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Remember how th' Immortals

Are wont to punish pride!' The fair Queen answer'd meekly, "Till I find such a lord,

I claim from my dear people
Fulfilment of their word."

The Bream.

MOONLIGHT is over Cyprus.
Hush'd in a solemn dream
Of strange and awful import
Slumbers the youthful queen.
A vision such as haunteth

An angel-guarded sleep,
Doth Kath'rine's sleeping fancy
In quiet rapture steep.
Standing beside her pillow
She sees a lady bright,
Crown'd with immortal lilies
And robed in purest white.
Fair infant forms around her
With smiling graces wait;
A queen, the vision seemeth,

Of more than mortal state. "Kath'rine," a soft voice whispers, "Send over earth and sea, Till thou hast found the Bridegroom Thy choice hath won for thee. Well hast thou said, chaste maiden! All earthly gifts above,

Is He thy pure soul chooseth
Instead of human love.
To win His royal favour

Count all things else but loss; And lay thy crown and sceptre Beneath His blood-stain'd cross." The still voice melts in music,

And Kath'rine starts from sleep, Vowing with holy fervour

Her maiden vow to keep.
And forth she sends her envoys,
North, south, and east and west,

To find the One who maketh
A blood-red cross his crest.

The Martyr.

OH! cruel sun, that shinest

Alike on weal and woe!
Who hold'st thy heav'nly splendour

Though all be changed below.
Oh! summer wind, that sighest,
Unheeding human groan;
Oh! dancing waves of ocean,
Mocking earth's bitter moan!
Oh! stony-hearted mortals,
That crowd alike to see
Our triumph or our sorrow-
Our joy or misery.

Sun, sea, and air! your lustre,
Your ripple, and your sigh,
Are just as coldly joyous
Whether we live or die!

Again the people gather

With busy, eager feet, 'Neath ev'ry stately archway, Down every crowded street,

To gaze upon the anguish,
As once upon the pride,
Of Cyprus' royal maiden,
To-day a destin'd bride.
Ay! bound with cruel fetters,

Her pearls and flow'rs cast by,
Captive-alone-and crownless,
Beneath that scorching sky
She stands,-hid in the glory
Of her long raven hair;
Pure as a tender infant-

As fabled goddess fair.
Girt by the Roman soldiers

In helms of glitt'ring steel,
She gazes-all unshaken-
Upon the cruel wheel.
Ay! there her wish'd-for bridal

Shall bring the martyr's pain.
She shrinks not; cow'rs not; weeps not;
To suffer thus is gain!

She sees the mighty Bridegroom
Her earnest faith has won,
Waiting her in His glory
Above the dazzling sun.
The ray that on her tresses
Falls like a halo now,
But images the garland

He destines for her brow.
Yes! the great search is ended;
The red-cross warrior found!
The watching and the waiting

With full success are crown'd.
She stands, a Christian maiden,
From idol bondage free;
A calm and steadfast martyr,
Beside that rippling sea.
And there, in bitter torture,

She pass'd to the bright home
Where dwell the palm-crown'd victors,
Slain by imperial Rome;
Leaving to distant ages

A pure and deathless name;
As moving and as mighty
As proudest warrior's fame.
St. Kath'rine vainly worshipp'd

By man's mistaken zeal!
The symbol of her triumph

A cruel, blood-stain'd wheel!

A symbol and a token

To self-indulgent youth,

How in those far-off' ages

Men prized God's holy truth.

LAURA VALENTINE.

A ROMANCE OF THE READING-ROOM.

THERE are few places that I like so well as the reading-room of the British Museum Library. In cold weather it is always warm, and in hot weather cool, which is harder to manage, always light, always quiet. The desks, the chairs, the book-rests are all especially well adapted to their purposes, and there is a general atmosphere of study which predisposes one to work. Civil service officials are not in general noted for their attention to the public, but here ordinary rules are reversed; for, from the sub-librarians downward, every one vies with the rest in kind

ness, courtesy, and attention. Certainly it is not pleasant, when one is short of time, to wait half-an-hour for one's books, but it is hard to see how this is to be avoided when their great numbers are considered; and such a drawback as this is amply compensated for by the certainty that, whatever one's researches may be, the library contains practically every book that exists on the subject.

