Chapter IV: Part 4

This interesting ceremony ended, Mr. C. resumed his defence. He denied that he had menaced Mr. H. in the violent manner he had described. It was true he had raised his stick for a moment, but it was only in consequence of Mr. H. exclaiming, loud enough to be heard by many people passing, "Oh! Sir--everybody knows what you are!"

SIR R. BIRNIE said the affair hardly amounted to a breach of the peace, and unless Mr. H. could swear that he went in "bodily fear" of Mr. C., he certainly should not feel justified in holding the latter gentleman to bail.

"_Bodily fear!_" cried Mr. H.--and snatching up his hat he left the office, uttering something which to us sounded very much like "_Fudge!_"

TOM SAYERS.

Tom Sayers, a fellow of lofty dimensions was brought up on an assault warrant, charged with having broken the nose of one Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, against the peace, &c.

Tom Sayers is a man who, during the late Peninsular war, "sought the bubble reputation, e'en in the cannon's mouth," as a British grenadier. Whether he found it or not, we are unable to say; but certain it is that he now enjoys the reputation of being an admirable culinary bricklayer--a dexterous setter of kitchen ranges; and with this reputation he is fully satisfied--handling his trowel, and dandling his little ones, and cherishing his wife, and drinking his beer, in peace and thankfulness.

Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, notwithstanding his uncommon name, is as common a looking concern as possible--a dirty little land-lubber in a seaman's dress, with a queer nose, queerly decorated on this occasion with divers broad straps of sticking-plaister--_a la Baron Munchausen_.

"An please your worship," said Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, with his hat grasped in both hands, and giving the floor a long scrape with his off foot--"an please your worship, last Tuesday night, as ever was, I goz into the Crown, in Seven Diles, thinking of nothin at all."

"Very likely,"--said his worship.

"Thinking of nothin at all," continued Mr. Bybie Garmondsway, "an ax'd for a pint of porter; an there were this here gentleman, Mr. Sayers, singing a song; an, becoz I said the song was all _gammon_, he punch'd my head, as your worship may see by my nose, an the landlord chucked me out before I'd half drink'd my beer!--an that's the whole truth about it, as Mr. Sayers can't deny if he's a mind to speak."

"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders," said tall Tom Sayers--drawing up himself to his full height, squaring his shoulders, turning out his toes, and placing his thumbs exactly in line with the seams of his dusty trousers--"I shall speak when his honour gives me orders."

His honour told him he was ready to hear anything he might have to say.

"Thank your honour," said honest Tom Sayers--with a hand-over-brow salute, and without losing the twentieth part of an inch in his altitude--"thank your honour! Your honour sees that I had been setting a stove grate and oven, for the landlord of the Crown here; with which setting he was pleased to say he was very well satisfied: and he asked me to take a pint of beer in token of the same. Just then, in comes my wife, with my child in her arms, to see whether I had done my job, and to walk home with me. I was pleased to see her, your honour--God bless her!--and I was pleased to see my child, and I was pleased that the landlord was pleased with my work; and so I took the child on my knee, and my wife and I sat down, side by side on the settle, to drink the pint of beer the landlord had given me. There he is! If I tell a lie, let him say so."

His worship told him he believed every word he had said.

"Why, thank your honour again, and I'll not disgrace your belief," rejoined the veteran grenadier. "As I was saying, your honour, I and my wife sat down kindly to drink the pint of beer--the beer the landlord gave me, your honour, because I had done my duty by his oven; and the child sat laughing on my knee, and an old comrade came in, and we drank together in memory of old times abroad, and in the pride of my heart--God forgive me!--I sung the '_Battle of Barossa Plains_.'--It was a battle I served in, your honour, to the best of my ability, and my comrade had served by the side of me; and we thought no harm or offence to anybody. But this _thing_ here--half sailor and half _scamp_ (meaning Mr. Bybie Garmondsway), he must begin _mocking_ me whilst I was singing, and insulting all land battles whatever. I asked him to be quiet, and he wouldn't; and after a bit the landlord marched him out, and told him to go home to his own quarters. Three times the landlord turned the envious lubber out, but he was no sooner out than he was in again, challenging me to fight. At last, your honour, I put down the child, and made a charge upon him, thinking to put him out in the street--for as to _fighting_ with such a thing! that's neither here nor there; but I no sooner got hold of him, than, like a false lubber as he is, he turned about and tried to--to do me a private injury, your honour!--and then, sure enough, I did let fly my fist at his face; and, I if have done wrong, I must answer for it."

The landlord substantiated every part of honest Tom's story, and the magistrate instantly dismissed the complaint; at the same time telling Mr. Bybie Garmondsway that a civil tongue was the best preventive of a bruised nose.

THE DUST WHOPPER AND THE WATERMAN.

Mr. Daniel Butcher, "a jolly young waterman," was charged with assaulting Mr. Robert Wingrove, a carpet beater--commonly called "Bob Wingrove, the _dust-whopper_."

Mr. Bob Wingrove deposed thus:--"Your worship, I beats carpets and does portering, by which means I was looking out of my window yesterday afternoon, when I saw a servant _gal_[23] go by, which belongs to a house what I beats for, by which means I runs down stairs to speak to her, and Dan Butcher, this here chap in the scarlet jacket, comes up to me, and without saying '_by_ your leave,' or '_with_ your leave,' he took me two smacks in the head, right and left."

"Why did he strike you?" asked the magistrate.

"Aye, that's what I wants to know, your worship!" replied Mr. Bob.

"Then suppose you ask him now," rejoined his worship; "ask him, why he gave you the two smacks, as you call them."

Mr. Bob, turned, and looked Mr. Dan in the face, as though about to put the question to him; but Mr. Dan smiled him out of countenance, and Mr. Bob, turning back to his worship, said--"It's no use axing him anything, your worship, for he's got a spite agen me ever since I was in prison for saying a few words to a servant _gal_ what brought me here on a peace warrant, by which means he never sees me but he peeps through his fingers at me, as much as to say, 'who peep'd through the prison bars?'--He's a great blackguard, though he's a little chap, your worship; and he never meets my wife, Mrs. Wingrove, but he cries--'Here's a charming young broom!' when my wife is _not a charming young broom_--as all her neighbours can testify, but as honest a woman as ever broke bread--only that, like all other women, your worship, she likes a drop of something comfortable now and then."

Mr. Bob's landlady corroborated all his evidence general and particular, and her evidence closed the case for the prosecution.

Mr. Dan Butcher, in his defence, admitted that he _took_ Mr. Bob Wingrove _two smacks in the head_, as that gentleman had deposed, but he assured his worship they were in return for a _punch in the stomach_ which Mr. Bob Wingrove had _lent_ him; and he called two witnesses to prove that Mr. Bob was the aggressor.

Both these witnesses declared that Dan Butcher was walking quietly under Mr. Bob's window, singing a song, and "giving no offence to nobody," when Mr. Bob ran down stairs, and struck him in the bowels "without any _privy-cation_ whatsoever."

"And pray what song was he singing?" asked his worship; "I have no doubt it was a song intended to insult him."

"Your worship, I don't know what song it was," replied the first witness--"it was a funny sort of song enough, and there was a _tithery um_ at the end of it."

The second witness, however, after much pressing, admitted that it was a song called "_Bob's in the watch-house_," and made by one of the Hungerford-stairs poets in commemoration of poor Mr. Bob's imprisonment.

Mr. Dan could not deny that he sung this song vexatiously, and he was ordered to find bail--So, then, it was Mr. _Bob's_ turn to sing "_Dan's_ in the watch-house."

A GROWN GENTLEMAN.

A very precise, well-dressed young man presented himself before the magistrates, saying he had a very great desire to punish a Mr. Bradbury for _extortion_, _abuse_, and _assault_, and he would be particularly obliged to his worship if he would assist him in so doing.

His worship desired him to describe the nature of his complaint more minutely; whereupon the gentleman went into a long and rather melancholy story, from which it appeared--

Firstly, that Mr. Bradbury lives in the Strand, and is famous for teaching _grown_ gentlemen to write a fine free hand in six lessons, for the trifling sum of one guinea, though they might previously be only capable of scrawling "pot-hooks and links."--Secondly, that the applicant being in this unfortunate predicament, applied to Mr. Bradbury for his assistance.--Thirdly, that Mr. Bradbury undertook to make him a ready writer for the sum of one guinea; and also to teach him how to make a pen, without any additional charge.--Fourthly, that he went through his six lessons in writing, when Mr. Bradbury demanded his guinea.--Fifthly, that he gave Mr. Bradbury a sovereign and a half-crown, desiring him to take his guinea therefrom.--Sixthly, that Mr. Bradbury, instead of returning him one shilling and sixpence, returned him a sixpence only, stating that he retained the extra shilling for stationery; this was the "_extortion_" he complained of.--Seventhly, that he remonstrated with Mr. Bradbury on this stationery charge; and moreover complained to him that he had not sufficiently instructed him in the art of making a good pen.--Eighthly, that Mr. Bradbury replied he should teach him no more, for he had not conducted himself like a _gentleman_.--Ninthly, that he told Mr. Bradbury he should summon him before the Lord Mayor.--Tenthly, that Mr. Bradbury replied, that he cared no more for the Lord Mayor or the Lord _Horse_ either, than he did for him. This was the "_abuse_" he complained of.--Eleventhly, that, on his attempting to remonstrate farther, Mr. Bradbury got up from his desk, clenched his fist, and told him if he did not walk off quietly, he would "_bundle_ him down stairs." This was the "_assault_" he complained of; and having stated all this, he respectfully submitted that he had made out his case.

"And pray, Sir," asked the magistrate, "did he, in effect, '_bundle_' you down stairs?" "No, Sir," replied the gentleman, "but I think he would if I had not walked away very rapidly." "Then, Sir, I am sorry I cannot accommodate you by interfering," rejoined his worship;--"if you had undergone the _bundling_ operation, something might have been done, perhaps; but as it is, I don't see that you have any redress for your manifold grievances, except you sue him in the Court of Conscience for the recovery of the _shilling's-worth_ of stationery; and the issue of that measure would, in my opinion, be very doubtful."

The gentleman looked at his worship, then at his own hat, then at his worship again, and then he slowly withdrew; seemingly quite at a loss what to make of the matter.

DRURY-LANE MISSES.

Mrs. Margaret Bunce, a lean, dirty, slatternly matron, apparently between fifty and sixty years old, complained that she had been grossly assaulted by Miss Eliza Pritchard and Miss Hannah Maria Bagwell--a pair of little stunted damsels from the back settlements of Drury-lane; who, according to their own account, maintain themselves "very _cumfuttably_ by going a _charrin_."

"Please your worship," said Mrs. Bunce, "I lives in Short's Gardens, and these ladies lives in Charles-street, and I can get no comfort for 'em night nor day. They'm always at me for everlasting, go out when I will; and yesterday _arter_noon they pounced upon me as I was standing in _Doory_-lane, and give me this here black eye; and my nose has been as yellow as a _marygoold_ ever since, as your worship may see."

"Have you any witness?" asked the magistrate.

