scheme failed: the crafty old politician thought he might as well
benefit his own sons as his nephew, for he had himself claims on the
Houghton estate which he expected Miss Nicholl's fortune might help to
liquidate.

At length the insanity and recklessness displayed by his nephew--the
handsome martial George--induced poor Horace to take affairs in his own
hands. His reflections, on his paying a visit to Houghton to look after
the property there, are pathetically expressed:--

'Here I am again at Houghton,' he writes in March, 1761, 'and alone; in
this spot where (except two hours last month) I have not been in sixteen
years. Think what a crowd of reflections!... Here I am probably for the
last time of my life: every clock that strikes, tells me I am an hour
nearer to yonder church--that church into which I have not yet had
courage to enter; where lies that mother on whom I doated, and who
doated on me! There are the two rival mistresses of Houghton, neither of
whom ever wished to enjoy it. There, too, is he who founded its
greatness--to contribute to whose fall Europe was embroiled; there he
sleeps in quiet and dignity, while his friend and his foe--rather his
false ally and real enemy--Newcastle and Bath, are exhausting the dregs
of their pitiful lives in squabbles and pamphlets.

When he looked at the pictures--that famous Houghton collection--the
surprise of Horace was excessive. Accustomed to see nothing elsewhere
but daubs, he gazed with ecstasy on them. 'The majesty of Italian
ideas,' he says, 'almost sinks before the warm nature of Italian
colouring! Alas! don't I grow old?'

As he lingered in the gallery, with mingled pride and sadness, a party