persons implicated, and they confirming the poor printer's story, he was
discharged; but Mr. Minshull admonished the master not to let the
lamplighter's ladder be used in the same way again, even though he should
be obliged to carry it into his own bed-chamber.
MOLLY LOWE.
The following very touching instance of the irresistible force of love was
brought under the notice of the magistrate some time in the winter of the
years 1823 and 1824.
There lives in the Strand--or there did live at the time
above-mentioned--a very respectable young tradesman, whose name has
nothing at all to do with this affair;--let it suffice, that he occupied a
large and lofty house; and being a bachelor, he employed a housekeeper,
whose name was Molly Lowe; and this Molly Lowe is the heroine of our
story.
Molly Lowe, then, is a woman of staid and serious demeanour; plain in her
person, neat in her dress, past forty, and a spinster. For these reasons,
all and sundry, her young master placed implicit confidence in her, and
gave up the entire management of his household affairs to her direction.
In his opinion Molly Lowe was an immaculate matron, and full proof against
every thing--except superfine souchong, with the least drop of brandy in
the world in it. But this opinion of his was a very fallacious
one,--neither man nor woman, be their age and uprightness what it may, can
ever be proof against love. And so it turned out in this instance--
"For Love, the disturber of high and of low,
Who shoots at the peasant as well as the beau,"
--let fly a sharp arrow at _Molly Lowe_; and her forty years' frost melted
before the youthful charms of James Wright--a drum-boy in the First or
Grenadier Regiment of Foot Guards, commanded by his Royal Highness the
Duke of York!
The first notice her master received of this change in Molly Lowe's
temperature he received in an anonymous letter, signed "Microscopicus;"
which letter--after lamenting the multitude of sins that spring up
everywhere like mushrooms--from the _button_ to the _broad black flap_,
informed him that Molly Lowe had fallen in love with the little drummer
aforesaid, and earnestly recommended him to nip her iniquity in the bud.
"And you need not take my _ipse dixit_ in the matter at all," continued
the letter of Mr. Microscopicus, "for if you will return home any evening
unexpectedly, you will find _Molly_ and her _moppet_ junketing together on
the contents of your larder."
The master had little faith in this epistle; for, as he said, the thing
was so improbable; and he was half inclined to think that Mr.
Microscopicus was either some meddling methodistical miscreant, or some
discarded lover of Molly's youthful days. But well knowing that nothing is
impossible, and that more unlikely matrons than Molly have been entangled
in the toils of love, he put the epistle in his pocket, and determined to
keep a sharp look-out on Molly's movements in future.
[Illustration: MOLLY LOWE.]
Several days passed without his discovering anything; and he was just
beginning to feel satisfied that Mr. Microscopicus was what he had
supposed him to be, when, one evening, his curiosity was strangely excited
by Molly's absence from her ordinary occupations.--What could be the
meaning of it? Every time she was called, she came down from her bed-room,
instead of up from the kitchen; and every time, she seemed more and more
cross at being "call'd about so." "What _can_ you be doing up stairs so
much, Molly?" said her master. "Nothing," replied Molly. "Then what makes
you go there so often?--What--have--you--got in your head, Molly?" "Lord
bless me, nothing!" was Molly's invariable reply; and at every succeeding
question she grew more waspish than before. But her master was not
satisfied with this simple nothing--he felt quite sure there must be
something wrong. So, calling his shopmen together, he ascended with them
to Molly Lowe's bed-room; and there, to Molly Lowe's confusion, he found
the identical drummer stowed away like Falstaff, in a buck-basket! There
he lay--sword, cap, and belt, complete, coil'd up hilt to point, head to
heel, in the bottom of the buck-basket, and covered over with a mountain
of foul clothes!--"It was a miracle he escaped suffocation!" The
buck-basket stood in a little closet, and they drew him forth from
his----but "comparisons are _odorous_,"--it is enough, that they pulled
him out, set him up on end, and shook him well; and that the master,
turning to Molly Lowe, said "Molly! Molly! I never could have expected
this!" "Bless _me_!" replied Molly Lowe--suffused with deep mahogany
blushes, and bristling about like an angry turkey-cock--"Bless _me_! what
a fuss there is about a bit of a boy!--He's my sister in law's own
cousin, and I sent him up stairs because there were some ladies coming to
look at the first floor; and where was the mighty harm of that?--And I'd
have you to know, Sir, that you use me very ill, Sir!--and I won't bear it
any longer, Sir! and"----And here she took out her handkerchief, held it
to her eyes, and rushed out of the room in hysterics.
