In the exhaustless catalogue of Heaven’s mercies to mankind, the power
we have of finding some germs of comfort in the hardest trials must ever
occupy the foremost place; not only because it supports and upholds
us when we most require to be sustained, but because in this source of
consolation there is something, we have reason to believe, of the divine
spirit; something of that goodness which detects amidst our own evil
doings, a redeeming quality; something which, even in our fallen nature,
we possess in common with the angels; which had its being in the old
time when they trod the earth, and lingers on it yet, in pity.
How often, on their journey, did the widow remember with a grateful
heart, that out of his deprivation Barnaby’s cheerfulness and affection
sprung! How often did she call to mind that but for that, he might have
been sullen, morose, unkind, far removed from her--vicious, perhaps, and
cruel! How often had she cause for comfort, in his strength, and hope,
and in his simple nature! Those feeble powers of mind which rendered him
so soon forgetful of the past, save in brief gleams and flashes,--even
they were a comfort now. The world to him was full of happiness; in
every tree, and plant, and flower, in every bird, and beast, and tiny
insect whom a breath of summer wind laid low upon the ground, he had
delight. His delight was hers; and where many a wise son would have
made her sorrowful, this poor light-hearted idiot filled her breast with
thankfulness and love.
Their stock of money was low, but from the hoard she had told into the
blind man’s hand, the widow had withheld one guinea. This, with the few
pence she possessed besides, was to two persons of their frugal habits,
a goodly sum in bank. Moreover they had Grip in company; and when they
must otherwise have changed the guinea, it was but to make him exhibit
outside an alehouse door, or in a village street, or in the grounds or
gardens of a mansion of the better sort, and scores who would have given
nothing in charity, were ready to bargain for more amusement from the
talking bird.
One day--for they moved slowly, and although they had many rides in
carts and waggons, were on the road a week--Barnaby, with Grip upon his
shoulder and his mother following, begged permission at a trim lodge to
go up to the great house, at the other end of the avenue, and show his
raven. The man within was inclined to give them admittance, and was
indeed about to do so, when a stout gentleman with a long whip in his
hand, and a flushed face which seemed to indicate that he had had his
morning’s draught, rode up to the gate, and called in a loud voice and
with more oaths than the occasion seemed to warrant to have it opened
directly.
‘Who hast thou got here?’ said the gentleman angrily, as the man threw
the gate wide open, and pulled off his hat, ‘who are these? Eh? art a
beggar, woman?’
The widow answered with a curtsey, that they were poor travellers.
‘Vagrants,’ said the gentleman, ‘vagrants and vagabonds. Thee wish to be
made acquainted with the cage, dost thee--the cage, the stocks, and the
whipping-post? Where dost come from?’
She told him in a timid manner,--for he was very loud, hoarse, and
red-faced,--and besought him not to be angry, for they meant no harm,
and would go upon their way that moment.
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ replied the gentleman, ‘we don’t allow
vagrants to roam about this place. I know what thou want’st--stray
linen drying on hedges, and stray poultry, eh? What hast got in that
basket, lazy hound?’
‘Grip, Grip, Grip--Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the
knowing--Grip, Grip, Grip,’ cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up
on the approach of this stern personage. ‘I’m a devil I’m a devil I’m a
devil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we’ll
all have tea.’
‘Take the vermin out, scoundrel,’ said the gentleman, ‘and let me see
him.’
Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not
without much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which
he had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then
began to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising
insolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he
appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot.
The cork-drawing seemed to make a greater impression on the gentleman’s
mind, than the raven’s power of speech, and was indeed particularly
adapted to his habits and capacity. He desired to have that done again,
but despite his being very peremptory, and notwithstanding that Barnaby
coaxed to the utmost, Grip turned a deaf ear to the request, and
preserved a dead silence.
‘Bring him along,’ said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip,
who had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before
them;--constantly flapping his wings, and screaming ‘cook!’ meanwhile,
as a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation
would be acceptable.
Barnaby and his mother walked on, on either side of the gentleman on
horseback, who surveyed each of them from time to time in a proud and
coarse manner, and occasionally thundered out some question, the tone
of which alarmed Barnaby so much that he could find no answer, and, as
a matter of course, could make him no reply. On one of these occasions,
when the gentleman appeared disposed to exercise his horsewhip, the
widow ventured to inform him in a low voice and with tears in her eyes,
that her son was of weak mind.
‘An idiot, eh?’ said the gentleman, looking at Barnaby as he spoke. ‘And
how long hast thou been an idiot?’
‘She knows,’ was Barnaby’s timid answer, pointing to his
mother--‘I--always, I believe.’
‘From his birth,’ said the widow.
‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the gentleman, ‘not a bit of it. It’s an
excuse not to work. There’s nothing like flogging to cure that disorder.
I’d make a difference in him in ten minutes, I’ll be bound.’
