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