Marshall Emma
Under the Mendips: A Tale

CHAPTER XV.
TUMULT

When Gilbert Arundel had placed his little children in safety with their grandmother, he hastened back to Bristol, and found the uproar increasing.

Queen Square was filled with the rioters, who were now letting loose the most furious rage against the Mayor and Recorder. They tore up the iron railings in front of the Mansion House, and hooted and scoffed at the Riot Act, which was read by the Mayor's order, and the force of special constables was quite insufficient.

Gilbert saw this at once, and now, when the cry arose: "Fire the Mansion House!" it was a relief to see some action taken, by a troop of the 14th Light Dragoons, and Dragoon Guards trotting into the Square.

There was to all noble-hearted men, something terribly humiliating in the aspect of affairs. Here was a seething, ignorant crowd of men, women, and boys, intimidating the magistrates, frightening the Mayor till he actually barricaded his windows in the Mansion House with his bed; and Sir Charles Wetherall beating an undignified retreat from the flat roof of the dining-room. There, helped by a woman's hand, who set up a ladder for him, he dropped in pitiable terror into the stables behind, and hid in a loft. Gilbert, standing on guard by the corner of the Square with four friends bravely holding their ground, and warding off with their staves the excited crowd, recognised in the dim light the Recorder slipping by, in a post-boy's dress, which actually passed him through the crowd, till he found himself safe at Kingsdown. And if the cowardice of the Recorder, in escaping for dear life from the storm he had himself roused was unprecedented, the wavering uncertainty of the Colonel in command of the troops was scarcely less reprehensible!

How Gilbert longed to take a prominent part, and how his heart burned with righteous indignation against the weakness and incapacity of those in command.

Everything seemed to go from bad to worse, till Captain Gage received orders to protect the Council-house. He then charged through High Street and Wine Street, and drove the rioters, who assailed the soldiers with stones, into the narrow lanes and alleys.

Many were wounded with sabre cuts, and Gilbert, in his efforts to save a woman and child from being trampled down, just by the old timber house at the corner of Wine Street, was overpowered by the press behind him, and, just as he had succeeded in placing the woman and her infant in safety on the high stone sill of a window, he was stunned by a blow, given at a venture from a stout stick, and would have fallen and been trampled to death, had not a pair of strong arms seized him and borne him to a comparatively quiet place on the quay.

Gilbert was stunned and hardly conscious, and when he found himself on his feet, he staggered and fell against a wall. Some soldiers riding up, chased a band of rioters out of Clare Street, and Gilbert saw the great giant who had delivered him felled by a sabre cut. The crowd passed over him, and when it had cleared, Gilbert, himself feeble and exhausted, bent over the man, and tried to drag him nearer the houses.

He was bleeding profusely, and hailing a cart passing to the Infirmary with two wounded men, Gilbert begged the driver in charge, to raise the prostrate man, and take him also to the Infirmary. It was no easy matter, but at last it was accomplished, and a pair of dark, blood-shot eyes were turned on Gilbert. The man tried to articulate, but no sound came. As the cart was moving off, Gilbert saw he made a desperate effort.

He raised his hand, and cried out with all his remaining strength, "Tell your good lady I kept my word, and I saved you from harm!"

"Stop!" Gilbert said to the driver, "stop; this man has saved my life. I must come to the Infirmary to see he has proper care and attention."

"You look fit for a 'ospital bed yourself, sir," said the man. "Jump up, and I'll take you for a consideration," he added, with a knowing twinkle of his eye.

Faint and exhausted himself, Gilbert saw the wounded man placed in one of the wards with the others, whose condition was less serious, and, bending over the man, he said:

"I recognise you now. You are Bob Priday?"

The man nodded assent.

"I've been a bad 'un," he said. "I went in for these riots, 'cause I was sick of my life; but I'd like to see your good lady once more, and poor little Sue. Her mother used to reckon her next to a saint, as she sat learning her hymns. I've scoffed and jeered at 'em, and sent the boys to the bad, and threatened the squire. I did not kill him, though; and yet, what do you think, she, the squire's daughter, your good lady, bid God bless me, and let me touch her hand; why, ever since I've kinder felt that if she could pardon, God might."

"He will pardon the chief of sinners, for Christ's sake," said Gilbert.

The man's wound was bleeding profusely, and he soon became confused and wandering; and his face assumed a livid hue as Gilbert bent over him.

