Barnaby Rudge Manuscript: Chapters 1 to 7

make of me -- at all events, till I have met this man again and settled the account. It'll be a better story then." "Why who should I tell it to?" returned Gabriel. " They know it here, and I'm not likely to come across anybody else who would care about it." 'That's true enough, said the young fellow with a sigh. "I quite forgot that. Yes, that's true!" So saying, he raised his face, which was very red, -- no doubt from the exertion of strapping and buckling as aforesaid, -- and giving the rein to the old man who had by this time taken his seat, sighed again and bade him good night. " Good night!" cried Gabriel. "Now think better of what we have just been speaking of, and don't be rash, there's a good fellow! I have an interest in you, and wouldn't have you cast yourself away. Good night!" Returning his cheery farewell with cordial goodwill, Joe Willet lingered until the sound of wheels ceased to vibrate in his ears, and then, shaking his head mournfully, re-entered the house. Gabriel Varden went his way towards London, thinking of a great many things, and most of all of flaming terms in which to relate his adventure, and so account satisfactorily to Mrs Varden for visiting the Maypole despite certain solemn covenants between himself and that lady. Thinking begets, not only thought, but drowsiness occasionally, and the more the locksmith thought, the more sleepy he became.

A man may be very sober -- or at least firmly set upon his legs on that neutral ground which lies between the confines of perfect sobriety and slight tipsiness -- and yet feel a strong tendency to mingle up present circumstances with others which have no manner of connection with them; to confound all consideration of persons, things, times, and places; and to jumble his disjointed thoughts together in a kind of mental kaleidoscope, producing combinations as unexpected as they are transitory. This was Gabriel Varden's state, as, nodding in his dog sleep, and leaving his horse to Pursue a road with which he was well acquainted, he got over the ground unconsciously, and drew nearer and nearer home. He had roused himself once, when the horse stopped until the turnpike gate was open, and had cried a lusty "good night!" to the toll-keeper; but then he awoke out of a dream about picking a lock in the stomach of the Great Mogul, and even when he did wake, mixed up the turnpike man with his mother-in-law who had been dead twenty years. It is not surprising, therefore, that he soon relapsed, and jogged heavily along, quite insensible to his progress. And, now, he approached the great city, which lay outstretched before him like a dark shadow on the ground, reddening

the sluggish air with a deep dull light, that told of labyrinths of public ways and shops, and swarms of busy people. Approaching nearer and nearer yet, this halo began to fade, and the causes which produced it slowly to develop themselves. Long lines of poorly lighted streets might be faintly traced, with here and there a lighter spot, where lamps were clustered round a square or market, or round some great building; after a time these grew more distinct, and the lamps themselves were visible; slight yellow specks, that seemed to be rapidly snuffed out, one by one, as intervening obstacles hid them from the sight. Then, sounds arose -- the striking of church clocks, the distant bark of dogs, the hum of traffic in the streets; then outlines might be traced -- tall steeples looming in the air, and piles of unequal roofs oppressed by chimneys; then, the noise swelled into a louder sound, and forms grew more distinct and numerous still, and London -- visible in the darkness by its own faint light, and not by that of Heaven -- was at hand. The locksmith, however, all unconscious of its near vicinity, still jogged on, half sleeping and half waking, when a loud cry at no great distance ahead, roused him with a start. For a moment or two he looked about him like a man who had been transported to some strange country in his sleep, but soon recognising familiar objects, rubbed his

eyes lazily and might have relapsed again, but that the cry was repeated -- not once or twice or thrice, but many times, and each time, if possible, with increased vehemence. Thoroughly aroused, Gabriel, who was a bold man and not easily daunted, made straight to the spot, urging on his stout little horse as if for life or death. The matter indeed looked sufficiently serious, for, coming to the place whence the cries had proceeded, he descried the figure of a man extended in an apparently lifeless state upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience, redoubling meanwhile those cries for help which had brought the locksmith to the spot. "What's here to do?" said the old man, alighting. "How's this[dash]what -- Barnaby?" The bearer of the torch shook his long loose hair back from his eyes, and thrusting his face eagerly into that of the locksmith, fixed upon him a look which told his history at once. " You know me, Barnaby?" said Varden. He nodded -- not once or twice, but a score of times, and that with a fantastic exaggeration which would have kept his head in motion for an hour, but that the locksmith held up his finger, and fixing his eye sternly upon him

caused him to desist; then pointed to the body with an inquiring look. "There's blood upon him," said Barnaby with a shudder. "It makes me sick!" " How came it there?" demanded Varden. "Steel, steel, steel!" he replied fiercely, imitating with his hand the thrust of a sword. "Is he robbed?" said the locksmith. Barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded " Yes;" then pointed towards the city. "Oh!" said the old man bending over the body and looking round as he spoke into Barnaby's pale face, strangely lighted up by something that was [1not]1 intellect. "The robber made off that way, did he? Well, well, never mind that just now. Hold your torch this way -- a little farther off-- so. Now stand quiet, while I try to see what harm is done." With these words, he applied himself to a closer examination of the prostrate form, while Barnaby, holding the torch as he had been directed, looked on in silence, fascinated by interest or curiosity, but repelled nevertheless by some strong and secret horror which convulsed him in every nerve. As he stood, at that moment, half shrinking back and half bending forward, both his face and figure were full in the strong glare of the link, and as distinctly revealed as though it had been broad day. He was about