The enamoured drummer seemed quite dumbfounded by the catastrophe; he
attempted no defence; and, as Molly's master was by no means satisfied
with her matronly account of the matter, the poor youth--all reeking from
his hot bed, was handed over to a constable who shut him up for the night
in the cold and comfortless watch-house. Oh! what a miserable Molly must
Molly Lowe have been that night!
In the morning the drummer was brought before the magistrate, to whom all
these matters were related; and the constable added, that the drummer had
confessed to him that he had often been to drink tea and sup with Molly
Lowe; that she was over head-and-ears in love with him; that she had
bought him a watch, with gold chain and seals, and had given him more than
three pounds in money; and that she had assured him she was indeed his
own cousin, by her sister-in-law's side, only seven times removed; but of
that he knew nothing, having never heard of her till she met him one
Sunday evening and asked him to come to tea.
His worship observed, that this was a very _ungallant_ confession--to say
the least of it; and he then asked if Molly was in attendance.
Her master replied that she was not--as he meant to content himself with
discharging her from his service. He was not aware that he had been
actually robbed, either by her or her young admirer; but he had brought
the youth before his worship, because he thought he deserved some
punishment for his impudent intrusion.
The magistrate said, he thought Molly was the most deserving of
punishment; but he asked the poor lad what he had to say to it.
He replied, that Mrs. Lowe asked him to come to see her, and he went; that
she was very kind to him, and gave him tea and things up stairs; and that
he was very glad when they came and pulled him out of the dirty clothes,
for he had been under them more than two hours.
His worship ordered that notice of his situation should be sent to his
regiment; and in the evening he was delivered into the custody of the
_drum-corporal_, who attended to receive him. And thus ended the amour of
Molly Lowe.
[Illustration]
A WEARY BENEDICT.
Of all the miseries, or vices, which are daily brought to this office for
relief or correction, there are none that give the magistrates more
trouble than the miseries of matrimony--and the trouble is the more
painful, inasmuch as, in nine cases out of ten, it never leads to any
satisfactory result. Scarcely a day passes without some connubial
_devilry_, or other, being submitted to their judgment either by man or
woman--members of the married public of this metropolis; and in almost
every case their prayer is, total separation--a comfort which a magistrate
has it not in his power to bestow. It is only your wealthy couples who can
shake off their fetters--the needy ones must wear them for life.
A weary Benedict of this latter class--a large middle-aged man, of
lachrymose physiognomy, respectful demeanour, and decent attire, presented
himself before the magistrate, one gloomy December morning, to request
some relief from his wedded woes. He had waited more than two hours among
the crowd at the lower end of the office, whilst the ordinary business was
going on without manifesting the slightest impatience; and when the hurry
and bustle was over, he sedately approached the table, and told the
magistrate, in a confidential under-tone, that he wished to consult him on
a subject of the utmost importance--
"Speak out, Sir!" said the magistrate, "I am ready to hear you."
"Your worship, I am a _married man_," began the applicant--compressing his
lips to keep down a rebellious sigh, which thereupon forced its way
through his nostrils--rushing-ly indignant at his attempt to confine
it--"I am a _married man_, your worship!"
"Well, Sir, and what of that?" said his worship.--"So much the better for
you, if you have a good wife."
"Ah, Sir!" ejaculated the poor man, "I have been married eighteen
years--and eighteen years of unmixed misery they have been to me! I
thought to have lived in paradise, as it were; but I could not have been
more miserable if I had lived in--the _other_ place!"
He paused--sighed again--and then, taking out a ragged pocket
handkerchief, he stood silently wiping his forehead until the magistrate
roused him from his reverie by saying, "My good friend, I am very sorry
for you, but what would you have _me_ do?"
"I don't know, Sir," he replied, despondingly, "but I was told I could get
some relief by applying here."
"If you wish to get divorced, I cannot do that for you," rejoined his
worship:--"we should have little time for any thing else, I fear, if we
could divorce all the unhappy couples who apply to us!"
"I have no doubt of it," said the man--"no doubt in the world of it! But,
your worship, I don't wish to put my wife away so as to disgrace her. I
would allow her a comfortable maintenance, if she would only leave me in
peace."
"That you must agree upon between yourselves," observed the magistrate--"I
cannot assist you in the negotiation, nor can I interfere at all between
you, unless she has committed some breach of the peace--Has she struck
you? or are you afraid she should attempt to take away your life?"
"I don't know whether she means to take away my life, or not," replied
he, "but she is eternally beating me whenever she is tipsy; and that is
almost every day!"
"Then why do you let her drink?"
"Ah! your worship, it's fine talking! I have long discontinued keeping
anything drinkable in the house, except water and milk, and what is the
consequence?--Why that my head is continually covered with bumps and
bruises; and my chairs, tables, linen, and looking glasses, are daily
converted into _gin_!"
"My good friend," said his worship, somewhat impatient of the subject--"my
good friend, I really cannot do anything for you. You married her 'for
better or for worse, to have and to hold until death shall you part,' and
you must bear your misfortune as well as you can. I repeat,
I--can--do--nothing for you."
"Then I am a very miserable man!" ejaculated the poor fellow, and turning
from the table he heaved another sigh, so piteous and profound, that the
discharge did seem to stretch his care-stuffed breast almost to bursting.
THE GOLDSMITH AND THE TAILOR.
An elderly goldsmith of rather choleric temperament, though well to do in
the world, was brought before the magistrate on a warrant, wherein he was
charged with having perpetrated an assault and battery on the person of
one Mr. John Carpue, a student in tailory, or "a tailor's apprentice," as
the ancients used to say. And this was the manner of it:--
The goldsmith was indebted to a celebrated professor of tailory in the
vicinity of Bond-street, for sundry exquisitely-cut garments, furnished to
him as per order. This account had been kept open so long, that latterly,
it had become "somewhat musty"--just as a jar of any other _preserves_
would do if kept open too long; and therefore the professor sent one of
his junior students to the goldsmith, requesting it might be closed--in
_plain_ terms, he wished to have the "tippery" for his "toggery." The
goldsmith took the request angrily; and instead of sending the junior
student back with the money in his pocket, he sent him back with "a flea
in his ear." The professor thought this conduct extremely rude and
ungoldsmithlike; and after two or three days' cogitation he sent his
_senior_ student, Mr. John Carpue, with a more peremptory message. The
senior student went, saw the goldsmith, delivered the professor's message,
and paused for a reply. The goldsmith lowered angrily upon him, as he had
done upon the other, and ejaculated something about "confounded coxcombs."
The tailor "saw his anger rise--his glowing cheeks and ardent eyes," but,
instead of succumbing to his choler, he stood his ground firmly; and
boldly repeated his message with a few aggravatory flourishes of his own;
whereupon, the goldsmith, not having the fear of the Quarter Sessions
before his eyes, seized the tailor-student by his cutting-arm, and ejected
him from the room; at the same time endeavouring to shut the door upon
him. "I ar'n't to be bundled off without the money in this manner,"
exclaimed the student. "If you don't go along, I'll break your neck
downstairs!" exclaimed the goldsmith. The tailor contumaciously set his
back against the door to prevent its closing; the goldsmith tried with all
his might to close it; the tailor squeaked out his anger; the goldsmith
grunted out his indignation; the door creaked and strained between them;
and in all probability it would have been forced off its hinges, and,
perhaps, totally spoiled for ever, if the goldsmith had not, with great
presence of mind, popped his fist through the opening, right into the
tailor's masticatory apparatus. The tailor fell; the door was closed; the
goldsmith returned quietly to his seat; and then the tailor--having
gathered himself up, and shrieked a parting malediction through the
key-hole--went back to Bond-street, quite discomfited.
This was the assault and battery complained of; and the goldsmith, in his
defence, said the tailor refused to leave his house when he told him, and
upon his attempting to show him the door, the young _buckramite_ rudely
seized him by the collar; which rudeness he returned of course.
The magistrate held the assault justifiable under such circumstances, and
so the poor "student in tailory" was non-_suited_.
THE RAPE OF THE WIG.
One Bob Jenkinson, the son of an honest law-writer--
"A youth condemn'd his father's soul to cross,
Who _picks a pocket_ when he should _engross_!"
--was charged with having taken unto himself property to which he had no
right or title whatever--to wit, a _barrister's wig_.
