  Barnaby Rudge FORTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRED BARNARD "Stand—let me see your face"—Chap. ii. "Does the boy know what he's a-saying of!" cried the astonished John Willett—Chap. iii. "I can't touch him!" cried the idiot, falling back and shuddering as with a strong spasm; "he's bloody!"—Chap. iii. "If I am ever," said Mrs. V.,—not scolding, but in a sort of monotonous remonstrance—"in spirits, if i am ever cheerful, if I am ever more than usually disposed to be talkative and comfortable, this is the way I am treated"—Chap. vii. Those lips within Sim's reach from day to day, and yet so far off—Chap. iv. "Chester," said Mr. Haredale after a short silence, during which he had eyed his smiling face from time to time intently, "you have the head and heart of an evil spirit in all matters of deception"—Chap. xii. "He melts, I think. He goes like a drop of froth. You look at him, and there he is. You look at him again, and—there he isn't"—Chap. x. With that he advanced, and bending down over the prostrate form, softly turned back the head and looked into the face—Chap. xvii. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their time was out—Chap. xxv. Emma Haredale and Dolly Varden—Chap. xx. "Huff or no huff," said Mr. Tappertit, detaining her by the wrist. "What do you mean, Jezebel! what were you going to say! Answer me!"—Chap. xxii. How the accomplished gentleman spent the evening in the midst of a dazzling and brilliant circle—Chap. xxiv. Now he would call to her from the topmost branch of some high tree by the roadside—Chap. xxv. "I beg pardon—do I address Miss Haredale!"—Chap. xxix. Finished by driving him with surprising swiftness against a heap of spittoons in one corner—Chap. xxx. Lord George Gordon leaving the Maypole—Chap. xxxvii. "If they're a dream," said Sim, "let sculptures have such wisions, and chisel'em out when they wake. This is reality. Sleep has no such limbs as them"—Chap. xxxi. "Ha, ha!" roared the fellow, smiting his leg; "for a gentleman as 'ull say a pleasant thing in a pleasant way, give me muster Gashford agin all London and Westminster!"—Chap. xxxvii. A nice trio—Chap. xxxix. Gabriel Varden—Chap. xii. "He retort!" cried Haredale. "Look you here, my lord. Do you know this man!"—Chap. xliii. "In the name of God no!" shrieked the widow, darting forward. "Barnaby—my lord—see—he'll come back—Barnaby—Barnaby!"—Chap. xlviii. "A brave evening, mother! If we had chinking in our pockets but a few specks of that gold which is piled up yonder in the sky, we should be rich for life"—Chap. xlv. Then seating himself under a spreading honeysuckle, and stretching his legs across the threshold so that no person could pass in or out without his knowledge, he took from his pocket a pipe, flint, steel, and tinder-box, and began to smoke—Chap. xlv. The pole swept the air above the people's heads, and the man's saddle was empty in an instant—Chap. xlix. It flitted onward, and was gone—Chap. l. "You have been drinking," said the locksmith—Chap. li. Flung itself upon the foremost one, knelt down upon its breast, and clutched its throat with both hands—Chap. lvi. Putting his staff across his knees in case of alarm or surprise, summoned Grip to dinner—Chap. lvii. Looked moodily on as she flew to Miss Haredale's side—Chap. lix. "Will you come?" "I!" said the Lord Mayor most emphatically. "Certainly not"—Chap. lxi. "Stop!" cried the locksmith, in a voice that made them falter—presenting, as he spoke, a gun. "Let an old man do that. You can spare him better"—Chap. lxiii. The burning of Newgate—Chap. lxiv. "No offence, no offence," said that personage in a conciliatory tone, as Hugh stopped in his draught and eyed him, with no pleasant look from head to foot—Chap. lxix. "Tender-hearted!" echoed Dennis. "Tender-hearted! Look at this man. Do you call this constitootional! Do you see him shot through and through, instead of being worked off like a Briton! Damme if I know which party to side with"—Chap. lxix. "You ought to be the best instead of the worst," said Hugh, stopping before him. "Ha, ha, ha! see the hangman when it comes home to him!"—Chap. lxxvi. "I shall bless your name," sobbed the locksmith's little daughter, "as long as I live"—Chap. lxxii. Sat the unhappy author of all—Lord George Gordon—Chap. lxxiii. He rose from his bed with a heavy sigh, and wrapped himself in his morning gown. "So she kept her word," he said, "and was constant to her threat!"—Chap. lxxv. The locksmith's ruddy face and burly form could be descried, beating about as though he was struggling with a rough sea—Chap. lxxix. Reclining, in an easy attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin with an expression of pleasure—Chap. lxxxi. Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant with scorn and hatred in his look—Chap. lxxxi. Grip the Raven—Chap. the last. |
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