Фредерик Марриет
Olla Podrida
A. I perceive; but I shall certainly stick there without your assistance.
B. You shall have it, my dear fellow. In a week I will call again, and see how you get on. Then we’ll introduce the heroine; that, I can tell you, requires some tact—au revoir.
A. Thanks, many thanks, my dear Barnstaple. Fare you well.
Exit Barnstaple.
A (looking over his memoranda.)—It will do! (Hopping and dancing about the room.) Hurrah! my tailor’s bill will be paid after all!
Part II
Mr Arthur Ansard’s Chambers as before. Mr Ansard. with his eyes fixed upon the wig block, gnawing the feather end of his pen. The table, covered with sundry sheets of foolscap, show strong symptoms of the Novel progressing.
Ansard (solus)
Where is Barnstaple? If he do not come soon, I shall have finished my novel without a heroine. Well, I’m not the first person who has been foiled by a woman. (Continues to gnaw his pen in a brown study.)
Barnstaple enters unperceived, and slaps Ansard on the shoulder. The latter starts up.
B. So, friend Ansard, making your dinner off your pen: it is not every novel-writer who can contrive to do that even in anticipation. Have you profited by my instructions?
A. I wish I had. I assure you that this light diet has not contributed, as might be expected, to assist a heavy head, and one feather is not sufficient to enable my genius to take wing. If the public knew what dull work it is to write a novel, they would not be surprised at finding them dull reading. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Barnstaple, I am at the very bathos of stupidity.
B. You certainly were absorbed when I entered, for I introduced myself.
A. I wish you had introduced another personage with you—you would have been doubly welcome.
B. Who is that?
A. My heroine. I have followed your instructions to the letter. My hero is as listless as I fear my readers will be, and he is not yet in love. In fact, he is only captivated with himself. I have made him dismiss Coridon.
B. Hah! how did you manage that?
A. He was sent to ascertain the arms on the panel of a carriage. In his eagerness to execute his master’s wishes, he came home with a considerable degree of perspiration on his brow, for which offence he was immediately put out of doors.
B. Bravo—it was unpardonable—but still—
A. O! I know what you mean—that is all arranged; he has an annuity of one hundred pounds per annum.
B. My dear Ansard, you have exceeded my expectations; but now for the heroine.
A. Yes, indeed; help me—for I have exhausted all my powers.
B. It certainly requires much tact to present your heroine to your readers. We are unfortunately denied what the ancients were so happy to possess,—a whole cortège of divinities that might be summoned to help any great personage in, or the author out of, a difficulty; but since we cannot command their assistance, like the man in the play who forgot his part, we will do without it. Now, have you thought of nothing new, for we must not plagiarise even from fashionable novels?
A. I have thought—and thought—and can find nothing new, unless we bring her in in a whirlwind: that has not yet been attempted.
B. A whirlwind! I don’t know—that’s hazardous. Nevertheless, if she were placed on a beetling cliff, overhanging the tempestuous ocean, lashing the rocks with its wild surge; of a sudden, after she has been permitted to finish her soliloquy, a white cloud rising rapidly and unnoticed—the sudden vacuum—the rush of mighty winds through the majestic and alpine scenery—the vortex gathering round her—first admiring the vast efforts of nature; then astonished; and, lastly, alarmed, as she finds herself compelled to perform involuntary gyrations, till at length she spins round like a well-whipped top, nearing the dangerous edge of the precipice. It is bold, and certainly quite novel—I think it will do. Portray her delicate little feet, peeping out, pointing downwards, the force of the elements raising her on her tip toes, now touching, now disdaining the earth. Her dress expanded wide like that of Herbelé in her last and best pirouette—round, round she goes—her white arms are tossed frantically in the air. Corinne never threw herself into more graceful attitudes. Now is seen her diminishing ankle—now the rounded symmetry—mustn’t go too high up though—the wind increases—her distance from the edge of the precipice decreases—she has no breath left to shriek—no power to fall—threatened to be ravished by the wild and powerful god of the elements—she is discovered by the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who has just finished his soliloquy upon another adjacent hill. He delights in her danger—before he rushes to her rescue, makes one pause for the purpose of admiration, and another for the purpose of adjusting his shirt collar.
