CHAPTER VIII.
I have not mentioned my Uncle Roland. He is gone--abroad--to fetch his
daughter. He has stayed longer than was expected. Does he seek his son
still,--there as here? My father has finished the first portion of his
work, in two great volumes. Uncle Jack, who for some time has been
looking melancholy, and who now seldom stirs out, except on Sundays (on
which clays we all meet at my father's and dine together),--Uncle Jack,
I say, has undertaken to sell it.
"Don't be over-sanguine," says Uncle Jack, as he locks up the MS. in
two red boxes with a slit in the lids, which belonged to one of the
defunct companies. "Don't be over-sanguine as to the price. These
publishers never venture much on a first experiment. They must be
talked even into looking at the book."
"Oh!" said my father, "if they will publish it at all, and at their own
risk, I should not stand out for any other terms. 'Nothing great,' said
Dryden, 'ever came from a venal pen!'"
"An uncommonly foolish observation of Dryden's," returned Uncle Jack;
"he ought to have known better."
"So he did," said I, "for he used his pen to fill his pockets, poor
man!"
"But the pen was not venal, Master Anachronism," said my father. "A
baker is not to be called venal if he sells his loaves, he is venal if
he sells himself; Dryden only sold his loaves."
"And we must sell yours," said Uncle Jack, emphatically. "A thousand
pounds a volume will be about the mark, eh?"
"A thousand pounds a volume!" cried my father. "Gibbon, I fancy, did
not receive more."
"Very likely; Gibbon had not an Uncle Jack to look after his interests,"
said Mr. Tibbets, laughing, and rubbing those smooth hands of his. "No!
two thousand pounds the two volumes,--a sacrifice, but still I recommend
moderation."
"I should be happy indeed if the book brought in anything," said my
father, evidently fascinated; "for that young gentleman is rather
expensive. And you, my dear Jack,--perhaps half the sum may be of use
to you!"
"To me! my dear brother," cried Uncle Jack "to me! Why when my new
speculation has succeeded, I shall be a millionnaire!"
"Have you a new speculation, uncle?" said I, anxiously. "What is it?"
"Mum!" said my uncle, putting his finger to his lip, and looking all
round the room; "Mum! Mum!"
Pisistratus.--"A Grand National Company for blowing up both Houses of
Parliament!"
Mr. Caxton.---"Upon my life, I hope something newer than that; for they,
to judge by the newspapers, don't want brother Jack's assistance to blow
up each other!"
Uncle Jack (mysteriously).--"Newspapers! you don't often read a
newspaper, Austin Caxton!"
Mr. Caxton.--"Granted, John Tibbets!"
Uncle Jack.--"But if my speculation make you read a newspaper every
day?"
Mr. Caxton (astounded).--"Make me read a newspaper every day!"
Uncle Jack (warming, and expanding his hands to the fire).--"As big as
the 'Times'!"
Mr. Caxton (uneasily).--"Jack, you alarm me!"
Uncle Jack.--"And make you write in it too,--a leader!"
Mr. Caxton, pushing back his chair, seizes the only weapon at his
command, and hurls at Uncle Jack a great sentence of Greek,--
". . . a quotation in Greek . . ." (1)
Uncle Jack (nothing daunted).--"Ay, and put as much Greek as you like
into it!"
Mr. Caxton (relieved and softening). "My dear Jack, you are a great man;
let us hear you!"
Then Uncle Jack began. Now, perhaps my readers may have remarked that
this illustrious speculator was really fortunate in his ideas. His
speculations in themselves always had something sound in the kernel,
considering how barren they were in the fruit; and this it was that made
him so dangerous. The idea Uncle Jack had now got hold of will, I am
convinced, make a man's fortune one of these days; and I relate it with
a sigh, in thinking how much has gone out of the family. Know, then, it
was nothing less than setting up a daily paper, on the plan of the
"Times," but devoted entirely to Art, Literature, and Science,--Mental
Progress, in short; I say on the plan of the "Times," for it was to
imitate the mighty machinery of that diurnal illuminator. It was to be
the Literary Salmoneus of the Political Jupiter, and rattle its thunder
over the bridge of knowledge. It was to have correspondents in all
parts of the globe; everything that related to the chronicle of the
mind, from the labor of the missionary in the South Sea Islands, or the
research of a traveller in pursuit of that mirage called Timbuctoo, to
the last new novel at Paris, or the last great emendation of a Greek
particle at a German university, was to find a place in this focus of
light. It was to amuse, to instruct, to interest,--there was nothing it
was not to do. Not a man in the whole reading public, not only of the
three kingdoms, not only of the British empire, but under the cope of
heaven, that it was not to touch somewhere, in head, in heart, or in
pocket. The most crotchety member of the intellectual community might
find his own hobby in those stables.
