scratches. Those providential interferences which aimless players call far-seeing of their own are not within his scope. The idea of being in luck is an abstraction whereof he never dreams. Fortune is never for him or against him. Pocketing himself would be a phenomenon. He never makes a miss-queue. There is, moreover, no kissing in his play. His strokes are firm and gentle, and graceful, and full of thought. His spread is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen, and his straight-hazards are, beyond all expression, marvellous. The style of Eugene is far beyond all other styles, as the style of Paganini is beyond all other styles. Not that Eugene never misses. But Eugene's miss is finer than the count of any other player; and as Boswell preferred the being cut by Johnson to a heartiest recognition by any other Englishman, so might you more plume yourself on a miss like that of Eugene than on the best count of the best individual who is yonder playing with him. Until this evening I had had no just conception of how intensely intellectual is the genuine game of billiards. Until now I had been accustomed to derive my pleasure therein, chiefly from the sight of polished balls noiselessly coursing over a plain of green, or darting off in angles of mathematical regularity:-from listening to the sharp, quick click of their hit, or the tinkle of bells announcing them pocketed ;-and more than all, from that extremely agreeable nervous sensation along the arm, which attends the contact of queue with ball. I now felt that I was all wrong, and that this game, like chess, was to be appreciated in proportion as it emdodied thought, and that random shots in the one should be held in the same degradation as random moves in the other.

But, what's here? Music has arisen. Through the thick smokeclouds we dimly see two figures, male and female. They have each a violin. Let us drop them each a sous, and so conclude our ramblings and cogitations among the cafés and estaminets of Paris.

LINES.

I WATCH'D the morn break on thy natal day,
But could not check a deep, unpitied sigh.
Though thou art gone, still Mem'ry calls to light
Past happy days, and sunny hours gone by.
And when I saw the sunbeams softly play
O'er the calm river, on whose banks we met,
Ah! none can tell the anguish that I felt

In thinking that thou should'st so soon forget,

Forget, and seem to break all friendship's ties,

Those ties which once seem'd never to be broken;
But, like sweet summer flowers, they now are dead,
And leave but sorrow as their only token.
But though long years may pass ere we may meet,
Those early vows will still most sacred be;

Or though on earth we're doom'd to meet no more,
Still shall I feel a sister's love for thee.

M. C. H.

GONELLO.

THE JESTER.

THERE lived in Florence, centuries ago,
A merry citizen, by name Gonello,
Whose wit was ceaselessly upon the flow,
Especially when wine had made him mellow,
And c'er his visage spread an honest glow;
He was, in truth, a very pleasant fellow,
And could not ope his mouth but out there flew,
Extemporaneously, a jest or two.

But sometimes tis a crime to be too witty;
And having ridiculed some dunce of rank,
He was without delay expell'd the city-

(A hard return for such a harmless prank!)-
Neither his jokes nor tears could gain him pity,
And all his friends look'd very cool and blank,
When he came near to ask them for assistance :-
Telling him civilly to keep his distance.

He turn'd away in lowliness of heart,

Bestowing many a bitter gibe on those

Who drove him houseless from his native mart,
To seek elsewhere a haven of repose;
Compell'd from all endearments to depart,
By faithless friends and miserable foes.
It was indeed a cruel thing to pester
With banishment so capital a jester.

Gonello shook the dust from off his shoes,
And made a virtue of necessity,
Resolving, spite of Fortune, not to lose

The mirth that buoy'd him on Life's changing sea; "The world was all before him where to choose"

Soon he determined what his course should be;

The Marquis of Ferrara, said report,

Wanted a fool to entertain his court.

Gonello went to seek the situation,

And backed his prayers with such a comic face,

That he was duly made, by installation,

Prime fool and jester to his noble grace;

And having taken up this occupation,

He put on motley, as became his place,

And thenceforth pass'd his precious time in joking,
Punning and quizzing, revelling and smoking.

