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has saved her! And from whom? From herself! Before him, Providence committed only follies; God was waiting for him to reduce everything to order; at last he has come !


For thirty-six years there had been in France all sorts of pernicious things, the tribune, a vociferous thing; the press, an obstreperous thing; thought, an insolent thing, and liberty, the most crying abuse of all. But he came, and for the tribune he has substituted the Senate; for the press, the censorship; for thought, imbecility; and for liberty, the saber; and by the saber and the Senate, by imbecility and censorship, France is saved. Saved, bravo! And from whom, I repeat? From herself. For what was this France of ours, if you please? A horde of marauders and thieves, of anarchists, assassins, and demagogues. She had to be manacled, had this mad woman, France; and it is Monsieur Louis Bonaparte who puts the handcuffs on her. Now she is in a dungeon, on a diet of bread and water, punished, humiliated, garotted, safely cared for. Be not disturbed; Monsieur Bonaparte, a policeman stationed at the Élysée, is answerable for her to Europe. He makes it his business to be so; this wretched France is in the straitjacket, and if she stirs - Ah, what is this spectacle before our eyes? Is it a dream? Is it a nightmare? On one side a nation, the first of nations, and on the other, a man, the last of men; and this is what this man does to this nation. What! he tramples her under his feet, he laughs in her face, he mocks and taunts her, he disowns, insults, and flouts her! What! he says, "I alone am worthy of consideration!" What! in this land of France where none would

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 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!

will last! No!


From the play, "Foscari"


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 - Iwe 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,

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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.


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


"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

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

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick


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


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 galleons 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 before?

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