Chap­ter B begins with a look at Baal, a deity once wor­shipped across var­i­ous ancient civ­i­liza­tions, often sym­bol­iz­ing pow­er and nat­ur­al forces. Bierce does not sim­ply define Baal as a fig­ure of mythol­o­gy; he con­nects it to the con­fu­sion born of humanity’s attempts to build structures—literal and ideological—that reach too far. By ref­er­enc­ing the sto­ry of Babel, he draws a line between the ambi­tion to touch the divine and the chaos that fol­lows. The impli­ca­tion is that ven­er­a­tion often dis­guis­es arro­gance, and wor­ship becomes an excuse for dis­or­der, not clar­i­ty. Bierce turns mythol­o­gy into a mir­ror reflect­ing human pride masked as devo­tion.

Babe is framed not as pure inno­cence, but as a crea­ture that evokes intense emo­tion from adults with­out under­stand­ing it itself. It is nei­ther angel­ic nor demonic—just unaware. In con­trast, Bac­chus is used to reveal a dark­er truth: peo­ple use divine fig­ures not for wor­ship, but for jus­ti­fi­ca­tion. The god of wine becomes an excuse for indul­gence, allow­ing peo­ple to act with­out guilt while pre­tend­ing to fol­low tra­di­tion. Bierce plays these two fig­ures off each oth­er to show the absurd range of human emotion—how awe and excess can be placed side by side with­out ques­tion.

The term Back­bite speaks to how often betray­al hides behind civil­i­ty. Bierce defines it as slan­der com­mit­ted from a safe dis­tance, mock­ing those who attack only when unthreat­ened. It’s a com­men­tary on cow­ardice dis­guised as crit­i­cism. Sim­i­lar­ly, Bait is not mere­ly a lure—it’s a metaphor for manip­u­la­tion. Whether in con­ver­sa­tion or com­merce, humans often entice oth­ers with false promis­es to get what they want. Bierce’s def­i­n­i­tions turn every­day words into warn­ings. He expos­es how much of human inter­ac­tion relies on sub­tle deceit.

Bap­tism is treat­ed with scathing humor. Bierce reduces it to a rit­u­al more sym­bol­ic than sacred, ques­tion­ing whether such cer­e­monies offer gen­uine trans­for­ma­tion or just pub­lic val­i­da­tion. He even implies that the argu­ments between dif­fer­ent faiths over the “right” way to bap­tize are less about belief and more about self-impor­tance. His tone sug­gests that the sanc­ti­ty of the rit­u­al is often over­shad­owed by its spec­ta­cle. Through this entry, he calls into ques­tion how rit­u­als are used not for spir­i­tu­al growth but for sta­tus and divi­sion.

The Bat­tle­ground is stripped of its sup­posed glo­ry and revealed as a place where ideas fail and force takes over. Bierce notes that it’s the spot where argu­ments, hav­ing lost log­ic, resort to vio­lence. His cri­tique touch­es on how soci­eties glo­ri­fy war as noble when it often aris­es from pet­ty dis­putes and unre­solved con­flicts. Beard, mean­while, is mocked as a mark of matu­ri­ty that is more cos­met­ic than mean­ing­ful. Bierce sug­gests that appear­ances, often treat­ed with undue respect, rarely align with sub­stance. Even some­thing as triv­ial as facial hair becomes a sym­bol of mis­placed rev­er­ence.

In Big­otry, Bierce’s tone sharp­ens. He defines it as the act of view­ing oth­ers’ beliefs as unrea­son­able while fierce­ly defend­ing one’s own. The insight stings because it remains true—many who accuse oth­ers of close-mind­ed­ness refuse to exam­ine their own con­vic­tions. It’s a call­out not to reli­gion or ide­ol­o­gy alone, but to the uni­ver­sal ten­den­cy to judge with­out reflec­tion. His satire turns the spot­light inward, forc­ing read­ers to see them­selves in the very flaws they cri­tique.

The entry for Beau­ty is poet­ic but dis­il­lu­sion­ing. Rather than treat­ing beau­ty as time­less or divine, Bierce frames it as a tool—used for influ­ence, weaponized for pow­er. He notes that beau­ty can inspire, but also deceive, mak­ing it a dou­ble-edged force in both per­son­al and soci­etal con­texts. It is admired, but also feared, because of its pow­er to dis­rupt log­ic and dri­ve desire. Brain, per­haps one of the most bit­ing entries, is treat­ed with irony. Bierce implies that intel­li­gence is often unused or mis­used, exist­ing more as a poten­tial than a prac­tice.

In his def­i­n­i­tion of Bore, Bierce offers a painful­ly accu­rate social obser­va­tion: some­one who talks when oth­ers want to speak. This entry cap­tures how com­mu­ni­ca­tion is less about exchange and more about com­pe­ti­tion for atten­tion. The Book, instead of being revered, is framed as an object whose val­ue depends more on per­cep­tion than on truth. Bierce chal­lenges the idea that read­ing equals wis­dom, not­ing that books often con­firm what read­ers already believe, rather than chal­lenge them.

By the end of the chap­ter, Bierce has unpacked dozens of every­day words to reveal their hid­den con­tra­dic­tions. He doesn’t ask the read­er to reject mean­ing but to recon­sid­er how mean­ings are formed. Through wit and sar­casm, he urges a more skep­ti­cal engage­ment with lan­guage and with life. His def­i­n­i­tions are not just playful—they’re crit­i­cal tools for think­ing. They expose how even the most com­mon words car­ry assump­tions, judg­ments, and his­to­ries we rarely acknowl­edge. Through that lens, The Devil’s Dic­tio­nary con­tin­ues to serve as a chal­lenge: not to mock belief, but to see it clear­ly.