Part 54 (2/2)

_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 pa.s.sages 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 pa.s.sage 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 gla.s.s 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 ma.s.se_.” 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 pa.s.sage.

_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 ma.s.sive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon.” The glorious...o...b..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 _moons.h.i.+ne_. 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 cure _gratis_. 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 grat.i.tude--but no marriage--an apostrophe--and all the rest left to conjecture.

_A._ (_writes down._) Silent attentions--conjecture--I can manage that, I think.

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