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from its legitimate destination, and feeling the damp shade of the prison creeping over the glittering saloons—the "coming event castingitsshadow before." Certainly it was not philanthropy which built the Casino in Homburg. The town itself possesses neither attraction nor interest. The neighborhood is charming, but far less so than the Valley of the Latin, or the banks of the Neckar, and

something akin to gratitude. No sort of pressure is exercised to exact compensation from the amused by attendance at the gambling-tables. Curiosity and covetousness are the allies the Direction counts upon to serve their turn. The balls, sporting, concerts, theatre, races, etc. are the confection, les salons the grain of strychnine it overlays.

The imposture practiced under the

would not attract or retain the crowd of title Trente et Quarante and Roulette is

strangers that resort to it but for the lure of the Casino. Of course it will be advanced by its defenders, that the benefit the town derives from the influx of visitors is at once the motive and justification of the establishment, and that the insignificancy of the town, apart from it, adds cogency to the justification. The objections that suggest themselves to this theory are, the manifest incongruity of subsidizing the sovereign of a state

so patent that the signalizing of a few facts will render it clear to the most careless atttention. It is not here intended to convey ttie impression that individuals have never risen from the tables with money won; but it must be borne in mind that the money is not won from the bank, but from other individuals who are losers as a necessary corollary to the first individual's being a winner. Every player at either of the games established

enormously lor permission to improve in the Homburg salons, is betting oMi on

his dominions:'the stringent municipal' 'mi ~—i-u-i .

regulations, prohibiting all participation of the subjects of the Landgrave in the pursuits of the Casino, and the oft-recurring enactments by which the government finds it necessary to exercise pressure on the Direction, to wring from them their unwilling contributions towards the maintenance of the town.

Homburg proper benefits but in an infinitesimal degree from the toleration extended to legalized robbery. The hotelkeepers (and Homburg, like Ems in Nassau, and Interlaken in Switzerland, is little more than an assemblage of hotels,) are almost without exception strangers who transfer from the scene of their accumulation the fortunes made there.

event. The establishment of a maximum stake which a player can not exceed, precludes the neutralization of the odds zero creates in favor of the bank. Were it possible to double the stake after each loss until the fluctuations of the game brought round the player's turn for success, capital would always counterbalance zero, but your power of staking being limited, added to the fact that at roulette the chances are thirty-seven to one against every single number on the table, two to one against every douze, and that the apparently even betting on the rouge or noir, pair or impair, passe or manque, is enormously modified against the player by the zero; it becomes evident that to sustain the hypothesis of a possibility

The "Direction" is foreign in all its ele- of winning at the game is to maintain ments,andifwe except a few Jewmoney- that abnormal conditions are the rule, lenders (by courtesy bankers) who, for and normal the exception. At Trente the most part, keep branches of other ' et Quarante the events betted upon are,

in their essence, even, but the re/art gives the bank the certainty of winning without the possibility of loss; for inasmuch as, of the four denominations or chances, two must lose, whenever a re/ait taken place, the two losing chances pay the bank, while the two that'win merely

establishments—these are the only communities who profit by the existing state of things.

The outward and visible attractions of the Casino are so offered that any mere pleasure-seeker may readily be misled into the belief that Homburg is but a German Cheltenham improved upon by the liberality of its organizers. Gratuitous amusements in a sumptuous edifice create a feeling in favor of the promoters, which, in an uninitiated person, inspires

regain their own stakes.

Homburg, then, possesses interesting features of its own: it offers the spectacle of the mine of weakness being sagaciously worked by avarice, and so we 1865.] VIS-A-VIS; OR, HARRY'S ACCOUNT OF HIS COURTSHIP. 453

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may dismiss the subject, with the brief verdict: "Players deserve to lose—but the bank does not deserve to win!"

The aerial machine is once more spreading its wings. Lady of the dogs, Sir Dandy of the football, miserable pawner of the diamond, farewell!

London Society.

VIS-A-VIS; OR HARRY'S ACCOUNT OF HIS COURTSHIP.

I "was going down to Dover,

By the afternoon express,
When I first met Kitty Lucas

In her pretty sea-side drew*.
Ai she stepped into the carriage

On that rammer afternoon,
Some one whispered, "Good-bye Kitty,

I'll come down and see you soon."

Twas her father, and he lingered

In the crowd, to see her start;
She looked up with eyes that glistened

With the fullness of her heart.
For an hour nnd fort}1 minutes

Kitty was my vit-a-vis,
And I did my bent to please her,

But she would not speak to me.

