“If you compose the tail of your kite with these papers,” said the vicar, “it will certainly vie with that of Scriblerus himself; you will have a knot of divinity,--a knot of physic,--a knot of logic,--a knot of philosophy,--a knot of poetry,--and a knot of history.”
“Never mind, my dear sir; I wager an edition of Virgil, that I shall be able to discover in each page, with which you may present me, some apposite allusion to the tail, of which it is to form a part.”
“Apposite allusion! impossible; as well might you attempt to connect the scattered leaves of the Sibyl: for example, here is an Epitome of the Roman History.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Seymour, “and pray is not that curtail?”
The vicar dropped the paper in dismay; the treacherous design of his friend now, for the first time, flashed across his brain with a painful conviction, and he hastily retreated to a distant corner of the library, or “turned tail,” as Mr. Seymour jocosely expressed it, in order that he might find shelter from the pelting of a pitiless storm of puns, which he saw, too clearly, was about to burst on his devoted head.
On the vicar’s retiring from the table, Mrs. Seymour approached the fatal box, observing, “that it was now her turn to explore the Sibylline cave.”
“Here,” said she, “is a list of the prices of some newly published works.”
“That,” replied her husband, as he cast a sly glance at the vicar, “is retail: pray, proceed.”
“We have next, I perceive, a prospectus for publishing all the speeches in the late parliament.”
“That is detail.”