Part 53 (1/2)

_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 a.s.sist 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 c.h.i.n.ks.

_A._ All I want to do is to fill up the c.h.i.n.ks 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 exact.i.tude 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 a.s.sertions?

_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 n.o.body 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 a.s.sistance, 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 pa.s.sed 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.