Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y.,at Second Class Mail Rates. _

Published Every
Week,

No. 98 Wiu1aM Street, New York.

 

HARD TIMES.

ei BY CHARLES DICKENS,
BOOK THE FIRST.
SOWING.

CHAPTER I.
THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.

Gradgrind (all supposititious, non-existent persons),
but into the head of Thomas Gradgrind—no, sir!

In such terms Mr, Gradgrind always mentally in-
troduced himself, whether to his private circle of
acquaintance, or to the public in general. In such
terms, no doubt, substituting the words ‘‘ boys and
= for ‘sir,’ Thomas Gradgrind now presented

homas Gradgrind to the little pitchers before him,
who were to be filled so full of facts.

deed, as he eagerly sparkled at them from the
cellarage before mentioned, he seemed a kind of

“Now, what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and | cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and pre-

girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone
are wanted in life. Plant nothing
else, and root out everything else.
You can only form the minds of rea-
soning animals upon Facts; nothing
else will ever be of any service to
them. This is the principle on

which I bring up my own ——

and this is the principle on which

bring up these children. Stick to
‘acts, sir!’

The scene was a plain, bare, monot-
onous vault of a school-room, and
the speaker's square forefinger em-
phasised his observations by under-
scoring every sentence with a line
on a aaycatang ome at. seen. —
emphasis was he yy the speak-
er’s square wall of a forehead, which
had his eyebrows for base, while
his eyes found commodious cellar-
age in two dark caves, overshadowed
by the wall. The emphasis was
helped by the speaker’s mouth,
which was wide, thin, and hard-set.
The emphasis was helped by the

aker’s voice, which was inflexi-
ble, dry, and dictatorial. The em-
press was helped by the speaker’s
air, which bristled on the skirts of
his bald head, a plantation of firs to
keep the wind from its shining sur-
face, all covered with knobs, like
the crust of a plum pie, as if the
head had scarcely warehouse-room,
for the hard facts stored inside.
The speaker’s obstinate carriage,
square coat, square legs, square
shoulders—nay, his very neck-cloth,
trained to take him by the throat
with an unaccommodating grasp,
like a stubborn fact, as it was—all
helped the emphasis.

“Tn this life, we want nothing but
Facts, sir; nothing but Facts!”

The speaker and the schoolmaster,
and the third wh person present,
all backed a little, and swept with
their eyes the inclined plane of little
vessels then and there arranged in
order, ready to have imperial gallons
of facts poured into them until they
were full to the brim.

CHAPTER II.
MURDERING THE INNOCENTS.

Tuomas GRADGRIND, sir. A man of
realities. A man of facts and calcu-
lations. A man who proceeds upon
the principle that two and two are
four, and nothing over, and who is
not to be talked into allowing for
anything over. Thomas Gradgrind,
sir—peremptorily Thomas—Thomas
Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales, and
the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir,
ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human
nature, and tell you exactly wh°t it comes to. Itisa
mere question of figures, a case of simple arithme-
tic. You ht hope to get some other nonsensical
belief into the head of George Gradgrind, or
Augustus Gradgrind, or John Gradgrind, or Joseph

WGKA Co.
July 28, 1881.

Complete in this Number,
Price, Ten Cents,

“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 the
young girl ina trembling voice, and with another
curtsey.

‘Then he has no business to do it,” said Mr. Grad-
grind, “Tell him he mustn’t. Cecilia Jupe. Letme
see. What is your father?”

a He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please,
Mr. Gradgrind frowned, and waved
off the objectionable calling with

 

THE CREATURE STRUGGLED, SE!ZED HER BY THE ARM; BUT RACHEL HAD THE CUP,

panes to blow them clean out of the regions of child- |
ood at one discharge. He seemed a galvanising |
Cepean too, charged with agrim mechanicat sub- |
stitute for the tender young imaginations, that were
to be stormed away.

“Girl number twenty,” said Mr. Gradgrind, square-
ly pointing with his square forefinger, “TI don’t

know that girl. Who is that girl? |

his hand,

“We don’t want to know anythin
about that, here. You mustn't te
us about that, here. Your father
breaks horses, don’t he?”

“Tf you please, sir, when they can
get any to break, they do break

orses in the ring, sir.’

*You mustn’t tell us about the
ring, here. Very well, then. Describe
your father as a horsebreaker. He
doctors sick horses, I dare say?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Very well, then. He is a veteri-
nary surgeon, @ farrier, and a horse-
breaker. Give me your definition of
a horse.” -(Sissy Jupe thrown into
the eee alarm by this demand.)

“Girl number twenty unable to
define a horse!’’ said Mr. Gradgrind,
for the general behoof of all the
little pitchers. ‘‘ Girl number twen-
ty possessed of no facts, in reference
to one of the commonest of animals!
Some boy’s definition of a horse.
Bitzer, yours.”

The square finger, moving here
and there, lighted suddenly on Bit-
zer, perhaps because he chanced to
sitin the same ray of sunlight which,
darting in at one of the bare win-
dows of the intensely whitewashed
room, irradiated Sissy... For the boys
and girls sat on the face of the in-
clined’plane in two compact bodies,
divided up the centre by a narrow
interval; and Sissy, being at the
corner of arow on the sunny side,
came in for the beginning of a sun-
beam, of which Bitzer, being at the
corner of a row on the other side, a
few rows in advance, caught the end.
But, whereas the girl was so dark-
eyed and dark-haired, that she
seemed to receive a deeper and more
lustrous color from the sun, when it
stone upon her, the boy was so
light-eyed and light-haired, that the
selfsame rays appeared to draw out
of him what little color he ever pos
sessed. His cold eyes would hardly
have been eyes, but for the short
ends of lashes which, by bringin
them into immediate contrast wit
somethin; — than themselves,
expressed their form. His short-
crop hair might have been a mere
continuation of the sandy freckles
on his forehead and face. His skin
was so unwholesomely deficient in
the natural tinge, that he looked as,
though, if he were cut, he would}
__bleed white.

“ Bitzer,” said Thomas Gradgrind.
tion of a horse.”

‘‘Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, name-
ly twenty-four grinders, four eye teeth, and twelve
incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy ‘oun-
tries sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to
be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth.”
Thus (and much more) Bitzer.

“Your defini-

’

4

 
id

HEARD TIMES,

 

 

“Now, girl number twenty,” said Mr. Gradgrind. |
** You know what a horse is.”’ |
She curtseyed again, and would have blushed deeper,
it she could have blushed deeper than she had blushed |
allthis time. Bitzer, after rapidly blinking at Thomas
Gradgrind with both eyes at once, and so-catching the
light upon his quivering ends of lashes that they looked |
like'the antenn® of busy insects, put his knuckles to)

his freckled toreiead. and sat down’ again.

The third gentleman now stepped forward. Amighty |
man at cutting and drying, he was; a government offi-
eer; in his way (and in most other people’s too), a pro- |
fessed pugilist ; always in training, always with a sys- |
tem to force down the general throat like a bolus, |
always to be heard of at the bar of his little Public-
office, ready to fight all England.._To continue in fistic
phraseology, he had a genius for coming up to the}
scratch, wherever and whatever it was, and. proving
himself an-ugly customer. He would goin and damage }
any subject whatever with his right, follow up with his |
left, stop, exchange, counter, bore his opponent (he al- |
ways fought All England)to the ropes, and fall upon |
him neatly. He was certain to knock the wind out of |
common-sense, and render that unlucky adyersary deaf |
to the call of time. And he had it in charge from high |
authority to bring about the great public-office Millen- |
nium, when Commissioners sliould reign upon earth.

“Very well,’ said the gentleman, briskly smiling,
and folding hisarms. ‘‘That’s ahorse: .Now, let me
ask you, girls and boys, Would you papera room with
representations of horses ?”*

Atter a pause one half of the children cried in chorus,
“Yes, sir!’”’ Upon which the other half, seeing in the
gentleman's face that Yes. was.wrong, cried. out in|
chorus, “ No, sir!’’—as the custom is in these examina- |
tions, |

“Ofcourse, No. Why wouldn't you?’ |

Apause. One corpulent slow. boy, with a wheezy
manner of breathing, ventured the answer, Because he
wouldn't paper aroom at all, butewould paint it.

“You must paper it,’’ said the gentleman, rather |
warmly.

“You must paper it,’’. said Thomas Gradgrind, |
“ whether you like it or not. Don’t tell ws you wouldn’t
paper it. What do you mean, boy?’ t

“T’llexplain to you, then,’’said the gentleman, after
another and a dismal pause, ‘‘ why you wouldn’t paper
aroom with representations of horses. “Do you ever’
see horses walking up;and down the sides of rooms in |
reality—in fact ? Doyou?”’

“Yes, sir!” from one half.
other.

“Of course no,’’ said the gentleman. with an indig-
nant look at the wrong half. ‘ Why, then, you are not
to see anywhere, what you don’t see in fact; you are
not to have anywhere, what you don’t haye in fact. What
18 called Taste, is another name for Fact.’’

Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation.

‘This is a new principle, a discovery, a great diseoy-
ery,” said the gentleman. ‘Now, I'll try you again.
Suppose you were going to carpet a room. Would
you use a carpet having a representation of flowers
upon it ?”” .

There being a general conviction by this time that
“No, sir!” was always the right answer to this gentle-
man, the chorus of No was very strong. Only a few
feeble stragglers said Yes; among them Sissy Jupe.

‘Girl number twenty,” s2id the gentleman, smiling
in the calm sense of knowledge.

Sissy blushed and stood up.

“So you would carpet your room—or your husband’s
room, if you were a grown woman, and had a husband
—with representations of flowers, would you ?” said the
gentleman, ‘“ Why would you?’

“Tf you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers,”
turned the girl,

“And is that why you would put tables and chairs
upon them, and hayb people walking over them with
heavy boots ?”

“Tt wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn’t crush
and wither, if you please, sir. They would ‘be the pic-
tures of what was very pretty and pleasant, and I
would fancy ’’——

“ Ay, ay, ay! But you mustn’t fancy,” cried the gen-
tleman, quite elated by coming so happily to his point.
“ That’s it! You are never to fancy.”

«You are not, Cecilia Jupe,”” Thomas Gradgrind sol-
emnly repeated, ‘‘to do anything of that kind.”

“Fact, fact, fact!’ said the gentleman. And “ Fact,
fact, fact!’ repeated Thomas Gradgrind.

“You are to be in all things regulated and gov-
erned,”’ said the gentleman, “‘ by fact. We hope to have |
before long a board of fact, composed of commis-
sioners of fact, who will force the people to
be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You must
discard the word Fancy altogether. You haye nothing
to do with it. You are not to have, in any object of use
or ornament, what would be a contradiction in fact.
You don’t walk upon flowers in fact ; you cannot be
allowed to walk upon flowers incsrpets. You don’t
find that foreign birds and butterflies come and perch
upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to paint |
foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You
never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls;
you must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls.
You must use,” said the gentleman, “‘ for all these pur-
poses, combinations and modifications (in primary col-
ors) of mathematical figures which are susceptible of
pro of and demonstration. This is the new discovery.
This is fact. This is taste.”

The girl curtseyed and sat down. She was very
young, andshe looked as if she were frightened by the
matter of fact prospect the world afforded.

“Now, if Mr. M‘Choakumchild,” said the gentleman,
*« will proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Grad-
vind, I shall be happy, at your request, to observe bis
mode of procedure.” Y

“Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged,
umchild, we only wait for you.”

“No, sir !’’ from the

ee

re-

 

“Mr. M‘Choak-

 

“So, Mr. M‘Choakumchild began in his best manner. |
He and some one bundred and forty other. school-,|
masters, had been lately turned at the same time in |
the same factory, on the same principles, like so many |
pianoforte legs. He had been put through an immense |
variety of paces, and had answered volumes of head-
breaking questions. Orthography, etymology, syntax,
and prosody, biography, astronomy, geography, and

| general cosmography, thé science.of compound propor-

tion, algebra, land-surveying, and levelling, vocal music,
and drawing trom models, were all at the ends of his
ten chilled fingers. He had worked his stony way into Her
Majesty’s most Honrable Privy Council's Schedule B,
and had taken the, bloom off the higher branches of
mathematics and physical science, French, German,
Latin, and Greek. He knew, all about all the Water
Sheds of all the world (whatever they are), and all the
histories of all the peoples, and all the names of all the
rivers and mountains, and all the productions, man-
ners, and customs of all the countries, and all the boun-
daries and bearings on the two/and thirty points of the
compass. Ah, rather overdone, Mr. M‘Choakumchild.
It he had only learned a little less, how infinitely better
he might have taught much more.

He went to workin this preparatory lesson, not un-
like 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 thy boiling store,thou shalt fill each jar
brim full by-and-by; dost thou think that thou wilt

| always kill outright the robber Fancy lurking within—

or sometimes only maim him and distort him.

CHAPTER III.
A LOOFHOLE.

Mr. GRADGRIND walked homeward from the school, |
in a state of considerable satisfaction. It was his
school, and, he intended it to be amodel. He intended |
every child in it be a model—just as the young Grad-

| grinds were all models.

There were five young Gradgrinds, and they were
models every one. They had been lectured at, from

| their tenderest years; coursed like little hares, Almost

as soon as they could run alone, they had been made
to run to the Jecture-room. The first object with which
they had an association, or of which they had a remem-
brance, was@ large black board witha dry Ogre chalk-

| ing ghastly white figures on it.

Not that they knew, by name or nature, anything
about an Ogre. Fact forbid! Ionly use the word to
express a monster in a lecturing castle, with Heaven
knows how many heads manipulated into one, taking
childhood captive, and dragging it into gloomy statis-
tical dens by the hair.

No little Gradgrind had ever seen a face in the moon;
it was up in the moon before it could speak distinctly.
No little Gradgrind had ever learned the silly jingle,
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star; how Iwonder what you
are!” No little Gradgrind had ever known wonder

on the subject, each little Gradgrind having at five |,

years old dissected the Great Bear like Professor
Owen, and driven Charles’s Wain like a locomotive en-
gine-driver. No little Gragrind had ever associated a
cow in a field with that famous cow with the crumpled
horn, who tossed the dog who worried the cat who
killed the rat who ate the malt, or with that yet more
famous cow who swallowed Tom Thumb ; it had never
heard of those celebrities, and had only been introduced
to @ cow as a graminiyorous ruminating quadruped
with several stomachs.

To his matter of fact home, which was called Stone
Lodge, Mr. Gradgrind directed his steps. He had yir-
tually retired from the wholesale hardware trade before
he built Ston ge, and was now looking about for a
suitable opp ity of making an arithmetical figure
in Parliament. Stone Lodge was situated on a moor
within a mile or two of a great town—called Coketown
in the present faithful guide-Look.

A very regular feature on the face ofthe country,
Stone Lodge was. Not the least disguise toned down or
shaded off that uncomprising fact in the landscape. A
great square house, with a‘heavy portico darkening the
principal windows, as its master’s heavy brows over-
shadowed his eyes. A calculated, cast up, balanced,
and proved house. Six windows on this side of the
door, six on that side; a total of twelve in this wing, a
total of twelve in the other wing ; four-and-twenty car-
ried over to the back wings. A lawn and garden and
an infant aveuue, allruled straight, like a botanical
account-book. - Gas and ventilation, drainage and
water-service, all of the primest quality. Iron clamps
and girders, fireproof from top to bottom ; mechanical
lifts for the housemaids, with all their brushes and
brooms ; everything that heart could desire.

Everything? Well, I supposéso. The little Grad-
grinds had cabinets in various departments of science,
too. They had a little conchological cabinet, and a
little metallurgical cabinet, and a little mineralogical

cabinet; and the specimens were all arranged and |

labelled, and the bits of stone and ore looked as though
they might have been broken from the parent sub-
stances by those tremendously hard instruments their
own names ; and, to paraphrase the idle legend of Peter
Piper, who had never found his way into their nursery.
If the greedy little Gradgrinds grasped at more than
this, what was it for good gracious goodness’ sake, that
the greedy little Gragrinds grasped at !

Their father walked on in a hopeful and satisfied
frame of mind. He was an affectionate father, after his
manner ; but he would probably have described him-
self (if he had been put, like Sissy Jupe, upon a defi-
nition) as “an eminently practical” father. He hada
particular pride in the phrase’ eminently practical,
which was considered to have a special application to
him. Whatsoever the public meeting heldin Coke-
town, and whatsoever the subject ot such meeting,

 

~ some Coketowner was sure to seize the occasion of al-

luding to his eminentiy practical friend Gradgnind.
This always pleased the eminently practical friend. He
knew it to be his due, but his due was acceptable.

He had reached the neutral ground upon the outskirts!
of the town, which was neither town nor country, and
yet was either spoiled, when his ears were invade
by the sound of music. The clashing and bangin
band attached 'to the horse-riding establishment whi
had there set up its rest in a wooden pavilion w;
fullbray. A flag floating from the summit of th
ple, proclaimed to mankind that it was “Sled
Horse-riding’’ which claimed their suffrages. Slea}
himself, a stout modern statue with a money-box at
elbow, in an ecclesiastical niche of early Gothic arch
tecture, took the money. Miss Josephine Sleary, 4
some very long and very narrow strips of printed bi
announced, was then inaugurating the entertainmen'
with her graceful equestrian Tyrolean flower-ac
Among the other pleasing, but always strictly mor
wonders which must be seen to be believed, Signo!
Jupe was that afternoon to-‘ elucidate the diverting ac
complishments of his highly trained performing dog
Merrylegs.””’ He was also to exhibit “his astounding;
feat of throwing seventy-five hundred weight in rapi-
succession backhanded over his head, thus forming ‘
fountain of solid iron in mid-air, a feat never before at
tempted in this or any other country, and which hay+
ing elicited such rapturous plaudits from enthusiasty
throngs, it cannot be withdrawn.” The" sanve Signor’
Jupe was to “enliven the varied performances at fre-
quent intervals with his chaste Shakspearean quips and
retorts.’’ Lastly, be was to wind them up by appear-
ing in his favorite character of Mr. William Button, of
Tooley streetjrin ‘the highly noyel: and~ laughable
hippo-comeédietta of The Tailor's Jotirney to Brent-
ford.”

Thomas Gradgrind took-no heed of these trivialities
of course, but,passed on as a practical man ought to pass

| on, either brushing the noisy insects from his thoughts

or consigning them to the’House of Correction. But
the turning of the road took him by the back of the
bvoth, and at the back of the booth a number of chil-
dren were congregated in a number of stealthy at-
titudes, striving to peep in at the hidden glories of the
place.

This brought him toastop. ‘Now, to think of these
vagabonds,”’ said: he, “attracting the young rabble trom

r a model school.”

A space of stunted grass and dry rubbish being be-
tween him and the young rabble,he took his eyeglass out
of his waistcoat to look for any child he knew by name
and might order off. Phenomenon almost incredible
though distinctly seen, what did he then behold but
his own metallurgical Louisa peeping with all hermight
through a hole in a deal board, and his own mathe-
matical Thomas abasing himself on the ground to catel:
buta hoofof the gracetul equestrian Tyrolean flower-
act!..

Dumb with amazement, Mr. Gradgrind crossed to
the spot where his family was thus disgraced, laid his
hand upon each erring child, and said :

“Louisa! Thomas !!”

Both rose, red and disconcerted. But, Louisa looked
at her father with more boldness than Thomas did.
Indeed, Thomas did not look at him, 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 a hand; ‘“ what
do you do here?’”’

