Chap­ter J opens with Bierce’s bemused reflec­tion on the let­ter J, not mere­ly as a sound but as a sym­bol of lin­guis­tic incon­sis­ten­cy and inven­tion. He imag­ines its form as bor­rowed from the curled tail of a dog, sug­gest­ing that lan­guage often evolves from whim­sy rather than log­ic. This image, both play­ful and satir­i­cal, sets the tone for his mock schol­ar­ship, which includes the fab­ri­cat­ed fig­ure of Dr. Jocol­pus Bumer, whose untime­ly demise serves as a com­i­cal warn­ing against tak­ing philol­o­gy too seri­ous­ly. The par­o­dy of aca­d­e­m­ic analy­sis is used to mock the pomp of lin­guis­tic tra­di­tion, expos­ing how even language—something so fundamental—is rid­dled with arbi­trary deci­sions and com­ic ori­gins. Bierce invites read­ers to ques­tion the author­i­ty of con­ven­tions we rarely think to doubt.

Jeal­ous is rede­fined not as pro­tec­tive affec­tion, but as irra­tional fear sparked by per­ceived threats to some­thing whose true val­ue may be uncer­tain. Bierce points out the irony that jeal­ousy often attach­es itself to things not inher­ent­ly wor­thy of the emo­tion, high­light­ing how desire dis­torts judg­ment. His per­spec­tive chal­lenges the idea that jeal­ousy aris­es from love, fram­ing it instead as inse­cu­ri­ty cling­ing to illu­sion. The entry presents jeal­ousy as a self-inflict­ed tor­ment fueled by imag­i­na­tion more than real­i­ty. Through this, Bierce cri­tiques the emo­tion­al econ­o­my of human rela­tion­ships, where per­ceived loss is often exag­ger­at­ed beyond log­ic.

With Jester, Bierce turns to the role of his­tor­i­cal fools, who were often per­ceived as the only truth-tellers in a roy­al court. While they wore the mask of humor, their barbs fre­quent­ly exposed the absur­di­ty of those in pow­er. Bierce flips this dynam­ic, imply­ing that the monarch was often the actu­al source of fol­ly, while the jester mere­ly held up the mir­ror. This com­men­tary draws atten­tion to the per­for­mance of lead­er­ship and the audi­ence that enables it. In this view, jesters become nar­ra­tors of truth dis­guised as com­e­dy, while rulers serve as unwit­ting actors in their own farce.

Jews-harp receives Bierce’s atten­tion as an exam­ple of musi­cal opti­mism. He defines it as an instru­ment that pro­duces sound of great enthu­si­asm, if not great qual­i­ty. The entry ridicules the gap between intent and out­come, sug­gest­ing that noise is often mis­tak­en for music. This def­i­n­i­tion humor­ous­ly cri­tiques how cul­tur­al tools are often ele­vat­ed beyond their func­tion, with more weight giv­en to tra­di­tion than to util­i­ty. Bierce’s satire here applies equal­ly to art, pol­i­tics, and language—arenas where form fre­quent­ly trumps sub­stance.

The inclu­sion of Joss-sticks gives Bierce an oppor­tu­ni­ty to explore reli­gious rit­u­al through a skep­ti­cal lens. Describ­ing them as incense used in East­ern tra­di­tions, he notes how their fra­grant smoke is offered to deities who do not smell, hear, or respond. His mock rev­er­ence reveals the absur­di­ty he sees in cer­e­mo­ni­al acts that lack prac­ti­cal con­nec­tion to divine engage­ment. Rather than mock­ing faith out­right, Bierce cri­tiques how rit­u­als per­sist even when stripped of orig­i­nal mean­ing. He sub­tly sug­gests that humans cling to actions as com­fort, even when belief has fad­ed.

Jus­tice, one of the chapter’s final entries, is defined with clas­sic Bierce cynicism—as a trans­ac­tion rather than a prin­ci­ple. He presents it as a good sold by the State, rarely dis­trib­uted even­ly and often denied entire­ly. This refram­ing implies that jus­tice, far from being blind or fair, is influ­enced by wealth, pow­er, and cir­cum­stance. Bierce’s def­i­n­i­tion con­fronts read­ers with a hard truth: sys­tems built to uphold fair­ness are often the first to fail those in need. The pow­er of this entry lies in its bru­tal sim­plic­i­ty, lay­ing bare the com­mod­i­fi­ca­tion of moral­i­ty.

Through these entries, Bierce shows how a sin­gle let­ter can unlock deep cri­tique and dark humor. Every word begin­ning with J becomes a case study in contradiction—of sound and sense, of pur­pose and pre­tense. Bierce expos­es how lan­guage not only reflects but rein­forces the absur­di­ties of human thought. He doesn’t just define—he dis­sects. His lex­i­con forces read­ers to recon­sid­er the words they use and the truths they assume, offer­ing satire as both mir­ror and scalpel. In the world of The Devil’s Dic­tio­nary, even the small­est let­ters reveal the biggest fol­lies.