 36 Gashford, with a smiling face, but still with looks of profound deference and humility, but took himself towards his master's room, smoothing his hair down as he went and humming a psalm tune. As he approached Lord George's door, he cleared his throat and hummed more vigorously. There was a remarkable contrast between this man's occupation at the moment and the expression of his countenance, which was singularly repulsive and malicious. His beatling brow almost obscured his eyes. His lip was curled contemptuously. His very shoulders seemed to sneer in stealthy whisperings with his great flapped ears. Hush! He muttered softly, as he peeped in at the chamber door. He seems to be asleep. Pray heaven, he is! Too much watching! Too much care! Too much thought! Ah! The Lord preserve him for a martyr! He is a saint, if ever saint, through breath on this bad earth. Placing his light upon a table, he walked on tiptoe to the fire, and sitting in a chair before it with his back towards the bed, went on communing with himself, like one who thought aloud. The saviour of his country, and his country's religion, the friend of his poor countrymen, the enemy of the proud and harsh, beloved of the rejected and oppressed, adored by forty thousand bold and loyal English hearts, what happy slumbers his should be. And here he sighed, and warmed his hands, and took his head as men do when their hearts are full, and heaved another sigh, and warmed his hands again. Why, Gashford! said Lord George, who was lying broad awake upon his side, and had been staring at him from his entrance. My, my Lord! said Gashford, starting and looking round as though in great surprise, I have disturbed you. I have not been sleeping. Not sleeping! he repeated, with assumed confusion. What can I say for having in your presence given utterance to thoughts, that they were sincere, they were sincere, exclaimed the secretary, drawing a sleeve in a hasty way across his eyes, and why should I regret your having heard them? Gashford, said the poor Lord, stretching out his hand with manifest emotion, do not regret it. You love me well, I know. Too well! I don't deserve such homage. Gashford made no reply, but grasped the hand, and pressed it to his lips. Then rising, and taking from the trunk a little desk, he placed it on a table near the fire. Unlocked it with the key he carried in his pocket, sat down before it, took out a pen, and before dipping it in the ink-stand, sucked it, to compose the fashion of his mouth, perhaps, on which a smile was hovering yet. How do I number stand since last enrolling night? Unquired Lord George, are we really forty-thousand strong, or do we still speak in round numbers when we take the association at that amount? Our total now exceeds that number by a scorn three. Gashford replied, casting his eyes upon his papers. The funds, not very improving, but there is some manner in the wilderness, my Lord. One Friday night the widows mightstroped in forty scavengers, three in fourpence. An aged pew-opener of St. Martin's parish, sixpence, a bell-ringer of the established church, sixpence, a Protestant infant, newly-born, one-hapenee. The united link-boys, three shillings, one bad. The anti-popish prisoners in Newgett, five in fourpence, a friend in Bedlam, half a crown, Dennis the hangman, one shilling. That Dennis, said his lordship, is an earnest man. I marked him in the crowd in Wellbeck Street last Friday. A good man, rejoined the secretary, a staunch, sincere and truly zealous man. He should be encouraged, said Lord George. Make a note of Dennis, I'll talk with him. Gashford obeyed, and went on reading from his list. The friends of reason, half a guinea, the friends of liberty, half a guinea, the friends of peace, half a guinea, the friends of charity, half a guinea, the friends of mercy, half a guinea, the associated rememberers of Bloody Mary, half a guinea, the united bulldogs, half a guinea. The united bulldogs, said Lord George, biting his nails most horribly. Are a new society, are they not? Formally the Prentice Knights, my lord, the indentures of the old members expiring by degrees, they change their name, it seems, though they still have Prentices among them, as well as workmen. What is their president's name? Inquired Lord George. President, said Gashford reading, Mr. Simon Tapetit, I remember him, the little man who sometimes brings an elderly sister to our meetings, and sometimes another female, too, who is conscientious, I have no doubt, but not well favoured. The very same, my lord. Tapetit is an earnest man, said Lord George thoughtfully, eh, Gashford? One of the foremost among them all, my lord, he snuffs the battle from afar like the war-horse. He throws his hat up in the street as if he were inspired, and makes most stirring speeches from the shoulders of his friends. Make a note of Tapetit, said Lord George Gordon. We may advance him to a place of trust. That, rejoined the Secretary, doing as he was told, is all, except Mrs. Varden's box, fourteenth time of opening, seven shillings and sixpence in silver and copper, and half a guinea in gold, and Megs, being the saving of a quarter's wages, won threpence. Megs, said Lord George, is that a man? The name is entered on the list as a woman, replied the Secretary. I think she is the tall, spare female of whom you spoke just now, my lord, as not being well favoured, who sometimes comes to hear the speeches, along with Tapetit and Mrs. Varden. Mrs. Varden is the elderly lady, then is she. The Secretary nodded, and rubbed the bridge of his nose with the feather of his pen. She is a zealous sister, said Lord George. Her collection goes on prosperously, and is pursued with fervour. Has her husband joined? A malignant, returned the Secretary, folding up his papers, unworthy such a wife. She remains in outer darkness, and steadily refuses. The consequences be upon his own head, Gashford. My lord, you don't think, he turned wrestlessly in his bed as he spoke, these people will desert me when the hour arrives. I've spoken boldly for them, ventured much, suppressed nothing. They'll not fall off, will they? No fear of that, my lord," said Gashford, with a meaning-look, which was rather the involuntary expression of his own thoughts, than intended as any confirmation of his words, for the other's face was turned away. Be sure, there is no fear of that. Nor, he said with a more restless motion than before, of their—but they can sustain no harm from legging for this purpose. Might is on our side, though might may be against us. You feel as sure of that as I, honestly, you do? The Secretary was beginning with, you do not doubt, when the other interrupted him and impatiently rejoined. Doubt? No. Who says I doubt? If I doubted, should I cast away relatives, friends, everything for this unhappy country's sake, this unhappy country? He cried, springing up in bed, after repeating the phrase, unhappy country's sake to himself at least a dozen times, for seeking of God and man, delivered over to a dangerous confederacy of popish powers, the prey of corruption, idolatry and despotism, who says I doubt? Am I cold and chosen and faithful? Tell me, am I, or am I not? You guard the country and yourself, cried Gashford, I am, I will be, I see again, I will be, to the block. Who says as much? Do you? Does any man alive? The Secretary drooped his head with an expression of perfect acquiescence in anything that had been said or might be, and Lord George, gradually sinking down upon his pillow, fell asleep. Although there was something very ludicrous in his vehement manner, taken in conjunction with his meagre aspect and ungraceful presence, it was scarcely a provoked a smile on any man of kindly feeling, or even if it had, he would have felt sorry and almost angry with himself next moment for yielding to the impulse. This Lord was sincere in his violence, and in his wavering, and nature prone to false enthusiasm and the vanity of being a leader were the worst qualities apparent in his composition. All the rest was weakness, sheer weakness, and it is the unhappy lot of thoroughly weak men at their very sympathies, affections, confidences, all the qualities which in better constituted minds are virtues, dwindle into foibles, or turn into downright vices. Gashford, with many a sly look towards the bed, sat chuckling at his master's folly, till his deep and heavy breathing warned him that he might retire. Locking his desk and replacing it within the trunk, but not before he had taken from a secret lining two printed hand-bills, he cautiously withdrew, looking back as he went at the pale face of the slumbering man, above whose head the dusty plumes that crowned a maypole couch, waved drearily and sadly as though it were a beer. Going on the staircase to listen that all was quiet, and to take off his shoes lest his footsteps should alarm any light sleeper who might be near at hand, he descended to the ground floor, and thrust one of his bills beneath the great door of the house. That done he crept softly back to his own chamber, and from the window led another fall, carefully wrapped round a stone to save it from the wind into the yard below. They were addressed on the back to every protestant into whose hands this shall come, and bore within what follows. Men and brethren, whoever shall find this letter, will take it as a warning to join without delay the friends of Lord George Gordon. There are great events at hand, and the