Pisistratus.—"Write a Book!—Against the abolition of the Corn Laws? Faith, sir, the mischief's done. It takes a much better pen than mine to write down an Act of Parliament."
Mr. Caxton.—"I only said, 'Write a Book.' All the rest is the addition of your own headlong imagination."
Pisistratus, with the recollection of The Great Book rising before him.—"Indeed, sir I should think that would just finish us!"
Mr. Caxton, not seeming to heed the interruption.—"A book that will sell! A book that will prop up the fall of prices! A book that will distract your mind from its dismal apprehensions, and restore your affection to your species, and your hopes in the ultimate triumph of sound principles—by the sight of a favorable balance at the end of the yearly accounts. It is astonishing what a difference that little circumstance makes in our views of things in general. I remember when the bank in which Squills had incautiously left £1000 broke, one remarkably healthy year, that he became a great alarmist, and said that the country was on the verge of ruin; whereas, you see now, when, thanks to a long succession of sickly seasons, he has a surplus capital to risk in the Great Western—he is firmly persuaded that England was never in so Prosperous a condition."
Mr. Squills, rather sullenly.—"Pooh, pooh."
Mr. Caxton.—"Write a book, my son—write a book. Need I tell you that Money or Moneta, according to Hyginus, was the mother of the Muses? Write a book."
Blanche and my Mother, in full chorus.—"Oh yes, Sisty—a book-a book! you must write a book."
"I am sure," quoth my Uncle Roland, slamming down the volume he had just concluded, "he could write a devilish deal better book than this; and how I come to read such trash, night after night, is more than I could Possibly explain to the satisfaction of any intelligent jury, if I were put into a witness-box, and examined in the mildest manner by my own counsel."
Mr. Caxton.—"You see that Roland tells us exactly what sort of a book it shall be."
Pisistratus.—"Trash, sir?"