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.