Part 9

It appeared by the evidence, that Mr. Robertus Wedderburn--being a man, as he himself said, "fruitful in imagination, but no great scholar," was in the habit of cutting out pretty little sixpenny romances, and employing the prisoner to touch them up grammatically. This caused a kind of literary intercourse between them; and at one of their interviews lately--on the subject of a new romance, to be called "Beatrice, or the Bleeding Beauty," the prisoner tendered a pawnbroker's ticket to Mr. Robertus Wedderburn, requesting him to buy it. This ticket purported to be a pledging of thirteen volumes of new novels for the trifling sum of ten shillings, and Mr. Robertus Wedderburn willingly undertook to purchase it for three shillings--wisely considering that these thirteen volumes would be a handsome addition to his little circulating library, and that at a shilling a-piece they were certainly "dog cheap." He therefore paid the prisoner the three shillings; and as soon as he could raise the money, he went to the pawnbroker's to redeem the books; when, to his utter astonishment, he found instead of _thirteen_ there were only _three_!--that the prisoner had taken the liberty of placing a 1 before the 3 on the ticket, thereby converting 3 into 13; that the three books were thus pledged for their full value; and that Mr. Robertus Wedderburn was of course bamboozled of his blunt--in the vulgar, "cheated of his money."

The magistrate, having listened with great patience to the premises, asked the prisoner what he had to say for himself; and, as he only played with his hat-band in reply, he was remanded until the evening, in order that the pawnbroker might attend.

In the evening he was again placed at the bar; but there was no pawnbroker in attendance; and Mr. Wedderburn begged leave to withdraw the prosecution--he having been satisfied by the bounty of the prisoner's patron.

The magistrate then commented severely on the conduct of all the parties, and reluctantly consented to the prisoner's discharge.

A BOLD STROKE FOR A SUPPER.

A pair of showy young men, _exquisitely_ attired, with their exquisite attire cased in street mud, and their crops _a-la-Titus_ filled with bits of straw, were brought up from one of the lower apartments (commonly called the _Black "hole"_) in Covent-garden watch-house; where they had passed the night in doleful durance, merely because their appetites were in better order than their finances--or, in plain terms, because they had eaten more supper than they could pay for. They gave their names _John Bright_ and _Henry Walsh_, gents.--the former of Queen's-square, and the latter of----"nowhere in particular." The following is the story of the little adventure which brought them under the _surveillance_ of the police.

On Sunday night these gallants went into the Imperial Hotel, Piazza, Covent-garden, and asked if "Mr. Kecksy" was there. They were told that he was not; at which they expressed much surprise. They then ordered a "rite jollie supper;" and when it was ready they ate it up, washing it down with three bottles of prime old port. Nevertheless, they frequently cast an anxious eye towards the door, and talked from time to time of the unaccountable absence of "Mr. Kecksy." At length they became what is classically called "_Bacchi plenus_," and the landlord thought it was then time to send up the bill. He sent it up accordingly; but they tossed it in the waiter's face, and ordered him to send up the landlord, Mr. Joy. Mr. Joy obeyed their summons, and demanded to know their pleasure. "Joy, my hearty! you must put up _this_ to Kecksy.--He invited us, and by G--d he shall pay," was the jovial reply. "Upon my word, gentlemen, this is too bad--Mr. Kecksy has not been here these many weeks; you are utter strangers to me, and I cannot think of letting you go without paying," replied Mr. Joy. "You can't!--then I'll tell you what, my old boy, we shall _tip you the double_ and _bolt_, by all that's comical!" retorted one of the bucks. This kind of phraseology put their gentility quite out of the question with Mr. Joy, and without further ceremony he ordered one of his waiters to call in a watchman. This was a measure the supper-eaters had not calculated upon, and they became indignantly anxious to put their threat of "tipping him the double" into immediate practice; but Mr. Joy and his waiters opposed their retreat; upon which they threatened to kick Mr. Joy downstairs, and throw his waiters out of the window; and they had actually commenced proceedings in this way when the watchman made his appearance and took them in charge. They now moderated their choler a little, and proposed that somebody should accompany them home, where they would pay the bill. This was acceded to on the part of Mr. Joy, and an extra watchman agreed to accompany them, with one of the waiters, for that purpose. But they had scarcely left the hotel before they suddenly _bolted_ in different directions, and would inevitably have _tipped_ their pursuers _the double_ at last, had it not been for the rattles of the watchmen. As it was, one of them was caught as he was scampering up Bow-street, and the other was found ingloriously concealed among the sheds in the market. Farther parley was not attempted on either side. They were forthwith conveyed to the watch-house, and there they conducted themselves so "_obstropolously_," that the constable of the night found it necessary to have them put down below, "instead of letting them sit by the fire like _gentlemen_."

