 | Tales of the grotesque and arabesque |  |
THE SIGNORA ZENOBIA.
I presume every body has heard of me. My name
is the Signora Psyche Zenobia. This I know to be
a fact. Nobody but my enemies ever calls me Suky
Snobbs. I have been assured that Suky is but a
vulgar corruption of Psyche, which is good Greek,
and means “the soul”—(that's me, I'm all soul)—
and sometimes “a butterfly,” which latter meaning
alludes to my appearance in my new crimson satin
dress, with the sky-blue Arabian mantelet, and the
trimmings of green agraffas, and the seven flounces
of orange-colored auriculas. As for Snobbs—any
person who should look at me would be instantly
aware that my name was'nt Snobbs. Miss Tabitha
Turnip propagated that report through sheer envy.
Tabitha Turnip indeed! Oh the little wretch! But
what can we expect from a turnip? Wonder if she
remembers the old adage about “blood out of a
turnip, &c.” [Mem: put her in mind of it the first
opportunity.] [Mem again—pull her nose.] Where
was I? Ah! I have been assured that Snobbs is a
mere corruption of Zenobia, and that Zenobia was a
queen (So am I. Dr. Moneypenny, always calls me
Psyche, is good Greek, and that my father was “a
Greek,” and that consequently I have a right to our
original patronymic, which is Zenobia, and not by
any means Snobbs. Nobody but Tabitha Turnip
calls me Suky Snobbs. I am the Signora Psyche
Zenobia.
As I said before, every body has heard of me. I
am that very Signora Psyche Zenobia, so justly celebrated
as corresponding secretary to the “Philadelphia,
Regular-Exchange, Tea-Total, Young,
Belles-Lettres, Universal, Experimental, Bibliographical
Association to Civilize Humanity.” Dr.
Moneypenny made the title for us, and says he chose
it because it sounded big like an empty rum-puncheon.
(A vulgar man that sometimes—but he's deep.) We
all sign the initials of the society after our names, in
the fashion of the R.S.A., Royal Society of Arts—
the S.D.U.K., Society for the Diffusion of Useful
Knowledge, &c., &c. Dr. Moneypenny says that S
stands for stale, and that D. U. K. spells duck, (but
it don't,) and that S.D.U.K. stands for Stale Duck,
and not for Lord Brougham's society—but then Dr.
Moneypenny is such a queer man that I am never
sure when he is telling me the truth. At any rate
we always add to our names the initials P.R.E.T.T.Y
B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H.—that is to say, Philadelphia
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
initials give our true character—but for my life I
can't see what he means.
Notwithstanding the good offices of Dr. Moneypenny,
and the strenuous exertions of the association
to get itself into notice, it met with no very great
success until I joined it. The truth is, members indulged
in too flippant a tone of discussion. The
papers read every Saturday evening were characterized
less by depth than buffoonery. They were all
whipped syllabub. There was no investigation of
first causes, first principles. There was no investigation
of anything at all. There was no attention
paid to that great point the “fitness of things.” In
short, there was no fine writing like this. It was all
low—very! No profundity, no reading, no metaphysics—nothing
which the learned call spirituality,
and which the unlearned choose to stigmatise as cant.
[Dr. M. says I ought to spell “cant” with a capital
K—but I know better.]
When I joined the society it was my endeavor to
introduce a better style of thinking and writing, and
all the world knows how well I have succeeded. We
get up as good papers now in the P.R.E.T.T.Y.
B.L.U.E.B.A.T.C.H. as any to be found even in
Blackwood. I say, Blackwood, because I have been
assured that the finest writing upon every subject, is to
be discovered in the pages of that justly celebrated
Magazine. We now take it for our model upon all
themes, and are getting into rapid notice accordingly.
And, after all, it's not so very difficult a matter to
compose
only goes properly about it. Of course I don't speak
of the political articles. Every body knows how
they are managed, since Dr. Moneypenny explained
it. Mr. Blackwood has a pair of tailor's shears, and
three apprentices who stand by him for orders. One
hands him the “Times,” another the “Examiner,”
and a third a “Gulley's New Compendium of Slang-Whang.”
Mr. B. merely cuts out and intersperses.
It is soon done—nothing but Examiner, Slang-Whang,
and Times—then Times, Slang-Whang, and
Examiner—and then Times, Examiner, and Slang-Whang.
But the chief merit of the Magazine lies in its
miscellaneous articles; and the best of these come
under the head of what Dr. Moneypenny calls the
bizarreries (whatever that may mean) and what every
body else calls the intensities. This is a species of
writing which I have long known how to appreciate,
although it is only since my late visit to Mr. Blackwood
(deputed by the society) that I have been made
aware of the exact method of composition. This
method is very simple, but not so much so as the
politics. Upon my calling at Mr. B.'s, and making
known to him the wishes of the society, he received
me with great civility, took me into his study, and
gave me a clear explanation of the whole process.
