Mr. Squills, hastily retreating behind The Times.—­“I don’t think the Great Western can fall any lower; though it is hazardous—­I can but venture a few hundreds—­”

Pisistratus.—­“On our land, Squills?  Thank you.”

Mr. Squills.—­“No, no—­anything but that-on the Great Western.”

Pisistratus relapses into gloom.  Blanche steals up coaxingly, and gets snubbed for her pains.  A pause.

Mr. Caxton—­“There are two golden rules of life; one relates to the mind, and the other to the pockets.  The first is—­If our thoughts get into a low, nervous, aguish condition, we should make them change the air; the second is comprised in the proverb, ’it is good to have two strings to one’s bow.’  Therefore, Pisistratus, I tell you what you must do—­Write a Book!”

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 L1000 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.”