outlook ahead of them and him. The good Mrs.
Maurice, the children's young Aunt, present at this time and often
afterwards till all ended, was a great consolation.

Falmouth, it may be supposed, had grown a sorrowful place to him,
peopled with haggard memories in his weak state; and now again, as had
been usual with him, change of place suggested itself as a desirable
alleviation;--and indeed, in some sort, as a necessity. He has "friends
here," he admits to himself, "whose kindness is beyond all price, all
description;" but his little children, if anything befell him, have no
relative within two hundred miles. He is now sole watcher over them; and
his very life is so precarious; nay, at any rate, it would appear, he
has to leave Falmouth every spring, or run the hazard of worse. Once
more, what is to be done? Once more,--and now, as it turned out, for the
last time.

A still gentler climate, greater proximity to London, where his Brother
Anthony now was and most of his friends and interests were: these
considerations recommended Ventnor, in the beautiful Southeastern corner
of the Isle of Wight; where on inquiry an eligible house was found for
sale. The house and its surrounding piece of ground, improvable both,
were purchased; he removed thither in June of this year 1843; and set
about improvements and adjustments on a frank scale. By the decease of
his Mother, he had become rich in money; his share of the West-India
properties having now fallen to him, which, added to his former
incomings, made a revenue he could consider ample and abundant. Falmouth
friends looked lovingly towards him, promising occasional visits; old
Herstmonceux, which he often spoke of revisiting but never did, was not
far off; and London, with all its resources and remembrances, was now
again accessible. He resumed his work; and had hopes of again achieving
something.

The Poem of _Coeur-de-Lion_ has been already mentioned, and the wider
form and aim it had got since he first took it in hand. It was above a
year before the date of these tragedies and changes, that he had sent
me a Canto, or couple of Cantos, of _Coeur-de-Lion_; loyally again
demanding my opinion, harsh as it had often been on that side. This
time I felt right glad to answer in another tone: "That here was real
felicity and ingenuity, on the prescribed conditions; a decisively
rhythmic quality in this composition; thought and phraseology actually
_dancing_, after a sort. Wha