Chap­ter G opens with a sharp com­men­tary on the Gal­lows, not just as a struc­ture of jus­tice, but as a mor­bid stage where the con­demned briefly becomes the cen­ter of atten­tion. Bierce reduces its grim func­tion to the­atri­cal irony, describ­ing how soci­ety trans­forms pun­ish­ment into per­for­mance. The accom­pa­ny­ing verse adds that the noblest death is one deliv­ered with absolute stillness—suggesting that dig­ni­ty in the face of death may be the last illu­sion grant­ed to those soci­ety con­demns. By fram­ing exe­cu­tion as spec­ta­cle, Bierce cri­tiques how jus­tice and cru­el­ty often blur, turn­ing moral­i­ty into an audi­ence-dri­ven show rather than a solemn con­se­quence.

He fol­lows with Gar­goyle, which he reimag­ines as the architect’s revenge—not as sacred sym­bol­ism, but as stone car­i­ca­tures of their ene­mies. Bierce’s inter­pre­ta­tion strips away the mys­tique of goth­ic orna­men­ta­tion and reveals a more per­son­al, pet­ty moti­va­tion behind its grotesque fig­ures. The idea that pub­lic art could serve pri­vate spite illus­trates how even insti­tu­tions like reli­gion and archi­tec­ture are infused with human flaws. This entry sets the stage for a broad­er satire on how beau­ty and mean­ing are fre­quent­ly built upon van­i­ty and resent­ment, not grandeur or devo­tion.

In defin­ing Gen­tle­man and Gen­teel, Bierce dis­man­tles the idea of inher­ent nobil­i­ty. A gen­tle­man is no longer some­one with virtue or class, but some­one whom soci­ety has cho­sen to call refined, often with­out mer­it. Like­wise, gen­teel behav­ior is framed as a performance—an exter­nal pol­ish mask­ing inter­nal same­ness. His cri­tique tar­gets the super­fi­cial stan­dards by which peo­ple are cat­e­go­rized, remind­ing read­ers that the façade of respectabil­i­ty often dis­guis­es moral empti­ness. Bierce asks whether polite­ness and pres­tige actu­al­ly reflect inner char­ac­ter, or if they are sim­ply the cur­ren­cy of social illu­sion.

The word Geol­o­gist receives a humor­ous jab as well. Bierce paints them as peo­ple who walk in cir­cles chas­ing expla­na­tions, hint­ing at science’s ten­den­cy to com­pli­cate rather than clar­i­fy. His satire doesn’t mock inquiry, but ques­tions how much under­stand­ing is tru­ly gained by reduc­ing the nat­ur­al world into terms and lay­ers. This skep­ti­cism extends to Ghost, which he por­trays not as a spir­i­tu­al real­i­ty, but as the pro­jec­tion of fear. Ghosts, in Bierce’s view, are less about the super­nat­ur­al and more about the per­sis­tence of guilt, unre­solved mem­o­ry, or imag­i­na­tion. What haunts us is often with­in, not beyond.

Good, as defined by Bierce, los­es its moral weight and becomes a sub­jec­tive pref­er­ence. He expos­es how val­ues like virtue and decen­cy are shaped more by per­spec­tive than prin­ci­ple. What one per­son sees as noble, anoth­er may see as naive or even dan­ger­ous. Gout, a dis­ease often asso­ci­at­ed with wealth and indul­gence, is inter­pret­ed as a phys­i­cal reminder of excess. Instead of pity­ing the suf­fer­er, Bierce invites us to see gout as the body’s way of cor­rect­ing the overindul­gence that soci­ety often cel­e­brates. His com­men­tary con­nects health to lifestyle, sug­gest­ing that afflic­tion is not always unjust.

The entry for Grape is a play­ful nudge at human indul­gence. Rather than pre­sent­ing it as a sim­ple fruit, Bierce turns it into a sym­bol of transformation—from vine to wine, from health to excess. His treat­ment of the grape merges plea­sure and con­se­quence, rein­forc­ing his theme of iron­ic dual­i­ty. By jux­ta­pos­ing nature’s sim­plic­i­ty with man’s ten­den­cy toward overuse, he crit­i­cizes the inabil­i­ty to enjoy mod­er­a­tion. Bierce’s grape is not just a fruit—it is a les­son in how delight often leads to down­fall when con­sumed with­out thought.

Bierce ends the chap­ter by weav­ing togeth­er satire with philo­soph­i­cal cri­tique. Words like Grat­i­tude are implied to be more trans­ac­tion­al than heartfelt—expressed out of expec­ta­tion rather than gen­uine emo­tion. Grave, too, receives lay­ered treat­ment, seen as both a final des­ti­na­tion and a metaphor for seri­ous­ness. Bierce’s abil­i­ty to fold mul­ti­ple mean­ings into a sin­gle term reflects his mas­tery of wit and his dis­con­tent with super­fi­cial under­stand­ing. He uses humor to peel back the lay­ers of lan­guage, expos­ing how every­day words shape, and often dis­tort, our grasp on truth.

Through his def­i­n­i­tions under G, Bierce invites read­ers to recon­sid­er how words like “good,” “ghost,” and “gen­tle­man” are used to build nar­ra­tives that may not hold up under scruti­ny. His cyn­i­cism isn’t just for effect—it’s a chal­lenge. He dares us to ques­tion assump­tions that seem harm­less but are loaded with con­tra­dic­tions. By reveal­ing the dou­ble mean­ings behind lan­guage, Bierce trans­forms a dic­tio­nary into a mirror—one that reflects both the absur­di­ty and the depth of human behav­ior.