iletto to
the heart of the robber, who fell without a groan. `With me only does
the secret now rest, by which our order might be disgraced; with me it
dies,' and the Jesuit raised his hand. `Thus to the glory and the
honour of his society does Manfredini sacrifice his life.' He struck
the keen-pointed instrument into his heart, and died without a groan.
`Stop,' cried our hero."

_Barnstaple_. And I agree with your hero: stop, Ansard, or you'll kill
me too--but not without a groan.

_Ansard_. Don't you think it would act well?

_Barnstaple_. Quite as well as it reads; pray is it all like this?

_Ansard_. You shall judge for yourself. I have half killed myself with
writing it, for I chew opium every night to obtain ideas. Now again--

_Barnstaple_. Spare me, Ansard, spare me; my nerves are rather
delicate; for the remainder I will take your word.

_Ansard_. I wish my duns would do the same, even if it were only my
washerwoman; but there's no more tick for me here, except this old watch
of my father's, which serves to remind me of what I cannot obtain from
others--time; but, however, there is a time for all things, and when the
time comes that my romance is ready, my creditors will obtain the
_ready_.

_Barnstaple_. Your only excuse, Ansard.

_Ansard_. I beg your pardon. The public require strong writing
now-a-days. We have thousands who write well, and the public are
nauseated with what is called _good writing_.

_Barnstaple_. And so they want something bad, eh? Well, Ansard, you
certainly can supply them.

_Ansard_. My dear Barnstaple, you must not disparage this style of
writing--it is not bad--there is a great art in it. It may be termed
writing intellectual and ethereal. You observe, that it never allows
probabilities or even possibilities to stand in its way. The dross of
humanity is rejected: all the common wants and grosser feelings of our
natures are disallowed. It is a novel which is all mind and passion.
Corporeal attributes and necessities are thrown on one side, as they
would destroy the charm of perfectability. Nothing can soil, or defile,
or destroy my heroine; suffering adds lustre to her beauty, as pure gold
is tried by fire: nothing can kill her, because she is all mind. As for
my men, you will observe when you read my work--

_Barnstaple_. When I do!

_Ansard_. Which, of course, you will--that they also have their
appetites in abeyance; they never want to eat, or