The magistrate now asked Miss Susanna what she had 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 the intention of injuring her in the opinion of the only friend she had in the world—Mr. ——, her protector. 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.
JONAS TUNKS.
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 the public-house in question, where Mr. Jonathan Dobbs, and several other gentlemen, were taking a déjeûner à-la-fourchette of sheep's-head and pickled cabbage. He entered the room singing, at the very top of his voice, the favourite aria, "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 of heavy and drank it off to the gentleman's better manners. The gentleman to whom the heavy belonged, now swore that Mr. Jonas Tunks should post the blunt for 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 of heavy, scattered the pickled cabbage upon the floor, and very nearly bolted with 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 foot of 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 had milled the glaze gloriously! He was immediately overpowered with numbers, and handed over to the strong grasp of the Police.