class, so guarded, is "not at home." And when
he is at home, and you are admitted to his
benevolent presence, does he poke you in the ribs,
call you a sly dog, and chuck you purses of
money? Does he? But why do I ask, when
I know it is much more his disposition to slap
you in the face, call you a lazy dog, and turn you
away from his door. If he gives you anything
—which he rarely does without consulting his
housekeeper—he gives it you grudgingly, telling
you that this is the last time, and you
mustn't apply to him any more. And how does
he ask about his dear brother, your papa? Does
he not ask after him as if he were a low,
unfortunate person, who had no business to be his
brother? And when you tell him that your
papa has had another misfortune, he says,
"Humph!" which is a word which is never
used by any one but curmudgeons and grumpy
uncles. Is it in your recollection that, when
you visit a rich uncle of this kind, you are
always sharply told to wipe your feet, and not to
make a mess with the crumbs of the dry stale
biscuit they gave you for refreshment? How
often does this uncle make a fool of himself (and
of you) by marrying that dragon of a
housekeeper, or leaving all his money for the
promotion of something—which is anything but
the welfare of his own flesh and blood?

There is another variety of rich uncle, who
is a good deal more pleasant in a certain way.
He is rather a jolly old party, but he is a humbug,
for all that. He slips a sovereign into your
hand just to enjoy your surprise and delight;
he takes you out for the day, because you are
a handsome lad, perhaps, and people may take
you for his son. Notice him prick up his ears
when some one says, "Hasn't that old gentleman
got a fine boy!" How often does he
introduce you to his friends, and say, "My
nephew, sir," quite proud to let people know
that he has members of his family better looking
than himself. In the innocence of your
young heart, you think it very kind of uncle to
take you to the theatre, and sit out, for your
sake, some play that he must have seen scores
of times. You don't know then, but you come
to understand afterwards, that it was a much
greater gratification to him to watch your
wonder and astonishment and to listen to your
hearty boyish remarks, than it was to you to gaze
at the brilliant scenes, and listen to the fine
talk of the actors. It is a new sensation to the
selfish old hunks! When he gives you that
sovereign and pays for the brougham and the
box, he has had his pleasure cheap.

But, if I am not mistaken, we are all much
more familiar with uncles who are not rich, who,
indeed, are anything but rich. I have known
uncles come back from India and lands of gold,
in rags and tatters—with very generous dispositions
no doubt, but without the means of showing
them. I have known nephews and nieces
club together to send those uncles back again to
India and lands of gold, not with the faintest
hope that any of the gold would ever stick to
them, but simply to get them out of the way.
I know such an uncle once, who came back from
El Dorado and declared that he would hang
himself if his married niece did not give him a new
pea-jacket with brass buttons. The favour
which this uncle did to his relations was to get
drunk and consort in an unseemly manner with
the servant maids.

And who has not known, to his cost, that
uncle of a free and liberal disposition—as
regards himself—who never settles down to
anything, who lives gaily at the expense of the
family, and, in bearing the name of the family
constantly drags the name through the dirt and
brings it to disgrace? This is an irrepressible
sort of uncle, whom there is no disposing of.
His brothers and sisters, and nephews and
nieces, are people of credit and renown in the
world, and they don't like to send their
scapegrace uncle out of their own immediate sphere,
where they are well known, into another sphere
where they are not so well known. And so
they take the viper to their bosoms, and bear
with him, as best they may, while he bites them
all over. I declare, upon my honour, that this
is the most generous uncle I have ever met
with. Yes, I have known him poke his nephews
in the ribs, and call them sly dogs, and give
them money. But it was not his own money!

I don't like to say anything about the poor,
unfortunate, half-starved, broken-down uncle,
but he is, if I may be allowed the expression,
a frequent fact, nevertheless. He is an uncle
whose existence is sometimes kept a profound
secret, who is warned never to come to the
house when there is company, and who, when
he does arrive, on a borrowing expedition, at
an inopportune moment, is hid away out of
sight in the housekeeper's room, or the kitchen.
I am afraid I can remember an uncle of this
class, who, for many years, was only known to
his nephews and nieces as "the man." He
was a man, but I fear he was not a brother.

These are very unpretending uncles, who
would never take the liberty to poke their
nephews in the ribs, and never have any money
about them to chuck at anybody. I pity them.
But as for those blusterous, purse-proud patronising
uncles, who get the credit for unlimited
human kindness and generosity, they are arrant
old humbugs and pretenders. I vowed that I
would take them down a peg, and now I flatter
myself I have done it.

AMATEUR FINANCE.

IN THREE PARTS. PART III.

AMONGST the directors of "THE HOUSE
AND LAND FINANCE AND CREDIT COMPANY
(LIMITED)," there was hardly a single individual
who did not attempt to serve two masters. We
had on the Board soldiers, sailors, barristers,
retired Indian judges, country gentlemen, solicitors,
and pure idlers—individuals whose whole day
was taken up in finding out the best way of killing
time—but we had very few merchants, and no
bankers, or men whose business it had been to
deal in financial undertakings. But