Chapter IV: Part 4

“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-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, 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, Aœde—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 _recherché_. 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 mosaïques_. 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, 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. Ανερο φευων και παλιν μαχεσεται. [Aner 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.

A PREDICAMENT

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 ribbon 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.

MYSTIFICATION

Slid, if these be your “passados” and “montantes,” I’ll have none
o’ them.
—NED KNOWLES.

The Baron Ritzner von Jung was a noble Hungarian family, every
member of which (at least as far back into antiquity as any
certain records extend) was more or less remarkable for talent of
some description—the majority for that species of _grotesquerie_
in conception of which Tieck, a scion of the house, has given a
vivid, although by no means the most vivid exemplifications. My
acquaintance with Ritzner commenced at the magnificent Chateau
Jung, into which a train of droll adventures, not to be made
public, threw me during the summer months of the year 18—. Here
it was that I obtained a place in his regard, and here, with
somewhat more difficulty, a partial insight into his mental
conformation. In later days this insight grew more clear, as the
intimacy which had at first permitted it became more close; and
when, after three years separation, we met at G——n, I knew all
that it was necessary to know of the character of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung.

I remember the buzz of curiosity which his advent excited within
the college precincts on the night of the twenty-fifth of June. I
remember still more distinctly, that while he was pronounced by
all parties at first sight “the most remarkable man in the
world,” no person made any attempt at accounting for his opinion.
That he was unique appeared so undeniable, that it was deemed
impertinent to inquire wherein the uniquity consisted. But,
letting this matter pass for the present, I will merely observe
that, from the first moment of his setting foot within the limits
of the university, he began to exercise over the habits, manners,
persons, purses, and propensities of the whole community which
surrounded him, an influence the most extensive and despotic, yet
at the same time the most indefinite and altogether
unaccountable. Thus the brief period of his residence at the
university forms an era in its annals, and is characterized by
all classes of people appertaining to it or its dependencies as
“that very extraordinary epoch forming the domination of the
Baron Ritzner von Jung.”

Upon his advent to G——n, he sought me out in my apartments. He
was then of no particular age, by which I mean that it was
impossible to form a guess respecting his age by any data
personally afforded. He might have been fifteen or fifty, and was
twenty-one years and seven months. He was by no means a handsome
man—perhaps the reverse. The contour of his face was somewhat
angular and harsh. His forehead was lofty and very fair; his nose
a snub; his eyes large, heavy, glassy, and meaningless. About the
mouth there was more to be observed. The lips were gently
protruded, and rested the one upon the other, after such a
fashion that it is impossible to conceive any, even the most
complex, combination of human features, conveying so entirely,
and so singly, the idea of unmitigated gravity, solemnity and
repose.

It will be perceived, no doubt, from what I have already said,
that the Baron was one of those human anomalies now and then to
be found, who make the science of mystification the study and the
business of their lives. For this science a peculiar turn of mind
gave him instinctively the cue, while his physical appearance
afforded him unusual facilities for carrying his prospects into
effect. I firmly believe that no student at G——n, during that
renowned epoch so quaintly termed the domination of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung, ever rightly entered into the mystery which
overshadowed his character. I truly think that no person at the
university, with the exception of myself, ever suspected him to
be capable of a joke, verbal or practical:—the old bull-dog at
the garden-gate would sooner have been accused,—the ghost of
Heraclitus,—or the wig of the Emeritus Professor of Theology.
This, too, when it was evident that the most egregious and
unpardonable of all conceivable tricks, whimsicalities and
buffooneries were brought about, if not directly by him, at least
plainly through his intermediate agency or connivance. The
beauty, if I may so call it, of his art mystifique, lay in that
consummate ability (resulting from an almost intuitive knowledge
of human nature, and a most wonderful self-possession,) by means
of which he never failed to make it appear that the drolleries he
was occupied in bringing to a point, arose partly in spite, and
partly in consequence of the laudable efforts he was making for
their prevention, and for the preservation of the good order and
dignity of Alma Mater. The deep, the poignant, the overwhelming
mortification, which upon each such failure of his praise worthy
endeavors, would suffuse every lineament of his countenance, left
not the slightest room for doubt of his sincerity in the bosoms
of even his most skeptical companions. The adroitness, too, was
no less worthy of observation by which he contrived to shift the
sense of the grotesque from the creator to the created—from his
own person to the absurdities to which he had given rise. In no
instance before that of which I speak, have I known the habitual
mystific escape the natural consequence of his manoevres—an
attachment of the ludicrous to his own character and person.
Continually enveloped in an atmosphere of whim, my friend
appeared to live only for the severities of society; and not even
his own household have for a moment associated other ideas than
those of the rigid and august with the memory of the Baron
Ritzner von Jung.

