HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE
by Edgar Allan Poe
"In the name of the prophets- figs!!"
Cry of Turkish fig-peddler.
I PRESUME everybody has heard of me. My name is the Signora Psyche
Zenobia. This I know to be a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls me
Suky Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a vulgar
corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek, and means "the soul"
(that's me, I'm all soul) and sometimes "a butterfly," which latter
meaning undoubtedly alludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin
dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and the trimmings of
green agraffas, and the seven flounces of orange-colored auriculas. As
for Snobbs- any person who should look at me would be instantly
aware that my name wasn't Snobbs. Miss Tabitha Turnip propagated
that report through sheer envy. Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little
wretch! But what can we expect from a turnip? Wonder if she
remembers the old adage about "blood out of a turnip," &c.? [Mem.
put her in mind of it the first opportunity.] [Mem. again- pull her
nose.] Where was I? Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs is a mere
corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a queen- (So am I. Dr.
Moneypenny always calls me the Queen of the Hearts)- and that Zenobia,
as well as Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was "a Greek,"
and that consequently I have a right to our patronymic, which is
Zenobia and not by any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip calls
me Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia.
As I said before, everybody has heard of me. I am that very
Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated as corresponding
secretary to the "Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total,
Young, Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity." Dr. Moneypenny made the title
for us, and says he chose it because it sounded big like an empty
rum-puncheon. (A vulgar man that sometimes- but he's deep.) We all
sign the initials of the society after our names, in the fashion of
the R. S. A., Royal Society of Arts- the S. D. U. K., Society for
the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, &c, &c. Dr. Moneypenny says that S.
stands for stale, and that D. U. K. spells duck, (but it don't,)
that S. D. U. K. stands for Stale Duck and not for Lord Brougham's
society- but then Dr. Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never
sure when he is telling me the truth. At any rate we always add to our
names the initials P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L. U. E. B. A. T. C. H.-
that is to say, Philadelphia, Regular, Exchange, Tea, Total, Young,
Belles, Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical,
Association, To, Civilize, Humanity- one letter for each word, which
is a decided improvement upon Lord Brougham. Dr. Moneypenny will
have it that our initials give our true character- but for my life I
can't see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of the Doctor, and the strenuous
exertions of the association to get itself into notice, it met with no
very great success until I joined it. The truth is, the members
indulged in too flippant a tone of discussion. The papers read every
Saturday evening were characterized less by depth than buffoonery.
They were all whipped syllabub. There was no investigation of first
causes, first principles. There was no investigation of any thing at
all. There was no attention paid to that great point, the "fitness
of things." In short there was no fine writing like this. It was all
low- very! No profundity, no reading, no metaphysics- nothing which
the learned call spirituality, and which the unlearned choose to
stigmatize as cant. [Dr. M. says I ought to spell "cant" with a
capital K- but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to introduce a better
style of thinking and writing, and all the world knows how well I have
succeeded. We get up as good papers now in the P. R. E. T. T. Y. B. L.
U. E. B. A. T. C. H. as any to be found even in Blackwood. I say,
Blackwood, because I have been assured that the finest writing, upon
every subject, is to be discovered in the pages of that justly
celebrated Magazine. We now take it for our model upon all themes, and
are getting into rapid notice accordingly. And, after all, it's not so
very difficult a matter to compose an article of the genuine Blackwood
stamp, if one only goes properly about it. Of course I don't speak
of the political articles. Everybody knows how they are managed, since
Dr. Moneypenny explained it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of
tailor's-shears, and three apprentices who stand by him for orders.
One hands him the "Times," another the "Examiner" and a third a
"Culley's New Compendium of Slang-Whang." Mr. B. merely cuts out and
intersperses. It is soon done- nothing but "Examiner,"
"Slang-Whang," and "Times"- then "Times," "Slang-Whang," and
"Examiner"- and then "Times," "Examiner," and "Slang-Whang."
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its miscellaneous
articles; and the best of these come under the head of what Dr.
