundle, you know."
"Very good, sir," replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at once, a
lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. "I know fellows," he
says to himself, "who would just have put the goods under their arm, and
walked off with a promise to call and pay the dollar as they came by in the
afternoon."
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite
accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:
"Ah! This is my bundle, I see–I thought you had been home with it, long
ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you the five dollars–I
left instructions with her to that effect. The change you might as well give
to me–I shall want some silver for the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is
this a good quarter?- three, four–quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you
met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way."
The boy doesn't loiter at all–but he is a very long time in getting back
from his errand–for no lady of the precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be
discovered. He consoles himself, however, that he has not been such a fool
as to leave the goods without the money, and re-entering his shop with a
self-satisfied air, feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks
him what has become of the change.
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship, which is
about to sail, is presented by an official looking person with an unusually
moderate bill of city charges. Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a
hundred duties pressing upon him all at once, he discharges the claim
forthwith. In about fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is
handed him by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a
diddler, and the original collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is casting loose
from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand, is discovered running
toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly, he makes a dead halt, stoops, and
picks up something from the ground in a very agitated manner. It is a
pocket-book, and–"Has any gentleman lost a pocketbook?" he cries. No one can
say that he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues,
when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat, however, must not
be detained.
"Time and tide wait for no man," says the captain.
"For God's sake, stay only a few minutes," says the finder of the
book–"the true claimant will presently appear."
"Can't wait!" replies the man in authority; "cast off there, d'ye
hear?"
"What am I to do?" asks the finder, in great tribulation. "I am about to
leave the country for some years, and I cannot conscientiously retain this
large amount in my possession. I beg your pardon, sir," [here he addresses a
gentleman on shore,] "but you have the air of an honest man. Will you confer
upon me the favor of taking charge of this pocket-book–I know I can trust
you–and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very considerable
sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding you for your
trouble-
"Me!–no, you!–it was you who found the book."
"Well, if you must have it so–I will take a small reward–just to satisfy
your scruples. Let me see–why these notes are all hundreds- bless my soul! a
hundred is too much to take–fifty would be quite enough, I am sure-
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole, you had
better-
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"Never mind!" cries the gentleman on shore, who has been examining his
own pocket-book for the last minute or so–"never mind! I can fix it–here is
a fifty on the Bank of North America–throw the book."
And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked reluctance,
and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while the steamboat fumes and
fizzes on her way. In about half an hour after her departure, the "large
amount" is seen to be a "counterfeit presentment," and the whole thing a
capital diddle.
A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is to be
held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of a free bridge. A
diddler stations himself upon this bridge, respectfully informs all passers
by of the new county law, which establishes a toll of one cent for foot
passengers, two for horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some
grumble but all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some
fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a great crowd of
people is an excessively troublesome thing.
A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler's promises to
pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the ordinary blanks printed in
red ink. The diddler purchases one or two dozen of these blanks, and every
day dips one of them in his soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally
gives it to him as a bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the
diddler, with the diddler's dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to
pay is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his
escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps
the diddler's dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler is not only
surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd behavior of his dog, and
expresses his entire readiness to cancel the obligation at any moment when
the evidence of the obligation shall be forthcoming.
A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a
diddler's accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her assistance, and,
giving his friend a comfortable thrashing, insists upon attending the lady
to her own door. He bows, with his hand upon his heart, and most
respectfully bids her adieu. She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in
and be introduced to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines
to do so. "Is there no way, then, sir," she murmurs, "in which I may be
permitted to testify my gratitude?"
"Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a couple
of shillings?"
In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon fainting
outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her purse-strings and
delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a diddle minute–for one entire
moiety of the sum borrowed has to be paid to the gentleman who had the
trouble of performing the insult, and who had then to stand still and be
thrashed for performing it.
Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler
approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of tobacco.
These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined them, he says:
"I don't much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me a glass
of brandy and water in its place." The brandy and water is furnished and
imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the door. But the voice of the
tavern-keeper arrests him.
"I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and
water."
"Pay for my brandy and water!–didn't I give you the tobacco for the
brandy and water? What more would you have?"
"But, sir, if you please, I don't remember that you paid me for the
tobacco."
"What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?–Didn't I give you back your
tobacco? Isn't that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect me to pay for
what I did not take?"
"But, sir," says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say, "but
sir-"
"But me no buts, sir," interrupts the diddler, apparently in very high
dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his escape.–"But me no
buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon travellers."
Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is not its
least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being really lost, the loser
inserts in one of the daily papers of a large city a fully descriptive
advertisement.
Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement, with a
change of heading, of general phraseology and address. The original, for
instance, is long, and verbose, is headed "A Pocket-Book Lost!" and requires
the treasure, when found, to be left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief,
and being headed with "Lost" only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry
Street, as the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is
inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day, while in
point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours after the original.
Should it be read by the loser of the purse, he would hardly suspect it to
have any reference to his own misfortune. But, of course, the chances are
five or six to one, that the finder will repair to the address given by the
diddler, rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The
former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.
Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped, some where
in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value. For its recovery, she
offers some forty or fifty dollars reward–giving, in her advertisement, a
very minute description of the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that,
on its restoration at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward
would be paid instanter, without a single question being asked. During the
lady's absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a ring is heard at the
door of No. so and so, in such and such Avenue; a servant appears; the lady
of the house is asked for and is declared to be out, at which astounding
information, the visitor expresses the most poignant regret. His business is
of importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the good
fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as well that he
should call again. "By no means!" says the servant; and "By no means!" says
the lady's sister and the lady's sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith.
The ring is clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder
nearly thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some little
dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they happen to
have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond ring–a
fac-simile made out of real pinch-beck and unquestionable paste.
But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this
essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or inflections, of which
this science is susceptible. I must bring this paper, perforce, to a
conclusion, and this I cannot do better than by a summary notice of a very
decent, but rather elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the
theatre, not very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with
success, in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A middle-aged
gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is remarkably precise,
cautious, staid, and deliberate in his demeanor. His dress is scrupulously
neat, but plain, unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample
waistcoat, made with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking
shoes, and pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your
well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable "man of business," Par
excellence–one of the stern and outwardly hard, internally soft, sort of
people that we see in the crack high comedies–fellows whose words are so
many bonds, and who are noted for giving away guineas, in charity, with the
one hand, while, in the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost
fraction of a farthing with the other.
He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house. He
dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits are
methodical–and then he would prefer getting into a private and respectable
small family, piously inclined. Terms, however, are no object–only he must
insist upon settling his bill on the first of every month, (it is now the
second) and begs his landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not
on any account to forget his instructions upon this point–but to send in a
bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o'clock, on the first day of every
month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the second.
These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a
reputable rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is nothing he
more despises than pretense. "Where there is much show," he says, "there is
seldom any thing very solid behind"–an observation which so profoundly
impresses his landlady's fancy, that she makes a pencil memorandum of it
forthwith, in her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of
Solomon.
The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this, in the
principal business six-pennies of the city–the pennies are eschewed as not
"respectable"–and as demanding payment for all advertisements in advance.
Our man of business holds it as a point of his faith that work should never
be paid for until done.
"WANTED–The advertisers, being about to commence extensive business
operations in this city, will require the services of three or four
intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal salary will be paid. The
very best recommendations, not so much for capacity, as for integrity, will
be expected. Indeed, as the duties to be performed involve high
responsibilities, and large amounts of money must necessarily pass through
the hands of those engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of
fifty dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply, therefore, who
is not prepared to leave this sum in the possession of the advertisers, and
who cannot furnish the most satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young
gentlemen piously inclined will be preferred. Application should be made
between the hours of ten and eleven A. M., and four and five P. M., of
Messrs.
"Bogs, Hogs Logs, Frogs & Co.,
"No. 110 Dog
Street"
By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has brought to
the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or
twenty young gentlemen piously inclined. But our man of business is in no
hurry to conclude a contract with any–no man of business is ever
precipitate–and it is not until the most rigid catechism in respect to the
piety of each young gentleman's inclination, that his services are engaged
and his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper precaution, on
the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company. On
the morning of the first day of the next month, the landlady does not
present her bill, according to promise–a piece of neglect for which the
comfortable head of the house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her
severely, could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two
for that purpose.
As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running hither and
thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of business most
emphatically, a "hen knee high"–by which some persons imagine them to imply
that, in fact, he is n. e. i.–by which again the very classical phrase non
est inventus, is supposed to be understood. In the meantime the young
gentlemen, one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before,
while the landlady purchases a shilling's worth of the Indian rubber, and
very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that some fool has made in
her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
THE END
Edgar Allan Poe: Diddling
Up to the EServer | The Complete Works of Edgar Allan
Poe
DIDDLING
Considered as One of the Exact Sciences
by Edgar Allan Poe
1850
Hey, diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle
SINCE the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote a
Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has been much
admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a small way. The other gave
name to the most important of the Exact Sciences, and was a great man in a
great way–I may say, indeed, in the very greatest of ways.
