Good name in Mayor or Parson, dear my public,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls.
Who steals my _sermon_, steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been mouthed by dozens;
But he who "splits" on me as plagiarist,
Robs me of that which is no good to him,
And leaves me poor--in credit.
* * * * *
"WHEREVER WE WANDER," &c.--A new book of advice for intending
Travellers has recently been published, entitled, "_Where to Stay_."
It is both ornamental and useful; but so much depends on ways and
means, that, after careful consideration, _Mr. Punch_, when asked
"_Where to Stay_," considers the safest answer will always be, "_At
home_."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "CHUCKED!"
["The Bookmakers are in consternation, the Chamber having
yesterday (Feb. 28), by 330 Votes to 144, rejected a Bill
legalising the _pari mutuel_, and the Government having
pledged itself to enforce the law against gambling."--_Times
Paris Correspondent_.]
_The Bookie_. "ALL RIGHT, MOSSOO, I'M OFF TO ENGLAND! THERE'S NO PLACE
LIKE 'OME!"]
(_EXTRACT OF LETTER FROM_ DICKY DIDDLUM, _BOOKMAKER, PARIS, TO_
BOUNDING BOB, _DITTO, NEWMARKET._)
"... Our game here appears to be as decidedly _hup_ as the top of the
Awful Tower! Regular mugs, these Mossoos, after all. Thought we _had_
taught 'em a bit about _Ler Sport_ by this time: but, bless yer, BOB,
once a Pollyvoo, always a Pollyvoo! No Frenchy really hunderstands a
'Oss, or knows 'ow to make a Book!
"Abolish Betting!!! Wot next, I wonder? Wot with County Councils,
dunderheaded Deppyties, and Swells who do the Detective bizness in
their own droring-rooms, pooty soon there won't be a safe look in for
a party as wants to do a nice little flutter--unless, of course, he's
a Stock-Exchange spekkylator, or a hinvester in South American Mines.
_Then_ he can plunge, and hedge, and jockey the jugginses as much as
he's a mind to. Wonder how that bloomin' French _Bourse_ 'ud get along
without a bit o' the pitch-and-toss barney, as every man as _is_ a man
finds the werry salt of life. Yah! This here Moral game is a gettin'
played down too darned low for anythink. And wot's it mean, arter all?
Why, 'No Naughtiness, except for the Nobs!' That's about the exact
size of it, and it's blazing beastly, BOB!
"Only one of the dashed Deppyties talked a mossel o' sense, fur as _I_
see. A certain MOSSOO DER KERJEGU, a Republican, too, bless his boko!
said as 'races were essential to 'orsebreeding, and that without
betting there would be no races.' O.K. you are, MOSSOO DER K.!
And then they up and chuck hus Bookies! No bookies, no betting; no
betting, no races; no racing, no 'osses; no 'osses, no nothink! That's
how it runs, BOB, or I'm a sossidge!
"But this here bloomin' Republick is too rediklus for anythink. Look
at the kiddish kick-up along o' the visit of the Hempress! Why, if
_we_ 'ad that duffer, DEROULÈDE, on Newmarket 'Eath, we should just
duck him in a 'orsepond, like a copped Welsher. Here they washup him,
or else knuckle under to him, like a skeery Coster's missus when
her old man's on the mawl, and feels round arter her ribs with his
bloomin' high-lows. _That's_ yer high-polite French Artists and brave
booky-banishin' Dippyties! Yah!
"'Owsomever, I suppose, BOB, I must clear out of this. MOSSOO
CONSTANS, he said, 'if the Bill were carried there would be an end to
bookmakers.' And it _was_ carried, by 340 mugs against 144 right 'uns.
And arter all me and my sort has done for Parry! It's mean, that's
wot it is, BOB. P'raps they'll chuck British _jockeys_ next! Much good
their _Grong Pree_, ancetrer, will be _then_, my boy. _Our_ 'osses,
_our_ jockeys, _and_ our bookies has bin the making of French
Sport,--and werrv nice little pickings there's bin out of it take it
all round. Wot'll _Ler Hig Life_, and Hart, and Leagues o' Patriots,
and miles o' bullyvards, and COOK's Tourists and Awful Towers do
for Parry without _hus_, I wonder? We shall _see_! Ah, Madame _lar
Republick_, maybe you'll be sorry, you and your bullyin' jondarms,
for chucking o' me afore you're through. As MAT MOPUS put it:--
It was all werry well to dissemble yer love,
But wy did yer kick me down-stairs?
Chucked it is, though, and I shall probably see yer next week, BOB.
Thanks be, the Flat Season's at 'and! Arter all, there's no place
like 'ome! No!--
'Mid _Boises_ and Bullyvards tho' we may roam,
Be it hever so foggy, there's no place _like_ 'ome;
A smile from the Swells seems to 'allow sport there,
Wich, look where you will, isn't met with elsewhere.
'Ome, 'ome, Sweet, sweet 'ome,
Be it hever so fog-bound, there's no place like 'ome!
A hexile from Parry, I'm off o'er the main;
Ah! give me my native Newmarkit again;
The mugs, smiling sweetly, wot come at my bawl,
Give me these, and the "pieces," far dearer than all.
'Ome, 'ome,
Sweet, sweet 'ome,
With RAIKES[1], LOWTHER, CHAPLIN, there's no place like 'ome.
"Mean to sing _that_ at our next 'Smoker,' BOB. But till then,
Ta--ta!!"
[Footnote 1: Which gentleman declined to find out for Mr. SAMUEL
SMITH, "what proportion betting messages bear to the other telegrams
transmitted by the Post-office Department."]
* * * * *