A. The devil he does!
B. To be sure. The hero of a fashionable novel never loses caste. Whether in a storm, a whirlwind, up to his neck in the foaming ocean, or tumbling down a precipice, he is still the elegant and correct Honourable Augustus Bouverie. To punish you for your interruption, I have a great mind to make him take a pinch of snuff before he starts. Well—he flies to her assistance—is himself caught in the rushing vortex, which prevents him from getting nearer to the lady, and, despite of himself, takes to whirling in the opposite direction. They approach—they recede—she shrieks without being heard—holds out her arms for help—she would drop them in despair, but cannot, for they are twisted over her head by the tremendous force of the element. One moment they are near to each other, and the next they are separated; at one instant they are close to the abyss, and the waters below roar in delight of their anticipated victims, and in the next a favouring change of the vortex increases their distance from the danger—there they spin—and there you may leave them, and commence a new chapter.
A. But is not all this naturally and physically impossible?
B. By no means; there is nothing supernatural in a whirlwind, and the effect of a whirlwind is to twist everything round. Why should the heroine and the Honourable Augustus Bouverie not be submitted to the laws of nature? besides, we are writing a fashionable novel. Wild and improbable as this whirlwind may appear, it is within the range of probability: whereas, that is not at all adhered to in many novels—witness the drinking scene in —, and others equally outrées, in which the author, having turned probability out of doors, ends by throwing possibility out of the window—leaving folly and madness to usurp their place—and play a thousand antics for the admiration of the public, who, pleased with novelty, cry out “How fine!”
A. Buy the book, and laud the author.
B. Exactly. Now, having left your hero and heroine in a situation peculiarly interesting, with the greatest nonchalance, pass over to the continent, rave on the summit of Mont Blanc, and descant upon the strata which compose the mountains of the Moon in Central Africa. You have been philosophical, now you must be geological. No one can then say that your book is light reading.
A. That can be said of few novels. In most of them even smoke assumes the ponderosity of lead.
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.
B. Your book would be closed at the same moment—worn out—quite worn out.
A. In the dead of the night, a fire breaks out—she is already in the midst of the flames—
B. Where your book would also be by the disgusted reader—worse and worse.
A. Confound it—you will not allow me to expose her to earth, air, fire, or water. I have a great mind to hang her in her garters, and make the hero come and cut her down.
B. You might do worse—and better.
A. What—hang myself?
B. That certainly would put an end to all your difficulties. But, Ansard, I think I can put your heroine in a situation really critical and eminently distressing, and the hero shall come to her relief, like the descent of a god to the rescue of a Greek or Trojan warrior.
A. Or of Bacchus to Ariadne in her distress.
B. Perhaps a better simile. The consequence will be, that eternal gratitude in the bosom of the maiden will prove the parent of eternal love, which eternity of passion will of course until they are married.
A. I’m all attention.
B. Get up a splendid dinner party for their first casual meeting. Place the company at table.
A. Surely you are not going to choke her with the bone of a chicken.
B. You surely are about to murder me, as Sampson did the Philistines—
A. With the jaw-bone of a fashionable novel-writer, you mean.
B. Exactly. But to proceed:– they are seated at table; can you describe a grand dinner?
A. Certainly, I have partaken of more than one.
B. Where?
A. I once sat down three hundred strong at the Freemasons’ Tavern.
B. Pshaw! a mere hog feed.
A. Well, then, I dined with the late lord mayor.
B. Still worse. My dear Ansard, it is however of no consequence. Nothing is more difficult to attain, yet nothing is more easy to describe, than a good dinner. I was once reading a very fashionable novel by a very fashionable bookseller, for the author is a mere nonentity, and was very much surprised at the accuracy with which a good dinner was described. The mystery was explained a short time afterwards, when casually taking up Eustache Eude’s book in Sams’s library, I found that the author had copied it out exactly from the injunctions of that celebrated gastronome. You can borrow the book.
A. Well, we will suppose that done; but I am all anxiety to know what is the danger from which the heroine is to be rescued.
B. I will explain. There are two species of existence—that of mere mortal existence, which is of little consequence, provided, like Caesar, the hero and heroine die decently: the other is of much greater consequence, which is fashionable existence. Let them once lose caste in that respect, and they are virtually dead, and one mistake, one oversight, is a death-blow for which there is no remedy, and from which there is no recovery. For instance, we will suppose our heroine to be quite confounded with the appearance of our hero—to have become distraite, rêveuse—and, in short, to have lost her recollection and presence of mind. She has been assisted to filet de soles. Say that the only sauce ever taken with them is au macédoine—this is offered to her, and, at the same time, another, which to eat with the above dish would be unheard of. In her distraction she is about to take the wrong sauce—actually at the point of ruining herself for ever and committing suicide upon her fashionable existence, while the keen grey eyes of Sir Antinous Antibes, the arbiter of fashion, are fixed upon her. At this awful moment, which is for ever to terminate her fashionable existence, the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who sits next to her, gently touches her séduisante sleeve—blandly smiling, he whispers to her that the other is the sauce macédoine. She perceives her mistake, trembles at her danger, rewards him with a smile, which penetrates into the deepest recesses of his heart, helps herself to the right sauce, darts a look of contemptuous triumph upon Sir Antinous Antibes, and, while she is dipping her sole into the sauce, her soul expands with gratitude and love.
