‘I did hope once,’ said Joe, in his homely
way, ’that I might come back a rich man, and
marry you. But I was a boy then, and have long
known better than that. I am a poor, maimed,
discharged soldier, and must be content to rub through
life as I can. I can’t say, even now, that
I shall be glad to see you married, Dolly; but I am
glad—yes, I am, and glad to think I can
say so—to know that you are admired and
courted, and can pick and choose for a happy life.
It’s a comfort to me to know that you’ll
talk to your husband about me; and I hope the time
will come when I may be able to like him, and to shake
hands with him, and to come and see you as a poor
friend who knew you when you were a girl. God
bless you!’
His hand did tremble; but for all that, he took
it away again, and left her.
By this Friday night—for it was on Friday
in the riot week, that Emma and Dolly were rescued,
by the timely aid of Joe and Edward Chester—the
disturbances were entirely quelled, and peace and order
were restored to the affrighted city. True, after
what had happened, it was impossible for any man to
say how long this better state of things might last,
or how suddenly new outrages, exceeding even those
so lately witnessed, might burst forth and fill its
streets with ruin and bloodshed; for this reason,
those who had fled from the recent tumults still kept
at a distance, and many families, hitherto unable
to procure the means of flight, now availed themselves
of the calm, and withdrew into the country. The
shops, too, from Tyburn to Whitechapel, were still
shut; and very little business was transacted in any
of the places of great commercial resort. But,
notwithstanding, and in spite of the melancholy forebodings
of that numerous class of society who see with the
greatest clearness into the darkest perspectives,
the town remained profoundly quiet. The strong
military force disposed in every advantageous quarter,
and stationed at every commanding point, held the scattered
fragments of the mob in check; the search after rioters
was prosecuted with unrelenting vigour; and if there
were any among them so desperate and reckless as to
be inclined, after the terrible scenes they had beheld,
to venture forth again, they were so daunted by these
resolute measures, that they quickly shrunk into their
hiding-places, and had no thought but for their safety.
In a word, the crowd was utterly routed. Upwards
of two hundred had been shot dead in the streets.
Two hundred and fifty more were lying, badly wounded,
in the hospitals; of whom seventy or eighty died within
a short time afterwards. A hundred were already
in custody, and more were taken every hour. How
many perished in the conflagrations, or by their own
excesses, is unknown; but that numbers found a terrible
grave in the hot ashes of the flames they had kindled,
or crept into vaults and cellars to drink in secret
or to nurse their sores, and never saw the light again,
is certain. When the embers of the fires had been
black and cold for many weeks, the labourers’
spades proved this, beyond a doubt.
