CHEAP DINING.
A person of very respectable exterior was brought before the magistrate, charged with assaulting the waiter, and destroying the property, of an eating-house proprietor in the neighbourhood of Covent-garden. Eating-houses, properly so called, are, as is well known to the initiated, vulgarly denominated "slap-bang shops;" and certainly the affair of the defendant, in the present case, was a genuine slap-bang adventure.
The gentleman went into the house in question, and called for some roast beef, "under-done, and not too fat." The waiter instantly brought him what they call "a plate" of roast beef—several good jolly slapping slices, swimming in twelve-water gravy, and duly displayed upon an ordinary-sized dinner plate. "What the devil do you bring me such an infernal quantity for?" asked the gentleman. "Do you think I'm a coal porter, or a ploughman? Take it away, you vagabond! and bring me a more christian-like quantity—about half as much." "Master doesn't make half plates, sir," replied the waiter. "Then I shall have none!" rejoined the gentleman, and resuming his gloves, hat, and stick, he was about to make his exit in a rage; but the waiter, with plate of beef in hand, and napkin under arm, placed himself at the head of the stairs, seeking to cut off his retreat with a "Please to pay me for the beef, sir; it was cut by your orders, and you mustn't go till you have paid for it. It only comes to ninepence, sir, wedgittubles and all." "Stand out of my way, you scoundrel! or I'll knock you down!" said the gentleman. "I shan't, sir; you only wants to bilk[16] master, and bolt," replied the waiter. This was enough. In the next instant, a kick from the enraged gentleman sent the plate of beef spinning up to the ceiling; the waiter seized the gentleman by the collar, the gentleman grasped the waiter by the throat, and they struggled together for a moment, and then, down stairs they trundled together, slap bang on to a table just covered with smoking hot dishes of roast and boiled: the table was upset with the concussion, and in the next moment, the half-strangled combatants lay sprawling upon the floor, in the midst of shoulders of mutton, pieces of beef, dabs of boiled cabbage, broken platters, capsized mustard-pots, and many other odd things too tedious to mention.
CHEAP DINING.
The master-cook stood aghast at the horrible clatter occasioned by this comical catastrophe, and the ruin which accompanied it; but he was soon sufficiently recovered from his astonishment to gather the gentleman up again; and then, having had him well wiped down, he gave him in charge to a constable. The constable carried him before the magistrate, as a matter of course, and the master-cook now sought compensation in damages for the injury done to his plates, dishes, and victuals, and the waiter sought a reparation for the bodily injury he had sustained.
The magistrate directed the gentleman to find bail to answer the complaint of the waiter at the Sessions; but he refused to make any order with respect to the damages upon the eatables; inasmuch as the waiter appeared to be as deeply implicated in that part of the business as the gentleman.
THE GENTLEMAN AND HIS BOOTS.
One morning in the dog-days, a gentleman presented himself before the magistrate to claim redress against a bootmaker, who, he said, had done him irreparable injury, and had wantonly inflicted upon him unheard-of torments—torments fit only for the howling inhabitants of Tartarus!—This unfortunate gentleman had walked or rather waddled into the office slip-shod, in green morocco slippers: whilst he spoke, he stood first upon one foot, and then upon the other; and there was such a manifestation of intense suffering in his voice, his countenance and his gesture, that every person present pitied him.
He said he had been miserable enough to have a dispute with his boot-maker, about a pair of boots which he had sent the rascal to repair; and in that dispute he expressed himself more warmly, perhaps, than the occasion warranted; but he little thought he was to suffer for it in the way he had done. Some days after the dispute above-mentioned, the boot-maker sent the boots home; and, on the next morning, he put them on, and walked out with the intention of calling upon several friends, with whom he had particular appointments. But he had not walked more than two or three hundred yards, when his feet began to feel "cursedly uncomfortable;" and the more he walked and tried not to notice them, the more uncomfortable they became. What the plague could be the matter with the boots, he could not imagine! They were quite large enough, and the leather seemed soft and pliable; and yet, had they been made of iron, and two sizes too small for him, he could not have felt more uncomfortable. Nevertheless—though with less and less of comfort, he still walked, and walked, until his walk became a downright ridiculous hobble; and at last, without having called upon a single friend, he returned home in as lamentable a condition as Peter Pindar's pea-perplexed Pilgrim—
"His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet!"
"Bring the boot jack, Molly!"—he exclaimed, in a paroxysm of perspiration. Molly brought it in a moment, and, with eager anticipation of ease, he stuck his heel into it; but, alas! he no sooner began to pull than his agonies were increased tenfold! and the boot-jack was kicked away in despair. In two minutes he tried it again—and again he suffered the most excruciating torment. Oh! miserable state!—Hercules himself could not have suffered more whilst writhing in the poisoned shirt; and had the unlucky boot-maker been there at that moment, it is a hundred to one but he would have undergone the fate of the hapless Lychas—at least he would have stood a good chance of being well pulled by the nose, and perhaps knocked down with the boot-jack. At last—for it is miserable to dwell upon such horrors—at last, the gentleman, sweating at every pore, and wound up almost to madness, thrust his heel once more into the yawning jack, and shutting his eyes, he pulled with such a desperate might, that his foot came forth indeed—but it came forth completely flayed. Not only the stocking, but the skin was left behind—and even his very corns were torn up by the roots! Can any one imagine a sharper operation than this must have been? And then to be obliged to undergo a similar operation on the other foot, too!—Really it makes one perspire only to think of it. However, it was inevitable[17]—the other foot was torn away in the same miserable manner, and it came forth from the bottom of the confounded boot almost as skinless as an anatomical preparation!
"And now, Sir," said the gentleman, when he had told his story thus far—"and now, Sir, what do you suppose was the cause of all this misery?"
"Upon my word," replied the magistrate, "I cannot imagine—I never heard of such a case before."
"Why, Sir," continued the gentleman, "it was cobbler's wax!"
"Cobbler's wax!" echoed his worship.
"Cobbler's wax, Sir!" re-echoed the gentleman.—"The rascally boot-maker, in pure revenge for the scolding I gave him—had, with malice prepense, lined the foot of each boot with cobbler's wax! and I trust, Sir, you will punish him soundly for such unwarrantable wickedness."
