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,
    It makes me shrink and sigh:—­
  On this I will not dwell and hang,
  The changeling would not feel a pang
    Though these should meet his eye!

  No skies so blue or so serene
  As these;—­no leaves look half so green
    As cloth’d the play-ground tree! 
  All things I lov’d are altered so,
  Nor does it ease my heart to know
    That change resides in me.

  O, for the garb that mark’d the boy! 
  The trousers made of corduroy. 
    Well ink’d with black and red;
  The crownless hat, ne’er deem’d an ill—­
  It only let the sunshine still
    Repose upon my head!