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with the belief that some alarming miracle had happened to Joe。
Being promptly blooded； however； by a skilful surgeon； he rallied；
and although the doctors all agreed； on his being attacked with
symptoms of apoplexy six months afterwards； that he ought to die；
and took it very ill that he did not； he remained alive—possibly on
account of his constitutional slowness—for nearly seven years
more； when he was one morning found speechless in his bed。 He
lay in this state； free from all tokens of uneasiness； for a whole
week； when he was suddenly restored to consciousness by hearing
the nurse whisper in his son’s ear that he was going。 ‘I’m a…going；
Joseph；’ said Mr Willet； turning round upon the instant； ‘to the
Salwanners’—and immediately gave up the ghost。
He left a large sum of money behind him； even more than he
was supposed to have been worth； although the neighbours；
according to the custom of mankind in calculating the wealth that
other people ought to have saved； had estimated his property in
good round numbers。 Joe inherited the whole； so that he became a
man of great consequence in those parts； and was perfectly
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Barnaby Rudge 886
independent。
Some time elapsed before Barnaby got the better of the shock
he had sustained； or regained his old health and gaiety。 But he
recovered by degrees： and although he could never separate his
condemnation and escape from the idea of a terrific dream； he
became； in other respects； more rational。 Dating from the time of
his recovery； he had a better memory and greater steadiness of
purpose； but a dark cloud overhung his whole previous existence；
and never cleared away。
He was not the less happy for this； for his love of freedom and
interest in all that moved or grew； or had its being in the elements；
remained to him unimpaired。 He lived with his mother on the
Maypole farm； tending the poultry and the cattle； working in a
garden of his own； and helping everywhere。 He was known to
every bird and beast about the place； and had a name for every
one。 Never was there a lighter…hearted husbandman； a creature
more popular with young and old； a blither or more happy soul
than Barnaby； and though he was free to ramble where he would；
he never quitted Her； but was for evermore her stay and comfort。
It was remarkable that although he had that dim sense of the
past； he sought out Hugh’s dog； and took him under his care； and
that he never could be tempted into London。 When the Riots were
many years old； and Edward and his wife came back to England
with a family almost as numerous as Dolly’s； and one day
appeared at the Maypole porch； he knew them instantly； and wept
and leaped for joy。 But neither to visit them； nor on any other
pretence； no matter how full of promise and enjoyment； could he
be persuaded to set foot in the streets： nor did he ever conquer
this repugnance or look upon the town again。
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Grip soon recovered his looks； and became as glossy and sleek
as ever。 But he was profoundly silent。 Whether he had forgotten
the art of Polite Conversation in Newgate； or had made a vow in
those troubled times to forego； for a period； the display of his
accomplishments； is matter of uncertainty； but certain it is that for
a whole year he never indulged in any other sound than a grave；
decorous croak。 At the expiration of that term； the morning being
very bright and sunny； he was heard to address himself to the
horses in the stable； upon the subject of the Kettle； so often
mentioned in these pages； and before the witness who overheard
him could run into the house with the intelligence； and add to it
upon his solemn affirmation the statement that he had heard him
laugh； the bird himself advanced with fantastic steps to the very
door of the bar； and there cried； ‘I’m a devil； I’m a devil； I’m a
devil！’ with extraordinary rapture。
From that period （although he was supposed to be much
affected by the death of Mr Willet senior）； he constantly practised
and improved himself in the vulgar tongue； and； as he was a mere
infant for a raven when Barnaby was grey； he has very probably
gone on talking to the present time。
The End
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics