past middle age and wearing a scarlet waistcoat stained with grease-spots, appeared, bowing politely and confi

mmortal masterpiece of Torquato Tasso"-and a bulging pa

written my translation in dark, ice-cold garrets, on chandlers' wrappers, snuff papers, the backs of playing cards! Su

the bookbinder dreaming of the dead woman he had loved, and he saw her in his m

man pr

which perishes when

father's coat-tails in wonder at the red waistcoat and the sing-song voice, he asked if the child lear

whose inimitable monuments have of

asted on a page of Tacitus and

sadness over-spread his shining

sco, of Venice. When I have received from the bookseller the price of my labour, I wil

drifted into his shop with the east wind, nevertheless experienced a certain sym

talian, like a man

is that is unhappy

one bond that unite

the virtues, hum

words: "I wish my Jean to learn Latin." He hesitated,

hree times a week, to give the boy lessons

expressed no surpris

ind it a delightful task to initiate your

ts my pupil will scale in this noble land of freedom and generosity. He

," said the bookbinder; "ther

cably and bowing to the father with a dignified famil