“Why do you bring up those books,” said Charley, one day. “Are we writing a novel, pray? We are writing, as I understand it, a—by the way, Jack-Whack, what _are_ we writing—for instance?” “A symph—” “Exactly so! We are composing a Symphonic Monograph,—precisely. Now show me, in the whole range of literature, one solitary instance of a writer of symph—ic—graphs—” Charley was not stammering. He has of late years almost entirely freed himself from this infirmity. The verbal fragments above represented escaped from alternate corners of his mouth, Alice having dammed the main channel of utterance in the most extraordinary manner. [It was a way she had. During the composition of this entire work, whenever Charley has seemed on the point of saying something that she was pleased to consider humorous, she would fly at him in the most barefaced manner, shaking with laughter, and cut him off. Then Charley glances at me, and tries to frown: “Oh, it is nobody but Jack,” says she.] “Besides,” went on Charley, without even wiping his lips, “you know perfectly well, Alice, that you always skip that stuff. Look me in the eyes,” said he, seizing her firmly by the wrist,—“look me in the eyes and deny it!” “Yes, but I am but a plain body, without pretensions; whereas people of ideas, of culture, you know—” “Then you admit that where you come to pages, solid pages of Insight, you incontinently skip them for those passages where the characters are either acting or speaking? Is it not so, you little humbug?” “But should we not always seek the praise of the judicious?” “Oh, the simplicity of your soul, to imagine that we are making a book for the edification of the wise! As I understand it, Jack-Whack, it is composed exclusively for the delectation of—” Alice held up her hand. “Of the majority,” added Charley. [Interruption, remonstrance, confusion. “Pshaw! who minds Jack?”] “The fact is,” resumed Charley, with traces of a hypocritical frown still lingering on his features,—“the fact is, all that kind of stuff which you profess to admire, but confess you never read, reminds one of the annotations of the classics for schools. They are not intended to instruct the boys, but are written by one pedant to astound other pedants. By the way, Jack, a capital idea strikes me. It will give our book such a taking and original air. Suppose we go through it from beginning to end, and simply cut out all the _skipienda_,—every line of it,—and leave only what is intended to be read?” “And then publish it in the kingdom of Liliput?” inquired Alice.