It is a true saying, that when mothers begin to talk of their children
they never know when to stop; and the children, who might otherwise
have found favour, are thereby made to appear as uninteresting and
vexatious bores.
I will try to avoid falling into this error, and only tell you enough
to enable you to understand the peculiarities of mine.
You may have noticed how great a variety exists in the characters and
dispositions of the members of every large family, and will not be
surprised to hear that the same individuality of character shows itself
in the family of Funds and Stocks.
In introducing you to the steadiest and most reliable of my children, I
feel that I am putting you in the way of deriving real advantage. If,
however, you prefer the less worthy, the more daring and speculative, I
shall feel that no blame attaches to me.
Have you ever remarked, in your round of visits among your friends,
that it is almost possible to tell the character of host and hostess
by the people you meet there, and even by the servants who wait upon
you—all seem to take the tone of the house? I notice this specially
among my children. For example, my “Three per Cent. Consols” and my
“New Three’s,” whom I select as specially suited to be your friends,
have the most courteous, kindly, sober and religious class of
visitors; on the faces of all, old and young, clergy and laity, there
is an expression of repose and security and “well-to-doism” which is
charming; while, on the other hand, the faces and manners of those who
visit some of my other children are so wild, so haggard, so restless,
that you cannot help wishing that some good fairy would give them a
soothing syrup, or else insist on their choosing safer friends; but if
you ever pay me a visit, and use your eyes, you will see more of this
than, as a mother, I can tell you.
Against one thing, however, I am, as your friend, bound to warn you.
Listen to no one who proposes to let you have money at a very cheap
rate, while at the same time he offers to pay you large interest on it.
More I cannot say at present.
Closely connected with me, and in my neighbourhood, stands a most
mysterious building, known as the Stock Exchange. Its chief entrance is
in Capel-court, Bartholomew-lane.
None may pass within its portals but those specially privileged, still
I may tell you something about it without breaking through any of the
barriers which the inhabitants have set up between the public and
themselves.
This Stock Exchange is an association of about two thousand persons,
all men, of course, who meet together in Capel-court, and who agree to
be governed by a committee of thirty, chosen from among themselves.
To the outside world, all the members are known by the name of
“stockbrokers,” but inside the mysterious building they divide
themselves into two classes—“stockjobbers” and “stockbrokers.”
Whether they be one or the other, their lives, occupations, fortunes
and reputations are bound up with the Stocks and Funds. They live for
them and they live on them. They determine their value, they study
every shade of temper exhibited by the family, they decide their rise
and fall, they are their interpreters and mouthpieces, they act also as
their bodyguard: none can approach but through them.
These two classes, jobbers and brokers, have a distinct work, which I
will try to make clear to you.
To start with, the stockjobber does not deal with the public, but the
stockbroker does.
You see stocks and shares are marketable commodities; you can buy
them, sell them, or transfer them, and the stockjobber is, as it were,
the wholesale merchant, and the stockbroker the retail dealer. Let me
explain. If you required twenty yards of black silk, you would probably
go to Marshall and Snelgrove or to Peter Robinson for it. You certainly
would not think of going to a wholesale house in the City for it; and
if you did, the article would not be supplied to you in this way—it is
contrary to the etiquette of trade.
Just in the same manner, if you wanted to buy some stock, you would
go to a stockbroker for it, and not to a stockjobber—the stockbroker
occupying the same position as Marshall and Snelgrove, while the
stockjobber stands in the place of the wholesale house in the City.
The stockjobber, or wholesale merchant, is always ready both to buy
and sell with the broker. If you give an order to the latter, he darts
into the Stock Exchange, and without disclosing the nature of his order
to the jobber, inquires of him the price of the particular stock which
you wish to deal in. The jobber names two prices: one at which he is
prepared to buy (the lowest price, of course), the other at which he is
willing to sell (the highest price).
Thus, if the price of Consols was given by him as 100¼ to 100½, it
would mean that if you wanted him to take some stock of you he would
give you £100 5s. for each £100 of stock; and that if you desired to
buy some stock of him, you must pay him £100 10s. for each £100.
These prices are the limits which the jobber sets himself. He is often
ready to give more or to sell for less than the prices he at first
names, according to what is known as the state of the market.
The profits of the jobber and the broker are not of the same kind; the
jobber makes his money out of the difference between the price at which
he buys the stock of you and sells it to someone else.
