New Hampshire Statesman

MISCELLANY.
NEW-YORK POLICE.
Life in the Dark.—On Monday night, or rather Tuesday morning, five young Tom and Jerrys of our city sallied out on a Lark. It seems that they had no fixed plan of operations, and were perfectly willing to amuse themselves in any becoming way. They lamented there were no watch boxes to overturn—no slums of the holy land to visit—no Almacks in the east, but, taking consolation under these disappointments they determined to do the best in their power for a spree—they had all had their glass or two of red tape, and appeared to have enough of the blunt.—They commenced operations somewhere near the Bowery, by a variety of slight of hand tricks of fancy, such as dismantling signs over shop keepers' doors; tearing to pieces a few stoops and porticoes; breaking a miscellaneous lamp or two; unhinging doors, taking down wooden boots and gilt wooden clocks from the shops of mechanics, interspersed with patriotic songs and toasts to the great disrupture of the city, and the disturbance of the watchmen's sleep.
Thus employed, they paraded down Chatham street, up Orange street, through Collect street, without the least interference from the protectors of our peace and tranquility. One watchman, however, kept his eye on these hopefuls, and at an unexpected moment he dashed in amongst them, secured one, and the rest took to their heels and made good their retreat.
At dawn of day our young Bob Logic was escorted into the police, he looked about for Corinthian Tom and his friend Jerry, together with the Hon. Mr. Trifle and Sir Jeremy Brag, but they had deserted him. The watchman told his story, and exhibited sundry pieces of broken signs and tin sheets with black and golden letters, in corroboration of his statement. "Why did you not take them all, watchy?" said the magistrate. "I dogged them all," said the watch, "and was afraid of striking on the pavements for fear of alarming them, and I was determined to catch as many as I could, I seized this young one here and the rest ran away." Bob Logic was respectfully invited to the examining Bench.
He looked a little the worse for wear, as if he had not been used to the bunk in the watch house—his cravat had an air of slovenly negligence in the tie; his hair was matted and his eye heavy. He snuffed up a little, squinted and looked around with an air of fashionable contempt. What's your name? said the magistrate. Bob Logic, said he, with a twist of the nose, and a shake of the head, as much as to say "what's that your business." The magistrate then proceeded to put one of the regular questions of the office to him. "How do you live?" …Why, says Bob, "I lives on my money." This was brief and very much to the point.—The examination continued. Bob did not deny the lark, but consoled himself that he was in good company. After hearing both sides, the magistrate by virtue of the act in such cases made and provided, fined him fifty five dollars besides three dollars seventy five cents costs. His guardian was sent for and he planked the cash, and Bob, with his hands in the pocket of his Cossack pantaloons, and his hat on one side of his head went whistling out of the office.
Moral. When you sally out on a spree to break lamps and take down signs, be prepared to pass the remnant of the night in the Watch-house, and be sure you have fifty or sixty dollars to pay the penalty of the law next morning.
Nat. Adv.