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--_vide_ every 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 old dowager 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. Your _verba_ are not thrown to a _sap._ 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 favour _not_
to ask me _to read it_.
How to write a Book of Travels
_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 my stomach,
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 it _twice_ over, 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 have _decreased_ the 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 the _modus_ that 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--another anecdote--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 L50 in his pocket, setting out to turn it into L300 by a
book of travels. I have avoided 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 travel _en 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 about _hospitality_.
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 not _en 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 Dov_o_r (mind you spell it Dov_o_r)--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 the
_fact_.
_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
that _fact_?
_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 garcons, who inform you that your carriage is in the
remise, and your rooms ready--ascend to your bedroom--find that your
baggage is not only 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 smile _de malice_, having
installed _himself_ as your _domestique de place_--take him for his
impudence--praise the "_Cotelettes_ and the _vin 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 a _hit_. 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 some _cafe_ ready
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 described yesterday. 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 a _Poodle_.
_A._ A _Poodle_! 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 the _garcons_ of 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 literary _soiree_. You
must therefore 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 populace _en 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 at _night_. Instead of "glorious beams," you will
talk 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 all _moonshine_. 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.