_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?