_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 _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. _Ansard_. 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.