The magistrate observed that it was altogether a new case; and, though it certainly was a most unpleasant one, he feared it could not be brought within his jurisdiction.
The gentleman suggested that, it would probably come under the Act for preventing the wanton destruction of property. His stockings were utterly destroyed; his boots were totally spoiled; and his feet were cruelly scarified! All this had been done wantonly and wilfully, he said; and in corroboration of the premises, he now produced from his pocket the dangling remains of the stockings he wore on the agonizing occasion.
The stockings were utterly spoiled; and after much urging on the part of the gentleman, his worship consented that a summons should be issued for the boot-maker's appearance. However, it came to nothing; for in half an hour after, the gentleman waddled back to the office, and said the boot-maker and he had come to an éclaircissement which would render his worship's interference unnecessary. What was the nature of that éclaircissement did not appear; but certainly the boot-maker who could have the heart to put a poor gentleman to so much misery ought no longer to call himself one of the "gentle craft."
BEAUTY AND THE BROOMSTICK.
Mrs. Mary Evans was brought before the magistrate on a warrant charging her with an assault on the person of Miss Jemima Jennings.
Mrs. Mary Evans was a tall thin matron, somewhat declining into the vale of years; but her countenance—especially the most prominent part of it, which was very prominent indeed—was still blooming with spirituous comforts. Miss Jemima Jennings was a very pretty mild-spoken young woman, with a countenance blooming with youth.
Miss Jemima deposed, that on a certain day named, she happened to be going along a certain street, and, as the weather was very hot, she happened to go into a certain public-house to take a glass of Henry Meux and Co.'s entire. She there happened to see a gentleman, who very politely asked her to take a glass of something short;[18] telling her it would squench her thirst better than porter. She resisted his invitation for some time; but at length she consented to take a drop of something short—a cool dodger of cloves and brandy;[19] and having drank it, she thanked the gentleman for his politeness, and went on her way—pretty considerably refreshed. Next day, she happened to go into the same public-house again—not with any expectation of meeting the same gentleman again, but with the sole intention of taking a dodger of cloves and brandy on her own account—she having derived great comfort from the one she took on the preceding day. It so happened that the gentleman was not there; at which she was very much pleased; for she could not "bear the highdear of being beholding to one gentleman two days together." Whilst she was taking her cloves and brandy, thinking of nothing at all but how very nice it was, who should come in but the defendant, Mrs. Evans, with an "I want to speak to you, young woman." Now she, Miss Jemima, thought this very comical, for the lady was a perfect stranger to her. However, she followed her, up one street, and down another, till at last Mrs. Evans opened the door of a house and said, "pray walk in, Mem;" and in she did walk, wondering what all this could mean. Mrs. Evans, having closed the door, made her a low courtesy, and said, "Have the kindness to walk this way, Mem;" and Miss Jemima followed her along the passage to an inner apartment, like a lamb to the slaughter-house, as she said; for they had no sooner entered the room, than Mrs. Evans seized a broomstick, and without uttering a single word, began to belabour her over the back and shoulders with all her might! Miss Jemima shrieked or squeeked, as she called it, for help; but not a soul came to her assistance; and she was obliged to defend herself as well as she could with her hands alone, till Mrs. Evans dropped her broomstick for lack of breath; and then she, Miss Jemima, made her way out of the house, covered with bruises and wonder.
This was the unprovoked assault complained of and for this Miss Jemima Jennings claimed redress at the hands of the magistrate.
Mrs. Evans made a very voluble defence. She was cursed with a husband, she said, who—though she had brought him twelve children—was continually hankering after other women. On Monday last he went out, taking with him six goolden sovereigns, which she had put by to pay her coal-merchant, and he did not come near home for three whole days thereafter. Some of her neighbours told her that he had been seen courting the complainant (Miss Jemima) with cloves and brandy; and she was so hasperated at hearing this, that she certainly did entice Miss Jemima to her house, and bansell her with the broomstick as she had described. In conclusion, she admitted that she was wrong in so doing, but her passion got the better of her judgment, and she hoped his worship would consider that as an excuse. It was very hard, she said, for a woman at her time of life to be neglected for such creatures.
The magistrate told her he thought she ought not to have proceeded to such a violent outrage upon the complainant, without better proof that she was the cause of her husband's faithlessness; but as jealousy was an ungovernable passion, and as she appeared to repent of her violence, he would order the warrant to be suspended for a day or two, in the hope that she would in that time make her peace with the complainant, and save herself further trouble and expense.
THE COCKNEY AND THE CAPTAIN.
Captain J—— F——, a gallant officer, who had lost an eye in the service of his country, and was residing with his family in the pleasant village of Mortlake, was brought before the magistrate, on a warrant, charging him with having assaulted and beaten one Samuel Cooper, who called himself "a London shop-keeper, in a small way, residing in Vitechapple."
Samuel Cooper, it appears, went out to ruralise one fine sunny day, and having strolled as far as Mortlake, he called upon a friend of his, a little fat man in a brown bob wig, who keeps a little shop in the neighbourhood of that village. It is a sweet little cottage, with a little garden in front of it, well stored with potherbs, "gilli-flowers gentle and rosemarie;" and has a little wicket gate opening to the road. His bob-wigg'd friend was mighty glad to see him, and invited him to stay to dinner; an invitation which was gladly accepted, for Samuel Cooper was come out to make a day of it. They had a dish of very nice beans and bacon for dinner—broad Windsors, and a prime cut of gammon; and having chatted an hour or two, and finished a couple of pots of mild porter, Samuel Cooper walked out into the little garden in front of the cottage, and leaned over the little wicket-gate, enjoying the beauties of the prospect and a lovely evening, whilst his bob-wigg'd friend was busied with some little matters in his shop.
