“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler.
I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora
Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies
ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the
soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”
which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my
new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and
the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should
look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.
Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about
“blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!
I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always
calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as
Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that
consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia
and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the
title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an
empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)
We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the
fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,
Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.
Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.
spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale
Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny
is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me
the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.
R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,
Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,
To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a
decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have
it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I
can’t see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met
with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the
members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers
read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no
investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to
that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no
fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no
reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as
cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I
know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a
better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how
well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.
E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the
finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice
accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter
to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political
articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a
third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely
cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
“Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”
“Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and
“Slang-Whang.”
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and
what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of
writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is
only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the
society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as
the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to
him the wishes of the society, he received me with great
civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation
of the whole process.
“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green
agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,
“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer
of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with
a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he
continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and
solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!
Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume
upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius
ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may
take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is
never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to
which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.
“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you
to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,
yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let
me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was
out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,
and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born
and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an
Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.
They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It
was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands
and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have
believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of
it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about
a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The
Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and
indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss
Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.
It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the
clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a
funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out
his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are
the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,
be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to
you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss
Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”
“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.
“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.
But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing
what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the
sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
consider the best for all purposes.
“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was
a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if
you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed
up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will
have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual
fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an
experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’
you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the
purpose.”
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
go and hang myself forthwith.
“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat
hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s
pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions
will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over
by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.
But to proceed.
“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,
the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.
But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately
come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:
Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.
And never a paragraph.
“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.
Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be
all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very
similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This
is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too
great a hurry to think.
“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big
words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic
schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named
Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let
slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say
that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe
Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite
and—and—and frank.
“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into
the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody
else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.
Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,
and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote
what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of
Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a
syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.
Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say
‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may
say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’
You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to
insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real
meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
say ‘bread and butter!’”
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I
lived. He kissed me and continued:
“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,
in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is
consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,
pertinent, and pretty.
“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and
tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole
business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It
is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is
necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least
afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in
the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down
some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at
random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in
the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little
scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism, which are the very
thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well
note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two
divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,
and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may
require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.
“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three
Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You
may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You
see it is not generally known, and looks recherché. You must be
careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.
“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged
without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,
to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look
quite as fresh as ever.
“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some
persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!
Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some
thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so
well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!
“‘The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful
flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance
for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for
the Piquant Expressions.
“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.’
Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will
evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and
literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either
get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There
is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,
Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.
Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own
ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!
“‘Aussi tendre que Zaire’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to
the frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the
French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not
only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and
wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating
(write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)
was not altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
‘Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.’
“That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!
but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I
shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back
again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are
struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘
“That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great
hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been
fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The
application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss
Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour
and a half after you have been choked to death by that
chicken-bone. Please to write!
‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn
Durch sie—durch sie!’’
“That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for
thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or
lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a
well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with
capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
orange-jellies en mosaïques. Write! (You can get them that way
at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!
“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be
too recherché or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so
common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your
proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some
poor fellow whom you address while choking with that
chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what
you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,
and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you
can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great
brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be
down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase
which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai
palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in
Hudibras—
‘For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain.’
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your
Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.
Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi
ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow
than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing
like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case
your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out
the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the
good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand
your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take
the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.
I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
always remember them with gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the
sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
the substance and result.
“In the name of the Prophet—figs!!”
—Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler.
I presume everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora
Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies
ever calls me Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means “the
soul” (that’s me, I’m all soul) and sometimes “a butterfly,”
which latter meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my
new crimson satin dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and
the trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces of
orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any person who should
look at me would be instantly aware that my name wasn’t Snobbs.
Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But what can we
expect from a turnip? Wonder if she remembers the old adage about
“blood out of a turnip,” &c.? [Mem. put her in mind of it the
first opportunity.] [Mem. again—pull her nose.] Where was I? Ah!
