Ansard and Barnstaple
[Scene.—Chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Arthur Ansard at a briefless table, tête-à-tête with his wig on a block. A. casts a disconsolate look upon his companion, and soliloquises.]
Yes, there you stand, "partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame." We do notsuit, for we never gained asuittogether. Well, what with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C., who has given me an order for a fashionable novel, written by a "nobleman." But how I, who was never inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of Court is comprised in the Court of King's Bench, am to complete my engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well enough; but as to what occurs within doors, I am quite abroad. I shall never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor's bill must be paid. (Knocking outside.) Come in, I pray.
Enter Barnstaple.
B.Merry Christmas to you, Arthur.
A.Sit down, my dear fellow; but don't mock me with merry Christmas. He emigrated long ago. Answer meseriously: do you think it possible for a man to describe what he never saw?
B.(putting his stick up to his chin.) Why, 'tis possible; but I would not answer for the description being quite correct.
A.But suppose the parties who read it have never seen the thing described?
B.Why then it won't signify whether the description be correct or not.
A.You have taken a load off my mind; but still I am not quite at ease. I have engaged to furnish C. with a fashionable novel.
B.What do you mean to imply by a fashionable novel?
A.I really can hardly tell. His stipulations were, that it was to be a "fashionable novel in three volumes, each volume not less than three hundred pages."
B.That is to say, that you are to assist him in imposing on the public.
A.Something very like it, I'm afraid; as it is further agreed that it is to be puffed as coming from a highly talented nobleman.
B.You should not do it, Ansard.
A.So conscience tells me, but my tailor's bill says Yes; and that is a thing out of all conscience. Only look here.
[Displays a long bill.
B.Why, I must acknowledge, Ansard, that there is some excuse. One needs must, when the devil drives; but you are capable of better things.
A.I certainly don't feel great capability in this instance. But what can I do? The man will have nothing else—he says the public will read nothing else.
B.That is to say, that because one talented author astonished the public by style and merits peculiarly his own, and established, as it were, a school for neophites, his popularity is to be injured by contemptible imitators. It is sufficient to drive a man mad, to find that the tinsel of others, if to be purchased more cheaply, is to be pawnedupon the public instead of his gold; and more annoying still, that the majority of the public cannot appreciate the difference between the metal and the alloy. Do you know, Ansard, that by getting up this work, you really injure the popularity of a man of great talent?
A.Will he pay my tailor's bill?
B.No; I daresay he has enough to do to pay his own. What does your tailor say?
A.He is a staunch reformer, and on March the 1st he declares that he will have the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill—carried to my credit. Mr C., on the 10th of February, also expects the novel, the whole novel, and nothing but the novel, and that must be a fashionable novel. Look here, Barnstaple. (Shows his tailor's bill.)
B.I see how it is. He "pays your poverty, and not your will."
A.And, by your leave, I thus must pay my bill (bowing.)
B.Well, well, I can help you: nothing more difficult than to write a good novel, and nothing more easy than to write a bad one. If I were not above the temptation, I could pen you a dozen of the latter every ordinary year, and thirteen, perhaps, in the bissextile. So banish that Christmas cloud from your brow; leave off nibbling your pen at the wrong end, and clap a fresh nib to the right one. I have an hour to spare.
A.I thank you: that spare hour of yours may save me many a spare day. I'm all attention—proceed.
B.The first point to be considered is thetempus, or time; the next thelocus, or place; and lastly, thedramatis personæ; and thus, chapter upon chapter, will you build a novel.
A.Build!
B.Yes, build; you have had your dimensions given, the interior is left to your own decoration. First, as to the opening. Suppose we introduce the hero in his dressing-room. We have something of the kind in Pelham; and if we can't copy his merits, we must his peculiarities. Besides, it always is effective: a dressing-room or boudoirof supposed great people, is admitting the vulgar into the arcana, which they delight in.
A.Nothing can be better.
B.Then, as to time; as the hero is still in bed, suppose we say four o'clock in the afternoon?
A.In the morning, you mean.
B.No; the afternoon. I grant you that fashionable young men in real life get up much about the same time as other people; but in a fashionable novel your real exclusive never rises early. The very idea makes the tradesman's wife lift up her eyes. So begin. "It was about thirty-three minutes after four,post meridian——"
A.Minute—to a minute!
B."That the Honourable Augustus Bouverie's finely chiselled——"
A.Chiselled!
B.Yes; great people are always chiselled; common people are only cast.—"Finely chiselled head was still recumbent upon his silk-encased pillow. His luxuriant and Antinous-like curls were now confined inpapillotesof the finest satin paper, and thetout ensembleof his head——"
A.Tout ensemble!
B.Yes; go on.—"Was gently compressed by a caul of the finest net-work, composed of the threads spun from the beauteous production of the Italian worm."
A.Ah! now I perceive—a silk nightcap. But why can't I say at once a silk nightcap?
B.Because you are writing a fashionable novel.—"With the forefinger of his gloved left hand——"
A.But he's not coming in from a walk—he's not yet out of bed.
B.You don't understand it.—"Gloved left hand he applied a gentle friction to the portal of his right eye, which unclosing at the silent summons, enabled him to perceive a repeater studded with brilliants, and ascertain the exact minute of time, which we have already made known to the reader, and at which our history opens."
A.A very grand opening indeed!
B.Not more than it ought to be for a fashionable novel.—"At the sound of a silverclochette, his faithful Swiss valet Coridon, who had for some time been unperceived at the door, waiting for some notice of his master, having thrown off the empire of Somnus, in his light pumps, covered with beaver, moved with noiseless step up to the bedside, like the advance of eve stealing over the face of nature."
A.Rather an incongruous simile.
B.Not for a fashionable novel.—"There he stood, like Taciturnity bowing at the feet of proud Authority."
A.Indeed, Barnstaple, that is toooutré.