times are dangerous and troubled. Lead this carefully, keep it clean, and drop it somewhere else, for king and country, union. More seed! more seed! said Gashford as he closed the window. When will the harvest come? Chapter 37 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens Chapter 37 To surround anything, however monstrous or ridiculous with an air of mystery, is to invest it with a secret charm, and power of attraction which to the crowd is irresistible. False priests, false prophets, false doctors, false patriots, false prodigies of every kind, veiling their proceedings in mystery, have always addressed themselves at an immense advantage to the popular credulity, and have been perhaps more indebted to that resource in gaining and keeping for a time the upper hand of truth and common sense, and to any half-dozen items in the whole catalogue of imposture. Curiosity is, and has been from the creation of the world, a master passion, to awaken it, to gratify it by slight degrees, and yet leave something always in suspense, is to establish the surest hold that can be had in wrong on the unthinking portion of mankind. If a man had stood on London Bridge, calling till he was hoarse upon the passers-by to join with Lord George Gordon, although for an object which no man understood, and which in that very incident had a charm of its own, the probability is that he might have influenced a score of people in a month. If all zealous Protestants had been publicly urged to join an association for the avowed purpose of singing a hymn or two occasionally, and hearing some indifferent speeches made and ultimately of petitioning Parliament not to pass an act for abolishing the penal laws against Roman Catholic priests, the penalty of perpetual imprisonment denounced against those who educated children in that persuasion, and the disqualification of all members of the Romish Church to inherit real property in the United Kingdom by right of purchase or dissent, matters so far removed from the business and bosoms of the mass might perhaps claw together a hundred people. But when vague rumours got abroad, that in this Protestant association a secret power was mustering against the government for undefined and mighty purposes, when the air was filled with whispers of a confederacy among the Popish powers to degrade and enslave England, establish an inquisition in London, and turn the pens of Smithfield market into stakes and cauldrons, when terrors and alarms which no man understood were perpetually broached, both in and out of Parliament, by one enthusiast who did not understand himself, and bygone bug-bearers which had lain quietly in their graves for centuries were raised again to haunt the ignorant and credulous. When all this was done, as it were, in the dark, and secret invitations to join the great Protestant association in defence of religion, life and liberty, were dropped in the public ways, thrust under the house-doors, tossed in at windows, and pressed into the hands of those who trod the streets by night, when they glared from every wall, and shone in every post and pillar, so that stocks and stones appeared infected with the common fear, urging all men to join together blindfold in resistance of they knew not what, they knew not why. Then the mania spread indeed, and the body, still increasing every day, grew forty thousand strong. So said at least in this month of March, 1780, Lord George Gordon, the Association's President. Whether it was the fact or otherwise, few men knew or cared to ascertain. It had never made any public demonstration, had scarcely ever been heard of, safe through him, had never been seen, and were supposed by many to be the mere creature of his disordered brain. He was accustomed to talk largely about numbers of men, stimulated, as it was inferred, by certain successful disturbances arising out of the same subject which had occurred in Scotland in the previous year, was looked upon as a cracked-brained member of the Lower House, who attacked all parties, and sided with none, and was very little regarded. It was known that there was discontent abroad, there always is. He had been accustomed to address the people by placard, speech, and pamphlet upon other questions. Nothing had come in England of his past exertions, and nothing was apprehended from his present. Just as he has come upon the reader, he had come from time to time upon the public, and been forgotten in a day. As suddenly as he appears in these pages, after a blank of five long years, that he and his proceedings begin to force themselves about this period upon the notice of thousands of people who had mingled an active life during the whole interval, and who, without being deaf or blind to passing events, had scarcely ever thought of him before. "'My Lord,' said Gashford in his ear, as he do the curtains of his bed-betimes, "'My Lord,'—'Yes! Who's that? What is it?' "'The clock has struck nine,' returned the secretary, with meekly folded hands. "'You have slept well. I hope you have slept well. If my prayers are heard, you are refreshed indeed.' "'To say the truth that I have slept so soundly,' said Lord George, rubbing his eyes and looking round the room, that I don't remember quite what place is this?' "'My Lord,' cried Gashford with a smile. "'Oh!' returned his superior, "'Yes! You're not a Jew, then.' "'A Jew!' exclaimed the pious secretary, recoiling. "'I dreamed that we were Jews, Gashford. You and I, both of us, Jews with long beards. Heaven forbid, my Lord, we might as well be papists.' "'I suppose we might,' returned the other very quickly. "'Hey! You really think so, Gashford?' "'Surely I do,' the secretary cried, with looks of great surprise. "'Hm!' he muttered. "'Yes, that seems reasonable.' "'I hope, my Lord,' the secretary began. "'Hope!' he echoed, interrupting him. "'Why do you say you hope? There's no harm in thinking of such things.' "'Not in dreams,' returned the secretary. "'In dreams! No, nor waking either.' "'Called and chosen and faithful,' said Gashford, taking up Lord George's watch, which lay upon a chair, and seeming to read the inscription on the seal abstractedly. It was the slightest action possible, not obtruded on his notice, and apparently the result of a moment's absence of mind, not worth remark. But as the words were uttered, Lord George, who had been going on impetuously, stopped short, reddened, and was silent. Apparently quite unconscious of this change in his demeanour, the wily secretary stepped a little apart, and a pretence of pulling up the window-blind, and returning when the other had had time to recover, said, "'The holy cause goes bravely on, my Lord. "'I was not idle, even last night. I dropped two of the hand-bills before I went to bed, and both are gone this morning. Nobody in the house has mentioned a circumstance of finding them, though I have been downstairs full half an hour. One or two recruits will be their first fruit, I predict. And who shall say how many more with heaven's blessing on your inspired exertions?' "'It was a famous device in the beginning,' replied Lord George, "'an excellent device, and did good service in Scotland. It was quite worthy of you. You remind me not to be a sluggered gashwood, when the vineyard is menaced with destruction, and may be trodden down by papest's feet, let the horses be saddled in half an hour. We must be up and doing.' He said this with a heightened colour, and in a tone of such enthusiasm that the Secretary deemed all further prompting needless and withdrew. "'Dreamed he was a Jew,' he said thoughtfully, as he closed the bedroom door. He may come to that before he dies. It's like enough. Well, after a time, and provided I lost nothing by it, I don't see why that religion shouldn't suit me as well as any other. There are rich men among the Jews. Shaving is very troublesome. Yes, it would suit me well enough. For the present, though, we must be Christian to the core. Our prophetic motto will suit all creeds in their turn. That's a comfort.' Reflecting on this source of consolation, he reached the sitting-room and rang the bell for breakfast. Lord George was quickly dressed, for his plain toilet was easily made. And as he was no less frugal in his repasts than in his puritan attire, his share of the meal was soon dispatched. The Secretary, however, more devoted to the good things of this world, or more intent on sustaining his strength and spirits for the sake of the Protestant cause, ate and drank to the last minute, and required indeed some three or four reminders from John Groobie, before he could resolve to tear himself away from Mr. Willet's plentiful providing. At length he came downstairs, wiping his greasy mouth, and having paid John Willet's bill, climbed into his saddle. Lord George, who had been walking up and down before the house, talking to himself with earnest gestures, mounted his horse. And returning o'er John Willet's stately bow, as well as the parting salutation of a dozen idlers, whom the rumour of a live Lord, being about to leave the maypole, had gathered round the porch, they rode away, with stout John Groobie in the rear. If Lord George Gordon had appeared in the eyes of Mr. Willet, overnight, a nobleman of somewhat quaint and arduous exterior, the impression was confirmed this morning, and increased a hundredfold. Sitting bolt upright upon his bony steed, with his long straight hair dangling about his face, and fluttering in the wind, his limbs all angular and rigid, his elbows stuck out on either side ungracefully, and his whole frame jogged and shaken at every motion of his horse's feet, a more grotesque or more ungainly figure can hardly be conceived. In lieu of whip, he carried in his hand a great gold-headed cane, as large as any footman carries in these days, and his various modes of holding this unwieldy weapon, now upright before his face, like the sabre of a horse-soldier, now over his shoulder like a musket, now between his finger and thumb, but always in some uncouth and awkward fashion, contributed in no small degree to the absurdity of his appearance. Stiff, lank, and solemn, dressed in an unusual manner, and ostentatiously exhibiting, whether by design or accident, all his peculiarities of carriage, gesture, and conduct, all the qualities natural and artificial, in which he differed from other men. He might have moved the sternest looker on to laughter, and fully provoked the smiles and whispered jests, which greeted his departure from the maypole in. Quite unconscious, however, of the effect he produced, he trotted on beside his secretary, talking to himself nearly all the way, until they came within a mile or two of London, when now and then some passenger went by who knew him by sight, and pointed him out to someone else, and perhaps stood looking after him, or cried in jest, or earnest as it might be, hurrah, jordy, no popery, at which he would gravely pull off his hat and bow. When they reached the town and rode along the streets, these notices became more frequent, some laughed, some hissed, some turned their heads and smiled, some wondered who he was, some ran along the pavement by his side and cheered. When this happened in a crush of carts and chairs and coaches, he would make a dead stop and pulling off his hat cry, gentlemen, no popery, to which the gentleman would respond with lusty voices, and with three times three, and then on he would go again with the scores over the raggedest following at his horse's heels and shouting till their throats were parched. The old ladies, too. There were a great many old ladies in the streets, and these all knew him. Some of them, not those of the highest rank, but such as sold fruit from baskets and carried burdens, clapped their shriveled hands and raised a wheezing, piping shrill, hurrah, my lord. Others waved their hands or handkerchiefs, or shook their fans or parasols, or threw up windows and called in haste to those within to come and see. All these marks of popular esteem he received with profound gravity and respect, bowing very low, and so frequently that his hat was more off his head than on, and looking up at the houses as he passed along with the air of one who was making a public entry, and yet was not puffed up or proud. So they rode, to the deep and unspeakable disgust of John Groobie, the whole length of Whitechapel, Leadon Hall Street, and Cheepside, and into St Paul's churchyard. Arriving close to the cathedral he halted, spoke to Gashford, and looking upward at its lofty dome, shook his head as though he said, the church in danger. Then, to be sure, the bystanders stretched their throats indeed, and he went on again with mighty acclamations from the mob, and lower bows than ever. So along the strand, up Swallow Street, into the Oxford Road, and thence to his house in Wellbeck Street, near Cavendish Square, whether he was attended by a few dozen idlers of whom he took leave on the steps with this brief parting. Gentlemen, no popery. Good day, God bless you. This being rather a shorter address than they expected, was received with some displeasure, and cries of a speech, a speech, which might have been complied with, but that John Groobie, making a mad charge upon them with all three horses on his way to the stables, caused them to disperse into the adjoining fields, where they presently fell to pitch and toss, chuck-farthing, odd or even, dog-fighting, and other protestant recreations. In the afternoon, Lord George came forth again, dressed in a black velvet coat, and trousers, and waistcoat of the Gordon plaid, all of the same Quaker cut. And in this costume, which made him look a dozen times more strange and singular than before, went down on foot to Westminster. Gashford, meanwhile, bestowed himself in business matters, with which he was still engaged, went shortly after dusk, John Groobie entered and announced to visit her. "'Let him come in,' said Gashford. "'Here, come in,' growled John to somebody without. "'You're a protestant, aren't you?' "'Oh, I should think so,' replied a deep gruff voice. "'You have the looks of it,' said John Groobie. "'I'd have known you for one anywhere.'" With which remark he gave the visitor admission, retired, and shut the door. The man who now confronted Gashford was a squat, thick-set personage, with a low, retreating forehead, a coarse, shock head of hair, and eyes so small and near together, that his broken nose alone seemed to prevent their meeting and fusing into one of the usual sighs. A dingy handkerchief twisted like a cord about his neck, left its great veins exposed to view, and they were swollen and starting, as though with gulping down strong passions, malice, and ill-will. His dress was of threadbare velveteen, a faded, rusty, whitened black, like the ashes of a pipe or a coal fire after a day's extinction, discoloured with the soils of many a stale debauch, and reeking yet with pot-house odours. In lieu of buckles at his knees he wore unequal loops of pack-thread, and in his grimy hands he held a knotted stick, the knob of which was carved into a rough likeness of his own vile face. Such was the visitor who doffed his three-cornered hat in Gashford's presence, and waited, leering for his notice. Ah, Dennis, cried the secretary, sit down. I see my lord down yonder, cried the man, for the jerk of his thumb towards the quarter that he spoke of. Early says to me, says my lord, if you've nothing to do, Dennis, go up to my house and talk with Master Gashford. Of course I've nothing to do, you know. These aren't my working hours. Always a take in the air, when I see my lord, that's what I always do. I take the air by night, as the owls does, Master Gashford. And sometimes in the daytime, eh, said the secretary, when you go out in state, you know. Roared the fellow, smiting his leg. For a gentleman, I shall say, a pleasant thing in a pleasant way. Give me, Master Gashford, again all London and Westminster. My lord, I'll abaddon at that, but he's a fool to you. Ah, to be sure, when I go out in state. And have your carriage, said the secretary, and your chaplain, eh, and all the rest of it. You'll pay the death of me, cried Dennis with another roar. You will. But what's in the wind now, Master Gashford? He asked hoarsely, eh. Or we to be under orders to pull down one of them pout-wish chapels? Or what? Hush, said the secretary, suffering the faintest smile to play upon his face. Hush! God bless me, Dennis. Me associate, you know, for strictly peaceable and lawful purposes. I know. Bless you. Returned a man, thrusting his tongue into his cheek. I entered a purpose, didn't I? No doubt, said Gashford, smiling as before. And when he said so, Dennis roared again, and smote his leg still harder, and falling into fits of laughter, wiped his eyes with the corner of his neck-a-chief, and cried, Master Gashford, again all England hollow. Lord George and I were talking of you last night. Did Gashford, after a pause? He says you're a very earnest fellow. So I am, returned Hangman, and that you truly hate the papists. So I do. And he confirmed it with a good round oath. Look here, Master Gashford, said the fellow, laying his hat and stick upon the floor, and slowly beating the palm of one hand with the fingers of the other. Observe. I'm a constitutional officer at works for my living, and does my work creditable. Do I, or do I not? Unquestionably. Very good. Stop a minute. My work is sound, Protestant, constitutional English work. Is it, or is he not? No man alive can doubt it, nor dead neither. Parliament says this here, says Parliament, if any man, woman, or child, does anything which goes again a certain number of our acts. How many hanging laws may there be at this present time, Master Gashford? 