I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere corruption of Zenobia,
and that Zenobia was a queen—(So am I. Dr. Moneypenny always
calls me the Queen of the Hearts)—and that Zenobia, as well as
Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a Greek,” and that
consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is Zenobia
and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls me
Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the “Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity.” Dr. Moneypenny made the
title for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an
empty rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes—but he’s deep.)
We all sign the initials of the society after our names, in the
fashion of the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts—the S. D. U. K.,
Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr.
Moneypenny says that S. stands for stale, and that D. U. K.
spells duck, (but it don’t,) that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale
Duck and not for Lord Brougham’s society—but then Dr. Moneypenny
is such a queer man that I am never sure when he is telling me
the truth. At any rate we always add to our names the initials P.
R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.—that is to say,
Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young, Belles,
Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association,
To, Civilize, Humanity—one letter for each word, which is a
decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will have
it that our initials give our true character—but for my life I
can’t see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met
with no very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the
members indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers
read every Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than
buffoonery. They were all whipped syllabub. There was no
investigation of first causes, first principles. There was no
investigation of any thing at all. There was no attention paid to
that great point, the “fitness of things.” In short there was no
fine writing like this. It was all low—very! No profundity, no
reading, no metaphysics—nothing which the learned call
spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to stigmatize as
cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital K—but I
know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a
better style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how
well I have succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R.
E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been assured that the
finest writing, upon every subject, is to be discovered in the
pages of that justly celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our
model upon all themes, and are getting into rapid notice
accordingly. And, after all, it’s not so very difficult a matter
to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
goes properly about it. Of course I don’t speak of the political
articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since Dr.
Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
tailor’s-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for
orders. One hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner” and a
third a “Culley’s New Compendium of Slang-Whang.” Mr. B. merely
cuts out and intersperses. It is soon done—nothing but
“Examiner,” “Slang-Whang,” and “Times”—then “Times,”
“Slang-Whang,” and “Examiner”—and then “Times,” “Examiner,” and
“Slang-Whang.”
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and
what everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of
writing which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is
only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the
society) that I have been made aware of the exact method of
composition. This method is very simple, but not so much so as
the politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.‘s, and making known to
him the wishes of the society, he received me with great
civility, took me into his study, and gave me a clear explanation
of the whole process.
“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green
agraffas, and orange-colored auriclas. “My dear madam,” said he,
“sit down. The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer
of intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with
a very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he
continued, after a pause, with the most expressive energy and
solemnity of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never be mended!
Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume
upon myself to say, that no individual, of however great genius
ever wrote with a good pen—understand me,—a good article. You may
take, it for granted, that when manuscript can be read it is
never worth reading. This is a leading principle in our faith, to
which if you cannot readily assent, our conference is at an end.”
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one,
too, of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He
seemed pleased, and went on with his instructions.
“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you
to any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study,
yet perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let
me see. There was ‘The Dead Alive,’ a capital thing!—the record
of a gentleman’s sensations when entombed before the breath was
out of his body—full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics,
and erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born
and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the ‘Confessions of an
Opium-eater’—fine, very fine!—glorious imagination—deep
philosophy acute speculation—plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully.
They would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It
was composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands
and water, ‘hot, without sugar.’” [This I could scarcely have
believed had it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of
it.] “Then there was ‘The Involuntary Experimentalist,’ all about
a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and came out alive and
well, although certainly done to a turn. And then there was ‘The
Diary of a Late Physician,’ where the merit lay in good rant, and
indifferent Greek—both of them taking things with the public. And
then there was ‘The Man in the Bell,’ a paper by-the-by, Miss
Zenobia, which I cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention.
It is the history of a young person who goes to sleep under the
clapper of a church bell, and is awakened by its tolling for a
funeral. The sound drives him mad, and, accordingly, pulling out
his tablets, he gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are
the great things after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung,
be sure and make a note of your sensations—they will be worth to
you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write forcibly, Miss
Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations.”
“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.
“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after my own heart.
But I must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing
what may be denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the
sensation stamp—the kind which you will understand me to say I
consider the best for all purposes.