Moneypenny calls the bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and what
everybody else calls the intensities. This is a species of writing
which I have long known how to appreciate, although it is only since
my late visit to Mr. Blackwood (deputed by the society) that I have
been made aware of the exact method of composition. This method is
very simple, but not so much so as the politics. Upon my calling at
Mr. B.'s, and making known to him the wishes of the society, he
received me with great civility, took me into his study, and gave me a
clear explanation of the whole process.
"My dear madam," said he, evidently struck with my majestic
appearance, for I had on the crimson satin, with the green agraffas,
and orange-colored auriclas. "My dear madam," said he, "sit down.
The matter stands thus: In the first place your writer of
intensities must have very black ink, and a very big pen, with a
very blunt nib. And, mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!" he continued,
after a pause, with the most expressive energy and solemnity of
manner, "mark me!- that pen- must- never be mended! Herein, madam,
lies the secret, the soul, of intensity. I assume upon myself to
say, that no individual, of however great genius ever wrote with a
good pen- understand me,- a good article. You may take, it for
granted, that when manuscript can be read it is never worth reading.
This is a leading principle in our faith, to which if you cannot
readily assent, our conference is at an end."
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to put an end to the
conference, I assented to a proposition so very obvious, and one, too,
of whose truth I had all along been sufficiently aware. He seemed
pleased, and went on with his instructions.
"It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche Zenobia, to refer you to
any article, or set of articles, in the way of model or study, yet
perhaps I may as well call your attention to a few cases. Let me
see. There was 'The Dead Alive,' a capital thing!- the record of a
gentleman's sensations when entombed before the breath was out of
his body- full of tastes, terror, sentiment, metaphysics, and
erudition. You would have sworn that the writer had been born and
brought up in a coffin. Then we had the 'Confessions of an
Opium-eater'- fine, very fine!- glorious imagination- deep
philosophy acute speculation- plenty of fire and fury, and a good
spicing of the decidedly unintelligible. That was a nice bit of
flummery, and went down the throats of the people delightfully. They
would have it that Coleridge wrote the paper- but not so. It was
composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer of Hollands and
water, 'hot, without sugar.'" [This I could scarcely have believed had
it been anybody but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of it.] "Then
there was 'The Involuntary Experimentalist,' all about a gentleman who
got baked in an oven, and came out alive and well, although
certainly done to a turn. And then there was 'The Diary of a Late
Physician,' where the merit lay in good rant, and indifferent Greek-
both of them taking things with the public. And then there was 'The
Man in the Bell,' a paper by-the-by, Miss Zenobia, which I cannot
sufficiently recommend to your attention. It is the history of a young
person who goes to sleep under the clapper of a church bell, and is
awakened by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him mad,
and, accordingly, pulling out his tablets, he gives a record of his
sensations. Sensations are the great things after all. Should you ever
be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations- they
will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If you wish to write
forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute attention to the sensations."
"That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood," said I.
"Good!" he replied. "I see you are a pupil after my own heart. But I
must put you au fait to the details necessary in composing what may be
denominated a genuine Blackwood article of the sensation stamp- the
kind which you will understand me to say I consider the best for all
purposes.
"The first thing requisite is to get yourself into such a scrape
as no one ever got into before. The oven, for instance,- that was a
good hit. But if you have no oven or big bell, at hand, and if you
cannot conveniently tumble out of a balloon, or be swallowed up in
an earthquake, or get stuck fast in a chimney, you will have to be
contented with simply imagining some similar misadventure. I should
prefer, however, that you have the actual fact to bear you out.
Nothing so well assists the fancy, as an experimental knowledge of the
matter in hand. 'Truth is strange,' you know, 'stranger than fiction'-
besides being more to the purpose."
Here I assured him I had an excellent pair of garters, and would
go and hang myself forthwith.
