recent writers who may claim to be the giants of bibliography, prosperity and affluence have not, so far as I have heard, been their reward. In England such labour is almost entirely unremunerated. Let some diligent student then give us in a limited edition a bibliography of early editions of Chaucer. The information we possess is almost nil. Concerning texts, Professor Skeat has much that is valuable to say. In reprinting, moreover, in parallel texts, the most authoritative manuscripts, the Chaucer Society is doing yeoman's service. Concerning the books, however, we know nothing. Neither Lowndes nor Carew Hazlitt mentions all the early editions, while the particulars that help in collation are all withheld. The British Museum Catalogue notes that distinctions in the same edition are traceable, but does not say what they are. A service of no common order would be rendered by the man who would carefully collate the various editions, making note of the differences.

BLACK-LETTER CHAUCERS.

possess an early edition of Chaucer, the father of English poetry, is as legitimate a longing on the part of the bibliophile as to possess a folio Shakespeare. For every pound, meanwhile, that has to be paid for a Chaucer, ten times the amount is demanded for a Shakespeare. Yet the Chaucers are in fact much the rarer works. To find an edition earlier than 1598 or 1602 which is perfect is excessively difficult. It may give some idea of the obstacles in the way of the collector if I mention my own case. I have before me now two copies of the 1542 Chaucer, whereof one is perfect; and four of the 1561, whereof one is perfect, and a second wanting only a leaf. The title-pages of the two editions of 1561 and the prefatory matter are different; and one edition has woodcuts, while the other has not. So puzzled have been previous possessors that one of the 1561 editions is lettered outside "1542," and one of the 1542 editions" 1560" (sic). The Museum Catalogue, meanwhile, supplies conjectural dates. The "Bibliotheca Anglo-Poetica," invaluable for some purposes, does not help us. It has but few editions, and the collation it gives is painfully inadequate. At the present moment nothing is practically known. One result of a bibliography such as I seek would be to raise very greatly the price of early Chaucers, which, perfect and in good condition, are unmistakable rarities.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

MARCH 1890.

TH

SUB ROSA.

BY GEORGE HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF "FARMER JOHN."

CHAPTER IX.

Come, then,

And with my aid go into good society.

Life little loves, 'tis true, this peevish piety;
E'en they with whom it thinks to be securest-
Your most religious, delicatest, purest-
Discern, and show as pious people can,

Their feeling that you are not quite a man.

Still, the thing has its place; and, with sagacity,
Much might be done by one of your capacity.

A virtuous attachment, formed judiciously,

Would come, one sees, uncommonly propitiously:
Turn you but your affections the right way,
And what mayn't happen none of us can say ;

For in despite of devils and of mothers,

Your good young men make catches, too, like others.

CLOUGH: Dipsychus.

HERE is certainly an advantage in having the entrée of, at any rate, one friend's house; and on a particularly cold December afternoon the Reverend Whymper Burroughs felt that he would not quarrel with the fact that, in his case, it was only one, and that one his rector's. Of course a variety of circumstances might easily alter his present state of blissful enjoyment; such as, indeed, the immediate presence of the owner, or of Squire Maybanke. But neither being anywhere near, he found himself virtual master of the Rectory and all

VOL. CCLXVIII. NO. 1911.

its possessions, and notably of the rector's study, whose great blazing fire, book-lined walls, portfolios and curios were, for the nonce, at his disposal solely.

It may be noticed that the curate's visit had evidently been carefully timed so as to secure an undisturbed enjoyment of his present surroundings. Not long before, when lounging through the main street of the little country-town, Mr. Burroughs had met the rector mounted on his blue roan Daisy," the horse's head turned towards a distant and poor hamlet where illness now prevailed, and to whose need Mr. Hopperton was only too ready to minister. It was then that the curate, who had previously been endeavouring to make up his mind to a "good afternoon's visiting," had turned his steps, undeniably quickened, in the direction of the Rectory. For two hours, at the lowest computation, he could promise himself to be the undisturbed monarch of all he surveyed.

Yes; this was preferable to going in and out of hot, comfortless, ugly little houses; with complaining mothers to make you feel you had no right to the coat you wore, or the dinner you had eaten (a remarkably substantial meal in Mr. Burroughs's case); while, without, the sharp December blast welcomed you with a nip and a grip that nose as well as fingers could have dispensed with! To finish up with six-o'clock tea (high tea) at Miss Wispin's little villa was the contemplated reward of such unusual activity; and to hear the pious maiden lady's discourse on his sermons always warmed both heart and brain. But this was better!

And now, luxuriously leaning back in the rector's most comfortable chair, his feet on the mantel, and a large pipe in his mouth, Whymper Burroughs alone-perfectly at his ease, enjoying his own society infinitely more than any other-half closed his languid eyes, twirled the imaginary moustache, and indulged in self-communion. His language was forcible, if not elegant, while every now and then he sighed profoundly: this being the outward manifestation of his keen appreciation of the warmth and beauty of the room-just as the pampered lap-dog sighs simply because he is so happy, snugly curled round in his warm basket by the fire!