When I spoke she seemed to shun me,

And pretended that she read,
Thengh I felt quite sure she listened

To each syllable I said.
Sometimes she looked out of window,

Sometimes she would make a screen,
Though as if without intention,

Of a monthly magazine.

She was not exactly pretty,

But she looked so kind and good,
There was not a single feature,

I'd hare altered if I could.
With new joy my heart was bounding,

Till that moment of my life
I had never seen the woman

I could think of as my wife.

Strange it was how little Kitty

Crept into my heart that day;
Strange it was how well I loved her

Ere nn hour had passed away.
Strange the hopes mid fears she wakened

While she looked so sweetly shy,
Strange how slid I felt on seeing

How the milestones flitted by.

Every moment little Kitty

Grew more precious to my heart,
Every moment we drew nearer

To the spot where we must part!
Soon we saw the heights of Dorer,

8oon we saw the silver sea,
And too soon a stately lady

Came to claim my v

How I trembled with emotion .

When she rose to leave the train, And I whispered, "Good-bye, Kitty;

God grant we may meet again!" Then a look of timid wonder

Stole across her wistful face, For a moment, then she gently

Bowed with sweet unconccio'ns grace.

Thus we parted. All in silence

Little Kitty went her way, And I felt as if the sunshine

Of my life had passed away. How I thought of little Kitty

When that night I crossed the sea; How I hoped that she was thinking

At that very time of me.

Often did prophetic fancy

With sweet visions fill my brain. Till I sometimes felt quite certain

That we soon should meet again. I a thousand times decided

Every word that I would say, And a thousand times imagined

How she'd blush and turn away.

Time passed on. I Came to London

All in haste to see the bride— Loveliest of Denmark's daughter)),

Through the crowded City glide. Twas a glorious day lor England,

Twas a joyous day for me, For by happy chance my Kitty

Was ouee more my vii-a-vu.

She was sitting on a platform

Very near to Temple Bar,
And with hope and fear I trembled

While I watched her from afar;
Watched her till at lost she saw me,

And looked up with glad surprise, Then, abashed and blushing deeply,

Downward bent her violet eyes.

I could tell she half repented

Giving me a look so sweet; In that sudden recognition,

How it made my pulses beat!
How she tried to look unconscious

Of my fond and earnest gaze,
And her long-lashed eyelids quivered

O'er the eyes she would not raise.

With her friends she gaily chatted

Looking glad as glad could be;
Still I hoped that she was thinking

At that very time of me.
Why I dared this hope to cherish

1 must own I scarcely knew, But I know my heart wag beating

With a love both strong and true.

After long impatient waiting,

The beloved bride appeared, With the young nnd princely bridegroom.

To all Kugli.-h hearts endeared. When they halted just before as,

Kitty gave one glance at me, Full of loyalty and feeling,

Full of loving sympathy.

All was over. Little Kitty

From her seat was led away, And I struggled to the entrance

Hoping she would pass that way. How I longed for leave to tell her

All my heart would have me say, How I feared that like a vision

She once more would pass away.

After long impatient waiting

Kitty came, but would not tee, Though I'm sure she felt my presence,

For she turned her face from me.
It was agony to see her

Pass away without a word
And my heart grew sick and trembling,

Sick and faint with hope deferred.

For a moment I was spell-bound,

Or like one transformed to stone; Bat I roused myself to follow

Where my heart and thoughts had flown. Snddenly a voice cried, "Hurry!

Who'd have thought of seeing you? Come and dine with us, old fellow,

If you've nothing else to do.

"George will be so glad to see yon

At his house in Sussex Square; We have quite a merry party,

All the girls are staying there. You will hardly know my sisters,

You've not seen them such a while. Isn't Alexandra lovely?

Doesn't she know how to smile 1

"I was at the railway station,

And I had a splendid view; Bnt my sisters and ray cousins

Were in Fleet Street;—where were you?" Thus my old friend Charley chatted,

While we slowly made our way Through the streets so gaily crowded

On that memorable day.

We were rather late for dinner.

But they soon made room for me,
And I saw that little Kitty

Was once more my vii-a-nia.
To the friendly greetings round me

I could scarcely make replies,
For I felt too much bewildered,

And conld hardly trust my eyes.

Kitty's Sice looked grave with wonder,

And her sweet eyes seemed to say, "Do not let my cousins fancy

We have met before to-day." So I tried to pay attention

To the lady by my side, Talking of the royal marriage

And the young and lovely bride.

