it is needless. Such cases are rare, and almost unique; and the only other English work one can compare with the "Dictionary of National Biography," the "New English Dictionary," is a result of co-operative labour, the cost being borne by a rich and splendidly endowed corporation. The plan I would suggest in future compilations is this-brevity in the case of the greatest men. The greatest of all English names is now coming forward, probably at this very moment being written. A life of Shakespeare must take in its composition a period to be counted by months, if not years. In a case such as this, I hold, where existing lives are numerous, the notice might possibly be compressed more easily than in the case of less mighty men. The facts are few which have to be chronicled. An array of these, a certain amount of narrative, and a full reference to authorities might almost suffice. It is obviously impossible in this case to give a full bibliography. In the cases, moreover, in which, as in that of Tennyson shortly to follow, a bibliography rests on the shelves of our principal libraries, a reference to this might possibly suffice. I say possibly, because I see the weakness of my own views. Suppose, for instance, a zealous student takes over the "Dictionary of National Biography" to Agrapossibly to be eaten by white ants-or to Fiji; he has a right to complain of being referred to inaccessible sources. The same holds true of the students in a University such as Upsala, where England is closely studied. All I am prepared to maintain is that it is often in the case of comparative obscurities that full information is of most importance. Meanwhile, I congratulate the public upon the splendid service that has been rendered by Mr. Lee and his team, and literature generally upon the fact that the end of this huge labour is practically in sight. What remains after the lives now in hand are written occupies practically two volumes and a half of the Dictionary of Firmin Didot, to which I have previously referred.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

IT

JUNE 1896.

A STROKE OF LUCK.

BY MRS. E. T. Cook.

T was long since a piece of good fortune had turned up for Alice Tremaine. She was thirty-two years old, and up to now her life-with one exception-had presented no particularly attractive features. And yet she was one of those people whom one would have preferred to associate with ease and soft places-so small, so pathetic she looked in her worn black dress. Her brown hair was soft and pretty, her face delicate and refined-her dark eyes were usually plaintive, but to-night they shone with pleasure-and was there not reason?

On Alice's lap lay an open letter-a precious document indeedit was a letter of acceptance for a novel.

Only one letter in Alice Tremaine's life had ever been as sweet. That was a letter received eight years ago-the one ray of happiness in her life up to now-a letter from young Noel Crichton, the curate in the far Hampshire village, asking her to marry him at some future day. That future day had never yet dawned, and the letter was already turning yellow in Alice's desk; but she had no need to re-read it, for every week Noel wrote a new letter, and the joy of receiving it blotted out even the recollection of those that had gone before. . . . And she saw him, oh! quite often-twice or three times a year, at least in the draughty corridors of the British Museum, perhaps, or under the trees in Regent's Park. Those were indeed red-letter days. They loved each other, they would marry some day—what did it matter when? "Some day" Noel would get a living; "some day" they would be happy, and till then she must work.

And Alice had worked.

Seven years ago now she had come up to London alone, an orphan and friendless, with her little hoard saved from teaching (she had been governess in Sir A's family in Blankton manor-house), to "go in" for journalism. She had always had a strong bent to literature and though she starved more or less at first, in time she made enough to "rub along somehow," as she expressed it. Noel, the Blankton curate, to whom she had become engaged while at Sir A-'s, had indeed at first opposed objections, but Alice had laughed at his fears, assuring him that the "drudgery" of writing was as nothing compared with the drudgery of teaching, and that she would soon "get on," and be able to earn some money, too, for their future home.

But she had not always "got on." Even after the first months of semi-starvation were over, work had often been uncertain and fitful. How many days when Alice had not an idea whence the next day's dinner was to be procured! how many fruitless journeys in wind and rain to editors who had "no opening for her services"! how many weeks when, anxious and ailing, she had felt as though her powers of writing were failing her, and as though the profession she had chosen were one incessant "making of bricks without straw"! Of course, Noel had never known all this; she had always kept the bright side for him-for what was the use of worrying him, hardworked and poor as he was also ?

And now the tide had turned, and Fortune, always fitful, had smiled at last. The novel over which she had been working eight months was just accepted. Alice thought over in her own mind all the experiences that had led to its acceptance. How she had tried every kind of style, every kind of "ladies' column," every subject she could think of, and yet for years had failed to make a name of any kind. How she had occasionally "got in" an article here and there, yet had never managed to gain a really solid footing on any magazine or journal. How some magazines had cut down their prices for her benefit-just because she needed the money so badly-and how some had failed to pay her at all. And how at last, one day last June, a sympathetic and "up-to-date" publisher, touched by her sad looks, and struck by some promise in her style, had suggested that she should write a realistic and advanced novel. "It's the only sort that pays nowadays," he said; adding kindly, "and I'm sure you would do it nicely."

Alice had not altogether liked the commission, but she felt that "beggars must not be choosers," and had therefore resolved to do her best. So she had carefully studied the "tone" of modern fiction