"Good!" he replied, "do so;- although hanging is somewhat
hacknied. Perhaps you might do better. Take a dose of Brandreth's
pills, and then give us your sensations. However, my instructions will
apply equally well to any variety of misadventure, and in your way
home you may easily get knocked in the head, or run over by an
omnibus, or bitten by a mad dog, or drowned in a gutter. But to
proceed.
"Having determined upon your subject, you must next consider the
tone, or manner, of your narration. There is the tone didactic, the
tone enthusiastic, the tone natural- all 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 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!
"'The Epidendrum Flos Aeris, of Java, bears a very beautiful flower,
and will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives suspend it by a
cord from the ceiling, and enjoy its fragrance for years.' That's
capital! That will do for the similes. Now for the Piquant
Expressions.
"PIQUANT EXPRESSIONS. 'The Venerable Chinese novel Ju-Kiao-Li.'
Good! By introducing these few words with dexterity you will evince
your intimate acquaintance with the language and literature of the
Chinese. With the aid of this you may either get along without
either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw. There is no passing
muster, however, without Spanish, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek. I
must look you out a little specimen of each. Any scrap will answer,
because you must depend upon your own ingenuity to make it fit into
your article. Now write!
"'Aussi tendre que Zaire'- as tender as Zaire-French. Alludes to the
frequent repetition of the phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French
tragedy of that name. Properly introduced, will show not only your
knowledge of the language, but your general reading and wit. You can
say, for instance, that the chicken you were eating (write an
article about being choked to death by a chicken-bone) was not
altogether aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
'Van muerte tan escondida,
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir,
No mestorne a dar la vida.'
"That's Spanish- from Miguel de Cervantes. 'Come quickly, O death!
but be sure and don't let me see you coming, lest the pleasure I shall
feel at your appearance should unfortunately bring me back again to
life.' This you may slip in quite a propos when you are struggling
in the last agonies with the chicken-bone. Write!
'Il pover 'huomo che non se'n era accorto,
Andava combattendo, e era morto.'
That's Italian, you perceive- from Ariosto. It means that a great
hero, in the heat of combat, not perceiving that he had been fairly
killed, continued to fight valiantly, dead as he was. The
application of this to your own case is obvious- for I trust, Miss
Psyche, that you will not neglect to kick for at least an hour and a
half after you have been choked to death by that chicken-bone.
Please to write!
'Und sterb'ich doch, no sterb'ich denn
Durch sie- durch sie!'
That's German- from Schiller. 'And if I die, at least I die- for thee-
for thee!' Here it is clear that you are apostrophizing the cause of
your disaster, the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady either)
of sense, wouldn't die, I should like to know, for a well fattened
capon of the right Molucca breed, stuffed with capers and mushrooms,
and served up in a salad-bowl, with orange-jellies en 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.
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.'
In a Blackwood article nothing makes so fine a show as your Greek. The
very letters have an air of profundity about them. Only observe,
madam, the astute look of that Epsilon! That Phi ought certainly to be
a bishop! Was ever there a smarter fellow than that Omicron? Just twig
that Tau! In short, there is nothing like Greek for a genuine
sensation-paper. In the present case your application is the most
obvious thing in the world. Rap out the sentence, with a huge oath,
and by way of ultimatum at the good-for-nothing dunder-headed
villain who couldn't understand your plain English in relation to
the chicken-bone. He'll take the hint and be off, you may depend
upon it."
These were all the instructions Mr. B. could afford me upon the
topic in question, but I felt they would be entirely sufficient. I
was, at length, able to write a genuine Blackwood article, and
determined to do it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a
proposition for the purchase of the paper when written; but as he
could offer me only fifty guineas a sheet, I thought it better to
let our society have it, than sacrifice it for so paltry a sum.
Notwithstanding this niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman showed
his consideration for me in all other respects, and indeed treated
me with the greatest civility. His parting words made a deep
impression upon my heart, and I hope I shall always remember them with
gratitude.