As Samuel Cooper was thus leaning over the gate—pondering, no doubt, on the possibility of getting back to Vitechapple, without paying coach-hire—he was aware of two ladies coming along the lane. One of these ladies was a considerable distance behind the other; and when the foremost of them came nearly opposite to the place where Samuel Cooper stood, she stooped—apparently without seeing him—and began rectifying the lace of one of her boots, which appeared to have got loose in walking. Now, whether Samuel Cooper is a man prone to gallantry, or whether the delightful evening, the beans and bacon, and the mild porter, opened his heart more than usual, we know not—but so it was, that when he saw the lady stoop, and begin doing something at her foot, he suddenly called to her, "Shall I tie up your boot-lace for you, Ma'am?" Unlucky Samuel Cooper! The words had scarcely passed his lips when the lady raised herself, looked round for a moment, gave a loud shriek, and ran off down the lane with the speed of an antelope—followed by the loitering lady whom Samuel had seen in the distance. Samuel Cooper looked after them as they ran, and smiled to think that women should be so "timmersome." But he soon had cause to smile on the other side of his mouth, as it were; for in the next moment Captain F—— rushed into the garden, exclaiming, "You rascal! how dare you insult a lady?" and before the astonished Samuel could reply, he received the gallant Captain's clenched fist full on the centre of his nose, and down he went—all amongst his bob-wigg'd friend's gilliflowers! The Captain then walked away; and the luckless Samuel gathered himself up, leaned his head over the wicket-gate, and there he stood bleeding for more than half an hour, bemoaned both by himself and his bob-wigg'd friend.
This was the violence he complained of. He assured his worship that he had not the most distant idea of insulting the lady, and he was utterly astonished at the consequences that ensued.
"Thou shalt be punished for thus frighting me,
A woman, naturally born to fears;
And though thou now confess thou didst but jest,
With my vex'd spirits I cannot make a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day,"—
said Lady Constance to William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury, when he merely told her there was a wedding in hand; and what would she have said had the noble Earl startled her with such an offer as Samuel Cooper's? But, may be, honest Samuel has tied up the boot-laces of many a buxom lass at Vitechapple, and he thought he might do the same kind service for the ladies at Mortlake. Ah! simple Samuel Cooper!
The whole of his statement, as far as the Captain was concerned, was fully substantiated by his bob-wigg'd friend, whose garden had been watered, as it were, with Samuel's innocent blood; and then, Captain F—— was called upon for his defence.
The gallant Captain gave a rather different account of the affair: and took off something from Samuel's veracity. The Captain said his wife and sister had gone to visit a friend at some distance on the afternoon in question, and some time afterwards he set out with the intention of meeting and accompanying them home; but a sudden shower coming on, he took shelter in the house of a brother officer on the road. Whilst he remained there, he saw his wife and sister pass by, and he was just preparing to follow them when he heard his wife shriek. Rushing instantly from the house, he met both the ladies running back again with great trepidation and alarm. He hastily inquired what was the matter. They told him as hastily, that they had been grossly insulted by the complainant, Samuel, who still stood chuckling at the gate. He naturally felt very angry, and immediately went up to Samuel, and taking him gently by the lappel of his coat, he said to him, "Now my good fellow, unless you make an apology to the ladies, for your insult, I certainly will chastise you." "Boo!"—said the boorish Samuel—"I'll see 'em d—d first!" and as he said this he threw his arms up in such a manner that his elbow struck the Captain on the chin; whereupon the Captain knocked him down, as above stated; and he submitted that any other man would have done the same under the same circumstances.
The magistrate viewed the matter in the same light. He told Samuel, his conduct to the lady was extremely impertinent; and his manner, when remonstrated with, grossly insolent; and therefore he should discharge the warrant, leaving him to seek his remedy at the Quarter Sessions, if he thought proper.
Samuel stared, and appeared inclined to reply, but seeing it was useless, he left the office in silence, wondering more than ever; and his bob-wigg'd friend slowly followed him.
JEMMY SULLIVAN.
A jocund little Irishman, with dark sparkling eyes and black glossy well-curled poll, dressed in a carter's frock, and heavy travel-stained shoes, was brought in by some of the patrol, who had found him strolling about Long-acre, in the dusk of the evening, apparently without either aim or object, and laden with a large bundle tied up in a very handsome shawl. This bundle contained seven gowns, sundry shawls, handkerchiefs, hose, &c., and a smartly-trimmed straw-bonnet nearly new; and the patrol declared, that from the very unsatisfactory manner in which he accounted for his possession of these articles, they verily believed he had stolen them. They also pointed out to the magistrate a round hole, about the size of a shilling, in the side of his hat crown, which they strongly suspected had been made by a pistol-ball.
"What is your name, friend?" said his worship, to the brilliant-eyed, smiling prisoner.
"Jemmy Sullivan! your honour," was the instantaneous reply, in a rich Tipperary brogue, and a tone so loud, that all the office echoed, "Jemmy Sullivan!"
"And pray, where did you bring these clothes from, and to whom do they belong?"
"From Portsmouth, your honour—and they belongs to the wife o' me."
The magistrate doubted the correctness of this statement—it was not likely that the wife of such a man could have such a wardrobe.
"Sure enough it's the truth, every bit of it, your honour," replied Jemmy Sullivan.
"How came this hole in your hat?" asked his worship.
"Is it the hole your honour's axing about?—'Faith, then, the mice made it, to get at the bread and the cheese, your honour—bad luck to 'em!"
"What! do you carry your bread and cheese in your hat?"
"No, 'faith, your honour, not a bit of it any time, barrin that time the mice stole it all; and then, your honour, it was not in it, that's the hat, at that same time, but on the shelf, your honour, and I'd none of it left for me breakfast at all. Gad's blood, says I to meself, but ye shan't do that to me again, says I, for I'll put it under me hat all the night; and so I did, your honour; but bad luck to them, the craturs, they bored the hole clane through the side of it, which your honour's axing about."
"Are you sure it was not on your head when the ball was fired at it?" asked his worship, without seeming to have listened to his bread and cheese adventure.
"Was it on me head, your honour! Faith if it was, meself wouldn't be here spaking to you about the mice," replied Jemmy Sullivan.
The officers, in searching his pockets, had found a number of English and Irish pawnbrokers' duplicates; and the magistrate, selecting one of them, asked,—
"Where did you get this ticket for a pelisse?"