I was glad when we were summoned

To the drawing-room for tea; But among the fair young faces

Kitty's face I could not see. Charley found her in a corner,

And he cmight her by a curl, Saving, "Thisis Kitty Luca«,

Uncle George's youngest girl.

"Kitty, why have you been hiding?

This is Captain Harry Blair; He was my best friend at Eton,

All the while that I was there." Kitty said, with easy freedom,

As she gave her hand to me, "Any friend of Cousin Charley

I am very glad to see."

(She pretended not to fathom

All my love and my delight, Though I'm sure she knew I wanted

To propose that very night.) Then she asked a dozen questions,

All about the fair Princess: "Do you think her very pretty?

Did you like her style of dress?

"Did you see her queenly forehead?

And her sweet and friendly smile? Did yon notice Albert Edward,

How he watched her all the while?
I have heard she calls him ' Bertie,'

And I really think it's true,
For no doubt they love each other

Just as other people do."

Thns she chatted. On our spirits

What a sndden change had come! Now, with seeming ease and freedom,

She could speak, while I was dumb. Restless hope and joy had driven

All my measured words away: While I sat in troubled silence

From my side she stole away.

Stole away to join the dancers,

And I watched—till jealous pain, Strong and sharp, revived my courage,

And I sought her out again. Then I asked if she remembered

When and where we first had met; And her ready, "I remember"

In my ears is ringing yet.

"I remember, 'twas last summer,

And you wore an Albert chain, Like the one I gave to Charley

Just before he went to Spain. In your hand you held a volume

Written by a friend of mine, And you did not seem to like it,

For you scarcely read a line!"

Thns with playful ease she chatted

Just to keep me still at bay. And half vexed, half charmed, I listened,

Till at last I dared to say: "Did you hear the prayer I uttered,

That we two might meet again? Kitty, now the prayer is answered,

Tell me, is it all in vain?

"Kitty, do not speak so gaily,

Do not look so much at ease." Then she answered, archly smiling,

"You are very hard to please." But her voice began to falter:

She grew timid, I grew bold; And that night before we parted,

I my tale of love had told.

Of the happy days that followed

Scarce a word 1 dare to say. Kitty whispered thnt she loved me,

'Ere a month had passed away; With love-light her eyes were beaming,

With new joy my heart was stirred, And her hand in mine was trembling,

When she spoke the whispered word.

Kitty's love was worth the winning,

Kitty's all the world to me;
Kitty says through life's long journey,

She will he my vis-a-vi*.
We. are happy, we are hopeful,

We arc waiting for the spring, Then ihe old church-bells at Dover,

With a merry peal shall ring.

M. E. R.

Art Journal.

OLD AND NEW LONDON.

Allans, Messieurs les Artistes, tenet vos crayons. London is now rapidly losing all its old features. Upon the pen and pencil must we soon depend for all knowledge of what the ancient city looked like; it will be impossible to realize the past by a ramble down an old street which, by its lonely insignificance, may have been spared from change. Town land is thrice valuable, and trade is exigeant. The quietest lanes are invaded, and where lonely old houses had slept in the sunshine for centuries, vast and busy offices and warehouses rear their giant heads. The transformation of Paris in a few years is complete; all its historic sites, with very few exceptions, are gone, and its interest to all but ihe flaneur is gone with them; London has lately imitated its Gallic sister, and at fabulous cost, has destroyed old buildings and created new, with a rapidity that has outstripped the record of either pen or pencil, and many curious topographical features are gone for ever. The few that do remain should be portrayed at once: not by photography, which bears in itself the elements of decay, but by honest, faithful drawing, such as gives value to the works of that most industrious antiquary and admirable etcher, John Thomas Smith, whose labors will increase in value as time adds years to their age; or to those of still more minute truthfulness, which came from the atelier of the elder Cooke, and with which no photograph an compare for clearness and beauty.

Washington Irving once rambled about Eastcheap as he did at Stratford-uponAvon, "chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies," but producing reminiscences that gave vitality to all he touched upon. It would be difficult now to conjure up any picture of the past in any historic locality of London ; all speaks of busy to-day, or busier to-morrow ; in the fever-haste to getrich none spare a thought for the past, few reverence what it has confided to our care. Historic associations meet with little sympathy. When the great conqueror of antiquity destroyed cities recklessly, he spared the humble house of Pindar in the midst of the Thebes he had so cruelly doomed; for even the stern heart of Alexander felt the influence of gazing on the home of one who had done so much to elevate the mind. It may be doubted if such a relic would be spared in the English or French metropolis by any merchantprince or railway contractor.

