"Heaven forbid, sir! what could make you ask such a question? Intend! No! if I am dull it is from innocence."
"A very long Discourse upon Knowledge!" said my father; "very long. I should cut it out!"
I looked upon my father as a Byzantian sage might have looked on a Vandal. "Cut it out!"
"Stops the action, sir!" said my father, dogmatically.
"Action! But a novel is not a drama."
"No, it is a great deal longer—twenty times as long, I dare say," replied Mr. Caxton, with a sigh.
"Well, sir—well! I think my Discourse upon Knowledge has much to do with the subject—is vitally essential to the subject; does not stop the action—only explains and elucidates the action. And I am astonished, sir, that you, a scholar, and a cultivator of knowledge—"
"There—there!" cried my father, deprecatingly. "I yield—I yield. What better could I expect when I set up for a critic! What author ever lived that did not fly into a passion—even with his own father, if his father presumed to say—'Cut out!' Pacem imploro—"
Mrs. Caxton.—"My dear Austin, I am sure Pisistratus did not mean to offend you, and I have no doubt he will take your—"
Pisistratus (hastily).—"Advice for the future, certainly. I will quicken the action, and—"