"Bought it, your honour, of Myke Dermot, in Donaghadee—He's a bagpipes, your honour."
"And pray what are you?"
"A tailor, your honour," was the reply. But one of the patrol, who is skilful in such matters, having examined his hands, declared, that if he was a tailor, he had not used the needle for twelve months at least.
"What have you to say to that, Mr. Sullivan?" asked his worship.
"Bad luck to the tailoring, your honour, it wouldn't agree with me at all, anyhow, and I discharged meself clane out of it, by the same token, Sir."
"And how have you got your living since?"
"I walks down be the water-side, your honour, an gets me little bits o' reeds an things, and ties 'em up like little bagpipes, and plays on 'em, your honour, Thady you Gander an Gramachree, and the likes of 'em; an the jontelmen plases to hear me, your honour; an some gives me a shilling, an some half-a-crown, may be, an some buys the little bagpipes for themselves, your honour."
Honest Jemmy endeavoured to make the nature of these "little bagpipes" very plain to his honour; but he did not seem to understand it exactly himself, and so he made nothing of it. Neither could he account for his bringing his wife's wardrobe up to London whilst she remained herself in Portsmouth; and eventually he was committed for further examination.
Even this order for his imprisonment he took in perfect good humour; and having carefully counted the ten or twelve shillings which the magistrate ordered to be returned to him, he replaced them at the very bottom of his pocket, and said, "I hopes your honour'll take care o' me things?" The magistrate assured him he would, and honest Jemmy Sullivan then followed the turnkey as blithely as if he had been going to Donnybrook Fair instead of to prison.
This poor fellow was kept in prison nearly a month, during which time his wife came to London, and not hearing anything of him at the place they had appointed for their meeting, she went over to Ireland in search of him. At length Jemmy was discharged because there was no evidence against him; but his clothes were not given up to him till long after.
ONE OF THE FANCY.
A poor harmless translator of old shoes was placed at the bar by a city officer, upon a charge of having stolen, or otherwise improperly obtained, a cheque for 300l. from one Jonathan Freshfield, Esquire, "one of the Fancy."
This Jonathan Freshfield, Esq., was a diminutive, forked-radish sort of a young man, very fashionably attired, or, as he would say, kiddily togg'd; and, though it was scarcely noon, he was rather queer in the attic; that is to say, not exactly sober.
He stated his case in this manner:—"Here—I wish this fellow to say how he got hold o' my cheque for three hundred—that's all, you know; let him come that, and I shall be satisfied. Rum go—had it last night, missed it this morning—d——d rum go! Here—here it is, see; payable at Hankey's—all right—grabbed him myself. Went to Hankey's two hours 'fore Bank opened—waited two hours—sat upon little stool—wouldn't be done, you know. In he comes with it—grabs him! There he was—looked like a fool. 'Hallo!' says I, 'how did you come by it?' Mum. Hadn't a word, you know. Only let him come it now, all about it, and I'm satisfied. Don't like to be done—a rum go, but can't stand it—that's all."
The city officer said he had been sent for to Hankey's to take the prisoner into custody; and having done so he carried him before the Lord Mayor; but as it appeared the offence, if there was any, had been committed in the county, his Lordship had referred the matter to Bow-street.
The magistrate asked to see the cheque, as the Esquire called it. The officer produced it, and it proved not to be a cheque, but an acknowledgment from Messrs. Hankey and Co. that they had received 300l. from Jonathan Freshfield, Esq., for which they would account to him on demand.
"Pray, have you an account at Hankey's, Mr. Freshfield?" asked the magistrate.
Mr. Freshfield replied, "Who, I? not a bit of it. I'm from the country, you know. D—n town!—Had enough of it almost. Diddled in this manner!—it's a sick'ner. Got it again though—only want to know how that fellow, the long one there, came by it. Put the blunt at Hankey's, to be safe—'cause wouldn't be done, and then lost the cheque!—that's a rum go—isn't it, your worship?"
The magistrate asked the prisoner how he came by it.
He said he lodged at Mister Burn's, the fighting man's, in Windmill-street, and two gentlemen there, whom he did not know, gave him the cheque to get cashed.
His worship directed an officer to go to Burn's house and inquire about it.
In about half an hour he returned with Mister Burn in company.
"Burn, do you know anything of this business?" asked the magistrate.—"Who was it gave this paper to the man at the bar?"
"Who gave it to him, your worship?" said Mister Burn, "Why, I did." "You did!—and pray how did you come by it?"—"Why, I won it, your worship—won it by shaking in the hat;" replied Mister Burn, squeezing the sides of his hat together, and giving it a hearty shake to show his worship the trick of it.
The magistrate looked at Mr. Freshfield; Mr. Freshfield looked at Mister Burn; Mister Burn looked boldly round at everybody as if nothing was the matter, and at last, Mr. Freshfield ejaculated—"Well, that's a rum go, however! D—n me, never thought of that, you know. Don't believe it, though. Coming it strong, eh! Burn? May be, though—won't be sure."
After soliloquising some time in this style, he began a long history of his having gone from Spring's to Burn's, and Burn's to Spring's, and betting upon the "match for Monday;" and taking the long odds at one place and giving them at another, till the magistrate and everybody else was quite weary of it. So his worship discharged the prisoner; recommended Mister Burn not to addict himself to "shaking in the hat," directed the city officer to return Mr. Freshfield his 300l. "cheque," and advised Mr. Freshfield to put it into his pocket, and return to his native woods as soon as possible.
A SUNDAY'S RIDE.
