[A6] "New Movement in the Police Office," Spirit of the Times, Feb. 7, 1842

NEW MOVEMENT IN THE POLICE OFFICE.—One evening last week as our Flib was sitting in the sanctum engaged in discussing with himself the merits of the case of John Rogers's children, he was surprised by the entrance of Toney Blink, who plumped himself into a chair, puffed out his cheeks, whistled, stamped his foot on the floor, threw his arms aloft, and whistled again.

"Well," exclaimed Flib, "There's some extensive agitation in progress, some regular steam car blow out, there is."

"Look here, Flib," exclaimed Toney Blink, "I'm a-goin' to leave you."  Toney pulled out a red cotton handkerchief, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"You don't mean it," replied Flib, in a voice of intense feeling,  "You don't mean it?  Cause if you do I'll go out and buy myself a dozen pocket handkerchiefs and a towel to veep in.  Come, Toney, if you go to cryin' that way I'll have to take an old newspaper to vipe my eyes vith.  Hold up, do."

"Break it gently to the editor," replied Toney in great agitation,  "Don't knock him down with the whole thunderclap of my fearful determination.  Give the news to him in bits like.  Circumstances as fearful as they are mysterious, force me to leave you."

"What's your reason for such a horrible determination?"

"Why Flib, I cannot tell you. Come up to the Mayor's office on next Saturday morning and see my successor—do.  He's a regular good fellow, do come."

"I will—depend upon me, Toney."

Here is


My friends I must bid you all good bye.  We've travelled together in the same omnibus for some time past, but now we must part.  I'll no longer regale you with histories of the rowdies’ rows, the watchmen’s watches of the night, the loafer's loafings—the pen of this genius is about to be laid on the shelf, and so is your humble friend Toney Blink. 

Thus far had I progressed in my valedictory, which I was writing on Saturday morning last, at Mr. Kenney's desk, in Mayor Scott's office, when the arrival of an individual inside of the Reporters pew, stayed my quill.

He was a very respectable youth, about the middle size, dressed in a dark green overcoat, beneath which I observed a black frock coat, buttoned up to his black handkerchief, which was finely relieved by a small extent of lately washed white shirt collar.—As for the picture of his face, imagine a small blue cap, a little the worse for wear, topping a mass of brown hair, which descended below the collar of his coat in diversified locks; fancy this hair relieving a countenance marked by full cheeks; small nose, half Grecian, half pug; dark black eye-brows; mouth with lips rather large; forehead low and strongly marked, and eyes vacant at most times, but when excited, flashing with a very peculiar expression, termed d—lment.  There was considerable fun, egotism, and talent in his general physiognomy.

"Who is that?" asked Flib, who sat at my side.

"My successor," I answered.

"Your successor is it?" said the gentlemanly Kenney, who overheard me.  "Your successor, is it?"

I observed him take three levys out of his pocket.

"Here, tell that long haired youth to take these and go over to Bogue's."

Flib looked grave.  I groaned, and several of the constables showed their teeth.  My successor approached.

"Allow me, Mr. Kenney," I observed, "allow me to make you acquainted with my successor; allow me to drop my name, and substitute that of Mr. William Br—"

"Hold up!" cried the long haired one.  "Don't Mister me—my name is plain and simple.  If any body asks for me, why you can just holler out—


Reported for the Spirit of the Times.


City Police,—Saturday, Feb. 5.—How a scholar hired a room of a widder, how he was pestered by  five children and a lap dog, and how he disposed of the Cat.

Marmaduke W. Roberts, a dapper little man, dressed in a faded black coat, black pants, and tattered boots, and with a very solemn expression of countenance, was charged with having committed an assault upon his landlady, Mrs. Tamswell, a large, plump, blooming dame, with very rosy cheeks and a very good humored countenance withal.  Said assault being committed at 10 on Friday night, and Mrs. W. appeared to substantiate the statement.  Here is Marmaduke's account.

            "You see Mr. Mayor—I'm a literary man."

            Mayor.—Ah! Sir, I'm sorry to see a literary man in your position.

