Mornings at Bow Street — Page 64-73

"INCHING IT BACKERT."

Two apprentice boys in the service of a very respectable tradesman in Museum-street, together with a little _night-walker_ were charged by an Irish watchman with kicking up a great big row and clatter, at Charing-cross, at half-past twelve o'clock in the morning; and, what was still worse, with laughing _at_, and using bad words _to_ the said watchman, when he very civilly told them to "be off of his bate;" and "moreover and above, with _inching_ it _backert_ in the teeth of him."

"And pray what is '_inching_ it _backert_?'

" asked his worship.

"Fait, your honour, an' this it is"--replied honest Mahoney, shuffling his feet backwards, inch by inch.

His worship observed, that he had never heard the verb "_inching_" used before, and therefore he had asked for an explanation.

"I suppose you conjugate it '_I inch--thou inchest--he inches_,' don't you, Mr. Mahoney?"

"Your honour knows the rights of every thing," replied Mr. Mahoney; and the case proceeded.

It appeared that the two lads had obtained leave of their master to go home for clean linen, and had taken that opportunity of taking a twelvepenny peep at the wonders of Astley's Amphitheatre; and that, in their return to their master's house, they were _picked_ up by the little _night-walker_; that she, being known to Mr. Mahoney as "a noisy customer," he told her to go off and leave the lads alone; whereupon she _trated_ Mr. Mahoney with some abuse, and the lads taking her part, they were all three carried to the watch-house.

The worthy magistrate read them an excellent lesson on the impropriety of their conduct, and prevailed upon their master to forgive them.

This done, they were discharged; and the lady was sent to Bridewell--she being well known as most depraved and disorderly.

MR.

HUMPHREY BRUMMEL AND TERENCE O'CONNOR.

Mr. Humphrey Brummel, a tall, gaunt old gentleman, of pedagogue-ish exterior, with each particular hair standing on end, like quills upon the fretful porcupine, was charged by Mr. Terence O'Connor, a Covent-garden watchman, with having been _extramely_ disorderly under the _pehazies_ (piazzas) during the night.

The magistrate inquired as to the nature of his disorderliness, and Mr. Terence O'Connor explained it to be--"_spaching_ to the lads, and _frullishing_ his stick about like a merry Andrew."

It also appeared that he continued these eccentricities from midnight till four in the morning, "_clane_ contrary to all sorts of _dacency_;" and therefore Mr. Terence O'Connor lodged him in the watch-house.

Mr. Humphrey Brummel in his defence said, he took shelter under the Piazza from the inclemency of the weather: and it was very possible that, whilst there, he might have endeavoured to cheer the loneliness of the hour by an audible repetition of some appropriate passages from the poets.

But he was totally unconscious of offence, and he solemnly declared that instead of "_spaching_ to the lads," he stationed himself in a door-way far apart from every living soul; and had not Mr. Terence O'Connor been so over officious, he should have gone quietly to his bed, and his worship would not have been put to the pain of listening to such a frivolous charge.

"An' please your worship," exclaimed Mr. Terence O'Connor, "he says he's got a _nact_ of _Parlyment_ in his pocket, what'll lay me by the heels, an' I hope your worship will make him _prove his words_!"

"I will do my best," replied his worship, smiling, and at the same time asking Mr. Brummel what Act of Parliament he alluded to.

"Lord love you, sir," replied the tall old man, "I never alluded to any Act of Parliament; but I did threaten to report him to your worship for sleeping on his post."

"Is it true, O'Connor, that you really do sleep whilst on duty?"

asked his worship.

"_Ounly_ that time I got no sleep in the day," replied the night guardian, blushing as intensely as a fresh-washed Munster potato.

"You are both fool and knave, Mr. O'Connor," observed his worship--"a _knave_ for sleeping when you are paid to keep awake, and a _fool_ for wantonly bringing this complaint against yourself."

Mr. Humphrey Brummel was then discharged without a fee; and Mr. Terence O'Connor was dismissed with an assurance that his _watching_ should be _watched_ in future, and that he should be suspended if caught napping.

CUPID IN CHAMBERS.

A pretty little aquiline-faced, "gazelle-eyed" damsel, was brought in by one of the St. Clement Danes' constables, charged with creating a riot in the chambers of Mr. Snuggs, of Clement's Inn.

Master Constable knew nothing of the alleged riot, save and except what Mr. Snuggs had told him; and so he was ordered to stand aside; but Mr. Snuggs himself told a long and lamentable story of the sufferings he had endured from the fair prisoner.

He had originally engaged her as a servant to attend to the domestic department at his chambers; but she took advantage of his _partiality_ for her services, and made the chambers too hot to hold him, as it were;--she disturbed his studies by her loquacity;

she lived intemperately; she set him at defiance; she got her relations to help her to persecute him; and, if he only attempted to remonstrate with her, she raised the whole neighbourhood about his ears!

He concluded by expressing a hope that his worship would put a stop to her doings.

The magistrate thought there must be something very strange in all this;

for what man of any spirit would suffer the serenity of his chambers and his mind to be so disturbed by a little gipsy of an Abigail, "when he himself might his _quietus_ make with a bare _warning_."

He therefore put a question, or two, to Mr. Snuggs, touching the "partiality" he had spoken of.

