between Theodosius Todd, Esq. and Mr. John Cutmore. Mr. Theodosius Todd is
a gentleman, it is said, of considerable property; rather diminutive in
stature, and very fond of cold boiled ham. Mr. John Cutmore is a vender of
cold boiled ham, and many other good things, at a large house near Temple
Bar--a house well known to many a kitchenless bachelor. Mr. Theodosius
Todd having complained to the magistrate that he had been violently
assaulted by Mr. John Cutmore, the magistrate granted his warrant to bring
Mr. Cutmore before him, when Mr. Cutmore pleaded _justifiable collaring_,
and thereupon issue was joined.
It appeared by the evidence for the prosecution, that on a certain day
named, Mr. Todd sent his servant boy, from his chambers in the Temple, to
the shop of Mr. Cutmore, for a quarter of a pound of cold boiled
ham--fully intending to take the said ham for a lunch in the form of a
sandwich, between slices of bread, or bread and butter, as the case might
be. He, moreover, instructed his servant boy to bring ham of the very best
quality, and he made no stipulation whatever with regard to price. In due
time the boy returned with a quarter of a pound of ham; but it was by no
means of such quality, or complexion, as Mr. Todd had anticipated; and he
therefore sent it back again, with a request, either that it should be
exchanged for some of a better quality, or the money returned forthwith.
In answer to this very reasonable request, Mr. Cutmore sent word that Mr.
Todd did not know good ham when he saw it, and he should neither exchange
it nor return the money. Mr. Todd sent the boy a second time, and a second
time Mr. Cutmore returned the same contumacious answer. By this time the
ham began to exude copiously through the smoky fly-spotted bit of paper in
which it was wrapped, and Mr. Todd felt very much annoyed at the
predicament in which he found himself--as any man naturally would do under
the circumstances. There was lunch-time sliding rapidly away unsatisfied;
and there was the ham melting away as rapidly; and there was the boy with
his time wasted, and the yellow unctuous juices of the ham dripping from
between his fingers; and there was money uselessly expended; and there was
the unprovoked contumely of the ham-monger to be endured--forming
altogether such a concatenation of provocatives as is rarely to be met
with. And in this light Mr. Todd viewed the matter. So he wrapped up the
greasy cause of all these miseries in a clean half-sheet of foolscap, and
slipping it carefully into the breast pocket of his surtout, he set out
for the ham-shop, determined to seek redress by stratagem, since it was
not to be had otherwise, and at the same time procure something fit for a
lunch, without incurring further expense. With this determination he went
into the shop, where, it seems, he was quite unknown, and pointing to a
beautiful and nicely-corned buttock of beef which stood on the counter,
he quietly desired Mr. Cutmore to cut him a quarter of a pound of it in
nice thin slices for a sandwich. Mr. Cutmore did as he was desired--he cut
the beef in delicate slices, fit for the mouth of a princess, and wrapping
them up in a clean piece of paper, he laid them down before Mr. Todd,
rubbed his hands, and waited smilingly for the money.
"Thank you, Sir," said the wily Mr. Todd, coolly thrusting the packet of
cold beef into his breast pocket, and at the same time throwing the
sweating packet of ham upon the counter,--"thank you, Sir! and there is
your nasty _dab_ of ham in exchange for it!" And having so said, he
stalked out of the shop, buttoning up his coat (to keep his beef safe),
and exulting in the success of his stratagem. Mr. Cutmore stood aghast for
a moment; and then, all hot as his own mustard, he sprung over the
counter, rushed into the street--with the powder flying from his hair at
every step, and his snow-white apron streaming in the wind--caught Mr.
Todd just as he was popping through Temple-bar, seized him by the collar,
and, without uttering a word, began dragging him back towards his shop,
and at every step giving him a shake, just as a thorough-bred terrier
shakes a half-expiring rat when it feebly resists his violence. The
scuffle soon created a crowd, and some took one side, some the other; but
the cook was too much for the Templar--he pulled him by main force into
his shop, and kept him shut up in his larder till he paid the uttermost
farthing!
This was the case for the prosecution.
