dare to slap the face of his fellow, this man can slap the face of the nation? Oh, the abominable shame of it all! Every time that Monsieur Bonaparte spits, every face must be wiped! And this can last! and you tell me it will last! No! No! by every drop in every vein, no!

It shall not last!

Ah, if this did last, it would be in very

truth because there would no longer be a God in heaven, nor a France on earth!

SHOWING THE PICTURE

MOUNT, THE DOGE OF VENICE!
From the play, "Foscari"

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD

Doge. What! didst thou never hear Of the old prediction that was verified When I became the Doge?

Zeno. An old prediction !

Doge. Some seventy years ago it seems to me
As fresh as yesterday — being then a lad
No higher than my hand, idle as an heir,
And all made up of gay and truant sports,
I flew a kite, unmatched in shape or size,
Over the river
we were at our house
Upon the Brenta then; it soared aloft,
Driven by light vigorous breezes from the sea
Soared buoyantly, till the diminished toy
Grew smaller than the falcon when she stoops
To dart upon her prey. I sent for cord,
Servant on servant hurrying, till the kite
Shrank to the size of a beetle: still I called
For cord, and sent to summon father, mother,
My little sisters, my old halting nurse, -

I would have had the whole world to survey
Me and my wondrous kite. It still soared on,
And I stood bending back in ecstasy,

My eyes on that small point, clapping my hands,
And shouting, and half envying it the flight
That made it a companion of the stars,

When close beside me a deep voice exclaimed

-

Aye, mount! mount! mount! I started back, and saw A tall and aged woman, one of the wild

Peculiar people whom wild Hungary sends

Roving through every land. She drew her cloak
About her, turned her black eyes up to Heaven,
And thus pursued: Aye, like his fortunes, mount,
The future Doge of Venice! And before
For very wonder any one could speak

She disappeared.

Zeno. Strange! Hast thou never seen

That woman since ?

Doge. I never saw her more.

THE REVENGE

From "Tennyson's Poetical Works," published by Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston

BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON

"Shall we fight or shall we fly?

Good Sir Richard, tell us now,

For to fight is but to die!

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turned my back upon don or devil yet.”
Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roar'd a hurrah,

and so

The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick

below;

For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were

seen.

And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea lane between.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud

Whence the thunderbolt will fall

Long and loud,

Four galleons drew away

From the Spanish fleet that day,

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,

And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea,

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built gal

leons came,

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame,

For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could

fight us no more

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world

For he said: "Fight on! fight on!"

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck;

And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was

gone,

With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head,
And he said: "Fight on! Fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea,

And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in

a ring;

But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting,

So they watched what the end would be.

And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain

And half of the rest of us maimed for life

In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;

And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark

and cold,

And the pikes were all broken and bent, and the powder

was all of it spent ;

And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;

But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,

"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night