rrowing a
small sum of money on honour. Many of these loungers have no
other mode of living.

There is likewise another room, furnished with sofas, called
_chamber des blesses_, which is far from being the most
thinly peopled.

The bank pays in ready money every successful stake and sweeps
off the losings with wooden instruments, called _rateaux_
(rakes).

It was in one of the houses in this quarter that the late Marshal
Blucher won and lost very heavy sums, during the occupation of
Paris by the allied armies.

There are two gaming-houses in Paris of a more splendid description
than those of the Palais Royal, where dinners or suppers are given,
and where ladies are admitted.--_Galignani's History of Paris_.

* * * * *

A RETROSPECT.

Oh, when I was a tiny boy,
My days and nights were full of joy;
My mates were blithe and kind!--
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye.
To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;--
But now those past delights I drop;
My head alas! is all my top,
And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles--once my bag was stor'd,--
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,--
With Theseus for a taw!
My playful horse has slipt his string.
Forgotten all his capering,
And harness'd to the law!

My kite--how fast and fair it flew.
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!
'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes,--
The tasks I wrote--my present dreams
Will never soar so high!

My joys are wingless all, and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;
My flights soon find a fall;
My fears prevail, my fancies droop,
Joy never cometh with a hoop,
And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;
I am a shuttlecock, myself
The world knocks to and fro;--
My archery is all unlearn'd,
And grief against myself has turn'd
My sorrow and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school;
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight;
I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shar'd my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake