THE PARISH REVOLUTION.
“From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.”
Alarming news from the country—awful insurrection at Stoke Pogis—The Military called out—Flight of the Mayor.
WE are concerned to state, that accounts were received in town at a late hour last night, of an alarming state of things at Stoke Pogis. Nothing private is yet made public; but report speaks of very serious occurrences. The number of killed is not known, as no despatches have been received.
Further Particulars.
Nothing is known yet; papers have been received down to the 4th of November, but they are not up to anything.
Further further Particulars (Private Letter).
It is scarcely possible for you, my dear Charles, to conceive the difficulties and anarchical manifestations of turbulence, which threaten and disturb your old birth-place, poor Stoke Pogis. To the reflecting mind, the circumstances which hourly transpire afford ample food for speculation and moral reasoning. To see the constituted authorities of a place, however mistaken or misguided by erring benevolence, plunging into a fearful struggle with an irritated, infuriated, and I may say, armed populace, is a sight which opens a field for terrified conjecture. I look around me with doubt, agitation, and dismay; because, whilst I venerate those to whom the sway of a part of a state may be said to be intrusted, I cannot but yield to the conviction that the abuse of power must be felt to be an overstep of authority in the best intentioned of the Magistracy. This even you will allow. Being on the spot, my dear Charles, an eye-witness of these fearful scenes, I feel how impossible it is for me to give you any idea of the prospects which surround me. To say that I think all will end well, is to trespass beyond the confines of hope; but whilst I admit that there is strong ground for apprehending the worst, I cannot shut my eyes to the conviction, that if firm measures, tempered with concession, be resorted to, it is far from being out of the pale of probability that serenity may be re-established. In hazarding this conclusion, however, you must not consider me as at all forgetting the responsibilities which attach to a decidedly formed opinion. Oh, Charles! you who are in the quiet of London, can little dream of the conflicting elements which form the storm of this devoted village. I fear you will be wearied with all these details; but I thought at this distance, at which you are from me, you would wish me to run the risk of wearying you rather than omit any of the interesting circumstances. Let Edward read this; his heart, which I know beats for the Parish, will bleed for us.
I am, &c.
H. J. P.
P.S.—Nothing further has yet occurred, but you shall hear from me again to-morrow.
Another Account.
Symptoms of disunion have for some time past prevailed between the authorities of Stoke Pogis, and a part of the inhabitants. The primum mobile or first mobbing, originated in an order of the Mayor’s, that all tavern doors should shut at eleven. Many complied, and shut, but the door of the Rampant Lion openly resisted the order. A more recent notice has produced a new and more dangerous irritation on our too combustible population. A proclamation against Guy Fauxes and Fireworks was understood to be in preparation, by command of the chief Magistrate. If his Worship had listened to the earnest and prudential advice of the rest of the bench, the obnoxious placard would not have been issued till the 6th, but he had it posted up on the 4th, and by his precipitation has plunged Stoke Pogis into a convulsion, that nothing but Time’s soothing syrup can alleviate.
From another quarter.
We are all here in the greatest alarm! a general rising of the inhabitants took place this morning, and they have continued in a disturbed state ever since. Everybody is in a bustle and indicating some popular movement. Seditious cries are heard! the bell-man is going his rounds, and on repeating “God save the King!” is saluted with “Hang the crier!” Organised bands of boys are going about collecting sticks, &c., whether for barricades or bonfires is not known; many of them singing the famous Gunpowder Hymn, “Pray remember,” &c. These are features that remind us of the most inflammable times. Several strangers of suspicious gentility arrived here last night, and privately engaged a barn; they are now busily distributing hand-bills amongst the crowd: surely some horrible tragedy is in preparation!
A later account.
The alarm increases. Several families have taken flight by the waggon, and the office of Mr. Stewart, the overseer, is besieged by persons desirous of being passed to their own parish. He seems embarrassed and irresolute, and returns evasive answers. The worst fears are entertaining.
Fresh Intelligence.
The cause of the overseer’s hesitation has transpired. The pass-cart and horse have been lent to a tradesman, for a day’s pleasure, and are not returned. Nothing can exceed the indignation of the paupers! they are all pouring towards the poor-house headed by Timothy Gubbins, a desperate drunken character, but the idol of the Workhouse. The constables are retiring before this formidable body. The following notice is said to be posted up at the Town-hall: “Stick No Bills.”
Eleven o’clock.
The mob have proceeded to outrage—the poor poor-house has not a whole pane of glass in its whole frame! The Magistrates, with Mr. Higginbottom at their head, have agreed to call out the military; and he has sent word that he will come as soon as he has put on his uniform.
A terrific column of little boys has just run down the High-street, it is said to see a fight at the Green Dragon. There is an immense crowd in the Market-Place. Some of the leading shopkeepers have had a conference with the Mayor, and the people are now being informed by a placard of the result. Gracious Heaven! how opposite is it to the hopes of all moderate men—“The Mare is Hobstinate—He is at the Roes and Crown—But refuses to treat.”
Twelve o’clock.
The military has arrived, and is placed under his own command. He has marched himself in a body to the market-place, and is now drawn up one deep in front of the Pound. The mob are in possession of the walls, and have chalked upon them the following proclamation; “Stokian Pogians be firm! stick up for bonfires! stand to your squibs!”
Quarter past Twelve.
Mr. Wigsby, the Master of the Free School, has declared on the side of Liberty, and has obtained an audience of the Mayor. He is to return in fifteen minutes for his Worship’s decision.
Half past Twelve.
During the interval, the Mayor has sworn in two special constables, and will concede nothing. When the excitement of the mob was represented to him by Mr. Wigsby, he pointed to a truncheon on a table and answered, “They may do their worsest.” The exasperation is awful—the most frightful cries are uttered, “Huzza for Guys! Gubbins for ever! and no Higginbottom!” The military has been ordered to clear the streets, but his lock is not flinty enough, and his gun refuses to fire on the people.
* * * * * *
The constables have just obtained a slight advantage; they made a charge altogether, and almost upset a Guy. On the left-hand side of the way they have been less successful; Mr. Huggins, the beadle, attempted to take possession of an important street post, but was repulsed by a boy with a cracker. At the same moment Mr. Blogg, the churchwarden, was defeated in a desperate attempt to force a passage up a court.
One o’clock.
The military always dines at one, and has retreated to the Pig and Puncheon. There is a report that the head constable is taken with all his staff.
Two o’clock.
A flying watchman has just informed us that the police are victorious on all points, and the same has been confirmed by a retreating constable. He states that the Pound is full—Gubbins in the stocks, and Dobbs in the cage. That the whole mob would have been routed, but for a very corpulent man, who rallied them on running away.
GOOD ENTERTAINMENT FOR MAN AND HORSE.
Half-past Three.
The check sustained by the mob proves to have been a reverse, the constables are the sufferers. The cage is chopped to faggots, we haven’t a pound, and the stocks are rapidly falling. Mr. Wigsby has gone again to the Mayor with overtures, the people demand the release of Dobbs and Gubbins, and the demolition of the stocks, the pound, and the cage. As these are already destroyed, and Gubbins and Dobbs are at large, it is confidently hoped by all moderate men, that his Worship will accede to the terms.
Four o’clock.
The Mayor has rejected the terms. It is confidently affirmed that after this decision, he secretly ordered a post-chaise, and has set off with a pair of post horses as fast as they can gallop. A meeting of the principal tradesmen has taken place, and the butcher, the baker, the grocer, the cheesemonger, and the publican, have agreed to compose a Provisional Government. In the mean time the mob are loud in their joy,—they are letting off squibs and crackers, and rockets, and devils in all directions, and quiet is completely restored.
