Mornings at Bow Street. J. Wight
A DUN AT SUPPER TIME
A COOL CONTRIVANCE.
MORNINGS AT BOW STREET.
A COOL CONTRIVANCE.
One fine summer's morning, a short, dumpy, sunburnt, orange and purple-faced old man—topped with a clean white night-cap, was brought before the magistrate by an officer, who had just found him trudging through the Mall in St. James's Park, with his breeches on a stick over his shoulder, instead of in their natural and proper place. "This comical fad of his, please your worship," said the officer, "frightened the ladies out of their wits, and made such a hubbub among the young blackguards, that I thought it my duty to take him into custody; but he kicked and sprunted at such a rate, that it was as much as two or three of us could do to get his breeches on again."
"Why do you walk without your breeches, my honest friend?" said the magistrate, in a tone of kind expostulation.[1] "Because I was so hot that I was determined not to be bothered with breeches any longer!" replied the queer old man—twinkling his little deep-set French-grey eyes, and sending forth a long-drawn sultry sigh.
The magistrate asked him something of his history; to which he replied, that he was born at Great Marlow, in Buckinghamshire, where his father was a small farmer. "There was a rare lot of us young ones," said he, "running about the lanes, and paddling in the cool green ponds, like so many goslings. For myself, I was made a shoemaker of, by a gentleman who thought me too pretty for a plough-boy: and so I've been making shoes in London these last forty years; but latterly I'm always so hot and dry, that I can make no more shoes, not I, and I'll take to the fields again."
His worship was of opinion that the poor fellow's wits were wandering, and ordered that he should be taken care of in Tothill-field's Bridewell, until his parish could be ascertained.
A COSTERMONGER'S QUERY.
A person, who called himself a "master costermonger," having, with some difficulty, obtained access to the table, made his best bow to the magistrate, and said, "Please your vurship, vaut am I to do about my bitch?"
"About what?" said his worship.
"About my bitch, vaut I lost four months ago, your vurship. I lost her in pup, and I knows the man vaut's fun her, and now she's pupp'd six pups, and says he to me, says he, 'You shall either have the bitch vithout the pups, or the pups vithout the bitch; an if so be as you don't like that, you shan't have neither of 'em'—and so vaut am I to do, your vurship?"
"Why go along and mind your business," replied his worship—and the master costermonger retired from court without having taken anything by his motion.
A TEA PARTY.
Joseph Arnold, Esq., of Duck-lane, Westminster, a retired hackney-coachman, better known by the title of "the Rough Diamond," and as the intimate friend of Bill Gibbons, Esq. P.C. Com. Gen. was brought before the sitting magistrate under the following awkward circumstances:—
Mr. Peter Guy, who is a tailor[2] (by trade), and Mrs. Peter Guy, were invited to tea by the accomplished hostess of the Russian Hotel in Bow-street. Mr. Joseph Arnold, Mr. Joseph Arnold's housekeeper, and several other ladies and gentlemen, were of the party. There was toast and prime Dorset, and muffins and crumpets, with Gunpowder and Bohea for the ladies; and pig's-face, red-herrings, and hot coffee for the gentlemen; in short, there was everything quite genteel and comfortable. Now it so happened that Mr. Peter Guy wore a white-poodle[3] upper benjamin, of his own make, on the occasion, and this unfortunate dress upset the comfort of the whole party. Mr. Joseph Arnold first observed, that Mr. Peter Guy's poodle-benjamin was as pretty a bit of toggery[4] as ever he seed. All the company agreed to this, except one lady (Mrs. Jonathan Guy), who remarked that it looked rather too warm-like and smothery for fireside wear. Mr. Joseph Arnold observed it warn't a morsel too warm for those as had any gumption[5] in 'em; and he offered to bet a shilling that he could get it on, if so be as Mr. Peter Guy would be kind enough to peel.[6] There was not a lady in company who did not laugh out-right at this proposition, because Mr. Joseph Arnold is a large round man, upwards of six feet high, and Mr. Peter Guy, as one of the ladies very justly observed, is a little hop-o'-my-thumb chap, not much above half as big. Mr. J. Arnold, however, swore by goles (a favourite oath of his) that he would not flinch from his bet; and at length Mr. Peter Guy took him at his word, the stakes were deposited, and Mr. Peter Guy having slipped out of his benjamin, Mr. Joseph Arnold squeezed himself into it, without a vast deal of trouble; though, when it was on, the sleeves did not reach much below his elbows. Mr. Peter Guy readily admitted that he was done,[7] and requested his benjamin again; but Mr. Joseph Arnold refused to restore it, observing, that it was a prime fit, and he would give it a turn among the swells in Duck-lane. The ladies remonstrated, the gentlemen laughed, the noise ran high; the tea tables were hurried away, and the crumpets were upset among the ashes. But it was all of no use; Mr. Joseph Arnold swore the toggery was too good for a tailor, and he would keep it for himself; and so saying, he sallied forth and strutted up and down Bow-street for nearly two hours, till at length the patience of Mr. Peter Guy became exhausted, and he gave him in charge to an officer, who carried him before the magistrate.
His worship having first ordered Mr. Joseph Arnold to be placed at the bar, asked him what he had to say for himself?
He replied that he did not feel himself a bit disgraced by being placed in that 'ere bar, being as how he was well known to Mr. White and Mr. Markland, the magistrates at Queen-square, and to all the inhabitants of Duck-lane, as an honest man, and one that was as well-to-do in the world, as any man who was no better off than himself. And as to the benjamin there was such