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[page 230:]
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HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE.
"In the name of the Prophet — figs
!!"
Cry of the Turkish fig-peddler.
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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 [page 231:]
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 [page 232:] 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, [page 233:] 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 [page 234:]
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 [page
235:] 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, [page 236:]
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 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, Aoede — 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 recherche. 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! [page 237:]
"'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.'
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"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.'
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That's Italian, you
perceive —
from
Ariosto. It means that a great hero, in the heat of combat, not
perceiving
that he had [page 238:] 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!'
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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 mosaiques. 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
recherche 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. [[Greek text=]] xx xxx xxxx [[=Greek text]] [Anerh 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.' [page 239:]
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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 [page 240:]
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. |
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