Barnstaple. Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage.
Ansard. That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion—
Barnstaple. So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a Poodle.
Ansard. A Poodle! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle?
Barnstaple. He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage—what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the garçons 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!