Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 47

  In the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven's mercies to mankind, the powerwe have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must everoccupy the foremost place; not only because it supports and upholdsus when we most require to be sustained, but because in this source ofconsolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divinespirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own evildoings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature,we possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the oldtime when they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity.

  How often, on their journey, did the widow remember with a gratefulheart, that out of his deprivation Barnaby's cheerfulness and affectionsprung! How often did she call to mind that but for that, he might havebeen sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her--vicious, perhaps, andcruel! How often had she cause for comfort, in his strength, and hope,and in his simple nature! Those feeble powers of mind which rendered himso soon forgetful of the past, save in brief gleams and flashes,--eventhey were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness; inevery tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast, and tinyinsect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he haddelight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would havemade her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast withthankfulness and love.

  Their stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into theblind man's hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the fewpence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits,a goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when theymust otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibitoutside an alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds orgardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have givennothing in charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from thetalking bird.

  One day--for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides incarts and waggons, were on the road a week--Barnaby, with Grip upon hisshoulder and his mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge togo up to the great house, at the other end of the avenue, and show hisraven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance, and wasindeed about to do so, when a stout gentleman with a long whip in hishand, and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had hismorning's draught, rode up to the gate, and called in a loud voice andwith more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it openeddirectly.

  'Who hast thou got here?' said the gentleman angrily, as the man threwthe gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, 'who are these? Eh? art abeggar, woman?'

  The widow answered with a curtsey, that they were poor travellers.

  'Vagrants,' said the gentleman, 'vagrants and vagabonds. Thee wish to bemade acquainted with the cage, dost thee--the cage, the stocks, and thewhipping-post? Where dost come from?'

  She told him in a timid manner,--for he was very loud, hoarse, andred-faced,--and besought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm,and would go upon their way that moment.

  'Don't be too sure of that,' replied the gentleman, 'we don't allowvagrants to roam about this place. I know what thou want'st--straylinen drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in thatbasket, lazy hound?'

  'Grip, Grip, Grip--Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip theknowing--Grip, Grip, Grip,' cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut upon the approach of this stern personage. 'I'm a devil I'm a devil I'm adevil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we'llall have tea.'

  'Take the vermin out, scoundrel,' said the gentleman, 'and let me seehim.'

  Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but notwithout much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; whichhe had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and thenbegan to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprisinginsolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that heappeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot.

  The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman'smind, than the raven's power of speech, and was indeed particularlyadapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again,but despite his being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnabycoaxed to the utmost, Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, andpreserved a dead silence.

  'Bring him along,' said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip,who had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on beforethem;--constantly flapping his wings, and screaming 'cook!' meanwhile,as a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collationwould be acceptable.

  Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman onhorseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud andcoarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the toneof which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, asa matter of course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions,when the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, thewidow ventured to inform him in a low voice and with tears in her eyes,that her son was of weak mind.

  'An idiot, eh?' said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. 'Andhow long hast thou been an idiot?'

  'She knows,' was Barnaby's timid answer, pointing to hismother--'I--always, I believe.'

  'From his birth,' said the widow.

  'I don't believe it,' cried the gentleman, 'not a bit of it. It's anexcuse not to work. There's nothing like flogging to cure that disorder.I'd make a difference in him in ten minutes, I'll be bound.'

  'Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,' said the widowmildly.

  'Then why don't you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions,damn 'em. But thou'd rather drag him about to excite charity--of course.Ay, I know thee.'

  Now, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among hisintimate friends. By some he was called 'a country gentleman of the trueschool,' by some 'a fine old country gentleman,' by some 'a sportinggentleman,' by some 'a thorough-bred Englishman,' by some 'a genuineJohn Bull;' but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that itwas a pity there were not more like him, and that because there werenot, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in thecommission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly; buthis greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with poachers,was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs,could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every nightmore drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in thecounty. In knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, instable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony nota pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliamenthimself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his votersup to the poll with his own hands. He was warmly attached to churchand state, and never appointed to the living in his gift any but athree-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted the honestyof all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousyof his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his friendscalled 'the good old English reason,' that her father's propertyadjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greaterdegree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip acreature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what thisgentleman was.

  He rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flightof steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the wayinto a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with thefumes of last night's stale debauch. Greatcoats, riding-whips, bridles,top-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, andformed, with some huge stags' antlers, and a few portraits of dogs andhorses, its principal embellishments.

  Throwing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he oftensnored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, afiner country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistressto come dow
n: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as itseemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, whohad the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.

  'Here! Thou'st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwomanshould have,' said the gentleman. 'See to this here. That'll please theeperhaps.'

  The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced atBarnaby with a look of pity.

  'He's an idiot, the woman says,' observed the gentleman, shaking hishead; 'I don't believe it.'

  'Are you his mother?' asked the lady.

  She answered yes.

  'What's the use of asking HER?' said the gentleman, thrusting his handsinto his breeches pockets. 'She'll tell thee so, of course. Most likelyhe's hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.'

  Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, atBarnaby's solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and togo through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. Thecorks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delightthat he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, untilGrip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word,good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closingpoint of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into aroar of laughter, and demanded his price.

  Barnaby looked as though he didn't understand his meaning. Probably hedid 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 agreat hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. 'Mother, comeaway.'

  'Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,' said thegentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. 'He can make a bargain. Whatdost want for him, old woman?'

  'He is my son's constant companion,' said the widow. 'He is not to besold, 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 fewmurmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turnedsharply 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 aboutthe country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keepa bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That oldwoman's been to school. I know she has. Don't tell me no,' he roared tothe widow, 'I say, yes.'

  Barnaby's mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there wasno harm in it.

  'No harm!' said the gentleman. 'No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, nota 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 pettylarcenies, 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, leavingthe gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had alreadyretreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who,excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurrieddown the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure onhaving been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reachedthe lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned tobe very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into thewidow's hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gentlyfrom the gate.

  This incident only suggested to the widow's mind, when they halted atan alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice's characteras given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity ofstomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to formeither a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, ora genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimesmisappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that acircumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; buttime and experience enlightened her in this respect.

  'Mother,' said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon whichwas to take them within ten miles of the capital, 'we're going to Londonfirst, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?'

  She was about to answer 'Heaven forbid!' but checked herself, and toldhim No, she thought not; why did he ask?

  'He's a wise man,' said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. 'I wishthat 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 thetrees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is acrowded 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 meabout gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thingyou would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away sostrangely--just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed's footin 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. Youhave always been contented.'

  He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, 'Ay ay--oh yes,' andlaughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, andthe topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just asfleeting.

  But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to thepoint more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man'svisit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind.Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first timeon looking at the golden clouds that evening--and images were oftenpresented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote anddistant; 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) ofthe blind man's pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so atthe moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of theman being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talkedbefore; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover,but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally inthe dark.

  It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, butall 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, shefeared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, andto strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunginginto the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, byjourneying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that werepossible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.

  They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles ofLondon, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried onfor a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and wasto start at five o'clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, theroad good--save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry--and atseven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand sevenhundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge,bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on thescorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon suchbusy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining withuncommon lustre.