Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge — A Tale Of The Riots Of Eighty

“I should have known that, had I been ignorant of his lordship's person,” said Mr Haredale. “I hope there is but one gentleman in England who, addressing an ignorant and excited throng, would speak of a large body of his fellow-subjects in such injurious language as I heard this moment. For shame, my lord, for shame!”

“I cannot talk to you, sir,” replied Lord George in a loud voice, and waving his hand in a disturbed and agitated manner; “we have nothing in common.”

“We have much in common—many things—all that the Almighty gave us,” said Mr Haredale; “and common charity, not to say common sense and common decency, should teach you to refrain from these proceedings. If every one of those men had arms in their hands at this moment, as they have them in their heads, I would not leave this place without telling you that you disgrace your station.”

“I don't hear you, sir,” he replied in the same manner as before; “I can't hear you. It is indifferent to me what you say. Don't retort, Gashford,” for the secretary had made a show of wishing to do so; “I can hold no communion with the worshippers of idols.”

As he said this, he glanced at Sir John, who lifted his hands and eyebrows, as if deploring the intemperate conduct of Mr Haredale, and smiled in admiration of the crowd and of their leader.

“HE retort!” cried Haredale. “Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man?”

Lord George replied by laying his hand upon the shoulder of his cringing secretary, and viewing him with a smile of confidence.

“This man,” said Mr Haredale, eyeing him from top to toe, “who in his boyhood was a thief, and has been from that time to this, a servile, false, and truckling knave: this man, who has crawled and crept through life, wounding the hands he licked, and biting those he fawned upon: this sycophant, who never knew what honour, truth, or courage meant; who robbed his benefactor's daughter of her virtue, and married her to break her heart, and did it, with stripes and cruelty: this creature, who has whined at kitchen windows for the broken food, and begged for halfpence at our chapel doors: this apostle of the faith, whose tender conscience cannot bear the altars where his vicious life was publicly denounced—Do you know this man?”

“Oh, really—you are very, very hard upon our friend!” exclaimed Sir John.

“Let Mr Haredale go on,” said Gashford, upon whose unwholesome face the perspiration had broken out during this speech, in blotches of wet; “I don't mind him, Sir John; it's quite as indifferent to me what he says, as it is to my lord. If he reviles my lord, as you have heard, Sir John, how can I hope to escape?”

“Is it not enough, my lord,” Mr Haredale continued, “that I, as good a gentleman as you, must hold my property, such as it is, by a trick at which the state connives because of these hard laws; and that we may not teach our youth in schools the common principles of right and wrong; but must we be denounced and ridden by such men as this! Here is a man to head your No-Popery cry! For shame. For shame!”

The infatuated nobleman had glanced more than once at Sir John Chester, as if to inquire whether there was any truth in these statements concerning Gashford, and Sir John had as often plainly answered by a shrug or look, “Oh dear me! no. “ He now said, in the same loud key, and in the same strange manner as before:

“I have nothing to say, sir, in reply, and no desire to hear anything more. I beg you won't obtrude your conversation, or these personal attacks, upon me. I shall not be deterred from doing my duty to my country and my countrymen, by any such attempts, whether they proceed from emissaries of the Pope or not, I assure you. Come, Gashford!”

They had walked on a few paces while speaking, and were now at the Hall-door, through which they passed together. Mr Haredale, without any leave-taking, turned away to the river stairs, which were close at hand, and hailed the only boatman who remained there.

But the throng of people—the foremost of whom had heard every word that Lord George Gordon said, and among all of whom the rumour had been rapidly dispersed that the stranger was a Papist who was bearding him for his advocacy of the popular cause—came pouring out pell-mell, and, forcing the nobleman, his secretary, and Sir John Chester on before them, so that they appeared to be at their head, crowded to the top of the stairs where Mr Haredale waited until the boat was ready, and there stood still, leaving him on a little clear space by himself.

They were not silent, however, though inactive. At first some indistinct mutterings arose among them, which were followed by a hiss or two, and these swelled by degrees into a perfect storm. Then one voice said, “Down with the Papists!” and there was a pretty general cheer, but nothing more. After a lull of a few moments, one man cried out, “Stone him;” another, “Duck him;” another, in a stentorian voice, “No Popery!” This favourite cry the rest re-echoed, and the mob, which might have been two hundred strong, joined in a general shout.

Mr Haredale had stood calmly on the brink of the steps, until they made this demonstration, when he looked round contemptuously, and walked at a slow pace down the stairs. He was pretty near the boat, when Gashford, as if without intention, turned about, and directly afterwards a great stone was thrown by some hand, in the crowd, which struck him on the head, and made him stagger like a drunken man.

The blood sprung freely from the wound, and trickled down his coat. He turned directly, and rushing up the steps with a boldness and passion which made them all fall back, demanded:

“Who did that? Show me the man who hit me.”

Not a soul moved; except some in the rear who slunk off, and, escaping to the other side of the way, looked on like indifferent spectators.

“Who did that?” he repeated. “Show me the man who did it. Dog, was it you? It was your deed, if not your hand—I know you.”

He threw himself on Gashford as he said the words, and hurled him to the ground. There was a sudden motion in the crowd, and some laid hands upon him, but his sword was out, and they fell off again.

“My lord—Sir John,'—he cried, “draw, one of you—you are responsible for this outrage, and I look to you. Draw, if you are gentlemen. “ With that he struck Sir John upon the breast with the flat of his weapon, and with a burning face and flashing eyes stood upon his guard; alone, before them all.

For an instant, for the briefest space of time the mind can readily conceive, there was a change in Sir John's smooth face, such as no man ever saw there. The next moment, he stepped forward, and laid one hand on Mr Haredale's arm, while with the other he endeavoured to appease the crowd.

“My dear friend, my good Haredale, you are blinded with passion— it's very natural, extremely natural—but you don't know friends from foes.”

“I know them all, sir, I can distinguish well—” he retorted, almost mad with rage. “Sir John, Lord George—do you hear me? Are you cowards?”

“Never mind, sir,” said a man, forcing his way between and pushing him towards the stairs with friendly violence, “never mind asking that. For God's sake, get away. What CAN you do against this number? And there are as many more in the next street, who'll be round dfrectly,'—indeed they began to pour in as he said the words—'you'd be giddy from that cut, in the first heat of a scuffle. Now do retire, sir, or take my word for it you'll be worse used than you would be if every man in the crowd was a woman, and that woman Bloody Mary. Come, sir, make haste—as quick as you can.”

Mr Haredale, who began to turn faint and sick, felt how sensible this advice was, and descended the steps with his unknown friend's assistance. John Grueby (for John it was) helped him into the boat, and giving her a shove off, which sent her thirty feet into the tide, bade the waterman pull away like a Briton; and walked up again as composedly as if he had just landed.