«Wanted to see what it was like,’’ returned Louisa,
shortly. :

« What it was like ?”

“Yes, father.”

There was an air of jaded sullenness in them both,
and particularly in the girl: yet, struggling througl
the dissatisfaction of her face, there was a light with
nothing to rest upon, a fire with nothing to burn, 4
starved imagination keeping life in itself somehow,
which brightened its expression. Not with the bright-
ness natural to cheerful youth, but with uncertain,
eager, doubtful flashes, which had something painfnl
in them, analogous to the changes on a blind face
groping its way.

She was a child now, of fifteen or sixteen: but at no
distant day would seem to become a woman all at once.
Her father thought so as he looked ather. She was
pretty. Would have been self-willed (he thought in
his eminently practical way), but for her bringing-up.

“Thomas, though I have the fact’before me, I find it
difficult to believe that you, with your education and
resources, should have brought your sister to a scene
like this.” ;

“I brought him, father,” said Louisa, quickly.
asked him,to come.’

“Tam sorry to hearit. I am very sorry indeed to
hear it. It makes Thomas no better, and it makes you
worse, Louisa.”

She looked at her father again, but: no tear fell down
her cheek.

“You! Thomas and you, to whom the cirele of the
sciences is open ; Thomas and you, who may be said to
be replete with facts ; Thomas and you, who haye been
trained to’ mathematical exactness ; Thomas and you
here !” cried Mr. Gradgrind, ‘In this degraded posi-
tion! Iam amazed,”

“JT was tired, father. I have been tired along time,”
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 no more.’ He did not
speak again until they had walked some half-a-mile in
silence, when he gravely broke out with: “What
would your best friends say, Louisa? Do you attach
no value to their good opinion? What would Mr.
Bounderby say?”

At the mention of this name, his daughter stole 4
look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching

«Tf

 
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. Boun-
derby say!’’ All the way to Stone Lodge, as with
grave indignation he led the two delinquents home, he
repeated at intervals, “What would Mr. Bounderby
say !’’—as if Mr. Bounderby had been Mrs. Grundy.

CHAPTER IV.
MR. BOUNDERBY.

Nor, being Mrs Grundy, who was Mr. Bounderby ?

Why, Mr. Bounderby was as near being Mr. Grad-
grind’s bosom friend, as a man perfectly devoid of
sentiment can approach that ‘spiritual relationship
toward another man perfectly devoid of sentiment.
So near was Mr. Bounderby—or if the reader should
prefer it so far off.

He was afich man; banker, merchant, manufacturer,
and what not. A big, loud man, with a stare,and a
metallic laugh. A man made out of a coarse material,
which seemed to have been stretched to make so much
of him. A man with a great puffed head and forehead,
swelled veins in his temples, and such a strained skin
to his face that it seemed. to hold his eyes open, and
lift his eyebrows up. Aman with a pervading appear-
ance on him of being inflated like a balloon, and ready
to start. A man who could never ‘sufficiently vaunt
himself a self-made man. A man who was always pro-
claiming, through that ‘brassy speaking-trumpet of a
voice of his, his old ao lone and his old poverty. A
man who was the Bully of humility.

A year or two younger than his eminently practical
friend, Mr. Bounderby looked’ older; his seven or
eight and forty might have had the seven or eight
added to it again, without surprising anybody. He had
not much hair, One might ‘have fancied he had talked
it off; and that what was left, all standing up in dis-
order, was in that condition from being constantly
blown about’by his windy boastfulness.

Inthe formal drawing-room of Stone Lodge, standing

on the hearth-rug, warming himself before ‘the fire,
Mr. Bounderby delivered’ some observations to Mrs.

Gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birth-

day. He stood before the fire, partly because it was a

cool spring afternoon, though the. sun shone; partly

because the shade of Stone Lodge was, always haunted
by the ghost of damp mortar; partly because he. thus
took up a commanding position, from which ‘to subdue

Mrs. Gradgrind.

“T hadn’t a shoe tomy foot. As to a’stocking, I didn’t
‘know such a thing by name. I passed the day in a
ditch, and the night in a pigsty. That’s' the way I
spent my tenth birthday. Not that a ditch was new to
me, for I was born in a ditch.”

Mrs. Gradgrind, a little, thin, white, pink-eyed bun-
dle of shawls, of surpassing feebleness, mental and bod-
ily; who'was always taking physic without any effect,
and who, whenever she showed asymptom of coming
to life, was invariably stunned by some weighty pieve
of fact tumbling on her; Mrs. Gradgrind hoped it was
a dry ditch?

“No! As wet as'asop. A foot of water in it,” said
Mr. Bounderby.

“ Enough to give a baby a cold;”’ Mrs. Gradgrind con-
sidered,

“Cold? Iwas born with inflammation of the lungs,
and of everything else, I believe, that was capable of
inflammation,’’ returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘For years,
ma’am, I was one of the most miserable little wretches
ever seen. I was'so sickly, that I was always moaning
and groaning. Iwas so ragged and dirty, that you
wouldn’t have touched me with a pair of tongs.”

Mrs. Gradgrind faintly looked at the tongs, as the
= appropriate thing her imbecility could think of
doing.

$9 How I fought through it, J don’t know, said Bound-
erby. ‘I was determined, I suppose. Ihave been a
determined character in later life, and I suppose I was
then. Here Iam, Mrs. Gradgrind, anyhow, and nobody
to thank for my being here, but myself.”

Mrs. Gradgrind meekly and weakly hoped that his
mother—— ;

“My mother? Bolted, ma’am !’’ said Bounderby,

Mrs. Gradgrind, stunned as usual, collapsed and gave
it up.

f Ky mother left me to my grandmother,” said
Bounderby; ‘‘and, according to the best of my remem-
brance, my grandmother was the wickedest and the
worst old woman that ever lived. IfI got alittle pair
of shoes by any chance, she would take ’em off and sell
*em for drink. Why, I have known that grandmother of
mine lie in her bed and drink her four-teen glasses of
liquor before breakfast !”

Mrs. Gradgrind, weakly smiling, and giving no ether
sign of vitality, looked (as she always did) like an indif-
ferently executed transparency of a small female figure,
without enough light behind it.

“She kept achandler’s shop,’’ pursued Bounderby,
-fand kept me in an egg-box. That was the cot of my
infaricy; an oldegg-box. Assoon as I was big enough
to run away, of course I ran away. Then I became a
young vagabond; and instead of one old woman kneck-
ing me about and starying me, everybody of all ages
knocked me about and starved me. They were right:

? they had no business to do anything else; I was a nuis-

_ ance, an incumbrance, anda pest. I know that very

* -well.””

His pride in having at any time of his life achieved
such a great social distinction as to be a nuisance, an
incumbrance, and a pest, was only to be satisfied by
three sonorus repetitions of the boast.

“Twas to pull through it, Isuppose, Mrs. Gradgrind.
‘Whether I was.to do it or not, ma’am,I did it, Ipulled
through it, though nobody threw me out arope, Vag-
abond, errand-boy, vagabond, laborer, porter, clerk,
chief nianager, small partner, Josiah Bounderby of

HARD TIMES.

Coketown. Those are the antecedents and the culmi-
nation. Josiah Bounderby of Coketown learned his let-

ters from the outsides of the shops, Mrs. Gradgrind, |
and was first able to tell the time upon a dial-plate, |

from studying the steeple clock of St. Giles’s Church,
London, under the direction of ‘a drunken cripple, who
was a convicted thief, and an incorrigible vagrant. Tell
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, of your district schools
and your model schools, and your training schools, and

|

erby of Coketown, tells you plainly, all right, all cor-
rect—he hadn’t such advautages—but let us have hard-
headed, solid-fisted people—the education that made
him won't do for everybody, he knows well—such and
such his education was, however, and you may force
him to swallow boiling fat, but you shall never force
him to suppress the facts of his life.’”’

Being heated when he arrived at this climax, Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown stopped. He stopped just as
his eminently practical friend, still accompanied by the
two young culprits, entered the room. His eminently
practical friend, on seeing him, stopped also, and gave
Louisala reproachful look that plainly said, “Behold
your Bounderby !’’

ter? What is young Thomas in the dumps about?’

He spoke of young Thomas, but he looked at Louisa.

“We were peeping at the circus,” muttered Louisa,
haughtily, without lifting up her eyes, “and. father
caught us.”

«And, Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her husband, in a lofty
manner, “I should as, soon haye expected to find my
children reading poetry.”

“Dear me,” whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind. “How can
| you, Louisa and Thomas! Iwonder at you. I declare
you’re enough to make one regret ever having hada
family at all, I have a great mind to say I wish I hadn't.
Then what would you haye done, I should like to
know ?”

Mr. Gradgrind did not seem favorably impressed by
| these cogent remarks. .He frowned impatiently.

“Asif, with my head in its present throbbing state,
you couldn’t go and look at the shells and minerals and
things provided for you, instead of circuses !”” said Mrs
Gradgrind. ‘You know, as well as I do, no young peo
ple have circus masters, or keep circuses in cabinets, or
attend lectures about circuses. What can you possibly
| want to know about circuses then? Iam sure you haye
enough to do, if that’s what you want. With my head

names of half the facts you have got to attend to.’

“'That’s the reason!” pouted Louisa.

“Don’t tell me that’s the reason, because it can be
nothing of the sort,’’ said Mrs. Gradgrind. ‘Go and be
somethingological directly.” Mrs. Gradgrind was not
a scientific character, and usually dismissed her chil-
dren to their studies with this general injunction to
choose their pursuit.

In truth, Mrs, Gradgrind’s stock of facts in general
was wofully defective; but Mr. Gradgrind in raising
her to her. high position, had been influenced by two
reasons, Firstly, she was most satisfactory,as a ques-
tion of figures; and, secondly, she had “no nonsense”
about her. By nonsense he meant fancy; and truly it
is probable she was as free from any alloy of that na-
ture, as any human being not arrived at the perfection
of an absolute idiot, ever was.

The simple circumstance of being left alone with her
husband and Mr. Boundetby, was sufficient to stun
this admirable lady again without collision between
herself and any other fact. So she once more died
away, and nobody minded her.

“ Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, drawing a chair to
the fireside, “you are always so interestedin my young
people—particularly in Louisa—that I make no apology
for saying to you, I am very much yexed by this dis-
covery. Ihave systematically devoted myself (as you
know) to the education of the reason of my family.
The reason is (as you know) the only faculty to which
education should be addressed. And yet, Bounderby,
it would appear from this unexpected circumstance of
to-day, though in itself a trifling one, as if something
had crept into Thomas’s'and Louisa’s minds which is—
or rather, which is not—I don’t know that I can express

intended to be developed, and in which their reason
has no_part.’’

“There certainly is no reason in looking with interest
at & parcel of vagabonds,’’ returned [ounderby.
“When I was a vagabond myself, nobody looked with
any interest at me; I know that.”’

“Then comes the question,” said the eminently
practical father, with his eyeson the fire, “in what
has this vulgar curiosity its rise?”

“T’ll tell you in what. In idle imagination.”

“T hope not,” said the eminently practical ; “I con-
fess, however, that the misgiving hascrossed me on my
way home.”’

“In idle imagination, Gradgrind,” repeated Bound-
etby. “Avery bad thing for anybody, but a cursed
bad thing fora girl like Louisa. I should ask Mrs.
Gradgrind’s pardon for strong expressions, but that

Whoever expects refinement in me will be disappointed.
I hadn’t a refined bringing up.”

“ Whether,” said Mr. Gradgrind, pondering with his
hands in his pockets, and his cavernous eyes on the
fire, ‘whether any instructor or servant can have sug-
gested anything? Whether Louisa or Thomas can
have been reading anything? Whether, in spite of all
precautions, any idle story-book can have got into the
house? Because, in minds that have been practically
formed by rule and line, from the cradle upwards, this
is so curious, 80 incomprehensible.””

“Stop a bit!" cried Bounderby, who all this time
had been standing, as before, on the hearth, bursting at
the very furniture of the room with explosive humili-
os By have one of those strollers’ children in the
i school,”

 

your whole kettle-of-fish of schools; and Josiah Bound- |

“ Well!” blustered Mr. Bounderby, “ what’s the mat- |

in its present state, I couldu’t remember the mere |

myself better than by saying—which has never been |

she knows very well Iam not a refined character. |

3

'

“Cecilia Jupe, by name,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, with
something of a stricken look at his friend,

“Now, stop a bit !’’ cried Bounderby again.
did she come there ?””

“Why, the fact is, I saw the girl myself, for the first
time, only just now. She specially applied here at the
house to be admitted, as not regularly belonging to our
town, and—yes, you are right, Bounderby, you are
right.”

“Now, stop a bit!’ cried Bounderby, once more,
«Louisa saw her when she came.”

“Louisa certainly did see her, for she mentioned the
| application to me. But Louisa saw her, I have no

doubt, in Mrs. Gradgrind’s presence.”
| “Pray, Mrs. Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, “ what
| passed?”

“Oh, my poor health!” returned Mrs. Gradgrind.
«The girl wanted to come tothe school, and Mr.
Grandgrind wanted girls to come to the sehool, and
Louisa and Thomss both, said that the girl wanted to
come, and that Mr. Gradgrind wanted girls to come,

and how was it possible to contradict them when such
| was the fact!”
| Now Itell you what, Gradgrind!’’ said Mr. Boun-
derby. ‘Turn this girl to the rightabout, and there’s
| an end of it.”
“Tam much of your opinion.”
| “Do it at once,” said Bounderby, “has always been
|; my motto from achild. When I thought I would run
away from my egg-box and my grandmother, I did it
|} atonce. Do you the same. Do this at once!”
| Are you walking ?” asked his friend. “T have the
father’s address. Perhaps you would not mind walk-
ing 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—he always
| threw it on, a3 expressing a man who had been far too
| busily employed in making himself, to acquire any fash-

ion of wearing his hat—and with his hands in his pock-
| ets, saurtered out into the hall. “I never wear
| gloves,” it was his custom to say. “I didn’t climb up
| a ladder in them.. Shouldn’t be so high up if I

ad.”

| Being leftto saunter in the hall a minute or two
while Mr, Gradgrind went up stairs for the address, he
| opened the door of the children’s study and looked
| into that serene floor-clothed apartment, which, not-
withstanding its book-cases and its cabinets and its vari-
ety of learned and philosophical appliances, had much
of the genial aspect of a room devoted to hair-cutting.
Louisa languidly leaned upon the window looking out,
without looking at anything, while young Thomas stood
sniffing revengefully at the fire. Adam Smith and Mal-
thus, two younger Gradgrinds, weré out at a lecture in
custody; and little Jane, after manufacturing’ a good
deal of moist pipe-clay on her face with slate-pencil and
tears, had fallen asleep over vulgar fractions.

“It’s all right now, Louisa; it’s all right, young
Thomas,”’ said Mr. Bounderby; ‘“you won’t do so any
more. Ill answer forits being all over with father.
Well, Louisa; that’s worth a kiss, isn’t it?”

“Youcan take one, Mr. Bounderby,” returned Louisa,
when she had coldly paused, and slowly walked across
the room, and ungraciously raised her cheek towards
him, with her face turned away.

«“ Always. my pet; ain’t you, Louisa?’ said Mr, Boun-
derby. ‘‘ Good-bye, Louisa!”

He went his way, but she stood on the same spot, rub-
bing the cheek he had kissed, with her handkerchief,
until it was burning red. She was still doing this, five
minutes afterwards.

“What are you about, Loo ?’’ her brother sulkily re-
monstrated, ‘You'll rub a hole in your face.”

“You may cut the piece out with your pen-knife if’
you like, Tom. IE wouldn’t cry |”

“How

|

|

|

CHAPTER V,

THE KEY NOTE,

 

CoxEerown, to which Messrs. Bounderby and Grad”
grind now walked, was a triumph of fact; it had no
| greater taint of fancy in it than Mrs, Gradgrind herself.

Let us strike the key-note, Coketown, before pursuing
' our tune.

It was a town ofred brick, or of brick that would have
| been red if the smoke and ashes had allowed it; but as
matters stood it was a town of unnatural red and biack
like the painted face of a savage. It was a town of ma-
chinery and tall chimneys, out of which interminable
serpents of smoke trailed themselves for ever and ever,
and never got uncoiled. It had a black canal init, and
ariver that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast
piles of building full of windows where there was a
rattling anda trembling all day long, and where the
piston of the steam engine worked monotonously up
and down, like the head of an elephant in state of mel-
ancholy madness. It contained several large sfreets
all very like one another, and many small streets still
more like one another, inhabited by people equally like
one another,who all went in and out at the same hours,
with*the’same sound upon the same pavements, to do the
same work, and°to whom every day was the same as
yesterday and to-morrow, and every year the counter-
part of the last and the next.

These attributes of Coketown were in the main in-
separable from the work by which it was sustained ;
against them were to be set off, comforts of life which
found their way all over the world, and elegancioes of
life which made, we will not ask how much, of the fine
lady, who could scarcely bear to hear the place men-
tioned. The rest ot its features were voluntary, and
they were these.

You saw nothing in Coketown but what was severely
workful. If the members of a religious persuasion
built a chapel there—as the members of eighteen re-
ligious persuasions had done—they made it a pious

 

 
  
  

HARD TIMES.

 

warehouse of red brick, with sometimes (but this is
only in highly ornamented examples) a bell in a bird-
cage on the top of it. The solitary exception was the
new church; astuccoed edifice, with a square steeple
oyer the door, terminating in four short pinnacles
like florid wooden legs. All the public inscriptions
in the town were painted alike, in severe charac-
ters of black and white. ‘The jai! might have been the
infirmary, the infirmary might have been the jail, the
town-hall might have been either, or both, or anything
else, for anything that appeared to the contrary in the
graces of their construction. Fact, fact, fact, every-
where in the material aspect of the town; fact, fact,
fact, everywhere in the immaterial. The M’Choakum-
child school was all fact, and the school of design was
all fact, and the relations between master and man were
all fact, and everything was fact between the lying-in
hospital and the cemetery, and what you couldn't
state in figures, or show to be purchasable in the
cheapest market and salable in the dearest, was not,
and never should be, world without end, Amen.

A town so sacred to fact, and so triumphant in its
assertion, of course got on well? Why n0, not quite
well. No! Dearme!

No. Coketown did not come out ofits own furnaces
in all respects like gold that had stood the fire. First,
the perplexing mystery of the place was, Who be-
longed to the Eighteen denominations? Because,
whoever did, the laboring people did not. It was very
strange to walk through the streets on a Sunday morn-
ing, and note how few of them the barbarous jangling
of bells, that was driving the sick and nervous mad,
culled away from their own quarter, from theirown
close rooms, from the corners of their own streets,
where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all the church
and chapel going, as at a thing with which they had
no manner of concern. Nor was it merely the stran-
ger who noticed this, because there was a native or-
ae in Coketown itself, whose members were

be heard of in the House of Commons every session,
indignantly petitioning for acts of parliament that
should make these people religious by main force.
Then came the Teetotal Society, who complained
that these same people would get drunk, and showed
in tabular statements that they did get drunk, and
proved at tea-parties that no inducement, human
or Divine (except a medal), would induce them to forego
their custom of getting drunk. Thencame the chemist
and t, with other tabular statements, showing

that when they didn’t get drunk, they took opium..

