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 commonplace 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).