But it is not entirely on such grounds that the reading-room is so pleasant to me; it happens to have also been the main scene of the most important event of my life; and this is the story that I have to tell.

I cannot pretend to be a learned man, but I have always been a studious one. Perhaps the very fact that my time is much taken up by business, may make me attach a higher value to study than I should if I could devote myself to it. However that may be, I am always delighted when I can spare time to investigate any of the numerous fields of inquiry that are always presenting themselves. At the date of which I write I was examining some minor matters of Roman domestic economy, which obliged me to make frequent use of dictionaries, and to seat myself by the shelves that contained them. And it so happened that I was employed with one of these books when the chance occurred that altered the course of my life, and converted me, a confirmed misogynist of nearly forty, into the most tractable of Benedicts.

As I put the book down on the desk by which I was standing, some one lifted it up and looked at the back; then there came a sort of sigh of disappointment. I turned round and saw a girl, plainly dressed, who faced me in turning again to the shelves. I do not intend to describe her; descriptions of beautiful women are always failures, and besides, she was not a beautiful woman; but there was something noticeable about her. I was sure I had never seen her before, yet I knew her face as well as if it had been an old friend's. Most people know what this feeling is. I have myself felt it in the case of faces, scenery, and music, but most in music; it is hard to say whether it means a vague recollection, or a dream, or a previously undeveloped idea.

Well, there she was, evidently in grief for want of some book of reference, and as evidently without any knowledge of where to find it. What was I to do? I was quite unused to the ways of girls, and if one of the attendants had been within hail I should have handed her over to him at once. But, as it happened that none of them was near, I neryously offered my services, and was instructed to find a Latin dictionary. Now it will

readily be believed, where more than a hundred people are reading, many of them Latin, that the more portable dictionaries are apt to be appropriated. So it was on this occasion, only the ponderous old fellows being left, to one of which I turned for the word she wanted. She looked at it, more helplessly than ever, for the explanation was also in Latin. So, assuming the fatherly manner to which my years entitled me, I asked her to show me the passage she wanted explained. Her book was one of German stories, each written on a Latin proverb. These, she said, she wished to translate, and sorely they puzzled her, for she knew no word of Latin, and could only guess at their meanings with the help of the dictionary. The result was that she had made a dreadful hash of them, as she willingly confessed when I told her their real meanings. She had only part of her manuscript with her, so I filled up the gaps in that, and arranged to go there the next day and proceed with the task. When that was finished I took to amending her English, which had the continental style commonly used by unpractised translators, and in fact, I employed in her service all the time which passed before my books arrived. We became friendly over our labours, and I had begun quite to look forward to my pleasant half-hour with her as a reward after my day's work, when all at once she disappeared. I had been too much engaged to be at the reading-room for some days before I noticed this, so that she had perhaps had no chance of telling me about it.

A month passed, and then, annoyed half with her for her absence, and half with myself for thinking about it, I resolved to follow her example and go away on my own account, incited thereto by a pressing invitation from some friends-Forester, by name- -who lived. on their own land in Norfolk. Tom Forester was an old schoolfellow of mine, whom I had lost sight of for nearly twenty years, when I met him at Paris on his return from his weddingtrip. I got on excellently with him and his pretty young wife, and had more than once visited them for a day or two. I now made up my mind to a longer stay.

