do you any favour for all this kindness?

_B_. Oh, my dear fellow! the very greatest. As I see yours will be, at
all points, a most fashionable novel, do me the inestimable favour _not_
to ask me _to read it_.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

HOW TO WRITE A BOOK OF TRAVELS.

MR ANSARD'S _Chambers_.

_Ansard_. (alone.) Well, I thought it hard enough to write a novel at
the dictate of the bibliopolist; but to be condemned to sit down and
write my travels--travels that have never extended farther than the
Lincoln's Inn Coffee House for my daily food, and a walk to Hampstead on
a Sunday. These travels to be swelled into Travels up the Rhine in the
year 18--. Why, it's impossible. O that Barnstaple were here, for he
has proved my guardian angel! Lazy, clever dog!

_Enter_ BARNSTAPLE.

_Barnstaple_. Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last
epithet?

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, I never was more happy to see you. Sit
down, I have much to tell you, all about myself and my difficulties.

_Barnstaple_. The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all
events.

_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 mone