“‘Sua cuique quum sit animi cogitatio
Colurque proprius.’
“What does that mean?”
PISISTRATITS (smiling)—“That every man has some colouring matter within him, to give his own tinge to—”
“His own novel,” interrupted my father. “Contentus peragis!”
During the latter part of this dialogue, Blanche had sewn together three quires of the best Bath paper, and she now placed them on a little table before me, with her own inkstand and steel pen.
My mother put her finger to her lip, and said, “Hush!” my father returned to the cradle of the AEsas; Captain Roland leaned his cheek on his hand, and gazed abstractedly on the fire; Mr. Squills fell into a placid doze; and, after three sighs that would have melted a heart of stone, I rushed into—MY NOVEL.
CHAPTER II.
“There has never been occasion to use them since I’ve been in the parish,” said Parson Dale.
“What does that prove?” quoth the squire, sharply, and looking the parson full in the face.