Olla Podrida

A. The advice is excellent; but I fear that this flippancy is as difficult to acquire an 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 vein spirituelle! 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 an 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 am sure the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical running-down of most of the fashionable novels. Snap the mainspring 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 surmountable—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 comes 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.

Chapter Forty Eight

How to Write a Book of TravelsMr Ansard’s Chambers

Ansard. (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

Barnstaple. Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last epithet?

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all events.

Ansard. Everything is interesting to true friendship.

Barnstaple. Now I perceive that you do want something. Well, before you state your case, tell me, how did the novel go off?

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. Without being reprinted?

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. That was not flattering.

Ansard. 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 volumes, large octavo, in the year 18—. Now, Barnstaple, what’s to be done?

Barnstaple. Write it, to be sure.

Ansard. But you well know I have never been out of England in my life.

Barnstaple. Never mind, write it.

Ansard. 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 arm-chair. It’s all very well to say write it, but tell me, how.

Barnstaple. 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, etcetera, 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 arm-chair—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.

Ansard. To me this is all a mystery. I certainly must be a greenhorn, as you observe.

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. All I want to do is to fill up the chinks in my stomach, Barnstaple; for, between you and me, times are rather queer.

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. Barnstaple, I will subscribe to—anything.

Barnstaple. Well, then, since you are so reasonable, I will proceed. You must wade through all the various “Journeys on the Rhine,” “Two Months on the Rhine,” “Autumns on the Rhine,” etcetera, 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 every thing, 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.

Ansard. How should I ever look at his injured face?

Barnstaple. On the contrary, he is the obliged party—your travels are a puff to his own.

Ansard. 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?

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. Well, now do explain how that is to be done.

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. But surely, Barnstaple, one who has measured it is more likely to be correct than one who has not.

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. A third traveller may hereafter measure it, and find that I am in the wrong.

Barnstaple. Ten to one if you are not both in the wrong; but what matter will that be? your book will have been sold.

Ansard. 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 key-note for the remainder of the tune, with all the variations.

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. Many, many thanks; but now, my dear Barnstaple, for the first chapter.

Barnstaple. 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 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.”

Ansard. Land of history—I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go there?

Barnstaple. 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 pounds in his pocket, setting out to turn it into 300 pounds 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.

Ansard. I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I’ll travel en grand seigneur—thats more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled in a “diligence.”

Barnstaple. 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.”

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. 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—

Ansard. Felt how?

Barnstaple. How—why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.

Ansard. There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear.

Barnstaple. You arrive at Dovor (mind you spell it Dovor)—go to bed tired and reflective—embark early the next morning—a rough passage—

Ansard. And sea-sick, of course?

Barnstaple. No, Ansard; there I’ll give you a proof of my tact—you shan’t be sea-sick.

Ansard. But I’m sure I should be.

Barnstaple. 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?

Ansard. Perfectly. I can manage all that.

Barnstaple. Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time, feel sea-sick.

Ansard. On shore?

Barnstaple. 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.

Ansard. The fact! O Barnstaple!

Barnstaple. That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things.

Ansard. That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that fact?

Barnstaple. 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 nowhere 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 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.

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. 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!

Ansard. (starting up, still half asleep.) Already? Why, I’ve hardly shut my eyes. Well, I’ll be dressed directly; let them get some café ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired! (Nods again with his eyes shut.)

Barnstaple. Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling?

Ansard. (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.

Barnstaple. 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?

Ansard. Thank you—pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks.

Barnstaple. And how far have you got?

Ansard. 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.

Barnstaple. Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.

Ansard. 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—

Barnstaple. So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a Poodle.

Ansard. A Poodle! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle?

Barnstaple. 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 garçons of the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases, and wind up every third chapter with “your faithful Mouton.”

Ansard. Will not all that be considered frivolous?

Barnstaple. Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who may 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 imbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the verisimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you.

Ansard. 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?

Barnstaple. (thinks awhile.) Not less than forty louis.

Ansard. Forty louis for a poodle!

Barnstaple. Most certainly; not a sou less. The value of any thing 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.

Ansard. But in what is to consist his sagacity?

Barnstaple. He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far speak as to howl the first part of “Lieber Augustin.”

Ansard. His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush. But—I think I had better not bring him home with me.

Barnstaple. 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 soirée. 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.