B.Not a whit: I am in the true "Cambysis' vein."—"Coridon having softly withdrawn the rose-coloured gros de Naples bed-curtains, which by some might have been thought to have been rather too extravagantly fringed with the finest Mechlin lace, exclaimed with a tone of tremulous deference and affection, 'Monsieur a bien dormi?' 'Coridon,' said the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, raising himself on his elbow in that eminently graceful attitude, for which he was so remarkable when reclining on the ottomans at Almack's——"
A.Are you sure they have ottamans there?
B.No; but your readers can't disprove it.—"'Coridon,' said he, surveying his attendant from head to foot, and ultimately assuming a severity of countenance, 'Coridon, you are becoming gross, if not positively what the people callfat.' The Swiss attendant fell back in graceful astonishment three steps, and arching his eyebrows, extending his inverted palms forward, and raising his shoulders above the apex of his head, exclaimed, 'Pardon, mi lor, j'en aurois un horreur parfait.' 'I tell you,' replied our gracefully recumbent hero, 'that it is so, Coridon; and I ascribe it to your partiality for that detestable wine called Port. Confine yourself to Hock and Moselle, sirrah: I fear me, you have a base hankering after mutton and beef. Restrict yourself to salads, and do not sin even with an omelette more than once a week. Coridon must be visionary anddiaphanous, or he is no Coridon for me. Remove my night-gloves, and assist me to rise: it is past four o'clock, and the sun must have, by this time, sufficiently aired this terrestrial globe.'"
A.I have it now; I feel I could go on for an hour.
B.Longer than that, before you get him out of his dressing-room. You must make at least five chapters before he is apparelled, or how can you write a fashionable novel, in which you cannot afford more than two incidents in the three volumes? Two are absolutely necessary for the editor of the —— Gazette to extract as specimens, before he winds up an eulogy. Do you think that you can proceed now for a week, without my assistance?
A.I think so, if you will first give me some general ideas. In the first place, am I always to continue in this style?
B.No; I thought you knew better. You must throw in patches of philosophy every now and then.
A.Philosophy in a fashionable novel?
B.Most assuredly, or it would be complained of as trifling; but a piece, now and then, of philosophy, as unintelligible as possible, stamps it with deep thought. In the dressing-room, or boudoir, it must be occasionally Epicurean; elsewhere, especially in the open air, more Stoical.
A.I'm afraid that I shall not manage that without a specimen to copy from. Now I think of it, Eugene Aram says something very beautiful on a starry night.
B.He does: it is one of the most splendid pieces of writing in our language. But I will have no profanation, Arthur;—to your pen again, and write. We'll suppose our hero to have retired from the crowded festivities of a ball-room at some lordly mansion in the country, and to have wandered into a churchyard, damp and dreary with a thick London fog. In the light dress of fashion, he throws himself on a tombstone. "Ye dead!" exclaims the hero, "where are ye? Do your disembodied spirits now float around me, and, shrouded in this horrible veilof nature, glare unseen upon vitality? Float ye upon this intolerable mist, in yourselves still more misty and intolerable? Hold ye high jubilee to-night? or do ye crouch behind these monitorial stones, gibbering and chattering at one who dares thus to invade your precincts? Here may I hold communion with my soul, and, in the invisible presence of those who could, but dare not to reveal. Away! it must not be."
A.What mustn't be?
B.That is the mystery which gives the point to his soliloquy. Leave it to the reader's imagination.
A.I understand. But still the Honourable Augustus cannot lie in bed much longer, and I really shall not be able to get him out without your assistance. I do not comprehend how a man can get out of bedgracefully; he must show his bare legs, and the alteration of position is in itself awkward.
B.Not half so awkward as you are. Do you not feel that he must not be got out of bed at all—that is, by description.
A.How then?
B.By saying nothing about it. Re-commence as follows:—"'I should like the bath at seventy-six and a half, Coridon,' observed the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, as he wrapped his embroidered dressing-gown round his elegant form, and sank into achaise longue, wheeled by his faithful attendant to the fire." There, you observe, he is out of bed, and nothing said about it.
A.Go on, I pray thee.
B."'How is the bath perfumed?' 'Eau de mille fleurs.' 'Eau de mille fleurs!Did not I tell you last week that I was tired of that villanous compound? It has been adulterated till nothing remains but its name. Get me another bath immediatelyau violet; and, Coridon, you may use that other scent, if there is any left, for the poodle; but observe, only whenyoutake him an airing, not when he goes withme.'"
A.Excellent! I now feel the real merits of an exclusive; but you said something about dressing-room, or in-door philosophy.
B.I did; and now is a good opportunity to introduce it. Coridon goes into the ante-chamber to renew the bath, and of course your hero has met with a disappointment in not having the bath to his immediate pleasure. He must press his hands to his forehead. By-the-bye, recollect that his forehead, when you describe it, must be high and white as snow: all aristocratical foreheads are—at least, are in a fashionable novel.
A.What! the women's and all?
B.The heroine's must be; the others you may lower as a contrast. But to resume with the philosophy. He strikes his forehead, lifts his eyes slowly up to the ceiling, and drops his right arm as slowly down by the side of thechaise longue; and then in a voice so low that it might have been considered a whisper, were it not for its clear and brilliant intonation, he exclaims——
A.Exclaims in a whisper!
B.To be sure; you exclaim mentally,—why should you not in a whisper?
A.I perceive—your argument is unanswerable.
B.Stop a moment; it will run better thus:—"The Honourable Augustus Bouverie no sooner perceived himself alone, than he felt the dark shades of melancholy ascending and brooding over his mind, and enveloping his throbbing heart in their—theiradamantinechains. Yielding to the overwhelming force, he thus exclaimed, 'Such is life—we require but one flower, and we are offered noisome thousands—refused that we wish, we live in loathing of that not worthy to be received—mourners from our cradle to our grave, we utter the shrill cry at our birth, and we sink in oblivion with the faint wail of terror. Why should we, then, ever commit the folly to be happy?'"
