BROWNING AND SWINBURNE.

During the dark hour of trial through which Italy has been passing,
my thoughts have often strayed to Asolo in the Trevisan, the scene
of _Pippa Passes_, by the late ROBERT BROWNING (whom I knew well).
"Italy, what of the night?" wrote my old friend SWINBURNE. "Morning's
at seven!" replies _Pippa_. Those brave words have heartened me a good
deal.

O. S.

* * * * *

TO A DACHSHUND.

[About the precise nationality of whose remote progenitor--whether
Danish, Flemish, or British through the old English Turnspit--the
writer will not stay to argue.]

My faithful Peter, mount upon my knee,
And shame me with the patience of your eyes,
Till I for divers patriots that be
Humbly apologise.

Not for the street-boy--him you had for years
And, knowing, make allowance for his ways,
If hoots of ignorance and stones and jeers
Martyr your latter days;