the point of view of the bibliophile. In this regard Professor Skeat contributes little. His analysis of the contents of the 1561 edition is most valuable, and is constantly consulted by me. As to editions, he only says, "Probably copies slightly differ. The book described by me is a copy in my own possession, somewhat torn at the beginning and imperfect at the end. But the three missing leaves only refer to Lydgate's 'Storie of Thebes."" It is exactly the mitter that Professor Skeat owns he does not supply, for which I call. One title-page of the 1561 edition has a picture of a monarch, assumably King Henry VIII., seated on his throne, with his council in two rows facing each other in front of him. A second bears a heraldic device, a shield with a unicorn's head for a crest, and the mottoVertue florisheth in Chaucer still,

Though death of hym hath wrought his will.

Each following page through the prologue is, in the copies before me, different in number of lines, catch-words, and other respects. Similar irregularities seem to occur in other editions. Will Dr. Furnivall tell me why I should not have a description of these differences?

A

ARE THERE TWO CHAUCERS OF 1561?

CORRESPONDENT sending me, from Darlington, a description of a copy of Chaucer, the body of which consists of the 1561 edition and the title page and prefatory matter of Adam Islip's edition of 1598, mentions a feature of which I have not previously heard. He says that, after the colophon, "Imprinted at London by Ihon Kyngston for Ihon Wight, dwelling in Poules Churchyarde, Anno 1561," comes a "Glossary of fourteen pages and notes of authors cited, and corrections twelve pages." So far as I know, these form portions of no copy of the 1561 edition. They certainly are not in the magnificent copy in the Grenville Library at the British Museum, nor do they appear in any example I have seen. Supposing them not to be, like the prefatory matter, additions from a posterior edition, this introduces a complete novelty. These things prove that the discussion I have raised is not without interest. It is not without value also. That the 1542 edition was taken up by certain booksellers-William Bonham, Richard Kele, Robert Toy, Thomas Petit, and perhaps others, each of whom put his own name on the title-page-is known. The variations in the 1561 edition are different, and a collation of the copies accessible might show whether -which is improbable-there was more than one edition of this date, or how were caused the manifold divergences which I know to exist.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

APRIL 1890.

SUB ROSA.

BY GEORGE HOLMES,

AUTHOR OF "FARMER JOHN."

ΟΝ

CHAPTER XII.

A roofless ruin lies my home,

For winds to blow and rains to pour ;
One frosty night befell, and lo!

I find my summer days are o'er :
The heart bereaved, of why and how
Unknowing, knows that yet before
It had what e'en to Memory now
Returns no more, no more.

CLOUGH: Song of Autumn.

N the evening of the same day, prayers were just over when the inmates of the Priory were startled by a prolonged pealing of the front-door bell.

Nothing could exceed the irritation displayed on the squire's face, when the Reverend Whymper Burroughs, splashed from head to foot with mud, was ushered into his presence. Yet the poor curate was a fitter object for pity than for anger. He presented a deplorable appearance. His dripping hair hung matted on his forehead, and little streams of water trickled down his face and from the skirts of his long, clerical coat. He had evidently been exposed for a considerable time to the rain and wind, which now swept in a perfect storm round the house-a tempest which had, moreover, rendered the shelter of an umbrella a sheer impossibility.

On arriving that evening at Lampton station, which was some VOL. CCLXVIII. NO. 1912.

way out of the town, Mr. Burroughs had at once started for the Priory, no less than five miles distant. Rain had fallen in torrents for the greater part of the way; and as he had foolishly struck out on the short cut across some fields to the village of Ladywood, he had once or twice narrowly escaped being buried to the knees in the loose, boggy soil through which he had to plough his way. He was cold, and drenched to the skin, and he had tasted no food since his hurried luncheon at the Brighton station, after leaving Blanche. Added to all this, he was evidently suffering from great mental agitation; so that the spectacle which he presented was the strangest mixture of the ludicrous and the heart-rending.

The astonished servants left the hall, whispering and giggling together; the kitchenmaid, who had not the most desirable control of her voice, being heard to remark loudly, as she brought up the rear of the procession, that "t' passon do look like a drownded rat. Why, you could wring buckets out of 'im!" The closing of the door with some violence by Mrs. Lacey prevented the sound of further criticism reaching within, but the peals of laughter, which presently died away down the corridor, told that the lady's-maid had been again discomfited, and that "the rude, volgar gurl" contrived to hold her own in the parliament below stairs.

As for Carey, he was the first to order wine and a warm coat for the unhappy man. Carey's own troubles had not tended to diminish his thoughtfulness for others. At last, when, warmed with his glass of hot sherry and water, the curate had recovered the power of speech, he turned to the squire, whom he fixed with a peculiar expression as he said,

May I speak alone with you, Mr. Maybanke?"

"Well, I'm just off to bed," returned the squire ungraciously. 'Won't to-morrow do? You can put up here if you choose," he added in anything but a hospitable tone.

"No, thank you," interrupted Burroughs, "I must hurry home to-night. I have to see my rector early to-morrow morning on the same affair—an affair of the greatest importance, I assure you. I am sorry, but I must trouble you for a few minutes' private conversation,

at once!"

There was something about Mr. Burroughs's manner, halfmysterious, half-menacing, which was so irritating that it required the squire to call up all the self-command he had at his disposal. Casting an angry glance around, the old man moved heavily and unwillingly to the library, where the family generally spent the winter evenings, in preference to the colder drawing-room upstairs.

Mr. Burroughs followed closely at his heels, slightly smiling, and gently rubbing his hands together.

In the library were candles still lighted, while a fire of red embers was dying in the grate; it being Carey's wont to enjoy his final "smoke" there, before going to bed. Platten had thoughtfully drawn up a comfortable chair on which the evening papers were piled, so that the light from behind should fall upon the reader's page; an opened box of cigars stood ready on a little round table at the side, and Carey's favourite fox-terrier snoozed upon the warm rug of tigerskins. Upon these peaceful preparations the squire and the curate now broke; the dog, looking up and expecting her master, began to thump the rug with her short stump of a tail, but, seeing Mr. Burroughs, and perhaps scenting danger, she changed her mind and growled instead.

"Good dog, good Nell," Mr. Burroughs murmured uneasily, keeping a respectful distance from the fire. The squire sank into Carey's chair, and waved the curate to another.

"Now let us hear your ' affair,'" he said as pleasantly as he could. "I hope there is nothing wrong with my dear friend-with Mr. Hopperton?" He bent forward and scanned his companion's face; but it was in shadow, and he could distinguish but little of its expression. And yet, he fancied that there was a latent presage of misfortune in the curate's shifting eye.

"No, no; it's nothing about him. He's in perfect health, as far as I know."

There was an awkward pause; while for a minute or two Mr. Burroughs seemed lost in thought. His task was, indeed, one of far greater difficulty than he had believed possible, and he hesitated how to begin. Glancing at the squire, he noticed how bent and feeble his frame had become; he observed a nervous twitching about the wrinkled hands that leaned on his stick, and there flashed through his mind a recollection of Blanche's parting warning that "the news would kill" Carey's father. Not that Mr. Burroughs regretted having undertaken what he was about to do, or that he was sorry at all that misfortune had fallen upon his friends; he was simply afraid of the immediate effect of his story, as far only as he himself was concerned. For, of course, if the old man was going to die on the spot, or to have a fit there and then alone with Mr. Burroughs, it would be very awkward for Mr. Burroughs. Before beginning his revelation he looked cautiously round for a bell, in case anything should happen. He took note that there was, fortunately, one on his right hand. Warmed by the fire, comforted by the wine which he had taken, the

curate's recent physical sufferings were more than compensated for. Now to work. He gave his throat a thorough and preparatory clearing.

As for Mr. Maybanke, relieved from the fear that his old friend the rector was not well and happy (for he himself was perhaps scarcely aware how much he depended upon Mr. Hopperton), he leaned back in his chair, and had been enjoying all the preliminary and pleasant sensations of what is known as "dropping into a gentle snooze," when these words aroused him :

"Prepare yourself for a great shock, Mr. Maybanke."

The old man's eyes opened widely, and he started angrily forward, the usual frown of disgust gathering on his brow. "What did you say?" he asked quickly.

"Prepare yourself for a great and cruel disappointment," repeated Whymper Burroughs, in a deep undertone; "prepare yourself, I say: for you are anything but prepared for what has happened-in your own family-circle, without your knowledge-against your manifest and expressed wishes!"

What was coming? Mr. Maybanke's pride forbade his making any reply, or putting a single question. But his heart almost ceased to beat at the ominous words, and his keen old eyes peered anxiously through the gloom at the curate's solemn countenance.

"It is--it has been suddenly placed upon me as a duty to be the bearer to you of these very evil tidings. Believe me, the office is a terrible one. What will you say to me when you learn from my lips that your son- -" he paused, and it was with difficulty that he suppressed a cruel and triumphant smile.

"My son?" repeated the old man, with dazed air.

"Ay, your son, whom you so loved, trusted, and indulged. He has been guilty of practising a gross deception upon you. I only discovered it by the purest accident, not many hours ago. Of course I hastened to your side. Yes; while you have trusted him implicitly, you have been deceived, kept in the dark-in the dark, sir, on a subject which concerned you, even more than him! You could never guess the cruel wrong which he has heartlessly inflicted on you."

Mr. Maybanke, as though now thoroughly awakened and master of his own emotion, rose haughtily. "I cannot see, sir,” he said, endeavouring to command his trembling voice, "I cannot see what makes you the bearer of these strange tidings. No doubt my son will communicate them to me himself at his good pleasure. I shall rest satisfied till then. And meanwhile I have no wish to hear anything more on the subject.