idea—an idea of the comedy writer. He has
been handed down to us from the earliest eras
of the drama, until we find him setting a copy
to all modern time in the School for Scandal.
Do you believe in Sir Oliver Surface? / don't.
Do you believe that an uncle of real life would
have troubled himself about those arcades ambo,
Joseph and Charles? Why should he? Joseph
was a cold-hearted hypocrite; Charles was a
spendthrift, and as great a hypocrite as Joseph.
Don't tell me it was because he had natural
affection that he wouldn't sell his uncle's
picture. He knew very well all the time who the
old fellow in the snuff-coloured coat was.
Careless had warned him beforehand. And the old
donkey, Sir Oliver, was vain enough to believe
those crocodile tears genuine! I know I have
tried on little dodges of this kind with my
uncles, and it was no go. I have baited the
hook with real genuine affection, but they
wouldn't bite. You see the sovereigns which
they chinked in their pockets were made of gold,
not of tin. And in this connexion gold is more a
hardener of the heart than tin.

It is true we are all familiar with these absurd
uncles, who are for ever going about with a
breastful of human kindness and a purseful of
money; but, according to my experience and
the experience of a large circle of nephews and
nieces of my acquaintance, we rarely—never, I
may say—meet with them, except on the stage.
That jeune premier's stage uncle is giving him
gold and his blessing, while his real uncle at
home is selling him up for the fifty pounds he
owes him.

As a matter of fact and reality, I prefer the
tragedy writer's view of our uncles. In tragedy
they are uncles who smother us in our sleep,
who burn our eyes out with red-hot irons, who
take us into dark woods and lose us, who poison
our papas as they lie sleeping in their back
gardens of an afternoon. This sort of uncle is
much nearer the mark of real life. Instead of
his being designed by nature and a beneficent
fate to be a blessing to his nephews, his nephews
are designed to be a curse to him. They stand
in his way, or they are always wanting
something of him, or they are a disgrace to him.
It is only natural, therefore, that he should
consider them bores, and treat them as such.

According to my experience, the uncle of
real life seldom bears any resemblance to the
ideal which we are all so fond of cherishing.
He is neither uniformly good, as he appears in
comedy, nor uniformly bad, as he is represented
in tragedy. He is of all sorts, and in the
majority of the aspects which he assumes he is
about as indifferent and unsatisfactory a person
as is to be met with on the stage of life.

Let us review some of the uncles whom we
all know and have experience of every day.
About that uncle who goes to India, makes a
heap of money, and comes back expressly to die
and leave it all to his nephews and nieces. Who
knows him? Is there one person in ten thousand
who ever had, or ever will have, such an
uncle? Is there one in a million? I opine, not.
Such a phenomenon has been seen and known,
no doubt, but he is not the uncle of every day
in the week; far from it. I once thought that
/ had an uncle of this delightful kind, but I was
mistaken. True, I had an uncle—he remained in
India many years, he made a large fortune, and
he came home (as we all expected) with the
amiable intention of dying and leaving it to his
relations. But in this latter respect he neglected to
fulfil his mission. After reaching London he came
down to the country place where we lived, and
excited us all to a pitch of delirium with a story of his
immense wealth and benevolent intentions. We
made a great fuss with him; we launched into
enormous expenses to entertain him and make
him comfortable. We gave him the very softest
bed in the house to die on, we provided parchment,
pounce, and sealing-wax for the will. The
girls broke off their matches with substantial
young farmers in the expectation of elegant
earls; the boys forfeited their indentures in the
assurance of commissions in the army; we
snubbed and slighted our old humble friends,
and quarrelled with them. In fact we conducted
ourselves as if we had had the bird in the hand.
But the bird was still in the bush. He flew
away to London to settle his affairs, but he
never came back, and we never heard of him
more. It was suspected that he was murdered
in London for his money, but I don't believe he
had any money; my opinion is that he was a
boasting, lying humbug, like Joe Grimaldi's
brother, of whom I will never believe anything
but that his design was to impose upon Joe, and
live upon him until he should be disposed for
another voyage. Did I not once know an uncle
who came home to his family and excited great
expectations (at the same time securing for
himself great attention and hospitality) by reason
of a large and heavy box, which he said he had
brought direct from the Australian diggings?
This uncle remained with his family for six
months, living on the fat of the land, and hinting
mysteriously every now and then that the box
would be opened some day soon. But one
morning he disappeared suddenly, and when the
box was opened by his expectant nephews and
nieces it was found to contain paving-stones!

That rich uncle from India was the ruin of us.
We had got into debt on our expectations; we
were sued on account of calipash and calipee;
we had to borrow money of the neighbours we
had slighted; we had to eat humble pie and
abase ourselves in the dust. I have known a
rich uncle, and so, no doubt, have you—an
uncle who lived by himself in a fine house,
securely guarded by a spiked wall behind, and
a dragon of a housekeeper in front. We all
look up to that uncle, and have expectations of
him. But, generally, that uncle looks down upon
us, and disappoints those expectations. It is
no easy matter to pass that dragon of a
housekeeper, looking out from her tower of observation
in the front parlour. She has a keen eye
for nephews wanting a few pounds, or a suit of
clothes, or a letter of recommendation. It is
really wonderful how very often an uncle of this