During the epoch of his residence at G——n it really appeared that
the demon of the _dolce far niente_ lay like an incubus upon the
university. Nothing, at least, was done beyond eating and
drinking and making merry. The apartments of the students were
converted into so many pot-houses, and there was no pot-house of
them all more famous or more frequented than that of the Baron.
Our carousals here were many, and boisterous, and long, and never
unfruitful of events.

Upon one occasion we had protracted our sitting until nearly
daybreak, and an unusual quantity of wine had been drunk. The
company consisted of seven or eight individuals besides the Baron
and myself. Most of these were young men of wealth, of high
connection, of great family pride, and all alive with an
exaggerated sense of honor. They abounded in the most ultra
German opinions respecting the duello. To these Quixotic notions
some recent Parisian publications, backed by three or four
desperate and fatal rencounters at G——n, had given new vigor and
impulse; and thus the conversation, during the greater part of
the night, had run wild upon the all-engrossing topic of the
times. The Baron, who had been unusually silent and abstracted in
the earlier portion of the evening, at length seemed to be
aroused from his apathy, took a leading part in the discourse,
and dwelt upon the benefits, and more especially upon the
beauties, of the received code of etiquette in passages of arms
with an ardor, an eloquence, an impressiveness, and an
affectionateness of manner, which elicited the warmest enthusiasm
from his hearers in general, and absolutely staggered even
myself, who well knew him to be at heart a ridiculer of those
very points for which he contended, and especially to hold the
entire fanfaronade of duelling etiquette in the sovereign
contempt which it deserves.

Looking around me during a pause in the Baron’s discourse (of
which my readers may gather some faint idea when I say that it
bore resemblance to the fervid, chanting, monotonous, yet musical
sermonic manner of Coleridge), I perceived symptoms of even more
than the general interest in the countenance of one of the party.
This gentleman, whom I shall call Hermann, was an original in
every respect—except, perhaps, in the single particular that he
was a very great fool. He contrived to bear, however, among a
particular set at the university, a reputation for deep
metaphysical thinking, and, I believe, for some logical talent.
As a duellist he had acquired great renown, even at G——n. I
forget the precise number of victims who had fallen at his hands;
but they were many. He was a man of courage undoubtedly. But it
was upon his minute acquaintance with the etiquette of the
duello, and the nicety of his sense of honor, that he most
especially prided himself. These things were a hobby which he
rode to the death. To Ritzner, ever upon the lookout for the
grotesque, his peculiarities had for a long time past afforded
food for mystification. Of this, however, I was not aware;
although, in the present instance, I saw clearly that something
of a whimsical nature was upon the tapis with my friend, and that
Hermann was its especial object.

As the former proceeded in his discourse, or rather monologue, I
perceived the excitement of the latter momently increasing. At
length he spoke; offering some objection to a point insisted upon
by R., and giving his reasons in detail. To these the Baron
replied at length (still maintaining his exaggerated tone of
sentiment) and concluding, in what I thought very bad taste, with
a sarcasm and a sneer. The hobby of Hermann now took the bit in
his teeth. This I could discern by the studied hair-splitting
farrago of his rejoinder. His last words I distinctly remember.
“Your opinions, allow me to say, Baron von Jung, although in the
main correct, are, in many nice points, discreditable to yourself
and to the university of which you are a member. In a few
respects they are even unworthy of serious refutation. I would
say more than this, sir, were it not for the fear of giving you
offence (here the speaker smiled blandly), I would say, sir, that
your opinions are not the opinions to be expected from a
gentleman.”

As Hermann completed this equivocal sentence, all eyes were
turned upon the Baron. He became pale, then excessively red;
then, dropping his pocket-handkerchief, stooped to recover it,
when I caught a glimpse of his countenance, while it could be
seen by no one else at the table. It was radiant with the
quizzical expression which was its natural character, but which I
had never seen it assume except when we were alone together, and
when he unbent himself freely. In an instant afterward he stood
erect, confronting Hermann; and so total an alteration of
countenance in so short a period I certainly never saw before.
For a moment I even fancied that I had misconceived him, and that
he was in sober earnest. He appeared to be stifling with passion,
and his face was cadaverously white. For a short time he remained
silent, apparently striving to master his emotion. Having at
length seemingly succeeded, he reached a decanter which stood
near him, saying as he held it firmly clenched—“The language you
have thought proper to employ, Mynheer Hermann, in addressing
yourself to me, is objectionable in so many particulars, that I
have neither temper nor time for specification. That my opinions,
however, are not the opinions to be expected from a gentleman, is
an observation so directly offensive as to allow me but one line
of conduct. Some courtesy, nevertheless, is due to the presence
of this company, and to yourself, at this moment, as my guest.
You will pardon me, therefore, if, upon this consideration, I
deviate slightly from the general usage among gentlemen in
similar cases of personal affront. You will forgive me for the
moderate tax I shall make upon your imagination, and endeavor to
consider, for an instant, the reflection of your person in yonder
mirror as the living Mynheer Hermann himself. This being done,
there will be no difficulty whatever. I shall discharge this
decanter of wine at your image in yonder mirror, and thus fulfil
all the spirit, if not the exact letter, of resentment for your
insult, while the necessity of physical violence to your real
person will be obviated.”