50? I don't exactly know how many, replied Gashford, leaning back in his chair and yawning. Great number, though. Well, say 50. Parliament says, if any man, woman, or child, does anything again any one of them 50 acts, that man, woman, or child, shall be worked off by Dennis. George III steps in when they number very strong at the end of a session, and says, These are too many for Dennis. I'll have off for myself, and Dennis shall have off for himself. Sometimes he throws me in one over that I don't expect, as he did three years ago when I got Mary Jones, a young woman of 19, who come up the Tyburn with an infinite abreast, and was worked off for taking a piece of cloth off the counter of a shop in Ludgate Hill, and putting it down again when the shopman see her, and who had never done any harm before. They're only trying to do that, in consequence of her husband having been pressed three weeks previous, and she being left to beg with two young children as was proved upon the trial. Well, that being the law and the practice of England is the glory of England, eh, Mr. Gashford? Certainly, said the secretary, and in times to come, pursued the hangman, if our grandsons should think of their grandfather's times and find these things altered, they'll say, Those were days indeed, and we've been going down here lower since, won't they, Mr. Gashford? I have no doubt they will, said the secretary. Well then, look here, said the hangman. If these papists get it apart, and begin to boil and roast instead of hang, what becomes of my work? If they touch my work, that's a part of so many laws. What becomes of the laws in general? What becomes of the religion? What becomes of the country? Did you ever go to church, Mr. Gashford? Ever, repeated the secretary with some indignation? Of course. Well, said the ruffian, our being, once, twice, countin' the time I was christened, and when I heard a parliament prayed for and thought how many new hanging laws they made every sessions, I considered that I was prayed for. Now, mind, Mr. Gashford, said the fellow, taking up his stick and shaking it with a ferocious air, I mustn't have my Protestant work touched, nor this year Protestant state of things altered in no degree, if I can help it. I mustn't have no papists interfering with me, unless they come that we worked off in course of law. I mustn't have no biling, no roasting, no frying, nothing but hanging. My lord may well call me an earnest fellow, in support of the great Protestant principle of having plenty of that aisle, and here he beat us club upon the ground, burn, fight, kill, do anything you bid me, so that it's bold and devilish, though the end of it was that I got hung myself. There, Mr. Gashford. He appropriately followed up this frequent prostitution of a noble word to the vilest purposes, by pouring out in a kind of ecstasy at least a score of most tremendous oaths, and wiped his heated face upon his necker-chief and cried, No, papery, armor-religious man, by God! Gashford had lent back in his chair, regarding him with eyes so sunken, and so shadowed by his heavy brows, that for ought the hangman saw of them, he might have been stone-blind. He remained smiling in silence for a short time longer, and then said, slowly and distinctly, You are indeed an earnest fellow, Dennis, a most valuable fellow, the staunchest man I know of in our ranks. But you must calm yourself. You must be peaceful, lawful, mild as any lamb. I am sure you will be, though. I, I, we shall see, Mr. Gashford, we shall see. You won't have to complain of me. Return the other, shaking his head. I am sure I shall not, said the Secretary, in the same mild tone and with the same emphasis. We shall have, we think, about next month or May, when this papers-to-relief bill comes before the house, to convene our whole body for the first time. My Lord has thoughts of our walking in procession through the streets, just as an innocent display of strength, and accompanying our petition down to the door of the House of Commons. The sooner the better, said Dennis, with another oath. We shall have to draw up in divisions, our numbers being so large, and I believe I may venture to say, presumed Gashford, affecting not to hear the interruption, though I have no direct instructions to that effect, that Lord George has thought of you as an excellent leader for one of these parties. I no doubt you would be an admirable one. Try me, said the fellow, with an ugly wink. You would be cool, I know. Pursued the Secretary, still smiling, and still managing his eyes, so that he could watch him closely, and really not be seen in turn. Amidst two orders, and perfectly temperate, you would lead your party into no danger, I am certain. Oddly done, Master Gashford. The hangman was beginning in a reckless way, when Gashford started forward, laid his finger on his lips, and feigned it to write, just as the door was opened by John Groobie. Oh! said John, looking in. Here's another Protestant. Some other room, John, cried Gashford in his blandest voice. I am engaged, just now. But John had brought this new visitor to the door, and he walked in unbidden, as the words were uttered, giving to view the form and features, rough attire, and reckless air, of hue. End of Chapter 37. The Secretary put his hand before his eyes to shade them from the glare of the lamp. And for some moments looked at Hugh with a frowning brow, as if he remembered to have seen him lately, but could not call to mind where, or on what occasion. His uncertainty was very brief. For before Hugh had spoken a word, he said, as his countenance cleared up, I, I, I recollect. It's quite right, John, you needn't wait. Don't go, Dennis. Your servant, Master! said Hugh, as Groobie disappeared. Yours, friend! returned the Secretary in his smoothest manner. What brings you here? We left nothing behind us, I hope. Hugh gave a short laugh, and thrusting his hand into his breast, produced one of the hand-bills, soiled and dirty from lying out of doors all night, which he laid upon the Secretary's desk, after flattening it upon his knee, and smoothing out the wrinkles with his heavy palm. Nothing but that, Master. He fell in a good hand, you see. What is this? said Gashford, turning it over with an air of perfectly natural surprise. Where did you get it from, my good fellow? What does it mean? I don't understand this at all. A little disconcerted by this reception, Hugh looked from the Secretary to Dennis, who had risen and was standing at the table, too, observing the stranger by stealth, and seeming to derive the utmost satisfaction from his manners and appearance. Considering himself silently appealed to by this action, Mr. Dennis shook his head thrice, as if to say of Gashford, No, he don't know anything at all about it. I know he don't. I'll take my oath he don't. And hiding his profile from Hugh with one long end of his frowsy neckerchief, nodded and chuckled behind this screen an extreme approval of the Secretary's proceedings. It tells the man it finds it to come here, don't it? asked Hugh. Oh, I've now scorned myself, but I'll shove it to a friend, and he said it did. It certainly does, said Gashford, opening his eyes to their utmost width. Really, this is the most remarkable circumstance I have ever known. How did you come by this piece of paper, my good friend? Mr. Gashford wheezed the hangman under his breath, again all new-guide. Whether Hugh heard him, or saw by his manner that he was being played upon, or perceived the Secretary's drift of himself, he came in his blunt way to the point at once. Here, he said, stretching out his hand and taking it back. Never mind a bill, or what it says, or what it don't say. You don't know anything about it, Master. No more do I. No more does he glancing at Dennis. None of us know what it means or where it comes from. There's an end to that. Now, I want to make one against the Catholics. I'm a no-pupry man, and ready to be sworn in. That's what I come here for. Put him down on the row, Master Gashford, said Dennis approvingly. That's the way to go to work, right to the end at once, and no pullover. What's the use of shooting in wider the mark, eh, old boy? cried Hugh. My sentiments all over. We joined the hangman. This is the sort of chap for my division, Master Gashford. Down with him, sir, put him on the row. I'd stand Godfather to him, if he was to be christened in a bonfire, made of the ruins of the Bank of England. With these and other expressions of confidence of the like, flattering kind, Mr. Dennis gave him a hearty slap on the back, which Hugh was not slow to return. No, Pope worry, brother, cried the hangman. No, Pope worry, brother, responded Hugh. Popery, popery, said the secretary, with his usual mildness. It's all the same, cried Dennis. It's all right. Down with him, Master Gashford. Down with everybody. Down with everything. Erar for the Protestant religion. That's the time, a die, you muster, Gashford. The secretary regarded them both with the very favourable expression of countenance, while they gave loose to these and other demonstrations of their patriotic purpose, and was about to make some remark aloud, when Dennis, stepping up to him, and shading his mouth with his hand, said, in a horse whisper, as he nudged him with his elbow. Down split upon a constitutional officer's profession, Master Gashford. There are popular prejudices, you know, and he might like it. Wait till he comes to be more intimate with me. He's a fine-built chap, ain't he? A powerful fellow, indeed. Did you ever, Master Gashford? whispered Dennis with a horrible kind of admiration, such as that with which a cannibal might regard his intimate friend when hungry. Did you ever? And here he drew still closer to his ear, and fenced his mouth with both his open hands. See such a throat as is. To but cast your eye upon it. There's a neck for stretching, Master Gashford. The Secretary assented to this proposition with the best grace he could assume. It is difficult to feign a true professional relish, which is eccentric sometimes, and after asking the candidate a few unimportant questions, proceeded to enrol him a member of the Great Protestant Association of England. If anything could have exceeded Mr Dennis's joy on the happy conclusion of this ceremony, it would have been the rapture with which he received the announcement that the new member could neither read nor write. These two arts being, as Mr Dennis swore, the greatest possible curse a civilised community could know, and militating more against the professional emoluments and usefulness of the great constitutional office he had the