"Yes, your worship--I was standing talking to this 'ere _lady_ at the very time," replied Mrs. Bunce, pointing to a meagre young woman in a ragged hurden apron, a worn-out man's coat, and an old muddy hat, something in the form of a barber's basin. "I was talking to this 'ere lady at the very time."

The _lady_ came forward, dabbed a court'sy, and wiped her face with the corner of her apron.

"Oh! _this_ lady," said his worship; "and what may _your_ name be, Miss?"--"Julia Legge, your worship."--"And pray may I ask what occupation you follow--Miss Julia Legge?"

"I sells _vauter creeses_ and _sweeps crossings_, your worship," replied the gentle Julia; and then she wiped her weather-beaten charms again, and substantiated every word Mrs. Margaret Bunce had uttered.

"_Miss_ Eliza Pritchard and _Miss_ Hannah Maria Bagwell, what have you to say for yourselves?" asked the magistrate.

They answered--"in a joint and corporate voice," "Vy, your Vorship, ve've this 'ere to say--as ve never did _nuthin_ o' the sort; and that there lady (Miss Julia Legge) vasn't there at the time."

Mrs. Bunce and the gentle Julia hearing this, lifted up their eyes and hands in astonishment, and opened a fresh volley of evidence, which concluded with a declaration from Mrs. Bunce, that she never went to see her own mother that they did not lie in wait for and attack her.

"Your _mother_!" said the magistrate, "why how old are _you_?"

"_Me_, your worship--why I'm turned of forty."

"And pray how old may your mother be?"

"Why, your worship," replied Mrs. Bunce, doubtingly, "I reckon she must be _fifty_--or thereabouts!"

There was a general and very ungallant burst of laughter at the broad guess; and poor Mrs. Bunce seemed a good deal confused; but at length the gentle Julia took upon her fair self to say that Mrs. Bunce's mother was _seventy-eight_, to her own certain knowledge.

At last it was ordered that the young ladies, Miss Eliza Pritchard and Miss Hannah Maria Bagwell, should find bail to keep the peace towards Mrs. Margaret Bunce; and not being prepared with any, they followed the turnkey to his stronghold, weeping as they went.

A SMALL TASTE OF JIMAKEY.

A new-booted, yellow-vested, blue-coated, red-headed, rosy-faced, buckish young bricklayer, was brought up from the neighbourhood of Cranford-bridge, charged by one _Tom Nagle_ with having robbed him, on the King's highway, of ten shillings in money, and one bottle of "the best _Jimakey_ rum."

Tom Nagle is an honest, hard-faced, sandy-whiskered Emeralder, who takes out a drop of the rum or the whiskey, now and then, into the country, to make an honest penny of that same. "It so happened that, one Tuesday night, he went into the Queen's Head, at Cranford, with a bottle of the best _Jimakey_ rum in his little basket. There was a lovely sweet fire in the chimney, and the buckish young bricklayer was there sitting before it, with a face like a full moon at the rising, and a yard-and-a-half _backey_-pipe sticking out of the middle of it. And there was the parish-clerk, and the blacksmith of Cranford, and many other jontlemen _blowing_ their _steamers_, and taking their drops mighty convanient at that same time. So Tom Nagle sat down amongst them, and _took his drops_ 'mighty convanient' too. He drained off one pot of _heavy wet_,[24] and then another, and another, and he blew a bigger cloud than any of them; and at the last, he introduced his bottle of _Jimakey_, in the hope that some of the jontlemen would _dale_ with him--but they wouldn't. They only bother'd him--bad luck to 'em, and wouldn't dale with him at all; so he put out his pipe, and departed. Then, as he was walking away from fore-anent the door of the place, the buckish young bricklayer comes out after him, and says he, 'Hallo! Tom Nagle,' says he, 'what shall I give you for the rum?'--that's the _Jimakey_ he was axing about. 'Four and sixpence,' says Tom Nagle, says he, 'and ye shall have the corck and the bottle into it,' says he.--'No,' says the bricklayer 'I sha'n't give thee four and sixpence, but I'll give ye just a shilling for a small _taaste_ of it.'--'No,' says Tom Nagle, 'get along wid ye,' says he--'fait ye sha'n't have any _taaste_ of it at all,' says he. Then the buckish young bricklayer, bad luck to him! took the bottle from Tom Nagle by force, and took a taste of it, just in no time to spake of, and slithered his fist into Tom Nagle's breeches pocket, and pulled out ten shillings from the bottom of it; and split back again along the road--with the shillings in one hand, and the bottle of _Jimakey_ in the other, and Tom Nagle went to look for a constable.

In reply to all this it was stated, by the buckish young bricklayer, and the parish clerk, and two other witnesses, that Tom Nagle was neither more nor less than a bit of a smuggler, and a great pest to all the country round about Cranford for many miles; that on the night in question he was very much the worse for the beer, and that the company at the Queen's Head did certainly joke him about his spirituous calling; that he was very angry in consequence; that he went out of the house in a passion; that the bricklayer followed him, and having given him a shilling for a taste of his rum, he took the bottle from him--telling him, "in a lark," that he would inform against him, for selling spirits without a license. It was further stated, that the bottle was carried back to the Queen's Head, and safely deposited with the landlord, to be re-delivered to Tom Nagle, when he should call for it; and as to the ten-shilling story, it was declared by everybody to be a great fib--a pure invention of Tom Nagle's, and intended by the said Tom as a set-off against the threat of information for selling contraband spirits.

The magistrate asked Tom Nagle--"Is it true that you were drunk at the time?"

"Yer honour," replied Tom Nagle, "I was _hearty_--but not _drunk_ by no manes--bekase I'd only _three pots_ of the beer, and a small drop of the gin."

"Could you walk steadily?" asked his worship.

"Is it _that time_, your honour?" said Tom Nagle: "Fait, then, I could walk as well as I can now--and _better_."

His worship observed that, however disreputable and illegal Tom Nagle's occupation might be, the bricklayer had done wrong in taking his property from him, and he should therefore take care that he was forthcoming at the Sessions, where Tom Nagle might indict him if he thought proper.

Tom Nagle thanked his worship, and the buckish young bricklayer was held to bail.

A WHITE SERGEANT, OR PETTICOAT GOVERNMENT.

Among the "_disorderlies_" brought before the magistrate from St. Clement's watch-house, was a Mr. H., a very respectable law-stationer.

Robert Hunt, a watchman, deposed, that between twelve and one o'clock in the middle of the night, he heard a lady's voice crying "Watch! Watch!--Stop him, Watch!" whereupon he turned himself round about, and seeing the prisoner, Mr. H., running with all his might, he as in duty bound, stopped him full butt, and "civilly seizing him by the collar," told him he must wait a-bit, till "the lady what _skreeked_ should come up." But Mr. H., instead of waiting quietly, as a gentleman ought to do, slipped himself out of his coat, "_momently_ as it were," showed fight, and gave him two or three desperate "punches on the belly" before he knew where he was. This being the case, he "twirled his _rackler_," and other watchmen coming up, Mr. H. was conveyed to the watch-house.

Mr. H., in his defence, gave rather a different account of the matter. It appeared by his statement that, having occasion to call upon a friend late on Saturday night, he found that friend was gone to a neighbouring tavern, and, without thinking any harm, he followed him thither, and having found him, they sat down to take a friendly glass together; but they had scarcely got through the first glass of cold brandy-and-water, with-a-little-sugar-in-it, when, who should come in but his wife, Mrs. H----y! Now, such a visit, at such an hour, and in such a place, he humbly submitted to the magistrate, was confoundedly annoying. He told Mrs. H. that it was extremely indelicate, and desired that she would return home forthwith, and he would follow her in a few minutes. But no--before all the company she peremptorily refused to stir an inch without him! What was to be done? If he departed with her, every body would laugh at him; and if he remained, she would remain also; thereby making the thing still more ridiculous. In this dilemma he consulted with his friend; his friend advised him to go, his own feelings prompted him to stay; but, as matters were getting worse and worse every minute, he resolved to go--and go he did. In order, however, to show Mrs. H. that he would not quietly succumb to petticoat government, exercised in this vexatious manner, he no sooner got into the street, than he took to his heels and ran away--determined in his own mind not to go home for an hour or two. But here again Mrs. H. got the better of him; for he no sooner began to run, than she began to bawl "Stop him, watch! stop him!" and the watch did stop him--not as the said watch had deposed, by "_civilly_ collaring him," but by grasping him by the cravat, and _sticking_ his knuckles against his throat till he was nearly strangled; and he was verily of opinion that he should literally have died of the said strangulation if some persons had not providentially come to his assistance, and forced the watchman to take his hand from his throat. With respect to the "dreadful _punches_" complained of, he positively denied having inflicted them.

Mrs. H., and another lady or two, who, it seems, accompanied her in her tavern expedition, fully substantiated this statement in all its interesting particulars.

On the other hand, the watchman called four of his brethren, who all offered to swear that Mr. H. struck him repeatedly.

The magistrate was of opinion that the watchman had done his duty well, and called upon Mr. H. to find bail to answer for the assault at the Sessions, unless he could satisfy the watchman for his trouble.

Mr. H. said he had no money to bestow on any such purpose; and, feeling himself the aggrieved party, he had rather go before a jury; so he retired in the custody of the turnkey.

THE COOK AND THE TAILOR.

This was a matter of assault and battery, originating in roast lamb and cauliflower, carried on by means of a misfitting toilinet waistcoat, and ending in battle and bloodshed.

Mr. Ellerbach, the defendant, a tailor (by _trade_), small in person and fashionably attired, with his dexter arm gracefully suspended in a black silk sling, was brought up by the nocturnals of St. Martin's watch-house, and placed before the bench. Whereupon Mr. Arundel, the complainant, "a good portly man, and corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage," being first duly sworn, deposed, that he was the proprietor of an eating house (commonly called a _slap-bang_ shop); and that the defendant, Mr. Ellerbach, being indebted to him for sundry plates of roast lamb and cauliflower, he, the complainant, expressed a strong desire to have the said plates of roast lamb and cauliflower paid for without delay; inasmuch as he was fully aware that when a good dinner had answered the purpose for which it was taken, it was speedily forgotten, especially when taken on _tick_. He, therefore, as aforesaid, expressed a strong desire to be paid; which so incensed Mr. Ellerbach, that he came into his shop, as he, the complainant, was standing in the midst of his men, and, after having kicked up a great dust, threatened to beat the whole lot. Complainant having no inclination to be beaten, ordered him to depart in peace, and pay for the lamb and cauliflower when convenient. But the defendant's voice was still for war; he d----d the lamb and cauliflower, "vain-gloriously;" and when one of complainant's cooks went towards him, with the kind intention of pursuading him to be quiet, he took up his fist and struck the unoffending cook right on the mouth. The blood gushed forth in a torrent; and, whilst poor _cookey_ was looking for his teeth, complainant called in the watch, and defendant was conveyed to durance.

Mr. Ellerbach entered upon his reply in a mild tone of impassioned eloquence; he admitted having eaten the lamb and cauliflower, and also that he took it on _tick_--not because he lacked the means of paying for it, even to the uttermost farthing;--but because he had a counter-claim upon the complainant for making him a toilinet waistcoat, which he, the complainant, alleged was a _misfit_, and therefore disputed the payment. Things were in this state, when he, the defendant, sent to complainant's shop for some cold roast beef and pickled cabbage, intending to eat it for his supper, and, to his immense amazement, the messenger returned, stating that complainant not only refused to send it, but had actually threatened to make pickled _cabbage_ of him (the defendant), unless he immediately paid for the lamb and cauliflower. This allusion to _cabbage_ he very naturally took as a reflection--a vulgar reflection upon his profession as a _tailor_, and he, therefore, went to his shop in person, to know what he meant by _pickling_ him. But he had scarcely entered the doors, when he found complainant and his surbordinate cooks all up in arms against him. Complainant called him a scoundrel, and ordered him to depart, without giving him time to demand the explanation he came for; and whilst he was endeavouring to obtain a hearing, one of the cooks made "a contemptuous and rather indecent sort of noise with his mouth;" which so exasperated him, that he certainly did strike the offending cook upon the offending organ; and in so doing he thought himself fully justified. In conclusion, he said, though the cook might have lost a little blood by the blow, and even, perhaps, an odd tooth or so, yet he, himself, at the same time knocked the skin off his own knuckles against cookey's teeth, and strained his thumb so, that he was obliged to carry it in a sling; and therefore he submitted that the assault account ought to be considered as balanced.

The magistrate, however, was of a different opinion, and ordered him to find bail for his appearance to answer it at the sessions.

Thus, though the cook failed to _pickle_ the tailor, the tailor contrived to place himself in pickle--and in such a pickle as probably _cured_ him of his pugnacious propensities.

THE TWO AUTHORS.

A man of six feet in height, of seedy exterior, and most melancholious physiognomy--principal contributor of bawdry and balderdash to the "Rambler's Magazine;" sixpence-a-sheet translator of the "Adventures of Chevalier Faublas," _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera_--was brought up in custody, to show cause why he should not be prosecuted for obtaining money under false pretences from one Mr. Robert Wedderburn--tailor and breeches-maker, field-preacher, radical reformer, romance-writer, circulatory-librarian, and ambulatory dealer in drugs, deism, and demoralisation in general.

Mr. Robert Wedderburn--or Robertus Wedderburn, as he delighteth to designate himself, is a man of colour--something of the colour of a toad's back, plump and puffy as a porpoise, and the magnitude of his caput makes it manifest that nature cut him out for a counsellor, had not the destinies decreed that he should cut out cloth. He therefore became a tailor and flourished (his shears), but age and fatty infirmity at length unfitted him for the operative department of his profession; his back would no longer bend to the board; his legs refused to let him cross them as he was wont to do; his eyes declined seeing a needle unless it was close to his nose; and though he got spectacles of all sorts, and let go his braces to their utmost limits, he could not manage it any how; and so, since he could no longer sew, he joined the _radicals_ of the day, and, from mending breeches, took to mending the state. His doings in this way made some noise in the world. He it was who had the honour of first inoculating the invincible Carlile with pure Deism; he it was who suffered pains, penalties, prosecutions, and imprisonments for his too liberal promulgation of too liberal politico-theological preachings; and he it will be that will have a place in the list of patriot martyrs of the nineteenth century--if a list of them should ever be published. _Shelved_, with the rest of the radicals, he turned his thoughts to literature; literature brought him acquainted with the prisoner; his acquaintance with the prisoner brought the prisoner to the bar of this office; and that brings us to the immediate matter at issue.

It appeared by the evidence, that Mr. Robertus Wedderburn--being a man, as he himself said, "fruitful in imagination, but no great scholar," was in the habit of cutting out pretty little sixpenny romances, and employing the prisoner to touch them up grammatically. This caused a kind of literary intercourse between them; and at one of their interviews lately--on the subject of a new romance, to be called "Beatrice, or the Bleeding Beauty," the prisoner tendered a pawnbroker's ticket to Mr. Robertus Wedderburn, requesting him to buy it. This ticket purported to be a pledging of thirteen volumes of new novels for the trifling sum of ten shillings, and Mr. Robertus Wedderburn willingly undertook to purchase it for three shillings--wisely considering that these thirteen volumes would be a handsome addition to his little circulating library, and that at a shilling a-piece they were certainly "dog cheap." He therefore paid the prisoner the three shillings; and as soon as he could raise the money, he went to the pawnbroker's to redeem the books; when, to his utter astonishment, he found instead of _thirteen_ there were only _three_!--that the prisoner had taken the liberty of placing a 1 before the 3 on the ticket, thereby converting 3 into 13; that the three books were thus pledged for their full value; and that Mr. Robertus Wedderburn was of course bamboozled of his blunt--in the vulgar, "cheated of his money."

The magistrate, having listened with great patience to the premises, asked the prisoner what he had to say for himself; and, as he only played with his hat-band in reply, he was remanded until the evening, in order that the pawnbroker might attend.

In the evening he was again placed at the bar; but there was no pawnbroker in attendance; and Mr. Wedderburn begged leave to withdraw the prosecution--he having been satisfied by the bounty of the prisoner's patron.

The magistrate then commented severely on the conduct of all the parties, and reluctantly consented to the prisoner's discharge.

A BOLD STROKE FOR A SUPPER.

A pair of showy young men, _exquisitely_ attired, with their exquisite attire cased in street mud, and their crops _a-la-Titus_ filled with bits of straw, were brought up from one of the lower apartments (commonly called the _Black "hole"_) in Covent-garden watch-house; where they had passed the night in doleful durance, merely because their appetites were in better order than their finances--or, in plain terms, because they had eaten more supper than they could pay for. They gave their names _John Bright_ and _Henry Walsh_, gents.--the former of Queen's-square, and the latter of----"nowhere in particular." The following is the story of the little adventure which brought them under the _surveillance_ of the police.