Mr. Lester, a respectable elderly man of considerable property, residing at Battersea-rise, applied to the magistrate for an assault warrant against a person whom he described as a high-flying linen-draper, carrying on business in Parliament-street. The warrant was granted upon his affidavit, and Mr. Highflyer was shortly after brought up in custody; but as the magistrate had been called from the bench for a few minutes, he seized that opportunity of making an atonement for his misconduct to the party complaining, and so escaped the Sessions, though the assault and outrage he had committed were certainly most sessionable.[20]
It appeared that this Mr. Highflyer had determined on taking his spouse for a ride in a gig—we beg his pardon, in a tilbury,—one Sunday, and that they did take a ride in a tilbury accordingly. They trotted gaily along in connubial comfort till they had almost reached Battersea-rise; but there all the connubial comfort evaporated: for—whether it was that the motion of the tilbury swung away Mr. Highflyer's ordinary notions of connubial concord, or whether the expansion of prospect around him produced a corresponding expansion of the amatory principle within him, we know not—but so it was, that about a quarter of a mile on this side Battersea-rise, he bowed very gallantly to a pretty young woman who was passing; and she familiarly nodded in return. Now this might be all very innocent, but his wife thought otherwise; and she took so much umbrage at it, that high words ensued. In short the "green-eyed monster" took possession of all her perceptions; and Mr. Highflyer, in the buoyancy of his heart and tilbury, carried it with such a high hand—so cavalierly as it were, that his lady declared she would not ride another inch with such a faithless creature, and insisted upon his setting her down directly. And cruel Mr. Highflyer did set her down instanter;—instead of trying to pacify her, and convince her of her error, he coolly set her down and drove on without her. This was nearly opposite Mr. Lester's house on Battersea-rise; and as Mr. Lester looked through his window he saw the lady sitting on a low wall by the road-side, weeping and sobbing most piteously. Mr. Lester, though as sturdy a John Bull as ever thrust carver into smoking sirloin, has much of the spirit of chivalry in his composition, and seeing a lady in such a distressing situation, he sallied forth and offered her a temporary asylum in his hospitable little parlour. The weeping lady thankfully accepted his offer; but he had no sooner seated her carefully on his sofa than she fell into hysterics, and it required all the skill of his wife, his daughters, and his handmaidens, to bring her to her senses again. She did recover, however, but it was only to renew her sighs and tears; and neither Mr. Lester nor his wife knew what to make of it, when a thundering rap at the door nearly shook all the glass out of the windows, and in the next moment Mr. Highflyer stalked loftily into the parlour. At the sight of him Mrs. Highflyer went off into hysterics again, and Mr. Highflyer, in his endeavours to recover her from the fit, conducted himself so at-homeishly, that Mr. Lester did not half like it.—He called about him for all sorts of things, tore the sofa cover, threw the cushions about the room, upset the china tea things, and broke the pole of the fire screen! At length Mr. Lester's anger got the better of his hospitality, and he reminded Mr. Highflyer that he was not in his own house. "Damn the house!" exclaimed Mr. Highflyer, "what the devil do I care whose house it is? I am a gentleman and nothing else, and I shall do what I like—here or anywhere else!" "No, Sir!" said the astonished Mr. Lester, "No, Sir, you shall not, and no gentleman would have done as you have done already." I'faith this was enough—the words had scarcely passed Mr. Lester's teeth, when three of those teeth were loosened to their very foundation by a blow from the gentlemanly fist of Mr. Highflyer. "Take that, Sir!" said he, "and if you don't like it, I'll fight you with either sword or pistols!" The astonished Mr. Lester was still more astonished at this treatment; but being no match in thews and sinews for Mr. Highflyer, he flew to the poker, and had it not been for the interference of the ladies, Mr. Highflyer would doubtless have been laid low.
As it was, the affair went off in a clamorous palaver; after which Mr. and Mrs. Highflyer returned to town in the tilbury, highly dissatisfied with their day's pleasure; and Mr. Lester went to bed, wondering that there should be such queer people in the world.
It was reported among the officers that the peace-offering for all this was ten sovereigns; and if so, Mr. Highflyer got off cheaply.
DISAPPOINTED LOVE.
Mr. Owen M'Carthy appeared in custody before the Bench, to answer the complaint of Mrs. Margaret Reading, spinster. Mr. Owen M'Carthy is five feet two without his shoes, and sixty-seven years old; but—as he himself observed—"sound as the big bell of St. Paul's, both in mind and body." The lady has seen sixty-five winters pass away; and in all that time she has so conducted herself that no living creature can say, "black is the white of her eye"—at least that is her opinion; and surely she ought to know.
It appeared by her evidence that Mr. Owen M'Carthy and she reside under the same roof, and have for many years been upon the most friendly terms; till, in evil hour, Mr. Owen M'Carthy, who was then a widower, took unto himself a second love—a second wife he called her; but Mrs. Margaret Reading declared it was no such thing. Well, this second wife, or mistress, be it which it will, according to Mrs. Margaret Reading's account, is "a born devil;" and takes every opportunity of treating Mrs. Margaret Reading in the most ridiculous manner—such as calling her a frumpish old fool, spitting at her as she goes up and downstairs, &c., and in all this Mr. Owen M'Carthy, forgetting the kindness that formerly existed between them, encourages her. One day Mrs. Margaret Reading went up to their apartment, determined to give them the telling of some of their faults; but she had scarcely opened her mouth, when Mr. Owen M'Carthy bounced up from his chair, and gave her such a push, that she tumbled down, rolled on to the landing-place, and it was God's mercy she did not trundle downstairs.
This was the assault complained of, and she called upon the magistrate to punish him sewerely.
Mr. Owen M'Carthy in his defence said, "May it plase your honour, when the wife that I had twenty-seven years died, this ould woman and another was living in the place, and they both made love to me extramely. But I thought to myself, thinks I, your honour, sure and what would I do with two ould women at one and the same time? Well, then, your wortchip, says I, in that case I'll ounly have one of 'em, and that will be Judy M'Craw; bekase, your wortchip, she was the comlier one of the two, and I larnt she'd the best carackter for peaceableness; and I married her; and, saving your wortchip's presence, she's my lawful wife at this same time, and like to be, sure enough, to the end of it. Well, your honour, bekase of this, Mrs. Reading bother'd me exsaadingly, and wouldn't be quiet for her jealousy, and was always making corruptions between me and Mrs. Owen M'Carthy that is; and so, when she comed up with her phillaloo botheration, about nothing in the world but I wouldn't have her, I put my hand out, and 'go along wid you, Misthress Margaret,' says I; and with that she laade herself clane down o' the floor, and rolled herself out of it just in no time, your honour, at all."
