The Sun.
London, England, 1836-06-02 00:00:00

POLICE INTELLIGENCE.

MARLBOROUGH-STREET.
A small melancholy-looking barber, carrying on the mystery
of chin-scraping in Duncan's-passage, under the uncommon
name of Scatterjowl, entered the Office, bearing in his hand
a show-block with the remains of a curly Wig upon it, and
presenting himself before Mr. CONANT, proceeded, after care-
fully placing his singular burden on the table, to detail his
cause of grievance against a journeyman butcher, who was,
stationed at the bar.
The complainant, whose feelings were evidently of the
most dismal deriated_st—,---khe wig which_then_
looked justice in the face nad, or a length-TrTrrrre-rformed
the pride and ornament of his shop window. Ile had a set
of regular customers, who, not having the fear of Sir An-
drew Agnew before their eyes, came every Sunday morn-
'.ing to his shop to receive his professional assistance. Some
of these customers being waggishly disposed, were greatly
wanting in the reverence due to him and to his honour-
able calling, and were perpetually having what they called
" larks" with him and his property. On Sunday, after the
labour of the brush was ended, he was about to shut up his
shop, when, glancing at the window, he missed his favourite
w •
Astounded at the circumstance, lie ran iato a neighbour-
ing public-house, and on mentioning his loss in the tap-room,
he soon learned sufficient to convinced him that the butchrr,
whose nose lie had professionally squeezed that morning, could
give a clear account of the abstraction of the hairy absentee.
The next morning, while pondering on the steps proper to be
taks-n, the wig, shorn of its glories, was thrown into his shop.
It had evidently been subjected to a " fiery ordeal," and bad
not stood this once popular test ; for one side was completely
singed away, and the portion which was left had frizzled into a
hue somewhat between a brickbat and'a carrot. " Look, your

worship," said the unlucky barber, handing round the block for
the inspection of the Bench, " it would ruin any artist to put
such a job of work in his window. I'll defy the best wig-maker
in the world, let him try all be knows, to put the article in a
fit state for the head of a gentleman."
Mr. CONANT—What have you to say, prisoner, for destroy-
ing the man's property ? Defendant--‘Twarn't me as boned
the vig. I know as it was taken ony for a lark, and it's wen,
true I made one to have 4 shy at it ; but as to who chucked
the beer end sand over it, I ar'nt able to say.
Complainant—liah, it's the third time you've played tricks
with my wigs. Your Worship, I nearly lost one of my old-
est customers through one of his tricks, for I'd just done dress-
ing the gentleman's Sunday wig when he managed to melt a
ball of Burgundy pitch into the crown of it, and the gentleman
never found it out till it stuck so tight, he was obliged to have
it scalded off.
Mr. CoNANT—WeII, go out and talk over the matter.
The parties retired, and after some parley:, th° barber
agreed to take a crown as a satisfaction for the injury done to
his much lamented wig.

Maurice OConnell, Es q P•, has been obliged
•
to pair off for tae remainder of the session, owing to ill health.
His native air is de&ned imperatively necessary to his rest°.
ration.
Nothin of public importance took place yest Nothing
at any of the Law Courts.