The Sun. — 1833-11-01 (London, England)

POLICE INTELLIGENCE.  BOW-STREET.  " The iron tongue of midnight had told twelve," and all other sorts of unquiet spirits were of course abroad to enjoy their Saturnalia; amongst the rest, one Mr. John Ferguson, who, be it, however, well understood, has not yet shuffled off his mortal coil, was roaming about in the classic neighbourhood of Clare-market, when a whim seized him to open the first door he came to. Mr. Nettle, an honest bootcloser of Brown's-buildings, was at that precise moment in the very act of going to Nettlebed, when, while ascending the stairs for the purpose, he was astonished at the sound of steps in the passage below. A retrograde movement on his part was the natural consequence, in order that he might ascertain beyond question who it was that thus, at the very witching time of night, came to murder his innocent sleep, and perhaps himself into the bargain. On reaching that part of his domicile which courtesy would style the hall he was encountered by the aforesaid John Ferguson, hot with the Tuscan grape, and reeling ripe for fun, a circumstance which could not very well have happened had Mr. Nettle bestowed the same pains upon closing his doors as he did upon closing his boots. A scuffle was the immediate consequence. Mr. Ferguson was probably aware of Aaron Hill's remark— " Tender handed stroke a Nettle It against you will rebel; Grasp it, like a man of mettle, And the rogue obeys you well."  . . Now Mr. Ferguson is a man of mettle, especially when he has swallowed his usual number of kevartens, and he grasped his antagonist accordingly. Down went Mr. Nettle, nicking his time so well that the bony knuckles of the Sussex farmer (for such is Mr. Ferguson's grade in society), instead of splitting his os fronds, only split the pannel of the parlour door behind it. A diversion was at this moment created by the simultaneous appearance of Mrs. Nettle at the tcp and a Mr. Franklin at the bottom of the stairs; nor did Wellington himself, in the eventful crisis at Waterloo, hear with more joy the first Prussian cannon than the prostrate Nettle did the cheering exclamation—" Tot is all this here row about?" Hercules himself must yield to odds, and so did Mr. Ferguson, who, overpowered at length by the united vigour of the Nettles and Franklin (the latter contending like an athlete of old, in puris naturalibus, having sprung from his downy couch on the first alarm), surrendered at discretion, not, however, before the appearance of two police-officers rendered further contest hopeless; Such was the account given yesterday morning to the presiding Magistrate by the various actors in the foray. Mr. Ferguson, the delinquent, seemed fully to admit the truth of what was alleged against him, declaring at the same time that he knew very little more aUoul the matter than that he had been drinklag, and supposed " he must have gone into the house by mistake. To prove his respectability, and that his visit was erroneous, not predatory, he called Mr. Simpson, a celebrated restaurateur from Drury-lane, who established the fact of his being a frequent and honourable customer at his establishment.  Mr. Nettle is a good-humoured man; he did not wish to press the matter a l'outrancc, and the agriculturist was dismissed on the simple conditions of paying twenty shillings a-piece for the heads and doors split in the course of the transaction, the usual pecuniary mulct levied upon those who transgress the bounds of temperance being mercifully remitted.