honour to hold, than any adverse circumstances that could present themselves to his imagination. The enrolment being completed, and Hugh having been informed by Gashford in his peculiar manner of the peaceful and strictly lawful objects contemplated by the body to which he now belonged, during which recital Mr Dennis nudged him very much with his elbow, and made diverse remarkable faces. The Secretary gave them both to understand that he desired to be alone. Therefore they took their leaves without delay, and came out of the house together. Are you walking, brother? said Dennis. Aye, returned Hugh, where you will. That's so short, said his new friend. Which way shall we take? Shall we go and have a look at doors that we shall make a pretty good clatter in that before long? Aye, brother. Hugh answering in the affirmative, they went slowly down to Westminster, where both houses of Parliament were then sitting. Mingling in the crowd of carriages, horses, servants, chairman, link-boys, porters, and idlers of all kinds, they lounged about, while Hugh's new friend pointed out to him significantly the weak parts of the building, how easy it was to get into the lobby, and so to the very door of the House of Commons, and how plainly when they marched down there in grand array their roars and shouts would be heard by the members inside, with a great deal more to the same purpose all of which Hugh received with manifest delight. He told him too who some of the Lords and Commons were, by name, as they came in and out, whether they were friendly to the papists or otherwise, and bade him take notice of their liveries and equipages, that he might be sure of them in case of need. Sometimes he drew him close to the windows of a passing carriage that he might see its masters face by the light of the lamps, and, both in respect of people and localities, he showed so much acquaintance with everything around, that it was plain he had often studied there before, as indeed when they grew a little more confidential, he confessed he had. Perhaps the most striking part of all this was, the number of people, never in groups of more than two or three together, who seemed to be skulking about the crowd for the same purpose. To the greater part of these, a slight nod or a look from Hugh's companion was sufficient greeting. But now and then some man would come and stand beside him in the throng, and, without turning his head or appearing to communicate with him, would say a word or two in a low voice, which he would answer in the same cautious manner. Then they would part, like strangers. Some of these men often reappeared again unexpectedly in the crowd close to Hugh, and, as they passed by, pressed his hand, or looked him sternly in the face. But they never spoke to him, nor he to them. No, not a word. It was remarkable, too, that whenever they happened to stand where there was any press of people, and Hugh chanced to be looking downward, he was sure to see an arm stretched out, under his own perhaps, or perhaps across him, which thrust some paper into the hand or pocket of a bystander, and was so suddenly withdrawn, that it was impossible to tell from whom it came. Nor could he see in any face, on glancing quickly round, the least confusion or surprise. They often trod upon a paper like the one he carried in his breast. But his companion whispered him not to touch it, or to take it up, not even to look towards it. So there they let them lie, and passed on. When they had paraded the street, and all the avenues of the building, and this manner for near two hours, they turned away, and his friend asked him what he thought of what he had seen, and whether he was prepared for a good hot piece of work if it should come to that. The hotter the better, said Hugh, aren't prepared for anything. So am I, said his friend, and so are many of us. And they shook hands upon it with a great oath, and with many terrible implications on the papists. As they were thirsty by this time, Dennis proposed that they should prepare together to the boot, where there was good company and strong liquor. Hugh yielding a radio scent, they bent their steps that way, with no loss of time. This boot was a lone house of public entertainment, situated in the field at the back of the Foundling Hospital, a very solitary spot at that period, and quite deserted after dark. The tavern stood at some distance from any high-road, and was approachable only by a dark and narrow lane, so that Hugh was much surprised to find several people drinking there, and great merriment going on. He was still more surprised to find among them almost every face that had caught his attention in the crowd. But his companion, having whispered him outside the door, that it was not considered good manners at the boot to appear at all curious about the company, he kept his own counsel, and made no show of recognition. Before putting his lips to the liquor which was brought for them, Dennis drank in a loud voice to the health of Lord George Gordon, President of the Great Protestant Association, which toast Hugh pledged likewise with corresponding enthusiasm. A fiddler who was present, and who appeared to act as the appointed minstrel of the company, forthwith struck up a scotch reel, and that in tone so invigorating that Hugh and his friend, who had both been drinking before, rose in their seats as by previous concert, and to the great admiration of the assembled guests performed an extemporaneous, no-pupery dance. End of Chapter 38. Chapter 39 of Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Mill Nicholson. Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of the Riots of Eighty by Charles Dickens. Chapter 39 The applause which the performance of Hugh and his new friend elicited from the company at the boot had not yet subsided, and the two dancers were still panting from their exertions, which had been of a rather extreme and violent character, when the party was reinforced by the arrival of some more guests, who, being a detachment of united bulldogs, were received with very flattering marks of distinction and respect. The leader of this small party, for including himself, they were but three in number, was our old acquaintance, Mr. Tapetit, who seemed physically speaking to have grown smaller with years, particularly as to his legs, which were stupendously little. But who, in a moral point of view, in personal dignity and self-esteem, had swelled into a giant? Nor was it by any means difficult for the most unobservant person to detect this state of feeling in the quantum prentice, for it not only proclaimed itself impressively, and beyond mistake in his majestic walk and kindling eye, but found a striking means of revelation in his turned-up nose, which scouted all things of earth with deep disdain, and sought communion with its kindred skies. Mr. Tapetit, as chief or captain of the bulldogs, was attended by his two lieutenants, one the tall comrade of his younger life, the other apprentice knight in days of yore, Mark Gilbert, bound in the olden time to Thomas Kersen of the Golden Fleece. These gentlemen, like himself, were now emancipated from their prentice thralldom, and served as journeymen. But they were, in humble emulation of his great example, bold and daring spirits, and aspired to a distinguished state in great political events. Hence their connection with a protestant association of England, sanctioned by the name of Lord George Gordon, and hence their present visit to the boot. Gentlemen, said Mr. Tapetit, taking off his hat as a great general might in addressing his troops, well met. My Lord does me and you the honour to send his compliments per self. You've seen my Lord too, have you? said Dennis. Oh, I see him, they saw and do. My duty called me to the lobby when our shop shut up, and I saw him there, sir. Mr. Tapetit replied, as he and his lieutenants took their seats. How do you do? Lively, master, lively, said the fellow. He's a new brother, regularly put down in black and white by Mr. Gashford, according to the cause. One of the stick-it-nuffins sought. One on my own art. Do you see him? As he got the looks of a man that will do, do you think? He cried, as he slapped Hugh on the back. Looks on our looks, said Hugh, with the drunken flourish of his arm. I'm the man you want. I hate the papers, every one of them. They hate me, and I hate them. They do me all the arm they can, and I'll do them all the arm I can. Was there ever? said Dennis, looking round the room, when the echo of his voice to his voice had died away. Or was there ever such a game, boy? Why, I mean to say, brothers, that if Mr. Gashford had gone a hundred miles and got together fifty men of the common run, they wouldn't have been worth this one. The greater part of the company implicitly subscribed to this opinion, and testified their faith in Hugh by nods and looks of great significance. Mr. Tappetit sat and contemplated him for a long time in silence, as if he suspended his judgment, then drew a little nearer to him and eyed him over more carefully, then went close up to him, and took him apart into a dark corner. I say, he began, with a thoughtful brow, haven't I seen you before? It's like you may, said Hugh in his careless way. I don't know, shouldn't wonder. No, but it's very easily settled, returned Sim. Look at me, did you ever see me before? You wouldn't be likely to forget it, you know, if you ever did. Look at me, don't be afraid, I