CHAPTER XXV 



Madrid, Apr'u 22. 



I HAVE kept no journal since we reached Madrid, and 

 must write something, or I shall forget all about it, and have 

 no materials to work upon. 



Oh, stern necessity of authors, to be always preserving 

 and potting the amusement of the day for future profit ! 

 Oh, literature, literature ! thou art indeed a base and servile 

 trade. From suggestive scraps here and there, out of these 

 matter-of-fact rambling epistles, I shall have to construct a 

 brisk and sparkling narrative of things which never hap- 

 pened, and sentiments I never felt, — and all because the 

 British public has an acquired taste for artificial writing, as 

 they have for doctored wines. The pure vintage of the 

 heart, like genuine clarets, seems poor and sour. It must 

 be brandied with forced hilarity, and Burgundied with a 

 body of rich and racy shams. It must have a bouquet of 

 chemically-prepared sentiment, and then it is fit to be 

 volumed from the rough cask of MS., and decanted into the 

 reviews. 



We shall have to write something very careful this time 

 to establish our reputations, for we are getting stricken in 

 years (Harry and I are twenty-five and twenty-six) ; and if 

 we are to be famous, we ought to make haste ; for what's 

 the fun of being famous when we are fat puffy men or 



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