With these words he hurled the decanter, full of wine, against
the mirror which hung directly opposite Hermann; striking the
reflection of his person with great precision, and of course
shattering the glass into fragments. The whole company at once
started to their feet, and, with the exception of myself and
Ritzner, took their departure. As Hermann went out, the Baron
whispered me that I should follow him and make an offer of my
services. To this I agreed; not knowing precisely what to make of
so ridiculous a piece of business.

The duellist accepted my aid with his stiff and _ultra recherché_
air, and, taking my arm, led me to his apartment. I could hardly
forbear laughing in his face while he proceeded to discuss, with
the profoundest gravity, what he termed “the refinedly peculiar
character” of the insult he had received. After a tiresome
harangue in his ordinary style, he took down from his book
shelves a number of musty volumes on the subject of the duello,
and entertained me for a long time with their contents; reading
aloud, and commenting earnestly as he read. I can just remember
the titles of some of the works. There were the “Ordonnance of
Philip le Bel on Single Combat”; the “Theatre of Honor,” by
Favyn, and a treatise “On the Permission of Duels,” by Andiguier.
He displayed, also, with much pomposity, Brantome’s “Memoirs of
Duels,” published at Cologne, 1666, in the types of Elzevir—a
precious and unique vellum-paper volume, with a fine margin, and
bound by Derome. But he requested my attention particularly, and
with an air of mysterious sagacity, to a thick octavo, written in
barbarous Latin by one Hedelin, a Frenchman, and having the
quaint title, “Duelli Lex Scripta, et non; aliterque.” From this
he read me one of the drollest chapters in the world concerning
“Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se,”
about half of which, he averred, was strictly applicable to his
own “refinedly peculiar” case, although not one syllable of the
whole matter could I understand for the life of me. Having
finished the chapter, he closed the book, and demanded what I
thought necessary to be done. I replied that I had entire
confidence in his superior delicacy of feeling, and would abide
by what he proposed. With this answer he seemed flattered, and
sat down to write a note to the Baron. It ran thus:

Sir,—My friend, M. P.-, will hand you this note. I find it
incumbent upon me to request, at your earliest convenience, an
explanation of this evening’s occurrences at your chambers. In
the event of your declining this request, Mr. P. will be happy to
arrange, with any friend whom you may appoint, the steps
preliminary to a meeting.

With sentiments of perfect respect,

Your most humble servant,
JOHANN HERMAN.

“_To the Baron Ritzner von Jung,
August 18th, 18_—.”

Not knowing what better to do, I called upon Ritzner with this
epistle. He bowed as I presented it; then, with a grave
countenance, motioned me to a seat. Having perused the cartel, he
wrote the following reply, which I carried to Hermann.

“SIR,—Through our common friend, Mr. P., I have received your
note of this evening. Upon due reflection I frankly admit the
propriety of the explanation you suggest. This being admitted, I
still find great difficulty, (owing to the refinedly peculiar
nature of our disagreement, and of the personal affront offered
on my part,) in so wording what I have to say by way of apology,
as to meet all the minute exigencies, and all the variable
shadows, of the case. I have great reliance, however, on that
extreme delicacy of discrimination, in matters appertaining to
the rules of etiquette, for which you have been so long and so
pre-eminently distinguished. With perfect certainty, therefore,
of being comprehended, I beg leave, in lieu of offering any
sentiments of my own, to refer you to the opinions of Sieur
Hedelin, as set forth in the ninth paragraph of the chapter of
“_Injuriae per applicationem, per constructionem, et per se_,” in
his “_Duelli Lex scripta, et non; aliterque_.” The nicety of your
discernment in all the matters here treated, will be sufficient,
I am assured, to convince you _that the mere circumstance of me
referring you_ to this admirable passage, ought to satisfy your
request, as a man of honor, for explanation.

“With sentiments of profound respect,

“Your most obedient servant,
“VON JUNG.”

“The Herr Johann Hermann,
August 18th, 18—”

Hermann commenced the perusal of this epistle with a scowl,
which, however, was converted into a smile of the most ludicrous
self-complacency as he came to the rigmarole about Injuriae per
applicationem, per constructionem, et per se. Having finished
reading, he begged me, with the blandest of all possible smiles,
to be seated, while he made reference to the treatise in
question. Turning to the passage specified, he read it with great
care to himself, then closed the book, and desired me, in my
character of confidential acquaintance, to express to the Baron
von Jung his exalted sense of his chivalrous behavior, and, in
that of second, to assure him that the explanation offered was of
the fullest, the most honorable, and the most unequivocally
satisfactory nature.