This was the substance of the evidence for the prosecution, and the muddy _watch_-worn defendants were asked by the magistrates what they had to say to it.

They replied that they were actually invited to supper at that hotel, by their friend Mr. Kecksy, who was very well known to the landlord, and they fully expected he would have come in during the supper, or otherwise they would not have ordered the supper. They had, however, offered the landlord their address, and had assured him he should be paid in the morning.

"Then pay it now"--said the magistrate--"the morning is arrived!"

The defendants looked blank--and did not offer to pay.

Mr. Joy observed, that their story about Mr. Kecksy was a mere absurdity, as that gentleman was _out of town_.

"He is not out of town," said one of the supper-eaters, "for I saw him yesterday afternoon."

"The fact is, your worship, he is in the King's Bench prison," said Mr. Joy.

"That is false, Sir!--He is not," exclaimed the supper-eater.

"Where is he, then?" said his worship.

"Why, Sir, he is--in the _Rules_!" replied the supper eater.

Every soul in the office laughed at this nice distinction; and the magistrate cut the matter short by telling Mr. Joy he could not detain the gentlemen for the amount of their _supper_, as it was a simple contract debt; but he could hold them to bail for the _assault_.

They were accordingly ordered to find bail, and not being prepared with any, they were consigned to the attentions of the turnkey, without any order for their breakfast.

CUPBOARD LOVE.

Mr. George Pendergast, the principal of a _flue-feaking_ establishment--or, in ordinary phrase, a master chimney-sweeper appeared upon a peace warrant issued at the instance of Mr. Christopher Williamson, a painter--not of pictures, but posts and penthouses.

Mr. Christopher Williamson deposed, that on a certain day named, Mr. Pendergast came into his apartments while he and Mrs. Williamson were quietly taking their tea and crumpets, and without any notice whatever, knocked him off of his chair what he was sitting on; and upon his telling Mr. Pendergast he thought such conduct very _ungenteel_, Mr. Pendergast told him to make himself easy, for he would "come it again" as often as he thought proper; from all which, he verily believed that Mr. Pendergast intended to do him some grievous bodily harm, and therefore he prayed the interposition of the law.

Mr. Pendergast, who stood before the bench all soot without, and all gin and jollity within, very readily admitted the assault--adding, "I think, your worship, it was time to give him a bit of a floorer when I found my own wife in his _cupboard_!"

His worship said if that was the facts it certainly had a rather awkward appearance; but Mr. Williamson assured him Mrs. Pendergast only ran into the cupboard to avoid her husband's violence--"And upon my honour, your worship," said he, "there wasn't a morsel of _Crim. Con._, or anything of that 'ere sort, in the business at all."

Mr. Pendergast admitted that he was not much afraid of Mr. Williamson "in the _Crim. Con._ line;" and then went on to detail some other provocations he had received from him: particularly upon one occasion, when Mr. Williamson persuaded him to take a ride on the Thames with him, and because he refused to lend him 10_l._, chucked him overboard right into the river!

Mr. Williamson denied this, and said Mr. Pendergast went overboard by accident, being rather top-heavy-ish. Mr. Pendergast was bound, in his own recognizance of 20_l._, to keep the peace towards all the King's subjects generally, and particularly so towards Mr. Christopher Williamson.

LOVE IN CHANCERY.

