“I have been with Mrs. Hoare at Bristol, where all appears still.  Should anything arise to alarm, you may rely upon our care to avoid danger.  Sir Charles Wetherell, to be sure, is not popular, nor is the Bishop, but I trust that both will be safe from violence—­abuse they will not mind.  The Bishop seems a good-humoured man, and, except by the populace, is greatly admired.”

A few days later, however, he has to record that his views of the situation were not to be fulfilled.  He writes:—­

“Bristol, I suppose, 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 the month