His jests were all both laughable and new,
Possessing a most rare and sparkling flavour;
And being witty and kind-hearted too,
He soon arose to universal favour,
And from all quarters loud applauses drew,
Which did not in the least of envy savour;
The marquis was delighted with his choice,
And hung with rapture on his jester's voice.
VOL. II.
38

In every public question or debate

His Highness made Gonello a partaker,
And when the laws were broken in the state,
Gonello always could reprieve the breaker.
Twas an odd combination of his fate,

That of a jurisprudent and pun-maker!
But still he was a very good adviser,
And there was no one in the council wiser.

And so his days flew by, undim'd by care.
His wit broke forth like bubbles fast ascending
From some deep fountain to the sunny air,

Their lucid flash with rainbow colours blending. But all is evanescent that is fair,

And grief on joy is evermore attending.

The Marquis of Ferrara grew unwell,

And poor Gonello's happy spirits fell.

His grace's illness was a quartan ague,

Which the physicians said they could not cure; I hope, dear reader, it may never plague you; Doubtless tis quite unpleasant to endure. (If this digression be a little vague, you

Will see how hard it is a rhyme to lure,

And pardon me, remembering that "sometimes
Kings are not more imperative than rhymes.")

There was one remedy, which no one dare
Apply through terror of the patient's wrath!
It was, to seize him wholly unaware

And throw him in the sea, by way of bath,
A thing they thought he could by no means bear;
But strangle the first one who cross'd his path.
Since the physicians would not then apply it,
Gonello secretly resolved to try it.

He had no great respect for wealth or rank;
So, promenading with his grace one day
Along the quay upon the river's bank,

He plunged the marquis headlong in the spray; Then, seeing him drawn out before he sank,

Took to his heels and ran with speed away;
Presuming that unless he quickly vanish'd,
He would most probably be whip'd and banish'd.

His highness was pull'd out all wet and dripping,
Enraged at having been so coolly treated;
Albeit his health was mended by the dipping,
And his recovery almost completed.
He swore the jester should receive a whipping.
In this he quickly found bimself defeated;
For then they told him he had just decamp'd-
At which the marquis bit his lips and stamp'd.

The courtiers were all fill'd with indignation

Against the graceless and audacious prater,
And the next day went forth a proclamation
Denouncing poor Gonello for a traitor.
The edict fill'd him with much perturbation-
But his chagrin and misery were greater,
On learning that he would be killed, "if found
Ever again upon Ferrara ground."

He fled the town, and, lonely, pined awhile;
But as he conn'd one day his doom of wo,
A bright thought lit his face into a smile,
And, starting, he exclaim'd, "It shall be so!
No longer will I stay a single mile

From court, but, fearless, once more thither go: For it is only on Ferrara ground'

That I incur the penalty, if found.""

So he resolved, in spite of the decree,
Again to visit the forbidden place,
Believing that his presence could not be

But welcome, and agreeable to his grace:
He would, at least, go for himself and see.

So, with a lightsome heart and merry face,
He enter'd old Ferrara, full of mirth,
Perch'd high upon a cart of Paduan earth.

By this device he hoped to have evaded

The myrmidons and bloodhounds of the law.
But, ah! he did not view the thing as they did,
Who stood not for entreaty or for flaw;
But pull'd him down, unpitied and unaided,

And cast him in a prison's ponderous maw;
Then rudely told him, for his consolation,
The axe and platform were in preparation.

A priest came shortly after to his cell,

To shrive his soul and give him absolution;

And lower yet Gonello's spirits fell

When he beheld this reverend intrusion. But then the turret's melancholy bell

Gave out the signal of his execution;

And he was led forth to the public square,

The cowl'd monk whispering at his side, "prepare!"

The crowd is gather'd, and the accursed block

Stands thirsting for the awe-struck victim's blood.
Whose neck, uncover'd, waits the impending shock
Which shall unseal the hot and crimson flood.
An interval succeeds, that seems to mock

The horror of the gasping multitude,
When, lo! the grinning minister of slaughter
On the bared throat dashes--a pail of water!

But soft!-the jester-why does he remain
Motionless on the uncrimson'd platform still?
Has agonizing terror stunn'd his brain,

Or sudden gladness sent too fierce a thrill?
Faints he from rapture or excess of pain?

His heart beats not-his brow is pale and chillLight from his eyes, heat from his limbs has fledJesu Maria! he is dead-is dead!