Not lost to joy, but lost to pain, Which never shall he feel again; Earth's acrid fruits he shall not taste, And wrong it were to chide the haste With which he left this barren field, That with its flowers so few, so many thorns doth yield. I can not mourn my king, for his Still, still the kingdom is, And the cares which earth-bred kings annoy, No more disturb my king--my boy. Do you smoke? If so, read the following: IS SMOKING BENEFICIAL? Leaning from the balcony of the old hotel at Stresa, on the Lago Maggiore, the old hotel kept by Papa Bolangaro, and watching the sunset over Isola Bella and the lake, my friend Blome knocked away the ashes from his Vevay segar--wretched segars those--and dreamily gazed at the beautiful scene before him. _Vino Barbera_, as they wrote its name in the bill, was not a bad wine; a bottle of it assisted imagination as a percussion-cap does the powder in your rifle. In the present ease it also brought on an explosion, for as Blome knocked off the segar-ashes for the second time, he heard a loud exclamation from a balcony on the _primo piano_ below him. He looked down. You have seen, I have seen, all the world has seen the Italian woman of paintings and engravings--black eyes, black hair, golden and red-peach complexion--there she was. My friend passed down apologies for his oversight; an oversight--bowing _preux-chevalier_-ly--he was afraid unpardonable, when he saw the object he had overlooked. The beautiful Italian received the apology most charmingly. It proved the overture to a brilliant adventure culminating in Milan. 'You observe,' said Blome to me, 'what real benefits can be derived from smoking. Here have I formed the acquaintance of a very pretty woman, who will fall desperately in love with me, who will call me by my first name within two days, all through segar-ashes. I had a friend in Jena once, the university-town----' 'Where you got that sword-cut over the cheek?' 'Where I received it. Good! My friend in Jena was a theological student, a very steady young man. While others would come reeling home from the beer-kneips, he would be careful always to keep steady and under gentle sail; but he had one weakness, a want of confidence while in the presence of woman--one strong point, pipe-smoking. 'One afternoon he was smoking a pipe at his chamber-window, and regarding the passers-by in the street below. When his pipe was smoked out, he emptied its ashes in the street; as he did so, he looked down, _Himmel_! The ashes fell on the head of Fraeulein Baumann, who dwelt in the same house in the story below him, and who was at that time knitting a pair of stockings and also looking at the passengers in the street. 'The theological student drew his head in from the window with the quickness of a turtle. He sat down and meditated.