Mr. Cutmore, in his defence, began by expatiating on the superior
excellence of his ham in general, and on the slices sent to the
complainant in particular. He had the honour, he said, of serving many
gentlemen in the Temple exclusively with ham; and it was a well-known
fact, that there were no better judges in existence. Mr. Todd's servant
brought him word that the ham was _mighty_ (mite-y), and he returned him
for answer, that he did not know what he meant by the word. The fact was,
that the ham was as good as ever was cut, and Mr. Todd knew nothing about
the article. He was ready to admit that Mr. Todd's statement was generally
correct, but he conceived he was justified in treating him as he had done,
inasmuch as he had carried off his beef without paying for it; and as to
the ham pretended to be given in exchange for it, whether the said ham was
good or bad, there was nothing to prove to him that it was bought at his
shop.
The magistrate thought Mr. Todd's _ruse de boeuf_ a very derogatory
proceeding for a Templar; but as Mr. Cutmore had perhaps used more
violence than was absolutely necessary in seeking redress, he recommended
them to retire, and compromise their differences without further expense
and exposure.
Mr. Todd expressed his readiness to treat; but the angry cook refused his
overtures with indignation, and the matter ended in his being bound in his
own recognizance for his appearance at the Sessions, to answer any
complaint that might be preferred against him.
A HAGGLING CUSTOMER.
A linen-draper was brought before the magistrate charged with having
assaulted an Israelitish damsel--one Miss Rebecca Myers.
The fair Rebecca (fair for one of her nation, though evidently not much
addicted to the use of soap) stated with many tears, and a faltering
voice, that she went into the defendant's shop to purchase some trifling
articles; and because she objected to the price of some of them, he
knocked her down with a roll of calico! When she said "knocked her down,"
she meant he gave her such a blow as _would_ have knocked her down if she
had not stood firm; and not content with this, he jumped over the
counter, and putting his great paws on her shoulders, he shook her till
her head seemed ready to drop off at the top joint, and her brains were
addled for an hour after.
The magistrate expressed his surprise that a _linendraper_ should treat a
lady so boisterously; and asked him what he had to say for himself.
The linendraper--who, by the bye, had nothing at all linen-draperish in
his appearance, but on the contrary had an aspect remarkably stern and
solemn--replied, by stating many little vexations which he had suffered
from Miss Rebecca--such, for instance, as ordering him to cut off a
quantity of calico, and then refusing to have it--"haggling" customers, of
her sort, were more trouble than a little; and enough to ruffle any man's
temper; but as to what she had said about the knocking her down, and _all
that_, it was a mere tissue of falsehoods. The very head and front of his
offending, was "_frisking_" the calico at her, and threatening to send for
a constable when she became abusive--"for abusive she was"--said he--"very
abusive, though she looks so demure now."
The magistrate said he did not understand the word _frisking_ as applied
in this case, and ordered the ungallant linendraper to find bail for his
appearance at the sessions.
STEALING EX-OFFICIO.
A sturdy, squalid little fellow, calling himself Timothy Blunt, was
brought before the magistrate under the following circumstances:--
The landlord of a public-house in the neighbourhood of Temple Bar, deposed
that the prisoner, Timothy Blunt, came into his house that morning, as he
was busy serving his customers, and staring in his face for about a
minute, addressed him with a--"I say, Mister!--I werrily believes as that
ere's a _counterband bandanny_ as you've got round your neck--and as I'm a
_necksizeman_, I shall seize it!"--And he instantly did so--to the utter
dismay of mine host. "Show me your authority!" cried the almost strangled
landlord; but he cried in vain--Timothy Blunt scorned to parley; and
tearing off the bandanna, he was walking away with it in triumph, when
mine host bethought himself "that it was a rummish sort of a _go_;" and,
by the assistance of his customers, gave Timothy Blunt in charge to a
constable.
Timothy Blunt, in his defence, assured their worships that he was "a real
_bony fidy_ excise officer; and that things were gotten to sich a pitch
throughout the nation in the smuggling of _bandannies_, that he and his
brother _off'sirs_ had strict orders to seize them wheresoever they
lighted upon them--whether in pocket or on neck."
"Let me see your authority," said the magistrate.
"I knows of no law to obleege me to show it," said the sententious
Timothy.--"I seizes the bandannies for the king and his _revenny_, and if
I'm wrong, why let the king look to it. Besides, that ere authority cost
me a matter of five pounds nineteen shillings; and I should be a fool to
put it in _jipperdy_ by showing it to every man what asks for it!"
