Chapter 25 (7)

“The ‘Lollipop!!’ This gorgeous magazine is already before the
public for October. The question of preeminence is forever put to
rest, and hereafter it will be excessively preposterous in the
‘Hum-Drum,’ the ‘Rowdy-Dow,’ or the ‘Goosetherumfoodle,’ to make
any farther spasmodic attempts at competition. These journals may
excel the ‘Lollipop’ in outcry, but, in all other points, give us
the ‘Lollipop!’ How this celebrated Magazine can sustain its
evidently tremendous expenses, is past comprehension. To be sure
it has a circulation of precisely half a million, and its
subscription-list has increased seventy-five per cent, within the
last couple of days; but then the sums it disburses, monthly, for
contributions, are scarcely credible; we are cognizant of the
fact, that Mademoiselle Cribalittle received no less than
eighty-seven cents and a half for her late valuable Revolutionary
Tale, entitled ‘The York-Town Katy-Did, and the Bunker-Hill
Katy-Didn’t.’

“The most able papers in the present number, are, of course,
those furnished by the editor, (the eminent Mr. Crab,) but there
are numerous magnificent contributions from such names as Snob,
Mademoiselle Cribalittle, Slyass, Mrs. Fibalittle, Mumblethumb,
Mrs. Squibalittle, and last, though not least, Fatquack. The
world may well be challenged to produce so rich a galaxy of
genius.

“The poem over the signature ‘Snob’ is, we find, attracting
universal commendation, and, we are constrained to say, deserves,
if possible, even more applause than it has received. The
‘Oil-of-Bob’ is the title of this masterpiece of eloquence and
art. One or two of our readers _may_ have a _very_ faint,
although sufficiently disgusting recollection of a poem (?)
similarly entitled, the perpetration of a miserable
penny-a-liner, mendicant, and cut-throat, connected in the
capacity of scullion, we believe, with one of the indecent prints
about the purlieus of the city; we beg them, for God’s sake, not
to confound the compositions. The author of the ‘Oil-of-Bob’ is,
we hear, Thingum Bob, Esq., a gentleman of high genius, and a
scholar. ‘Snob’ is merely a _nom-de-guerre. Sept_. 15—1 _t.”_

I could scarcely restrain my indignation while I perused the
concluding portions of this diatribe. It was clear to me that the
yea-nay manner—not to say the gentleness—the positive forbearance
with which the “Daddy-Long-Legs” spoke of that pig, the editor of
the “Gad-Fly”—it was evident to me, I say, that this gentleness
of speech could proceed from nothing else than a partiality for
the Fly—whom it was clearly the intention of the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” to elevate into reputation at my expense. Any
one, indeed, might perceive, with half an eye, that, had the real
design of the “Daddy” been what it wished to appear, it, (the
“Daddy”) might have expressed itself in terms more direct, more
pungent, and altogether more to the purpose. The words
“penny-a-liner,” “mendicant,” “scullion,” and “cut-throat,” were
epithets so intentionally inexpressive and equivocal, as to be
worse than nothing when applied to the author of the very worst
stanzas ever penned by one of the human race. We all know what is
meant by “damning with faint praise,” and, on the other hand, who
could fail seeing through the covert purpose of the “Daddy”—that
of glorifying with feeble abuse?

What the “Daddy” chose to say of the Fly, however, was no
business of mine. What it said of myself _was_. After the noble
manner in which the “Owl,” the “Toad,” the “Mole,” had expressed
themselves in respect to my ability, it was rather too much to be
coolly spoken of by a thing like the “Daddy-Long-Legs,” as merely
“a gentleman of high genius and a scholar.” Gentleman indeed! I
made up my mind at once, either to get a written apology from the
“Daddy-Long-Legs,” or to call it out.

Full of this purpose, I looked about me to find a friend whom I
could entrust with a message to his Daddyship, and as the editor
of the “Lollipop” had given me marked tokens of regard, I at
length concluded to seek assistance upon the present occasion.

I have never yet been able to account, in a manner satisfactory
to my own understanding, for the _very_ peculiar countenance and
demeanor with which Mr. Crab listened to me, as I unfolded to him
my design. He again went through the scene of the bell-rope and
cudgel, and did not omit the duck. At one period I thought he
really intended to quack. His fit, nevertheless, finally subsided
as before, and he began to act and speak in a rational way. He
declined bearing the cartel, however, and in fact, dissuaded me
from sending it at all; but was candid enough to admit that the
“Daddy-Long-Legs” had been disgracefully in the wrong—more
especially in what related to the epithets “gentleman and
scholar.”