Diddling–or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle–is
sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing diddling, is
somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however, at a tolerably distinct
conception of the matter in hand, by defining- not the thing, diddling, in
itself–but man, as an animal that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he
would have been spared the affront of the picked chicken.
Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken, which
was clearly "a biped without feathers," was not, according to his own
definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any similar query. Man is
an animal that diddles, and there is no animal that diddles but man. It will
take an entire hen-coop of picked chickens to get over that.
What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling is, in
fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats and pantaloons. A
crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a man diddles. To diddle is
his destiny. "Man was made to mourn," says the poet. But not so:–he was made
to diddle. This is his aim–his object- his end. And for this reason when a
man's diddled we say he's "done."
Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the ingredients are
minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity, audacity, nonchalance,
originality, impertinence, and grin.
Minuteness:–Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small
scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should
he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his
distinctive features, and becomes what we term "financier." This latter word
conveys the diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A
diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto–a "financial operation,"
as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to "Flaccus"–as
a Mastodon to a mouse–as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
Interest:–Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to diddle
for the mere sake of the diddle. He has an object in view- his pocket–and
yours. He regards always the main chance. He looks to Number One. You are
Number Two, and must look to yourself.
Perseverance:–Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily discouraged.
Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about it. He steadily pursues
his end, and
Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto.
so he never lets go of his game.
Ingenuity:–Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness large. He
understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander he would
be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he would be a maker of patent rat-traps
or an angler for trout.
Audacity:–Your diddler is audacious.–He is a bold man. He carries the war
into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would not fear the daggers of
Frey Herren. With a little more prudence Dick Turpin would have made a good
diddler; with a trifle less blarney, Daniel O'Connell; with a pound or two
more brains Charles the Twelfth.
Nonchalance:–Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all nervous. He
never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a flurry. He is never put
out–unless put out of doors. He is cool–cool as a cucumber. He is calm–"calm
as a smile from Lady Bury." He is easy- easy as an old glove, or the damsels
of ancient Baiae.
Originality:–Your diddler is original–conscientiously so. His thoughts
are his own. He would scorn to employ those of another. A stale trick is his
aversion. He would return a purse, I am sure, upon discovering that he had
obtained it by an unoriginal diddle.
Impertinence.–Your diddler is impertinent. He swaggers. He sets his arms
a-kimbo. He thrusts. his hands in his trowsers' pockets. He sneers in your
face. He treads on your corns. He eats your dinner, he drinks your wine, he
borrows your money, he pulls your nose, he kicks your poodle, and he kisses
your wife.
Grin:–Your true diddler winds up all with a grin. But this nobody sees
but himself. He grins when his daily work is done–when his allotted labors
are accomplished–at night in his own closet, and altogether for his own
private entertainment. He goes home. He locks his door. He divests himself
of his clothes. He puts out his candle. He gets into bed. He places his head
upon the pillow. All this done, and your diddler grins. This is no
hypothesis. It is a matter of course. I reason a priori, and a diddle would
be no diddle without a grin.
The origin of the diddle is referrable to the infancy of the Human Race.
Perhaps the first diddler was Adam. At all events, we can trace the science
back to a very remote period of antiquity. The moderns, however, have
brought it to a perfection never dreamed of by our thick-headed progenitors.
Without pausing to speak of the "old saws," therefore, I shall content
myself with a compendious account of some of the more "modern
instances."
A very good diddle is this. A housekeeper in want of a sofa, for
instance, is seen to go in and out of several cabinet warehouses. At length
she arrives at one offering an excellent variety. She is accosted, and
invited to enter, by a polite and voluble individual at the door. She finds
a sofa well adapted to her views, and upon inquiring the price, is surprised
and delighted to hear a sum named at least twenty per cent. lower than her
expectations. She hastens to make the purchase, gets a bill and receipt,
leaves her address, with a request that the article be sent home as speedily
as possible, and retires amid a profusion of bows from the shopkeeper. The
night arrives and no sofa. A servant is sent to make inquiry about the
delay. The whole transaction is denied. No sofa has been sold–no money
received–except by the diddler, who played shop-keeper for the nonce.
Our cabinet warehouses are left entirely unattended, and thus afford
every facility for a trick of this kind. Visiters enter, look at furniture,
and depart unheeded and unseen. Should any one wish to purchase, or to
inquire the price of an article, a bell is at hand, and this is considered
amply sufficient.
Again, quite a respectable diddle is this. A well-dressed individual
enters a shop, makes a purchase to the value of a dollar; finds, much to his
vexation, that he has left his pocket-book in another coat pocket; and so
says to the shopkeeper-
"My dear sir, never mind; just oblige me, will you, by sending the bundle
home? But stay! I really believe that I have nothing less than a five dollar
bill, even there. However, you can send four dollars in change with the
bundle, you know."
"Very good, sir," replies the shop-keeper, who entertains, at once, a
lofty opinion of the high-mindedness of his customer. "I know fellows," he
says to himself, "who would just have put the goods under their arm, and
walked off with a promise to call and pay the dollar as they came by in the
afternoon."
A boy is sent with the parcel and change. On the route, quite
accidentally, he is met by the purchaser, who exclaims:
"Ah! This is my bundle, I see–I thought you had been home with it, long
ago. Well, go on! My wife, Mrs. Trotter, will give you the five dollars–I
left instructions with her to that effect. The change you might as well give
to me–I shall want some silver for the Post Office. Very good! One, two, is
this a good quarter?- three, four–quite right! Say to Mrs. Trotter that you
met me, and be sure now and do not loiter on the way."
The boy doesn't loiter at all–but he is a very long time in getting back
from his errand–for no lady of the precise name of Mrs. Trotter is to be
discovered. He consoles himself, however, that he has not been such a fool
as to leave the goods without the money, and re-entering his shop with a
self-satisfied air, feels sensibly hurt and indignant when his master asks
him what has become of the change.
A very simple diddle, indeed, is this. The captain of a ship, which is
about to sail, is presented by an official looking person with an unusually
moderate bill of city charges. Glad to get off so easily, and confused by a
hundred duties pressing upon him all at once, he discharges the claim
forthwith. In about fifteen minutes, another and less reasonable bill is
handed him by one who soon makes it evident that the first collector was a
diddler, and the original collection a diddle.
And here, too, is a somewhat similar thing. A steamboat is casting loose
from the wharf. A traveller, portmanteau in hand, is discovered running
toward the wharf, at full speed. Suddenly, he makes a dead halt, stoops, and
picks up something from the ground in a very agitated manner. It is a
pocket-book, and–"Has any gentleman lost a pocketbook?" he cries. No one can
say that he has exactly lost a pocket-book; but a great excitement ensues,
when the treasure trove is found to be of value. The boat, however, must not
be detained.
"Time and tide wait for no man," says the captain.
"For God's sake, stay only a few minutes," says the finder of the
book–"the true claimant will presently appear."
"Can't wait!" replies the man in authority; "cast off there, d'ye
hear?"
"What am I to do?" asks the finder, in great tribulation. "I am about to
leave the country for some years, and I cannot conscientiously retain this
large amount in my possession. I beg your pardon, sir," [here he addresses a
gentleman on shore,] "but you have the air of an honest man. Will you confer
upon me the favor of taking charge of this pocket-book–I know I can trust
you–and of advertising it? The notes, you see, amount to a very considerable
sum. The owner will, no doubt, insist upon rewarding you for your
trouble-
"Me!–no, you!–it was you who found the book."
"Well, if you must have it so–I will take a small reward–just to satisfy
your scruples. Let me see–why these notes are all hundreds- bless my soul! a
hundred is too much to take–fifty would be quite enough, I am sure-
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"But then I have no change for a hundred, and upon the whole, you had
better-
"Cast off there!" says the captain.
"Never mind!" cries the gentleman on shore, who has been examining his
own pocket-book for the last minute or so–"never mind! I can fix it–here is
a fifty on the Bank of North America–throw the book."
And the over-conscientious finder takes the fifty with marked reluctance,
and throws the gentleman the book, as desired, while the steamboat fumes and
fizzes on her way. In about half an hour after her departure, the "large
amount" is seen to be a "counterfeit presentment," and the whole thing a
capital diddle.
A bold diddle is this. A camp-meeting, or something similar, is to be
held at a certain spot which is accessible only by means of a free bridge. A
diddler stations himself upon this bridge, respectfully informs all passers
by of the new county law, which establishes a toll of one cent for foot
passengers, two for horses and donkeys, and so forth, and so forth. Some
grumble but all submit, and the diddler goes home a wealthier man by some
fifty or sixty dollars well earned. This taking a toll from a great crowd of
people is an excessively troublesome thing.