won't do you any harm. Take a good look, steady now. The encouraging way in which Mr. Tappetit made this request, and coupled it with an assurance that he needn't be frightened, amused Hugh mightily. So much indeed they saw nothing at all of the small man before him, through closing his eyes in a fit of hearty laughter, which shook his great broad sides until they ached again. Come! said Mr. Tappetit, growing a little impatient under this disrespectful treatment. Do you know me, fella? Not I, cried Hugh. Not I, but I should like to. And yet I'd have wagered a seven-chilling peace, said Mr. Tappetit, folding his arms and confronting him with his legs wide apart and firmly planted on the ground, that you once were Osler at the Maypole. Hugh opened his eyes on hearing this, and looked at him in great surprise. And so you were too, said Mr. Tappetit, pushing him away with a condescending playfulness. When did my eyes ever deceive, unless it was a young woman? Don't you know me now? Why, it ain't, Hugh faltered. And it, said Mr. Tappetit. Are you sure of that? You remember G. Varden, don't you? Certainly Hugh did. And he remembered D. Varden, too. But that he didn't tell him. You remember coming down there, before I was out of my time, to ask after a vagabond that had belted off, and left his consulate father, a prey to the bitterest emotions and all the rest of it, don't you? Said Mr. Tappetit. Of course I do, cried Hugh. And I saw you there. Saw me there, said Mr. Tappetit. Yes, I should think you did see me there. The place would be trouble to go on without me. Don't you remember my thinking you liked the vagabond, and on that account going to quarrel with you, and then finally you detested him worse than poison, getting a drink with you. Don't you remember that? To be sure, cried Hugh. Well, and are you in the same mind now? Said Mr. Tappetit. Yes, roared Hugh. You speak like a man, said Mr. Tappetit. And I shake hands with you. With these conciliatory expressions he suited the action to the word, and Hugh meeting his advances readily, they performed the ceremony with a show of great heartiness. I find, said Mr. Tappetit, looking round on the assembled guests, that brother watched his name and I, or our old acquaintance. You never heard anything more of that rascal, I suppose, eh? Not a syllable, replied Hugh. I never want to. I don't believe I ever shall. He's dead, long ago, I hope. It's to be hoped, for the sake of mankind in general, and the happiness of society that he is. Said Mr. Tappetit, rubbing his palm upon his legs, and looking at it between wiles. Is your other hand at all cleaner? Much the same. Well, I'll owe you another shike, and I'll suppose it done, if you know objection. Hugh laughed again, and with such thorough abandonment to his mad humour, that his limbs seemed dislocated and his whole frame in danger of tumbling to pieces. But Mr. Tappetit, so far from receiving this extreme merriment with any irritation, was pleased to regard it with the utmost favour, and even to join in it, so far as one of his gravity in station could, with any regard to that decency and decorum which men in high places are expected to maintain. Mr. Tappetit did not stop here, as many public characters might have done, but calling up his brace of lieutenants introduced Hugh to them with high commendation, declaring him to be a man who, at such times as those in which they lived, could not be too much cherished. Further he did him the honour to remark that he would be an acquisition of which even the united bulldogs might be proud. And finding upon sounding him that he was quite ready and willing to enter the society, for he was not at all particular, and would have leagued himself that night with anything or anybody for any purpose whatsoever, caused the necessary preliminaries to be gone into upon the spot. This tribute to his great merit delighted no man more than Mr. Dennis, as he himself proclaimed with several rare and surprising oaths, and indeed it gave unmingled satisfaction to the whole assembly. May anything you like of me, cried Hugh, flourishing the can, he had emptied more than once, put me on any duty, you please, I'm your man, I'll do it. Here's my captain, here's my leader, let him give me the word of command, and I'll fight the old parliament our single-handed, or set a lighted torch to the king's throne itself. With that he smote Mr. Tappeted on the back with such violence that his little body seemed to shrink into a mere nothing, and wrought again until the very foundlings near at hand were startled in their beds. In fact a sense of something whimsical in their companionship seemed to have taken entire possession of his rude brain. The bare fact of being patronised by a great man, whom he could have crushed with one hand, appeared in his eyes so eccentric and humorous that a kind of ferocious merriment gained the mastery over him, and quite subdued his brutal nature. He roared, and roared again, toasted Mr. Tappeted a hundred times, declared himself a bulldog to the core, and vowed to be faithful to him to the last drop of blood in his veins. All these compliments Mr. Tappeted received as matters of course, flattering enough in their way but entirely attributable to his vast superiority. His dignified self-possession only delighted Hugh the more, and in a word this giant and dwarf struck up a friendship which bade fair to be of long continuance, as the one held her to be his right to command, and the other considered it an exquisite pleasantry to obey. Nor was Hugh by any means a passive follower, who strupled to act without precise and definite orders. For when Mr. Tappeted mounted on an empty cask, which stood by way of rostrum in the room, and volunteered a speech upon the alarming crisis then at hand, he placed himself beside the orator, and though he grinned from ear to ear at every word he said, throughout such expressive hints to scoffers in the management of his cudgel, that those who were at first the most disposed to interrupt became remarkably attentive, and were the loudest in their approbation. It was not all noise and jest, however, at the boot, nor were the whole party listeners to the speech. There were some men at the other end of the room, which was a long, low-roofed chamber, in earnest conversation all the time, and when any of this group went out, fresh people were sure to come in soon afterwards, and sit down in their places, as though the others had relieved them on some watch or duty, which it was pretty clear they did, for these changes took place by the clock at intervals of half an hour. These persons whispered very much among themselves, and kept aloof, and often looked round, as jealous of their speech being overheard, some two or three among them ended in books what seemed to be reports from the others. When they were not thus employed, one of them would turn to the newspapers which were strewn upon the table, and from the St. James's Chronicle, the Herald, Chronicle, or Public Advertiser, would read to the rest in a low voice some passage having reference to the topic in which they were all so deeply interested. But the great attraction was a pamphlet called The Thundera, which espoused their own opinions, and were supposed at that time to emanate directly from the association. This was always in request, and whether read aloud to an eager not of listeners, or by some solitary man, was certain to be followed by stormy talking and excited looks. In the midst of all his merriment and admiration of his captain, Hugh was made sensible by these and other tokens of the presence of an air of mystery akin to that which had so much impressed him out of doors. It was impossible to discard a sense that something serious was going on, and that under the noisy revel of the public house, there lurked unseen and dangerous matter. Little affected by this, however, he was perfectly satisfied with his quarters, and would have remained there till morning, but that his conductor rose soon after midnight to go home. Mr. Tapetit, following his example, left him no excuse to stay. So they all three left the house together, roaring a no-popery song, until the fields resounded with a dismal noise. Cheer up, captain! cried Hugh, when they had drawed themselves out of breath, another stive. Mr. Tapetit, nothing loathe, began again, until the three went staggering on, arm in arm, shouting like madmen, and defying the watch with great valor. Indeed, this did not require any unusual bravery or boldness, as the watchman at that time, being selected for the office on account of excessive age and extraordinary infirmity, had a custom of shutting themselves up tight in their boxes on the first symptoms of disturbance, and remaining there until they disappeared. In these proceedings, Mr. Dennis, who had a gruff voice and lungs of considerable power, distinguished himself very much, and acquired great credit with his two companions. What a queer fellow you are, said Mr. Tapetit, in your so precious sly and close, why don't you ever tell what trade you're of? Answer the captain instantly, cried Hugh, bitting his hat down on his head, why don't you ever tell what trade you're of? I'm of as gentle a calling, brother, as any man in England, as light a business as any gentleman could desire. Why, is you apprenticed to it? asked Mr. Tapetit. No, natural genius, said Mr. Dennis, no apprenticing, it come by nature. Mr. Gashford knows