THE RAPE OF THE WIG.
One Bob Jenkinson, the son of an honest law-writer—
"A youth condemn'd his father's soul to cross,
Who picks a pocket when he should engross!"
—was charged with having taken unto himself property to which he had no right or title whatever—to wit, a barrister's wig.
It appeared by the evidence, that Bob Jenkinson—hopeful Bob, his friends call him; was prowling about Temple Bar in the dead of the night, seeking something for his "pickers and stealers" to do. Presently he was aware of a solitary gentleman approaching the Bar from the city side; and instantly concealed himself in the shade of the archway, he determined to try his luck upon him. The gentleman, so approaching, was a barrister, residing in the Pump-court of the Temple; and he came slowly, and soberly on—wrapped (probably) in professional meditations, little thinking danger was so near him. As he passed through the archway, Bob Jenkinson popp'd from his hiding-place, crept softly after him on tip-toe, slided his hand smoothly into his right-hand coat-pocket, and drew forth—a wig! Like Filch in the opera—he dipp'd for a fogle and prigg'd a wig! It was not a forensic wig, but a scratch wig, à la Titus—one that any closely cropped gentleman might carry in his pocket to clap on occasionally, when sitting in a theatre, or any other place where currents of cold air prevail. Small as it was, however, the barrister felt it depart. He put his hand to his pocket and found it wigless; and there, close by his side, stood Bob Jenkinson with the wig in his hand—wig-struck, as it were; for had the prize been a bandana, or a snuff-box, or any ordinary pocket-property, Bob would have bolted with it instanter. "What do you mean by that—you scoundrel?" said the barrister. Bob dropped the wig; the barrister took it up; and having re-pocketed it he deliberately gave unlucky Bob in charge to the watch.
Robert had not a word to say in his defence, and the magistrate committed him for trial.