A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler's promises to
pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the ordinary blanks printed in
red ink. The diddler purchases one or two dozen of these blanks, and every
day dips one of them in his soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally
gives it to him as a bonne bouche. The note arriving at maturity, the
diddler, with the diddler's dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to
pay is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his
escritoire, and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps
the diddler's dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler is not only
surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd behavior of his dog, and
expresses his entire readiness to cancel the obligation at any moment when
the evidence of the obligation shall be forthcoming.
A very mean diddle is this. A lady is insulted in the street by a
diddler's accomplice. The diddler himself flies to her assistance, and,
giving his friend a comfortable thrashing, insists upon attending the lady
to her own door. He bows, with his hand upon his heart, and most
respectfully bids her adieu. She entreats him, as her deliverer, to walk in
and be introduced to her big brother and her papa. With a sigh, he declines
to do so. "Is there no way, then, sir," she murmurs, "in which I may be
permitted to testify my gratitude?"
"Why, yes, madam, there is. Will you be kind enough to lend me a couple
of shillings?"
In the first excitement of the moment the lady decides upon fainting
outright. Upon second thought, however, she opens her purse-strings and
delivers the specie. Now this, I say, is a diddle minute–for one entire
moiety of the sum borrowed has to be paid to the gentleman who had the
trouble of performing the insult, and who had then to stand still and be
thrashed for performing it.
Rather a small but still a scientific diddle is this. The diddler
approaches the bar of a tavern, and demands a couple of twists of tobacco.
These are handed to him, when, having slightly examined them, he says:
"I don't much like this tobacco. Here, take it back, and give me a glass
of brandy and water in its place." The brandy and water is furnished and
imbibed, and the diddler makes his way to the door. But the voice of the
tavern-keeper arrests him.
"I believe, sir, you have forgotten to pay for your brandy and
water."
"Pay for my brandy and water!–didn't I give you the tobacco for the
brandy and water? What more would you have?"
"But, sir, if you please, I don't remember that you paid me for the
tobacco."
"What do you mean by that, you scoundrel?–Didn't I give you back your
tobacco? Isn't that your tobacco lying there? Do you expect me to pay for
what I did not take?"
"But, sir," says the publican, now rather at a loss what to say, "but
sir-"
"But me no buts, sir," interrupts the diddler, apparently in very high
dudgeon, and slamming the door after him, as he makes his escape.–"But me no
buts, sir, and none of your tricks upon travellers."
Here again is a very clever diddle, of which the simplicity is not its
least recommendation. A purse, or pocket-book, being really lost, the loser
inserts in one of the daily papers of a large city a fully descriptive
advertisement.
Whereupon our diddler copies the facts of this advertisement, with a
change of heading, of general phraseology and address. The original, for
instance, is long, and verbose, is headed "A Pocket-Book Lost!" and requires
the treasure, when found, to be left at No. 1 Tom Street. The copy is brief,
and being headed with "Lost" only, indicates No. 2 Dick, or No. 3 Harry
Street, as the locality at which the owner may be seen. Moreover, it is
inserted in at least five or six of the daily papers of the day, while in
point of time, it makes its appearance only a few hours after the original.
Should it be read by the loser of the purse, he would hardly suspect it to
have any reference to his own misfortune. But, of course, the chances are
five or six to one, that the finder will repair to the address given by the
diddler, rather than to that pointed out by the rightful proprietor. The
former pays the reward, pockets the treasure and decamps.
Quite an analogous diddle is this. A lady of ton has dropped, some where
in the street, a diamond ring of very unusual value. For its recovery, she
offers some forty or fifty dollars reward–giving, in her advertisement, a
very minute description of the gem, and of its settings, and declaring that,
on its restoration at No. so and so, in such and such Avenue, the reward
would be paid instanter, without a single question being asked. During the
lady's absence from home, a day or two afterwards, a ring is heard at the
door of No. so and so, in such and such Avenue; a servant appears; the lady
of the house is asked for and is declared to be out, at which astounding
information, the visitor expresses the most poignant regret. His business is
of importance and concerns the lady herself. In fact, he had the good
fortune to find her diamond ring. But perhaps it would be as well that he
should call again. "By no means!" says the servant; and "By no means!" says
the lady's sister and the lady's sister-in-law, who are summoned forthwith.
