This was a matter of assault, battery, riot, and false imprisonment, 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 pleadedjustifiable 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 beefwhich 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 nastydabof 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 wasmighty(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'sruse de bœufavery 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 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 aswouldhave 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 alinendrapershould 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, andall 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 wordfriskingas applied in this case, and ordered the ungallant linendraper to find bail for his appearance at the sessions.
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 acounterband bandannyas you've got round your neck—and as I'm anecksizeman, 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 ago;" 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 realbony fidyexcise officer; and that things were gotten to sich a pitch throughout the nation in the smuggling ofbandannies, that he and his brotheroff'sirshad 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 hisrevenny, 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 injipperdyby showing it to every man what asks for it!"
The magistrate immediately committed him to take his trial forstealingthe bandanna; but nevertheless he marched off to gaol upon excellent terms with himself.
Henry Newberry, a lad, only thirteen years old, andEdward 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!"
There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone with which this fond reminiscence was uttered by theold 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 hasdone—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 donework 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!——"
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 withmeto 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 thenyouwon'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 knowsme; and whatstrangerswill 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 seemedlost 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].
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 aspolite 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 quiteondeniable. 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 thismeans 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 whetherMisthressSullivan had donespaking?
"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 tothe 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 fromhimat all." It was one night inpartickler, he said, that he himself went to bed betimes in the little back parlour, quite entirely sick with the head-ache.MistherBurke was out from home; and when the shop was shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too: but he didn't much care for that,ounlyhe 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 thatis, more's the pity—and devil a bit she came to see after me in the little back parlour atall, 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 thegash(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 thedetailof 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 aknife.
"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 havedaggedit 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 theknife.
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, theservant.
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, whobundledhim away to the watch-house. Mr. Tom Thompson added, that his wife was so much alarmed at the circumstance, she was quite unableto 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 meansfat; 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,Whereeverythingdid seem to set its seal,To give the worldassuranceof 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.
And now for his defence:—"Please your worship, Sir," said he, "I have lodged in Mr. Thomas Thompson's house just one month nextToosdayweek—Ithinkit'sToosday; but howsomever, that's neither here nor there. I'm a young man from the country, your worship; a tailorby trade; and so is Mr. ThomasThompson—only he's amaster, and I'm aman! (His worship smiled.) Last night, your worship, Sir, I met afoofriends, and when I went home I had a great deal of trouble to open the street door—("No doubt of it," observed his worship)—and somehow or other, when I got in, instead of getting into my own room, I got into the yard: it's a sort of timber-yard: and there I was, poking about among the timber, please your worship—I'm sure for a good long hour, and I couldn't find my road out of it for the life of me!—and at last I found myself in Mr. Thomas Thompson's bed-room; but I'll be hanged if ever I touched his wife, or struck him; and I'll give you my honour that I did not go there intentionally."
His worship had no faith in thehonourof Mr. Walters, and he was ordered to find bail for the assault, in default whereof he was handed over to the gaoler.
James Green, aliasJemmy Green, a short, squat, spherical-phizzed, poodle-pated, seedy subject—between a buck and a bumpkin, said to be the identical hero of the Moncriefian, Adelphian, Tom and Jerry-extinguishing, nondescript gallimaufry, yclep'd "Jemmy GreeninFrance;" and Launcelot Snodgrass, were brought up from the almost bottomless pit of St. Clement's watch-house, charged with sundry midnight disorders in an alamode beef-house; and also with an outrageous assault upon Edmund Speering, Esq., of New Inn, and divers other persons—subjects of our Sovereign Lord the King.
It appeared by the evidence of the said Edmund Speering, Esq., that as he was passing through Clare-court, between one and two o'clock in the morning, he heard a great row and uproar in Thomas's alamode beef-shop—the shrill voices of women in distress, and the hoarse clamour of numerous throats masculine. Hearing this, he looked towards the said shop, and saw through the beef-besteamed windows and the salads three or four men, and as many women, in personal conflict with each other; and, like a true knight, he rushed into the midst of the affray, demanding of the distressed damsels whether or not they wished to be rid of their unmanly opponents? They answered in a joint and corporate voice—"Oh! yes, we do!" Whereupon the said Edmund seized one fellow by the nape of the neck, and another by the waistband of his breeches, and with pith and power propelled them from the premises. This accomplished, he turned to seize the others; whenJemmy Green, who appeared to be the most violent among them, seized the said Edmund by the collar, and strenuously endeavoured to floor him; but it would not do—Jemmy Green was out-done both in length and strength, and was compelled to give way before the superior pith of his adversary; and just as Jemmy was flung headlong from the door, Launcelot Gobbo—we beg his pardon, Launcelot Snodgrass, struck the conquering Edmund a blow on the back of his head with an umbrella, and laid him horizontally on the floor. But Edmund rebounded to the perpendicular in an instant, and was preparing to renew the combat, when the watch came up, and Jemmy and Launcelot were both carried off to the watch-house as contemners of the public peace.
The magistrate asked how this disgraceful uproar began.
The landlady, and her barmaid, and Nicholas the waiter, all gave evidence on that part of the subject; and it appeared, by their account, that Jemmy Green, Launcelot Snodgrass, and two other gentlemen, came in late, and full of gin, and ate alamode beef in such quantities, that at length the spicery of the beef, the gin, and the beer, concocting together, produced a fume which got the better of what little sense they carriedabout them, and made them all agog for what "the Fancy" calls a "spree." In this state they rushed into the privacy of the bar, upset the salads, insulted the mistress, milled the waiter, and demolished the barmaid's head gear. It was at this juncture the above-mentioned Edmund came to their relief; and the barmaid swore positively that Launcelot not only knocked down the said Edmund with his umbrella as aforesaid, but that he also "knocked her down up a-top of him," and how she got off again she did not know.
The accused were called upon for their defence; and Jemmy Green made the first essay; but, unfortunately for him, the fumes of the commingled gin and hot-spiced beef had not entirely evaporated—his brain seemed clogged with beefy vapour, notwithstanding the unctuous dews which distilled copiously from his forehead, and he found it impossible to make any defence at all. So he was ordered to find bail for his appearance at the Sessions, and he waddled out of the office under the superintendence of the turnkey.
Launcelot then addressed himself to speak; and to the astonishment of all the witnesses, he smilingly denied—firstly, that he had ever been in the house at all; and secondly, that he ever in the whole course of his lifecarried an umbrella—ergo, he could neither have been there, nor could he have knocked the said Edmund down with an umbrella, as falsely alleged by Mary Mulready, the barmaid. He admitted having witnessed the affair from the court; and that, though prudence "bade him budge, he budged not"—like his prototype, honestGobbo, he scorned running with his heels, and so he remained looking on, till he was seized by a watchman and conveyed to durance.
In proof of this, he called a gentleman, his friend, who was present with him; and this gentleman said, "every word, what Mr. Launcelot Snodgrass speaks, is true as possible."
But this worthy witness, unluckily for Launcelot, admitted that he himself was very drunk at the time, and also that he had an umbrella in his hand; and the magistrate—being of opinion that Launcelot might haveborrowedthis umbrella for the purpose of knocking down the aforesaid Edmund Speering, believed all that the witnesses had said, and ordered Master Launcelot to find bail also. Whereupon he was handed over to the turnkey, who instantly locked him up with his friend Jemmy Green.
Mr. Nathan Nathan, a slender, shapely, shewily-clad Israelite—"a tall fellow of his hands," but having only "a younger brother's having in that ancient Jewish indispensable—a beard;" thereby seeming to signify that he was, as yet, scarcely arrived at years of discretion, was brought up among a squad[30]of disorderly Christians from Covent-garden watch-house, and charged with having created a disturbance in Drury-lane theatre on the preceding night; and also with having assaulted Jemmy Lennam—time out of mind, Old Drury's little-wigg'd, big, old watchman.
It appeared by the testimony of the aforesaid Jemmy Lennam, that after the performances were over, "and the company had well nigh all departed dacently to their beds," this Mr. Nathan Nathan came into the hall, "brim-full of the cratur, andcoming the gentlemanover the folks, according to the present blackguard fashion;" that is to say, by manifesting a supreme contempt for thegenteel, insulting the women and making as muchnoise as he could, just to show that he considered himself quiteat homeanywhere and everywhere. So much for generalities, as Jemmy Lennam said; and then for particularities, he pretended to bemighty swateupon every modest woman that came out, obstructed the free passage of the company, mocked the servants when they called the coaches, put the said servants upon a wrong scent, and out-roared the loudest link-boys in bellowing "coachon-hired!" Jemmy Lennam bore all this with a not-very-easily-suppressed indignation; and at last, when he could bear it no longer, he "just took a civil twist of the young gentleman's cravat," and handed him over to some of the patrol; but as he was doing this, he received "two hard strokes on the right cheek-bone from the fist of him."
