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                           1850

           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