It appeared by the evidence, that Bob Jenkinson--hopeful Bob, his friends
call him; was prowling about Temple Bar in the dead of the night, seeking
something for his "pickers and stealers" to do. Presently he was aware of
a solitary gentleman approaching the Bar from the city side; and instantly
concealed himself in the shade of the archway, he determined to try his
luck upon him. The gentleman, so approaching, was a barrister, residing in
the Pump-court of the Temple; and he came slowly, and soberly on--wrapped
(probably) in professional meditations, little thinking danger was so near
him. As he passed through the archway, Bob Jenkinson popp'd from his
hiding-place, crept softly after him on tip-toe, slided his hand smoothly
into his right-hand coat-pocket, and drew forth--a _wig_! Like _Filch_ in
the opera--he dipp'd for a _fogle_ and prigg'd a _wig_! It was not a
forensic wig, but a scratch wig, _a la Titus_--one that any closely
cropped gentleman might carry in his pocket to clap on occasionally, when
sitting in a theatre, or any other place where currents of cold air
prevail. Small as it was, however, the barrister felt it depart. He put
his hand to his pocket and found it wigless; and there, close by his side,
stood Bob Jenkinson with the wig in his hand--wig-struck, as it were; for
had the prize been a bandana, or a snuff-box, or any _ordinary_
pocket-property, Bob would have bolted with it _instanter_. "What do you
mean by that--you scoundrel?" said the barrister. Bob dropped the wig; the
barrister took it up; and having re-pocketed it he deliberately gave
unlucky Bob in charge to the watch.
Robert had not a word to say in his defence, and the magistrate committed
him for trial.
A BRUMMYJUM OUTRIDER.
One Mr. Peter Muttlebury, a personage with the exterior of a hackney
coachman, of the _down_-est cut, but who called himself "a _Brummyjum_
out-rider," was brought before the magistrate one snowy morning, charged
with having _borrowed_, with intent to _steal_, an eight guinea inlaid
gold and silver snuff-box, with its contents, viz., almost half an ounce
of high-dried Irish, from a Mr. William Wilkins--a very small gentleman in
a very large cloak, worn military-wise--after the present highly
picturesque fashion, which makes a man-milliner look as magnificent as a
Field-Marshal.
It appears that Mr. William Wilkins, having been out on Friday
night--spending his evening, as it is called--repaired at five o'clock in
the morning to Rowbotham's "_final finish_," in James-street,
Covent-garden, just by way of finishing himself. He found the saloons full
of good company. There were assembled the Marquis of Paramatta, Viscount
Toongab, the celebrated Lord Mops, from Cheapside, Sir Francis
Fogleshifter, Sir Sidney Cove, Mr. Gluckman the bass singer, Mr. Phelim
O'Toole the strong-backed Knight of the Knot, and Mrs. Judith M'Craw,
Dunstable Charlotte, Peg Protheroe, Kitty Parenthesis, Sally Succinct, and
many other fair nymphs of the piazza. There was singing and drinking
_galore_--"We are the lads," and hot elder wine, and coffee of the best,
went merrily round; Mr. Gluckman, and Dunstable Charlotte, and my Lord
Mops, "roused the _morning lark_ in a catch;" and old Father Time, with
his companion old Winter, in the _lily-white benjamin_,[28] were held in
utter scorn by every body. Mr. William Wilkins enjoyed the fun vastly; in
token whereof he handed round his high-dried Irish to the ladies and
gentlemen liberally; and then sat himself down to half a pint of smoking
hot elder-wine among a select company of ladies in one of the side
saloons. Presently came the "Brummyjum outrider" to him, with a low bow,
and a "Mr. Gluckman, will be obliged to you, Sir, for another pinch of
your high-dried." "With infinite pleasure," replied Mr. William Wilkins,
handing over his eight guinea snuff-box to the Brummyjum out-rider. Mr.
William Wilkins then finished his smoking hot elder, and repaired to the
general company again--not doubting but his snuff-box was safe with Mr.
Gluckman; but, to his utter astonishment, neither Mr. Gluckman, nor my
Lord Mops, nor the Marquis, nor the Viscount, nor any of the ladies, knew
any thing about it. Mr. Gluckman declared he had never sent for it; nobody
knew the "Brummyjum outrider," nor could he be found; Mr. William Wilkins
said it was uncommon improper, and every body ought to be searched; my
Lord Mops said "the _highdear_ of such a thing was cursed _low_;" the
ladies voted Mr. William Wilkins a bore; and Mr. William Wilkins walked
away, _cleaned out_ and completely _finished_. He wandered to this office,
and communicated his woes to the patrol in waiting; and in two or three
hours thereafter they succeeded in apprehending the "Brummyjum outrider,"
but no snuff-box could they find upon him.
