ssary 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 gloriou