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."

"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:—

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!—

"Mean to sing that at our next 'Smoker,' BOB. But till then, Ta—ta!!"

Footnote 1: (return)

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."

Desdemona to the Author of "Dorian Gray."

(A propos of his paragraphic Preface.)

"These are old fond paradoxes, to make boys crow i' the Club corner. What miserable praise hast thou for him that's foul and foolish?"

SOMETHING IN A NAME.—A recent theatrical announcement informed us that a new comedy would be produced from the pen of a Mr. HENRY DAM. If successful, imagine the audience calling for the Author by name. If a triumph, the new dramatist will be known as "The big, big D."

By a Tired and Cynical Critic of Current Fiction.

ATHLETICS.—It is said that the County Council are resolved to forbid the popular feats of raising heavy weights, upon the ground that it may lead to shoplifting.

WORKING AND PLAYING BEES.—Lady B-ountiful first, at the Garrick, and Lady B-arter at the Princess's.

OLD FRIENDS.

Big Ben. "OH, FLATTERY'S THE BANE OF FRIENDSHIP! JUST LOOK AT YOU AND ME, OLD MAN! WHY, I'VE ALWAYS TOLD YOU THE TRUTH ABOUT YOURSELF, HOWEVER DISAGREEABLE! IT'S A WAY I HAVE. AND YET WE'VE BEEN FAST FRIENDS