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and the stranger thirteen, a person came in and said, ‘What! are you here, Cavanagh?’ The words were no sooner pronounced than the astonished player let the ball drop from his hand, and saying, ‘What! have I been breaking my heart all this time to beat Cavanagh?’ refused to make another effort. ‘And yet, I give you my word,’ said Cavanagh, telling the story with some triumph, ‘I played all the while with my clenched fist.’—He used frequently to ploy matches at Copenhagen-house for wagers and dinners. The wall against which they play is the same that supports the kitchen-chimney, and when the wall resounded louder than usual, the cooks exclaimed, ‘Those are the Irishman's balls,’ and the joints trembled on the spit!—Goldsmith consoled himself that there were places where he too was admired: and Cavanagh was the admiration of all the fives-courts, where he ever played. Mr. Powell, when he played matches in the Court in St. Martin's-street, used to fill his gallery at half-a-crown a head, with amateurs and admirers of talent in whatever department it is shown. He could not have shown himself in any ground in England, but he would have been immediately surrounded with inquisitive gazers, trying to find