The magistrate immediately committed him to take his trial for _stealing_
the bandanna; but nevertheless he marched off to gaol upon excellent terms
with himself.
A DISTRESSED FATHER.
Henry Newberry, a lad, only thirteen years old, and _Edward Chidley_, aged
seventeen, were full committed for trial, charged with stealing a silver
tea-pot from the house of a gentleman, in Grosvenor Place. There was
nothing extraordinary in the circumstances of the robbery.--Young Newberry
was observed to go down into the area of the house, whilst his companion
kept watch, and they were caught endeavouring to conceal the tea-pot under
some rubbish in the Five-fields, Chelsea; but the case was made
peculiarly interesting by the unsophisticated distress of Newberry's
father.
The poor old man, who it seems had been a soldier, and was at this time a
journeyman paviour, refused at first to believe that his son had committed
the crime imputed to him, and was very clamorous against the witnesses;
but as their evidence proceeded, he himself appeared to become gradually
convinced. He listened with intense anxiety to the various details; and
when they were finished, he fixed his eyes in silence, for a second or
two, upon his son, and turning to the magistrate, with his eyes swimming
in tears, he exclaimed--
"I have carried him many a score miles on my knapsack, your honour!"
[Illustration]
There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone with which this fond
reminiscence was uttered by the old soldier, that every person present,
even the very gaoler himself, was affected by it. "I have carried him many
score miles on my knapsack, your honour," repeated the poor fellow, whilst
he brushed away the tears from his cheek with his rough unwashed hand,
"but it's all over now!--He has _done_--and--so have I!"
The magistrate asked him something of his story. He said he had formerly
driven a stage-coach, in the north of Ireland, and had a small share in
the proprietorship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity he married
a young woman with a little property, but he failed in business, and,
after enduring many troubles, he enlisted as a private soldier in the
18th, or Royal Irish Regiment of Foot, and went on foreign service, taking
with him his wife and four children--Henry (the prisoner) being his second
son, and his "darling pride." At the end of nine years he was discharged,
in this country, without a pension, or a friend in the world; and coming
to London, he, with some trouble, got employed as a paviour, by "the
gentlemen who manage the streets at Mary-la-bonne." "Two years ago, your
honour," he continued, "my poor wife was wearied out with the world, and
she deceased from me, and I was left alone with the children; and every
night after I had done work I washed their faces, and put them to bed,
and washed their little bits o'things, and hanged them o' the line to dry,
myself--for I'd no money, your honour, and so I could not have a
housekeeper to do for them, you know. But, your honour, I was as happy as
I well could be, considering my wife was deceased from me, till some bad
people came to live at the back of us; and they were always striving to
get Henry amongst them, and I was terribly afraid something bad would come
of it, as it was but poorly I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind
to take all my children to Ireland.--If he had only held up another week,
your honour, we should have gone, and he would have been saved. But
now!----"
[Illustration: A DISTRESSED FATHER.]
Here the poor man looked at his boy again, and wept; and when the
magistrate endeavoured to console him by observing that his son would sail
for Botany Bay, and probably do well there; he replied somewhat
impatiently,--"Aye, it's fine talking, your worship; I pray to the great
God he may never sail any where, unless he sails with _me_ to Ireland?"
and then, after a moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone
imaginable, "Doesn't your honour think a little bit of a petition might
help him?"
The magistrate replied, it possibly might; and added, "If you attend his
trial at the Old Bailey, and plead for him as eloquently in word and
action as you have done here, I think it would help him still more."
"Aye, but then _you_ won't be there, I suppose, will you?" asked the poor
fellow, with that familiarity which is in some degree sanctioned by
extreme distress; and when his worship replied that he certainly should
not be present, he immediately rejoined, "Then--what's the use of it!
There will be nobody there who knows _me_; and what _strangers_ will
listen to a poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for crying?"
