“Hold!” cried the Rev. Increase, arresting my hand, “you are shockingly touchy and precipitate; how often have I cautioned you against this trait of your character.  Because your workling does not deserve to be mentioned in the same category with works of solid and acknowledged merit, like, for instance, Rollin’s Ancient History or Prideaux’ Connexion, and can, at best, enjoy but an ephemeral existence, does it deserve to have no existence at all?  On your principle, we should have no butterflies, because their careless lives last but a day.”

“Well, Increase,” said I, “if, like the butterfly, whose short and erratic presence imparts another beauty to green fields and blue skies, and blossoms, and songs of birds, my little book shall be able to seduce a smile to the lips, or cheat away a pain from the bosom of one of those whom you are so fond of calling ’pilgrims through a dreary wilderness,’ I shall feel amply compensated for the waste of my time.”

“If your expectations are so moderate, I see no harm in your indulging them,” said my friend; “but I cannot help wishing you had oftener taken my advice in its composition.”

“I have great respect for your opinion,” I answered, “but I find it impossible to pass the ideas of another through the crucible of my mind and do them justice.  Somehow or other, when I am expecting a stream of gold, it turns out a caput mortuum of lead.  No, my better course is to coin my copper in my own way.  But, tell me frankly, what offends you.”

My Rev. friend had, by this time, forgotten his unfortunate volume of sermons, and resumed his good nature.

“Offends me? my dear friend, and half-parishoner (for I notice a bad habit you have got into, of late, of attending church only in the morning—­pray reform it), you use a very harsh term.  There is nothing in the book that offends me; although,” he added, cautiously, “I do not mean to say that I sanction entirely either your religious, philosophical, or political speculations.  I am no flatterer, and claim the privilege of a friend to speak my mind.”

“My dear Increase,” said I, pressing his hand, “I love you all the more for your sincerity; but why do you call them my speculations?  I have expressed no opinions.  They are the opinions of the characters, and not mine.  I wish you and all the world distinctly to understand that.”

“And yet the world will hold you to account for them.  If a man fires a gun into a crowd, is he not responsible for any mischief that may be the consequence?”

“I do not expect to make so loud a report,” said I, smiling; “but I protest against your doctrine.  Why, according to that, an author is accountable for all the opinions of his dramatis personae, however absurd and contradictory they may be.”

“I do not go so far as that.  I hold that the author is only responsible for the effect produced:  if that effect be favorable to virtue, he deserves praise; if the contrary, censure.”