"Think," cried Uncle Jack,--"think of the march of mind; think of the
passion for cheap knowledge; think how little quarterly, monthly, weekly
journals can keep pace with the main wants of the age! As well have a
weekly journal on politics as a weekly journal on all the matters still
more interesting than politics to the mass of the public. My 'Literary
Times' once started, people will wonder how they had ever lived without
it! Sir, they have not lived without it,--they have vegetated; they
have lived in holes and caves, like the Troggledikes."
"Troglodytes," said my father, mildly,--"from trogle, `a cave,' and
dumi, 'to go under.' They lived in Ethiopia, and had their wives in
common."
"As to the last point, I don't say that the public, poor creatures, are
as bad as that," said Uncle Jack, candidly; "but no simile holds good in
all its points. And the public are no less Troggledummies, or whatever
you call them, compared with what they will be when living under the
full light of my 'Literary Times.' Sir, it will be a revolution in the
world. It will bring literature out of the clouds into the parlor, the
cottage, the kitchen. The idlest dandy, the finest fine lady, will find
something to her taste; the busiest man of the mart and counter will
find some acquisition to his practical knowledge. The practical man
will see the progress of divinity, medicine, nay, even law. Sir, the
Indian will read me under the banyan; I shall be in the seraglios of the
East; and over my sheets the American Indian will smoke the calumet of
peace. We shall reduce politics to its proper level in the affairs of
life; raise literature to its due place in the thoughts and business of
men. It is a grand thought, and my heart swells with pride while I
contemplate it!"
"My dear Jack," said my father, seriously, and rising with emotion, "it
is a grand thought, and I honor you for it. You are quite right,--it
would be a revolution! It would educate mankind insensibly. Upon my
life, I should be proud to write a leader, or a paragraph. Jack, you
will immortalize yourself!"
"I believe I shall," said Uncle Jack, modestly; "but I have not said a
word yet on the greatest attraction of all."
"Ah! and that?"
"The Advertisements!" cried my uncle, spreading his hands, with all the
fingers at angles, like the threads of a spider's wed. "The
advertisements--oh, think of them!--a perfect El Dorado. The
advertisements, sir, on the most moderate calculation, will bring us in
L50,000 a year. My dear Pisistratus, I shall never marry; you are my
heir. Embrace me!"
So saying, my Uncle Jack threw himself upon me, and squeezed out of
breath the prudential demur that was rising to my lips.
My poor mother, between laughing and sobbing, faltered out:
"And it is my brother who will pay back to his son all--all he gave up
for me!"
While my father walked to and fro the room, more excited than ever I saw
him before, muttering, "A sad, useless dog I have been hitherto! I
should like to serve the world! I should indeed!"
Uncle Jack had fairly done it this time. He had found out the only bait
in the world to catch so shy a carp as my father,--haaret letalis
arundo. I saw that the deadly hook was within an inch of my father's
nose, and that he was gazing at it with a fixed determination to
swallow.
But if it amused my father? Boy that I was, I saw no further. I must
own I myself was dazzled, and, perhaps with childlike malice, delighted
at the perturbation of my betters. The young carp was pleased to see
the waters so playfully in movement when the old carp waved his tail and
swayed himself on his fins.
"Mum!" said Uncle Jack, releasing me; "not a word to Mr. Trevanion, to
any one."
"But why?"
"Why? God bless my soul. Why? If my scheme gets wind, do you suppose
some one will not clap on sail to be before me? You frighten me out of
my senses. Promise me faithfully to be silent as the grave."
"I should like to hear Trevanion's opinion too."
"As well hear the town-crier! Sir, I have trusted to your honor. Sir,
at the domestic hearth all secrets are sacred. Sir, I--"
"My dear Uncle Jack, you have said quite enough. Not a word will I
breathe!"
"I'm sure you may trust him, Jack," said my mother.
"And I do trust him,--with wealth untold," replied my uncle. "May I ask
you for a little water--with a trifle of brandy in it--and a biscuit, or
indeed a sandwich. This talking makes me quite hungry."
My eye fell upon Uncle Jack as he spoke. Poor Uncle Jack, he had grown
thin!
(1) "Some were so barbarous as to eat their own species." The sentence
refers to the Scythians, and is in Strabo. I mention the authority, for
Strabo is not an author that any man engaged on a less work than the
"History of Human Error" is expected to have by heart.