We subjoin two documents,—one containing the articles drawn up by the Provisional Government and Mr. Wigsby; the other, the genuine narrative of a spectator.
DEAR CHARLES,
The events of the last few hours, since I closed my minute narration, are pregnant with fate; and no words that I can utter on paper will give you an idea of their interest. Up to the hour at which I closed my sheet, anxiety regulated the movement of every watchful bosom; but since then, the approaches to tranquillity have met with barriers and interruptions. To the meditative mind, these popular paroxysms have their desolating deductions. Oh, my Charles, I myself am almost sunk into an Agitator—so much do we take the colour from the dye in which our reasoning faculties are steeped. I stop the press—yes, Charles—I stop the press of circumstances to say, that a dawn of the Pacific is gleaming over the Atlantic of our disturbances; and I am enabled, by the kindness of Constable Adams, to send you a Copy of the Preliminaries, which are pretty well agreed upon, and only wait to be ratified. I close my letter in haste. That peace may descend on the Olive Tree of Stoke Pogis, is the earnest prayer of, &c.
H. J. P.
P.S.—Show the articles to Edward. He will, with his benevolence, at once see that they are indeed precious articles for Stoke Pogis.
CONDITIONS.
1. That for the future, widows in Stoke Pogis shall be allowed their thirds, and Novembers their fifths.
2. That the property of Guys shall be held inviolable, and their persons respected.
3. That no arson be allowed, but all bonfires shall be burnt by the common hangman.
4. That every rocket shall be allowed an hour to leave the place.
5. That the freedom of Stoke Pogis be presented to Madame Hengler, in a cartridge box.
6. That the military shall not be called out, uncalled for.
7. That the parish beadle, for the time being, be authorised to stand no nonsense.
8. That his Majesty’s mail be permitted to pass on the night in question.
9. That all animosities be buried in oblivion, at the Parish expense.
10. That the ashes of old bonfires be never raked up.
| (Signed) | { |
WAGSTAFF, High Constable. WIGSBY. |
AN ANTI-CLIMAX.
Narrowtiv of a High Whitness who seed everything proceed out of a Back-winder up Fore Pears to Mrs. Humphris.
O Mrs. Humphris! Littel did I Dram, at my Tim of Life, to see Wat is before me. The hole Parrish is throne into a pannikin! The Revelations has reeched Stock Poggis—and the people is riz agin the King’s Rain, and all the Pours that be. All this Blessed Mourning Mrs. Griggs and Me as bean siting abscondingly at the tiptop of the Hows crying for lowness. We have lockd our too selves in the back Attical Rome, and nothing can come up to our Hanksiety. Some say it is like the Frentch Plot—sum say sum thing moor arter the Dutch Patten is on the car-pit, and if so we shall Be flored like Brussels. Well, I never did like them Brown holland brum gals!
Our Winder overlooks all the High Street, xcept jest ware Mister Higgins jutts out Behind. What a prospectus!—All riotism and hubbub.—There is a lowd speechifying round the Gabble end of the Hows. The Mare is arranging the Populous from one of his own long winders. Poor man!—for all his fine goold Cheer, who wood Sit in his shews!
I hobserve Mr. Tuder’s bauld Hed uncommon hactiv in the Mobb, and so is Mister Waggstaff the Constable, considdering his rhummatiz has only left one Harm disaffected to shew his loyalness with. He and his men air staving the mobb’s heds to make them Suppurate. They are trying to Custardise the Ringleders. But as yet hav Captivated Noboddy. There is no end to accidence. Three insensible boddis are Carrion over the way on Three Cheers, but weather Naybers or Gyes is dubbious. Master Gollop, too, is jest gone By on one of his Ant’s Shuters, with a Bunch of exploded Squibs gone off in his Trowsirs. It makes Mrs. G. and Me tremble like Axle trees, for our Hone nevvies. Wile we ware at the open Winder they sliped out. With sich Broils in the Street who nose what Scraps they may git into.