This was the substance of Jemmy Lennam's charge, and the patrol bore him out in it as far as they were concerned in the matter.
Mr. Nathan Nathan, in his defence, declared upon his honour, that Jemmy Lennam was the first aggressor—by refusing to let him wait in the hall for "the party of ladies and gentlemen to whom hebelonged!" and by calling him "a Jew pickpocket!" and he appealed to the "gentlemen of the patrol," whether he did not placehimself under their protection from Jemmy Lennam'swiolence.
"The gentlemen of the patrol" said they heard a great noise in the hall, and going to see what it was about, they found Jemmy Lennam's fist locked in Mr. Nathan Nathan's collar, and Mr. Nathan Nathan's fist working away at Jemmy Lennam's face—and that was all they had to say in the business.
So Mr. Nathan Nathan was ordered to find bail, and a pair of Holywell-street vendors of seedy[31]apparel became his sureties.
Mrs. Winifred Welldone, widow, of Monmouth-street, Seven Dials, was charged with having assaulted Mrs. Mary Wolf of the same place, spinster.
Mrs. Wolf, as her name would seem to signify, is bony and gaunt, and grim—a lady of most voracious aspect, and much more like an assaulterthan an assaultee.But the proverb saith—"judge not by outward appearances—they too often prove deceitful;" and they did so in this case; for Mrs. Welldone was so overdone with fat—so round, so soft, so puffy, and so short withal, that nobody would have supposed her capable of bruising even a pound of butter; and yet she contrived to give Mrs. Wolf a black eye! How she had reached so high as the eye of Mrs. Wolf, was matter of wonder to everybody; for she was by no means well made for jumping, and Mrs. Wolf was nearly double her height.
It appeared by the evidence adduced on both sides, that Mrs. Welldone occupies a house in Monmouth-street—that far-famed street which is sometimes, thoughmaliciously, yclep'd "Rag-fair." Here she carries on a thriving trade in the "translatingline,"—that is to say, she employs sundry ingenious craftsmen in translatingold shoesinto new ones—an art that will be dignified to all posterity, as being that art by which the patriotPrestonprocuredbubandgrub[32]for his family. Theseshoes, thus translated, or "revivified," Mrs. Welldone sells at a small profit to those persons, and they are not a few, whose destinies forbid them to purchase their shoes of the shoe-maker. Beneath the shop, or parlour, in which she carries on this trade, she has two cellars—under-ground apartmentsshe calls them, and perhaps it is thegenteelerterm; and it was these two cellars, or under-ground apartments, that brought her in contact with Mrs. Wolf. Mrs. Wolf is of a profession nearly allied totranslating, only she operates upon gowns, and petticoats, and "chemises," instead ofshoes.—As Robert Burns would say,
"——She—wi' her needle and her shears,Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new."
Now it so happened that Mrs. Wolf was in want of a place in which to vend the garments she thus redeems from the jaws of the paper mill; and wandering along Monmouth-street, in search of some such place, she saw the under-ground apartments of Mrs. Welldone. They were to let, she liked them vastly, and she became Mrs. Welldone's tenant—with an express stipulation between them that Mrs. Welldone should stick to hershoes, and Mrs. Wolf to hershifts, &c.; so that neither of them might at all interfere with the trade of the other. Mrs.Wolf took possession of the under-ground apartments that same evening; but it would appear that she had more of the fox in her composition than the wolf, for she was no sooner safely housed, orcellar'd, than she broke the agreement, by making a grand display of translated shoes all around the sill of her cellar window. "Is this well done, Mrs. Wolf?" cried the astonished Mrs. Welldone—"if you don't take them away this moment, I'll kick them all down upon your false head!" Mrs. Wolf looked up from her subterranean abode, and grinned defiance—like the wolf that General Putnam pulled out of the cavern by his tail whilst the people pulled the General out by his hind leg. Mrs. Welldone repeated her threat of kicking down the shoes, and Mrs. Wolf grinned again, and told her she wouldramshackle[33]her if she did. Then Mrs. Welldone, not having the fear oframshackleingbefore her eyes, swept the shoes into the cellar-hole upon the false head of Mrs. Wolf, and Mrs. Wolf emerged from her cavern amidst the cloud of flying shoes, "her soul in arms and eager for the 'fray." Mrs. Welldone gave back when she saw her, and it was well she did; for Mrs. Wolf came on like a tigress, as all thewitnesses averred, and they thought it a miracle (à-la-Hohenlohe) that she was not torn to bits at the first rush. Mrs. Welldone, however, was not the woman toback outof anything—she concentrated her powers—her eyes flashed like diamonds in dough, Mrs. Wolf closed upon her, they wrestled together like Death and the Dumpling, and when they were dragged apart by the bystanders, Mrs. Wolf's right eye was in mourning.