About the middle of the year 1821, Horatio, a young apothecary, of a certain city in the West, fell desperately in love with Drusilla, a wealthy damsel of that city; and the damsel returned his passion, though her father forbade her so to do. Then her father, in his anger, had her made a ward in Chancery, and the Lord Chancellor issued an injunction prohibiting Horatio and Drusilla from becoming man and wife. Fathers, and Lord Chancellors, have cruel hearts! and these youthful lovers--instigated, no doubt, by that "giant dwarf, _Dan Cupid_," and, moreover, not having the fear of the _Fleet_ before their eyes--eloped from their native city, with the intention of uniting themselves in defiance of the solemn injunction above-mentioned.

Now it appears that they contrived to elude the pursuit that was made after them by the father of Miss Drusilla; and also by the officers of the court, who were anxious to serve the enamoured Horatio with a copy of the Lord Chancellor's injunction. In this predicament application was made to Bishop--"_Indefatigable_ Bishop," as he is sometimes called--one of the principal Bow-street officers, and he soon discovered their retreat. He found them, by some means or other best known to himself, in _Myrtle_-place, or Myrtle-grove, Hoxton. Perhaps it was the name of the place that led him thither; for where could a pair of lovers take refuge more appropriately than in a _myrtle-grove_?--

And "alas! that an _officer's_ cruel eye

Should e'er go thither Such sweets to wither!"

--But so it was, he did go, and of course he spoiled every thing--indeed, it would seem that he had no sooner made his appearance at the front door of the house, than "_love_ flew out at the window"--the _lady's_ love at least.

It was just about dusk, in the evening, when Bishop, armed with full powers for the capture of the lady's person, proceeded in a hackney-coach to the Myrtle Grove above mentioned, and alighting at a short distance from the house in which he believed the lovers were concealed, he left his coach in waiting, and walked in silence towards the house. Not the slightest sound was heard from within, but he had no sooner lifted the knocker, than the door was opened by a young lady fully equipped for travelling--it was the fair fugitive, Drusilla herself! She was surrounded by trunks and band-boxes, and bundles; and, as it afterwards appeared, she was at that very moment waiting the return of her beloved Horatio, who was gone to call a coach to convey them to some other place of refuge.

"Your name, I believe Miss, is _Drusilla_ ----, and you are lately arrived from ---- ?" said Bishop, with his accustomed courtesy.

"O dear, no, Sir!" exclaimed the lady. "I am Miss Jenkinsop, the daughter of the mistress of this house."

Bishop remarked that he had no doubt she was telling a _fib_, and desired her to introduce him forthwith to her alleged mama. No; she could not do this, as she was just going out; but if he would walk into the parlour, her mama would come to him presently. Bishop was not to be _had_ in this way; and so, taking the young lady by the hand, he led her into the parlour, and, having rang the bell, the mistress of the house shortly appeared, who disclaimed all relationship to the young lady, and declared she knew no more of her than that she was the "strange young lady" who came to her house with a "strange young gentleman" a day or two ago, and hired her apartments for a week.

The cruel officer now told Drusilla his business, and she wept--for at least a minute and a half; but she no longer denied that she was the identical Drusilla who ran away from ---- with Horatio; and wiping away her tears, she put her hankerchief in her _reticule_, declared she was glad she was caught, and should be very happy to return to her friends, if she was but "sure the _Lord Chancellor_ would do nothing to her."

Bishop told her he had no doubt she would be very kindly received, both by the Lord Chancellor and her father; and offering her his hand, she tripped lightly to the coach he had there in waiting for her. The luggage was then put into the coach, and it was just about to drive off, when another coach drove up, and out jumped Horatio. "Oh! Sir," exclaimed the landlady, who was still standing at the door--"Oh! Sir, they have taken away the lady!" "_Who!_--who has taken her?" demanded the astonished lover. "Why _I_ have," replied Bishop, ordering the coachman to drive on;--crack went the whip, and away went the horses with the coach behind them:--

"But who can paint Horatio as he stood, Speechless and fix'd in all the death of woe!"