“My dear madam,” said he, evidently struck with
my majestic appearance, for I had on the crimson
satin, with the green agraffas, and orange-colored
auriculas—“My dear madam,” said he, “sit
your writer of intensities must have very black ink,
and a very big pen, with a very blunt nib. And,
mark me, Miss Psyche Zenobia!” he continued, after
a pause, with the most impressive energy and solemnity
of manner, “mark me!—that pen—must—never
be mended! Herein, madam, lies the secret, the soul,
of intensity. I assume it upon myself to say, that no
individual, of however great genius, ever wrote with
a good pen, understand me, a good article. You may
take it for granted, madam, that when a manuscript
can be read it is never worth reading. This is a
leading principle in our faith, to which if you cannot
readily assent, our conference is at an end.”
He paused. But, of course, as I had no wish to
put an end to the conference, I assented to a proposition
so very obvious, and one, too, of whose truth
I had all along been sufficiently aware. He seemed
pleased, and went on with his instructions.
“It may appear invidious in me, Miss Psyche
Zenobia, to refer you to any article, or set of articles,
in the way of model or study; yet perhaps I may as
well call your attention to a few cases. Let me see.
There was `The Dead Alive,' a capital thing!—the
record of a gentleman's sensations when entombed
before the breath was out of his body—full of tact,
taste, terror, sentiment, metaphysics, and erudition.
You would have sworn that the writer had been
born and brought up in a coffin. Then we had the
`Confessions of an Opium-eater'—fine, very fine!
—glorious imagination—deep philosophy—acute
spicing of the decidedly unitelligible. That was a
nice bit of flummery, and went down the throats of
the people delightfully. They would have it that
Coleridge wrote the paper—but not so. It was
composed by my pet baboon, Juniper, over a rummer
of Hollands and water, hot, without sugar. [This I
could scarcely have believed had it been any body
but Mr. Blackwood, who assured me of it.] Then
there was `The Involuntary Experimentalist,' all
about a gentleman who got baked in an oven, and
came out alive and well, although certainly done to
a turn. And then there was `The Diary of a Late
Physician,' where the merit lay in good rant, and
indifferent Greek—both of them taking things, with
the public. And then there was `The Man in the
Bell,' a paper by-the-bye, Miss Zenobia, which I
cannot sufficiently recommend to your attention. It
is the history of a young person who goes to sleep
under the clapper of a church bell, and is awakened
by its tolling for a funeral. The sound drives him
mad, and, accordingly, pulling out his tablets, he
gives a record of his sensations. Sensations are the
great things after all. Should you ever be drowned
or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations
—they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet. If
you wish to write forcibly, Miss Zenobia, pay minute
attention to the sensations.”
“That I certainly will, Mr. Blackwood,” said I.
“Good!” he replied. “I see you are a pupil after
my own heart. But I must put you au fait to the
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 Morrison's pills, and then give us
your sensations. However, my instructions will apply
equally well to any variety of misadventure, and
in your way home you may easily get knocked in
the head, or run over by an omnibus, or bitten by a
mad dog, or drowned in a gutter. But, to proceed.
“Having determined upon your subject, you must
next consider the tone, or manner, of your narration.
There is the tone didactic, the tone enthusiastic, the
tone sentimental, and the tone natural—all common-place
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
answeres remarkably well instead of meaning. This
is the best of all possible styles where the writer is in
too great a hurry to think.
“The tone mystic is also a good one—but requires
some skill in the handling. The beauty of this lies in
a knowledge of innuendo. Hint all, and assert nothing.
If you desire to say `bread and butter,' do not
by any means say it outright. You may say anything
and everything approaching to `bread and
butter.' You may hint at `buckwheat cake,' or you
may even go as far as to insinuate `oatmeal porridge,'
but, if `bread and butter' is your real meaning,
be cautious, my dear Miss Psyche, not on any account
to say `bread and butter.'
I assured him that I would never say it again as
long as I lived. He continued:
“There are various other tones of equal celebrity,
but I shall only mention two more, the tone metaphysical,
and the tone heterogeneous. In the former,
the merit consists in seeing into the nature of affairs
a very great deal farther than any body else. This
second sight is very efficient when properly managed.
carry you a great way. If you know any big words
this is your chance for them. Talk of the Academy
and the Lyceum, and say something about the Ionic
and Italic schools, or about Bossarion, and Kant, and
Schelling, and Fitche, and be sure you abuse a man
called Locke, and bring in the words a priori and a
posteriori. As for the tone heterogeneous, it is
merely a judicious mixture, in equal proportions, of
all the other tones in the world, and is consequently
made up of everything deep, great, odd, piquant,
perinent, and pretty.
“Let us suppose now you have determined upon
your incidents and tone. The most important portion,
in fact the soul of the whole business, is yet to
be attended to—I allude to the filling up. It is not
to be supposed that a lady or gentleman either has
been leading the life of a bookworm. And yet above
all things is it necessary that your article have an
air of erudition, or at least afford evidence of extensive
general reading. Now I'll put you in the way
of accomplishing this point. See here! (pulling down
some three or four ordinary looking volumes, and
opening them at random.) By casting your eye
down almost any page of any book in the world,
you will be able to perceive at once a host of little
scraps of either learning or bel-esprit-ism which are
the very thing for the spicing of a Blackwood article.