"My dear Miss Zenobia," he said, while the tears stood in his
eyes, "is there anything else I can do to promote the success of
your laudable undertaking? Let me reflect! It is just possible that
you may not be able, so soon as convenient, to- to- get yourself
drowned, or- choked with a chicken-bone, or- or hung,- or- bitten by
a- but stay! Now I think me of it, there are a couple of very
excellent bull-dogs in the yard- fine fellows, I assure you- savage,
and all that- indeed just the thing for your money- they'll have you
eaten up, auricula and all, in less than five minutes (here's my
watch!)- and then only think of the sensations! Here! I say- Tom!-
Peter!- Dick, you villain!- let out those"- but as I was really in a
great hurry, and had not another moment to spare, I was reluctantly
forced to expedite my departure, and accordingly took leave at once-
somewhat more abruptly, I admit, than strict courtesy would have
otherwise allowed.
It was my primary object upon quitting Mr. Blackwood, to get into
some immediate difficulty, pursuant to his advice, and with this
view I spent the greater part of the day in wandering about Edinburgh,
seeking for desperate adventures- adventures adequate to the intensity
of my feelings, and adapted to the vast character of the article I
intended to write. In this excursion I was attended by one negro-
servant, Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, whom I had brought
with me from Philadelphia. It was not, however, until late in the
afternoon that I fully succeeded in my arduous undertaking. An
important event then happened of which the following Blackwood
article, in the tone heterogeneous, is the substance and result.
THE END
A PREDICAMENT
by Edgar Allan Poe
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?
COMUS.
IT was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the
goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets were
terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children were
choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they bellowed.
Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they
danced. Danced! Could it then be possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my
dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a host of gloomy
recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of genius and
imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the
everlasting and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the-
continued- yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing,
disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression, the very
disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and heavenly, and
exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what may be rightly
termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable- nay! the most
benignly beautiful, the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were,
the most pretty (if I may use so bold an expression) thing (pardon me,
gentle reader!) in the world- but I am always led away by my feelings.
In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred
up by a trifle! The dogs danced! I- I could not! They frisked- I wept.
They capered- I sobbed aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot
fail to bring to the recollection of the classical reader that
exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be
found in the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and
venerable Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.
In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but
faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She
had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied
fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in
height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail
being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured innocence to
the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite with all.
And Pompey, my negro!- sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I
had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be
particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of age. He had
bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called small,
nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large
full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him with no neck,
and had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle of
the upper portion of the feet. He was clad with a striking simplicity.
His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-
new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the
tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat.
It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey
held it up out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
already been the subject of remark. There was a third- that person was
myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky Snobbs. My
appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I
was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian
mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green agraffas, and seven
graceful flounces of the orange-colored auricula. I thus formed the
third of the party. There was the poodle. There was Pompey. There
was myself. We were three. Thus it is said there were originally but
three Furies- Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty- Meditation, Memory, and
Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the populous
and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On a sudden,
there presented itself to view a church- a Gothic cathedral- vast,
venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered into the sky. What
madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon my fate? I was seized
with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the giddy pinnacle, and then
survey the immense extent of the city. The door of the cathedral stood
invitingly open. My destiny prevailed. I entered the ominous
archway. Where then was my guardian angel?- if indeed such angels
there be. If! Distressing monosyllable! what world of mystery, and
meaning, and doubt, and uncertainty is there involved in thy two
letters! I entered the ominous archway! I entered; and, without injury
to my orange-colored auriculas, I passed beneath the portal, and
emerged within the vestibule. Thus it is said the immense river Alfred
passed, unscathed, and unwetted, beneath the sea.
