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———————
 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 entitled Jeremy Diddler. He 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 chickeus [[chickens]] to get over that. What constitutes the essence, the
ware, 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 a Mastodon to a mouse — as the tail of a
comet to that of a pig — as Homer to Flaccus — as the "Iliad" to "Sam
Patch.". 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 camis 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 [column
2:]
invents and circumvents. Were he not Alexander, he would be Diogenes.
Were
he not what he is, 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 Harren. 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 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 point of 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 parcel 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 does'nt 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
personage,
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 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 note, you see, amounts 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. [column 3:] 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, at dinner, 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 subject 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 bidding 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 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 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 Dick street. The copy is brief, and being
headed
with "Lost" only, indicates No. 2 Tom, 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 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, upon its restoration at 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 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 in 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 [column 4:] 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 10 and 11 A. M., and 4
and 5 P. M., of Messrs:
BOGGS, HOGGS, LOGS, FROGS &
CO:
.No 110 Dog
Street. .
By the thirty-first day of the month, this
advertisement
has brought to the office of Messrs. Boggs, Hoggs, Logs, Frogs &
Co.,
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 Boggs,
Hoggs, 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. |
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