se, never in the most turbulent times of
old, witnessed such outrage. Queen's Square is but half
standing; half is a smoking ruin. As you may be apprehensive
for my safety, it is right to let you know that my friends
and I are undisturbed, except by our fears for the progress of
this mob-government, which is already somewhat broken into
parties, who wander stupidly about, or sleep wherever they
fall wearied with their work and their indulgence. The
military are now in considerable force, and many men are
sworn in as constables; many volunteers are met in Clifton
Churchyard, with white round one arm to distinguish them,
some with guns and the rest with bludgeons. The Mayor's
house has been destroyed; the Bishop's palace plundered,
but whether burned or not I do not know. This morning a
party of soldiers attacked the crowd in the Square; some lives
were lost, and the mob dispersed, whether to meet again is
doubtful. It has been a dreadful time, but we may reasonably
hope it is now over. People are frightened certainly, and no
wonder, for it is evident these poor wretches would plunder
to the extent of their power. Attempts were made to burn
the Cathedral, but failed. Many lives were lost. To attempt
any other subject now would be fruitless. We can think,
speak, and write only of our fears, hopes, or troubles. I
would have gone to Bristol to-day, but Mrs. Hoare was
unwilling that I should. She thought, and perhaps rightly,
that clergymen were marked objects. I therefore only went
half-way, and of course could learn but little. All now is
quiet and well."

In the former of these last quoted letters Crabbe refers sadly to the
pain of parting from his old Hampstead friends,--a parting which he felt
might well be the last. His anticipation was to be fulfilled. He left
Clifton in November, and went direct to his son George, at Pucklechurch.
He was able to preach twice for his son, who congratulated the old man
on the power of his voice, and other encouraging signs of vigour. "I
will venture a good sum, sir," he said "that you will be assisting me
ten years hence." "Ten weeks" was Crabbe's answer, and the implied
prediction was fulfilled almost to the day. After a fortnight at
Pucklechurch, Crabbe returned to his own home at Trowbridge. Early in
January he reported himself as more and more subject to drowsiness,
which he accepted as sign of increasing weakness. Later in th