A.Hang me, but that's a poser!
B.Nonsense! hold your tongue; it is only preparatory to the end. "Conviction astonishes and torments—destiny prescribes and falsifies—attraction drives us away—humiliation supports our energies. Thus do we recede into the present, and shudder at the Elysium of posterity."
A.I have written all that down, Barnstaple; but I cannot understand it, upon my soul!
B.If you had understood one particle, that particle I would have erased. This is your true philosophy of a fashionable novel, the extreme interest of which consists in its being unintelligible. People have such an opinion of their own abilities, that if they understood you, they would despise you; but a dose like this strikes them with veneration for your talents.
A.Your argument is unanswerable; but you said that I must describe the dressing-room.
B.Nothing more easy; as a simile, compare it to the shrine of some favoured saint in a richly-endowed Catholic church. Three tables at least, full of materials in methodised confusion—all tending to the beautification of the human form divine. Tinted perfumes in every variety of cut crystal receivers, gold and silver. If at a loss, call at Bayley's and Blew's, or Smith's in Bond Street. Take an accurate survey of all you see, and introduce your whole catalogue. You cannot be too minute. But, Arthur, you must not expect me to write the whole book for you.
A.Indeed I am not so exorbitant in my demands upon your good-nature; but observe, I may get up four or five chapters already with the hints you have given me, but I do not know how to move such a creation of the brain—so ethereal, that I fear he will melt away; and so fragile, that I am in terror lest he fall to pieces. Now only get him into the breakfast-room for me, and then I ask no more for the present. Only dress him, and bring himdown stairs.
B.There again you prove your incapability. Bring him down stairs! Your hero of a fashionable novel never ascends to the first floor. Bed-room, dressing-room, breakfast-room, library, and boudoir, all are upon a level. As for his dressing, you must only describe it as perfect when finished; but not enter into a regular detail, exceptthat, in conversation with his valet, he occasionally asks for something unheard-of, or fastidious to a degree. You must not walk him from one chamber to another, but manage it as follows:—"It was not until the beautiful airs of the French clock that decorated the mantel-piece had been thrice played, with all their variations, that the Honourable Augustus Bouverie entered his library, where he found his assiduous Coridon burning an aromatic pastile to disperse the compound of villanous exhalations arising from the condensed metropolitan atmosphere. Once more in a state of repose, to the repeated and almost affecting solicitations of his faithful attendant, who alternately presented to him the hyson of Pekoe, the bohea of Twankay, the fragrant berry from the Asiatic shore, and the frothing and perfumed decoction of the Indian nut, our hero shook his head in denial, until he at last was prevailed upon to sip a small liqueur glass ofeau sucrée." The fact is, Arthur, he is in love—don't you perceive? Now introduce a friend, who rallies him—then a resolution to think no more of the heroine—a billet on a golden salver—a counter resolution—a debate which equipage to order—a decision at last—hat, gloves, and furred great-coat—and by that time you will have arrived to the middle of the first volume.
A.I perceive; but I shall certainly stick there without your assistance.
B.You shall have it, my dear fellow. In a week I will call again, and see how you get on. Then we'll introduce the heroine; that, I can tell you, requires some tact—au revoir.
A.Thanks, many thanks, my dear Barnstaple. Fare you well.
[Exit Barnstaple.
A.(Looking over his memoranda.)—It will do! (Hopping and dancing about the room.) Hurrah! my tailor's bill will be paid after all!
[Mr Arthur Ansard's Chambers as before. Mr Ansard, with his eyes fixed upon the wig block, gnawing the feather end of his pen. The table, covered with sundry sheets of foolscap, shows strong symptoms of the Novel progressing.]
Ansard(solus).
Where is Barnstaple? If he do not come soon, I shall have finished my novel without a heroine. Well, I'm not the first person who has been foiled by a woman. (Continues to gnaw his pen in a brown study.)
Barnstaple enters unperceived, and slaps Ansard on the shoulder. The latter starts up.
B.So, friend Ansard, making your dinner off your pen: it is not every novel writer who can contrive to do that even in anticipation. Have you profited by my instructions?
A.I wish I had. I assure you that this light diet has not contributed, as might be expected, to assist a heavy head; and one feather is not sufficient to enable my genius to take wing. If the public knew what dull work it is to write a novel, they would not be surprised at finding them dull reading.Ex nihilo nihil fit.Barnstaple, I am at the very bathos of stupidity.
B.You certainly were absorbed when I entered, for I introduced myself.
A.I wish you had introduced another personage with you—you would have been doubly welcome.
B.Who is that?
A.My heroine. I have followed your instructions to the letter. My hero is as listless as I fear my readers will be, and he is not yet in love. In fact, he is only captivated with himself. I have made him dismiss Coridon.
B.Hah! how did you manage that?
A. He was sent to ascertain the arms on the panel of a carriage. In his eagerness to execute his master's wishes, he came home with a considerable degree of perspiration on his brow, for which offence he was immediately put out of doors.
B. Bravo—it was unpardonable—but still——
A. O! I know what you mean—that is all arranged; he has an annuity of one hundred pounds per annum.
B. My dear Ansard, you have exceeded my expectations; but now for the heroine.
A. Yes, indeed; help me—for I have exhausted all my powers.
B. It certainly requires much tact to present your heroine to your readers. We are unfortunately denied what the ancients were so happy to possess—a wholecortégeof divinities that might be summoned to help any great personage in, or the author out of, a difficulty; but since we cannot command their assistance, like the man in the play who forgot his part, we will do without it. Now, have you thought of nothing new, for we must not plagiarise even from fashionable novels?
A. I have thought—and thought—and can find nothing new, unless we bring her in in a whirlwind: that has not yet been attempted.
