Plymouth advertiser. [volume] (Plymouth, Ohio) 1853-1988, 1855-09-15

HIND THE AGE.
Peter Knight was found wandering about in
the Fourteenth Ward. The officer could not
determine whether he was intoxicated or crazy,
but as he said he had no home, he was taken in
charge as vagrant. He had been travcrsing
the streets, with folded arms, talking to himself
in odd bits of plays and poems. He possessed
a facility of quotation equal TO Richard Swivel
Ter, Es1.'s but he was as reckless about the eX-
actltldr of his extracts, and jumbled up his
authorities with as much confusion as Captain
Cutie himself He seldom gave a quotation
right. but would break off in the middle and
substitute some words Of his own, or doveta-
ing an Irrelevant piece from some STANCE author
or mix up haf.a. dozen authors with interpola-
tions of his own. in an inextlicable verbal jun.
BILE.
Clerk-What's your name?
/ Prisoner-Peter Knight; am native to the
marrow -bone-that's Shakespeare.
Clerk--Was you intoxicated yesterday?
Prisoner-Tis true, tis pity; pity lis there ism t
the devil doubt of it--that's Scott.
Clerk-Where did you get your liquor?
Prisoner-Where the bee sucks, there sucks
Peter Knight all day. Thou base, inglorious
slave, thinks't thou will reveal the noble name
OF him who gave me wine? No Stree, Bob.
that's Beaumont and Fletcher.
Officer in whisper-Il you don't tell you'll
have to go to Jail.
Prisoner-I do remember an apoihecary and
hercabouts he dwelIs- no he don't, he lives over
in the Bowery--but in his needy shop Goldfish
hangs, and on his shelves beggarly account of
empty bottles; noting this penury to myself,
said, if any man need brandy punch, whose
sale is fifty dollars fine in Gotham, here lives
caitif wretch who has probably got plenty of it
under the counter. Why should here conceal
my fault? Wine no! cried. The call was an
swered. have no wine, said he, but plenty of
whis--. Silence! thou pernicious caitif, luoth
l. thou invisible spirit of wine, since we can get
thee by no other name, why let us call thee gin
and sugar, He brought the juice of the cursed
juniper in IL phial, and in the porches of my
throat did pour Udolpho Wolfe's distillment.-
Thus was Iby Dutchman's hand at once dis
patched--not drunk nor sober, sent into this dir.
ty Station House three quarters tight, with all
my inperfections on my head. The fellows
name? Ny very soul rebels But whether it
is nobler in the mind to suffer the cuffs and
bruises of this bloody Dutchman or to take arms
against his red haired highness, and by inform
ing end him l 60 and it is done. Villain,
here's at thy heart! His name, your Honor, is
Bobblesnoff kin in the Bowery Shake.
speare mixed.
Clerk-Have you got home?
Prisoner-My home is on the deep, deep sea,
that's Plutarch's Lives.
Clerk--How do you get your living?
Prisoner-Doubt thou the stars are fire. doubt
that the sun doth move; doubt truth 10 be liar,
but never doubt that I'll get a living while the
oyster sloops have but one watchman-that's S
Billy S. again
Clerk-~Do you pay for your oysters
Prisoner-Base is the slave that pays; the
speed of thought is in my limbs-that's Byron.
Clerk-Do you steal them and then run a.
way?
Prisoner-Ive told thee all, I'll tell no more,
though short the story be; let me 60 back where
l was before and I'll get my living without
troubling the Corporation--that's Tom Moore,
altered to suit the circumstances.
Justice (evidently at loss, in whisper to
mystfed clerk )--I think he is crazy; what do
you think it's best to do with him?
Prisoner (overhearng )-Of with his head;
so much--that's Shakespeare curtailed.
Justice-Will you promise to dispense with
the brandy and gin if you are discharged?
Prisoner--O, l could be happy with either
were 'tother dear uhormor bottled up aud the
cork put in-that's Didbin with ven geance.
Judge-What do you suppose will become of
you if you go on this way, living as you have
done?
Prisoner-Alas, poor Yorick!--Peter, mean.
Who knows where he will lay his bones Few
and short will the prayers be said, and no.
body III feel any sorrow; but they'll cram him
into his clay cold bed, and bury somebody else
ou the top of him to. morrow; the minister will
come, put on his robe and read the service; the
choir III sing hymn; earth to earth and dust
to gravel and that III be the last of Peter
Knight.
CIerk-Peter, we'll have 10 send you up for
ten days.
Prisoner-Fare thee we'll, and if for ever, all
the better That's Byron, revised and corrected.
LIQUOR VS.. LATIN.
Malvern Richardson, a long, lean, thin-ooking
individual, dressed in a sui of black, white
neck cloth, and shovel hat, and whose face
was adorned with that peculiar optical ornament
know as a black eye" was brought up for in
toxication. He said he was a schoolmaster by
profession, and had come to New-York to sec
the City, had been enticed from the paths of So
briefly by volunteer friends, who had left him
drunk in the street, minus his watch and his
money. He had fashion of interarding his
speech with everyday well known Latin quota
tions, which were Indignantly resented by the off
Ger who brou yht him in, who, not being versee
: in the dead languages, took the innocent Latir
$ phrases of the prisoner to be some superlativt
$ degree of lingual blackguardism, i'll the myste
g ry of which he was uninitiated.
: Judge-Wbat is your name
Prisoner-MelvinR Richardson an honest ont
Dec grotias
q Excited oficer-Please your honor, he say
= you're great ass.
a Judge-Was you drunk yesterday?
q Prisoner-I was, contra bonos nsores.
0 Excited oficer-He says he knows more a