“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 any thing,” 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 made you read a newspaper every day?” MR CAXTON, astounded.—“Made 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.—“Τους μεν γαρ ειναι χαλεπους, ὁσε λαι ανθροποφαγειν!”[7] 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!”