66

with common wages and without parochial pay, 'supported in cleanliness and credit a sickly wife and thirteen children. Such cases are, however, the exception, and not seldom the expressions indicate that the loss experienced equals that of a sister, a mother, or a child. What more than the following can be said: "To the beloved memory of Elizabeth Painter, who was for fiftyfive years a friend and servant in the family of the Hone and Revd Gerard Noel"? To the "blessed memory" of this same woman her employer erected a stained-glass window in Romsey Abbey. In another case a woman is described as "a most devoted servant and beloved friend." One of the oldest monuments is in the Collegiate Church of St. Mary, Stratford-on-Avon. I copy this with its quaint orthography, indicating by marks the ends of the lines, "Here lyeth interred ye body of Mris | AMY SMITH who being abovt ye age of 60 years and a maide departed this life at Nonsvch in Svrrey ye 13th day of Sep. | Ao DM: 1626 she attended vpon the Right Hoble Joyce, Ladie Carew Covn- | tess of Totness, as her waiting gen- | tlewoman ye space of 40 years together | being very desirovs in her life tyme | that after her death she might be laid | in this chvrch of Stratford where her | lady ye said Covntesse also herselfe | intended to be bvried, & accordinglie to | fvlfill her reqvest & for her so long | trew and faithfvll servis ye said Right | Hoble Covntesse as an evident toaken | of her affection towards her not onely caused her body to be brovght from | Nonsvch heither & here honorably bvryed | bvt also did cavse this monvment and | svperscription to be erected in a gratefyll memorie of her whome she had fovn so good a servant." Indian servants and negroes are the objects of no less honourable mention. Mr. Munby's book would have delighted Charles Lamb.

A

THE TITLE-PAGE.

MONG the subjects with which Blades deals at some length is that of title-pages. A work of much value on that subject, which has recently seen the light, bears the rather uncompromising name of "Last Words on the History of the Title-Page," by Alfred W. Pollard.1 It gives twenty-seven reproductions of title-pages, or first pages, since the title-page was much later than the printed book, beginning with a facsimile with coloured illustrations of the first page of the famous "Mazazin Bible," and ending with the title-page to the "Vicar of Wakefield." 1 John C. Nimmo

Many of these reproductions are singularly curious and striking, and the whole volume is a delight to the bibliophile. Mr. Pollard also deals with colophons, another subject of unending interest. "Marques Typographiques," by L. C. Silvestre (Paris, 1868), a work far less known in England than it deserves, since it entitles the compiler to rank with the Brunets, Barbiers, and Quérards of France, gives an all but inexhaustible stock of information on kindred subjects. The designs in this are, however, poorly executed, and altogether unfit to compare with the masterly facsimile the English volume contains. The quaint mediæval figures which adorn certain titlepages were not confined to those works. A singularly grotesque capital L, which occupies most of the page in "Le Livre de Matheolus," I possess in an edition, assumably the second, of Froissart, and the very elaborate mark of Simon Vostre, like that of the Alduses or the Etiennes, appears in very many volumes.

D1

A SOCIALISTIC PARADISE.

R. THEODOR HERTZKA is the latest would-be founder of an ideal world. Men of highest gifts have loved to dream of abbeys of Thelema, Utopias, and the like. After the example of his predecessors, Dr. Hertzka, an Austrian physician and scientist, has chosen fiction as the best means of expounding his views and bringing forward his optimistic aspirations. His "Freeland: A Social Anticipation," shows the establishment of a great socialist nation in Central Africa. Starting from small beginnings, the attempt of a few men of different nationalities to solve the great social problem, the venture assumes before long huge proportions. Philosophical and scientific in basis and transcendental in treatment it approaches most nearly perhaps to the writings of Jules Verne. It has inspired so firm a conviction that large numbers of persons are said to be banding together with a view of carrying the scheme-a tract of land suitable to the purpose has been obtained-into execution, and the British Government will, it is understood, be implored not to check the experiment. Personally I wish all success to the undertaking, and have found the imaginary details very pleasant reading. I fear, however, that the pioneers can scarcely hope to encounter conditions so uniformly favourable as Dr. Hertzka depicts.

' Chatto & Windus.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

FEBRUARY 1892.

LOST OR STOLEN?

BY EMILY FRANCES JENKINSON.

LONG room, lofty, and lined with book-cases to the ceiling, whose

A locked and brass grated doors permitted the eyes alone to

wander over the treasures they contained. Above the fireplace hung a Holbein, one of those eminent statesmen of his own times that great master made to live on canvas. By the blazing fire stood Harold Warburton, a letter in his hand, and a cloud of doubt on his countenance. "I'll do it and chance the risk!" he exclaimed to himself, as he flung the letter on to the littered writing table, walked resolutely across the room, and unlocked the case before him. It was the holy of holies: the cream of the world-famed Deira Collection lay behind those fretworked bars. There was the Book of Hours, containing two Peruginos and three Francias, valued at £6,000. There was the Gospel of St. Luke, bound in a golden cover studded with precious stones, which had belonged to some nuns of Ireland in the tenth century. There were manuscripts of priceless value, and printed matter from its cradle. Leaving these on one side, his hand sought the "Breviarium secundum usum Ecclesiæ Bangorensis "the third known copy in the world! "What evil genius has put it into old Silas Frauen's head to want to see this inaccessible work?" said the irritated young man to himself. However, that was not the point. Silas Frauen said he could not finish his History of the Ancient British Church unless he could consult the Portifory according to the use of the Church of Bangor. The only other copies of this work were one in the Vatican Library, the other at Madrid. Silas was a helpless cripple; he could journey to neither the one nor the VOL. CCLXXII. NO. 1934.

