Ansard. How should I ever look at his injured face?
Barnstaple. On the contrary, he is the obliged party—your travels are a puff to his own.
Ansard. But, Barnstaple, allowing that I follow this part of your advice, which I grant to be very excellent, how can I contradict others, when they may be, and probably are, perfectly correct in their assertions?
Barnstaple. If they are so, virtue must be its own reward. It is necessary that you write a book of travels, and all travellers contradict each other—ergo, you must contradict, or nobody will believe that you have travelled. Not only contradict, but sneer at them.
Ansard. Well, now do explain how that is to be done.
Barnstaple. Nothing more simple: for instance, a man measures a certain remarkable piece of antiquity—its length is 747 feet. You must measure it over again, and declare that he is in error, that it is only 727. To be sure of your being correct, measure it twice over, and then convict him.
Ansard. But surely, Barnstaple, one who has measured it is more likely to be correct than one who has not.
Barnstaple. I’ll grant you that he is correct to half an inch—that’s no matter. The public will, in all probability, believe you, because you are the last writer, and because you have decreased the dimensions. Travellers are notorious for amplification, and if the public do not believe you, let them go and measure it themselves.
Ansard. A third traveller may hereafter measure it, and find that I am in the wrong.
Barnstaple. Ten to one if you are not both in the wrong; but what matter will that be? your book will have been sold.