--He did not stand many seconds, however, but ran after the coach like a greyhound, jumped up behind it, and peeping in at the window called mournfully upon Drusilla. "Drusilla, my angel! where are you going?" His angel sat snugly in the corner of the carriage, and made no reply; but Bishop, looking out at the opposite window, said, "Come, come, young chap, don't be rude; or I shall be under the necessity of taking _you_ somewhere--get down from the coach instantly, or I'll take you into custody." Horatio took the hint and jumped down; but, like a true knight, he continued to follow, even on foot, panting and puffing, till the coach stopped in Bow-street; and then his _Drusilla_ having been deposited in a place of safety, without seeing him--for he could not, with all his fervour, keep up with the coach--he attempted a parley with Bishop, about _his share of the luggage_, which had been carried off with the lady. Bishop told him if he would call at the Public Office in Bow-street next morning, he should have "what _belonged_ to him;" and with this promise he departed apparently pretty comfortable. Bishop is a shrewd sort of a subject--his object, in getting Horatio to call at the office, was to give the Chancery Solicitors an opportunity of serving him with a copy of the injunction; and he completely succeeded, for Horatio was punctual in calling for "his share of the _luggage_." He was shown into a private room; where, neither the copy of the injunction nor "his share of the luggage" being ready, he amused himself with a volume of "Coke upon Lyttleton"--instead of pacing the room with his arms folded across his breast to keep his heart down. Indeed it was very evident that he considered himself pretty comfortable under the circumstances. By-the-bye, notwithstanding the desperate adventure he had undertaken, he seemed of a very cool, phlegmatic temperament; and how Drusilla could have fallen so deeply in love with him we cannot imagine; for, though he was nearly six feet high, and had a pleasing obliquity of vision, his nose was embossed with very angry-looking pustules, and his person was spare and uncouth.--But--_de gustibus non est disputandum_.

A length, after he had pored over "Coke upon Lyttleton," and "the Statutes at Large," for about an hour and a half, the Chancery Solicitor arrived and served him with a copy of the injunction; and, had it been a tavern bill of fare, he could not have taken it more comfortably. He opened it; turned it about in different directions; looked at it both on the outside and the inside, played leisurely with the red tape that bound it, and then--thrust it into his coat pocket.

"I have sent for your proportion of the luggage, Sir, and it will be here directly," said Bishop. Horatio gave a nod, as much as to say "thank ye," and then he looked out at the weather. In a minute or two his share of the "_luggage_" arrived. It consisted of a little band-box, and some unwashed shirts and cravats tied up in an old silk handkerchief. Horatio opened the hand-box. There was a well-worn hat in it, two pairs of cotton stockings, and three pairs of gloves--that, somehow or other, had lost the ends of the fingers; and there was, moreover, a very nice pair of yellow morocco slippers, nearly new. Horatio turned over these things some time, seemingly in a sort of brown study; and at last, he remarked that there was a piece of Irish cloth which he did not see amongst them. Bishop said he understood the Irish cloth belonged to the lady. "No, Sir," said Horatio, "it belongs to me. It was to make me some shirts. But it is of no _great_ consequence--let her keep it!" As he said this, he sighed a little; and Bishop--willing to console him for the loss of his love as much as possible--sent for the piece of Irish cloth and delivered it to him. Horatio tied it up in his bundle; put the bundle under his arm; and, balancing the band-box on the palm of his hand, he stalked forth into the street, with the Lord Chancellor's injunction sticking out of his hinder pocket like the handle of a stewpan. Unfortunately for the picturesque, however, as he was crossing the street, the wind, which was then rather high, blew the band-box from his hand. Horatio attempted to catch it before it fell to the ground; but, instead of doing so he struck it--up it went in the air, off flew the lid, and the old hat, the stockings, the fingerless gloves, and the yellow morocco slippers, were scattered on the muddy pavement. Horatio--the luckless Horatio--gathered them up as quickly as the wind, and the carts, and the coaches would permit; but, whilst he was busied in getting them together, the _injunction_ dropped from his pocket. At last he managed to cram them, injunction and all, into the band-box; and, calling a coach, he set off for the White Horse Cellar, with the intention, no doubt, of returning to the culling of simples at home--for he was manifestly a young man who, like his namesake in the play, could take Fortune's _buffets_ as thankfully as her _rewards_.

The lady, in the course of the day, was delivered to her friends in town; and thus ended the loves of Horatio and Drusilla.

KITTY KAVANAGH.

