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. Prichard 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 cock-boat 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 illustrations, "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 mean while I will
stay here, fag hard, an