The Brummyjum outrider, in his defence before the magistrate, persisted in
saying that Mr. Gluckman asked him to borrow the box, and having borrowed
it, he delivered it to Mr. Gluckman; and what became of it afterwards he
knew not.
The magistrate said he had little doubt but he obtained possession of it
with a felonious intent, and committed him for further examination, in
order that Mr. Gluckman might come forward to explain, or deny, the part
it was alleged he had taken in the transaction; but eventually the matter
was arranged among themselves without any impeachment of Mr. Gluckman's
character, and the "Brummyjum outrider" was discharged.
PAT CRAWLEY'S MULE.
Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan appeared before the magistrate to show cause why he
should not be charged with having stolen Mr. Pat Crawley's mule.
Mr. Pat Crawley, according to his own account, was "a Scotchman, born of
Irish parents in the Saut-market o'Glasgow." They, dying, left him a
pedlar's pack and a brown donkey; and, ever since, he has followed the
profession of _Autolycus_--a frequenter of fairs, wakes, and wassellings,
and a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. Latterly he has travelled in
this manner from the Salt-market in Glasgow quite down to Penzance in
Cornwall; gather gear as he went, and increasing his worldly goods at
every village by the way. At Penzance he sold his donkey and bought a
mule; and, travelling on towards London, he arrived at the house of Mr.
Phelim O'Callaghan, in Buckeridge-street, St. Giles's. Now Mr. Phelim
O'Callaghan being his seventh cousin by the mother's side, he thought he
and his mule would be perfectly safe under his roof; and the more
especially as Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan expressed great joy at the sight of
him. So Mr. Pat Crawley put his mule in Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan's little
stable at the back of his place--rubbed it down; supped it up; and then
went out to enjoy himself with a mutchkin o' whiskey at the Change-house
fornent the corner. At the Change-house he found the ingle bleezing
finely, and the whiskey o' the best, and the gude wife unco sonsie, and so
many of his mother's cousins came in to see him, that mutchkin followed
after mutchkin till they reemed in his noddle a bit; and at the last o't
he gang'd to his bed, at Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan's, with a black eye and an
empty purse--having lost seven good gowden sovereigns he didna ken how! In
the morning he got up at break o' day, thinking to saddle his mule and
gang his ways fra the town; but the mule was gone, and no one ken'd where!
The magistrate condoled with him on his loss, and recommended him to be
more careful of his property in future; and then asked Mr. Phelim
O'Callaghan what had become of the mule?
"Yer honour's axing me about the mule," replied Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan,
"an I knows nothing about her at all--barrin Pat Crawley put her in the
stable himself along with the _dunkies_."
"The _dunkies_! what do you mean by dunkies?" asked his worship.
"Them are little bits o' things--little bits o' mules--dunkies, your
honour, as carries the cabbages and purraters about; and I told him, says
I, Pat Crawley, says I, de'il a bit of a lock there is to it--that's the
door, your honour: an Pat, says I, buy your own lock, says I, or her'll be
off may be; and he woudn't, your honour, and so she was--"
"Was what?"
"_Off_, your honour, sure enough--that's the mule, your honour, bad luck
to her!"
One of the patrole said he had been called in by Mr. Pat Crawley, upon the
discovery of his loss, and he had examined Mr. O'Callaghan's premises in
consequence; and as there was no other way from the stable but through Mr.
O'Callaghan's _house_, he was of opinion that the mule could not have been
taken away without Mr. O'Callaghan's connivance.
Mr. O'Callaghan declared he knew nothing whatever of it, and his worship
might have a six months' _carrakter_ of him any day in the week.
His worship, however, told Mr. O'Callaghan that he must either find the
mule or remain in custody; and he left the office under the surveillance
of the officer and Mr. Pat Crawley himself. They adjourned to a
neighbouring public house, whence Mr. O'Callaghan despatched a messenger
of his own to St. Giles's, and in two hours after the mule was brought
down to the office and safely re-delivered to Mr. Pat Crawley--and
thereupon Mr. Phelim O'Callaghan was discharged; upon which he
exclaimed--"Bad luck to the mule for _getting_ out of _that_! and long
life to your honour for _letting_ me out of _this_!"
THE TEMPLAR AND THE COOK.