Awoke–put on my pantaloons and boots, and in my shirt sleeves sat down to cogitate. Result is, that I shall use the lengthy quill–I shall accept the pressing invitation of the Goddess of Fame; and in order most effectually to dis-tinguish or ex-tinguish myself, hereby with malice aforethought, and the penalty of a failure before my eyes, I sit down to write a book.
But my physician informs me that I have got the “cacoethes scribendi,” which he says is as bad as the small-pox, toothache, and yellow fever. The disease, he says, must have its course–it may end in a malignant biography–result in an infectious broad-sword and blunderbuss, yellow covered novel, or degenerate into a weak form of pseudo-sentimental verse writing, in which latter case he intends to order me a literary tombstone.
Having fully determined upon making this literary effort, it became necessary to make up my mind as to what should be the contents of the work. A mental cogitating ensued. Philander was puzzled to know what Doesticks was going to write about–Philander asked Doesticks–whereupon Doesticks, in order to satisfy Philander, replied as follows, upon hearing which reply Philander was content.
Sometimes you pick up a book and find a gem.