‘Heaven has made none in more than twice ten years, sir,’ said the widow
mildly.
‘Then why don’t you shut him up? we pay enough for county institutions,
damn ‘em. But thou’d rather drag him about to excite charity--of course.
Ay, I know thee.’
Now, this gentleman had various endearing appellations among his
intimate friends. By some he was called ‘a country gentleman of the true
school,’ by some ‘a fine old country gentleman,’ by some ‘a sporting
gentleman,’ by some ‘a thorough-bred Englishman,’ by some ‘a genuine
John Bull;’ but they all agreed in one respect, and that was, that it
was a pity there were not more like him, and that because there were
not, the country was going to rack and ruin every day. He was in the
commission of the peace, and could write his name almost legibly; but
his greatest qualifications were, that he was more severe with poachers,
was a better shot, a harder rider, had better horses, kept better dogs,
could eat more solid food, drink more strong wine, go to bed every night
more drunk and get up every morning more sober, than any man in the
county. In knowledge of horseflesh he was almost equal to a farrier, in
stable learning he surpassed his own head groom, and in gluttony not
a pig on his estate was a match for him. He had no seat in Parliament
himself, but he was extremely patriotic, and usually drove his voters
up to the poll with his own hands. He was warmly attached to church
and state, and never appointed to the living in his gift any but a
three-bottle man and a first-rate fox-hunter. He mistrusted the honesty
of all poor people who could read and write, and had a secret jealousy
of his own wife (a young lady whom he had married for what his friends
called ‘the good old English reason,’ that her father’s property
adjoined his own) for possessing those accomplishments in a greater
degree than himself. In short, Barnaby being an idiot, and Grip a
creature of mere brute instinct, it would be very hard to say what this
gentleman was.
He rode up to the door of a handsome house approached by a great flight
of steps, where a man was waiting to take his horse, and led the way
into a large hall, which, spacious as it was, was tainted with the
fumes of last night’s stale debauch. Greatcoats, riding-whips, bridles,
top-boots, spurs, and such gear, were strewn about on all sides, and
formed, with some huge stags’ antlers, and a few portraits of dogs and
horses, its principal embellishments.
Throwing himself into a great chair (in which, by the bye, he often
snored away the night, when he had been, according to his admirers, a
finer country gentleman than usual) he bade the man to tell his mistress
to come down: and presently there appeared, a little flurried, as it
seemed, by the unwonted summons, a lady much younger than himself, who
had the appearance of being in delicate health, and not too happy.
‘Here! Thou’st no delight in following the hounds as an Englishwoman
should have,’ said the gentleman. ‘See to this here. That’ll please thee
perhaps.’
The lady smiled, sat down at a little distance from him, and glanced at
Barnaby with a look of pity.
‘He’s an idiot, the woman says,’ observed the gentleman, shaking his
head; ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Are you his mother?’ asked the lady.
She answered yes.
‘What’s the use of asking HER?’ said the gentleman, thrusting his hands
into his breeches pockets. ‘She’ll tell thee so, of course. Most likely
he’s hired, at so much a day. There. Get on. Make him do something.’
Grip having by this time recovered his urbanity, condescended, at
Barnaby’s solicitation, to repeat his various phrases of speech, and to
go through the whole of his performances with the utmost success. The
corks, and the never say die, afforded the gentleman so much delight
that he demanded the repetition of this part of the entertainment, until
Grip got into his basket, and positively refused to say another word,
good or bad. The lady too, was much amused with him; and the closing
point of his obstinacy so delighted her husband that he burst into a
roar of laughter, and demanded his price.
Barnaby looked as though he didn’t understand his meaning. Probably he
did not.
‘His price,’ said the gentleman, rattling the money in his pockets,
‘what dost want for him? How much?’
‘He’s not to be sold,’ replied Barnaby, shutting up the basket in a
great hurry, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. ‘Mother, come
away.’
‘Thou seest how much of an idiot he is, book-learner,’ said the
gentleman, looking scornfully at his wife. ‘He can make a bargain. What
dost want for him, old woman?’
‘He is my son’s constant companion,’ said the widow. ‘He is not to be
sold, sir, indeed.’
‘Not to be sold!’ cried the gentleman, growing ten times redder,
hoarser, and louder than before. ‘Not to be sold!’
‘Indeed no,’ she answered. ‘We have never thought of parting with him,
sir, I do assure you.’
He was evidently about to make a very passionate retort, when a few
murmured words from his wife happening to catch his ear, he turned
sharply round, and said, ‘Eh? What?’
‘We can hardly expect them to sell the bird, against their own desire,’
she faltered. ‘If they prefer to keep him--’
‘Prefer to keep him!’ he echoed. ‘These people, who go tramping about
the country a-pilfering and vagabondising on all hands, prefer to keep
a bird, when a landed proprietor and a justice asks his price! That old
woman’s been to school. I know she has. Don’t tell me no,’ he roared to
the widow, ‘I say, yes.’
