ing 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 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.--"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
co