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