_ Then came the experienced chaplain of the jail, with

_ which it clearly appeared.
- clear thing

 

more tabular statements, and showing that the same
would resort to low haunts, hidden from the pub-
lio eye, where they heard low singing and saw low
and mayhap. joined in it; and where A. B.,
ed twenty-four next birthday, and committed for
teen months’ soli! , had himself said (not that
he had ever shown himself particularly worthy of be-
lief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sure and con-
fident that otherwise he would have been a tip-top
moral specimen. Then came Mr. Gradgrind and Mr.
Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present moment
walking through Coketown, and both eminently practi-
cal, who could, on occasion, furnish more tabular state-
ments derived from their own personal experience, and
illustrated by cases they had known and seen, from
\—in short, it was the only
in the case—that these same people were a
bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that do what you would
for them they were never thankful for it, gentlemen ;
that they were restless, ee ; that they never
knew what they wanted; that they lived upon the best,
and + fresh butter; and insisted on Mocha coffee,
and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and yet were
e dissatistied and unmanageable. In short, it
was the moral of the old nursery fable :

There was an old woman, and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink;
Victuals and drink was the whole of her diet,
And yet this old woman would NEVER be quiet.

Is it possible, I wonder that there was any analogy be-
tween the case of the Coketown population and the case
of the ds? Surely, none of us in our sober
senses and acquainted with figures, are to be told at

this time of day, that one of'the foremost elements in

.

 

on r of the street.

the existence of the Coketown working-people had
been for scores of years deliberately set at nought?
That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be
brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on

in convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they

worked long and monotonously, the craving grew
within them for some physical relief—some relaxation,
enco ing good humor and good spirits, and giving
them av me recognized holiday, though it were

_but for an honest dance toa stirring band of music—

some occasional light pie in which even M‘Choakum-
child had no finger—which craving must and would be
satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go
wr wntil the laws of Creation were repealed ? .

7 is man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t quite know
Pod’s End,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “‘ Which is it, Bound-

erby ?”

Me. Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town,
but knew no more respecting it, So they stopped for a
moment, looking about.

Almost as they did so, there camerunning round the
at a quick pace and with a fright-
ened » & girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognised.
“ Halloa,”” he. “Stop! Where are you going?
Stop!” Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitat-

y-
“Why are you tearing about the streets,” said Mr.
“in this improper manner?”
“IT was—I was run after, sir,” the girl panted, “and
I wanted to get away.” _ See

* ing and made him a curtse;

_ The question was unexpectedly and suddenly ans-

ts Ran sfter 2” repeated Mr. Gradgrind, “ Who would.
yun you, ?

 

wered for her, by the colorless boy, Bitzer, who came
round the corner with such blind spee¢ and so little
anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he
brought himself up against Mr. Gradgrind’s waistcoat
and rebounded into tlre road.

“What do you mean, boy?” said Mr. Gradgrind,
“ What are you doing? How dare you dash against—
everybody in this manner ?”’

Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had
knocked off ; and backing, and knuckling his forehead,
pleaded that it was an accident,

“Was this boy running atter you, Jupe?”’ asked Mr.
Gradgrind, .

« Yes, sir,” said the girl reluctantly.

“No, I wasn’t, sir !’’ cried Bitzer. ‘Not tillshe run
away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what
they say, sir; they’re famous for it. You know the
horse-riders are tamous for not minding what they say,”
addressing Sissy. “ It’s as well known in the town as—
please, sir, as the multiplication-table isn’t known to
the horse-riders.”” Bitzer tried Mr. Bounderby with
this.

“He frightened me so,” said the girl, ‘‘ with his cruel
faces !’"

“Oh!’? cried Bitzer. “Oh! An’t you one of the
rest! An’t you a horse-rider! Inever looked at her,
sir. Iasked herif she would know how to define a
horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she
ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know
how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn’t
have thought of saying such a mischief if you hadn’t
been a horse-rider !’’

‘Her calling seems to be pretty well known among
7em,’’ observed Mr. Bounderby. ‘‘ You’d have had the
whole school peeping in a row, in a week.”

“Truly. I think so,” returned his friend.
turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay
heres moment. Let me hear of your running in this
manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me
through the master of the school. You understand
whatI mean. Go along.”

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his
ae again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and re-

ated. a,

“Now, girl,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ take this gentle-
man and me to your father’s; wearegoingthere. What
have he got in that bottle you are carrying ?””

- »” said Mr. Bounderby.

“Dear, nosir! It’s the nine oils.”

“The what?’ cried Mr. Bounderby.

“The nine oils, sir. To rub father with.”

“ Then” said Mr. Bounderby, with aloud short laugh,
i yest the devil do you rub your father with nine oils
jor 2?”

“It’s what our people always use, sir, when they get
any hurts in the ring,” replied the girl, Jooking over
her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was
gone. “They bruise themselves very bad, sometimes.”

“Serve ’em right,’’ said Mr. Bounderby, “for being
idle.” She eee up at his face, with mingled aston-
ishment and dread. .

“By George |’ said Mr. Bounderby, ‘“‘ when I was four
or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises
upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would
have rubbed off. I didn’t get them by posture-making,
but by being bangedabout. There was no rope-dancing
for me; danced on the bare ground and was larruped
with the rope.” $

Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means
80 rough a man as Mr. Bounderby. His character was
not unkind, all things considered ; it might have been
& ve
round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it years
ago. He said, in what he meant for a re-assuring tone,
as they turned down a narrow road, “ And this is Pod’s
End; is it, Jupe?” :

“This is it, sir, and—if you wouldn’t mind, sir—this
is the house.” ; Ps ee

She stopped, at twilight, at'the door of a mean little
public house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and
as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken
to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go,
and was very near the end ot it.

“It’s only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if |

you wouldn’t mind, and waiting there for amoment till
I get the candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it’s only
Merrylegs, and he only barks.” :
“Merrylegs and nine oils, eh !’’ said Mr. Bounderby,
entering last with his metallic laugh.. “Pretty well
this, for a.self-made man !’’ ; ;

CHAPTER VI.
SLEARY’S HORSEMANSHIP.

Tur name of the public house was thé Pegasus’s
Arms. The Pegasus’s legs might have been more to
the purpose; but, underneath the winged horse upon
the sign-board, the Pegasus’s Arms was inscribed in
Roman letters. Beneath that inscription again, in a
flowing scroll, the painter had touched off the lines:

Good malt makes ee bee, 5

Walk in, and they’ll draw it here,
wine makes good brandy,

Give-as a call, and you'll find t¢ handy.

.Framed.and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy
little bar, was another Pegasus—a theatrical one—wit:
real gauze let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all

over , and his ethereal harness made of red silk.
As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign,
and as it not grown light enough within to see the

picture, Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby received no
offence from these idealities. They, followed. the girl
up some stee:
and stopped

They expected every moment to hear, Merrylegs give’

the dark while she went on for ive

tongue, but the highly trained performing dog had

 

“ Bitzer,

kind one’ indeed, if he had only made some |

corner-stairs without meeting any one,

 

 

not barked when the girl and the candle appeared to-
gether.

“ Father is not in our room, sir,” she said with 2 tace
of great surprise. “If you wouldn’t mind walking :v,
Til find him directly.”

They walked in; and Sissy, having set two chairs i.v
them, speed away with a quick, light step. It wis a
mean, shabbily turnished room, with a bedin it. The
white night-cap embellished with two peacocks tei th-
ers and a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signor Juye Lid
that very atternoon enlivened the varied perioin.«nuces.
with his chaste Shakespearean quips and retorts, hung
upon a nail; but no other portion of his wardroke, or
other token of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen
anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that respectable ancestor
of the highly trained animal who went aboard the ark,,
might haye been accidentally shut out of it, tor any
sign of a dog that was manifest to eye or ear in the:
Pegasus’s Arms.

They heard the doors of the room above, opening znd
shutting as Sissy went from one to another in qucst of
her father; and presently they heard voices expressing
surprise. She came bounding down again in a great.
hurry, opened a battered and mane old hair trunk,
found it empty, and looked round with her hands:
clasped and her face full of terror. f

“Father must have gone down to the Booth, sir. I
don’t know why he should go there, but he must be
there, I’ll bring him in a minute?’ She was gone di-
rectly, without her bonnet; with her long dark, child-
ish hair streaming behind her. F

“‘What does she mean !” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Back
in a minute? It’s more than a mile off.”

Before Mr. Bounderby could reply, a young man ap-
peared at the door, and introducing himself with the
words, “By your leaves, gentlemen!’ walked in
with his hands in his pockets. His face, close shaven,
thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of
dark hair, brushed into a roll round his head, and parted
up the centre. His legs were very robust, but shorter
than legs of. good proportions should haye been
His chest and back were as much too broad, as his
legs were too short, He was dressed in a Newmarket
coat and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round
his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses
provender, and saw-dust, and looked a most remark-
able 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 of the day
as Mr. E. W.B. Childers, so justly celebrated for his
daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North

ican Prairies; in which popular performance, a
diminutive boy with an old face, who now accom-
panied him, assisted as his infant son; being carried
upside down over his father’s shoulder, by one foot,
and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the
palm of his father’s hand, according to the violent pa-
ternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be ob-
served to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls,
wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this
hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid
as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part
of the spectators; but in private, where his charac-
teristics were a precocious cutaway coat and aD ex-
tremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy.

“By your leaves, gentlemen,” said Mr. E. W. B.
Childers, glancing round theroom. “It was you, I be-
lieve, that were wishing to see Jupe ?’’

“It was,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “His daughter hae
gone to fetch him, but I can’t wait; therefore, if you
please, I will leave a message for him with you.’

‘You see, my friend,”” Mr. Bounderby put in, “ we are
the kind of people who know the value of time, and
you are the kind of people who don’t know the value
of time.” :

“Thave not,’ retorted Mr. Ohilders, after surveying
him from head to foot. ‘the honor of knowing you;
—but if you mean that you can make more money of
your time than Ican of mine, I should judge trom
your appearance, that you are about right.”

“And when —— aan it, you can keep it too,
I should think,” upid. } 3

“Kidderminster, stow that!’ said Mr. Childers.
(Master Kidderminster was Cupid’s mortal name.)

“What does he come here cheeking us for, then?”
cried Master Kidderminster, showing a very irascible
temperament. “If you want to cheek us, pay your
ochre at the doors and take it out.”

“Kidderminster,”’ said Mr. Childers, raising his
voice, “stow that !—Sir,” to Mr. Gradgrind, “I was ad-
dressing myself to you. You may or you may not
be aware (for perhaps you have not been much in
the audience), that Jupe has missed his tip very often,

lately.” . &

“Has—what has he missed?” asked Mr. Grad-
grind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assist-
ance.

“ Missed his tip.” : :

“Offered at the Garters four times last night and
never done ’em once,’ said Master Kidderminster.
“Missed his tip at the banners, too, and was loose in
his ing.” .
“Didn't do what he ought to do. Was short in his
leaps and bad in his tumbling,” Mr, Childers inter-

pe Ohl” said Mr. Gradgrind, “that is tip, is it?”
“In a general way that’s missing his tip,” Mr. E. W.
B. peer warren ssaliig 06 galttars, Bizahabe
“Nine oils, errylegs, mi 5 * *
and Ponging, eh!” ejaculated Bounderby, with his
laugh of eee. as sort of company, too, for a
h Yi himself.”
"iowa yourself, then,” retorted ope. “Oh Lord?
if- you’ve raised yourself so high as that comes to,
let yourself down a bit.” ; 4
- “This is a very obtrusive lad!” said Mr. Gradgrind,
turning, and knitting his brows on him. ao
“We'd have. had a young gentleman to meet you, if

eames

 

 

ese

OM B=

 

 

 

 
 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

*we had known you were coming,” retorted Master Kid-
derminster, nothing abashed. ‘It’s a pity you don’t
have a bespeak, being so particular. You're on the
Tight-Jetf, ain’t you ?’’ ,
“What does this unmannerly boy mean,’ asked Mr.
Gradgrind, eyeing him in asort of desperation, ‘ 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 or Slack-Jeff, it don’t
much signify : it’s only tight-rope and slack-rope. You
were going to give me a message for Jupe?”
. “Yos, I was.”
“Then,” continued Mr. Childers, quickly, “my
opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know
much of him ?’’
«“Inever saw the man in my life.”
1 “T doubt if you ever willsee him now.
plain to me he’s off.”
| * Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter ?
{
}

 

It’s pretty

“Ay! I mean,” said Mr. Childers, with a nod, “ that
he hascut. He was goosed’ last night, he was goosed
the night before last, he was goosed to-day, He has
lately got in the way of being always goosed, and he
can’t stand it.’’

“Why has he been—so very much—Goosed ?” asked
Mr. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with
great solemnity and reluctance.

“ His joints are turning stiff, and he is getting used
up,’ said Childers. ‘He has his points as a Cackler
still, but he can’t get a living out ot them.”

j “A Cackler!’’ Bounderby repeated. ‘Here we go
again |””

t OA speaker, if the gentleman likes it better,’ said
Mr. E. W. B. Childers, superciliously throwing the
interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it

» with a shake of his long hair—which all shook at once.

**Now, it’s a remarkable fact, sir, that it cut that man
. : deeper, to know that his daughter knew of his being
: goosed, than to go through with it,

“Good!’’ interrupted Mr. Bounderby. ‘This is
good, Gradgrind! A man so fond of his daughter, that
he runs,away from her! Ha! ha! Now, I'll tell you
what, young man, I haven’t always occupied my pre-

sent station of life. I know what these things are.

You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother ran

away from me.”

E. W. B. Childers replied pointedly, that he was not
at all astonished to hear it.”’

“Very well,’ said Bounderby. ‘I was born in a
5 ditch, and my mother ran away trom me. DoI excuse
her for it? NotI. WhatdolI call her for it? I call
I call her probably the very worst woman that
ever lived in the world, except my drunken grand-
mother. There’s no family pride about me, there’s no
imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a
spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bound-
erby of Coketown, without any fear or any favor, what
| I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick

; Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a run-
: away rogue and a vagabond, that’s what he is, in
English.’

“It’s all the same to me what he is or what he is not,
whether in English or whether in French,’ retorted
Mr. E. W. B. Childers,’ facing about. “I am telling
your friend what’s the fact; if you don’t like to hear it,
you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it
mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own
NI building atleast,” remonstrated E. W. B. with stern
irony. “Don’t give it mouth in this building, till
you're called upon. You have got some building of
your own, I dare say, now ?”’

“Perhaps so,” replied Mr. Bounderby, rattling his
money and laughing.

. “Then give it mouth in your own building, will you,

if you please ?’”’ said Childers. “Because this isn’t a

ra building, and too much of you might bring it
own t” .

Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he
turned’from him, as ftom a man finally disposed of,
to Mr. @ ind.

| «Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an
| hour ago, and then was seen to slip outhimself, with
his hat over his eyes and a bundle tied upin a handker-
chief under his arm. She will never believe itot him,
but he has cut away and left her.”

“ Pray,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind, “‘ why will she never be-
Aieve it of him ?”

“Because those two were one. Because they were
mever asunder. - up to this time, he seemed to
dote upon her,” said Ohilders, taking a step or two to
jook into the empty trunk. Both Mr. Childers and
Kidderminster walked in a curious’'manner; with their
legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with
@ very knowing assumption of being stiffin the knees,
‘This walk was common to all the male members of
Sleary’s company, and was understood to express, that
they were always on horseback.

“Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her,”
said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he
looked up from the empty box. “ Now, he leaves her
without anything to take to.”

“It is creditable to you, who have never been appren-
ticed, to express that opinion,” returned Mr. Gradgrind,
approvingly. ;

“ Tnever apprenticed ? I was apprenticed when I was
‘Seven year old,” .

“Oh! Indeed?” said Mr. Gradgrind, rather resent-
fully, as having been defrauded of his good opifion.
“*T was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice

| young persons to ’’——

“ Tdieness,”” Mr. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh.
‘No, by the Lord Harry! Nor I!” =

“Her father always had it in his head,” resumed
‘Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr, Bounderby’s
existence, “that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all
of education. How it got into his head, I can’t say; I
can only say that it never got out. He has been pick-
ang up a bit of reading for her, here—and a bit of writ-

 

 

 

ing here, there—and a bit of ciphering for her, some-
where else—these seven years.”

Mr. E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his
pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a
good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. Gradgrind.
From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentle-
man, for the sake of the deserted girl.

“When Sissy got into the school here,” he pursueil,
“her father was as pleased as Punch. I couldn’t alto-
gether make out why, myself, as we were not stationary
here, being but comers and goers anywhere. I suppose,
however, he had this move in his mind—he was always
half-cracked—and then considered her provided for. If
you should happen to have looked in to-night, for the
purpose of telling him that you were going to do her
any little service,” said Mr. Childers, stroking his face
again, and. repeating his look, ‘“‘it would be very fortu-
nate and well-timed; very fortunate and well-timed.”

“On the contrary,” returned Mr. Gradgrind. “I
came to tell him that her connections made her not an
object for the school, and that she must not attend any
more. Still, if her father really has left her, without
any connivauce on her part—Bounderby, let me have a
word with you.”

Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betook himself, with
his equestrian walk, to the landing outside the door,
and there stood stroking his face and softly whistling.
While thus engaged, he overheard such phrases in: Mr.
Bounderby’s voice as ‘“‘ No, Jsay no. LIadvise you not.
I say by no means.’”’ While, from Mr. Gradgrind, he
heard in his much lower tone the words, “But even as
an example to Louisa, of what this pursuit which
has been the subject of a vulgar curiosity, leads to.and
ends in. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point. of
view.” :

Meanwhile, the various members of Sleary’s com-
pany gradually gathered together from the upper re-
gions, where they were quartered, and, from standing
about, talkingin low voices to one another, and to Mr.
Childers, gradually insinuated themselves and him into
the room. There were twoor three handsome young
women among them, with two or three husbands, and
their two or three mothers, and their eight or nine lit-
tle children, who did the fairy business when required.
The father of one of the families was in the habit of
balancing the father of another of the families on the
top of a great pole; the father of a third family often
made a pyramid of both those fathers, with Master
Kidderminster for the apex, and himself for the base ;
all the fathers could dance upon rolling casks, stand
upon bottles, catch knives and balls, twirl hand-basins,
ride upon anything. jump over everything, and stick at
nothing. the mothers could (and did) dance, upon
the slack wire and the tight rope, and perform rapid
acts on bare-backed steeds ; none of them were at all
particular in respect of showing their legs ; and one of
them, alone in a Greek chariot, drove six in handinto
every town they came to. They all assumed to be
mighty rakish and knowing, they were not very tidy
in their private dresses, they were not at all orderly in
their domestic arrangements, and the combined litera-
ture of the whole company would have produced but a
poor letter on any subject. Yet there was a remarka-
ble gentleness and childishness about these people, a
special inaptitude for any kid of sharp practice, and
an untiring readiness to help and pity one another, de-
serving, often of as much respect, and always of as
much generous construction, as the every-day virtues
of any class of people in the world.

Last of all appeared Mr. Sleary: a stout man as al-
ready mentioned, with one fixed eye and one loose eye,
a voiee (if it can be called so) like the efforts of a broken
old pair of bellows,a flabby. surface, and a muddled
head which was never sober and never drunk.

“Thquire!’’ said Mr. Sleary, who was troubled with
asthma, and whose breath came far too thick 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 being thuppothed to have mor-
rithed ?”

He addressed Mr. Gradgrind, who answered “ Yes.”