Towards the end of this interview with Mr. Crab, who really
appeared to take a paternal interest in my welfare, he suggested
to me that I might turn an honest penny, and, at the same time,
advance my reputation, by occasionally playing Thomas Hawk for
the “Lollipop.”

I begged Mr. Crab to inform me who was Mr. Thomas Hawk, and how
it was expected that I should play him.

Here Mr. Crab again “made great eyes,” (as we say in Germany,)
but at length, recovering himself from a profound attack of
astonishment, he assured me that he employed the words “Thomas
Hawk” to avoid the colloquialism, Tommy, which was low—but that
the true idea was Tommy Hawk—or tomahawk—and that by “playing
tomahawk” he referred to scalping, brow-beating and otherwise
using-up the herd of poor-devil authors.

I assured my patron that, if this was all, I was perfectly
resigned to the task of playing Thomas Hawk. Hereupon Mr. Crab
desired me to use-up the editor of the “Gad-Fly” forthwith, in
the fiercest style within the scope of my ability, and as a
specimen of my powers. This I did, upon the spot, in a review of
the original “Oil-of-Bob,” occupying thirty-six pages of the
“Lollipop.” I found playing Thomas Hawk, indeed, a far less
onerous occupation than poetizing; for I went upon _system_
altogether, and thus it was easy to do the thing thoroughly and
well. My practice was this. I bought auction copies (cheap) of
“Lord Brougham’s Speeches,” “Cobbett’s Complete Works,” the “New
Slang-Syllabus,” the “Whole Art of Snubbing,” “Prentice’s
Billingsgate” (folio edition,) and “Lewis G. Clarke on Tongue.”
These works I cut up thoroughly with a currycomb, and then,
throwing the shreds into a sieve, sifted out carefully all that
might be thought decent, (a mere trifle); reserving the hard
phrases, which I threw into a large tin pepper-castor with
longitudinal holes, so that an entire sentence could get through
without material injury. The mixture was then ready for use. When
called upon to play Thomas Hawk, I anointed a sheet of fools-cap
with the white of a gander’s egg; then, shredding the thing to be
reviewed as I had previously shredded the books,—only with more
care, so as to get every word separate—I threw the latter shreds
in with the former, screwed on the lid of the castor, gave it a
shake, and so dusted out the mixture upon the egged foolscap;
where it stuck. The effect was beautiful to behold. It was
captivating. Indeed, the reviews I brought to pass by this simple
expedient have never been approached, and were the wonder of the
world. At first, through bashfulness—the result of inexperience—I
was a little put out by a certain inconsistency—a certain air of
the _bizarre_, (as we say in France,) worn by the composition as
a whole. All the phrases did not _fit_, (as we say in the
Anglo-Saxon). Many were quite awry. Some, even, were
up-side-down; and there were none of them which were not, in some
measure, injured in regard to effect, by this latter species of
accident, when it occurred—with the exception of Mr. Lewis
Clarke’s paragraphs, which were so vigorous, and altogether
stout, that they seemed not particularly disconcerted by any
extreme of position, but looked equally happy and satisfactory,
whether on their heads, or on their heels.

What became of the editor of the “Gad-Fly,” after the publication
of my criticism on his “Oil-of-Bob,” it is somewhat difficult to
determine. The most reasonable conclusion is, that he wept
himself to death. At all events he disappeared instantaneously
from the face of the earth, and no man has seen even the ghost of
him since.

This matter having been properly accomplished, and the Furies
appeased, I grew at once into high favor with Mr. Crab. He took
me into his confidence, gave me a permanent situation as Thomas
Hawk of the “Lollipop,” and, as for the present, he could afford
me no salary, allowed me to profit, at discretion, by his advice.

“My dear Thingum,” said he to me one day after dinner, “I respect
your abilities and love you as a son. You shall be my heir. When
I die I will bequeath you the ‘Lollipop.’ In the meantime I will
make a man of you—I _will_—provided always that you follow my
counsel. The first thing to do is to get rid of the old bore.”

“Boar?” said I inquiringly—“pig, eh?—_aper?_ (as we say in
Latin)—who?—where?”

“Your father,” said he.

“Precisely,” I replied,—“pig.”