I thought the staircase would never have an end. Round! Yes, they
went round and up, and round and up and round and up, until I could
not help surmising, with the sagacious Pompey, upon whose supporting
arm I leaned in all the confidence of early affection- I could not
help surmising that the upper end of the continuous spiral ladder
had been accidentally, or perhaps designedly, removed. I paused for
breath; and, in the meantime, an accident occurred of too momentous
a nature in a moral, and also in a metaphysical point of view, to be
passed over without notice. It appeared to me- indeed I was quite
confident of the fact- I could not be mistaken- no! I had, for some
moments, carefully and anxiously observed the motions of my Diana- I
say that I could not be mistaken- Diana smelt a rat! At once I
called Pompey's attention to the subject, and he- he agreed with me.
There was then no longer any reasonable room for doubt. The rat had
been smelled- and by Diana. Heavens! shall I ever forget the intense
excitement of the moment? Alas! what is the boasted intellect of
man? The rat!- it was there- that is to say, it was somewhere. Diana
smelled the rat. I- I could not! Thus it is said the Prussian Isis
has, for some persons, a sweet and very powerful perfume, while to
others it is perfectly scentless.
The staircase had been surmounted, and there were now only three
or four more upward steps intervening between us and the summit. We
still ascended, and now only one step remained. One step! One
little, little step! Upon one such little step in the great
staircase of human life how vast a sum of human happiness or misery
depends! I thought of myself, then of Pompey, and then of the
mysterious and inexplicable destiny which surrounded us. I thought
of Pompey!- alas, I thought of love! I thought of my many false
steps which have been taken, and may be taken again. I resolved to
be more cautious, more reserved. I abandoned the arm of Pompey, and,
without his assistance, surmounted the one remaining step, and
gained the chamber of the belfry. I was followed immediately afterward
by my poodle. Pompey alone remained behind. I stood at the head of the
staircase, and encouraged him to ascend. He stretched forth to me
his hand, and unfortunately in so doing was forced to abandon his firm
hold upon the overcoat. Will the gods never cease their persecution?
The overcoat is dropped, and, with one of his feet, Pompey stepped
upon the long and trailing skirt of the overcoat. He stumbled and
fell- this consequence was inevitable. He fell forward, and, with
his accursed head, striking me full in the- in the breast,
precipitated me headlong, together with himself, upon the hard,
filthy, and detestable floor of the belfry. But my revenge was sure,
sudden, and complete. Seizing him furiously by the wool with both
hands, I tore out a vast quantity of black, and crisp, and curling
material, and tossed it from me with every manifestation of disdain.
It fell among the ropes of the belfry and remained. Pompey arose,
and said no word. But he regarded me piteously with his large eyes
and- sighed. Ye Gods- that sigh! It sunk into my heart. And the
hair- the wool! Could I have reached that wool I would have bathed
it with my tears, in testimony of regret. But alas! it was now far
beyond my grasp. As it dangled among the cordage of the bell, I
fancied it alive. I fancied that it stood on end with indignation.
Thus the happy-dandy Flos Aeris of Java bears, it is said, a beautiful
flower, which will live when pulled up by the roots. The natives
suspend it by a cord from the ceiling and enjoy its fragrance for
years.
Our quarrel was now made up, and we looked about the room for an
aperture through which to survey the city of Edina. Windows there were
none. The sole light admitted into the gloomy chamber proceeded from a
square opening, about a foot in diameter, at a height of about seven
feet from the floor. Yet what will the energy of true genius not
effect? I resolved to clamber up to this hole. A vast quantity of
wheels, pinions, and other cabalistic- looking machinery stood
opposite the hole, close to it; and through the hole there passed an
iron rod from the machinery. Between the wheels and the wall where the
hole lay there was barely room for my body- yet I was desperate, and
determined to persevere. I called Pompey to my side.
"You perceive that aperture, Pompey. I wish to look through it.
You will stand here just beneath the hole- so. Now, hold out one of
your hands, Pompey, and let me step upon it- thus. Now, the other
hand, Pompey, and with its aid I will get upon your shoulders."
