Pisistratus, more hopefully.—"Ay! there is something in the Drama akin to the Novel. Now, perhaps, I may catch an idea."
Mr. Caxton.—"For instance, the author of the Curiosities of Literature (from whom, by the way, I am plagiarizing much of the information I bestow upon you) tells us of a Spanish gentleman who wrote a Comedy, by which he intended to serve what he took for Moral Philosophy."
Pisistratus, eagerly.—"Well, sir?"
Mr. Caxton.—"And called it 'The Pain of the Sleep of the World.'"
Pisistratus.—"Very comic, indeed, sir."
Mr. Caxton.—"Grave things were then called Comedies, as old things are now called Novels. Then there are all the titles of early Romance itself at your disposal—'Theagenes and Chariclea,' or 'The Ass' of Longus, or 'The Golden Ass' of Apuleius, or the titles of Gothic Romance, such as 'The most elegant, delicious, mellifluous, and delightful History of Perceforest, King of Great Britain.'"—And therewith my father ran over a list of names as long as the Directory, and about as amusing.
"Well, to my taste," said my mother, "the novels I used to read when a girl (for I have not read many since I am ashamed to say)—"
Mr. Caxton.—"No, you need not be at all ashamed of it, Kitty."
My Mother, proceeding.—"Were much more inviting than any you mention, Austin."
The Captain.—"True."