"Whymper," he slowly murmured, "she is only thirty-seven. The sole instance of your being out, where a lady's age was concerned. Four years older than myself-and looks ten-anyone would say that!" He rubbed his hands thoughtfully together. "She's not 'a thing of beauty,' and I devoutly hope she won't be 'a joy-for ever!' Hee, hee, ha! Not bad that! Tell her, some day. . . . Well, she's neither fair nor young.... but we must learn to sacrifice ourselves

on the altar of duty-set an example in these selfish days. . . . But the plaguey thing is, I've taken such a fancy to Miss Blanche, who's as poor as a rat-or myself. . . . Hard on a man! And I dare say she likes me. Pretty, kittenish little thing! Dear little thing! . . . And Miss Florence Portman, who sent me those lovely slippers (forget-me-nots and roses !) last Christmas, with a card, and her initials ... so del cate and retiring! Ah, well,"—he sighed, and smiled sadly. "It's got its drawbacks, being a ladies' man," he breathed softly.

Lifting the ponderous volume which lay on the ground near his chair, Mr. Burroughs found a page, and sought an entry. The entry, which was in the palest ink, and penned in precise, old-fashioned handwriting, certified that Clementina Wispin, daughter of Charles Frederick, and Isabella his wife, had been duly baptized on the tenth day of March, in the year 18-, at the parish church of Ladyhampton, in the county of Kent, by Joseph Walton, rector of the parish.

"She is thirty-seven," the curate dreamily repeated; "and, according to the will of Mr. William Wispin, which I saw with my own eyes at Doctors' Commons, she was to inherit at his death a fortune of five hundred pounds a year, to be invested in Government securities. Now, Mr. William Wispin is her uncle, I know, and he makes her a tidy allowance during his lifetime, I've heard. She's often shown me his picture. (Deuced ugly old beggar, too.) But for all that, dear

me, he must have made a good thing of it out in New Zealand, from what she has told me. Well, I wish he were in heaven now, the

dear old man!"

Mr. Burroughs again enjoyed to the full his own wit. Profane as he was vulgar, such jokes and allusions were his stolen delights. The row of grave Church dignitaries in robes of office, whose portraits adorned Mr. Hopperton's walls, seemed to glare with silent and holy horror in protest against this godless representative of their faiths and their tradition. Why was he there to molest the pious stillness of the good rector's sanctum ? their mute appeal demanded. Away with the fellow-and the crosiers and college caps they held in But Mr. their hands seemed to wave threateningly above his head. Burroughs's imagination did not take them into consideration; "a parcel of old noodles," as he would undoubtedly have designated them. Rising, he replaced the register in the great iron safe from which he had taken it, and the heavy lid fell forward with a loud bang. Mr. Burroughs had taken its key from a cupboard in the recess above,

where he had often seen the rector place it.

で

He stood for a moment musing, the while an expression of the

most perfect self-satisfaction stole over his features. And thus he communed with himself: "Well done, good and faithful Uncle Wispin! You are ugly, but you are blessed-twice blessed ;-blessing her who will give—to me—and me who shall take-from thee! But this means farewell-a long farewell-to Blanche the fair. I fear me much it does. I leave her to poverty and to neglect, unless some knight arises to woo and win her! What knight? Master Carey? Nay, nay; the old cock will see to that. And, indeed, I had rather see her in her grave, the lily-white lass, than married to that " Mr. Burroughs paused for an appropriate epithet of disgust, but, finding none, sighed profoundly. Deep down in his heart was a rooted hatred and jealousy of young Maybanke, whose very existence, as brave, good-looking, and a beloved only son, was a cause of dislike to the curate. Mr. Burroughs, forgetting that he himself enjoyed far more than he deserved, was for ever grudging to other people their good things; and Carey's indifferent politeness served only to aggravate his unreasoning sense of injury.

The meditation, but for this one pause, went on uninterruptedly: "Five hundred pounds a year is one of those modest, but sufficing incomes which have always taken my fancy. You may drink beer, gin, or whisky, and smoke cigars (no more vulgar pipes) on five hundred pounds a year. And, occasionally, leaving your blushing bride to sport the willow, you may seek variety and pleasure on the continong. None of my old haunts, however; no Elberfeld or Hamburg for me! . . . Then I shall buy a town chapel, and come out as a great extempore preacher. I am buried here. No promotion in the country. Good-bye, Hopperton, good-bye! Hop, hop, hop, ride and never stop! I'm sure I wish he may for ever! Hee, hee! I really am too absurd."

...

Completely overcome with merriment, Mr. Whymper sank into a chair, and blew his nose violently. Presently he began again: "I, Whymper Patrick, take thee, Clementina. Hee, hee; so I will; and the sooner the better. . . . Yes, Clem, my dear, I thought that neat parlour of yours meant expectations-something neat in the Three per Cents. (two and three-quarters now, worse luck; but we'll soon re-invest it); and I was right. I shall go to tea with her. No! better finish my letter, and send that first. 'Awaiting my fate at your fair hands,' &c. &c."

He moved towards the large bow-window as he spoke, in front of which, facing the best view of the old parish church, stood Mr. Hopperton's writing-table. Here several letters lay, stamped and ready, in case the rector should not return before post-time. One of