Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  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 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 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-espritism, 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