"My wife will not forget that you saved my life," he said; "and I know if it is possible she will come and see you, and bring your daughter with her."

"He is nearly unconscious," said the surgeon. "Dear me! sir, what a time this is for Bristol. This is the sixth case brought in since noon. God knows where the riots will end! You were sworn in as a special constable, I suppose?"

"Yes, but to little purpose. Resistance is useless, unless well organised."

"That's true enough; but there is no head, that's the mischief of it; no head anywhere. Do you live in Bristol, sir?"

"In Great George Street; I am returning there now. You will look after this man?"

"Yes; but he won't get over it. A bad subject – a very bad subject. He is very prostrate," the surgeon continued, laying a professional finger on the great muscular wrist; "his hours are numbered. That's a bad blow on your forehead, sir; let me put a bandage on; and how are you getting home?"

"As I came, I suppose. There seems a lull in the uproar now, and I shall be able to get back by Trinity Street and up by Brandon Hill."

Gilbert submitted to the bandage, and thankfully drank a reviving draught, which the surgeon gave him, and then he turned his face homewards.

He was dizzy and bewildered, and did not feel as if he could again face the crowd, so he reached home by a circuitous road, entering Great George Street from the upper end.

It was nearly one o'clock before he stood by his own door, and he found two of his friends, who had served with him as special constables, coming out. They had left Queen's Square empty, they said, and not a rioter was to be seen there, and the troops had returned to their quarters.

Joyce, hearing her husband's voice, came downstairs, and not a moment too soon. Thoroughly exhausted, and suffering from the blow on his head, he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried him, at Joyce's request, to his own room.

Gilbert tried to make light of his condition, and said it was only the noise and shouting which had bewildered him.

"We lost sight of you after the troops cleared Queen's Square, Arundel. What became of you?"

"I got separated in the rush just by Wine Street, and there a woman and a baby were in some danger; and as I made a plunge to get them to a place of safety, someone gave me a chance thump on the head, and I might have been trampled to death had not a man saved me, in his turn to be cut down by the sabre of one of the soldiers; he now lies dying in the Infirmary; and the man, Joyce, is Bob Priday."

"He kept his promise, then." Joyce said, clasping her hands; "he kept his promise to me."

"Yes, darling, it was the touch of your little, white hand, he said, which brought to his heart the hope that God would forgive him."

Joyce, kneeling by the sofa where her husband lay, hid her face in the pillow, while Mr. Bengough and Mr. Cooper, his two friends, left the room with Mrs. Arundel, and promised to send a surgeon who lived near them in Berkley Square.

"He is as brave as a lion," Mr. Bengough said; "you may well be proud of your son."

The doctor came, and advised entire rest and quiet, and told Joyce that she might console herself with the certainty that her husband would be unfit for any action, as special constable for many a day to come.

How thankful Joyce felt that she had not left the house with her children, and that she was there to nurse and tend her husband with the thousand sweet observances which are the consolation of every true wife to render, in the hour of need.

The Sunday morning broke over an apparently quiet city, and as Joyce looked from the window of her room, after two hours of refreshing sleep, she could see no one moving in the distant streets, and heard no sound.

It seemed a true sabbath stillness, which was in itself a healing power.

As the mist of the October morning lifted, the Cathedral Tower, and that of St. Mary Redclyffe, stood out in solemn majesty, steadfast and unmoved for all the riot and confusion which had so lately reigned beneath them.

St. Stephen's stately tower, further to the left, raised its head above the street where Joyce knew her husband had been in such peril; and her heart swelled with thankfulness to God, who had preserved his life. Then her thoughts flew to the Infirmary ward, where Bob Priday lay dying, and she felt determined that, if possible, Susan should see him, and she laid her plans to effect this meeting.

As soon as Falcon woke, she lifted him from his bed and took him to the nursery, washing him and dressing him, and kneeling with him to say his morning prayers; then she said to the boy:

"Falcon, grandmamma is asleep, and so is dear father. Dear father has been hurt by the rioters, and is to lie in bed very quiet all day. I want to go up to Clifton to see the baby Joy, and Lettice and Lota. I shall leave you to watch by father, and if he stirs or wakes, call grandmamma. Will you do this?"

"Yes, mother," the boy said. Then with a sigh, "I hope the riots are over now. At first I liked to hear the noise, and watch the crowd, but I got tired of it. Are we to go to church, mother?"

