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How To Write A Blackwood Article By Edgar Allan Poe
PAGE: 1

HOW TO WRITE A BLACKWOOD ARTICLE.

"In the name of the Prophet -- figs!!"

          _ Cry of the 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.

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