“Well Thquire,” he returned, taking off his hat, and
rubbing the ia with his pocket-handkerchiof,
which he kept inside for the purpose. “Ith it your
intenthion to do anything for the poor girl, “Thquire?”’

“I shall have something to propose to her when she
comes back,” said Mr. Gradgrind.

“Glad to hear it, Thquire. Not that I want to get
rid of the chil@, any more than I want to thtand
in her way. I’m willing to take her prentith, though
at her age ith late. My voithe ith a ‘little huthky,
Thquire, and not eathy heard by them ath don’t know
me; but if you’d been chilled and heated, heated and
chilled, chilled and heated in the ring when you wath
oe ath often ath I have been, your voithe wouldn’t
have lathted out, Thquire, no more than mine.”

“T 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 your
friend thay? If you haven’t took your feed yet, have a
glath of bitterth.”

Here his daughter Josephine—a pretty, fair-haired
girl of eighteen, who had been tied on a horse at two
years old, and had made a will at twelve, which she
always carried about with her, expressive of her dying
desire to be drawn to the grave by the two piebald
——— “Father, hush! she has come zk Y”

hen came Sissy Jupe, running into the room as she
had run out of it. And when she saw them all as-
sembled, and saw their looks, and saw no father there,
she broke into a most deplorable cry, and took refuge
on the bosom of the most accomplished tight-rope lady
(herself in the family way), who knelt down on the floor
to nurse her, and to weep over her.
ince an infernal thame, upon my soul it ith,” said

jeary.

| his head, and then remarked:

 

““O my dear father, my good kind father, where aro
you gone? You are gone to try to do me some good, I
know! You are gone away for my sake,I[am sure.
And how miserable and helpless you will be without
me, poor, poor father, until you come back!” It was
so pathetic to hear her saying many things of this kind,
with her face turned upward, and her arms stretched
out as if she were trying to stop his departing shadow
and embrace it, that no one spoke a word until Mr.
Bounderby (growing impatient) took the case in hand.

“Now, good people all,’ said he, “this is wanton
waste of time. Let the girl understand the fact. Let
her take it from me, if you like, who have been rum
away from, myself. Here, what’s your name! Your
father has absconded—deserted you—and you mustn’t
expect to see him again as long as you live.”

‘They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and
were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the sub-
ject, that instead of being impressed by the speaker’s
strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary
dudgeon. Themen muttered “Shame!” and the wo-
men ‘ Brute!” and Sleary, in some haste, communi-
cated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby.

“Itell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you,
my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort,
and dropit. They’re a very good-natur’d people, my
people, but they’re accuthtomed to be quick in their
movementh; and if you don’t act upon my advithe,
I'm damned if I dont believe they’ll pith you outo’
winder.”

Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild sugges-
tion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently
practical exposition of the subject.

“It is of no mement,” said he, “ whether this person
is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. Ho
is gone away, and there is no present expectation of
his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands.”

“Thath agreed, Thquire. Thick to that!” From
Sleary.
“Well, then. I, who came here to inform the father

of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received
at the school any more in consequence of there being
practical objections, into which I need not enter, to
the reception there of the children of persons so em-
ployed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to
make a proposal. Iam willing to take charge of you,
Jupe, and to educate you, and provide for _ The
only condition (over and above your good behavior) I
make is, that you decide now, at once, whether to ac-
company me or remain here. Also, that if you accom-
pany me now, it is understood that you communicate
no more with any of your friends who are here present.
These observations comprise the whole ofthe case.”

“At the thame time,” said Sleary, “I mutht put in
my word. Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner
may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be
prentitht, you know the natur of the work,
and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in
whothe lap you're a lying at pretenth, would be a
mother to you, and Jothphine would be a thither to
you. I don’t pretend to be of the angel breed myself,
and don’t thay but what, when you mith’d your tip,
you’d find me cut up rough, and thwear a oath or two
at you. But whatI thay, Thquire, ith, that good-
tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a
injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and
that I don’t expect Ithall begin otherwithe at my
time of life, with a rider. I never wath much ofa
Cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay.”

The latter partof this speech was addressed to Mr.
Gradgrind, who receivedit with a grave inclination of

“The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in
the way of influencing your decision, is, that itis highly
desirable to have a sound practical education, and that
even your father himself (trom what I understand) ap-
pears, on your behalf, to have felt that much.”

The last words had a visible effect upon her. She
stopped in her wild crying,a little detached herself
from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her
patron. The whole company perceived the force of the
change, and. drew a long breath together, that plainly
said, “‘she will go!” :

“Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,”’ Mr.
Gradgrind cautioned her; “I say no more. Be sure
you know your own mind!”

‘When father comes back, cried the girl, bursting
into tears again, after a minute's silence, ‘how will he
ever find me if I go away!”

“You may be quite at ease,” said Mr. Gradgrind,
calmly ; he worked out the whole matter like a sum ;
“you may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In
ger acase, your father, I apprehend, must find out

“Thieary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed
ofit. Known all over England, and alwath paythe. ith
way.”

“Must find out Mr. Sleary, who would then let him
know where you went. I should have no power of
keeping you against his wish, and he would have no
difficulty, at any time, in finding Mr. Thomas Gradgrind
of Coketown. I am well known.”

“ Well known,” assented Mr. Sleary, rolling his loose
eye. “You're one of the thort, ognize. that keepth a
prethiouth thight of money out of the houthe. But
never mind that at prethent.”

There was another silence ; and then she exclaimed,
sobbing with her hands before her face, “Oh give me
my clothes, give me my clothes, and let me go.away
before I break my heart!”

The women sadly bestirred themselves to get the
clothes tagether—it was soon done, for they were not
many: to pack them ina basket which had often
travelled with them. Sissy sat all the time, upon the
ground, still sobbing, and covering her eyes. Mr. Grad-
grind and his friend Bounderby stood near the door,
ready to take her away. Mr. Sleary stood in the mid-
die of the room, with the male members of the com-
pany about him, exactly as he would have stood in the
 

s HARD TIMES,

 

at

} centre of the ring during his daugher Josephine’s per- | at a salary. .And here she was now, in her elderly days,

t
j
;

formance. He wanted nothing but his whip. | with the Coriolanian style of nose, and the dense. black
sah Ashes raed emocthea ex dimcdeunt kelsiemd.qal | Sexuipsny’s cdatte tos orm hin baaabtaters cases:
iton. Then they pressed about her, and bent over her | IfBounderby had been aconqueror, and Mrs. Sparsit
in very natural attitudes, kissing and embracing her ; | a captive princess whom he. took about asa feature in
and brought the children to take leave of her; and | his state-processions, he could not have made. greater
were a tender-hearted, simple, foolish set of women al- | flourish with her than he habitually did. Just.asit
together. ‘i | belonged to his 'boastfulness to.depreciate his own ex-
“Now, Jupe,’’ said Mr. Gradgrind. “If you are quite | traction, so it belonged to.it to exalt Mrs, Sparsit’s. In
determin :d, come !’’ | the measure that he would not allow his. own youth to
Petal she had = ane her eee a the a pert - as en ee ie a aoe arexele eenuapenenets
ecompany yet, every one em had to unfo e brightened Mrs. Sparsit’s juyenile career with every
his arms (for — all assumed the professional attitude | possible advantage, and showered wagon-loads of early
when they found themselves near Sleary), and give her | roses all. over that lady’s path., ‘‘And yet, sir,’’ he
® parting kiss—Master Kidderminster excepted, in would say, ‘‘how:does it turn outafter all? Why here
whose young nature there was an original flavor of the | she is at a hundred a year (I give her a hundred, which
misanthrope, who was also known to have harbored | she is pleased to term handsome), keeping the house of
matrimonial views, and who moodily withdrew. Mr. | Josiah Bounderby of Coketown !’’
Sleary was reserved until the last. Opening hisarms| Nay, he made this foil of his so very widely known
wide he took her by both her hands-and would have | that third parties took it up, and handled it on some
sprung her-up and down, after the riding-master man- | occasions with considerable briskness. It was one of
ner of congratulating young ladies on their dismount- | the most exasperating attributes of Bounderby, that he
ing from a rapid act; but there was no rebound in | not only sang his own praises, but stimulated other
Sissy — Pere eee before him crying. |men to sing them. There was a ome saree of
“Good-bye, my dear!’ said Sleary. ‘You’ll make | clap-trap in kim. Strangers, modest enough else-
your fortun, I hope, and none of our poor folkth will | where, started wp at dinners in Coketown, teaaienen:
ever trouble you, I'll pound it. I with your father | in quite a rampant:way, of Bounderby, They made
page's oe oun dog with him ; ith a ill-conwenieth | him out to be the Royal Arms, the ree pack. Magna
to have the dog out of the billth. But on thecond | Charta, John Bull, Habeas,Corpus, the Bill .of Rights,
thoughth, he wouldn’t have performed without hith | an Englishman’s house is his castle, Church and State,

mathter, tho ith ath broad ath ith long!” »

With that he regarded her attentively with his fixed |
eye, surveyed his company with his loose one, kissed
her, shook his head, and handed her to Mr. Gradgrind
as toa horse: { |

“ There the ith, Thquire,” he said sweeping her with |
a professional glance as if she were being adjusted in |
her seat, “‘and the’ll do you juthtithe. Good-bye, |
Thethilia!”’ ry |

“Good-bye, Cecilia!’’ ‘ Good-bye, Sissy!”  * God |
bless. you, dear!’ In a variety of voices from all the |
room.

But the riding-master eye had observed the bottle of
the nine oils in her bosom, and he now interposed with |
* Leave the bottle, my dear ; ith large to carry ; it will |
be of no tthe to you now, Give it tome!”

“No, no!’* she said, in another burstof tears. ‘Oh
no!” Pray let me keep it for father till he comes
back. He will want it when he comes back. He had
never thought of going away, when he sent me tor 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 wordth to you ith
thith, Thtick to the termth of your engagement, be
obedient to the Thqnire, and forget uth. But it, when
you’re grown up and married and well off, you come
upen any horthe-riding ever, don’t be hard upon it,
don’t be\croth with. it, give it a Bethpeak if you can,
and think you might do wurth. People must be
amuthed, Thquire, thomehow,” continued Sleary, ren-
dered more pursy than ever, by s0 much talking;
*‘ they can’t be alwayth a working, nor yet they can’t
be alwayth a@ learning. Make the betht of uth ; not
the wurtht.. I've got my living out of the horthe-
riding all my life, 1 know ; but I conthider that Ilay
down the philothophy of the thubject when I thay to
you, Thquire, make the betht of uth; not the wortht!”

The Sleary philosophy was propounded as they went
down stairs ; the fixed eye of Philosophy—and ite
rolling eye, too—scon lost the three,figuresand the
basket ib the darkness of the street. ; .

—_—

OHAPTER VII.
MRS. BPARSIT,

Mr. BounDeRrby being a ore an elderly lady
presided over his establishment, éonsideration of a
certain annual -stipend. Mrs. Spaissit was this lady’s
name ; and she was a prominent figure in attendance
on Mr, Bounderby’s car, as it rolled along in triumph
with the Bully of humility inside.

For, Mrs. Sparsit had not only seen different days,
but was highly connected. She hada great aunt liv-
ing in these very times called Lady Scadgers. Mr.
Sparsit, deceased, of whom she was the relict, had been
by the mother’s side what Mrs. Sparsit still called’“a
Powler.” Strangers of limited information and dull
apprehension were sometimes observed not to know
what a Powler was, and even to appear uncertain
whether it might be a business, or a political party, or
@ profession offaith. The better class of minds, how-
ever, did not need to be informed that the Powlers were
an ancient stock, who could trace themselves so ex-
ceedingly far back that it was not surprising if they
sometimes lost themsélyves—which they had rather fre-
quently done, as respected horse-flesh, blind-hookey,
Hebrew monetary transactions, and the Insolvent
Debtors Court.

The late Mr. Sparsit, being ‘by the mother’s side a
Powler, married this lady, being by the father’s side a
Scadgers. Lady Scadgers (an immensely fat old wo-
man, withan inordinate appetite for butcher’s meat,

 

and a mysterious leg which had now refused to get out
of bed for fourteen years) contrived the marriage, at a

period when Sparsit was just of age, and chiefly notice-
able for a slender body, weakly supported on two long | di

slim props, and surmounted by no head worth men-
tioning. He inherited a fair fortune from his uncle,
but owed it all before he came into it,.and spent it
twice over immediately afterwards. Thus, when he
died at twenty-four (the scene of his decease Calais, and

and God save the Queen, allputtogether. And as often
(and it wa’ very often) as an orator of this kind brought
into his peroration,

“ Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,
A breath can make them, as a breath has made,

—it was, for certain, more or less understood among
the company that he had heard of Mrs. Sparsit.

“Mr. Bounderby,’’ said Mrs. Sparsit, ‘(you are un-
usually slow, sir, with your breakfast this, morning.”

“ Why,;ma’am,’? he returned, ‘‘I am thinking about
Tom Gradgrind’s whim;’’ Tom. Gradgrind, for a bluff,
independent manner of speaking—as if somebody were
always €ndeavoring to. bribe him with immense sums
to say Thomas, and he wouldn’t; “Tom Grandgrind’s
whim, ma’am, of bringing up the tumbling-girl.””

“The girl is now waiting to know,’ said Mrs. Spar-
sit, ‘‘ whether she is to go.straight to the school,.or,up
to the Lodge.”

“She must wait, ma’am,” answered Bounderby. “ till
I know myself. We shall have Tom Gradgrind down
here presently, Isuppose. If he should wish her to re-
main here a day or two longer, 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-down, here, last
night, in order that he might sleep on it before he de-
cided to let her have any association with Louisa.”

“Indeed, Mr. Bounderby? Very thoughtful of you.”

Mrs. Sparsit’s Coriolanian nose underwent a slight
expansion of the nostrils, and her black eyebrows con-
tracted as. she took a sip of tea,

“It’s tolerably clear, to. me,”’ said. Bounderby, “ that
the little puss can get small good out of such compan-
ionship.” y

“ Are aon speaking of young Miss Gradgrind, Mr.
Bounderby ?’’ f

«Yes, ma’am, I am speaking of Louisa.”

‘Your observation being limited to ‘little pus ne
said Mrs; Sparsit, ‘and there. being two little girls in
question, I did not know which might be indicated by
that expression.” ;

‘*Louisa,”’ repeated Mr. Bounderby. ‘‘ Louisa, Lou-
isa.”

“You are quite another tather to Louisa, sir.”’ Mrs.
Sparsit took a little more tea; and, as she bent her
again contracted eyebrows over her steaming cup,
rather looked as if her classical countenance. were in-
yoking the infernal gods.

“If you had said was another father to Tom—young
Tom, I mean, not my friend Tom Gradgrind—you might
have been nearer the mark. I am going to take young
Tom in my office. Going to have him under my wing

)ma’am.”

“Indeed? Rather young for that, is he not, sir?”
Mrs. Sparsit’s “sir,” in addressing Mr. Bounderby, was
a word of ceremony, rather exacting cOnsideration for
herself in the use, than honoring him.

“I’m not going to take him at once; he is to finish

his educational cramming before then,’’ said Bounder-
by. ‘By the Lord Harry, he’ll have enough of it, first
and last! He’d-open his eyes, that boy would, if he
knew how empty of. learning my young maw was, at
his time of lite.” Which, by the by, he probably did
know, for he had heard of it often enough. ‘But it’s
extraordinary the difficulty Ihave on scores of such
subjects, in speaking to anyone on equal terms. Here,
for example, I have been speaking to you this morning
about tumblers. Why, whatdo you know about tum-
blers? At the time when, tohave been a tumbler in
the mud of the streets, would have been a godsend to
me, a prize in the lottery to me, you were at the Italian
Opera. You were coming out of the Italian Opera,
ma’am, in white satin and jewels, a blaze of splendor,
when I hadn’t a penny to buy a link to light you.”
“T certainly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a
ignity serenely mournful, ‘was familiar with the
Italian Opera at a very early age.”

“Egad, ma’am, so was I,” said Bounderby, ‘“ with

| the wrong side of it. A-hard bed the pavement of its
| Arcade used to make, lassure. you. People like you,

ma’am,accustomed from infancy to lie on Down feathers,

the cause brandy), he did not leave his widow, from | have no idea how hard a paving-stone is, without trying

whom he had been separated soon after the honeymoon, |
That bereayed lady, fifteen | blers.

in affluent circumstances.

years older than he, fell presently at deadly feud with |
her only relative, Lady Scadgers; and, partly to spite |
her ladyship, and partly to maintuin herself, went out |

No, no, it’s no use my talking to you about tum-
Ishould speak of foreign dancers, and the West
End of London, and May Fair, and lords and ladies and
honorables.”” : :

“T trust, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit, with decent res-

it.

 

ignation, “It is not necessary that you should do any-
thing of that kind. I hope I have learnt how to accom-
modate myself to the changes of life. If.I have
acquired an interest in hearing of your instructive
experiences, and can scarcely bear enough of them, I
claim no mezsit for that, since;I-belieye it is a. general
sentiment,”’ !

“Well, ma’am,” said her patron, “perhaps some
people may be pleased to say that they do like to hear,
in his own unpolished way, what Josiah Bounderby of
Coketown, has gone through. But you must confess
that you were, born in the: lap of Juxury, yourself.
Come, ma’am, you know you: were born in the .lap of,
luxury.”

“I do not, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit with a shake of
her head, “‘ deny it.’’

Mr. Bounderby was obliged to get up from table, and
stand with his back to the fire, looking at her; she
was such an enhancement of his position.

“And you were in crack society.. Devilish high so-
ciety,’ he said, warming, his legs.

“It is true, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with an affec-
tation of humility the very opposite of his, and, there-
fore, in ‘no danger of jostling it.

“You were in the tiptop fashion, and all the rest of
it,” said Mr. Bounderby.

“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs, Sparsit, with a kind of
social widowhood upon her. “It-is unquestionably
true.”

Mr. Bounderby, bending himself at the knees, liter-
ally embraced his legs in his great satistaction, and
laughed aloud. Mr. and Miss Gradgrind being then an-
nounced, he received the former with a shake of the
band, and the latter with a kiss.

“Can Jupé be sent here, Bounderby?’” asked Mr.
Gradgrind.

“ Certainly.”

So Jupe was sent there. On coming in, she curt~
seyed to Mr. Bounderby, and to his friend, Tom Grad-
grind, and also to Lousia; but, in her confusion, un-
luckily omitted Mrs. Sparsit. Observing this, the
ee Bounderby had the following remarks to
make : '

‘*Now I tell you what, my girl. The name of that
lady by the teapot is Mrs. Sparsit. That lady acts as
mistress of this house, and she is a highly-connected
lady. Consequently, if ever you come again into any

room into this house, you will make a short stay in it

if you don’t behave towards that lady in your most re-
spectful manner. Now I don’t care a button what you
do to me, because I don’t’ affect to be anybody. So far
from having high connections, I have no connections
at all, and I come of the scum of the earth. But to-
wards that lady, Ido care what you do, and you shall
do what is deferential and respectful, or you shall not
come here.” f
“T hope, Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, in a eon- |
ciliatory voice, “that this was merely an oversight.”

“ My friend, Tom Gradgrind, suggests, Mrs. Sparsit.” r
said Bounderby, “ that this was merely an oversight.
Very likely. However, 88 you are aware, ma’am, I
don’t allow of even oversights towards you.” .

