unrighted. Similar delusions have prevailed with regard to numerous other characters. Even in the present sceptical age beliefs of the kind are cherished, and years hence, it may safely be prophesied, reports that General Gordon is alive and held in durance will be circulated. Among those concerning whom humours of the kind have prevailed is Harold, who is said to have survived the battle of Hastings, and died years subsequently as a hermit in the full odour of sanctity. The "Vita Haroldi "—from which, as well as from the writings of Brompton, Knyghton, and Elred of Rievaulx, and Geraldus Cambrensis, the report obtains a semblance of historical accuracy-has been for the first time fully and satisfactorily printed by Mr. Walter de Gray Birch, of the British Museum. The original and unique MS. is, it may be said, in the Museum. No more inclined than Sir Thomas Hardy, the late Deputy-Keeper of the Records, is Mr. Birch to attach historical importance to this curious production, which, indeed, he calls the "Romance of the Life of Harold, King of England." It is none the less, with the exception of the method of the King's escape, a very plausible document. According to the unknown scribe, who is supposed to have written about a hundred and fifty years after the Battle of Hastings, Harold, when the fight was over, was found by a Saracen (!) woman, who carried him to Winchester and healed him of his wounds. Perceiving that God opposed the prosecution of worldly designs, Harold, after a pilgrimage to various shrines, assumed the name of Christian, hid his face with a cloth, and, after living in different places on the borders of Wales, died as a hermit in Chester. The body interred at Waltham was, it is said, that of a stranger mistaken for Harold by the messenger, a woman despatched by the clerks at Waltham. Leaving as a matter never definitely to be settled this curious controversy, I will add that this "Vita Haroldi," the effect of which is to rob Waltham Abbey of the claim to be the burial-place of Harold, was assumably composed and certainly transcribed in the Abbey itself, and remained for a couple of centuries in the scriptorium or library of that institution. What motive for the invention of such a legend can have existed is not easy to tell.

A

SUNDAY LECTURES FOR THE OPERATIVE CLASSES.

N experiment in connection with Sunday lecturing, which has for two years been conducted in Newcastle, has some features which distinguish it from other attempts to deal with the phenomenal gloom of an English Sunday. In the first place, it is purely voluntary,

in the sense that no person has a financial interest in its success. Its meetings are, again, held in a theatre-the Tyne theatre--a building capable of holding 3,000 individuals. It aims, lastly, at enforcing no special class of view, but deals with all questions concerning social well-being, and with all modern intellectual life and progress. Dr. Wm. Carpenter is the president, the list of vicepresidents including such well-known names as Professors Tyndall, Bain, Huxley, and Max Müller, Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A., and Mr. John Morley. The lectures given during the past year have been by Mr. Frederick Harrison, Dr. Andrew Wilson, Mrs. Fenwick Miller, and other well-known writers. Not easy is it to over-value the advantages of institutions of this class. With the hard-headed Northern operatives an experiment such as this is certain to prove successful. Is it not possible to do something of the kind in the South? I do not mean in London, where, of course, institutions not wholly dissimilar may be found, but in some of our large country towns, the population of which stands greatly in need of enlighten

ment.

I

THE BOOK-HUNTER.

WELCOME with pleasure an accessible and, in a sense, a popular edition of the Book-Hunter of Burton. During almost a quarter of a century this has been one of the scarcest of modern books. Many years ago the first edition had disappeared entirely from circulation. So scarce did it become, that when a new so-called édition de luxe was printed, it was sold off at once to discontented applicants for the earlier work. With the publication of the reprint now put forward, the Book-Hunter comes into general circulation. It is the pleasantest piece of gossip about books and book-buyers that has yet been written in England. Unlike the classic "Bibliomania " of Dibdin, it is not essentially a book for collectors. It does not describe rarities, and it deals comparatively little with prices. About collectors and collections it prattles, however, in "most engaging fashion," and it deserves to be read by every book-lover. One thing that will specially amuse the reader who takes it up for the first time is the number of familiar stories and witticisms it contains concerning the origin of which he has probably been curious. He may indeed feel like the lady who, hearing "Hamlet" acted for the first time, complained that it was full of quotations. The humour of the anecdotes is not seldom of the sly kind that to certain classes of

1 W. Blackwood & Sons.

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realers is the most delightful Thus there is a capital story of an auctioneer, unused to such goods, selling off some valuable fragments of Early English poetry. Astonished at first at the prices fetched, the auctioneer entered at length into the spirit of the thing, became excited, and grew impatient if a high price was not realised. At ler th over a certain lot he addressed the public rebukefully: "Going so low as thirty shillings, gentlemen," he said, "this curious bookso low as thirty shillings—and quite imperfect."

