Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty
he’s hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.’
Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at
Barnaby’s solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to
go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The
corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight
that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until
Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word,
good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing
point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a
roar of laughter, and demanded his price.
Barnaby looked as though he didn’t understand his meaning. Probably he
did not.
‘His price,’ said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets,
‘what dost want for him? How much?’
‘He’s not to be sold,’ replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a
great hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. ‘Mother, come
away.’
‘Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,’ said the
gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. ‘He can make a bargain. What
dost want for him, old woman?’
‘He is my son’s constant companion,’ said the widow. ‘He is not to be
sold, sir, indeed.’
‘Not to be sold!’ cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder,
hoarser, and louder than before. ‘Not to be sold!’
‘Indeed no,’ she answered. ‘We have never thought of parting with him,
sir, I do assure you.’
He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few
murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned
sharply round, and said, ‘Eh? What?’
‘We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,’
she faltered. ‘If they prefer to keep him--’
‘Prefer to keep him!’ he echoed. ‘These people, who go tramping about
the country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep
a bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old
woman’s been to school. I know she has. Don’t tell me no,’ he roared to
the widow, ‘I say, yes.’
Barnaby’s mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was
no harm in it.
‘No harm!’ said the gentleman. ‘No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not
a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I’d set ye in the stocks, I would,
or lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty
larcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out,
shove ‘em into the road, out with ‘em! Ye don’t want to sell the bird,
ye that come here to beg, don’t ye? If they an’t out in double-quick,
set the dogs upon ‘em!’
They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving
the gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already
retreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who,
excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried
down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on
having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached
the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to
be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the
widow’s hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently
from the gate.
This incident only suggested to the widow’s mind, when they halted at
an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice’s character
as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of
stomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form
either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or
a genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes
misappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a
circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but
time and experience enlightened her in this respect.
‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which
was to take them within ten miles of the capital, ‘we’re going to London
first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?’
She was about to answer ‘Heaven forbid!’ but checked herself, and told
him No, she thought not; why did he ask?
‘He’s a wise man,’ said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. ‘I wish
that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds?
That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the
trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a
crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.’
‘But why do you desire to see him, love?’ she asked.
‘Because,’ said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, ‘he talked to me
about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing
you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so
strangely--just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed’s foot
in the night, and say what I can’t remember when the bright day returns.
He told me he’d come back. I wonder why he broke his word!’
‘But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You
have always been contented.’
He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, ‘Ay ay--oh yes,’ and
laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and
the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as
fleeting.
But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the
point more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man’s
visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind.
Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time
on looking at the golden clouds that evening--and images were often
presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and
distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it,
by contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of
the blind man’s pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at
the moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the
man being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked
before; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover,
but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in
the dark.
It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but
all that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject,
and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor,
to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she
feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and
to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging
into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by
journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were
possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.
They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of
London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on
for a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was
to start at five o’clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the
road good--save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry--and at
seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven
hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge,
bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the
scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such
busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with
uncommon lustre.
Chapter 48
Uncertain where to go next, and bewildered by the crowd of people who
were already astir, they sat down in one of the recesses on the bridge,
to rest. They soon became aware that the stream of life was all pouring
one way, and that a vast throng of persons were crossing the river
from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, in unusual haste and evident
excitement. They were, for the most part, in knots of two or three, or
sometimes half-a-dozen; they spoke little together--many of them were
quite silent; and hurried on as if they had one absorbing object in
view, which was common to them all.
They were surprised to see that nearly every man in this great
concourse, which still came pouring past, without slackening in the
least, wore in his hat a blue cockade; and that the chance passengers
who were not so decorated, appeared timidly anxious to escape
observation or attack, and gave them the wall as if they would
conciliate them. This, however, was natural enough, considering their
inferiority in point of numbers; for the proportion of those who wore
blue cockades, to those who were dressed as usual, was at least forty or
fifty to one. There was no quarrelling, however: the blue cockades went
swarming on, passing each other when they could, and making all the
speed that was possible in such a multitude; and exchanged nothing more
than looks, and very often not even those, with such of the passers-by
as were not of their number.
At first, the current of people had been confined to the two pathways,
and but a few more eager stragglers kept the road. But after half an
hour or so, the passage was completely blocked up by the great press,
which, being now closely wedged together, and impeded by the carts and
coaches it encountered, moved but slowly, and was sometimes at a stand
for five or ten minutes together.
After the lapse of nearly two hours, the numbers began to diminish
visibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little and little, left the
bridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and dusty man,
with the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, went
panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way
his friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one
refreshed. In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange
and novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an
opportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them,
what was the meaning of that great assemblage.
‘Why, where have you come from,’ he returned, ‘that you haven’t heard of
Lord George Gordon’s great association? This is the day that he presents
the petition against the Catholics, God bless him!’
‘What have all these men to do with that?’ she said.
‘What have they to do with it!’ the old man replied. ‘Why, how you talk!
Don’t you know his lordship has declared he won’t present it to the
house at all, unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good
and true men at least? There’s a crowd for you!’
‘A crowd indeed!’ said Barnaby. ‘Do you hear that, mother!’
‘And they’re mustering yonder, as I am told,’ resumed the old man, ‘nigh
upon a hundred thousand strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows
his power. There’ll be a good many faces inside them three windows over
there,’ and he pointed to where the House of Commons overlooked the
river, ‘that’ll turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon,
and with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let him alone.
HE knows!’ And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his
forefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.
‘Mother!’ said Barnaby, ‘that’s a brave crowd he talks of. Come!’
‘Not to join it!’ cried his mother.
‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, plucking at her sleeve. ‘Why not? Come!’
‘You don’t know,’ she urged, ‘what mischief they may do, where they may
lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake--’
‘For your sake!’ he cried, patting her hand. ‘Well! It IS for your sake,
mother. You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here’s a
brave crowd! Come! Or wait till I come back--yes, yes, wait here.’