Mr. Snuggs replied afar off--somewhat approaching to the obscure; but not so the fair troubler of his peace and his chambers.

She gave his worship to understand, in good round terms, that she was the veritable _mamma_ of sundry _little Snuggses_; and that Mr. Snuggs was neither more nor less than a gay deceiver.

She denied that she had ever "kicked up a row" in his chambers--she had merely told him of his faults and his failings; and she hoped his worship would not think of separating her from her children.

The magistrate immediately dismissed the charge; the damsel smiled triumphantly; and Mr. Snuggs, like a tall elderly gentleman as he was, stalked out of the office, sighing--as who should say, "The Gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us!"

FLORENCE O'SHAUGHNESSY.

This was a proceeding wherein one Mrs. Florence O'Shaughnessy sought "_purtection behint_ the law _agen_ the thumpings of her _oun_ lawful husband," Mr. Phelim O'Shaughnessy, of the parish of St. Giles, labourer.

Phelim O'Shaughnessy was a clean-made, curly-pated, good-tempered little fellow, in a new flannel jacket, white apron, and duck trousers.

His wife, Florence, was about his own size, no whit behind him in cleanliness, very pretty, and she had a voice--plaintive as a turtledove's. "--An' plase your honour," said she, "this is Phelim O'Shaughnessy, the husband to myself, that was when he married me; and is--barring the _bating_ he gave me yesterday, just for nothing at all, your honour, that I knows of--_ounly_ that he listens to bad folks, the neighbours of us;

and bad folks they are sure enough, your honour, for that same; and your honour'll be plased just to do me the kindness to make them _hould_ their _pace_ and not be after taking away the senses of my _oun_ husband from me, to make him look upon me like a stranger, your honour--for what would I be then?"

Poor Florence would have gone on murmuring forth her little griefs in this manner by the hour together, if his worship would have listened to her.

But the office was crowded with business, and he reminded her that the warrant she had sued for, charged her husband with having beat her; and she must confine herself to making good that charge, if she wished to have him punished for so doing.

"Your honour," said Florence, with a low courtesy, "it isn't myself that would hurt a hair of the head of him; _ounly_ that your honour would hear the rights of it, and tell Phelim he shouldn't be after _bating_ me for the likes of them.

And here he is to the fore, your honour, for that same."

The magistrate found it would be vain to think of hearing "the rights of it" from Florence; and therefore he asked Phelim what he had to say to it.

Now Phelim was a man of few words.

He had listened calmly to all Florence had been saying, and it was not till the magistrate had twice put the question to him, that he left off smoothing his dusty hat, and then, looking steadfastly in his worship's face, he replied, "Och!

it's all about the threepence ha'penny, your honour.

It was Saturday night when I gave her every farthing of the wages I earned that week--and so I does every Saturday night, come when it may, your honour--and when I ax'd her on Monday morning to give me threepence ha'penny, to get me a pint of beer and the little loaf, _bekase_ I was going to a long job in the city, and didn't know what time I'd be back to my _oun_ place, she wouldn't give it me any how, your honour; and sure I did give her a clout or two."

"But you would not do so again, I am sure, Phelim," observed his worship.

"You should remember that she is your wife, whom you have vowed to protect and cherish; and besides, you know it is disgraceful in any man to strike a woman--especially in an _Irishman_.

You must give me your solemn promise, Phelim, that you will not strike her again."

"Sure I'd be a _baste_ if I _whopp'd_ her again, your honour," replied Phelim, "when I just thought of a _skame_ to do without it.

--It's _ounly_ keeping the threepence ha'penny in my _oun_ pocket, your honour, and I'll have no occasion to _bate_ it out of her at all."

The bystanders laughed at this _skame_ of Phelim's, and even the magistrate smiled, as he good-humouredly told Florence, that, though he believed her to be an excellent wife, he thought that she was a little too hard in refusing her husband such a trifle as threepence half-penny when he was going to work so far from home.

Florence smiled also; but there was a thoughtful sadness in her smile;

and, when the laughter had subsided, she told his worship, that it was not the "_coppers_," nor the bit of a "_bating_" Phelim had given her, that she cared about.

He had _harkened_ to bad tales about her, she said, and had sworn never to be good to her till she said "two words" to him.

His worship asked her if her husband supposed she was untrue to him.

She replied that he did, and implored the magistrate to let her swear to her fidelity!

His worship told her he was sure there was no need of any such ceremony--"Phelim," said he, "has too much good sense to listen to any idle stories about you."

Still, however, poor Florence would not be pacified; and snatching the Gospels from the table, she pressed the sacred volume fervidly to her lips, and then raising her eyes, she exclaimed--"So help me God!

that, barring Phelim and myself, I don't know man from woman."

All this while Phelim stood hanging down his head, and fumbling at the buckle of his hat in the simplest manner imaginable.

"For shame, Phelim!"

said the magistrate, as Florence made an end of her oath--"For shame, Phelim!

--How can you stand there and see the distress of such a wife, without coming forward and assuring her of your confidence?

--Give her your hand, man, and comfort her as she deserves."

Phelim stretched forth his hand--Florence grasped it almost convulsively, and raising it to her lips, all chapped and sun-burnt as it was, she kissed it--they looked each other in the face for a moment--burst into tears, and hastily left the office arm-in-arm.