The prisoners were now removed from the bar to be conducted to prison, and
his son, who had wept incessantly all the time, called wildly to him,
"Father! Father!" as if he expected that his father could snatch him out
of the iron grasp of the law. But the old man remained rivetted, as it
were, to the spot on which he stood with his eyes fixed on the lad until
the door had closed upon him; and then putting on his hat, unconscious
where he was, and crushing it down over his brows, he began wandering
round the room in a state of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him
that he should not wear his hat in the presence of the magistrate, and he
instantly removed it; but he still seemed lost to every thing around him,
and, though one or two gentlemen present put money into his bands, he
heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office, apparently reckless
of every thing[29].
SORROWS OF THE SULLIVANS.
Mr. Daniel Sullivan, of Tottenham-court-road, green-grocer, fruiterer,
coal and potato-merchant, salt fish and Irish pork-monger, was brought
before the magistrate on a peace-warrant issued at the suit of his wife,
Mrs. Mary Sullivan.
Mrs. Sullivan is an Englishwoman, who, according to her own account,
married Mr. Sullivan for love, and has been "blessed with many children by
him." But nevertheless, she appeared before the magistrate with her face
all scratched and bruised, from the eyes downward to the very tip of her
chin; all which scratches and bruises, she said, were the handiwork of her
husband.
The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivan about seven years
ago; at which time he was as polite a young Irishman as ever handled a
potato on this side Channel;--he had every thing snug and comfortable
about him, and his purse and his person taken together were quite
_ondeniable_. She, herself, was a young woman genteelly brought
up--abounding in friends, and acquaintance, and silk gowns; with three
good bonnets always in use, and black velvet shoes to correspond; welcome
wherever she went, whether to dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by
everybody. St. Giles's bells rang merrily at their wedding; a fine fat leg
of mutton and capers, plenty of pickled salmon, three ample dishes of salt
fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding, and porter of the best, were set
forth for the bridal supper; all the most considerablest families in
Dyott-street and Church-lane were invited, and everything promised a world
of happiness--and, for five whole years, they were happy. She loved--as
Lord Byron would say, "She lov'd and was belov'd; she ador'd and she was
worshipped;" but Mr. Sullivan was too much like the hero of his Lordship's
tale--his affections could not "hold the bent;" and the sixth year had
scarcely commenced when poor Mary discovered that she had "outlived his
liking." From that time to the present he had treated her continually with
the greatest cruelty; and, at last, when by this means he had reduced her
from a comely young person to a mere handful of a poor creature, he beat
her, and turned her out of doors!
This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such pathos, that all
who heard it pitied her--except her husband.
It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was speaking, he
had stood with his back towards her, his arms folded across his breast to
keep down his choler, biting his lips, and staring at the blank wall; but,
the moment she ceased, he abruptly turned round and, curiously enough,
asked the magistrate whether _Misthress_ Sullivan had done _spaking_?
"She has," replied his worship; "but suppose you ask her whether she has
anything more to say."
"I sholl, Sir!" exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan.--"Misthress Sullivan,
had you any more of it to say?"
Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her hands together,
and was silent.
"Very well, then," continued he--"will I get lave to spake, your honour?"
His honour nodded permission, and Mr. Sullivan immediately began a
defence, to which it is impossible to do justice; so exuberantly did he
suit the action to the word, and the word to the action. "Och! your
honour, there is something the matter with me!" he began; at the same time
putting two of his fingers perpendicularly over his forehead to intimate
that Mrs. Sullivan had played him false. He then went into a long story
about a "_Misther Burke_" who lodged in his house, and had taken the
liberty of assisting him in his conjugal duties, "without any lave from
_him_ at all." It was one night in _partickler_, he said, that he himself
went to bed betimes in the little back parlour, quite entirely sick with
the head-ache. _Misther_ Burke was out from home; and when the shop was
shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too: but he didn't much care for that,
_ounly_ he thought she might as well have staid at home, and so he
couldn't go to sleep for thinking of it. "Well, at one o'clock in the
morning," he continued, lowering his voice into a sort of loud whisper;
"at one o'clock in the morning, Misther Burke lets himself in with the key
that he had, and goes up to bed--and I thought nothing at all; but
presently I hears something come, tap, tap, tap, at the street door. The
minute after, down comes Misther Burke, and opens the door, and sure it
was Mary--Misthress Sullivan that _is_, more's the pity--and devil a bit
she came to see after me in the little back parlour at all, but upstairs
she goes after Misther Burke.--'Och!' says I, 'but there's something the
mather with me this night!'--and I got up with the night-cap o' th' head
o' me, and went into the shop to see for a knife, but I couldn't get one
by no manes. So I creeps upstairs, step by step, step by step, (here Mr.