Somewhat amazed at all this, I made my retreat to the Baron. He
seemed to receive Hermann’s amicable letter as a matter of
course, and after a few words of general conversation, went to an
inner room and brought out the everlasting treatise “_Duelli Lex
scripta, et non; aliterque_.” He handed me the volume and asked
me to look over some portion of it. I did so, but to little
purpose, not being able to gather the least particle of meaning.
He then took the book himself, and read me a chapter aloud. To my
surprise, what he read proved to be a most horribly absurd
account of a duel between two baboons. He now explained the
mystery; showing that the volume, as it appeared _prima facie_,
was written upon the plan of the nonsense verses of Du Bartas;
that is to say, the language was ingeniously framed so as to
present to the ear all the outward signs of intelligibility, and
even of profundity, while in fact not a shadow of meaning
existed. The key to the whole was found in leaving out every
second and third word alternately, when there appeared a series
of ludicrous quizzes upon a single combat as practised in modern
times.

The Baron afterwards informed me that he had purposely thrown the
treatise in Hermann’s way two or three weeks before the
adventure, and that he was satisfied, from the general tenor of
his conversation, that he had studied it with the deepest
attention, and firmly believed it to be a work of unusual merit.
Upon this hint he proceeded. Hermann would have died a thousand
deaths rather than acknowledge his inability to understand
anything and everything in the universe that had ever been
written about the _duello_.

DIDDLING

CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE EXACT SCIENCES.

Hey, diddle diddle
The cat and the fiddle

Since the world began there have been two Jeremys. The one wrote
a Jeremiad about usury, and was called Jeremy Bentham. He has
been much admired by Mr. John Neal, and was a great man in a
small way. The other gave name to the most important of the Exact
Sciences, and was a great man in a great way—I may say, indeed,
in the very greatest of ways.

Diddling—or the abstract idea conveyed by the verb to diddle—is
sufficiently well understood. Yet the fact, the deed, the thing
_diddling_, is somewhat difficult to define. We may get, however,
at a tolerably distinct conception of the matter in hand, by
defining—not the thing, diddling, in itself—but man, as an animal
that diddles. Had Plato but hit upon this, he would have been
spared the affront of the picked chicken.

Very pertinently it was demanded of Plato, why a picked chicken,
which was clearly “a biped without feathers,” was not, according
to his own definition, a man? But I am not to be bothered by any
similar query. Man is an animal that diddles, and there is no
animal that diddles but man. It will take an entire hen-coop of
picked chickens to get over that.

What constitutes the essence, the nare, the principle of diddling
is, in fact, peculiar to the class of creatures that wear coats
and pantaloons. A crow thieves; a fox cheats; a weasel outwits; a
man diddles. To diddle is his destiny. “Man was made to mourn,”
says the poet. But not so:—he was made to diddle. This is his
aim—his object—his end. And for this reason when a man’s diddled
we say he’s “_done_.”

Diddling, rightly considered, is a compound, of which the
ingredients are minuteness, interest, perseverance, ingenuity,
audacity, _nonchalance_, originality, impertinence, and grin.

_Minuteness:_—Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a
small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper
at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation,
he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes
what we term “financier.” This latter word conveys the diddling
idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may
thus be regarded as a banker _in petto_—a “financial operation,”
as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to
“Flaccus”—as a Mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that
of a pig.

_Interest:_—Your diddler is guided by self-interest. He scorns to
diddle for the mere _sake_ of the diddle. He has an object in
view—his pocket—and yours. He regards always the main chance. He
looks to Number One. You are Number Two, and must look to
yourself.

_Perseverance:_—Your diddler perseveres. He is not readily
discouraged. Should even the banks break, he cares nothing about
it. He steadily pursues his end, and

‘Ut canis a corio nunquam absterrebitur uncto,’

so he never lets go of his game.

_Ingenuity:_—Your diddler is ingenious. He has constructiveness
large. He understands plot. He invents and circumvents. Were he
not Alexander he would be Diogenes. Were he not a diddler, he
would be a maker of patent rat-traps or an angler for trout.

_Audacity:_—Your diddler is audacious.—He is a bold man. He
carries the war into Africa. He conquers all by assault. He would
not fear the daggers of Frey Herren. With a little more prudence
Dick Turpin would have made a good diddler; with a trifle less
blarney, Daniel O’Connell; with a pound or two more brains,
Charles the Twelfth.

_Nonchalance:_—Your diddler is nonchalant. He is not at all
nervous. He never had any nerves. He is never seduced into a
flurry. He is never put out—unless put out of doors. He is
cool—cool as a cucumber. He is calm—“calm as a smile from Lady
Bury.” He is easy—easy as an old glove, or the damsels of ancient
Baiæ.