Taylor, Printer, Basinghall Street.
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On the fifth of November, a year or two ago, an outrageous sparkle of
humour broke forth. A poor hard-working man, while at breakfast in his
garret, was enticed from it by a message that some one who knew him
wished to speak to him at the street door. When he got there he was
shaken hands with, and invited to a chair. He had scarcely said “nay”
before “the ayes had him,” and clapping him in the vacant seat, tied him
there. They then painted his face to their liking, put a wig and paper
cap on his head, fastened a dark lantern in one of his hands, and a
bundle of matches in the other, and carried him about all day, with
shouts of laughter and huzzas, begging for their “Guy.” When he was
released at night he went home, and having slept upon his wrongs, he
carried them the next morning to a police office, whither his offenders
were presently brought by warrant, before the magistrates, who ordered
them to find bail or stand committed. It is illegal to _smug_ a man for
“a Guy.”
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