He did every thing I wished, and I found, upon getting up, that I
could easily pass my head and neck through the aperture. The
prospect was sublime. Nothing could be more magnificent. I merely
paused a moment to bid Diana behave herself, and assure Pompey that
I would be considerate and bear as lightly as possible upon his
shoulders. I told him I would be tender of his feelings- ossi tender
que beefsteak. Having done this justice to my faithful friend, I
gave myself up with great zest and enthusiasm to the enjoyment of
the scene which so obligingly spread itself out before my eyes.
Upon this subject, however, I shall forbear to dilate. I will not
describe the city of Edinburgh. Every one has been to the city of
Edinburgh. Every one has been to Edinburgh- the classic Edina. I
will confine myself to the momentous details of my own lamentable
adventure. Having, in some measure, satisfied my curiosity in regard
to the extent, situation, and general appearance of the city, I had
leisure to survey the church in which I was, and the delicate
architecture of the steeple. I observed that the aperture through
which I had thrust my head was an opening in the dial-plate of a
gigantic clock, and must have appeared, from the street, as a large
key-hole, such as we see in the face of the French watches. No doubt
the true object was to admit the arm of an attendant, to adjust,
when necessary, the hands of the clock from within. I observed also,
with surprise, the immense size of these hands, the longest of which
could not have been less than ten feet in length, and, where broadest,
eight or nine inches in breadth. They were of solid steel
apparently, and their edges appeared to be sharp. Having noticed these
particulars, and some others, I again turned my eyes upon the glorious
prospect below, and soon became absorbed in contemplation.
From this, after some minutes, I was aroused by the voice of Pompey,
who declared that he could stand it no longer, and requested that I
would be so kind as to come down. This was unreasonable, and I told
him so in a speech of some length. He replied, but with an evident
misunderstanding of my ideas upon the subject. I accordingly grew
angry, and told him in plain words, that he was a fool, that he had
committed an ignoramus e-clench-eye, that his notions were mere
insommary Bovis, and his words little better than an
ennemywerrybor'em. With this he appeared satisfied, and I resumed my
contemplations.
It might have been half an hour after this altercation when, as I
was deeply absorbed in the heavenly scenery beneath me, I was startled
by something very cold which pressed with a gentle pressure on the
back of my neck. It is needless to say that I felt inexpressibly
alarmed. I knew that Pompey was beneath my feet, and that Diana was
sitting, according to my explicit directions, upon her hind legs, in
the farthest corner of the room. What could it be? Alas! I but too
soon discovered. Turning my head gently to one side, I perceived, to
my extreme horror, that the huge, glittering, scimetar-like
minute-hand of the clock had, in the course of its hourly
revolution, descended upon my neck. There was, I knew, not a second to
be lost. I pulled back at once- but it was too late. There was no
chance of forcing my head through the mouth of that terrible trap in
which it was so fairly caught, and which grew narrower and narrower
with a rapidity too horrible to be conceived. The agony of that moment
is not to be imagined. I threw up my hands and endeavored, with all my
strength, to force upward the ponderous iron bar. I might as well have
tried to lift the cathedral itself. Down, down, down it came, closer
and yet closer. I screamed to Pompey for aid; but he said that I had
hurt his feelings by calling him 'an ignorant old squint-eye:' I
yelled to Diana; but she only said 'bow-wow-wow,' and that I had
told her 'on no account to stir from the corner.' Thus I had no relief
to expect from my associates.
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-clak,
click-clak, click-clak of the clock was the most melodious of music in
my ears, and occasionally even put me in mind of the graceful 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:
Vanny Buren, tan escondida
Query no te senty venny
Pork and pleasure, delly morry
Nommy, torny, darry, widdy!
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 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 lodge, 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 afterward 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-
Il pover hommy che non sera corty
And have a combat tenty erry morty;
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-
Andrew O'Phlegethon, you really make haste to fly,
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? Hearken! for she speaks,
and, heavens! it is in the German of Schiller-
"Unt stubby duk, so stubby dun
Duk she! duk she!"
Alas! and are not her words too true?
"And if I died, at least I died
For thee- for thee."
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.
THE END