Volume 25 — THE SHERIFFS' DINNERS AT NEWGATE.
Reading edition
THE Sessions of the Central Criminal Court have lost much of their attraction—especially to a hungry Old Bailey Bar, some of whom are dreadfully open-mouthed—by the cutting down of the dinners usually given by the Sheriffs. It seems that the learned Judges have not as yet had any dinner at all in the City, but have been obliged to be satisfied with a rather substantial "lunch," by way of substitute. The two Sheriffs have been at loggerheads, and one of them—Mr. Wallis—has provided a meal to which he has invited only the Aldermen on the rota instead of the whole body; upon which Sheriff Wire fearing lest his brother Aldermen should starve, has started an opposition table. In the mean time the Judges have been making a meagre lunch with one Sheriff and dining with neither. There being, however, two lunches a day, and two opposition dinners, we should be glad to know how the worthy Chaplain of Newgate performs his elaborate duty of partaking of every meal, which he must necessarily do, in order to avoid giving offence to either of the opposition Sheriffs. The reverend ordinary will have the extraordinary task of disposing of two lunches and two dinners in four-and-twenty hours—an accomplishment that calls to mind the old familiar feat of the leg of mutton and trimmings.
The name of "ordinary" is most appropriately given to the worthy Chaplain, who by virtue of his office is present at the ordinary at one, the other ordinary at five, and again at the two extra-ordinaries occasioned by the division between the two Sheriffs. It appears that in the midst of all this superabundance the learned Judges, "huffed" at having received their invitations from one Sheriff instead of two, have preferred going dinnerless; wisely, however, hesitating to abandon themselves to hopeless hunger, they have to compromise with their dignity by condescending to "lunch" at the table of Sheriff Wallis.
We confess we should be glad to see the practice of Old Bailey dinners getting abandoned altogether, so that the old sarcasm as to "wretches hanging that Judges may dine," may for ever lose its traditional point, as it has long ago lost its practical application. There is something unpleasantly anomalous in the substitution of the table-napkin for the ermine before quitting the Court, and it is not a pleasant reflection, that the prisoners having been awarded their deserts, the Judges will, under the same roof, proceed to take their dinners.
THE JUDGES' CHAMBERS.
Oh such a row, such a rumpus and a bobbery, Everything and every one quite in the dark; No one knows the order of the Summonses, Fixed to be heard by Mr. Baron Parke: Tearing, swearing, For dignity not caring, Common lawyers, clerks of all sorts, down to office drudge. Never was a rougher set of noisy individuals, Hanging round the chamber doors to go before the Judge.
A French Feast of the Poets.
Beranger the poet is, we are told by the paragraph-mongers, continually receiving presents of jam from his enthusiastic countrymen. We regret to say that our own poets meet with no such sweets, and frequently pass a life of unmitigated bitters. Instead of presents of jam (now let the reader prepare to be knocked down by a fearful blow to his common sense)—we repeat—instead of presents of jam our poets too often meet with a gelid indifference—jam and gelid; does the reader see what we are aiming at?
A FAIRY WISH.
Oh, that the million million million billions of seeds of corn rotting on the Danube were "corned" into gunpowder, and swallowed by Nicholas. Having no bowels, how could it hurt him?