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

After the lapse of nearly two hours, the numbers began to diminish visibly, and gradually dwindling away, by little and little, left the bridge quite clear, save that, now and then, some hot and dusty man, with the cockade in his hat, and his coat thrown over his shoulder, went panting by, fearful of being too late, or stopped to ask which way his friends had taken, and being directed, hastened on again like one refreshed. In this comparative solitude, which seemed quite strange and novel after the late crowd, the widow had for the first time an opportunity of inquiring of an old man who came and sat beside them, what was the meaning of that great assemblage.

“Why, where have you come from,” he returned, “that you haven't heard of Lord George Gordon's great association? This is the day that he presents the petition against the Catholics, God bless him!”

“What have all these men to do with that?” she said.

“What have they to do with it!” the old man replied. “Why, how you talk! Don't you know his lordship has declared he won't present it to the house at all, unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good and true men at least? There's a crowd for you!”

“A crowd indeed!” said Barnaby. “Do you hear that, mother!”

“And they're mustering yonder, as I am told,” resumed the old man, “nigh upon a hundred thousand strong. Ah! Let Lord George alone. He knows his power. There'll be a good many faces inside them three windows over there,” and he pointed to where the House of Commons overlooked the river, “that'll turn pale when good Lord George gets up this afternoon, and with reason too! Ay, ay. Let his lordship alone. Let him alone. HE knows!” And so, with much mumbling and chuckling and shaking of his forefinger, he rose, with the assistance of his stick, and tottered off.

“Mother!” said Barnaby, “that's a brave crowd he talks of. Come!”

“Not to join it!” cried his mother.

“Yes, yes,” he answered, plucking at her sleeve. “Why not? Come!”

“You don't know,” she urged, “what mischief they may do, where they may lead you, what their meaning is. Dear Barnaby, for my sake—”

“For your sake!” he cried, patting her hand. “Well! It IS for your sake, mother. You remember what the blind man said, about the gold. Here's a brave crowd! Come! Or wait till I come back—yes, yes, wait here.”

She tried with all the earnestness her fears engendered, to turn him from his purpose, but in vain. He was stooping down to buckle on his shoe, when a hackney-coach passed them rather quickly, and a voice inside called to the driver to stop.

“Young man,” said a voice within.

“Who's that?” cried Barnaby, looking up.

“Do you wear this ornament?” returned the stranger, holding out a blue cockade.

“In Heaven's name, no. Pray do not give it him!” exclaimed the widow.

“Speak for yourself, woman,” said the man within the coach, coldly. “Leave the young man to his choice; he's old enough to make it, and to snap your apron-strings. He knows, without your telling, whether he wears the sign of a loyal Englishman or not.”

Barnaby, trembling with impatience, cried, “Yes! yes, yes, I do,” as he had cried a dozen times already. The man threw him a cockade, and crying, “Make haste to St George's Fields,” ordered the coachman to drive on fast; and left them.

With hands that trembled with his eagerness to fix the bauble in his hat, Barnaby was adjusting it as he best could, and hurriedly replying to the tears and entreaties of his mother, when two gentlemen passed on the opposite side of the way. Observing them, and seeing how Barnaby was occupied, they stopped, whispered together for an instant, turned back, and came over to them.

“Why are you sitting here?” said one of them, who was dressed in a plain suit of black, wore long lank hair, and carried a great cane. “Why have you not gone with the rest?”

“I am going, sir,” replied Barnaby, finishing his task, and putting his hat on with an air of pride. “I shall be there directly.”

“Say “my lord,” young man, when his lordship does you the honour of speaking to you,” said the second gentleman mildly. “If you don't know Lord George Gordon when you see him, it's high time you should.”

“Nay, Gashford,” said Lord George, as Barnaby pulled off his hat again and made him a low bow, “it's no great matter on a day like this, which every Englishman will remember with delight and pride. Put on your hat, friend, and follow us, for you lag behind and are late. It's past ten now. Didn't you know that the hour for assembling was ten o'clock?”

Barnaby shook his head and looked vacantly from one to the other.

“You might have known it, friend,” said Gashford, “it was perfectly understood. How came you to be so ill informed?”

“He cannot tell you, sir,” the widow interposed. “It's of no use to ask him. We are but this morning come from a long distance in the country, and know nothing of these matters.”

“The cause has taken a deep root, and has spread its branches far and wide,” said Lord George to his secretary. “This is a pleasant hearing. I thank Heaven for it!”

“Amen!” cried Gashford with a solemn face.

“You do not understand me, my lord,” said the widow. “Pardon me, but you cruelly mistake my meaning. We know nothing of these matters. We have no desire or right to join in what you are about to do. This is my son, my poor afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life. In mercy's name, my lord, go your way alone, and do not tempt him into danger!”

“My good woman,” said Gashford, “how can you!—Dear me!—What do you mean by tempting, and by danger? Do you think his lordship is a roaring lion, going about and seeking whom he may devour? God bless me!”

“No, no, my lord, forgive me,” implored the widow, laying both her hands upon his breast, and scarcely knowing what she did, or said, in the earnestness of her supplication, “but there are reasons why you should hear my earnest, mother's prayer, and leave my son with me. Oh do! He is not in his right senses, he is not, indeed!”

“It is a bad sign of the wickedness of these times,” said Lord George, evading her touch, and colouring deeply, “that those who cling to the truth and support the right cause, are set down as mad. Have you the heart to say this of your own son, unnatural mother!”

“I am astonished at you!” said Gashford, with a kind of meek severity. “This is a very sad picture of female depravity.”

“He has surely no appearance,” said Lord George, glancing at Barnaby, and whispering in his secretary's ear, “of being deranged? And even if he had, we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness. Which of us'—and here he turned red again—'would be safe, if that were made the law!”

“Not one,” replied the secretary; “in that case, the greater the zeal, the truth, and talent; the more direct the call from above; the clearer would be the madness. With regard to this young man, my lord,” he added, with a lip that slightly curled as he looked at Barnaby, who stood twirling his hat, and stealthily beckoning them to come away, “he is as sensible and self-possessed as any one I ever saw.”

“And you desire to make one of this great body?” said Lord George, addressing him; “and intended to make one, did you?”

“Yes—yes,” said Barnaby, with sparkling eyes. “To be sure I did! I told her so myself.”

“I see,” replied Lord George, with a reproachful glance at the unhappy mother. “I thought so. Follow me and this gentleman, and you shall have your wish.”

Barnaby kissed his mother tenderly on the cheek, and bidding her be of good cheer, for their fortunes were both made now, did as he was desired. She, poor woman, followed too—with how much fear and grief it would be hard to tell.