A mob is usually a creature of very mysterious existence, particularly in a large city. Where it comes from or whither it goes, few men can tell. Assembling and dispersing1 with equal suddenness, it is as difficult to follow to its various sources as the sea itself; nor does the parallel stop here, for the ocean is not more fickle2 and uncertain, more terrible when roused, more unreasonable3, or more cruel.
The people who were boisterous4 at Westminster upon the Friday morning, and were eagerly bent5 upon the work of devastation6 in Duke Street and Warwick Street at night, were, in the mass, the same. Allowing for the chance accessions of which any crowd is morally sure in a town where there must always be a large number of idle and profligate7 persons, one and the same mob was at both places. Yet they spread themselves in various directions when they dispersed8 in the afternoon, made no appointment for reassembling, had no definite purpose or design, and indeed, for anything they knew, were scattered9 beyond the hope of future union.
At The Boot, which, as has been shown, was in a manner the head-quarters of the rioters, there were not, upon this Friday night, a dozen people. Some slept in the stable and outhouses, some in the common room, some two or three in beds. The rest were in their usual homes or haunts. Perhaps not a score in all lay in the adjacent fields and lanes, and under haystacks, or near the warmth of brick-kilns, who had not their accustomed place of rest beneath the open sky. As to the public ways within the town, they had their ordinary nightly occupants, and no others; the usual amount of vice10 and wretchedness, but no more.
The experience of one evening, however, had taught the reckless leaders of disturbance11, that they had but to show themselves in the streets, to be immediately surrounded by materials which they could only have kept together when their aid was not required, at great risk, expense, and trouble. Once possessed12 of this secret, they were as confident as if twenty thousand men, devoted13 to their will, had been encamped about them, and assumed a confidence which could not have been surpassed, though that had really been the case. All day, Saturday, they remained quiet. On Sunday, they rather studied how to keep their men within call, and in full hope, than to follow out, by any fierce measure, their first day’s proceedings14.
‘I hope,’ said Dennis, as, with a loud yawn, he raised his body from a heap of straw on which he had been sleeping, and supporting his head upon his hand, appealed to Hugh on Sunday morning, ‘that Muster15 Gashford allows some rest? Perhaps he’d have us at work again already, eh?’
‘It’s not his way to let matters drop, you may be sure of that,’ growled16 Hugh in answer. ‘I’m in no humour to stir yet, though. I’m as stiff as a dead body, and as full of ugly scratches as if I had been fighting all day yesterday with wild cats.’
‘You’ve so much enthusiasm, that’s it,’ said Dennis, looking with great admiration17 at the uncombed head, matted beard, and torn hands and face of the wild figure before him; ‘you’re such a devil of a fellow. You hurt yourself a hundred times more than you need, because you will be foremost in everything, and will do more than the rest.’
‘For the matter of that,’ returned Hugh, shaking back his ragged18 hair and glancing towards the door of the stable in which they lay; ‘there’s one yonder as good as me. What did I tell you about him? Did I say he was worth a dozen, when you doubted him?’
Mr Dennis rolled lazily over upon his breast, and resting his chin upon his hand in imitation of the attitude in which Hugh lay, said, as he too looked towards the door:
‘Ay, ay, you knew him, brother, you knew him. But who’d suppose to look at that chap now, that he could be the man he is! Isn’t it a thousand cruel pities, brother, that instead of taking his nat’ral rest and qualifying himself for further exertions19 in this here honourable20 cause, he should be playing at soldiers like a boy? And his cleanliness too!’ said Mr Dennis, who certainly had no reason to entertain a fellow feeling with anybody who was particular on that score; ‘what weaknesses he’s guilty of; with respect to his cleanliness! At five o’clock this morning, there he was at the pump, though any one would think he had gone through enough, the day before yesterday, to be pretty fast asleep at that time. But no — when I woke for a minute or two, there he was at the pump, and if you’d seen him sticking them peacock’s feathers into his hat when he’d done washing — ah! I’m sorry he’s such a imperfect character, but the best on us is incomplete in some pint21 of view or another.’
