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ARTICLE.
 I PRESUME every body
has heard of me.
My name is the
Signora Psyche
Zenobia.
This I know to be a fact. No body 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."
[column 2:] 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, 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 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
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 aparentices [[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
[page 2:] 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 auriculas. "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 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 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
an 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 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 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-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
[column 2:] 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
hackneyed.
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 common-place 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 Alcmæon. 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 anything a little too
absurd,
you need not be at the trouble of scratching it out, but just add a
foot-note,
and say that you are indebted for the above profound observation to the
'Kritik der reinem Vernunft,' or to the 'Metaphysische
Anfangsgrunde der
Naturwissenchaft.' 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 any body 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 innendo [[innuendo]]. Hint every thing — assert
nothing. If you
feel
inclined to say 'bread [page 3:] 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 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 everything 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 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 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 [column 2:]
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 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 apostrophizing 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 mosüiques. 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 something pretty — from
Demosthenes, for
example. [[Greek text=]] xx xxx xxxx [[=Greek text]] [Aner o pheugoen
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 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 [page 4:] 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, 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 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.———
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, [column 2:]
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 word
[[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 riband 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 thence 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 [page 5:] 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 often 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 afterwards 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 it 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
forwards, 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 still alive. I fancied that it stood on end with
indignation.
Thus the happydandy [column 2:] 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 everything 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 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
[page 6:] 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. Meantime the ponderous and terrific Scythe of
Time
(for
I now
discovered
the literal import of that classical phrase) had not stopped, nor was
it
likely to stop, in its career. Down and still down, it came. It had
already
buried its sharp edge a full inch in my flesh, and my sensations grew
indistinct
and confused. At one time I fancied myself in Philadelphia with the
stately
Dr. Moneypenny, at another in the back parlor of Mr. Blackwood
receiving
his invaluable instructions. And then again the sweet recollection of
better
and earlier times came over me, and I thought of that happy period when
the world was not all a desert, and Pompey not altogether cruel. The ticking of the machinery amused me. Amused me,
I
say, for my
sensations
now bordered upon perfect happiness, and the most trifling
circumstances
afforded me pleasure. The eternal click-clack, click-slack
[[click-clack]], click-clack of
the clock was the most melodious of music in my ears, and occasionally
even put me in mind of the grateful sermonic harangues of Dr. Ollapod.
Then there were the great figures upon the dial-plate — how
intelligent,
how intellectual, they all looked! And presently they took to dancing
the
Mazurka, and I think it was the figure V who performed the most to my
satisfaction. She was evidently a lady of breeding. None of your
swaggerers,
and nothing at all indelicate in her motions. She did the pirouette to
admiration — whirling round upon her apex. I made an endeavor to hand
her a chair, for I saw that she appeared fatigued with her exertions —
and it was not until then that I fully perceived my lamentable
situation.
Lamentable indeed! The bar had buried itself two inches in my neck. I
was
aroused to a sense of exquisite pain. I prayed for death, and, in the
agony
of the moment, could not help repeating those
exquisite verses of the
poet
Miguel De Cervantes:
But now a new horror presented itself, and one
indeed
sufficient to
startle the strongest nerves. My eyes, from the cruel pressure of the
machine,
were absolutely starting from [column 2:] their sockets. While
I was thinking how I
should possibly manage without them, one actually tumbled out of my
head,
and, rolling down the steep side of the steeple, lodged in the rain
gutter
which ran along the eaves of the main building. The loss of the eye was
not so much as the insolent air of independence and contempt with which
it regarded me after it was out. There it lay in the gutter just under
my nose, and the airs it gave itself would have been ridiculous had
they
not been disgusting. Such a winking and blinking were never before
seen.
This behavior on the part of my eye in the gutter was not only
irritating
on account of its manifest insolence and shameful ingratitude, but was
also exceedingly inconvenient on account of the sympathy which always
exists
between two eyes of the same head, however far apart. I was forced, in
a manner, to wink and to blink, whether I would or not, in exact
concert
with the scoundrelly thing that lay just under my nose. I was presently
relieved, however, by the dropping out of the other eye. In falling it
took the same direction (possibly a concerted plot) as its fellow. Both
rolled out of the gutter together, and in truth I was very glad to get
rid of them. The bar was now four inches and a half deep in my
neck,
and there
was
only a little bit of skin to cut through. My sensations were those of
entire
happiness, for I felt that in a few minutes, at farthest, I should be
relieved
from my disagreeable situation. And in this expectation I was not at
all
deceived. At twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon precisely,
the huge minute-hand had proceeded sufficiently far on its terrible
revolution
to sever the small remainder of my neck. I was not sorry to see the
head
which had occasioned me so much embarrassment at
length make a final
separation
from my body. It first rolled down the side of the steeple, then
lodged,
for a few seconds, in the gutter, and then made its way, with a plunge,
into the middle of the street. I will candidly confess that my feelings were now of
the
most
singular — nay, of the most mysterious, the most perplexing and
incomprehensible
character. My senses were here and there at one and the same moment.
With
my head I imagined, at one time, that I the head, was the real Signora
Psyche Zenobia — at another I felt convinced that myself, the body,
was
the proper identity. To clear my ideas on this topic I felt in my
pocket
for my snuff-box, but, upon getting it, and endeavoring to apply a
pinch
of its grateful contents in the ordinary manner, I became immediately
aware
of my peculiar deficiency, and threw the box at once down to my head.
It
took a pinch with great satisfaction, and smiled me an acknowledgement
in return. Shortly afterwards it made me a speech, which I could hear
but
indistinctly without ears. I gathered enough, however, to know that it
was astonished at my wishing to remain alive under such circumstances.
In the concluding sentences it quoted the noble words of Ariosto —
thus comparing me to the hero who, in the heat of the combat, not perceiving that he was dead, continued to contest the battle with inextinguishable valor. There was nothing now to prevent my getting down from my elevation, and I did so. What it was that Pompey saw so very peculiar in my appearance I have never yet been able to find out. The fellow opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shut his two eyes as if he were endeavoring to crack nuts between the lids. Finally, throwing off his overcoat, he made one spring for the staircase and disappeared. I hurled after the scoundrel these vehement words of Demosthenes — [page 7:]
and then turned to the darling of my heart, to the one-eyed! the shaggy-haired Diana. Alas! what a horrible vision affronted my eyes? Was that a rat I saw skulking into his hole? Are these the picked bones of the little angel who has been cruelly devoured by the monster? Ye gods! and what do I behold — is that the departed spirit, the shade, the ghost, of my beloved puppy, which I perceive sitting with a grace so melancholy, in the corner? Harken! for she speaks, and, heavens! it is in the German of Schiller —
Alas! and are not her words too true?
Sweet creature! she too has sacrificed herself in my behalf. Dogless, niggerless, headless, what now remains for the unhappy Signora Psyche Zenobia? Alas — nothing! I have done. EDGAR A. POE.
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