B. A whirlwind! I don't know—that's hazardous. Nevertheless, if she were placed on a beetling cliff, overhanging the tempestuous ocean, lashing the rocks with its wild surge; of a sudden, after she has been permitted to finish her soliloquy, a white cloud rising rapidly and unnoticed—the sudden vacuum—the rush of mighty winds through the majestic and alpine scenery—the vortex gathering round her—first admiring the vast efforts of nature; then astonished; and, lastly, alarmed, as she finds herself compelled to perform involuntary gyrations, till at length she spins round like a well-whipped top, nearing the dangerous edge of the precipice. It is bold, and certainly quite novel—I think it will do. Portray her delicate little feet, peeping out, pointing downwards,the force of the elements raising her on her tip toes, now touching, now disdaining the earth. Her dress expanded wide like that of Herbelé in her last and best pirouette—round, round she goes—her white arms are tossed frantically in the air. Corinne never threw herself into more graceful attitudes. Now is seen her diminishing ankle—now the rounded symmetry—mustn't go too high up though—the wind increases—her distance from the edge of the precipice decreases—she has no breath left to shriek—no power to fall—threatened to be ravished by the wild and powerful god of the elements—she is discovered by the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who has just finished his soliloquy upon another adjacent hill. He delights in her danger—before he rushes to her rescue, makes one pause for the purpose of admiration, and another for the purpose of adjusting his shirt collar.
A. The devil he does!
B. To be sure. The hero of a fashionable novel never loses caste. Whether in a storm, a whirlwind, up to his neck in the foaming ocean, or tumbling down a precipice, he is still the elegant and correct Honourable Augustus Bouverie. To punish you for your interruption, I have a great mind to make him take a pinch of snuff before he starts. Well—he flies to her assistance—is himself caught in the rushing vortex, which prevents him from getting nearer to the lady, and, despite of himself, takes to whirling in the opposite direction. They approach—they recede—she shrieks without being heard—holds out her arms for help—she would drop them in despair, but cannot, for they are twisted over her head by the tremendous force of the element. One moment they are near to each other, and the next they are separated; at one instant they are close to the abyss, and the waters below roar in delight of their anticipated victims, and in the next a favouring change of the vortex increases their distance from the danger—there they spin—and there you may leave them, and commence a new chapter.
A. But is not all this naturally and physically impossible?
B. By no means; there is nothing supernatural in a whirlwind, and the effect of a whirlwind is to twist everything round. Why should the heroine and the Honourable Augustus Bouverie not be submitted to the laws of nature? besides, we are writing a fashionable novel. Wild and improbable as this whirlwind may appear, it is within the range of probability; whereas, that is not at all adhered to in many novels—witness the drinking-scene in——, and others equallyoutrées, in which the author, having turned probability out of doors, ends by throwing possibility out of the window—leaving folly and madness to usurp their place—and play a thousand antics for the admiration of the public, who, pleased with novelty, cry out "How fine!"
A. Buy the book, and laud the author.
B. Exactly. Now, having left your hero and heroine in a situation peculiarly interesting, with the greatest nonchalance, pass over to the continent, rave on the summit of Mont Blanc, and descant upon the strata which compose the mountains of the Moon in central Africa. You have been philosophical, now you must be geological. No one can then say that your book is light reading.
A. That can be said of few novels. In most of them even smoke assumes the ponderosity of lead.
B. There is a metal still heavier, which they have the power of creating—gold—to pay a dunning tailor's bill.
A. But after having been philosophical and geological, ought one not to be a little moral?
B. Pshaw! I thought you had more sense. The great art of novel writing is to make the vices glorious, by placing them in close alliance with redeeming qualities. Depend upon it, Ansard, there is a deeper, more heartfelt satisfaction than mere amusement in novel reading; a satisfaction no less real, because we will not own it to ourselves; the satisfaction of seeing all our favourite and selfish ideas dressed up in a garb so becoming, that we persuade ourselves that our false pride is proper dignity, our ferocity courage, ourcowardice prudence, our irreligion liberality, and our baser appetites mere gallantry.
A.Very true, Barnstaple; but really I do not like this whirlwind.
B.Well, well, I give it up then; it was your own idea. We'll try again. Cannot you create some difficulty or dilemma, in which to throw her, so that the hero may come to her rescue withéclat?
A.Her grey palfrey takes fright.
B.So will your readers; stale—quite stale!
A.A wild bull has his horns close to her, and is about to toss her.
B.As your book would be—away with contempt. Vapid—quite vapid!
A.A shipwreck—the waves are about to close over her.
B.Your book would be closed at the same moment—worn out—quite worn out.
A.In the dead of the night, a fire breaks out—she is already in the midst of the flames——
B.Where your book would also be, by the disgusted reader—worse and worse.
A.Confound it—you will not allow me to expose her to earth, air, fire or water. I have a great mind to hang her in her garters, and make the hero come and cut her down.
B.You might do worse—and better.
A.What—hang myself?
B.That certainly would put an end to all your difficulties. But, Ansard, I think I can put your heroine in a situation really critical and eminently distressing, and the hero shall come to her relief, like the descent of a god to the rescue of a Greek or Trojan warrior.
A.Or of Bacchus to Ariadne in her distress.
B.Perhaps a better simile. The consequence will be, that eternal gratitude in the bosom of the maiden will prove the parent of eternal love, which eternity of passion will, of course, last until they are married.
A.I'm all attention.
B.Get up a splendid dinner party for their first casual meeting. Place the company at table.
A.Surely you are not going to choke her with the bone of a chicken.
B.You surely are about to murder me, as Samson did the Philistines——
A.With the jaw-bone of a fashionable novel writer, you mean.
B.Exactly. But to proceed:—they are seated at table; can you describe a grand dinner?
A.Certainly, I have partaken of more than one.
B.Where?
A.I once sat down three hundred strong at the Freemasons' Tavern.
B.Pshaw! a mere hog feed.
A.Well, then, I dined with the late lord mayor.
B.Still worse. My dear Ansard, it is however of no consequence. Nothing is more difficult to attain, yet nothing is more easy to describe, than a good dinner. I was once reading a very fashionable novel by a very fashionable bookseller, for the author is a mere nonentity, and was very much surprised at the accuracy with which a good dinner was described. The mystery was explained a short time afterwards, when casually taking up Eustache Eude's book in Sams's library, I found, that the author had copied it out exactly from the injunctions of that celebrated gastronome. You can borrow the book.
A.Well, we will suppose that done; but I am all anxiety to know what is the danger from which the heroine is to be rescued.
B.I will explain. There are two species of existence—that of mere mortal existence, which is of little consequence, provided, like Cæsar, the hero and heroine die decently: the other is of much greater consequence, which is fashionable existence. Let them once lose caste in that respect, and they are virtually dead, and one mistake, one oversight, is a death-blow for which there is no remedy, and from which there is no recovery.For instance, we will suppose our heroine to be quite confounded with the appearance of our hero—to have becomedistraite, reveuse—and, in short, to have lost her recollection and presence of mind. She has been assisted tofillet de soles. Say that the only sauce ever taken with them isau macedoine—this is offered to her, and, at the same time, another, which to eat with the above dish would be unheard of. In her distraction she is about to take the wrong sauce—actually at the point of ruining herself for ever and committing suicide upon her fashionable existence, while the keen grey eyes of Sir Antinous Antibes, the arbiter of fashion, are fixed upon her. At this awful moment, which is for ever to terminate her fashionable existence, the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who sits next to her, gently touches herséduisantesleeve—blandly smiling, he whispers to her that theotheris the saucemacedoine. She perceives her mistake, trembles at her danger, rewards him with a smile, which penetrates into the deepest recesses of his heart, helps herself to the right sauce, darts a look of contemptuous triumph upon Sir Antinous Antibes, and, while she is dipping her sole into the sauce, her soul expands with gratitude and love.
A.I see, I see. Many thanks; my heroine is now a fair counterpart of my hero.
"Ah, sure a pair were never seen,So justly form'd to meet by nature."
"Ah, sure a pair were never seen,So justly form'd to meet by nature."
B.And now I'll give you another hint, since you appear grateful. It is a species of claptrap in a novel, which always takes—to wit, a rich old uncle or misanthrope, who, at the very time that he is bitterly offended and disgusted with the hero, who is in awkward circumstances, pulls out a pocket-book and counts down, say fifteen or twenty thousand pounds in bank notes, to relieve him from his difficulties. An old coat and monosyllables will increase the interest.
A.True (sighing.) Alas! there are no such uncles in real life; I wish there were.
B.I beg your pardon; I know no time in whichmy uncleforks out more bank notes than at the present.
A.Yes, but it is for value, or more than value, received.
B.That I grant; but I'm afraid it is the onlyuncleleft now; except in a fashionable novel. But you comprehend the value of this new auxiliary.
A.Nothing can be better. Barnstaple, you are really——, but I say no more. If a truly great man cannot be flattered with delicacy, it must not be attempted at all; silence then becomes the best tribute. Your advice proves you to be truly great. I amsilent, therefore you understand the full force of the oratory of my thanks.
B.(bowing.) Well, Ansard, you have found out the cheapest way of paying off your bills of gratitude I ever heard of. "Poor, even in thanks," was well said by Shakespeare; but you, it appears, are rich, in having nothing at all wherewith to pay. If you could transfer the same doctrine to your tradesmen, you need not write novels.
A.Alas! my dear fellow, mine is not yet written. There is one important feature, nay, the most important feature of all—the style of language, the diction—on that, Barnstaple, you have not yet doctrinated.
B.(pompously.) When Demosthenes was asked what were the three principal attributes of eloquence, he answered, that the first was action; on being asked which was the second, he replied, action; and the third, action; and such is the idea of the Irishmimbersin the House of Commons. Now there are three important requisites in the diction of a fashionable novel. The first, my dear fellow, is—flippancy; the second, flippancy; and flippancy is also the third. With the dull it will pass for wit, with some it will pass for scorn, and even the witty will not be enabled to point out the difference, without running the risk of being considered invidious. It will cover every defect with a defect still greater; for who can call small beer tasteless when it is sour, or dull when it is bottled and has a froth upon it?
A.The advice is excellent; but I fear that this flippancy is as difficult to acquire as the tone of true eloquence.
B.Difficult! I defy the writers of the silver-fork school to write out of the style flippant. Read but one volume of——, and you will be saturated with it; but if you wish to go to the fountain-head, do as have done most of the late fashionable novel writers, repair to their instructors—the lady's-maid, for flippancy in the veinspirituelle; to a London footman for the vein critical; but, if you wish a flippancy of a still higher order, at once more solemn and more empty, which I would call the vein political, read the speeches of some of our members of Parliament. Only read them; I wish no man so ill as to inflict upon him the torture of hearing them—read them, I say, and you will have taken the very highest degree in the order of inane flippancy.
A.I see it at once. Your observations are as true as they are severe. When we would harangue geese, we must condescend to hiss; but still, my dear Barnstaple, though you have fully proved to me that in a fashionable novel all plot is unnecessary, don't you think there ought to be a catastrophe, or sort of a kind of an end to the work, or the reader may be brought up short, or as the sailors say, "all standing," when he comes to the word "Finis," and exclaim with an air of stupefaction,—"And then——"
B.And then, if he did, it would be no more than the fool deserved. I don't know whether it would not be advisable to leave off in the middle of a sentence, of a word, nay of a syllable, if it be possible: I'm sure the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical running-down of most of the fashionable novels. Snap the main-spring of your watch, and none but an ass can expect you to tell by it what it is o'clock; snap the thread of your narrative in the same way, and he must be an unreasonable being who would expect a reasonable conclusion. Finish thus, in a case of delicate distress; say, "The honourable Mr Augustus Bouverie was struck in a heap with horror.He rushed with a frantic grace, a deliberate haste, and a graceful awkwardness, and whispered in her ear these dread and awful words, 'It is too late!'" Follow up with a——and Finis.
