_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.