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Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870

"Barnaby Rudge: a tale of the Riots of 'eighty"

Swords were drawn, muskets
shouldered, and the bright steel winding its way among the crowd,
gleamed and glittered in the sun like a river. Along this shining path,
two men came hurrying on, leading a horse, which was speedily harnessed
to the cart at the prison-door. Then, a profound silence replaced the
tumult that had so long been gathering, and a breathless pause ensued.
Every window was now choked up with heads; the house-tops teemed with
people--clinging to chimneys, peering over gable-ends, and holding on
where the sudden loosening of any brick or stone would dash them down
into the street. The church tower, the church roof, the church yard,
the prison leads, the very water-spouts and lampposts--every inch of
room--swarmed with human life.
At the first stroke of twelve the prison-bell began to toll. Then the
roar--mingled now with cries of 'Hats off!' and 'Poor fellows!' and,
from some specks in the great concourse, with a shriek or groan--burst
forth again. It was terrible to see--if any one in that distraction of
excitement could have seen--the world of eager eyes, all strained upon
the scaffold and the beam.
The hollow murmuring was heard within the jail as plainly as without.


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