cations, and anecdotes
of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the _garcons_ of
the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you
increases, and wind up every third chapter with "your faithful Mouton."

_Ansard_. Will not all that be considered frivolous?

_Barnstaple_. Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and
those who may have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does
not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted
with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly
imbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate
mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the verisimilitude of
your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even
to you.

_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