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 n