A. I see, I see. Many thanks; my heroine is now a fair counterpart of my hero.
“Ah, sure a pair were never seen,
So justly form’d to meet by nature.”
B. And now I’ll give you another hint, since you appear grateful. It is a species of clap-trap in a novel, which always takes—to wit, a rich old uncle or misanthrope, who, at the very time that he is bitterly offended and disgusted with the hero, who is in awkward circumstances, pulls out a pocketbook and counts down, say fifteen or twenty thousand pounds in bank notes, to relieve him from his difficulties. An old coat and monosyllables will increase the interest.
A. True. (sighing.) Alas! there are no such uncles in real life; I wish there were.
B. I beg your pardon; I know no time in which my uncle forks out more bank notes than at present.
A. Yes, but it is for value, or more than value, received.
B. That I grant; but I am afraid it is the only “uncle” left now; except in a fashionable novel. But you comprehend the value of this new auxiliary.
A. Nothing can be better. Barnstaple, you are really —, but I say no more. If a truly great man cannot be flattered with delicacy, it must not be attempted at all; silence then becomes the best tribute. Your advice proves you to be truly great. I am silent, therefore you understand the full force of the oratory of my thanks.
B (bowing.) Well, Ansard, you have found out the cheapest way of paying off your bills of gratitude I ever heard of. “Poor, even in thanks,” was well said by Shakespeare; but you, it appears, are rich, in having nothing at all wherewith to pay. If you could transfer the same doctrine to your tradesmen, you need not write novels.
A. Alas! my dear fellow, mine is not yet written. There is one important feature, nay, the most important feature of all—the style of language, the diction—on that, Barnstaple, you have not yet doctrinated.
B (pompously.) When Demosthenes was asked what were the principal attributes of eloquence, he answered, that the first was action; on being asked which was the second, he replied, action; and the third, action; and such is the idea of the Irish mimbers in the House of Commons. Now there are three important requisites in the diction of a fashionable novel. The first, my dear fellow, is—flippancy; the second, flippancy; and flippancy is also the third. With the dull it will pass for wit, with some it will pass for scorn,—and even the witty will not be enabled to point out the difference, without running the risk of being considered invidious. It will cover every defect with a defect still greater; for who can call small beer tasteless when it is sour, or dull when it is bottled and has a froth upon it?
A. The advice is excellent; but I fear that this flippancy is as difficult to acquire an the tone of true eloquence.
B. Difficult! I defy the writers of the silver-fork school to write out of the style flippant. Read but one volume of —, and you will be saturated with it; but if you wish to go to the fountain-head, do as have done most of the late fashionable novel-writers, repair to their instructors—the lady’s-maid, for flippancy in the vein spirituelle! to a London footman for the vein critical; but, if you wish a flippancy of a still higher order, at once more solemn and more empty, which I would call the vein political, read the speeches of some of our members of Parliament. Only read them, I wish no man so ill an to inflict upon him the torture of hearing them—read them, I say, and you will have taken the very highest degree in the order of inane flippancy.
A. I see it at once. Your observations are as true as they are severe. When we would harangue geese, we must condescend to hiss; but still, my dear Barnstaple, though you have fully proved to me that in a fashionable novel all plot is unnecessary, don’t you think there ought to be a catastrophe, or sort of a kind of an end to the work, or the reader may be brought up short, or as the sailors say, “all standing,” when he comes to the word “Finis,” and exclaim with an air of stupefaction—“And then—”
B. And then, if he did, it would be no more than the fool deserved. I don’t know whether it would not be advisable to leave off in the middle of a sentence, of a word, nay of a syllable, if it be possible: I am sure the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical running-down of most of the fashionable novels. Snap the mainspring of your watch, and none but an ass can expect you to tell by it what it is o’clock; snap the thread of your narrative in the same way, and he must be an unreasonable being who would expect a reasonable conclusion. Finish thus, in a case of delicate distress; say, “The Honourable Mr Augustus Bouverie was struck in a heap with horror. He rushed with a frantic grace, a deliberate haste, and a graceful awkwardness, and whispered in her ear these dread and awful words, ‘IT IS TOO LATE!’” Follow up with a – and Finis.
