m, 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 yo