"If I can get back in time, darling, you shall go to church with Mary, but I don't think I shall go to-day."

Then she gave Falcon his basin of bread and milk, moving so gently that no one heard her lighting the nursery fire, and performing with her accustomed nicety all the little household duties which had been familiar to her from early childhood. Then she shared Falcon's breakfast with him, gave him a volume of the old "Children's Friend," with the funny little woodcuts, which were the delight of the children of fifty years ago; and, establishing him in the window-seat in his father's room, left him on guard. It was beautiful to see how the noisy, high-spirited child, responded to his mother's hand, and felt a proud sense of serving her, as he was left in the room to take care of his father.

The clocks were chiming a quarter to eight as Joyce reached Park Street, where all was quiet, but she heard several passers by, say that Queen's Square was again thronged, and that the "roughs" were forcing their way back to the scene of the previous day's disturbances.

By the turn to Berkley Square, Joyce met Mr. Bengough, who was hurrying down to the Guildhall, where, he said, Major Mackworth was attempting to organise the special constables; but that Colonel Brereton's folly in removing his troops to the Leigh stables, had given the mob every encouragement.

"You may be glad, Mrs. Arundel, that your husband is out of the fray; there will be more broken heads before midnight, I expect."

"I trust and pray, you may be kept safely. Come in, later in the day, and let us hear," Joyce said, as she parted from Mr. Bengough and walked quickly towards Clifton. All was quiet there, and when Joyce arrived at Down Cottage, her two little girls came flying to meet her, looking like two daisies, fresh from their morning bath.

Joyce was struck with her mother's admirable management. She was always up with the lark in her old home at Fair Acres, and she kept up her country habits.

The breakfast was ready in the little dining-room, and everyone was there but Charlotte. Piers had the baby Joy, upon his knee, and Mrs. Falcon declared she had been as "good as gold" all night.

It was hard to believe that Clifton Down Cottage could be so near to the tumultuous city; everything seemed going on as it did every day, and no one appeared excited or troubled. When Joyce had told her story of the previous night, however, the real state of affairs seemed brought home to the little party, and Lota said:

"I want to go home to kiss father, and make his head well."

Presently Joyce said she must see Susan, and she asked Piers to come with her for a moment into his own room.

Piers delivered the baby to her grandmother, and, taking up his crutches, followed Joyce. In the passage they met Charlotte.

"How early you have come," she said. "I was called so early, as Mrs. Falconer wanted the rooms to be made tidy; but really I was not fit to get up at all. I am so dreadfully upset by yesterday's events."

"Joyce has more reason to be upset, as you call it," Piers said, "than you have, with Gilbert laid up with a blow on his head."

"Oh! how dreadful! how shocking! dearest Joyce; what can I do?"

"Nothing; but go and have your breakfast; mother hates having the things kept on the table."

"I have no patience with her," Piers said, wrathfully, as he closed the door of his den behind him and his sister; "I do verily believe she thinks she is going to be Lady Maythorne, I do indeed."

"Oh! Piers, impossible! she cannot be so foolish."

"My dear, it would be a long plumb-line to sound her folly, or his either."

"But he is in difficulties as to money; he came here because he wanted to get some out of his sister."

"Has Aunt Letitia any money?" Piers asked.

"Of course, she has her own income, and – "

"Will leave it all to Charlotte. Now do you see?"

"I see what you mean, but it must be prevented, it is too preposterous."

"But now, Piers, dear Piers, I want to ask your advice. I could not trouble Gilbert, he is very much hurt," and Joyce's voice faltered. "The man who saved Gilbert's life is Susan's father, Bob Priday."

Piers made a gesture of astonishment. "The man who took our father's life," he murmured.

"Indirectly, not intentionally quite, as we always thought. Piers, I should like to go to the Infirmary, and take Susan with me. Will you help us, and come with us?"

"You may get into another scrimmage, Joyce; is it right?"

"I think it is right," Joyce said, gently; "I asked God about it, you know."

Here was Joyce's sense of strength in weakness; she had always a refuge and a Councillor at hand. Her religion was not one of many words; it was emphatically the religion of Peace – and in quietness and confidence she could rest.

"It seems to me, Piers, as if it would be cruel to deny a dying man this last act of grace."

"He does not deserve it."

