poor man, had all his life been stringing, whether from his own chimneys
or the chimneys of other people, had turned out to be real puddings,--
they had always been the eidola, the erscheinungen, the phantoms and
semblances of puddings.

I question if Uncle Jack knew much about Democritus of Abdera. But he
was certainly tainted with the philosophy of that fanciful sage. He
peopled the air with images of colossal stature which impressed all his
dreams and divinations, and from whose influences came his very
sensations and thoughts. His whole being, asleep or waking, was thus
but the reflection of great phantom puddings!

As soon as Mr. Tibbets had possessed himself of the two volumes of the
"History of Human Error," he had necessarily established that hold upon
my father which hitherto those lubricate hands of his had failed to
effect. He had found what he had so long sighed for in vain,--his point
d'appui, wherein to fix the Archimedean screw. He fixed it tight in the
"History of Human Error," and moved the Caxtonian world.

A day or two after the conversation recorded in my last chapter, I saw
Uncle Jack coming out of the mahogany doors of my father's banker; and
from that time there seemed no reason why Mr. Tibbets should not visit
his relations on weekdays as well as Sundays. Not a day, indeed, passed
but what he held long conversations with my father. He had much to
report of his interviews with the publishers. In these conversations he
naturally recurred to that grand idea of the "Literary Times," which had
so dazzled my poor father's imagination; and, having heated the iron,
Uncle Jack was too knowing a man not to strike while it was hot.

When I think of the simplicity my wise father exhibited in this crisis