The broker charges you a small percentage on the cost of the stock by
way of commission for his services in the matter; this does not include
stamp duty or fee, but otherwise he undertakes any incidental service
which may be necessary to give you the full proprietorship of the stock.
Stockjobbers, or wholesale stock merchants, are, as you see, very
necessary, for brokers could not at all times accommodate their
customers; it might be that one would want to sell at a moment when
there was no one to buy; as it is, however, all is made easy by the
jobbers, who are at all times ready both to buy and sell, and to almost
any amount.
It does sometimes happen that they promise to sell more than they
possess, and then they have to borrow and pay for the use of it on
their clearing day, which takes place once a month for Consols and
similar securities, and once a fortnight for other stocks within the
Exchange. It would never do for members of the Stock Exchange to fall
short of their obligations.
The mystery that has always hung about this building has greatly
increased since it has been in combination with the Exchange Telegraph
Company of London, with all its scientific developments and its
electric currents. Between this bureau and the Stock Exchange ghostly,
silent messages pass the livelong day concerning the health, the value,
the rise and the fall of the various stocks and funds, and in a few
seconds these mysterious messages are wafted through the length and
breadth of the land.
I am a curious, inquisitive old lady, and as there were many points
in these mysterious proceedings I could not understand, I went to the
bureau a short time back, and begged Mr. Wilfred King, the courteous
and clever secretary of the company, to make them clear to me.
I was very interested in what he said about the rapidity with which the
messages are transmitted. He assured me that the result of the last
Derby was known all over London before the horses had had time to stop
after they had passed the winning-post; and, again, that during the
last Parliamentary session the debates, by means of this company, were
known at the Crystal Palace before they reached the smoking-room of the
House of Commons.
As I stood watching the clever instrument pouring out silently and
persistently its yards of tape messages, I asked as a favour that Mr.
King would cut off a piece, that I might show it to you. You will see
that the language is conveyed by means of simple lines, over which he
was so kind as to write the letters so represented—
12 11 1
---- -- ---- -- -- -- - ---- - - --
C a l e
---- -- ---- - - -- - ---- - - --
d o n i a
---- - - ---- ---- -- ---- -- - - - --
n R l y
---- - - ---- - - ---- - - ---- - ---- ----
C o s
---- - ---- - ---- ---- -- - - -
T r a f f
---- - ---- - - -- - - ---- - - - ---- -
i c f o
- - ---- - ---- - - - ---- - ---- ---- ----
r w e e k
- ---- - - ---- ---- -- -- ---- - --
e n d i n g
-- ---- - ---- - - - - ---- - ---- ---- -
t h i r
---- -- - - - - - - ---- -
t y f i
---- ---- - ---- -- -- ---- - - -
r s t u l
- --- - - - - --- - - -- - ---- - -
t 2 2 5
---- -- - ---- -- - ---- -- -- -- - -
0 d e c r
---- ---- - -- -- ---- -- ---- - - ---- -
e a s e
-- - ---- - - - --[1]
The following little sketch will give you some idea of the instrument
and its working:—
I should like you to know more of this wonderful place; but it belongs
to my life only inasmuch as it carries my messages so silently and
rapidly that people hundreds of miles away can do business with me in
the same hour, and the result is that many thousands of pounds pass
through my hands in a day, which might otherwise have remained idle.
You will possibly feel surprised to hear that on an average six
millions of pounds[2] are daily passed in London, without a single coin
being used, and without any inconvenience or fatigue; whereas such a
sum as this, if paid in gold or silver, would necessitate the carrying
backward and forward over many miles some hundred tons weight.
Like many other gigantic transactions, it is brought about in an
insignificant building in a court leading out of Lombard-street, and
therefore close to my residence.
It is not a mysterious place like the Stock Exchange, but its power of
working is so wonderful as to be quite beyond the power of woman to
take in.
It transfers more money in one week than the whole quantity of gold
coin in the kingdom amounts to; and not the least wonderful thing about
it is that the entire work is performed by about thirty well trained
clerks, in the most exact, regular, and simple manner.
The place I am speaking of is the Bankers’ Clearing House—not to be
confounded with that in the Stock Exchange. It was established in 1775
by bankers who desired a central place where they might conduct their
clearing, or balancing, and their needs led them to the invention of a
simple and ingenious method of economising the use of money. Almost all
their payments are in the form of cheques upon bankers.
The system of clearing is quite as important in money matters as
division of labour is in manufactures, and deserves a much more
thorough explanation than I can give here; and my only excuse for
mentioning it at all is to show you how wonderfully different my
position is now, strengthened as it is by the development of science,
knowledge, and experience, from what it was in my early days.
While my transactions have increased a thousandfold, money, labour, and
time have in an equal degree been economised.
I thought myself very rich formerly with a fortune of £1,200,000, and
I considered that I and my household had a great deal to do in the
management of it, and the work which fell to my lot. Dear me! I can
call back the picture of even a hundred and twenty years ago. My own
house was so small that passers-by could scarcely recognise it; the
population of London was only half a million, and there was but one
bridge over the Thames connecting my side of the City with Southwark;
and as to that mysterious building, the Stock Exchange, it did not
exist. You know, also, for I have told you, that my directors only
employed fifty-four secretaries and clerks, and that their united
salaries did not exceed £4,350. The contrast between then and now is
marvellous even to me.
Only look at it. The proprietors’ capital is now fourteen millions
and a half instead of £1,200,000; I am the Banker of the Government;
I receive the Public Revenue; I pay the National Debt; I receive and
register transfers of stock from one public creditor to another, and
I make the quarterly payment of the dividends. I have undertaken also
the management of the Indian Debt, as well as the Funded Debt of the
Metropolitan Board of Works. What do you think of that for a woman old
as I am in years? You must own that, notwithstanding my age, I am young
and vigorous in thought, in action, and in organisation, otherwise how
could I get through my work as I do?
[Illustration: “GHOSTLY, SILENT MESSAGES.”]
My profits, too, are, when compared with those in my young days,
enormous. You wanted to know, if I remember rightly, how I lived, and
how I obtained the money to pay you your dividends; and whether, in
this respect, I was worthy of your trust.
Well, I will tell you a few of the ways in which I make money. I obtain
large sums by discounting Exchequer Bills; then there is the interest
upon the capital stock in the hands of the Government; I receive, also,
an allowance for managing the Public Debt. Up to 1786 I used to get
£562 10s. for every million; it was then reduced to £450 a million;
and since 1808 I get £300 per million up to 600 millions, and £150 per
million beyond—a nice little sum for you to work out.
A further source of income is interest on loans, on mortgages, profit
on purchase of bullion, and many other small matters. I am careful, you
see, not to have all my eggs in one basket.
For help in all this work I employ between eight and nine hundred
officers and servants, whose salaries exceed £210,000 a year.
I think I am a good mistress. I am sure I do my best to take care of
all my people, and I am acquainted with every one of them, even with
those who perform what is called menial service (I don’t like that
word; every service is honourable, if well performed); but I do confess
that I am extremely strict and particular and I am intolerant of
mistakes, from whatever cause they arise, because they dim the lustre
of my honour.
I think on the whole I have reason to be proud of my servants. Indeed,
I have a firm belief that no lady in the land is served better or more
faithfully.
I think you will like to hear a little about the way I manage my people.
First of all, I make every increase of salary to depend upon
punctuality in the morning, knowing as I do its importance. I am
equally particular that those living within the house shall keep good
hours at night.
Then I do not mind giving occasional leave of absence, if urgently
required; but I don’t allow anyone to take what is called “French
leave” without paying a fine for each day’s absence.
When my people get too old for service, I like to feel that they will
not suffer want; so I give them a pension in proportion to the salary
they are receiving at the time they retire. I spend about £40,000 in
this way—a spending which has nothing but pleasure in it for me.
I started a library some time ago for the younger members of my
household, by giving them a large room and £500 for books. It has
since been kept going by themselves, each subscriber paying eight
shillings a year. Between three and eight on certain days in the week
you may see numbers of them making their way thither for reading and
recreation. Those who prefer it may have books to take home. One of my
representatives is always present during these hours, just to show our
interest in their recreation.
The kind feeling, however, is not at all one-sided, as I have had
frequent opportunities of judging. Times of trouble, panic, and
sickness never fail to show me the love and devotion of my people, and
that they have not hesitated to sacrifice their lives for my safety is
a matter of history.
During the hours of the night, when I take my well-earned sleep, I
am watched over by my faithful servants, who take it in turn, two at
the time, to keep watch, in which loving duty they are assisted by a
company of Foot Guards.
So you see on the whole I am a happy woman, a very busy one, and I
think a safe one for you to trust.
(_To be continued._)
FOOTNOTES:
[1] 12-11-1.
Caledonian Railway.—Traffic for week ending 31st ultimo, £2,250
decrease.
[2] There passes through the Clearing House annually the incomprehensible
sum of £6,000,000,000 a year in the shape of cheques.
OUR TOUR IN NORTH ITALY.
BY TWO LONDON BACHELORS.
[Illustration: ST. GIORGIO, MAGGIORE.]
Our longing expectations were fulfilled, and we were vouchsafed a
lovely evening for our entrance into Venice. By the time the train
reached Mæstre all traces of the storm had disappeared, the sky was
dark blue, and glittered with innumerable stars and a full moon—just
such an ideal night as one would choose for getting one’s first
impressions of the most poetical city in the world.
From Padua to Mæstre there is nothing remarkable; the same seemingly
eternal plain has to be traversed; but as the train draws near to the
last-named city one begins to realise that one is really approaching
the Queen of the Adriatic.
At Mæstre we began to feel the sea breezes, and as the train rushed
on to St. Giuliana we caught glimpses of the far-off lights of Venice
reflected in the water. And now commences the vast bridge which takes
the train over the lagune. This bridge is between three and four miles
in length, and contains 222 arches.
Our excitement was great when we reached the lagune, and the train
seemed actually rushing through the water.
At first the buildings of the distant city looked like huge black
rocks, though the hundreds of lights reflected in the water told one
of the approach to habitation. But as we drew near, the churches,
towers, campanili, and palaces became almost distinguishable, telling
out black against the starlit sky, and seemingly rising from the middle
of the sea—an exquisitely poetical scene, with which no one could be
disappointed.
Of course, we can understand that approaching Venice by day is quite
another matter. Then the shallowness of the lagune (the water is
sometimes not more than three feet deep) is realised; then all the
ruin, shabby detail, bad restoration, and bizarre Gothic work of the
city are seen at a glance. The beautiful moonlight night, however, told
us of none of these defects, but emphasised the strange poetry of this
singular city, with its wonderful history and associations, built in
the middle of the sea.
The approach to Venice by gondola in former times must have been even
more romantic, as the puffing and the screeching of a steam-engine
brings one’s mind back to the nineteenth century. Though, at the same
time, rushing across the lagune in a railway-train at night produces a
somewhat remarkable sensation.
The train took about nine minutes to cross the bridge, and then glided
quietly into the railway station at Venice. There were only about half
a dozen passengers besides ourselves, and there was none of that noise
and bustle which is usually so great a nuisance in terminal stations.
On alighting from our railway carriage a porter, with true Italian
politeness, asked us the name of our hotel, and, conducting us to the
side of the canal, handed us over to a gondolier.
Everything helped to make the scene as poetical as possible. The night
kept glorious, and there was not a sound to be heard. Our gondolier, a
tall, dark man with a thick black beard, was a beau ideal of his class,
and the hearse-like gondola being drawn up to the landing-stage, the
bachelors determined to see a little of Venice by moonlight before
going to their hotel.
[Illustration: THE BRONZE HORSES—ST. MARK’S.]
In a few minutes we found ourselves in the Grand Canal—the great
marble palaces rising on either bank, brilliantly illuminated here and
there by the beams of a full moon, and the lights from the graceful
Gothic windows reflected in the still water in long streams of light;
the domes and campanili of the almost innumerable churches piercing
the sky, and looking gigantic, from their details being shrouded in
the deep shadows of night; while their outlines were made still more
prominent and more distinctly defined by the clear, sharp moonlight.
One of these great campanili had an almost startling effect as the
gondola passed it. It seemed to interpose itself between the moon and
ourselves. We never saw any building which, for the moment, seemed so
gigantic. On we went—past the opening of many a narrow canal, looking
on one side into impenetrable gloom, and on the other into almost
magical light. Here and there was some exquisitely traceried window,
illuminated like burnished silver. The plash of the oar and the ripple
of the water against the gondola added to the charm of the scene, and
before long the strains of distant music enhanced the poetry of that
most lovely night.
A huge arch soon came in sight, spanning the great canal. Need we say
that this was the Rialto? The gondola shot beneath it, and wound its
way along past a sharp curve in the canal through another bridge, and
on our right the Church of the Salute came in sight, and we soon
emerged on to the broad and lake-like water of the Giudecca. To our
left was a garden, and a little behind it rose the group of domes and
the lofty isolated campanili of St. Mark. We knew it was St. Mark’s,
and were therefore not surprised at its exquisite beauty, though,
owing to the intervening buildings, we could only see its domes and
campanile. The Ducal Palace, strange to say, did not present so
striking an appearance by moonlight, owing to its somewhat box-like
outline. But still the deep gloom of its arcades somewhat repaid the
mind for the disappointment experienced in its general aspect.
Of course, we looked out for the Bridge of Sighs, which was buried, as
it should be, in profound gloom. It was appropriate that this tragic
structure should be hidden in the deepest shadow of our first view
of Venice, just as we recollect the dome of the Salute forming its
greatest light. On the one side was typified human suffering, human
woe, tyranny, cruelty, and oppression, and on the other the salvation
which came to us through the Healer, whose purity is rightly symbolled
in the clear white dome of the church.
These two buildings, so typical of human life, are rightly placed.
The one at the junction of the two great canals, where they expand
almost into a lake, lifts its marble dome, soaring up to the skies, and
everyone asks as they come in sight of it, “What is that?” The answer
is, “That is the Salute” (Salvation). Happy omen for a city where
such a sign is always visible amidst the surrounding gloom! The other
building, half concealed, and skulking away over a gloomy canal, like
secret sin deep buried in the human heart. We know it is there, and
that its loathsome presence will be found when sought for, and though
the gloom of night may for a time conceal it, yet with the daylight it
will be visible, carrying with it condemnation.
More mundane thoughts, however, filled our minds, and we began to
realise the fact that in ordering our gondolier to take us a “bit of
a round of Venice” before landing us at our hotel, we were running
serious risk of going to bed supperless, if not of being shut out
altogether. So we directed him to retrace—we can’t say his steps, but
let us say his course—and, after passing down one or two narrow canals,
we found ourselves at the steps of our hotel.
It was not, however, without a sigh and a kind of feeling almost
approaching to dread that we left the bright moonlight of the Grand
Canal to penetrate the dark, silent, and gloomy little streams that
run between the high walls of the houses. Gloomy they are at all
times, these narrow quayless canals, but how infinitely more so in the
night, and how their lugubrious aspect impresses itself upon one after
emerging from the beautiful scenes which we have just attempted to
describe.
The first thing we did on arriving at our hotel was to see whether any
of our friends had written to us, and we were pleased to find quite a
goodly pile of letters awaiting us. How pleasant it is to hear from our
friends when abroad, and how doubly dear those friends seem to us when
hundreds of miles separate us from them.
A rather doubtful compliment this. But is it not always true that
“distance lends enchantment?” When absent from those we like, we are
inclined to think over their good qualities and those characteristics
that we admire, and to forget all those differences of opinion and
little waywardnesses that are so irritating to us when we are with
them. Of course, it is different with those we really love; even
then, however, absence intensifies the affection, but from a different
reason, arising from an almost nervous anxiety for their health,
happiness, and prosperity.
After reading our letters, we began to discuss our first sight of
Venice, and we both agreed that, up to the present, our fondest
expectations had been more than realised. Little did we think that
the morrow would bring its disappointments—that in the short space
of twenty-four hours we should underrate Venice, as much as we now
exaggerated its beauties—and that we should not gain a correct and
“lasting” impression of its peculiar and unique character, until
many days had passed away. In fact, one does not entirely form one’s
impression of Venice until it has been left, thought over, and compared
with other places.
From the city itself we called to our memory the wonderful history of
Venice, at one time the first maritime power in Europe, and so like our
own country in many ways.
Our girls may remember the importance of Milan and Verona during the
periods that the Viscontis and Sforzas ruled the former city, and the
Scaligers the latter. The history of these two cities, however, is
simply insignificant when compared with that of the great republic of
the Doges.
Venice is said to have been founded about the year A.D. 450, by the
inhabitants of Aquileia, Padua, Altinum, &c., who were driven out of
their cities, and their homes utterly destroyed by the cruel Attila,
who was at this time overrunning Italy. The persecuted inhabitants
flying before the barbarians, as a last resource crossed the lagune and
built a town on the islets which had formed in the Adriatic.
Goethe says, “It was no idle fancy their colonists fled to these
islands; it was no mere whim which impelled those who followed to
combine with them; necessity taught them to look for security in
a highly disadvantageous situation, which afterwards became most
advantageous, enduing them with talent, when the whole of the Northern
world was immersed in gloom. Their increase and their wealth were the
necessary consequence. New dwellings arose close against dwellings,
rocks took the place of sand and marsh, houses sought the sky, being
forced, like trees enclosed in a narrow compass, to seek in height what
was denied to them in breadth. Being niggard of every inch of ground,
as having been from the outset compressed into a narrow compass, they
allowed no more room for the streets than was absolutely necessary
for separating one row of houses from another, and affording a narrow
way for passengers. Moreover, water was at once street, square, and
promenade. The Venetian was forced to become a new creature, and Venice
can only be compared with itself.”
The colonists, under the protection of the Byzantine Empire, must have
grown in importance and prosperity, though their early history is very
obscure, and it was not until the commencement of the ninth century
that Venice became a really important city.
The exact date of the election of the first Dux or Doge (Paulucius
Anafestus) is not known, but it must have been either at the end of the
sixth or the commencement of the seventh century. The year A.D. 809 was
important for Venice, as the colonists in that year defended themselves
against Pepin, the son of Charlemagne, and throwing over all foreign
influence, they commenced their career of independence.
The next important event was the bringing of the body of St. Mark to
Venice in A.D. 828. The evangelist was thenceforth made the patron
saint of the city, and his emblem, the lion, became the arms of the
republic. The Venetians had not as yet made foreign conquests, but the
great Doge, Enrico Dandolo, who went to the Fourth Crusade, conquered
Constantinople in 1204, and commenced the grand era of Venice. The
breaking up of the Byzantine Empire was a great opportunity for Venice,
the republic gaining possession of several islands in the Greek
Archipelago, together with numerous cities on the Adriatic.
As can well be imagined, the growing power of the republic was watched
with jealous eyes by the other Italian States, especially by Genoa, at
this time very powerful. The rivalry between the last-named city and
Venice caused innumerable wars and misery to both combatants. At first
Genoa was successful, but the Doge Andrea Dandolo completely defeated
the Genoese in 1352, an event which made Venice the most powerful city
in Northern Italy.
The successor to Doge Andrea Dandolo, Marino Falieri, by secret means
endeavoured to upset the government of Venice and make himself king.
His plot was discovered, however, and he was beheaded on the Giants’
Stairs in the Palace of the Doges.
The Genoese were at war again with the republic in 1379; but a lasting
peace was concluded in 1381. From this year until about 1450 Venice
carried everything before it; Verona, Padua, Vicenza, and numerous
other North Italian cities, were added to the republic, and by the year
1420 the whole of the east coast of Italy surrendered to the power of
Venice. But perhaps the grandest victories were those gained over the
Turks, as in these wars Venice undoubtedly saved Italy the calamity of
a Mohammedan invasion.
It was during the years 1370 and 1450 that Venice was building up
her commercial prosperity, which at the latter date had made her the
greatest maritime and commercial city in the world.
But as in individuals, so in countries. We go on increasing in health
and strength up to a certain age, after which comes the inevitable
decline. “First from age to age we ripe and ripe, and then from age to
age we rot and rot.” The decline of Venice is soon told. The capture
of Constantinople by the Turks in 1453, and the discovery of the new
Indian sea-routes were terrible blows to the republic, from which,
indeed, it never recovered. The Turks, with whom the Venetians were
always at war, proved in the end victorious, and took possession of the
eastern colonies of the republic.
And then came the great shame of Venice’s history—the alliance with
the Turk against the Christian powers, the sacrifice of Rhodes, and
the selfish abandonment of that great Christian hero, Lisle Adam;
while, as a modern writer says, “the Venetians and other merchants
were trafficking their goods and their souls at the same time with the
enemies of the Church, and dishonouring their Christian calling.” A sad
Nemesis was, however, in store for Venice, and, notwithstanding her
crimes, we cannot read unmoved of the last Doge embracing the banner
of St. Mark and then flinging it into a grave over which a solemn
funeral ceremony was performed. Napoleon, who regarded neither art,
poetry, nor history, when they stood in the way of his ambition, was
approaching Venice. Resistance was impossible, and the banner which had
led the Venetians to so many victories must not fall into the hands of
the invader, so, with tears and sighs, it was reverently placed in the
grave.
(_To be continued._)
UNCLE JASPER.
BY ALICE KING.