A.I see; the fair and agitated reader will pass a sleepless night in endeavouring to decipher the mutilated sentence. She will fail, and consequently call the book delightful. But should there not have been a marriage previously to this happy awful climax?
B.Yes; everything is arranged for the nuptials—carriages are sent home, jewellery received but not paid for, dresses all tried on, the party invited—nay, assembled in the blue-and-white drawing-room. The right reverend, my lord bishop, is standing behind the temporary altar—he has wiped his spectacles, and thumbed his prayer-book—all eyes are turned towards the door, which opens not—the bride faints, for the bridegroom cometh not—he's not "i' the vein"—a something, as like nothing as possible, has given him a disgust that is insurmountable—he flings his happiness to the winds, though he never loved with more outrageous intensity than at the moment he discards his mistress; so he fights three duels with the two brothers and father. He wounds one of the young men dangerously, the other slightly; fires his pistol in the air when he meets her father—for how could he take the life of him who gave life to his adored one? Your hero can always hit a man just where he pleases—videevery novel in Mr C.'s collection. The hero becomes misanthropical, the heroine maniacal. The former marries an antiquated and toothless dowager, as an escape from the imaginary disgust he took at a sight of a matchless woman; and the latter marries an old brute, who threatens her life every night, and puts her in bodily fear every morning, as an indemnity in full for the loss of the man of her affections. They are both romantically miserable; and then come on your tantalising scenes of delicate distress, and so the end of your third volume, and then finish without any end at all.Verb. sap. sat.Or, if you like it better, kill the olddowager of a surfeit, and make the old brute who marries the heroine commit suicide; and, after all these unheard-of trials, marry them as fresh and beautiful as ever.
A.A thousand thanks. Yourverbaare not thrown to asap.Can I possibly do you any favour for all this kindness?
B.Oh, my dear fellow! the very greatest. As I see yours will be, at all points, a most fashionable novel, do me the inestimable favournotto ask meto read it.
Mr Ansard's Chambers.
A.(alone.) Well, I thought it hard enough to write a novel at the dictate of the bibliopolist; but to be condemned to sit down and write my travels—travels that have never extended farther than the Lincoln's Inn Coffee House for my daily food, and a walk to Hampstead on a Sunday. These travels to be swelled into Travels up the Rhine in the year 18—. Why, it's impossible. O that Barnstaple were here, for he has proved my guardian angel! Lazy, clever dog!
Enter Barnstaple.
B.Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last epithet?
A.My dear Barnstaple, I never was more happy to see you. Sit down, I have much to tell you, all about myself and my difficulties.
B.The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all events.
A.Everything is interesting to true friendship.
B.Now I perceive that you do want something. Well, before you state your case, tell me, how did the novel go off?
A.Wonderfully well. It was ascribed to Lord G——: the bait took, and 750 went off in a first edition, and the remainder of the copies printed went off in a second.
B.Without being reprinted?
A.Exactly. I was surprised at my success, and told my publisher so; but he answered that he could sell an edition of any trash he pleased.
B.That was not flattering.
A.Not very; but his bill was honoured, and that consoled me. However, to proceed to business—he has given me another order—A Journey up the Rhine, in two vols. large octavo, in the year 18—. Now, Barnstaple, what's to be done?
B.Write it, to be sure.
A.But you well know I have never been out of England in my life.
B.Never mind, write it.
A.Yes, it's very well to say write it; but how the devil am I to write it? Write what I have never seen—detail events which never occurred—describe views of that which I have not even an idea—travel post in my old armchair. It's all very well to say write it, but tell me, how.
B.I say again, write it, and pocket the money. Ansard, allow me to state that you are a greenhorn. I will make this mountain of difficulties vanish and melt away like snow before the powerful rays of the sun. You are told to write what you have never seen; but if you have not, others have, which will serve your purpose just as well. To detail events which have never occurred—invent them, they will be more amusing. Describe views, &c. of which you are ignorant—so are most of your readers; but have we not the art of engraving to assist you? To travel post in your armchair—a very pleasant and a very profitable way of travelling, as you have not to pay for the horses and postilions, and are not knocked to pieces by continental roads. Depend upon it, the best travels are those written at home, by those who have never put their foot into the Calais packet-boat.
A.To me this is all a mystery. I certainly must be a greenhorn, as you observe.
B.Why, Ansard, my dear fellow, with a book of roads and a gazetteer, I would write a more amusing book of travels than one half which are now foisted on the public. All you have to do is to fill up the chinks.
A.All I want to do is to fill up the chinks in mystomach, Barnstaple; for, between you and me, times are rather queer.
B. You shall do it, if you will follow my advice. I taught you how to write a fashionable novel, it will be hard, indeed, if I cannot send you up the Rhine. One little expense must be incurred—you must subscribe a quarter to a circulating library, for I wish that what you do should be well done.
A. Barnstaple, I will subscribe to—anything.
B. Well, then, since you are so reasonable, I will proceed. You must wade through all the various "Journies on the Rhine," "Two Months on the Rhine," "Autumns on the Rhine," &c., which you can collect. This you will find the most tiresome part of your task. Select one as your guide, one who has a reputation; follow his course, not exactly—that I will explain afterwards—and agree with him in everything, generally speaking. Praise his exactitude and fidelity, and occasionally quote him; this is but fair: after you rob a man (and I intend you shall rifle him most completely), it is but decent to give him kind words. All others you must abuse, contradict, and depreciate. Now, there is a great advantage in so doing: in the first place, you make the best writer your friend—he forgets your larcenies in your commendation of him, and in your abuse of others. If his work be correct, so must yours be; he praises it everywhere—perhaps finds you out, and asks you to dine with him.
A. How should I ever look at his injured face?
B. On the contrary, he is the obliged party—your travels are a puff to his own.
A. But, Barnstaple, allowing that I follow this part of your advice, which I grant to be very excellent, how can I contradict others, when they may be, and probably are, perfectly correct in their assertions?
