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 300_l._ "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."
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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]