“You have your fortune to make, Thingum,” resumed Mr. Crab, “and
that governor of yours is a millstone about your neck. We must
cut him at once.” [Here I took out my knife.] “We must cut him,”
continued Mr. Crab, “decidedly and forever. He won’t do—he
_won’t_. Upon second thoughts, you had better kick him, or cane
him, or something of that kind.”

“What do you say,” I suggested modestly, “to my kicking him in
the first instance, caning him afterwards, and winding up by
tweaking his nose?”

Mr. Crab looked at me musingly for some moments, and then
answered:

“I think, Mr. Bob, that what you propose would answer
sufficiently well—indeed remarkably well—that is to say, as far
as it went—but barbers are exceedingly hard to cut, and I think,
upon the whole, that, having performed upon Thomas Bob the
operations you suggest, it would be advisable to blacken, with
your fists, both his eyes, very carefully and thoroughly, to
prevent his ever seeing you again in fashionable promenades.
After doing this, I really do not perceive that you can do any
more. However—it might be just as well to roll him once or twice
in the gutter, and then put him in charge of the police. Any time
the next morning you can call at the watch-house and swear an
assault.”

I was much affected by the kindness of feeling towards me
personally, which was evinced in this excellent advice of Mr.
Crab, and I did not fail to profit by it forthwith. The result
was, that I got rid of the old bore, and began to feel a little
independent and gentleman-like. The want of money, however, was,
for a few weeks, a source of some discomfort; but at length, by
carefully putting to use my two eyes, and observing how matters
went just in front of my nose, I perceived how the thing was to
be brought about. I say “thing”—be it observed—for they tell me
the Latin for it is _rem_. By the way, talking of Latin, can any
one tell me the meaning of _quocunque_—or what is the meaning of
_modo?_

My plan was exceedingly simple. I bought, for a song, a sixteenth
of the “Snapping-Turtle”:—that was all. The thing was _done_, and
I put money in my purse. There were some trivial arrangements
afterwards, to be sure; but these formed no portion of the plan.
They were a consequence—a result. For example, I bought pen, ink,
and paper, and put them into furious activity. Having thus
completed a Magazine article, I gave it, for appellation,
“Fol-Lol, _by the Author of_ ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’” and enveloped it
to the “Goosetherumfoodle.” That journal, however, having
pronounced it “twattle” in the “Monthly Notices to
Correspondents,” I reheaded the paper “‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle,’ by
Thingum Bob, Esq., Author of the Ode on ‘The Oil-of-Bob,’ _and_
Editor of the ‘Snapping-Turtle.’” With this amendment, I
re-enclosed it to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and, while I awaited a
reply, published daily, in the “Turtle,” six columns of what may
be termed philosophical and analytical investigation of the
literary merits of the “Goosetherumfoodle,” as well as of the
personal character of the editor of the “Goosetherumfoodle.” At
the end of a week the “Goosetherumfoodle” discovered that it had,
by some odd mistake, “confounded a stupid article, headed
‘Hey-Diddle-Diddle’ and composed by some unknown ignoramus, with
a gem of resplendent lustre similarly entitled, the work of
Thingum Bob, Esq., the celebrated author of ‘The Oil-of-Bob.’”
The “Goosetherumfoodle” deeply “regretted this very natural
accident,” and promised, moreover, an insertion of the _genuine_
“Hey-Diddle-Diddle” in the very next number of the Magazine.

The fact is, I _thought_—I _really_ thought—I thought at the
time—I thought _then_—and have no reason for thinking otherwise
_now_—that the “Goosetherumfoodle” _did_ make a mistake. With the
best intentions in the world, I never knew any thing that made as
many singular mistakes as the “Goosetherumfoodle.” From that day
I took a liking to the “Goosetherumfoodle,” and the result was I
soon saw into the very depths of its literary merits, and did not
fail to expatiate upon them, in the “Turtle,” whenever a fitting
opportunity occurred. And it is to be regarded as a very peculiar
coincidence—as one of those positively _remarkable_ coincidences
which set a man to serious thinking—that just such a total
revolution of opinion—just such entire _bouleversement_, (as we
say in French,)—just such thorough _topsiturviness_, (if I may be
permitted to employ a rather forcible term of the Choctaws,) as
happened, _pro_ and _con_, between myself on the one part, and
the “Goosetherumfoodle” on the other, did actually again happen,
in a brief period afterwards, and with precisely similar
circumstances, in the case of myself and the “Rowdy-Dow,” and in
the case of myself and the “Hum-Drum.”

