voyage, till they shook hands at parting, on the
platform of the London terminus.

"I wish, upon my soul, Trefalden, that you
would entrust me with the name of that
company," said the banker, earnestly.

"I cannot."

"It would enable me to keep an eye on your
interests while you are away."

"You are most kind," replied Saxon; "but
I have promised to keep the secret faithfully,
and I mean to do so. Besides, I have absolute
confidence in my cousin's discretion."

The City man shrugged his shoulders significantly.

"To tell you the blunt truth, my dear fellow,"
said he, "I would not trust William Trefalden
one inch further than I could see him. There
—don't look at me as if I were proposing to
blow up the Houses of Parliament. It is a rude
thing to say, no doubt; but I am not the only
man living who is of that opinion. I don't like
William Trefalden. Perhaps you will say
that I have good reason to dislike him—and
so I have; but that is not it. I am not speaking
now from my prejudices, but through
my regard for you. You did a very friendly
thing by us, in spite of your cousin; and I
should rejoice to do something for you in
return."

"Also in spite of my cousin, I suppose,"
replied Saxon, half in jest, and more than half
in anger. "No, I thank you, Mr. Greatorex.
You mean well, I am sure; but you cannot
serve me in this matter—unless by dismissing
an unjust prejudice from your mind."

"Wilful man—et cætera! Well, then,
Trefalden, good-bye, and bon voyage."

"Good-bye, Mr. Greatorex."

And so they parted.

GOING TO THE "BAD."

"WILL you walk into my Kursaal?" said the Sharper to the Flat;
"'Tis the richest, gayest Kursaal that ever you were at.
The way into my Kursaal is up this granite stair,
And I've got many curious things to show you when you're there."
"Oh, no, no," said the Flat, "because I've sometimes heard it said,
You oft, in change for golden coin, give bullets made of lead."

Said the cunning Sharper to the Flat, "Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm and true regard I've always felt for you?
I have within my Kursaal good store of all that's nice,
I'm sure you're very welcome. 'Tis hot, pray take an ice!
Now do walk in," the Sharper said, "for here you're sure to find
A host of wealthy beauties; all the gems of womankind.
I'm sure you'll make a conquest there among their flutt'ring hearts,
For they seek for men of noble mien—for gentlemen of parts.
Win freely at your pleasure from my heaps of glitt'ring gold,
And find that Fortune kindly gives her favours to the bold!"
"I thank you," said the stranger, "for what you're pleased to say,
And wishing you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The Sharper turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Flat would soon come back again:
So he made a corner ready at his table of roulette,
Where, close by, a brother Sharper winning rapidly was set;
Then he came out to his door again and said with winning wile,
"Come, try your fortune, noble sir, and win this golden pile."

Alas, alas! how very soon this very verdant Flat
Came sidling to the Kursaal, and at the table sat;—
With wistful eyes he saw the prize the cunning Sharper won,
When, heedless of the web of craft that round him had been spun,
Thinking only of his "noble mien," and winning wealth untold,
Forgetting many brother Flats before him had been "sold,"—
He staked his cash, "small by degrees and beautifully less,"—
But who the end of all his hopes—his blighted hopes!—could guess?
The cunning Sharper, ambushed in his roulette-table lair,
Relieved him soon of all he had, then laughed at his despair;
He plucked him at his table, and he fleeced him in his den,
Reduced him to a beggar, and then—drove him out again!

And now, ye Flats who travel, and this sad story read,
To idle, silly, flatt'ring hopes I pray you ne'er give heed;
When Kursaal harpies tempt you, forget not what they're at,
But take a lesson from this tale of Sharpers and the Flat.

HERMIT BOB.

"I WONDER what was the correct pattern of
the scrip?" said my friend Bobby Lynn,
thoughtfully, as we roamed, an idle pair, along
the Ladies' Mile.

"Scrip! What scrip?"

"Bag, satchel, wallet, shoulder-thing, you
know," said Bob. " Scrip—from the Swedish
'skräppa'—whence we have 'gripe;' in the
vulgar, 'grab.' Any scrip. Such, for instance,
as hermits usually carry for roots, and—and
that sort of fun."

"The last new thing of the scrip sort," I
observed, "is announced by Toozeley Brothers,
of Rose Conduit-street, as an immense improvement