            Marmaduke.—I'm a woman hater, sir.  I'm a child-despiser, sir.  A woman hater, and a child hater, sir.  I'm the done-up victim of this woman's persecution, and the whole lot of her children have slobbered all over me.  I doesn't want the women to love me, but the more I don't want 'em, the more they fall in love with me.  Last July, tired of the world, and every thing in particular, I hired a room of Mrs. Tamswell—I hired it with the particular condition that nothing like a petticoat or a baby's frock should come within a mile of my apartment, and I particularly enjoined "no listening" at the keyholes.

            Mayor.—What has this to do with the matter.

            Marmaduke.—Let me come to the point.  Three days after I engaged the room, I was sitting at my table, composing a literary work entitled "A Plan to render the Moon habitable, and further instructions calculated to make the Solar System generally useful"—when I  felt a tap on the shoulder,—I turned-and beheld a-child!

            Mayor.—How extraordinary!

            Marmaduke. (Solemnly)—Yes, strange as it may seem to you, I beheld a child, and presently another, and another—the fearful truth burst upon me in all its details—Mrs. Tamswell was a widder and I was destined to be her victim!  Day after day she sent her children into me, and the beasts did look so nice that I had to nurse 'em, besides her  brindled tabby cat, and then Mrs. Tamswell began to sport a lap-dog, the children and the widder I had a nice life of it, and my "plan to render the moon, &c." instead of going forward went backward, and  I was knocked into an intellectual "middle of the next week."

            Mrs. Tamswell.—O! was there ever such a man!  Just look at him!

            Marmaduke.—I became desperate.  I lost my sleep and appetite.  I wrote my own epitaph—"Died of a widder and five children together with a tabby cat including a lap dog."  Matters thus continued until yesterday when I went and bought five coffee bags, and as many spikes.  I drove the spikes into the wall and fixed the coffee bags to 'em.  In the evening Mrs. Tamswell missed her children—came into my room—found her children in the coffee bags hanging to the wall with their heads sticking out, and crying like the very devil.  The lap dog was stuffed away in a cold stove pipe, and the cat was squealin' away with her head in the leg of my boot.

            Mrs. Tamswell.—O! you nasty brute.

            Marmaduke.—The widder looked hard at me, and then she bust into tears.  "You're a brute," says she to me.  "You're a nuisance," says I to her.  "Pay me my rent," "Go to the d—l."  "Ugh! You miserable scribler."  "Ugh! You woman," I replied.  "Don't you provoke me," says she, fixing her nails in  my cheek.  "Keep cool you female," I replied, giving her a tap on the head, and with that she calls for the watchman, and here I am.  That's the whole truth of the matter, and I'll feel obliged to you if you'll let me go and finish my "plan to render the moon, &c."

            His honor advised the parties to settle the matter between themselves, and they left the office together.  Somebody will have to write a marriage notice shortly.

            Clarissa Williams and Matilda Anderson, kicked up a row, and broke the peace into a number of pieces, on Friday night.  Frail ones, they were sent down below.

            John Banks—alas for Whiggery!—was caught kicking up a row in front of the Walnut street Theatre.  Gave security to keep the peace.

            Hugh Dougherty—Came to this city in a sloop, from Leipersville—went strolling about town in company with alcohol—got lost—picked up by watchman.  Sent below.

Sunday, February 6.

            Samuel Link, was linked with another loafer, named McEuen, and the chain carried on an extensive business in the way of begging until last night, when it was severed by the arrest of Sammy.  Sent below.

            Ann Jane Billing Augustus, (one individual,) a yellow gal, kicked up a breeze in Mary street, on Saturday evening.  Did some swearing, and was otherwise eloquent.  Bound over.

            James Stilt, arrested at the suit of his wife, on Saturday night.  Had been flogging her and all that.  Wife didn't appear.  James remanded.

            Henry Quicksel, charged by Robert Harmer of the Cornucopia, with having stolen money from his drawer.  Quicksel has been a bar keeper in the establishment for a year or more.  Looked the very picture of guilt.  Pale face, downcast eyes, and you know what.  Bound over.

            Sarah Slobdoge, was supposed to be the individual who purloined some baby's clothes from the yard of Elizabeth Anderson, a yellow woman, who lives down town.  Sarah cried, but the Mayor was impenitent.  Sarah had to retire to Moyamensing.

There's the first daub of the brush.  Yours (as you please)

            Billy Brier.