A. I see; the fair and agitated reader will pass a sleepless night in endeavouring to decipher the mutilated sentence. She will fail, and consequently call the book delightful. But should there not have been a marriage previously to this happy awful climax?
B. Yes; everything is arranged for the nuptials—carriages are sent home, jewellery received but not paid for, dresses all tried on, the party invited—nay, assembled in the blue-and-white drawing-room. The right reverend my lord bishop is standing behind the temporary altar—he has wiped his spectacles and thumbed his prayer-book—all eyes are turned towards the door, which opens not—the bride faints, for the bridegroom cometh not—he’s not “i’ the vein”—a something, as like nothing as possible, has given him a disgust that is surmountable—he flings his happiness to the winds, though he never loved with more outrageous intensity than at the moment he discards his mistress; so he fights three duels with the two brothers and father. He wounds one of the young men dangerously, the other slightly; fires his pistol in the air when he meets her father—for how could he take the life of him who gave life to his adored one? Your hero can always hit a man just where he pleases—vide every novel in Mr C’s collection. The hero becomes misanthropical, the heroine maniacal. The former marries an antiquated and toothless dowager, as an escape from the imaginary disgust he took at a sight of a matchless woman; and the latter marries an old brute, who threatens her life every night, and puts her in bodily fear every morning, as an indemnity in full for the loss of the man of her affections. They are both romantically miserable; and then comes on your tantalising scenes of delicate distress, and so the end of your third volume, and then finish without any end at all. Verb. sap. sat. Or, if you like it better, kill the old dowager of a surfeit, and make the old brute who marries the heroine commit suicide; and, after all these unheard-of trials, marry them as fresh and beautiful as ever.
A. A thousand thanks. Your verba are not thrown to a sap. Can I possibly do you any favour for all this kindness?
B. Oh, my dear fellow! the very greatest. As I see yours will be, at all points, a most fashionable novel, do me the inestimable favour not to ask me to read it.
Chapter Forty Eight
How to Write a Book of Travels
Mr Ansard’s Chambers
Ansard. (alone.) Well, I thought it hard enough to write a novel at the dictate of the bibliopolist; but to be condemned to sit down and write my travels—travels that have never extended farther than the Lincoln’s Inn Coffee House for my daily food, and a walk to Hampstead on a Sunday. These travels to be swelled into Travels up the Rhine in the year 18—. Why, it’s impossible. O that Barnstaple were here, for he has proved my guardian angel! Lazy, clever dog!
Enter Barnstaple
Barnstaple. Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last epithet?
Ansard. My dear Barnstaple, I never was more happy to see you. Sit down, I have much to tell you, all about myself and my difficulties.
Barnstaple. The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all events.
Ansard. Everything is interesting to true friendship.
Barnstaple. Now I perceive that you do want something. Well, before you state your case, tell me, how did the novel go off?
Ansard. Wonderfully well. It was ascribed to Lord G—: the bait took, and 750 went off in a first edition, and the remainder of the copies printed went off in a second.
Barnstaple. Without being reprinted?
Ansard. Exactly. I was surprised at my success, and told my publisher so; but he answered that he could sell an edition of any trash he pleased.
Barnstaple. That was not flattering.
Ansard. Not very; but his bill was honoured, and that consoled me. However, to proceed to business—he has given me another order—A Journey up the Rhine, in two volumes, large octavo, in the year 18—. Now, Barnstaple, what’s to be done?
Barnstaple. Write it, to be sure.
Ansard. But you well know I have never been out of England in my life.
Barnstaple. Never mind, write it.
Ansard. Yes, it’s very well to say write it; but how the devil am I to write it? Write what I have never seen—detail events which never occurred—describe views of that which I have not even an idea—travel post in my old arm-chair. It’s all very well to say write it, but tell me, how.
Barnstaple. I say again, write it, and pocket the money. Ansard, allow me to state that you are a greenhorn. I will make this mountain of difficulties vanish and melt away like snow before the powerful rays of the sun. You are told to write what you have never seen; but if you have not, others have, which will serve your purpose just as well. To detail events which have never occurred—invent them, they will be more amusing. Describe views, etcetera, of which you are ignorant—so are most of your readers; but have we not the art of engraving to assist you? To travel post in your arm-chair—a very pleasant and a very profitable way of travelling, as you have not to pay for the horses and postilions, and are not knocked to pieces by continental roads. Depend upon it, the best travels are those written at home, by those who have never put their foot into the Calais packet-boat.
Ansard. To me this is all a mystery. I certainly must be a greenhorn, as you observe.
Barnstaple. Why, Ansard, my dear fellow, with a book of roads and a gazetteer, I would write a more amusing book of travels than one half which are now foisted on the public. All you have to do is to fill up the chinks.