B. If they are so, virtue must be its own reward. It is necessary that you write a book of travels, and all travellers contradict each other—ergo, you must contradict,or nobody will believe that you have travelled. Not only contradict, but sneer at them.
A.Well, now do explain how that is to be done.
B.Nothing more simple: for instance, a man measures a certain remarkable piece of antiquity—its length is 747 feet. You must measure it over again, and declare that he is in error, that it is only 727. To be sure of your being correct, measure ittwiceover, and then convict him.
A.But surely, Barnstaple, one who has measured it, is more likely to be correct than one who has not.
B.I'll grant you that he is correct to half an inch—that's no matter. The public will, in all probability, believe you, because you are the last writer, and because you havedecreasedthe dimensions. Travellers are notorious for amplification, and if the public do not believe you, let them go and measure it themselves.
A.A third traveller may hereafter measure it, and find that I am in the wrong.
B.Ten to one if you are not both in the wrong; but what matter will that be, your book will have been sold.
A. Most true, O king! I perceive now the general outline, and I feel confident, that with your kind assistance, I may accomplish it. But, Barnstaple, the beginning is everything. If I only had the first chapter as a start, I think I could get on. It is themodusthat I want—the style. A first chapter would be a keynote for the remainder of the tune, with all the variations.
B.Well, then, take up your pen. But before I commence, it may be as well to observe, that there is a certain method required, even in writing travels. In every chapter you should have certain landmarks to guide you. For instance, enumerate the following, and select the works from which they may be obtained, so as to mix up the instructive with the amusing. Travelling—remarks on country passed through—anecdote—arrival at a town—churches—population—historical remarks—anotheranecdote—eating and drinking—natural curiosities—egotism—remarks on the women (never mind the men)—another anecdote—reflections—an adventure—and go to bed. You understand, Ansard, that in these memoranda you have all that is required; the rule is not to be followed absolutely, but generally. As you observed, such is to be the tune, but your variations may be infinite. When at a loss, or you think you are dull, always call in a grisette, and a little mystery; and, above all, never be afraid of talking too much about yourself.
A.Many, many thanks; but now, my dear Barnstaple, for the first chapter.
B.Let your style be flowery—I should say florid—never mind a false epithet or two in a page, they will never be observed. A great deal depends upon the first two pages—you must not limp at starting; we will, therefore, be particular. Take your pen.
[Barnstaple muses for a little while and then continues.
"A severe cough, which refused to yield even to the balmy influence of the genial spring of 18—, and threatened a pulmonary complaint, induced me to yield to the reiterated persuasions of my physicians to try a change of air, as most likely to ward off the threatened danger. Where to direct my steps was the difficult point to ascertain. Brighton, Torquay, Cromer, Ilfracombe, had all been visited and revisited. At either of these fashionable resorts I was certain to fall in with a numerous acquaintance, whose persuasions would have induced me to depart from that regularity of diet and of rest, so imperiously insisted upon by my medical advisers. After much cogitation, I resolved upon a journey up the Rhine, and to escape the ruthless winter of our northern clime in the more genial land of history."
A.Land of history—I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go there?
B.No, you may recover, and come back again to skate upon the Serpentine, if you please. You observe, Ansard, I have not made you a fellow with £50 in his pocket, setting out to turn it into £300 by a book of travels. I haveavoided mention of Margate, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, and all common watering-places; I have talked of physicians in the plural; in short, no one who reads that paragraph, but will suppose that you are a young man of rank and fortune, to whom money is no object, and who spends hundreds to cure that which might be effected by a little regularity, and a few doses of ipecacuanha.
A.I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I'll travelen grand seigneur—that's more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled in a "diligence."
B.And will produce more respect for your work, I can assure you. But to proceed. Always, when you leave England, talk abouthospitality. The English like it. Have you no relations or friends in whose opinion you wish to stand well? Public mention in print does wonders, especially with a copy handsomely bound "from the author."
A.Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is in Cumberland, and that is noten route. I have a maternal uncle of the name of Forster, who lives on the road—a rich, old, miserly bachelor; but I can't say much for his hospitality. I have called upon him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner.
B.Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which they do not possess—it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr Forster, and felt——
A.Felt how?
B.How—why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.
A.There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear.
B.You arrive at Dovor (mind you spell it Dovor)—go to bed tired and reflective—embark early the next morning—a rough passage——
A.And sea-sick, of course?
B.No, Ansard, there I'll give you a proof of my tact—you sha'n't be sea-sick.
A.But I'm sure I should be.
B.All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints,ad nauseam—for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe—to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife—he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat—your attentions—she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale—her gratitude—safe arrival at Calais—sweet smiles of the lady—sullen deportment of the gentleman—a few hints—and draw the veil. Do you understand?
A.Perfectly. I can manage all that.
B.Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time,feel sea-sick.
A.On shore?
B.Yes; reel about, not able to stand—every symptom as if on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state thefact.
A.The fact! O Barnstaple!
B.That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things.
A.That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with thatfact?
B.No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure—be separated from it—some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise—it is no where to be found—quite in despair—walk to the hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garçons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready—ascend to your bedroom—find that your baggage is notonly there, but neatly laid out—your portmanteau unstrapped—your trunk uncorded—and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smilede malice, having installedhimselfas yourdomestique de place—take him for his impudence—praise the "Cotelettesand thevin de Beaune"—wish the reader good-night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter.
[Ansard gets up and takes Barnstaple's hand, which he shakes warmly without speaking. Barnstaple smiles and walks out. Ansard is left hard at work at his desk.
Arthur Ansard in his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand.
Ans.Capital! that last was ahit. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able to prove. (Yawns.) Heigho! I have only got half-way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter. (Nods, and then falls fast asleep).
Barnstaple taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters.
B. So—quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (Reads the manuscript on the table). No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard!