Mrs. Margaret had nothing to say against this, and she was non-suited.
TOM CRIB AND THE COPPERSMITHS.
The Champion of England—not he who, gallantly armed, rode proudly through ranks of assembled chivalry, and challenged the world in defence of his sovereign; but the champion of England's prouder pugilism—the belted hero of the prize ring—the man whose fist is fate—the—in a word, honest Tom Crib, entered the office covered with mud, and holding, in his giant grasp, a little, well-bemudded, wriggling coppersmith, named William Bull.—"And please your worships," said the Champion, "this here little rascal (shaking him) comes into my tap-room, with two or three dirty chaps of the same sort, and got so sweet upon themselves with drinking beer, that they must needs go into the parlour to drink grog amongst the gentlemen, your worships! and because I wouldn't stand that, this here little rascal (shaking him again) smashes two panes of glass to shivers, and then tried to bolt, but it wouldn't do."
The Champion was desired to loose his hold upon the coppersmith, which he did instantly; but he still regarded him with a look of angry indignation, whilst the saucy little coppersmith, adjusting his disordered jacket, exclaimed, "My eyes, Mister Tommy! let us ever catch you at Bristol again, and we'll zarve you out for this!"
Mr. Bull—Bill Bull, he called himself—was ordered to be quiet, on pain of being instantly locked up; and other witnesses of the affair were examined, by whose evidence the Champion's account of it was fully substantiated, with an additional circumstance or two, which he, with his usual modesty, had omitted to mention, viz. that he, with his own right arm, cleared his house of three coxcombical coppersmiths in a minute, and that when the fourth, Mr. Bill Bull, milled the glaze and bolted, the Champion himself pursued with the fleetness of a wild elephant, caught the scampering coppersmith by the "scuff of the neck," and falling with him to the earth, they rolled over and over in the mud, till the impetus of their fall was spent, and then they got up again; and this was the way in which they came to be so muddily encased.
The coppersmith had nothing to say for himself except that he thought himself "as good a man as Mister Tommy any day," and that he had as much right to drink grog in a parlour, as any other gentleman.
The magistrate commended the Champion's conduct; told him he should be protected from insult and outrage in his business; and ordered the pot-valiant coppersmith to be locked up until he should pay for the windows he had demolished.
SOLOMON AND DESDEMONA.
An elderly man, brown as a fresh-roasted coffee-berry, a poll that bespoke him of the race of wandering gipsies, and "the darkness of whose Oriental eye accorded with his gipsy origin," advanced towards the table, bowing at every step, and said, "May it please your vorship's honour, I'm Mister Lovell, your vorship (another bow), knife-grinder and chair-bottomer, your vorship." Having so said, he smiled and bowed again; and then, shading the lower part of his brown shining visage with his rusty hat, he stood smiling and bowing, and bowing and smiling; but whatever else he had to say, refused to be said.
At length, seemingly to his great relief, the magistrate asked him what he wanted.
"Your vorship, I am Mister Lovell, the knife-grinder, your vorship, and I vantz you to give me a little bit of 'sistance to get me back my vife, vot I vere lawfully married to last Monday vere a veek, at Soreditch Church:—that's vot I vantz, your vorship."
"Yours is a very unusual application, indeed, friend," said the magistrate; "I am frequently requested to part man and wife, but I do not recollect that I was ever once asked to bring them together."
"Vell, your vorship," replied Mr. Lovell, "but mine's a werry hard case—a werry hard case, indeed! Here's the certifykit, your vorship."
His worship told Mr. Lovell he wanted no voucher in proof of what he said. He opened the certificate, however, and found it fairly set forth therein, that on a certain day specified, "Solomon Lovell, bachelor, and Desdemona Cocks, spinster," were duly married by banns in Shoreditch Church.
"And pray, what is become of the 'gentle Desdemona?'" asked his worship, as he returned the certificate to Mr. Lovell, who instantly crammed it back again into the sow-skin purse from which he had taken it; and then having deposited it safely in the very bottom of his left-hand breast-pocket, he proceeded to lay open his entire grievance. It was a lengthy, and rather unconnected narrative, but we gathered from it that Mr. Solomon Lovell absolutely loved the gentle Desdemona; and but for that, "he would not his unhoused free condition have put into circumscription and confine,"—"not on no account whatever." But the friends of Desdemona, who were in the costermongering line, thought the match too low for her; and they had not been united more than three happy days, when those friends cruelly contrived to inwiggle her away from his arms, and shut her up in a garret in Charles Street, Drury Lane, where they still continued to detain her, in spite of her unceasing tears, and his most earnest remonstrances.
"Of what age is the lady?" asked the magistrate.
"Your vorship, she'll be forty-three come a fortnight a'ter next Bart'lemy fair."
"Then she is no chicken! and she certainly could come to you, if she was inclined to do so."
"No, your vorship, she's no chicken, but she's desperate tender, though; and they'd kill and murder her, if she vasn't to keep herself quiet."
"Is she very disconsolate under her bereavement?"
"Anan, your vorship," said Solomon.
"Does she grieve much?"
"Oh! desperately, as your vorship may natt'rully suppose, when ve'd only come together three days."
"Is she very handsome?"
This was a question which seemed rather to bother the love-lorn Solomon. He simpered and sighed, and looked down and looked up, and nibbled the edge of his hat; and when the question had been repeated the third time, he replied, "I don't know 'xactly, your vorship—she's reckoned so. And I reckon—I reckon I vouldn't a married her if I didn't think so, your vorship!"
After some further question and reply, in which he earnestly entreated that an officer might be sent with him to enforce his claim, and get the gentle Desdemona out of the garret by force of arms, the magistrate told him he could do nothing for him; whereupon he gathered up his features into a frown, put the lid upon his knowledge-box, and stalked out of the office, exclaiming, "Then by goles, I'll go to Marlborough-street! for I vont be diddled out of my vife in this ere manner, howsomever."
A COACHMAN'S CONSCIENCE.
A hackney coachman appeared before the Bench, upon a summons to answer the complaint of a gentleman from whom he had extorted seven shillings and sixpence for a four shilling fare!