Ansard. All I want to do is to fill up the chinks in my stomach, Barnstaple; for, between you and me, times are rather queer.
Barnstaple. You shall do it, if you will follow my advice. I taught you how to write a fashionable novel; it will be hard, indeed, if I cannot send you up the Rhine. One little expense must be incurred—you must subscribe a quarter to a circulating library, for I wish that what you do should be well done.
Ansard. Barnstaple, I will subscribe to—anything.
Barnstaple. Well, then, since you are so reasonable, I will proceed. You must wade through all the various “Journeys on the Rhine,” “Two Months on the Rhine,” “Autumns on the Rhine,” etcetera, which you can collect. This you will find the most tiresome part of your task. Select one as your guide, one who has a reputation; follow his course, not exactly—that I will explain afterwards—and agree with him in every thing, generally speaking. Praise his exactitude and fidelity, and occasionally quote him; this is but fair; after you rob a man (and I intend you shall rifle him most completely), it is but decent to give him kind words. All others you must abuse, contradict, and depreciate. Now, there is a great advantage in so doing: in the first place, you make the best writer your friend—he forgets your larcenies in your commendation of him, and in your abuse of others. If his work be correct, so must yours be; he praises it everywhere—perhaps finds you out, and asks you to dine with him.
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.
Ansard. Most true, O king! I perceive now the general outline, and I feel confident that, with your kind assistance, I may accomplish it. But, Barnstaple, the beginning is everything. If I only had the first chapter as a start, I think I could get on. It is the modus that I want—the style. A first chapter would be a key-note for the remainder of the tune, with all the variations.
Barnstaple. Well, then, take up your pen. But before I commence, it may be as well to observe, that there is a certain method required, even in writing travels. In every chapter you should have certain landmarks to guide you. For instance, enumerate the following, and select the works from which they may be obtained, so as to mix up the instructive with the amusing. Travelling—remarks on country passed through—anecdote—arrival at a town—churches—population—historical remarks—another anecdote—eating and drinking—natural curiosities—egotism—remarks on the women (never mind the men)—another anecdote—reflections—an adventure—and go to bed. You understand, Ansard, that in these memoranda you have all that is required; the rule is not to be followed absolutely, but generally. As you observed, such is to be the tune, but your variations may be infinite. When at a loss, or you think you are dull, always call in a grisette, and a little mystery; and, above all, never be afraid of talking too much about yourself.
Ansard. Many, many thanks; but now, my dear Barnstaple, for the first chapter.
Barnstaple. Let your style be flowery—I should say florid—never mind a false epithet or two in a page, they will never be observed. A great deal depends upon the first two pages—you must not limp at starting; we will, therefore, be particular. Take your pen.
(Barnstaple muses for a while, and then continues.)
“A severe cough, which refused to yield even to the balmy influence of the genial spring of 18—, and threatened a pulmonary complaint, induced me to yield to the reiterated persuasions of my physicians to try a change of air, as most likely to ward off the threatened danger. Where to direct my steps was the difficult point to ascertain. Brighton, Torquay, Cromer, Ilfracombe, had all been visited and revisited. At either of these fashionable resorts I was certain to fall in with a numerous acquaintance, whose persuasions would have induced me to depart from that regularity of diet and of rest, so imperiously insisted upon by my medical advisers. After much cogitation, I resolved upon a journey up the Rhine, and to escape the ruthless winter of our northern clime in the more genial land of history.”
Ansard. Land of history—I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go there?
Barnstaple. No, you may recover, and come back again to skate upon the Serpentine, if you please. You observe, Ansard, I have not made you a fellow with 50 pounds in his pocket, setting out to turn it into 300 pounds by a book of travels. I have avoided mention of Margate, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, and all common watering-places; I have talked of physicians in the plural; in short, no one who reads that paragraph, but will suppose that you are a young man of rank and fortune, to whom money is no object, and who spends hundreds to cure that which might be effected by a little regularity, and a few doses of ipecacuanha.
Ansard. I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I’ll travel en grand seigneur—thats more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled in a “diligence.”
Barnstaple. And will produce more respect for your work, I can assure you. But to proceed. Always, when you leave England, talk about hospitality. The English like it. Have you no relations or friends in whose opinion you wish to stand well? Public mention in print does wonders, especially with a copy handsomely bound “from the author.”
Ansard. Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is in Cumberland, and that is not en route. I have a maternal uncle of the name of Forster, who lives on the road—a rich, old, miserly bachelor; but I can’t say much for his hospitality. I have called upon him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner.