So next morning I started, confiding myself to the tender mercies of the Great Eastern, got to my port of disembarkation, and walked on across the fields, leaving my portmanteau to follow. To get to the house I had to pass through the garden, where I found all the forces encamped under a large walnut treeForester, his wife, and a third person in a light-coloured muslin dress. Mrs. Forester jumped up tumultuously. "So glad to see you! How hot you must be! What will you have to cool you? Tom, dear, is there

any soda-water in ice? Let me introduce you to my cousin Eleanor-why, you don't mean to say you know each other? What fun! Tom, come and help me to make some claret-cup," and so forth; and off she went. Of course she was my friend of the readingroom, and very pleasant she looked. She received me as an old acquaintance, and by the time the claret-cup was made and consumed we were on the easiest terms possible. From my hostess I learned that her cousin was the only child of a clergyman of high attainments and no influence, who had died after a long illness while the Foresters were abroad after their marriage, leaving his daughter no means of support. She had lived since then with an old bachelor great-uncle, who had a small pension as a retired government clerk, and her translation was intended to supply her with means for dress and other expenses. Mrs. Forester had wished her to live with them; but she refused to leave her great-uncle who had helped her in time of need, and only visited them from time to time. She was a great favourite with Forester and with the "neighbours," as three local folks, the only visitable people about the place, were emphatically called. Great were the mutual visitings among these people, all of whom came to welcome my arrival. The "neighbours" consisted of Mr. Hemsted, the rector, up to the neck in a county history he was writing, and distressingly local; Mrs. Hemsted, over-head and ears in district visiting, school-children, and the other multitudinous cares that so often make the parson's wife more parsonical than the parson; and Mr. Drake, the surgeon, who had a taste for minute anatomy, and was for ever exhibiting some preparation in which every part of some abominable beetle or other was stuck on a separate pin in its exact relative position to the rest, so that it was to a whole beetle what a "Fantoccini" skeleton, which comes to pieces and joins up again, is to a respectable and compact skeleton which has a decent regard for its joints.

With these companions, or by ourselves, we led an exciting life, rather dreamy and vague, but altogether pleasant. In the morning Forester and his wife, who were a busy couple, went about their avocations, planting, housekeeping, gardening, and so on, while Eleanor and I sat opposite to each other, one at each end of the library table, she at her everlasting German, and I getting into shape a lot of old notes which had long been waiting for such a chance, and which did not improve much owing to my constantly falling asleep over them. In the afternoon we rode or walked, dined with or without our neighbours, and were lazy to our hearts' contents. I began to

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doubt whether my real vocation in life was not that of a country gentleman, when after about a fortnight my lotos-eating existence was rudely broken into by a letter from my office, which said that an important business connection of mine, who was returning from Egypt, had telegraphed from Marseilles that he wanted to see me in London in a couple of days. Hang the fellow!" I said to myself, 'fidgeting about like that. Pity he couldn't be contented to stop in one place or the other. I didn't care two straws whether I came here or not; but now I am here it is so jolly that I don't want to be dragged away all at once. Forester and his wife are capital people, and there is something by no means disagreeable about Miss

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How very odd! I had been living in the same house with her, and associating with her from morning to night for a fortnight, and for all that I had never heard what her name was. Tom, in his rather solemn way, called her by her Christian name at full length, carefully pronouncing it as a trisyllable, and his wife used all the diminutives of it that she could lay her hand to, showing much resource and invention therein. Application to the servants was not likely to do any good; the butler, and his wife the housekeeper, the only servants I ever saw, were old family retainers, who had kept house for Forester during the long years of his bachelorhood, and hated his wife, her cousin, and the visitors with strict impartiality. To appeal to them was impossible. Then, on reflection, it seemed to me that I had dropped insensibly into the local habit, and had taken to thinking about her by her Christian name myself. It was plain that this course of action was not the thing for a bachelor in the sear and yellow leaf; so I decided that I must ascertain her name on the first opportunity. But somehow the chance would not come off. I could not well ask Mrs. Forester the name of, as she supposed, an old acquaintance: Forester, who was sharp enough when he was not wanted to be so, would not take a hint, and on my last evening I knew no more than before. Dinner came duly, and with it the neighbours. The rector had a distinct partiality for Forester's '34 port, and we sat late over our wine; but as we went to the drawing-room I resolved on an effort. My good intentions were in vain: the moment I had got my coffee Mr. Drake, who was a most assiduous button-holer, drove me to a corner, and gave me a lecture on popular entomology, while the others all aired their hobbies at once. The room was not large, and the conversation simply bewildering.

"The parish was held as a manor, and four hides, one carucate in demesne, &c."

"No, we sent back the grey gingham, and got some striped purple and black; salvage stock, you know, not hurt by the fire: but,

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"I need not tell you that the digestive apparatus of the wasp is"Pannage for eleven hundred hogs, two hives."

"Lined with pink flannel, and tied under the chin."

"So that when you apply oil with feather, the insect collapses at once."

Something did collapse at once,-I did. The rector's fourwheeler was announced; the visitors set off, the ladies retired, and Tom and I went to the smoking-room, where he would do nothing but bother about the authorship of the "De Imitatione," till he yawned fearfully, and departed without his candle. I expected him to come back; sat up vainly for two hours, overslept myself, and was late for breakfast. The butler gave me my solitary eggs and coffee grudgingly.

"Master's at his rent matters, and so he will be till luncheon; missus is in the housekeeper's room, and Miss Eleanor's at the rectory."

So my last chance seemed bad; but as I smoked my second cigar on the lawn, I saw Mrs. Forester in the drawing-room. Recklessly wasting half a regalia, I went in; determined to do or die.

"Ah!" she said, "down at last? We are very sorry to lose you. Mind you soon come again."

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Most happy, I'm sure; but-a—I was— it's very odd; but I really don't know

"It'll do you good, you know. You're looking better already."

me

"Yes, I know; but would you mind telling

"Sorry to interrupt you; but don't forget to keep me all your foreign postage-stamps." "No, indeed I won't; but do tell me"Mrs. Hemsted!" said the butler, opening the door.

And that blessed woman talked right on end till luncheon was over, and I had to start. My only hope was that Tom would drive me; but even that was in vain, the gig held only myself and my portmanteau, and I had to say good-bye in public. I was going to say "good-bye, Eleanor," and observe the effect; but Mrs. Hemsted's eye was on me, and I quailed.

Back to town I went in anything but a good temper; and when I tried my chambers again, it took little time to convince me that I was really hard hit. It was no good going to the reading-room just to worry myself, I thought, and I had plenty to do after my

absence, but I could not stop away, and so in a week or so I lounged in, sad and wretched, for I could not help thinking of the difference of our ages, and of the probability that her affections might be engaged already. As I walked to my usual place, all the blood in my body seemed to rush into my head, for there she sat as usual. A few seconds steadied me a little, and I sat down beside her.

"I am so glad you have come," she said; "I am in trouble as usual, and I wanted you by my side."

I could not help it. I said at once, in a voice that sounded like somebody else's; "let me stay by your side now, and for life!"

She bent over her book; her face was turned from me, but I saw the colour rise in her neck, and a sort of little throb come. After a pause, I said,—

"You have not shaken hands with me."

She turned slowly, and put her hand in mine, and a kind of electrical shock-more eloquent than words-filled me with great joy, for I knew that I had won the prize I would have given my life for.

And then I asked her what her name was. Here I am conscious that my story is deficient in dramatic effect, for of course she ought to have been the daughter of the hereditary foe of my house, able to play Juliet to my Romeo. But my house never had a hereditary foe, as far as I know, and the name was quite unknown to me. I need not tell you what it was, as it was exchanged for mine before long.

The good old man with whom she lived gave her to me, not altogether cordially, for he too knew her value, but kindly enough. He was more than seventy when she came to live with him, and these few last years of his were a kind of Indian summer,-perhaps the happiest part of his life. We wished him to live with us, but he would not; he was too old, he said, to change his habits. Poor old fellow! it was very sad to see him drooping, but it was soon over; he died two months after Eleanor left him.

We do not often go to the reading-room now, for we have home cares and home blessings to keep us away. My chambers are exchanged for a country house; and though I keep up my reading, it is often interrupted by the sound of little feet, and by little tongues lisping soft, broken English, sweeter far in my ears than the dead languages. Still we sometimes find time to occupy our old quarters, surrounded by the friendly books of old days, and there we sit side by side, as by God's blessing we shall continue to do until the books of our lives are closed.

S.

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