Great plans the young enthusiast opened to the merchant; the theme was a glorious one, and whether from natural kindness of heart, innate generosity, or an inherent, though uncultivated love of the grand and beautiful, Uncle Horace cherished, rather than chilled, the hopes of his fervid friend, lent an attentive ear to his projects, and mentally resolved on giving him the means of working out his magnificent fancies.

Alas! how many a rich harvest has been lost by the want of a little timely assistance to help to gather it in. The wealthy and the powerful mourn often, when it is too late, over the genius that has sunk under the pressure of poverty. The most careless reader will at once be reminded of many, whom a very small aid would have enabled to benefit the world, and at the same time, have conferred a most envied immortality on those from whom assistance might have come at the very moment when the struggle was terminating either in triumph or ruin-glory or despair.

The name of Mæcenas is as undying as that of Horace: -the descendants of Walpole might be content to purchase with the cost of Strawberry Hill the renown that must have followed the few pounds, and the few courtesies that would have kept away the poison-cup from

"The marvellous boy who perish'd in his pride."

But in Art, far more than in Literature, there are obstastacles to overcome which may be easily removed-but which, if not removed, are terrible. The painter works in the solitude of his lone chamber; and finds it utterly impossible for the early efforts of his mind to procure the the means of adding knowledge and skill to natural power:-the contest between hope and despondency is often determined by no other arbiter than death; and when all is settled by the grave, hundreds are found to purchase, at immense prices, that for which the artist would have been satisfied to receive the cost of the colour and canvass, and the bread which it was necessary to eat during the progress of his labour. Examples are abundant; but they have been quoted again and again. It is needless to dwell upon a topic so sad, so dispiriting, so humiliating.

Whether Uncle Horace did fulfil the resolution he formed, and the sculptor did realize the high hopes he cherished, will be shown before our tale is ended. May

we not in passing, however, offer a word of grateful thanks to those merchant-princes of our country who have been the truest and most liberal patrons of the Arts. It would be easy to name them:-but for them, indeed, many an artist who now honourably prospers would have to contend against both penury and obscurity.

Uncle Horace heard the young enthusiast talk for hours upon such themes; and would have heard him on, but that a sudden pain across his chest, reminded him, that whatever the art might be, the artist had no gift of earthly life beyond the term allotted to ordinary mortals.

Uncle Horace at length found it his turn to speak, and he unfolded to the youth, some of the principles which rendered England high, and happy, and noble, as it was some years ago. He spoke of Britain as all-powerful, allhonourable, and all-glorious, both by sea and land; the protector of the opressed; the true throne of liberty; the city of refuge, in which the persecuted of the nations of the world found security and peace. He dwelt upon the names of our soldiers, our sailors, and our statesman, who had elevated and upheld their country, when the envy, hatred, and malice of almost all Europe were striving to humble and subdue its energies, and cripple and destroy its resources ;—and, although by no means a politician, in the ordinary sense of the word, he could not avoid emphatically exclaiming, "Where are they?"

From this topic he turned to another-one upon which he always delighted to speak-the happy privilege which the aged and the poverty-stricken possessed, of claiming from the prosperous protection and assistance. It was, he said, a noble law; one which was to the poor what Magna Charta was to the rich-that, when worn out by toil, or oppressed by misfortune, or afflicted by disease, they were not compelled to ask for as charity, but could demand as their due, the contributions of those to whom Providence has been bountiful; and prayed earnestly that the modern spirit of legislation might preserve the Bill of Rights of the humble as well as of the proud.

Upon these and similar topics he would have spoken as long, and almost with as much enthusiasm, as the young sculptor; but he was interrupted by the entrance of his medical, or rather surgical attendant-and was desired to remain quiet. And then Major Blaney came, with his round, good-humoured, smiling face; and told him anecdotes of the emptiness of the "west end," in the never

empty neighbourhood of the "Swan with Two Necks and while the Major chatted, the waiter entered, with glowing bouquet of the last autumn flowers-dahlia: whose leaves were a little tinged by the early hoar frostand Michaelmas daisies-erect and peach-coloured—an strips of rosemary-and scarlet geraniums:-and ther was also, a faint faded sprig or two of that sweet weedy mignionette-"the meek reseda❞—sad and sighing, lik a faded beauty, o'er the season that was past: and the sallow-faced waiter of the "Swan with Two Necks," pre sented the collection to Uncle Horace, who positively blushed under the infliction of the Major's bright eye when the man said, "Madame's compliments, Sir, and hopes you are better to-day."

"Has madame no name?" inquired Philip, quite unconscious at the moment of the absurd nervousness from which his friend was suffering.

"You should not ask questions," said Major Blaney, with assumed gravity.