A.(starting up, still half asleep.) Already? Why, I've hardly shut my eyes. Well, I'll be dressed directly; let them get somecaféready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired? (Nods again with his eyes shut.)
B.Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?
A.(waking up.) Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day's journey I describedyesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post.
B.All the better—you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on?
A.Thank you—pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.
B.And how far have you got?
A.Half way—that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I'm very glad that you're come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for, to tell you the truth, I was breaking down.
B.Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.
A.That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion——
B.So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy aPoodle.
A.APoodle! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle?
B.He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion, than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage—what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all thegarçonsof the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases,and wind up every third chapter with "your faithful Mouton."
A.Will not all that be considered frivolous?
B.Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly inbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the versimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you.
A.All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like that of Aaron's, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him?
B.(thinks awhile.) Not less than forty louis.
A.Forty louis for a poodle!
B.Most certainly; not a sous less. The value of anything in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a five franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to amuse the reader.
A.But in what is to consist his sagacity?
B.He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far speak as to howl the first part of "Lieber Augustin."
A.His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush. But——I think I had better not bring him home with me.
B.Of course not. In the first place, it's absolutely necessary to kill him, lest his reputation should induce people to seek him out, which they would do, although, in all probability, they never will his master. Lady Cork would certainly invite him to a literarysoirée. You musttherefore kill him in the most effective way possible, and you will derive the advantage of filling up at least ten pages with his last moments—licking your hand, your own lamentations, violent and inconsolable grief on the part of Henri, and tanning his skin as a memorial.
A.A beautiful episode, for which receive my best thanks. But, Barnstaple, I have very few effective passages as yet. I have remodelled several descriptions of mountains, precipices, waterfalls, and such wonders of the creation—expressed my contempt and surprise at the fear acknowledged by other travellers, in several instances. I have lost my way twice—met three wolves—been four times benighted—and indebted to lights at a distance for a bed at midnight, after the horses have refused to proceed. All is incident, and I am quite hard up for description. Now, I have marked down a fine passage in ——'s work—a beautiful description of a cathedral, with a grand procession. (Reads.) "What with the effect of the sun's brightest beams upon the ancient glass windows—various hues reflected upon the gothic pillars—gorgeousness of the procession—sacerdotal ornaments—tossing of censers—crowds of people—elevation of the host, and sinking down of the populaceen masse." It really is a magnificent line of writing, and which my work requires. One or two like that in my book would do well to be quoted by impartial critics, before the public are permitted to read it. But here, you observe, is a difficulty. I dare not borrow the passage.
B.But you shall borrow it—you shall be even finer than he is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism.
A.How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I'm all impatience.
B.His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest—here is the secret. You must visit it atnight. Instead of "glorious beams," you willtalk of "pale melancholy light;" instead of "the stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile," you must "darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon." The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands of wax tapers—the splendid fretwork of the roof you must regret was not to be clearly distinguished—but you must be in ecstasies with the broad light and shade—the blaze at the altar—solemn hour of night—feelings of awe—half a Catholic—religious reflections, &c. Don't you perceive?
A.I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be allmoonshine. It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to help me with?
B.Have you talked about cooks?
A.As yet, not a word.
B.By this time you ought to have some knowledge of gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating.
A.(writes.) I have made a mem.
B.Have you had no affront?
A.Not one.
B.Then be seriously affronted—complain to the burgomaster, or mayor, or commandant, whoever it may be—they attempt to bully—you are resolute and firm as an Englishman—insist upon being righted—they must make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity, and be read with interest.
A.(writes.) I have been affronted. Anything else which may proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple?
B.Have you had a serious illness?
A.Never complained even of a headache.
B.Then do everything but die—Henri weeping and inconsolable—Mouton howling at the foot of your bed—kick the surgeons out of the room—and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne.
A.(writes.) Very sick—cured with three dozen of champagne—I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the curegratis. Go on, my dear Barnstaple.
B.You may work in an episode here—delirium—lucid intervals—gentle female voice—delicate attentions—mysterious discovery from loquacious landlady—eternal gratitude—but no marriage—an apostrophe—and all the rest left to conjecture.
A.(writes down.) Silent attentions—conjecture—I can manage that, I think.
B.By-the-bye, have you brought in Madame de Stael?
A.No—how the devil am I to bring her in?
B.As most other travellers do, by the head and shoulders. Never mind that, so long as you bring her in.
A.(writes.) Madame de Stael by the shoulders—that's not very polite towards a lady. These hints are invaluable; pray go on.
B.Why, you have already more hints this morning than are sufficient for three volumes. But, however, let me see. (B. thinks a little.) Find yourself short of cash.
A.A sad reality, Barnstaple. I shall write this part well, for truth will guide my pen.
B.All the better. But to continue—no remittances—awkward position—explain your situation—receive credit to any amount—and compliment your countrymen.
A.(writes.) Credit to any amount—pleasing idea? But I don't exactly perceive the value of this last hint, Barnstaple.
B.All judicious travellers make it a point, throughout the whole of their works, to flatter the nation upon its wealth, name, and reputation in foreign countries; by doing so you will be read greedily, and praised in due proportion. If ever I were to write my travels into the interior of Africa, or to the North Pole, I would make it a point to discount a bill at Timbuctoo, or get a cheque cashed by the Esquimaux, without the least hesitation in either case. I think now that what with your invention, your plagiarism, and my hints, you ought to produce a very effective Book of Travels; and with that feeling I shall leave you to pursue your journey, and receive, atits finale, your just reward. When we meet again, I hope to see you advertised.
A.Yes, but not exposed, I trust. I amincog. you know.
B.To be sure, that will impart an additional interest to your narrative. All the world will be guessing who you may be. Adieu, voyageur. [Exit Barnstaple.
A.And heaven forfend that they should find me out. But what can be done? In brief, I cannot get a brief, and thus I exercise my professional acquirements how I can, proving myself as long-winded, as prosy perhaps, and certainly as lying, as the more fortunate of my fraternity.