Barnaby’s mother pleaded guilty to the accusation, and hoped there was
no harm in it.
‘No harm!’ said the gentleman. ‘No. No harm. No harm, ye old rebel, not
a bit of harm. If my clerk was here, I’d set ye in the stocks, I would,
or lay ye in jail for prowling up and down, on the look-out for petty
larcenies, ye limb of a gipsy. Here, Simon, put these pilferers out,
shove ‘em into the road, out with ‘em! Ye don’t want to sell the bird,
ye that come here to beg, don’t ye? If they an’t out in double-quick,
set the dogs upon ‘em!’
They waited for no further dismissal, but fled precipitately, leaving
the gentleman to storm away by himself (for the poor lady had already
retreated), and making a great many vain attempts to silence Grip, who,
excited by the noise, drew corks enough for a city feast as they hurried
down the avenue, and appeared to congratulate himself beyond measure on
having been the cause of the disturbance. When they had nearly reached
the lodge, another servant, emerging from the shrubbery, feigned to
be very active in ordering them off, but this man put a crown into the
widow’s hand, and whispering that his lady sent it, thrust them gently
from the gate.
This incident only suggested to the widow’s mind, when they halted at
an alehouse some miles further on, and heard the justice’s character
as given by his friends, that perhaps something more than capacity of
stomach and tastes for the kennel and the stable, were required to form
either a perfect country gentleman, a thoroughbred Englishman, or
a genuine John Bull; and that possibly the terms were sometimes
misappropriated, not to say disgraced. She little thought then, that a
circumstance so slight would ever influence their future fortunes; but
time and experience enlightened her in this respect.
‘Mother,’ said Barnaby, as they were sitting next day in a waggon which
was to take them within ten miles of the capital, ‘we’re going to London
first, you said. Shall we see that blind man there?’
She was about to answer ‘Heaven forbid!’ but checked herself, and told
him No, she thought not; why did he ask?
‘He’s a wise man,’ said Barnaby, with a thoughtful countenance. ‘I wish
that we may meet with him again. What was it that he said of crowds?
That gold was to be found where people crowded, and not among the
trees and in such quiet places? He spoke as if he loved it; London is a
crowded place; I think we shall meet him there.’
‘But why do you desire to see him, love?’ she asked.
‘Because,’ said Barnaby, looking wistfully at her, ‘he talked to me
about gold, which is a rare thing, and say what you will, a thing
you would like to have, I know. And because he came and went away so
strangely--just as white-headed old men come sometimes to my bed’s foot
in the night, and say what I can’t remember when the bright day returns.
He told me he’d come back. I wonder why he broke his word!’
‘But you never thought of being rich or gay, before, dear Barnaby. You
have always been contented.’
He laughed and bade her say that again, then cried, ‘Ay ay--oh yes,’ and
laughed once more. Then something passed that caught his fancy, and
the topic wandered from his mind, and was succeeded by another just as
fleeting.
But it was plain from what he had said, and from his returning to the
point more than once that day, and on the next, that the blind man’s
visit, and indeed his words, had taken strong possession of his mind.
Whether the idea of wealth had occurred to him for the first time
on looking at the golden clouds that evening--and images were often
presented to his thoughts by outward objects quite as remote and
distant; or whether their poor and humble way of life had suggested it,
by contrast, long ago; or whether the accident (as he would deem it) of
the blind man’s pursuing the current of his own remarks, had done so at
the moment; or he had been impressed by the mere circumstance of the
man being blind, and, therefore, unlike any one with whom he had talked
before; it was impossible to tell. She tried every means to discover,
but in vain; and the probability is that Barnaby himself was equally in
the dark.
It filled her with uneasiness to find him harping on this string, but
all that she could do, was to lead him quickly to some other subject,
and to dismiss it from his brain. To caution him against their visitor,
to show any fear or suspicion in reference to him, would only be, she
feared, to increase that interest with which Barnaby regarded him, and
to strengthen his desire to meet him once again. She hoped, by plunging
into the crowd, to rid herself of her terrible pursuer, and then, by
journeying to a distance and observing increased caution, if that were
possible, to live again unknown, in secrecy and peace.
They reached, in course of time, their halting-place within ten miles of
London, and lay there for the night, after bargaining to be carried on
for a trifle next day, in a light van which was returning empty, and was
to start at five o’clock in the morning. The driver was punctual, the
road good--save for the dust, the weather being very hot and dry--and at
seven in the forenoon of Friday the second of June, one thousand seven
hundred and eighty, they alighted at the foot of Westminster Bridge,
bade their conductor farewell, and stood alone, together, on the
scorching pavement. For the freshness which night sheds upon such
busy thoroughfares had already departed, and the sun was shining with
uncommon lustre.