This was all the witnesses could say about the matter, and the magistrate told Mrs. Welldone, she had done ill in committing the first assault.
"I admit it, your worship," said Mrs. Welldone, "but it was enough to make any woman mad to have the bread taken out of one's mouth bystratygimin that manner.Howsever, I don't know that I should have mindedthatso much if she had notundersoldme."
"Soldunderyou, you mean," said his worship—"If you sold in the parlour, and she sold in the cellar, she sold under you, of course."
"Aye,coarseenough, your worship, and a coarse piece of goods she is—look at her which way you will," rejoined Mrs. Welldone. Well versed as Mrs. Welldone was in mending theunderstandingsof others, she herself, had not understanding enough to take this pun.
His worship decided that they had both been much to blame; and he ordered the warrant to be suspendedin terroremover Mrs. Welldone, and recommended Mrs. Wolf to seek other cellars as soon as possible.
Miss Susanna Smith, a very pretty young woman, attired in the newest fashion, was brought before the magistrate, on an assault warrant issued at the suit of one Mr. O'Flinn, a tall, well-dressed, sprightly native of the Emerald Isle, who had complained to his worship that he had been grievously assaulted by the said Susanna.
Mr. William O'Flinn, it seems, had a friend, who is the especialprotectorof the fair defendant. He went the other night, to deliver a letter to this friend, at the house in which Susanna resides. His friend was not at home, but he saw Susanna, and she—totally laying aside the delicacy of her sex, "and all the rest of it"—gave him one of the most scurvy receptions imaginable; viz., he was standing in the hall, inquiring at the landlady for his friend, when suddenly the parlour door opened, and out rushed Susanna with the velocity of a nine-pounder—"Andpray what would you be after wanting with that gentleman?"—she asked, at the same time attempting to snatch the letter from Mr. O'Flinn's hand. "It isn't yourself that the letter is for at all, my jewel," replied Mr. O'Flinn, slipping the letter into his pocket—"and as for what I want with that gentleman, you have no right to be asking me the question." "'Faith, we'll see that," said the lady, and instantly placed her fair back against the front door, evidently with the intention of cutting off Mr. O'Flinn's retreat. Well, what was to be done now? It was growing late, and as Mr. O'Flinn very justly observed, if he was detained there he could not go elsewhere. So, after trying what remonstrance would do, and finding it had no effect whatever, he took hold of the fair hand of the lady and endeavoured to remove her from the door by a little gentle force; but, to his utter astonishment, she instantly disengaged her hand, and in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, he received two or three sound boxes on either ear, and a kick on the abdomen, which for some moments materially interfered with his faculty of breathing. Astonished that a lady shouldkick, but nothing daunted, he again advanced to the attack, or, Corinthianly speaking, to thescratch, taking care, this time, to advance in an attitude ofdefence—à-la-Spring. His caution was useless, however, for the lady broke through his guard in an instant, boxed his ears again soundly, or rathersoundingly, and planted another kick on hisbowel-case, with her dexterous little foot, in the self-same spot as before! This was an extremely awkward bit of business, and Mr. O'Flinn felt it so. He could not, consistently with his character as a gentleman, and an Irish gentleman in particular, use greater violence to a lady; and he might have gone on, as before, till he had not an ear left for her to box, or a pair of trowsers for her to kick. He, therefore, declined coming to thescratchagain; and contented himself with calling upon the comely landlady of the dwelling, who all this while had been quietly holding the candle for them. He peremptorily told her commodious landladyship, that unless he was instantly suffered to go about his business, he would consider himself as detained by her connivance, and have his action against her for false imprisonment accordingly. This produced the desired effect—the landlady interfered, a parley ensued, and at last Mr. O'Flinn was liberated.