"How could you think of attempting such an impudent extortion!" asked the magistrate.
"Why, your worship," replied honest Coachee, "I'll tell you how it was—I knows I'm guilty, but I'll tell you how it was, and I hopes you'll take it into your consideration, and not be too hard upon me. The gemman's sarvent what rode on the box wi' me, said to me, says he, as we were toddling a little ways down Oxford-street, your worship, says he to me, says he, 'Coachee,' says he, 'there's a weddun (wedding) in this job, so you needn't be afeard of laying it on pretty thick; and then, you know, you can tip me a bob for my own cheek.'"
"And pray what is a bob?" asked his worship.
"Why a shilling, your honour, all the world over! When he ax'd me to stand a bob, your worship, I thought he was a rummish sort of a customer, but howsomever I took the hint; and when I set the gemman down I ax'd seven-and-sixpence, instead of a four shillings, God forgive me! But I thought I couldn't in conscience ax less?"
"And pray," asked the magistrate, "did you give the servant the shilling you had promised him?"
"No, your worship, I wouldn't give him anything; 'cause I thought he didn't desarve it, after putting me up to diddle his own master in that manner!"
The gentleman said it was certainly true that on the day in question he had been present at a wedding; but he had received an excellent character with the servant, and as he had now lived with him several years, during which time his whole conduct had been unexceptionable, he would not believe him capable of making such an unprincipled proposition.
The magistrate said he had little doubt that it was a mere invention of the coachman's; and even admitting his story to be true, it would be no palliation of his offence.
Honest Coachee was then fined twenty shillings for the pliability of his conscience, and he left the office, observing, "I'll take 'nation good care how I gets into this here sort of a scrape again!"
DANCING DONAGHU.
Michael—or as he himself called it, "Mykle Donaghu," was brought up on a warrant for assaulting and beating James Davis.
Mr. Davis is a tall, gaunt, lank-haired, melancholy, middle-aged Englishman. Mykle, on the contrary, is a short, plump, curly-headed, bushy-whiskered, merry little Irishman. They both lodge in the same house—Mykle uppermost, and thence comes the grievance; for Mykle, when he is beery—and seldom's the time he is not—is given to dancing. Mr. Davis is a man of staid and serious habits, who goes to bed every night when the clock strikes ten, and every night—just as he gets into his first sleep—home comes sprightly Mykle, brimful of beer, and begins dancing his "Irish fandangoes" about the room overhead, till he shakes down great patches of the ceiling upon poor Mr. Davis below. Nay, it was stated by a credible witness, that he sometimes danced so vigorously as to shake down the ceilings in the adjoining house! Mr. Davis bore these irregularities as long as he could, but at last his patience, as he said, was quite entirely exhausted, and he ventured to tell Mykle that he would bear it no longer; when, what does Mykle do, but seize the poker, and threaten to "Kennedy him"[21] if he dared to interfere with his private amusements. Mr. Davis, quiet as he is, had too much spirit to let any man swagger over him in this manner; and, whilst Mykle was "shelalegh-ing about" with his poker, he attempted to take it from him; and in the attempt he received sundry thumps on the head and shoulders, which made his eyes strike fire.
Thus far was Mr. Davis's statement; and now for Mykle Donaghu:—
"Plase your honour," said he, "is it bekase a man canna dance if he's merry?—and Misther Davis, says I, is it myself that isna' to dance the bit bekase the lazy likes of ye canna get yer sleep before sun down? I shall go to the bed in reasonable time, when I like me self, Misther Davis, says I. Come out o' that, ye Irish Grecian, says he—come out o' that, and I'll give it to ye! And he pulls the coat off him, and shakes his fist in the face of me; and come out o' that, says he, again, and I'll give it t' ye. Faith, Mr. Davis, says I, and if ye will give it to me, ye sha'n't give it me for nothin, for be th' powers I shall Kennedy ye, my jewel; and I took Kennedy to myself, and he had his fists in his own hands, y'r honour, and faith it wouldn't be aisy to say which of us had the best of it," &c.
Some witnesses brought by Mr. Davis, admitted that Mr. Davis had challenged Mykle to come out of his room, and that something like a regular fight had taken place between them; and, therefore, the magistrate dismissed the warrant.
"But, Michael," said his worship, "do not let me hear any more of your tricks; drink less beer in future."—"I sholl, Sir!" said Mykle. "And, Michael, let me advise you to go home in better time in future."—"I sholl, Sir!" "And, above all, Michael, get another lodging as soon as you can; and take care that your amusements do not disturb your neighbours." "I sholl, Sir!" reiterated honest Mykle, and making a bow—so low that the tattered hat he held in his own right hand almost touched the floor, whilst his left leg mounted into the air behind—he gave his worship St. Patrick's benison, and let the office a merrier man than he entered it.
A MISS-ADVENTURE.
Among the watch-house prisoners from St. Mary-le-Strand, was a young gentleman, who was charged with having beaten a lady.
He was a fine, blooming, well-grown, genteelly-clad young gentleman—a very Adonis of the woods; and his name was Smith—William Augustus Smith, as we understood.
His case had been thus registered in the charge-book, by his honour the Night Constable of St. Mary-le-Strand:—
"Mr. Smith charges Miss Charlotte Long with picking him up and striking him; and Miss Charlotte Long charges Mr. Smith with knocking her down."
