“I hope, Pisistratus,” said my father, “that you do not intend to be dull?”
“Heaven forbid, sir! What could make you ask such a question? Intend! No! if I am dull it is from innocence.”
“A very long discourse upon knowledge!” said my father; “very long! I should cut it out.”
I looked upon my father as a Byzantian sage might have looked on a Vandal. “Cut it out!”
“Stops the action, sir!” said my father, dogmatically.
“Action! But a novel is not a drama.”
“No; it is a great deal longer,—twenty times as long, I dare say,” replied Mr. Caxton, with a sigh.
“Well, sir, well! I think my Discourse upon Knowledge has much to do with the subject, is vitally essential to the subject; does not stop the action,—only explains and elucidates the action. And I am astonished, sir, that you, a scholar, and a cultivator of knowledge—”
“There, there!” cried my father, deprecatingly. “I yield, I yield! What better could I expect when I set up for a critic? What author ever lived that did not fly into a passion, even with his own father, if his father presumed to say, 'Cut out'!”
MRS. CAXTON.—“My dear Austin, I am sure Pisistratus did not mean to offend you, and I have no doubt he will take your—”
PISISTRATUS (hastily).—“Advice for the future, certainly. I will quicken the action, and—”
“Go on with the Novel,” whispered Roland, looking up from his eternal account-book. “We have lost L200 by our barley!”
Therewith I plunged my pen into the ink, and my thoughts into the “Fair Shadowland.”