"And why not?" said Uncle Horace petulantly, "why not ask the lady's name; I know of no reason why he should not."

"Then, Sir, will you tell me?" inquired the good-humoured Major.

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"I can't, Sir-I don't know it."

"My compliments-I am obliged-better, thank her," he said to the waiter, who stood listening, of course, to every word that was spoken-and who, creepingly, departed with his message-while the Major cast an incredulous look towards the sculptor.

"All I know about this French woman, (God forgive her") resumed the excellent man, when the door was fairly closed, is

"My dear Sir," interrupted the Major, "you really must pot speak so much-you look flushed and excited-I have not the least desire to hear secrets."

"Secrets" repeated Uncle Horace wrathfully; "Sir, there are no secrets; I never saw her but in that cursed coach."

"Nay, my dear friend," again interrupted the Major, "you will throw yourself back, if you suffer yourself to be so excited, however tender the subject."

"Tender, Sir! there is nothing tender about me, but this wretched ancle!" he was proceeding, when the Major pressing his finger on his lip, bowed, and glided smilingly

out of the room. And Philip made matters worse, by assuring Uncle Horace, in the most emphatic manner, that he never would have presumed to have asked the foolish question he did, had he imagined it would have caused his dear friend the slightest agitation.

CHAPTER VI.

They sent the pebble hissing from the sling
Hot as the curse from lips that would strike dead,
If words were stones.

Montgomery.

I HAVE detailed so much of Uncle Horace's first day's confinement, that little remains to be told of the succeeding ones-the sameness of a sick room is almost proverbial. And yet his was varied, for the third day af ter his accident Harry Mortimer and the faithful Peter arrived-when finding him so much better than he expected, Harry gave his friend Mrs. Brown Lorton's letter. It will be readily believed that its receipt did not tend to allay his irritability. This added to the confirmation of his surmises respecting Peter's puzzling communication; the fact, that the person calling himself Count D'Oraine, was almost a received guest at the cottage, though Mrs. Lorton did not deign to explain who he was to her daughter, or her future son-in-law-her demanding money and a statement of family affairs from him who had sacrificed so liberally for the advantage of her and hers-all tended to render Horace exceedingly wrathful; and his wrath was really an event not easily forgotten, when it was once excited. He wrote immediately a letter to his sister-in-law, which had he reflected a little longer, perhaps he would not have penned. It explained fully, and in a manner not to be misunderstood, the nature of her dependance upon him:-he offered to send her copies of the different accounts of the monies he had disbursed-he told her, that as a security against Mary's ever feeling the weight of dependance, either in her single or married state, he had se cured to her the sum of twelve thousand pounds; which

was perfectly independent of the fifty thousand and the estates, that, with certain restrictions, were to be the property of Henry Mortimer, on their marriage. He thus left the proud woman the unmingled feeling, that she was dependant entirely on him and on her daughter; for sad enough to say, no provision had been made for her on her marriage-though her husband was considered, even then, a man of large wealth and possessions. He also desired, and that in no mild terms, that the "foreigner," whose appearance at the cottage, in the first months of her widowhood, bordered upon an impropriety, for which, considering her past circumspect conduct, he could not accountshould cease to visit where his niece was—as he had every reason to believe him a most dangerous character. This letter was written and despatched during the time that Harry found it necessary to visit his uncle's house, at the other end of the town; and he was greatly shocked, when he heard on his return, that Horace Brown was much worse, from the effects of indulging his violent feelings. This was not lessened, when he farther discovered, though only in the abstract, the nature of his communication to Mrs. Brown Lorton;-little as he heard, he nevertheless hoped that little was exaggerated. It is difficult to imagine a more painful state of mind than Mortimer laboured under-loving, as he so sincerely did, and yet so much disturbed by the suspicions the extraordinary conduct of his future mother-in-law could not fail to create.

Mary Lorton had gone to sit an hour with her friend, Lady Ellen, under the pretext of looking at a dress; but in reality, to read her a portion of a "dear letter" she had received that morning from her lover. Mrs. Lorton had expected a communication from Horace Brown, but strange to say, though despatched at the proper time from London, it had not arrived at the Island with the other letters.

Mrs. Brown Lorton was brooding in the drawing-room over this, and other disappointments, when her attention was arrested by a tap at the window: the evening was chilly, and a fire burnt brightly in the grate-so brightly, that she could not ascertain who the visiter was, until she laid her hand on the latch, which served to secure the window, that opened on the inside.

The intruder was D'Oraine.

"I have told you many times," said the lady, as he seated himself by the fire, "I have told you many times to avoid this mode of entrance-what can persons think if any should observe it?"