be a clever man, if he would not soon be beginning Latin.

"That noble language," he added, "whose inimitable monuments have
often made me forget my misfortunes.

"Yes, sir, I have often breakfasted on a page of Tacitus and supped
on a satire of Juvenal."

As he said the words, a look of sadness over-spread his shining
red face, and dropping his voice:

"Forgive me, sir, if I hold out to you the casque of Belisarius.
I am the Marquis Tudesco, of Venice. When I have received from
the bookseller the price of my labour, I will not forget that
you succoured me with a small coin in the time of my sharpest
trial."

The bookbinder, case-hardened as he was against beggars, who
on winter evenings drifted into his shop with the east wind,
nevertheless experienced a certain sympathy and respect for the
Marquis Tudesco. He slipped a franc-piece into his hand.

Thereupon the old Italian, like a man inspired, exclaimed:

"One Nation there is that is unhappy--Italy, one generous
People--France; and one bond that unites the twain--humanity.
Ah! chiefest of the virtues, humanity, humanity!"

Meantime the bookbinder was pondering his wife's last words: "I
wish my Jean to learn Latin." He hesitated, till seeing Monsieur