my calling. Look at that hand of mine, many and many a job that hand has done, with a neatness and dexterity never known before. When I look at that end, said Mr. Dennis, shaking it in the air, and remember the hellogant bits of work it has turned off, I feel quite mollancolly to think you should ever grow old and feeble about Satchie's life. He heaved a deep sigh as he indulged in these reflections, and putting his fingers with an absent air on Hugh's throat, and particularly under his left ear, as if he were studying the anatomical development of that part of his frame, shook his head in a despondent manner and actually shed tears. You're a kind of artist, I suppose, eh? said Mr. Tapetit. Yes, rejoined Dennis. Yes, I may call myself a artist, a fancy workman, art improves nature. That's my motto. And what do you call this? said Mr. Tapetit, taking his stick out of his hand. That's my portrait atop, Dennis replied. Do you think it's like? Why, it's a little too ansome, said Mr. Tapetit. Who did it? You. I, repeat Dennis, gazing fondly on his image, I wish I had the talent. That was carved by a friend of mine as he's now now more. The very day before he died, he capped that with his pocket knife from memory. I'll die game, says my friend, and my last moment shall be devoted to making Dennis's picture. That's it. That was a queer fancy, wasn't it? said Mr. Tapetit. It was a queer fancy. Rejoined the other, breathing on his fictitious nose and polishing it with a cuff of his coat. But he was a queer subject altogether, a kind of gypsy. One of the finest stand-up men you ever see. He told me some things that would startle you a bit, did that friend of mine, on the morning when he died. You were with him at that time, were you? said Mr. Tapetit. Yes. He answered, with a curious look. I was there. Oh yes, certainly I was there. He wouldn't have gone off half as comfortable without me. I had been with three or four of his family under the same circumstances. They were all fine fellows. They must have been fond of you, remarked Mr. Tapetit, looking at him sideways. I don't know that they were exactly fond of me, said Dennis, with a little hesitation, but they all had me near them when they departed. I come in for their wardrobes too. This very anchorature at you see round my neck belonged to him that I've been speaking of. Ame as did that lightness. Mr. Tapetit glanced at the article referred to and appeared to think that the deceased's ideas of dress were of a peculiar and by no means an expensive kind. He made no remark upon the point, however, and suffered his mysterious companion to proceed without interruption. These smalls, said Dennis, rubbing his legs, these very smalls, they belong to a friend of mine that's left off stitching cumbrances forever. This coat, too, I'll often walk behind his coat in the street and wondered whether it would ever come to me. This pair of shoes have danced all in part for another man, a full my eyes, full half a dozen times at least. And as to my hat, he said, taking it off and whirling it round upon his fist, Lord, I've seen these hats go up over and on the box of a heavenly coach. Ah, many and many a day. You don't mean to say their old wearers are all dead, I hope. Said Mr. Tapetit, falling a little distance from him as he spoke. Every one of them, replied Dennis, every man Jack. There was something so very ghastly in this circumstance, and it appeared to account in such a very strange and dismal manner for his faded dress, which, in this new aspect, seemed discoloured by the earth from graves, that Mr. Tapetit abruptly found he was going another way, and, stopping short, bade him good night with the utmost heartiness. As they happened to be near the Old Bailey, and Mr. Dennis knew there were turn-keys in the lodge with whom he could pass the night, and discussed professional subjects of common interest among them before a rousing fire and over a social glass, he separated from his companions without any great regret, and warmly shaking hands with Hugh, and making an early appointment for their meeting at the boot, left them to pursue their road. That's a strange sort of man, said Mr. Tapetit, watching the Hackney Coachman's hat as it went bobbing down the street. I don't know what to make of him. Why can't he have his smallsmate in order, or wear live clothes at any rate? He's a lucky man, Captain, cried Hugh. Oh, I shall like to have such friends as his. I hope he don't get him to make their wills, and then knock him on the head, for Mr. Tapetit musing. But come, the United Bees expect me, on what's the matter? Oh, I quite forgot, said Hugh, who had started at the striking of a neighbouring clock. Oh, I have somebody to seat tonight. I must turn back directly. A drinking and singing put it out on me aid. It's well I remembered it. Mr. Tapetit looked at him as though he were about to give utterance to some very majestic sentiments in reference to this act of desertion. But as it was clear from Hugh's hasty manner that the engagement was one of oppressing nature, he graciously forbore, and gave him his permission to depart immediately, which Hugh acknowledged with a raw of laughter. Good night, Captain, he cried. I'm yours to the death, remember? Farewell, said Mr. Tapetit, waving his hand. Be bold and vigilant. No, Popory, Captain, roared Hugh. England in blood first, cried his desperate leader, whereat Hugh cheered and laughed, and ran off like a greyhound. That man will prove a credit to my core, said Simon, turning thoughtfully upon his heel. And let me see. In an altered state of society, which must ensue if we break out and are victorious, when the locksmith's child is mine, Miggs must be got rid of somehow, or she'll poison the tea kettle one evening when I'm out. He might marry Miggs if he was drunk enough. It shall be done. I'll make a note of it. Little thinking of the plan for his happy settlement in life, which had suggested itself to the teeming brain of his provident commander, Hugh made no pause, until St. Dunstan's giants struck the hour above him, when he worked the handle of a pump which stood hard by with great vigor, and thrusting his head under the spout, let the water gush upon him until a little stream ran down from every uncombed hair, and he was wet to the waste. Considerably refreshed by this ablution, both in mind and body, and almost sobered for the time, he dried himself as he best could, then crossed the road, and plied the knocker of the middle temple gate. The night-porter looked through a small grating in the portal with a surly eye, and cried, Hello? Which greeting Hugh returned in kind, and bade him open quickly. We don't sell beer here, cried the man. What else do you want? To come in, Hugh replied with a kick at the door. Where to go? Pipe of buildings. Whose chibbers? Sir John Chester's. Each of which answers he emphasised with another kick. After a little growling on the other side, the gate was opened, and he passed in, undergoing a close inspection from the porter, as he did so. You want, you said, John, at this time of night? said the man. I, said Hugh, I, what of that? Why, I must go with you and see what you do, for I don't believe it. Come along, then. Eyeing him with suspicious looks, the man with key and lantern walked on at his side, and attended him to Sir John Chester's door, at which Hugh gave one knock, that echoed through the dark staircase like a ghostly summons, and made the dull light tremble in the drowsy lamp. You think he wants me now? said Hugh. Before the man had time to answer, a footstep was heard within. A light appeared, and Sir John, in his dressing gown and slippers, opened the door. I ask your pardon, said John, said the porter, pulling off his hat. He is a young man, says he wants a speak to you. It's late for strangers. I thought he best to see that all was right. Ah-ha! cried Sir John, raising his eyebrows. It's you, messenger, is it? Going. And quite right, friend. I commend your prudence highly. Thank you. God bless you. Good night. To be commended. Thanked. God blessed. And bade good night by one who carried Sir before his name, and wrote himself MP to boot, was something for a porter. He withdrew with much humility and reverence. Sir John followed his late visitor into the dressing-room, and sitting in his easy chair before the fire, and moving it so that he could see him as he stood, hat in hand, beside the door, looked at him from head to foot. The old face, calm and pleasant as ever, the complexion, quite juvenile in its bloom and clearness, the same smile, the won'ted precision and elegance of dress, the white, well-ordered teeth, the delicate hands, the composed and quiet manner, everything as it used to be, no mark of age or passion, envy, hate, or discontent, all unruffled and serene, and quite delightful to behold. He wrote himself MP. But how? Why, thus? It was a proud family, more proud indeed than wealthy. He had stood in danger of arrest, of bailiffs, and a jail, a vulgar jail, to which the common people with small incomes went. Gentlemen of ancient houses have no privilege of exemption from such cruel laws, unless they are of one great house, and then they have. A proud man, if his stock and kindred had the means of sending him there. He offered, not indeed, to pay his debts, but to let him sit for a close borough, until his own son came of age, which, if he lived, would come to pass in twenty years. It was quite as good