Mister J. is gon off with his muskitry to militate agin the mobb; and I fear without anny Sand Witches in his Cartrich Box. Mrs. Griggs is in the Sam state of Singularity as meself. Onely think, Mrs. H., of two Loan Wimin looken Down on such a Heifervescence, and as Hignorant as the unbiggotted Babe of the state of our Husbandry! to had to our Convexity, the Botcher has not Bean. No moor as the Backer, and We shold here Nothing if Mister Higgins handn’t hollowed up Fore Storys. What news he brakes! That wicked Wigsby as reffused to Reed the Riot Ax, and the Town Clark is no Schollard! Isn’t that a bad Herring!
BREAKING THE NEWS.
O Mrs. Humphris! It is umpossible to throe one’s hies from one End of Stock Poggis to the other, without grate Pane. Nothing is seed but Wivs asking for Huzbinds—nothing is heard but childerin looking for Farthers. Mr. Hatband the Undertacker as jist bean squibed and obligated for safeness to inter his own Hows. Mr. Higgins blames the unflexable Stubbleness of the Mare and says a littel timely Concussion wood have been of Preventive Servis. Haven nose! For my Part I don’t believe all the Concussion on Hearth wood hav prevented. the Regolater bein scarified by a Squib and runnin agin the Rockit—or that it could unshatter Pore Master Gollop, or Squentch Wider Welsh’s rix of Haze witch is now Flamming and smocking in two volumes. The ingins as been, but could not Play for want of Pips witch is too often the Case with Parrish inginuity. Wile affares are in this friteful Posture, thank Haven I have one grate comfit. Mr. J. is cum back on his legs from Twelve to won tired in the extreams with being a Standing Army, and his Uniformity spatterdashed all over. He says his hone saving was onely thro leaving His retrenchments.
THE EAGLE ASSURANCE.
Pore Mr. Griggs has cum In atter his Wif in a state of grate exaggeration. He says the Boys hav maid a Bone Fire of his garden fence and Pales upon Pales can’t put it out. Severil Shells of a bomastic nater as been picked up in his Back Yard and the old Cro’s nest as bean Perpetrated rite thro by a Rockit. We hay sent out the def Shopmun to here wait he can and he says their is so Manny Crackers going he dont no witch report to Belive, but the Fishmongerers has Cotchd and with all his Stock compleatly Guttid. The Brazers next Dore is lickwise in Hashes,—but it is hopped he as assurance enuf to cover him All over.—They say nothing can save the Dwellins adjourning. O Mrs. H. how greatful ought J and I to bee that our hone Premiss and propperty is next to nothing! The effex of the lit on Bildings is marvulous. The Turrit of St. Magnum Bonum is quit clear and you can tell wat Time it is by the Clock verry planely only it stands!
The noise is enuf to Drive won deleterious! Too Specious Conestabbles is persewing littel Tidmash down the Hi Street, and sho grate fermness, but I trembel for the Pelisse. Peple drops in with New News every Momentum. Sum say All is Lost—and the Town Criar is missin. Mrs. Griggs is quite retched at herein five littel Boys is throwd off a spirituous Cob among the Catherend Weals. But I hope it wants cobbobboration. Another Yuth its sed has had his hies Blasted by sum blowd Gun Powder. You Mrs. H. are Patrimonial, and may supose how these flying rummers Upsetts a Mothers Speerits.
O Mrs. Humphris how I envy you that is not tossing on the ragging bellows of these Flatulent Times, but living under a Mild Dispotic Govininent in such Sequestrated spots as Lonnon and Padington. May you never go thro such Transubstantiation as I hav bean riting in! Things that stood for Sentries as bean removed in a Minuet—and the verry effigis of wat was venerablest is now burning in Bone Fires. The Worshipfull chaer is emty. The Mare as gon off clandestiny with a pare of Hossis, and without his diner. They say he complanes that his Corperation did not stik to him as it shold have dun But went over to the other Side. Pore Sole—in sich a case I dont wunder he lost his Stommich. Yisterday he was at the summut of Pour. Them that ours ago ware enjoying parrish officiousness as been turnd out of there Dignittis! Mr. Barber says in futer all the Perukial Authoritis will be Wigs.
