‘Forty-nine!’

’I wonder they dare call out ’49 in this villa; or have the people forgotten the revolution already, forgotten that this spot was made ready for a battleground for liberty.  The public censor knows his business; give the Romans bread, and the circus or tombola, they will be content—­forever?’

‘Au diable with politics,’ interrupted Achille; ’what a very pretty girl that is alongside you, Caper.  Look at her; how nicely that costume fits her, the red boddice especially.  Where, except in Italy, do you ever see such fine black eyes, and such a splendid head of coal-black hair?  This way of having Italian nurses dressed in the Albano costume is very fine.  That little boy with her is English, certainly.’

’Och! master Jamey, come in out of that grane grass; d’yiz want ter dirty the clane pinafore I’ve put on yiz this blissed afthernoon?’ spoke the nurse.

‘In the name of all that’s awful, what kind of Italian is she speaking?’ asked Legume of Caper.

‘Irish-English,’ he answered; ’she is not the first woman out of Old Ireland masquerading as an Albanian nurse.  She probably belongs to some English family who have pretensions.’

‘Ah bah!’ said Legume, ’it’s monstrous, perfectly atrocious, ugh!  Let us make a little tour of a walk.  The tombola is finished.  An Irish dressed up as an Italian—­execrable!’

EN AVANT!

  O GOD! let us not live these days in vain,
    This variegated life of doubt and hope;
  And though, as day leads night, so joy leads pain,
    Let it be symbol of a broader scope.

  God! make us serve the monitor within;
    Cast off the trammels that bow manhood down,
  Of form or custom, appetite or sin,
    The care for folly’s smile or envy’s frown.

  Oh! that true nobleness that rises up,
    And teaches man his kindredship to Thee;
  Which wakes the slaveling from the poison cup
    Of passion, bidding him be grandly free: 

  May it be ours, in these the evil days,
    That fall upon our nation like a pall;
  May we have power each one himself to raise,
    And place God’s signet on the brow of all!

  Not race nor color is the badge of slaves;
    ’Tis manhood, after all, that makes men free;
  Weakness is slavery; ’tis but mind that saves
    God’s glorious image as he willed it be.

  Out of the shadows thick, will coming day
    Send Peace and Plenty smiling o’er our land;
  And the events that fill us with dismay,
    Are but the implements in God’s right hand.

  Where patriot blood is poured as cheap as rain,
    A newer freedom, phoenix-like, will spring;
  Our Father never asks for us in vain: 
    From noble seed comes noble harvesting.

  Then let, to-day, true nobleness be ours;
    That we be worthy of the day of bliss,
  When truth’s, and love’s, and freedom’s allied powers
    Shall bind all nations with fraternal kiss.