parts of the globe; everything that related to the chronicle of the
mind, from the labor of the missionary in the South Sea Islands, or the
research of a traveller in pursuit of that mirage called Timbuctoo, to
the last new novel at Paris, or the last great emendation of a Greek
particle at a German university, was to find a place in this focus of
light. It was to amuse, to instruct, to interest,--there was nothing it
was not to do. Not a man in the whole reading public, not only of the
three kingdoms, not only of the British empire, but under the cope of
heaven, that it was not to touch somewhere, in head, in heart, or in
pocket. The most crotchety member of the intellectual community might
find his own hobby in those stables.

"Think," cried Uncle Jack,--"think of the march of mind; think of the
passion for cheap knowledge; think how little quarterly, monthly, weekly
journals can keep pace with the main wants of the age! As well have a
weekly journal on politics as a weekly journal on all the matters still
more interesting than politics to the mass of the public. My 'Literary
Times' once started, people will wonder how they had ever lived without
it! Sir, they have not lived without it,--they have vegetated; they
have lived in holes and caves, like the Troggledikes."

"Troglodytes," said my father, mildly,--"from trogle, `a cave,' and
dumi, 'to go under.' They lived in Ethiopia, and had their wives in
common."

"As to the last point, I don't say that the public, poor creatures, are
as bad as that," said Uncle Jack, candidly; "but no simile holds good in
all its points. And the public are no less Troggledummies, or whatever
you call them, compared with what they will be when living under the
full light of my 'Literary Times.' Sir, it will be a revolution in the