as much as possible, to be in conformity therewith.
It is something to know where to find
what we want, even in an exhibition for which
only twopence is charged for admission.

Our half-dozen suggestions will be completed
by one relating to the catalogue. Let the
ordering of the articles in the catalogue
correspond with the classification adopted. This
was done at the petite exhibition at the Lambeth
Baths last March; but it was neglected in
the larger display at the Agricultural Hall, and
the visitors were much puzzled in consequence.
A model of a steam-engine was catalogued next
to a lady's work-box; a crochet bed-quilt next
to a model of a yacht; a sewing-machine next
to a carved ivory vase—no one could tell at what
page to look for a particular class of exhibited
articles. Classifying into groups, arranging on
the stalls according to the groups, and
tabulating in the catalogue according to the
arranging—this should be the golden rule, to be
departed from as little as possible.

PAULINE.

AH ! happy time! Ah! happy time!
  The days of myth and dream;
When years ring out their merry chime,
  And hope and gladness gleam.

Then, how we drink the storied page,
  In boyhood's dreamy home,
The marvels of the wondrous age,
  Of old Imperial Rome.

The Naiad haunts our native rill,
  The Oread seeks the tree,
And fancy weaves on rock and hill
  Her shadowy witchery.

I read once, on an antique leaf,
  A legendary dream;
A tale of former love and grief,
  Fit for a minstrel's theme.

Home, from the Julian wars, he came.
  A chieftain stern and bold;
Time tried, but conquer'd not, his frame,
  Grey-hair'd, and yet not old.

He trod one day the mystic halls,
  The Cæsar's stately shrine,
Where the Gods reign'd along the walls
  Calm, marble, and divine.

He, of the billowy beard, was there,
  God of the bold and brave;
And she, the lady, heavenly fair,
  The daughter of the wave.

Hers, the rich brow, blind Homer sung,
  That men must love and die:
The heifer, lowing o'er her young,
  Had not so soft an eye.

He gazed, and while entranc'd he stood,
  His signet-ring he drew,
And bound it, where the pulsing blood
Should thrill a finger true.

Then said he, with a man's strong vow,
  My beautiful, my blest,
None other maid, no bride but thou
  Shall throb beneath my breast.

That night he lay, a lonely man
  Along his desolate bed,
When lo! around a radiance ran,
  By her, his lady, shed.

He rose; his love disdain'd control:
  He rush'd with rapture rude.
He did surround her with his soul,
And loosen all his blood.

In vain!  A marble form he held,
  To love and bliss unknown,
The grasp of that bright bosom chill'd
  His heart to kindred stone!

No passion thunder'd in her veins,
  Her lips no lightning shed;
Calm, as the snow on northern plains,
  Or like the lovely dead.

Cold was her kiss; and icy cold
  The touch of every limb;
Though fair the form his arms enfold,
  She was no bride to him!

He lived not long. The vision came
  And mock'd him night by night,
Till his heart wither'd, like his fame;
  He died, a nameless knight.

Did fancy weave this shadowy tale
  In some forgotten scene?
Or was it wrought in this lone vale,
  And thou that bride—Pauline?

I know not; but I know that stone
  Will mould as fair a form,
With eyes as soft, to love unknown,
  And veins no vows can warm.

And I have touch'd a prophet-lyre.
  He perish'd;—so shall I.
He burnt with unavailing fire,
  And I shall yearn and die!

MY QUEER PASSENGER.

I am sitting alone in a very retired place—
latitude 22½º south, longitude about 46º east
(for without a chronometer we can't be certain).
If the reader glances at a good map of Queensland,
he will find that two wide mountain ranges,
and more than four hundred miles, separate me
from the great Pacific, which is the nearest salt
water. I was despatched hither by government
to regulate the " runs" of the squatters in this
wild place, and I hurried up by long stages,
leaving my drag and staff far behind, so here
I am amid boundless plains, and boundless
forests. My staff has come to grief; all my
horses have been knocked up two hundred miles
away; one, a most valuable draught horse, is
dead. Two months more of strictest isolation
must be my lot (one month of it I have already
endured), and the question is, how to get
through that period? Shall it be by penning
fiction, or by jotting down memoirs of the near
and remote past? Perhaps to do both is the
better plan, and leave it to the reader to
discriminate which is which.

I must premise that my present locality
does not afford desirable facilities for writing