“You are very good indeed, sir,” returned Mrs. Spar-
sit, shaking her head with her state humility. “It is:
not worth speaking of.” fs

Sissy, who all this time had been faintly excusing:
herself with tears in her eyes, was now waved over by
the master.of the house to Mr. Gradgrind. She stood.
looking intently at him, and Louiga stood coldly by,
pea her eyes upon the ground,'while he proceeded

us: t

Jupe, I have made up my mind to take you into.
my house; and, when you are not in attendance at the

school, to employ you about Mrs. . rind, who is:
rather an invalid. I have explained to Miss Lonisa—
this is Miss Louisa—the miserable, but satural end_ot

your late career; and you are to, expressly understand
that the whole of that subject is past, and is not to be
referred to any more. this time you begin your
history. You are, at present, ignorant, I know.”

“Yes, ai, very,’”’ she answered, curtseying.

“Tshall have the satisfaction of causing you to be
strictly educated ; and you will be a@living proof to all
who come into communication with you, of the advan-
tages of the training you will receive. ‘You will be
reclaimed and formed, You haye-been in the habit now
of reading to your father, and those people I foundyou
among, I dare say?” said Mr..G ind, beckoning her
nearer to him: before he said so, and dropping his voice-

“Only to father and Merrylegs, sir. At least I mean.
to father, when Merrylegs was always there.’

“Never mind Merrylegs, Jupe,’”’ said Mr. Gradgrind,
with a passing frown. “Idon’task about him. I un-
derstand you to have been in the habit of reading to
your father ?”’ ’

“Ovyes, sir, thousands of times. ‘They were the hap-
piest—O, of all the happy times we had together, sir!”

It was only now when her sorrow broke out, that
Louisa looked at her. $

‘‘ And what,” asked Mr. G ind, in a still lower
voice, “ did you read to your father, Jupe?’’

“About the Fairies, sir, and the Dwarf, and the Hunch-
back, and the Genies,” she sobbed out; “and about ’’—

‘*Hush !” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ thatisenough. Never
breathe a word of such destructive nonsense any more.
Bounderby, this is a case for rigid training, and I shall
observe it with interest.”

“Well,” returned Mr. Bounderby. ‘tI have given
you my opinion already, and I shouldn’t do as you do.
But yery well, very well. Since you are bent upon it,
very well !’’

So, Mr. Gradgrind and his daughter.took Cecilia Jape
off with them to Stone Lodge, and on the way Louisa,
never spoke one word, good or bad. And Mr. Bounderby
went about his daily pursuits. And Mrs. Sparsit. got.
behind her eyebrows and meditated in the gloom of
that retreat, all the evening.

 

ae

4

 
 

 

 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

CHAPTER VII.
NEVER WONDER.

Ler us strike the key-note again, before pursuing the
tune.

When she was half « dozen years younger, Louisa had
been overheard. to begin a conversation with her
brother one day, by saying, “Tom, I wonder ’’—upon
which Mr. Gradgrind, who was the person overhearing,
stepped forth into the light, and said, ‘‘ Louisa, never
wonder!” - r y

Herein lay the spring of the mechanical art and mys-
tery of educating the reason without stooping to the
cultivation of the sentiments and affections. Never
wonder. By means of addition, subtraction, multipli-
cation, and division, settle everything somehow, and
never wonder. Bring to me, says M’Choakumchild,
yonder baby just able to walk, and [ will engage that it
shall never wonder.

Now, besides very many babies just able to walk,
there happened to be in Coketown.a considerable popu-
lation of babies who had been walking against time to-
wards the infinite world, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty
years and more. These portentous infants being alarm-
ing creatures to stalk about in any human society, the
eighteen denominations incessantly scratched one ano-
ther’s faces and pulled one another’s hair by way of
agreeing on the steps to be taken for their improvement
—which they never did; a surprising circumstance,
when the happy adaptation of the means to the end is
considered. Still, although they differed in every other
particular, conceivable and inconceivable (especially
inconceivable), they were pretty well united on the
point that these unlucky infants were never to won-
der. Body number one, said they, must take every-
thing on trust. Body number two, said they, must
take everything on political economy. Body number
three, wrote leaden little books for them, showing how
the good seeannP baby invariably got to the Savings-
bank, and the bad grown-up baby invariably got trans-
ported. Body number four, under dreary pretences of
being droll (when it was very melancholy indeed), made
the shallowest pretences of concealing piifalls of know-
ledge, into which it was the duty of these. babies to be
smuggled and inveigled. But, all the bodies agreed that
they were never to wonder.

There was 4 library in Coketown, to which. general
access was easy. Mr. Gradgrind greatly tormented his
mind about what the people read in this library; a
point whereon little riversof tabular statements peri-
odically flowed into the howling ocean of tabular state-
ments, which no diver ever got to any depth in and
came up sane, It was a disheartening circumstance,
but 4 melancholy fact, that eyen these readers persist-
edin wondering. They wondered about human nature,
human passions, human hopes and fears, the struggles,
triumphs and defeats, the cares and joys and sorrows,
the lives and deaths, of common men and women ! They
sometimes, after fifteen hours’ work, sat down to read
mere fables about men and women, more or less like
themselves, and about children, more or less like their
own. They took De Foe to their bosoms, instead of
Euclid, and seemed to be on the whole more comforted
by Goldsmith than by Cocker. Mr. Gradgrind was for-
ever working, in print and out of print, at this eccen-
tric sum, and he never could make out how it yielded
this unaccountable product,

“TI am sick of my life, Loo. I hate it altogether and
I hate everybody except you,’ said. the unnatural
young Thomas Gradgrind in the hair-cutting chamber
at twilight.

“You don’t hate Sissy, Tom?”

“T hate to be obliged tocall her Jupe, And she hates
me,” said Tom m' ly.

“No she does not, Tom, I am sure.”

“She must,” said Tom, “She must just hate and
detest. the whole set-out of us, They'll, bother her
head off, I think, before they have done with her. Al-
ready she’s getting as pale as wax, and as heavy as—I
am.”

Young Thomas expressed these sentiments sitting
astride of a chair before the fire, with his arms on the
back, and his sulky face on his arms, His sister sat in
the darker corner by the fireside, now looking at him,
now looking at the bright sparks as they dropped upon
the hearth.

“Asto me,” said Tom, tumbling his hair all manner
of ways with his sulky hands, “Iam a Donkey, that’s
whatI am. Iam as obstinate as one, 1am more stupid
than one, I getas much pleasure as one, and I should
like to kick like one.” .

. “Not me, I hope, Tom ?”

“No, Loo; I wouldn’t hurt you. I made an excep-
tion of you at first. I don’t know what this—jolly old
—Jaundiced Jail,” Tom had pansed to find a sufficient-
ly complimentary and expressive name for the paren-
tal roof, and seemed to relievé his mind for a moment
by the strong alliteration of this one “ would be without
you.” ; :

“Indeed, Tom? Do you really and truly say so?”

“Why, of course I do. What’s the use of talking
about it!” returned Tom, chafing his face on his coat-
sleeve, as if to mortify his flesh, and have it in unison
with his spirit. ’

“Because Tom,” said his sister, after silently watch-
ing the sparks awhile, “as I get older and nearer grow:
ing up, I often sit wondering here, and think how un-
fortunate it is for me that I can’t reconcile you to
home better than I'am able 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 see any amusing sights or read any amusing
books that it would be a pleasure or a relief to you to
talk about when you are tired.”

“Well, no more dol, I am as bad as you in’ that
respect; and I am a Mule too, which you're not. If
father was determined to make me either a’ Prig or a
Mule, and Iam not a Prig, why,it stands to reason; I

‘such stuff, Louisa,

 

must be a Mule.
ately.

« It’s a great pity,” said Louisa, after another pause,
and speaking thoughtfully out of her dark corner; “it’s
a great pity, Tom. It’s very unfortunate for both of
us.”

And so I am,’ said Tom, desper-

“Oh! You,” said Tom; ‘you are a girl, Loo, anda
girl comes out of it better than a boy does. I don’t
miss anythingin you. You are the only pleasure I
have—you can brighten even this place—and you can
always lead me as you like.”’

“You are a dear brother, Tom; and while you think I
can dosuch things, I don’t somuch mind knowing
better. Though Ido not know better, Tom, and am
very sorry for it.’”’ She came and kissed him, and went
back into her corner again.

“TI wish I could collect all the Facts we hear so much
about,” said Tom, spitefully setting his teeth, “and all
the Figures, and all the people who found them out;
and I wish I could ,put a thousand barrels of gun-
powder under them, and blow them all up together !
However, when I go to live with old Boynderby, I’
have my revenge.’

“Your revenge, Tom ?””

“TI mean, I'll enjoy myself a little, and go about and
see something, and hear something. I’ll recompense
myself for the way in whichI have been brought up.”

“But don’t disappoint yourself beforehand, Tom. Mr.
Bounderby thinks as father thinks, and is a great deal
rougher, and not half so kind.”

“Oh;” said Tom, laughing; ‘“‘I don’t mind that. I
shall very well know how to manage and soothe old
Bounderby!”’

Their shadows were defined upon the wall, but those
of the high presses in the room were all blended to-
gether on the wall and on the ceiling, as if the brother
and sister were overhung by a dark cavern. Or, @ fan-
ciful imagination—if such treason could have been
there—might have made it out to be the shadow

of their subject, and of its lowering association with.

their future.

“What is your great mode of soothing and managing,
Tom? Is it a secret?’

“Oh !” said Tom, “‘ifit is a secret, it’s not far off.
It’s you. You are his little pet, you are his favorite;
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 me she was sure you would be easier with
= than this.’ That’ll bring him about, or nothing
will.”

After waiting for some answering remark, and get-
ting none, Tom wearily relapsed into the present time,
and twined himself yawning round and about the rails
of his chair, and rumpled his head more and more, until
he suddenly 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 than ever I
could find,’ said Tom. “ Another of the advantages, I
suppose, of being a girl.”

“Tom,” inquired his sister, slowly, and'in a curious
tone, as if she were reading what she asked in the fire,
and it were not quite plainly written there, “do you
look forward with any satisfaction to this change to Mr.
Bounderby’s ?”’

“Why, there’s one thing to be said of it,” returned
Tom, pushing his chair from him, and standing up; “it
will be getting away from home.”

“ There is one thing to be said of it,” Louisa repeated
in her former curious tone; “it will be getting away
from home, Yes,”

“Not but what I shall be very unwilling, both to
leave you, Loo, and to leave you here. But Imust go,
you know, whether I like to or not; arid I had better
go where I can take with me some advantage of your
influence, than where I should lose it altogether.
Don’t you see ?”

«Yes, Tom.”

The answer was so long in’ coming, though ‘there
was no indecision in it, that Tom went and leaned on
the back of her chair, to contemplate the fire which so
engrossed her, from her point of view, and see what he
could make of it.

“Except that it is a fire,” said Tom, “it looks to me
as stupid and blank as everything else looks. What do
you see init? Nota circus?”

“I don’t see anything in it, Tom, particularly, But
since I have been looking atit, I have been wondering
about you and me, grown up.”

“Wondering again !” said Tom.

“T have such unmanageable thoughts,” returhed his
sister, ‘‘ that they will wouder.”

“Then I beg of you, Louisa,” said Mrs. “Gradgrind,
who had opened the door without being heard, “to do
nothing of that description, for goodness’ sake, you in-
considerate girl, or I shall never hear the last of it from
your father. And Thomas,it is really shameful, with
my poor head continually wearing me out, that a boy
brought up as you have béen, and whose education has
cost what yours has, should be found encouraging his
sister to wonder, when he knows his father has ex-
pressly said that she is not to do it.”

Louisa denied Tom’s participation in the offence; but
her mother stopped her -with. the conclusive answer,
“Louisa, don’t tell me, in my state of health; for unless
you had been encouraged, it is morally and physically
impossible that you could have done it.’’

“T was encouraged by nothing, mother, but by look-
ing at the red sparks dropping out of the fire, and
wanes, and dying. It made me think, after all, how
pa my life would be, and how little I could hope to

‘o in it.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Gradgrind, rendered almost
energetic. ‘Nonsense! Don’t stand there and tell me
to my face, when you know very

well that if it was ever to reach your father’s ears I
should never hear the last of it.
that has been taken with you!

After all the trouble
After-the lectures you

have attended, and the experiments you have seen!
After I have heard you myself, when the whole of my
right side has been benumbed, going on with your
master about combustion, and calcination, and ealori-
fication, and I may say every kind of action that could
drive a poor invalid distracted, to hear you talk in this
absurd way about sparks and ashes! I wish,” whim-
pered Mrs. Gradgrind, taking a chair, and discharging
her strongest point before succumbing under theko
mere shadows of facts, “ yes, I really do wish that I had
never had a family, and then you would have known
what it was to do without me !”

 

CHAPTER IX.
SISSY’S PROGRESS.

Sissy Jupe had not an easy time of it, between Mr,
M‘Choakumchild and Mrs. Gradgrind, and was not
without strong impulses, in the first months of her
probation, to run away. It hailed facts all day long #0
very hard, and life-in general was opened to her as
such a closely ruled ciphering-book, that assuredly she
would have run away, but for only one réstraint,

It is lamentable to think of; but this restraint was
the result of no arithmetical process, was self-imposed
in defiance of all calculation, and went dead against any
table of probabilities that any Actuary would haye
drawn up from the premises. The girl believed that
her father had not deserted her; she lived in the hope
that he would come back, and in the faith that he
would be made the happier by her remaining where
she was.

The wretched ignorance with which Jupe clung to
this consolation, rejecting the superior comfort of
knowing, on a sound arithmetical basis, that her father
was an unnatural vagabond, filled Mr. Gradgrind with
pity. Yet, what was to be done? M‘Choakumchild
réported that she had a yery dense head for figures ;
that, once possessed with a general idea of the globe,
she took the smallest conceivable interest in its exact
measurements ; that she was extremely slow in the a¢-
quisition of dates, unless some pitiful incident hay
pened to be connectcd therewith; that she would
burst into tears on being required (by the mental pro-
cess) immediately to name the cost of two hundred and
forty-seven muslin caps at fourteenpénce halfpenny ;
that she was as low down, in the school, as low could
be; that after eight weeks of induction into the ele-
ments of Political Economy, she had only yesterday
been set right. by a prattler three feet high, for return-
ing to the question, ‘‘ What is the first principle of this
science?” the. absurd answer, ‘To do unto others as I
would that they should do unto me,”

Mr. Gradgrind observed, shaking hit head, that all this
waa very bad; that it showed the nécessity of infinite
grinding at the mill of knowledgé, as per system,
schedule, biue. book, report, and tabular statements A
to Z; and that Jupe “must be kept to it.” Jupe
was kept to it, and became.low-spirited, but no wiser.

~ “It would be.a fine thing to be you, Miss Lowisa!’’
she said, one night, when Louisa had éndeavored to
te her perplexities for next ddy something clearer

‘© her.

“Do you think 80?”

“Tshould know so much, Miss Louisa. All that ie
difficult to me now, would be so easy then.”

“You might not be the better for it, Sissy.”

Sissy submitted, after a little hesitation, “I showlad
not be the worse, Miss Louisa.” To which Miss Louisa
answered, “I don’t know that.” 7 ee

There had been.so little communication betwen
these two—both because life ‘at Stone Lodge went
monotonously round like a piece of machinery which
discouraged human interference, and because of the
prohibition relative to Sissy’s past career—that they
were still almost strangers, , With her dark eyes
wonderingly directed to Louisa’s face, was uncertain
whether to say more or to remain silent.

“You, dre more useful to my mother, and more
pleasant with her than I can ever be,” Louisa resumed,
eae are pleasanter to yourself, than Jam to my
self.’’

“But, if you. please Miss Louisa,” Sissy pleaded, “ ¥
am—Oh so stupid!” ,

Louisa, with a brighter langh than usual, told her
she would be wiser by and by.

“You don’t know,” said Sissy, half crying, “ what a
stupid girl I am. All through. school hours I make
mistakes.. Mr. and Mrs, M‘Choakumchild call me up,
over and over again, regularly to make mistakes. I
can’t help them. They seem to come natural to me.”

“Mr, and Mrs. M‘Choakumchild never make any
mistakes themselves, I suppose, Sissy ?””

“Oh no!” she eagerly returned. “They know every-
thing.”

“Tell me some of your mistakes.”

“Tam almost ashamed,” said Sissy, with reluctance,
“But to-day, for instance, Mr, M‘Choakumchild was
explaining to us about Natural Prosperity.”

“National, I think it must have been,” observed
Louisa.

“Yes, it was. But isn’t it the same?’ she timidly
asked,

“You had better say, National, as he said #0,” re-
turned Louise, with her dry reserve.

“National Prosperity. Aud he said, Now, this
schoolroom:is a Nation. And in this nation, there are
fifty millions of money. Isn’t this a prosperous
nation? Girl number twenty, isn’t this a prosperous
nation, and a’n’t you in-a thriving state?’

‘‘What did you say?” asked Louisa,

“Miss Louisa, I said I didn’t know. I thought I
couldn’t know whether it was a prosperous nation or
not, and whether I wasin.a thriving state or not, un-
less I knew who had got the money, and whether any
of it wasmine. But that had nothing to do with it.
It was not in the figures at all,” said Sisey, wiping her

 

eyes.

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‘father’s had gone wrong that night,
wien eute came He cried out that
_ the very dog knew he was failing, and had no compas-

“That was a great mistake of yours,’. observed
Louisa.

«Yes, Miss Louisa, I know.it was, now. Then Mr.
M‘Choakumchild said he would try me again. And he
said, This schoolroom is an immense town, and in it
there are a million of inhabitants, and only five-and-
twenty are starved to death in the streets, in the
course of a year. What is your remark on that pro-
portion? And my remark was—for I couldn’t think of
a better one—that I thought it must be just as hard
upon those who were starved, whether the others
were a million, or @ million million. And that was
‘wrong, too.”

“Of course it was.”

“Then Mr. M‘Choakumchild said he would try me
~once more, And he said, here are the stutterings ”-—

“ Statistics,’ said Louisa.

“Yes, Miss Louisa—they always remind me of stut-
terings, and that’s n ofmy mistakes—of accidents
upon the sea. AndI find (Mr. M‘Choakumchild said)
that in a given time ahundred thousand persons went
to sea on long voyages, and only five hundred of them
were drowned or burnt to death. What is the percent-
age? And I said, Miss:” here Sissy fairly sobbed as
confessing with extremc contrition to her greatest
said it was nothing.”

“Nothing, Sissy ?”’
“Nothing, Miss—to the relations and friends of the

I shall never’ learn,’’ said-

a who were killed.

jissy.. “‘ And the worst of all is, that although my poor
father wished me so much to learn, and although J am
so anxious to learn, because he wished mé to, I am
afraid 1 don’t like it.”’

Louisa stood looking at the pretty modest head, as it
drooped abashed before her, until it was raised again to
glance at her face. Then she asked:

“Did your father know so much himself, that he
wished you to be well taught too, Sissy ?”

Sissy hesitated before replying, and so plainly show-
ed her sense that they were entering on forbidden
ground, that Louisa added, “No one hears us; and if
any one did, I am sure no harm could be found in such
an innocent question.” . ,

“No, Miss Louisa,” answered Sissy, upon this en-

ent, shaking her head; “father knows yery
little indeed. It’s as much as he can do to write; -and
it’s more than people in general can do to read his
writing. Though it’s plain to me.”

“Your mother?” . =

“Father says she was quite a scholar. Shedied when

Iwas born. She was;” Sissy made the terrible com-
munication nervously: “she was a dancer.”
' “Did your father loye her?’ Louisa asked these
questions with a strong, wild, wandering interest
peculiar to her; an interest gone astray like a banished
creature, and hiding in solitary places. ,

“Oh, yes! As dearly ashe lovesme. Father loved
me, first, for her sake. He carried me about with him
when I was quite a baby. We have never been asunder
from that time.” . x

“Yet he leaves you now, Sissy ?””

“Only for my good. Nobody understands him as I

a 'y knows him asI do. When he left me for
my good—he never would have left me for his own—I
know he was almost broken-hearted with the trial.
He will not be happy for a single minute, till he comes

“Tell me an Wh ata ae aoe “T, will
never a 5 ere you live ?”

“We travelod about the country, and had no fixed
place to live in. Father’s ;” ‘Sissy whispered the

awful word, ‘‘a clown.”
rT make the pea laugh ?”” said Louisa, with a
are! ‘But they wouldn’t laugh sometimes, and then
Seite net -Us conse pease Geabatcing Petters wot
he used tocome home airing. Father’s no
like most, Those who didn’t knov him‘as well as I do,
‘didn’t love him as dearly as I do, might believe he
right. Sometimes they played tricks up-
on . they never knew how. he felt them, and
shrunk -when hoe was alone with me. He was far,
far timider than they thought!” -
“And you were his comfort through everything ?”
nodded, with the tears rolling down her face. “ I
hope so, and father said I was. It was because he grew
so scared and trembling, and because he felt himself to
be ye planeta. helpless man (those used to
be- ¢ Be he wanted meso much to knowa
x 9 different from him. I used to read to
im to cheer his courage, and he was very fond of that.
They were wrong books—I am never to speak of them
here—but we didn’t know there was any harm in them.”
“ And he liked them ?” said Louisa, with her search-
ing gaze on Sissy all this time.

“Avery much! They kept him,many times, from
what him real harm. And often and often of a
night, he used et all his troubles in wondering

whether the | ould let the lady go on with the
,0r would have her head cut off before it was

« your father was always kind? To the last ?”
Louisa; contravening the great principal, and

we ve much.
 Alwage ways, alavan !” returned Sissy, clearing her
hands. “Kinder and than I can tell. was

angry only night, and that was not to me, but

= is), she whispered the awful fact;
ie oe ”

“Why was hea with the dog ?” Louisa demanded.

“Father, soon after they came home from perform-

ing, told Merry: to jump up on the backs of the two

“across i—_which is one of his

tricks. He looked at father, and didn’t do it at a.

an

onhim. Then he beat the dog, and I was fright-

ened, and said, ‘Father, father! Pray don’t hurt the

 

HARD TIMES.

creature who isso fond of you! O Heaven forgive you,
father, stop!’ And-he stopped; and the dog was
bloody, and father lay down crying on the floor with
the dog in his arms, and the dog licked his face.”’

Louisa saw that she was sobbing; and going to her,
kissed her, took her hand, and sat down beside her.

“ Finish by telling me how your father left you, Sissy.
Now that I have asked you so much, tell me the end.
The blame, if there is any blame, is‘ mine, not yours.”

“Dear Miss Louisa,” said Sissy, covering her eyes, and
sobbing yet’; “‘I came home from the school that after-
noon, and found poor father just come home, too, from
the booth. And he sat rocking himself over the fire,
as ifhe was in pain. And I said, ‘Have you hurt your-
self, father?’ (as he did sometimes, like they all did)
and he said, ‘A little, my darling.’ And when Icame to
stoop down and look up at his face, I saw that he was

crying. The more I spoke to him, the more he hid his |

face; and at first he shook all over, and said nothing
but, ‘My darling ;’ and ‘ My love!’

Here Tom came lounging in, and stared at the two |

with a coolness not particularly savoring of inter-
est in anything but himself, and not much of that at
present.

“Tam asking Sissy a few questiOns, Tom,” observed
his sister. “You have no occasion to go away; but
don’t interrupt us for a moment, Tom dear.”

“Oh! very well!” returned Tom, ‘Only father has
brought old Bounderby home, and I want you to come
into the drawing-room. Because ifyou come, there’s a
good chance of old Bounderby’s asking me to dinner ;
and if you don’t, there’s none.”

““T’ll come directly.”

“T'll wait for you,” said Tom, “ to make sure.”

Sissy resumed in a lower voice. ‘At last poor father
said that he had given nosatistaction again, 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 that
came into my heart, and presently he was quiet and I
sat down by him, and told him all about the school and
everything that had been said and done there. WhenI
had no more left to tell, he put his arms round my neck,
and kissed me a great many times. Then he asked me
to fetch some of the snuff he used, for the little hurt he
had had, and to get it at the best place, which was at
the other end of town from there ; and then, atter kis-
sing me again, he let me go. WhenI had gone down
stairs, I turned back that I might be alittle bit more
company to him yet, and looked in at the door, and said,

“ Father dear, shall I take Merrylegs?’ Father shook

his head and said, ‘No, Sissy, no; take nothing that’s
known to be mine, my darling ;’ and I left him sitting
by the fire. Then the thought must have come upon
him, poor, poor father! of going away to try something
for my sake ; for, when I came back, he was gone.”

“Tsay! Look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!” Tom:

remonstraied.

“ There’s no more to tell, Miss Louisa. "I keep the
nins oils ready for him, and I know he will come back.
Every letter that I see in Mr. Gradgrind’s hand takes
my breath away and blinds my eyes, for I think it
comes from father, or from Mr. Sleary about father.

/ Mr. Sleary promised to write as soon as ever father

should be heard of, and I trust to him to keep his
word.” ;

“Do look sharp for old Bounderby, Loo!” said Tom,

with an impatient whistle.
look sharp.” ;

After this, whenever Sissy dropped a courtsey to
Mr. @ d in the presence of his family, and said,
in a fal ig way, “I beg your pardon, sir, for bein,
troublesome—but—have you had any letter yet abou’
me?’ Louisa would suspend the occupation of the
moment, whatever it was, and look for the reply as ear-
nestly as Sissy did. And when Mr. Gradgrind regularly
answered, “No, Jupe, nothing of the sort,” the trem-
bling of Sissy’s lip would be repeated in Louisa’s face,
unt het eyes would follow Sissy with compassion to
the door. Mr. Gradgrind usually improved these occa-
sions by remarking, when- she was gone, that if Ju
had been properly trained from an early age, she would
have demonstrated to herself on sound principles the
baselessness of these fantastic hopes. Yet it did seem
(though not to him, for he. saw nothing of it) as if fan-
tastic hope could take as strong a hold as Fact.

This observation must be limited exclusively to his
daughter. As to Tom, he was becoming that not un-
precedented triumph of calculation which is usually at
work on number one. As to Mrs. Gradgrind, if she
said anything on the subject, she would come a little
»y out of her wrappers, like a feminine dormouse,
and say: .

“ He'll be off if you don’t

“ Good gracious bless me, how my poor head is vexed
and worried by that girl Jupe’s so perseveringly ask-
ing, over and over again, about her tiresome letters!
Upon my word and honor, I to be fated, and des-
tined, and ordained, to live in the midst of things that
Iam never to hear the last of. It really is a most ex-
traordinary cir stance that it appears as if I never
was to hear the last of anything!” P

At about this point, Mr. Graderind’s eye would fall
upon her, and under the influence of that wintry piece
of fact, she would become torpid again. :

CHAPTER X. a
s STEPHEN BLACKPOOL.

IL ENTERTAIN a weak idea that the English people are
as hard-worked as any People upon whom the sun
shines. Iacknowledge to this ridiculous idiosyncrasy
as a reason why I would give them a little more Risy.

In the hardest working of Coketown; in the in-
nermost fortifications that a By, citadel, where
Nature was as stron, bricked out as killing airs

and gases were bricked in; at the heart of
the labyrinth of narrow courts upon courts,

 

and close streets upon streets, which had come
into existence piecemeal, every piece in a violent hurry
for some one man’s purpose, and the whole an unna-
tural family, shouldering, and trampling, and pressing
one another to death; in the last close nook of this great
exhausted receiver, where the chimneys,for want of air
to make a draught, were built in an immense variety of
stunted and crooked shapes, as though every house put
out a sign of the kind of people who miglit be expected
to be born in it; among the multitude of Coketown,
generically called ‘‘ the Hands,”—a race who would
have found more favor with some people, if Providence
had seen fit to make them only hands, or, like the
lower creatures of the sea-shore, only ‘hands and
stomachs—lived a certain Stephen Blackpool, forty
years of age. :

Stephen looked older, but he had had @ hard life. It
is said that every life has its roses and thorns: there
seemed, however, to have been a misadventure or mis-
take in Stephen’s case, whereby somebody else had be-
come possessed of his roses, and. he had become
possessed of the same somebody else’s thorns in addi-
tion to his own. Hethad known, to.use his words, a
peck of trouble. He was usually called Old Stephens
in a kind of rough homage to the fact. :

A rather stooping man, with a knitted brow, a pon-
dering expression of face, and a hard-looking head sufli-
ciently capacious, on which his iron-gray hair lay long
and thin, Old Stephen might have passed for a particu-
larly intelligent man in his condition. Yet he was not.
He took no place among those remarkable ‘‘ Hands,”
who, piecing together their broken intervals of leisure
through many years, had niastered difficult. sciences,
and acquired a knowledge of most unlikely things. He
held no station among the Hands who could make
speeches and carry on debates. Thousands of his com-
peers could talk much better than he,at any time. He
was a good power-loom weaver, and a man of perfect
integrity. What more he was, or what else he had in
him, if anything, let him show for himself.

The lights in the great factories, which looked, when
they were illuminated, like Fairy palaces—or the travel-
ers by express-train said so—were all extinguished; and
the bells had rung for knockiag off forthe night, and
had ceased again; and the Hands, men and women, boy
and girl, were clattering home. Old Stephen was
standing in the street, with the odd sensation upon
him which the stoppage of the machinery always pro-
duced—the sensation of its having worked and stopped
in his own head, ~ :

“Yet I don’t see Rachael, still!” said he

It was a wet night, and many groups of young women
passed him, with their shawls drawn over thei? bare
heads and held close under their chins to keep the rain
out. Heknew Rachael well, fora glance at any one of
these groups was sufficient toshow him that she was
not there. At last, there were no more’ to come; an
then he turned away, saying in a tone of disappointment,
“Why, then, I ha missed her !’* \

But, he had not a the length ofthree streets, when
he saw another of the shawled figures in advance of
him, at which he looked so keenly that perhaps its
mere shadow indistinctly reflected on the wet pave-
ment—if he could have see it without the figure itself
moving along fron snp. to lamp, brightening and

as it went—would have been enough to tell
him who was there. Making his pace at once much
quicker and much softer, he darted on until he was.
very near the figure, them fell into his former walk,
and called “ Rachael !’”” : .

She turned, being then in the brightness of a eae
and raising her hood a little, showed a quiet oval ,
dark and rather delicate, irradiated by a pair of very:
gentle eyes, and further set off by the perfect order of

er shining black hair. It was not a face in its first

she was a woman five and thirty years of
age : 4

“Ah, lad! ’Tis thou?” When she had said this,
with a smile which would have been ae expressed,
though nothing of her had been seen but her pleasant
vou her hood again, and they went on
Oge' ir.
ve or thou wast ahind me, Rachael?”
“No,”

«opines Tet b Tittle ly, Steph “times a little
wa 68 a early, en ; a
late. I’m never to be counted on, home.”

“Nor going tother way, neither, ’t seems to me,
Rachael ?” _ .

“No, Stephen.” -

He looked at her with som tment in his
face, but with a respectful and conviction that
she must be right in whatever did. a iakth che
was not lost upon her ; she laid her hand on his
arm a moment to thank for it. :

» “We are such true friends,
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 Stephen,
VND Se etting “atigee both geliver she
answe! g) : anyways, we're suc!
friends, that to hide a word of honest truth fro’ one
another would be asin anda pity. ‘Tis better not to
walk too much together.- es, yes! "Twould be
hard, indeed, if "twas not to be at all,” she said,
me a cheerfulness she sought to communicate to

*Tis hard, anyways, Rachael.
“Try to think not ; and ‘twill

bloom ;

better.”

“T've tried a long time, and_’ta’nt got better. But
thou’rt right ; ’t might mak folk , even of thee,
Thou hast been that to me, Rachael, 80 many

year : thou hast done meso aries ned
of me in t way, that thy word is 3 law to
~~ Ab lass, and a good law ! Better thansome
ones,” ‘ : 2
“Never fret about them, Stephen,” she answered
quickly, and not without an anxious glance at his face.
* Let the laws be.”

and such old friends)

 

 

 

 
UA,

 

on

 

 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

“Yes,’’ he said, with a slow nod or two. “ Let ’em be.
Let everything be. Let all sorts alone. ‘Tis a mud-
dle, and that’s aw.”

“Always a muddle.?” said Rachael, with another gentle
touch upon his arm, as if to recall him out of the thought-
fulness, in which he was biting the long ends of his
loose neckerchief as he walked along. The touch had its
instantaneous effect. He let them fall, turned a smil-
ing face upon her, and said, as he broke into a good-
humored laugh, ‘‘ Ay, Rachael, lass, awlus a muddle,
That’s where I stick. I come to the muddle many
times and agen, and I never gét beyond it.”

They had walked some distance, and were near their
own homes. The woman’s was the first reached. It
was in one of the many small streets for which the favor-
ite undertaker (who turned a handsome sum out of the
one poor ghastly pomp of the neighborhood) kept a black
ladder, in order that those who had done their daily
groping up and down the narrow stairs might slide out
of this working world by the windows. She stopped at
the corner, and putting her handin his, wished him
good night.

“ Good night, dear lass; good night !’”’

She went, with her neat figure and her sober womanly
step, down the dark street, and he stood looking
after her until she turned into one of the small houses.
There was nota flutter of her coarse shawl, perhaps, but
had its interest in this man’s eyes; not a tone of her
voice but had its echo in his innermost heart.

When she was lost to his view, he pursued his home-
ward way, glancing up sometimes at the sky, where
the clouds were sailing fast and wildly: But, they
were broken now, and the rain had ceased, and the moon
shone—looking down the high chimneys of Coketown
on thedeep furnaces below, and casting Titanic shadows
of the steam engines at rest, upon the walls where they
were lodged. The man seemed to have brightened with
the ~~ , a8 he wenton.

His home, in such another street as the first, saving
that it was narrower was,over a little shop. How it
came to pass that any people found it worth their while
to sell or buy the wretched little toys, mixed up in its
windew with cheap newspapers and pork (there was a
leg to be raffled for to-morrow night), matters not here.
He took his end of candle from a shelf, lighted it at
another end of candle on the counter, without disturb-
ing the mistress of the shop who was asleep in her lit-
tle room, and went up stairs into his lodging.

It was a room, not unacquainted with the black
ladder under various tenants; but as neat at present,
assuch arcom could be. A few books and writings were
on an old bureau in a corner, the furniture was decent
and sufficient, and, though the atmosphere was tainted,
the room was clean.

Going to the hearth to set the candle down upon a
round three-legged table standing there, he stumbled
against something. As he recoiled, looking down at it,
it raised itself up into the form of a woman in a sitting
attitude.

“ Heaven’s mercy, woman !” he cried, falling farther
off from the figure. “Hast thou come back again |”

Such a woman! A disabled, drunken creature,
barely able to preserve her sitting posture by steady-
ing herself with one begrimed hand on the floor, while
the other was so purposeless in trying to push away
her tangled hair from her face, that it only blinded
her the more with the dirt upon it. A creature go foul
to look at, in her tatters, stains, and splashes, but so
much fouler than that in her moral infamy, that it was
a shameful thing even to see her.

After an impatient oath or two, and some stupid
clawing of herself with the hand not necessary to her
support, she got her hair away from her eyes sufti-
ciently to obtain asightof him. Then she sat swaying
her body to and fro, and making gestures with her un-
nerved arm, which seemed intended as the accompani-
ment to a fit of laughter, though her face was stolid
and drowsy.

“Kigh lad? What, yo’r there?” Some hoarse’
sounds meant for this, came mockingly out of her at
last; and her head dropped forward on her breast.

“ Back agen ?’’ she screeched, after some minutes, as
if he had at that moment said it. “Yes! And back
agen. Back agen ever and ever so often. Back? Yes,
back. Why not?”

Roused by the unmeaning violence with which she
cried it out, she scrambled up, andttood supporting
herself with her shoulders against the wall; dangling
in one hand by the string,a dung-hill-fragment of a
bonnet, and trying to look scornfully at him,

“T’li sell thee off again, and I'll sell thee off again,
and I'll sell thee off a score of times!” she cried, with
something between a furious menace and an effort at a
defiant dance, “Come awa’.from th’ bed!’’ He was
sitting on the side of it, with his face hidden in his
hands, “Come awa’ from ’t. ’Tis mine, and I’ve a
right to ’t!”

As she staggered toit, he avoided her with a shudder,
and passed—his face still hidden—to the opposite end
of the room. She threw herself upon the bed heavily,
and soon was snoring hard. He sunk into a chair, and
moved but once all thatnight. It was to throw a coy-
ering over her; as if his hands were not enough to hide
her even in the darkness.

CHAPTER XI,
“NO WAY OUT.

Tue Fairy palaces burst into illumination, before
pale morning showed the monstrous serpents of smoke
trailing themselves over Coketown. A clattering of
clogs upon the pavement; a rapid ringing of bells; and
all the caaleaeae mad elephants polished and oiled

 

up for the day’s monotony, were at their heavy exer- |
cise again. |

Stephen bent over his loom, quiet, watchful, and
ateady. Apecial contrast, as evéry man was in the!

forest of looms where Stephen worked, to the crashing,
smashing, tearing piece of mechanism at which he

| found all vanished as I had in the world, and her with-

out a sense left to bless herseln lying on bare ground,

labored. Never tear good people of an anxious turn of | I ha’ dun’t not once, not twice—twenty times!”

mind, that Art will consign. Nature to oblivion. Set
anywhere, side by side, the work of Gop and the work

Every line in his tace deepened as he said it, and put

| in its affecting evidence of tue suffering he had unacr-

of man; and the iormer, even though it be a troop. of | gone.

Hands of very small account, will gain in dignity trom
the comparison.

So many hundred- Hands in this Mill: so many
hundred horse Steam Power. It is known, to the force
of a single pound weight, what the engine will do; but,
not all the calculators of the National Debt can tell me
the capacity for good or evil, for love or hatred, for
patriotism or discontent, for the decomposition of vir-
tue into vice, or the reverse, at any single moment in |
the soul of one of these its quiet servants, with the
composed faces and the regulated actions. There is no
mystery in it; there is an unfathomable mystery in the |
meansst of them, for ever.—Supposing we were -to re- |
serve our arithmetic for material objects, and to govern |
these awful unknown quantities by other means!

The day grew strong, and showed itself outside, even |
against the flaming lights within. The lights were |
turned out, and the work went on. The rain fell, and |
the Smoke-serpents, submissive to the curse of all that |
tribe, trailed themselves upon the earth, In the waste- |
yard outside, the steam from the escape pipe, the litter
of barrels and old iron, the shining heaps of coals, the
ashes everywhere, were shrouded in a veil of mist and
rain.