I

INDIAN TROOPS IN ENGLAND.

AM glad to see that a plan identical with one I was among the first to recommend is now finding general advocacy. That is, the bringing over to next year's Indian and Colonial Exhibition of a further contingent of picked men from our various Indian regiments. The effect these men have upon their fellows when, under the influence of new and surprising experiences-and with it may be a touch of romance always accorded to the traveller, and anything rather than repulsive to the Indian mind-they spread the report of England's strength and magnificence-is potent in strengthening in the hearer the conviction that we are a dominant race. In view of possible complications on our borders, such a scheme is likely to be of highest advantage. It will, indeed, impress the Indian mind inore than a successful campaign in Afghanistan. The only objection to the proposal, the practical wisdom and the importance of which none can doubt, comes from Anglo-Indian officials, who fear that the troops in England, under the influence of the interest they are likely to inspire in the fair sex, would lose a little of their respect for English women. Such an apprehension should not be allowed to interfere in the slightest degree with an arrangement the importance of which I hold it difficult to over-estimate.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

JUNE 1885.

THE UNFORESEEN.

BY ALICE O'HANLON.

A

CHAPTER XXI.

AN UNWELCOME SUITOR.

LL day it had been oppressively hot-heavy, dreamy, August weather. In the early evening, however, a light breeze had sprung up, and Olivia Ashmead had stepped out to enjoy its refreshment in the small garden attached to Squire Awdry's London house. A tall holly hedge, behind the bronze railings, screened the garden from the curious gaze of loiterers along the road that ran outside. Seats were disposed about in various directions, but there was one which stood in a specially secluded nook-a garden-bench with an awning over it. To this Miss Ashmead at once made her way, and when she reached it, dropped thereupon, glad of the support for her trembling limbs.

For Olivia was trembling. Not, however, from physical weakness, albeit that she looked pale and worn and jaded. And that she should have looked so was not much to be wondered at! What she had gone through, of late, had been almost sufficient to have broken down a constitution less excellent than her own. "In all my life, I do declare, I never seen anyone, my lady (beg pardon, miss, but use is second nature)-no, I never seen no one devote herself so to another-was it father, or mother, or sister, or husband-like as you have done to this sweet young lady, who, as they tell me below stairs, isn't the least bit of relation to you!" was the testimony Nurse Allen had borne to the efforts of her coadjutor. "And, what's more, I never seen no one so handy over nursin' as hadn't been trained to it. If the young lady's honourable husband ain't grateful, why he don't deserve as she should have pulled through like thisVOL. CCLVIII. NO. 1854.

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though I didn't ought to say such a thing, perhaps, and her sleeping, poor dear, as peaceful as a new-born lamb."

But the "honourable husband" had proved grateful-grateful enough to have satisfied Mrs. Allen's disinterested enthusiasm. Only a few moments ago, Douglas had been pouring forth his gratitude in her ear, and it was his manner of doing so that had upset poor Olivia's equanimity, and sent her out into the garden with shaking knees and an over-burdened heart. He had caught her as she came forth from her own room, dressed already for the evening-though it still wanted more than an hour from dinner timeand he had drawn her into a small sitting-room, or boudoir, which formed part of his wife's suite of apartments. There, with tears in his eyes, and an effusion almost abject, Douglas had loaded her with thanks and benedictions. He had held her hands in both his own; he had kissed them again and again; he had looked at her more admiringly and tenderly than he had ever done before, even when he had stood to her in the position of an affianced lover. And yet the love, the tenderness, the agitation had not, Olivia knew, been really for her! Excepting as an instrument in restoring to him his adored wife, what, she now asked herself, with a pang of unwonted bitterness and injustice, was she to the young man?

Nothing! though she had loved him so ardently, so long, so faithfully. Nothing! though she would have sacrificed all she possessed to save him from sorrow or pain; though she would well nigh have given her life to serve him.

His love, his impassioned devotion was all for her—his wife. Was she his wife? . . . Who-what was she? No innocent girl, at all events, as Douglas thought, but a woman with a history. A woman with a dark, unwholesome secret in her life. A woman as unworthy of his love, as she (Olivia) felt, in her heart, that she was the reverse.

A few scalding drops welled up to her eyes, and overflowed upon her cheeks. But Olivia presently wiped them away. She was not the sort of person whose emotions find an easy vent in tears. Nevertheless, those she had shed had brought her relief. Breathing more freely, she looked around on the pretty garden, with its choice shrubs and blooming summer flowers. A fountain, playing at a little distance, sent forth a pleasant, refreshing sound; the gentle breeze, which just stirred the fringe of the awning over her head, was laden with the perfume of roses. Butterflies flitted by on idle wings, and the shadow of a large deadora lay softly on the grass at her feet.