POLICE OFFICE (SATURDAY.)
Mrs. ELEANOR FRAZIER, a lady of great celebrity and elegance, some add of the ton, vulgariter town, and who has been a figurante at the Police Office during the last six months, about as often as the body of yore sat down to recite the Arabian Nights, appeared once more on Saturday last, at the earnest entreaty of her better half. Her loving spouse, whose furrowed and care-worn cheeks betokened how much he was a stranger to those fond caresses, which he vainly sought in the holy bonds of wedlock, detailed his tale of woe, in moving accents, which made the flinty hearts of all around sympathize and condole with him; the heartless stones, indeed, could scarcely hear him with indifference. Tired of the hapless lot of a Coelebs, he looked around him for one with whom he might divide his pillow and his cakes, and who might cheer his hut and warm him during the winter of his life—he saw Miss Eleanor ——, spinster, and became enraptured.
Her beauty first attracted him, and her winning ways completed the conquest. He led her home to his oven—his bed—his bosom. He vainly tried to fan into a flame, the latest sparks of love, and taste these joys he had so often revelled in, by anticipation; alas! all
those dreams of bliss, “illusory as sweet,” faded away, vanished like Hamlet’s Ghost. Miss, now Mrs. ELEANOR, put an extinguisher on his hopes, and made him, instead of an upright happy husband, a downright miserable man. She robbed him of his peace of mind, and bereaved him of his dollars. He courted her—she COURTed him. He sued and she sued. He got unrequited love. She got Dumps. His tale and her tale had been known to all. And, being resolved to cut off the entail, he appealed to the worthy magistrates for their help. His rib has taken to all sorts of fine things, was fond of vanity, and threatened to exhaust the flower of his profits, and the profits of his flour.
The interference of their worships could alone preserve him from ruin and his wife. He claimed their pity—their protection. Who could listen to these plaintive notes, with unmoistened eye: they were the only notes he should remain possessed of, unless they extended towards him, their help. The crimson blush now dyed the lady’s rotund cheeks, when called on to reply: and now a “livid paleness spread o’er all her look.” She sobbed, she simpered, and with downcast eyes confessed the tale was partly true. Her doom was fixed, till thirteen moons their monthly course have traced—she will no more be seen in Sydney. Their obdurate worships, unmindful of her tears, her protestations, and her innocence, condemned her to a wholesome rustication for twelve months— a pleasant
sojourn in the Factory.
See Original: “POLICE OFFICE.—(SATURDAY.),” The Australian (Sydney, NSW : 1824 – 1848) Thursday 5 May 1825, p.3