Pray let me no wat his Magisty and the Prim Ministir think of Stock Poggis’s constitution, and believe me conclusively my deer Mrs. Humphris most frendly and trully
BRIDGET JONES.
TUMULTUM IN PARVO.
THE FURLOUGH.
AN IRISH ANECDOTE.
“Time was called.”—BOXIANA.
IN the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the following incident.
I was standing one morning at the window of “mine Inn,” when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach.
“Come down wid ye, Thady,”—the speaker was the old woman—“come down now to your ould mother. Sure it’s flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off the bones I give ye. Come down, Thady, darlin!”
“It’s honour, mother,” was the short reply of the soldier; and with clenched hands and set teeth he took a stiffer posture on the coach.
“Thady, come down—come down, ye fool of the world—come along down wid ye!” The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory than the last; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced: “It’s honour, brother!” and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof.
“Oh Thady, come down; sure it’s me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye. Come down, or ye’ll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down then!” The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast a look upward, that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier’s countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before.
“It’s honour, honour bright, Kathleen!” and as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all the three in chorus, with the same answer.
“Come down, Thady, honey!—Thady, ye fool, come down!—Oh Thady, come down to me!”
“It’s honour, mother!—It’s honour, brother!—Honour bright, my own Kathleen!”
Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and enquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on Furlough, to visit his family,—and having exceeded as he thought the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the Furlough expired.
“The First of March, your honour—bad luck to it of all the black days in the world,—and here it is come sudden on me like a shot!”
“The first of March!—why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then,—the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days.”
The soldier was thunderstruck.—“Twenty-nine days, is it—You’re sartin of that same!—Oh, Mother, Mother!—the Divil fly away wid yere ould Almanack—a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so long in the family of us!”
His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and throw up his cap, with a loud Hurrah!—His second was to throw himself into the arms of his Kathleen, and the third, was to wring my hand off in acknowledgment.
“It’s a happy man I am, your Honour, for my word’s saved, and all by your Honour’s manes—Long life to your Honour for the same!—May ye live a long hundred—and lape-years every one of them!”
SINGLE BLESSEDNESS.
NUMBER ONE.
VERSIFIED FROM THE PROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.
IT’S very hard!—and so it is,
To live in such a row,
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau.
For Love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I’m sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One!
I’m sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four!
At Number Three, I often see
A Lover at the door:
And one in blue, at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun,—
It’s very hard they come so near
And not to Number One!
Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,
By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind;
But I go in the balcony,
Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don’t take at Number One!
’Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by,—
There’s nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy;
And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,
But la! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One!
There’s Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he’s intent on pelf,
And though he’s pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.
At Number Seven there was a sale—
The goods had quite a run!
And here I’ve got my single lot
On hand at Number One!
My mother often sits at work
And talks of props and stays,
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days.
The very maids about the house
Have set me down a nun;
The Sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One!
Once only when the flue took fire,
One Friday afternoon,
Young Mr. Long came kindly in
And told me not to swoon:
Why can’t he come again without
The Phœnix and the Sun!
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One!
I am not old! I am not plain!
Nor awkward in my gait—
I am not crooked, like the bride
That went from Number Eight:
I’m sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun—
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One!
At Number Six they say Miss Rose
Has slain a score of hearts,
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun!
But if he had, he’d never deign
To shoot with Number One.
It’s very hard, and so it is
To live in such a row!
And here a ballad singer comes
To aggravate my woe.
Oh take away your foolish song
And tones enough to stun—
There is “Nae luck about the house,”
I know, at Number One!
A DOUBLE KNOCK.