is always delicious; the Promenade Meyerbeer as
refreshing on a hot day as a draught of iced water. But the denizens,
male and female, of the _salons de jeu_ are often obnoxious, and one
wishes that the old Baden law could be enforced against some of the
gentler sex.

'By way of warning to any of your readers who propose to visit the
tables this summer, will you let me tell a little anecdote, from
personal experience, of one of these places--which one I had perhaps
better not say. I took a place at the Roulette table, and had not staked
more than once or twice, when two handsomely dressed ladies placed
themselves one on either side of me, and commenced playing with the
smallest coins allowed, wedging me in rather unpleasantly close between
them. At my third or fourth stake I won on both the colour and a number,
and my neighbour on the right quietly swept up my coins from the colour
the instant they were paid. I remonstrated, and she very politely argued
the point, ending by restoring my money. But during our discussion my
far larger stake, paid in the mean while, on the winning number, had
disappeared into the pocket of my neighbour on the left, who was not so
polite, and was very indignant at my suggestion that the stake was mine.
An appeal to the croupier only produced a shrug of the shoulders and
regret that he had not seen who staked the money, an offer to stop the
play, and a suggestion that I should find it very difficult to prove it
was my stake. The "plant" between the two women was evident. The whole
thing was a systematically-planned robbery, and very possibly the
croupier was a confederate. I detected the two women in communication,
and I told them that I should change my place to the other side of the
table where I would trouble them not to come. They took the hint very
mildly, and could afford to do so, for they had got my money. The
affair was very neatly managed, and would succeed in nearly every case,
especially if the croupier is, as is most probable, always on the side
of the ladies.'

HOMBOURG.

'In 1842 Hombourg was an obscure village, consisting of the castle of
the Landgraf, and of a few hundred houses which in the course of ages
had clustered around it. Few would have known of its existence except
from the fact of its being the capital of the smallest of European
countries. Its inhabitants lived poor and contented--the world
forgetting, by the world forgot. It boasted only of one inn--the