Of course it was a "cross-charge;" and his honour the Night Constable of course detained both parties; and, moreover, was coarse enough "to shut them up down below." But that was no great matter; for Mr. Smith's bloom suffered no deterioration in consequence; and as for the lady, as his honour the Night Constable said, why she was "manured to the place."[22]
It appeared that on Saturday night Mr. Smith went to one of the Theatres; and after the Theatre was closed, he went to the Rainbow to sup; and, after the supper was over, he returned through Temple-bar, towards his home in the West, arm in arm with a friend; and that friend was smoking a cigar. In this way they walked along very comfortably—"by none offended, and offending none"—quietly discussing the beauty of the night, and the merits of the players, and the supper, and the wine, and the waiters at the Rainbow, and every thing of that sort, until, just as they emerged from beneath the arch-way of Temple-bar, Miss Charlotte Long, in passing, squeezed the dexter hand of his smoking friend. Now, whether it was that his smoking friend had "a hydrophobia" of ladies in general, or whether he smoked Miss Charlotte Long's character in particular, Mr. Smith could not say; but so it was, that Miss Charlotte Long no sooner squeezed his smoking friend's hand, than his smoking friend smoked Miss Charlotte Long's countenance, by puffing a cloud from his cigar at it. Mr. Smith could not, in justice, be held responsible for his friend's want of gallantry; but nevertheless Miss Charlotte Long instantly gave Mr. Smith such a smack on his nice round blooming cheek, that all the avenues of the Temple echoed to the blow; and he, fearing the smack would be repeated pushed her from him, and she lost her balance. "And this is the whole truth of the matter," quoth Mr. Smith.
Miss Charlotte Long, on the other hand, declared that she never touched the filthy fist of the smoker—but that as she was quietly walking along, he rudely puffed the smoke in her face—a thing which she could not a-bear—and then Mr. Smith knocked her down as flat as possible—like a brute as he was.
The worthy magistrate having listened to these counter-statements with great patience, expressed a wish to see the smoker, and that gentleman immediately came forward; but unfortunately his recollection of the affair had entirely evaporated with the fumes of his own cigar; and eventually the double charge was dismissed, upon each party paying their own fees; the magistrate admonishing Mr. Smith to keep better hours in future, if he valued either his morals or his complexion.
THE WEDDING RING.
Mrs. Catherine Casey was charged with having purloined Mrs. Judith O'Leary's wedding ring.
The ladies are both natives of "the Emerald gem of the western world"—the green land of shamrocks and shilelaghs. They came to this country together in the days of their youth; they toiled together year after year in the sunny harvest fields; they got comfortable husbands to them; they grew old together; they ate, they drank, they smoked together; they were gossips—"sworn gossips and friends." "But what is friendship but a name!" saith the poet.—Let Mrs. Judith O'Leary tell her own tale.
"Yer honour, this is Misthress Casey—the gossip she was to me many a long year in ould Ireland and since we comed to this; and much is it I made of her at all times, your honour—for we got our bits o' livings, and we ate, and slept, and we drink't together"—
"And got drunk together," said his worship.
"Faith did we, your honour—and wonst too often;" rejoined Mrs. Judith O'Leary, making an illigant curt'sy. "T'other day, your honour, we were taking the drops at the Blue Pig, and talking of the ould consarns, and the talk came up, and the drops went down softly and swately—that's the throats of us, your honour; and by-and-by, says Misthress Casey to me, says she—'Misthress O'Leary,' says she to me, 'let's be home to our own place.'—'And so I will, Misthress Casey,' says I—'ounly we'll have t'other drop with the three halfpence that's left in the bottom of it,'—that's the pocket your honour. 'Gad's blood, we'll have t'other drop, gossip,' says I to her. And sure we had, and it was a drop too much for the head of me—it went round like the hind wheel of an ackney—rowling and rowling, your honour, and I rowl'd home mighty queer that day; and I laid meself down on my own bed; and the child I had be my own lawful husband, Tom Leary, laid be the side of me fast asleep—ounly sober as a judge was the child at that same time—why shouldn't it? And when I waked up, says I to me—'how comed I here,' says I, 'in my own bed,' says I, 'before dark?' says I to myself; but I couldn't tell, for the life of me, your honour, in regard of the gin—that's the blue ruin, as Misther Jenkins the pratur marchant calls it, your honour. 'Well,' says I to meself, 'sure I'll get up,' says I, 'for what's the use of lying here like a baste,' says I, 'when Tom Leary isn't in it, and is coming to it may be?' And I got up and shook meself, and got the water to wash my hands, and I looked at 'em—that's the fingers, but d—l a ring was on 'em! 'Deevle burn ye, Kate Casey,' thinks I to myself, 'but ye've got the bit of gould from me at last!' and I went to her place—that's in Bainbridge-street, your honour; 'and Misthress Casey,' says I, 'where's me ring?' 'What ring?' says she.—'My wedding ring that I got with Tom Leary,' says I.—'Deevle a know I know!' says she.—'Don't be tellin the lie to the face of me,' says I, 'for sure there's them that seen ye slither it off the finger of me,' says I.—'Be the mother of Moses! it's a graat lie!' says she.—'Thank ye, Misthress Casey,' says I.—'Take that for yerself, Mrs. O'Leary,' says she"—
"And what was that?" asked his worship.
"Faith, a beautiful blow on the mouth of me!" your honour, replied Mrs. O'Leary—laying hold of her upper lip, and turning it inside out for his worship's inspection.
But his worship declined inspecting it; and Mrs. O'Leary, having let her lip down again, proceeded to state that, having got this beautiful thump on the mouth of her, she did not choose to have any more to say to Mrs. Casey, but forthwith handed her over to an officer.
The Officer in question said he had learned that Mrs. Casey pawned a wedding ring on the day of the row, but she redeemed it in a few hours afterwards, and that was all the pawnbroker knew about it.
Whilst Mrs. O'Leary was telling her story, Mrs. Casey could hardly be restrained from opening upon her at almost every sentence. She seemed to be bursting with words; and, no doubt, it was a great relief to her when his worship at length gave her leave to speak by asking, "Where is this poor woman's ring?"
"Honour bright! your worship," replied Mrs. Casey, in a voice as melodious as a cracked bagpipe—"Honour bright! your worship; deevle's the bit I knows about it at all! Och! Mrs. O'Leary, but yer a bad one after all of it," &c. "You knows you'll say any thing but your prayers, Mrs. O'Leary, and meself never to find it out till this present time!—Your worship, she gived the ring to a man she has!"
"Och! an is it the likes of me, with three childer and Tom Leary!" cried Mrs. O'Leary, lifting up her hands and eyes in astonishment at the scandal.
Mrs. Casey persisted in her story, and at last the charge was dismissed for want of evidence.—In ten minutes after, they were seen together at "The Grapes," in Bow-street, taking their drops, as good friends as ever they were.