_A._ 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.
_B._ Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which they do not possess--it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr Forster, and felt----
_B._ How--why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection.
_A._ There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear.
_B._ You arrive at Dov_o_r (mind you spell it Dov_o_r)--go to bed tired and reflective--embark early the next morning--a rough passage----
_B._ No, Ansard, there I'll give you a proof of my tact--you sha'n't be sea-sick.
_B._ All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints, _ad nauseam_--for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe--to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife--he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat--your attentions--she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale--her gratitude--safe arrival at Calais--sweet smiles of the lady--sullen deportment of the gentleman--a few hints--and draw the veil. Do you understand?
_B._ Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time, _feel sea-sick_.
_B._ Yes; reel about, not able to stand--every symptom as if on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state the _fact_.
_B._ That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things.
_A._ That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that _fact_?
_B._ No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure--be separated from it--some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise--it is no where to be found--quite in despair--walk to the hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garçons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready--ascend to your bedroom--find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out--your portmanteau unstrapped--your trunk uncorded--and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile _de malice_, having installed _himself_ as your _domestique de place_--take him for his impudence--praise the "_Cotelettes_ and the _vin de Beaune_"--wish the reader good-night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter.