Hard Times - Dickens Charles.pdf - Cove Systems

Hard TimesDickens, Charles, 1812-1870Release date: 1997-01-01Source: Bebook

CHAPTER I - THE ONE THING NEEDFUL'NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boysand girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone arewanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root outeverything else. You can only form the mindsof reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing elsewill ever be of any service to them. This is theprinciple on which I bring up my ownchildren, and this is the principle on which Ibring up these children. Stick to Facts, sir!'The scene was a plain, bare, monotonousvault of a school-room, and the speaker'ssquare forefinger emphasized his observationsby underscoring every sentence with a line onthe schoolmaster's sleeve. The emphasis washelped by the speaker's square wall of aforehead, which had his eyebrows for its base,while his eyes found commodious cellarage intwo dark caves, overshadowed by the wall.The emphasis was helped by the speaker'smouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set.The emphasis was helped by the speaker's

voice, which was inflexible, dry, anddictatorial. The emphasis was helped by thespeaker's hair, which bristled on the skirts ofhis bald head, a plantation of firs to keep thewind from its shining surface, all covered withknobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if thehead had scarcely warehouse-room for thehard facts stored inside. The speaker'sobstinate carriage, square coat, square legs,square shoulders, - nay, his very neckcloth,trained to take him by the throat with anunaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact,as it was, - all helped the emphasis.'In this life, we want nothing but Facts, sir;nothing but Facts!'The speaker, and the schoolmaster, and thethird grown person present, all backed a little,and swept with their eyes the inclined plane oflittle vessels then and there arranged in order,ready to have imperial gallons of facts pouredinto them until they were full to the brim.

CHAPTER II - MURDERING THE INNOCENTSTHOMAS GRADGRIND, sir. A man of realities.A man of facts and calculations. A man whoproceeds upon the principle that two and twoare four, and nothing over, and who is not tobe talked into allowing for anything over.Thomas Gradgrind, sir - peremptorily Thomas- Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair ofscales, and the multiplication table always inhis pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measureany parcel of human nature, and tell youexactly what it comes to. It is a mere questionof figures, a case of simple arithmetic. Youmight hope to get some other nonsensicalbelief into the head of George Gradgrind, orAugustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, orJoseph Gradgrind (all supposititious,non-existent persons), but into the head ofThomas Gradgrind - no, sir!In such terms Mr. Gradgrind always mentallyintroduced himself, whether to his privatecircle of acquaintance, or to the public in

general. In such terms, no doubt, substitutingthe words 'boys and girls,' for 'sir,' ThomasGradgrind now presented Thomas Gradgrindto the little pitchers before him, who were tobe filled so full of facts.Indeed, as he eagerly sparkled at them fromthe cellarage before mentioned, he seemed akind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts,and prepared to blow them clean out of theregions of childhood at one discharge. Heseemed a galvanizing apparatus, too, chargedwith a grim mechanical substitute for thetender young imaginations that were to bestormed away.'Girl number twenty,' said Mr. Gradgrind,squarely pointing with his square forefinger, 'Idon't know that girl. Who is that girl?''Sissy Jupe, sir,' explained number twenty,blushing, standing up, and curtseying.'Sissy is not a name,' said Mr. Gradgrind.

'Don't call yourself Sissy. Call yourself Cecilia.''It's father as calls me Sissy, sir,' returned theyoung girl in a trembling voice, and withanother curtsey.'Then he has no business to do it,' said Mr.Gradgrind. 'Tell him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe.Let me see. What is your father?''He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please,sir.'Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved off theobjectionable calling with his hand.'We don't want to know anything about that,here. You mustn't tell us about that, here.Your father breaks horses, don't he?''If you please, sir, when they can get any tobreak, they do break horses in the ring, sir.''You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very

well, then. Describe your father as ahorsebreaker. He doctors sick horses, I daresay?''Oh yes, sir.''Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon,a farrier, and horsebreaker. Give me yourdefinition of a horse.'(Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm bythis demand.)'Girl number twenty unable to define a horse!'said Mr. Gradgrind, for the general behoof ofall the little pitchers. 'Girl number twentypossessed of no facts, in reference to one ofthe commonest of animals! Some boy'sdefinition of a horse. Bitzer, yours.'The square finger, moving here and there,lighted suddenly on Bitzer, perhaps becausehe chanced to sit in the same ray of sunlightwhich, darting in at one of the bare windows of

the intensely white-washed room, irradiatedSissy. For, the boys and girls sat on the face ofthe inclined plane in two compact bodies,divided up the centre by a narrow interval;and Sissy, being at the corner of a row on thesunny side, came in for the beginning of asunbeam, of which Bitzer, being at the cornerof a row on the other side, a few rows inadvance, caught the end. But, whereas the girlwas so dark-eyed and dark-haired, that sheseemed to receive a deeper and more lustrouscolour from the sun, when it shone upon her,the boy was so light-eyed and light-haired thatthe self-same rays appeared to draw out of himwhat little colour he ever possessed. His coldeyes would hardly have been eyes, but for theshort ends of lashes which, by bringing theminto immediate contrast with something palerthan themselves, expressed their form. Hisshort-cropped hair might have been a merecontinuation of the sandy freckles on hisforehead and face. His skin was sounwholesomely deficient in the natural tinge,that he looked as though, if he were cut, he

would bleed white.'Bitzer,' said Thomas Gradgrind. 'Yourdefinition of a horse.''Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth,namely twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth,and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring;in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofshard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Ageknown by marks in mouth.' Thus (and muchmore) Bitzer.'Now girl number twenty,' said Mr.Gradgrind. 'You know what a horse is.'She curtseyed again, and would have blusheddeeper, if she could have blushed deeper thanshe had blushed all this time. Bitzer, afterrapidly blinking at Thomas Gradgrind withboth eyes at once, and so catching the lightupon his quivering ends of lashes that theylooked like the antennae of busy insects, puthis knuckles to his freckled forehead, and sat

down again.The third gentleman now stepped forth. Amighty man at cutting and drying, he was; agovernment officer; in his way (and in mostother people's too), a professed pugilist;always in training, always with a system toforce down the general throat like a bolus,always to be heard of at the bar of his littlePublic-office, ready to fight all England. Tocontinue in fistic phraseology, he had a geniusfor coming up to the scratch, wherever andwhatever it was, and proving himself an uglycustomer. He would go in and damage anysubject whatever with his right, follow up withhis left, stop, exchange, counter, bore hisopponent (he always fought All England) to theropes, and fall upon him neatly. He wascertain to knock the wind out of commonsense, and render that unlucky adversary deafto the call of time. And he had it in chargefrom high authority to bring about the greatpublic-office Millennium, whenCommissioners should reign upon earth.

'Very well,' said this gentleman, brisklysmiling, and folding his arms. 'That's a horse.Now, let me ask you girls and boys, Would youpaper a room with representations of horses?'After a pause, one half of the children cried inchorus, 'Yes, sir!' Upon which the other half,seeing in the gentleman's face that Yes waswrong, cried out in chorus, 'No, sir!' - as thecustom is, in these examinations.'Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?'A pause. One corpulent slow boy, with awheezy manner of breathing, ventured theanswer, Because he wouldn't paper a room atall, but would paint it.'You must paper it,' said the gentleman, ratherwarmly.'You must paper it,' said Thomas Gradgrind,'whether you like it or not. Don't tell us you

wouldn't paper it. What do you mean, boy?''I'll explain to you, then,' said the gentleman,after another and a dismal pause, 'why youwouldn't paper a room with representations ofhorses. Do you ever see horses walking upand down the sides of rooms in reality - in fact?Do you?''Yes, sir!' from one half. 'No, sir!' from theother.'Of course no,' said the gentleman, with anindignant look at the wrong half. 'Why, then,you are not to see anywhere, what you don'tsee in fact; you are not to have anywhere, whatyou don't have in fact. What is called Taste, isonly another name for Fact.' ThomasGradgrind nodded his approbation.'This is a new principle, a discovery, a greatdiscovery,' said the gentleman. 'Now, I'll tryyou again. Suppose you were going to carpeta room. Would you use a carpet having a

epresentation of flowers upon it?'There being a general conviction by this timethat 'No, sir!' was always the right answer tothis gentleman, the chorus of NO was verystrong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes:among them Sissy Jupe.'Girl number twenty,' said the gentleman,smiling in the calm strength of knowledge.Sissy blushed, and stood up.'So you would carpet your room - or yourhusband's room, if you were a grown woman,and had a husband - with representations offlowers, would you?' said the gentleman. 'Whywould you?''If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers,'returned the girl.'And is that why you would put tables andchairs upon them, and have people walking

over them with heavy boots?''It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn'tcrush and wither, if you please, sir. Theywould be the pictures of what was very prettyand pleasant, and I would fancy - ''Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn't fancy,' cried thegentleman, quite elated by coming so happilyto his point. 'That's it! You are never to fancy.''You are not, Cecilia Jupe,' Thomas Gradgrindsolemnly repeated, 'to do anything of thatkind.''Fact, fact, fact!' said the gentleman. And'Fact, fact, fact!' repeated Thomas Gradgrind.'You are to be in all things regulated andgoverned,' said the gentleman, 'by fact. Wehope to have, before long, a board of fact,composed of commissioners of fact, who willforce the people to be a people of fact, and ofnothing but fact. You must discard the word

Fancy altogether. You have nothing to do withit. You are not to have, in any object of use orornament, what would be a contradiction infact. You don't walk upon flowers in fact; youcannot be allowed to walk upon flowers incarpets. You don't find that foreign birds andbutterflies come and perch upon yourcrockery; you cannot be permitted to paintforeign birds and butterflies upon yourcrockery. You never meet with quadrupedsgoing up and down walls; you must not havequadrupeds represented upon walls. Youmust use,' said the gentleman, 'for all thesepurposes, combinations and modifications (inprimary colours) of mathematical figureswhich are susceptible of proof anddemonstration. This is the new discovery.This is fact. This is taste.'The girl curtseyed, and sat down. She wasvery young, and she looked as if she werefrightened by the matter-of-fact prospect theworld afforded.

'Now, if Mr. M'Choakumchild,' said thegentleman, 'will proceed to give his first lessonhere, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be happy, at yourrequest, to observe his mode of procedure.'Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. 'Mr.M'Choakumchild, we only wait for you.'So, Mr. M'Choakumchild began in his bestmanner. He and some one hundred and fortyother schoolmasters, had been lately turned atthe same time, in the same factory, on thesame principles, like so many pianoforte legs.He had been put through an immense varietyof paces, and had answered volumes ofhead-breaking questions. Orthography,etymology, syntax, and prosody, biography,astronomy, geography, and generalcosmography, the sciences of compoundproportion, algebra, land-surveying andlevelling, vocal music, and drawing frommodels, were all at the ends of his ten chilledfingers. He had worked his stony way into HerMajesty's most Honourable Privy Council's

Schedule B, and had taken the bloom off thehigher branches of mathematics and physicalscience, French, German, Latin, and Greek.He knew all about all the Water Sheds of all theworld (whatever they are), and all the historiesof all the peoples, and all the names of all therivers and mountains, and all the productions,manners, and customs of all the countries, andall their boundaries and bearings on the twoand thirty points of the compass. Ah, ratheroverdone, M'Choakumchild. If he had onlylearnt a little less, how infinitely better hemight have taught much more!He went to work in this preparatory lesson,not unlike Morgiana in the Forty Thieves:looking into all the vessels ranged before him,one after another, to see what they contained.Say, good M'Choakumchild. When from thyboiling store, thou shalt fill each jar brim fullby-and-by, dost thou think that thou wiltalways kill outright the robber Fancy lurkingwithin - or sometimes only maim him anddistort him!

CHAPTER III - A LOOPHOLEMR. GRADGRIND walked homeward from theschool, in a state of considerable satisfaction.It was his school, and he intended it to be amodel. He intended every child in it to be amodel - just as the young Gradgrinds were allmodels.There were five young Gradgrinds, and theywere models every one. They had beenlectured at, from their tenderest years;coursed, like little hares. Almost as soon asthey could run alone, they had been made torun to the lecture-room. The first object withwhich they had an association, or of which theyhad a remembrance, was a large black boardwith a dry Ogre chalking ghastly white figureson it.Not that they knew, by name or nature,anything about an Ogre Fact forbid! I only usethe word to express a monster in a lecturingcastle, with Heaven knows how many heads

manipulated into one, taking childhoodcaptive, and dragging it into gloomy statisticaldens by the hair.No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face inthe moon; it was up in the moon before it couldspeak distinctly. No little Gradgrind had everlearnt the silly jingle, Twinkle, twinkle, littlestar; how I wonder what you are! No littleGradgrind had ever known wonder on thesubject, each little Gradgrind having at fiveyears old dissected the Great Bear like aProfessor Owen, and driven Charles's Wainlike a locomotive engine-driver. No littleGradgrind had ever associated a cow in a fieldwith that famous cow with the crumpled hornwho tossed the dog who worried the cat whokilled the rat who ate the malt, or with that yetmore famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb:it had never heard of those celebrities, andhad only been introduced to a cow as agraminivorous ruminating quadruped withseveral stomachs.

To his matter-of-fact home, which was calledStone Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed hissteps. He had virtually retired from thewholesale hardware trade before he builtStone Lodge, and was now looking about for asuitable opportunity of making an arithmeticalfigure in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situatedon a moor within a mile or two of a great town -called Coketown in the present faithfulguide-book.A very regular feature on the face of thecountry, Stone Lodge was. Not the leastdisguise toned down or shaded off thatuncompromising fact in the landscape. Agreat square house, with a heavy porticodarkening the principal windows, as itsmaster's heavy brows overshadowed his eyes.A calculated, cast up, balanced, and provedhouse. Six windows on this side of the door,six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, atotal of twelve in the other wing;four-and-twenty carried over to the backwings. A lawn and garden and an infant

avenue, all ruled straight like a botanicalaccount- book. Gas and ventilation, drainageand water-service, all of the primest quality.Iron clamps and girders, fire-proof from top tobottom; mechanical lifts for the housemaids,with all their brushes and brooms; everythingthat heart could desire.Everything? Well, I suppose so. The littleGradgrinds had cabinets in variousdepartments of science too. They had a littleconchological cabinet, and a littlemetallurgical cabinet, and a littlemineralogical cabinet; and the specimenswere all arranged and labelled, and the bits ofstone and ore looked as though they mighthave been broken from the parent substancesby those tremendously hard instruments theirown names; and, to paraphrase the idlelegend of Peter Piper, who had never found hisway into their nursery, If the greedy littleGradgrinds grasped at more than this, whatwas it for good gracious goodness' sake, thatthe greedy little Gradgrinds grasped it!

Their father walked on in a hopeful andsatisfied frame of mind. He was an affectionatefather, after his manner; but he wouldprobably have described himself (if he hadbeen put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a definition) as'an eminently practical' father. He had aparticular pride in the phrase eminentlypractical, which was considered to have aspecial application to him. Whatsoever thepublic meeting held in Coketown, andwhatsoever the subject of such meeting, someCoketowner was sure to seize the occasion ofalluding to his eminently practical friendGradgrind. This always pleased the eminentlypractical friend. He knew it to be his due, buthis due was acceptable.He had reached the neutral ground upon theoutskirts of the town, which was neither townnor country, and yet was either spoiled, whenhis ears were invaded by the sound of music.The clashing and banging band attached to thehorse-riding establishment, which had there

set up its rest in a wooden pavilion, was in fullbray. A flag, floating from the summit of thetemple, proclaimed to mankind that it was'Sleary's Horse-riding' which claimed theirsuffrages. Sleary himself, a stout modernstatue with a money-box at its elbow, in anecclesiastical niche of early Gothicarchitecture, took the money. Miss JosephineSleary, as some very long and very narrowstrips of printed bill announced, was theninaugurating the entertainments with hergraceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-act.Among the other pleasing but always strictlymoral wonders which must be seen to bebelieved, Signor Jupe was that afternoon to'elucidate the diverting accomplishments of hishighly trained performing dog Merrylegs.' Hewas also to exhibit 'his astounding feat ofthrowing seventy-five hundred-weight in rapidsuccession backhanded over his head, thusforming a fountain of solid iron in mid-air, afeat never before attempted in this or anyother country, and which having elicited suchrapturous plaudits from enthusiastic throngs it

cannot be withdrawn.' The same Signor Jupewas to 'enliven the varied performances atfrequent intervals with his chaste Shakspereanquips and retorts.' Lastly, he was to wind themup by appearing in his favourite character ofMr. William Button, of Tooley Street, in 'thehighly novel and laughable hippo- comediettaof The Tailor's Journey to Brentford.'Thomas Gradgrind took no heed of thesetrivialities of course, but passed on as apractical man ought to pass on, eitherbrushing the noisy insects from his thoughts,or consigning them to the House of Correction.But, the turning of the road took him by theback of the booth, and at the back of the bootha number of children were congregated in anumber of stealthy attitudes, striving to peepin at the hidden glories of the place.This brought him to a stop. 'Now, to think ofthese vagabonds,' said he, 'attracting theyoung rabble from a model school.'

A space of stunted grass and dry rubbishbeing between him and the young rabble, hetook his eyeglass out of his waistcoat to lookfor any child he knew by name, and mightorder off. Phenomenon almost incrediblethough distinctly seen, what did he thenbehold but his own metallurgical Louisa,peeping with all her might through a hole in adeal board, and his own mathematical Thomasabasing himself on the ground to catch but ahoof of the graceful equestrian Tyroleanflower-act!Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrindcrossed to the spot where his family was thusdisgraced, laid his hand upon each erringchild, and said:'Louisa!! Thomas!!'Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisalooked at her father with more boldness thanThomas did. Indeed, Thomas did not look athim, but gave himself up to be taken home like

a machine.'In the name of wonder, idleness, and folly!'said Mr. Gradgrind, leading each away by ahand; 'what do you do here?''Wanted to see what it was like,' returnedLouisa, shortly.'What it was like?''Yes, father.'There was an air of jaded sullenness in themboth, and particularly in the girl: yet,struggling through the dissatisfaction of herface, there was a light with nothing to restupon, a fire with nothing to burn, a starvedimagination keeping life in itself somehow,which brightened its expression. Not with thebrightness natural to cheerful youth, but withuncertain, eager, doubtful flashes, which hadsomething painful in them, analogous to thechanges on a blind face groping its way.

She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen; butat no distant day would seem to become awoman all at once. Her father thought so as helooked at her. She was pretty. Would havebeen self-willed (he thought in his eminentlypractical way) but for her bringing-up.'Thomas, though I have the fact before me, Ifind it difficult to believe that you, with youreducation and resources, should have broughtyour sister to a scene like this.''I brought him, father,' said Louisa, quickly. 'Iasked him to come.''I am sorry to hear it. I am very sorry indeedto hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and itmakes you worse, Louisa.'She looked at her father again, but no tear felldown her cheek.'You! Thomas and you, to whom the circle of

the sciences is open; Thomas and you, whomay be said to be replete with facts; Thomasand you, who have been trained tomathematical exactness; Thomas and you,here!' cried Mr. Gradgrind. 'In this degradedposition! I am amazed.''I was tired, father. I have been tired a longtime,' said Louisa.'Tired? Of what?' asked the astonished father.'I don't know of what - of everything, I think.''Say not another word,' returned Mr.Gradgrind. 'You are childish. I will hear nomore.' He did not speak again until they hadwalked some half-a-mile in silence, when hegravely broke out with: 'What would your bestfriends say, Louisa? Do you attach no value totheir good opinion? What would Mr.Bounderby say?' At the mention of this name,his daughter stole a look at him, remarkablefor its intense and searching character. He

saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her,she had again cast down her eyes!'What,' he repeated presently, 'would Mr.Bounderby say?' All the way to Stone Lodge,as with grave indignation he led the twodelinquents home, he repeated at intervals'What would Mr. Bounderby say?' - as if Mr.Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy.

CHAPTER IV - MR. BOUNDERBYNOT being Mrs. Grundy, who was Mr.Bounderby?Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr.Gradgrind's bosom friend, as a man perfectlydevoid of sentiment can approach that spiritualrelationship towards another man perfectlydevoid of sentiment. So near was Mr.Bounderby - or, if the reader should prefer it,so far off.He was a rich man: banker, merchant,manufacturer, and what not. A big, loud man,with a stare, and a metallic laugh. A man madeout of a coarse material, which seemed to havebeen stretched to make so much of him. Aman with a great puffed head and forehead,swelled veins in his temples, and such astrained skin to his face that it seemed to holdhis eyes open, and lift his eyebrows up. A manwith a pervading appearance on him of beinginflated like a balloon, and ready to start. A

man who could never sufficiently vaunt himselfa self-made man. A man who was alwaysproclaiming, through that brassyspeaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his oldignorance and his old poverty. A man whowas the Bully of humility.A year or two younger than his eminentlypractical friend, Mr. Bounderby looked older;his seven or eight and forty might have had theseven or eight added to it again, withoutsurprising anybody. He had not much hair.One might have fancied he had talked it off;and that what was left, all standing up indisorder, was in that condition from beingconstantly blown about by his windyboastfulness.In the formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge,standing on the hearthrug, warming himselfbefore the fire, Mr. Bounderby delivered someobservations to Mrs. Gradgrind on thecircumstance of its being his birthday. Hestood before the fire, partly because it was a

cool spring afternoon, though the sun shone;partly because the shade of Stone Lodge wasalways haunted by the ghost of damp mortar;partly because he thus took up a commandingposition, from which to subdue Mrs.Gradgrind.'I hadn't a shoe to my foot. As to a stocking, Ididn't know such a thing by name. I passedthe day in a ditch, and the night in a pigsty.That's the way I spent my tenth birthday. Notthat a ditch was new to me, for I was born in aditch.'Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white,pink-eyed bundle of shawls, of surpassingfeebleness, mental and bodily; who wasalways taking physic without any effect, andwho, whenever she showed a symptom ofcoming to life, was invariably stunned by someweighty piece of fact tumbling on her; Mrs.Gradgrind hoped it was a dry ditch?'No! As wet as a sop. A foot of water in it,'

said Mr. Bounderby.'Enough to give a baby cold,' Mrs. Gradgrindconsidered.'Cold? I was born with inflammation of thelungs, and of everything else, I believe, thatwas capable of inflammation,' returned Mr.Bounderby. 'For years, ma'am, I was one of themost miserable little wretches ever seen. Iwas so sickly, that I was always moaning andgroaning. I was so ragged and dirty, that youwouldn't have touched me with a pair of tongs.'Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, asthe most appropriate thing her imbecilitycould think of doing.'How I fought through it, I don't know,' saidBounderby. 'I was determined, I suppose. Ihave been a determined character in later life,and I suppose I was then. Here I am, Mrs.Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody to thank formy being here, but myself.'

Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hopedthat his mother -'My mother? Bolted, ma'am!' said Bounderby.Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsedand gave it up.'My mother left me to my grandmother,' saidBounderby; 'and, according to the best of myremembrance, my grandmother was thewickedest and the worst old woman that everlived. If I got a little pair of shoes by anychance, she would take 'em off and sell 'em fordrink. Why, I have known that grandmother ofmine lie in her bed and drink her four-teenglasses of liquor before breakfast!'Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and givingno other sign of vitality, looked (as she alwaysdid) like an indifferently executedtransparency of a small female figure, withoutenough light behind it.

'She kept a chandler's shop,' pursuedBounderby, 'and kept me in an egg-box. Thatwas the cot of my infancy; an old egg-box. Assoon as I was big enough to run away, ofcourse I ran away. Then I became a youngvagabond; and instead of one old womanknocking me about and starving me,everybody of all ages knocked me about andstarved me. They were right; they had nobusiness to do anything else. I was a nuisance,an incumbrance, and a pest. I know that verywell.'His pride in having at any time of his lifeachieved such a great social distinction as tobe a nuisance, an incumbrance, and a pest,was only to be satisfied by three sonorousrepetitions of the boast.'I was to pull through it, I suppose, Mrs.Gradgrind. Whether I was to do it or not,ma'am, I did it. I pulled through it, thoughnobody threw me out a rope. Vagabond,

errand-boy, vagabond, labourer, porter,clerk, chief manager, small partner, JosiahBounderby of Coketown. Those are theantecedents, and the culmination. JosiahBounderby of Coketown learnt his letters fromthe outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, andwas first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate,from studying the steeple clock of St. Giles'sChurch, London, under the direction of adrunken cripple, who was a convicted thief,and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell JosiahBounderby of Coketown, of your districtschools and your model schools, and yourtraining schools, and your whole kettle-of-fishof schools; and Josiah Bounderby of Coketown,tells you plainly, all right, all correct - hehadn't such advantages - but let us havehard-headed, solid-fisted people - theeducation that made him won't do foreverybody, he knows well - such and such hiseducation was, however, and you may forcehim to swallow boiling fat, but you shall neverforce him to suppress the facts of his life.'

Being heated when he arrived at this climax,Josiah Bounderby of Coketown stopped. Hestopped just as his eminently practical friend,still accompanied by the two young culprits,entered the room. His eminently practicalfriend, on seeing him, stopped also, and gaveLouisa a reproachful look that plainly said,'Behold your Bounderby!''Well!' blustered Mr. Bounderby, 'what's thematter? What is young Thomas in the dumpsabout?'He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked atLouisa.'We were peeping at the circus,' mutteredLouisa, haughtily, without lifting up her eyes,'and father caught us.''And, Mrs. Gradgrind,' said her husband in alofty manner, 'I should as soon have expectedto find my children reading poetry.'

'Dear me,' whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. 'Howcan you, Louisa and Thomas! I wonder at you.I declare you're enough to make one regretever having had a family at all. I have a greatmind to say I wish I hadn't. Then what wouldyou have done, I should like to know?'Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favourablyimpressed by these cogent remarks. Hefrowned impatiently.'As if, with my head in its present throbbingstate, you couldn't go and look at the shellsand minerals and things provided for you,instead of circuses!' said Mrs. Gradgrind. 'Youknow, as well as I do, no young people havecircus masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, orattend lectures about circuses. What can youpossibly want to know of circuses then? I amsure you have enough to do, if that's what youwant. With my head in its present state, Icouldn't remember the mere names of half thefacts you have got to attend to.'

'That's the reason!' pouted Louisa.'Don't tell me that's the reason, because itcan't be nothing of the sort,' said Mrs.Gradgrind. 'Go and be somethingologicaldirectly.' Mrs. Gradgrind was not a scientificcharacter, and usually dismissed her childrento their studies with this general injunction tochoose their pursuit.In truth, Mrs. Gradgrind's stock of facts ingeneral was woefully defective; but Mr.Gradgrind in raising her to her highmatrimonial position, had been influenced bytwo reasons. Firstly, she was most satisfactoryas a question of figures; and, secondly, shehad 'no nonsense' about her. By nonsense hemeant fancy; and truly it is probable she wasas free from any alloy of that nature, as anyhuman being not arrived at the perfection ofan absolute idiot, ever was.The simple circumstance of being left alonewith her husband and Mr. Bounderby, was

sufficient to stun this admirable lady againwithout collision between herself and anyother fact. So, she once more died away, andnobody minded her.'Bounderby,' said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing achair to the fireside, 'you are always sointerested in my young people - particularly inLouisa - that I make no apology for saying toyou, I am very much vexed by this discovery.I have systematically devoted myself (as youknow) to the education of the reason of myfamily. The reason is (as you know) the onlyfaculty to which education should beaddressed. 'And yet, Bounderby, it wouldappear from this unexpected circumstance ofto-day, though in itself a trifling one, as ifsomething had crept into Thomas's andLouisa's minds which is - or rather, which is not- I don't know that I can express myself betterthan by saying - which has never beenintended to be developed, and in which theirreason has no part.'

'There certainly is no reason in looking withinterest at a parcel of vagabonds,' returnedBounderby. 'When I was a vagabond myself,nobody looked with any interest at me; I knowthat.''Then comes the question; said the eminentlypractical father, with his eyes on the fire, 'inwhat has this vulgar curiosity its rise?''I'll tell you in what. In idle imagination.''I hope not,' said the eminently practical; 'Iconfess, however, that the misgiving hascrossed me on my way home.''In idle imagination, Gradgrind,' repeatedBounderby. 'A very bad thing for anybody,but a cursed bad thing for a girl like Louisa. Ishould ask Mrs. Gradgrind's pardon for strongexpressions, but that she knows very well I amnot a refined character. Whoever expectsrefinement in me will be disappointed. Ihadn't a refined bringing up.'

'Whether,' said Gradgrind, pondering withhis hands in his pockets, and his cavernouseyes on the fire, 'whether any instructor orservant can have suggested anything?Whether Louisa or Thomas can have beenreading anything? Whether, in spite of allprecautions, any idle story-book can have gotinto the house? Because, in minds that havebeen practically formed by rule and line, fromthe cradle upwards, this is so curious, soincomprehensible.''Stop a bit!' cried Bounderby, who all this timehad been standing, as before, on the hearth,bursting at the very furniture of the room withexplosive humility. 'You have one of thosestrollers' children in the school.''Cecilia Jupe, by name,' said Mr. Gradgrind,with something of a stricken look at his friend.'Now, stop a bit!' cried Bounderby again.'How did she come there?'

'Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself, for thefirst time, only just now. She specially appliedhere at the house to be admitted, as notregularly belonging to our town, and - yes,you are right, Bounderby, you are right.''Now, stop a bit!' cried Bounderby, oncemore. 'Louisa saw her when she came?''Louisa certainly did see her, for shementioned the application to me. But Louisasaw her, I have no doubt, in Mrs. Gradgrind'spresence.''Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,' said Bounderby, 'whatpassed?''Oh, my poor health!' returned Mrs.Gradgrind. 'The girl wanted to come to theschool, and Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls tocome to the school, and Louisa and Thomasboth said that the girl wanted to come, and thatMr. Gradgrind wanted girls to come, and how

was it possible to contradict them when suchwas the fact!''Now I tell you what, Gradgrind!' said Mr.Bounderby. 'Turn this girl to the right about,and there's an end of it.''I am much of your opinion.''Do it at once,' said Bounderby, 'has alwaysbeen my motto from a child. When I thought Iwould run away from my egg-box and mygrandmother, I did it at once. Do you thesame. Do this at once!''Are you walking?' asked his friend. 'I havethe father's address. Perhaps you would notmind walking to town with me?''Not the least in the world,' said Mr.Bounderby, 'as long as you do it at once!'So, Mr. Bounderby threw on his hat - healways threw it on, as expressing a man who

had been far too busily employed in makinghimself, to acquire any fashion of wearing hishat - and with his hands in his pockets,sauntered out into the hall. 'I never weargloves,' it was his custom to say. 'I didn't climbup the ladder in them. - Shouldn't be so highup, if I had.'Being left to saunter in the hall a minute ortwo while Mr. Gradgrind went up-stairs for theaddress, he opened the door of the children'sstudy and looked into that serene floor-clothedapartment, which, notwithstanding itsbook-cases and its cabinets and its variety oflearned and philosophical appliances, hadmuch of the genial aspect of a room devoted tohair-cutting. Louisa languidly leaned upon thewindow looking out, without looking atanything, while young Thomas stood sniffingrevengefully at the fire. Adam Smith andMalthus, two younger Gradgrinds, were out atlecture in custody; and little Jane, aftermanufacturing a good deal of moist pipe-clayon her face with slate-pencil and tears, had

fallen asleep over vulgar fractions.'It's all right now, Louisa: it's all right, youngThomas,' said Mr. Bounderby; 'you won't do soany more. I'll answer for it's being all overwith father. Well, Louisa, that's worth a kiss,isn't it?''You can take one, Mr. Bounderby,' returnedLouisa, when she had coldly paused, andslowly walked across the room, andungraciously raised her cheek towards him,with her face turned away.'Always my pet; ain't you, Louisa?' said Mr.Bounderby. 'Good-bye, Louisa!'He went his way, but she stood on the samespot, rubbing the cheek he had kissed, withher handkerchief, until it was burning red. Shewas still doing this, five minutes afterwards.'What are you about, Loo?' her brother sulkilyremonstrated. 'You'll rub a hole in your face.'

'You may cut the piece out with your penknifeif you like, Tom. I wouldn't cry!'

CHAPTER V - THE KEYNOTECOKETOWN, to which Messrs. Bounderbyand Gradgrind now walked, was a triumph offact; it had no greater taint of fancy in it thanMrs. Gradgrind herself. Let us strike thekey-note, Coketown, before pursuing ourtune.It was a town of red brick, or of brick thatwould have been red if the smoke and asheshad allowed it; but as matters stood, it was atown of unnatural red and black like thepainted face of a savage. It was a town ofmachinery and tall chimneys, out of whichinterminable serpents of smoke trailedthemselves for ever and ever, and never gotuncoiled. It had a black canal in it, and a riverthat ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vastpiles of building full of windows where therewas a rattling and a trembling all day long,and where the piston of the steam-engineworked monotonously up and down, like thehead of an elephant in a state of melancholy

madness. It contained several large streets allvery like one another, and many small streetsstill more like one another, inhabited bypeople equally like one another, who all wentin and out at the same hours, with the samesound upon the same pavements, to do thesame work, and to whom every day was thesame as yesterday and to-morrow, and everyyear the counterpart of the last and the next.These attributes of Coketown were in themain inseparable from the work by which itwas sustained; against them were to be set off,comforts of life which found their way all overthe world, and elegancies of life which made,we will not ask how much of the fine lady, whocould scarcely bear to hear the placementioned. The rest of its features werevoluntary, and they were these.You saw nothing in Coketown but what wasseverely workful. If the members of areligious persuasion built a chapel there - asthe members of eighteen religious

persuasions had done - they made it a piouswarehouse of red brick, with sometimes (butthis is only in highly ornamental examples) abell in a birdcage on the top of it. The solitaryexception was the New Church; a stuccoededifice with a square steeple over the door,terminating in four short pinnacles like floridwooden legs. All the public inscriptions in thetown were painted alike, in severe charactersof black and white. The jail might have beenthe infirmary, the infirmary might have beenthe jail, the town-hall might have been either,or both, or anything else, for anything thatappeared to the contrary in the graces of theirconstruction. Fact, fact, fact, everywhere inthe material aspect of the town; fact, fact, fact,everywhere in the immaterial. TheM'Choakumchild school was all fact, and theschool of design was all fact, and the relationsbetween master and man were all fact, andeverything was fact between the lying-inhospital and the cemetery, and what youcouldn't state in figures, or show to bepurchaseable in the cheapest market and

saleable in the dearest, was not, and nevershould be, world without end, Amen.A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant inits assertion, of course got on well? Why no,not quite well. No? Dear me!No. Coketown did not come out of its ownfurnaces, in all respects like gold that hadstood the fire. First, the perplexing mystery ofthe place was, Who belonged to the eighteendenominations? Because, whoever did, thelabouring people did not. It was very strangeto walk through the streets on a Sundaymorning, and note how few of them thebarbarous jangling of bells that was drivingthe sick and nervous mad, called away fromtheir own quarter, from their own close rooms,from the corners of their own streets, wherethey lounged listlessly, gazing at all the churchand chapel going, as at a thing with which theyhad no manner of concern. Nor was it merelythe stranger who noticed this, because therewas a native organization in Coketown itself,

whose members were to be heard of in theHouse of Commons every session, indignantlypetitioning for acts of parliament that shouldmake these people religious by main force.Then came the Teetotal Society, whocomplained that these same people would getdrunk, and showed in tabular statements thatthey did get drunk, and proved at tea partiesthat no inducement, human or Divine (except amedal), would induce them to forego theircustom of getting drunk. Then came thechemist and druggist, with other tabularstatements, showing that when they didn't getdrunk, they took opium. Then came theexperienced chaplain of the jail, with moretabular statements, outdoing all the previoustabular statements, and showing that the samepeople would resort to low haunts, hiddenfrom the public eye, where they heard lowsinging and saw low dancing, and mayhapjoined in it; and where A. B., aged twenty-fournext birthday, and committed for eighteenmonths' solitary, had himself said (not that hehad ever shown himself particularly worthy of

elief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sureand confident that otherwise he would havebeen a tip-top moral specimen. Then cameMr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby, the twogentlemen at this present moment walkingthrough Coketown, and both eminentlypractical, who could, on occasion, furnishmore tabular statements derived from theirown personal experience, and illustrated bycases they had known and seen, from which itclearly appeared - in short, it was the onlyclear thing in the case - that these same peoplewere a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that dowhat you would for them they were neverthankful for it, gentlemen; that they wererestless, gentlemen; that they never knewwhat they wanted; that they lived upon thebest, and bought fresh butter; and insisted onMocha coffee, and rejected all but prime partsof meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfiedand unmanageable. In short, it was the moralof the old nursery fable:

There was an old woman, and what do youthink? She lived upon nothing but victuals anddrink; Victuals and drink were the whole ofher diet, And yet this old woman would NEVERbe quiet.Is it possible, I wonder, that there was anyanalogy between the case of the Coketownpopulation and the case of the littleGradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sobersenses and acquainted with figures, are to betold at this time of day, that one of the foremostelements in the existence of the Coketownworking-people had been for scores of years,deliberately set at nought? That there was anyFancy in them demanding to be brought intohealthy existence instead of struggling on inconvulsions? That exactly in the ratio as theyworked long and monotonously, the cravinggrew within them for some physical relief -some relaxation, encouraging good humourand good spirits, and giving them a vent -some recognized holiday, though it were but

for an honest dance to a stirring band of music- some occasional light pie in which evenM'Choakumchild had no finger - which cravingmust and would be satisfied aright, or mustand would inevitably go wrong, until the lawsof the Creation were repealed?'This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't quiteknow Pod's End,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'Whichis it, Bounderby?'Mr. Bounderby knew it was somewhere downtown, but knew no more respecting it. So theystopped for a moment, looking about.Almost as they did so, there came runninground the corner of the street at a quick paceand with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr.Gradgrind recognized. 'Halloa!' said he. 'Stop!Where are you going! Stop!' Girl numbertwenty stopped then, palpitating, and madehim a curtsey.'Why are you tearing about the streets,' said

Mr. Gradgrind, 'in this improper manner?''I was - I was run after, sir,' the girl panted,'and I wanted to get away.''Run after?' repeated Mr. Gradgrind. 'Whowould run after you?'The question was unexpectedly and suddenlyanswered for her, by the colourless boy,Bitzer, who came round the corner with suchblind speed and so little anticipating astoppage on the pavement, that he broughthimself up against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoatand rebounded into the road.'What do you mean, boy?' said Mr.Gradgrind. 'What are you doing? How dareyou dash against - everybody - in thismanner?' Bitzer picked up his cap, which theconcussion had knocked off; and backing, andknuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was anaccident.

'Was this boy running after you, Jupe?' askedMr. Gradgrind.'Yes, sir,' said the girl reluctantly.'No, I wasn't, sir!' cried Bitzer. 'Not till she runaway from me. But the horse-riders nevermind what they say, sir; they're famous for it.You know the horse-riders are famous fornever minding what they say,' addressingSissy. 'It's as well known in the town as -please, sir, as the multiplication table isn'tknown to the horse-riders.' Bitzer tried Mr.Bounderby with this.'He frightened me so,' said the girl, 'with hiscruel faces!''Oh!' cried Bitzer. 'Oh! An't you one of therest! An't you a horse-rider! I never looked ather, sir. I asked her if she would know how todefine a horse to-morrow, and offered to tellher again, and she ran away, and I ran afterher, sir, that she might know how to answer

when she was asked. You wouldn't havethought of saying such mischief if you hadn'tbeen a horse-rider?''Her calling seems to be pretty well knownamong 'em,' observed Mr. Bounderby. 'You'dhave had the whole school peeping in a row, ina week.''Truly, I think so,' returned his friend. 'Bitzer,turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe,stay here a moment. Let me hear of yourrunning in this manner any more, boy, and youwill hear of me through the master of theschool. You understand what I mean. Goalong.'The boy stopped in his rapid blinking,knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy,turned about, and retreated.'Now, girl,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'take thisgentleman and me to your father's; we aregoing there. What have you got in that bottle

you are carrying?''Gin,' said Mr. Bounderby.'Dear, no, sir! It's the nine oils.''The what?' cried Mr. Bounderby.'The nine oils, sir, to rub father with.''Then,' said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud shortlaugh, 'what the devil do you rub your fatherwith nine oils for?''It's what our people aways use, sir, when theyget any hurts in the ring,' replied the girl,looking over her shoulder, to assure herselfthat her pursuer was gone. 'They bruisethemselves very bad sometimes.''Serve 'em right,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'forbeing idle.' She glanced up at his face, withmingled astonishment and dread.

'By George!' said Mr. Bounderby, 'when I wasfour or five years younger than you, I hadworse bruises upon me than ten oils, twentyoils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. I didn'tget 'em by posture-making, but by beingbanged about. There was no rope- dancingfor me; I danced on the bare ground and waslarruped with the rope.'Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was byno means so rough a man as Mr. Bounderby.His character was not unkind, all thingsconsidered; it might have been a very kindone indeed, if he had only made some roundmistake in the arithmetic that balanced it,years ago. He said, in what he meant for areassuring tone, as they turned down a narrowroad, 'And this is Pod's End; is it, Jupe?''This is it, sir, and - if you wouldn't mind, sir -this is the house.'She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a meanlittle public- house, with dim red lights in it.

As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want ofcustom, it had itself taken to drinking, and hadgone the way all drunkards go, and was verynear the end of it.'It's only crossing the bar, sir, and up thestairs, if you wouldn't mind, and waiting therefor a moment till I get a candle. If you shouldhear a dog, sir, it's only Merrylegs, and heonly barks.''Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!' said Mr.Bounderby, entering last with his metalliclaugh. 'Pretty well this, for a self-made man!'

CHAPTER VI - SLEARY'S HORSEMANSHIPTHE name of the public-house was thePegasus's Arms. The Pegasus's legs mighthave been more to the purpose; but,underneath the winged horse upon thesign-board, the Pegasus's Arms was inscribedin Roman letters. Beneath that inscriptionagain, in a flowing scroll, the painter hadtouched off the lines:Good malt makes good beer, Walk in, andthey'll draw it here; Good wine makes goodbrandy, Give us a call, and you'll find it handy.Framed and glazed upon the wall behind thedingy little bar, was another Pegasus - atheatrical one - with real gauze let in for hiswings, golden stars stuck on all over him, andhis ethereal harness made of red silk.As it had grown too dusky without, to see the

sign, and as it had not grown light enoughwithin to see the picture, Mr. Gradgrind andMr. Bounderby received no offence from theseidealities. They followed the girl up somesteep corner-stairs without meeting any one,and stopped in the dark while she went on fora candle. They expected every moment tohear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highlytrained performing dog had not barked whenthe girl and the candle appeared together.'Father is not in our room, sir,' she said, with aface of great surprise. 'If you wouldn't mindwalking in, I'll find him directly.' They walkedin; and Sissy, having set two chairs for them,sped away with a quick light step. It was amean, shabbily furnished room, with a bed init. The white night-cap, embellished with twopeacock's feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, inwhich Signor Jupe had that very afternoonenlivened the varied performances with hischaste Shaksperean quips and retorts, hungupon a nail; but no other portion of hiswardrobe, or other token of himself or his

pursuits, was to be seen anywhere. As toMerrylegs, that respectable ancestor of thehighly trained animal who went aboard theark, might have been accidentally shut out ofit, for any sign of a dog that was manifest toeye or ear in the Pegasus's Arms.They heard the doors of rooms above,opening and shutting as Sissy went from one toanother in quest of her father; and presentlythey heard voices expressing surprise. Shecame bounding down again in a great hurry,opened a battered and mangy old hair trunk,found it empty, and looked round with herhands clasped and her face full of terror.'Father must have gone down to the Booth, sir.I don't know why he should go there, but hemust be there; I'll bring him in a minute!' Shewas gone directly, without her bonnet; withher long, dark, childish hair streaming behindher.'What does she mean!' said Mr. Gradgrind.

'Back in a minute? It's more than a mile off.'Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a youngman appeared at the door, and introducinghimself with the words, 'By your leaves,gentlemen!' walked in with his hands in hispockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, andsallow, was shaded by a great quantity of darkhair, brushed into a roll all round his head, andparted up the centre. His legs were veryrobust, but shorter than legs of goodproportions should have been. His chest andback were as much too broad, as his legs weretoo short. He was dressed in a Newmarketcoat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawlround his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw,orange-peel, horses' provender, and sawdust;and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur,compounded of the stable and the play-house.Where the one began, and the other ended,nobody could have told with any precision.This gentleman was mentioned in the bills ofthe day as Mr. E. W. B. Childers, so justlycelebrated for his daring vaulting act as the

Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies;in which popular performance, a diminutiveboy with an old face, who now accompaniedhim, assisted as his infant son: being carriedupside down over his father's shoulder, by onefoot, and held by the crown of his head, heelsupwards, in the palm of his father's hand,according to the violent paternal manner inwhich wild huntsmen may be observed tofondle their offspring. Made up with curls,wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine,this hopeful young person soared into sopleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chiefdelight of the maternal part of the spectators;but in private, where his characteristics were aprecocious cutaway coat and an extremelygruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy.'By your leaves, gentlemen,' said Mr. E. W. B.Childers, glancing round the room. 'It wasyou, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe!''It was,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'His daughter hasgone to fetch him, but I can't wait; therefore, if

you please, I will leave a message for him withyou.''You see, my friend,' Mr. Bounderby put in,'we are the kind of people who know the valueof time, and you are the kind of people whodon't know the value of time.''I have not,' retorted Mr. Childers, aftersurveying him from head to foot, 'the honour ofknowing you, - but if you mean that you canmake more money of your time than I can ofmine, I should judge from your appearance,that you are about right.''And when you have made it, you can keep ittoo, I should think,' said Cupid.'Kidderminster, stow that!' said Mr. Childers.(Master Kidderminster was Cupid's mortalname.)'What does he come here cheeking us for,then?' cried Master Kidderminster, showing a

very irascible temperament. 'If you want tocheek us, pay your ochre at the doors and takeit out.''Kidderminster,' said Mr. Childers, raising hisvoice, 'stow that! - Sir,' to Mr. Gradgrind, 'I wasaddressing myself to you. You may or youmay not be aware (for perhaps you have notbeen much in the audience), that Jupe hasmissed his tip very often, lately.''Has - what has he missed?' asked Mr.Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderbyfor assistance.'Missed his tip.''Offered at the Garters four times last night,and never done 'em once,' said MasterKidderminster. 'Missed his tip at the banners,too, and was loose in his ponging.''Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short inhis leaps and bad in his tumbling,' Mr.

Childers interpreted.'Oh!' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'that is tip, is it?''In a general way that's missing his tip,' Mr. E.W. B. Childers answered.'Nine oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters,banners, and Ponging, eh!' ejaculatedBounderby, with his laugh of laughs. 'Queersort of company, too, for a man who has raisedhimself!''Lower yourself, then,' retorted Cupid. 'OhLord! if you've raised yourself so high as allthat comes to, let yourself down a bit.''This is a very obtrusive lad!' said Mr.Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows onhim.'We'd have had a young gentleman to meetyou, if we had known you were coming,'retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing

abashed. 'It's a pity you don't have a bespeak,being so particular. You're on the Tight-Jeff,ain't you?''What does this unmannerly boy mean,' askedMr. Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort ofdesperation, 'by Tight-Jeff?''There! Get out, get out!' said Mr. Childers,thrusting his young friend from the room,rather in the prairie manner. 'Tight-Jeff orSlack-Jeff, it don't much signify: it's onlytight-rope and slack- rope. You were going togive me a message for Jupe?''Yes, I was.''Then,' continued Mr. Childers, quickly, 'myopinion is, he will never receive it. Do youknow much of him?''I never saw the man in my life.''I doubt if you ever will see him now. It's

pretty plain to me, he's off.''Do you mean that he has deserted hisdaughter?''Ay! I mean,' said Mr. Childers, with a nod,'that he has cut. He was goosed last night, hewas goosed the night before last, he wasgoosed to-day. He has lately got in the way ofbeing always goosed, and he can't stand it.''Why has he been - so very much - Goosed?'asked Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out ofhimself, with great solemnity and reluctance.'His joints are turning stiff, and he is gettingused up,' said Childers. 'He has his points as aCackler still, but he can't get a living out ofthem.''A Cackler!' Bounderby repeated. 'Here wego again!''A speaker, if the gentleman likes it better,'

said Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliouslythrowing the interpretation over his shoulder,and accompanying it with a shake of his longhair - which all shook at once. 'Now, it's aremarkable fact, sir, that it cut that mandeeper, to know that his daughter knew of hisbeing goosed, than to go through with it.''Good!' interrupted Mr. Bounderby. 'This isgood, Gradgrind! A man so fond of hisdaughter, that he runs away from her! This isdevilish good! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you what,young man. I haven't always occupied mypresent station of life. I know what thesethings are. You may be astonished to hear it,but my mother - ran away from me.'E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that hewas not at all astonished to hear it.'Very well,' said Bounderby. 'I was born in aditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do Iexcuse her for it? No. Have I ever excusedher for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call

her probably the very worst woman that everlived in the world, except my drunkengrandmother. There's no family pride aboutme, there's no imaginative sentimentalhumbug about me. I call a spade a spade; andI call the mother of Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown, without any fear or any favour,what I should call her if she had been themother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with thisman. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond,that's what he is, in English.''It's all the same to me what he is or what he isnot, whether in English or whether in French,'retorted Mr. E. W. B. Childers, facing about. 'Iam telling your friend what's the fact; if youdon't like to hear it, you can avail yourself ofthe open air. You give it mouth enough, youdo; but give it mouth in your own building atleast,' remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony.'Don't give it mouth in this building, till you'recalled upon. You have got some building ofyour own I dare say, now?'

'Perhaps so,' replied Mr. Bounderby, rattlinghis money and laughing.'Then give it mouth in your own building, willyou, if you please?' said Childers. 'Becausethis isn't a strong building, and too much of youmight bring it down!'Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to footagain, he turned from him, as from a manfinally disposed of, to Mr. Gradgrind.'Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand notan hour ago, and then was seen to slip outhimself, with his hat over his eyes, and abundle tied up in a handkerchief under hisarm. She will never believe it of him, but hehas cut away and left her.''Pray,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'why will shenever believe it of him?''Because those two were one. Because theywere never asunder. Because, up to this time,

he seemed to dote upon her,' said Childers,taking a step or two to look into the emptytrunk. Both Mr. Childers and MasterKidderminster walked in a curious manner;with their legs wider apart than the generalrun of men, and with a very knowingassumption of being stiff in the knees. Thiswalk was common to all the male members ofSleary's company, and was understood toexpress, that they were always on horseback.'Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticedher,' said Childers, giving his hair anothershake, as he looked up from the empty box.'Now, he leaves her without anything to taketo.''It is creditable to you, who have never beenapprenticed, to express that opinion,' returnedMr. Gradgrind, approvingly.'I never apprenticed? I was apprenticedwhen I was seven year old.'

'Oh! Indeed?' said Mr. Gradgrind, ratherresentfully, as having been defrauded of hisgood opinion. 'I was not aware of its being thecustom to apprentice young persons to - ''Idleness,' Mr. Bounderby put in with a loudlaugh. 'No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!''Her father always had it in his head,' resumedChilders, feigning unconsciousness of Mr.Bounderby's existence, 'that she was to betaught the deuce-and-all of education. How itgot into his head, I can't say; I can only say thatit never got out. He has been picking up a bitof reading for her, here - and a bit of writingfor her, there - and a bit of ciphering for her,somewhere else - these seven years.'Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his handsout of his pockets, stroked his face and chin,and looked, with a good deal of doubt and alittle hope, at Mr. Gradgrind. From the first hehad sought to conciliate that gentleman, for thesake of the deserted girl.

'When Sissy got into the school here,' hepursued, 'her father was as pleased as Punch. Icouldn't altogether make out why, myself, aswe were not stationary here, being but comersand goers anywhere. I suppose, however, hehad this move in his mind - he was alwayshalf-cracked - and then considered herprovided for. If you should happen to havelooked in to-night, for the purpose of tellinghim that you were going to do her any littleservice,' said Mr. Childers, stroking his faceagain, and repeating his look, 'it would be veryfortunate and well-timed; very fortunate andwell- timed.''On the contrary,' returned Mr. Gradgrind. 'Icame to tell him that her connections made hernot an object for the school, and that she mustnot attend any more. Still, if her father reallyhas left her, without any connivance on herpart - Bounderby, let me have a word withyou.'

Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betookhimself, with his equestrian walk, to thelanding outside the door, and there stoodstroking his face, and softly whistling. Whilethus engaged, he overheard such phrases inMr. Bounderby's voice as 'No. I say no. Iadvise you not. I say by no means.' While,from Mr. Gradgrind, he heard in his muchlower tone the words, 'But even as an exampleto Louisa, of what this pursuit which has beenthe subject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to andends in. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point ofview.'Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary'scompany gradually gathered together fromthe upper regions, where they werequartered, and, from standing about, talking inlow voices to one another and to Mr. Childers,gradually insinuated themselves and him intothe room. There were two or three handsomeyoung women among them, with their two orthree husbands, and their two or threemothers, and their eight or nine little children,

who did the fairy business when required. Thefather of one of the families was in the habit ofbalancing the father of another of the familieson the top of a great pole; the father of a thirdfamily often made a pyramid of both thosefathers, with Master Kidderminster for theapex, and himself for the base; all the fatherscould dance upon rolling casks, stand uponbottles, catch knives and balls, twirlhand-basins, ride upon anything, jump overeverything, and stick at nothing. All themothers could (and did) dance, upon the slackwire and the tight-rope, and perform rapidacts on bare-backed steeds; none of themwere at all particular in respect of showingtheir legs; and one of them, alone in a Greekchariot, drove six in hand into every town theycame to. They all assumed to be mighty rakishand knowing, they were not very tidy in theirprivate dresses, they were not at all orderly intheir domestic arrangements, and thecombined literature of the whole companywould have produced but a poor letter on anysubject. Yet there was a remarkable

gentleness and childishness about thesepeople, a special inaptitude for any kind ofsharp practice, and an untiring readiness tohelp and pity one another, deserving often ofas much respect, and always of as muchgenerous construction, as the every- dayvirtues of any class of people in the world.Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary: a stout manas already mentioned, with one fixed eye, andone loose eye, a voice (if it can be called so)like the efforts of a broken old pair of bellows,a flabby surface, and a muddled head whichwas never sober and never drunk.'Thquire!' said Mr. Sleary, who was troubledwith asthma, and whose breath came far toothick and heavy for the letter s, 'Your thervant!Thith ith a bad piethe of bithnith, thith ith.You've heard of my Clown and hith dog beingthuppothed to have morrithed?'He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered'Yes.'

'Well, Thquire,' he returned, taking off his hat,and rubbing the lining with hispocket-handkerchief, which he kept inside forthe purpose. 'Ith it your intenthion to doanything for the poor girl, Thquire?''I shall have something to propose to herwhen she comes back,' said Mr. Gradgrind.'Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want to getrid of the child, any more than I want to thtandin her way. I'm willing to take her prentith,though at her age ith late. My voithe ith a littlehuthky, Thquire, and not eathy heard by themath don't know me; but if you'd been chilledand heated, heated and chilled, chilled andheated in the ring when you wath young, athoften ath I have been, your voithe wouldn'thave lathted out, Thquire, no more than mine.''I dare say not,' said Mr. Gradgrind.'What thall it be, Thquire, while you wait?

Thall it be Therry? Give it a name, Thquire!'said Mr. Sleary, with hospitable ease.'Nothing for me, I thank you,' said Mr.Gradgrind.'Don't thay nothing, Thquire. What doth yourfriend thay? If you haven't took your feed yet,have a glath of bitterth.'Here his daughter Josephine - a prettyfair-haired girl of eighteen, who had been tiedon a horse at two years old, and had made awill at twelve, which she always carried aboutwith her, expressive of her dying desire to bedrawn to the grave by the two piebald ponies -cried, 'Father, hush! she has come back!' Thencame Sissy Jupe, running into the room as shehad run out of it. And when she saw them allassembled, and saw their looks, and saw nofather there, she broke into a most deplorablecry, and took refuge on the bosom of the mostaccomplished tight-rope lady (herself in thefamily-way), who knelt down on the floor to

nurse her, and to weep over her.'Ith an internal thame, upon my thoul it ith,'said Sleary.'O my dear father, my good kind father,where are you gone? You are gone to try to dome some good, I know! You are gone away formy sake, I am sure! And how miserable andhelpless you will be without me, poor, poorfather, until you come back!' It was so patheticto hear her saying many things of this kind,with her face turned upward, and her armsstretched out as if she were trying to stop hisdeparting shadow and embrace it, that no onespoke a word until Mr. Bounderby (growingimpatient) took the case in hand.'Now, good people all,' said he, 'this is wantonwaste of time. Let the girl understand the fact.Let her take it from me, if you like, who havebeen run away from, myself. Here, what's yourname! Your father has absconded - desertedyou - and you mustn't expect to see him again

as long as you live.'They cared so little for plain Fact, thesepeople, and were in that advanced state ofdegeneracy on the subject, that instead ofbeing impressed by the speaker's strongcommon sense, they took it in extraordinarydudgeon. The men muttered 'Shame!' and thewomen 'Brute!' and Sleary, in some haste,communicated the following hint, apart to Mr.Bounderby.'I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain toyou, my opinion ith that you had better cut itthort, and drop it. They're a very good natur'dpeople, my people, but they're accuthtomed tobe quick in their movementh; and if you don'tact upon my advithe, I'm damned if I don'tbelieve they'll pith you out o' winder.'Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mildsuggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an openingfor his eminently practical exposition of thesubject.

'It is of no moment,' said he, 'whether thisperson is to be expected back at any time, orthe contrary. He is gone away, and there is nopresent expectation of his return. That, Ibelieve, is agreed on all hands.''Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!' FromSleary.'Well then. I, who came here to inform thefather of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could notbe received at the school any more, inconsequence of there being practicalobjections, into which I need not enter, to thereception there of the children of persons soemployed, am prepared in these alteredcircumstances to make a proposal. I amwilling to take charge of you, Jupe, and toeducate you, and provide for you. The onlycondition (over and above your goodbehaviour) I make is, that you decide now, atonce, whether to accompany me or remainhere. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is

understood that you communicate no morewith any of your friends who are here present.These observations comprise the whole of thecase.''At the thame time,' said Sleary, 'I mutht put inmy word, Thquire, tho that both thides of thebanner may be equally theen. If you like,Thethilia, to be prentitht, you know the natur ofthe work and you know your companionth.Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you're a lying atprethent, would be a mother to you, andJoth'phine would be a thithter to you. I don'tpretend to be of the angel breed myself, and Idon't thay but what, when you mith'd your tip,you'd find me cut up rough, and thwear an oathor two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith, thatgood tempered or bad tempered, I never dida horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearingat him went, and that I don't expect I thallbegin otherwithe at my time of life, with arider. I never wath much of a Cackler,Thquire, and I have thed my thay.'

The latter part of this speech was addressedto Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a graveinclination of his head, and then remarked:'The only observation I will make to you, Jupe,in the way of influencing your decision, is, thatit is highly desirable to have a sound practicaleducation, and that even your father himself(from what I understand) appears, on yourbehalf, to have known and felt that much.'The last words had a visible effect upon her.She stopped in her wild crying, a littledetached herself from Emma Gordon, andturned her face full upon her patron. Thewhole company perceived the force of thechange, and drew a long breath together, thatplainly said, 'she will go!''Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,' Mr.Gradgrind cautioned her; 'I say no more. Besure you know your own mind!''When father comes back,' cried the girl,

ursting into tears again after a minute'ssilence, 'how will he ever find me if I go away!''You may be quite at ease,' said Mr.Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the wholematter like a sum: 'you may be quite at ease,Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father,I apprehend, must find out Mr. - ''Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Notathamed of it. Known all over England, andalwayth paythe ith way.''Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then lethim know where you went. I should have nopower of keeping you against his wish, and hewould have no difficulty, at any time, in findingMr. Thomas Gradgrind of Coketown. I am wellknown.''Well known,' assented Mr. Sleary, rolling hisloose eye. 'You're one of the thort, Thquire,that keepth a prethiouth thight of money out ofthe houthe. But never mind that at prethent.'

There was another silence; and then sheexclaimed, sobbing with her hands before herface, 'Oh, give me my clothes, give me myclothes, and let me go away before I break myheart!'The women sadly bestirred themselves to getthe clothes together - it was soon done, forthey were not many - and to pack them in abasket which had often travelled with them.Sissy sat all the time upon the ground, stillsobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr.Gradgrind and his friend Bounderby stoodnear the door, ready to take her away. Mr.Sleary stood in the middle of the room, withthe male members of the company about him,exactly as he would have stood in the centre ofthe ring during his daughter Josephine'sperformance. He wanted nothing but his whip.The basket packed in silence, they broughther bonnet to her, and smoothed herdisordered hair, and put it on. Then they

pressed about her, and bent over her in verynatural attitudes, kissing and embracing her:and brought the children to take leave of her;and were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish setof women altogether.'Now, Jupe,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'If you arequite determined, come!'But she had to take her farewell of the malepart of the company yet, and every one ofthem had to unfold his arms (for they allassumed the professional attitude when theyfound themselves near Sleary), and give her aparting kiss - Master Kidderminster excepted,in whose young nature there was an originalflavour of the misanthrope, who was alsoknown to have harboured matrimonial views,and who moodily withdrew. Mr. Sleary wasreserved until the last. Opening his arms widehe took her by both her hands, and wouldhave sprung her up and down, after theriding-master manner of congratulating youngladies on their dismounting from a rapid act;

ut there was no rebound in Sissy, and sheonly stood before him crying.'Good-bye, my dear!' said Sleary. 'You'llmake your fortun, I hope, and none of our poorfolkth will ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I withyour father hadn't taken hith dog with him; ith aill- conwenienth to have the dog out of thebillth. But on thecond thoughth, he wouldn'thave performed without hith mathter, tho ithath broad ath ith long!'With that he regarded her attentively with hisfixed eye, surveyed his company with hisloose one, kissed her, shook his head, andhanded her to Mr. Gradgrind as to a horse.'There the ith, Thquire,' he said, sweeping herwith a professional glance as if she were beingadjusted in her seat, 'and the'll do youjuthtithe. Good-bye, Thethilia!''Good-bye, Cecilia!' 'Good-bye, Sissy!' 'Godbless you, dear!' In a variety of voices from all

the room.But the riding-master eye had observed thebottle of the nine oils in her bosom, and henow interposed with 'Leave the bottle, mydear; ith large to carry; it will be of no uthe toyou now. Give it to me!''No, no!' she said, in another burst of tears.'Oh, no! Pray let me keep it for father till hecomes back! He will want it when he comesback. He had never thought of going away,when he sent me for it. I must keep it for him,if you please!''Tho be it, my dear. (You thee how it ith,Thquire!) Farewell, Thethilia! My latht wordthto you ith thith, Thtick to the termth of yourengagement, be obedient to the Thquire, andforget uth. But if, when you're grown up andmarried and well off, you come upon anyhorthe-riding ever, don't be hard upon it, don'tbe croth with it, give it a Bethpeak if you can,and think you might do wurth. People mutht

e amuthed, Thquire, thomehow,' continuedSleary, rendered more pursy than ever, by somuch talking; 'they can't be alwayth a working,nor yet they can't be alwayth a learning. Makethe betht of uth; not the wurtht. I've got myliving out of the horthe-riding all my life, Iknow; but I conthider that I lay down thephilothophy of the thubject when I thay to you,Thquire, make the betht of uth: not the wurtht!'The Sleary philosophy was propounded asthey went downstairs and the fixed eye ofPhilosophy - and its rolling eye, too - soon lostthe three figures and the basket in thedarkness of the street.

CHAPTER VII - MRS. SPARSITMR. BOUNDERBY being a bachelor, an elderlylady presided over his establishment, inconsideration of a certain annual stipend. Mrs.Sparsit was this lady's name; and she was aprominent figure in attendance on Mr.Bounderby's car, as it rolled along in triumphwith the Bully of humility inside.For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen differentdays, but was highly connected. She had agreat aunt living in these very times calledLady Scadgers. Mr. Sparsit, deceased, ofwhom she was the relict, had been by themother's side what Mrs. Sparsit still called 'aPowler.' Strangers of limited information anddull apprehension were sometimes observednot to know what a Powler was, and even toappear uncertain whether it might be abusiness, or a political party, or a profession offaith. The better class of minds, however, didnot need to be informed that the Powlers werean ancient stock, who could trace themselves

so exceedingly far back that it was notsurprising if they sometimes lost themselves -which they had rather frequently done, asrespected horse-flesh, blind-hookey, Hebrewmonetary transactions, and the InsolventDebtors' Court.The late Mr. Sparsit, being by the mother'sside a Powler, married this lady, being by thefather's side a Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (animmensely fat old woman, with an inordinateappetite for butcher's meat, and a mysteriousleg which had now refused to get out of bedfor fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at aperiod when Sparsit was just of age, andchiefly noticeable for a slender body, weaklysupported on two long slim props, andsurmounted by no head worth mentioning. Heinherited a fair fortune from his uncle, butowed it all before he came into it, and spent ittwice over immediately afterwards. Thus,when he died, at twenty-four (the scene of hisdecease, Calais, and the cause, brandy), hedid not leave his widow, from whom he had

een separated soon after the honeymoon, inaffluent circumstances. That bereaved lady,fifteen years older than he, fell presently atdeadly feud with her only relative, LadyScadgers; and, partly to spite her ladyship,and partly to maintain herself, went out at asalary. And here she was now, in her elderlydays, with the Coriolanian style of nose andthe dense black eyebrows which hadcaptivated Sparsit, making Mr. Bounderby'stea as he took his breakfast.If Bounderby had been a Conqueror, andMrs. Sparsit a captive Princess whom he tookabout as a feature in his state-processions, hecould not have made a greater flourish withher than he habitually did. Just as it belongedto his boastfulness to depreciate his ownextraction, so it belonged to it to exalt Mrs.Sparsit's. In the measure that he would notallow his own youth to have been attended bya single favourable circumstance, hebrightened Mrs. Sparsit's juvenile career withevery possible advantage, and showered

waggon-loads of early roses all over that lady'spath. 'And yet, sir,' he would say, 'how does itturn out after all? Why here she is at ahundred a year (I give her a hundred, whichshe is pleased to term handsome), keeping thehouse of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown!'Nay, he made this foil of his so very widelyknown, that third parties took it up, andhandled it on some occasions withconsiderable briskness. It was one of the mostexasperating attributes of Bounderby, that henot only sang his own praises but stimulatedother men to sing them. There was a moralinfection of clap-trap in him. Strangers,modest enough elsewhere, started up atdinners in Coketown, and boasted, in quite arampant way, of Bounderby. They made himout to be the Royal arms, the Union-Jack,Magna Charta, John Bull, Habeas Corpus, theBill of Rights, An Englishman's house is hiscastle, Church and State, and God save theQueen, all put together. And as often (and itwas very often) as an orator of this kind

ought into his peroration,'Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, Abreath can make them, as a breath has made,'- it was, for certain, more or less understoodamong the company that he had heard of Mrs.Sparsit.'Mr. Bounderby,' said Mrs. Sparsit, 'you areunusually slow, sir, with your breakfast thismorning.''Why, ma'am,' he returned, 'I am thinkingabout Tom Gradgrind's whim;' Tom Gradgrind,for a bluff independent manner of speaking -as if somebody were always endeavouring tobribe him with immense sums to say Thomas,and he wouldn't; 'Tom Gradgrind's whim,ma'am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl.''The girl is now waiting to know,' said Mrs.

Sparsit, 'whether she is to go straight to theschool, or up to the Lodge.''She must wait, ma'am,' answered Bounderby,'till I know myself. We shall have TomGradgrind down here presently, I suppose. Ifhe should wish her to remain here a day or twolonger, of course she can, ma'am.''Of course she can if you wish it, Mr.Bounderby.''I told him I would give her a shake-downhere, last night, in order that he might sleep onit before he decided to let her have anyassociation with Louisa.''Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful ofyou!' Mrs. Sparsit's Coriolanian noseunderwent a slight expansion of the nostrils,and her black eyebrows contracted as shetook a sip of tea.'It's tolerably clear to me,' said Bounderby,

'that the little puss can get small good out ofsuch companionship.''Are you speaking of young Miss Gradgrind,Mr. Bounderby?''Yes, ma'am, I'm speaking of Louisa.''Your observation being limited to "littlepuss,"' said Mrs. Sparsit, 'and there being twolittle girls in question, I did not know whichmight be indicated by that expression.''Louisa,' repeated Mr. Bounderby. 'Louisa,Louisa.''You are quite another father to Louisa, sir.'Mrs. Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as shebent her again contracted eyebrows over hersteaming cup, rather looked as if her classicalcountenance were invoking the infernal gods.'If you had said I was another father to Tom -young Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom

Gradgrind - you might have been nearer themark. I am going to take young Tom into myoffice. Going to have him under my wing,ma'am.''Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?'Mrs. Spirit's 'sir,' in addressing Mr. Bounderby,was a word of ceremony, rather exactingconsideration for herself in the use, thanhonouring him.'I'm not going to take him at once; he is tofinish his educational cramming before then,'said Bounderby. 'By the Lord Harry, he'll haveenough of it, first and last! He'd open his eyes,that boy would, if he knew how empty oflearning my young maw was, at his time oflife.' Which, by the by, he probably did know,for he had heard of it often enough. 'But it'sextraordinary the difficulty I have on scores ofsuch subjects, in speaking to any one on equalterms. Here, for example, I have beenspeaking to you this morning about tumblers.Why, what do you know about tumblers? At

the time when, to have been a tumbler in themud of the streets, would have been agodsend to me, a prize in the lottery to me,you were at the Italian Opera. You werecoming out of the Italian Opera, ma'am, inwhite satin and jewels, a blaze of splendour,when I hadn't a penny to buy a link to lightyou.''I certainly, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with adignity serenely mournful, 'was familiar withthe Italian Opera at a very early age.''Egad, ma'am, so was I,' said Bounderby, ' -with the wrong side of it. A hard bed thepavement of its Arcade used to make, I assureyou. People like you, ma'am, accustomed frominfancy to lie on Down feathers, have no ideahow hard a paving-stone is, without trying it.No, no, it's of no use my talking to you abouttumblers. I should speak of foreign dancers,and the West End of London, and May Fair,and lords and ladies and honourables.'

'I trust, sir,' rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decentresignation, 'it is not necessary that you shoulddo anything of that kind. I hope I have learnthow to accommodate myself to the changes oflife. If I have acquired an interest in hearing ofyour instructive experiences, and can scarcelyhear enough of them, I claim no merit for that,since I believe it is a general sentiment.''Well, ma'am,' said her patron, 'perhaps somepeople may be pleased to say that they do liketo hear, in his own unpolished way, what JosiahBounderby, of Coketown, has gone through.But you must confess that you were born in thelap of luxury, yourself. Come, ma'am, youknow you were born in the lap of luxury.''I do not, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit with ashake of her head, 'deny it.'Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up fromtable, and stand with his back to the fire,looking at her; she was such an enhancementof his position.

'And you were in crack society. Devilish highsociety,' he said, warming his legs.'It is true, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with anaffectation of humility the very opposite of his,and therefore in no danger of jostling it.'You were in the tiptop fashion, and all therest of it,' said Mr. Bounderby.'Yes, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a kind ofsocial widowhood upon her. 'It isunquestionably true.'Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees,literally embraced his legs in his greatsatisfaction and laughed aloud. Mr. and MissGradgrind being then announced, he receivedthe former with a shake of the hand, and thelatter with a kiss.'Can Jupe be sent here, Bounderby?' askedMr. Gradgrind.

Certainly. So Jupe was sent there. Oncoming in, she curtseyed to Mr. Bounderby,and to his friend Tom Gradgrind, and also toLouisa; but in her confusion unluckily omittedMrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the blustrousBounderby had the following remarks to make:'Now, I tell you what, my girl. The name ofthat lady by the teapot, is Mrs. Sparsit. Thatlady acts as mistress of this house, and she is ahighly connected lady. Consequently, if everyou come again into any room in this house,you will make a short stay in it if you don'tbehave towards that lady in your mostrespectful manner. Now, I don't care a buttonwhat you do to me, because I don't affect to beanybody. So far from having high connectionsI have no connections at all, and I come of thescum of the earth. But towards that lady, I docare what you do; and you shall do what isdeferential and respectful, or you shall notcome here.'

'I hope, Bounderby,' said Mr. Gradgrind, in aconciliatory voice, 'that this was merely anoversight.''My friend Tom Gradgrind suggests, Mrs.Sparsit,' said Bounderby, 'that this was merelyan oversight. Very likely. However, as youare aware, ma'am, I don't allow of evenoversights towards you.''You are very good indeed, sir,' returned Mrs.Sparsit, shaking her head with her Statehumility. 'It is not worth speaking of.'Sissy, who all this time had been faintlyexcusing herself with tears in her eyes, wasnow waved over by the master of the house toMr. Gradgrind. She stood looking intently athim, and Louisa stood coldly by, with her eyesupon the ground, while he proceeded thus:'Jupe, I have made up my mind to take youinto my house; and, when you are not inattendance at the school, to employ you about

Mrs. Gradgrind, who is rather an invalid. Ihave explained to Miss Louisa - this is MissLouisa - the miserable but natural end of yourlate career; and you are to expresslyunderstand that the whole of that subject ispast, and is not to be referred to any more.From this time you begin your history. Youare, at present, ignorant, I know.''Yes, sir, very,' she answered, curtseying.'I shall have the satisfaction of causing you tobe strictly educated; and you will be a livingproof to all who come into communication withyou, of the advantages of the training you willreceive. You will be reclaimed and formed.You have been in the habit now of reading toyour father, and those people I found youamong, I dare say?' said Mr. Gradgrind,beckoning her nearer to him before he saidso, and dropping his voice.'Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least Imean to father, when Merrylegs was always

there.''Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,' said Mr.Gradgrind, with a passing frown. 'I don't askabout him. I understand you to have been inthe habit of reading to your father?''O, yes, sir, thousands of times. They werethe happiest - O, of all the happy times we hadtogether, sir!'It was only now when her sorrow broke out,that Louisa looked at her.'And what,' asked Mr. Gradgrind, in a stilllower voice, 'did you read to your father,Jupe?''About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and theHunchback, and the Genies,' she sobbed out;'and about - ''Hush!' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'that is enough.Never breathe a word of such destructive

nonsense any more. Bounderby, this is a casefor rigid training, and I shall observe it withinterest.''Well,' returned Mr. Bounderby, 'I have givenyou my opinion already, and I shouldn't do asyou do. But, very well, very well. Since youare bent upon it, very well!'So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter tookCecilia Jupe off with them to Stone Lodge, andon the way Louisa never spoke one word,good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby went abouthis daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit got behindher eyebrows and meditated in the gloom ofthat retreat, all the evening.

CHAPTER VIII - NEVER WONDERLET us strike the key-note again, beforepursuing the tune.When she was half a dozen years younger,Louisa had been overheard to begin aconversation with her brother one day, bysaying 'Tom, I wonder' - upon which Mr.Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing,stepped forth into the light and said, 'Louisa,never wonder!'Herein lay the spring of the mechanical artand mystery of educating the reason withoutstooping to the cultivation of the sentimentsand affections. Never wonder. By means ofaddition, subtraction, multiplication, anddivision, settle everything somehow, andnever wonder. Bring to me, saysM'Choakumchild, yonder baby just able towalk, and I will engage that it shall neverwonder.

Now, besides very many babies just able towalk, there happened to be in Coketown aconsiderable population of babies who hadbeen walking against time towards the infiniteworld, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years andmore. These portentous infants beingalarming creatures to stalk about in any humansociety, the eighteen denominationsincessantly scratched one another's faces andpulled one another's hair by way of agreeingon the steps to be taken for their improvement- which they never did; a surprisingcircumstance, when the happy adaptation ofthe means to the end is considered. Still,although they differed in every otherparticular, conceivable and inconceivable(especially inconceivable), they were prettywell united on the point that these unluckyinfants were never to wonder. Body numberone, said they must take everything on trust.Body number two, said they must takeeverything on political economy. Bodynumber three, wrote leaden little books forthem, showing how the good grown-up baby

invariably got to the Savings-bank, and thebad grown-up baby invariably gottransported. Body number four, under drearypretences of being droll (when it was verymelancholy indeed), made the shallowestpretences of concealing pitfalls of knowledge,into which it was the duty of these babies to besmuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodiesagreed that they were never to wonder.There was a library in Coketown, to whichgeneral access was easy. Mr. Gradgrindgreatly tormented his mind about what thepeople read in this library: a point whereonlittle rivers of tabular statements periodicallyflowed into the howling ocean of tabularstatements, which no diver ever got to anydepth in and came up sane. It was adisheartening circumstance, but a melancholyfact, that even these readers persisted inwondering. They wondered about humannature, human passions, human hopes andfears, the struggles, triumphs and defeats, thecares and joys and sorrows, the lives and

deaths of common men and women! Theysometimes, after fifteen hours' work, sat downto read mere fables about men and women,more or less like themselves, and aboutchildren, more or less like their own. Theytook De Foe to their bosoms, instead of Euclid,and seemed to be on the whole morecomforted by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr.Gradgrind was for ever working, in print andout of print, at this eccentric sum, and he nevercould make out how it yielded thisunaccountable product.'I am sick of my life, Loo. I, hate it altogether,and I hate everybody except you,' said theunnatural young Thomas Gradgrind in thehair-cutting chamber at twilight.'You don't hate Sissy, Tom?''I hate to be obliged to call her Jupe. And shehates me,' said Tom, moodily.'No, she does not, Tom, I am sure!'

'She must,' said Tom. 'She must just hate anddetest the whole set-out of us. They'll botherher head off, I think, before they have donewith her. Already she's getting as pale as wax,and as heavy as - I am.'Young Thomas expressed these sentimentssitting astride of a chair before the fire, withhis arms on the back, and his sulky face on hisarms. His sister sat in the darker corner by thefireside, now looking at him, now looking atthe bright sparks as they dropped upon thehearth.'As to me,' said Tom, tumbling his hair allmanner of ways with his sulky hands, 'I am aDonkey, that's what I am. I am as obstinate asone, I am more stupid than one, I get as muchpleasure as one, and I should like to kick likeone.''Not me, I hope, Tom?'

'No, Loo; I wouldn't hurt you. I made anexception of you at first. I don't know what this- jolly old - Jaundiced Jail,' Tom had paused tofind a sufficiently complimentary andexpressive name for the parental roof, andseemed to relieve his mind for a moment bythe strong alliteration of this one, 'would bewithout you.''Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly sayso?''Why, of course I do. What's the use of talkingabout it!' returned Tom, chafing his face on hiscoat-sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and haveit in unison with his spirit.'Because, Tom,' said his sister, after silentlywatching the sparks awhile, 'as I get older, andnearer growing up, I often sit wondering here,and think how unfortunate it is for me that Ican't reconcile you to home better than I amable to do. I don't know what other girls know.I can't play to you, or sing to you. I can't talk to

you so as to lighten your mind, for I never seeany amusing sights or read any amusing booksthat it would be a pleasure or a relief to you totalk about, when you are tired.''Well, no more do I. I am as bad as you in thatrespect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not.If father was determined to make me either aPrig or a Mule, and I am not a Prig, why, itstands to reason, I must be a Mule. And so Iam,' said Tom, desperately.'It's a great pity,' said Louisa, after anotherpause, and speaking thoughtfully out of herdark corner: 'it's a great pity, Tom. It's veryunfortunate for both of us.''Oh! You,' said Tom; 'you are a girl, Loo, and agirl comes out of it better than a boy does. Idon't miss anything in you. You are the onlypleasure I have - you can brighten even thisplace - and you can always lead me as youlike.'

'You are a dear brother, Tom; and while youthink I can do such things, I don't so muchmind knowing better. Though I do knowbetter, Tom, and am very sorry for it.' Shecame and kissed him, and went back into hercorner again.'I wish I could collect all the Facts we hear somuch about,' said Tom, spitefully setting histeeth, 'and all the Figures, and all the peoplewho found them out: and I wish I could put athousand barrels of gunpowder under them,and blow them all up together! However, whenI go to live with old Bounderby, I'll have myrevenge.''Your revenge, Tom?''I mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go aboutand see something, and hear something. I'llrecompense myself for the way in which I havebeen brought up.''But don't disappoint yourself beforehand,

Tom. Mr. Bounderby thinks as father thinks,and is a great deal rougher, and not half sokind.''Oh!' said Tom, laughing; 'I don't mind that. Ishall very well know how to manage andsmooth old Bounderby!'Their shadows were defined upon the wall,but those of the high presses in the room wereall blended together on the wall and on theceiling, as if the brother and sister wereoverhung by a dark cavern. Or, a fancifulimagination - if such treason could have beenthere - might have made it out to be theshadow of their subject, and of its loweringassociation with their future.'What is your great mode of smoothing andmanaging, Tom? Is it a secret?''Oh!' said Tom, 'if it is a secret, it's not far off.It's you. You are his little pet, you are hisfavourite; he'll do anything for you. When he

says to me what I don't like, I shall say to him,"My sister Loo will be hurt and disappointed,Mr. Bounderby. She always used to tell meshe was sure you would be easier with me thanthis." That'll bring him about, or nothing will.'After waiting for some answering remark,and getting none, Tom wearily relapsed intothe present time, and twined himself yawninground and about the rails of his chair, andrumpled his head more and more, until hesuddenly looked up, and asked:'Have you gone to sleep, Loo?''No, Tom. I am looking at the fire.''You seem to find more to look at in it thanever I could find,' said Tom. 'Another of theadvantages, I suppose, of being a girl.''Tom,' enquired his sister, slowly, and in acurious tone, as if she were reading what sheasked in the fire, and it was not quite plainly

written there, 'do you look forward with anysatisfaction to this change to Mr. Bounderby's?''Why, there's one thing to be said of it,'returned Tom, pushing his chair from him, andstanding up; 'it will be getting away fromhome.''There is one thing to be said of it,' Louisarepeated in her former curious tone; 'it will begetting away from home. Yes.''Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both toleave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But Imust go, you know, whether I like it or not; andI had better go where I can take with me someadvantage of your influence, than where Ishould lose it altogether. Don't you see?''Yes, Tom.'The answer was so long in coming, thoughthere was no indecision in it, that Tom wentand leaned on the back of her chair, to

contemplate the fire which so engrossed her,from her point of view, and see what he couldmake of it.'Except that it is a fire,' said Tom, 'it looks tome as stupid and blank as everything elselooks. What do you see in it? Not a circus?''I don't see anything in it, Tom, particularly.But since I have been looking at it, I have beenwondering about you and me, grown up.''Wondering again!' said Tom.'I have such unmanageable thoughts,'returned his sister, 'that they will wonder.''Then I beg of you, Louisa,' said Mrs.Gradgrind, who had opened the door withoutbeing heard, 'to do nothing of that description,for goodness' sake, you inconsiderate girl, or Ishall never hear the last of it from your father.And, Thomas, it is really shameful, with mypoor head continually wearing me out, that a

oy brought up as you have been, and whoseeducation has cost what yours has, should befound encouraging his sister to wonder, whenhe knows his father has expressly said that sheis not to do it.'Louisa denied Tom's participation in theoffence; but her mother stopped her with theconclusive answer, 'Louisa, don't tell me, in mystate of health; for unless you had beenencouraged, it is morally and physicallyimpossible that you could have done it.''I was encouraged by nothing, mother, but bylooking at the red sparks dropping out of thefire, and whitening and dying. It made methink, after all, how short my life would be, andhow little I could hope to do in it.''Nonsense!' said Mrs. Gradgrind, renderedalmost energetic. 'Nonsense! Don't stand thereand tell me such stuff, Louisa, to my face, whenyou know very well that if it was ever to reachyour father's ears I should never hear the last

of it. After all the trouble that has been takenwith you! After the lectures you haveattended, and the experiments you have seen!After I have heard you myself, when the wholeof my right side has been benumbed, going onwith your master about combustion, andcalcination, and calorification, and I may sayevery kind of ation that could drive a poorinvalid distracted, to hear you talking in thisabsurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish,'whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair,and discharging her strongest point beforesuccumbing under these mere shadows offacts, 'yes, I really do wish that I had never hada family, and then you would have known whatit was to do without me!'

CHAPTER IX - SISSY'S PROGRESSSISSY JUPE had not an easy time of it, betweenMr. M'Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, andwas not without strong impulses, in the firstmonths of her probation, to run away. It hailedfacts all day long so very hard, and life ingeneral was opened to her as such a closelyruled ciphering-book, that assuredly shewould have run away, but for only onerestraint.It is lamentable to think of; but this restraintwas the result of no arithmetical process, wasself-imposed in defiance of all calculation, andwent dead against any table of probabilitiesthat any Actuary would have drawn up fromthe premises. The girl believed that her fatherhad not deserted her; she lived in the hopethat he would come back, and in the faith thathe would be made the happier by herremaining where she was.The wretched ignorance with which Jupe

clung to this consolation, rejecting thesuperior comfort of knowing, on a soundarithmetical basis, that her father was anunnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind withpity. Yet, what was to be done?M'Choakumchild reported that she had a verydense head for figures; that, once possessedwith a general idea of the globe, she took thesmallest conceivable interest in its exactmeasurements; that she was extremely slow inthe acquisition of dates, unless some pitifulincident happened to be connected therewith;that she would burst into tears on beingrequired (by the mental process) immediatelyto name the cost of two hundred andforty-seven muslin caps at fourteen-pencehalfpenny; that she was as low down, in theschool, as low could be; that after eight weeksof induction into the elements of PoliticalEconomy, she had only yesterday been setright by a prattler three feet high, for returningto the question, 'What is the first principle ofthis science?' the absurd answer, 'To do untoothers as I would that they should do unto me.'

Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking his head,that all this was very bad; that it showed thenecessity of infinite grinding at the mill ofknowledge, as per system, schedule, bluebook, report, and tabular statements A to Z;and that Jupe 'must be kept to it.' So Jupe waskept to it, and became low-spirited, but nowiser.'It would be a fine thing to be you, MissLouisa!' she said, one night, when Louisa hadendeavoured to make her perplexities for nextday something clearer to her.'Do you think so?''I should know so much, Miss Louisa. All thatis difficult to me now, would be so easy then.''You might not be the better for it, Sissy.'Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, 'Ishould not be the worse, Miss Louisa.' To

which Miss Louisa answered, 'I don't knowthat.'There had been so little communicationbetween these two - both because life at StoneLodge went monotonously round like a pieceof machinery which discouraged humaninterference, and because of the prohibitionrelative to Sissy's past career - that they werestill almost strangers. Sissy, with her darkeyes wonderingly directed to Louisa's face,was uncertain whether to say more or toremain silent.'You are more useful to my mother, and morepleasant with her than I can ever be,' Louisaresumed. 'You are pleasanter to yourself, thanI am to myself.''But, if you please, Miss Louisa,' Sissypleaded, 'I am - O so stupid!'Louisa, with a brighter laugh than usual, toldher she would be wiser by-and-by.

'You don't know,' said Sissy, half crying, 'whata stupid girl I am. All through school hours Imake mistakes. Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchildcall me up, over and over again, regularly tomake mistakes. I can't help them. They seemto come natural to me.''Mr. and Mrs. M'Choakumchild never makeany mistakes themselves, I suppose, Sissy?''O no!' she eagerly returned. 'They knoweverything.''Tell me some of your mistakes.''I am almost ashamed,' said Sissy, withreluctance. 'But to-day, for instance, Mr.M'Choakumchild was explaining to us aboutNatural Prosperity.''National, I think it must have been,' observedLouisa.

'Yes, it was. - But isn't it the same?' she timidlyasked.'You had better say, National, as he said so,'returned Louisa, with her dry reserve.'National Prosperity. And he said, Now, thisschoolroom is a Nation. And in this nation,there are fifty millions of money. Isn't this aprosperous nation? Girl number twenty, isn'tthis a prosperous nation, and a'n't you in athriving state?''What did you say?' asked Louisa.'Miss Louisa, I said I didn't know. I thought Icouldn't know whether it was a prosperousnation or not, and whether I was in a thrivingstate or not, unless I knew who had got themoney, and whether any of it was mine. Butthat had nothing to do with it. It was not in thefigures at all,' said Sissy, wiping her eyes.'That was a great mistake of yours,' observed

Louisa.'Yes, Miss Louisa, I know it was, now. ThenMr. M'Choakumchild said he would try meagain. And he said, This schoolroom is animmense town, and in it there are a million ofinhabitants, and only five-and-twenty arestarved to death in the streets, in the course ofa year. What is your remark on thatproportion? And my remark was - for Icouldn't think of a better one - that I thought itmust be just as hard upon those who werestarved, whether the others were a million, ora million million. And that was wrong, too.''Of course it was.''Then Mr. M'Choakumchild said he would tryme once more. And he said, Here are thestutterings - ''Statistics,' said Louisa.'Yes, Miss Louisa - they always remind me of

stutterings, and that's another of my mistakes -of accidents upon the sea. And I find (Mr.M'Choakumchild said) that in a given time ahundred thousand persons went to sea on longvoyages, and only five hundred of them weredrowned or burnt to death. What is thepercentage? And I said, Miss;' here Sissy fairlysobbed as confessing with extreme contritionto her greatest error; 'I said it was nothing.''Nothing, Sissy?''Nothing, Miss - to the relations and friends ofthe people who were killed. I shall neverlearn,' said Sissy. 'And the worst of all is, thatalthough my poor father wished me so much tolearn, and although I am so anxious to learn,because he wished me to, I am afraid I don'tlike it.'Louisa stood looking at the pretty modesthead, as it drooped abashed before her, untilit was raised again to glance at her face. Thenshe asked:

'Did your father know so much himself, thathe wished you to be well taught too, Sissy?'Sissy hesitated before replying, and soplainly showed her sense that they wereentering on forbidden ground, that Louisaadded, 'No one hears us; and if any one did, Iam sure no harm could be found in such aninnocent question.''No, Miss Louisa,' answered Sissy, upon thisencouragement, shaking her head; 'fatherknows very little indeed. It's as much as hecan do to write; and it's more than people ingeneral can do to read his writing. Though it'splain to me.''Your mother!''Father says she was quite a scholar. She diedwhen I was born. She was;' Sissy made theterrible communication nervously; 'she was adancer.'

'Did your father love her?' Louisa asked thesequestions with a strong, wild, wanderinginterest peculiar to her; an interest gone astraylike a banished creature, and hiding in solitaryplaces.'O yes! As dearly as he loves me. Fatherloved me, first, for her sake. He carried meabout with him when I was quite a baby. Wehave never been asunder from that time.''Yet he leaves you now, Sissy?''Only for my good. Nobody understands himas I do; nobody knows him as I do. When heleft me for my good - he never would have leftme for his own - I know he was almostbroken-hearted with the trial. He will not behappy for a single minute, till he comes back.''Tell me more about him,' said Louisa, 'I willnever ask you again. Where did you live?'

'We travelled about the country, and had nofixed place to live in. Father's a;' Sissywhispered the awful word, 'a clown.''To make the people laugh?' said Louisa, witha nod of intelligence.'Yes. But they wouldn't laugh sometimes, andthen father cried. Lately, they very oftenwouldn't laugh, and he used to come homedespairing. Father's not like most. Those whodidn't know him as well as I do, and didn't lovehim as dearly as I do, might believe he was notquite right. Sometimes they played tricksupon him; but they never knew how he feltthem, and shrunk up, when he was alone withme. He was far, far timider than they thought!''And you were his comfort througheverything?'She nodded, with the tears rolling down herface. 'I hope so, and father said I was. It wasbecause he grew so scared and trembling,

and because he felt himself to be a poor,weak, ignorant, helpless man (those used tobe his words), that he wanted me so much toknow a great deal, and be different from him.I used to read to him to cheer his courage, andhe was very fond of that. They were wrongbooks - I am never to speak of them here - butwe didn't know there was any harm in them.''And he liked them?' said Louisa, with asearching gaze on Sissy all this time.'O very much! They kept him, many times,from what did him real harm. And often andoften of a night, he used to forget all histroubles in wondering whether the Sultanwould let the lady go on with the story, orwould have her head cut off before it wasfinished.''And your father was always kind? To thelast?' asked Louisa contravening the greatprinciple, and wondering very much.

'Always, always!' returned Sissy, clasping herhands. 'Kinder and kinder than I can tell. Hewas angry only one night, and that was not tome, but Merrylegs. Merrylegs;' she whisperedthe awful fact; 'is his performing dog.''Why was he angry with the dog?' Louisademanded.'Father, soon after they came home fromperforming, told Merrylegs to jump up on thebacks of the two chairs and stand across them -which is one of his tricks. He looked at father,and didn't do it at once. Everything of father'shad gone wrong that night, and he hadn'tpleased the public at all. He cried out that thevery dog knew he was failing, and had nocompassion on him. Then he beat the dog,and I was frightened, and said, "Father, father!Pray don't hurt the creature who is so fond ofyou! O Heaven forgive you, father, stop!" Andhe stopped, and the dog was bloody, andfather lay down crying on the floor with thedog in his arms, and the dog licked his face.'

Louisa saw that she was sobbing; and goingto her, kissed her, took her hand, and sat downbeside her.'Finish by telling me how your father left you,Sissy. Now that I have asked you so much, tellme the end. The blame, if there is any blame,is mine, not yours.''Dear Miss Louisa,' said Sissy, covering hereyes, and sobbing yet; 'I came home from theschool that afternoon, and found poor fatherjust come home too, from the booth. And hesat rocking himself over the fire, as if he was inpain. And I said, "Have you hurt yourself,father?" (as he did sometimes, like they alldid), and he said, "A little, my darling." Andwhen I came to stoop down and look up at hisface, I saw that he was crying. The more Ispoke to him, the more he hid his face; and atfirst he shook all over, and said nothing but"My darling;" and "My love!"'

Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at thetwo with a coolness not particularly savouringof interest in anything but himself, and notmuch of that at present.'I am asking Sissy a few questions, Tom,'observed his sister. 'You have no occasion togo away; but don't interrupt us for a moment,Tom dear.''Oh! very well!' returned Tom. 'Only fatherhas brought old Bounderby home, and I wantyou to come into the drawing-room. Because ifyou come, there's a good chance of oldBounderby's asking me to dinner; and if youdon't, there's none.''I'll come directly.''I'll wait for you,' said Tom, 'to make sure.'Sissy resumed in a lower voice. 'At last poorfather said that he had given no satisfactionagain, and never did give any satisfaction now,

and that he was a shame and disgrace, and Ishould have done better without him all along.I said all the affectionate things to him thatcame into my heart, and presently he wasquiet and I sat down by him, and told him allabout the school and everything that had beensaid and done there. When I had no more leftto tell, he put his arms round my neck, andkissed me a great many times. Then he askedme to fetch some of the stuff he used, for thelittle hurt he had had, and to get it at the bestplace, which was at the other end of town fromthere; and then, after kissing me again, he letme go. When I had gone down-stairs, I turnedback that I might be a little bit more companyto him yet, and looked in at the door, and said,"Father dear, shall I take Merrylegs?" Fathershook his head and said, "No, Sissy, no; takenothing that's known to be mine, my darling;"and I left him sitting by the fire. Then thethought must have come upon him, poor, poorfather! of going away to try something for mysake; for when I came back, he was gone.'

'I say! Look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!'Tom remonstrated.'There's no more to tell, Miss Louisa. I keepthe nine oils ready for him, and I know he willcome back. Every letter that I see in Mr.Gradgrind's hand takes my breath away andblinds my eyes, for I think it comes fromfather, or from Mr. Sleary about father. Mr.Sleary promised to write as soon as ever fathershould be heard of, and I trust to him to keephis word.''Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!' saidTom, with an impatient whistle. 'He'll be off ifyou don't look sharp!'After this, whenever Sissy dropped a curtseyto Mr. Gradgrind in the presence of his family,and said in a faltering way, 'I beg your pardon,sir, for being troublesome - but - have you hadany letter yet about me?' Louisa wouldsuspend the occupation of the moment,whatever it was, and look for the reply as

earnestly as Sissy did. And when Mr.Gradgrind regularly answered, 'No, Jupe,nothing of the sort,' the trembling of Sissy's lipwould be repeated in Louisa's face, and hereyes would follow Sissy with compassion to thedoor. Mr. Gradgrind usually improved theseoccasions by remarking, when she was gone,that if Jupe had been properly trained from anearly age she would have remonstrated toherself on sound principles the baselessnessof these fantastic hopes. Yet it did seem(though not to him, for he saw nothing of it) asif fantastic hope could take as strong a hold asFact.This observation must be limited exclusivelyto his daughter. As to Tom, he was becomingthat not unprecedented triumph of calculationwhich is usually at work on number one. As toMrs. Gradgrind, if she said anything on thesubject, she would come a little way out of herwrappers, like a feminine dormouse, and say:'Good gracious bless me, how my poor head

is vexed and worried by that girl Jupe's soperseveringly asking, over and over again,about her tiresome letters! Upon my word andhonour I seem to be fated, and destined, andordained, to live in the midst of things that I amnever to hear the last of. It really is a mostextraordinary circumstance that it appears asif I never was to hear the last of anything!'At about this point, Mr. Gradgrind's eyewould fall upon her; and under the influence ofthat wintry piece of fact, she would becometorpid again.

CHAPTER X - STEPHEN BLACKPOOLI ENTERTAIN a weak idea that the Englishpeople are as hard-worked as any peopleupon whom the sun shines. I acknowledge tothis ridiculous idiosyncrasy, as a reason why Iwould give them a little more play.In the hardest working part of Coketown; inthe innermost fortifications of that ugly citadel,where Nature was as strongly bricked out askilling airs and gases were bricked in; at theheart of the labyrinth of narrow courts uponcourts, and close streets upon streets, whichhad come into existence piecemeal, everypiece in a violent hurry for some one man'spurpose, and the whole an unnatural family,shouldering, and trampling, and pressing oneanother to death; in the last close nook of thisgreat exhausted receiver, where thechimneys, for want of air to make a draught,were built in an immense variety of stuntedand crooked shapes, as though every houseput out a sign of the kind of people who might

e expected to be born in it; among themultitude of Coketown, generically called 'theHands,' - a race who would have found morefavour with some people, if Providence hadseen fit to make them only hands, or, like thelower creatures of the seashore, only handsand stomachs - lived a certain StephenBlackpool, forty years of age.Stephen looked older, but he had had a hardlife. It is said that every life has its roses andthorns; there seemed, however, to have beena misadventure or mistake in Stephen's case,whereby somebody else had becomepossessed of his roses, and he had becomepossessed of the same somebody else's thornsin addition to his own. He had known, to usehis words, a peck of trouble. He was usuallycalled Old Stephen, in a kind of rough homageto the fact.A rather stooping man, with a knitted brow, apondering expression of face, and ahard-looking head sufficiently capacious, on

which his iron-grey hair lay long and thin, OldStephen might have passed for a particularlyintelligent man in his condition. Yet he wasnot. He took no place among thoseremarkable 'Hands,' who, piecing togethertheir broken intervals of leisure through manyyears, had mastered difficult sciences, andacquired a knowledge of most unlikely things.He held no station among the Hands who couldmake speeches and carry on debates.Thousands of his compeers could talk muchbetter than he, at any time. He was a goodpower-loom weaver, and a man of perfectintegrity. What more he was, or what else hehad in him, if anything, let him show forhimself.The lights in the great factories, whichlooked, when they were illuminated, like Fairypalaces - or the travellers by express- trainsaid so - were all extinguished; and the bellshad rung for knocking off for the night, andhad ceased again; and the Hands, men andwomen, boy and girl, were clattering home.

Old Stephen was standing in the street, withthe old sensation upon him which the stoppageof the machinery always produced - thesensation of its having worked and stopped inhis own head.'Yet I don't see Rachael, still!' said he.It was a wet night, and many groups of youngwomen passed him, with their shawls drawnover their bare heads and held close undertheir chins to keep the rain out. He knewRachael well, for a glance at any one of thesegroups was sufficient to show him that she wasnot there. At last, there were no more to come;and then he turned away, saying in a tone ofdisappointment, 'Why, then, ha' missed her!'But, he had not gone the length of threestreets, when he saw another of the shawledfigures in advance of him, at which he lookedso keenly that perhaps its mere shadowindistinctly reflected on the wet pavement - ifhe could have seen it without the figure itself

moving along from lamp to lamp, brighteningand fading as it went - would have beenenough to tell him who was there. Making hispace at once much quicker and much softer,he darted on until he was very near this figure,then fell into his former walk, and called'Rachael!'She turned, being then in the brightness of alamp; and raising her hood a little, showed aquiet oval face, dark and rather delicate,irradiated by a pair of very gentle eyes, andfurther set off by the perfect order of hershining black hair. It was not a face in its firstbloom; she was a woman five and thirty yearsof age.'Ah, lad! 'Tis thou?' When she had said this,with a smile which would have been quiteexpressed, though nothing of her had beenseen but her pleasant eyes, she replaced herhood again, and they went on together.'I thought thou wast ahind me, Rachael?'

'No.''Early t'night, lass?'''Times I'm a little early, Stephen! 'times a littlelate. I'm never to be counted on, going home.''Nor going t'other way, neither, 't seems tome, Rachael?''No, Stephen.'He looked at her with some disappointment inhis face, but with a respectful and patientconviction that she must be right in whatevershe did. The expression was not lost upon her;she laid her hand lightly on his arm a momentas if to thank him for it.'We are such true friends, lad, and such oldfriends, and getting to be such old folk, now.''No, Rachael, thou'rt as young as ever thou

wast.''One of us would be puzzled how to get old,Stephen, without 't other getting so too, bothbeing alive,' she answered, laughing; 'but,anyways, we're such old friends, and t' hide aword of honest truth fro' one another would bea sin and a pity. 'Tis better not to walk toomuch together. 'Times, yes! 'Twould be hard,indeed, if 'twas not to be at all,' she said, with acheerfulness she sought to communicate tohim.''Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.''Try to think not; and 'twill seem better.''I've tried a long time, and 'ta'nt got better.But thou'rt right; 't might mak fok talk, even ofthee. Thou hast been that to me, Rachael,through so many year: thou hast done me somuch good, and heartened of me in thatcheering way, that thy word is a law to me. Ah,lass, and a bright good law! Better than some

eal ones.''Never fret about them, Stephen,' sheanswered quickly, and not without an anxiousglance at his face. 'Let the laws be.''Yes,' he said, with a slow nod or two. 'Let 'embe. Let everything be. Let all sorts alone. 'Tisa muddle, and that's aw.''Always a muddle?' said Rachael, with anothergentle touch upon his arm, as if to recall himout of the thoughtfulness, in which he wasbiting the long ends of his loose neckerchief ashe walked along. The touch had itsinstantaneous effect. He let them fall, turned asmiling face upon her, and said, as he brokeinto a good-humoured laugh, 'Ay, Rachael,lass, awlus a muddle. That's where I stick. Icome to the muddle many times and agen, andI never get beyond it.'They had walked some distance, and werenear their own homes. The woman's was the

first reached. It was in one of the many smallstreets for which the favourite undertaker (whoturned a handsome sum out of the one poorghastly pomp of the neighbourhood) kept ablack ladder, in order that those who had donetheir daily groping up and down the narrowstairs might slide out of this working world bythe windows. She stopped at the corner, andputting her hand in his, wished him goodnight.'Good night, dear lass; good night!'She went, with her neat figure and her soberwomanly step, down the dark street, and hestood looking after her until she turned intoone of the small houses. There was not aflutter of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but had itsinterest in this man's eyes; not a tone of hervoice but had its echo in his innermost heart.When she was lost to his view, he pursued hishomeward way, glancing up sometimes at thesky, where the clouds were sailing fast and

wildly. But, they were broken now, and therain had ceased, and the moon shone, -looking down the high chimneys of Coketownon the deep furnaces below, and castingTitanic shadows of the steam-engines at rest,upon the walls where they were lodged. Theman seemed to have brightened with thenight, as he went on.His home, in such another street as the first,saving that it was narrower, was over a littleshop. How it came to pass that any peoplefound it worth their while to sell or buy thewretched little toys, mixed up in its windowwith cheap newspapers and pork (there was aleg to be raffled for to-morrow-night), mattersnot here. He took his end of candle from ashelf, lighted it at another end of candle on thecounter, without disturbing the mistress of theshop who was asleep in her little room, andwent upstairs into his lodging.It was a room, not unacquainted with theblack ladder under various tenants; but as

neat, at present, as such a room could be. Afew books and writings were on an old bureauin a corner, the furniture was decent andsufficient, and, though the atmosphere wastainted, the room was clean.Going to the hearth to set the candle downupon a round three- legged table standingthere, he stumbled against something. As herecoiled, looking down at it, it raised itself upinto the form of a woman in a sitting attitude.'Heaven's mercy, woman!' he cried, fallingfarther off from the figure. 'Hast thou comeback again!'Such a woman! A disabled, drunkencreature, barely able to preserve her sittingposture by steadying herself with onebegrimed hand on the floor, while the otherwas so purposeless in trying to push away hertangled hair from her face, that it only blindedher the more with the dirt upon it. A creatureso foul to look at, in her tatters, stains and

splashes, but so much fouler than that in hermoral infamy, that it was a shameful thing evento see her.After an impatient oath or two, and somestupid clawing of herself with the hand notnecessary to her support, she got her hairaway from her eyes sufficiently to obtain asight of him. Then she sat swaying her body toand fro, and making gestures with herunnerved arm, which seemed intended as theaccompaniment to a fit of laughter, though herface was stolid and drowsy.'Eigh, lad? What, yo'r there?' Some hoarsesounds meant for this, came mockingly out ofher at last; and her head dropped forward onher breast.'Back agen?' she screeched, after someminutes, as if he had that moment said it. 'Yes!And back agen. Back agen ever and ever sooften. Back? Yes, back. Why not?'

Roused by the unmeaning violence withwhich she cried it out, she scrambled up, andstood supporting herself with her shouldersagainst the wall; dangling in one hand by thestring, a dunghill- fragment of a bonnet, andtrying to look scornfully at him.'I'll sell thee off again, and I'll sell thee offagain, and I'll sell thee off a score of times!' shecried, with something between a furiousmenace and an effort at a defiant dance.'Come awa' from th' bed!' He was sitting on theside of it, with his face hidden in his hands.'Come awa! from 't. 'Tis mine, and I've a rightto t'!'As she staggered to it, he avoided her with ashudder, and passed - his face still hidden - tothe opposite end of the room. She threwherself upon the bed heavily, and soon wassnoring hard. He sunk into a chair, and movedbut once all that night. It was to throw acovering over her; as if his hands were notenough to hide her, even in the darkness.

CHAPTER XI - NO WAY OUTTHE Fairy palaces burst into illumination,before pale morning showed the monstrousserpents of smoke trailing themselves overCoketown. A clattering of clogs upon thepavement; a rapid ringing of bells; and all themelancholy mad elephants, polished and oiledup for the day's monotony, were at their heavyexercise again.Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful,and steady. A special contrast, as every manwas in the forest of looms where Stephenworked, to the crashing, smashing, tearingpiece of mechanism at which he laboured.Never fear, good people of an anxious turn ofmind, that Art will consign Nature to oblivion.Set anywhere, side by side, the work of GODand the work of man; and the former, eventhough it be a troop of Hands of very smallaccount, will gain in dignity from thecomparison.

So many hundred Hands in this Mill; so manyhundred horse Steam Power. It is known, tothe force of a single pound weight, what theengine will do; but, not all the calculators ofthe National Debt can tell me the capacity forgood or evil, for love or hatred, for patriotismor discontent, for the decomposition of virtueinto vice, or the reverse, at any single momentin the soul of one of these its quiet servants,with the composed faces and the regulatedactions. There is no mystery in it; there is anunfathomable mystery in the meanest of them,for ever. - Supposing we were to reverse ourarithmetic for material objects, and to governthese awful unknown quantities by othermeans!The day grew strong, and showed itselfoutside, even against the flaming lights within.The lights were turned out, and the work wenton. The rain fell, and the Smoke-serpents,submissive to the curse of all that tribe, trailedthemselves upon the earth. In the waste-yardoutside, the steam from the escape pipe, the

litter of barrels and old iron, the shining heapsof coals, the ashes everywhere, wereshrouded in a veil of mist and rain.The work went on, until the noon-bell rang.More clattering upon the pavements. Thelooms, and wheels, and Hands all out of gearfor an hour.Stephen came out of the hot mill into thedamp wind and cold wet streets, haggard andworn. He turned from his own class and hisown quarter, taking nothing but a little breadas he walked along, towards the hill on whichhis principal employer lived, in a red housewith black outside shutters, green insideblinds, a black street door, up two white steps,BOUNDERBY (in letters very like himself) upona brazen plate, and a round brazendoor-handle underneath it, like a brazenfull-stop.Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephenhad expected. Would his servant say that one

of the Hands begged leave to speak to him?Message in return, requiring name of suchHand. Stephen Blackpool. There was nothingtroublesome against Stephen Blackpool; yes,he might come in.Stephen Blackpool in the parlour. Mr.Bounderby (whom he just knew by sight), atlunch on chop and sherry. Mrs. Sparsit nettingat the fireside, in a side-saddle attitude, withone foot in a cotton stirrup. It was a part, atonce of Mrs. Sparsit's dignity and service, notto lunch. She supervised the meal officially,but implied that in her own stately person sheconsidered lunch a weakness.'Now, Stephen,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'what'sthe matter with you?'Stephen made a bow. Not a servile one -these Hands will never do that! Lord blessyou, sir, you'll never catch them at that, if theyhave been with you twenty years! - and, as acomplimentary toilet for Mrs. Sparsit, tucked

his neckerchief ends into his waistcoat.'Now, you know,' said Mr. Bounderby, takingsome sherry, 'we have never had any difficultywith you, and you have never been one of theunreasonable ones. You don't expect to be setup in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtlesoup and venison, with a gold spoon, as agood many of 'em do!' Mr. Bounderby alwaysrepresented this to be the sole, immediate,and direct object of any Hand who was notentirely satisfied; 'and therefore I knowalready that you have not come here to make acomplaint. Now, you know, I am certain ofthat, beforehand.''No, sir, sure I ha' not coom for nowt o' th'kind.'Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised,notwithstanding his previous strongconviction. 'Very well,' he returned. 'You're asteady Hand, and I was not mistaken. Now, letme hear what it's all about. As it's not that, let

me hear what it is. What have you got to say?Out with it, lad!'Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs.Sparsit. 'I can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wishit,' said that self-sacrificing lady, making a feintof taking her foot out of the stirrup.Mr. Bounderby stayed her, by holding amouthful of chop in suspension beforeswallowing it, and putting out his left hand.Then, withdrawing his hand and swallowinghis mouthful of chop, he said to Stephen:'Now you know, this good lady is a born lady,a high lady. You are not to suppose becauseshe keeps my house for me, that she hasn'tbeen very high up the tree - ah, up at the top ofthe tree! Now, if you have got anything to saythat can't be said before a born lady, this ladywill leave the room. If what you have got tosay can be said before a born lady, this ladywill stay where she is.'

'Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fittenfor a born lady to year, sin' I were bornmysen',' was the reply, accompanied with aslight flush.'Very well,' said Mr. Bounderby, pushingaway his plate, and leaning back. 'Fire away!''I ha' coom,' Stephen began, raising his eyesfrom the floor, after a moment's consideration,'to ask yo yor advice. I need 't overmuch. Iwere married on Eas'r Monday nineteen yearsin, long and dree. She were a young lass -pretty enow - wi' good accounts of herseln.Well! She went bad - soon. Not along of me.Gonnows I were not a unkind husband to her.''I have heard all this before,' said Mr.Bounderby. 'She took to drinking, left offworking, sold the furniture, pawned theclothes, and played old Gooseberry.''I were patient wi' her.'

('The more fool you, I think,' said Mr.Bounderby, in confidence to his wine-glass.)'I were very patient wi' her. I tried to weanher fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, Itried that, I tried t'other. I ha' gone home,many's the time, and found all vanished as Ihad in the world, and her without a sense leftto bless herseln lying on bare ground. I ha'dun 't not once, not twice - twenty time!'Every line in his face deepened as he said it,and put in its affecting evidence of thesuffering he had undergone.'From bad to worse, from worse to worsen.She left me. She disgraced herselneveryways, bitter and bad. She coom back,she coom back, she coom back. What could Ido t' hinder her? I ha' walked the streets nightslong, ere ever I'd go home. I ha' gone t' th'brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha' nomore on't. I ha' bore that much, that I wereowd when I were young.'

Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with hernetting-needles, raised the Coriolanianeyebrows and shook her head, as much as tosay, 'The great know trouble as well as thesmall. Please to turn your humble eye in Mydirection.''I ha' paid her to keep awa' fra' me. These fiveyear I ha' paid her. I ha' gotten decent fewtrilsabout me agen. I ha' lived hard and sad, butnot ashamed and fearfo' a' the minnits o' mylife. Last night, I went home. There she layupon my har-stone! There she is!'In the strength of his misfortune, and theenergy of his distress, he fired for the momentlike a proud man. In another moment, hestood as he had stood all the time - his usualstoop upon him; his pondering face addressedto Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expressionon it, half shrewd, half perplexed, as if hismind were set upon unravelling somethingvery difficult; his hat held tight in his left hand,

which rested on his hip; his right arm, with arugged propriety and force of action, veryearnestly emphasizing what he said: not leastso when it always paused, a little bent, but notwithdrawn, as he paused.'I was acquainted with all this, you know,' saidMr. Bounderby, 'except the last clause, longago. It's a bad job; that's what it is. You hadbetter have been satisfied as you were, andnot have got married. However, it's too late tosay that.''Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point ofyears?' asked Mrs. Sparsit.'You hear what this lady asks. Was it anunequal marriage in point of years, thisunlucky job of yours?' said Mr. Bounderby.'Not e'en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln;she were twenty nighbut.''Indeed, sir?' said Mrs. Sparsit to her Chief,

with great placidity. 'I inferred, from its beingso miserable a marriage, that it was probablyan unequal one in point of years.'Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the goodlady in a side-long way that had an oddsheepishness about it. He fortified himselfwith a little more sherry.'Well? Why don't you go on?' he then asked,turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool.'I ha' coom to ask yo, sir, how I am to beridded o' this woman.' Stephen infused a yetdeeper gravity into the mixed expression ofhis attentive face. Mrs. Sparsit uttered a gentleejaculation, as having received a moral shock.'What do you mean?' said Bounderby, gettingup to lean his back against the chimney-piece.'What are you talking about? You took her forbetter for worse.''I mun' be ridden o' her. I cannot bear 't

nommore. I ha' lived under 't so long, for that Iha' had'n the pity and comforting words o' th'best lass living or dead. Haply, but for her, Ishould ha' gone battering mad.''He wishes to be free, to marry the female ofwhom he speaks, I fear, sir,' observed Mrs.Sparsit in an undertone, and much dejected bythe immorality of the people.'I do. The lady says what's right. I do. I werea coming to 't. I ha' read i' th' papers that greatfolk (fair faw 'em a'! I wishes 'em no hurt!) arenot bonded together for better for worst sofast, but that they can be set free fro' theirmisfortnet marriages, an' marry ower agen.When they dunnot agree, for that theirtempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o' onekind an' another in their houses, above a bit,and they can live asunders. We fok ha' onlyone room, and we can't. When that won't do,they ha' gowd an' other cash, an' they can say"This for yo' an' that for me," an' they can gotheir separate ways. We can't. Spite o' all that,

they can be set free for smaller wrongs thanmine. So, I mun be ridden o' this woman, and Iwant t' know how?''No how,' returned Mr. Bounderby.'If I do her any hurt, sir, there's a law to punishme?''Of course there is.''If I flee from her, there's a law to punish me?''Of course there is.''If I marry t'oother dear lass, there's a law topunish me?''Of course there is.''If I was to live wi' her an' not marry her -saying such a thing could be, which it nevercould or would, an' her so good - there's a lawto punish me, in every innocent child

elonging to me?''Of course there is.''Now, a' God's name,' said Stephen Blackpool,'show me the law to help me!''Hem! There's a sanctity in this relation of life,'said Mr. Bounderby, 'and - and - it must bekept up.''No no, dunnot say that, sir. 'Tan't kep' up thatway. Not that way. 'Tis kep' down that way.I'm a weaver, I were in a fact'ry when a chilt,but I ha' gotten een to see wi' and eern to yearwi'. I read in th' papers every 'Sizes, everySessions - and you read too - I know it! - withdismay - how th' supposed unpossibility o'ever getting unchained from one another, atany price, on any terms, brings blood uponthis land, and brings many common marriedfok to battle, murder, and sudden death. Letus ha' this, right understood. Mine's a grievouscase, an' I want - if yo will be so good - t' know

the law that helps me.''Now, I tell you what!' said Mr. Bounderby,putting his hands in his pockets. 'There is sucha law.'Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, andnever wandering in his attention, gave a nod.'But it's not for you at all. It costs money. Itcosts a mint of money.''How much might that be?' Stephen calmlyasked.'Why, you'd have to go to Doctors' Commonswith a suit, and you'd have to go to a court ofCommon Law with a suit, and you'd have to goto the House of Lords with a suit, and you'dhave to get an Act of Parliament to enable youto marry again, and it would cost you (if it wasa case of very plain sailing), I suppose from athousand to fifteen hundred pound,' said Mr.Bounderby. 'Perhaps twice the money.'

'There's no other law?''Certainly not.''Why then, sir,' said Stephen, turning white,and motioning with that right hand of his, as ifhe gave everything to the four winds, ''tis amuddle. 'Tis just a muddle a'toogether, an' thesooner I am dead, the better.'(Mrs. Sparsit again dejected by the impiety ofthe people.)'Pooh, pooh! Don't you talk nonsense, mygood fellow,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'aboutthings you don't understand; and don't you callthe Institutions of your country a muddle, oryou'll get yourself into a real muddle one ofthese fine mornings. The institutions of yourcountry are not your piece-work, and the onlything you have got to do, is, to mind yourpiece-work. You didn't take your wife for fastand for loose; but for better for worse. If she

has turned out worse - why, all we have got tosay is, she might have turned out better.'''Tis a muddle,' said Stephen, shaking hishead as he moved to the door. ''Tis a' amuddle!''Now, I'll tell you what!' Mr. Bounderbyresumed, as a valedictory address. 'With whatI shall call your unhallowed opinions, you havebeen quite shocking this lady: who, as I havealready told you, is a born lady, and who, as Ihave not already told you, has had her ownmarriage misfortunes to the tune of tens ofthousands of pounds - tens of Thousands ofPounds!' (he repeated it with great relish).'Now, you have always been a steady Handhitherto; but my opinion is, and so I tell youplainly, that you are turning into the wrongroad. You have been listening to somemischievous stranger or other - they're alwaysabout - and the best thing you can do is, tocome out of that. Now you know;' here hiscountenance expressed marvellous acuteness;

'I can see as far into a grindstone as anotherman; farther than a good many, perhaps,because I had my nose well kept to it when Iwas young. I see traces of the turtle soup, andvenison, and gold spoon in this. Yes, I do!'cried Mr. Bounderby, shaking his head withobstinate cunning. 'By the Lord Harry, I do!'With a very different shake of the head anddeep sigh, Stephen said, 'Thank you, sir, I wishyou good day.' So he left Mr. Bounderbyswelling at his own portrait on the wall, as if hewere going to explode himself into it; and Mrs.Sparsit still ambling on with her foot in herstirrup, looking quite cast down by the popularvices.

CHAPTER XII - THE OLD WOMANOLD STEPHEN descended the two white steps,shutting the black door with the brazendoor-plate, by the aid of the brazen full-stop,to which he gave a parting polish with thesleeve of his coat, observing that his hot handclouded it. He crossed the street with his eyesbent upon the ground, and thus was walkingsorrowfully away, when he felt a touch uponhis arm.It was not the touch he needed most at such amoment - the touch that could calm the wildwaters of his soul, as the uplifted hand of thesublimest love and patience could abate theraging of the sea - yet it was a woman's handtoo. It was an old woman, tall and shapely still,though withered by time, on whom his eyesfell when he stopped and turned. She wasvery cleanly and plainly dressed, had countrymud upon her shoes, and was newly comefrom a journey. The flutter of her manner, inthe unwonted noise of the streets; the spare

shawl, carried unfolded on her arm; the heavyumbrella, and little basket; the looselong-fingered gloves, to which her hands wereunused; all bespoke an old woman from thecountry, in her plain holiday clothes, come intoCoketown on an expedition of rareoccurrence. Remarking this at a glance, withthe quick observation of his class, StephenBlackpool bent his attentive face - his face,which, like the faces of many of his order, bydint of long working with eyes and hands inthe midst of a prodigious noise, had acquiredthe concentrated look with which we arefamiliar in the countenances of the deaf - thebetter to hear what she asked him.'Pray, sir,' said the old woman, 'didn't I seeyou come out of that gentleman's house?'pointing back to Mr. Bounderby's. 'I believe itwas you, unless I have had the bad luck tomistake the person in following?''Yes, missus,' returned Stephen, 'it were me.'

'Have you - you'll excuse an old woman'scuriosity - have you seen the gentleman?''Yes, missus.''And how did he look, sir? Was he portly,bold, outspoken, and hearty?' As shestraightened her own figure, and held up herhead in adapting her action to her words, theidea crossed Stephen that he had seen this oldwoman before, and had not quite liked her.'O yes,' he returned, observing her moreattentively, 'he were all that.''And healthy,' said the old woman, 'as thefresh wind?''Yes,' returned Stephen. 'He were ett'n anddrinking - as large and as loud as aHummobee.''Thank you!' said the old woman, with infinitecontent. 'Thank you!'

He certainly never had seen this old womanbefore. Yet there was a vague remembrancein his mind, as if he had more than oncedreamed of some old woman like her.She walked along at his side, and, gentlyaccommodating himself to her humour, he saidCoketown was a busy place, was it not? Towhich she answered 'Eigh sure! Dreadfulbusy!' Then he said, she came from thecountry, he saw? To which she answered inthe affirmative.'By Parliamentary, this morning. I came fortymile by Parliamentary this morning, and I'mgoing back the same forty mile this afternoon.I walked nine mile to the station this morning,and if I find nobody on the road to give me alift, I shall walk the nine mile back to-night.That's pretty well, sir, at my age!' said thechatty old woman, her eye brightening withexultation.

''Deed 'tis. Don't do't too often, missus.''No, no. Once a year,' she answered, shakingher head. 'I spend my savings so, once everyyear. I come regular, to tramp about thestreets, and see the gentlemen.''Only to see 'em?' returned Stephen.'That's enough for me,' she replied, with greatearnestness and interest of manner. 'I ask nomore! I have been standing about, on this sideof the way, to see that gentleman,' turning herhead back towards Mr. Bounderby's again,'come out. But, he's late this year, and I havenot seen him. You came out instead. Now, if Iam obliged to go back without a glimpse ofhim - I only want a glimpse - well! I have seenyou, and you have seen him, and I must makethat do.' Saying this, she looked at Stephen asif to fix his features in her mind, and her eyewas not so bright as it had been.With a large allowance for difference of

tastes, and with all submission to the patriciansof Coketown, this seemed so extraordinary asource of interest to take so much troubleabout, that it perplexed him. But they werepassing the church now, and as his eye caughtthe clock, he quickened his pace.He was going to his work? the old womansaid, quickening hers, too, quite easily. Yes,time was nearly out. On his telling her wherehe worked, the old woman became a moresingular old woman than before.'An't you happy?' she asked him.'Why - there's awmost nobbody but has theirtroubles, missus.' He answered evasively,because the old woman appeared to take it forgranted that he would be very happy indeed,and he had not the heart to disappoint her. Heknew that there was trouble enough in theworld; and if the old woman had lived so long,and could count upon his having so little, whyso much the better for her, and none the worse

for him.'Ay, ay! You have your troubles at home, youmean?' she said.'Times. Just now and then,' he answered,slightly.'But, working under such a gentleman, theydon't follow you to the Factory?'No, no; they didn't follow him there, saidStephen. All correct there. Everythingaccordant there. (He did not go so far as tosay, for her pleasure, that there was a sort ofDivine Right there; but, I have heard claimsalmost as magnificent of late years.)They were now in the black by-road near theplace, and the Hands were crowding in. Thebell was ringing, and the Serpent was aSerpent of many coils, and the Elephant wasgetting ready. The strange old woman wasdelighted with the very bell. It was the

eautifullest bell she had ever heard, she said,and sounded grand!She asked him, when he stoppedgood-naturedly to shake hands with her beforegoing in, how long he had worked there?'A dozen year,' he told her.'I must kiss the hand,' said she, 'that hasworked in this fine factory for a dozen year!'And she lifted it, though he would haveprevented her, and put it to her lips. Whatharmony, besides her age and her simplicity,surrounded her, he did not know, but even inthis fantastic action there was a somethingneither out of time nor place: a somethingwhich it seemed as if nobody else could havemade as serious, or done with such a naturaland touching air.He had been at his loom full half an hour,thinking about this old woman, when, havingoccasion to move round the loom for its

adjustment, he glanced through a windowwhich was in his corner, and saw her stilllooking up at the pile of building, lost inadmiration. Heedless of the smoke and mudand wet, and of her two long journeys, she wasgazing at it, as if the heavy thrum that issuedfrom its many stories were proud music to her.She was gone by and by, and the day wentafter her, and the lights sprung up again, andthe Express whirled in full sight of the FairyPalace over the arches near: little felt amid thejarring of the machinery, and scarcely heardabove its crash and rattle. Long before thenhis thoughts had gone back to the dreary roomabove the little shop, and to the shamefulfigure heavy on the bed, but heavier on hisheart.Machinery slackened; throbbing feebly like afainting pulse; stopped. The bell again; theglare of light and heat dispelled; the factories,looming heavy in the black wet night - theirtall chimneys rising up into the air like

competing Towers of Babel.He had spoken to Rachael only last night, itwas true, and had walked with her a little way;but he had his new misfortune on him, in whichno one else could give him a moment's relief,and, for the sake of it, and because he knewhimself to want that softening of his angerwhich no voice but hers could effect, he felt hemight so far disregard what she had said as towait for her again. He waited, but she hadeluded him. She was gone. On no other nightin the year could he so ill have spared herpatient face.O! Better to have no home in which to lay hishead, than to have a home and dread to go toit, through such a cause. He ate and drank, forhe was exhausted - but he little knew or caredwhat; and he wandered about in the chill rain,thinking and thinking, and brooding andbrooding.No word of a new marriage had ever passed

etween them; but Rachael had taken greatpity on him years ago, and to her alone he hadopened his closed heart all this time, on thesubject of his miseries; and he knew very wellthat if he were free to ask her, she would takehim. He thought of the home he might at thatmoment have been seeking with pleasure andpride; of the different man he might have beenthat night; of the lightness then in his nowheavy- laden breast; of the then restoredhonour, self-respect, and tranquillity all torn topieces. He thought of the waste of the bestpart of his life, of the change it made in hischaracter for the worse every day, of thedreadful nature of his existence, bound handand foot, to a dead woman, and tormented bya demon in her shape. He thought of Rachael,how young when they were first broughttogether in these circumstances, how maturenow, how soon to grow old. He thought of thenumber of girls and women she had seenmarry, how many homes with children in themshe had seen grow up around her, how shehad contentedly pursued her own lone quiet

path - for him - and how he had sometimesseen a shade of melancholy on her blessedface, that smote him with remorse and despair.He set the picture of her up, beside theinfamous image of last night; and thought,Could it be, that the whole earthly course ofone so gentle, good, and self-denying, wassubjugate to such a wretch as that!Filled with these thoughts - so filled that hehad an unwholesome sense of growing larger,of being placed in some new and diseasedrelation towards the objects among which hepassed, of seeing the iris round every mistylight turn red - he went home for shelter.

CHAPTER XIII - RACHAELA CANDLE faintly burned in the window, towhich the black ladder had often been raisedfor the sliding away of all that was mostprecious in this world to a striving wife and abrood of hungry babies; and Stephen added tohis other thoughts the stern reflection, that ofall the casualties of this existence upon earth,not one was dealt out with so unequal a handas Death. The inequality of Birth was nothingto it. For, say that the child of a King and thechild of a Weaver were born to-night in thesame moment, what was that disparity, to thedeath of any human creature who wasserviceable to, or beloved by, another, whilethis abandoned woman lived on!From the outside of his home he gloomilypassed to the inside, with suspended breathand with a slow footstep. He went up to hisdoor, opened it, and so into the room.Quiet and peace were there. Rachael was

there, sitting by the bed.She turned her head, and the light of her faceshone in upon the midnight of his mind. Shesat by the bed, watching and tending his wife.That is to say, he saw that some one lay there,and he knew too well it must be she; butRachael's hands had put a curtain up, so thatshe was screened from his eyes. Herdisgraceful garments were removed, andsome of Rachael's were in the room.Everything was in its place and order as hehad always kept it, the little fire was newlytrimmed, and the hearth was freshly swept. Itappeared to him that he saw all this inRachael's face, and looked at nothing besides.While looking at it, it was shut out from hisview by the softened tears that filled his eyes;but not before he had seen how earnestly shelooked at him, and how her own eyes werefilled too.She turned again towards the bed, andsatisfying herself that all was quiet there,

spoke in a low, calm, cheerful voice.'I am glad you have come at last, Stephen.You are very late.''I ha' been walking up an' down.''I thought so. But 'tis too bad a night for that.The rain falls very heavy, and the wind hasrisen.'The wind? True. It was blowing hard. Harkto the thundering in the chimney, and thesurging noise! To have been out in such awind, and not to have known it was blowing!'I have been here once before, to-day,Stephen. Landlady came round for me atdinner-time. There was some one here thatneeded looking to, she said. And 'deed shewas right. All wandering and lost, Stephen.Wounded too, and bruised.'He slowly moved to a chair and sat down,

drooping his head before her.'I came to do what little I could, Stephen; first,for that she worked with me when we weregirls both, and for that you courted her andmarried her when I was her friend - 'He laid his furrowed forehead on his hand,with a low groan.'And next, for that I know your heart, and amright sure and certain that 'tis far too mercifulto let her die, or even so much as suffer, forwant of aid. Thou knowest who said, "Let himwho is without sin among you cast the firststone at her!" There have been plenty to dothat. Thou art not the man to cast the laststone, Stephen, when she is brought so low.''O Rachael, Rachael!''Thou hast been a cruel sufferer, Heavenreward thee!' she said, in compassionateaccents. 'I am thy poor friend, with all my

heart and mind.'The wounds of which she had spoken,seemed to be about the neck of the self-madeoutcast. She dressed them now, still withoutshowing her. She steeped a piece of linen in abasin, into which she poured some liquid froma bottle, and laid it with a gentle hand upon thesore. The three-legged table had been drawnclose to the bedside, and on it there were twobottles. This was one.It was not so far off, but that Stephen,following her hands with his eyes, could readwhat was printed on it in large letters. Heturned of a deadly hue, and a sudden horrorseemed to fall upon him.'I will stay here, Stephen,' said Rachael,quietly resuming her seat, 'till the bells goThree. 'Tis to be done again at three, and thenshe may be left till morning.''But thy rest agen to-morrow's work, my dear.'

'I slept sound last night. I can wake manynights, when I am put to it. 'Tis thou who art inneed of rest - so white and tired. Try to sleepin the chair there, while I watch. Thou hadst nosleep last night, I can well believe.To-morrow's work is far harder for thee thanfor me.'He heard the thundering and surging out ofdoors, and it seemed to him as if his late angrymood were going about trying to get at him.She had cast it out; she would keep it out; hetrusted to her to defend him from himself.'She don't know me, Stephen; she justdrowsily mutters and stares. I have spoken toher times and again, but she don't notice! 'Tisas well so. When she comes to her right mindonce more, I shall have done what I can, andshe never the wiser.''How long, Rachael, is 't looked for, that she'llbe so?'

'Doctor said she would haply come to hermind to-morrow.'His eyes fell again on the bottle, and atremble passed over him, causing him toshiver in every limb. She thought he waschilled with the wet. 'No,' he said, 'it was notthat. He had had a fright.''A fright?''Ay, ay! coming in. When I were walking.When I were thinking. When I - ' It seized himagain; and he stood up, holding by themantel-shelf, as he pressed his dank cold hairdown with a hand that shook as if it werepalsied.'Stephen!'She was coming to him, but he stretched outhis arm to stop her.

'No! Don't, please; don't. Let me see theesetten by the bed. Let me see thee, a' so good,and so forgiving. Let me see thee as I see theewhen I coom in. I can never see thee betterthan so. Never, never, never!'He had a violent fit of trembling, and thensunk into his chair. After a time he controlledhimself, and, resting with an elbow on oneknee, and his head upon that hand, could looktowards Rachael. Seen across the dim candlewith his moistened eyes, she looked as if shehad a glory shining round her head. He couldhave believed she had. He did believe it, asthe noise without shook the window, rattled atthe door below, and went about the houseclamouring and lamenting.'When she gets better, Stephen, 'tis to behoped she'll leave thee to thyself again, and dothee no more hurt. Anyways we will hope sonow. And now I shall keep silence, for I wantthee to sleep.'

He closed his eyes, more to please her thanto rest his weary head; but, by slow degrees ashe listened to the great noise of the wind, heceased to hear it, or it changed into theworking of his loom, or even into the voices ofthe day (his own included) saying what hadbeen really said. Even this imperfectconsciousness faded away at last, and hedreamed a long, troubled dream.He thought that he, and some one on whomhis heart had long been set - but she was notRachael, and that surprised him, even in themidst of his imaginary happiness - stood in thechurch being married. While the ceremonywas performing, and while he recognizedamong the witnesses some whom he knew tobe living, and many whom he knew to bedead, darkness came on, succeeded by theshining of a tremendous light. It broke fromone line in the table of commandments at thealtar, and illuminated the building with thewords. They were sounded through thechurch, too, as if there were voices in the fiery

letters. Upon this, the whole appearancebefore him and around him changed, andnothing was left as it had been, but himself andthe clergyman. They stood in the daylightbefore a crowd so vast, that if all the people inthe world could have been brought togetherinto one space, they could not have looked, hethought, more numerous; and they allabhorred him, and there was not one pityingor friendly eye among the millions that werefastened on his face. He stood on a raisedstage, under his own loom; and, looking up atthe shape the loom took, and hearing theburial service distinctly read, he knew that hewas there to suffer death. In an instant what hestood on fell below him, and he was gone.- Out of what mystery he came back to hisusual life, and to places that he knew, he wasunable to consider; but he was back in thoseplaces by some means, and with thiscondemnation upon him, that he was never, inthis world or the next, through all theunimaginable ages of eternity, to look on

Rachael's face or hear her voice. Wandering toand fro, unceasingly, without hope, and insearch of he knew not what (he only knew thathe was doomed to seek it), he was the subjectof a nameless, horrible dread, a mortal fear ofone particular shape which everything took.Whatsoever he looked at, grew into that formsooner or later. The object of his miserableexistence was to prevent its recognition byany one among the various people heencountered. Hopeless labour! If he led themout of rooms where it was, if he shut updrawers and closets where it stood, if he drewthe curious from places where he knew it to besecreted, and got them out into the streets, thevery chimneys of the mills assumed that shape,and round them was the printed word.The wind was blowing again, the rain wasbeating on the house-tops, and the largerspaces through which he had strayedcontracted to the four walls of his room.Saving that the fire had died out, it was as hiseyes had closed upon it. Rachael seemed to

have fallen into a doze, in the chair by the bed.She sat wrapped in her shawl, perfectly still.The table stood in the same place, close by thebedside, and on it, in its real proportions andappearance, was the shape so often repeated.He thought he saw the curtain move. Helooked again, and he was sure it moved. Hesaw a hand come forth and grope about a little.Then the curtain moved more perceptibly, andthe woman in the bed put it back, and sat up.With her woful eyes, so haggard and wild, soheavy and large, she looked all round theroom, and passed the corner where he slept inhis chair. Her eyes returned to that corner,and she put her hand over them as a shade,while she looked into it. Again they went allround the room, scarcely heeding Rachael if atall, and returned to that corner. He thought, asshe once more shaded them - not so muchlooking at him, as looking for him with abrutish instinct that he was there - that nosingle trace was left in those debauched

features, or in the mind that went along withthem, of the woman he had married eighteenyears before. But that he had seen her come tothis by inches, he never could have believedher to be the same.All this time, as if a spell were on him, he wasmotionless and powerless, except to watchher.Stupidly dozing, or communing with herincapable self about nothing, she sat for a littlewhile with her hands at her ears, and her headresting on them. Presently, she resumed herstaring round the room. And now, for the firsttime, her eyes stopped at the table with thebottles on it.Straightway she turned her eyes back to hiscorner, with the defiance of last night, andmoving very cautiously and softly, stretchedout her greedy hand. She drew a mug into thebed, and sat for a while considering which ofthe two bottles she should choose. Finally, she

laid her insensate grasp upon the bottle thathad swift and certain death in it, and, beforehis eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth.Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had hepower to stir. If this be real, and her allottedtime be not yet come, wake, Rachael, wake!She thought of that, too. She looked atRachael, and very slowly, very cautiously,poured out the contents. The draught was ather lips. A moment and she would be past allhelp, let the whole world wake and comeabout her with its utmost power. But in thatmoment Rachael started up with a suppressedcry. The creature struggled, struck her, seizedher by the hair; but Rachael had the cup.Stephen broke out of his chair. 'Rachael, am Iwakin' or dreamin' this dreadfo' night?'''Tis all well, Stephen. I have been asleep,myself. 'Tis near three. Hush! I hear the bells.'

The wind brought the sounds of the churchclock to the window. They listened, and itstruck three. Stephen looked at her, saw howpale she was, noted the disorder of her hair,and the red marks of fingers on her forehead,and felt assured that his senses of sight andhearing had been awake. She held the cup inher hand even now.'I thought it must be near three,' she said,calmly pouring from the cup into the basin,and steeping the linen as before. 'I amthankful I stayed! 'Tis done now, when I haveput this on. There! And now she's quiet again.The few drops in the basin I'll pour away, for'tis bad stuff to leave about, though ever solittle of it.' As she spoke, she drained the basininto the ashes of the fire, and broke the bottleon the hearth.She had nothing to do, then, but to coverherself with her shawl before going out intothe wind and rain.

'Thou'lt let me walk wi' thee at this hour,Rachael?''No, Stephen. 'Tis but a minute, and I'mhome.''Thou'rt not fearfo';' he said it in a low voice, asthey went out at the door; 'to leave me alonewi' her!'As she looked at him, saying, 'Stephen?' hewent down on his knee before her, on the poormean stairs, and put an end of her shawl to hislips.'Thou art an Angel. Bless thee, bless thee!''I am, as I have told thee, Stephen, thy poorfriend. Angels are not like me. Between them,and a working woman fu' of faults, there is adeep gulf set. My little sister is among them,but she is changed.'She raised her eyes for a moment as she said

the words; and then they fell again, in all theirgentleness and mildness, on his face.'Thou changest me from bad to good. Thoumak'st me humbly wishfo' to be more like thee,and fearfo' to lose thee when this life is ower,and a' the muddle cleared awa'. Thou'rt anAngel; it may be, thou hast saved my soulalive!'She looked at him, on his knee at her feet,with her shawl still in his hand, and the reproofon her lips died away when she saw theworking of his face.'I coom home desp'rate. I coom home wi'out ahope, and mad wi' thinking that when I said aword o' complaint I was reckoned aunreasonable Hand. I told thee I had had afright. It were the Poison-bottle on table. Inever hurt a livin' creetur; but happenin' sosuddenly upon 't, I thowt, "How can I say what Imight ha' done to myseln, or her, or both!"'

She put her two hands on his mouth, with aface of terror, to stop him from saying more.He caught them in his unoccupied hand, andholding them, and still clasping the border ofher shawl, said hurriedly:'But I see thee, Rachael, setten by the bed. Iha' seen thee, aw this night. In my troubloussleep I ha' known thee still to be there.Evermore I will see thee there. I nevermorewill see her or think o' her, but thou shalt bebeside her. I nevermore will see or think o'anything that angers me, but thou, so muchbetter than me, shalt be by th' side on't. Andso I will try t' look t' th' time, and so I will try t'trust t' th' time, when thou and me at last shallwalk together far awa', beyond the deep gulf,in th' country where thy little sister is.'He kissed the border of her shawl again, andlet her go. She bade him good night in abroken voice, and went out into the street.The wind blew from the quarter where the

day would soon appear, and still blewstrongly. It had cleared the sky before it, andthe rain had spent itself or travelledelsewhere, and the stars were bright. Hestood bare-headed in the road, watching herquick disappearance. As the shining starswere to the heavy candle in the window, sowas Rachael, in the rugged fancy of this man,to the common experiences of his life.

CHAPTER XIV - THE GREAT MANUFACTURERTIME went on in Coketown like its ownmachinery: so much material wrought up, somuch fuel consumed, so many powers wornout, so much money made. But, lessinexorable than iron, steal, and brass, itbrought its varying seasons even into thatwilderness of smoke and brick, and made theonly stand that ever was made in the placeagainst its direful uniformity.'Louisa is becoming,' said Mr. Gradgrind,'almost a young woman.'Time, with his innumerable horse-power,worked away, not minding what anybody said,and presently turned out young Thomas a foottaller than when his father had last takenparticular notice of him.'Thomas is becoming,' said Mr. Gradgrind,'almost a young man.'

Time passed Thomas on in the mill, while hisfather was thinking about it, and there he stoodin a long-tailed coat and a stiff shirt-collar.'Really,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'the period hasarrived when Thomas ought to go toBounderby.'Time, sticking to him, passed him on intoBounderby's Bank, made him an inmate ofBounderby's house, necessitated the purchaseof his first razor, and exercised him diligentlyin his calculations relative to number one.The same great manufacturer, always with animmense variety of work on hand, in everystage of development, passed Sissy onward inhis mill, and worked her up into a very prettyarticle indeed.'I fear, Jupe,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'that yourcontinuance at the school any longer would beuseless.'

'I am afraid it would, sir,' Sissy answered witha curtsey.'I cannot disguise from you, Jupe,' said Mr.Gradgrind, knitting his brow, 'that the result ofyour probation there has disappointed me; hasgreatly disappointed me. You have notacquired, under Mr. and Mrs.M'Choakumchild, anything like that amount ofexact knowledge which I looked for. You areextremely deficient in your facts. Youracquaintance with figures is very limited. Youare altogether backward, and below the mark.''I am sorry, sir,' she returned; 'but I know it isquite true. Yet I have tried hard, sir.''Yes,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'yes, I believe youhave tried hard; I have observed you, and Ican find no fault in that respect.''Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes;'Sissy very timid here; 'that perhaps I tried tolearn too much, and that if I had asked to be

allowed to try a little less, I might have - ''No, Jupe, no,' said Mr. Gradgrind, shakinghis head in his profoundest and mosteminently practical way. 'No. The course youpursued, you pursued according to the system- the system - and there is no more to be saidabout it. I can only suppose that thecircumstances of your early life were toounfavourable to the development of yourreasoning powers, and that we began too late.Still, as I have said already, I am disappointed.''I wish I could have made a betteracknowledgment, sir, of your kindness to apoor forlorn girl who had no claim upon you,and of your protection of her.''Don't shed tears,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'Don'tshed tears. I don't complain of you. You arean affectionate, earnest, good young woman -and - and we must make that do.''Thank you, sir, very much,' said Sissy, with a

grateful curtsey.'You are useful to Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in agenerally pervading way) you are serviceablein the family also; so I understand from MissLouisa, and, indeed, so I have observedmyself. I therefore hope,' said Mr. Gradgrind,'that you can make yourself happy in thoserelations.''I should have nothing to wish, sir, if - ''I understand you,' said Mr. Gradgrind; 'youstill refer to your father. I have heard fromMiss Louisa that you still preserve that bottle.Well! If your training in the science of arrivingat exact results had been more successful, youwould have been wiser on these points. I willsay no more.'He really liked Sissy too well to have acontempt for her; otherwise he held hercalculating powers in such very slightestimation that he must have fallen upon that

conclusion. Somehow or other, he hadbecome possessed by an idea that there wassomething in this girl which could hardly beset forth in a tabular form. Her capacity ofdefinition might be easily stated at a very lowfigure, her mathematical knowledge atnothing; yet he was not sure that if he hadbeen required, for example, to tick her off intocolumns in a parliamentary return, he wouldhave quite known how to divide her.In some stages of his manufacture of thehuman fabric, the processes of Time are veryrapid. Young Thomas and Sissy being both atsuch a stage of their working up, thesechanges were effected in a year or two; whileMr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary inhis course, and underwent no alteration.Except one, which was apart from hisnecessary progress through the mill. Timehustled him into a little noisy and rather dirtymachinery, in a by-comer, and made himMember of Parliament for Coketown: one of

the respected members for ounce weights andmeasures, one of the representatives of themultiplication table, one of the deafhonourable gentlemen, dumb honourablegentlemen, blind honourable gentlemen, lamehonourable gentlemen, dead honourablegentlemen, to every other consideration. Elsewherefore live we in a Christian land, eighteenhundred and odd years after our Master?All this while, Louisa had been passing on, soquiet and reserved, and so much given towatching the bright ashes at twilight as theyfell into the grate, and became extinct, thatfrom the period when her father had said shewas almost a young woman - which seemedbut yesterday - she had scarcely attracted hisnotice again, when he found her quite a youngwoman.'Quite a young woman,' said Mr. Gradgrind,musing. 'Dear me!'Soon after this discovery, he became more

thoughtful than usual for several days, andseemed much engrossed by one subject. On acertain night, when he was going out, andLouisa came to bid him good-bye before hisdeparture - as he was not to be home until lateand she would not see him again until themorning - he held her in his arms, looking ather in his kindest manner, and said:'My dear Louisa, you are a woman!'She answered with the old, quick, searchinglook of the night when she was found at theCircus; then cast down her eyes. 'Yes, father.''My dear,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'I must speakwith you alone and seriously. Come to me inmy room after breakfast to-morrow, will you?''Yes, father.''Your hands are rather cold, Louisa. Are younot well?'

'Quite well, father.''And cheerful?'She looked at him again, and smiled in herpeculiar manner. 'I am as cheerful, father, as Iusually am, or usually have been.''That's well,' said Mr. Gradgrind. So, hekissed her and went away; and Louisareturned to the serene apartment of thehaircutting character, and leaning her elbowon her hand, looked again at the short-livedsparks that so soon subsided into ashes.'Are you there, Loo?' said her brother, lookingin at the door. He was quite a younggentleman of pleasure now, and not quite aprepossessing one.'Dear Tom,' she answered, rising andembracing him, 'how long it is since you havebeen to see me!'

'Why, I have been otherwise engaged, Loo, inthe evenings; and in the daytime oldBounderby has been keeping me at it rather.But I touch him up with you when he comes ittoo strong, and so we preserve anunderstanding. I say! Has father said anythingparticular to you to-day or yesterday, Loo?''No, Tom. But he told me to-night that hewished to do so in the morning.''Ah! That's what I mean,' said Tom. 'Do youknow where he is to- night?' - with a very deepexpression.'No.''Then I'll tell you. He's with old Bounderby.They are having a regular confab together upat the Bank. Why at the Bank, do you think?Well, I'll tell you again. To keep Mrs. Sparsit'sears as far off as possible, I expect.'With her hand upon her brother's shoulder,

Louisa still stood looking at the fire. Herbrother glanced at her face with greaterinterest than usual, and, encircling her waistwith his arm, drew her coaxingly to him.'You are very fond of me, an't you, Loo?''Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let suchlong intervals go by without coming to seeme.''Well, sister of mine,' said Tom, 'when you saythat, you are near my thoughts. We might beso much oftener together - mightn't we?Always together, almost - mightn't we? Itwould do me a great deal of good if you wereto make up your mind to I know what, Loo. Itwould be a splendid thing for me. It would beuncommonly jolly!'Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunningscrutiny. He could make nothing of her face.He pressed her in his arm, and kissed hercheek. She returned the kiss, but still looked

at the fire.'I say, Loo! I thought I'd come, and just hint toyou what was going on: though I supposedyou'd most likely guess, even if you didn'tknow. I can't stay, because I'm engaged tosome fellows to- night. You won't forget howfond you are of me?''No, dear Tom, I won't forget.''That's a capital girl,' said Tom. 'Good-bye,Loo.'She gave him an affectionate good-night, andwent out with him to the door, whence the firesof Coketown could be seen, making thedistance lurid. She stood there, lookingsteadfastly towards them, and listening to hisdeparting steps. They retreated quickly, asglad to get away from Stone Lodge; and shestood there yet, when he was gone and all wasquiet. It seemed as if, first in her own firewithin the house, and then in the fiery haze

without, she tried to discover what kind ofwoof Old Time, that greatest and longestestablishedSpinner of all, would weave fromthe threads he had already spun into a woman.But his factory is a secret place, his work isnoiseless, and his Hands are mutes.

CHAPTER XV - FATHER AND DAUGHTERALTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take afterBlue Beard, his room was quite a blue chamberin its abundance of blue books. Whateverthey could prove (which is usually anythingyou like), they proved there, in an armyconstantly strengthening by the arrival of newrecruits. In that charmed apartment, the mostcomplicated social questions were cast up, gotinto exact totals, and finally settled - if thoseconcerned could only have been brought toknow it. As if an astronomical observatoryshould be made without any windows, and theastronomer within should arrange the starryuniverse solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr.Gradgrind, in his Observatory (and there aremany like it), had no need to cast an eye uponthe teeming myriads of human beings aroundhim, but could settle all their destinies on aslate, and wipe out all their tears with one dirtylittle bit of sponge.To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with

a deadly statistical clock in it, which measuredevery second with a beat like a rap upon acoffin-lid; Louisa repaired on the appointedmorning. A window looked towardsCoketown; and when she sat down near herfather's table, she saw the high chimneys andthe long tracts of smoke looming in the heavydistance gloomily.'My dear Louisa,' said her father, 'I preparedyou last night to give me your serious attentionin the conversation we are now going to havetogether. You have been so well trained, andyou do, I am happy to say, so much justice tothe education you have received, that I haveperfect confidence in your good sense. Youare not impulsive, you are not romantic, youare accustomed to view everything from thestrong dispassionate ground of reason andcalculation. From that ground alone, I knowyou will view and consider what I am going tocommunicate.'He waited, as if he would have been glad that

she said something. But she said never a word.'Louisa, my dear, you are the subject of aproposal of marriage that has been made tome.'Again he waited, and again she answered notone word. This so far surprised him, as toinduce him gently to repeat, 'a proposal ofmarriage, my dear.' To which she returned,without any visible emotion whatever:'I hear you, father. I am attending, I assureyou.''Well!' said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into asmile, after being for the moment at a loss,'you are even more dispassionate than Iexpected, Louisa. Or, perhaps, you are notunprepared for the announcement I have it incharge to make?''I cannot say that, father, until I hear it.Prepared or unprepared, I wish to hear it all

from you. I wish to hear you state it to me,father.'Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not socollected at this moment as his daughter was.He took a paper-knife in his hand, turned itover, laid it down, took it up again, and eventhen had to look along the blade of it,considering how to go on.'What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectlyreasonable. I have undertaken then to let youknow that - in short, that Mr. Bounderby hasinformed me that he has long watched yourprogress with particular interest and pleasure,and has long hoped that the time mightultimately arrive when he should offer you hishand in marriage. That time, to which he hasso long, and certainly with great constancy,looked forward, is now come. Mr. Bounderbyhas made his proposal of marriage to me, andhas entreated me to make it known to you, andto express his hope that you will take it intoyour favourable consideration.'

Silence between them. The deadly statisticalclock very hollow. The distant smoke veryblack and heavy.'Father,' said Louisa, 'do you think I love Mr.Bounderby?'Mr. Gradgrind was extremely discomfited bythis unexpected question. 'Well, my child,' hereturned, 'I - really - cannot take upon myselfto say.''Father,' pursued Louisa in exactly the samevoice as before, 'do you ask me to love Mr.Bounderby?''My dear Louisa, no. No. I ask nothing.''Father,' she still pursued, 'does Mr.Bounderby ask me to love him?''Really, my dear,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'it isdifficult to answer your question - '

'Difficult to answer it, Yes or No, father?'Certainly, my dear. Because;' here wassomething to demonstrate, and it set him upagain; 'because the reply depends somaterially, Louisa, on the sense in which weuse the expression. Now, Mr. Bounderby doesnot do you the injustice, and does not dohimself the injustice, of pretending to anythingfanciful, fantastic, or (I am using synonymousterms) sentimental. Mr. Bounderby wouldhave seen you grow up under his eyes, to verylittle purpose, if he could so far forget what isdue to your good sense, not to say to his, as toaddress you from any such ground. Therefore,perhaps the expression itself - I merelysuggest this to you, my dear - may be a littlemisplaced.''What would you advise me to use in its stead,father?''Why, my dear Louisa,' said Mr. Gradgrind,

completely recovered by this time, 'I wouldadvise you (since you ask me) to consider thisquestion, as you have been accustomed toconsider every other question, simply as oneof tangible Fact. The ignorant and the giddymay embarrass such subjects with irrelevantfancies, and other absurdities that have noexistence, properly viewed - really noexistence - but it is no compliment to you tosay, that you know better. Now, what are theFacts of this case? You are, we will say inround numbers, twenty years of age; Mr.Bounderby is, we will say in round numbers,fifty. There is some disparity in yourrespective years, but in your means andpositions there is none; on the contrary, thereis a great suitability. Then the question arises,Is this one disparity sufficient to operate as abar to such a marriage? In considering thisquestion, it is not unimportant to take intoaccount the statistics of marriage, so far asthey have yet been obtained, in England andWales. I find, on reference to the figures, thata large proportion of these marriages are

contracted between parties of very unequalages, and that the elder of these contractingparties is, in rather more than three-fourths ofthese instances, the bridegroom. It isremarkable as showing the wide prevalence ofthis law, that among the natives of the Britishpossessions in India, also in a considerablepart of China, and among the Calmucks ofTartary, the best means of computation yetfurnished us by travellers, yield similarresults. The disparity I have mentioned,therefore, almost ceases to be disparity, and(virtually) all but disappears.''What do you recommend, father,' askedLouisa, her reserved composure not in theleast affected by these gratifying results, 'that Ishould substitute for the term I used just now?For the misplaced expression?''Louisa,' returned her father, 'it appears to methat nothing can be plainer. Confiningyourself rigidly to Fact, the question of Factyou state to yourself is: Does Mr. Bounderby

ask me to marry him? Yes, he does. The soleremaining question then is: Shall I marry him?I think nothing can be plainer than that?''Shall I marry him?' repeated Louisa, withgreat deliberation.'Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, asyour father, my dear Louisa, to know that youdo not come to the consideration of thatquestion with the previous habits of mind, andhabits of life, that belong to many youngwomen.''No, father,' she returned, 'I do not.''I now leave you to judge for yourself,' saidMr. Gradgrind. 'I have stated the case, as suchcases are usually stated among practicalminds; I have stated it, as the case of yourmother and myself was stated in its time. Therest, my dear Louisa, is for you to decide.'From the beginning, she had sat looking at

him fixedly. As he now leaned back in hischair, and bent his deep-set eyes upon her inhis turn, perhaps he might have seen onewavering moment in her, when she wasimpelled to throw herself upon his breast, andgive him the pent-up confidences of her heart.But, to see it, he must have overleaped at abound the artificial barriers he had for manyyears been erecting, between himself and allthose subtle essences of humanity which willelude the utmost cunning of algebra until thelast trumpet ever to be sounded shall bloweven algebra to wreck. The barriers were toomany and too high for such a leap. With hisunbending, utilitarian, matter-of-fact face, hehardened her again; and the moment shotaway into the plumbless depths of the past, tomingle with all the lost opportunities that aredrowned there.Removing her eyes from him, she sat so longlooking silently towards the town, that he said,at length: 'Are you consulting the chimneys ofthe Coketown works, Louisa?'

'There seems to be nothing there but languidand monotonous smoke. Yet when the nightcomes, Fire bursts out, father!' she answered,turning quickly.'Of course I know that, Louisa. I do not seethe application of the remark.' To do himjustice he did not, at all.She passed it away with a slight motion of herhand, and concentrating her attention uponhim again, said, 'Father, I have often thoughtthat life is very short.' - This was so distinctlyone of his subjects that he interposed.'It is short, no doubt, my dear. Still, theaverage duration of human life is proved tohave increased of late years. The calculationsof various life assurance and annuity offices,among other figures which cannot go wrong,have established the fact.''I speak of my own life, father.'

'O indeed? Still,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'I neednot point out to you, Louisa, that it is governedby the laws which govern lives in theaggregate.''While it lasts, I would wish to do the little Ican, and the little I am fit for. What does itmatter?'Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss tounderstand the last four words; replying, 'How,matter? What matter, my dear?''Mr. Bounderby,' she went on in a steady,straight way, without regarding this, 'asks meto marry him. The question I have to askmyself is, shall I marry him? That is so, father,is it not? You have told me so, father. Haveyou not?''Certainly, my dear.''Let it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to

take me thus, I am satisfied to accept hisproposal. Tell him, father, as soon as youplease, that this was my answer. Repeat it,word for word, if you can, because I shouldwish him to know what I said.''It is quite right, my dear,' retorted her fatherapprovingly, 'to be exact. I will observe yourvery proper request. Have you any wish inreference to the period of your marriage, mychild?''None, father. What does it matter!'Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a littlenearer to her, and taken her hand. But, herrepetition of these words seemed to strike withsome little discord on his ear. He paused tolook at her, and, still holding her hand, said:'Louisa, I have not considered it essential toask you one question, because the possibilityimplied in it appeared to me to be too remote.But perhaps I ought to do so. You have never

entertained in secret any other proposal?''Father,' she returned, almost scornfully, 'whatother proposal can have been made to me?Whom have I seen? Where have I been? Whatare my heart's experiences?''My dear Louisa,' returned Mr. Gradgrind,reassured and satisfied. 'You correct me justly.I merely wished to discharge my duty.''What do I know, father,' said Louisa in herquiet manner, 'of tastes and fancies; ofaspirations and affections; of all that part of mynature in which such light things might havebeen nourished? What escape have I had fromproblems that could be demonstrated, andrealities that could be grasped?' As she said it,she unconsciously closed her hand, as if upona solid object, and slowly opened it as thoughshe were releasing dust or ash.'My dear,' assented her eminently practicalparent, 'quite true, quite true.'

'Why, father,' she pursued, 'what a strangequestion to ask me! The baby-preference thateven I have heard of as common amongchildren, has never had its innocentresting-place in my breast. You have been socareful of me, that I never had a child's heart.You have trained me so well, that I neverdreamed a child's dream. You have dealt sowisely with me, father, from my cradle to thishour, that I never had a child's belief or achild's fear.'Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by hissuccess, and by this testimony to it. 'My dearLouisa,' said he, 'you abundantly repay mycare. Kiss me, my dear girl.'So, his daughter kissed him. Detaining her inhis embrace, he said, 'I may assure you now,my favourite child, that I am made happy bythe sound decision at which you have arrived.Mr. Bounderby is a very remarkable man; andwhat little disparity can be said to exist

etween you - if any - is more thancounterbalanced by the tone your mind hasacquired. It has always been my object so toeducate you, as that you might, while still inyour early youth, be (if I may so expressmyself) almost any age. Kiss me once more,Louisa. Now, let us go and find your mother.'Accordingly, they went down to thedrawing-room, where the esteemed lady withno nonsense about her, was recumbent asusual, while Sissy worked beside her. Shegave some feeble signs of returning animationwhen they entered, and presently the fainttransparency was presented in a sittingattitude.'Mrs. Gradgrind,' said her husband, who hadwaited for the achievement of this feat withsome impatience, 'allow me to present to youMrs. Bounderby.''Oh!' said Mrs. Gradgrind, 'so you havesettled it! Well, I'm sure I hope your health

may be good, Louisa; for if your head beginsto split as soon as you are married, which wasthe case with mine, I cannot consider that youare to be envied, though I have no doubt youthink you are, as all girls do. However, I giveyou joy, my dear - and I hope you may nowturn all your ological studies to good account, Iam sure I do! I must give you a kiss ofcongratulation, Louisa; but don't touch my rightshoulder, for there's something running downit all day long. And now you see,' whimperedMrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls after theaffectionate ceremony, 'I shall be worryingmyself, morning, noon, and night, to knowwhat I am to call him!''Mrs. Gradgrind,' said her husband, solemnly,'what do you mean?''Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind,when he is married to Louisa! I must call himsomething. It's impossible,' said Mrs.Gradgrind, with a mingled sense of politenessand injury, 'to be constantly addressing him

and never giving him a name. I cannot callhim Josiah, for the name is insupportable tome. You yourself wouldn't hear of Joe, youvery well know. Am I to call my own sonin-law,Mister! Not, I believe, unless the timehas arrived when, as an invalid, I am to betrampled upon by my relations. Then, whatam I to call him!'Nobody present having any suggestion tooffer in the remarkable emergency, Mrs.Gradgrind departed this life for the timebeing, after delivering the following codicil toher remarks already executed:'As to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is, - and Iask it with a fluttering in my chest, whichactually extends to the soles of my feet, - that itmay take place soon. Otherwise, I know it isone of those subjects I shall never hear the lastof.'When Mr. Gradgrind had presented Mrs.Bounderby, Sissy had suddenly turned her

head, and looked, in wonder, in pity, insorrow, in doubt, in a multitude of emotions,towards Louisa. Louisa had known it, and seenit, without looking at her. From that momentshe was impassive, proud and cold - held Sissyat a distance - changed to her altogether.

CHAPTER XVI - HUSBAND AND WIFEMR. BOUNDERBY'S first disquietude onhearing of his happiness, was occasioned bythe necessity of imparting it to Mrs. Sparsit.He could not make up his mind how to do that,or what the consequences of the step mightbe. Whether she would instantly depart, bagand baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or wouldpositively refuse to budge from the premises;whether she would be plaintive or abusive,tearful or tearing; whether she would breakher heart, or break the looking- glass; Mr.Bounderby could not all foresee. However, asit must be done, he had no choice but to do it;so, after attempting several letters, and failingin them all, he resolved to do it by word ofmouth.On his way home, on the evening he set asidefor this momentous purpose, he took theprecaution of stepping into a chemist's shopand buying a bottle of the very strongestsmelling-salts. 'By George!' said Mr.

Bounderby, 'if she takes it in the fainting way,I'll have the skin off her nose, at all events!'But, in spite of being thus forearmed, heentered his own house with anything but acourageous air; and appeared before theobject of his misgivings, like a dog who wasconscious of coming direct from the pantry.'Good evening, Mr. Bounderby!''Good evening, ma'am, good evening.' Hedrew up his chair, and Mrs. Sparsit drew backhers, as who should say, 'Your fireside, sir. Ifreely admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, ifyou think proper.''Don't go to the North Pole, ma'am!' said Mr.Bounderby.'Thank you, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit, andreturned, though short of her former position.Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with thepoints of a stiff, sharp pair of scissors, she

picked out holes for some inscrutableornamental purpose, in a piece of cambric. Anoperation which, taken in connexion with thebushy eyebrows and the Roman nose,suggested with some liveliness the idea of ahawk engaged upon the eyes of a tough littlebird. She was so steadfastly occupied, thatmany minutes elapsed before she looked upfrom her work; when she did so Mr.Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitchof his head.'Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am,' said Mr. Bounderby,putting his hands in his pockets, and assuringhimself with his right hand that the cork of thelittle bottle was ready for use, 'I have nooccasion to say to you, that you are not only alady born and bred, but a devilish sensiblewoman.''Sir,' returned the lady, 'this is indeed not thefirst time that you have honoured me withsimilar expressions of your good opinion.'

'Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'Iam going to astonish you.''Yes, sir?' returned Mrs. Sparsit,interrogatively, and in the most tranquilmanner possible. She generally wore mittens,and she now laid down her work, andsmoothed those mittens.'I am going, ma'am,' said Bounderby, 'tomarry Tom Gradgrind's daughter.''Yes, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit. 'I hope youmay be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed Ihope you may be happy, sir!' And she said itwith such great condescension as well as withsuch great compassion for him, thatBounderby, - far more disconcerted than if shehad thrown her workbox at the mirror, orswooned on the hearthrug, - corked up thesmelling-salts tight in his pocket, and thought,'Now confound this woman, who could haveeven guessed that she would take it in thisway!'

'I wish with all my heart, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit,in a highly superior manner; somehow sheseemed, in a moment, to have established aright to pity him ever afterwards; 'that you maybe in all respects very happy.''Well, ma'am,' returned Bounderby, withsome resentment in his tone: which wasclearly lowered, though in spite of himself, 'Iam obliged to you. I hope I shall be.''Do you, sir!' said Mrs. Sparsit, with greataffability. 'But naturally you do; of course youdo.'A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby'spart, succeeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedatelyresumed her work and occasionally gave asmall cough, which sounded like the cough ofconscious strength and forbearance.'Well, ma'am,' resumed Bounderby, 'underthese circumstances, I imagine it would not be

agreeable to a character like yours to remainhere, though you would be very welcomehere.''Oh, dear no, sir, I could on no account thinkof that!' Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in herhighly superior manner, and a little changedthe small cough - coughing now, as if the spiritof prophecy rose within her, but had better becoughed down.'However, ma'am,' said Bounderby, 'there areapartments at the Bank, where a born andbred lady, as keeper of the place, would berather a catch than otherwise; and if the sameterms - ''I beg your pardon, sir. You were so good asto promise that you would always substitutethe phrase, annual compliment.''Well, ma'am, annual compliment. If the sameannual compliment would be acceptablethere, why, I see nothing to part us, unless you

do.''Sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit. 'The proposal islike yourself, and if the position I shall assumeat the Bank is one that I could occupy withoutdescending lower in the social scale - ''Why, of course it is,' said Bounderby. 'If itwas not, ma'am, you don't suppose that Ishould offer it to a lady who has moved in thesociety you have moved in. Not that I care forsuch society, you know! But you do.''Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate.''You'll have your own private apartments, andyou'll have your coals and your candles, andall the rest of it, and you'll have your maid toattend upon you, and you'll have your lightporter to protect you, and you'll be what I takethe liberty of considering preciouscomfortable,' said Bounderby.'Sir,' rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, 'say no more. In

yielding up my trust here, I shall not be freedfrom the necessity of eating the bread ofdependence:' she might have said thesweetbread, for that delicate article in asavoury brown sauce was her favouritesupper: 'and I would rather receive it fromyour hand, than from any other. Therefore, sir,I accept your offer gratefully, and with manysincere acknowledgments for past favours.And I hope, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit, concludingin an impressively compassionate manner, 'Ifondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be allyou desire, and deserve!'Nothing moved Mrs. Sparsit from that positionany more. It was in vain for Bounderby tobluster or to assert himself in any of hisexplosive ways; Mrs. Sparsit was resolved tohave compassion on him, as a Victim. She waspolite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, themore polite, the more obliging, the morecheerful, the more hopeful, the moreexemplary altogether, she; the forlornerSacrifice and Victim, he. She had that

tenderness for his melancholy fate, that hisgreat red countenance used to break out intocold perspirations when she looked at him.Meanwhile the marriage was appointed to besolemnized in eight weeks' time, and Mr.Bounderby went every evening to Stone Lodgeas an accepted wooer. Love was made onthese occasions in the form of bracelets; and,on all occasions during the period of betrothal,took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses weremade, jewellery was made, cakes and gloveswere made, settlements were made, and anextensive assortment of Facts did appropriatehonour to the contract. The business was allFact, from first to last. The Hours did not gothrough any of those rosy performances, whichfoolish poets have ascribed to them at suchtimes; neither did the clocks go any faster, orany slower, than at other seasons. The deadlystatistical recorder in the Gradgrindobservatory knocked every second on thehead as it was born, and buried it with hisaccustomed regularity.

So the day came, as all other days come topeople who will only stick to reason; and whenit came, there were married in the church ofthe florid wooden legs - that popular order ofarchitecture - Josiah Bounderby Esquire ofCoketown, to Louisa eldest daughter ofThomas Gradgrind Esquire of Stone Lodge,M.P. for that borough. And when they wereunited in holy matrimony, they went home tobreakfast at Stone Lodge aforesaid.There was an improving party assembled onthe auspicious occasion, who knew whateverything they had to eat and drink was madeof, and how it was imported or exported, andin what quantities, and in what bottoms,whether native or foreign, and all about it. Thebridesmaids, down to little Jane Gradgrind,were, in an intellectual point of view, fithelpmates for the calculating boy; and therewas no nonsense about any of the company.After breakfast, the bridegroom addressed

them in the following terms:'Ladies and gentlemen, I am JosiahBounderby of Coketown. Since you have donemy wife and myself the honour of drinking ourhealths and happiness, I suppose I mustacknowledge the same; though, as you allknow me, and know what I am, and what myextraction was, you won't expect a speechfrom a man who, when he sees a Post, says"that's a Post," and when he sees a Pump, says"that's a Pump," and is not to be got to call aPost a Pump, or a Pump a Post, or either ofthem a Toothpick. If you want a speech thismorning, my friend and father-in-law, TomGradgrind, is a Member of Parliament, andyou know where to get it. I am not your man.However, if I feel a little independent when Ilook around this table to-day, and reflect howlittle I thought of marrying Tom Gradgrind'sdaughter when I was a ragged street-boy, whonever washed his face unless it was at a pump,and that not oftener than once a fortnight, Ihope I may be excused. So, I hope you like

my feeling independent; if you don't, I can'thelp it. I do feel independent. Now I havementioned, and you have mentioned, that I amthis day married to Tom Gradgrind's daughter.I am very glad to be so. It has long been mywish to be so. I have watched herbringing-up, and I believe she is worthy of me.At the same time - not to deceive you - Ibelieve I am worthy of her. So, I thank you, onboth our parts, for the good-will you haveshown towards us; and the best wish I can givethe unmarried part of the present company, isthis: I hope every bachelor may find as good awife as I have found. And I hope everyspinster may find as good a husband as mywife has found.'Shortly after which oration, as they weregoing on a nuptial trip to Lyons, in order thatMr. Bounderby might take the opportunity ofseeing how the Hands got on in those parts,and whether they, too, required to be fed withgold spoons; the happy pair departed for therailroad. The bride, in passing down-stairs,

dressed for her journey, found Tom waiting forher - flushed, either with his feelings, or thevinous part of the breakfast.'What a game girl you are, to be such afirst-rate sister, Loo!' whispered Tom.She clung to him as she should have clung tosome far better nature that day, and was a littleshaken in her reserved composure for the firsttime.'Old Bounderby's quite ready,' said Tom.'Time's up. Good-bye! I shall be on thelook-out for you, when you come back. I say,my dear Loo! AN'T it uncommonly jolly now!'END OF THE FIRST BOOK

CHAPTER I - EFFECTS IN THE BANKA SUNNY midsummer day. There was such athing sometimes, even in Coketown.Seen from a distance in such weather,Coketown lay shrouded in a haze of its own,which appeared impervious to the sun's rays.You only knew the town was there, becauseyou knew there could have been no such sulkyblotch upon the prospect without a town. Ablur of soot and smoke, now confusedlytending this way, now that way, now aspiringto the vault of Heaven, now murkily creepingalong the earth, as the wind rose and fell, orchanged its quarter: a dense formless jumble,with sheets of cross light in it, that showednothing but masses of darkness:- Coketown inthe distance was suggestive of itself, thoughnot a brick of it could be seen.The wonder was, it was there at all. It hadbeen ruined so often, that it was amazing howit had borne so many shocks. Surely there

never was such fragile china-ware as that ofwhich the millers of Coketown were made.Handle them never so lightly, and they fell topieces with such ease that you might suspectthem of having been flawed before. Theywere ruined, when they were required to sendlabouring children to school; they were ruinedwhen inspectors were appointed to look intotheir works; they were ruined, when suchinspectors considered it doubtful whether theywere quite justified in chopping people upwith their machinery; they were utterlyundone, when it was hinted that perhaps theyneed not always make quite so much smoke.Besides Mr. Bounderby's gold spoon whichwas generally received in Coketown, anotherprevalent fiction was very popular there. Ittook the form of a threat. Whenever aCoketowner felt he was ill-used - that is to say,whenever he was not left entirely alone, and itwas proposed to hold him accountable for theconsequences of any of his acts - he was sureto come out with the awful menace, that hewould 'sooner pitch his property into the

Atlantic.' This had terrified the HomeSecretary within an inch of his life, on severaloccasions.However, the Coketowners were so patrioticafter all, that they never had pitched theirproperty into the Atlantic yet, but, on thecontrary, had been kind enough to takemighty good care of it. So there it was, in thehaze yonder; and it increased and multiplied.The streets were hot and dusty on thesummer day, and the sun was so bright that iteven shone through the heavy vapourdrooping over Coketown, and could not belooked at steadily. Stokers emerged from lowunderground doorways into factory yards, andsat on steps, and posts, and palings, wipingtheir swarthy visages, and contemplatingcoals. The whole town seemed to be frying inoil. There was a stifling smell of hot oileverywhere. The steam- engines shone withit, the dresses of the Hands were soiled with it,the mills throughout their many stories oozed

and trickled it. The atmosphere of those Fairypalaces was like the breath of the simoom:and their inhabitants, wasting with heat, toiledlanguidly in the desert. But no temperaturemade the melancholy mad elephants moremad or more sane. Their wearisome headswent up and down at the same rate, in hotweather and cold, wet weather and dry, fairweather and foul. The measured motion oftheir shadows on the walls, was the substituteCoketown had to show for the shadows ofrustling woods; while, for the summer hum ofinsects, it could offer, all the year round, fromthe dawn of Monday to the night of Saturday,the whirr of shafts and wheels.Drowsily they whirred all through this sunnyday, making the passenger more sleepy andmore hot as he passed the humming walls ofthe mills. Sun-blinds, and sprinklings of water,a little cooled the main streets and the shops;but the mills, and the courts and alleys, bakedat a fierce heat. Down upon the river that wasblack and thick with dye, some Coketown

oys who were at large - a rare sight there -rowed a crazy boat, which made a spumoustrack upon the water as it jogged along, whileevery dip of an oar stirred up vile smells. Butthe sun itself, however beneficent, generally,was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, andrarely looked intently into any of its closerregions without engendering more death thanlife. So does the eye of Heaven itself becomean evil eye, when incapable or sordid handsare interposed between it and the things itlooks upon to bless.Mrs. Sparsit sat in her afternoon apartment atthe Bank, on the shadier side of the fryingstreet. Office-hours were over: and at thatperiod of the day, in warm weather, sheusually embellished with her genteelpresence, a managerial board-room over thepublic office. Her own private sitting-roomwas a story higher, at the window of whichpost of observation she was ready, everymorning, to greet Mr. Bounderby, as he cameacross the road, with the sympathizing

ecognition appropriate to a Victim. He hadbeen married now a year; and Mrs. Sparsit hadnever released him from her determined pitya moment.The Bank offered no violence to thewholesome monotony of the town. It wasanother red brick house, with black outsideshutters, green inside blinds, a blackstreet-door up two white steps, a brazendoor-plate, and a brazen door-handle full stop.It was a size larger than Mr. Bounderby'shouse, as other houses were from a size tohalf-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all otherparticulars, it was strictly according to pattern.Mrs. Sparsit was conscious that by coming inthe evening-tide among the desks and writingimplements, she shed a feminine, not to sayalso aristocratic, grace upon the office.Seated, with her needlework or nettingapparatus, at the window, she had a selflaudatorysense of correcting, by her ladylikedeportment, the rude business aspect of the

place. With this impression of her interestingcharacter upon her, Mrs. Sparsit consideredherself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy. Thetownspeople who, in their passing andrepassing, saw her there, regarded her as theBank Dragon keeping watch over the treasuresof the mine.What those treasures were, Mrs. Sparsit knewas little as they did. Gold and silver coin,precious paper, secrets that if divulged wouldbring vague destruction upon vague persons(generally, however, people whom shedisliked), were the chief items in her idealcatalogue thereof. For the rest, she knew thatafter office- hours, she reigned supreme overall the office furniture, and over a locked-upiron room with three locks, against the door ofwhich strong chamber the light porter laid hishead every night, on a truckle bed, thatdisappeared at cockcrow. Further, she waslady paramount over certain vaults in thebasement, sharply spiked off fromcommunication with the predatory world; and

over the relics of the current day's work,consisting of blots of ink, worn-out pens,fragments of wafers, and scraps of paper tornso small, that nothing interesting could ever bedeciphered on them when Mrs. Sparsit tried.Lastly, she was guardian over a little armouryof cutlasses and carbines, arrayed in vengefulorder above one of the officialchimney-pieces; and over that respectabletradition never to be separated from a place ofbusiness claiming to be wealthy - a row offire-buckets - vessels calculated to be of nophysical utility on any occasion, but observedto exercise a fine moral influence, almostequal to bullion, on most beholders.A deaf serving-woman and the light portercompleted Mrs. Sparsit's empire. The deafserving-woman was rumoured to be wealthy;and a saying had for years gone about amongthe lower orders of Coketown, that she wouldbe murdered some night when the Bank wasshut, for the sake of her money. It wasgenerally considered, indeed, that she had

een due some time, and ought to have fallenlong ago; but she had kept her life, and hersituation, with an ill-conditioned tenacity thatoccasioned much offence and disappointment.Mrs. Sparsit's tea was just set for her on a pertlittle table, with its tripod of legs in an attitude,which she insinuated after office-hours, intothe company of the stern, leathern-topped,long board-table that bestrode the middle ofthe room. The light porter placed the tea-trayon it, knuckling his forehead as a form ofhomage.'Thank you, Bitzer,' said Mrs. Sparsit.'Thank you, ma'am,' returned the light porter.He was a very light porter indeed; as light asin the days when he blinkingly defined ahorse, for girl number twenty.'All is shut up, Bitzer?' said Mrs. Sparsit.'All is shut up, ma'am.'

'And what,' said Mrs. Sparsit, pouring out hertea, 'is the news of the day? Anything?''Well, ma'am, I can't say that I have heardanything particular. Our people are a bad lot,ma'am; but that is no news, unfortunately.''What are the restless wretches doing now?'asked Mrs. Sparsit.'Merely going on in the old way, ma'am.Uniting, and leaguing, and engaging to standby one another.''It is much to be regretted,' said Mrs. Sparsit,making her nose more Roman and hereyebrows more Coriolanian in the strength ofher severity, 'that the united masters allow ofany such class- combinations.''Yes, ma'am,' said Bitzer.'Being united themselves, they ought one and

all to set their faces against employing anyman who is united with any other man,' saidMrs. Sparsit.'They have done that, ma'am,' returned Bitzer;'but it rather fell through, ma'am.''I do not pretend to understand these things,'said Mrs. Sparsit, with dignity, 'my lot havingbeen signally cast in a widely different sphere;and Mr. Sparsit, as a Powler, being also quiteout of the pale of any such dissensions. I onlyknow that these people must be conquered,and that it's high time it was done, once for all.''Yes, ma'am,' returned Bitzer, with ademonstration of great respect for Mrs.Sparsit's oracular authority. 'You couldn't put itclearer, I am sure, ma'am.'As this was his usual hour for having a littleconfidential chat with Mrs. Sparsit, and as hehad already caught her eye and seen that shewas going to ask him something, he made a

pretence of arranging the rulers, inkstands,and so forth, while that lady went on with hertea, glancing through the open window, downinto the street.'Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?' asked Mrs.Sparsit.'Not a very busy day, my lady. About anaverage day.' He now and then slided into mylady, instead of ma'am, as an involuntaryacknowledgment of Mrs. Sparsit's personaldignity and claims to reverence.'The clerks,' said Mrs. Sparsit, carefullybrushing an imperceptible crumb of breadand butter from her left-hand mitten, 'aretrustworthy, punctual, and industrious, ofcourse?''Yes, ma'am, pretty fair, ma'am. With theusual exception.'He held the respectable office of general spy

and informer in the establishment, for whichvolunteer service he received a present atChristmas, over and above his weekly wage.He had grown into an extremely clear-headed,cautious, prudent young man, who was safe torise in the world. His mind was so exactlyregulated, that he had no affections orpassions. All his proceedings were the resultof the nicest and coldest calculation; and it wasnot without cause that Mrs. Sparsit habituallyobserved of him, that he was a young man ofthe steadiest principle she had ever known.Having satisfied himself, on his father's death,that his mother had a right of settlement inCoketown, this excellent young economist hadasserted that right for her with such a steadfastadherence to the principle of the case, that shehad been shut up in the workhouse ever since.It must be admitted that he allowed her half apound of tea a year, which was weak in him:first, because all gifts have an inevitabletendency to pauperise the recipient, andsecondly, because his only reasonabletransaction in that commodity would have

een to buy it for as little as he could possiblygive, and sell it for as much as he couldpossibly get; it having been clearlyascertained by philosophers that in this iscomprised the whole duty of man - not a partof man's duty, but the whole.'Pretty fair, ma'am. With the usual exception,ma'am,' repeated Bitzer.'Ah - h!' said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her headover her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp.'Mr. Thomas, ma'am, I doubt Mr. Thomas verymuch, ma'am, I don't like his ways at all.''Bitzer,' said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressivemanner, 'do you recollect my having saidanything to you respecting names?''I beg your pardon, ma'am. It's quite true thatyou did object to names being used, andthey're always best avoided.'

'Please to remember that I have a chargehere,' said Mrs. Sparsit, with her air of state. 'Ihold a trust here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby.However improbable both Mr. Bounderbyand myself might have deemed it years ago,that he would ever become my patron, makingme an annual compliment, I cannot but regardhim in that light. From Mr. Bounderby I havereceived every acknowledgment of my socialstation, and every recognition of my familydescent, that I could possibly expect. More,far more. Therefore, to my patron I will bescrupulously true. And I do not consider, I willnot consider, I cannot consider,' said Mrs.Sparsit, with a most extensive stock on hand ofhonour and morality, 'that I should bescrupulously true, if I allowed names to bementioned under this roof, that areunfortunately - most unfortunately - no doubt ofthat - connected with his.'Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and againbegged pardon.

'No, Bitzer,' continued Mrs. Sparsit, 'say anindividual, and I will hear you; say Mr.Thomas, and you must excuse me.''With the usual exception, ma'am,' said Bitzer,trying back, 'of an individual.''Ah - h!' Mrs. Sparsit repeated the ejaculation,the shake of the head over her tea-cup, andthe long gulp, as taking up the conversationagain at the point where it had beeninterrupted.'An individual, ma'am,' said Bitzer, 'has neverbeen what he ought to have been, since hefirst came into the place. He is a dissipated,extravagant idler. He is not worth his salt,ma'am. He wouldn't get it either, if he hadn't afriend and relation at court, ma'am!''Ah - h!' said Mrs. Sparsit, with anothermelancholy shake of her head.'I only hope, ma'am,' pursued Bitzer, 'that his

friend and relation may not supply him withthe means of carrying on. Otherwise, ma'am,we know out of whose pocket that moneycomes.''Ah - h!' sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, withanother melancholy shake of her head.'He is to be pitied, ma'am. The last party Ihave alluded to, is to be pitied, ma'am,' saidBitzer.'Yes, Bitzer,' said Mrs. Sparsit. 'I have alwayspitied the delusion, always.''As to an individual, ma'am,' said Bitzer,dropping his voice and drawing nearer, 'he isas improvident as any of the people in thistown. And you know what their improvidenceis, ma'am. No one could wish to know it betterthan a lady of your eminence does.''They would do well,' returned Mrs. Sparsit,'to take example by you, Bitzer.'

'Thank you, ma'am. But, since you do refer tome, now look at me, ma'am. I have put by alittle, ma'am, already. That gratuity which Ireceive at Christmas, ma'am: I never touch it.I don't even go the length of my wages, thoughthey're not high, ma'am. Why can't they do as Ihave done, ma'am? What one person can do,another can do.'This, again, was among the fictions ofCoketown. Any capitalist there, who hadmade sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence,always professed to wonder why the sixtythousand nearest Hands didn't each make sixtythousand pounds out of sixpence, and more orless reproached them every one for notaccomplishing the little feat. What I did youcan do. Why don't you go and do it?'As to their wanting recreations, ma'am,' saidBitzer, 'it's stuff and nonsense. I don't wantrecreations. I never did, and I never shall; Idon't like 'em. As to their combining together;

there are many of them, I have no doubt, thatby watching and informing upon one anothercould earn a trifle now and then, whether inmoney or good will, and improve theirlivelihood. Then, why don't they improve it,ma'am! It's the first consideration of a rationalcreature, and it's what they pretend to want.''Pretend indeed!' said Mrs. Sparsit.'I am sure we are constantly hearing, ma'am,till it becomes quite nauseous, concerningtheir wives and families,' said Bitzer. 'Whylook at me, ma'am! I don't want a wife andfamily. Why should they?''Because they are improvident,' said Mrs.Sparsit.'Yes, ma'am,' returned Bitzer, 'that's where itis. If they were more provident and lessperverse, ma'am, what would they do? Theywould say, "While my hat covers my family,"or "while my bonnet covers my family," - as

the case might be, ma'am - "I have only one tofeed, and that's the person I most like to feed."''To be sure,' assented Mrs. Sparsit, eatingmuffin.'Thank you, ma'am,' said Bitzer, knuckling hisforehead again, in return for the favour of Mrs.Sparsit's improving conversation. 'Would youwish a little more hot water, ma'am, or is thereanything else that I could fetch you?''Nothing just now, Bitzer.''Thank you, ma'am. I shouldn't wish to disturbyou at your meals, ma'am, particularly tea,knowing your partiality for it,' said Bitzer,craning a little to look over into the street fromwhere he stood; 'but there's a gentleman beenlooking up here for a minute or so, ma'am, andhe has come across as if he was going toknock. That is his knock, ma'am, no doubt.'He stepped to the window; and looking out,

and drawing in his head again, confirmedhimself with, 'Yes, ma'am. Would you wish thegentleman to be shown in, ma'am?''I don't know who it can be,' said Mrs. Sparsit,wiping her mouth and arranging her mittens.'A stranger, ma'am, evidently.''What a stranger can want at the Bank at thistime of the evening, unless he comes uponsome business for which he is too late, I don'tknow,' said Mrs. Sparsit, 'but I hold a charge inthis establishment from Mr. Bounderby, and Iwill never shrink from it. If to see him is anypart of the duty I have accepted, I will see him.Use your own discretion, Bitzer.'Here the visitor, all unconscious of Mrs.Sparsit's magnanimous words, repeated hisknock so loudly that the light porter hasteneddown to open the door; while Mrs. Sparsit tookthe precaution of concealing her little table,with all its appliances upon it, in a cupboard,

and then decamped up-stairs, that she mightappear, if needful, with the greater dignity.'If you please, ma'am, the gentleman wouldwish to see you,' said Bitzer, with his light eyeat Mrs. Sparsit's keyhole. So, Mrs. Sparsit, whohad improved the interval by touching up hercap, took her classical features down-stairsagain, and entered the board- room in themanner of a Roman matron going outside thecity walls to treat with an invading general.The visitor having strolled to the window, andbeing then engaged in looking carelessly out,was as unmoved by this impressive entry asman could possibly be. He stood whistling tohimself with all imaginable coolness, with hishat still on, and a certain air of exhaustionupon him, in part arising from excessivesummer, and in part from excessive gentility.For it was to be seen with half an eye that hewas a thorough gentleman, made to the modelof the time; weary of everything, and puttingno more faith in anything than Lucifer.

'I believe, sir,' quoth Mrs. Sparsit, 'you wishedto see me.''I beg your pardon,' he said, turning andremoving his hat; 'pray excuse me.''Humph!' thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made astately bend. 'Five and thirty, good-looking,good figure, good teeth, good voice, goodbreeding, well-dressed, dark hair, bold eyes.'All which Mrs. Sparsit observed in herwomanly way - like the Sultan who put hishead in the pail of water - merely in dippingdown and coming up again.'Please to be seated, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit.'Thank you. Allow me.' He placed a chair forher, but remained himself carelessly loungingagainst the table. 'I left my servant at therailway looking after the luggage - very heavytrain and vast quantity of it in the van - andstrolled on, looking about me. Exceedingly

odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if it'salways as black as this?''In general much blacker,' returned Mrs.Sparsit, in her uncompromising way.'Is it possible! Excuse me: you are not anative, I think?''No, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit. 'It was oncemy good or ill fortune, as it may be - before Ibecame a widow - to move in a very differentsphere. My husband was a Powler.''Beg your pardon, really!' said the stranger.'Was - ?'Mrs. Sparsit repeated, 'A Powler.''Powler Family,' said the stranger, afterreflecting a few moments. Mrs. Sparsitsignified assent. The stranger seemed a littlemore fatigued than before.

'You must be very much bored here?' was theinference he drew from the communication.'I am the servant of circumstances, sir,' saidMrs. Sparsit, 'and I have long adapted myselfto the governing power of my life.''Very philosophical,' returned the stranger,'and very exemplary and laudable, and - ' Itseemed to be scarcely worth his while to finishthe sentence, so he played with hiswatch-chain wearily.'May I be permitted to ask, sir,' said Mrs.Sparsit, 'to what I am indebted for the favour of- ''Assuredly,' said the stranger. 'Much obligedto you for reminding me. I am the bearer of aletter of introduction to Mr. Bounderby, thebanker. Walking through this extraordinarilyblack town, while they were getting dinnerready at the hotel, I asked a fellow whom I met;one of the working people; who appeared to

have been taking a shower-bath of somethingfluffy, which I assume to be the raw material - 'Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head.' - Raw material - where Mr. Bounderby, thebanker, might reside. Upon which, misled nodoubt by the word Banker, he directed me tothe Bank. Fact being, I presume, that Mr.Bounderby the Banker does not reside in theedifice in which I have the honour of offeringthis explanation?''No, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'he does not.''Thank you. I had no intention of deliveringmy letter at the present moment, nor have I.But strolling on to the Bank to kill time, andhaving the good fortune to observe at thewindow,' towards which he languidly wavedhis hand, then slightly bowed, 'a lady of a verysuperior and agreeable appearance, Iconsidered that I could not do better than takethe liberty of asking that lady where Mr.

Bounderby the Banker does live. Which Iaccordingly venture, with all suitableapologies, to do.'The inattention and indolence of his mannerwere sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit'sthinking, by a certain gallantry at ease, whichoffered her homage too. Here he was, forinstance, at this moment, all but sitting on thetable, and yet lazily bending over her, as if heacknowledged an attraction in her that madeher charming - in her way.'Banks, I know, are always suspicious, andofficially must be,' said the stranger, whoselightness and smoothness of speech werepleasant likewise; suggesting matter far moresensible and humorous than it ever contained -which was perhaps a shrewd device of thefounder of this numerous sect, whosoever mayhave been that great man: 'therefore I mayobserve that my letter - here it is - is from themember for this place - Gradgrind - whom Ihave had the pleasure of knowing in London.'

Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimatedthat such confirmation was quite unnecessary,and gave Mr. Bounderby's address, with allneedful clues and directions in aid.'Thousand thanks,' said the stranger. 'Ofcourse you know the Banker well?''Yes, sir,' rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. 'In mydependent relation towards him, I have knownhim ten years.''Quite an eternity! I think he marriedGradgrind's daughter?''Yes,' said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenlycompressing her mouth, 'he had that - honour.''The lady is quite a philosopher, I am told?''Indeed, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit. 'Is she?''Excuse my impertinent curiosity,' pursued

the stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit'seyebrows, with a propitiatory air, 'but youknow the family, and know the world. I amabout to know the family, and may have muchto do with them. Is the lady so very alarming?Her father gives her such a portentouslyhard-headed reputation, that I have a burningdesire to know. Is she absolutelyunapproachable? Repellently and stunninglyclever? I see, by your meaning smile, youthink not. You have poured balm into myanxious soul. As to age, now. Forty? Five andthirty?'Mrs. Sparsit laughed outright. 'A chit,' saidshe. 'Not twenty when she was married.''I give you my honour, Mrs. Powler,' returnedthe stranger, detaching himself from the table,'that I never was so astonished in my life!'It really did seem to impress him, to theutmost extent of his capacity of beingimpressed. He looked at his informant for full

a quarter of a minute, and appeared to havethe surprise in his mind all the time. 'I assureyou, Mrs. Powler,' he then said, muchexhausted, 'that the father's manner preparedme for a grim and stony maturity. I am obligedto you, of all things, for correcting so absurd amistake. Pray excuse my intrusion. Manythanks. Good day!'He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit,hiding in the window curtain, saw himlanguishing down the street on the shady sideof the way, observed of all the town.'What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?'she asked the light porter, when he came totake away.'Spends a deal of money on his dress, ma'am.''It must be admitted,' said Mrs. Sparsit, 'thatit's very tasteful.''Yes, ma'am,' returned Bitzer, 'if that's worth

the money.''Besides which, ma'am,' resumed Bitzer, whilehe was polishing the table, 'he looks to me as ifhe gamed.''It's immoral to game,' said Mrs. Sparsit.'It's ridiculous, ma'am,' said Bitzer, 'becausethe chances are against the players.'Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs.Sparsit from working, or whether it was thather hand was out, she did no work that night.She sat at the window, when the sun began tosink behind the smoke; she sat there, when thesmoke was burning red, when the colourfaded from it, when darkness seemed to riseslowly out of the ground, and creep upward,upward, up to the house-tops, up the churchsteeple, up to the summits of the factorychimneys, up to the sky. Without a candle inthe room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at the window, withher hands before her, not thinking much of the

sounds of evening; the whooping of boys, thebarking of dogs, the rumbling of wheels, thesteps and voices of passengers, the shrillstreet cries, the clogs upon the pavementwhen it was their hour for going by, theshutting-up of shop-shutters. Not until the lightporter announced that her nocturnalsweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouseherself from her reverie, and convey herdense black eyebrows - by that time creasedwith meditation, as if they needed ironingout-up-stairs.'O, you Fool!' said Mrs. Sparsit, when she wasalone at her supper. Whom she meant, she didnot say; but she could scarcely have meant thesweetbread.

CHAPTER II - MR. JAMES HARTHOUSETHE Gradgrind party wanted assistance incutting the throats of the Graces. They wentabout recruiting; and where could they enlistrecruits more hopefully, than among the finegentlemen who, having found out everythingto be worth nothing, were equally ready foranything?Moreover, the healthy spirits who hadmounted to this sublime height were attractiveto many of the Gradgrind school. They likedfine gentlemen; they pretended that they didnot, but they did. They became exhausted inimitation of them; and they yaw-yawed in theirspeech like them; and they served out, with anenervated air, the little mouldy rations ofpolitical economy, on which they regaled theirdisciples. There never before was seen onearth such a wonderful hybrid race as was thusproduced.Among the fine gentlemen not regularly

elonging to the Gradgrind school, there wasone of a good family and a better appearance,with a happy turn of humour which had toldimmensely with the House of Commons on theoccasion of his entertaining it with his (and theBoard of Directors) view of a railway accident,in which the most careful officers ever known,employed by the most liberal managers everheard of, assisted by the finest mechanicalcontrivances ever devised, the whole in actionon the best line ever constructed, had killedfive people and wounded thirty-two, by acasualty without which the excellence of thewhole system would have been positivelyincomplete. Among the slain was a cow, andamong the scattered articles unowned, awidow's cap. And the honourable memberhad so tickled the House (which has a delicatesense of humour) by putting the cap on thecow, that it became impatient of any seriousreference to the Coroner's Inquest, andbrought the railway off with Cheers andLaughter.

Now, this gentleman had a younger brotherof still better appearance than himself, whohad tried life as a Cornet of Dragoons, andfound it a bore; and had afterwards tried it inthe train of an English minister abroad, andfound it a bore; and had then strolled toJerusalem, and got bored there; and had thengone yachting about the world, and got boredeverywhere. To whom this honourable andjocular, member fraternally said one day, 'Jem,there's a good opening among the hard Factfellows, and they want men. I wonder youdon't go in for statistics.' Jem, rather taken bythe novelty of the idea, and very hard up for achange, was as ready to 'go in' for statistics asfor anything else. So, he went in. He coachedhimself up with a blue-book or two; and hisbrother put it about among the hard Factfellows, and said, 'If you want to bring in, forany place, a handsome dog who can make youa devilish good speech, look after my brotherJem, for he's your man.' After a few dashes inthe public meeting way, Mr. Gradgrind and acouncil of political sages approved of Jem, and

it was resolved to send him down toCoketown, to become known there and in theneighbourhood. Hence the letter Jem had lastnight shown to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr.Bounderby now held in his hand;superscribed, 'Josiah Bounderby, Esquire,Banker, Coketown. Specially to introduceJames Harthouse, Esquire. ThomasGradgrind.'Within an hour of the receipt of this dispatchand Mr. James Harthouse's card, Mr.Bounderby put on his hat and went down to theHotel. There he found Mr. James Harthouselooking out of window, in a state of mind sodisconsolate, that he was already halfdisposedto 'go in' for something else.'My name, sir,' said his visitor, 'is JosiahBounderby, of Coketown.'Mr. James Harthouse was very happy indeed(though he scarcely looked so) to have apleasure he had long expected.

'Coketown, sir,' said Bounderby, obstinatelytaking a chair, 'is not the kind of place youhave been accustomed to. Therefore, if youwill allow me - or whether you will or not, for Iam a plain man - I'll tell you something about itbefore we go any further.'Mr. Harthouse would be charmed.'Don't be too sure of that,' said Bounderby. 'Idon't promise it. First of all, you see oursmoke. That's meat and drink to us. It's thehealthiest thing in the world in all respects,and particularly for the lungs. If you are one ofthose who want us to consume it, I differ fromyou. We are not going to wear the bottoms ofour boilers out any faster than we wear 'em outnow, for all the humbugging sentiment inGreat Britain and Ireland.'By way of 'going in' to the fullest extent, Mr.Harthouse rejoined, 'Mr. Bounderby, I assureyou I am entirely and completely of your way

of thinking. On conviction.''I am glad to hear it,' said Bounderby. 'Now,you have heard a lot of talk about the work inour mills, no doubt. You have? Very good. I'llstate the fact of it to you. It's the pleasantestwork there is, and it's the lightest work thereis, and it's the best- paid work there is. Morethan that, we couldn't improve the millsthemselves, unless we laid down Turkeycarpets on the floors. Which we're not a-goingto do.''Mr. Bounderby, perfectly right.''Lastly,' said Bounderby, 'as to our Hands.There's not a Hand in this town, sir, man,woman, or child, but has one ultimate object inlife. That object is, to be fed on turtle soup andvenison with a gold spoon. Now, they're nota-going - none of 'em - ever to be fed on turtlesoup and venison with a gold spoon. And nowyou know the place.'

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in thehighest degree instructed and refreshed, bythis condensed epitome of the wholeCoketown question.'Why, you see,' replied Mr. Bounderby, 'itsuits my disposition to have a fullunderstanding with a man, particularly with apublic man, when I make his acquaintance. Ihave only one thing more to say to you, Mr.Harthouse, before assuring you of the pleasurewith which I shall respond, to the utmost of mypoor ability, to my friend Tom Gradgrind'sletter of introduction. You are a man of family.Don't you deceive yourself by supposing for amoment that I am a man of family. I am a bit ofdirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of tag, rag,and bobtail.'If anything could have exalted Jem's interestin Mr. Bounderby, it would have been this verycircumstance. Or, so he told him.'So now,' said Bounderby, 'we may shake

hands on equal terms. I say, equal terms,because although I know what I am, and theexact depth of the gutter I have lifted myselfout of, better than any man does, I am as proudas you are. I am just as proud as you are.Having now asserted my independence in aproper manner, I may come to how do you findyourself, and I hope you're pretty well.'The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him tounderstand as they shook hands, for thesalubrious air of Coketown. Mr. Bounderbyreceived the answer with favour.'Perhaps you know,' said he, 'or perhaps youdon't know, I married Tom Gradgrind'sdaughter. If you have nothing better to dothan to walk up town with me, I shall be glad tointroduce you to Tom Gradgrind's daughter.''Mr. Bounderby,' said Jem, 'you anticipate mydearest wishes.'They went out without further discourse; and

Mr. Bounderby piloted the new acquaintancewho so strongly contrasted with him, to theprivate red brick dwelling, with the blackoutside shutters, the green inside blinds, andthe black street door up the two white steps.In the drawing-room of which mansion, therepresently entered to them the mostremarkable girl Mr. James Harthouse had everseen. She was so constrained, and yet socareless; so reserved, and yet so watchful; socold and proud, and yet so sensitivelyashamed of her husband's braggart humility -from which she shrunk as if every example of itwere a cut or a blow; that it was quite a newsensation to observe her. In face she was noless remarkable than in manner. Her featureswere handsome; but their natural play was solocked up, that it seemed impossible to guessat their genuine expression. Utterlyindifferent, perfectly self- reliant, never at aloss, and yet never at her ease, with her figurein company with them there, and her mindapparently quite alone - it was of no use 'goingin' yet awhile to comprehend this girl, for she

affled all penetration.From the mistress of the house, the visitorglanced to the house itself. There was no mutesign of a woman in the room. No graceful littleadornment, no fanciful little device, howevertrivial, anywhere expressed her influence.Cheerless and comfortless, boastfully anddoggedly rich, there the room stared at itspresent occupants, unsoftened and unrelievedby the least trace of any womanly occupation.As Mr. Bounderby stood in the midst of hishousehold gods, so those unrelentingdivinities occupied their places around Mr.Bounderby, and they were worthy of oneanother, and well matched.'This, sir,' said Bounderby, 'is my wife, Mrs.Bounderby: Tom Gradgrind's eldest daughter.Loo, Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. Harthouse hasjoined your father's muster-roll. If he is notTorn Gradgrind's colleague before long, Ibelieve we shall at least hear of him inconnexion with one of our neighbouring

towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that mywife is my junior. I don't know what she saw inme to marry me, but she saw something in me,I suppose, or she wouldn't have married me.She has lots of expensive knowledge, sir,political and otherwise. If you want to cram foranything, I should be troubled to recommendyou to a better adviser than Loo Bounderby.'To a more agreeable adviser, or one fromwhom he would be more likely to learn, Mr.Harthouse could never be recommended.'Come!' said his host. 'If you're in thecomplimentary line, you'll get on here, foryou'll meet with no competition. I have neverbeen in the way of learning complimentsmyself, and I don't profess to understand theart of paying 'em. In fact, despise 'em. But,your bringing-up was different from mine;mine was a real thing, by George! You're agentleman, and I don't pretend to be one. I amJosiah Bounderby of Coketown, and that'senough for me. However, though I am not

influenced by manners and station, LooBounderby may be. She hadn't my advantages- disadvantages you would call 'em, but I call'em advantages - so you'll not waste yourpower, I dare say.''Mr. Bounderby,' said Jem, turning with asmile to Louisa, 'is a noble animal in acomparatively natural state, quite free from theharness in which a conventional hack likemyself works.''You respect Mr. Bounderby very much,' shequietly returned. 'It is natural that you should.'He was disgracefully thrown out, for agentleman who had seen so much of the world,and thought, 'Now, how am I to take this?''You are going to devote yourself, as I gatherfrom what Mr. Bounderby has said, to theservice of your country. You have made upyour mind,' said Louisa, still standing beforehim where she had first stopped - in all the

singular contrariety of her self- possession,and her being obviously very ill at ease - 'toshow the nation the way out of all itsdifficulties.''Mrs. Bounderby,' he returned, laughing,'upon my honour, no. I will make no suchpretence to you. I have seen a little, here andthere, up and down; I have found it all to bevery worthless, as everybody has, and assome confess they have, and some do not; andI am going in for your respected father'sopinions - really because I have no choice ofopinions, and may as well back them asanything else.''Have you none of your own?' asked Louisa.'I have not so much as the slightestpredilection left. I assure you I attach not theleast importance to any opinions. The result ofthe varieties of boredom I have undergone, isa conviction (unless conviction is tooindustrious a word for the lazy sentiment I

entertain on the subject), that any set of ideaswill do just as much good as any other set, andjust as much harm as any other set. There's anEnglish family with a charming Italian motto.What will be, will be. It's the only truth going!'This vicious assumption of honesty indishonesty - a vice so dangerous, so deadly,and so common - seemed, he observed, a littleto impress her in his favour. He followed upthe advantage, by saying in his pleasantestmanner: a manner to which she might attachas much or as little meaning as she pleased:'The side that can prove anything in a line ofunits, tens, hundreds, and thousands, Mrs.Bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun,and to give a man the best chance. I am quiteas much attached to it as if I believed it. I amquite ready to go in for it, to the same extent asif I believed it. And what more could Ipossibly do, if I did believe it!''You are a singular politician,' said Louisa.

'Pardon me; I have not even that merit. Weare the largest party in the state, I assure you,Mrs. Bounderby, if we all fell out of ouradopted ranks and were reviewed together.'Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger ofbursting in silence, interposed here with aproject for postponing the family dinner tillhalf-past six, and taking Mr. James Harthousein the meantime on a round of visits to thevoting and interesting notabilities of Coketownand its vicinity. The round of visits was made;and Mr. James Harthouse, with a discreet useof his blue coaching, came off triumphantly,though with a considerable accession ofboredom.In the evening, he found the dinner-table laidfor four, but they sat down only three. It wasan appropriate occasion for Mr. Bounderby todiscuss the flavour of the hap'orth of stewedeels he had purchased in the streets at eightyears old; and also of the inferior water,specially used for laying the dust, with which

he had washed down that repast. He likewiseentertained his guest over the soup and fish,with the calculation that he (Bounderby) hadeaten in his youth at least three horses underthe guise of polonies and saveloys. Theserecitals, Jem, in a languid manner, receivedwith 'charming!' every now and then; and theyprobably would have decided him to 'go in' forJerusalem again to-morrow morning, had hebeen less curious respecting Louisa.'Is there nothing,' he thought, glancing at heras she sat at the head of the table, where heryouthful figure, small and slight, but verygraceful, looked as pretty as it lookedmisplaced; 'is there nothing that will move thatface?'Yes! By Jupiter, there was something, andhere it was, in an unexpected shape. Tomappeared. She changed as the door opened,and broke into a beaming smile.A beautiful smile. Mr. James Harthouse might

not have thought so much of it, but that he hadwondered so long at her impassive face. Sheput out her hand - a pretty little soft hand; andher fingers closed upon her brother's, as if shewould have carried them to her lips.'Ay, ay?' thought the visitor. 'This whelp is theonly creature she cares for. So, so!'The whelp was presented, and took his chair.The appellation was not flattering, but notunmerited.'When I was your age, young Tom,' saidBounderby, 'I was punctual, or I got no dinner!''When you were my age,' resumed Tom, 'youhadn't a wrong balance to get right, and hadn'tto dress afterwards.''Never mind that now,' said Bounderby.'Well, then,' grumbled Tom. 'Don't begin withme.'

'Mrs. Bounderby,' said Harthouse, perfectlyhearing this under- strain as it went on; 'yourbrother's face is quite familiar to me. Can Ihave seen him abroad? Or at some publicschool, perhaps?''No,' she resumed, quite interested, 'he hasnever been abroad yet, and was educatedhere, at home. Tom, love, I am telling Mr.Harthouse that he never saw you abroad.''No such luck, sir,' said Tom.There was little enough in him to brighten herface, for he was a sullen young fellow, andungracious in his manner even to her. Somuch the greater must have been the solitudeof her heart, and her need of some one onwhom to bestow it. 'So much the more is thiswhelp the only creature she has ever caredfor,' thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning itover and over. 'So much the more. So muchthe more.'

Both in his sister's presence, and after shehad left the room, the whelp took no pains tohide his contempt for Mr. Bounderby,whenever he could indulge it without theobservation of that independent man, bymaking wry faces, or shutting one eye.Without responding to these telegraphiccommunications, Mr. Harthouse encouragedhim much in the course of the evening, andshowed an unusual liking for him. At last,when he rose to return to his hotel, and was alittle doubtful whether he knew the way bynight, the whelp immediately proffered hisservices as guide, and turned out with him toescort him thither.

CHAPTER III - THE WHELPIT was very remarkable that a younggentleman who had been brought up underone continuous system of unnatural restraint,should be a hypocrite; but it was certainly thecase with Tom. It was very strange that ayoung gentleman who had never been left tohis own guidance for five consecutive minutes,should be incapable at last of governinghimself; but so it was with Tom. It wasaltogether unaccountable that a younggentleman whose imagination had beenstrangled in his cradle, should be stillinconvenienced by its ghost in the form ofgrovelling sensualities; but such a monster,beyond all doubt, was Tom.'Do you smoke?' asked Mr. James Harthouse,when they came to the hotel.'I believe you!' said Tom.He could do no less than ask Tom up; and

Tom could do no less than go up. What with acooling drink adapted to the weather, but notso weak as cool; and what with a rarer tobaccothan was to be bought in those parts; Tom wassoon in a highly free and easy state at his endof the sofa, and more than ever disposed toadmire his new friend at the other end.Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had beensmoking a little while, and took an observationof his friend. 'He don't seem to care about hisdress,' thought Tom, 'and yet how capitally hedoes it. What an easy swell he is!'Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catchTom's eye, remarked that he drank nothing,and filled his glass with his own negligenthand.'Thank'ee,' said Tom. 'Thank'ee. Well, Mr.Harthouse, I hope you have had about a doseof old Bounderby to-night.' Tom said this withone eye shut up again, and looking over hisglass knowingly, at his entertainer.

'A very good fellow indeed!' returned Mr.James Harthouse.'You think so, don't you?' said Tom. And shutup his eye again.Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising fromhis end of the sofa, and lounging with his backagainst the chimney-piece, so that he stoodbefore the empty fire-grate as he smoked, infront of Tom and looking down at him,observed:'What a comical brother-in-law you are!''What a comical brother-in-law oldBounderby is, I think you mean,' said Tom.'You are a piece of caustic, Tom,' retorted Mr.James Harthouse.There was something so very agreeable inbeing so intimate with such a waistcoat; in

eing called Tom, in such an intimate way, bysuch a voice; in being on such off-hand termsso soon, with such a pair of whiskers; that Tomwas uncommonly pleased with himself.'Oh! I don't care for old Bounderby,' said he,'if you mean that. I have always called oldBounderby by the same name when I havetalked about him, and I have always thought ofhim in the same way. I am not going to beginto be polite now, about old Bounderby. Itwould be rather late in the day.''Don't mind me,' returned James; 'but takecare when his wife is by, you know.''His wife?' said Tom. 'My sister Loo? O yes!'And he laughed, and took a little more of thecooling drink.James Harthouse continued to lounge in thesame place and attitude, smoking his cigar inhis own easy way, and looking pleasantly atthe whelp, as if he knew himself to be a kind of

agreeable demon who had only to hover overhim, and he must give up his whole soul ifrequired. It certainly did seem that the whelpyielded to this influence. He looked at hiscompanion sneakingly, he looked at himadmiringly, he looked at him boldly, and putup one leg on the sofa.'My sister Loo?' said Tom. 'She never caredfor old Bounderby.''That's the past tense, Tom,' returned Mr.James Harthouse, striking the ash from hiscigar with his little finger. 'We are in thepresent tense, now.''Verb neuter, not to care. Indicative mood,present tense. First person singular, I do notcare; second person singular, thou dost notcare; third person singular, she does not care,'returned Tom.'Good! Very quaint!' said his friend. 'Thoughyou don't mean it.'

'But I do mean it,' cried Tom. 'Upon myhonour! Why, you won't tell me, Mr.Harthouse, that you really suppose my sisterLoo does care for old Bounderby.''My dear fellow,' returned the other, 'what amI bound to suppose, when I find two marriedpeople living in harmony and happiness?'Tom had by this time got both his legs on thesofa. If his second leg had not been alreadythere when he was called a dear fellow, hewould have put it up at that great stage of theconversation. Feeling it necessary to dosomething then, he stretched himself out atgreater length, and, reclining with the back ofhis head on the end of the sofa, and smokingwith an infinite assumption of negligence,turned his common face, and not too sobereyes, towards the face looking down upon himso carelessly yet so potently.'You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse,' said

Tom, 'and therefore, you needn't be surprisedthat Loo married old Bounderby. She neverhad a lover, and the governor proposed oldBounderby, and she took him.''Very dutiful in your interesting sister,' saidMr. James Harthouse.'Yes, but she wouldn't have been as dutiful,and it would not have come off as easily,'returned the whelp, 'if it hadn't been for me.'The tempter merely lifted his eyebrows; butthe whelp was obliged to go on.'I persuaded her,' he said, with an edifying airof superiority. 'I was stuck into oldBounderby's bank (where I never wanted tobe), and I knew I should get into scrapes there,if she put old Bounderby's pipe out; so I toldher my wishes, and she came into them. Shewould do anything for me. It was very game ofher, wasn't it?'

'It was charming, Tom!''Not that it was altogether so important to heras it was to me,' continued Tom coolly,'because my liberty and comfort, and perhapsmy getting on, depended on it; and she had noother lover, and staying at home was likestaying in jail - especially when I was gone. Itwasn't as if she gave up another lover for oldBounderby; but still it was a good thing in her.''Perfectly delightful. And she gets on soplacidly.''Oh,' returned Tom, with contemptuouspatronage, 'she's a regular girl. A girl can geton anywhere. She has settled down to the life,and she don't mind. It does just as well asanother. Besides, though Loo is a girl, she's nota common sort of girl. She can shut herself upwithin herself, and think - as I have oftenknown her sit and watch the fire - for an hour ata stretch.'

'Ay, ay? Has resources of her own,' saidHarthouse, smoking quietly.'Not so much of that as you may suppose,'returned Tom; 'for our governor had hercrammed with all sorts of dry bones andsawdust. It's his system.''Formed his daughter on his own model?'suggested Harthouse.'His daughter? Ah! and everybody else.Why, he formed Me that way!' said Tom.'Impossible!''He did, though,' said Tom, shaking his head.'I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I firstleft home and went to old Bounderby's, I wasas flat as a warming-pan, and knew no moreabout life, than any oyster does.''Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. Ajoke's a joke.'

'Upon my soul!' said the whelp. 'I am serious;I am indeed!' He smoked with great gravityand dignity for a little while, and then added,in a highly complacent tone, 'Oh! I havepicked up a little since. I don't deny that. But Ihave done it myself; no thanks to thegovernor.''And your intelligent sister?''My intelligent sister is about where she was.She used to complain to me that she hadnothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fallback upon; and I don't see how she is to havegot over that since. But she don't mind,' hesagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again.'Girls can always get on, somehow.''Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, forMr. Bounderby's address, I found an ancientlady there, who seems to entertain greatadmiration for your sister,' observed Mr. JamesHarthouse, throwing away the last small

emnant of the cigar he had now smoked out.'Mother Sparsit!' said Tom. 'What! you haveseen her already, have you?'His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out ofhis mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grownrather unmanageable) with the greaterexpression, and to tap his nose several timeswith his finger.'Mother Sparsit's feeling for Loo is more thanadmiration, I should think,' said Tom. 'Sayaffection and devotion. Mother Sparsit neverset her cap at Bounderby when he was abachelor. Oh no!'These were the last words spoken by thewhelp, before a giddy drowsiness came uponhim, followed by complete oblivion. He wasroused from the latter state by an uneasydream of being stirred up with a boot, and alsoof a voice saying: 'Come, it's late. Be off!'

'Well!' he said, scrambling from the sofa. 'Imust take my leave of you though. I say.Yours is very good tobacco. But it's too mild.''Yes, it's too mild,' returned his entertainer.'It's - it's ridiculously mild,' said Tom.'Where's the door! Good night!''He had another odd dream of being taken bya waiter through a mist, which, after giving himsome trouble and difficulty, resolved itself intothe main street, in which he stood alone. Hethen walked home pretty easily, though not yetfree from an impression of the presence andinfluence of his new friend - as if he werelounging somewhere in the air, in the samenegligent attitude, regarding him with thesame look.The whelp went home, and went to bed. If hehad had any sense of what he had done thatnight, and had been less of a whelp and moreof a brother, he might have turned short on the

oad, might have gone down to the ill-smellingriver that was dyed black, might have gone tobed in it for good and all, and have curtainedhis head for ever with its filthy waters.

CHAPTER IV - MEN AND BROTHERS'OH, my friends, the down-trodden operativesof Coketown! Oh, my friends andfellow-countrymen, the slaves of aniron-handed and a grinding despotism! Oh,my friends and fellow-sufferers, andfellow-workmen, and fellow-men! I tell youthat the hour is come, when we must rallyround one another as One united power, andcrumble into dust the oppressors that too longhave battened upon the plunder of ourfamilies, upon the sweat of our brows, uponthe labour of our hands, upon the strength ofour sinews, upon the God- created gloriousrights of Humanity, and upon the holy andeternal privileges of Brotherhood!''Good!' 'Hear, hear, hear!' 'Hurrah!' and othercries, arose in many voices from various partsof the densely crowded and suffocatingly closeHall, in which the orator, perched on a stage,delivered himself of this and what other frothand fume he had in him. He had declaimed

himself into a violent heat, and was as hoarseas he was hot. By dint of roaring at the top ofhis voice under a flaring gaslight, clenchinghis fists, knitting his brows, setting his teeth,and pounding with his arms, he had taken somuch out of himself by this time, that he wasbrought to a stop, and called for a glass ofwater.As he stood there, trying to quench his fieryface with his drink of water, the comparisonbetween the orator and the crowd of attentivefaces turned towards him, was extremely to hisdisadvantage. Judging him by Nature'sevidence, he was above the mass in very littlebut the stage on which he stood. In manygreat respects he was essentially below them.He was not so honest, he was not so manly, hewas not so good-humoured; he substitutedcunning for their simplicity, and passion fortheir safe solid sense. An ill-made,high-shouldered man, with lowering brows,and his features crushed into an habituallysour expression, he contrasted most

unfavourably, even in his mongrel dress, withthe great body of his hearers in their plainworking clothes. Strange as it always is toconsider any assembly in the act ofsubmissively resigning itself to the drearinessof some complacent person, lord orcommoner, whom three-fourths of it could, byno human means, raise out of the slough ofinanity to their own intellectual level, it wasparticularly strange, and it was evenparticularly affecting, to see this crowd ofearnest faces, whose honesty in the main nocompetent observer free from bias coulddoubt, so agitated by such a leader.Good! Hear, hear! Hurrah! The eagernessboth of attention and intention, exhibited in allthe countenances, made them a mostimpressive sight. There was no carelessness,no languor, no idle curiosity; none of the manyshades of indifference to be seen in all otherassemblies, visible for one moment there.That every man felt his condition to be,somehow or other, worse than it might be; that

every man considered it incumbent on him tojoin the rest, towards the making of it better;that every man felt his only hope to be in hisallying himself to the comrades by whom hewas surrounded; and that in this belief, right orwrong (unhappily wrong then), the whole ofthat crowd were gravely, deeply, faithfully inearnest; must have been as plain to any onewho chose to see what was there, as the barebeams of the roof and the whitened brickwalls. Nor could any such spectator fail toknow in his own breast, that these men,through their very delusions, showed greatqualities, susceptible of being turned to thehappiest and best account; and that to pretend(on the strength of sweeping axioms,howsoever cut and dried) that they went astraywholly without cause, and of their ownirrational wills, was to pretend that there couldbe smoke without fire, death without birth,harvest without seed, anything or everythingproduced from nothing.The orator having refreshed himself, wiped

his corrugated forehead from left to rightseveral times with his handkerchief folded intoa pad, and concentrated all his revived forces,in a sneer of great disdain and bitterness.'But oh, my friends and brothers! Oh, menand Englishmen, the down-trodden operativesof Coketown! What shall we say of that man -that working-man, that I should find itnecessary so to libel the glorious name - who,being practically and well acquainted with thegrievances and wrongs of you, the injured pithand marrow of this land, and having heardyou, with a noble and majestic unanimity thatwill make Tyrants tremble, resolve for tosubscribe to the funds of the United AggregateTribunal, and to abide by the injunctionsissued by that body for your benefit, whateverthey may be - what, I ask you, will you say ofthat working-man, since such I mustacknowledge him to be, who, at such a time,deserts his post, and sells his flag; who, at sucha time, turns a traitor and a craven and arecreant, who, at such a time, is not ashamed

to make to you the dastardly and humiliatingavowal that he will hold himself aloof, and willnot be one of those associated in the gallantstand for Freedom and for Right?'The assembly was divided at this point.There were some groans and hisses, but thegeneral sense of honour was much too strongfor the condemnation of a man unheard. 'Besure you're right, Slackbridge!' 'Put him up!''Let's hear him!' Such things were said onmany sides. Finally, one strong voice calledout, 'Is the man heer? If the man's heer,Slackbridge, let's hear the man himseln, 'steado' yo.' Which was received with a round ofapplause.Slackbridge, the orator, looked about himwith a withering smile; and, holding out hisright hand at arm's length (as the manner of allSlackbridges is), to still the thundering sea,waited until there was a profound silence.'Oh, my friends and fellow-men!' said

Slackbridge then, shaking his head withviolent scorn, 'I do not wonder that you, theprostrate sons of labour, are incredulous of theexistence of such a man. But he who sold hisbirthright for a mess of pottage existed, andJudas Iscariot existed, and Castlereaghexisted, and this man exists!'Here, a brief press and confusion near thestage, ended in the man himself standing atthe orator's side before the concourse. He waspale and a little moved in the face - his lipsespecially showed it; but he stood quiet, withhis left hand at his chin, waiting to be heard.There was a chairman to regulate theproceedings, and this functionary now took thecase into his own hands.'My friends,' said he, 'by virtue o' my office asyour president, I askes o' our friendSlackbridge, who may be a little over hetter inthis business, to take his seat, whiles this manStephen Blackpool is heern. You all know thisman Stephen Blackpool. You know him

awlung o' his misfort'ns, and his good name.'With that, the chairman shook him frankly bythe hand, and sat down again. Slackbridgelikewise sat down, wiping his hot forehead -always from left to right, and never the reverseway.'My friends,' Stephen began, in the midst of adead calm; 'I ha' hed what's been spok'n o' me,and 'tis lickly that I shan't mend it. But I'd lieferyou'd hearn the truth concernin myseln, fro mylips than fro onny other man's, though I nevercud'n speak afore so monny, wi'out beinmoydert and muddled.'Slackbridge shook his head as if he wouldshake it off, in his bitterness.'I'm th' one single Hand in Bounderby's mill, o'a' the men theer, as don't coom in wi' th'proposed reg'lations. I canna coom in wi' 'em.My friends, I doubt their doin' yo onny good.Licker they'll do yo hurt.'

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, andfrowned sarcastically.'But 't an't sommuch for that as I stands out. Ifthat were aw, I'd coom in wi' th' rest. But I ha'my reasons - mine, yo see - for beinghindered; not on'y now, but awlus - awlus - lifelong!'Slackbridge jumped up and stood besidehim, gnashing and tearing. 'Oh, my friends,what but this did I tell you? Oh, my fellowcountrymen,what warning but this did I giveyou? And how shows this recreant conduct ina man on whom unequal laws are known tohave fallen heavy? Oh, you Englishmen, I askyou how does this subornation show in one ofyourselves, who is thus consenting to his ownundoing and to yours, and to your children'sand your children's children's?'There was some applause, and some cryingof Shame upon the man; but the greater part of

the audience were quiet. They looked atStephen's worn face, rendered more patheticby the homely emotions it evinced; and, in thekindness of their nature, they were more sorrythan indignant.''Tis this Delegate's trade for t' speak,' saidStephen, 'an' he's paid for 't, an' he knows hiswork. Let him keep to 't. Let him give no heedto what I ha had'n to bear. That's not for him.That's not for nobbody but me.'There was a propriety, not to say a dignity inthese words, that made the hearers yet morequiet and attentive. The same strong voicecalled out, 'Slackbridge, let the man be heern,and howd thee tongue!' Then the place waswonderfully still.'My brothers,' said Stephen, whose low voicewas distinctly heard, 'and my fellow-workmen- for that yo are to me, though not, as I knowson, to this delegate here - I ha but a word tosen, and I could sen nommore if I was to speak

till Strike o' day. I know weel, aw what's aforeme. I know weel that yo aw resolve to hanommore ado wi' a man who is not wi' yo inthis matther. I know weel that if I was a lyinparisht i' th' road, yo'd feel it right to pass meby, as a forrenner and stranger. What I hagetn, I mun mak th' best on.''Stephen Blackpool,' said the chairman, rising,'think on 't agen. Think on 't once agen, lad,afore thou'rt shunned by aw owd friends.'There was an universal murmur to the sameeffect, though no man articulated a word.Every eye was fixed on Stephen's face. Torepent of his determination, would be to take aload from all their minds. He looked aroundhim, and knew that it was so. Not a grain ofanger with them was in his heart; he knewthem, far below their surface weaknesses andmisconceptions, as no one but their fellowlabourercould.'I ha thowt on 't, above a bit, sir. I simply

canna coom in. I mun go th' way as lays aforeme. I mun tak my leave o' aw heer.'He made a sort of reverence to them byholding up his arms, and stood for the momentin that attitude; not speaking until they slowlydropped at his sides.'Monny's the pleasant word as soom heer hasspok'n wi' me; monny's the face I see heer, as Ifirst seen when I were yoong and lighterheart'n than now. I ha' never had no fratchafore, sin ever I were born, wi' any o' my like;Gonnows I ha' none now that's o' my makin'.Yo'll ca' me traitor and that - yo I mean t' say,'addressing Slackbridge, 'but 'tis easier to ca'than mak' out. So let be.'He had moved away a pace or two to comedown from the platform, when he rememberedsomething he had not said, and returnedagain.'Haply,' he said, turning his furrowed face

slowly about, that he might as it wereindividually address the whole audience,those both near and distant; 'haply, when thisquestion has been tak'n up and discoosed,there'll be a threat to turn out if I'm let to workamong yo. I hope I shall die ere ever such atime cooms, and I shall work solitary among younless it cooms - truly, I mun do 't, my friends;not to brave yo, but to live. I ha nobbut workto live by; and wheerever can I go, I who haworked sin I were no heighth at aw, inCoketown heer? I mak' no complaints o' beinturned to the wa', o' bein outcasten andoverlooken fro this time forrard, but hope Ishall be let to work. If there is any right for meat aw, my friends, I think 'tis that.'Not a word was spoken. Not a sound wasaudible in the building, but the slight rustle ofmen moving a little apart, all along the centreof the room, to open a means of passing out, tothe man with whom they had all boundthemselves to renounce companionship.Looking at no one, and going his way with a

lowly steadiness upon him that assertednothing and sought nothing, Old Stephen, withall his troubles on his head, left the scene.Then Slackbridge, who had kept hisoratorical arm extended during the going out,as if he were repressing with infinite solicitudeand by a wonderful moral power the vehementpassions of the multitude, applied himself toraising their spirits. Had not the Roman Brutus,oh, my British countrymen, condemned his sonto death; and had not the Spartan mothers, ohmy soon to be victorious friends, driven theirflying children on the points of their enemies'swords? Then was it not the sacred duty of themen of Coketown, with forefathers beforethem, an admiring world in company withthem, and a posterity to come after them, tohurl out traitors from the tents they hadpitched in a sacred and a God-like cause? Thewinds of heaven answered Yes; and bore Yes,east, west, north, and south. And consequentlythree cheers for the United AggregateTribunal!

Slackbridge acted as fugleman, and gave thetime. The multitude of doubtful faces (a littleconscience-stricken) brightened at the sound,and took it up. Private feeling must yield tothe common cause. Hurrah! The roof yetvibrated with the cheering, when the assemblydispersed.Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into theloneliest of lives, the life of solitude among afamiliar crowd. The stranger in the land wholooks into ten thousand faces for someanswering look and never finds it, is incheering society as compared with him whopasses ten averted faces daily, that were oncethe countenances of friends. Such experiencewas to be Stephen's now, in every wakingmoment of his life; at his work, on his way to itand from it, at his door, at his window,everywhere. By general consent, they evenavoided that side of the street on which hehabitually walked; and left it, of all the workingmen, to him only.

He had been for many years, a quiet silentman, associating but little with other men, andused to companionship with his own thoughts.He had never known before the strength of thewant in his heart for the frequent recognition ofa nod, a look, a word; or the immense amountof relief that had been poured into it by dropsthrough such small means. It was even harderthan he could have believed possible, toseparate in his own conscience hisabandonment by all his fellows from abaseless sense of shame and disgrace.The first four days of his endurance weredays so long and heavy, that he began to beappalled by the prospect before him. Not onlydid he see no Rachael all the time, but heavoided every chance of seeing her; for,although he knew that the prohibition did notyet formally extend to the women working inthe factories, he found that some of them withwhom he was acquainted were changed tohim, and he feared to try others, and dreaded

that Rachael might be even singled out fromthe rest if she were seen in his company. So,he had been quite alone during the four days,and had spoken to no one, when, as he wasleaving his work at night, a young man of avery light complexion accosted him in thestreet.'Your name's Blackpool, ain't it?' said theyoung man.Stephen coloured to find himself with his hatin his hand, in his gratitude for being spokento, or in the suddenness of it, or both. He madea feint of adjusting the lining, and said, 'Yes.''You are the Hand they have sent to Coventry,I mean?' said Bitzer, the very light young manin question.Stephen answered 'Yes,' again.'I supposed so, from their all appearing tokeep away from you. Mr. Bounderby wants to

speak to you. You know his house, don't you?'Stephen said 'Yes,' again.'Then go straight up there, will you?' saidBitzer. 'You're expected, and have only to tellthe servant it's you. I belong to the Bank; so, ifyou go straight up without me (I was sent tofetch you), you'll save me a walk.'Stephen, whose way had been in the contrarydirection, turned about, and betook himself asin duty bound, to the red brick castle of thegiant Bounderby.

CHAPTER V - MEN AND MASTERS'WELL, Stephen,' said Bounderby, in his windymanner, 'what's this I hear? What have thesepests of the earth been doing to you? Come in,and speak up.'It was into the drawing-room that he was thusbidden. A tea-table was set out; and Mr.Bounderby's young wife, and her brother, anda great gentleman from London, were present.To whom Stephen made his obeisance,closing the door and standing near it, with hishat in his hand.'This is the man I was telling you about,Harthouse,' said Mr. Bounderby. Thegentleman he addressed, who was talking toMrs. Bounderby on the sofa, got up, saying inan indolent way, 'Oh really?' and dawdled tothe hearthrug where Mr. Bounderby stood.'Now,' said Bounderby, 'speak up!'

After the four days he had passed, thisaddress fell rudely and discordantly onStephen's ear. Besides being a rough handlingof his wounded mind, it seemed to assume thathe really was the self- interested deserter hehad been called.'What were it, sir,' said Stephen, 'as yo werepleased to want wi' me?''Why, I have told you,' returned Bounderby.'Speak up like a man, since you are a man, andtell us about yourself and this Combination.''Wi' yor pardon, sir,' said Stephen Blackpool,'I ha' nowt to sen about it.'Mr. Bounderby, who was always more or lesslike a Wind, finding something in his wayhere, began to blow at it directly.'Now, look here, Harthouse,' said he, 'here's aspecimen of 'em. When this man was hereonce before, I warned this man against the

mischievous strangers who are always about -and who ought to be hanged wherever theyare found - and I told this man that he wasgoing in the wrong direction. Now, would youbelieve it, that although they have put thismark upon him, he is such a slave to them still,that he's afraid to open his lips about them?''I sed as I had nowt to sen, sir; not as I wasfearfo' o' openin' my lips.''You said! Ah! I know what you said; morethan that, I know what you mean, you see. Notalways the same thing, by the Lord Harry!Quite different things. You had better tell us atonce, that that fellow Slackbridge is not in thetown, stirring up the people to mutiny; and thathe is not a regular qualified leader of thepeople: that is, a most confounded scoundrel.You had better tell us so at once; you can'tdeceive me. You want to tell us so. Why don'tyou?''I'm as sooary as yo, sir, when the people's

leaders is bad,' said Stephen, shaking hishead. 'They taks such as offers. Haply 'tis na'the sma'est o' their misfortuns when they canget no better.'The wind began to get boisterous.'Now, you'll think this pretty well, Harthouse,'said Mr. Bounderby. 'You'll think this tolerablystrong. You'll say, upon my soul this is a tidyspecimen of what my friends have to deal with;but this is nothing, sir! You shall hear me askthis man a question. Pray, Mr. Blackpool' -wind springing up very fast - 'may I take theliberty of asking you how it happens that yourefused to be in this Combination?''How 't happens?''Ah!' said Mr. Bounderby, with his thumbs inthe arms of his coat, and jerking his head andshutting his eyes in confidence with theopposite wall: 'how it happens.'

'I'd leefer not coom to 't, sir; but sin you put th'question - an' not want'n t' be ill-manner'n - I'llanswer. I ha passed a promess.''Not to me, you know,' said Bounderby.(Gusty weather with deceitful calms. One nowprevailing.)'O no, sir. Not to yo.''As for me, any consideration for me has hadjust nothing at all to do with it,' saidBounderby, still in confidence with the wall. 'Ifonly Josiah Bounderby of Coketown had beenin question, you would have joined and madeno bones about it?''Why yes, sir. 'Tis true.''Though he knows,' said Mr. Bounderby, nowblowing a gale, 'that there are a set of rascalsand rebels whom transportation is too goodfor! Now, Mr. Harthouse, you have beenknocking about in the world some time. Did

you ever meet with anything like that man outof this blessed country?' And Mr. Bounderbypointed him out for inspection, with an angryfinger.'Nay, ma'am,' said Stephen Blackpool,staunchly protesting against the words thathad been used, and instinctively addressinghimself to Louisa, after glancing at her face.'Not rebels, nor yet rascals. Nowt o' th' kind,ma'am, nowt o' th' kind. They've not doon me akindness, ma'am, as I know and feel. Butthere's not a dozen men amoong 'em, ma'am - adozen? Not six - but what believes as he hasdoon his duty by the rest and by himseln. Godforbid as I, that ha' known, and had'nexperience o' these men aw my life - I, that ha'ett'n an' droonken wi' 'em, an' seet'n wi' 'em,and toil'n wi' 'em, and lov'n 'em, should fail furto stan by 'em wi' the truth, let 'em ha' doon tome what they may!'He spoke with the rugged earnestness of hisplace and character - deepened perhaps by a

proud consciousness that he was faithful to hisclass under all their mistrust; but he fullyremembered where he was, and did not evenraise his voice.'No, ma'am, no. They're true to one another,faithfo' to one another, 'fectionate to oneanother, e'en to death. Be poor amoong 'em,be sick amoong 'em, grieve amoong 'em foronny o' th' monny causes that carries grief tothe poor man's door, an' they'll be tender wi'yo, gentle wi' yo, comfortable wi' yo, Chrisenwi' yo. Be sure o' that, ma'am. They'd be rivento bits, ere ever they'd be different.''In short,' said Mr. Bounderby, 'it's becausethey are so full of virtues that they have turnedyou adrift. Go through with it while you areabout it. Out with it.''How 'tis, ma'am,' resumed Stephen,appearing still to find his natural refuge inLouisa's face, 'that what is best in us fok, seemsto turn us most to trouble an' misfort'n an'

mistake, I dunno. But 'tis so. I know 'tis, as Iknow the heavens is over me ahint the smoke.We're patient too, an' wants in general to doright. An' I canna think the fawt is aw wi' us.''Now, my friend,' said Mr. Bounderby, whomhe could not have exasperated more, quiteunconscious of it though he was, than byseeming to appeal to any one else, 'if you willfavour me with your attention for half a minute,I should like to have a word or two with you.You said just now, that you had nothing to tellus about this business. You are quite sure ofthat before we go any further.''Sir, I am sure on 't.''Here's a gentleman from London present,'Mr. Bounderby made a backhanded point atMr. James Harthouse with his thumb, 'aParliament gentleman. I should like him tohear a short bit of dialogue between you andme, instead of taking the substance of it - for Iknow precious well, beforehand, what it will

e; nobody knows better than I do, takenotice! - instead of receiving it on trust frommy mouth.'Stephen bent his head to the gentleman fromLondon, and showed a rather more troubledmind than usual. He turned his eyesinvoluntarily to his former refuge, but at a lookfrom that quarter (expressive thoughinstantaneous) he settled them on Mr.Bounderby's face.'Now, what do you complain of?' asked Mr.Bounderby.'I ha' not coom here, sir,' Stephen remindedhim, 'to complain. I coom for that I were sentfor.''What,' repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding hisarms, 'do you people, in a general way,complain of?'Stephen looked at him with some little

irresolution for a moment, and then seemed tomake up his mind.'Sir, I were never good at showin o 't, though Iha had'n my share in feeling o 't. 'Deed we arein a muddle, sir. Look round town - so rich as'tis - and see the numbers o' people as hasbeen broughten into bein heer, fur to weave,an' to card, an' to piece out a livin', aw thesame one way, somehows, 'twixt their cradlesand their graves. Look how we live, an' wheerwe live, an' in what numbers, an' by whatchances, and wi' what sameness; and look howthe mills is awlus a goin, and how they neverworks us no nigher to ony dis'ant object -ceptin awlus, Death. Look how you considersof us, and writes of us, and talks of us, andgoes up wi' yor deputations to Secretaries o'State 'bout us, and how yo are awlus right, andhow we are awlus wrong, and never had'n noreason in us sin ever we were born. Look howthis ha growen an' growen, sir, bigger an'bigger, broader an' broader, harder an'harder, fro year to year, fro generation unto

generation. Who can look on 't, sir, and fairlytell a man 'tis not a muddle?''Of course,' said Mr. Bounderby. 'Nowperhaps you'll let the gentleman know, howyou would set this muddle (as you're so fond ofcalling it) to rights.''I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to 't. 'Tisnot me as should be looken to for that, sir. 'Tisthem as is put ower me, and ower aw the restof us. What do they tak upon themseln, sir, ifnot to do't?''I'll tell you something towards it, at any rate,'returned Mr. Bounderby. 'We will make anexample of half a dozen Slackbridges. We'llindict the blackguards for felony, and get 'emshipped off to penal settlements.'Stephen gravely shook his head.'Don't tell me we won't, man,' said Mr.Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane,

'because we will, I tell you!''Sir,' returned Stephen, with the quietconfidence of absolute certainty, 'if yo was t'tak a hundred Slackbridges - aw as there is,and aw the number ten times towd - an' was t'sew 'em up in separate sacks, an' sink 'em inthe deepest ocean as were made ere ever dryland coom to be, yo'd leave the muddle justwheer 'tis. Mischeevous strangers!' saidStephen, with an anxious smile; 'when ha wenot heern, I am sure, sin ever we can call tomind, o' th' mischeevous strangers! 'Tis not bythem the trouble's made, sir. 'Tis not wi' them 'tcommences. I ha no favour for 'em - I ha noreason to favour 'em - but 'tis hopeless anduseless to dream o' takin them fro their trade,'stead o' takin their trade fro them! Aw that'snow about me in this room were heer afore Icoom, an' will be heer when I am gone. Putthat clock aboard a ship an' pack it off toNorfolk Island, an' the time will go on just thesame. So 'tis wi' Slackbridge every bit.'

Reverting for a moment to his former refuge,he observed a cautionary movement of hereyes towards the door. Stepping back, he puthis hand upon the lock. But he had not spokenout of his own will and desire; and he felt it inhis heart a noble return for his late injurioustreatment to be faithful to the last to those whohad repudiated him. He stayed to finish whatwas in his mind.'Sir, I canna, wi' my little learning an' mycommon way, tell the genelman what willbetter aw this - though some working men o'this town could, above my powers - but I cantell him what I know will never do 't. Thestrong hand will never do 't. Vict'ry andtriumph will never do 't. Agreeing fur to makone side unnat'rally awlus and for ever right,and toother side unnat'rally awlus and for everwrong, will never, never do 't. Nor yet lettinalone will never do 't. Let thousands uponthousands alone, aw leading the like lives andaw faw'en into the like muddle, and they willbe as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi' a

lack unpassable world betwixt yo, just aslong or short a time as sich-like misery canlast. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi' kindness andpatience an' cheery ways, that so draws nigh toone another in their monny troubles, and socherishes one another in their distresses wi'what they need themseln - like, I humblybelieve, as no people the genelman ha seen inaw his travels can beat - will never do 't till th'Sun turns t' ice. Most o' aw, rating 'em as somuch Power, and reg'latin 'em as if they wasfigures in a soom, or machines: wi'out lovesand likens, wi'out memories and inclinations,wi'out souls to weary and souls to hope - whenaw goes quiet, draggin on wi' 'em as if they'dnowt o' th' kind, and when aw goes onquiet,reproachin 'em for their want o' sitch humanlyfeelins in their dealins wi' yo - this will neverdo 't, sir, till God's work is onmade.'Stephen stood with the open door in his hand,waiting to know if anything more wereexpected of him.

'Just stop a moment,' said Mr. Bounderby,excessively red in the face. 'I told you, the lasttime you were here with a grievance, that youhad better turn about and come out of that.And I also told you, if you remember, that Iwas up to the gold spoon look- out.''I were not up to 't myseln, sir; I do assure yo.''Now it's clear to me,' said Mr. Bounderby,'that you are one of those chaps who havealways got a grievance. And you go about,sowing it and raising crops. That's thebusiness of your life, my friend.'Stephen shook his head, mutely protestingthat indeed he had other business to do for hislife.'You are such a waspish, raspish,ill-conditioned chap, you see,' said Mr.Bounderby, 'that even your own Union, themen who know you best, will have nothing todo with you. I never thought those fellows

could be right in anything; but I tell you what!I so far go along with them for a novelty, thatI'll have nothing to do with you either.'Stephen raised his eyes quickly to his face.'You can finish off what you're at,' said Mr.Bounderby, with a meaning nod, 'and then goelsewhere.''Sir, yo know weel,' said Stephenexpressively, 'that if I canna get work wi' yo, Icanna get it elsewheer.'The reply was, 'What I know, I know; andwhat you know, you know. I have no more tosay about it.'Stephen glanced at Louisa again, but her eyeswere raised to his no more; therefore, with asigh, and saying, barely above his breath,'Heaven help us aw in this world!' he departed.

CHAPTER VI - FADING AWAYIT was falling dark when Stephen came out ofMr. Bounderby's house. The shadows of nighthad gathered so fast, that he did not look abouthim when he closed the door, but ploddedstraight along the street. Nothing was furtherfrom his thoughts than the curious old womanhe had encountered on his previous visit to thesame house, when he heard a step behind himthat he knew, and turning, saw her in Rachael'scompany.He saw Rachael first, as he had heard heronly.'Ah, Rachael, my dear! Missus, thou wi' her!''Well, and now you are surprised to be sure,and with reason I must say,' the old womanreturned. 'Here I am again, you see.''But how wi' Rachael?' said Stephen, fallinginto their step, walking between them, and

looking from the one to the other.'Why, I come to be with this good lass prettymuch as I came to be with you,' said the oldwoman, cheerfully, taking the reply uponherself. 'My visiting time is later this year thanusual, for I have been rather troubled withshortness of breath, and so put it off till theweather was fine and warm. For the samereason I don't make all my journey in one day,but divide it into two days, and get a bedto-night at the Travellers' Coffee House downby the railroad (a nice clean house), and goback Parliamentary, at six in the morning.Well, but what has this to do with this goodlass, says you? I'm going to tell you. I haveheard of Mr. Bounderby being married. I readit in the paper, where it looked grand - oh, itlooked fine!' the old woman dwelt on it withstrange enthusiasm: 'and I want to see his wife.I have never seen her yet. Now, if you'llbelieve me, she hasn't come out of that housesince noon to- day. So not to give her up tooeasily, I was waiting about, a little last bit

more, when I passed close to this good lasstwo or three times; and her face being sofriendly I spoke to her, and she spoke to me.There!' said the old woman to Stephen, 'youcan make all the rest out for yourself now, adeal shorter than I can, I dare say!'Once again, Stephen had to conquer aninstinctive propensity to dislike this oldwoman, though her manner was as honest andsimple as a manner possibly could be. With agentleness that was as natural to him as heknew it to be to Rachael, he pursued thesubject that interested her in her old age.'Well, missus,' said he, 'I ha seen the lady, andshe were young and hansom. Wi' fine darkthinkin eyes, and a still way, Rachael, as I hanever seen the like on.''Young and handsome. Yes!' cried the oldwoman, quite delighted. 'As bonny as a rose!And what a happy wife!'

'Aye, missus, I suppose she be,' said Stephen.But with a doubtful glance at Rachael.'Suppose she be? She must be. She's yourmaster's wife,' returned the old woman.Stephen nodded assent. 'Though as tomaster,' said he, glancing again at Rachael,'not master onny more. That's aw enden 'twixthim and me.''Have you left his work, Stephen?' askedRachael, anxiously and quickly.'Why, Rachael,' he replied, 'whether I ha lef'nhis work, or whether his work ha lef'n me,cooms t' th' same. His work and me are parted.'Tis as weel so - better, I were thinkin when yocoom up wi' me. It would ha brought'n troubleupon trouble if I had stayed theer. Haply 'tis akindness to monny that I go; haply 'tis akindness to myseln; anyways it mun be done. Imun turn my face fro Coketown fur th' time,and seek a fort'n, dear, by beginnin fresh.'

'Where will you go, Stephen?''I donno t'night,' said he, lifting off his hat, andsmoothing his thin hair with the flat of his hand.'But I'm not goin t'night, Rachael, nor yett'morrow. 'Tan't easy overmuch t' know wheert' turn, but a good heart will coom to me.'Herein, too, the sense of even thinkingunselfishly aided him. Before he had so muchas closed Mr. Bounderby's door, he hadreflected that at least his being obliged to goaway was good for her, as it would save herfrom the chance of being brought into questionfor not withdrawing from him. Though it wouldcost him a hard pang to leave her, and thoughhe could think of no similar place in which hiscondemnation would not pursue him, perhapsit was almost a relief to be forced away fromthe endurance of the last four days, even tounknown difficulties and distresses.So he said, with truth, 'I'm more leetsome,

Rachael, under 't, than I could'n ha believed.' Itwas not her part to make his burden heavier.She answered with her comforting smile, andthe three walked on together.Age, especially when it strives to beself-reliant and cheerful, finds muchconsideration among the poor. The oldwoman was so decent and contented, andmade so light of her infirmities, though theyhad increased upon her since her formerinterview with Stephen, that they both took aninterest in her. She was too sprightly to allowof their walking at a slow pace on her account,but she was very grateful to be talked to, andvery willing to talk to any extent: so, whenthey came to their part of the town, she wasmore brisk and vivacious than ever.'Come to my poor place, missus,' saidStephen, 'and tak a coop o' tea. Rachael willcoom then; and arterwards I'll see thee safe t'thy Travellers' lodgin. 'T may be long,Rachael, ere ever I ha th' chance o' thy

coompany agen.'They complied, and the three went on to thehouse where he lodged. When they turnedinto a narrow street, Stephen glanced at hiswindow with a dread that always haunted hisdesolate home; but it was open, as he had leftit, and no one was there. The evil spirit of hislife had flitted away again, months ago, and hehad heard no more of her since. The onlyevidence of her last return now, were thescantier moveables in his room, and thegrayer hair upon his head.He lighted a candle, set out his littletea-board, got hot water from below, andbrought in small portions of tea and sugar, aloaf, and some butter from the nearest shop.The bread was new and crusty, the butterfresh, and the sugar lump, of course - infulfilment of the standard testimony of theCoketown magnates, that these people livedlike princes, sir. Rachael made the tea (solarge a party necessitated the borrowing of a

cup), and the visitor enjoyed it mightily. It wasthe first glimpse of sociality the host had hadfor many days. He too, with the world a wideheath before him, enjoyed the meal - again incorroboration of the magnates, asexemplifying the utter want of calculation onthe part of these people, sir.'I ha never thowt yet, missus,' said Stephen, 'o'askin thy name.'The old lady announced herself as 'Mrs.Pegler.''A widder, I think?' said Stephen.'Oh, many long years!' Mrs. Pegler's husband(one of the best on record) was already dead,by Mrs. Pegler's calculation, when Stephenwas born.''Twere a bad job, too, to lose so good a one,'said Stephen. 'Onny children?'

Mrs. Pegler's cup, rattling against her sauceras she held it, denoted some nervousness onher part. 'No,' she said. 'Not now, not now.''Dead, Stephen,' Rachael softly hinted.'I'm sooary I ha spok'n on 't,' said Stephen, 'Iought t' hadn in my mind as I might touch asore place. I - I blame myseln.'While he excused himself, the old lady's cuprattled more and more. 'I had a son,' she said,curiously distressed, and not by any of theusual appearances of sorrow; 'and he did well,wonderfully well. But he is not to be spoken ofif you please. He is - ' Putting down her cup,she moved her hands as if she would haveadded, by her action, 'dead!' Then she saidaloud, 'I have lost him.'Stephen had not yet got the better of hishaving given the old lady pain, when hislandlady came stumbling up the narrow stairs,and calling him to the door, whispered in his

ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no means deaf, forshe caught a word as it was uttered.'Bounderby!' she cried, in a suppressedvoice, starting up from the table. 'Oh hide me!Don't let me be seen for the world. Don't lethim come up till I've got away. Pray, pray!'She trembled, and was excessively agitated;getting behind Rachael, when Rachael tried toreassure her; and not seeming to know whatshe was about.'But hearken, missus, hearken,' said Stephen,astonished. "Tisn't Mr. Bounderby; 'tis his wife.Yo'r not fearfo' o' her. Yo was hey-go-madabout her, but an hour sin.''But are you sure it's the lady, and not thegentleman?' she asked, still trembling.'Certain sure!''Well then, pray don't speak to me, nor yettake any notice of me,' said the old woman.

'Let me be quite to myself in this corner.'Stephen nodded; looking to Rachael for anexplanation, which she was quite unable togive him; took the candle, went downstairs,and in a few moments returned, lighting Louisainto the room. She was followed by the whelp.Rachael had risen, and stood apart with hershawl and bonnet in her hand, when Stephen,himself profoundly astonished by this visit, putthe candle on the table. Then he too stood,with his doubled hand upon the table near it,waiting to be addressed.For the first time in her life Louisa had comeinto one of the dwellings of the CoketownHands; for the first time in her life she was faceto face with anything like individuality inconnection with them. She knew of theirexistence by hundreds and by thousands. Sheknew what results in work a given number ofthem would produce in a given space of time.She knew them in crowds passing to and from

their nests, like ants or beetles. But she knewfrom her reading infinitely more of the ways oftoiling insects than of these toiling men andwomen.Something to be worked so much and paid somuch, and there ended; something to beinfallibly settled by laws of supply anddemand; something that blundered againstthose laws, and floundered into difficulty;something that was a little pinched whenwheat was dear, and over-ate itself whenwheat was cheap; something that increased atsuch a rate of percentage, and yielded suchanother percentage of crime, and such anotherpercentage of pauperism; somethingwholesale, of which vast fortunes were made;something that occasionally rose like a sea,and did some harm and waste (chiefly toitself), and fell again; this she knew theCoketown Hands to be. But, she had scarcelythought more of separating them into units,than of separating the sea itself into itscomponent drops.

She stood for some moments looking roundthe room. From the few chairs, the few books,the common prints, and the bed, she glancedto the two women, and to Stephen.'I have come to speak to you, in consequenceof what passed just now. I should like to beserviceable to you, if you will let me. Is thisyour wife?'Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficientlyanswered no, and dropped again.'I remember,' said Louisa, reddening at hermistake; 'I recollect, now, to have heard yourdomestic misfortunes spoken of, though I wasnot attending to the particulars at the time. Itwas not my meaning to ask a question thatwould give pain to any one here. If I shouldask any other question that may happen tohave that result, give me credit, if you please,for being in ignorance how to speak to you as Iought.'

As Stephen had but a little while agoinstinctively addressed himself to her, so shenow instinctively addressed herself to Rachael.Her manner was short and abrupt, yetfaltering and timid.'He has told you what has passed betweenhimself and my husband? You would be hisfirst resource, I think.''I have heard the end of it, young lady,' saidRachael.'Did I understand, that, being rejected by oneemployer, he would probably be rejected byall? I thought he said as much?''The chances are very small, young lady -next to nothing - for a man who gets a badname among them.''What shall I understand that you mean by abad name?'

'The name of being troublesome.''Then, by the prejudices of his own class, andby the prejudices of the other, he is sacrificedalike? Are the two so deeply separated in thistown, that there is no place whatever for anhonest workman between them?'Rachael shook her head in silence.'He fell into suspicion,' said Louisa, 'with hisfellow-weavers, because - he had made apromise not to be one of them. I think it musthave been to you that he made that promise.Might I ask you why he made it?'Rachael burst into tears. 'I didn't seek it ofhim, poor lad. I prayed him to avoid troublefor his own good, little thinking he'd come to itthrough me. But I know he'd die a hundreddeaths, ere ever he'd break his word. I knowthat of him well.'

Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in hisusual thoughtful attitude, with his hand at hischin. He now spoke in a voice rather lesssteady than usual.'No one, excepting myseln, can ever knowwhat honour, an' what love, an' respect, I bearto Rachael, or wi' what cause. When I passedthat promess, I towd her true, she were th'Angel o' my life. 'Twere a solemn promess.'Tis gone fro' me, for ever.'Louisa turned her head to him, and bent itwith a deference that was new in her. Shelooked from him to Rachael, and her featuressoftened. 'What will you do?' she asked him.And her voice had softened too.'Weel, ma'am,' said Stephen, making the bestof it, with a smile; 'when I ha finished off, I munquit this part, and try another. Fortnet ormisfortnet, a man can but try; there's nowt tobe done wi'out tryin' - cept laying down anddying.'

'How will you travel?''Afoot, my kind ledy, afoot.'Louisa coloured, and a purse appeared in herhand. The rustling of a bank-note was audible,as she unfolded one and laid it on the table.'Rachael, will you tell him - for you know how,without offence - that this is freely his, to helphim on his way? Will you entreat him to takeit?''I canna do that, young lady,' she answered,turning her head aside. 'Bless you for thinkingo' the poor lad wi' such tenderness. But 'tis forhim to know his heart, and what is rightaccording to it.'Louisa looked, in part incredulous, in partfrightened, in part overcome with quicksympathy, when this man of so much selfcommand,who had been so plain and steady

through the late interview, lost his composurein a moment, and now stood with his handbefore his face. She stretched out hers, as ifshe would have touched him; then checkedherself, and remained still.'Not e'en Rachael,' said Stephen, when hestood again with his face uncovered, 'couldmak sitch a kind offerin, by onny words,kinder. T' show that I'm not a man wi'out reasonand gratitude, I'll tak two pound. I'll borrow 'tfor t' pay 't back. 'Twill be the sweetest workas ever I ha done, that puts it in my power t'acknowledge once more my lastinthankfulness for this present action.'She was fain to take up the note again, and tosubstitute the much smaller sum he hadnamed. He was neither courtly, norhandsome, nor picturesque, in any respect;and yet his manner of accepting it, and ofexpressing his thanks without more words,had a grace in it that Lord Chesterfield couldnot have taught his son in a century.

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one legand sucking his walking- stick with sufficientunconcern, until the visit had attained thisstage. Seeing his sister ready to depart, he gotup, rather hurriedly, and put in a word.'Just wait a moment, Loo! Before we go, Ishould like to speak to him a moment.Something comes into my head. If you'll stepout on the stairs, Blackpool, I'll mention it.Never mind a light, man!' Tom was remarkablyimpatient of his moving towards the cupboard,to get one. 'It don't want a light.'Stephen followed him out, and Tom closedthe room door, and held the lock in his hand.'I say!' he whispered. 'I think I can do you agood turn. Don't ask me what it is, because itmay not come to anything. But there's no harmin my trying.'His breath fell like a flame of fire on Stephen's

ear, it was so hot.'That was our light porter at the Bank,' saidTom, 'who brought you the message to-night. Icall him our light porter, because I belong tothe Bank too.'Stephen thought, 'What a hurry he is in!' Hespoke so confusedly.'Well!' said Tom. 'Now look here! When areyou off?''T' day's Monday,' replied Stephen,considering. 'Why, sir, Friday or Saturday,nigh 'bout.''Friday or Saturday,' said Tom. 'Now lookhere! I am not sure that I can do you the goodturn I want to do you - that's my sister, youknow, in your room - but I may be able to, andif I should not be able to, there's no harm done.So I tell you what. You'll know our light porteragain?'

'Yes, sure,' said Stephen.'Very well,' returned Tom. 'When you leavework of a night, between this and your goingaway, just hang about the Bank an hour or so,will you? Don't take on, as if you meantanything, if he should see you hanging aboutthere; because I shan't put him up to speak toyou, unless I find I can do you the service Iwant to do you. In that case he'll have a note ora message for you, but not else. Now lookhere! You are sure you understand.'He had wormed a finger, in the darkness,through a button-hole of Stephen's coat, andwas screwing that corner of the garment tightup round and round, in an extraordinarymanner.'I understand, sir,' said Stephen.'Now look here!' repeated Tom. 'Be sure youdon't make any mistake then, and don't forget.

I shall tell my sister as we go home, what Ihave in view, and she'll approve, I know. Nowlook here! You're all right, are you? Youunderstand all about it? Very well then. Comealong, Loo!'He pushed the door open as he called to her,but did not return into the room, or wait to belighted down the narrow stairs. He was at thebottom when she began to descend, and wasin the street before she could take his arm.Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until thebrother and sister were gone, and untilStephen came back with the candle in hishand. She was in a state of inexpressibleadmiration of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like anunaccountable old woman, wept, 'because shewas such a pretty dear.' Yet Mrs. Pegler wasso flurried lest the object of her admirationshould return by chance, or anybody elseshould come, that her cheerfulness was endedfor that night. It was late too, to people whorose early and worked hard; therefore the

party broke up; and Stephen and Rachaelescorted their mysterious acquaintance to thedoor of the Travellers' Coffee House, wherethey parted from her.They walked back together to the corner ofthe street where Rachael lived, and as theydrew nearer and nearer to it, silence creptupon them. When they came to the darkcorner where their unfrequent meetingsalways ended, they stopped, still silent, as ifboth were afraid to speak.'I shall strive t' see thee agen, Rachael, afore Igo, but if not - ''Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. 'Tis betterthat we make up our minds to be open wi' oneanother.''Thou'rt awlus right. 'Tis bolder and better. Iha been thinkin then, Rachael, that as 'tis but aday or two that remains, 'twere better for thee,my dear, not t' be seen wi' me. 'T might bring

thee into trouble, fur no good.'''Tis not for that, Stephen, that I mind. But thouknow'st our old agreement. 'Tis for that.''Well, well,' said he. "Tis better, onnyways.''Thou'lt write to me, and tell me all thathappens, Stephen?''Yes. What can I say now, but Heaven be wi'thee, Heaven bless thee, Heaven thank theeand reward thee!''May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thywanderings, and send thee peace and rest atlast!''I towd thee, my dear,' said Stephen Blackpool- 'that night - that I would never see or think o'onnything that angered me, but thou, so muchbetter than me, should'st be beside it. Thou'rtbeside it now. Thou mak'st me see it wi' abetter eye. Bless thee. Good night.

Good-bye!'It was but a hurried parting in a commonstreet, yet it was a sacred remembrance tothese two common people. Utilitarianeconomists, skeletons of schoolmasters,Commissioners of Fact, genteel and used-upinfidels, gabblers of many little dog's-earedcreeds, the poor you will have always withyou. Cultivate in them, while there is yet time,the utmost graces of the fancies and affections,to adorn their lives so much in need ofornament; or, in the day of your triumph, whenromance is utterly driven out of their souls,and they and a bare existence stand face toface, Reality will take a wolfish turn, and makean end of you.Stephen worked the next day, and the next,uncheered by a word from any one, andshunned in all his comings and goings asbefore. At the end of the second day, he sawland; at the end of the third, his loom stoodempty.

He had overstayed his hour in the streetoutside the Bank, on each of the two firstevenings; and nothing had happened there,good or bad. That he might not be remiss inhis part of the engagement, he resolved to waitfull two hours, on this third and last night.There was the lady who had once kept Mr.Bounderby's house, sitting at the first-floorwindow as he had seen her before; and therewas the light porter, sometimes talking withher there, and sometimes looking over theblind below which had BANK upon it, andsometimes coming to the door and standing onthe steps for a breath of air. When he firstcame out, Stephen thought he might belooking for him, and passed near; but the lightporter only cast his winking eyes upon himslightly, and said nothing.Two hours were a long stretch of loungingabout, after a long day's labour. Stephen satupon the step of a door, leaned against a wall

under an archway, strolled up and down,listened for the church clock, stopped andwatched children playing in the street. Somepurpose or other is so natural to every one,that a mere loiterer always looks and feelsremarkable. When the first hour was out,Stephen even began to have an uncomfortablesensation upon him of being for the time adisreputable character.Then came the lamplighter, and twolengthening lines of light all down the longperspective of the street, until they wereblended and lost in the distance. Mrs. Sparsitclosed the first-floor window, drew down theblind, and went up-stairs. Presently, a lightwent up-stairs after her, passing first thefanlight of the door, and afterwards the twostaircase windows, on its way up. By and by,one corner of the second-floor blind wasdisturbed, as if Mrs. Sparsit's eye were there;also the other corner, as if the light porter'seye were on that side. Still, no communicationwas made to Stephen. Much relieved when

the two hours were at last accomplished, hewent away at a quick pace, as a recompensefor so much loitering.He had only to take leave of his landlady, andlie down on his temporary bed upon the floor;for his bundle was made up for to- morrow,and all was arranged for his departure. Hemeant to be clear of the town very early;before the Hands were in the streets.It was barely daybreak, when, with a partinglook round his room, mournfully wonderingwhether he should ever see it again, he wentout. The town was as entirely deserted as ifthe inhabitants had abandoned it, rather thanhold communication with him. Everythinglooked wan at that hour. Even the coming sunmade but a pale waste in the sky, like a sadsea.By the place where Rachael lived, though itwas not in his way; by the red brick streets; bythe great silent factories, not trembling yet; by

the railway, where the danger-lights werewaning in the strengthening day; by therailway's crazy neighbourhood, half pulleddown and half built up; by scattered red brickvillas, where the besmoked evergreens weresprinkled with a dirty powder, like untidysnuff-takers; by coal-dust paths and manyvarieties of ugliness; Stephen got to the top ofthe hill, and looked back.Day was shining radiantly upon the townthen, and the bells were going for the morningwork. Domestic fires were not yet lighted, andthe high chimneys had the sky to themselves.Puffing out their poisonous volumes, theywould not be long in hiding it; but, for half anhour, some of the many windows were golden,which showed the Coketown people a suneternally in eclipse, through a medium ofsmoked glass.So strange to turn from the chimneys to thebirds. So strange, to have the road-dust on hisfeet instead of the coal-grit. So strange to have

lived to his time of life, and yet to bebeginning like a boy this summer morning!With these musings in his mind, and hisbundle under his arm, Stephen took hisattentive face along the high road. And thetrees arched over him, whispering that he lefta true and loving heart behind.

CHAPTER VII - GUNPOWDERMR. JAMES HARTHOUSE, 'going in' for hisadopted party, soon began to score. With theaid of a little more coaching for the politicalsages, a little more genteel listlessness for thegeneral society, and a tolerable managementof the assumed honesty in dishonesty, mosteffective and most patronized of the politedeadly sins, he speedily came to beconsidered of much promise. The not beingtroubled with earnestness was a grand point inhis favour, enabling him to take to the hardFact fellows with as good a grace as if he hadbeen born one of the tribe, and to throw allother tribes overboard, as conscioushypocrites.'Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs.Bounderby, and who do not believethemselves. The only difference between usand the professors of virtue or benevolence, orphilanthropy - never mind the name - is, thatwe know it is all meaningless, and say so;

while they know it equally and will never sayso.'Why should she be shocked or warned bythis reiteration? It was not so unlike herfather's principles, and her early training, thatit need startle her. Where was the greatdifference between the two schools, wheneach chained her down to material realities,and inspired her with no faith in anything else?What was there in her soul for JamesHarthouse to destroy, which ThomasGradgrind had nurtured there in its state ofinnocence!It was even the worse for her at this pass, thatin her mind - implanted there before hereminently practical father began to form it - astruggling disposition to believe in a widerand nobler humanity than she had ever heardof, constantly strove with doubts andresentments. With doubts, because theaspiration had been so laid waste in her youth.With resentments, because of the wrong that

had been done her, if it were indeed a whisperof the truth. Upon a nature long accustomed toself-suppression, thus torn and divided, theHarthouse philosophy came as a relief andjustification. Everything being hollow andworthless, she had missed nothing andsacrificed nothing. What did it matter, she hadsaid to her father, when he proposed herhusband. What did it matter, she said still.With a scornful self-reliance, she askedherself, What did anything matter - and wenton.Towards what? Step by step, onward anddownward, towards some end, yet sogradually, that she believed herself to remainmotionless. As to Mr. Harthouse, whither hetended, he neither considered nor cared. Hehad no particular design or plan before him:no energetic wickedness ruffled his lassitude.He was as much amused and interested, atpresent, as it became so fine a gentleman tobe; perhaps even more than it would havebeen consistent with his reputation to confess.

Soon after his arrival he languidly wrote to hisbrother, the honourable and jocular member,that the Bounderbys were 'great fun;' andfurther, that the female Bounderby, instead ofbeing the Gorgon he had expected, wasyoung, and remarkably pretty. After that, hewrote no more about them, and devoted hisleisure chiefly to their house. He was veryoften in their house, in his flittings and visitingsabout the Coketown district; and was muchencouraged by Mr. Bounderby. It was quite inMr. Bounderby's gusty way to boast to all hisworld that he didn't care about your highlyconnected people, but that if his wife TomGradgrind's daughter did, she was welcome totheir company.Mr. James Harthouse began to think it wouldbe a new sensation, if the face which changedso beautifully for the whelp, would change forhim.He was quick enough to observe; he had agood memory, and did not forget a word of the

other's revelations. He interwove them witheverything he saw of the sister, and he beganto understand her. To be sure, the better andprofounder part of her character was notwithin his scope of perception; for in natures,as in seas, depth answers unto depth; but hesoon began to read the rest with a student'seye.Mr. Bounderby had taken possession of ahouse and grounds, about fifteen miles fromthe town, and accessible within a mile or two,by a railway striding on many arches over awild country, undermined by desertedcoal-shafts, and spotted at night by fires andblack shapes of stationary engines at pits'mouths. This country, gradually softeningtowards the neighbourhood of Mr.Bounderby's retreat, there mellowed into arustic landscape, golden with heath, andsnowy with hawthorn in the spring of the year,and tremulous with leaves and their shadowsall the summer time. The bank had forecloseda mortgage effected on the property thus

pleasantly situated, by one of the Coketownmagnates, who, in his determination to make ashorter cut than usual to an enormous fortune,overspeculated himself by about two hundredthousand pounds. These accidents didsometimes happen in the best regulatedfamilies of Coketown, but the bankrupts hadno connexion whatever with the improvidentclasses.It afforded Mr. Bounderby supremesatisfaction to instal himself in this snug littleestate, and with demonstrative humility togrow cabbages in the flower-garden. Hedelighted to live, barrack- fashion, among theelegant furniture, and he bullied the verypictures with his origin. 'Why, sir,' he wouldsay to a visitor, 'I am told that Nickits,' the lateowner, 'gave seven hundred pound for thatSeabeach. Now, to be plain with you, if I ever,in the whole course of my life, take sevenlooks at it, at a hundred pound a look, it will beas much as I shall do. No, by George! I don'tforget that I am Josiah Bounderby of

Coketown. For years upon years, the onlypictures in my possession, or that I could havegot into my possession, by any means, unless Istole 'em, were the engravings of a manshaving himself in a boot, on the blackingbottles that I was overjoyed to use in cleaningboots with, and that I sold when they wereempty for a farthing a-piece, and glad to get it!'Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in thesame style.'Harthouse, you have a couple of horses downhere. Bring half a dozen more if you like, andwe'll find room for 'em. There's stabling in thisplace for a dozen horses; and unless Nickits isbelied, he kept the full number. A rounddozen of 'em, sir. When that man was a boy,he went to Westminster School. Went toWestminster School as a King's Scholar, when Iwas principally living on garbage, andsleeping in market baskets. Why, if I wantedto keep a dozen horses - which I don't, forone's enough for me - I couldn't bear to see 'em

in their stalls here, and think what my ownlodging used to be. I couldn't look at 'em, sir,and not order 'em out. Yet so things comeround. You see this place; you know what sortof a place it is; you are aware that there's not acompleter place of its size in this kingdom orelsewhere - I don't care where - and here, gotinto the middle of it, like a maggot into a nut, isJosiah Bounderby. While Nickits (as a mancame into my office, and told me yesterday),Nickits, who used to act in Latin, in theWestminster School plays, with the chiefjusticesand nobility of this country applaudinghim till they were black in the face, isdrivelling at this minute - drivelling, sir! - in afifth floor, up a narrow dark back street inAntwerp.'It was among the leafy shadows of thisretirement, in the long sultry summer days,that Mr. Harthouse began to prove the facewhich had set him wondering when he firstsaw it, and to try if it would change for him.

'Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most fortunateaccident that I find you alone here. I have forsome time had a particular wish to speak toyou.'It was not by any wonderful accident that hefound her, the time of day being that at whichshe was always alone, and the place being herfavourite resort. It was an opening in a darkwood, where some felled trees lay, and whereshe would sit watching the fallen leaves of lastyear, as she had watched the falling ashes athome.He sat down beside her, with a glance at herface.'Your brother. My young friend Tom - 'Her colour brightened, and she turned to himwith a look of interest. 'I never in my life,' hethought, 'saw anything so remarkable and socaptivating as the lighting of those features!'His face betrayed his thoughts - perhaps

without betraying him, for it might have beenaccording to its instructions so to do.'Pardon me. The expression of your sisterlyinterest is so beautiful - Tom should be soproud of it - I know this is inexcusable, but Iam so compelled to admire.''Being so impulsive,' she said composedly.'Mrs. Bounderby, no: you know I make nopretence with you. You know I am a sordidpiece of human nature, ready to sell myself atany time for any reasonable sum, andaltogether incapable of any Arcadianproceeding whatever.''I am waiting,' she returned, 'for your furtherreference to my brother.''You are rigid with me, and I deserve it. I amas worthless a dog as you will find, except thatI am not false - not false. But you surprised andstarted me from my subject, which was your

other. I have an interest in him.''Have you an interest in anything, Mr.Harthouse?' she asked, half incredulously andhalf gratefully.'If you had asked me when I first came here, Ishould have said no. I must say now - even atthe hazard of appearing to make a pretence,and of justly awakening your incredulity - yes.'She made a slight movement, as if she weretrying to speak, but could not find voice; atlength she said, 'Mr. Harthouse, I give youcredit for being interested in my brother.''Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You knowhow little I do claim, but I will go that length.You have done so much for him, you are sofond of him; your whole life, Mrs. Bounderby,expresses such charming self-forgetfulness onhis account - pardon me again - I am runningwide of the subject. I am interested in him forhis own sake.'

She had made the slightest action possible, asif she would have risen in a hurry and goneaway. He had turned the course of what hesaid at that instant, and she remained.'Mrs. Bounderby,' he resumed, in a lightermanner, and yet with a show of effort inassuming it, which was even more expressivethan the manner he dismissed; 'it is noirrevocable offence in a young fellow of yourbrother's years, if he is heedless,inconsiderate, and expensive - a littledissipated, in the common phrase. Is he?''Yes.''Allow me to be frank. Do you think he gamesat all?''I think he makes bets.' Mr. Harthousewaiting, as if that were not her whole answer,she added, 'I know he does.'

'Of course he loses?''Yes.''Everybody does lose who bets. May I hint atthe probability of your sometimes supplyinghim with money for these purposes?'She sat, looking down; but, at this question,raised her eyes searchingly and a littleresentfully.'Acquit me of impertinent curiosity, my dearMrs. Bounderby. I think Tom may begradually falling into trouble, and I wish tostretch out a helping hand to him from thedepths of my wicked experience. - Shall I sayagain, for his sake? Is that necessary?'She seemed to try to answer, but nothingcame of it.'Candidly to confess everything that hasoccurred to me,' said James Harthouse, again

gliding with the same appearance of effort intohis more airy manner; 'I will confide to you mydoubt whether he has had many advantages.Whether - forgive my plainness - whether anygreat amount of confidence is likely to havebeen established between himself and hismost worthy father.''I do not,' said Louisa, flushing with her owngreat remembrance in that wise, 'think itlikely.''Or, between himself, and - I may trust to yourperfect understanding of my meaning, I amsure - and his highly esteemed brother-in-law.'She flushed deeper and deeper, and wasburning red when she replied in a faintervoice, 'I do not think that likely, either.''Mrs. Bounderby,' said Harthouse, after ashort silence, 'may there be a betterconfidence between yourself and me? Tomhas borrowed a considerable sum of you?'

'You will understand, Mr. Harthouse,' shereturned, after some indecision: she had beenmore or less uncertain, and troubledthroughout the conversation, and yet had inthe main preserved her self-containedmanner; 'you will understand that if I tell youwhat you press to know, it is not by way ofcomplaint or regret. I would never complainof anything, and what I have done I do not inthe least regret.''So spirited, too!' thought James Harthouse.'When I married, I found that my brother waseven at that time heavily in debt. Heavily forhim, I mean. Heavily enough to oblige me tosell some trinkets. They were no sacrifice. Isold them very willingly. I attached no valueto them. They, were quite worthless to me.'Either she saw in his face that he knew, or sheonly feared in her conscience that he knew,that she spoke of some of her husband's gifts.

She stopped, and reddened again. If he hadnot known it before, he would have known itthen, though he had been a much duller manthan he was.'Since then, I have given my brother, atvarious times, what money I could spare: inshort, what money I have had. Confiding inyou at all, on the faith of the interest youprofess for him, I will not do so by halves.Since you have been in the habit of visitinghere, he has wanted in one sum as much as ahundred pounds. I have not been able to giveit to him. I have felt uneasy for theconsequences of his being so involved, but Ihave kept these secrets until now, when I trustthem to your honour. I have held noconfidence with any one, because - youanticipated my reason just now.' She abruptlybroke off.He was a ready man, and he saw, and seized,an opportunity here of presenting her ownimage to her, slightly disguised as her brother.

'Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person,of the world worldly, I feel the utmost interest,I assure you, in what you tell me. I cannotpossibly be hard upon your brother. Iunderstand and share the wise considerationwith which you regard his errors. With allpossible respect both for Mr. Gradgrind andfor Mr. Bounderby, I think I perceive that hehas not been fortunate in his training. Bred at adisadvantage towards the society in which hehas his part to play, he rushes into theseextremes for himself, from opposite extremesthat have long been forced - with the very bestintentions we have no doubt - upon him. Mr.Bounderby's fine bluff English independence,though a most charming characteristic, doesnot - as we have agreed - invite confidence. IfI might venture to remark that it is the least inthe world deficient in that delicacy to which ayouth mistaken, a character misconceived,and abilities misdirected, would turn for reliefand guidance, I should express what itpresents to my own view.'

As she sat looking straight before her, acrossthe changing lights upon the grass into thedarkness of the wood beyond, he saw in herface her application of his very distinctlyuttered words.'All allowance,' he continued, 'must be made.I have one great fault to find with Tom,however, which I cannot forgive, and for whichI take him heavily to account.'Louisa turned her eyes to his face, and askedhim what fault was that?'Perhaps,' he returned, 'I have said enough.Perhaps it would have been better, on thewhole, if no allusion to it had escaped me.''You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse. Pray let meknow it.''To relieve you from needless apprehension -and as this confidence regarding your brother,

which I prize I am sure above all possiblethings, has been established between us - Iobey. I cannot forgive him for not being moresensible in every word, look, and act of hislife, of the affection of his best friend; of thedevotion of his best friend; of herunselfishness; of her sacrifice. The return hemakes her, within my observation, is a verypoor one. What she has done for himdemands his constant love and gratitude, nothis ill- humour and caprice. Careless fellow asI am, I am not so indifferent, Mrs. Bounderby,as to be regardless of this vice in your brother,or inclined to consider it a venial offence.'The wood floated before her, for her eyeswere suffused with tears. They rose from adeep well, long concealed, and her heart wasfilled with acute pain that found no relief inthem.'In a word, it is to correct your brother in this,Mrs. Bounderby, that I must aspire. My betterknowledge of his circumstances, and my

direction and advice in extricating them -rather valuable, I hope, as coming from ascapegrace on a much larger scale - will giveme some influence over him, and all I gain Ishall certainly use towards this end. I havesaid enough, and more than enough. I seem tobe protesting that I am a sort of good fellow,when, upon my honour, I have not the leastintention to make any protestation to thateffect, and openly announce that I am nothingof the sort. Yonder, among the trees,' headded, having lifted up his eyes and lookedabout; for he had watched her closely untilnow; 'is your brother himself; no doubt, justcome down. As he seems to be loitering in thisdirection, it may be as well, perhaps, to walktowards him, and throw ourselves in his way.He has been very silent and doleful of late.Perhaps, his brotherly conscience is touched -if there are such things as consciences.Though, upon my honour, I hear of them muchtoo often to believe in them.'He assisted her to rise, and she took his arm,

and they advanced to meet the whelp. He wasidly beating the branches as he loungedalong: or he stooped viciously to rip the mossfrom the trees with his stick. He was startledwhen they came upon him while he wasengaged in this latter pastime, and his colourchanged.'Halloa!' he stammered; 'I didn't know youwere here.''Whose name, Tom,' said Mr. Harthouse,putting his hand upon his shoulder and turninghim, so that they all three walked towards thehouse together, 'have you been carving on thetrees?''Whose name?' returned Tom. 'Oh! You meanwhat girl's name?''You have a suspicious appearance ofinscribing some fair creature's on the bark,Tom.'

'Not much of that, Mr. Harthouse, unless somefair creature with a slashing fortune at her owndisposal would take a fancy to me. Or shemight be as ugly as she was rich, without anyfear of losing me. I'd carve her name as oftenas she liked.''I am afraid you are mercenary, Tom.''Mercenary,' repeated Tom. 'Who is notmercenary? Ask my sister.''Have you so proved it to be a failing of mine,Tom?' said Louisa, showing no other sense ofhis discontent and ill-nature.'You know whether the cap fits you, Loo,'returned her brother sulkily. 'If it does, youcan wear it.''Tom is misanthropical to-day, as all boredpeople are now and then,' said Mr. Harthouse.'Don't believe him, Mrs. Bounderby. He knowsmuch better. I shall disclose some of his

opinions of you, privately expressed to me,unless he relents a little.''At all events, Mr. Harthouse,' said Tom,softening in his admiration of his patron, butshaking his head sullenly too, 'you can't tell herthat I ever praised her for being mercenary. Imay have praised her for being the contrary,and I should do it again, if I had as goodreason. However, never mind this now; it's notvery interesting to you, and I am sick of thesubject.'They walked on to the house, where Louisaquitted her visitor's arm and went in. He stoodlooking after her, as she ascended the steps,and passed into the shadow of the door; thenput his hand upon her brother's shoulderagain, and invited him with a confidential nodto a walk in the garden.'Tom, my fine fellow, I want to have a wordwith you.'

They had stopped among a disorder of roses- it was part of Mr. Bounderby's humility tokeep Nickits's roses on a reduced scale - andTom sat down on a terrace-parapet, pluckingbuds and picking them to pieces; while hispowerful Familiar stood over him, with a footupon the parapet, and his figure easily restingon the arm supported by that knee. They werejust visible from her window. Perhaps she sawthem.'Tom, what's the matter?''Oh! Mr. Harthouse,' said Tom with a groan, 'Iam hard up, and bothered out of my life.''My good fellow, so am I.''You!' returned Tom. 'You are the picture ofindependence. Mr. Harthouse, I am in ahorrible mess. You have no idea what a state Ihave got myself into - what a state my sistermight have got me out of, if she would onlyhave done it.'

He took to biting the rosebuds now, andtearing them away from his teeth with a handthat trembled like an infirm old man's. Afterone exceedingly observant look at him, hiscompanion relapsed into his lightest air.'Tom, you are inconsiderate: you expect toomuch of your sister. You have had money ofher, you dog, you know you have.''Well, Mr. Harthouse, I know I have. How elsewas I to get it? Here's old Bounderby alwaysboasting that at my age he lived upontwopence a month, or something of that sort.Here's my father drawing what he calls a line,and tying me down to it from a baby, neck andheels. Here's my mother who never hasanything of her own, except her complaints.What is a fellow to do for money, and wheream I to look for it, if not to my sister?'He was almost crying, and scattered the budsabout by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him

persuasively by the coat.'But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got it- ''Not got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don't say she hasgot it. I may have wanted more than she waslikely to have got. But then she ought to get it.She could get it. It's of no use pretending tomake a secret of matters now, after what I havetold you already; you know she didn't marryold Bounderby for her own sake, or for hissake, but for my sake. Then why doesn't sheget what I want, out of him, for my sake? She isnot obliged to say what she is going to do withit; she is sharp enough; she could manage tocoax it out of him, if she chose. Then whydoesn't she choose, when I tell her of whatconsequence it is? But no. There she sits in hiscompany like a stone, instead of makingherself agreeable and getting it easily. I don'tknow what you may call this, but I call itunnatural conduct.'

There was a piece of ornamental waterimmediately below the parapet, on the otherside, into which Mr. James Harthouse had avery strong inclination to pitch Mr. ThomasGradgrind junior, as the injured men ofCoketown threatened to pitch their propertyinto the Atlantic. But he preserved his easyattitude; and nothing more solid went over thestone balustrades than the accumulatedrosebuds now floating about, a littlesurface-island.'My dear Tom,' said Harthouse, 'let me try tobe your banker.''For God's sake,' replied Tom, suddenly,'don't talk about bankers!' And very white helooked, in contrast with the roses. Very white.Mr. Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bredman, accustomed to the best society, was notto be surprised - he could as soon have beenaffected - but he raised his eyelids a littlemore, as if they were lifted by a feeble touch of

wonder. Albeit it was as much against theprecepts of his school to wonder, as it wasagainst the doctrines of the GradgrindCollege.'What is the present need, Tom? Threefigures? Out with them. Say what they are.''Mr. Harthouse,' returned Tom, now actuallycrying; and his tears were better than hisinjuries, however pitiful a figure he made: 'it'stoo late; the money is of no use to me atpresent. I should have had it before to be ofuse to me. But I am very much obliged to you;you're a true friend.'A true friend! 'Whelp, whelp!' thought Mr.Harthouse, lazily; 'what an Ass you are!''And I take your offer as a great kindness,'said Tom, grasping his hand. 'As a greatkindness, Mr. Harthouse.''Well,' returned the other, 'it may be of more

use by and by. And, my good fellow, if youwill open your bedevilments to me when theycome thick upon you, I may show you betterways out of them than you can find foryourself.''Thank you,' said Tom, shaking his headdismally, and chewing rosebuds. 'I wish I hadknown you sooner, Mr. Harthouse.''Now, you see, Tom,' said Mr. Harthouse inconclusion, himself tossing over a rose or two,as a contribution to the island, which wasalways drifting to the wall as if it wanted tobecome a part of the mainland: 'every man isselfish in everything he does, and I am exactlylike the rest of my fellow-creatures. I amdesperately intent;' the languor of hisdesperation being quite tropical; 'on yoursoftening towards your sister - which youought to do; and on your being a more lovingand agreeable sort of brother - which youought to be.'

'I will be, Mr. Harthouse.''No time like the present, Tom. Begin atonce.''Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall sayso.''Having made which bargain, Tom,' saidHarthouse, clapping him on the shoulderagain, with an air which left him at liberty toinfer - as he did, poor fool - that this conditionwas imposed upon him in mere careless goodnature to lessen his sense of obligation, 'wewill tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time.'When Tom appeared before dinner, thoughhis mind seemed heavy enough, his body wason the alert; and he appeared before Mr.Bounderby came in. 'I didn't mean to be cross,Loo,' he said, giving her his hand, and kissingher. 'I know you are fond of me, and you knowI am fond of you.'

After this, there was a smile upon Louisa'sface that day, for some one else. Alas, forsome one else!'So much the less is the whelp the onlycreature that she cares for,' thought JamesHarthouse, reversing the reflection of his firstday's knowledge of her pretty face. 'So muchthe less, so much the less.'

CHAPTER VIII - EXPLOSIONTHE next morning was too bright a morningfor sleep, and James Harthouse rose early, andsat in the pleasant bay window of hisdressing-room, smoking the rare tobacco thathad had so wholesome an influence on hisyoung friend. Reposing in the sunlight, withthe fragrance of his eastern pipe about him,and the dreamy smoke vanishing into the air,so rich and soft with summer odours, hereckoned up his advantages as an idle winnermight count his gains. He was not at all boredfor the time, and could give his mind to it.He had established a confidence with her,from which her husband was excluded. Hehad established a confidence with her, thatabsolutely turned upon her indifferencetowards her husband, and the absence, nowand at all times, of any congeniality betweenthem. He had artfully, but plainly, assured herthat he knew her heart in its last most delicaterecesses; he had come so near to her through

its tenderest sentiment; he had associatedhimself with that feeling; and the barrierbehind which she lived, had melted away. Allvery odd, and very satisfactory!And yet he had not, even now, any earnestwickedness of purpose in him. Publicly andprivately, it were much better for the age inwhich he lived, that he and the legion of whomhe was one were designedly bad, thanindifferent and purposeless. It is the driftingicebergs setting with any current anywhere,that wreck the ships.When the Devil goeth about like a roaringlion, he goeth about in a shape by which fewbut savages and hunters are attracted. But,when he is trimmed, smoothed, and varnished,according to the mode; when he is aweary ofvice, and aweary of virtue, used up as tobrimstone, and used up as to bliss; then,whether he take to the serving out of red tape,or to the kindling of red fire, he is the veryDevil.

So James Harthouse reclined in the window,indolently smoking, and reckoning up thesteps he had taken on the road by which hehappened to be travelling. The end to which itled was before him, pretty plainly; but hetroubled himself with no calculations about it.What will be, will be.As he had rather a long ride to take that day -for there was a public occasion 'to do' at somedistance, which afforded a tolerableopportunity of going in for the Gradgrind men- he dressed early and went down to breakfast.He was anxious to see if she had relapsedsince the previous evening. No. He resumedwhere he had left off. There was a look ofinterest for him again.He got through the day as much (or as little)to his own satisfaction, as was to be expectedunder the fatiguing circumstances; and cameriding back at six o'clock. There was a sweepof some half-mile between the lodge and the

house, and he was riding along at a foot paceover the smooth gravel, once Nickits's, whenMr. Bounderby burst out of the shrubbery,with such violence as to make his horse shyacross the road.'Harthouse!' cried Mr. Bounderby. 'Have youheard?''Heard what?' said Harthouse, soothing hishorse, and inwardly favouring Mr. Bounderbywith no good wishes.'Then you haven't heard!''I have heard you, and so has this brute. Ihave heard nothing else.'Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted himselfin the centre of the path before the horse'shead, to explode his bombshell with moreeffect.'The Bank's robbed!'

'You don't mean it!''Robbed last night, sir. Robbed in anextraordinary manner. Robbed with a falsekey.''Of much?'Mr. Bounderby, in his desire to make themost of it, really seemed mortified by beingobliged to reply, 'Why, no; not of very much.But it might have been.''Of how much?''Oh! as a sum - if you stick to a sum - of notmore than a hundred and fifty pound,' saidBounderby, with impatience. 'But it's not thesum; it's the fact. It's the fact of the Bank beingrobbed, that's the important circumstance. Iam surprised you don't see it.''My dear Bounderby,' said James,

dismounting, and giving his bridle to hisservant, 'I do see it; and am as overcome asyou can possibly desire me to be, by thespectacle afforded to my mental view.Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, tocongratulate you - which I do with all my soul, Iassure you - on your not having sustained agreater loss.''Thank'ee,' replied Bounderby, in a short,ungracious manner. 'But I tell you what. Itmight have been twenty thousand pound.''I suppose it might.''Suppose it might! By the Lord, you maysuppose so. By George!' said Mr. Bounderby,with sundry menacing nods and shakes of hishead. 'It might have been twice twenty.There's no knowing what it would have been,or wouldn't have been, as it was, but for thefellows' being disturbed.'Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit,

and Bitzer.'Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knowspretty well what it might have been, if youdon't,' blustered Bounderby. 'Dropped, sir, asif she was shot when I told her! Never knewher do such a thing before. Does her credit,under the circumstances, in my opinion!'She still looked faint and pale. JamesHarthouse begged her to take his arm; and asthey moved on very slowly, asked her how therobbery had been committed.'Why, I am going to tell you,' said Bounderby,irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. 'If youhadn't been so mighty particular about thesum, I should have begun to tell you before.You know this lady (for she is a lady), Mrs.Sparsit?''I have already had the honour - ''Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you

saw him too on the same occasion?' Mr.Harthouse inclined his head in assent, andBitzer knuckled his forehead.'Very well. They live at the Bank. You knowthey live at the Bank, perhaps? Very well.Yesterday afternoon, at the close of businesshours, everything was put away as usual. Inthe iron room that this young fellow sleepsoutside of, there was never mind how much.In the little safe in young Tom's closet, the safeused for petty purposes, there was a hundredand fifty odd pound.''A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,' saidBitzer.'Come!' retorted Bounderby, stopping towheel round upon him, 'let's have none of yourinterruptions. It's enough to be robbed whileyou're snoring because you're toocomfortable, without being put right with yourfour seven ones. I didn't snore, myself, when Iwas your age, let me tell you. I hadn't victuals

enough to snore. And I didn't four seven one.Not if I knew it.'Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in asneaking manner, and seemed at onceparticularly impressed and depressed by theinstance last given of Mr. Bounderby's moralabstinence.'A hundred and fifty odd pound,' resumed Mr.Bounderby. 'That sum of money, young Tomlocked in his safe, not a very strong safe, butthat's no matter now. Everything was left, allright. Some time in the night, while this youngfellow snored - Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, you sayyou have heard him snore?''Sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'I cannot say that Ihave heard him precisely snore, and thereforemust not make that statement. But on winterevenings, when he has fallen asleep at histable, I have heard him, what I should prefer todescribe as partially choke. I have heard himon such occasions produce sounds of a nature

similar to what may be sometimes heard inDutch clocks. Not,' said Mrs. Sparsit, with alofty sense of giving strict evidence, 'that Iwould convey any imputation on his moralcharacter. Far from it. I have alwaysconsidered Bitzer a young man of the mostupright principle; and to that I beg to bear mytestimony.''Well!' said the exasperated Bounderby,'while he was snoring, or choking, orDutch-clocking, or something or other - beingasleep - some fellows, somehow, whetherpreviously concealed in the house or notremains to be seen, got to young Tom's safe,forced it, and abstracted the contents. Beingthen disturbed, they made off; lettingthemselves out at the main door, anddouble-locking it again (it was double-locked,and the key under Mrs. Sparsit's pillow) with afalse key, which was picked up in the streetnear the Bank, about twelve o'clock to-day. Noalarm takes place, till this chap, Bitzer, turnsout this morning, and begins to open and

prepare the offices for business. Then,looking at Tom's safe, he sees the door ajar,and finds the lock forced, and the moneygone.''Where is Tom, by the by?' asked Harthouse,glancing round.'He has been helping the police,' saidBounderby, 'and stays behind at the Bank. Iwish these fellows had tried to rob me when Iwas at his time of life. They would have beenout of pocket if they had investedeighteenpence in the job; I can tell 'em that.''Is anybody suspected?''Suspected? I should think there wassomebody suspected. Egod!' said Bounderby,relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe hisheated head. 'Josiah Bounderby of Coketownis not to be plundered and nobody suspected.No, thank you!'

Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who wassuspected?'Well,' said Bounderby, stopping and facingabout to confront them all, 'I'll tell you. It's notto be mentioned everywhere; it's not to bementioned anywhere: in order that thescoundrels concerned (there's a gang of 'em)may be thrown off their guard. So take this inconfidence. Now wait a bit.' Mr. Bounderbywiped his head again. 'What should you sayto;' here he violently exploded: 'to a Handbeing in it?''I hope,' said Harthouse, lazily, 'not our friendBlackpot?''Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,' returnedBounderby, 'and that's the man.'Louisa faintly uttered some word ofincredulity and surprise.'O yes! I know!' said Bounderby, immediately

catching at the sound. 'I know! I am used tothat. I know all about it. They are the finestpeople in the world, these fellows are. Theyhave got the gift of the gab, they have. Theyonly want to have their rights explained tothem, they do. But I tell you what. Show me adissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a manthat's fit for anything bad, I don't care what itis.'Another of the popular fictions of Coketown,which some pains had been taken todisseminate - and which some people reallybelieved.'But I am acquainted with these chaps,' saidBounderby. 'I can read 'em off, like books.Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. Whatwarning did I give that fellow, the first time heset foot in the house, when the express objectof his visit was to know how he could knockReligion over, and floor the EstablishedChurch? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of highconnexions, you are on a level with the

aristocracy, - did I say, or did I not say, to thatfellow, "you can't hide the truth from me: youare not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come tono good"?''Assuredly, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'youdid, in a highly impressive manner, give himsuch an admonition.''When he shocked you, ma'am,' saidBounderby; 'when he shocked your feelings?''Yes, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meekshake of her head, 'he certainly did so.Though I do not mean to say but that myfeelings may be weaker on such points - morefoolish if the term is preferred - than theymight have been, if I had always occupied mypresent position.'Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride atMr. Harthouse, as much as to say, 'I am theproprietor of this female, and she's worth yourattention, I think.' Then, resumed his

discourse.'You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what Isaid to him when you saw him. I didn't mincethe matter with him. I am never mealy with'em. I KNOW 'em. Very well, sir. Three daysafter that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knowswhere: as my mother did in my infancy - onlywith this difference, that he is a worse subjectthan my mother, if possible. What did he dobefore he went? What do you say;' Mr.Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave abeat upon the crown at every little division ofhis sentences, as if it were a tambourine; 'to hisbeing seen - night after night - watching theBank? - to his lurking about there - after dark? -To its striking Mrs. Sparsit - that he could belurking for no good - To her calling Bitzer'sattention to him, and their both taking notice ofhim - And to its appearing on inquiry to-day -that he was also noticed by the neighbours?'Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby,like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine onhis head.

'Suspicious,' said James Harthouse, 'certainly.''I think so, sir,' said Bounderby, with a defiantnod. 'I think so. But there are more of 'em in it.There's an old woman. One never hears ofthese things till the mischief's done; all sorts ofdefects are found out in the stable door afterthe horse is stolen; there's an old woman turnsup now. An old woman who seems to havebeen flying into town on a broomstick, everynow and then. She watches the place a wholeday before this fellow begins, and on the nightwhen you saw him, she steals away with himand holds a council with him - I suppose, tomake her report on going off duty, and bedamned to her.'There was such a person in the room thatnight, and she shrunk from observation,thought Louisa.'This is not all of 'em, even as we alreadyknow 'em,' said Bounderby, with many nods of

hidden meaning. 'But I have said enough forthe present. You'll have the goodness to keepit quiet, and mention it to no one. It may taketime, but we shall have 'em. It's policy to give'em line enough, and there's no objection tothat.''Of course, they will be punished with theutmost rigour of the law, as notice-boardsobserve,' replied James Harthouse, 'and servethem right. Fellows who go in for Banks musttake the consequences. If there were noconsequences, we should all go in for Banks.'He had gently taken Louisa's parasol from herhand, and had put it up for her; and shewalked under its shade, though the sun did notshine there.'For the present, Loo Bounderby,' said herhusband, 'here's Mrs. Sparsit to look after.Mrs. Sparsit's nerves have been acted upon bythis business, and she'll stay here a day or two.So make her comfortable.'

'Thank you very much, sir,' that discreet ladyobserved, 'but pray do not let My comfort be aconsideration. Anything will do for Me.'It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit had afailing in her association with that domesticestablishment, it was that she was soexcessively regardless of herself andregardful of others, as to be a nuisance. Onbeing shown her chamber, she was sodreadfully sensible of its comforts as tosuggest the inference that she would havepreferred to pass the night on the mangle inthe laundry. True, the Powlers and theScadgerses were accustomed to splendour,'but it is my duty to remember,' Mrs. Sparsitwas fond of observing with a lofty grace:particularly when any of the domestics werepresent, 'that what I was, I am no longer.Indeed,' said she, 'if I could altogether cancelthe remembrance that Mr. Sparsit was aPowler, or that I myself am related to theScadgers family; or if I could even revoke thefact, and make myself a person of common

descent and ordinary connexions; I wouldgladly do so. I should think it, under existingcircumstances, right to do so.' The sameHermitical state of mind led to herrenunciation of made dishes and wines atdinner, until fairly commanded by Mr.Bounderby to take them; when she said,'Indeed you are very good, sir;' and departedfrom a resolution of which she had maderather formal and public announcement, to'wait for the simple mutton.' She was likewisedeeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and,feeling amiably bound to bear out Mr.Bounderby to the fullest extent in thetestimony he had borne to her nerves,occasionally sat back in her chair and silentlywept; at which periods a tear of largedimensions, like a crystal ear-ring, might beobserved (or rather, must be, for it insisted onpublic notice) sliding down her Roman nose.But Mrs. Sparsit's greatest point, first and last,was her determination to pity Mr. Bounderby.There were occasions when in looking at him

she was involuntarily moved to shake herhead, as who would say, 'Alas, poor Yorick!'After allowing herself to be betrayed intothese evidences of emotion, she would force alambent brightness, and would be fitfullycheerful, and would say, 'You have still goodspirits, sir, I am thankful to find;' and wouldappear to hail it as a blessed dispensation thatMr. Bounderby bore up as he did. Oneidiosyncrasy for which she often apologized,she found it excessively difficult to conquer.She had a curious propensity to call Mrs.Bounderby 'Miss Gradgrind,' and yielded to itsome three or four score times in the course ofthe evening. Her repetition of this mistakecovered Mrs. Sparsit with modest confusion;but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural tosay Miss Gradgrind: whereas, to persuadeherself that the young lady whom she had hadthe happiness of knowing from a child couldbe really and truly Mrs. Bounderby, she foundalmost impossible. It was a further singularityof this remarkable case, that the more shethought about it, the more impossible it

appeared; 'the differences,' she observed,'being such.'In the drawing-room after dinner, Mr.Bounderby tried the case of the robbery,examined the witnesses, made notes of theevidence, found the suspected persons guilty,and sentenced them to the extremepunishment of the law. That done, Bitzer wasdismissed to town with instructions torecommend Tom to come home by the mailtrain.When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsitmurmured, 'Don't be low, sir. Pray let me seeyou cheerful, sir, as I used to do.' Mr.Bounderby, upon whom these consolationshad begun to produce the effect of makinghim, in a bull-headed blundering way,sentimental, sighed like some largesea-animal. 'I cannot bear to see you so, sir,'said Mrs. Sparsit. 'Try a hand at backgammon,sir, as you used to do when I had the honour ofliving under your roof.' 'I haven't played

ackgammon, ma'am,' said Mr. Bounderby,'since that time.' 'No, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit,soothingly, 'I am aware that you have not. Iremember that Miss Gradgrind takes nointerest in the game. But I shall be happy, sir,if you will condescend.'They played near a window, opening on thegarden. It was a fine night: not moonlight, butsultry and fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthousestrolled out into the garden, where their voicescould be heard in the stillness, though notwhat they said. Mrs. Sparsit, from her place atthe backgammon board, was constantlystraining her eyes to pierce the shadowswithout. 'What's the matter, ma'am? ' said Mr.Bounderby; 'you don't see a Fire, do you?' 'Ohdear no, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'I wasthinking of the dew.' 'What have you got to dowith the dew, ma'am?' said Mr. Bounderby. 'It'snot myself, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'I amfearful of Miss Gradgrind's taking cold.' 'Shenever takes cold,' said Mr. Bounderby. 'Really,sir?' said Mrs. Sparsit. And was affected with a

cough in her throat.When the time drew near for retiring, Mr.Bounderby took a glass of water. 'Oh, sir?' saidMrs. Sparsit. 'Not your sherry warm, withlemon-peel and nutmeg?' 'Why, I have got outof the habit of taking it now, ma'am,' said Mr.Bounderby. 'The more's the pity, sir,' returnedMrs. Sparsit; 'you are losing all your good oldhabits. Cheer up, sir! If Miss Gradgrind willpermit me, I will offer to make it for you, as Ihave often done.'Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs.Sparsit to do anything she pleased, thatconsiderate lady made the beverage, andhanded it to Mr. Bounderby. 'It will do yougood, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the sortof thing you want, and ought to take, sir.' Andwhen Mr. Bounderby said, 'Your health,ma'am!' she answered with great feeling,'Thank you, sir. The same to you, andhappiness also.' Finally, she wished him goodnight, with great pathos; and Mr. Bounderby

went to bed, with a maudlin persuasion that hehad been crossed in something tender, thoughhe could not, for his life, have mentioned whatit was.Long after Louisa had undressed and laindown, she watched and waited for herbrother's coming home. That could hardly be,she knew, until an hour past midnight; but inthe country silence, which did anything butcalm the trouble of her thoughts, time laggedwearily. At last, when the darkness andstillness had seemed for hours to thicken oneanother, she heard the bell at the gate. Shefelt as though she would have been glad that itrang on until daylight; but it ceased, and thecircles of its last sound spread out fainter andwider in the air, and all was dead again.She waited yet some quarter of an hour, asshe judged. Then she arose, put on a looserobe, and went out of her room in the dark,and up the staircase to her brother's room. Hisdoor being shut, she softly opened it and

spoke to him, approaching his bed with anoiseless step.She kneeled down beside it, passed her armover his neck, and drew his face to hers. Sheknew that he only feigned to be asleep, butshe said nothing to him.He started by and by as if he were just thenawakened, and asked who that was, and whatwas the matter?'Tom, have you anything to tell me? If everyou loved me in your life, and have anythingconcealed from every one besides, tell it tome.''I don't know what you mean, Loo. You havebeen dreaming.''My dear brother:' she laid her head down onhis pillow, and her hair flowed over him as ifshe would hide him from every one butherself: 'is there nothing that you have to tell

me? Is there nothing you can tell me if youwill? You can tell me nothing that will changeme. O Tom, tell me the truth!''I don't know what you mean, Loo!''As you lie here alone, my dear, in themelancholy night, so you must lie somewhereone night, when even I, if I am living then, shallhave left you. As I am here beside you,barefoot, unclothed, undistinguishable indarkness, so must I lie through all the night ofmy decay, until I am dust. In the name of thattime, Tom, tell me the truth now!''What is it you want to know?''You may be certain;' in the energy of her loveshe took him to her bosom as if he were achild; 'that I will not reproach you. You may becertain that I will be compassionate and true toyou. You may be certain that I will save you atwhatever cost. O Tom, have you nothing to tellme? Whisper very softly. Say only "yes," and I

shall understand you!'She turned her ear to his lips, but heremained doggedly silent.'Not a word, Tom?''How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, whenI don't know what you mean? Loo, you are abrave, kind girl, worthy I begin to think of abetter brother than I am. But I have nothingmore to say. Go to bed, go to bed.''You are tired,' she whispered presently,more in her usual way.'Yes, I am quite tired out.''You have been so hurried and disturbedto-day. Have any fresh discoveries beenmade?''Only those you have heard of, from - him.'

'Tom, have you said to any one that we madea visit to those people, and that we saw thosethree together?''No. Didn't you yourself particularly ask me tokeep it quiet when you asked me to go therewith you?''Yes. But I did not know then what was goingto happen.''Nor I neither. How could I?'He was very quick upon her with this retort.'Ought I to say, after what has happened,' saidhis sister, standing by the bed - she hadgradually withdrawn herself and risen, 'that Imade that visit? Should I say so? Must I sayso?''Good Heavens, Loo,' returned her brother,'you are not in the habit of asking my advice.say what you like. If you keep it to yourself, I

shall keep it to myself. If you disclose it,there's an end of it.'It was too dark for either to see the other'sface; but each seemed very attentive, and toconsider before speaking.'Tom, do you believe the man I gave themoney to, is really implicated in this crime?''I don't know. I don't see why he shouldn't be.''He seemed to me an honest man.''Another person may seem to you dishonest,and yet not be so.' There was a pause, for hehad hesitated and stopped.'In short,' resumed Tom, as if he had made uphis mind, 'if you come to that, perhaps I was sofar from being altogether in his favour, that Itook him outside the door to tell him quietly,that I thought he might consider himself verywell off to get such a windfall as he had got

from my sister, and that I hoped he wouldmake good use of it. You remember whether Itook him out or not. I say nothing against theman; he may be a very good fellow, foranything I know; I hope he is.''Was he offended by what you said?''No, he took it pretty well; he was civilenough. Where are you, Loo?' He sat up inbed and kissed her. 'Good night, my dear,good night.''You have nothing more to tell me?''No. What should I have? You wouldn't haveme tell you a lie!''I wouldn't have you do that to-night, Tom, ofall the nights in your life; many and muchhappier as I hope they will be.''Thank you, my dear Loo. I am so tired, that Iam sure I wonder I don't say anything to get to

sleep. Go to bed, go to bed.'Kissing her again, he turned round, drew thecoverlet over his head, and lay as still as if thattime had come by which she had adjured him.She stood for some time at the bedside beforeshe slowly moved away. She stopped at thedoor, looked back when she had opened it,and asked him if he had called her? But he laystill, and she softly closed the door andreturned to her room.Then the wretched boy looked cautiously upand found her gone, crept out of bed, fastenedhis door, and threw himself upon his pillowagain: tearing his hair, morosely crying,grudgingly loving her, hatefully butimpenitently spurning himself, and no lesshatefully and unprofitably spurning all thegood in the world.

CHAPTER IX - HEARING THE LAST OF ITMRS. SPARSIT, lying by to recover the tone ofher nerves in Mr. Bounderby's retreat, keptsuch a sharp look-out, night and day, underher Coriolanian eyebrows, that her eyes, like acouple of lighthouses on an iron-bound coast,might have warned all prudent mariners fromthat bold rock her Roman nose and the darkand craggy region in its neighbourhood, butfor the placidity of her manner. Although it washard to believe that her retiring for the nightcould be anything but a form, so severely wideawake were those classical eyes of hers, andso impossible did it seem that her rigid nosecould yield to any relaxing influence, yet hermanner of sitting, smoothing heruncomfortable, not to say, gritty mittens (theywere constructed of a cool fabric like ameat-safe), or of ambling to unknown places ofdestination with her foot in her cotton stirrup,was so perfectly serene, that most observerswould have been constrained to suppose her adove, embodied by some freak of nature, in

the earthly tabernacle of a bird of thehook-beaked order.She was a most wonderful woman forprowling about the house. How she got fromstory to story was a mystery beyond solution.A lady so decorous in herself, and so highlyconnected, was not to be suspected ofdropping over the banisters or sliding downthem, yet her extraordinary facility oflocomotion suggested the wild idea. Anothernoticeable circumstance in Mrs. Sparsit was,that she was never hurried. She would shootwith consummate velocity from the roof to thehall, yet would be in full possession of herbreath and dignity on the moment of herarrival there. Neither was she ever seen byhuman vision to go at a great pace.She took very kindly to Mr. Harthouse, andhad some pleasant conversation with him soonafter her arrival. She made him her statelycurtsey in the garden, one morning beforebreakfast.

'It appears but yesterday, sir,' said Mrs.Sparsit, 'that I had the honour of receiving youat the Bank, when you were so good as to wishto be made acquainted with Mr. Bounderby'saddress.''An occasion, I am sure, not to be forgotten bymyself in the course of Ages,' said Mr.Harthouse, inclining his head to Mrs. Sparsitwith the most indolent of all possible airs.'We live in a singular world, sir,' said Mrs.Sparsit.'I have had the honour, by a coincidence ofwhich I am proud, to have made a remark,similar in effect, though not soepigrammatically expressed.''A singular world, I would say, sir,' pursuedMrs. Sparsit; after acknowledging thecompliment with a drooping of her darkeyebrows, not altogether so mild in its

expression as her voice was in its dulcet tones;'as regards the intimacies we form at one time,with individuals we were quite ignorant of, atanother. I recall, sir, that on that occasion youwent so far as to say you were actuallyapprehensive of Miss Gradgrind.''Your memory does me more honour than myinsignificance deserves. I availed myself ofyour obliging hints to correct my timidity, andit is unnecessary to add that they wereperfectly accurate. Mrs. Sparsit's talent for - infact for anything requiring accuracy - with acombination of strength of mind - and Family -is too habitually developed to admit of anyquestion.' He was almost falling asleep overthis compliment; it took him so long to getthrough, and his mind wandered so much inthe course of its execution.'You found Miss Gradgrind - I really cannotcall her Mrs. Bounderby; it's very absurd of me- as youthful as I described her?' asked Mrs.Sparsit, sweetly.

'You drew her portrait perfectly,' said Mr.Harthouse. 'Presented her dead image.''Very engaging, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit,causing her mittens slowly to revolve over oneanother.'Highly so.''It used to be considered,' said Mrs. Sparsit,'that Miss Gradgrind was wanting in animation,but I confess she appears to me considerablyand strikingly improved in that respect. Ay,and indeed here is Mr. Bounderby!' cried Mrs.Sparsit, nodding her head a great many times,as if she had been talking and thinking of noone else. 'How do you find yourself thismorning, sir? Pray let us see you cheerful, sir.'Now, these persistent assuagements of hismisery, and lightenings of his load, had by thistime begun to have the effect of making Mr.Bounderby softer than usual towards Mrs.

Sparsit, and harder than usual to most otherpeople from his wife downward. So, whenMrs. Sparsit said with forced lightness of heart,'You want your breakfast, sir, but I dare sayMiss Gradgrind will soon be here to preside atthe table,' Mr. Bounderby replied, 'If I waitedto be taken care of by my wife, ma'am, Ibelieve you know pretty well I should wait tillDoomsday, so I'll trouble you to take charge ofthe teapot.' Mrs. Sparsit complied, andassumed her old position at table.This again made the excellent woman vastlysentimental. She was so humble withal, thatwhen Louisa appeared, she rose, protestingshe never could think of sitting in that placeunder existing circumstances, often as she hadhad the honour of making Mr. Bounderby'sbreakfast, before Mrs. Gradgrind - shebegged pardon, she meant to say MissBounderby - she hoped to be excused, but shereally could not get it right yet, though shetrusted to become familiar with it by and by -had assumed her present position. It was only

(she observed) because Miss Gradgrindhappened to be a little late, and Mr.Bounderby's time was so very precious, andshe knew it of old to be so essential that heshould breakfast to the moment, that she hadtaken the liberty of complying with hisrequest; long as his will had been a law to her.'There! Stop where you are, ma'am,' said Mr.Bounderby, 'stop where you are! Mrs.Bounderby will be very glad to be relieved ofthe trouble, I believe.''Don't say that, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit,almost with severity, 'because that is veryunkind to Mrs. Bounderby. And to be unkindis not to be you, sir.''You may set your mind at rest, ma'am. - Youcan take it very quietly, can't you, Loo?' saidMr. Bounderby, in a blustering way to his wife.'Of course. It is of no moment. Why should itbe of any importance to me?'

'Why should it be of any importance to anyone, Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am?' said Mr. Bounderby,swelling with a sense of slight. 'You attach toomuch importance to these things, ma'am. ByGeorge, you'll be corrupted in some of yournotions here. You are old- fashioned, ma'am.You are behind Tom Gradgrind's children'stime.''What is the matter with you?' asked Louisa,coldly surprised. 'What has given you offence?''Offence!' repeated Bounderby. 'Do yousuppose if there was any offence given me, Ishouldn't name it, and request to have itcorrected? I am a straightforward man, Ibelieve. I don't go beating about forside-winds.''I suppose no one ever had occasion to thinkyou too diffident, or too delicate,' Louisaanswered him composedly: 'I have nevermade that objection to you, either as a child or

as a woman. I don't understand what youwould have.''Have?' returned Mr. Bounderby. 'Nothing.Otherwise, don't you, Loo Bounderby, knowthoroughly well that I, Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown, would have it?'She looked at him, as he struck the table andmade the teacups ring, with a proud colour inher face that was a new change, Mr. Harthousethought. 'You are incomprehensible thismorning,' said Louisa. 'Pray take no furthertrouble to explain yourself. I am not curious toknow your meaning. What does it matter?'Nothing more was said on this theme, and Mr.Harthouse was soon idly gay on indifferentsubjects. But from this day, the Sparsit actionupon Mr. Bounderby threw Louisa and JamesHarthouse more together, and strengthenedthe dangerous alienation from her husbandand confidence against him with another, intowhich she had fallen by degrees so fine that

she could not retrace them if she tried. Butwhether she ever tried or no, lay hidden in herown closed heart.Mrs. Sparsit was so much affected on thisparticular occasion, that, assisting Mr.Bounderby to his hat after breakfast, andbeing then alone with him in the hall, sheimprinted a chaste kiss upon his hand,murmured 'My benefactor!' and retired,overwhelmed with grief. Yet it is anindubitable fact, within the cognizance of thishistory, that five minutes after he had left thehouse in the self-same hat, the samedescendant of the Scadgerses and connexionby matrimony of the Powlers, shook herright-hand mitten at his portrait, made acontemptuous grimace at that work of art, andsaid 'Serve you right, you Noodle, and I amglad of it.'Mr. Bounderby had not been long gone,when Bitzer appeared. Bitzer had come downby train, shrieking and rattling over the long

line of arches that bestrode the wild country ofpast and present coal- pits, with an expressfrom Stone Lodge. It was a hasty note toinform Louisa that Mrs. Gradgrind lay very ill.She had never been well within her daughter'sknowledge; but, she had declined within thelast few days, had continued sinking allthrough the night, and was now as nearlydead, as her limited capacity of being in anystate that implied the ghost of an intention toget out of it, allowed.Accompanied by the lightest of porters, fitcolourless servitor at Death's door when Mrs.Gradgrind knocked, Louisa rumbled toCoketown, over the coal-pits past and present,and was whirled into its smoky jaws. Shedismissed the messenger to his own devices,and rode away to her old home.She had seldom been there since hermarriage. Her father was usually sifting andsifting at his parliamentary cinder-heap inLondon (without being observed to turn up

many precious articles among the rubbish),and was still hard at it in the national dustyard.Her mother had taken it rather as adisturbance than otherwise, to be visited, asshe reclined upon her sofa; young people,Louisa felt herself all unfit for; Sissy she hadnever softened to again, since the night whenthe stroller's child had raised her eyes to lookat Mr. Bounderby's intended wife. She had noinducements to go back, and had rarely gone.Neither, as she approached her old homenow, did any of the best influences of old homedescend upon her. The dreams of childhood -its airy fables; its graceful, beautiful, humane,impossible adornments of the world beyond:so good to be believed in once, so good to beremembered when outgrown, for then theleast among them rises to the stature of a greatCharity in the heart, suffering little children tocome into the midst of it, and to keep with theirpure hands a garden in the stony ways of thisworld, wherein it were better for all thechildren of Adam that they should oftener sun

themselves, simple and trustful, and notworldly-wise - what had she to do with these?Remembrances of how she had journeyed tothe little that she knew, by the enchantedroads of what she and millions of innocentcreatures had hoped and imagined; of how,first coming upon Reason through the tenderlight of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficentgod, deferring to gods as great as itself; not agrim Idol, cruel and cold, with its victimsbound hand to foot, and its big dumb shape setup with a sightless stare, never to be movedby anything but so many calculated tons ofleverage - what had she to do with these? Herremembrances of home and childhood wereremembrances of the drying up of everyspring and fountain in her young heart as itgushed out. The golden waters were notthere. They were flowing for the fertilization ofthe land where grapes are gathered fromthorns, and figs from thistles.She went, with a heavy, hardened kind ofsorrow upon her, into the house and into her

mother's room. Since the time of her leavinghome, Sissy had lived with the rest of thefamily on equal terms. Sissy was at hermother's side; and Jane, her sister, now ten ortwelve years old, was in the room.There was great trouble before it could bemade known to Mrs. Gradgrind that her eldestchild was there. She reclined, propped up,from mere habit, on a couch: as nearly in herold usual attitude, as anything so helplesscould be kept in. She had positively refused totake to her bed; on the ground that if she did,she would never hear the last of it.Her feeble voice sounded so far away in herbundle of shawls, and the sound of anothervoice addressing her seemed to take such along time in getting down to her ears, that shemight have been lying at the bottom of a well.The poor lady was nearer Truth than she everhad been: which had much to do with it.On being told that Mrs. Bounderby was there,

she replied, at cross- purposes, that she hadnever called him by that name since hemarried Louisa; that pending her choice of anobjectionable name, she had called him J; andthat she could not at present depart from thatregulation, not being yet provided with apermanent substitute. Louisa had sat by herfor some minutes, and had spoken to her often,before she arrived at a clear understandingwho it was. She then seemed to come to it allat once.'Well, my dear,' said Mrs. Gradgrind, 'and Ihope you are going on satisfactorily toyourself. It was all your father's doing. He sethis heart upon it. And he ought to know.''I want to hear of you, mother; not of myself.''You want to hear of me, my dear? That'ssomething new, I am sure, when anybodywants to hear of me. Not at all well, Louisa.Very faint and giddy.'

'Are you in pain, dear mother?''I think there's a pain somewhere in the room,'said Mrs. Gradgrind, 'but I couldn't positivelysay that I have got it.'After this strange speech, she lay silent forsome time. Louisa, holding her hand, couldfeel no pulse; but kissing it, could see a slightthin thread of life in fluttering motion.'You very seldom see your sister,' said Mrs.Gradgrind. 'She grows like you. I wish youwould look at her. Sissy, bring her here.'She was brought, and stood with her hand inher sister's. Louisa had observed her with herarm round Sissy's neck, and she felt thedifference of this approach.'Do you see the likeness, Louisa?''Yes, mother. I should think her like me. But -'

'Eh! Yes, I always say so,' Mrs. Gradgrindcried, with unexpected quickness. 'And thatreminds me. I - I want to speak to you, mydear. Sissy, my good girl, leave us alone aminute.' Louisa had relinquished the hand:had thought that her sister's was a better andbrighter face than hers had ever been: hadseen in it, not without a rising feeling ofresentment, even in that place and at that time,something of the gentleness of the other facein the room; the sweet face with the trustingeyes, made paler than watching and sympathymade it, by the rich dark hair.Left alone with her mother, Louisa saw herlying with an awful lull upon her face, like onewho was floating away upon some great water,all resistance over, content to be carried downthe stream. She put the shadow of a hand toher lips again, and recalled her.'You were going to speak to me, mother.'

'Eh? Yes, to be sure, my dear. You knowyour father is almost always away now, andtherefore I must write to him about it.''About what, mother? Don't be troubled.About what?''You must remember, my dear, that wheneverI have said anything, on any subject, I havenever heard the last of it: and consequently,that I have long left off saying anything.''I can hear you, mother.' But, it was only bydint of bending down to her ear, and at thesame time attentively watching the lips as theymoved, that she could link such faint andbroken sounds into any chain of connexion.'You learnt a great deal, Louisa, and so didyour brother. Ologies of all kinds frommorning to night. If there is any Ology left, ofany description, that has not been worn to ragsin this house, all I can say is, I hope I shallnever hear its name.'

'I can hear you, mother, when you havestrength to go on.' This, to keep her fromfloating away.'But there is something - not an Ology at all -that your father has missed, or forgotten,Louisa. I don't know what it is. I have often satwith Sissy near me, and thought about it. Ishall never get its name now. But your fathermay. It makes me restless. I want to write tohim, to find out for God's sake, what it is. Giveme a pen, give me a pen.'Even the power of restlessness was gone,except from the poor head, which could justturn from side to side.She fancied, however, that her request hadbeen complied with, and that the pen shecould not have held was in her hand. Itmatters little what figures of wonderfulno-meaning she began to trace upon herwrappers. The hand soon stopped in the midst

of them; the light that had always been feebleand dim behind the weak transparency, wentout; and even Mrs. Gradgrind, emerged fromthe shadow in which man walketh anddisquieteth himself in vain, took upon her thedread solemnity of the sages and patriarchs.

CHAPTER X - MRS. SPARSIT'S STAIRCASEMRS. SPARSIT'S nerves being slow to recovertheir tone, the worthy woman made a stay ofsome weeks in duration at Mr. Bounderby'sretreat, where, notwithstanding her anchoriteturn of mind based upon her becomingconsciousness of her altered station, sheresigned herself with noble fortitude tolodging, as one may say, in clover, andfeeding on the fat of the land. During thewhole term of this recess from theguardianship of the Bank, Mrs. Sparsit was apattern of consistency; continuing to take suchpity on Mr. Bounderby to his face, as is rarelytaken on man, and to call his portrait a Noodleto its face, with the greatest acrimony andcontempt.Mr. Bounderby, having got it into hisexplosive composition that Mrs. Sparsit was ahighly superior woman to perceive that he hadthat general cross upon him in his deserts (forhe had not yet settled what it was), and further

that Louisa would have objected to her as afrequent visitor if it had comported with hisgreatness that she should object to anything hechose to do, resolved not to lose sight of Mrs.Sparsit easily. So when her nerves werestrung up to the pitch of again consumingsweetbreads in solitude, he said to her at thedinner-table, on the day before her departure,'I tell you what, ma'am; you shall come downhere of a Saturday, while the fine weatherlasts, and stay till Monday.' To which Mrs.Sparsit returned, in effect, though not of theMahomedan persuasion: 'To hear is to obey.'Now, Mrs. Sparsit was not a poetical woman;but she took an idea in the nature of anallegorical fancy, into her head. Muchwatching of Louisa, and much consequentobservation of her impenetrable demeanour,which keenly whetted and sharpened Mrs.Sparsit's edge, must have given her as it werea lift, in the way of inspiration. She erected inher mind a mighty Staircase, with a dark pit ofshame and ruin at the bottom; and down those

stairs, from day to day and hour to hour, shesaw Louisa coming.It became the business of Mrs. Sparsit's life, tolook up at her staircase, and to watch Louisacoming down. Sometimes slowly, sometimesquickly, sometimes several steps at one bout,sometimes stopping, never turning back. Ifshe had once turned back, it might have beenthe death of Mrs. Sparsit in spleen and grief.She had been descending steadily, to theday, and on the day, when Mr. Bounderbyissued the weekly invitation recorded above.Mrs. Sparsit was in good spirits, and inclinedto be conversational.'And pray, sir,' said she, 'if I may venture toask a question appertaining to any subject onwhich you show reserve - which is indeedhardy in me, for I well know you have a reasonfor everything you do - have you receivedintelligence respecting the robbery?'

'Why, ma'am, no; not yet. Under thecircumstances, I didn't expect it yet. Romewasn't built in a day, ma'am.''Very true, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit, shaking herhead.'Nor yet in a week, ma'am.''No, indeed, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, with agentle melancholy upon her.'In a similar manner, ma'am,' said Bounderby,'I can wait, you know. If Romulus and Remuscould wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait. Theywere better off in their youth than I was,however. They had a she-wolf for a nurse; Ihad only a she-wolf for a grandmother. Shedidn't give any milk, ma'am; she gave bruises.She was a regular Alderney at that.''Ah!' Mrs. Sparsit sighed and shuddered.'No, ma'am,' continued Bounderby, 'I have not

heard anything more about it. It's in hand,though; and young Tom, who rather sticks tobusiness at present - something new for him;he hadn't the schooling I had - is helping. Myinjunction is, Keep it quiet, and let it seem toblow over. Do what you like under the rose,but don't give a sign of what you're about; orhalf a hundred of 'em will combine togetherand get this fellow who has bolted, out of reachfor good. Keep it quiet, and the thieves willgrow in confidence by little and little, and weshall have 'em.''Very sagacious indeed, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit.'Very interesting. The old woman youmentioned, sir - ''The old woman I mentioned, ma'am,' saidBounderby, cutting the matter short, as it wasnothing to boast about, 'is not laid hold of; but,she may take her oath she will be, if that is anysatisfaction to her villainous old mind. In themean time, ma'am, I am of opinion, if you askme my opinion, that the less she is talked

about, the better.'The same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in herchamber window, resting from her packingoperations, looked towards her great staircaseand saw Louisa still descending.She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in thegarden, talking very low; he stood leaningover her, as they whispered together, and hisface almost touched her hair. 'If not quite!' saidMrs. Sparsit, straining her hawk's eyes to theutmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too distant to hear aword of their discourse, or even to know thatthey were speaking softly, otherwise than fromthe expression of their figures; but what theysaid was this:'You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse?''Oh, perfectly!''His face, and his manner, and what he said?'

'Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person heappeared to me to be. Lengthy and prosy inthe extreme. It was knowing to hold forth, inthe humble-virtue school of eloquence; but, Iassure you I thought at the time, "My goodfellow, you are over-doing this!"''It has been very difficult to me to think ill ofthat man.''My dear Louisa - as Tom says.' Which henever did say. 'You know no good of thefellow?''No, certainly.''Nor of any other such person?''How can I,' she returned, with more of herfirst manner on her than he had lately seen,'when I know nothing of them, men or women?''My dear Louisa, then consent to receive thesubmissive representation of your devoted

friend, who knows something of severalvarieties of his excellent fellow-creatures - forexcellent they are, I am quite ready to believe,in spite of such little foibles as always helpingthemselves to what they can get hold of. Thisfellow talks. Well; every fellow talks. Heprofesses morality. Well; all sorts of humbugsprofess morality. From the House of Commonsto the House of Correction, there is a generalprofession of morality, except among ourpeople; it really is that exception which makesour people quite reviving. You saw and heardthe case. Here was one of the fluffy classespulled up extremely short by my esteemedfriend Mr. Bounderby - who, as we know, is notpossessed of that delicacy which would softenso tight a hand. The member of the fluffyclasses was injured, exasperated, left thehouse grumbling, met somebody whoproposed to him to go in for some share in thisBank business, went in, put something in hispocket which had nothing in it before, andrelieved his mind extremely. Really he wouldhave been an uncommon, instead of a

common, fellow, if he had not availed himselfof such an opportunity. Or he may haveoriginated it altogether, if he had thecleverness.''I almost feel as though it must be bad in me,'returned Louisa, after sitting thoughtful awhile,'to be so ready to agree with you, and to be solightened in my heart by what you say.''I only say what is reasonable; nothing worse.I have talked it over with my friend Tom morethan once - of course I remain on terms ofperfect confidence with Tom - and he is quiteof my opinion, and I am quite of his. Will youwalk?'They strolled away, among the lanesbeginning to be indistinct in the twilight - sheleaning on his arm - and she little thought howshe was going down, down, down, Mrs.Sparsit's staircase.Night and day, Mrs. Sparsit kept it standing.

When Louisa had arrived at the bottom anddisappeared in the gulf, it might fall in uponher if it would; but, until then, there it was tobe, a Building, before Mrs. Sparsit's eyes. Andthere Louisa always was, upon it.And always gliding down, down, down!Mrs. Sparsit saw James Harthouse come andgo; she heard of him here and there; she sawthe changes of the face he had studied; she,too, remarked to a nicety how and when itclouded, how and when it cleared; she kepther black eyes wide open, with no touch ofpity, with no touch of compunction, allabsorbed in interest. In the interest of seeingher, ever drawing, with no hand to stay her,nearer and nearer to the bottom of this newGiant's Staircase.With all her deference for Mr. Bounderby ascontradistinguished from his portrait, Mrs.Sparsit had not the smallest intention ofinterrupting the descent. Eager to see it

accomplished, and yet patient, she waited forthe last fall, as for the ripeness and fulness ofthe harvest of her hopes. Hushed inexpectancy, she kept her wary gaze upon thestairs; and seldom so much as darkly shookher right mitten (with her fist in it), at the figurecoming down.

CHAPTER XI - LOWER AND LOWERTHE figure descended the great stairs,steadily, steadily; always verging, like aweight in deep water, to the black gulf at thebottom.Mr. Gradgrind, apprised of his wife'sdecease, made an expedition from London,and buried her in a business-like manner. Hethen returned with promptitude to the nationalcinder-heap, and resumed his sifting for theodds and ends he wanted, and his throwing ofthe dust about into the eyes of other peoplewho wanted other odds and ends - in factresumed his parliamentary duties.In the meantime, Mrs. Sparsit kept unwinkingwatch and ward. Separated from her staircase,all the week, by the length of iron roaddividing Coketown from the country house,she yet maintained her cat-like observation ofLouisa, through her husband, through herbrother, through James Harthouse, through the

outsides of letters and packets, througheverything animate and inanimate that at anytime went near the stairs. 'Your foot on the laststep, my lady,' said Mrs. Sparsit,apostrophizing the descending figure, with theaid of her threatening mitten, 'and all your artshall never blind me.'Art or nature though, the original stock ofLouisa's character or the graft of circumstancesupon it, - her curious reserve did baffle, whileit stimulated, one as sagacious as Mrs. Sparsit.There were times when Mr. James Harthousewas not sure of her. There were times when hecould not read the face he had studied so long;and when this lonely girl was a greatermystery to him, than any woman of the worldwith a ring of satellites to help her.So the time went on; until it happened that Mr.Bounderby was called away from home bybusiness which required his presenceelsewhere, for three or four days. It was on aFriday that he intimated this to Mrs. Sparsit at

the Bank, adding: 'But you'll go downto-morrow, ma'am, all the same. You'll godown just as if I was there. It will make nodifference to you.''Pray, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit,reproachfully, 'let me beg you not to say that.Your absence will make a vast difference tome, sir, as I think you very well know.''Well, ma'am, then you must get on in myabsence as well as you can,' said Mr.Bounderby, not displeased.'Mr. Bounderby,' retorted Mrs. Sparsit, 'yourwill is to me a law, sir; otherwise, it might bemy inclination to dispute your kind commands,not feeling sure that it will be quite soagreeable to Miss Gradgrind to receive me, asit ever is to your own munificent hospitality.But you shall say no more, sir. I will go, uponyour invitation.''Why, when I invite you to my house, ma'am,'

said Bounderby, opening his eyes, 'I shouldhope you want no other invitation.''No, indeed, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'Ishould hope not. Say no more, sir. I would,sir, I could see you gay again.''What do you mean, ma'am?' blusteredBounderby.'Sir,' rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, 'there was wont tobe an elasticity in you which I sadly miss. Bebuoyant, sir!'Mr. Bounderby, under the influence of thisdifficult adjuration, backed up by hercompassionate eye, could only scratch hishead in a feeble and ridiculous manner, andafterwards assert himself at a distance, bybeing heard to bully the small fry of businessall the morning.'Bitzer,' said Mrs. Sparsit that afternoon, whenher patron was gone on his journey, and the

Bank was closing, 'present my compliments toyoung Mr. Thomas, and ask him if he wouldstep up and partake of a lamb chop and walnutketchup, with a glass of India ale?' Young Mr.Thomas being usually ready for anything inthat way, returned a gracious answer, andfollowed on its heels. 'Mr. Thomas,' said Mrs.Sparsit, 'these plain viands being on table, Ithought you might be tempted.''Thank'ee, Mrs. Sparsit,' said the whelp. Andgloomily fell to.'How is Mr. Harthouse, Mr. Tom?' asked Mrs.Sparsit.'Oh, he's all right,' said Tom.'Where may he be at present?' Mrs. Sparsitasked in a light conversational manner, aftermentally devoting the whelp to the Furies forbeing so uncommunicative.'He is shooting in Yorkshire,' said Tom. 'Sent

Loo a basket half as big as a church,yesterday.''The kind of gentleman, now,' said Mrs.Sparsit, sweetly, 'whom one might wager to bea good shot!''Crack,' said Tom.He had long been a down-looking youngfellow, but this characteristic had so increasedof late, that he never raised his eyes to anyface for three seconds together. Mrs. Sparsitconsequently had ample means of watchinghis looks, if she were so inclined.'Mr. Harthouse is a great favourite of mine,'said Mrs. Sparsit, 'as indeed he is of mostpeople. May we expect to see him againshortly, Mr. Tom?''Why, I expect to see him to-morrow,'returned the whelp.

'Good news!' cried Mrs. Sparsit, blandly.'I have got an appointment with him to meethim in the evening at the station here,' saidTom, 'and I am going to dine with himafterwards, I believe. He is not coming downto the country house for a week or so, beingdue somewhere else. At least, he says so; but Ishouldn't wonder if he was to stop here overSunday, and stray that way.''Which reminds me!' said Mrs. Sparsit.'Would you remember a message to yoursister, Mr. Tom, if I was to charge you withone?''Well? I'll try,' returned the reluctant whelp, 'ifit isn't a long un.''It is merely my respectful compliments,' saidMrs. Sparsit, 'and I fear I may not trouble herwith my society this week; being still a littlenervous, and better perhaps by my poor self.'

'Oh! If that's all,' observed Tom, 'it wouldn'tmuch matter, even if I was to forget it, for Loo'snot likely to think of you unless she sees you.'Having paid for his entertainment with thisagreeable compliment, he relapsed into ahangdog silence until there was no more Indiaale left, when he said, 'Well, Mrs. Sparsit, Imust be off!' and went off.Next day, Saturday, Mrs. Sparsit sat at herwindow all day long looking at the customerscoming in and out, watching the postmen,keeping an eye on the general traffic of thestreet, revolving many things in her mind, but,above all, keeping her attention on herstaircase. The evening come, she put on herbonnet and shawl, and went quietly out:having her reasons for hovering in a furtiveway about the station by which a passengerwould arrive from Yorkshire, and forpreferring to peep into it round pillars andcorners, and out of ladies' waiting-roomwindows, to appearing in its precincts openly.

Tom was in attendance, and loitered aboutuntil the expected train came in. It brought noMr. Harthouse. Tom waited until the crowdhad dispersed, and the bustle was over; andthen referred to a posted list of trains, and tookcounsel with porters. That done, he strolledaway idly, stopping in the street and lookingup it and down it, and lifting his hat off andputting it on again, and yawning andstretching himself, and exhibiting all thesymptoms of mortal weariness to be expectedin one who had still to wait until the next trainshould come in, an hour and forty minuteshence.'This is a device to keep him out of the way,'said Mrs. Sparsit, starting from the dull officewindow whence she had watched him last.'Harthouse is with his sister now!'It was the conception of an inspired moment,and she shot off with her utmost swiftness towork it out. The station for the country house

was at the opposite end of the town, the timewas short, the road not easy; but she was soquick in pouncing on a disengaged coach, soquick in darting out of it, producing hermoney, seizing her ticket, and diving into thetrain, that she was borne along the archesspanning the land of coal-pits past andpresent, as if she had been caught up in acloud and whirled away.All the journey, immovable in the air thoughnever left behind; plain to the dark eyes of hermind, as the electric wires which ruled acolossal strip of music-paper out of theevening sky, were plain to the dark eyes of herbody; Mrs. Sparsit saw her staircase, with thefigure coming down. Very near the bottomnow. Upon the brink of the abyss.An overcast September evening, just atnightfall, saw beneath its drooping eyelidsMrs. Sparsit glide out of her carriage, passdown the wooden steps of the little station intoa stony road, cross it into a green lane, and

ecome hidden in a summer-growth of leavesand branches. One or two late birds sleepilychirping in their nests, and a bat heavilycrossing and recrossing her, and the reek ofher own tread in the thick dust that felt likevelvet, were all Mrs. Sparsit heard or saw untilshe very softly closed a gate.She went up to the house, keeping within theshrubbery, and went round it, peepingbetween the leaves at the lower windows.Most of them were open, as they usually werein such warm weather, but there were no lightsyet, and all was silent. She tried the gardenwith no better effect. She thought of the wood,and stole towards it, heedless of long grassand briers: of worms, snails, and slugs, and allthe creeping things that be. With her darkeyes and her hook nose warily in advance ofher, Mrs. Sparsit softly crushed her waythrough the thick undergrowth, so intent uponher object that she probably would have doneno less, if the wood had been a wood ofadders.

Hark!The smaller birds might have tumbled out oftheir nests, fascinated by the glittering of Mrs.Sparsit's eyes in the gloom, as she stopped andlistened.Low voices close at hand. His voice and hers.The appointment was a device to keep thebrother away! There they were yonder, by thefelled tree.Bending low among the dewy grass, Mrs.Sparsit advanced closer to them. She drewherself up, and stood behind a tree, likeRobinson Crusoe in his ambuscade against thesavages; so near to them that at a spring, andthat no great one, she could have touchedthem both. He was there secretly, and had notshown himself at the house. He had come onhorseback, and must have passed through theneighbouring fields; for his horse was tied tothe meadow side of the fence, within a few

paces.'My dearest love,' said he, 'what could I do?Knowing you were alone, was it possible that Icould stay away?''You may hang your head, to make yourselfthe more attractive; I don't know what they seein you when you hold it up,' thought Mrs.Sparsit; 'but you little think, my dearest love,whose eyes are on you!'That she hung her head, was certain. Sheurged him to go away, she commanded him togo away; but she neither turned her face tohim, nor raised it. Yet it was remarkable thatshe sat as still as ever the amiable woman inambuscade had seen her sit, at any period inher life. Her hands rested in one another, likethe hands of a statue; and even her manner ofspeaking was not hurried.'My dear child,' said Harthouse; Mrs. Sparsitsaw with delight that his arm embraced her;

'will you not bear with my society for a littlewhile?''Not here.''Where, Louisa?'Not here.''But we have so little time to make so much of,and I have come so far, and am altogether sodevoted, and distracted. There never was aslave at once so devoted and ill-used by hismistress. To look for your sunny welcome thathas warmed me into life, and to be received inyour frozen manner, is heart-rending.''Am I to say again, that I must be left to myselfhere?''But we must meet, my dear Louisa. Whereshall we meet?'They both started. The listener started,

guiltily, too; for she thought there was anotherlistener among the trees. It was only rain,beginning to fall fast, in heavy drops.'Shall I ride up to the house a few minuteshence, innocently supposing that its master isat home and will be charmed to receive me?''No!''Your cruel commands are implicitly to beobeyed; though I am the most unfortunatefellow in the world, I believe, to have beeninsensible to all other women, and to havefallen prostrate at last under the foot of themost beautiful, and the most engaging, and themost imperious. My dearest Louisa, I cannotgo myself, or let you go, in this hard abuse ofyour power.'Mrs. Sparsit saw him detain her with hisencircling arm, and heard him then and there,within her (Mrs. Sparsit's) greedy hearing, tellher how he loved her, and how she was the

stake for which he ardently desired to playaway all that he had in life. The objects he hadlately pursued, turned worthless beside her;such success as was almost in his grasp, heflung away from him like the dirt it was,compared with her. Its pursuit, nevertheless,if it kept him near her, or its renunciation if ittook him from her, or flight if she shared it, orsecrecy if she commanded it, or any fate, orevery fate, all was alike to him, so that she wastrue to him, - the man who had seen how castaway she was, whom she had inspired at theirfirst meeting with an admiration, an interest, ofwhich he had thought himself incapable, whomshe had received into her confidence, who wasdevoted to her and adored her. All this, andmore, in his hurry, and in hers, in the whirl ofher own gratified malice, in the dread of beingdiscovered, in the rapidly increasing noise ofheavy rain among the leaves, and athunderstorm rolling up - Mrs. Sparsitreceived into her mind, set off with such anunavoidable halo of confusion andindistinctness, that when at length he climbed

the fence and led his horse away, she was notsure where they were to meet, or when,except that they had said it was to be thatnight.But one of them yet remained in the darknessbefore her; and while she tracked that one shemust be right. 'Oh, my dearest love,' thoughtMrs. Sparsit, 'you little think how well attendedyou are!'Mrs. Sparsit saw her out of the wood, and sawher enter the house. What to do next? It rainednow, in a sheet of water. Mrs. Sparsit's whitestockings were of many colours, greenpredominating; prickly things were in hershoes; caterpillars slung themselves, inhammocks of their own making, from variousparts of her dress; rills ran from her bonnet,and her Roman nose. In such condition, Mrs.Sparsit stood hidden in the density of theshrubbery, considering what next?Lo, Louisa coming out of the house! Hastily

cloaked and muffled, and stealing away. Sheelopes! She falls from the lowermost stair, andis swallowed up in the gulf.Indifferent to the rain, and moving with aquick determined step, she struck into aside-path parallel with the ride. Mrs. Sparsitfollowed in the shadow of the trees, at but ashort distance; for it was not easy to keep afigure in view going quickly through theumbrageous darkness.When she stopped to close the side-gatewithout noise, Mrs. Sparsit stopped. When shewent on, Mrs. Sparsit went on. She went by theway Mrs. Sparsit had come, emerged from thegreen lane, crossed the stony road, andascended the wooden steps to the railroad. Atrain for Coketown would come throughpresently, Mrs. Sparsit knew; so sheunderstood Coketown to be her first place ofdestination.In Mrs. Sparsit's limp and streaming state, no

extensive precautions were necessary tochange her usual appearance; but, shestopped under the lee of the station wall,tumbled her shawl into a new shape, and put iton over her bonnet. So disguised she had nofear of being recognized when she followedup the railroad steps, and paid her money inthe small office. Louisa sat waiting in a corner.Mrs. Sparsit sat waiting in another corner.Both listened to the thunder, which was loud,and to the rain, as it washed off the roof, andpattered on the parapets of the arches. Two orthree lamps were rained out and blown out;so, both saw the lightning to advantage as itquivered and zigzagged on the iron tracks.The seizure of the station with a fit oftrembling, gradually deepening to a complaintof the heart, announced the train. Fire andsteam, and smoke, and red light; a hiss, acrash, a bell, and a shriek; Louisa put into onecarriage, Mrs. Sparsit put into another: thelittle station a desert speck in thethunderstorm.

Though her teeth chattered in her head fromwet and cold, Mrs. Sparsit exulted hugely. Thefigure had plunged down the precipice, andshe felt herself, as it were, attending on thebody. Could she, who had been so active inthe getting up of the funeral triumph, do lessthan exult? 'She will be at Coketown longbefore him,' thought Mrs. Sparsit, 'though hishorse is never so good. Where will she wait forhim? And where will they go together?Patience. We shall see.'The tremendous rain occasioned infiniteconfusion, when the train stopped at itsdestination. Gutters and pipes had burst,drains had overflowed, and streets were underwater. In the first instant of alighting, Mrs.Sparsit turned her distracted eyes towards thewaiting coaches, which were in great request.'She will get into one,' she considered, 'and willbe away before I can follow in another. At allrisks of being run over, I must see the number,and hear the order given to the coachman.'

But, Mrs. Sparsit was wrong in her calculation.Louisa got into no coach, and was alreadygone. The black eyes kept upon therailroad-carriage in which she had travelled,settled upon it a moment too late. The doornot being opened after several minutes, Mrs.Sparsit passed it and repassed it, saw nothing,looked in, and found it empty. Wet throughand through: with her feet squelching andsquashing in her shoes whenever she moved;with a rash of rain upon her classical visage;with a bonnet like an over-ripe fig; with all herclothes spoiled; with damp impressions ofevery button, string, and hook-and-eye shewore, printed off upon her highly connectedback; with a stagnant verdure on her generalexterior, such as accumulates on an old parkfence in a mouldy lane; Mrs. Sparsit had noresource but to burst into tears of bitternessand say, 'I have lost her!'

CHAPTER XII - DOWNTHE national dustmen, after entertaining oneanother with a great many noisy little fightsamong themselves, had dispersed for thepresent, and Mr. Gradgrind was at home forthe vacation.He sat writing in the room with the deadlystatistical clock, proving something no doubt -probably, in the main, that the Good Samaritanwas a Bad Economist. The noise of the rain didnot disturb him much; but it attracted hisattention sufficiently to make him raise hishead sometimes, as if he were ratherremonstrating with the elements. When itthundered very loudly, he glanced towardsCoketown, having it in his mind that some ofthe tall chimneys might be struck by lightning.The thunder was rolling into distance, and therain was pouring down like a deluge, when thedoor of his room opened. He looked round thelamp upon his table, and saw, with

amazement, his eldest daughter.'Louisa!''Father, I want to speak to you.''What is the matter? How strange you look!And good Heaven,' said Mr. Gradgrind,wondering more and more, 'have you comehere exposed to this storm?'She put her hands to her dress, as if shehardly knew. 'Yes.' Then she uncovered herhead, and letting her cloak and hood fallwhere they might, stood looking at him: socolourless, so dishevelled, so defiant anddespairing, that he was afraid of her.'What is it? I conjure you, Louisa, tell me whatis the matter.'She dropped into a chair before him, and puther cold hand on his arm.

'Father, you have trained me from my cradle?''Yes, Louisa.''I curse the hour in which I was born to such adestiny.'He looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantlyrepeating: 'Curse the hour? Curse the hour?''How could you give me life, and take fromme all the inappreciable things that raise itfrom the state of conscious death? Where arethe graces of my soul? Where are thesentiments of my heart? What have you done,O father, what have you done, with the gardenthat should have bloomed once, in this greatwilderness here!'She struck herself with both her hands uponher bosom.'If it had ever been here, its ashes alonewould save me from the void in which my

whole life sinks. I did not mean to say this; but,father, you remember the last time weconversed in this room?'He had been so wholly unprepared for whathe heard now, that it was with difficulty heanswered, 'Yes, Louisa.''What has risen to my lips now, would haverisen to my lips then, if you had given me amoment's help. I don't reproach you, father.What you have never nurtured in me, you havenever nurtured in yourself; but O! if you hadonly done so long ago, or if you had onlyneglected me, what a much better and muchhappier creature I should have been this day!'On hearing this, after all his care, he bowedhis head upon his hand and groaned aloud.'Father, if you had known, when we were lasttogether here, what even I feared while Istrove against it - as it has been my task frominfancy to strive against every natural

prompting that has arisen in my heart; if youhad known that there lingered in my breast,sensibilities, affections, weaknesses capable ofbeing cherished into strength, defying all thecalculations ever made by man, and no moreknown to his arithmetic than his Creator is, -would you have given me to the husbandwhom I am now sure that I hate?'He said, 'No. No, my poor child.''Would you have doomed me, at any time, tothe frost and blight that have hardened andspoiled me? Would you have robbed me - forno one's enrichment - only for the greaterdesolation of this world - of the immaterial partof my life, the spring and summer of my belief,my refuge from what is sordid and bad in thereal things around me, my school in which Ishould have learned to be more humble andmore trusting with them, and to hope in mylittle sphere to make them better?''O no, no. No, Louisa.'

'Yet, father, if I had been stone blind; if I hadgroped my way by my sense of touch, and hadbeen free, while I knew the shapes andsurfaces of things, to exercise my fancysomewhat, in regard to them; I should havebeen a million times wiser, happier, moreloving, more contented, more innocent andhuman in all good respects, than I am with theeyes I have. Now, hear what I have come tosay.'He moved, to support her with his arm. Sherising as he did so, they stood close together:she, with a hand upon his shoulder, lookingfixedly in his face.'With a hunger and thirst upon me, father,which have never been for a momentappeased; with an ardent impulse towardssome region where rules, and figures, anddefinitions were not quite absolute; I havegrown up, battling every inch of my way.'

'I never knew you were unhappy, my child.''Father, I always knew it. In this strife I havealmost repulsed and crushed my better angelinto a demon. What I have learned has left medoubting, misbelieving, despising, regretting,what I have not learned; and my dismalresource has been to think that life would soongo by, and that nothing in it could be worth thepain and trouble of a contest.''And you so young, Louisa!' he said with pity.'And I so young. In this condition, father - for Ishow you now, without fear or favour, theordinary deadened state of my mind as I knowit - you proposed my husband to me. I tookhim. I never made a pretence to him or youthat I loved him. I knew, and, father, youknew, and he knew, that I never did. I was notwholly indifferent, for I had a hope of beingpleasant and useful to Tom. I made that wildescape into something visionary, and haveslowly found out how wild it was. But Tom had

een the subject of all the little tenderness ofmy life; perhaps he became so because I knewso well how to pity him. It matters little now,except as it may dispose you to think moreleniently of his errors.'As her father held her in his arms, she put herother hand upon his other shoulder, and stilllooking fixedly in his face, went on.'When I was irrevocably married, there roseup into rebellion against the tie, the old strife,made fiercer by all those causes of disparitywhich arise out of our two individual natures,and which no general laws shall ever rule orstate for me, father, until they shall be able todirect the anatomist where to strike his knifeinto the secrets of my soul.''Louisa!' he said, and said imploringly; for hewell remembered what had passed betweenthem in their former interview.'I do not reproach you, father, I make no

complaint. I am here with another object.''What can I do, child? Ask me what you will.''I am coming to it. Father, chance then threwinto my way a new acquaintance; a man suchas I had had no experience of; used to theworld; light, polished, easy; making nopretences; avowing the low estimate ofeverything, that I was half afraid to form insecret; conveying to me almost immediately,though I don't know how or by what degrees,that he understood me, and read my thoughts.I could not find that he was worse than I. Thereseemed to be a near affinity between us. Ionly wondered it should be worth his while,who cared for nothing else, to care so much forme.''For you, Louisa!'Her father might instinctively have loosenedhis hold, but that he felt her strength departingfrom her, and saw a wild dilating fire in the

eyes steadfastly regarding him.'I say nothing of his plea for claiming myconfidence. It matters very little how hegained it. Father, he did gain it. What youknow of the story of my marriage, he soonknew, just as well.'Her father's face was ashy white, and he heldher in both his arms.'I have done no worse, I have not disgracedyou. But if you ask me whether I have lovedhim, or do love him, I tell you plainly, father,that it may be so. I don't know.'She took her hands suddenly from hisshoulders, and pressed them both upon herside; while in her face, not like itself - and inher figure, drawn up, resolute to finish by alast effort what she had to say - the feelingslong suppressed broke loose.'This night, my husband being away, he has

een with me, declaring himself my lover.This minute he expects me, for I could releasemyself of his presence by no other means. Ido not know that I am sorry, I do not know thatI am ashamed, I do not know that I amdegraded in my own esteem. All that I knowis, your philosophy and your teaching will notsave me. Now, father, you have brought me tothis. Save me by some other means!'He tightened his hold in time to prevent hersinking on the floor, but she cried out in aterrible voice, 'I shall die if you hold me! Letme fall upon the ground!' And he laid herdown there, and saw the pride of his heart andthe triumph of his system, lying, an insensibleheap, at his feet.END OF THE SECOND BOOK

CHAPTER I - ANOTHER THING NEEDFULLOUISA awoke from a torpor, and her eyeslanguidly opened on her old bed at home, andher old room. It seemed, at first, as if all thathad happened since the days when theseobjects were familiar to her were the shadowsof a dream, but gradually, as the objectsbecame more real to her sight, the eventsbecame more real to her mind.She could scarcely move her head for painand heaviness, her eyes were strained andsore, and she was very weak. A curiouspassive inattention had such possession of her,that the presence of her little sister in the roomdid not attract her notice for some time. Evenwhen their eyes had met, and her sister hadapproached the bed, Louisa lay for minuteslooking at her in silence, and suffering hertimidly to hold her passive hand, before sheasked:'When was I brought to this room?'

'Last night, Louisa.''Who brought me here?''Sissy, I believe.''Why do you believe so?''Because I found her here this morning. Shedidn't come to my bedside to wake me, as shealways does; and I went to look for her. Shewas not in her own room either; and I wentlooking for her all over the house, until I foundher here taking care of you and cooling yourhead. Will you see father? Sissy said I was totell him when you woke.''What a beaming face you have, Jane!' saidLouisa, as her young sister - timidly still - bentdown to kiss her.'Have I? I am very glad you think so. I amsure it must be Sissy's doing.'

The arm Louisa had begun to twine aroundher neck, unbent itself. 'You can tell father ifyou will.' Then, staying her for a moment, shesaid, 'It was you who made my room socheerful, and gave it this look of welcome?''Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. Itwas - 'Louisa turned upon her pillow, and heard nomore. When her sister had withdrawn, sheturned her head back again, and lay with herface towards the door, until it opened and herfather entered.He had a jaded anxious look upon him, andhis hand, usually steady, trembled in hers. Hesat down at the side of the bed, tenderlyasking how she was, and dwelling on thenecessity of her keeping very quiet after heragitation and exposure to the weather lastnight. He spoke in a subdued and troubledvoice, very different from his usual dictatorial

manner; and was often at a loss for words.'My dear Louisa. My poor daughter.' He wasso much at a loss at that place, that he stoppedaltogether. He tried again.'My unfortunate child.' The place was sodifficult to get over, that he tried again.'It would be hopeless for me, Louisa, toendeavour to tell you how overwhelmed I havebeen, and still am, by what broke upon me lastnight. The ground on which I stand has ceasedto be solid under my feet. The only support onwhich I leaned, and the strength of which itseemed, and still does seem, impossible toquestion, has given way in an instant. I amstunned by these discoveries. I have no selfishmeaning in what I say; but I find the shock ofwhat broke upon me last night, to be veryheavy indeed.'She could give him no comfort herein. Shehad suffered the wreck of her whole life upon

the rock.'I will not say, Louisa, that if you had by anyhappy chance undeceived me some time ago,it would have been better for us both; betterfor your peace, and better for mine. For I amsensible that it may not have been a part of mysystem to invite any confidence of that kind. Ihad proved my - my system to myself, and Ihave rigidly administered it; and I must bearthe responsibility of its failures. I only entreatyou to believe, my favourite child, that I havemeant to do right.'He said it earnestly, and to do him justice hehad. In gauging fathomless deeps with hislittle mean excise-rod, and in staggering overthe universe with his rusty stiff-leggedcompasses, he had meant to do great things.Within the limits of his short tether he hadtumbled about, annihilating the flowers ofexistence with greater singleness of purposethan many of the blatant personages whosecompany he kept.

'I am well assured of what you say, father. Iknow I have been your favourite child. I knowyou have intended to make me happy. I havenever blamed you, and I never shall.'He took her outstretched hand, and retainedit in his.'My dear, I have remained all night at mytable, pondering again and again on what hasso painfully passed between us. When Iconsider your character; when I consider thatwhat has been known to me for hours, hasbeen concealed by you for years; when Iconsider under what immediate pressure it hasbeen forced from you at last; I come to theconclusion that I cannot but mistrust myself.'He might have added more than all, when hesaw the face now looking at him. He did add itin effect, perhaps, as he softly moved herscattered hair from her forehead with his hand.Such little actions, slight in another man, were

very noticeable in him; and his daughterreceived them as if they had been words ofcontrition.'But,' said Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and withhesitation, as well as with a wretched sense ofhappiness, 'if I see reason to mistrust myselffor the past, Louisa, I should also mistrustmyself for the present and the future. Tospeak unreservedly to you, I do. I am far fromfeeling convinced now, however differently Imight have felt only this time yesterday, that Iam fit for the trust you repose in me; that Iknow how to respond to the appeal you havecome home to make to me; that I have the rightinstinct - supposing it for the moment to besome quality of that nature - how to help you,and to set you right, my child.'She had turned upon her pillow, and lay withher face upon her arm, so that he could not seeit. All her wildness and passion had subsided;but, though softened, she was not in tears. Herfather was changed in nothing so much as in

the respect that he would have been glad tosee her in tears.'Some persons hold,' he pursued, stillhesitating, 'that there is a wisdom of the Head,and that there is a wisdom of the Heart. I havenot supposed so; but, as I have said, I mistrustmyself now. I have supposed the head to beall-sufficient. It may not be all- sufficient; howcan I venture this morning to say it is! If thatother kind of wisdom should be what I haveneglected, and should be the instinct that iswanted, Louisa - 'He suggested it very doubtfully, as if he werehalf unwilling to admit it even now. She madehim no answer, lying before him on her bed,still half-dressed, much as he had seen herlying on the floor of his room last night.'Louisa,' and his hand rested on her hairagain, 'I have been absent from here, my dear,a good deal of late; and though your sister'straining has been pursued according to - the

system,' he appeared to come to that wordwith great reluctance always, 'it hasnecessarily been modified by dailyassociations begun, in her case, at an earlyage. I ask you - ignorantly and humbly, mydaughter - for the better, do you think?''Father,' she replied, without stirring, 'if anyharmony has been awakened in her youngbreast that was mute in mine until it turned todiscord, let her thank Heaven for it, and goupon her happier way, taking it as her greatestblessing that she has avoided my way.''O my child, my child!' he said, in a forlornmanner, 'I am an unhappy man to see you thus!What avails it to me that you do not reproachme, if I so bitterly reproach myself!' He benthis head, and spoke low to her. 'Louisa, I havea misgiving that some change may have beenslowly working about me in this house, bymere love and gratitude: that what the Headhad left undone and could not do, the Heartmay have been doing silently. Can it be so?'

She made him no reply.'I am not too proud to believe it, Louisa. Howcould I be arrogant, and you before me! Can itbe so? Is it so, my dear?' He looked upon heronce more, lying cast away there; and withoutanother word went out of the room. He had notbeen long gone, when she heard a light treadnear the door, and knew that some one stoodbeside her.She did not raise her head. A dull anger thatshe should be seen in her distress, and that theinvoluntary look she had so resented shouldcome to this fulfilment, smouldered within herlike an unwholesome fire. All closelyimprisoned forces rend and destroy. The airthat would be healthful to the earth, the waterthat would enrich it, the heat that would ripenit, tear it when caged up. So in her bosomeven now; the strongest qualities shepossessed, long turned upon themselves,became a heap of obduracy, that rose against

a friend.It was well that soft touch came upon herneck, and that she understood herself to besupposed to have fallen asleep. Thesympathetic hand did not claim herresentment. Let it lie there, let it lie.It lay there, warming into life a crowd ofgentler thoughts; and she rested. As shesoftened with the quiet, and the consciousnessof being so watched, some tears made theirway into her eyes. The face touched hers, andshe knew that there were tears upon it too, andshe the cause of them.As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat up,Sissy retired, so that she stood placidly nearthe bedside.'I hope I have not disturbed you. I have cometo ask if you would let me stay with you?''Why should you stay with me? My sister will

miss you. You are everything to her.''Am I?' returned Sissy, shaking her head. 'Iwould be something to you, if I might.''What?' said Louisa, almost sternly.'Whatever you want most, if I could be that.At all events, I would like to try to be as near itas I can. And however far off that may be, Iwill never tire of trying. Will you let me?''My father sent you to ask me.''No indeed,' replied Sissy. 'He told me that Imight come in now, but he sent me away fromthe room this morning - or at least - 'She hesitated and stopped.'At least, what?' said Louisa, with hersearching eyes upon her.'I thought it best myself that I should be sent

away, for I felt very uncertain whether youwould like to find me here.''Have I always hated you so much?''I hope not, for I have always loved you, andhave always wished that you should know it.But you changed to me a little, shortly beforeyou left home. Not that I wondered at it. Youknew so much, and I knew so little, and it wasso natural in many ways, going as you wereamong other friends, that I had nothing tocomplain of, and was not at all hurt.'Her colour rose as she said it modestly andhurriedly. Louisa understood the lovingpretence, and her heart smote her.'May I try?' said Sissy, emboldened to raiseher hand to the neck that was insensiblydrooping towards her.Louisa, taking down the hand that would haveembraced her in another moment, held it in

one of hers, and answered:'First, Sissy, do you know what I am? I am soproud and so hardened, so confused andtroubled, so resentful and unjust to every oneand to myself, that everything is stormy, dark,and wicked to me. Does not that repel you?''No!''I am so unhappy, and all that should havemade me otherwise is so laid waste, that if Ihad been bereft of sense to this hour, andinstead of being as learned as you think me,had to begin to acquire the simplest truths, Icould not want a guide to peace, contentment,honour, all the good of which I am quitedevoid, more abjectly than I do. Does not thatrepel you?''No!'In the innocence of her brave affection, andthe brimming up of her old devoted spirit, the

once deserted girl shone like a beautiful lightupon the darkness of the other.Louisa raised the hand that it might clasp herneck and join its fellow there. She fell uponher knees, and clinging to this stroller's childlooked up at her almost with veneration.'Forgive me, pity me, help me! Havecompassion on my great need, and let me laythis head of mine upon a loving heart!''O lay it here!' cried Sissy. 'Lay it here, mydear.'

CHAPTER II - VERY RIDICULOUSMR. JAMES HARTHOUSE passed a whole nightand a day in a state of so much hurry, that theWorld, with its best glass in his eye, wouldscarcely have recognized him during thatinsane interval, as the brother Jem of thehonourable and jocular member. He waspositively agitated. He several times spokewith an emphasis, similar to the vulgarmanner. He went in and went out in anunaccountable way, like a man without anobject. He rode like a highwayman. In aword, he was so horribly bored by existingcircumstances, that he forgot to go in forboredom in the manner prescribed by theauthorities.After putting his horse at Coketown throughthe storm, as if it were a leap, he waited up allnight: from time to time ringing his bell withthe greatest fury, charging the porter who keptwatch with delinquency in withholding lettersor messages that could not fail to have been

entrusted to him, and demanding restitution onthe spot. The dawn coming, the morningcoming, and the day coming, and neithermessage nor letter coming with either, hewent down to the country house. There, thereport was, Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs.Bounderby in town. Left for town suddenly lastevening. Not even known to be gone untilreceipt of message, importing that her returnwas not to be expected for the present.In these circumstances he had nothing for itbut to follow her to town. He went to the housein town. Mrs. Bounderby not there. He lookedin at the Bank. Mr. Bounderby away and Mrs.Sparsit away. Mrs. Sparsit away? Who couldhave been reduced to sudden extremity forthe company of that griffin!'Well! I don't know,' said Tom, who had hisown reasons for being uneasy about it. 'Shewas off somewhere at daybreak this morning.She's always full of mystery; I hate her. So I dothat white chap; he's always got his blinking

eyes upon a fellow.''Where were you last night, Tom?''Where was I last night!' said Tom. 'Come! Ilike that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse,till it came down as I never saw it come downbefore. Where was I too! Where were you,you mean.''I was prevented from coming - detained.''Detained!' murmured Tom. 'Two of us weredetained. I was detained looking for you, till Ilost every train but the mail. It would havebeen a pleasant job to go down by that on sucha night, and have to walk home through apond. I was obliged to sleep in town after all.''Where?''Where? Why, in my own bed atBounderby's.'

'Did you see your sister?''How the deuce,' returned Tom, staring, 'couldI see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?'Cursing these quick retorts of the younggentleman to whom he was so true a friend,Mr. Harthouse disembarrassed himself of thatinterview with the smallest conceivableamount of ceremony, and debated for thehundredth time what all this could mean? Hemade only one thing clear. It was, thatwhether she was in town or out of town,whether he had been premature with her whowas so hard to comprehend, or she had lostcourage, or they were discovered, or somemischance or mistake, at presentincomprehensible, had occurred, he mustremain to confront his fortune, whatever it was.The hotel where he was known to live whencondemned to that region of blackness, wasthe stake to which he was tied. As to all therest - What will be, will be.

'So, whether I am waiting for a hostilemessage, or an assignation, or a penitentremonstrance, or an impromptu wrestle withmy friend Bounderby in the Lancashiremanner - which would seem as likely asanything else in the present state of affairs - I'lldine,' said Mr. James Harthouse. 'Bounderbyhas the advantage in point of weight; and ifanything of a British nature is to come offbetween us, it may be as well to be in training.'Therefore he rang the bell, and tossinghimself negligently on a sofa, ordered 'Somedinner at six - with a beefsteak in it,' and gotthrough the intervening time as well as hecould. That was not particularly well; for heremained in the greatest perplexity, and, asthe hours went on, and no kind of explanationoffered itself, his perplexity augmented atcompound interest.However, he took affairs as coolly as it was inhuman nature to do, and entertained himselfwith the facetious idea of the training more

than once. 'It wouldn't be bad,' he yawned atone time, 'to give the waiter five shillings, andthrow him.' At another time it occurred to him,'Or a fellow of about thirteen or fourteen stonemight be hired by the hour.' But these jestsdid not tell materially on the afternoon, or hissuspense; and, sooth to say, they both laggedfearfully.It was impossible, even before dinner, toavoid often walking about in the pattern of thecarpet, looking out of the window, listening atthe door for footsteps, and occasionallybecoming rather hot when any stepsapproached that room. But, after dinner, whenthe day turned to twilight, and the twilightturned to night, and still no communicationwas made to him, it began to be as heexpressed it, 'like the Holy Office and slowtorture.' However, still true to his convictionthat indifference was the genuinehigh-breeding (the only conviction he had), heseized this crisis as the opportunity forordering candles and a newspaper.

He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, toread this newspaper, when the waiterappeared and said, at once mysteriously andapologetically:'Beg your pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, ifyou please.'A general recollection that this was the kindof thing the Police said to the swell mob,caused Mr. Harthouse to ask the waiter inreturn, with bristling indignation, what theDevil he meant by 'wanted'?'Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside,sir, wishes to see you.''Outside? Where?''Outside this door, sir.'Giving the waiter to the personage beforementioned, as a block- head duly qualified for

that consignment, Mr. Harthouse hurried intothe gallery. A young woman whom he hadnever seen stood there. Plainly dressed, veryquiet, very pretty. As he conducted her intothe room and placed a chair for her, heobserved, by the light of the candles, that shewas even prettier than he had at first believed.Her face was innocent and youthful, and itsexpression remarkably pleasant. She was notafraid of him, or in any way disconcerted; sheseemed to have her mind entirelypreoccupied with the occasion of her visit, andto have substituted that consideration forherself.'I speak to Mr. Harthouse?' she said, whenthey were alone.'To Mr. Harthouse.' He added in his mind,'And you speak to him with the most confidingeyes I ever saw, and the most earnest voice(though so quiet) I ever heard.''If I do not understand - and I do not, sir' - said

Sissy, 'what your honour as a gentleman bindsyou to, in other matters:' the blood really rosein his face as she began in these words: 'I amsure I may rely upon it to keep my visit secret,and to keep secret what I am going to say. Iwill rely upon it, if you will tell me I may so fartrust - ''You may, I assure you.''I am young, as you see; I am alone, as yousee. In coming to you, sir, I have no advice orencouragement beyond my own hope.' Hethought, 'But that is very strong,' as he followedthe momentary upward glance of her eyes. Hethought besides, 'This is a very odd beginning.I don't see where we are going.''I think,' said Sissy, 'you have already guessedwhom I left just now!''I have been in the greatest concern anduneasiness during the last four-and-twentyhours (which have appeared as many years),'

he returned, 'on a lady's account. The hopes Ihave been encouraged to form that you comefrom that lady, do not deceive me, I trust.''I left her within an hour.''At - !''At her father's.'Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite ofhis coolness, and his perplexity increased.'Then I certainly,' he thought, 'do not see wherewe are going.''She hurried there last night. She arrivedthere in great agitation, and was insensible allthrough the night. I live at her father's, andwas with her. You may be sure, sir, you willnever see her again as long as you live.'Mr. Harthouse drew a long breath; and, ifever man found himself in the position of notknowing what to say, made the discovery

eyond all question that he was socircumstanced. The child-like ingenuousnesswith which his visitor spoke, her modestfearlessness, her truthfulness which put allartifice aside, her entire forgetfulness ofherself in her earnest quiet holding to theobject with which she had come; all this,together with her reliance on his easily givenpromise - which in itself shamed him -presented something in which he was soinexperienced, and against which he knewany of his usual weapons would fall sopowerless; that not a word could he rally to hisrelief.At last he said:'So startling an announcement, so confidentlymade, and by such lips, is really disconcertingin the last degree. May I be permitted toinquire, if you are charged to convey thatinformation to me in those hopeless words, bythe lady of whom we speak?'

'I have no charge from her.''The drowning man catches at the straw. Withno disrespect for your judgment, and with nodoubt of your sincerity, excuse my saying thatI cling to the belief that there is yet hope that Iam not condemned to perpetual exile from thatlady's presence.''There is not the least hope. The first object ofmy coming here, sir, is to assure you that youmust believe that there is no more hope ofyour ever speaking with her again, than therewould be if she had died when she came homelast night.''Must believe? But if I can't - or if I should, byinfirmity of nature, be obstinate - and won't - ''It is still true. There is no hope.'James Harthouse looked at her with anincredulous smile upon his lips; but her mindlooked over and beyond him, and the smile

was quite thrown away.He bit his lip, and took a little time forconsideration.'Well! If it should unhappily appear,' he said,'after due pains and duty on my part, that I ambrought to a position so desolate as thisbanishment, I shall not become the lady'spersecutor. But you said you had nocommission from her?''I have only the commission of my love forher, and her love for me. I have no other trust,than that I have been with her since she camehome, and that she has given me herconfidence. I have no further trust, than that Iknow something of her character and hermarriage. O Mr. Harthouse, I think you hadthat trust too!'He was touched in the cavity where his heartshould have been - in that nest of addled eggs,where the birds of heaven would have lived if

they had not been whistled away - by thefervour of this reproach.'I am not a moral sort of fellow,' he said, 'and Inever make any pretensions to the characterof a moral sort of fellow. I am as immoral asneed be. At the same time, in bringing anydistress upon the lady who is the subject of thepresent conversation, or in unfortunatelycompromising her in any way, or incommitting myself by any expression ofsentiments towards her, not perfectlyreconcilable with - in fact with - the domestichearth; or in taking any advantage of herfather's being a machine, or of her brother'sbeing a whelp, or of her husband's being abear; I beg to be allowed to assure you that Ihave had no particularly evil intentions, buthave glided on from one step to another with asmoothness so perfectly diabolical, that I hadnot the slightest idea the catalogue was half solong until I began to turn it over. Whereas Ifind,' said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion,'that it is really in several volumes.'

Though he said all this in his frivolous way,the way seemed, for that once, a consciouspolishing of but an ugly surface. He was silentfor a moment; and then proceeded with a moreself-possessed air, though with traces ofvexation and disappointment that would not bepolished out.'After what has been just now represented tome, in a manner I find it impossible to doubt - Iknow of hardly any other source from which Icould have accepted it so readily - I feel boundto say to you, in whom the confidence youhave mentioned has been reposed, that Icannot refuse to contemplate the possibility(however unexpected) of my seeing the ladyno more. I am solely to blame for the thinghaving come to this - and - and, I cannot say,'he added, rather hard up for a generalperoration, 'that I have any sanguineexpectation of ever becoming a moral sort offellow, or that I have any belief in any moralsort of fellow whatever.'

Sissy's face sufficiently showed that herappeal to him was not finished.'You spoke,' he resumed, as she raised hereyes to him again, 'of your first object. I mayassume that there is a second to bementioned?''Yes.''Will you oblige me by confiding it?''Mr. Harthouse,' returned Sissy, with ablending of gentleness and steadiness thatquite defeated him, and with a simpleconfidence in his being bound to do what sherequired, that held him at a singulardisadvantage, 'the only reparation thatremains with you, is to leave here immediatelyand finally. I am quite sure that you canmitigate in no other way the wrong and harmyou have done. I am quite sure that it is theonly compensation you have left it in your

power to make. I do not say that it is much, orthat it is enough; but it is something, and it isnecessary. Therefore, though without anyother authority than I have given you, andeven without the knowledge of any otherperson than yourself and myself, I ask you todepart from this place to-night, under anobligation never to return to it.'If she had asserted any influence over himbeyond her plain faith in the truth and right ofwhat she said; if she had concealed the leastdoubt or irresolution, or had harboured for thebest purpose any reserve or pretence; if shehad shown, or felt, the lightest trace of anysensitiveness to his ridicule or hisastonishment, or any remonstrance he mightoffer; he would have carried it against her atthis point. But he could as easily havechanged a clear sky by looking at it insurprise, as affect her.'But do you know,' he asked, quite at a loss,'the extent of what you ask? You probably are

not aware that I am here on a public kind ofbusiness, preposterous enough in itself, butwhich I have gone in for, and sworn by, andam supposed to be devoted to in quite adesperate manner? You probably are notaware of that, but I assure you it's the fact.'It had no effect on Sissy, fact or no fact.'Besides which,' said Mr. Harthouse, taking aturn or two across the room, dubiously, 'it's soalarmingly absurd. It would make a man soridiculous, after going in for these fellows, toback out in such an incomprehensible way.''I am quite sure,' repeated Sissy, 'that it is theonly reparation in your power, sir. I am quitesure, or I would not have come here.'He glanced at her face, and walked aboutagain. 'Upon my soul, I don't know what to say.So immensely absurd!'It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.

'If I were to do such a very ridiculous thing,'he said, stopping again presently, and leaningagainst the chimney-piece, 'it could only be inthe most inviolable confidence.''I will trust to you, sir,' returned Sissy, 'andyou will trust to me.'His leaning against the chimney-piecereminded him of the night with the whelp. Itwas the self-same chimney-piece, andsomehow he felt as if he were the whelpto-night. He could make no way at all.'I suppose a man never was placed in a moreridiculous position,' he said, after lookingdown, and looking up, and laughing, andfrowning, and walking off, and walking backagain. 'But I see no way out of it. What will be,will be. This will be, I suppose. I must take offmyself, I imagine - in short, I engage to do it.'Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the

esult, but she was happy in it, and her facebeamed brightly.'You will permit me to say,' continued Mr.James Harthouse, 'that I doubt if any otherambassador, or ambassadress, could haveaddressed me with the same success. I mustnot only regard myself as being in a veryridiculous position, but as being vanquished atall points. Will you allow me the privilege ofremembering my enemy's name?''My name?' said the ambassadress.'The only name I could possibly care to know,to-night.''Sissy Jupe.''Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related tothe family?''I am only a poor girl,' returned Sissy. 'I wasseparated from my father - he was only a

stroller - and taken pity on by Mr. Gradgrind.I have lived in the house ever since.'She was gone.'It wanted this to complete the defeat,' saidMr. James Harthouse, sinking, with a resignedair, on the sofa, after standing transfixed a littlewhile. 'The defeat may now be consideredperfectly accomplished. Only a poor girl -only a stroller - only James Harthouse madenothing of - only James Harthouse a GreatPyramid of failure.'The Great Pyramid put it into his head to goup the Nile. He took a pen upon the instant,and wrote the following note (in appropriatehieroglyphics) to his brother:Dear Jack, - All up at Coketown. Bored out ofthe place, and going in for camels.Affectionately, JEM,

He rang the bell.'Send my fellow here.''Gone to bed, sir.''Tell him to get up, and pack up.'He wrote two more notes. One, to Mr.Bounderby, announcing his retirement fromthat part of the country, and showing where hewould be found for the next fortnight. Theother, similar in effect, to Mr. Gradgrind.Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon theirsuperscriptions, he had left the tall chimneysof Coketown behind, and was in a railwaycarriage, tearing and glaring over the darklandscape.The moral sort of fellows might suppose thatMr. James Harthouse derived somecomfortable reflections afterwards, from thisprompt retreat, as one of his few actions that

made any amends for anything, and as a tokento himself that he had escaped the climax of avery bad business. But it was not so, at all. Asecret sense of having failed and beenridiculous - a dread of what other fellows whowent in for similar sorts of things, would say athis expense if they knew it - so oppressed him,that what was about the very best passage inhis life was the one of all others he would nothave owned to on any account, and the onlyone that made him ashamed of himself.

CHAPTER III - VERY DECIDEDTHE indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violentcold upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper,and her stately frame so racked by continualsneezes that it seemed in danger ofdismemberment, gave chase to her patronuntil she found him in the metropolis; andthere, majestically sweeping in upon him at hishotel in St. James's Street, exploded thecombustibles with which she was charged, andblew up. Having executed her mission withinfinite relish, this high-minded woman thenfainted away on Mr. Bounderby's coat-collar.Mr. Bounderby's first procedure was to shakeMrs. Sparsit off, and leave her to progress asshe might through various stages of sufferingon the floor. He next had recourse to theadministration of potent restoratives, such asscrewing the patient's thumbs, smiting herhands, abundantly watering her face, andinserting salt in her mouth. When theseattentions had recovered her (which they

speedily did), he hustled her into a fast trainwithout offering any other refreshment, andcarried her back to Coketown more dead thanalive.Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit wasan interesting spectacle on her arrival at herjourney's end; but considered in any otherlight, the amount of damage she had by thattime sustained was excessive, and impairedher claims to admiration. Utterly heedless ofthe wear and tear of her clothes andconstitution, and adamant to her patheticsneezes, Mr. Bounderby immediatelycrammed her into a coach, and bore her off toStone Lodge.'Now, Tom Gradgrind,' said Bounderby,bursting into his father-in- law's room late atnight; 'here's a lady here - Mrs. Sparsit - youknow Mrs. Sparsit - who has something to sayto you that will strike you dumb.''You have missed my letter!' exclaimed Mr.

Gradgrind, surprised by the apparition.'Missed your letter, sir!' bawled Bounderby.'The present time is no time for letters. Noman shall talk to Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown about letters, with his mind in thestate it's in now.''Bounderby,' said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone oftemperate remonstrance, 'I speak of a veryspecial letter I have written to you, inreference to Louisa.''Tom Gradgrind,' replied Bounderby,knocking the flat of his hand several times withgreat vehemence on the table, 'I speak of avery special messenger that has come to me,in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am,stand forward!'That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying tooffer testimony, without any voice and withpainful gestures expressive of an inflamedthroat, became so aggravating and underwent

so many facial contortions, that Mr.Bounderby, unable to bear it, seized her bythe arm and shook her.'If you can't get it out, ma'am,' saidBounderby, 'leave me to get it out. This is not atime for a lady, however highly connected, tobe totally inaudible, and seeminglyswallowing marbles. Tom Gradgrind, Mrs.Sparsit latterly found herself, by accident, in asituation to overhear a conversation out ofdoors between your daughter and yourprecious gentleman-friend, Mr. JamesHarthouse.''Indeed!' said Mr. Gradgrind.'Ah! Indeed!' cried Bounderby. 'And in thatconversation - ''It is not necessary to repeat its tenor,Bounderby. I know what passed.''You do? Perhaps,' said Bounderby, staring

with all his might at his so quiet and assuasivefather-in-law, 'you know where your daughteris at the present time!''Undoubtedly. She is here.''Here?''My dear Bounderby, let me beg you torestrain these loud out- breaks, on allaccounts. Louisa is here. The moment shecould detach herself from that interview withthe person of whom you speak, and whom Ideeply regret to have been the means ofintroducing to you, Louisa hurried here, forprotection. I myself had not been at homemany hours, when I received her - here, in thisroom. She hurried by the train to town, sheran from town to this house, through a ragingstorm, and presented herself before me in astate of distraction. Of course, she hasremained here ever since. Let me entreat you,for your own sake and for hers, to be morequiet.'

Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him forsome moments, in every direction except Mrs.Sparsit's direction; and then, abruptly turningupon the niece of Lady Scadgers, said to thatwretched woman:'Now, ma'am! We shall be happy to hear anylittle apology you may think proper to offer,for going about the country at express pace,with no other luggage than a Cock-and-a-Bull,ma'am!''Sir,' whispered Mrs. Sparsit, 'my nerves areat present too much shaken, and my health isat present too much impaired, in your service,to admit of my doing more than taking refugein tears.' (Which she did.)'Well, ma'am,' said Bounderby, 'withoutmaking any observation to you that may not bemade with propriety to a woman of goodfamily, what I have got to add to that, is thatthere is something else in which it appears to

me you may take refuge, namely, a coach.And the coach in which we came here being atthe door, you'll allow me to hand you down toit, and pack you home to the Bank: where thebest course for you to pursue, will be to putyour feet into the hottest water you can bear,and take a glass of scalding rum and butterafter you get into bed.' With these words, Mr.Bounderby extended his right hand to theweeping lady, and escorted her to theconveyance in question, shedding manyplaintive sneezes by the way. He soonreturned alone.'Now, as you showed me in your face, TomGradgrind, that you wanted to speak to me,' heresumed, 'here I am. But, I am not in a veryagreeable state, I tell you plainly: notrelishing this business, even as it is, and notconsidering that I am at any time as dutifullyand submissively treated by your daughter, asJosiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to betreated by his wife. You have your opinion, Idare say; and I have mine, I know. If you mean

to say anything to me to-night, that goesagainst this candid remark, you had better letit alone.'Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, beingmuch softened, Mr. Bounderby took particularpains to harden himself at all points. It was hisamiable nature.'My dear Bounderby,' Mr. Gradgrind beganin reply.'Now, you'll excuse me,' said Bounderby, 'butI don't want to be too dear. That, to start with.When I begin to be dear to a man, I generallyfind that his intention is to come over me. I amnot speaking to you politely; but, as you areaware, I am not polite. If you like politeness,you know where to get it. You have yourgentleman-friends, you know, and they'll serveyou with as much of the article as you want. Idon't keep it myself.''Bounderby,' urged Mr. Gradgrind, 'we are all

liable to mistakes - ''I thought you couldn't make 'em,' interruptedBounderby.'Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are allliable to mistakes and I should feel sensible ofyour delicacy, and grateful for it, if you wouldspare me these references to Harthouse. Ishall not associate him in our conversation withyour intimacy and encouragement; pray do notpersist in connecting him with mine.''I never mentioned his name!' saidBounderby.'Well, well!' returned Mr. Gradgrind, with apatient, even a submissive, air. And he sat fora little while pondering. 'Bounderby, I seereason to doubt whether we have ever quiteunderstood Louisa.''Who do you mean by We?'

'Let me say I, then,' he returned, in answer tothe coarsely blurted question; 'I doubt whetherI have understood Louisa. I doubt whether Ihave been quite right in the manner of hereducation.''There you hit it,' returned Bounderby. 'ThereI agree with you. You have found it out at last,have you? Education! I'll tell you whateducation is - To be tumbled out of doors, neckand crop, and put upon the shortest allowanceof everything except blows. That's what I calleducation.''I think your good sense will perceive,' Mr.Gradgrind remonstrated in all humility, 'thatwhatever the merits of such a system may be,it would be difficult of general application togirls.''I don't see it at all, sir,' returned the obstinateBounderby.'Well,' sighed Mr. Gradgrind, 'we will not

enter into the question. I assure you I have nodesire to be controversial. I seek to repairwhat is amiss, if I possibly can; and I hope youwill assist me in a good spirit, Bounderby, for Ihave been very much distressed.''I don't understand you, yet,' said Bounderby,with determined obstinacy, 'and therefore Iwon't make any promises.''In the course of a few hours, my dearBounderby,' Mr. Gradgrind proceeded, in thesame depressed and propitiatory manner, 'Iappear to myself to have become betterinformed as to Louisa's character, than inprevious years. The enlightenment has beenpainfully forced upon me, and the discovery isnot mine. I think there are - Bounderby, youwill be surprised to hear me say this - I thinkthere are qualities in Louisa, which - whichhave been harshly neglected, and - and a littleperverted. And - and I would suggest to you,that - that if you would kindly meet me in atimely endeavour to leave her to her better

nature for a while - and to encourage it todevelop itself by tenderness andconsideration - it - it would be the better forthe happiness of all of us. Louisa,' said Mr.Gradgrind, shading his face with his hand, 'hasalways been my favourite child.'The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned andswelled to such an extent on hearing thesewords, that he seemed to be, and probablywas, on the brink of a fit. With his very ears abright purple shot with crimson, he pent up hisindignation, however, and said:'You'd like to keep her here for a time?''I - I had intended to recommend, my dearBounderby, that you should allow Louisa toremain here on a visit, and be attended bySissy (I mean of course Cecilia Jupe), whounderstands her, and in whom she trusts.''I gather from all this, Tom Gradgrind,' saidBounderby, standing up with his hands in his

pockets, 'that you are of opinion that there'swhat people call some incompatibilitybetween Loo Bounderby and myself.''I fear there is at present a generalincompatibility between Louisa, and - and -and almost all the relations in which I haveplaced her,' was her father's sorrowful reply.'Now, look you here, Tom Gradgrind,' saidBounderby the flushed, confronting him withhis legs wide apart, his hands deeper in hispockets, and his hair like a hayfield whereinhis windy anger was boisterous. 'You havesaid your say; I am going to say mine. I am aCoketown man. I am Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown. I know the bricks of this town, andI know the works of this town, and I know thechimneys of this town, and I know the smoke ofthis town, and I know the Hands of this town. Iknow 'em all pretty well. They're real. When aman tells me anything about imaginativequalities, I always tell that man, whoever he is,that I know what he means. He means turtle

soup and venison, with a gold spoon, and thathe wants to be set up with a coach and six.That's what your daughter wants. Since youare of opinion that she ought to have what shewants, I recommend you to provide it for her.Because, Tom Gradgrind, she will never haveit from me.''Bounderby,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'I hoped,after my entreaty, you would have taken adifferent tone.''Just wait a bit,' retorted Bounderby; 'you havesaid your say, I believe. I heard you out; hearme out, if you please. Don't make yourself aspectacle of unfairness as well asinconsistency, because, although I am sorry tosee Tom Gradgrind reduced to his presentposition, I should be doubly sorry to see himbrought so low as that. Now, there's anincompatibility of some sort or another, I amgiven to understand by you, between yourdaughter and me. I'll give you to understand,in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an

incompatibility of the first magnitude - to besummed up in this - that your daughter don'tproperly know her husband's merits, and is notimpressed with such a sense as would becomeher, by George! of the honour of his alliance.That's plain speaking, I hope.''Bounderby,' urged Mr. Gradgrind, 'this isunreasonable.''Is it?' said Bounderby. 'I am glad to hear yousay so. Because when Tom Gradgrind, withhis new lights, tells me that what I say isunreasonable, I am convinced at once it mustbe devilish sensible. With your permission Iam going on. You know my origin; and youknow that for a good many years of my life Ididn't want a shoeing-horn, in consequence ofnot having a shoe. Yet you may believe or not,as you think proper, that there are ladies -born ladies - belonging to families - Families! -who next to worship the ground I walk on.'He discharged this like a Rocket, at his

father-in-law's head.'Whereas your daughter,' proceededBounderby, 'is far from being a born lady.That you know, yourself. Not that I care apinch of candle-snuff about such things, foryou are very well aware I don't; but that such isthe fact, and you, Tom Gradgrind, can't changeit. Why do I say this?''Not, I fear,' observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a lowvoice, 'to spare me.''Hear me out,' said Bounderby, 'and refrainfrom cutting in till your turn comes round. Isay this, because highly connected femaleshave been astonished to see the way in whichyour daughter has conducted herself, and towitness her insensibility. They have wonderedhow I have suffered it. And I wonder myselfnow, and I won't suffer it.''Bounderby,' returned Mr. Gradgrind, rising,'the less we say to- night the better, I think.'

'On the contrary, Tom Gradgrind, the morewe say to-night, the better, I think. That is,' theconsideration checked him, 'till I have said all Imean to say, and then I don't care how soon westop. I come to a question that may shorten thebusiness. What do you mean by the proposalyou made just now?''What do I mean, Bounderby?''By your visiting proposition,' saidBounderby, with an inflexible jerk of thehayfield.'I mean that I hope you may be induced toarrange in a friendly manner, for allowingLouisa a period of repose and reflection here,which may tend to a gradual alteration for thebetter in many respects.''To a softening down of your ideas of theincompatibility?' said Bounderby.

'If you put it in those terms.''What made you think of this?' saidBounderby.'I have already said, I fear Louisa has notbeen understood. Is it asking too much,Bounderby, that you, so far her elder, shouldaid in trying to set her right? You haveaccepted a great charge of her; for better forworse, for - 'Mr. Bounderby may have been annoyed bythe repetition of his own words to StephenBlackpool, but he cut the quotation short withan angry start.'Come!' said he, 'I don't want to be told aboutthat. I know what I took her for, as well as youdo. Never you mind what I took her for; that'smy look out.''I was merely going on to remark, Bounderby,that we may all be more or less in the wrong,

not even excepting you; and that someyielding on your part, remembering the trustyou have accepted, may not only be an act oftrue kindness, but perhaps a debt incurredtowards Louisa.''I think differently,' blustered Bounderby. 'Iam going to finish this business according tomy own opinions. Now, I don't want to make aquarrel of it with you, Tom Gradgrind. To tellyou the truth, I don't think it would be worthyof my reputation to quarrel on such a subject.As to your gentleman-friend, he may takehimself off, wherever he likes best. If he fallsin my way, I shall tell him my mind; if he don'tfall in my way, I shan't, for it won't be worth mywhile to do it. As to your daughter, whom Imade Loo Bounderby, and might have donebetter by leaving Loo Gradgrind, if she don'tcome home to-morrow, by twelve o'clock atnoon, I shall understand that she prefers tostay away, and I shall send her wearingapparel and so forth over here, and you'll takecharge of her for the future. What I shall say to

people in general, of the incompatibility thatled to my so laying down the law, will be this.I am Josiah Bounderby, and I had my bringingup;she's the daughter of Tom Gradgrind, andshe had her bringing- up; and the two horseswouldn't pull together. I am pretty well knownto be rather an uncommon man, I believe; andmost people will understand fast enough that itmust be a woman rather out of the common,also, who, in the long run, would come up tomy mark.''Let me seriously entreat you to reconsiderthis, Bounderby,' urged Mr. Gradgrind, 'beforeyou commit yourself to such a decision.''I always come to a decision,' said Bounderby,tossing his hat on: 'and whatever I do, I do atonce. I should be surprised at TomGradgrind's addressing such a remark toJosiah Bounderby of Coketown, knowing whathe knows of him, if I could be surprised byanything Tom Gradgrind did, after his makinghimself a party to sentimental humbug. I have

given you my decision, and I have got no moreto say. Good night!'So Mr. Bounderby went home to his townhouse to bed. At five minutes past twelveo'clock next day, he directed Mrs. Bounderby'sproperty to be carefully packed up and sent toTom Gradgrind's; advertised his countryretreat for sale by private contract; andresumed a bachelor life.

CHAPTER IV - LOSTTHE robbery at the Bank had not languishedbefore, and did not cease to occupy a frontplace in the attention of the principal of thatestablishment now. In boastful proof of hispromptitude and activity, as a remarkableman, and a self-made man, and a commercialwonder more admirable than Venus, who hadrisen out of the mud instead of the sea, heliked to show how little his domestic affairsabated his business ardour. Consequently, inthe first few weeks of his resumedbachelorhood, he even advanced upon hisusual display of bustle, and every day madesuch a rout in renewing his investigations intothe robbery, that the officers who had it inhand almost wished it had never beencommitted.They were at fault too, and off the scent.Although they had been so quiet since the firstoutbreak of the matter, that most people reallydid suppose it to have been abandoned as

hopeless, nothing new occurred. Noimplicated man or woman took untimelycourage, or made a self-betraying step. Moreremarkable yet, Stephen Blackpool could notbe heard of, and the mysterious old womanremained a mystery.Things having come to this pass, and showingno latent signs of stirring beyond it, the upshotof Mr. Bounderby's investigations was, that heresolved to hazard a bold burst. He drew up aplacard, offering Twenty Pounds reward forthe apprehension of Stephen Blackpool,suspected of complicity in the robbery ofCoketown Bank on such a night; he describedthe said Stephen Blackpool by dress,complexion, estimated height, and manner, asminutely as he could; he recited how he hadleft the town, and in what direction he hadbeen last seen going; he had the whole printedin great black letters on a staring broadsheet;and he caused the walls to be posted with it inthe dead of night, so that it should strike uponthe sight of the whole population at one blow.

The factory-bells had need to ring theirloudest that morning to disperse the groups ofworkers who stood in the tardy daybreak,collected round the placards, devouring themwith eager eyes. Not the least eager of theeyes assembled, were the eyes of those whocould not read. These people, as they listenedto the friendly voice that read aloud - therewas always some such ready to help them -stared at the characters which meant so muchwith a vague awe and respect that would havebeen half ludicrous, if any aspect of publicignorance could ever be otherwise thanthreatening and full of evil. Many ears andeyes were busy with a vision of the matter ofthese placards, among turning spindles,rattling looms, and whirling wheels, for hoursafterwards; and when the Hands cleared outagain into the streets, there were still as manyreaders as before.Slackbridge, the delegate, had to address hisaudience too that night; and Slackbridge had

obtained a clean bill from the printer, and hadbrought it in his pocket. Oh, my friends andfellow- countrymen, the down-troddenoperatives of Coketown, oh, my fellowbrothersand fellow-workmen andfellow-citizens and fellowmen, what a to-dowas there, when Slackbridge unfolded what hecalled 'that damning document,' and held it upto the gaze, and for the execration of theworking-man community! 'Oh, my fellow-men,behold of what a traitor in the camp of thosegreat spirits who are enrolled upon the holyscroll of Justice and of Union, is appropriatelycapable! Oh, my prostrate friends, with thegalling yoke of tyrants on your necks and theiron foot of despotism treading down yourfallen forms into the dust of the earth, uponwhich right glad would your oppressors be tosee you creeping on your bellies all the daysof your lives, like the serpent in the garden -oh, my brothers, and shall I as a man not add,my sisters too, what do you say, now, ofStephen Blackpool, with a slight stoop in hisshoulders and about five foot seven in height,

as set forth in this degrading and disgustingdocument, this blighting bill, this perniciousplacard, this abominable advertisement; andwith what majesty of denouncement will youcrush the viper, who would bring this stain andshame upon the God-like race that happily hascast him out for ever! Yes, my compatriots,happily cast him out and sent him forth! Foryou remember how he stood here before youon this platform; you remember how, face toface and foot to foot, I pursued him through allhis intricate windings; you remember how hesneaked and slunk, and sidled, and splitted ofstraws, until, with not an inch of ground towhich to cling, I hurled him out from amongstus: an object for the undying finger of scorn topoint at, and for the avenging fire of every freeand thinking mind to scorch and scar! Andnow, my friends - my labouring friends, for Irejoice and triumph in that stigma - my friendswhose hard but honest beds are made in toil,and whose scanty but independent pots areboiled in hardship; and now, I say, my friends,what appellation has that dastard craven taken

to himself, when, with the mask torn from hisfeatures, he stands before us in all his nativedeformity, a What? A thief! A plunderer! Aproscribed fugitive, with a price upon hishead; a fester and a wound upon the noblecharacter of the Coketown operative!Therefore, my band of brothers in a sacredbond, to which your children and yourchildren's children yet unborn have set theirinfant hands and seals, I propose to you on thepart of the United Aggregate Tribunal, everwatchful for your welfare, ever zealous foryour benefit, that this meeting does Resolve:That Stephen Blackpool, weaver, referred to inthis placard, having been already solemnlydisowned by the community of CoketownHands, the same are free from the shame of hismisdeeds, and cannot as a class bereproached with his dishonest actions!'Thus Slackbridge; gnashing and perspiringafter a prodigious sort. A few stern voicescalled out 'No!' and a score or two hailed, withassenting cries of 'Hear, hear!' the caution from

one man, 'Slackbridge, y'or over hetter in't;y'or a goen too fast!' But these were pigmiesagainst an army; the general assemblagesubscribed to the gospel according toSlackbridge, and gave three cheers for him, ashe sat demonstratively panting at them.These men and women were yet in thestreets, passing quietly to their homes, whenSissy, who had been called away from Louisasome minutes before, returned.'Who is it?' asked Louisa.'It is Mr. Bounderby,' said Sissy, timid of thename, 'and your brother Mr. Tom, and a youngwoman who says her name is Rachael, and thatyou know her.''What do they want, Sissy dear?''They want to see you. Rachael has beencrying, and seems angry.'

'Father,' said Louisa, for he was present, 'Icannot refuse to see them, for a reason that willexplain itself. Shall they come in here?'As he answered in the affirmative, Sissy wentaway to bring them. She reappeared with themdirectly. Tom was last; and remained standingin the obscurest part of the room, near thedoor.'Mrs. Bounderby,' said her husband, enteringwith a cool nod, 'I don't disturb you, I hope.This is an unseasonable hour, but here is ayoung woman who has been makingstatements which render my visit necessary.Tom Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom,refuses for some obstinate reason or other tosay anything at all about those statements,good or bad, I am obliged to confront her withyour daughter.''You have seen me once before, young lady,'said Rachael, standing in front of Louisa.

Tom coughed.'You have seen me, young lady,' repeatedRachael, as she did not answer, 'once before.'Tom coughed again.'I have.'Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards Mr.Bounderby, and said, 'Will you make it known,young lady, where, and who was there?''I went to the house where Stephen Blackpoollodged, on the night of his discharge from hiswork, and I saw you there. He was there too;and an old woman who did not speak, andwhom I could scarcely see, stood in a darkcorner. My brother was with me.''Why couldn't you say so, young Tom?'demanded Bounderby.'I promised my sister I wouldn't.' Which

Louisa hastily confirmed. 'And besides,' saidthe whelp bitterly, 'she tells her own story soprecious well - and so full - that what businesshad I to take it out of her mouth!''Say, young lady, if you please,' pursuedRachael, 'why, in an evil hour, you ever cameto Stephen's that night.''I felt compassion for him,' said Louisa, hercolour deepening, 'and I wished to know whathe was going to do, and wished to offer himassistance.''Thank you, ma'am,' said Bounderby. 'Muchflattered and obliged.''Did you offer him,' asked Rachael, 'abank-note?''Yes; but he refused it, and would only taketwo pounds in gold.'Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby

again.'Oh, certainly!' said Bounderby. 'If you put thequestion whether your ridiculous andimprobable account was true or not, I ambound to say it's confirmed.''Young lady,' said Rachael, 'StephenBlackpool is now named as a thief in publicprint all over this town, and where else! Therehave been a meeting to-night where he havebeen spoken of in the same shameful way.Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, thebest!' Her indignation failed her, and shebroke off sobbing.'I am very, very sorry,' said Louisa.'Oh, young lady, young lady,' returnedRachael, 'I hope you may be, but I don't know!I can't say what you may ha' done! The like ofyou don't know us, don't care for us, don'tbelong to us. I am not sure why you may ha'come that night. I can't tell but what you may

ha' come wi' some aim of your own, not mindinto what trouble you brought such as the poorlad. I said then, Bless you for coming; and Isaid it of my heart, you seemed to take sopitifully to him; but I don't know now, I don'tknow!'Louisa could not reproach her for her unjustsuspicions; she was so faithful to her idea ofthe man, and so afflicted.'And when I think,' said Rachael through hersobs, 'that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkinyou so good to him - when I mind that he puthis hand over his hard-worken face to hide thetears that you brought up there - Oh, I hopeyou may be sorry, and ha' no bad cause to beit; but I don't know, I don't know!''You're a pretty article,' growled the whelp,moving uneasily in his dark corner, 'to comehere with these precious imputations! Youought to be bundled out for not knowing howto behave yourself, and you would be by

ights.'She said nothing in reply; and her lowweeping was the only sound that was heard,until Mr. Bounderby spoke.'Come!' said he, 'you know what you haveengaged to do. You had better give your mindto that; not this.'''Deed, I am loath,' returned Rachael, dryingher eyes, 'that any here should see me likethis; but I won't be seen so again. Young lady,when I had read what's put in print of Stephen -and what has just as much truth in it as if it hadbeen put in print of you - I went straight to theBank to say I knew where Stephen was, and togive a sure and certain promise that he shouldbe here in two days. I couldn't meet wi' Mr.Bounderby then, and your brother sent meaway, and I tried to find you, but you was notto be found, and I went back to work. Soon as Icome out of the Mill to-night, I hastened tohear what was said of Stephen - for I know wi'

pride he will come back to shame it! - and thenI went again to seek Mr. Bounderby, and Ifound him, and I told him every word I knew;and he believed no word I said, and broughtme here.''So far, that's true enough,' assented Mr.Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets andhis hat on. 'But I have known you peoplebefore to-day, you'll observe, and I know younever die for want of talking. Now, Irecommend you not so much to mind talkingjust now, as doing. You have undertaken to dosomething; all I remark upon that at present is,do it!''I have written to Stephen by the post thatwent out this afternoon, as I have written to himonce before sin' he went away,' said Rachael;'and he will be here, at furthest, in two days.''Then, I'll tell you something. You are notaware perhaps,' retorted Mr. Bounderby, 'thatyou yourself have been looked after now and

then, not being considered quite free fromsuspicion in this business, on account of mostpeople being judged according to thecompany they keep. The post-office hasn'tbeen forgotten either. What I'll tell you is, thatno letter to Stephen Blackpool has ever gotinto it. Therefore, what has become of yours, Ileave you to guess. Perhaps you're mistaken,and never wrote any.''He hadn't been gone from here, young lady,'said Rachael, turning appealingly to Louisa, 'asmuch as a week, when he sent me the onlyletter I have had from him, saying that he wasforced to seek work in another name.''Oh, by George!' cried Bounderby, shakinghis head, with a whistle, 'he changes his name,does he! That's rather unlucky, too, for such animmaculate chap. It's considered a littlesuspicious in Courts of Justice, I believe, whenan Innocent happens to have many names.''What,' said Rachael, with the tears in her

eyes again, 'what, young lady, in the name ofMercy, was left the poor lad to do! Themasters against him on one hand, the menagainst him on the other, he only wantin towork hard in peace, and do what he felt right.Can a man have no soul of his own, no mind ofhis own? Must he go wrong all through wi' thisside, or must he go wrong all through wi' that,or else be hunted like a hare?''Indeed, indeed, I pity him from my heart,'returned Louisa; 'and I hope that he will clearhimself.''You need have no fear of that, young lady.He is sure!''All the surer, I suppose,' said Mr. Bounderby,'for your refusing to tell where he is? Eh?''He shall not, through any act of mine, comeback wi' the unmerited reproach of beingbrought back. He shall come back of his ownaccord to clear himself, and put all those that

have injured his good character, and he nothere for its defence, to shame. I have told himwhat has been done against him,' said Rachael,throwing off all distrust as a rock throws of thesea, 'and he will be here, at furthest, in twodays.''Notwithstanding which,' added Mr.Bounderby, 'if he can be laid hold of anysooner, he shall have an earlier opportunity ofclearing himself. As to you, I have nothingagainst you; what you came and told me turnsout to be true, and I have given you the meansof proving it to be true, and there's an end of it.I wish you good night all! I must be off to looka little further into this.'Tom came out of his corner when Mr.Bounderby moved, moved with him, keptclose to him, and went away with him. Theonly parting salutation of which he deliveredhimself was a sulky 'Good night, father!' With abrief speech, and a scowl at his sister, he leftthe house.

Since his sheet-anchor had come home, Mr.Gradgrind had been sparing of speech. Hestill sat silent, when Louisa mildly said:'Rachael, you will not distrust me one day,when you know me better.''It goes against me,' Rachael answered, in agentler manner, 'to mistrust any one; but whenI am so mistrusted - when we all are - I cannotkeep such things quite out of my mind. I askyour pardon for having done you an injury. Idon't think what I said now. Yet I might cometo think it again, wi' the poor lad so wronged.''Did you tell him in your letter,' inquiredSissy, 'that suspicion seemed to have fallenupon him, because he had been seen aboutthe Bank at night? He would then know whathe would have to explain on coming back, andwould be ready.''Yes, dear,' she returned; 'but I can't guess

what can have ever taken him there. He neverused to go there. It was never in his way. Hisway was the same as mine, and not near it.'Sissy had already been at her side asking herwhere she lived, and whether she might cometo-morrow night, to inquire if there were newsof him.'I doubt,' said Rachael, 'if he can be here tillnext day.''Then I will come next night too,' said Sissy.When Rachael, assenting to this, was gone,Mr. Gradgrind lifted up his head, and said tohis daughter:'Louisa, my dear, I have never, that I know of,seen this man. Do you believe him to beimplicated?''I think I have believed it, father, though withgreat difficulty. I do not believe it now.'

'That is to say, you once persuaded yourselfto believe it, from knowing him to besuspected. His appearance and manner; arethey so honest?''Very honest.''And her confidence not to be shaken! I askmyself,' said Mr. Gradgrind, musing, 'does thereal culprit know of these accusations? Whereis he? Who is he?'His hair had latterly began to change itscolour. As he leaned upon his hand again,looking gray and old, Louisa, with a face offear and pity, hurriedly went over to him, andsat close at his side. Her eyes by accident metSissy's at the moment. Sissy flushed andstarted, and Louisa put her finger on her lip.Next night, when Sissy returned home andtold Louisa that Stephen was not come, she toldit in a whisper. Next night again, when she

came home with the same account, and addedthat he had not been heard of, she spoke in thesame low frightened tone. From the momentof that interchange of looks, they never utteredhis name, or any reference to him, aloud; norever pursued the subject of the robbery, whenMr. Gradgrind spoke of it.The two appointed days ran out, three daysand nights ran out, and Stephen Blackpool wasnot come, and remained unheard of. On thefourth day, Rachael, with unabated confidence,but considering her despatch to havemiscarried, went up to the Bank, and showedher letter from him with his address, at aworking colony, one of many, not upon themain road, sixty miles away. Messengerswere sent to that place, and the whole townlooked for Stephen to be brought in next day.During this whole time the whelp movedabout with Mr. Bounderby like his shadow,assisting in all the proceedings. He wasgreatly excited, horribly fevered, bit his nails

down to the quick, spoke in a hard rattlingvoice, and with lips that were black and burntup. At the hour when the suspected man waslooked for, the whelp was at the station;offering to wager that he had made off beforethe arrival of those who were sent in quest ofhim, and that he would not appear.The whelp was right. The messengersreturned alone. Rachael's letter had gone,Rachael's letter had been delivered. StephenBlackpool had decamped in that same hour;and no soul knew more of him. The only doubtin Coketown was, whether Rachael had writtenin good faith, believing that he really wouldcome back, or warning him to fly. On thispoint opinion was divided.Six days, seven days, far on into anotherweek. The wretched whelp plucked up aghastly courage, and began to grow defiant.'Was the suspected fellow the thief? A prettyquestion! If not, where was the man, and whydid he not come back?'

Where was the man, and why did he notcome back? In the dead of night the echoes ofhis own words, which had rolled Heavenknows how far away in the daytime, came backinstead, and abided by him until morning.

CHAPTER V - FOUNDDAY and night again, day and night again. NoStephen Blackpool. Where was the man, andwhy did he not come back?Every night, Sissy went to Rachael's lodging,and sat with her in her small neat room. Allday, Rachael toiled as such people must toil,whatever their anxieties. The smoke-serpentswere indifferent who was lost or found, whoturned out bad or good; the melancholy madelephants, like the Hard Fact men, abatednothing of their set routine, whateverhappened. Day and night again, day and nightagain. The monotony was unbroken. EvenStephen Blackpool's disappearance was fallinginto the general way, and becoming asmonotonous a wonder as any piece ofmachinery in Coketown.'I misdoubt,' said Rachael, 'if there is as manyas twenty left in all this place, who have anytrust in the poor dear lad now.'

She said it to Sissy, as they sat in her lodging,lighted only by the lamp at the street corner.Sissy had come there when it was alreadydark, to await her return from work; and theyhad since sat at the window where Rachael hadfound her, wanting no brighter light to shineon their sorrowful talk.'If it hadn't been mercifully brought about,that I was to have you to speak to,' pursuedRachael, 'times are, when I think my mindwould not have kept right. But I get hope andstrength through you; and you believe thatthough appearances may rise against him, hewill be proved clear?''I do believe so,' returned Sissy, 'with mywhole heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that theconfidence you hold in yours against alldiscouragement, is not like to be wrong, that Ihave no more doubt of him than if I had knownhim through as many years of trial as youhave.'

'And I, my dear,' said Rachel, with a tremblein her voice, 'have known him through themall, to be, according to his quiet ways, sofaithful to everything honest and good, that ifhe was never to be heard of more, and I was tolive to be a hundred years old, I could say withmy last breath, God knows my heart. I havenever once left trusting Stephen Blackpool!''We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, thathe will be freed from suspicion, sooner orlater.''The better I know it to be so believed there,my dear,' said Rachael, 'and the kinder I feel itthat you come away from there, purposely tocomfort me, and keep me company, and beseen wi' me when I am not yet free from allsuspicion myself, the more grieved I am that Ishould ever have spoken those mistrustingwords to the young lady. And yet I - ''You don't mistrust her now, Rachael?'

'Now that you have brought us more together,no. But I can't at all times keep out of my mind- 'Her voice so sunk into a low and slowcommuning with herself, that Sissy, sitting byher side, was obliged to listen with attention.'I can't at all times keep out of my mind,mistrustings of some one. I can't think who 'tis,I can't think how or why it may be done, but Imistrust that some one has put Stephen out ofthe way. I mistrust that by his coming back ofhis own accord, and showing himself innocentbefore them all, some one would beconfounded, who - to prevent that - hasstopped him, and put him out of the way.''That is a dreadful thought,' said Sissy, turningpale.'It is a dreadful thought to think he may bemurdered.'

Sissy shuddered, and turned paler yet.'When it makes its way into my mind, dear,'said Rachael, 'and it will come sometimes,though I do all I can to keep it out, wi' countingon to high numbers as I work, and saying overand over again pieces that I knew when I werea child - I fall into such a wild, hot hurry, that,however tired I am, I want to walk fast, milesand miles. I must get the better of this beforebed-time. I'll walk home wi' you.''He might fall ill upon the journey back,' saidSissy, faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope;'and in such a case, there are many places onthe road where he might stop.''But he is in none of them. He has beensought for in all, and he's not there.''True,' was Sissy's reluctant admission.'He'd walk the journey in two days. If he was

footsore and couldn't walk, I sent him, in theletter he got, the money to ride, lest he shouldhave none of his own to spare.''Let us hope that to-morrow will bringsomething better, Rachael. Come into the air!'Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael's shawlupon her shining black hair in the usualmanner of her wearing it, and they went out.The night being fine, little knots of Hands werehere and there lingering at street corners; butit was supper-time with the greater part ofthem, and there were but few people in thestreets.'You're not so hurried now, Rachael, and yourhand is cooler.''I get better, dear, if I can only walk, andbreathe a little fresh. 'Times when I can't, I turnweak and confused.''But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, for

you may be wanted at any time to stand byStephen. To-morrow is Saturday. If no newscomes to-morrow, let us walk in the country onSunday morning, and strengthen you foranother week. Will you go?''Yes, dear.'They were by this time in the street whereMr. Bounderby's house stood. The way toSissy's destination led them past the door, andthey were going straight towards it. Sometrain had newly arrived in Coketown, whichhad put a number of vehicles in motion, andscattered a considerable bustle about thetown. Several coaches were rattling beforethem and behind them as they approached Mr.Bounderby's, and one of the latter drew upwith such briskness as they were in the act ofpassing the house, that they looked roundinvoluntarily. The bright gaslight over Mr.Bounderby's steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit inthe coach, in an ecstasy of excitement,struggling to open the door; Mrs. Sparsit

seeing them at the same moment, called tothem to stop.'It's a coincidence,' exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, asshe was released by the coachman. 'It's aProvidence! Come out, ma'am!' then said Mrs.Sparsit, to some one inside, 'come out, or we'llhave you dragged out!'Hereupon, no other than the mysterious oldwoman descended. Whom Mrs. Sparsitincontinently collared.'Leave her alone, everybody!' cried Mrs.Sparsit, with great energy. 'Let nobody touchher. She belongs to me. Come in, ma'am!'then said Mrs. Sparsit, reversing her formerword of command. 'Come in, ma'am, or we'llhave you dragged in!'The spectacle of a matron of classicaldeportment, seizing an ancient woman by thethroat, and hauling her into a dwelling-house,would have been under any circumstances,

sufficient temptation to all true Englishstragglers so blest as to witness it, to force away into that dwelling-house and see thematter out. But when the phenomenon wasenhanced by the notoriety and mystery by thistime associated all over the town with the Bankrobbery, it would have lured the stragglers in,with an irresistible attraction, though the roofhad been expected to fall upon their heads.Accordingly, the chance witnesses on theground, consisting of the busiest of theneighbours to the number of somefive-and-twenty, closed in after Sissy andRachael, as they closed in after Mrs. Sparsitand her prize; and the whole body made adisorderly irruption into Mr. Bounderby'sdining-room, where the people behind lost nota moment's time in mounting on the chairs, toget the better of the people in front.'Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!' cried Mrs.Sparsit. 'Rachael, young woman; you knowwho this is?'

'It's Mrs. Pegler,' said Rachael.'I should think it is!' cried Mrs. Sparsit,exulting. 'Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away,everybody!' Here old Mrs. Pegler, mufflingherself up, and shrinking from observation,whispered a word of entreaty. 'Don't tell me,'said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud. 'I have told youtwenty times, coming along, that I will notleave you till I have handed you over to himmyself.'Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompaniedby Mr. Gradgrind and the whelp, with whomhe had been holding conference up-stairs. Mr.Bounderby looked more astonished thanhospitable, at sight of this uninvited party inhis dining-room.'Why, what's the matter now!' said he. 'Mrs.Sparsit, ma'am?''Sir,' explained that worthy woman, 'I trust it ismy good fortune to produce a person you have

much desired to find. Stimulated by my wishto relieve your mind, sir, and connectingtogether such imperfect clues to the part of thecountry in which that person might besupposed to reside, as have been afforded bythe young woman, Rachael, fortunately nowpresent to identify, I have had the happiness tosucceed, and to bring that person with me - Ineed not say most unwillingly on her part. Ithas not been, sir, without some trouble that Ihave effected this; but trouble in your serviceis to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, andcold a real gratification.'Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr.Bounderby's visage exhibited anextraordinary combination of all possiblecolours and expressions of discomfiture, as oldMrs. Pegler was disclosed to his view.'Why, what do you mean by this?' was hishighly unexpected demand, in great warmth.'I ask you, what do you mean by this, Mrs.Sparsit, ma'am?'

'Sir!' exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly.'Why don't you mind your own business,ma'am?' roared Bounderby. 'How dare you goand poke your officious nose into my familyaffairs?'This allusion to her favourite featureoverpowered Mrs. Sparsit. She sat down stifflyin a chair, as if she were frozen; and with afixed stare at Mr. Bounderby, slowly gratedher mittens against one another, as if theywere frozen too.'My dear Josiah!' cried Mrs. Pegler,trembling. 'My darling boy! I am not to blame.It's not my fault, Josiah. I told this lady overand over again, that I knew she was doingwhat would not be agreeable to you, but shewould do it.''What did you let her bring you for? Couldn'tyou knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or

scratch her, or do something or other to her?'asked Bounderby.'My own boy! She threatened me that if Iresisted her, I should be brought byconstables, and it was better to come quietlythan make that stir in such a' - Mrs. Peglerglanced timidly but proudly round the walls -'such a fine house as this. Indeed, indeed, it isnot my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! Ihave always lived quiet, and secret, Josiah, mydear. I have never broken the condition once.I have never said I was your mother. I haveadmired you at a distance; and if I have cometo town sometimes, with long times between,to take a proud peep at you, I have done itunbeknown, my love, and gone away again.'Mr. Bounderby, with his hands in his pockets,walked in impatient mortification up and downat the side of the long dining-table, while thespectators greedily took in every syllable ofMrs. Pegler's appeal, and at each succeedingsyllable became more and more round-eyed.

Mr. Bounderby still walking up and downwhen Mrs. Pegler had done, Mr. Gradgrindaddressed that maligned old lady:'I am surprised, madam,' he observed withseverity, 'that in your old age you have theface to claim Mr. Bounderby for your son, afteryour unnatural and inhuman treatment of him.''Me unnatural!' cried poor old Mrs. Pegler.'Me inhuman! To my dear boy?''Dear!' repeated Mr. Gradgrind. 'Yes; dear inhis self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say.Not very dear, however, when you desertedhim in his infancy, and left him to the brutalityof a drunken grandmother.''I deserted my Josiah!' cried Mrs. Pegler,clasping her hands. 'Now, Lord forgive you,sir, for your wicked imaginations, and for yourscandal against the memory of my poormother, who died in my arms before Josiahwas born. May you repent of it, sir, and live to

know better!'She was so very earnest and injured, that Mr.Gradgrind, shocked by the possibility whichdawned upon him, said in a gentler tone:'Do you deny, then, madam, that you left yourson to - to be brought up in the gutter?''Josiah in the gutter!' exclaimed Mrs. Pegler.'No such a thing, sir. Never! For shame onyou! My dear boy knows, and will give you toknow, that though he come of humble parents,he come of parents that loved him as dear asthe best could, and never thought it hardshipon themselves to pinch a bit that he mightwrite and cipher beautiful, and I've his booksat home to show it! Aye, have I!' said Mrs.Pegler, with indignant pride. 'And my dearboy knows, and will give you to know, sir, thatafter his beloved father died, when he waseight years old, his mother, too, could pinch abit, as it was her duty and her pleasure and herpride to do it, to help him out in life, and put

him 'prentice. And a steady lad he was, and akind master he had to lend him a hand, andwell he worked his own way forward to be richand thriving. And I'll give you to know, sir - forthis my dear boy won't - that though his motherkept but a little village shop, he never forgother, but pensioned me on thirty pound a year -more than I want, for I put by out of it - onlymaking the condition that I was to keep downin my own part, and make no boasts abouthim, and not trouble him. And I never have,except with looking at him once a year, whenhe has never knowed it. And it's right,' saidpoor old Mrs. Pegler, in affectionatechampionship, 'that I should keep down in myown part, and I have no doubts that if I washere I should do a many unbefitting things,and I am well contented, and I can keep mypride in my Josiah to myself, and I can love forlove's own sake! And I am ashamed of you,sir,' said Mrs. Pegler, lastly, 'for your slandersand suspicions. And I never stood herebefore, nor never wanted to stand here whenmy dear son said no. And I shouldn't be here

now, if it hadn't been for being brought here.And for shame upon you, Oh, for shame, toaccuse me of being a bad mother to my son,with my son standing here to tell you sodifferent!'The bystanders, on and off the dining-roomchairs, raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs.Pegler, and Mr. Gradgrind felt himselfinnocently placed in a very distressingpredicament, when Mr. Bounderby, who hadnever ceased walking up and down, and hadevery moment swelled larger and larger, andgrown redder and redder, stopped short.'I don't exactly know,' said Mr. Bounderby,'how I come to be favoured with theattendance of the present company, but I don'tinquire. When they're quite satisfied, perhapsthey'll be so good as to disperse; whetherthey're satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be sogood as to disperse. I'm not bound to deliver alecture on my family affairs, I have notundertaken to do it, and I'm not a going to do

it. Therefore those who expect anyexplanation whatever upon that branch of thesubject, will be disappointed - particularlyTom Gradgrind, and he can't know it too soon.In reference to the Bank robbery, there hasbeen a mistake made, concerning my mother.If there hadn't been over-officiousness itwouldn't have been made, and I hateover-officiousness at all times, whether or no.Good evening!'Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in theseterms, holding the door open for the companyto depart, there was a blustering sheepishnessupon him, at once extremely crestfallen andsuperlatively absurd. Detected as the Bully ofhumility, who had built his windy reputationupon lies, and in his boastfulness had put thehonest truth as far away from him as if he hadadvanced the mean claim (there is no meaner)to tack himself on to a pedigree, he cut a mostridiculous figure. With the people filing off atthe door he held, who he knew would carrywhat had passed to the whole town, to be

given to the four winds, he could not havelooked a Bully more shorn and forlorn, if hehad had his ears cropped. Even that unluckyfemale, Mrs. Sparsit, fallen from her pinnacleof exultation into the Slough of Despond, wasnot in so bad a plight as that remarkable manand self-made Humbug, Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown.Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler tooccupy a bed at her son's for that night,walked together to the gate of Stone Lodgeand there parted. Mr. Gradgrind joined thembefore they had gone very far, and spoke withmuch interest of Stephen Blackpool; for whomhe thought this signal failure of the suspicionsagainst Mrs. Pegler was likely to work well.As to the whelp; throughout this scene as onall other late occasions, he had stuck close toBounderby. He seemed to feel that as long asBounderby could make no discovery withouthis knowledge, he was so far safe. He nevervisited his sister, and had only seen her once

since she went home: that is to say on thenight when he still stuck close to Bounderby,as already related.There was one dim unformed fear lingeringabout his sister's mind, to which she nevergave utterance, which surrounded thegraceless and ungrateful boy with a dreadfulmystery. The same dark possibility hadpresented itself in the same shapeless guise,this very day, to Sissy, when Rachael spoke ofsome one who would be confounded byStephen's return, having put him out of theway. Louisa had never spoken of harbouringany suspicion of her brother in connexion withthe robbery, she and Sissy had held noconfidence on the subject, save in that oneinterchange of looks when the unconsciousfather rested his gray head on his hand; but itwas understood between them, and they bothknew it. This other fear was so awful, that ithovered about each of them like a ghostlyshadow; neither daring to think of its beingnear herself, far less of its being near the

other.And still the forced spirit which the whelp hadplucked up, throve with him. If StephenBlackpool was not the thief, let him showhimself. Why didn't he?Another night. Another day and night. NoStephen Blackpool. Where was the man, andwhy did he not come back?

CHAPTER VI - THE STARLIGHTTHE Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn,clear and cool, when early in the morningSissy and Rachael met, to walk in the country.As Coketown cast ashes not only on its ownhead but on the neighbourhood's too - after themanner of those pious persons who dopenance for their own sins by putting otherpeople into sackcloth - it was customary forthose who now and then thirsted for a draughtof pure air, which is not absolutely the mostwicked among the vanities of life, to get a fewmiles away by the railroad, and then begintheir walk, or their lounge in the fields. Sissyand Rachael helped themselves out of thesmoke by the usual means, and were put downat a station about midway between the townand Mr. Bounderby's retreat.Though the green landscape was blottedhere and there with heaps of coal, it was greenelsewhere, and there were trees to see, and

there were larks singing (though it wasSunday), and there were pleasant scents in theair, and all was over-arched by a bright bluesky. In the distance one way, Coketownshowed as a black mist; in another distancehills began to rise; in a third, there was a faintchange in the light of the horizon where itshone upon the far-off sea. Under their feet,the grass was fresh; beautiful shadows ofbranches flickered upon it, and speckled it;hedgerows were luxuriant; everything was atpeace. Engines at pits' mouths, and lean oldhorses that had worn the circle of their dailylabour into the ground, were alike quiet;wheels had ceased for a short space to turn;and the great wheel of earth seemed torevolve without the shocks and noises ofanother time.They walked on across the fields and downthe shady lanes, sometimes getting over afragment of a fence so rotten that it dropped ata touch of the foot, sometimes passing near awreck of bricks and beams overgrown with

grass, marking the site of deserted works.They followed paths and tracks, howeverslight. Mounds where the grass was rank andhigh, and where brambles, dock-weed, andsuch-like vegetation, were confusedly heapedtogether, they always avoided; for dismalstories were told in that country of the old pitshidden beneath such indications.The sun was high when they sat down to rest.They had seen no one, near or distant, for along time; and the solitude remainedunbroken. 'It is so still here, Rachael, and theway is so untrodden, that I think we must bethe first who have been here all the summer.'As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted byanother of those rotten fragments of fenceupon the ground. She got up to look at it. 'Andyet I don't know. This has not been brokenvery long. The wood is quite fresh where itgave way. Here are footsteps too. - O Rachael!'She ran back, and caught her round the neck.

Rachael had already started up.'What is the matter?''I don't know. There is a hat lying in thegrass.' They went forward together. Rachaeltook it up, shaking from head to foot. Shebroke into a passion of tears and lamentations:Stephen Blackpool was written in his own handon the inside.'O the poor lad, the poor lad! He has beenmade away with. He is lying murdered here!''Is there - has the hat any blood upon it?' Sissyfaltered.They were afraid to look; but they didexamine it, and found no mark of violence,inside or out. It had been lying there somedays, for rain and dew had stained it, and themark of its shape was on the grass where ithad fallen. They looked fearfully about them,without moving, but could see nothing more.

'Rachael,' Sissy whispered, 'I will go on a littleby myself.'She had unclasped her hand, and was in theact of stepping forward, when Rachael caughther in both arms with a scream that resoundedover the wide landscape. Before them, at theirvery feet, was the brink of a black raggedchasm hidden by the thick grass. They sprangback, and fell upon their knees, each hidingher face upon the other's neck.'O, my good Lord! He's down there! Downthere!' At first this, and her terrific screams,were all that could be got from Rachael, byany tears, by any prayers, by anyrepresentations, by any means. It wasimpossible to hush her; and it was deadlynecessary to hold her, or she would have flungherself down the shaft.'Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for thelove of Heaven, not these dreadful cries! Thinkof Stephen, think of Stephen, think of Stephen!'

By an earnest repetition of this entreaty,poured out in all the agony of such a moment,Sissy at last brought her to be silent, and tolook at her with a tearless face of stone.'Rachael, Stephen may be living. Youwouldn't leave him lying maimed at the bottomof this dreadful place, a moment, if you couldbring help to him?''No, no, no!''Don't stir from here, for his sake! Let me goand listen.'She shuddered to approach the pit; but shecrept towards it on her hands and knees, andcalled to him as loud as she could call. Shelistened, but no sound replied. She calledagain and listened; still no answering sound.She did this, twenty, thirty times. She took alittle clod of earth from the broken groundwhere he had stumbled, and threw it in. She

could not hear it fall.The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillnessbut a few minutes ago, almost carried despairto her brave heart, as she rose and looked allround her, seeing no help. 'Rachael, we mustlose not a moment. We must go in differentdirections, seeking aid. You shall go by theway we have come, and I will go forward bythe path. Tell any one you see, and every onewhat has happened. Think of Stephen, think ofStephen!'She knew by Rachael's face that she mighttrust her now. And after standing for a momentto see her running, wringing her hands as sheran, she turned and went upon her own search;she stopped at the hedge to tie her shawl thereas a guide to the place, then threw her bonnetaside, and ran as she had never run before.Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven's name! Don't stopfor breath. Run, run! Quickening herself bycarrying such entreaties in her thoughts, she

an from field to field, and lane to lane, andplace to place, as she had never run before;until she came to a shed by an engine-house,where two men lay in the shade, asleep onstraw.First to wake them, and next to tell them, allso wild and breathless as she was, what hadbrought her there, were difficulties; but theyno sooner understood her than their spiritswere on fire like hers. One of the men was in adrunken slumber, but on his comrade'sshouting to him that a man had fallen down theOld Hell Shaft, he started out to a pool of dirtywater, put his head in it, and came back sober.With these two men she ran to anotherhalf-a-mile further, and with that one toanother, while they ran elsewhere. Then ahorse was found; and she got another man toride for life or death to the railroad, and send amessage to Louisa, which she wrote and gavehim. By this time a whole village was up: andwindlasses, ropes, poles, candles, lanterns, all

things necessary, were fast collecting andbeing brought into one place, to be carried tothe Old Hell Shaft.It seemed now hours and hours since she hadleft the lost man lying in the grave where hehad been buried alive. She could not bear toremain away from it any longer - it was likedeserting him - and she hurried swiftly back,accompanied by half-a-dozen labourers,including the drunken man whom the newshad sobered, and who was the best man of all.When they came to the Old Hell Shaft, theyfound it as lonely as she had left it. The mencalled and listened as she had done, andexamined the edge of the chasm, and settledhow it had happened, and then sat down towait until the implements they wanted shouldcome up.Every sound of insects in the air, everystirring of the leaves, every whisper amongthese men, made Sissy tremble, for shethought it was a cry at the bottom of the pit.

But the wind blew idly over it, and no soundarose to the surface, and they sat upon thegrass, waiting and waiting. After they hadwaited some time, straggling people who hadheard of the accident began to come up; thenthe real help of implements began to arrive.In the midst of this, Rachael returned; and withher party there was a surgeon, who broughtsome wine and medicines. But, theexpectation among the people that the manwould be found alive was very slight indeed.There being now people enough present toimpede the work, the sobered man put himselfat the head of the rest, or was put there by thegeneral consent, and made a large ring roundthe Old Hell Shaft, and appointed men to keepit. Besides such volunteers as were acceptedto work, only Sissy and Rachael were at firstpermitted within this ring; but, later in the day,when the message brought an express fromCoketown, Mr. Gradgrind and Louisa, and Mr.Bounderby, and the whelp, were also there.

The sun was four hours lower than when Sissyand Rachael had first sat down upon the grass,before a means of enabling two men todescend securely was rigged with poles andropes. Difficulties had arisen in theconstruction of this machine, simple as it was;requisites had been found wanting, andmessages had had to go and return. It was fiveo'clock in the afternoon of the bright autumnalSunday, before a candle was sent down to trythe air, while three or four rough faces stoodcrowded close together, attentively watchingit: the man at the windlass lowering as theywere told. The candle was brought up again,feebly burning, and then some water was castin. Then the bucket was hooked on; and thesobered man and another got in with lights,giving the word 'Lower away!'As the rope went out, tight and strained, andthe windlass creaked, there was not a breathamong the one or two hundred men andwomen looking on, that came as it was wont tocome. The signal was given and the windlass

stopped, with abundant rope to spare.Apparently so long an interval ensued with themen at the windlass standing idle, that somewomen shrieked that another accident hadhappened! But the surgeon who held thewatch, declared five minutes not to haveelapsed yet, and sternly admonished them tokeep silence. He had not well done speaking,when the windlass was reversed and workedagain. Practised eyes knew that it did not goas heavily as it would if both workmen hadbeen coming up, and that only one wasreturning.The rope came in tight and strained; and ringafter ring was coiled upon the barrel of thewindlass, and all eyes were fastened on thepit. The sobered man was brought up andleaped out briskly on the grass. There was anuniversal cry of 'Alive or dead?' and then adeep, profound hush.When he said 'Alive!' a great shout arose andmany eyes had tears in them.

'But he's hurt very bad,' he added, as soon ashe could make himself heard again. 'Where'sdoctor? He's hurt so very bad, sir, that wedonno how to get him up.'They all consulted together, and lookedanxiously at the surgeon, as he asked somequestions, and shook his head on receiving thereplies. The sun was setting now; and the redlight in the evening sky touched every facethere, and caused it to be distinctly seen in allits rapt suspense.The consultation ended in the men returningto the windlass, and the pitman going downagain, carrying the wine and some other smallmatters with him. Then the other man cameup. In the meantime, under the surgeon'sdirections, some men brought a hurdle, onwhich others made a thick bed of spare clothescovered with loose straw, while he himselfcontrived some bandages and slings fromshawls and handkerchiefs. As these were

made, they were hung upon an arm of thepitman who had last come up, with instructionshow to use them: and as he stood, shown bythe light he carried, leaning his powerful loosehand upon one of the poles, and sometimesglancing down the pit, and sometimesglancing round upon the people, he was notthe least conspicuous figure in the scene. Itwas dark now, and torches were kindled.It appeared from the little this man said tothose about him, which was quickly repeatedall over the circle, that the lost man had fallenupon a mass of crumbled rubbish with whichthe pit was half choked up, and that his fall hadbeen further broken by some jagged earth atthe side. He lay upon his back with one armdoubled under him, and according to his ownbelief had hardly stirred since he fell, exceptthat he had moved his free hand to a sidepocket, in which he remembered to havesome bread and meat (of which he hadswallowed crumbs), and had likewise scoopedup a little water in it now and then. He had

come straight away from his work, on beingwritten to, and had walked the whole journey;and was on his way to Mr. Bounderby's countryhouse after dark, when he fell. He wascrossing that dangerous country at such adangerous time, because he was innocent ofwhat was laid to his charge, and couldn't restfrom coming the nearest way to deliver himselfup. The Old Hell Shaft, the pitman said, with acurse upon it, was worthy of its bad name tothe last; for though Stephen could speak now,he believed it would soon be found to havemangled the life out of him.When all was ready, this man, still taking hislast hurried charges from his comrades andthe surgeon after the windlass had begun tolower him, disappeared into the pit. The ropewent out as before, the signal was made asbefore, and the windlass stopped. No manremoved his hand from it now. Every onewaited with his grasp set, and his body bentdown to the work, ready to reverse and windin. At length the signal was given, and all the

ing leaned forward.For, now, the rope came in, tightened andstrained to its utmost as it appeared, and themen turned heavily, and the windlasscomplained. It was scarcely endurable to lookat the rope, and think of its giving way. But,ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel ofthe windlass safely, and the connecting chainsappeared, and finally the bucket with the twomen holding on at the sides - a sight to makethe head swim, and oppress the heart - andtenderly supporting between them, slung andtied within, the figure of a poor, crushed,human creature.A low murmur of pity went round the throng,and the women wept aloud, as this form,almost without form, was moved very slowlyfrom its iron deliverance, and laid upon thebed of straw. At first, none but the surgeonwent close to it. He did what he could in itsadjustment on the couch, but the best that hecould do was to cover it. That gently done, he

called to him Rachael and Sissy. And at thattime the pale, worn, patient face was seenlooking up at the sky, with the broken righthand lying bare on the outside of the coveringgarments, as if waiting to be taken by anotherhand.They gave him drink, moistened his face withwater, and administered some drops of cordialand wine. Though he lay quite motionlesslooking up at the sky, he smiled and said,'Rachael.' She stooped down on the grass at hisside, and bent over him until her eyes werebetween his and the sky, for he could not somuch as turn them to look at her.'Rachael, my dear.'She took his hand. He smiled again and said,'Don't let 't go.''Thou'rt in great pain, my own dear Stephen?''I ha' been, but not now. I ha' been - dreadful,

and dree, and long, my dear - but 'tis owernow. Ah, Rachael, aw a muddle! Fro' first tolast, a muddle!'The spectre of his old look seemed to pass ashe said the word.'I ha' fell into th' pit, my dear, as have costwi'in the knowledge o' old fok now livin,hundreds and hundreds o' men's lives -fathers, sons, brothers, dear to thousands an'thousands, an' keeping 'em fro' want andhunger. I ha' fell into a pit that ha' been wi' th'Firedamp crueller than battle. I ha' read on 'tin the public petition, as onny one may read,fro' the men that works in pits, in which theyha' pray'n and pray'n the lawmakers forChrist's sake not to let their work be murder to'em, but to spare 'em for th' wives and childrenthat they loves as well as gentlefok lovestheirs. When it were in work, it killed wi'outneed; when 'tis let alone, it kills wi'out need.See how we die an' no need, one way an'another - in a muddle - every day!'

He faintly said it, without any anger againstany one. Merely as the truth.'Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgother. Thou'rt not like to forget her now, and meso nigh her. Thou know'st - poor, patient,suff'rin, dear - how thou didst work for her,seet'n all day long in her little chair at thywinder, and how she died, young andmisshapen, awlung o' sickly air as had'n noneed to be, an' awlung o' working people'smiserable homes. A muddle! Aw a muddle!'Louisa approached him; but he could not seeher, lying with his face turned up to the nightsky.'If aw th' things that tooches us, my dear, wasnot so muddled, I should'n ha' had'n need tocoom heer. If we was not in a muddle amongourseln, I should'n ha' been, by my own fellowweavers and workin' brothers, so mistook. IfMr. Bounderby had ever know'd me right - if

he'd ever know'd me at aw - he would'n ha'took'n offence wi' me. He would'n ha' suspect'nme. But look up yonder, Rachael! Lookaboove!'Following his eyes, she saw that he wasgazing at a star.'It ha' shined upon me,' he said reverently, 'inmy pain and trouble down below. It ha' shinedinto my mind. I ha' look'n at 't and thowt o'thee, Rachael, till the muddle in my mind havecleared awa, above a bit, I hope. If soom ha'been wantin' in unnerstan'in me better, I, too,ha' been wantin' in unnerstan'in them better.When I got thy letter, I easily believen thatwhat the yoong ledy sen and done to me, andwhat her brother sen and done to me, was one,and that there were a wicked plot betwixt 'em.When I fell, I were in anger wi' her, an' hurryinon t' be as onjust t' her as oothers was t' me.But in our judgments, like as in our doins, wemun bear and forbear. In my pain an' trouble,lookin up yonder, - wi' it shinin on me - I ha'

seen more clear, and ha' made it my dyinprayer that aw th' world may on'y coomtoogether more, an' get a better unnerstan'in o'one another, than when I were in 't my ownweak seln.'Louisa hearing what he said, bent over him onthe opposite side to Rachael, so that he couldsee her.'You ha' heard?' he said, after a few moments'silence. 'I ha' not forgot you, ledy.''Yes, Stephen, I have heard you. And yourprayer is mine.''You ha' a father. Will yo tak' a message tohim?''He is here,' said Louisa, with dread. 'Shall Ibring him to you?''If yo please.'

Louisa returned with her father. Standinghand-in-hand, they both looked down upon thesolemn countenance.'Sir, yo will clear me an' mak my name goodwi' aw men. This I leave to yo.'Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how?'Sir,' was the reply: 'yor son will tell yo how.Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahintme: not a single word. I ha' seen an' spok'n wi'yor son, one night. I ask no more o' yo thanthat yo clear me - an' I trust to yo to do 't.'The bearers being now ready to carry himaway, and the surgeon being anxious for hisremoval, those who had torches or lanterns,prepared to go in front of the litter. Before itwas raised, and while they were arranginghow to go, he said to Rachael, looking upwardat the star:'Often as I coom to myseln, and found it

shinin' on me down there in my trouble, I thowtit were the star as guided to Our Saviour'shome. I awmust think it be the very star!'They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed tofind that they were about to take him in thedirection whither the star seemed to him tolead.'Rachael, beloved lass! Don't let go my hand.We may walk toogether t'night, my dear!''I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee,Stephen, all the way.''Bless thee! Will soombody be pleased tocoover my face!'They carried him very gently along the fields,and down the lanes, and over the widelandscape; Rachael always holding the hand inhers. Very few whispers broke the mournfulsilence. It was soon a funeral procession. Thestar had shown him where to find the God of

the poor; and through humility, and sorrow,and forgiveness, he had gone to hisRedeemer's rest.

CHAPTER VII - WHELP-HUNTINGBEFORE the ring formed round the Old HellShaft was broken, one figure had disappearedfrom within it. Mr. Bounderby and his shadowhad not stood near Louisa, who held herfather's arm, but in a retired place bythemselves. When Mr. Gradgrind wassummoned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to allthat happened, slipped behind that wickedshadow - a sight in the horror of his face, ifthere had been eyes there for any sight butone - and whispered in his ear. Withoutturning his head, he conferred with her a fewmoments, and vanished. Thus the whelp hadgone out of the circle before the peoplemoved.When the father reached home, he sent amessage to Mr. Bounderby's, desiring his sonto come to him directly. The reply was, thatMr. Bounderby having missed him in thecrowd, and seeing nothing of him since, hadsupposed him to be at Stone Lodge.

'I believe, father,' said Louisa, 'he will notcome back to town to-night.' Mr. Gradgrindturned away, and said no more.In the morning, he went down to the Bankhimself as soon as it was opened, and seeinghis son's place empty (he had not the courageto look in at first) went back along the street tomeet Mr. Bounderby on his way there. Towhom he said that, for reasons he would soonexplain, but entreated not then to be asked for,he had found it necessary to employ his son ata distance for a little while. Also, that he wascharged with the duty of vindicating StephenBlackpool's memory, and declaring the thief.Mr. Bounderby quite confounded, stoodstock-still in the street after his father-in-lawhad left him, swelling like an immensesoap-bubble, without its beauty.Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself inhis room, and kept it all that day. When Sissyand Louisa tapped at his door, he said, without

opening it, 'Not now, my dears; in the evening.'On their return in the evening, he said, 'I amnot able yet - to-morrow.' He ate nothing allday, and had no candle after dark; and theyheard him walking to and fro late at night.But, in the morning he appeared at breakfastat the usual hour, and took his usual place atthe table. Aged and bent he looked, and quitebowed down; and yet he looked a wiser man,and a better man, than in the days when in thislife he wanted nothing - but Facts. Before heleft the room, he appointed a time for them tocome to him; and so, with his gray headdrooping, went away.'Dear father,' said Louisa, when they kepttheir appointment, 'you have three youngchildren left. They will be different, I will bedifferent yet, with Heaven's help.'She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meantwith her help too.

'Your wretched brother,' said Mr. Gradgrind.'Do you think he had planned this robbery,when he went with you to the lodging?''I fear so, father. I know he had wantedmoney very much, and had spent a great deal.''The poor man being about to leave the town,it came into his evil brain to cast suspicion onhim?''I think it must have flashed upon him while hesat there, father. For I asked him to go therewith me. The visit did not originate with him.''He had some conversation with the poorman. Did he take him aside?''He took him out of the room. I asked himafterwards, why he had done so, and he madea plausible excuse; but since last night, father,and when I remember the circumstances by itslight, I am afraid I can imagine too truly whatpassed between them.'

'Let me know,' said her father, 'if yourthoughts present your guilty brother in thesame dark view as mine.''I fear, father,' hesitated Louisa, 'that he musthave made some representation to StephenBlackpool - perhaps in my name, perhaps inhis own - which induced him to do in goodfaith and honesty, what he had never donebefore, and to wait about the Bank those two orthree nights before he left the town.''Too plain!' returned the father. 'Too plain!'He shaded his face, and remained silent forsome moments. Recovering himself, he said:'And now, how is he to be found? How is he tobe saved from justice? In the few hours that Ican possibly allow to elapse before I publishthe truth, how is he to be found by us, and onlyby us? Ten thousand pounds could not effectit.'

'Sissy has effected it, father.'He raised his eyes to where she stood, like agood fairy in his house, and said in a tone ofsoftened gratitude and grateful kindness, 'It isalways you, my child!''We had our fears,' Sissy explained, glancingat Louisa, 'before yesterday; and when I sawyou brought to the side of the litter last night,and heard what passed (being close toRachael all the time), I went to him when noone saw, and said to him, "Don't look at me.See where your father is. Escape at once, forhis sake and your own!" He was in a tremblebefore I whispered to him, and he started andtrembled more then, and said, "Where can Igo? I have very little money, and I don't knowwho will hide me!" I thought of father's oldcircus. I have not forgotten where Mr. Slearygoes at this time of year, and I read of him in apaper only the other day. I told him to hurrythere, and tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to

hide him till I came. "I'll get to him before themorning," he said. And I saw him shrink awayamong the people.''Thank Heaven!' exclaimed his father. 'Hemay be got abroad yet.'It was the more hopeful as the town to whichSissy had directed him was within three hours'journey of Liverpool, whence he could beswiftly dispatched to any part of the world.But, caution being necessary incommunicating with him - for there was agreater danger every moment of his beingsuspected now, and nobody could be sure atheart but that Mr. Bounderby himself, in abullying vein of public zeal, might play aRoman part - it was consented that Sissy andLouisa should repair to the place in question,by a circuitous course, alone; and that theunhappy father, setting forth in an oppositedirection, should get round to the samebourne by another and wider route. It wasfurther agreed that he should not present

himself to Mr. Sleary, lest his intentions shouldbe mistrusted, or the intelligence of his arrivalshould cause his son to take flight anew; but,that the communication should be left to Sissyand Louisa to open; and that they shouldinform the cause of so much misery anddisgrace, of his father's being at hand and ofthe purpose for which they had come. Whenthese arrangements had been well consideredand were fully understood by all three, it wastime to begin to carry them into execution.Early in the afternoon, Mr. Gradgrind walkeddirect from his own house into the country, tobe taken up on the line by which he was totravel; and at night the remaining two set forthupon their different course, encouraged by notseeing any face they knew.The two travelled all night, except when theywere left, for odd numbers of minutes, atbranch-places, up illimitable flights of steps,or down wells - which was the only variety ofthose branches - and, early in the morning,were turned out on a swamp, a mile or two

from the town they sought. From this dismalspot they were rescued by a savage oldpostilion, who happened to be up early,kicking a horse in a fly: and so weresmuggled into the town by all the back laneswhere the pigs lived: which, although not amagnificent or even savoury approach, was, asis usual in such cases, the legitimate highway.The first thing they saw on entering the townwas the skeleton of Sleary's Circus. Thecompany had departed for another town morethan twenty miles off, and had opened therelast night. The connection between the twoplaces was by a hilly turnpike-road, and thetravelling on that road was very slow. Thoughthey took but a hasty breakfast, and no rest(which it would have been in vain to seekunder such anxious circumstances), it wasnoon before they began to find the bills ofSleary's Horse-riding on barns and walls, andone o'clock when they stopped in themarket-place.

A Grand Morning Performance by the Riders,commencing at that very hour, was in courseof announcement by the bellman as they settheir feet upon the stones of the street. Sissyrecommended that, to avoid making inquiriesand attracting attention in the town, theyshould present themselves to pay at the door.If Mr. Sleary were taking the money, he wouldbe sure to know her, and would proceed withdiscretion. If he were not, he would be sure tosee them inside; and, knowing what he haddone with the fugitive, would proceed withdiscretion still.Therefore, they repaired, with flutteringhearts, to the well- remembered booth. Theflag with the inscription SLEARY'S HORSE-RIDING was there; and the Gothic niche wasthere; but Mr. Sleary was not there. MasterKidderminster, grown too maturely turfy to bereceived by the wildest credulity as Cupid anymore, had yielded to the invincible force ofcircumstances (and his beard), and, in thecapacity of a man who made himself generally

useful, presided on this occasion over theexchequer - having also a drum in reserve, onwhich to expend his leisure moments andsuperfluous forces. In the extreme sharpnessof his look out for base coin, Mr.Kidderminster, as at present situated, neversaw anything but money; so Sissy passed himunrecognised, and they went in.The Emperor of Japan, on a steady old whitehorse stencilled with black spots, was twirlingfive wash-hand basins at once, as it is thefavourite recreation of that monarch to do.Sissy, though well acquainted with his Royalline, had no personal knowledge of thepresent Emperor, and his reign was peaceful.Miss Josephine Sleary, in her celebratedgraceful Equestrian Tyrolean Flower Act, wasthen announced by a new clown (whohumorously said Cauliflower Act), and Mr.Sleary appeared, leading her in.Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at theClown with his long whip- lash, and the Clown

had only said, 'If you do it again, I'll throw thehorse at you!' when Sissy was recognised bothby father and daughter. But they got throughthe Act with great self-possession; and Mr.Sleary, saving for the first instant, conveyed nomore expression into his locomotive eye thaninto his fixed one. The performance seemed alittle long to Sissy and Louisa, particularlywhen it stopped to afford the Clown anopportunity of telling Mr. Sleary (who said'Indeed, sir!' to all his observations in thecalmest way, and with his eye on the house)about two legs sitting on three legs looking atone leg, when in came four legs, and laid holdof one leg, and up got two legs, caught hold ofthree legs, and threw 'em at four legs, who ranaway with one leg. For, although an ingeniousAllegory relating to a butcher, a three- leggedstool, a dog, and a leg of mutton, this narrativeconsumed time; and they were in greatsuspense. At last, however, little fair-hairedJosephine made her curtsey amid greatapplause; and the Clown, left alone in the ring,had just warmed himself, and said, 'Now I'll

have a turn!' when Sissy was touched on theshoulder, and beckoned out.She took Louisa with her; and they werereceived by Mr. Sleary in a very little privateapartment, with canvas sides, a grass floor,and a wooden ceiling all aslant, on which thebox company stamped their approbation, as ifthey were coming through. 'Thethilia,' said Mr.Sleary, who had brandy and water at hand, 'itdoth me good to thee you. You wath alwayth afavourite with uth, and you've done uth crediththinth the old timeth I'm thure. You mutht theeour people, my dear, afore we thpeak ofbithnith, or they'll break their hearth -ethpethially the women. Here'th Jothphinehath been and got married to E. W. B.Childerth, and thee hath got a boy, and thoughhe'th only three yearth old, he thtickth on toany pony you can bring againtht him. He'thnamed The Little Wonder of ThcolathticEquitation; and if you don't hear of that boy atAthley'th, you'll hear of him at Parith. And yourecollect Kidderminthter, that wath thought to

e rather thweet upon yourthelf? Well. He'thmarried too. Married a widder. Old enoughto be hith mother. Thee wath Tightrope, theewath, and now thee'th nothing - on accounth offat. They've got two children, tho we're thtrongin the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge.If you wath to thee our Children in the Wood,with their father and mother both a dyin' on ahorthe - their uncle a retheiving of 'em ath hithwardth, upon a horthe - themthelvth both agoin' a black- berryin' on a horthe - and theRobinth a coming in to cover 'em with leavth,upon a horthe - you'd thay it wath thecompletetht thing ath ever you thet your eyethon! And you remember Emma Gordon, mydear, ath wath a'motht a mother to you? Ofcourthe you do; I needn't athk. Well! Emma,thee lotht her huthband. He wath throw'd aheavy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of aPagoda thing ath the Thultan of the Indieth,and he never got the better of it; and theemarried a thecond time - married aCheethemonger ath fell in love with her fromthe front - and he'th a Overtheer and makin' a

fortun.'These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very shortof breath now, related with great heartiness,and with a wonderful kind of innocence,considering what a bleary andbrandy-and-watery old veteran he was.Afterwards he brought in Josephine, and E. W.B. Childers (rather deeply lined in the jaws bydaylight), and the Little Wonder of ScholasticEquitation, and in a word, all the company.Amazing creatures they were in Louisa's eyes,so white and pink of complexion, so scant ofdress, and so demonstrative of leg; but it wasvery agreeable to see them crowding aboutSissy, and very natural in Sissy to be unable torefrain from tears.'There! Now Thethilia hath kithd all thechildren, and hugged all the women, andthaken handth all round with all the men, clear,every one of you, and ring in the band for thethecond part!'

As soon as they were gone, he continued in alow tone. 'Now, Thethilia, I don't athk to knowany thecreth, but I thuppothe I may conthiderthith to be Mith Thquire.''This is his sister. Yes.''And t'other on'th daughter. That'h what Imean. Hope I thee you well, mith. And I hopethe Thquire'th well?''My father will be here soon,' said Louisa,anxious to bring him to the point. 'Is mybrother safe?''Thafe and thound!' he replied. 'I want youjutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, throughhere. Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find athpy-hole for yourthelf.'They each looked through a chink in theboards.'That'h Jack the Giant Killer - piethe of comic

infant bithnith,' said Sleary. 'There'th aproperty-houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in;there'th my Clown with a thauthepan-lid and athpit, for Jack'th thervant; there'th little Jackhimthelf in a thplendid thoot of armour;there'th two comic black thervanth twithe athbig ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to bringit in and clear it; and the Giant (a veryecthpenthive bathket one), he an't on yet. Now,do you thee 'em all?''Yes,' they both said.'Look at 'em again,' said Sleary, 'look at 'emwell. You thee em all? Very good. Now, mith;'he put a form for them to sit on; 'I have myopinionth, and the Thquire your father hathhith. I don't want to know what your brother'thbeen up to; ith better for me not to know. All Ithay ith, the Thquire hath thtood by Thethilia,and I'll thtand by the Thquire. Your brother ithone them black thervanth.'Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of

distress, partly of satisfaction.'Ith a fact,' said Sleary, 'and even knowin' it,you couldn't put your finger on him. Let theThquire come. I thall keep your brother hereafter the performanth. I thant undreth him, noryet wath hith paint off. Let the Thquire comehere after the performanth, or come hereyourthelf after the performanth, and you thallfind your brother, and have the whole platheto talk to him in. Never mind the lookth of him,ath long ath he'th well hid.'Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightenedload, detained Mr. Sleary no longer then. Sheleft her love for her brother, with her eyes fullof tears; and she and Sissy went away untillater in the afternoon.Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hourafterwards. He too had encountered no onewhom he knew; and was now sanguine withSleary's assistance, of getting his disgracedson to Liverpool in the night. As neither of the

three could be his companion without almostidentifying him under any disguise, heprepared a letter to a correspondent whom hecould trust, beseeching him to ship the beareroff at any cost, to North or South America, orany distant part of the world to which he couldbe the most speedily and privatelydispatched.This done, they walked about, waiting for theCircus to be quite vacated; not only by theaudience, but by the company and by thehorses. After watching it a long time, they sawMr. Sleary bring out a chair and sit down bythe side-door, smoking; as if that were hissignal that they might approach.'Your thervant, Thquire,' was his cautioussalutation as they passed in. 'If you want meyou'll find me here. You muthn't mind yourthon having a comic livery on.'They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind satdown forlorn, on the Clown's performing chair

in the middle of the ring. On one of the backbenches, remote in the subdued light and thestrangeness of the place, sat the villainouswhelp, sulky to the last, whom he had themisery to call his son.In a preposterous coat, like a beadle's, withcuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakableextent; in an immense waistcoat,knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a madcocked hat; with nothing fitting him, andeverything of coarse material, moth-eaten andfull of holes; with seams in his black face,where fear and heat had started through thegreasy composition daubed all over it;anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculouslyshameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr.Gradgrind never could by any other meanshave believed in, weighable and measurablefact though it was. And one of his modelchildren had come to this!At first the whelp would not draw any nearer,but persisted in remaining up there by

himself. Yielding at length, if any concessionso sullenly made can be called yielding, to theentreaties of Sissy - for Louisa he disownedaltogether - he came down, bench by bench,until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge ofthe circle, as far as possible, within its limitsfrom where his father sat.'How was this done?' asked the father.'How was what done?' moodily answered theson.'This robbery,' said the father, raising hisvoice upon the word.'I forced the safe myself over night, and shut itup ajar before I went away. I had had the keythat was found, made long before. I droppedit that morning, that it might be supposed tohave been used. I didn't take the money all atonce. I pretended to put my balance awayevery night, but I didn't. Now you know allabout it.'

'If a thunderbolt had fallen on me,' said thefather, 'it would have shocked me less thanthis!''I don't see why,' grumbled the son. 'So manypeople are employed in situations of trust; somany people, out of so many, will bedishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundredtimes, of its being a law. How can I help laws?You have comforted others with such things,father. Comfort yourself!'The father buried his face in his hands, andthe son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness,biting straw: his hands, with the black partlyworn away inside, looking like the hands of amonkey. The evening was fast closing in; andfrom time to time, he turned the whites of hiseyes restlessly and impatiently towards hisfather. They were the only parts of his face thatshowed any life or expression, the pigmentupon it was so thick.

'You must be got to Liverpool, and sentabroad.''I suppose I must. I can't be more miserableanywhere,' whimpered the whelp, 'than I havebeen here, ever since I can remember. That'sone thing.'Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returnedwith Sleary, to whom he submitted thequestion, How to get this deplorable objectaway?'Why, I've been thinking of it, Thquire.There'th not muth time to lothe, tho you muththay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to therail. There'th a coath in half an hour, that goethto the rail, 'purpothe to cath the mail train.That train will take him right to Liverpool.''But look at him,' groaned Mr. Gradgrind.'Will any coach - ''I don't mean that he thould go in the comic

livery,' said Sleary. 'Thay the word, and I'llmake a Jothkin of him, out of the wardrobe, infive minutes.''I don't understand,' said Mr. Gradgrind.'A Jothkin - a Carter. Make up your mindquick, Thquire. There'll be beer to feth. I'venever met with nothing but beer ath'll everclean a comic blackamoor.'Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented; Mr. Slearyrapidly turned out from a box, a smock frock, afelt hat, and other essentials; the whelp rapidlychanged clothes behind a screen of baize; Mr.Sleary rapidly brought beer, and washed himwhite again.'Now,' said Sleary, 'come along to the coath,and jump up behind; I'll go with you there, andthey'll thuppothe you one of my people. Thayfarewell to your family, and tharp'th the word.'With which he delicately retired.

'Here is your letter,' said Mr. Gradgrind. 'Allnecessary means will be provided for you.Atone, by repentance and better conduct, forthe shocking action you have committed, andthe dreadful consequences to which it has led.Give me your hand, my poor boy, and mayGod forgive you as I do!'The culprit was moved to a few abject tearsby these words and their pathetic tone. But,when Louisa opened her arms, he repulsedher afresh.'Not you. I don't want to have anything to sayto you!''O Tom, Tom, do we end so, after all my love!''After all your love!' he returned, obdurately.'Pretty love! Leaving old Bounderby to himself,and packing my best friend Mr. Harthouse off,and going home just when I was in the greatestdanger. Pretty love that! Coming out withevery word about our having gone to that

place, when you saw the net was gatheringround me. Pretty love that! You haveregularly given me up. You never cared forme.''Tharp'th the word!' said Sleary, at the door.They all confusedly went out: Louisa cryingto him that she forgave him, and loved himstill, and that he would one day be sorry tohave left her so, and glad to think of these herlast words, far away: when some one ranagainst them. Mr. Gradgrind and Sissy, whowere both before him while his sister yet clungto his shoulder, stopped and recoiled.For, there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thinlips parted, his thin nostrils distended, hiswhite eyelashes quivering, his colourless facemore colourless than ever, as if he ran himselfinto a white heat, when other people ranthemselves into a glow. There he stood,panting and heaving, as if he had neverstopped since the night, now long ago, when

he had run them down before.'I'm sorry to interfere with your plans,' saidBitzer, shaking his head, 'but I can't allowmyself to be done by horse-riders. I musthave young Mr. Tom; he mustn't be got awayby horse-riders; here he is in a smock frock,and I must have him!'By the collar, too, it seemed. For, so he tookpossession of him.

CHAPTER VIII - PHILOSOPHICALTHEY went back into the booth, Slearyshutting the door to keep intruders out. Bitzer,still holding the paralysed culprit by the collar,stood in the Ring, blinking at his old patronthrough the darkness of the twilight.'Bitzer,' said Mr. Gradgrind, broken down,and miserably submissive to him, 'have you aheart?''The circulation, sir,' returned Bitzer, smilingat the oddity of the question, 'couldn't becarried on without one. No man, sir,acquainted with the facts established byHarvey relating to the circulation of the blood,can doubt that I have a heart.''Is it accessible,' cried Mr. Gradgrind, 'to anycompassionate influence?''It is accessible to Reason, sir,' returned theexcellent young man. 'And to nothing else.'

They stood looking at each other; Mr.Gradgrind's face as white as the pursuer's.'What motive - even what motive in reason -can you have for preventing the escape of thiswretched youth,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'andcrushing his miserable father? See his sisterhere. Pity us!''Sir,' returned Bitzer, in a very business-likeand logical manner, 'since you ask me whatmotive I have in reason, for taking young Mr.Tom back to Coketown, it is only reasonable tolet you know. I have suspected young Mr. Tomof this bank-robbery from the first. I had hadmy eye upon him before that time, for I knewhis ways. I have kept my observations tomyself, but I have made them; and I have gotample proofs against him now, besides hisrunning away, and besides his own confession,which I was just in time to overhear. I had thepleasure of watching your house yesterdaymorning, and following you here. I am going

to take young Mr. Tom back to Coketown, inorder to deliver him over to Mr. Bounderby.Sir, I have no doubt whatever that Mr.Bounderby will then promote me to young Mr.Tom's situation. And I wish to have hissituation, sir, for it will be a rise to me, and willdo me good.''If this is solely a question of self-interest withyou - ' Mr. Gradgrind began.'I beg your pardon for interrupting you, sir,'returned Bitzer; 'but I am sure you know thatthe whole social system is a question ofself-interest. What you must always appeal to,is a person's self-interest. It's your only hold.We are so constituted. I was brought up in thatcatechism when I was very young, sir, as youare aware.''What sum of money,' said Mr. Gradgrind,'will you set against your expected promotion?''Thank you, sir,' returned Bitzer, 'for hinting at

the proposal; but I will not set any sum againstit. Knowing that your clear head wouldpropose that alternative, I have gone over thecalculations in my mind; and I find that tocompound a felony, even on very high termsindeed, would not be as safe and good for meas my improved prospects in the Bank.''Bitzer,' said Mr. Gradgrind, stretching out hishands as though he would have said, See howmiserable I am! 'Bitzer, I have but one chanceleft to soften you. You were many years at myschool. If, in remembrance of the painsbestowed upon you there, you can persuadeyourself in any degree to disregard yourpresent interest and release my son, I entreatand pray you to give him the benefit of thatremembrance.''I really wonder, sir,' rejoined the old pupil inan argumentative manner, 'to find you taking aposition so untenable. My schooling was paidfor; it was a bargain; and when I came away,the bargain ended.'

It was a fundamental principle of theGradgrind philosophy that everything was tobe paid for. Nobody was ever on any accountto give anybody anything, or render anybodyhelp without purchase. Gratitude was to beabolished, and the virtues springing from itwere not to be. Every inch of the existence ofmankind, from birth to death, was to be abargain across a counter. And if we didn't getto Heaven that way, it was not apolitico-economical place, and we had nobusiness there.'I don't deny,' added Bitzer, 'that my schoolingwas cheap. But that comes right, sir. I wasmade in the cheapest market, and have todispose of myself in the dearest.'He was a little troubled here, by Louisa andSissy crying.'Pray don't do that,' said he, 'it's of no usedoing that: it only worries. You seem to think

that I have some animosity against young Mr.Tom; whereas I have none at all. I am onlygoing, on the reasonable grounds I havementioned, to take him back to Coketown. Ifhe was to resist, I should set up the cry of Stopthief! But, he won't resist, you may dependupon it.'Mr. Sleary, who with his mouth open and hisrolling eye as immovably jammed in his headas his fixed one, had listened to thesedoctrines with profound attention, herestepped forward.'Thquire, you know perfectly well, and yourdaughter knowth perfectly well (better thanyou, becauthe I thed it to her), that I didn'tknow what your thon had done, and that Ididn't want to know - I thed it wath better not,though I only thought, then, it wath thomethkylarking. However, thith young man havingmade it known to be a robbery of a bank, why,that'h a theriouth thing; muth too theriouth athing for me to compound, ath thith young man

hath very properly called it. Conthequently,Thquire, you muthn't quarrel with me if I takethith young man'th thide, and thay he'th rightand there'th no help for it. But I tell you whatI'll do, Thquire; I'll drive your thon and thithyoung man over to the rail, and preventexpothure here. I can't conthent to do more,but I'll do that.'Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and deeperaffliction on Mr. Gradgrind's part, followed thisdesertion of them by their last friend. But,Sissy glanced at him with great attention; nordid she in her own breast misunderstand him.As they were all going out again, he favouredher with one slight roll of his movable eye,desiring her to linger behind. As he lockedthe door, he said excitedly:'The Thquire thtood by you, Thethilia, and I'llthtand by the Thquire. More than that: thith itha prethiouth rathcal, and belongth to thatbluthtering Cove that my people nearly pithtout o' winder. It'll be a dark night; I've got a

horthe that'll do anything but thpeak; I've got apony that'll go fifteen mile an hour withChilderth driving of him; I've got a dog that'llkeep a man to one plathe four-and-twentyhourth. Get a word with the young Thquire.Tell him, when he theeth our horthe begin todanthe, not to be afraid of being thpilt, but tolook out for a pony-gig coming up. Tell him,when he theeth that gig clothe by, to jumpdown, and it'll take him off at a rattling pathe.If my dog leth thith young man thtir a peg onfoot, I give him leave to go. And if my hortheever thtirth from that thpot where he beginth adanthing, till the morning - I don't know him? -Tharp'th the word!'The word was so sharp, that in ten minutesMr. Childers, sauntering about themarket-place in a pair of slippers, had his cue,and Mr. Sleary's equipage was ready. It was afine sight, to behold the learned dog barkinground it, and Mr. Sleary instructing him, withhis one practicable eye, that Bitzer was theobject of his particular attentions. Soon after

dark they all three got in and started; thelearned dog (a formidable creature) alreadypinning Bitzer with his eye, and sticking closeto the wheel on his side, that he might beready for him in the event of his showing theslightest disposition to alight.The other three sat up at the inn all night ingreat suspense. At eight o'clock in themorning Mr. Sleary and the dog reappeared:both in high spirits.'All right, Thquire!' said Mr. Sleary, 'your thonmay be aboard-a- thip by thith time. Childerthtook him off, an hour and a half after we leftthere latht night. The horthe danthed thepolka till he wath dead beat (he would havewalthed if he hadn't been in harneth), and thenI gave him the word and he went to thleepcomfortable. When that prethiouth youngRathcal thed he'd go for'ard afoot, the doghung on to hith neck-hankercher with all fourlegth in the air and pulled him down androlled him over. Tho he come back into the

drag, and there he that, 'till I turned thehorthe'th head, at half-patht thixth thithmorning.'Mr. Gradgrind overwhelmed him with thanks,of course; and hinted as delicately as he could,at a handsome remuneration in money.'I don't want money mythelf, Thquire; butChilderth ith a family man, and if you wath tolike to offer him a five-pound note, it mightn'tbe unactheptable. Likewithe if you wath tothtand a collar for the dog, or a thet of bellthfor the horthe, I thould be very glad to take'em. Brandy and water I alwayth take.' He hadalready called for a glass, and now called foranother. 'If you wouldn't think it going too far,Thquire, to make a little thpread for thecompany at about three and thixth ahead, notreckoning Luth, it would make 'em happy.'All these little tokens of his gratitude, Mr.Gradgrind very willingly undertook to render.Though he thought them far too slight, he said,

for such a service.'Very well, Thquire; then, if you'll only give aHorthe-riding, a bethpeak, whenever you can,you'll more than balanthe the account. Now,Thquire, if your daughter will ethcuthe me, Ithould like one parting word with you.'Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoiningroom; Mr. Sleary, stirring and drinking hisbrandy and water as he stood, went on:'Thquire, - you don't need to be told thatdogth ith wonderful animalth.''Their instinct,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'issurprising.''Whatever you call it - and I'm bletht if I knowwhat to call it' - said Sleary, 'it ith athtonithing.The way in whith a dog'll find you - thedithtanthe he'll come!''His scent,' said Mr. Gradgrind, 'being so fine.'

'I'm bletht if I know what to call it,' repeatedSleary, shaking his head, 'but I have had dogthfind me, Thquire, in a way that made me thinkwhether that dog hadn't gone to another dog,and thed, "You don't happen to know a perthonof the name of Thleary, do you? Perthon of thename of Thleary, in the Horthe-Riding way -thtout man - game eye?" And whether that dogmightn't have thed, "Well, I can't thay I knowhim mythelf, but I know a dog that I thinkwould be likely to be acquainted with him."And whether that dog mightn't have thought itover, and thed, "Thleary, Thleary! O yeth, tobe thure! A friend of mine menthioned him tome at one time. I can get you hith addrethdirectly." In conthequenth of my being aforethe public, and going about tho muth, youthee, there mutht be a number of dogthacquainted with me, Thquire, that I don'tknow!'Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quiteconfounded by this speculation.

'Any way,' said Sleary, after putting his lips tohis brandy and water, 'ith fourteen month ago,Thquire, thinthe we wath at Chethter. We wathgetting up our Children in the Wood onemorning, when there cometh into our Ring, bythe thtage door, a dog. He had travelled along way, he wath in a very bad condithon, hewath lame, and pretty well blind. He wentround to our children, one after another, as ifhe wath a theeking for a child he know'd; andthen he come to me, and throwd hithelf upbehind, and thtood on hith two forelegth, weakath he wath, and then he wagged hith tail anddied. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.''Sissy's father's dog!''Thethilia'th father'th old dog. Now, Thquire, Ican take my oath, from my knowledge of thatdog, that that man wath dead - and buried -afore that dog come back to me. Joth'phineand Childerth and me talked it over a longtime, whether I thould write or not. But we

agreed, "No. There'th nothing comfortable totell; why unthettle her mind, and make herunhappy?" Tho, whether her father bathelydetherted her; or whether he broke hith ownheart alone, rather than pull her down alongwith him; never will be known, now, Thquire,till - no, not till we know how the dogth findthuth out!''She keeps the bottle that he sent her for, tothis hour; and she will believe in his affectionto the last moment of her life,' said Mr.Gradgrind.'It theemth to prethent two thingth to aperthon, don't it, Thquire?' said Mr. Sleary,musing as he looked down into the depths ofhis brandy and water: 'one, that there ith alove in the world, not all Thelf-interetht afterall, but thomething very different; t'other, thatit bath a way of ith own of calculating or notcalculating, whith thomehow or another ith atleatht ath hard to give a name to, ath the waythof the dogth ith!'

Mr. Gradgrind looked out of window, andmade no reply. Mr. Sleary emptied his glassand recalled the ladies.'Thethilia my dear, kith me and good-bye!Mith Thquire, to thee you treating of her like athithter, and a thithter that you trutht andhonour with all your heart and more, ith a verypretty thight to me. I hope your brother maylive to be better detherving of you, and agreater comfort to you. Thquire, thake handth,firtht and latht! Don't be croth with uth poorvagabondth. People mutht be amuthed. Theycan't be alwayth a learning, nor yet they can'tbe alwayth a working, they an't made for it.You mutht have uth, Thquire. Do the withething and the kind thing too, and make thebetht of uth; not the wurtht!''And I never thought before,' said Mr. Sleary,putting his head in at the door again to say it,'that I wath tho muth of a Cackler!'

CHAPTER IX - FINALIT is a dangerous thing to see anything in thesphere of a vain blusterer, before the vainblusterer sees it himself. Mr. Bounderby feltthat Mrs. Sparsit had audaciously anticipatedhim, and presumed to be wiser than he.Inappeasably indignant with her for hertriumphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turnedthis presumption, on the part of a woman inher dependent position, over and over in hismind, until it accumulated with turning like agreat snowball. At last he made the discoverythat to discharge this highly connected female- to have it in his power to say, 'She was awoman of family, and wanted to stick to me,but I wouldn't have it, and got rid of her' -would be to get the utmost possible amount ofcrowning glory out of the connection, and atthe same time to punish Mrs. Sparsit accordingto her deserts.Filled fuller than ever, with this great idea,Mr. Bounderby came in to lunch, and sat

himself down in the dining-room of formerdays, where his portrait was. Mrs. Sparsit satby the fire, with her foot in her cotton stirrup,little thinking whither she was posting.Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman hadcovered her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veilof quiet melancholy and contrition. In virtuethereof, it had become her habit to assume awoful look, which woful look she nowbestowed upon her patron.'What's the matter now, ma'am?' said Mr.Bounderby, in a very short, rough way.'Pray, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit, 'do not bitemy nose off.''Bite your nose off, ma'am?' repeated Mr.Bounderby. 'Your nose!' meaning, as Mrs.Sparsit conceived, that it was too developed anose for the purpose. After which offensiveimplication, he cut himself a crust of bread,and threw the knife down with a noise.

Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of her stirrup,and said, 'Mr. Bounderby, sir!''Well, ma'am?' retorted Mr. Bounderby. 'Whatare you staring at?''May I ask, sir,' said Mrs. Sparsit, 'have youbeen ruffled this morning?''Yes, ma'am.''May I inquire, sir,' pursued the injuredwoman, 'whether I am the unfortunate cause ofyour having lost your temper?''Now, I'll tell you what, ma'am,' saidBounderby, 'I am not come here to be bullied.A female may be highly connected, but shecan't be permitted to bother and badger a manin my position, and I am not going to put upwith it.' (Mr. Bounderby felt it necessary to geton: foreseeing that if he allowed of details, hewould be beaten.)

Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, herCoriolanian eyebrows; gathered up her workinto its proper basket; and rose.'Sir,' said she, majestically. 'It is apparent tome that I am in your way at present. I willretire to my own apartment.''Allow me to open the door, ma'am.''Thank you, sir; I can do it for myself.''You had better allow me, ma'am,' saidBounderby, passing her, and getting his handupon the lock; 'because I can take theopportunity of saying a word to you, beforeyou go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I rather think youare cramped here, do you know? It appears tome, that, under my humble roof, there's hardlyopening enough for a lady of your genius inother people's affairs.'Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest

scorn, and said with great politeness, 'Really,sir?''I have been thinking it over, you see, sincethe late affairs have happened, ma'am,' saidBounderby; 'and it appears to my poorjudgment - ''Oh! Pray, sir,' Mrs. Sparsit interposed, withsprightly cheerfulness, 'don't disparage yourjudgment. Everybody knows how unerringMr. Bounderby's judgment is. Everybody hashad proofs of it. It must be the theme ofgeneral conversation. Disparage anything inyourself but your judgment, sir,' said Mrs.Sparsit, laughing.Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable,resumed:'It appears to me, ma'am, I say, that a differentsort of establishment altogether would bringout a lady of your powers. Such anestablishment as your relation, Lady

Scadgers's, now. Don't you think you mightfind some affairs there, ma'am, to interferewith?''It never occurred to me before, sir,' returnedMrs. Sparsit; 'but now you mention it, shouldthink it highly probable.''Then suppose you try, ma'am,' saidBounderby, laying an envelope with a chequein it in her little basket. 'You can take yourown time for going, ma'am; but perhaps in themeanwhile, it will be more agreeable to a ladyof your powers of mind, to eat her meals byherself, and not to be intruded upon. I reallyought to apologise to you - being only JosiahBounderby of Coketown - for having stood inyour light so long.''Pray don't name it, sir,' returned Mrs. Sparsit.'If that portrait could speak, sir - but it has theadvantage over the original of not possessingthe power of committing itself and disgustingothers, - it would testify, that a long period has

elapsed since I first habitually addressed it asthe picture of a Noodle. Nothing that a Noodledoes, can awaken surprise or indignation; theproceedings of a Noodle can only inspirecontempt.'Thus saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Romanfeatures like a medal struck to commemorateher scorn of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed himfixedly from head to foot, swept disdainfullypast him, and ascended the staircase. Mr.Bounderby closed the door, and stood beforethe fire; projecting himself after his oldexplosive manner into his portrait - and intofuturity.Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs.Sparsit fighting out a daily fight at the points ofall the weapons in the female armoury, withthe grudging, smarting, peevish, tormentingLady Scadgers, still laid up in bed with hermysterious leg, and gobbling her insufficientincome down by about the middle of every

quarter, in a mean little airless lodging, a merecloset for one, a mere crib for two; but did hesee more? Did he catch any glimpse of himselfmaking a show of Bitzer to strangers, as therising young man, so devoted to his master'sgreat merits, who had won young Tom's place,and had almost captured young Tom himself,in the times when by various rascals he wasspirited away? Did he see any faint reflectionof his own image making a vain-glorious will,whereby five-and-twenty Humbugs, pastfive-and-fifty years of age, each taking uponhimself the name, Josiah Bounderby ofCoketown, should for ever dine in BounderbyHall, for ever lodge in Bounderby buildings,for ever attend a Bounderby chapel, for evergo to sleep under a Bounderby chaplain, forever be supported out of a Bounderby estate,and for ever nauseate all healthy stomachs,with a vast amount of Bounderby balderdashand bluster? Had he any prescience of theday, five years to come, when JosiahBounderby of Coketown was to die of a fit inthe Coketown street, and this same precious

will was to begin its long career of quibble,plunder, false pretences, vile example, littleservice and much law? Probably not. Yet theportrait was to see it all out.Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same day,and in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in hisown room. How much of futurity did he see?Did he see himself, a white-haired decrepitman, bending his hitherto inflexible theories toappointed circumstances; making his facts andfigures subservient to Faith, Hope, andCharity; and no longer trying to grind thatHeavenly trio in his dusty little mills? Did hecatch sight of himself, therefore muchdespised by his late political associates? Didhe see them, in the era of its being quitesettled that the national dustmen have only todo with one another, and owe no duty to anabstraction called a People, 'taunting thehonourable gentleman' with this and with thatand with what not, five nights a-week, until thesmall hours of the morning? Probably he hadthat much foreknowledge, knowing his men.

Here was Louisa on the night of the same day,watching the fire as in days of yore, thoughwith a gentler and a humbler face. How muchof the future might arise before her vision?Broadsides in the streets, signed with herfather's name, exonerating the late StephenBlackpool, weaver, from misplaced suspicion,and publishing the guilt of his own son, withsuch extenuation as his years and temptation(he could not bring himself to add, hiseducation) might beseech; were of thePresent. So, Stephen Blackpool's tombstone,with her father's record of his death, wasalmost of the Present, for she knew it was tobe. These things she could plainly see. But,how much of the Future?A working woman, christened Rachael, after along illness once again appearing at theringing of the Factory bell, and passing to andfro at the set hours, among the CoketownHands; a woman of pensive beauty, always

dressed in black, but sweet-tempered andserene, and even cheerful; who, of all thepeople in the place, alone appeared to havecompassion on a degraded, drunken wretch ofher own sex, who was sometimes seen in thetown secretly begging of her, and crying toher; a woman working, ever working, butcontent to do it, and preferring to do it as hernatural lot, until she should be too old tolabour any more? Did Louisa see this? Such athing was to be.A lonely brother, many thousands of milesaway, writing, on paper blotted with tears, thather words had too soon come true, and that allthe treasures in the world would be cheaplybartered for a sight of her dear face? At lengththis brother coming nearer home, with hope ofseeing her, and being delayed by illness; andthen a letter, in a strange hand, saying 'he diedin hospital, of fever, such a day, and died inpenitence and love of you: his last word beingyour name'? Did Louisa see these things?Such things were to be.

Herself again a wife - a mother - lovinglywatchful of her children, ever careful that theyshould have a childhood of the mind no lessthan a childhood of the body, as knowing it tobe even a more beautiful thing, and apossession, any hoarded scrap of which, is ablessing and happiness to the wisest? DidLouisa see this? Such a thing was never to be.But, happy Sissy's happy children loving her;all children loving her; she, grown learned inchildish lore; thinking no innocent and prettyfancy ever to be despised; trying hard to knowher humbler fellow-creatures, and to beautifytheir lives of machinery and reality with thoseimaginative graces and delights, withoutwhich the heart of infancy will wither up, thesturdiest physical manhood will be morallystark death, and the plainest nationalprosperity figures can show, will be theWriting on the Wall, - she holding this courseas part of no fantastic vow, or bond, orbrotherhood, or sisterhood, or pledge, or

covenant, or fancy dress, or fancy fair; butsimply as a duty to be done, - did Louisa seethese things of herself? These things were tobe.Dear reader! It rests with you and me,whether, in our two fields of action, similarthings shall be or not. Let them be! We shallsit with lighter bosoms on the hearth, to seethe ashes of our fires turn gray and cold.

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