Sullivan walked on tip-toe all across the office, to show the magistrate
how quietly he went up the stairs,) and when I gets to the top, I sees
'em--by the _gash_ (gas) coming through the chink in the windy-curtains--I
sees 'em; and 'Och! Misthress Sullivan!' says he; and 'Och! Misther
Burke!' says she--and 'Och botheration!' says I to myself, 'and what will
I do now?'" We cannot follow Mr. Sullivan any further in the _detail_ of
his melancholy affair; it is sufficient that he saw enough to convince him
that he was dishonoured; that by some accident or other, he disturbed the
guilty pair, whereupon Mrs. Sullivan crept under Mr. Burke's bed, to hide
herself; that Mr. Sullivan rushed into the room and dragged her from under
the bed, by her "wicked leg;" and that he felt about the round table in
the corner, where Mr. Burke kept his bread and cheese, in the hope of
finding a _knife_.
"And what would you have done with it if you had found it?" asked his
worship.
"Is it what I would have done with it, your honour asks?" exclaimed Mr.
Sullivan, almost choked with rage--"Is it what I would have done with
it!--ounly that I'd have _dagged_ it into the heart of 'em at that same
time!" As he said this, he threw himself into an attitude of wild
desperation, and made a tremendous lunge, as if in the very act of
slaughter.
To make short of a long story, he did not find the knife, Mr. Burke
barricadoed himself in his room, and Mr. Sullivan turned his wife out of
doors.
The magistrate ordered him to find bail to keep the peace towards his wife
and all the king's subjects, and told him if his wife was indeed what he
had represented her to be, he must seek some less violent mode of
separation than the _knife_.
"WHERE SHALL I SLEEP?"
Henry Walters, a tailor, was brought up from St. Martin's watch-house, to
answer the complaint of Mr. Thomas Thompson, who is a tailor too--that is
to say, they are two tailors; Mr. Thompson, the master, and Mr. Walters,
the man--or, to speak more proverbially, the _servant_.
Mr. Walters lodges on Mr. Thomas Thompson's premises, near
Leicester-square, and at two o'clock in the morning, Mr. Thomas Thompson,
being then fast asleep in bed with his wife, was awoke by some person on
his side of the bed, leaning over him, and saying--"Be quiet;--can't you?"
At the same moment Mrs. Thompson screamed, and said, "Tom Thompson,
there's a strange man in the room!"--"What the devil do you want here?"
exclaimed Mr. Tom Thompson--valorously jumping out of bed, and seizing the
strange man by the collar. To which the strange man replied, by giving Mr.
Tom Thompson a thump on the eye, and unseaming his shirt from top to
bottom! This was strange treatment in one's own bed-room! But Mr. Tom
Thompson kept his hold, Mrs. Thompson alarmed the lodgers, the lodgers
called the watch, the watch came (with as much speed as they could,) and
when they held their lanterns to the strange man's face--who should it be
but this identical Mr. Walters! He had not "a word to throw at a dog," as
one of the witnesses shrewdly remarked; and therefore he was at once
consigned to the care of the watchman, who _bundled_ him away to the
watch-house. Mr. Tom Thompson added, that his wife was so much alarmed at
the circumstance, she was quite unable to attend this examination; but
that she had told him she was awoke by some one squeezing her hand
tenderly, and saying, as aforesaid, "Be quiet--can't you?"
Mr. Walters was now called upon for his defence. But first it may be as
well to say something of his person. He was young--say five-and-twenty;
short in stature; by no means _fat_; parenthesis-legged; brush-cropped;
nutmeg complexion; unvaccinated; scarlet-trimmed eyes; an Ashantee nose;
and a mouth capacious enough to admit the biggest Battersea cabbage that
ever was boiled--
"A combination and a form indeed,
Where _everything_ did seem to set its seal,
To give the world _assurance_ of a tailor!"
We have been thus particular in describing the person of Mr. Walters, in
order to show that he had no business whatever to be meddling with Mrs.
Thompson, or with any other lady.