The ring is clamorously identified, the reward is paid, and the finder
nearly thrust out of doors. The lady returns and expresses some little
dissatisfaction with her sister and sister-in-law, because they happen to
have paid forty or fifty dollars for a fac-simile of her diamond ring–a
fac-simile made out of real pinch-beck and unquestionable paste.
But as there is really no end to diddling, so there would be none to this
essay, were I even to hint at half the variations, or inflections, of which
this science is susceptible. I must bring this paper, perforce, to a
conclusion, and this I cannot do better than by a summary notice of a very
decent, but rather elaborate diddle, of which our own city was made the
theatre, not very long ago, and which was subsequently repeated with
success, in other still more verdant localities of the Union. A middle-aged
gentleman arrives in town from parts unknown. He is remarkably precise,
cautious, staid, and deliberate in his demeanor. His dress is scrupulously
neat, but plain, unostentatious. He wears a white cravat, an ample
waistcoat, made with an eye to comfort alone; thick-soled cosy-looking
shoes, and pantaloons without straps. He has the whole air, in fact, of your
well-to-do, sober-sided, exact, and respectable "man of business," Par
excellence–one of the stern and outwardly hard, internally soft, sort of
people that we see in the crack high comedies–fellows whose words are so
many bonds, and who are noted for giving away guineas, in charity, with the
one hand, while, in the way of mere bargain, they exact the uttermost
fraction of a farthing with the other.
He makes much ado before he can get suited with a boarding house. He
dislikes children. He has been accustomed to quiet. His habits are
methodical–and then he would prefer getting into a private and respectable
small family, piously inclined. Terms, however, are no object–only he must
insist upon settling his bill on the first of every month, (it is now the
second) and begs his landlady, when he finally obtains one to his mind, not
on any account to forget his instructions upon this point–but to send in a
bill, and receipt, precisely at ten o'clock, on the first day of every
month, and under no circumstances to put it off to the second.
These arrangements made, our man of business rents an office in a
reputable rather than a fashionable quarter of the town. There is nothing he
more despises than pretense. "Where there is much show," he says, "there is
seldom any thing very solid behind"–an observation which so profoundly
impresses his landlady's fancy, that she makes a pencil memorandum of it
forthwith, in her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of
Solomon.
The next step is to advertise, after some such fashion as this, in the
principal business six-pennies of the city–the pennies are eschewed as not
"respectable"–and as demanding payment for all advertisements in advance.
Our man of business holds it as a point of his faith that work should never
be paid for until done.
"WANTED–The advertisers, being about to commence extensive business
operations in this city, will require the services of three or four
intelligent and competent clerks, to whom a liberal salary will be paid. The
very best recommendations, not so much for capacity, as for integrity, will
be expected. Indeed, as the duties to be performed involve high
responsibilities, and large amounts of money must necessarily pass through
the hands of those engaged, it is deemed advisable to demand a deposit of
fifty dollars from each clerk employed. No person need apply, therefore, who
is not prepared to leave this sum in the possession of the advertisers, and
who cannot furnish the most satisfactory testimonials of morality. Young
gentlemen piously inclined will be preferred. Application should be made
between the hours of ten and eleven A. M., and four and five P. M., of
Messrs.
"Bogs, Hogs Logs, Frogs & Co.,
"No. 110 Dog
Street"
By the thirty-first day of the month, this advertisement has brought to
the office of Messrs. Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company, some fifteen or
twenty young gentlemen piously inclined. But our man of business is in no
hurry to conclude a contract with any–no man of business is ever
precipitate–and it is not until the most rigid catechism in respect to the
piety of each young gentleman's inclination, that his services are engaged
and his fifty dollars receipted for, just by way of proper precaution, on
the part of the respectable firm of Bogs, Hogs, Logs, Frogs, and Company. On
the morning of the first day of the next month, the landlady does not
present her bill, according to promise–a piece of neglect for which the
comfortable head of the house ending in ogs would no doubt have chided her
severely, could he have been prevailed upon to remain in town a day or two
for that purpose.
As it is, the constables have had a sad time of it, running hither and
thither, and all they can do is to declare the man of business most
emphatically, a "hen knee high"–by which some persons imagine them to imply
that, in fact, he is n. e. i.–by which again the very classical phrase non
est inventus, is supposed to be understood. In the meantime the young
gentlemen, one and all, are somewhat less piously inclined than before,
while the landlady purchases a shilling's worth of the Indian rubber, and
very carefully obliterates the pencil memorandum that some fool has made in
her great family Bible, on the broad margin of the Proverbs of Solomon.
THE END
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