Thus it was that, by a master-stroke of genius, I at length
consummated my triumphs by “putting money in my purse,” and thus
may be said really and fairly to have commenced that brilliant
and eventful career which rendered me illustrious, and which now
enables me to say, with Chateaubriand, “I have made
history”—“_J’ai fait l’histoire_.”

I have indeed “made history.” From the bright epoch which I now
record, my actions—my works—are the property of mankind. They are
familiar to the world. It is, then, needless for me to detail
how, soaring rapidly, I fell heir to the “Lollipop”—how I merged
this journal in the “Hum-Drum”—how again I made purchase of the
“Rowdy-Dow,” thus combining the three periodicals—how, lastly, I
effected a bargain for the sole remaining rival, and united all
the literature of the country in one magnificent Magazine, known
everywhere as the

“Rowdy-Dow, Lollipop, Hum-Drum,
and
goosetherumfoodle.”

Yes; I have made history. My fame is universal. It extends to the
uttermost ends of the earth. You cannot take up a common
newspaper in which you shall not see some allusion to the
immortal Thingum Bob. It is Mr. Thingum Bob said so, and Mr.
Thingum Bob wrote this, and Mr. Thingum Bob did that. But I am
meek and expire with an humble heart. After all, what is it?—this
indescribable something which men will persist in terming
“genius?” I agree with Buffon—with Hogarth—it is but _diligence_
after all.

Look at _me!_—how I labored—how I toiled—how I wrote! Ye Gods,
did I _not_ write? I knew not the word “ease.” By day I adhered
to my desk, and at night, a pale student, I consumed the midnight
oil. You should have seen me—you _should_. I leaned to the right.
I leaned to the left. I sat forward. I sat backward. I sat upon
end. I sat _tete baissée_, (as they have it in the Kickapoo,)
bowing my head close to the alabaster page. And, through all,
I—_wrote_. Through joy and through sorrow, I—_wrote_. Through
hunger and through thirst, I—_wrote_. Through good report and
through ill report, I—_wrote_. Through sunshine and through
moonshine, I—_wrote. What_ I wrote it is unnecessary to say. The
_style!_—that was the thing. I caught it from
Fatquack—whizz!—fizz!—— and I am giving you a specimen of it now.

HOW TO WRITE A “BLACKWOOD” ARTICLE

“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.

A PREDICAMENT

What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?—COMUS.

It was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets
were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children
were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they
bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they
caterwauled. Dogs they danced. _Danced!_ Could it then be
possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus
it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and
anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative
contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting,
and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say,
the—continued—yes, the continued and continuous, bitter,
harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression,
the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and
heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what
may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly
enviable—nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously
ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold
an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world—but
I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat,
what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs
danced! I—I could not! They frisked—I wept. They capered—I sobbed
aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the
recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in
relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the
commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable
Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but
faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribbon tied
fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches
in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and
her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured
innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite
with all.

And Pompey, my negro!—sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee?
I had taken Pompey’s arm. He was three feet in height (I like to
be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of
age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be
called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like
pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had
endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual
with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet.
He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a
stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-new drab overcoat
which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and
illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well
cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up
out of the dirt with both hands.

There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
already been the subject of remark. There was a third—that person
was myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky
Snobbs. My appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of
which I speak I was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a
sky-blue Arabian mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green
agraffas, and seven graceful flounces of the orange-colored
auricula. I thus formed the third of the party. There was the
poodle. There was Pompey. There was myself. We were three. Thus
it is said there were originally but three Furies—Melty, Nimmy,
and Hetty—Meditation, Memory, and Fiddling.

Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the
populous and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On
a sudden, there presented itself to view a church—a Gothic
cathedral—vast, venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered
into the sky. What madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon
my fate? I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the
giddy pinnacle, and then survey the immense extent of the city.
The door of the cathedral stood invitingly open. My destiny
prevailed. I entered the ominous archway. Where then was my
guardian angel?—if indeed such angels there be. If! Distressing
monosyllable! what world of mystery, and meaning, and doubt, and
uncertainty is there involved in thy two letters! I entered the
ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury to my
orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and
emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river
Alfred passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.

I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they
went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I
could not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose
supporting arm I leaned in all the confidence of early
affection—I could not help surmising that the upper end of the
continuous spiral ladder had been accidentally, or perhaps
designedly, removed. I paused for breath; and, in the meantime,
an accident occurred of too momentous a nature in a moral, and
also in a metaphysical point of view, to be passed over without
notice. It appeared to me—indeed I was quite confident of the
fact—I could not be mistaken—no! I had, for some moments,
carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana—I say
that I could not be mistaken—Diana smelt a rat! At once I called
Pompey’s attention to the subject, and he—he agreed with me.
There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat
had been smelled—and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the
intense excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted
intellect of man? The rat!—it was there—that is to say, it was
somewhere. Diana smelled the rat. I—I could not! Thus it is said
the Prussian Isis has, for some persons, a sweet and very
powerful perfume, while to others it is perfectly scentless.

The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three
or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit.
We still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One
little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or
misery depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of
the mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I
thought of Pompey!—alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many
false steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I
resolved to be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm
of Pompey, and, without his assistance, surmounted the one
remaining step, and gained the chamber of the belfry. I was
followed immediately afterward by my poodle. Pompey alone
remained behind. I stood at the head of the staircase, and
encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me his hand, and
unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm hold
upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey
stepped upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He
stumbled and fell—this consequence was inevitable. He fell
forward, and, with his accursed head, striking me full in the—in
the breast, precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon
the hard, filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my
revenge was sure, sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by
the wool with both hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black,
and crisp, and curling material, and tossed it from me with every
manifestation of disdain. It fell among the ropes of the belfry
and remained. Pompey arose, and said no word. But he regarded me
piteously with his large eyes and—sighed. Ye Gods—that sigh! It
sunk into my heart. And the hair—the wool! Could I have reached
that wool I would have bathed it with my tears, in testimony of
regret. But alas! it was now far beyond my grasp. As it dangled
among the cordage of the bell, I fancied it alive. I fancied that
it stood on end with indignation. Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris
of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful flower, which will live
when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a cord
from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for years.

Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there
were none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber
proceeded from a square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a
height of about seven feet from the floor. Yet what will the
energy of true genius not effect? I resolved to clamber up to
this hole. A vast quantity of wheels, pinions, and other
cabalistic-looking machinery stood opposite the hole, close to
it; and through the hole there passed an iron rod from the
machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the hole lay
there was barely room for my body—yet I was desperate, and
determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.

“You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.
You will stand here just beneath the hole—so. Now, hold out one
of your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it—thus. Now, the
other hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your
shoulders.”

He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I
could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey
that I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon
his shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings—ossi
tender que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful
friend, I gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the
enjoyment of the scene which so obligingly spread itself out
before my eyes.

Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not
describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of
Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh—the classic Edina. I
will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable
adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in
regard to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the
city, I had leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the
delicate architecture of the steeple. I observed that the
aperture through which I had thrust my head was an opening in the
dial-plate of a gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the
street, as a large key-hole, such as we see in the face of the
French watches. No doubt the true object was to admit the arm of
an attendant, to adjust, when necessary, the hands of the clock
from within. I observed also, with surprise, the immense size of
these hands, the longest of which could not have been less than
ten feet in length, and, where broadest, eight or nine inches in
breadth. They were of solid steel apparently, and their edges
appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these particulars, and some
others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious prospect below,
and soon became absorbed in contemplation.

From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of
Pompey, who declared that he could stand it no longer, and
requested that I would be so kind as to come down. This was
unreasonable, and I told him so in a speech of some length. He
replied, but with an evident misunderstanding of my ideas upon
the subject. I accordingly grew angry, and told him in plain
words, that he was a fool, that he had committed an ignoramus
e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere insommary Bovis, and his
words little better than an ennemywerrybor’em. With this he
appeared satisfied, and I resumed my contemplations.

It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I
was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was
startled by something very cold which pressed with a gentle
pressure on the back of my neck. It is needless to say that I
felt inexpressibly alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my
feet, and that Diana was sitting, according to my explicit
directions, upon her hind legs, in the farthest corner of the
room. What could it be? Alas! I but too soon discovered. Turning
my head gently to one side, I perceived, to my extreme horror,
that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like minute-hand of the clock
had, in the course of its hourly revolution, descended upon my
neck. There was, I knew, not a second to be lost. I pulled back
at once—but it was too late. There was no chance of forcing my
head through the mouth of that terrible trap in which it was so
fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower with a
rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with
all my strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might
as well have tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down
it came, closer and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but
he said that I had hurt his feelings by calling him “an ignorant
old squint-eye.” I yelled to Diana; but she only said
“bow-wow-wow,” and that I had told her “on no account to stir
from the corner.” Thus I had no relief to expect from my
associates.