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.