Barnaby Rudge Manuscript: Chapters 1 to 7

three-and-twenty years old, and though rather spare, of a fair height and strong make. His hair, of which he had a great profusion, was red, and hanging in disorder about his face and shoulders, gave to his restless looks an expression quite unearthly -- enhanced by the paleness of his complexion, and the glassy lustre of his large protruding eyes. Startling as his aspect was, the features were good and there was something even plaintive in his wan and haggard aspect. But, the absence of the soul is far more terrible in a living man than in a dead one; and in this unfortunate being its noblest powers were wanting. His dress was of green, clumsily trimmed here and there -- apparently by his own hands -- with gaudy lace; brightest where the cloth was most worn and soiled, and poorest where it was at the best. A pair of tawdry ruffles dangled at his wrists, while his throat was nearly bare. He had ornamented his hat with a cluster of peacock's feathers, but they were limp and broken, and now trailed negligently down his back. Girt to his side was the steel hilt of an old sword without blade or scabbard; and some particoloured ends of ribands and poor glass toys completed the ornamental portion of his attire. The fluttered and confused disposition of all the motley

scraps that formed his dress, bespoke, in a scarcely less degree than his eager and unsettled manner, the disorder of his mind, and, by a grotesque contrast set off and heightened the more impressive wildness of his face. "Barnaby," said the locksmith, after a hasty but careful inspection, "this man is not dead, but he has a wound in his side, and is in a fainting-fit." "I know him, I know him!" cried Barnaby, clapping his hands. "Know him?" repeated the locksmith. Hush!" said Barnaby, laying his fingers upon his lips. "He went out to-day a wooing. I wouldn't for a light guinea that he should never go a wooing again, for, if he did, some eyes would grow dim that are now as bright as -- see, when I talk of eyes, the stars come out! Whose eyes are they? If they are angels' eyes, why do they look down here and see good men hurt, and only wink and sparkle all the night?" "Now Heaven help this silly fellow," murmured the perplexed locksmith; "can he know this gentleman? His mother's house is not far off; I had better see if she can tell me who he is. Barnaby, my man, help me to put him in the chaise, and we'll ride home together." "I can't touch him!" cried the idiot falling back, and shuddering as with a strong spasm; "he's bloody!" "It’s in his nature, I know," muttered the locksmith, "it's cruel to ask him, but I must have help. Barnaby -- good Barnaby -- dear Barnaby -- if you know this gentleman, for the sake of his life and everybody's life that loves

him, help me to raise him and lay him down." "Cover him then, wrap him close -- don't let me see it-- smell it[dash]hear the word. Don't speak the word -- don't!" "No, no, I'll not. There, you see he's covered now. Gently. Well done, well done!" They placed him in the carriage with great ease, for Barnaby was strong and active, but all the time they were so occupied he shivered from head to foot, and evidently experienced an ecstasy of terror. This accomplished, and the wounded man being covered with Varden's own greatcoat which he took off for the purpose, they proceeded onward at a brisk pace: Barnaby gaily counting the stars upon his fingers, and Gabriel inwardly congratulating himself upon having an adventure, now, which would silence Mrs Varden on the subject of the Maypole, for that night, or there was no faith in woman.

"For the matter o' that, Phil!' observed Mr Willet, blowing a long, thin, spiral cloud of smoke out of the corner of his mouth, and staring at it abstractedly as it floated away; " For the matter o' that, Phil, argeyment is a gift of Natur. If Natur has gifted a man with powers of argeyment, a man has a right to make the best of 'em, and has not a right to stand on false delicacy, and deny that he is so gifted; for that is a turning of his back on Natur, a flouting of her, a slighting of her precious caskets, and a proving of one's self to be a swine that isn't worth her scattering pearls before.' The landlord pausing here for a very long time, Mr Parkes naturally concluded that he had brought his discourse to an end; and therefore, turning to the young man with some austerity, exclaimed: " You hear what your father says, Joe? You wouldn't much like to tackle him in argeyment, I'm thinking, sir.' "IF,' said John Willet, turning his eyes from the ceiling to the face of his interrupter, and uttering the monosyllable in capitals, to apprise him that he had put in his oar, as the vulgar say, with unbecoming and irreverent haste; "IF, sir, Natur has fixed upon me the gift of argeyment, why should I not own to it, and rather glory in the same? Yes, sir, I [1am]1 a tough customer that way. You are right, sir. My toughness has been proved, sir, in this room many and many a time, as I think, you know; and if you don't know, added John, putting his pipe in his mouth again, "so much the better, for I an't proud and am not going to tell you.' A general murmur from his three cronies, and a general shaking of heads at the copper boiler, assured John Willet that they had had good experience of his powers and needed no further evidence to assure them of his superiority. John smoked with a little more dignity and surveyed them in silence. " It's all very fine talking,' muttered Joe, who had been fidgeting in his chair with divers uneasy gestures. "But if you mean to tell me that I'm never to open my lips --'

"Not dead!' cried the other. "Not dead in a common sort of way,' said the landlord. The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr Parkes remarked in an undertone, shaking his head meanwhile as who should say, "let no man contradict me, for I won't believe him,' that John Willet was in amazing force to-night,

fit to tackle a Chief Justice. The stranger suffered a short pause to elapse, and then asked abruptly, " What do you mean?, [f.50 recto]"More than you think for, friend,' returned John Willet.' Perhaps there's more meaning in them words than you suspect.' " Perhaps there is,' said the strange man, gruffly; " but what the devil do you speak in such mysteries for? You tell me, first, that a man is not alive, nor yet dead -- then, that he's not dead in a common sort of way -- then, that you mean a great deal more than I think for. To tell you the truth, you may do that easily; for so far as I can make out, you mean nothing. What[1do]1 you mean, I ask again?