"Ah! Piers, what do we deserve of God?"

"Well," he said, "I will go with you if I can get a hackney-coach; a lame fellow like me can't very well trudge down there on foot. But as you do everything to please other people, it is only fair I should try to please you."

"I don't wish to tell mother yet, but I will go and call Susan, dear, good Susan, and tell her to get ready."

"I hope she won't make a scene," Piers said, "I hate scenes, and I don't see what good you will do, but here goes;" and Piers took his hat and went to do his sister's bidding.

CHAPTER XVI.
"FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED."

Taking a circuitous route by Granby Hill, where two little urchins were waiting to scotch the wheels, the lumbering coach, of much larger proportions than the modern fly, reached the gate of the Infirmary before ten o'clock.

The coachman was very much excited by the events of the previous day, and was rather glad to have the opportunity of taking back to Clifton reliable information as to the state of the city.

He skirted the suburbs of Bedminster, and was somewhat proud of his achievement.

Joyce left Piers in the coach, and, taking Susan's arm she went into the large, gloomy entrance of the building.

Here people were standing in groups; some crying, some talking in angry tones, and the surgeons and attendants all passing to and fro, as news of those who had been wounded was hastily given to their friends.

As Joyce stood waiting to see the surgeon of the ward where Bob Priday lay, a man came rushing in.

"The mob are in the Mansion House," he said; "they are throwing out the furniture; it is worse than ever."

"Where are the authorities?" asked one of the surgeons, who had a roll of bandages in his hand.

"Rushing away, for their lives, like cats on the roofs of the houses. They are hunting for Colonel Brereton, and calling upon all the people in College Green to come to the aid of the magistrates in the King's name."

"And the magistrates climbing over the roofs of the houses; dear, dear!" said the old surgeon. "Pray, madam," he said, turning to Joyce, "is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," Joyce said; "this young woman's father is dying in one of the wards."

"What ward? what ward? We are all so busy."

"He was brought in yesterday by a gentleman whose head had been hurt; Mr. Arundel, one of the special constables."

"All right – yes – this way, madam; but let me advise you to make short work of your visit, and get back to your own house! this way."

"Is the man conscious?"

"Yes, there is a flicker up before the end; but he is dying."

Poor Susan pressed her hand upon her side, and clung to her mistress's arm.

"Oh, dear lady, pray for me," she said. "I have come because I knew mother would have wished it."

"Take courage, Susan, and God will help you."

Many wistful eyes were turned upon the mistress and her maid, as they entered the ward. Some of the wounded people were groaning, others crying aloud for help; but Bob Priday, lying against pillows propped behind him, was still and silent.

Joyce led Susan to the bed, and said:

"I have brought your daughter, and I come to thank you for keeping your promise; for you saved my husband's life."

A strange, half-conscious smile flitted over the man's face.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bad husband to thee, Susan, for thou wert a tidy lass when I married thee. What are thee come to fetch me for? Susan, don't'ee cry."

"Father, father! my dear mistress has brought me to say 'Good-bye.'"

"Aye, I remember now; tell her 'twas the touch of her little, white hand that did it. Says I to myself, if she can touch the likes of me, perhaps God may forgive me, do you see, Sue? I thought 'twas your mother at first; I see now; 'tis little Sue – a woman grown. Tell your mistress 'twas her little, white hand that did it. Lor! she is like an angel."

Then Joyce took the hand lying nearest once more in hers, and, kneeling down, raised her clear, sweet voice and repeated:

"The Son of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost.

"There is joy in the presence of the Angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

"I do repent," he said; and great tears – the first tears Bob Priday had shed for many a long year – ran down his cheeks. "It's all along of you," he said; "as you forgive me, He may."

Then Joyce asked for pardon of Him in whose steps she was following, for this poor, dying man, whose life had been so darkened by sin, and who had brought so much sorrow upon others.

"O Lamb of God, that taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us;" and the last conscious words which Bob Priday spoke were, "Amen," and then, "Kiss me, little Sue."

Joyce left Susan kneeling by the bed, while she turned to others in the ward, passing through the long line of beds like a messenger of peace.

A word here and a word there; a gentle touch of the same white hand which had been stretched out to poor Bob Priday, and had brought home to his soul the power of God's love, and Joyce, in all the first flush of her young beauty, in all the bright gladness of the summer morning at Fair Acres, had never looked so lovely as when she drew Susan gently away, and, putting her arm in hers, left the ward, followed by the wondering and wistful glances of the patients and the nurses.

