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 £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.—“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.”