On Sunday night these gallants went into the Imperial Hotel, Piazza, Covent-garden, and asked if "Mr. Kecksy" was there. They were told that he was not; at which they expressed much surprise. They then ordered a "rite jollie supper;" and when it was ready they ate it up, washing it down with three bottles of prime old port. Nevertheless, they frequently cast an anxious eye towards the door, and talked from time to time of the unaccountable absence of "Mr. Kecksy." At length they became what is classically called "_Bacchi plenus_," and the landlord thought it was then time to send up the bill. He sent it up accordingly; but they tossed it in the waiter's face, and ordered him to send up the landlord, Mr. Joy. Mr. Joy obeyed their summons, and demanded to know their pleasure. "Joy, my hearty! you must put up _this_ to Kecksy.--He invited us, and by G--d he shall pay," was the jovial reply. "Upon my word, gentlemen, this is too bad--Mr. Kecksy has not been here these many weeks; you are utter strangers to me, and I cannot think of letting you go without paying," replied Mr. Joy. "You can't!--then I'll tell you what, my old boy, we shall _tip you the double_ and _bolt_, by all that's comical!" retorted one of the bucks. This kind of phraseology put their gentility quite out of the question with Mr. Joy, and without further ceremony he ordered one of his waiters to call in a watchman. This was a measure the supper-eaters had not calculated upon, and they became indignantly anxious to put their threat of "tipping him the double" into immediate practice; but Mr. Joy and his waiters opposed their retreat; upon which they threatened to kick Mr. Joy downstairs, and throw his waiters out of the window; and they had actually commenced proceedings in this way when the watchman made his appearance and took them in charge. They now moderated their choler a little, and proposed that somebody should accompany them home, where they would pay the bill. This was acceded to on the part of Mr. Joy, and an extra watchman agreed to accompany them, with one of the waiters, for that purpose. But they had scarcely left the hotel before they suddenly _bolted_ in different directions, and would inevitably have _tipped_ their pursuers _the double_ at last, had it not been for the rattles of the watchmen. As it was, one of them was caught as he was scampering up Bow-street, and the other was found ingloriously concealed among the sheds in the market. Farther parley was not attempted on either side. They were forthwith conveyed to the watch-house, and there they conducted themselves so "_obstropolously_," that the constable of the night found it necessary to have them put down below, "instead of letting them sit by the fire like _gentlemen_."

This was the substance of the evidence for the prosecution, and the muddy _watch_-worn defendants were asked by the magistrates what they had to say to it.

They replied that they were actually invited to supper at that hotel, by their friend Mr. Kecksy, who was very well known to the landlord, and they fully expected he would have come in during the supper, or otherwise they would not have ordered the supper. They had, however, offered the landlord their address, and had assured him he should be paid in the morning.

"Then pay it now"--said the magistrate--"the morning is arrived!"

The defendants looked blank--and did not offer to pay.

Mr. Joy observed, that their story about Mr. Kecksy was a mere absurdity, as that gentleman was _out of town_.

"He is not out of town," said one of the supper-eaters, "for I saw him yesterday afternoon."

"The fact is, your worship, he is in the King's Bench prison," said Mr. Joy.

"That is false, Sir!--He is not," exclaimed the supper-eater.

"Where is he, then?" said his worship.

"Why, Sir, he is--in the _Rules_!" replied the supper eater.

Every soul in the office laughed at this nice distinction; and the magistrate cut the matter short by telling Mr. Joy he could not detain the gentlemen for the amount of their _supper_, as it was a simple contract debt; but he could hold them to bail for the _assault_.

They were accordingly ordered to find bail, and not being prepared with any, they were consigned to the attentions of the turnkey, without any order for their breakfast.

CUPBOARD LOVE.

Mr. George Pendergast, the principal of a _flue-feaking_ establishment--or, in ordinary phrase, a master chimney-sweeper appeared upon a peace warrant issued at the instance of Mr. Christopher Williamson, a painter--not of pictures, but posts and penthouses.

Mr. Christopher Williamson deposed, that on a certain day named, Mr. Pendergast came into his apartments while he and Mrs. Williamson were quietly taking their tea and crumpets, and without any notice whatever, knocked him off of his chair what he was sitting on; and upon his telling Mr. Pendergast he thought such conduct very _ungenteel_, Mr. Pendergast told him to make himself easy, for he would "come it again" as often as he thought proper; from all which, he verily believed that Mr. Pendergast intended to do him some grievous bodily harm, and therefore he prayed the interposition of the law.

Mr. Pendergast, who stood before the bench all soot without, and all gin and jollity within, very readily admitted the assault--adding, "I think, your worship, it was time to give him a bit of a floorer when I found my own wife in his _cupboard_!"

His worship said if that was the facts it certainly had a rather awkward appearance; but Mr. Williamson assured him Mrs. Pendergast only ran into the cupboard to avoid her husband's violence--"And upon my honour, your worship," said he, "there wasn't a morsel of _Crim. Con._, or anything of that 'ere sort, in the business at all."

Mr. Pendergast admitted that he was not much afraid of Mr. Williamson "in the _Crim. Con._ line;" and then went on to detail some other provocations he had received from him: particularly upon one occasion, when Mr. Williamson persuaded him to take a ride on the Thames with him, and because he refused to lend him 10_l._, chucked him overboard right into the river!

Mr. Williamson denied this, and said Mr. Pendergast went overboard by accident, being rather top-heavy-ish. Mr. Pendergast was bound, in his own recognizance of 20_l._, to keep the peace towards all the King's subjects generally, and particularly so towards Mr. Christopher Williamson.

LOVE IN CHANCERY.

About the middle of the year 1821, Horatio, a young apothecary, of a certain city in the West, fell desperately in love with Drusilla, a wealthy damsel of that city; and the damsel returned his passion, though her father forbade her so to do. Then her father, in his anger, had her made a ward in Chancery, and the Lord Chancellor issued an injunction prohibiting Horatio and Drusilla from becoming man and wife. Fathers, and Lord Chancellors, have cruel hearts! and these youthful lovers--instigated, no doubt, by that "giant dwarf, _Dan Cupid_," and, moreover, not having the fear of the _Fleet_ before their eyes--eloped from their native city, with the intention of uniting themselves in defiance of the solemn injunction above-mentioned.

Now it appears that they contrived to elude the pursuit that was made after them by the father of Miss Drusilla; and also by the officers of the court, who were anxious to serve the enamoured Horatio with a copy of the Lord Chancellor's injunction. In this predicament application was made to Bishop--"_Indefatigable_ Bishop," as he is sometimes called--one of the principal Bow-street officers, and he soon discovered their retreat. He found them, by some means or other best known to himself, in _Myrtle_-place, or Myrtle-grove, Hoxton. Perhaps it was the name of the place that led him thither; for where could a pair of lovers take refuge more appropriately than in a _myrtle-grove_?--

And "alas! that an _officer's_ cruel eye

Should e'er go thither
Such sweets to wither!"

--But so it was, he did go, and of course he spoiled every thing--indeed, it would seem that he had no sooner made his appearance at the front door of the house, than "_love_ flew out at the window"--the _lady's_ love at least.

It was just about dusk, in the evening, when Bishop, armed with full powers for the capture of the lady's person, proceeded in a hackney-coach to the Myrtle Grove above mentioned, and alighting at a short distance from the house in which he believed the lovers were concealed, he left his coach in waiting, and walked in silence towards the house. Not the slightest sound was heard from within, but he had no sooner lifted the knocker, than the door was opened by a young lady fully equipped for travelling--it was the fair fugitive, Drusilla herself! She was surrounded by trunks and band-boxes, and bundles; and, as it afterwards appeared, she was at that very moment waiting the return of her beloved Horatio, who was gone to call a coach to convey them to some other place of refuge.

"Your name, I believe Miss, is _Drusilla_ ----, and you are lately arrived from ---- ?" said Bishop, with his accustomed courtesy.

"O dear, no, Sir!" exclaimed the lady. "I am Miss Jenkinsop, the daughter of the mistress of this house."

Bishop remarked that he had no doubt she was telling a _fib_, and desired her to introduce him forthwith to her alleged mama. No; she could not do this, as she was just going out; but if he would walk into the parlour, her mama would come to him presently. Bishop was not to be _had_ in this way; and so, taking the young lady by the hand, he led her into the parlour, and, having rang the bell, the mistress of the house shortly appeared, who disclaimed all relationship to the young lady, and declared she knew no more of her than that she was the "strange young lady" who came to her house with a "strange young gentleman" a day or two ago, and hired her apartments for a week.

The cruel officer now told Drusilla his business, and she wept--for at least a minute and a half; but she no longer denied that she was the identical Drusilla who ran away from ---- with Horatio; and wiping away her tears, she put her hankerchief in her _reticule_, declared she was glad she was caught, and should be very happy to return to her friends, if she was but "sure the _Lord Chancellor_ would do nothing to her."

Bishop told her he had no doubt she would be very kindly received, both by the Lord Chancellor and her father; and offering her his hand, she tripped lightly to the coach he had there in waiting for her. The luggage was then put into the coach, and it was just about to drive off, when another coach drove up, and out jumped Horatio. "Oh! Sir," exclaimed the landlady, who was still standing at the door--"Oh! Sir, they have taken away the lady!" "_Who!_--who has taken her?" demanded the astonished lover. "Why _I_ have," replied Bishop, ordering the coachman to drive on;--crack went the whip, and away went the horses with the coach behind them:--

"But who can paint Horatio as he stood,
Speechless and fix'd in all the death of woe!"

--He did not stand many seconds, however, but ran after the coach like a greyhound, jumped up behind it, and peeping in at the window called mournfully upon Drusilla. "Drusilla, my angel! where are you going?" His angel sat snugly in the corner of the carriage, and made no reply; but Bishop, looking out at the opposite window, said, "Come, come, young chap, don't be rude; or I shall be under the necessity of taking _you_ somewhere--get down from the coach instantly, or I'll take you into custody." Horatio took the hint and jumped down; but, like a true knight, he continued to follow, even on foot, panting and puffing, till the coach stopped in Bow-street; and then his _Drusilla_ having been deposited in a place of safety, without seeing him--for he could not, with all his fervour, keep up with the coach--he attempted a parley with Bishop, about _his share of the luggage_, which had been carried off with the lady. Bishop told him if he would call at the Public Office in Bow-street next morning, he should have "what _belonged_ to him;" and with this promise he departed apparently pretty comfortable. Bishop is a shrewd sort of a subject--his object, in getting Horatio to call at the office, was to give the Chancery Solicitors an opportunity of serving him with a copy of the injunction; and he completely succeeded, for Horatio was punctual in calling for "his share of the _luggage_." He was shown into a private room; where, neither the copy of the injunction nor "his share of the luggage" being ready, he amused himself with a volume of "Coke upon Lyttleton"--instead of pacing the room with his arms folded across his breast to keep his heart down. Indeed it was very evident that he considered himself pretty comfortable under the circumstances. By-the-bye, notwithstanding the desperate adventure he had undertaken, he seemed of a very cool, phlegmatic temperament; and how Drusilla could have fallen so deeply in love with him we cannot imagine; for, though he was nearly six feet high, and had a pleasing obliquity of vision, his nose was embossed with very angry-looking pustules, and his person was spare and uncouth.--But--_de gustibus non est disputandum_.

A length, after he had pored over "Coke upon Lyttleton," and "the Statutes at Large," for about an hour and a half, the Chancery Solicitor arrived and served him with a copy of the injunction; and, had it been a tavern bill of fare, he could not have taken it more comfortably. He opened it; turned it about in different directions; looked at it both on the outside and the inside, played leisurely with the red tape that bound it, and then--thrust it into his coat pocket.

"I have sent for your proportion of the luggage, Sir, and it will be here directly," said Bishop. Horatio gave a nod, as much as to say "thank ye," and then he looked out at the weather. In a minute or two his share of the "_luggage_" arrived. It consisted of a little band-box, and some unwashed shirts and cravats tied up in an old silk handkerchief. Horatio opened the hand-box. There was a well-worn hat in it, two pairs of cotton stockings, and three pairs of gloves--that, somehow or other, had lost the ends of the fingers; and there was, moreover, a very nice pair of yellow morocco slippers, nearly new. Horatio turned over these things some time, seemingly in a sort of brown study; and at last, he remarked that there was a piece of Irish cloth which he did not see amongst them. Bishop said he understood the Irish cloth belonged to the lady. "No, Sir," said Horatio, "it belongs to me. It was to make me some shirts. But it is of no _great_ consequence--let her keep it!" As he said this, he sighed a little; and Bishop--willing to console him for the loss of his love as much as possible--sent for the piece of Irish cloth and delivered it to him. Horatio tied it up in his bundle; put the bundle under his arm; and, balancing the band-box on the palm of his hand, he stalked forth into the street, with the Lord Chancellor's injunction sticking out of his hinder pocket like the handle of a stewpan. Unfortunately for the picturesque, however, as he was crossing the street, the wind, which was then rather high, blew the band-box from his hand. Horatio attempted to catch it before it fell to the ground; but, instead of doing so he struck it--up it went in the air, off flew the lid, and the old hat, the stockings, the fingerless gloves, and the yellow morocco slippers, were scattered on the muddy pavement. Horatio--the luckless Horatio--gathered them up as quickly as the wind, and the carts, and the coaches would permit; but, whilst he was busied in getting them together, the _injunction_ dropped from his pocket. At last he managed to cram them, injunction and all, into the band-box; and, calling a coach, he set off for the White Horse Cellar, with the intention, no doubt, of returning to the culling of simples at home--for he was manifestly a young man who, like his namesake in the play, could take Fortune's _buffets_ as thankfully as her _rewards_.

The lady, in the course of the day, was delivered to her friends in town; and thus ended the loves of Horatio and Drusilla.

KITTY KAVANAGH.

There was a pretty, though homely Irish girl, named _Kitty Kavanagh_, brought before the magistrate on a charge of having stolen a small piece of coarse calico from a Mrs. Dermody.

Kitty Kavanagh is the daughter of a watchman; and she and her father lodge in the same house as Mrs. Dermody. The piece of calico formed "the _canopy_" of Mrs. Dermody's tester bed. One day lately, Mrs. Dermody missed the canopy--it was taken away even whilst Mr. Dermody was in the bed; and, in a day or two after, she found it on Kitty Kavanagh, in the shape of an apron! Mrs. Dermody displayed this apron before his worship, and told him she could swear to the hemming of it--"because it was very _confident_ to be seen by any one."

Mr. Dermody offered his evidence; and, being sworn, he said, "Your _wortchip_, it's true, every word of it, what Mrs. Dermody was after telling you, for myself was fast asleep in the bed at that same time."

His worship now asked Kitty Kavanagh what she had to say to it; and she replied, in the richest brogue that ever rolled through the red lips of an Irishwoman--"It's herself and her husband comed home _bastely_ drunk, your honour; and her husband _bate_ her, and _kilt_ her your honour; and your honour sees Mrs. Dermody could not get to the bed by herself any how, _bekase_ of the liquor that night, your honour; and Mr. Dermody lay down in the bed by himself, your honour's honour, and Mrs. Dermody lay down in the coort."

"But what has all this to do with the stolen linen?" asked his worship; "what have you to say about the piece of linen?"

"Is it the bit o' linen your honour's _spaking_ about?" asked Kitty, with infinite _naivete_--"Och! I found that same at the stair-foot when all the bother was over!"

His worship shook his head, as much as to say he feared Kitty was adding falsehood to theft.

Her father, the watchman, presented himself; and having expatiated upon the excellent _carackter_ himself and his daughter had hitherto borne in the world he next attacked the reputation of the Dermodys; which he said was all that was "bad and _bastely_;" and then he called two witnesses, who would tell his honour "all the rights of it."

His witnesses came forward; they were Patrick Doole and Michael Sullivan. But all that _Misther_ Doole could prove was the drunkenness of the Dermodys on the day of the robbery; and Mr. Sullivan had nothing to say to it at all, only that Kitty Kavanagh was a nice young _cratur_, and her father was just like her for all the world.

This was of course all nothing in the face of the fact so distinctly sworn to, and the prisoner was committed for trial.--So the interesting Kitty Kavanagh was sent to gaol, and perhaps lost her character for ever, for a bit of old calico, not worth sixpence.

FRENCH AND ENGLISH MIXTURE.

Mons. Gaspard Jacques Hercule Flament, a French gentleman with one eye--"_degraisseur extraordinaire_ to the British public;" was brought before the magistrate to show cause why he should not be committed to prison for neglecting to maintain his wife in that style of elegance and comfort to which she was entitled--or rather, for neglecting her maintenance altogether.