The work went on, until the noon-bell rang. More
clattering upon the’pavements. The looms, and
wheels, and Hands all out of gear for an hour,

Stephen came out of the hot mill into the damp
wind and cold wet streets, haggard and worn. He
turned from his own class and his own quarter, taking
ae but a little bread as he walked along, towards
the hill on which his principal employer lived ina red
house with black outside shutters, green inside blinds,
a black street door, up two white steps, BouNnpDERBY
(in letters yery like himself) upon a brazen plate, and a
round brazen door handle underneath it, like a brazen
full-stop.

Mr. Bounderby was at his lunch. So Stephen had
expected. Would his servant say that one of the Hands
begged leave to speak tohim? Message in return, re-
quiring name of such Hand. Stephen Blackpool, There
was nothing troublesome against Stephen Blackpool ;
yes, he might come in.

Stephen Blackpool in the parlor. Mr. Bounderby
(whom he just knew by sight), at Junch on chop and
sherry. ‘Mrs. Sparsit netting at the fireside, in a side-
saddle attitude, with one foot ina cotton stirrup. It was
a part, at once of Mrs. Sparsit’s dignity and service, not
tolunch. She supervised the meal officially, but im-
plied thatin her own stately person she considered
lunch a weakness.

“Now, Stephen.” said Mr: Bounderby, “ what’s the
matter with you?’ "

Stephen made a bow. Nota servile one—these Hands
will never do that! Lord bless im sir, you'll never
catch them at that, if they have 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, taking some
sherry, “we have never had any difficulty with you,
and you have never been one of the unreasonable ones,
You don’t expect to beset up ina coach and six, and to
be fed on turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon, as
a good many of ‘em do!” Mr. Bounderby always
represented this to be the sole, immediate, and
direct object of any Hand who was not entirely satisfied;
‘‘and therefore I know already that you have not come
here to make acomplaint. Now, you know,I aim cer-
tain of that, beforehand,”

“No, sir, sure I ha’ not coom for nowt o’ th’ kind.”

Mr. Bounderby seemed agreeably surprised, notwith-
standing his previous strong conviction. “Very well,’’
he returned. ‘‘You’rea steady Hand, and I was not
mistaken. Now, let me hear what it’s all about. As
it’s not that, let me hear what itis, What have you got
tosay? Out with it, lad!’ ;

Stephen happened to glance towards Mrs. Sparsit..
“IT can go, Mr. Bounderby, if you wish it,’”’ suid that
self-sacrificing lady, making a feint of taking her foot
out of the stirrup.

Mr. Bounderby. stayed her, by paming a mouthful of |
chop in suspension before swallowing it, and putting |
out his left hand. Then, withdrawing his hand, swal-
lowing his 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 because she keeps my
house for me, that she hasn’t very been high up the
tree—ah, up at the top of the tree! Now, if you have
got anything to say that can’t be said before a born
lady, this lady will leave the room. If what you have
got to say can be said before a born lady, this. lady will
stay where sheis.”

“Sir, I hope I never had nowt to say, not fitten. fora
born lady to year, sin’ Iwere born mysen,’’ was the re-
ply, accompanied with a slight flush. |

“Very well,” said Mr. Bounderby, pushing away his |
plate, and leaning back. ‘Fire away !”’

* Tha’ coom,” Stephen began, raising his eyes from
the floor, atter a moment’s consideration, “to ask yo
yor advice. I need’t-overmuch, I were married on
Eas'r Monday nineteen year sin,’long and dree. She
were a young lass—pretty enow—wi’ good accounts of
hersiln. Well! She went bad—soon. Not along of
me. Gonnows I were not,a unkind husband to her.”

“T have heard all this before,” sdid Mr. Bounderby.
“She took to drinking, lett off working, sold the furni-
ture, pawned the clothes, and played old.Gooseberry.”’

“T 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 wean her
fra 't ower and ower agen. I tried this, I tried that, 1
tried ¢’ other. I ha’ gone home, many’s the time, and

 

“From bad to worse, from worse to worsen. She
left me. She disgraced heiseln everyways, bitter and
bad. She coom back, she coom back, she coom back.
What could I do t’ hinder her? I ha’ walked the streets
nights long, ere ever I’d go home. I ha’ gone t’ th’
brigg, minded to fling myseln ower, and ha’ no more
on ’t. Iha’ bore that much, that I were owd when I
were young.”

Mrs. Sparsit, easily ambling along with her netting-
needles, raised the Coriolanian eyebrows and slivok her
head, as much as to say, “The great know trouble as
well as the small. Please to turn your humble eye in
My direction.”

“TI ha’ paid her to keep awa’ fra’ me. These five
year Tha’ paid her. I ha’ gotten decent tewtrils about
meagen. Jha’ lived hard and sai, but not ashamed
and fearfo’ a’ the minunits o’ my lite. Last night, I
went home. . There she lay upon my hiar-stune! ‘ucre
she is!”

In the strength of his misfortune, and the energy of
his distress, he fired for the moment like a proud man.
In another moment, he stood as he had stood all the
time—his usual stoop upon him; his pondering fuce
addressed to Mr. Bounderby, with a curious expression
on it, half shrewd, halt perplexed, as it his mind were
set upon unraveling something very difficult; his hat
held tight in his left hand, which rested on his hip; his
right arm, with a rugged propriety and force of action,
very earnestly emphasising what he said; not least so
when it always paused, a little bent, but not with-
drawn, as he paused.

“I was acquainted with all this, you know,” said Mr.
Bounderby, “except the last clause, long ago. It’s a
bad job; that’s what itis. You had better have been
satisfied as you were, and not have got married. How-
ever, it’s too late to say that.”’ 4

“Was it an unequal marriage, sir, in point of years! ’”’
asked Mrs. Sparsit.

“You hear what this lady asks. Was it an unequal
marriage in point.of years, this unlucky job of yours?”
said Bounderby. - ,

“Not é’en so. I were one-and-twenty myseln; she
were twenty nighbut.”’

“Indeed, sir?” said Mrs, Sparsit to her Chief, with
great placidity. ‘ Ilinferred trom its being so misera-
ble a marriage, that it was probably an unequal one in
point of years.”

Mr. Bounderby looked very hard at the good lady in
a sidelong way that had an odd sheepishness about it.
He fortified himself with a Jittle more sherry:

“Well? Why don’t you go on?” he then asked,
turning rather irritably on Stephen Blackpool.

“T ha’ coom to ask yo, sir, how lam to be ridded 0’ this
woman,” Stephen infused a yet deeper gravity into
the mixed expression of his attentive face. Mrs. Spar-
sit uttered a gentle ejaculation, as having received a
moral shock.

“What do you mean?” said Bounderby, getting up
tolean his back against the chimney-piece. “What
are you talking about? You took her for better for
worse.”

“I mun’ be ridden o’ her. Icannot "t nommore,
I ha’ lived under’t so long, for that I ha’ had’n the
pity and comforting words ©’ th’ best lass living or
dead. Hapley, but for her, I should ha’ gone hotter-
ing mad.”

“ He wishes to be free, to marry the female of whom
he speaka, I fear sir,’ observed Mrs. Sparsit in an
undertone, and much dejected by the immorality of
the people.

“Ido. The lady says what’sright. Ido. I werea
coming to’t. I ha’ read i’ the papers that great tok
(fair taw ‘em a’! I'wishes’em no hurt!) are not bonded
together for better tor worse so fast, but that they can
be set free fro’ their misfortnet marriages, an marry
ower agen. When they dunnut agree, for that their
tempers is ill-sorted, they has rooms o’ one kind an
another in their houses, above abit, and they can live
asunders. We fok ha’ only one room, and we can’t.
When that won’t do, they ha’ gowd an other cash,
an then they say ‘This for yo’ and that for
me,’ and they can go their separate ways. We can’t.
Spite o’ all that, they can be set free for smaller
wrongs than mine. SoImun be ridden o’ thiswoman,
and I wan t’know how?” ;

“No how,” returned Mr. Bounderby.

: a Ido her any hurt, sir, there’salaw to punish
me?’

“ Of course there is.”

“Tf I tlee from her, there’s a law to punish me?”

“Of course there is,

“Tf I marry t’oother dear lass, there's a law to pun-
ish mé?”

“ Of course there is,”

“If I was to live wi’ her an not marry her—sayin
such a thing eould be, which it never could or would,
an her so good—thére’s a law to punish me, in every
innocent child belonging to me ?”

“Of course there is.”’ _t

“Now, a’ God’s name,” said Stephen Blackpool,
“show ine the law to help me!”

“Hem! There’sasanctity in this relation of life,”
said Mr. Bounderby, ‘“and—and—it must be kept up.”

“No no, dunnot say that, sir. Tan’t kep’ up that
way. Not that way. "Tis kep’ down that way. I’m a
weaver, I were in a fact’ry when a chilt, but Iha’ gotten
een to see wi’ and eern to year wi’, I read in th’ papers
every ‘Sizes, every Sessions—and you read too—I know
it !—with Siena De th’ supposed unpossibility o’
ever getting ufchained from one another, at any price,
on any terms, brings blood upon’this land, and brings
many common married fok to battle, murder, and sud-
den death, Let ugha’ this right understood, Mine's
 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

 

a
ae J
yous case, an* I want—if yo will be 80 good) And lasalthy;* said the old woman, ‘as the fresh | because he knew himself to want that softening of his %

a grie
} t’know the law that helps me.” wind anger which no yoice but hers could effect, he felt he
| . Now, I'tell you what!” said Mr. Bounderby, M4 Yes, Ra returned Stephen. “He wereett’nand drink- | might so far disregard what she had said as ‘to wait for
| putting his hands in his pockets, “There is such @ | ing—as large and as loud as a Hummobee.” | her again. He waited, but she had eluded him. She
} “Thank you !” said the old woman with infinite con- | was gone. On no other night inthe year could he so
i 7 Stephen, subsiding into his quiet manner, and never | tent. “ ‘Thank you !’” ‘ill have spared her patient face. ;
wandering in his attention, gave a nod. He certainly never had seen this old woman before.| O! Better to have no home in which to lay his '

i . “But it’s not for you at all, It costs money. It costs | Yet there was a vague remembrance in his mind, as if head, than to have a home and “dread to go to it,
a mint of money.’ hehad more than once dreamed of some old woman | through such a cause. He ate and drank, for he was
“ How much might that be?” Stephen calmly asked. | ‘like her. ” | exhausted—but he little knew or cared what; and ho .

« Why,.you’d liave to goto Doctors’ Commons with a} | She walked along at his side, apd, gently accommo- | wandered about in the chili rain, thinking and think- , /
suit, and you'd haye to go to a court of Common Law | dating himself to her humor, he said Coketown was a | ing, and brooding and brooding &y A
with a suit, and you'd have to go to the House of Lords | busy place, was it not? To whichshe answered “ Eigh |. No word ofa new marriage fina ever passed between
| , with a suit, and you’d baye to get an Act of Parliament sure! Dreadful busy !’’ Then he said, she came from | them ; but Rachael*had taken great pity on him years Pe
} to enable you to marry again, and it would cost you (if |‘the country, he saw? To which she answered in the | ago, and to her alone he had opened his closed heart eA

 

“Why then, sir,” said Stephen, turning white, and | road to give mea lift, I shalb walk the nine mile back | night ; of the lightness then _in“his: now heavy-laden
motioning with that right hand of his, as if he gave} to-night. That’s pretty well, sir, at my age!’’ saidthe | breast ; of the then restored honor, selfespect and
everything tothe four winds, “’/isa muddle. ‘Tis just | chatty old woman, her eye brightening with exulta- | tranquility all torn to pieces. He thought of the ;
a muddle a’together, an” the sooner I am dead, the bet- | tion. | waste of the best part of his life, of the change it made '

™ Deed ’tis. Don’t do’t too often,: missus,”’ | in his character for the worse every day; of the dreadful j

Mrs. ‘Sparsit again dejected by ‘the impiety of the} “No, no. Once a year,’’*she answered, shaking her nature of his existence, bound hand and foot toa dead ;

people.) head. “I spend my savings. so, once ewery year. I) woman, ‘and tormented by a demon in hershape. He b a
‘Pooh, p pooh! Don’t you talk nonsense my good |.come regular, to tramp about the airepta, and sée the | thought of Rachael, how young when they were first ~~)
fellow.” said Mr. Bounderby, “about things you don’t) gentlemen.” ) brought together in these circumstances, how mature
understand; and don't you call the institutions of your “Only to see ’em ?”’ returned Stephen. now, how soon to grow old. He thought of the
i . country a» muddle, or you'll get yourself into a real “That's enough for me;’’ she;replied, with great | number of girls and women she had’ seen “marry, how
i » 4 wauddle one of these fine mornings. ~ The institutions-| earnestness.and.interest of manner. « ‘‘I,ask.nomore! | many homes with children in them she had seen
e of your country. are Not“ your piece-work, and the only | I have been standing about, om this»side of the way, to | grow up around her, howshe had contentedly pursued
h thing he haye pot toda is to mind your piece-work. | see that gentleman,” turning her head. back towards | herown Jone quiet path—for him—and how he had
+ You didn’t take your wife for fast and for loose; but for | Mr. Bounderby’siagain, ‘‘come.out. But, he’s late this | sometimes seen.'a shade of melancholy on-her blesse:|
‘better for worse. If shé has turned out worse—why, year, and I Have not seen him. Youcame out, instead. | face, thatsmote him with remorse and despair. | He sect
1 » all we yhave got to say is, she might ‘have turned out | Now, if I am obliged to go back without a glimpse of | the picture of her up, ‘beside the, infamous image of
ft better,” him—I only want a glimpse—well ! -f-have seen you, last night ; and thought, Could it be, that the whole
if Onis a muddle,” said Stephen, shaking bis head,as |and you have seen him, and»I must make that do.’’,; earthly course of one so gentle, good and a ing,
if he moved to the door. “’Tis a muddle!” Saying this,she looked at Stephen as if to fix his features was subjugate to such a wretch as that! —
: “Now, I'll tell you what!’’ Mr. Bounderby. re-| in her mind, and her eyewas not so, bright as, it had |. Filled with these thoughts—so filled that - he dad an
~-sumed, as a valedictory address. “With what I shall} been. unwholesome sense of growing larger, of being»placed
¢all your unhallowed opinions, you have been quite With a large allowance of difference of. tastes, and | in some new and diseased relation towards the objects
; _ Shocking this lady; who,as I have already told you, | with all submission to the patricians of Coketown, this | among which he passed, of Seeing the iris round every
_ isa born lady, and who, a3 Ihave not already told you, | seemed 66 extraordinary asource of interest to take so | misty toMy, turn red—he’ went — shelter.
has had her own marriage misfortunes to the tune’ of |'‘much ‘trouble about, that it perplexed him. But they i ; i [
./. tens of thousands of pounds—tens of Thou-sands of| were passing the church now, andas his-eye caught the _ Pyle oy ras
Pounds!’”’ (he repeated it with great relish.) Now,-| clock; he quickened his pace. , u ' CHAPTER XII :
_ you have always been a steady Hand hitherto; but my | He was going to his work ? theold woman said, quick- ; .
opinion is, and so I tell you plainly, that you are turn-| ening hers, too, quite easily... Yes, time was nearl . r nacaeiine,
 » oing into ne pase oe You i Nii Saat Ma out: ym telling her where Ses worked, the old - : .
; some mischievous ranger or other—they’re alwa woman came: a more singular old: woman than be- at ANDLE faintly b di as +
} y burned in the window to. which the
ibehert thing you.cen uo is, po cote Gut 1 ore: i Dlack ladder had often been raised. for the away |
ee 4

i it was very plain- sailing), I suppose from a thousand to | affirmative. | all this time, on the subject of his’ nriseries ; and he

F fifteen hundred pound,” said Mr. Bounderby. “‘Per-| ‘By Parliamentary, this morning. Icame forty mile | knew very well that if he were free to ask her, sho

} haps twice the money. by Parliamentary this morning, and I’m going back | would take him. He thought ot the home hemight at ;
ti “There’s no other law?’, the same forty mile this afternoon. .I walked nine mile | that moment have been seeking with pleasure and }
i: “Certainly not.” to the station this morning, and if I find nobody. on the | pride ; of the different man he might have beem that |
i ;
fi

f

re

about—and.
at hat. Now you know;” here his countenance ex- | * “An’t you ha 2” she asked him.
: marvelous acuteness; “I can see as far intoa| « Why—there’ evtiont nobody biit has their troub- ohm Hee be = oo one an Pete Sones ars
one as another man; farther than a good many, | les, missus.” He answered-evasively, because the old | on teins th tntendine vateen election, th a f om
Es my ose well kept to it when I| woman appeared to take it for granted that he would | the casualties of this existence upon |. eis
mh see traces of the turtle soup, and veni- | be yery happy indeed, and he had not’the, heart to dis- dealt outwith eo on seuslndeed e as Death sera eh oe ae
So ‘old spoon in this. Yes, 1dot’"cried Mr. Boun- | appoint her. He knew that there was trouble enough | Ghality of Birth was nothing to it. For, mae 'etint th.
eet eee head with obstinate cunning. “By | in the'world ; and if the old woman had_ lived so long, guia ye a.King arid the ehilds ko Widest Een te
_ the do.” ‘and could count upon his ha so hittle, why 80| niontin the sedceaeea hat ee that ity t
wk a ied “sa erent shake or the head api deep si, much the pores ieee and aa o- —T him. the death of any human creature who was Miscabls
re ie you, siz, you “AY, 8: rou ‘have your ubles . a! ame, uu
So hi the ‘all ™ e ain erby Pipes 3 ae aa Cp meee Lis said. - we oe Seeaent by, another, while, this abandoned wo-
: on wall as. were going to e 6 himself into} « Tim S. Just nd. d then,” he ansWwe na, light-
it; and Mrs. Sparsit still ambling on with her foot in | ty, i bal aie the tuside, "ith suspend ded mie he, sleepy 88 slow aie:
pugmseapy Iaakis snike 48h 4o7> 7 $84 YopeMe vant feet inder such agentleman, they don't step. “ He went up to his door, opened it, and so into
$0 Sati ened deed “Kb '@ nhase—onisocteto, Pas “No, mo; they didn’t follow him there, said Stephen. gusapeapauanerend team Rachael, was there, sit: Hes
od y ‘ext aad 2h fod. ; aia correct eens ao moensiann e wrod ting by the bed.
CHAPTER XII. : ; not go so far as to say, for her pleasure, ere
, 30 obasret : of a ; was-a ae of Divine Right there; but, I have heard janne tommed her head, and: sa i Right of hax face shons
sks eiegh anc i . ay ; claims almost as ‘ificent of late years.) wey plaid by.
ca ee ¢ THE OLD WOMAN. | watching and tending his wife. ..Thatis to say, he saw
40 Yes EgEt oo « They nen in'the: ene the place, | that someone lay. there, and he wtoo well it must
Oxp STEPHEN descended the two white steps, shut- ane dhe oe Feira i 8 fot oe ante be she; but Rachael’s suse, putacurtainup, so
» -sowting the black door with-the brazen door-plate, by the. ate tant ree getti Sehdy? “Uheedinange ge © | that she was screened from his eyes. Her disgraceful
\\ ‘aid of'the brazen full stop, to which he gave a parting,| ¢!ephan ted orth th conte it fhe b ee garments were removed, and some of Rachael’ were in
eee. sleeve.of his coat, observing that his was seg i ta a. ve ened, h ‘said, nd eau eg | the Toom. Everything was in its place and as he
cloudedsit.. lest gio Rad ever, smn and sounded |) aq always kept. it, the littte:firewas newly trimmed,

a a ee

Pe
g

   

 

_ fewety! the eet mn his gra Bat -
om oo ggen bent see. baiepane wand thus was walking sor-| °"gy.9 asked higp. when ‘he. stopped. good-naturedly to | snd, the hearth was this, Rachael's ince eB
i; ue Oo Ttowas: not the to tral woke ‘as @ mo-, shake hands with her Dofore gokag in ey = he had | Nothing besides. ite joking at it, eietint ont ike
i  “tnent—the touch. could calm the wild waters of his | WoTKed there. ” s from his s view by the potenet ieee tears that filled his eyes; —
; ee eee uplifted ma of the sublimest love and pa-| {4 dozen year,’ "he told b “but not. before he had seen how earnestly shelooked at =
E fons apeia tee raging of the sea—yet it wasa|. “ T must Kiss'the hand,” said shor“ that has worked jim, and how her own eyes boy filled :
co: ae ions hand too» It was Sn old woman. tall and io tiie San eo fae, conenarees eee ee She turned:again towards t bed tang her- |
Br a «Spel at aaa withered by time, on whom his her lips.. What harmony, besides her age nhdceekaben a ae that #1 was: quiet ‘there, ae a@ low, calm, _ ;

me Pah plainly dreveds had countey taud Noon hey | Plicity, surrounded her, he did not know, but even in «tam glad You have come at last, Stephon. You are

SS oe

shoes, e Panne copnizy mud The, ee this fantastic action there was a somethin ate.