There was no time to lose, for the sound of distant tumult grew louder. The old surgeon urged the coachman to take as wide a sweep as possible, to avoid the Bristol streets, and just as they were starting a man rushed in with more news.

The mob were on their way to Bridewell to set the prisoners free who had been committed on Saturday, and Colonel Brereton had declared his intention of withdrawing the 14th Light Dragoons from the city.

This last act in the drama of irresolution and incompetence was followed, before sun-down, with the flames of a burning city, and the ever increasing fury of a mob, whose blood was inflamed with the wine from the Mansion House cellars, which had been drunk with eager recklessness, and had excited the brains of the poor, ignorant people till they were literally madmen, ah! and mad women too, as well as rioters.

When Joyce reached her own door, little Falcon met her.

"Mother," he said, "when the church bells were ringing, the soldiers were coming down Park Street, and grandmother said we must not go to church."

"It is better not to go, dear boy," his mother said.

"It's not a bit like Sunday," Falcon exclaimed, "for the people are beginning to shout again, and roar louder than ever down below."

Mrs. Arundel was sitting with Gilbert, who was drowsy and heavy, and asked but few questions as to where Joyce had been.

"It was a great risk," Mrs. Arundel said; "and did it effect any good?"

"I think so," said Joyce, simply. "I took hope to the death-bed of a poor man, the hope which was not denied to the thief on the cross; and I took a daughter to bear witness to her father that love could triumph even over the memory of wrong-doing like his."

Mrs. Arundel shook her head. "We must leave the result with God," she said; "a God of love; but He will by no means spare the guilty. Where are Piers and Susan?"

"They are gone back to Down Cottage. I got out of the coach at the turn to Brandon Hill. The children looked so well and happy, and my mother has made them so cosy and comfortable."

Then Joyce took up her post by her husband's bed. The doctor, who came in later, said that he was to be kept very quiet and free from excitement; and, he added, "I wish, indeed, he were further from the town, for I greatly fear worse things are at hand."

The story of that fearful Sunday is too well known to need any minute description here.

Hour by hour the tumult increased; forked flames shot up into the gray, autumnal sky, as the governor's house at the gaol and the chapel were set on fire by the rioters; and, as the benches in the interior of the chapel had been rubbed with pitch, the whole was soon devoured. The county prison followed, and, at half-past eight on Sunday evening, the lurid glare in the heavens was awful to witness.

Poor little Falcon, clasped in his mother's arms as she sat in the window-seat, hid his face in her breast and at last, worn out with terror and excitement, fell asleep. Then she carried him to a room at the back of the house, where Mrs. Arundel and the maids had taken refuge, and returned to watch by Gilbert's side. In her secret heart she was thankful that the "blow at a venture" had prevented her husband from being in the seething crowd below. How terrible would have been her watch had she known that he was there, in the very thick of the fray.

Gilbert lay very still, and often slept, though, in spite of the thick curtains drawn round the large four-post bed, the red glare from without was distinctly visible.

"Joyce," he said, when this glare had become fiercer and more fierce every moment; "Joyce, what are they burning?"

"I cannot tell," she said. "I think it must be the Palace; but it looks like the whole city. It is very terrible."

"Draw back the curtain for a moment, and let me look."

She obeyed him, and lifted also the curtain which shaded the window nearest the bed.

Gilbert raised himself for a moment, and then fell back.

"I ought to be there," he said, "not here. Those poor people! those poor people! Is there none to help?"

"It seems as if God had forgotten to be gracious," Joyce said, faintly.

"We must not say that, darling, for we know that there is a cause. This may arouse many to think, who have never thought before, of the great needs of the ignorant and uncared-for masses in great cities like Bristol. They know not what they do. Close the curtains again, I cannot look any longer."

He lay back on his pillow, and Joyce, drawing the curtain, resumed her post by the window.

About ten o'clock, the gardener, who kept guard in the hall, came upstairs.

"Mistress," he said, "Mr. Bengough is here, and would like to know how the master is."

Joyce raised her hand to enjoin silence, hoping that Gilbert slept, and went down into the hall.

Mr. Bengough's face was blackened, and his clothes smelt of smoke and fire.