as an insolvent act, an infinitely more genteel. So, Sir John Chester was a member of Parliament. But how, Sir John? Nothing so simple or so easy. One touch with the sword of state, and the transformation was affected. John Chester Asquire, MP, attended court, went up with an address, headed a deputation. Such elegance of manner, so many graces of deportment, such powers of conversation could never pass unnoticed. Mr. was too common for such merit. A man so gentlemanly should have been, but fortune is capricious. Born a duke. Just as some dukes should have been born labourers. He caught the fancy of the king, knelt down a grub, and rose a butterfly. John Chester Asquire was knighted, and became Sir John. I thought, when you left me this evening, my esteemed acquaintance said Sir John after a pretty long silence, that you intended to return with all dispatch. So I did, Master. And so you have, he retorted, glancing at his watch. Is that what you would say? Instead of replying, Hugh changed the leg on which he lent, shuffled his cap from one hand to the other, looked at the ground, the wall, the ceiling, and finally at Sir John himself, before whose pleasant face he lowered his eyes again and fixed him on the floor. And how have you been employing yourself in the meanwhile? Quote Sir John, lazily crossing his legs. Where have you been? What harm have you been doing? No harm at all, Master. Growl Hugh, with humility, are only done as you ordered. As I—what? returned Sir John. Well then, said Hugh uneasily, as you advised, or said I ought, or said I might, or said that you would do if you was me. Don't be so odd upon me, Master. Something like an expression of triumph in the perfect control he had established over this rough instrument appeared in the knight's face for an instant, but it vanished directly, as he said, pairing his nails while speaking. When you say I ordered you, my good fellow, you imply that I directed you to do something for me, something I wanted done, something for my own ends and purposes, you see. Now, I am sure I needn't enlarge upon the extreme absurdity of such an idea. However, unintentional. So please—and here he turned his eyes upon him—to be more guarded, will you? I meant to give you now a fence, said Hugh. I don't know what to say. You catch me up so very short. You'll be caught up much shorter, my good friend—infinitely shorter, one of these days, depend upon it. Reply to his patron calmly. And by the by, instead of wondering why you have been so long, my wonder should be why you came at all. Why did you? You know, Master, said Hugh, that I couldn't read the bill I found, and that supposing it to be something particular from the way it was wrapped up, I brought it here. And could you ask no one else to read it, Bruin? Said Sir John. No one ought to trust with secrets, Master, since Barnaby Rudge was lost sight of for good and all, and that's five years ago I haven't talked with any one but you. You have done me honour, I am sure. I have come to and fro, Master, all through that time, when there was anything to tell, because I knew that you'd be angry with me if I stayed away. Said Hugh, blurting the words out, after an embarrassed silence, and because I wish to please you if I could, and not have you go against me. There, that's the true reason why I came to night. You know that, Master, I am sure. You are a specious fellow—returned to John, fixing his eyes upon him—and carry two faces under your hood, as well as the best. Didn't you give me in this room this evening any other reason? No dislike of anybody who has slighted you lately, on all occasions, abused you, treated you with rudeness, acted towards you more as if you were a mongrel dog than a man like himself? To be sure I did! cried Hugh, his passion rising, as the other meant it should. And I say it all over now again. I do anything to have some revenge on him—anything—and when you tell me that he and all the Catholics would suffer from those who joined together under that handbill, I'll have said I'd make one of them, if their Master was the Devil himself. I am one of them. See whether I am as good as my word and turn out to be among the foremost or no—I may have much head, Master, but I've had enough to remember those that use me ill. You shall see. And so shall he. And so shall androids more, how my spirit backs me when the time comes. My bark is nothing to my bite—some that I know had better have a wild line among him than me—when I am fairly loose, they add. The knight looked at him with a smile a far deeper meaning than ordinary, and pointing to the old cupboard, followed him with his eyes while he filled and drank a glass of liquor, and smiled when his back was turned with deeper meaning yet. You are in a blustering boo to my friend, he said, when Hugh confronted him again. Not I, Master! cried Hugh. I don't say off, I mean. I can't. I haven't got a gift. There are talkers enough among us. I'll be one of the doers. No. You have joined those fellows, then? said Sir John, with an air of most profound indifference. Yes, I went up to the house you told me of, and got put down upon the Master. There was another man there named Dennis. Dennis, eh? cried Sir John, laughing. A pleasant fellow, I believe. A roaring dogmaster, one after my own art, hot upon the matter, too, red-ot. So I have heard, replied Sir John carelessly, you don't have to know his trade, do you? He wouldn't say, cried Hugh. He keeps it secret. Laughed Sir John. A strange fancy, a weakness with some persons. You know it one day, I dare swear. We're intimate already, said Hugh. And quite natural. And have been drinking together, eh? Pursued Sir John. And did you say what place you went to in company, when you left Lord George's? Hugh had not said or thought of saying, but he told him. And this inquiry being followed by a long train of questions, he related all that had passed both in and out of doors, the kind of people he had seen, their numbers, state of feeling, mode of conversation, apparent expectations and intentions. His questioning was so artfully contrived, that he seemed even in his own eyes to volunteer all this information, rather than to have it rested from him. And he was brought to the state of feeling so naturally, that when Mr. Chester yawned at length and declared himself quite wearied out, he made a rough kind of excuse for having talked so much. There, get you gone, said Sir John, holding the door open in his hand. You have made a pretty evening's work. I told you not to do this. You may get into trouble. You'll have an opportunity of revengeing yourself on your proud friend, Hairdale, though. And for that you'd hazard anything, I suppose. I would, we thought at Hugh, stopping in his passage out and looking back. But what do I risk? What do I stand a chance of losing, Master? Friends? Home? A fig for them all. I have none. They are nothing to me. Give me a good scaffold. Let me pay off old scores and a bold riot, where there are men to stand by me, and then use me as you like. It don't matter much to me what the end is. What have you done with that paper? said Sir John. I have it here, Master. And drop it again, as you go along. It's as well not to keep such things about you. Hugh nodded, and touching his cap with an air of as much respect as he could summon up, departed. Sir John, fasting the doors behind him, went back to his dressing-room, and sat down once again before the fire, at which he gazed for a long time in earnest meditation. This happens, fortunately, he said, breaking into a smile, and promise as well. Let me see. My relative and I, who are the most Protestant fellows in the world, give our worst wishes to the Roman Catholic cause, and to Seville, who introduces their bill, I have a personal objection besides. But as each of us has himself for the first article in his creed, we cannot commit ourselves by joining with the very extravagant madman, such as this Gordon most undoubtedly is, now really, to forment his disturbances in secret, through the medium of such a very apt instrument as my savage friend here, may further our real ends, and to express it all becoming seasons in moderate and polite terms, a disapprobation of his proceedings, though we agree with him in principle, will certainly be to gain a character for honesty and uprightness of purpose, which cannot fail to do us infinite service, and to raise us into some importance. Good. So much for public grounds. As to private considerations, I confess that if these vagabonds would make some riotous demonstration, in which does not appear impossible, and would inflict some little chastisement on Heardale as a not inactive man among his sect, it would be extremely agreeable to my feelings, and would amuse me beyond measure. But again, perhaps better. When he came to this point, he took a pinch of snuff, and beginning slowly to undress, he resumed his meditations, by saying with a smile, I fear, I do fear exceedingly, that my friend is following fast in the footsteps of his mother. His intimacy with Mr. Dennis is very ominous, but I have no doubt he must have come to that end anyway. If I lend him a helping hand, the only difference is that he may, upon the whole, possibly drink a few gallons, or punches, or hogs' heads less in this life than he otherwise would. It's no business of mine, it's a matter of very small importance. So he took another pinch of snuff, and went to bed. End of Chapter 40