ral. 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).--"O 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?"

MR. CAXTON.--"No,--that is, not necessarily trash; but a book of that
class which, whether trash or not, people can't help reading. Novels
have become a necessity of the age. You must write a novel."

PISISTRATUS (flattered, but dubious).-"A novel! But every subject on
which novels can be written is preoccupied. There are novels of low
life, novels of high life, military novels, naval novels, novels
philosophical, novels religious, novels historical, novels descriptive
of India, the Colonies, Ancient Rome, and the Egyptian Pyramids. From
what bird, wild eagle, or barn-door fowl, can I

"'Pluck one unwearied plume from Fancy's wing?'"

MR. CAXTON (after a little thought).--"You remember the story which
Trevanion (I beg his pardon, Lord Ulswater) told us the other night?
That gives you something of the romance of real life for your plot, puts
you chiefly among scenes with which you are familiar, and furnishes you
with characters which have been very sparingly dealt with since the time
of Fielding. You can give us the country Squire, as you remember him
in your youth; it is a specimen of a race worth preserving, the old
idiosyncrasies of which are rapidly dying off, as the railways bring
Norfolk and Yorkshire within easy reach of the manners of L