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Diddling Considered
as
one of the Exact
Sciences.
 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. [page
146:] 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
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 Baiæ. 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 à 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 [column 2:] 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 shop-keeper. 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 shop-keeper — "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 [page 147:] 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
towards 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 me 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, [column 2:]
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 minute 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 [page 148:] 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, somewhere
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 pinchbeck
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.
[column 2:]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 pretence. "Where there is much show," he says, "there is
seldom anything 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 sixpennies 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 best 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.EDGAR A. POE.
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