There was a pretty, though homely Irish girl, named _Kitty Kavanagh_, brought before the magistrate on a charge of having stolen a small piece of coarse calico from a Mrs. Dermody.

Kitty Kavanagh is the daughter of a watchman; and she and her father lodge in the same house as Mrs. Dermody. The piece of calico formed "the _canopy_" of Mrs. Dermody's tester bed. One day lately, Mrs. Dermody missed the canopy--it was taken away even whilst Mr. Dermody was in the bed; and, in a day or two after, she found it on Kitty Kavanagh, in the shape of an apron! Mrs. Dermody displayed this apron before his worship, and told him she could swear to the hemming of it--"because it was very _confident_ to be seen by any one."

Mr. Dermody offered his evidence; and, being sworn, he said, "Your _wortchip_, it's true, every word of it, what Mrs. Dermody was after telling you, for myself was fast asleep in the bed at that same time."

His worship now asked Kitty Kavanagh what she had to say to it; and she replied, in the richest brogue that ever rolled through the red lips of an Irishwoman--"It's herself and her husband comed home _bastely_ drunk, your honour; and her husband _bate_ her, and _kilt_ her your honour; and your honour sees Mrs. Dermody could not get to the bed by herself any how, _bekase_ of the liquor that night, your honour; and Mr. Dermody lay down in the bed by himself, your honour's honour, and Mrs. Dermody lay down in the coort."

"But what has all this to do with the stolen linen?" asked his worship; "what have you to say about the piece of linen?"

"Is it the bit o' linen your honour's _spaking_ about?" asked Kitty, with infinite _naivete_--"Och! I found that same at the stair-foot when all the bother was over!"

His worship shook his head, as much as to say he feared Kitty was adding falsehood to theft.

Her father, the watchman, presented himself; and having expatiated upon the excellent _carackter_ himself and his daughter had hitherto borne in the world he next attacked the reputation of the Dermodys; which he said was all that was "bad and _bastely_;" and then he called two witnesses, who would tell his honour "all the rights of it."

His witnesses came forward; they were Patrick Doole and Michael Sullivan. But all that _Misther_ Doole could prove was the drunkenness of the Dermodys on the day of the robbery; and Mr. Sullivan had nothing to say to it at all, only that Kitty Kavanagh was a nice young _cratur_, and her father was just like her for all the world.

This was of course all nothing in the face of the fact so distinctly sworn to, and the prisoner was committed for trial.--So the interesting Kitty Kavanagh was sent to gaol, and perhaps lost her character for ever, for a bit of old calico, not worth sixpence.

FRENCH AND ENGLISH MIXTURE.

Mons. Gaspard Jacques Hercule Flament, a French gentleman with one eye--"_degraisseur extraordinaire_ to the British public;" was brought before the magistrate to show cause why he should not be committed to prison for neglecting to maintain his wife in that style of elegance and comfort to which she was entitled--or rather, for neglecting her maintenance altogether.

The lady, Mrs. Flament, was a pretty, little, black-eyed, sprightly Englishwoman; who, "by some odd whim or other," as she said, fell in love with, and married Mr. Flament, about six years ago. But they never could agree very well; and after five years of connubial misery, they determined to separate--Mr. Flament undertaking to allow her a separate maintenance of ten shillings a-week; with which she was very well content, as she had "a good comfortable mother to fly to." Mr. Flament, however, was not a man of his word; for, though he paid the ten shillings a-week pretty regularly at the outset of their separation, he afterwards reduced it to seven, and latterly to three. This, she humbly submitted to the magistrate, was an income upon which no lady could exist; and, as Mr. Flament was the very best _scourer_ at that moment out of Paris, she did hope his worship would compel him to make her a more suitable allowance.

Mr. Flament could speak no English, and so he was attended by a "professor of languages" in a military cloak; and this professor took great pains to convince the magistrate that Mr. Flament was a very poor man, and that Mrs. Flament was a very naughty woman. "She has robbed her husband three times," said the professor,--"shut him up in _de prisonne_ vonce, and made _seex_, seven hondred _grands faux pas_!--Monsieur Flament had better broke de best of his two leg, dan marry such hussey! hussey! as madame his vife!"