Chapter Forty Seven.
How to Write a Fashionable Novel.
(Scene—Chamber in Lincoln’s Inn. Arthur Ansard at a briefless table, tête-à-tête with his wig on a block. A casts a disconsolate look upon his companion, and soliloquises.)
Yes, there you stand, “partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame.” We do not suit, for we never gained a suit together. Well, what with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C, who has given me an order for a fashionable novel, written by a “nobleman.” But how I, who was never inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of Court is comprised in the Court of King’s Bench, am to complete my engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well enough; but as to what occurs within doors I am quite abroad. I shall never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor’s bill must be paid. (Knocking outside.) Come in, I pray.
Enter Barnstaple.
B. Merry Christmas to you, Arthur.
A. Sit down, my dear fellow; but don’t mock me with merry Christmas. He emigrated long ago. Answer me seriously: do you think it possible for a man to describe what he never saw?
B (putting his stick up to his chin.) Why, ’tis possible; but I would not answer for the description being quite correct.