“The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,—that was
a good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if
you cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed
up in an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will
have to be contented with simply imagining some similar
misadventure. I should prefer, however, that you have the actual
fact to bear you out. Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an
experimental knowledge of the matter in hand. ‘Truth is strange,’
you know, ‘stranger than fiction’—besides being more to the
purpose.”
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
go and hang myself forthwith.
“Good!” he replied, “do so;—although hanging is somewhat
hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth’s
pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions
will apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in
your way home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over
by an omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter.
But to proceed.
“Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic,
the tone enthusiastic, the tone natural—all commonplace enough.
But then there is the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately
come much into use. It consists in short sentences. Somehow thus:
Can’t be too brief. Can’t be too snappish. Always a full stop.
And never a paragraph.
“Then there is the tone elevated, diffusive, and interjectional.
Some of our best novelists patronize this tone. The words must be
all in a whirl, like a humming-top, and make a noise very
similar, which answers remarkably well instead of meaning. This
is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in too
great a hurry to think.
“The tone metaphysical is also a good one. If you know any big
words this is your chance for them. Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic
schools—of Archytas, Gorgias, and Alcmaeon. Say something about
objectivity and subjectivity. Be sure and abuse a man named
Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general, and when you let
slip any thing a little too absurd, you need not be at the
trouble of scratching it out, but just add a footnote and say
that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
‘Kritik der reinem Vernunft,’ or to the ‘Metaphysithe
Anfongsgrunde der Noturwissenchaft.’ This would look erudite
and—and—and frank.
“There are various other tones of equal celebrity, but I shall
mention only two more—the tone transcendental and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former the merit consists in seeing into
the nature of affairs a very great deal farther than anybody
else. This second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
A little reading of the ‘Dial’ will carry you a great way.
Eschew, in this case, big words; get them as small as possible,
and write them upside down. Look over Channing’s poems and quote
what he says about a ‘fat little man with a delusive show of
Can.’ Put in something about the Supernal Oneness. Don’t say a
syllable about the Infernal Twoness. Above all, study innuendo.
Hint everything—assert nothing. If you feel inclined to say
‘bread and butter,’ do not by any means say it outright. You may
say any thing and every thing approaching to ‘bread and butter.’
You may hint at buck-wheat cake, or you may even go so far as to
insinuate oat-meal porridge, but if bread and butter be your real
meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account to
say ‘bread and butter!’”
I assured him that I should never say it again as long as I
lived. He kissed me and continued:
“As for the tone heterogeneous, it is merely a judicious mixture,
in equal proportions, of all the other tones in the world, and is
consequently made up of every thing deep, great, odd, piquant,
pertinent, and pretty.
“Let us suppose now you have determined upon your incidents and
tone. The most important portion—in fact, the soul of the whole
business, is yet to be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It
is not to be supposed that a lady, or gentleman either, has been
leading the life of a book worm. And yet above all things it is
necessary that your article have an air of erudition, or at least
afford evidence of extensive general reading. Now I’ll put you in
the way of accomplishing this point. See here!” (pulling down
some three or four ordinary-looking volumes, and opening them at
random). “By casting your eye down almost any page of any book in
the world, you will be able to perceive at once a host of little
scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism, which are the very
thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article. You might as well
note down a few while I read them to you. I shall make two
divisions: first, Piquant Facts for the Manufacture of Similes,
and, second, Piquant Expressions to be introduced as occasion may
require. Write now!”—and I wrote as he dictated.
“PIQUANT FACTS FOR SIMILES. ‘There were originally but three
Muses—Melete, Mneme, Aœde—meditation, memory, and singing.’ You
may make a good deal of that little fact if properly worked. You
see it is not generally known, and looks recherché. You must be
careful and give the thing with a downright improviso air.
“Again. ‘The river Alpheus passed beneath the sea, and emerged
without injury to the purity of its waters.’ Rather stale that,
to be sure, but, if properly dressed and dished up, will look
quite as fresh as ever.
“Here is something better. ‘The Persian Iris appears to some
persons to possess a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
others it is perfectly scentless.’ Fine that, and very delicate!
