With perfect certainty, therefore,
      of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any
      sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur
      Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of
      “_Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se_,” in
      his “_Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque_.” The nicety of your
      discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,
      I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me
      referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your
      request, as a man of honor, for explanation. “With sentiments of profound respect,

      “Your most obedient servant,
      “VON JUNG.”

      “The Herr Johann Hermann,
      August 18th, 18—”

      Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,
      which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous
      self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per
      applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished
      reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,
      to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in
      question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great
      care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my
      character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron
      von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in
      that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of
      the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally
      satisfactory nature. Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He
      seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of
      course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an
      inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex
      scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked
      me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little
      purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning. He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my
      surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd
      account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the
      mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared _prima facie_,
      was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;
      that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to
      present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and
      even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning
      existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every
      second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series
      of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern
      times. The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the
      treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the
      adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of
      his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest
      attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit. Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand
      deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand
      anything and everything in the universe that had ever been
      written about the _duello_. DIDDLING

CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES. 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.