"It is an awful scene," he said, supporting himself against the wall, while Joyce went to fetch him a glass of wine; "the palace is burnt to the ground, and the lead on the cathedral is positively melting with the heat. The deanery escaped by the pluck of the old Dean. He came out and harangued the rioters, saying, 'Wait a bit, let's have three cheers first – one cheer for the king, one cheer for the people, and one for the old Dean!' The mob cheered lustily, and turned off to find other prey. They say Park Street is to follow, and those houses which are doomed are to have a white mark for a sign; but there is no order amongst them, and every one of the chief rioters is drunk with the Bishop's wine, taken from the cellars, which they have sold for a penny a bottle! Now they have set fire to Queen's Square, and the Mansion House is one blazing pile. The Mayor has come up to Berkley Square, where I must follow him. The special constables were separated from him in the crowd, and, can you believe it, Brereton's troops, after parading round Queen's Square, have retired to their quarters. Confusion everywhere, and no one knows what may come next. I must not stay; but, Mrs. Arundel, you may be thankful for the blow on your husband's head, yesterday, which has, perhaps, saved his life. Upon my honour, I don't believe any man outside his own doors to-night can depend upon living to see the morning break."

When Mr. Bengough was gone, Joyce heard the frightened servants crying out, that the fire was bigger than ever, and that they were sure the house would catch fire, and they would all be burned alive.

Mrs. Arundel could not calm their fears, and scarcely control her own, and Joyce alone preserved any self-possession.

"The panes of glass are hot in the nursery!" they said; "come up there, ma'am, and see if it is not true."

"Do not wake Master Falcon or disturb your master. Remember you are – we all are – in God's hands."

But, as Joyce looked out from the vantage ground of the nursery windows, the terrified servants clinging to her, with cries and exclamations, the sight was one too awful for any words to paint. The panes of glass were actually heated, and the lurid, fierce glare seemed to be ever increasing.

The scene upon which Joyce gazed, with that strange fascination, which, acting like a spell, seemed to compel her to look at what yet she shrank from as too awful, has been left on record by one who, then a boy at school, has described it in a vivid word picture, which was the outcome of the actual experience of an eye-witness. This boy, who was one day, to be foremost in the ranks of those who carried the standard of truth, and justice, and charity into the very thick of the conflict with the powers of darkness, thus spoke – long, long after most of those who had taken any part in those three awful days were dead – to an audience who were inhabitants of the city of Bristol, and to whom, therefore, the subject was of especial interest. He said:

"I was a schoolboy in Clifton, up above Bristol. I had been hearing of political disturbances, even of riots, of which I understood nothing, and for which I cared nothing.

"But on one memorable Sunday afternoon I saw an object which was distinctly not political. It was an afternoon of sullen, autumn rain. The fog hung thick over the docks and lowlands. Glaring through the fog I saw a bright mass of flame, almost like a half-risen sun. That, I was told, was the gate of the new gaol on fire; that the prisoners had been set free. The fog rolled slowly upwards. Dark figures, even at that great distance, were flitting to and fro across what seemed the mouth of the fire.

"The flames increased, multiplied at one point after another, till by ten o'clock that night one seemed to be looking down upon Dante's Inferno, and to hear the multitudinous moan and wail of the lost spirits, surging to and fro amid the sea of fire.

"Right behind Brandon Hill rose the central mass of fire, till the little mound seemed converted into a volcano, from the peak of which the flame streamed up, not red above, but delicately green and blue, pale rose, and pearly white, while crimson sparks leapt and fell again in the midst of that rainbow, not of hope, but of despair; and dull explosions down below mingled with the roar of the mob, and the infernal hiss and crackle of the flames.

"Higher and higher the fog was scorched upward by the fierce heat below, glowing through and through with red, reflected glare, till it arched itself into one vast dome of red-hot iron, fit roof for all the madness below; and beneath it, miles away, I could see the lonely tower of Dundry Church shining red – the symbol of the old Faith – looking down in stately wonder and sorrow upon the fearful birth-throes of a new age."

When morning dawned on Monday, help really seemed at hand, and five thousand men obeyed the call for the posse comitatûs, and, furnished with a short staff and a strip of white linen round their arm as a badge, did good service for the restoration of order. Shops were all closed, business suspended, and the soldiers, and the naval and military pensioners, under Captain Cook, cleared the streets, and peace seemed in a fair way of being restored.