Turn it about a little, and it will do wonders. We’ll have some
thing else in the botanical line. There’s nothing goes down so
well, especially with the help of a little Latin. Write!
“‘The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful
flower, and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
suspend it by a cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance
for years.’ That’s capital! That will do for the similes. Now for
the Piquant Expressions.
“PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. ‘The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.’
Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will
evince your intimate acquaintance with the language and
literature of the Chinese. With the aid of this you may either
get along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There
is no passing muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German,
Latin, and Greek. I must look you out a little specimen of each.
Any scrap will answer, because you must depend upon your own
ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now write!
“‘Aussi tendre que Zaire’—as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to
the frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the
French tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not
only your knowledge of the language, but your general reading and
wit. You can say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating
(write an article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone)
was not altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
‘Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.’
“That’s Spanish—from Miguel de Cervantes. ‘Come quickly, O death!
but be sure and don’t let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I
shall feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back
again to life.’ This you may slip in quite a propos when you are
struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
‘Il pover ‘huomo che non se’n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.‘
“That’s Italian, you perceive—from Ariosto. It means that a great
hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been
fairly killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The
application of this to your own case is obvious—for I trust, Miss
Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour
and a half after you have been choked to death by that
chicken-bone. Please to write!
‘Und sterb’ich doch, no sterb’ich denn
Durch sie—durch sie!’’
“That’s German—from Schiller. ‘And if I die, at least I die—for
thee—for thee!’ Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the
cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or
lady either) of sense, wouldn’t die, I should like to know, for a
well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with
capers and mushrooms, and served up in a salad-bowl, with
orange-jellies en mosaïques. Write! (You can get them that way
at Tortoni’s)—Write, if you please!
“Here is a nice little Latin phrase, and rare too, (one can’t be
too recherché or brief in one’s Latin, it’s getting so
common—ignoratio elenchi. He has committed an ignoratio
elenchi—that is to say, he has understood the words of your
proposition, but not the idea. The man was a fool, you see. Some
poor fellow whom you address while choking with that
chicken-bone, and who therefore didn’t precisely understand what
you were talking about. Throw the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth,
and, at once, you have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you
can tell him from Lucan (here it is) that speeches are mere
anemonae verborum, anemone words. The anemone, with great
brilliancy, has no smell. Or, if he begins to bluster, you may be
down upon him with insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase
which Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous and
inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the heart. He can do
nothing but roll over and die. Will you be kind enough to write?
“In Greek we must have some thing pretty—from Demosthenes, for
example. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheugoen kai
palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good translation of it in
Hudibras—
‘For he that flies may fight again,
Which he can never do that’s slain.’
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your
Greek. The very letters have an air of profundity about them.
Only observe, madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi
ought certainly to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow
than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there is nothing
like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper. In the present case
your application is the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out
the sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum at the
good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who couldn’t understand
your plain English in relation to the chicken-bone. He’ll take
the hint and be off, you may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient.
I was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made
a proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as
he could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better
to let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a
sum. Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the
gentleman showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His parting
words made a deep impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall
always remember them with gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while the tears stood in his
eyes, “is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible
that you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to—to—get
yourself drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or—or
hung,—or—bitten by a—but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a
couple of very excellent bull-dogs in the yard—fine fellows, I
assure you—savage, and all that—indeed just the thing for your
money—they’ll have you eaten up, auricula and all, in less than
five minutes (here’s my watch!)—and then only think of the
sensations! Here! I say—Tom!—Peter!—Dick, you villain!—let out
those”—but as I was really in a great hurry, and had not another
moment to spare, I was reluctantly forced to expedite my
departure, and accordingly took leave at once—somewhat more
abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have otherwise
allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about
Edinburgh, seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to the vast
character of the article I intended to write. In this excursion I
was attended by one negro servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog
Diana, whom I had brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded in my
arduous undertaking. An important event then happened of which
the following Blackwood article, in the tone heterogeneous, is
the substance and result.