ABSTRACT
The thirst for news shows itself occasionally in an aspect almost terrible. Last Friday evening, when it became known that despatches had been received by the government, the people turned out in crowds from various quarters of the town, and very soon the neighbourhood of the government offices and the offices of the newspapers were blockaded by dense masses of anxious inquirers. Some expected fresh news of the siege—others, in great numbers, looked for the official list of killed and wounded in the late battle. The despatches only contained the list of casualties. The Duke of Newcastle, with his characteristic humanity, caused an edition of the London Gazette to be immediately published and distributed over the town. An hour before any of the journals came out the Gazette had penetrated to the remotest corners of London. Going into a tavern for a draught of stout, on my way home from the city, I saw at the bar a very affecting spectacle. Two women, soldiers’ wives, as it appeared, asked to look at the Gazette. They seized the paper with fevered hands, and began to run over the list. At length one of them uttered a low piercing scream, and exclaiming the word “killed!” dropped senseless on the floor. A crowd soon collected about to console and revive the poor creature, who had no doubt seen the name of her husband or some other dear relation. I noticed that the other woman remained unconscious of what had happened, and still retaining the paper in her grasp, was running over the names to the end in order to assure herself respecting the fate of those dear to her. I shall never forget the frantic expression of those women’s faces—the terrible eagerness of their eyes, half glaring with desperation, half trembling with fear. There was an agony in the scream of the first one which chilled my very heart, and I felt that I saw for the first time a realisation of a favourite figment of the romancists.—London correspondent of the Inverness Advertiser.
