B. There is a metal still heavier, which they have the power of creating—gold—to pay a dunning tailor’s bill.
A. But after being philosophical and geological, ought one not to be a little moral.
B. Pshaw! I thought you had more sense. The great art of novel-writing is to make the vices glorious, by placing them in close alliance with redeeming qualities. Depend upon it, Ansard, there is a deeper, more heartfelt satisfaction that mere amusement in novel-reading; a satisfaction no less real, because we will not own it to ourselves; the satisfaction of seeing all our favourite and selfish ideas dressed up in a garb so becoming, that we persuade ourselves that our false pride is proper dignity, our ferocity courage, our cowardice prudence, our irreligion liberality, and our baser appetites, mere gallantry.
A. Very true, Barnstaple; but really I do not like this whirlwind.
B. Well, well! I give it up then: it was your own idea. We’ll try again. Cannot you create some difficulty or dilemma, in which to throw her, so that the hero may come to her rescue with éclat.
A. Her grey palfrey takes fright.
B. So will your readers; stale—quite stale!
A. A wild bull has his horns close to her, and is about to toss her.
B. As your book would be!—away with contempt. Vapid—quite vapid!
A. A shipwreck—the waves are about to close over her.