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{{1840-01:
THE SIGNORA ZENOBIA.{{1842-02: How to
write a Blackwood Article
}}========================
 I PRESUME every body 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" {{1840-01: — }}
(that's me, I'm all soul) {{1840-01:
— }} and sometimes "a
butterfly,"
which latter meaning 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
was'nt 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 [page 214:]
the
Queen of 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
original 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, every body 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,) and 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 {{1840-01:
Regular-Exchange // 1842-02: Regular, Exchange }}
, {{1840-01: Tea-Total // 1842-02:
Tea, Total }} , Young, {{1840-01:
Belles-Lettres // 1842-02: Belles, Lettres }} ,
Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical, Association, To, Civilize,
Humanity
— one letter for each word, which is a decided improvement upon Lord [page
215:] 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 {{1840-01:
Dr.
Moneypenny // 1842-02: 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,
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 anything 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 stigmatise 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 {{1840-01:
composean // 1842-02: compose
an }} [page
216:] article of the genuine Blackwood stamp, if one only
goes properly about it. Of course I don't speak of the political
articles.
Every body 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 "Gulley'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 every
body
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 auriculas — "My dear madam," said he,
"sit [page
217:] 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 impressive energy and solemnity of manner, "mark
me! — that pen — must — never be mended! Herein, madam, lies
the
secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume it upon myself to say, that no
individual, of however great genius, ever wrote with a good pen {{1840-01: , // 1842-02: — }}
understand
me {{1840-01: , // 1842-02: — }}
a good article. You may take it for granted, madam, that when a
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 tact, taste, 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 [page
218:] 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 any body 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-bye, 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 [page
219:]
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 {{1840-01: Morrison's //
1842-02: 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 sentimental, and the tone natural — all
common-place [page 220:] enough. But then there is
the tone laconic, or curt, which has lately come much into use. It
consists
in short sentences. Somehow thus {{1840-01:
: // 1842-02: . }} 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 mystic is also a good one —
but
requires
some skill in the handling. The beauty of this lies in a knowledge of
innuendo.
Hint all, and assert nothing. If you desire to say 'bread and butter,'
do not by any means say it outright. You may say anything and
everything approaching to 'bread and butter.' You may hint at
'buckwheat
cake,'
or you may even go as far as to insinuate 'oatmeal porridge,' but, if
'bread
and butter' is your real meaning, be cautious, my dear Miss
Psyche,
not on any account to say 'bread and butter.' I assured him that I would never say
it again as
long as I lived. He continued: "There are various other tones of
equal
celebrity,
but I shall only mention two more, the tone metaphysical, and the tone
heterogeneous. In the former, the merit consists in seeing into the
nature
of affairs a very great deal farther than any body else. This second
sight
is very efficient when properly managed. [page 221:]
A little reading of Coleridge's Table-Talk will carry you a great way.
If you know any big words this is your chance for them. {{1840-01: Talk of the
Academy
and the Lyceum, and say something about the Ionic and Italic schools,
or
about Bossarion, and Kant, and Schelling, and Fitche, and be sure you
abuse
a man called Locke, and bring in the words a priori and a
posteriori. // 1842-02: [[on a small clipped piece of
paper,
attached to this page]] To Printer — Substitute this for what is
marked out in pencil. No. ¶ [[new paragraph, but indented to
approximately match the beginning of the text in the existing paragraph]]
Talk of the Ionic and Eleatic Schools — of Archytas, Gorgias and
Alemæon. Say something about objedcts and subjects. Be sure and
abuse a man called Locke. Turn up your nose at things in general; and
when you let slip anything very unconsionably absurd, you need not be
at the trouble of scratching it out, but just put in a foot-note and
say you are indebted for teh above profound observation to the 'Kritik
der reinen Vermunft' or to the 'Metaphysische Anfangsgrunde der
Naturwissenschaft'. This will look erudite and at thesame time frank.
[[followed by a pencilled notation of]] [22 | suppl] }}
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 everything deep, great, odd, piquant, perinent, 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 {{1842-02:
; }} — 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 bookworm. And yet above all things is it 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 [page 222:]
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, and Aœde — meditation, memory, and singing.'
You
may make a great 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 something 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
{{1840-01: Piquant
// 1842-02: piquant }} expressions. PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS.
'The venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.' Good! By introducing
these
few [page 223:] words with dexterity you will
evince
your intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the
Chinese.
With the aid of this you may possibly get along without either Arabic,
or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing muster, however, without
French, 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!
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 à propos when [page 224:] you are struggling in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
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!
That's German — from Schiller. 'And if I die, at least I die — for thee — for thee!' Here it is clear that you are apostrophising the cause of your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady either) of sense, would'nt 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 {{1840-01: mosaiques // 1842-02: mosäiques }} . 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, [page 225:] 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 ideas. The man was a fool, you see. Some poor fellow
whom
you addressed while choking with that chicken-bone, and who therefore
did'nt
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 his
speeches
are mere {{1840-01: anemonœ //
1842-02: anemonae }} verborum,
anemone words. The anemone, with
great
brillancy, 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 something
pretty
from {{1842-02: — }}
Demosthenes {{1840-01: — // 1842-02:
, }} for example. xxx x xxxxxxx xxx xxxx xxxxxx [[Greek
text]].
[Aner o pheogon kai palin makesetai.] There is a tolerably good
translation
of it in Hudibras —
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 acute look of that Epsilon! That Phi ought certainly [page 226:] to be a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In short, there's 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 only offer me
fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have it,
than sacrifice it for so {{1840-01:
trivial // 1842-02: 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 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, as soon as convenient, to — to — get yourself
drowned,
or — choked with a chicken-bone, or [page 227:] —
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, auriculas 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 {{1840-01: my }} 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 a 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 my 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. |
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