The subject of this dialogue and of these concluding remarks, which were uttered in a tone of philosophical22 meditation23, was, as the reader will have divined, no other than Barnaby, who, with his flag in hand, stood sentry24 in the little patch of sunlight at the distant door, or walked to and fro outside, singing softly to himself; and keeping time to the music of some clear church bells. Whether he stood still, leaning with both hands on the flagstaff, or, bearing it upon his shoulder, paced slowly up and down, the careful arrangement of his poor dress, and his erect25 and lofty bearing, showed how high a sense he had of the great importance of his trust, and how happy and how proud it made him. To Hugh and his companion, who lay in a dark corner of the gloomy shed, he, and the sunlight, and the peaceful Sabbath sound to which he made response, seemed like a bright picture framed by the door, and set off by the stable’s blackness. The whole formed such a contrast to themselves, as they lay wallowing, like some obscene animals, in their squalor and wickedness on the two heaps of straw, that for a few moments they looked on without speaking, and felt almost ashamed.
‘Ah!‘said Hugh at length, carrying it off with a laugh: ‘He’s a rare fellow is Barnaby, and can do more, with less rest, or meat, or drink, than any of us. As to his soldiering, I put him on duty there.’
‘Then there was a object in it, and a proper good one too, I’ll be sworn,’ retorted Dennis with a broad grin, and an oath of the same quality. ‘What was it, brother?’
‘Why, you see,’ said Hugh, crawling a little nearer to him, ‘that our noble captain yonder, came in yesterday morning rather the worse for liquor, and was — like you and me — ditto last night.’
Dennis looked to where Simon Tappertit lay coiled upon a truss of hay, snoring profoundly, and nodded.
‘And our noble captain,’ continued Hugh with another laugh, ‘our noble captain and I, have planned for to-morrow a roaring expedition, with good profit in it.’
‘Again the Papists?’ asked Dennis, rubbing his hands.
‘Ay, against the Papists — against one of ’em at least, that some of us, and I for one, owe a good heavy grudge26 to.’
‘Not Muster Gashford’s friend that he spoke27 to us about in my house, eh?’ said Dennis, brimfull of pleasant expectation.
‘The same man,’ said Hugh.
‘That’s your sort,’ cried Mr Dennis, gaily28 shaking hands with him, ‘that’s the kind of game. Let’s have revenges and injuries, and all that, and we shall get on twice as fast. Now you talk, indeed!’
‘Ha ha ha! The captain,’ added Hugh, ‘has thoughts of carrying off a woman in the bustle29, and — ha ha ha!— and so have I!’
Mr Dennis received this part of the scheme with a wry30 face, observing that as a general principle he objected to women altogether, as being unsafe and slippery persons on whom there was no calculating with any certainty, and who were never in the same mind for four-and-twenty hours at a stretch. He might have expatiated31 on this suggestive theme at much greater length, but that it occurred to him to ask what connection existed between the proposed expedition and Barnaby’s being posted at the stable-door as sentry; to which Hugh cautiously replied in these words:
‘Why, the people we mean to visit, were friends of his, once upon a time, and I know that much of him to feel pretty sure that if he thought we were going to do them any harm, he’d be no friend to our side, but would lend a ready hand to the other. So I’ve persuaded him (for I know him of old) that Lord George has picked him out to guard this place to-morrow while we’re away, and that it’s a great honour — and so he’s on duty now, and as proud of it as if he was a general. Ha ha! What do you say to me for a careful man as well as a devil of a one?’
Mr Dennis exhausted32 himself in compliments, and then added,
‘But about the expedition itself —’
‘About that,’ said Hugh, ‘you shall hear all particulars from me and the great captain conjointly and both together — for see, he’s waking up. Rouse yourself, lion-heart. Ha ha! Put a good face upon it, and drink again. Another hair of the dog that bit you, captain! Call for drink! There’s enough of gold and silver cups and candlesticks buried underneath33 my bed,’ he added, rolling back the straw, and pointing to where the ground was newly turned, ‘to pay for it, if it was a score of casks full. Drink, captain!’
Mr Tappertit received these jovial34 promptings with a very bad grace, being much the worse, both in mind and body, for his two nights of debauch35, and but indifferently able to stand upon his legs. With Hugh’s assistance, however, he contrived36 to stagger to the pump; and having refreshed himself with an abundant draught37 of cold water, and a copious38 shower of the same refreshing39 liquid on his head and face, he ordered some rum and milk to be served; and upon that innocent beverage40 and some biscuits and cheese made a pretty hearty41 meal. That done, he disposed himself in an easy attitude on the ground beside his two companions (who were carousing42 after their own tastes), and proceeded to enlighten Mr Dennis in reference to to-morrow’s project.
That their conversation was an interesting one, was rendered manifest by its length, and by the close attention of all three. That it was not of an oppressively grave character, but was enlivened by various pleasantries arising out of the subject, was clear from their loud and frequent roars of laughter, which startled Barnaby on his post, and made him wonder at their levity43. But he was not summoned to join them, until they had eaten, and drunk, and slept, and talked together for some hours; not, indeed, until the twilight44; when they informed him that they were about to make a slight demonstration45 in the streets — just to keep the people’s hands in, as it was Sunday night, and the public might otherwise be disappointed — and that he was free to accompany them if he would.
Without the slightest preparation, saving that they carried clubs and wore the blue cockade, they sallied out into the streets; and, with no more settled design than that of doing as much mischief46 as they could, paraded them at random47. Their numbers rapidly increasing, they soon divided into parties; and agreeing to meet by-and-by, in the fields near Welbeck Street, scoured48 the town in various directions. The largest body, and that which augmented49 with the greatest rapidity, was the one to which Hugh and Barnaby belonged. This took its way towards Moorfields, where there was a rich chapel50, and in which neighbourhood several Catholic families were known to reside.
Beginning with the private houses so occupied, they broke open the doors and windows; and while they destroyed the furniture and left but the bare walls, made a sharp search for tools and engines of destruction, such as hammers, pokers51, axes, saws, and such like instruments. Many of the rioters made belts of cord, of handkerchiefs, or any material they found at hand, and wore these weapons as openly as pioneers upon a field-day. There was not the least disguise or concealment52 — indeed, on this night, very little excitement or hurry. From the chapels53, they tore down and took away the very altars, benches, pulpits, pews, and flooring; from the dwelling-houses, the very wainscoting and stairs. This Sunday evening’s recreation they pursued like mere54 workmen who had a certain task to do, and did it. Fifty resolute55 men might have turned them at any moment; a single company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but no man interposed, no authority restrained them, and, except by the terrified persons who fled from their approach, they were as little heeded56 as if they were pursuing their lawful57 occupations with the utmost sobriety and good conduct.
In the same manner, they marched to the place of rendezvous58 agreed upon, made great fires in the fields, and reserving the most valuable of their spoils, burnt the rest. Priestly garments, images of saints, rich stuffs and ornaments59, altar-furniture and household goods, were cast into the flames, and shed a glare on the whole country round; but they danced and howled, and roared about these fires till they were tired, and were never for an instant checked.
As the main body filed off from this scene of action, and passed down Welbeck Street, they came upon Gashford, who had been a witness of their proceedings, and was walking stealthily along the pavement. Keeping up with him, and yet not seeming to speak, Hugh muttered in his ear:
‘Is this better, master?’
‘No,’ said Gashford. ‘It is not.’
‘What would you have?’ said Hugh. ‘Fevers are never at their height at once. They must get on by degrees.’
‘I would have you,’ said Gashford, pinching his arm with such malevolence60 that his nails seemed to meet in the skin; ‘I would have you put some meaning into your work. Fools! Can you make no better bonfires than of rags and scraps61? Can you burn nothing whole?’
‘A little patience, master,’ said Hugh. ‘Wait but a few hours, and you shall see. Look for a redness in the sky, to-morrow night.’
With that, he fell back into his place beside Barnaby; and when the secretary looked after him, both were lost in the crowd.
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dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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carousing
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| v.痛饮，闹饮欢宴( carouse的现在分词 ) | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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pokers
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| n.拨火铁棒( poker的名词复数 )；纸牌；扑克；（通常指人）（坐或站得）直挺挺的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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