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Updated: May 12, 2025
All this period is strangely full of his own sense at once of fertility and of futility; he did work which no one else could have done, and yet he could not be certain as yet that he was anybody. Barnaby Rudge marks this epoch because it marks the fact that he is still confused about what kind of person he is going to be.
In Barndby Rudge he gives us vivid pen pictures of the Gordon Rioters setting fire to houses in London, prominent amongst them being that of Lord Mansfield, and goes on to describe how they proceeded to the country seat of the great Chief Justice at Caen Wood, Hampstead, to treat it in a similar fashion.
Smith, "He evidently tried to get the best he could." "Yes," admitted Miss Sally. "He wouldn't know this box of candy so well as we town folks do, him bein' a newcomer here. I suppose Rudge gave him a discount off the price on account of the box bein' soiled a little. I hope to goodness that man wasn't so foolish as to go an' pay straight sixty cents a pound for it.
She is strongest in what she has seen, not in what she imagines; and here she is the opposite of Dickens, who paints from imagination. There was never such a man as Pickwick or Barnaby Rudge. Sir Walter Scott created characters, like Jeannie Deans, but they are as true to life as Sir John Falstaff.
He had given his horse a handful of grain, and was just starting, when a black came running up at full speed towards the hut. Sally, who first saw him, said she was quite sure it was Troloo; so he was. He reached the door of the hut out of breath. "Oh, Missie Rudge, black fellow come, kill you piccaninnies, sheep, old Mat, all, all," he cried out as soon as he could speak.
In the last important novel before Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, the hero himself is an amiable lunatic. In the novel before that, The Old Curiosity Shop, the two comic figures, Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness, are not only the most really entertaining, but also the most really sympathetic characters in the book. Weller says, "an angel in gaiters."
They are in an ugly mood; they probably have more bootleg whiskey with them than food; I did not tell you, but I looked in on their camp and saw one of them, a dope fiend named Benny Rudge, shoot one of his own friends dead, suspecting him of having stolen a side of bacon. You would be better dead, too, than in their hands. Never forget that.
But Dickens could never have understood that despair; it was not in his soul. And it is an interesting coincidence that here, in this book of Barnaby Rudge, there is a character meant to be wholly grotesque, who, nevertheless, expresses much of that element in Dickens which prevented him from being a true interpreter of the tired and sceptical aristocrat.
The hero of Barnaby Rudge is a lunatic. But Nicholas Nickleby is a proper, formal, and ceremonial hero. He has no psychology; he has not even any particular character; but he is made deliberately a hero young, poor, brave, unimpeachable, and ultimately triumphant. He is, in short, the hero. Mr.
I gave him the lie direct, and replied that if he had been shot he would have died the death of a gentleman, which was more than Rudge himself was; but that he had neither been shot nor hanged, for he was alive and well, and that I hoped to see him again before many years were over.
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