Leigh Hunt rambled through "the Town" of his boyhood, and has made himself our companion, as he will be the still more valued companion of our latest posterity; by the charming information he imparts so pleasantly on the history of the old streets and their former inhabitants. No writer on London as it was, is so agreeable to read; we listen to his words as to those of an unpretentious but well-informed old fi iend, and as we pass over the pages of his book, almost feel that we are walking the ancient highways in his company. Walter Thornbury, the most recent of our topographic guides, has happily termed our metropolis " haunted London ;" it is indeed haunted by the memories of the great, or the remarkable; so that every street and every old house becomes an illustrated chapter of history; what that history is may be best traced in the voluminous pages of that most industrious and original compilation—Cunningham's " Handbook of London;" here, indeed, we may revel in the rich literary anecdote which makes sacred many a street or house in the mind's eye of the student, who, book in hand, may re-create the past glories of various now dingy localities once festive with wit and hilarity. Let the plodding worshiper of Mammon think how small a share of attention he or his brother millionaires will ever attain in comparison with the rich in intellect A man of enormous wealth died lately, but what interest can he raise in comparison • with the poor boy-poet Chattertont

Take, then, some good writer on London, study him well, and go over the locality he speaks of while that locality , remains. It is an intellectual pleasure we may not long possess. Everywhere, "improvements," real or fancied—" necessary changes" sometimes equally visionary—are clearing away all the historic landmarks left to us. It is but two years ago, since the writer of these lines contributed to Chamber's " Book of Days" an essay on such localities as time has spared us of London before the great fire ; and in that paper quoted Winches-' ter Street, Moorfields, as a fair, and almost' unique example of an old street. Now it is nearly all gone, to be replaced by modern warehouses of gigantic propor- j tion. Twenty years ago, many similar, streets remained ; now we have not one.

Occasionally the deep digging, nect-s-' sitated by modern works, lays bare ancient foundations of much interest. Such has been the case with the great railway woVks crossing Thames Street to Cannon j S rect. Here, the workmen came across' th 3 foundation walls of lloman buildings; ot vast size and strength. As if to put to shame our modern bricklaying, the! Roman brick or stone could not be dissevered from its mortar, and resisted disseverance even by the pickaxe j gunpowder was ultimately used to split to pieces what it became necessary to remove. These foundations were laid bare soon after the terrible fire in 1606, and were seen and described by the great architect Wren; portions were again laid bare about twenty years ago, when large | business premises were being erected on the spot; it will be long ere they are | again seen, as they are now beneath the foundations of the railway works. This short portion of line between the Thames! and Cannon Street has displaced many | interesting features of old London life: i the Steelyard, a warehouse for the use of, the merchantmen of the Low Countries,! its gate being surmounted with the arms j of Henry VIII., quaintly carved; and many good old houses of the time of, Charles II. and William III., with ware-'

houses attached, telling of days when citizens, however rich, resided at their places of business. In Mark Lane there still remains one such old mansion, with an entrance hall of paneled oak, staircase thickly balustraded with twisted columns, and a passage to the garden, where a leaden cupid still spouts water as a fountain amid old fig-trees.

Opposite Mark Lane, on the other side of Leadenhall Street, stands the church of St Andrew Undershaft, celebrated among city churches for containing the monument of the great antiquary, John Stow. Opposite the church was a range of old houses, quite Elizabethan in character, which were only removed at the close of last year. St. Mary-Axe and the neighboring St. Helen's, recently abounded with fine specimens of residences, such as may never again be erected within the precincts of the City. It is now a vast warehouse, or mart; yet people living remember when Devonshire Square, Bishopsgate, was chiefly the residence of merchants who dwelt near to their places of business, as did the elder branches of the Rothschild family to the uninviting Judengasse, at Frankfortron-the-Maine.

Until the end of the last century, after passing Houndsditch, "fresh fields and pastures new" awaited at no great distance such as were tired of being "in populous city pent." Moorfields, literally, was a place of fields, with shady walks under trees, and all beyond the Artillery Ground and Bunhill Fields waa pretty open country, across which paths led to pleasant villages, where "cakes and ale" awaited London visitors. Let any one who wishes to breathe—in imagination—the "fresh air" of the northern side of London, forget for the present the dense mass of streets and houses that crowd over and far beyond Islington, and remember only that fifteen years ago the "archers' marks" still remained in the fields between the City Road, the canal, and Islington; marks which, put up in the middle of the seventeenth century, succeeded such as had been there from the old time when the practice of archery was enforced by law, and considered most proper and wholesome for city apprentices; being to the young men of the Elizabethan era what the Volunteer movement is to our own.

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