In support of this statement Mr. O'Flinn called the landlady aforesaid.
The landlady (an immense personage) declared shesaw neither kicks nor slaps. Miss Susanna certainly put her back against the door to prevent Mr. O'Flinn from going, until she knew what he wanted with herfriend; and a sort of scuffle took place in consequence; and that was all she knew about it.
Here Mr. O'Flinn lifted up his bands and eyes in astonishment; for, as he said, the landlady held the candle to them all the while, and could not avoid seeing every bit of it.
The magistrate now asked Miss Susanna whatshehad to say to it?
The poor girl told a sad tale. She first burst into tears, and for some seconds was unable to speak. She then spoke of her former respectable and happy situation in life before she became what she now is—a kept-mistress. "But," said she, "Mr. —— has promised to marry me, and I trust in heaven he will!" Here she wept again, and was proceeding to make some further general remarks, when the magistrate desired her to confine herself to the charge of having assaulted Mr. O'Flinn.
She then admitted having prevented Mr. O'Flinn's departure from the house, and said she was induced to do so, because she verily believed he came with theintention of injuring her in the opinion of the only friend she had in the world—Mr. ——, herprotector. As to the kicking, &c., she denied it; though not very positively.
She was ordered to find bail for her appearance at the Sessions, and Mr. O'Flinn said he should certainly prosecute her; but the magistrate told him he thought it would be better to let such an affair pass over without further notice.
Mr. Jonas Tunks, a young gentleman in a jacket of divers colours, well-patched canvas trowsers, no stockings, and shoes curiously contrived to let in the fresh air at the toes, was brought before the sitting magistrate, charged, under the Stat. 1 Geo. IV., with wilfully and maliciously damaging the property of Mrs. Deborah Clutterbuck—the comely landlady of a public-house in the purlieus of St. Giles's proper.
It appeared by the evidence of Mr. Jonathan Dobbs, an operative veterinarian (vulgo, a journeyman farrier), that Mr. Jonas Tunks, who is a wandering melodist (vulgo, a ballad-singer) by profession, went into thepublic-house in question, where Mr. Jonathan Dobbs, and several other gentlemen, were taking adéjeûner à-la-fourchetteof sheep's-head and pickled cabbage. He entered the room singing, at the very top of his voice, the favouritearia, "Oh, Judy! my darling!" and one of the gentlemen politely desiring him to shut his potato-trap, and not make such a noise, he seized a pint ofheavyand drank it off to the gentleman's better manners. The gentleman to whom theheavybelonged, now swore that Mr. Jonas Tunks shouldpost the bluntfor it—that is to say, he should pay for it. But Mr. Jonas Tunks would do no such thing—"Base is the slave that pays!" he exclaimed; and immediately called for "a quartern of gin of three outs," with which he offered to treat—or as a Corinthian would say,—to "sluice the ivories" of the gentlemen present. The gentlemen, however, would not accept his treat, and "Turn out the blackguard!" was the universal cry; but Mr. Jonas Tunks was awake to the "spree," and before his enemies could say "Jack Robinson," he capsized three pots ofheavy, scattered the pickled cabbage upon the floor, and very nearlyboltedwith the better half of a sheep's face! But, unfortunately, just as he was clearing the threshold of the door, he received the well-shod footof the veterinarian in the rear, about seven inches and a half below the waistband of his trowsers, and the concussion sent him half across the street, without once touching the pavement! The veterinarian and his friends, nothing doubting but Jonas was done with, laughed aloud, and returned into the house; but Jonas was not the man to walk off quietly under this dishonourable visitation of tanned calfskin, and before their shout of laughter was over, he had dashed six panes of glass to pieces in the front window of the house—or, to use a very expressive Eganism he hadmilled the glazegloriously! He was immediately overpowered with numbers, and handed over to the strong grasp of the Police.