I

other-not even to this copy, which Harold Warburton is now turning and twisting in his nervous hands. How much might hang on his power of gratifying the old Welshman's whim! It would do no harm to anyone. If only his employer had been on the spot! He would be willing-nay, more than willing-to gratify the anxious. scholar's desire, and, by so doing, effectually aid his protégé's secret hopes and wishes. But alas! as usual, Lord Deira is anywhere but in his beautiful place, nor has his librarian the faintest idea on what spot of Europe the sole of his foot is resting. Undisturbed year after year-save for a meteor-like apparition, just for a night or a week, on the part of their owner-live the books in their cases. The Vandykes look sadly at one another from wall to wall, Sir Peter Lely's duchesses twist their white throats and show off their pearls to empty space, Nell Gwyn and Prince Rupert stare at one another as if they would like to make some remark if only they knew how to begin. Outside, the same stillness prevails. The Lakes-there are three, connected one with another, and covered with water fowl-look as if even the very pike in them thought twice about leaping. The gigantic cedars throw their shadows unbroken in the silent water. The "hush," as you wander through miles of timber, some of it believed to be primeval,

is positively oppressive.

No! Whatever Warburton does, he must do at his own peril, without leave or licence. This is what Brenda Frauen writes :

"Dearest Harold,-I have not dared to tell Uncle Silas yet. He was annoyed at my having stayed out so long the other morning, and I found him waiting, with a mass of copy ready for me, when I got in. I dread to think of what he will say to our engagement. And now a fresh complication about his present work has arisen; he declares it is impossible for him to proceed with it unless he can get at a very rare and ancient book, called 'Portiforium seu Breviarium secundum usum Ecclesiæ Bangorensis,' printed in 1513, and consult it. This seems an impossibility. I almost think you had better come and tell him about us yourself, and perhaps you could then suggest some way out of this difficulty.

"Yours ever,

"BRENDA FRAUEN."

Now Harold Warburton would find it much easier to say to Silas Frauen, "I want to marry your niece, who is a lady and your heiress. I-who am only the son of one of Lord Deira's tenants! True, they have been 200 years on the estate, and, thanks to my master, besides mere book learning, I have had the liberal education given by inti

mate intercourse with a superior of singular culture and refinement," if only he could, at the same moment, be the good genii producing the longed-for Bangor Breviary.

"I will not let it out of my sight for an instant, I will make the extracts he wants, and, the moment that is done, I will return by the first train and replace it."

The 3.10 express that afternoon from Pebsham to Euston numbered amongst its passengers the librarian, and, in a parcel-for, said he, "It shall not leave my hand "-the precious and much desired volume.

It was in November, and the evenings were dark and cold. Harold lay back in his seat, and built castle after castle in the future as the train rushed rapidly on. Fancy is a wonderful magician, and, in his thoughts, hard unbending facts took the forms of delicious undefined pictures, in which the lights got considerably the best of the shadows. Arrived at his destination he stepped joyously on to the platform, seized his bag in one hand, clutching the precious parcel firmly with the other, and started for a small hotel in the neighbourhood of Russell Square, where it was his habit to put up when business or pleasure brought him to town. "I will order a bed, have some dinner, and then go round and surprise old Silas." Lost in thought, Harold, as he turned into the main thoroughfare, was recalled to passing events by a cab coming to grief just in front of him. It was a regular smash, for a dray, following at a smart pace, could not pull up in time to avoid a collision. In a moment Warburton rushed to drag its occupant from the hansom. The usual crowd collected, and the usual compliments passed between the cabman and the drayman. No one, however, was much the worse, save the cab horse, whose bleeding knees engrossed the attention of Warburton. Having done all in his power to help the poor beast, he passed on, and had gone some little way before he became conscious that he was carrying only his bag: the parcel, the treasure, the foundation-stone of the entire castle, was gone! And, awful thought that rushed like lightning through his brain, he, Harold Warburton, would be branded as a thief! He would hear the tale being told-how the trusted librarian, profiting by the blind confidence of his benefactor, had deliberately robbed him of his most prized possession. What a fearful situation! He retraced his steps, peering eagerly about him, to the place of the accident, where, doubtless, he had either let the book fall from his hand, or mechanically put it into his outer pocket from which it had been abstracted. He felt there: its contents were gone! Clearly the pocket had been picked. Whether the book had been stolen or he had dropped it, the Breviary was gone, and the dreadful fact of its loss remained to