THE CRIMES OF EATING.
Sir Robert Peel and her Majesty’s Ministers have, we learn, taken a hint in criminal jurisprudence from his Worship the Mayor of Reading, and are now preparing a bill for Parliament, which they trust will be the means of checking the alarming desire for food which has begun to spread amongst the poorer classes of society. The crime of eating has latterly been indulged in to such an immoderate extent by the operatives of Yorkshire and the other manufacturing districts, that we do not wonder at our sagacious Premier adopting strong measures to suppress the unnatural and increasing appetites of the people.
Taking up the sound judicial views of the great functionary above alluded to, who committed Bernard Cavanagh, the fasting man, to prison for smelling at a saveloy and a slice of ham, Sir Robert has laid down a graduated—we mean a sliding—scale of penalties for the crime of eating, proportioning, with the most delicate skill, the exact amount of the punishment to the enormity of the offence. By his profound wisdom he has discovered that the great increase of crime in these countries is entirely attributable to over-feeding the multitude. Like the worthy Mr. Bumble, in “Oliver Twist,” he protests “it is meat and not madness” that ails the people. He can even trace the origin of every felony to the particular kind of food in which the felon has indulged. He detects incipient incendiarism in eggs and fried bacon—homicide in an Irish stew—robbery and house-breaking in a basin of mutton-broth—and an aggravated assault in a pork sausage. Upon this noble and statesmanlike theory Sir Robert has based a bill which, when it becomes the law of the land, will, we feel assured, tend effectually to keep the rebellious stomachs of the people in a state of wholesome depletion. And as we now punish those offenders who break the Queen’s peace, we shall, in like manner, then inflict the law upon the hungry scoundrels who dare to break the Queen’s Fast.
We have been enabled, through a private source, to obtain the following authentic copy of Sir Robert’s scale of the offences under the intended Act, with the penalty attached to each, viz.:
| For penny rolls or busters | Imprisonment not exceeding a week. |
| For bread of any kind, with cheese or butter | Imprisonment for a month. |
| For saveloys, German sausages, and Black puddings | One month's imprisonment, with hard labour. |
| For a slice of ham, bacon, or meat of any kind | Imprisonment for three months, and exercise on the treadmill. |
| For a hearty dinner on beef and pudding | Transportation for seven years. |
| For do. with a pot of home-brewed ale. | Transportation for life. |
As these offences apply only to those who have no right to eat, the wealthy and respectable portion of society need be under no apprehension that they will be exposed to any inconvenience by the operation of the new law.
NOBODY CARES AND*
WELLINGTON has justified his claim to the sobriquet of ‘the iron Duke’ by the manner in which he treated the deputation from Paisley. His Grace excused himself from listening to the tale of misery which several gentlemen had travelled 500 miles to narrate to him, on the plea that he was not a Minister of the Crown. Yet we have a right to presume that the Queen prorogued Parliament upon his Grace’s recommendation, so if he be not one of Peel’s Cabinet what is he? We suppose
* NOBODY NOSE.
HINTS HOW TO ENJOY AN OMNIBUS.
- On getting in, care neither for toes or knees of the passengers; but drive your way up to the top, steadying yourself by the shoulders, chests, or even faces of those seated.
- Seat yourself with a jerk, pushing against one neighbour, and thrusting your elbow into the side of the other. You will thus get plenty of room.
- If possible, enter with a stick or umbrella, pointed at full length; so that any sudden move of the “bus” may thrust it into some one’s stomach. It will make you feared.
- When seated, occupy, if possible, the room of two, and revenge the treatment you have received on entering, by throwing every opposition in the way of a new-comer, especially if it be a woman with a child in her arms. It is a good plan to rest firmly on your umbrella, with your arms at right angles.
- Open or shut windows as it suits you; men with colds, or women with toothaches, have no business in omnibuses. If they don’t like it, they can get out; no one forces them to ride.
- Young bucks may stare any decent woman out of countenance, put their legs up along the seats, and if going out to dinner, wipe the mud off their boots on the seats. They are only plush.
- If middle-aged gentlemen are musical or political, they can dislocate a tune in something between a bark and a grumble, or endeavour to provoke an argument by declaring very loudly that Lord R—— or the Duke “is a thorough scoundrel,” according to their opinion of public affairs. If this don’t take, they can keep up a perpetual squabble with the conductor, which will show they think themselves of some importance.
- Ladies wishing to be agreeable can bring lap dogs, large paper parcels, and children, to whom an omnibus is a ship, though you wish you were out of their reach.
- Conductors should particularly aim to take up laundresses returning with a large family washing, bakers and butchers in their working jackets, and, if a wet day, should be particular not to pull up to the pathway.
- For want of space, the following brevities must suffice:—Never say where you wish to stop until after you have passed the place, and then pull them up with a sudden jerk. Keep your money in your waistcoat-pocket, and button your under and upper coat completely, and never attempt to get at it until the door is opened, and then let it be nothing under a five-shilling piece. Never ask any one to speak to the conductor for you, but hit or poke him with your umbrella or stick, or rap his hand as it rests on the door. He puts it there on purpose. Always stop the wrong omnibus, and ask if the Paddington goes to Walworth, and the Kennington to Whitechapel: you are not obliged to read all the rigmarole they paint on the outside. Finally, consider an omnibus as a carriage, a bed, a public-house, a place of amusement, or a boxing-ring, where you may ride, sleep, smoke, chaff, or quarrel, as it may suit you.
PETER THE GREAT (FOOL?)
The following colloquy occurred between a candidate for suicidal fame and the City’s Peter Laureate:—
“So, sir, you tried to hang yourself, did you?”
“In course I did, or I should not have put my head in the noose.”
“You had no business to do so.”
“I did it for my pleasure, not for business.”
“I’ll let you see, sir, you shan’t do it either for fun or earnest.”
“Are you a Tory, Sir Peter?”
“A Tory, sir! No, sir; I’m a magistrate.”
“Ah, that’s why you interfere; you must be a low Rad, or you wouldn’t prevent a man from
DOING WHAT HE LIKES WITH HIS HONE.”
THE WISE MAN OF THE EAST.
SIR PETER LAURIE begs Punch to inform him, which of Arabia’s Children is alluded to in Moore’s beautiful ballad,
“Farewell to thee, Araby’s daughter.”
He presumes it is Miss Elizabeth, commonly called Bess-Arabia.
SONGS OF THE SEEDY.—No. VII.
I love the night with its mantle dark,
That hangs like a cloak on the face of the sky;
Oh what to me is the song of the lark?
Give me the owl; and I’ll tell you why.
It is that at night I can walk abroad,
Which I may not do in the garish day,
Without being met in the streets, and bored
By some cursed dun, that I cannot pay.
No! no! night let it ever be:
The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!
Then tempt me not with thy soft guitar,
And thy voice like the sound of a silver bell,
To take a stroll, where the cold ones are
Who in lanes, not of trees but of fetters11. Fetter-lane is clearly alluded to by the poet. It is believed to be the bailiffs’ quarter., dwell.
But wait until night upsets its ink
On the earth, on the sea, and all over the sky,
And then I’ll go to the wide world’s brink
With the girl I love, without feeling shy.
Oh, then, may it night for ever be!
The owl! the owl! the owl! is the bird for me!
But you turn aside! Ah! did you know,
What by searching the office you’d plainly see,
That I’m hunted down, like a (Richard) Roe,
You’d not thus avert your eyes from me.
Oh never did giant look after Thumb
(When the latter was keeping out of the way)
With a more tremendous fee-fo-fum
Than I’m pursued by a dread fi-fa.
Too-whit! too-whit! is the owl’s sad song!
A writ! a writ! a writ! when mid the throng,
Is ringing in my ears the whole day long.
Ah me! night let it be:
The owl! the stately owl! is the bird—yes, the bird for me!
POPISH RED-DRESS.
The Examiner states that there is no such fabric as scarlet cloth made in Ireland. If this be true, the Lady of Babylon, who is said to reside in that country, and to be addicted to scarlet clothing, must be in a very destitute condition.
A SPOON CASE.
A well-dressed individual has lately been visiting the lodging-house keepers of the metropolis. He engages lodgings—but being, as he says, just arrived from a long journey, he begs to have dinner before he returns to the Coach-Office for his luggage. This request being usually complied with, the new lodger, while the table is being laid, watches his opportunity and bolts with the silver spoons. Sir Peter Laurie says, that since this practice of filching the spoons has commenced, he does not feel himself safe in his own house. He only hopes the thief may be brought before him, and he promises to give him his dessert, by committing him without
STANDING UPON CEREMONY.
A DAB FOR LAURIE.
SIR PETER LAURIE, on a recent visit to Billingsgate for the purpose of making what he calls a pisciatery tour, was much astonished at the vigorous performance of various of the real “live fish,” some of which, as he sagely remarked, appeared to be perfect “Dabs” at jumping, and no doubt legitimate descendants from some particularly
MERRY OLD SOLE.
SIBTHORPS CORNER.
If old Nick were to lose his tail, where should he go to supply the deficiency?—To a gin-palace, because there they re-tail bad spirits.
Mr. G., who has a very ugly wife, named Euphemia, was asked lately why his spouse was the image of himself—and, to his great annoyance, discovered that it was because she was his Effie-G22. I could make better than the above myself. E.G.—In what way should Her Majesty stand upon a Bill in Parliament so as to quash it?—By putting her V-toe (veto) on it.—PRINTER’S DEVIL..
I floored Ben-beau D’Israeli the other day with the following:—“Ben,” said I, “if I were going to buy a violin, what method should I take to get it cheap?” Benjie looked rather more foolish than usual, and gave it up. “Why, you ninny,” I replied, “I should buy an ounce of castor-oil, and then I would get a phial in (violin).” I think I had him there.
Why is a female of the canine species suckling her whelps like a philosophic principle?—Because she is a dogma (dog-ma).
What part of a horse’s foot is like an irate governor?—The pastern (pa-stern).
Why is the march of a funeral procession like a turnpike?—Because it is a toll-gait (toll-gate).
Who is the greatest literary star?—The poet-aster.
Why is an Israelite named William Solomons similar to a great public festival?—Because he is a Jubilee (Jew-Billy).
Why are polished manners like a pea-jacket?—Because they are address (a dress).
Why are swallows like a leap head-over-heels?—Because they are a summer set (a somerset).
CUTTING IT RATHER SHORT.
The unexpected adjournment of the Court of Queen’s Bench, by Lord Denman, on last Thursday, has filled the bar with consternation.—“What is to become of our clients?” said Fitzroy Kelly.—“And of our fees?” added the Solicitor General.—“I feel deeply for my clients,” sighed Serjeant Bompas.—“We all compassionate them, brother,” observed Wilde.—In short, one and all declare it was a most arbitrary and unprecedented curtailment of their little term—and, to say the least of it,
A MOST DISTRESSING BLOW.
NATIONAL DISTRESS.
The Tee-totallers say that the majority of the people are victims to Bacchus. In the present hard times they are more likely to be victims to
JUG O’ NOUGHT—(JUGGERNAUT.)
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.—No. 12.
Away! away! ye hopes which stray
Like jeering spectres from the tomb!
Ye cannot light the coming night,
And shall not mock its gathering gloom;
Though dark the cloud shall form my shroud—
Though danger league with racking doubt—
Away! away! ye shall not stay
When all my joys are “up the spout!”
I little knew when first ye threw
Your bright’ning beams on coming hours,
That time would see me turn from thee,
And fly your sweet delusive powers.
Now, nerved to woe, no more I’ll know
How hope deferr’d makes mortal sick;
The gathering storm may whelm my form,
But I will suffer “like a brick!”
LAURIE’S RAILLERY.
When Sir Peter Laurie had taken his seat the other morning in that Temple of Momus, the Guildhall Justice Room, he was thus addressed by Payne, the clerk—“I see, Sir Peter, an advertisement in the Times, announcing the sale of shares in the railroad from Paris to ROUEN; would you advise me to invest a little loose cash in that speculation?” “Certainly not,” replied the Knight, “nor in any other railway,—depend upon it, they all lead to the same terminus, RUIN.” Payne, having exclaimed that this was the best thing he had ever heard, was presented by our own Alderman with a shilling, accompanied with a request that he would get his hair cropped to the magisterial standard.
A MEETING OF OLD ACQUAINTANCES.
At the sale of the library of the late Theodore Hook, a curious copy of “The Complete Jester” was knocked down to “our own” Colonel. Delighted with his prize, he ran home, intending to lay in a fresh stock of bons mots; but what was his amazement on finding that all the jokes contained in the volume were those with which he has been in the habit of entertaining the public these last forty years! Sibby declares that the sight of so many old friends actually brought the tears into his eyes.