"It is Lombard Street to a China orange," quoth Uncle Jack.
"Are the odds in favour of fame against failure so great? You do not
speak, I fear, from experience, brother Jack," answered my father,
as he stooped down to tickle the duck under the left ear.
"But Jack Tibbets is not Augustine Caxton. Jack Tibbets is not a
scholar, a genius, a wond--"
"Stop," cried my father.
"After all," said Mr Squills, "though I am no flatterer, Mr Tibbets
is not so far out.... That part of your book which compares the
crania or skulls of the different races is superb. Lawrence or Dr
Pritchard could not have done the thing more neatly. Such a book
must not be lost to the world; and I agree with Mr Tibbets that you
should publish as soon as possible."
"It is one thing to write and another to publish," said my father
irresolutely. "When one considers all the great men who have
published; when one thinks one is going to intrude one's-self
audaciously into the company of Aristotle and Bacon, of Locke, of
Herder--of all the grave philosophers who bend over nature with
brows weighty with thought--one may well pause, and--"
"Pooh!" interrupted Uncle Jack; "science is not a club, it is an
ocean. It is open to the cockboat as the frigate. One man carries
across it a freightage of ingots, another may fish there for
herrings. Who can exhaust the sea? who say to intellect, the deeps
of philosophy are preoccupied?"
"Admirable!" cried Squills.
"So it is really your advice, my friends," said my father, who
seemed struck by Uncle Jack's eloquent illustration, "that I should
desert my household gods; remove to London, since my own library
ceases to supply my wants; take lodgings near the British Museum,
and finish off one volume, at least, incontinently."
"It is a duty you owe to your country," said Uncle Jack, solemnly.
"And to yourself," urged Squills. "One must attend to the natural
evacuations of the brain. Ah! you may smile, sir; but I have
observed that if a man has much in his head, he must give it vent
or it oppresses him; the whole system goes wrong. From being
abstracted, he grows stupefied. The weight of the pressure affects
the nerves. I would not even guarantee you from a stroke of
paralysis."
"Oh, Austin!" cried my mother tenderly, and throwing her arms round
my father's neck.
"Come, sir, you are conquered," said I.
"And what is to become of you, Sisty?" asked my father. "Do you go
with us, and unsettle your mind for the university?"
"My uncle has invited me to his castle; and in the meanwhile I will
stay here, fag hard, and take care of the duck."
"All alone?" said my mother.
"No. All alone! Why Uncle Jack will come here as often as ever, I
hope."
Uncle Jack shook his head.
"No, my boy--I must go to town with your father. You don't
understand these things. I shall see the booksellers for him. I
know how these gentlemen are to be dealt with. I shall prepare the
literary circles for the appearance of the book. In short, it is a
sacrifice of interest I know. My Journal will suffer. But friendship
and my country's good before all things!"
"Dear Jack!" said my mother affectionately.
"I cannot suffer it," cried my father. "You are making a good
income. You are doing well where you are; and as to seeing the
booksellers--why, when the work is ready, you can come to town for a
week, and settle that affair."
"Poor dear Austin," said Uncle Jack, with an air of superiority and
compassion. "A week! Sir, the advent of a book that is to succeed
requires the preparation of months. Pshaw! I am no genius, bu I am a
practical man. I know what's what. Leave me alone."
But my father continued obstinate and Uncle Jack at last ceased to
urge the matter. The journey to fame and London was now settled; but
my father would not hear of my staying behind.
No; Pisistratus must needs go also to town and see the world; the
duck would take care of itself.