"A deputation against the proposed Bill for the suppression of betting-houses had an interview with Viscount Palmerston yesterday."—Court Circular, Thursday.
Early on the above day, Mr. Punch received a note from his friend, Lord Palmerston, apprising him that such a deputation was expected at the Home Office, and asking him to "come down." Mr. Punch, who is always ready to come down in a good cause, immediately complied, and may indeed add, that from the disgraceful state of Whitehall (proverbially the worst swept, kept, drained, and watered street in London), Mr. Punch was laughingly charged by his noble friend, on entering, with having "come down with the dust." Mr. Punch need hardly remark that his retort was triumphant. The Home Secretary and his friend were soon apprised that the Betting-house Keepers were in attendance. Buttoning up their pockets, therefore, the two statesmen directed that their visitors should be introduced.
Lord Palmerston's easy manner, not unmingled with a pleasant scornfulness (scarcely perceptible to the fine natures of the Deputation), was a model of the best style of Reception. Mr. Punch was sterner—he could not smile on such folk. His appearance threw the Deputation into manifest consternation, and one of the fraternity was heard to observe, with a most irreverent reference to one of Mr. Punch's features, that "if Nosey was to be heerd, it was all Queer Street." The vulgar party was supposed to mean that Mr. Punch's well-known sentiments on the subject of Betting-houses would render remonstrance ineffective.
"Well, gentlemen," said the Home Secretary, with the smallest inflexion on the latter word, "I promised to see you. What have you got to say?"
"Why, my lord," said a keen, slangy-looking man, with tight light trowsers, a scampish cut-away coat, and a dark blue cravat, adorned with a huge horseshoe pin, "we think, that is me and the rest of us, Mr. Bolt, Mr. Saint Levant, Mr. Diddles, Mr. Flypaper, Mr. Whitewash, and these other gents" (gracefully introducing each on naming him) "including your humble, namely myself Mr. Doobrus, we think, my lord, that in this matter Parliament is rather down upon us, and that it ain't the thing. We want your lordship to see it in that light."
"I am open to—to—to—a—to conviction," said his lordship; "or, if the word is offensive to any gentleman present, I will say, to argument."
"My lord," said Mr. Doobrus, impressively, "the British turf is a noble and manly recreation, fostered by princes, and encouraging the finest breed of—"
"Mr.—a—Doobrus," interrupted his lordship. "Mr. Punch's time and my own is valuable. Please to keep to the point. Betting-houses have nothing whatever to do with the turf, so suppose we don't talk nonsense. If you can give me any reasons why gambling-shops, that demoralise the rising generation and fill the gaols (with, I am sorry to say, the customers, not the dealers), should not be suppressed, do. But as to talking of the turf, you might as well tell me that St. Paul's is a big church, or, what is a little more to the purpose, that the House of Correction is in Coldbath Fields."
"But, my lord, as a racing man, you must know—"