You might as well note down a few while I read
them to you. I shall make two divisions: first, Piquant
Facts for the Manufacture of Similes; and
occasion may require. Write now!—” and I wrote
as he dictated.
“Piquant Facts for Similes. `There were originally
but three muses—Melete, Mneme, and Aœde
—meditation, memory, and singing.' You may
make a great deal of that little fact if properly worked.
You see it is not generally known, and looks recherché.
You must be careful and give the thing with a down-right
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
acquaintance with the language and literature of the
Chinese. With the aid of this you may possibly get
along without either Arabic, or Sanscrit, or Chickasaw.
There is no passing muster, however, without French,
Spanish, Italian, German, Latin, and Greek. I must
look you out a little specimen of each. Any scrap
will answer, because you must depend upon your
own ingenuity to make it fit into your article. Now
write!
“ `Aussi tendre que Zaire'—as tender as Zaire
—French. Alludes to the frequent repetition of the
phrase, la tendre Zaire, in the French tragedy of
that name. Properly introduced, will show not only
your knowledge of the language, but your general
reading and wit. You can say, for instance, that the
chicken you were eating (write an article about being
choked to death by a chicken-bone) was not altogether
aussi tendre que Zaire. Write!
Que no te sienta venir,
Porque el plazer del morir
No me torne a dar la vida.'
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
chicken-bone. Write!
Andava combattendo, e era morto.'
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!
Durch sie—durch sie!'
least I die—for thee—for thee!' Here it is clear
that you are apostrophising the cause of your disaster,
the chicken. Indeed what gentleman (or lady either)
of sense, would'nt die, I should like to know, for a
well fattened capon of the right Molucca breed,
stuffed with capers and mushrooms, and served up in
a salad-bowl, with orange-jellies en 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 recherché or brief in one's Latin,
committed an ignoratio elenchi—that is to say, he
has understood the words of your proposition, but
not the ideas. The man was a fool, you see. Some
poor fellow whom you addressed while choking with
that chicken-bone, and who therefore did'nt precisely
understand what you were talking about. Throw
the ignoratio elenchi in his teeth, and, at once, you
have him annihilated. If he dares to reply, you can
tell him from Lucan (here it is) that his speeches are
mere anemonœ verborum, anemone words. The
anemone, with great brillancy, has no smell. Or, if
he begins to bluster, you may be down upon him with
insomnia Jovis, reveries of Jupiter—a phrase which
Silius Italicus (see here!) applies to thoughts pompous
and inflated. This will be sure and cut him to the
heart. He can do nothing but roll over and die.
Will you be kind enough to write.
“In Greek we must have something pretty from
Demosthenes—for example. Ανερ ο φεογων και παλιν
μαχεσεται. [Aner o pheogon kai palin makesetai.]
There is a tolerably good translation of it in Hudibras—
Which he can never do that's slain.
as your Greek. The very letters have an air of
profundity about them. Only observe, madam, the
acute look of that Epsilon! That Phi ought certainly
fellow than that Omicron? Just twig that Tau! In
short, there's nothing like Greek for a genuine sensation-paper.
In the present case your application is
the most obvious thing in the world. Rap out the
sentence, with a huge oath, and by way of ultimatum,
at the good-for-nothing dunder-headed villain who
couldn't understand your plain English in relation to
the chicken-bone. He'll take the hint and be off, you
may depend upon it.”
These were all the instructions Mr.B. could afford
me upon the topic in question, but I felt they would
be entirely sufficient. I was, at length, able to write
a genuine Blackwood article, and determined to do
it forthwith. In taking leave of me, Mr. B. made a
proposition for the purchase of the paper when
written; but, as he could only offer me fifty guineas
a sheet, I thought it better to let our society have it,
than sacrifice it for so trivial a sum. Notwithstanding
this niggardly spirit, however, the gentleman
showed his consideration for me in all other respects,
and indeed treated me with the greatest civility. His
parting words made a deep impression upon my
heart, and I hope I shall always remember them with
gratitude.
“My dear Miss Zenobia,” he said, while tears
stood in his eyes, “is there anything else I can do
to promote the success of your laudable undertaking?
Let me reflect! It is just possible that you may not
be able, as soon as convenient, to—to—get yourself
drowned, or—choked with a chicken-bone, or
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 my leave at once—somewhat more abruptly, I
admit, than strict courtesy would have, otherwise,
allowed.
It was my primary object, upon quitting Mr.
Blackwood, to get into some immediate difficulty,
pursuant to his advice, and with this view I spent a
greater part of the day in wandering about Edinburgh,
seeking for desperate adventures—adventures adequate
to the intensity of my feelings, and adapted to
the vast character of the article I intended to write.
In this excursion I was attended by my negro-servant
Pompey, and my little lap-dog Diana, whom I had
brought with me from Philadelphia. It was not,
however, until late in the afternoon that I fully succeeded
in my arduous undertaking. An important
event then happened, of which the following Blackwood
article, in the tone heterogeneous, is the substance
and result.
| Tales of the grotesque and arabesque | |