: ; ig meldbere out
t of her pod "pie unwouted noise of the Ao seeeeee, ormtinieor or episeai; aap uinihing mich {bsgamed ag dy ts: os hae ‘been walking up an’down,”
i Ss “the spare shawl, carried unfolded on her arm; the | 20body else could nears neeeee 5 serious, or done with | <1 thought so. t ’tis too bad Lane for that. ~ *
Hh. heavy umbrella, and little basket; the loose long-fing- | Such @ natural and touc 7 fall ‘The rain falis.very ae

2 He had been at his loom half an hour, thinking. The wind? True. ee rep k to the 7

 

a . Spent te co dread rear. ROGp hee Hh about this:old@ woman, when haying occasion to move tg | fave dering in th ieee and the, e! To

fH x he holiday clothes, ae poateen sp ates expertae Satake - sheen ere vera? gt ta ne a i | bave a such awind, and not to ‘e known it

fl “« “of rare occurre narki: ice, ‘ "

Soa the quick observation of his class, ares Risck ole docking oP st the pine ae ray wanation. ") “I have. oe here ene bales
- Setnsartes Seloh Ks workin with eyed two 1 long journeys, she was gazing at it as if the heavy | wag soabone. here that needed. »she said,

inthe midst of a ee noise, had ac- a hat. rr its many Btarice were —e "Ande “deed 1 she maeighh, All

lay, Stephen.
me.. Thera

   
   
    

ng, and lost, Ste-
quired the concentrated look with which we are famil- “
iar in the countenances of the. a @ better to hear) She was gone by and By and the day rently after her, |< He-slowly moved toa chair and sat_ down, drooping

 

 

   

ht woman's one on ana a aa cd; throbbing toch rer ate cust ce nein aki right
Machin slac! maecas bab ving yl ike 9 faint- next, for r am
naan nel ses the gl f eon id certain that far too mepeifal to'let her dic

Lee eailed ; the so much as suifer, for want of aid. Thou
in ¢ black wet htt fall china ri | nov “Let him without sin among
into the air like com eae My last night you ot st stone at her!’ ‘There shave been

He had spoken only. a t, it was true, iis) > do that. Thou artnotthe man senent the
and had walked with her a li ut he oe en, when she is brought so low

misfortune on him . ; Rachael ’
: ‘ew Zplefortone” on him in which no one sake tt ing hast been a SO ttintens “Heaven reward

i sama she asked him. . and the lights s opens, up again, and the express whirled | his head before her. a
; Pray, sir,” said the old woman, “ didn’t I see you | full sight of the Fairy Palace over the arches near, “T came to do what little ‘Peonld, Heepken® first, for’
} of come out of that gent! ’s3 house ?’’ pointing to | little felt’ amid the jarring of the machinery, and | that she worked with me when we were girls both,
ah. i Mire {he ad hick to mia tz me ‘Demon ia folle I ite scarcely heard above its deoak and rattle. Long yefore | for that qo ff courted her and married her when I a
i 5 ga had the bad luck following ?”” thoughts had gone back to the ‘come room | her frien '
+} 3 “Xi ‘ oy mee ome : abore the
F

itthes shop and to the shameful ey heavy sade laid his furrowed forehead on his hand, withalow _

eee ae

 

 

St

 

 

 
e

He

 

HARD TIMES.

 

it

 

 

 

thee!" she said, in compassionate accents. “Iam thy | was, if he shut up drawers and closets where it stood, | there. I nevermore will see her or think o’ her, but

poor friend, with all my heart and mind.”

| if he drew the curious from places where he knew it to

thonshalt be beside her, Inevermore will see or think

_ The wounds of which she had spoken, seemed to be | be secreted, and got them out into the streets, tue very | o’ anything that angers me, but thou, so much better
about the’neck of. the self-made outcast, She dressed | chimneys of the mills assumed:thatsshape, and round |} than me, shalt be by th’ sideon’t., And so I will try t’

tuem now, still without showing her. She’steeped a
piece of linen in a basin, into which she poured some
liquid ftom a bottle, and laid it with a gente hand upon
tue sore. The three-legged table had been drawn Close
to the bedside, and on it there were two bottles.’ This
was. one. fe

It was not so far off, but that Stephen, following her
hands with his eyes, could read what was printed on
it, in large letters, He turned of adeadly hue/and a
sudden horror’seemed to fall upon him.

“T will stay here, Stephen,” said’ Rachael, quietly re-

them was the printed word. f
Thé wind was blowing again, the rain was beating on
the housetops, and the larger spaces through whieh
| He had strayed contracted to the tour walls of his room, |
; Saving that'the fire iad died out, it-was as his eyesihad |
closed upon it. Rachael seemed to have fallen into a |
(oze, in the-chair by the bed. Shesat wrapped im her |
| shawl, perfectly’ still. “The. table stood in the same
| place, close,by the bedside, and on it, its reak propor-
tions and appearance, was ‘thé shape so often repeated. |
He thought he saw the curtain move.: He looked |

 

plook:t’ th’ time, and..so.I will. try.t’ frust t’ th’ time

when thouandme at last shall walk together far awa’
beyond the deep gulf, in th’ country where thy little
sister is.” :

He kissed the border of her shawl again, and let her
go. She bade him good-night in a broken-voice, and
went out into.the street.

The wind blew from the quarter where fhe day would
soon appear, and still blew strongly. It had cleared
the sky before it, and the rain had spent itself or trav-
eled elsewhere, and the stars“ were bright. He stood

suming her seat, “till the bells go Three. "Tis to be again; and be was sure it moved. He saw ia, hand come | bare-headed in the road, watching her quick disappear-

done again at three, and then she may be left till
aorning.”

“But thy rést agen to-morrow’s work, my dear ?’”

“Isleptsound last night. I can wake-many nights,
when Iam put toit. ’Tis thou who artin need of rest—
so white and tired. Try to sleep in the chair there,
while Ewatch. Thou hadst no sleep last night, Ican
well believe. To-morrow’s work is far harder for thee
than for me.”

He. heard the thundering and surging out of doors,
and it seemed to him asif his late angry mood were
going about trying to get at him. She had cast it out ;
she would keep it out; he trusted to her to defend him
from himself. ;

“She don’t know me, Stephen; she just drowsily
mutters, and. stares. I have spoken to her times and
again, but'shedon’t notice! ’Tisas wellso. When she

. comes to her right,mind once more, I shall have done
what I can, and shé nevér the wiser.’”

“ How long, Rachael, is’t looked for, that ‘she’ll be |"

30?”

“Doctor said she would haply come to her mind to-
morrow.”

His.eyes again fell on the bottle, and a tremble passed
over him, causing him to shiver in every limb. She
thought he was chilled with the wet. “No,” he said ;
“Tt was not that. He had had a fright.”

“A fright? :

“Ay, ay! coming in. When I’ were walking. When
i were thinking.. When I’’—
and he stood up, holding by the mantel-shelf, as he
pressed his dank cold ‘hair down with a hand that
shook as if it were palsied,

“Stephen!” race how

She was coming. to him, but he stretched out’ his
arm to stop her, 3

“No! n’t please ; don’t! Let me see the’ setten
by the bed. Let. me see thee, a’ so good and so forgiv-
ing. Let me see thee as I see thee when £[coomin. I
can never see thee better than so. Never, never,
never |"

He had a yiolent fit of trembling and then sunk into
luis chair. After a time he controlled himself, and,
r sting with an elbow on one knee, and_ his head'upon
tat, hand, could look towards Rachael. Seen across
the dim candle with’ his moistened eyes, she looked as
if; she had a, glory shining round her head, “He could
haye believed she had. He did believe it, as the noise
without shook the window, rattled at the door below,
and weat about the house clamoring and lamenting.

«“Whem'she gets. better, Stephen,, ’tis to be hoped
She'll leave thee.to thyself again, and do thee no more
hurt. Anyways we will hope so now., And now I shall
keep silence, for I want thee to sleep,”

He closed his eyes, more to please her than to rest
his weary head; but, by slow degrees as he listened to
the great noise of the wind, he ceased, to. hear it, or it
changed into.the working of, his loom, or even into the
voices of the day (hisjown included). saying what had
been, really said. Even this,imperfect consciousness
faded away, at last, and he dreamed a long, troubled

ams f

He thought that he, and some one on whom his heart
had long been set—but she was not Rachael, and that
surprised him, even in’the,midst of his imaginary hap-
piness—stood in the church being married.. While the
ceremony was pérforming, and while he recognized
among the witnesses some whom he knew to be living,
and many-whom he knew to; be dead, darkness came
on, succeeded ‘by the shining of a tremendous light.

» It ‘broke from one line in the table of commandments |,

at the altar, and illuminated the building with the
words. They were sounded through the church, too,
as if there were voices in the fiery letters. Upon this
the whole appearance before him and around. him
‘ehanged, and. nothing was left as it had been but him-
sélf and the clergyman, They stood, in. the daylight
“before a crowd so vast that, if all the, people in the
world could. have been brought. together into one
space, they could not have looked, he;thought, more
numerous; and they all abliorred him, and there was
“mot one pitying or friendly eye among the millions that
were fastened.on his face. He stood on arraised stage,
under his own loom ; and, looking up at the shape the
loom took; and hearing the burial service distinctly
read, he knew that he was there to suffer death. In an

instant what.he ,stood..on fell below him, and he |

was gone, 2 ;
Out of what mystery he came back to his usual life
and to places that he knew, hé was unable to consider,
at he was back in those places by some means, and

! vith thie condemnation upon him, that he was never
f n this world or the next, through all the unimaginable
ases of eternity, to look, on Rachel’s face or hear her
voices Wandering to.and fro, unceasingly, without
h>pe, and in search of he knew not what (he oy knew
that, he was doomed to seek it), ho was, the subject of
4 nameless, horrid dread, a mortal fear of one particular
shape which. everything took, Whatsoever looked
_at, grew into that form sooner or later, ‘The object of
his miserable existence was to prevent its recognition
. by any'one,among the various people he encountered.
‘Bopeless labor |, Ifho led them out of rooms where it

j,forth, and gropé about a little.

Then the curtain |
‘moved more perceptibly, andthe woman in the bed put |
it back, and sat up. |
With her wotul eyes; so haggard and wild, so heavy
and large, she looked all. round the room, and» passed
the corner where he slept in his'chair.. Her eyes-re-
turned to that corner, and she put. her hand over.them
as a shade, while she looked into it. Again they went |
all round the room, scarcely heeding Racliael if atall, |

ance. “As the shining stars were to the heavy candle in
the window, so was’ Rachael, in the rugged fancy of
this man, to the common experiences of his’ life.

 

CHAPTER XIV.
THE GREAT MANUFACTURER.

Time went on in Coketown ‘like its own machinery:

It_seized him again ;-

and returned to that corner. “He thought, as she once | 39 much material wrought.up, so much fuel consimed,
more shaded them—not so much looking at him, as 39 many powers worn out, somuch money made. But,
looking for him with a brutish dnstinct that he ‘was | Jess inexorable than iron, steel, and brass, it brought its
there—that no single trace was left im those debauched | varying seasons even intoithat wildertiess of smoke and
features, or in the mind that went along with them,of prick, and made the only stand that ever was made in
the woman-hé had married eighteen years:before. But} the place, against its direftl uniformity.
that he had'seen her come to'this by inches, ‘he: never} «TP onisais beconiing,’! said Mrs Gradgrind, “almost
could have believed her to be the same. a young woman.” \ + 1
_All this time,.as ifa spell were on him, he» was mo-| ‘Pinie, with’ his’ innumerable’ horse power, worked
tionléss and powerless, except to-watch her away, not minding what anybody said, and presently
Stupidly dozing, orcommuning with! her incapable | turned out young Thomas a foot taller than ‘when his
self about nothing; she sat for alittle »whilé with: her | father had last taken particular notice of him.
hands at her ears, and her head-resting on them. |) «Thomas:is becoming," said Mr. Gradgrind, “almost
Presently, ‘she -resumed fher staring round 'thexroom.’} ayoung man.” i ?
And ‘now, for the first time, her-eyes stopped-atithe | ‘Time passed Thomas on inthe mill,..while his father
table with the bottles’on it. ; was thinking about. it, and™there’ he stood in a long-
Straightway she turned her eyes back ‘to’ his corner,| tailed coat and a stiff slirt-collar.
with the defiance of last night, and moving very | « Really,” said Mr. Gradgrind, ‘the: period: has. ar-
cautiously and softly, stretched out-her greedy hand. | rived when Thomas ought to go to Bounderby.””
She drew a mug into the bed, and sat'for a while: ton-| © Time, sticking to him, passed’ him on into Boundaer-
via aa aes i sett ene — mone | by’s Bank, made him an inmate of Bounderby’s house,
inally, she lai er insens: g upon e ttl6 necessitated the purchase of his»firs 2r-
‘that hed swift and certain death in it, and, before: his * ia ae ee

eyes, pulled out the cork with her teeth.

Dream or reality, he had no voice, nor had he power
to stir. If this be real, and her allotted time benot yet
come; wake, Rachael, wake ! f ,

She thought of that, too. She looked at Rachael, and
very slowly, very cautiously, poured out the’ contents,
The draught was at -her lips. A moment, and:she
would be past all help, let the whole: world wake. and
come about her with its utmost power: But, in that
moment Rachael started up with a suppressed cry. ‘The
creature struggled, struck her, seized her/by the’ hair;
but Rachael had the ctp.

Stephen broke out of his chair, “‘ Rachael, am 1wakin’
or dreamin’, this’ dréadto’ night !"

|cised him diligently in his calculations’ relative to

| number one. :

| Tha same great manufacturer, always ‘with an im-

| mense yariety of work on hand, in every stage.ot de-
velopément,© passed Sissy onward in his mill, and
worked her up into a very pretty article’ indeed,

“Ttear, Jupe,”'said Mr. Gradgrind, “that your con-

| tinuance at the school any longer, would be useless.”

| “Iam afraid it) would, sir,’ Sissy anstvered, with a

! Curtsey.

| “I cannot disguise front you, Jupe,’’ said Mx, Grad-

| grind, knitting his brow, “that the result of .your pro-

\bation ‘theré has disappointed me; has greatly disap-

| pointed’me..-»Youw have not acquired under Mr. and

\'Mrs. M’Choakumehild, anything like that amount of

“ "Tis all well, Stephen."*I have been asleep myselt,,,. exact kuowledge which I looked for, You are extreme-
’Tis near three. Hush) Thear the bells.” } ly deficientin your facts. Your. acquaintance with
‘The ‘wind brought the sounds ofthe church clock to} figuresis very limited, You are altogether backward

the window. They listened, and it. struck. three. |
Stephen looked at her, Saw how’ pale shewas, noted the |
disorder of her hair, and the red marks of fingers on her |
forehead, and felt assured that his senses of sight and

hearing had been awake. She held the cup iw her hand |
eyen now. {

“T thought it must benear three,” she said) calmly
pouring from the cup into thebasin, and steeping the
linen as before. ‘‘Iam thankful I stayed. ‘Tis done;
now, when I have put this on.” There |» And now she’s
quiet again. The few drops in the basin F'lbpour away, |
for ’tis bad stuff'to leave about, though ever so little of.
it.” “As she spoke, she drained thé basin itito:'the ashes
of the fire, andjbroke the bottle on the hearth.

She had nothing to do, theu, buf fo covérsherself with
her shawl before going out into the wind and tain. .

“Thou'lt let me walk*wi’ thee at this hour, Rachael ?”’

“No, Stephen.) "Tis but a minute and I’m: home,”

“ Thou’rt not fearfo’;” he said it» in sa low) voice; as |
they went out atthe door; “to leave’ me alone wi’
her ?”” r 4

As she looked at him, .saying’ ‘‘$tephen ?”’ he went,
down on bis knee’ before her, on the poor, mean stairs,
and put an end of her shawl to his lips:

“Thou art an atigel. “Bless thee, bless thee.”

«Tam, as [have told thee, Stephen, thy»poor friend.
Angels aré not like-me. Between them, and a working
woman fu’ of faults ‘there is'a deep gulfset. My little
sister is among them, but she is changed.”’

She raised her eyes for anioment as shesaid the words,
and then they fell again, in»alb their. gentleness and
mildness on his face.

“ Thou chiangest me from bad to good. Thou mak’st |
mie humbly wishfo" to be"more like thee, and fearfo’ to!

Jose thee when this life is ower, an’ a”! the’ muddle |
cleared’awa’. Thou’ft an angel; it’ may, be» thou “hast |
saved my soul alive.” ” ’ Say

She looked at him, on his knee at her feet, with her |
shaw! still in his hand, and the reproofon her lips died |
away when she'saw the working of his face:

“Tcoom home desp’rate. I coom home wi’out a
hope, and mad wi’ thinking that when I said a word o”
complaint I was reckoned a onreasonable Hand. I told
“‘thée Thad had a fright. It were the Poison-bottle on
table. Ineverhurt a livin’ creetur; but happenin’ so
suddenly upon’t, [thowt, ‘How can Isay what I might
ha’ done to myseln, or her, or both!’”’ é

She put her two hands on his mouth, with a face of
terror, to stop him from saying more. Hecaught them
in his unoccupied hand, and holding them, and still
clasping the border of her shawl, said hurriedly:

“But I see thee, Rachael, seften by the»bed, I ha-
seen thee, aw this night. In my troublous sleep J. ha’
known thee still tebe there, Evermore I will soa thee

 

 

\ been more -succesatul, you woul:

and below the mark.”

“Tam sorry,sir,” she returned; “but I know it is
quitestrue., Yet Dhave tried hard, sir.’”

“Yes,’’ said Mr, Gradgrind, “ yes, I believa yor have
tried hard; [have observed you, and I can find no tault
in that respect.”’

“Thank you, sir. I have thought sometimes ;”
Sissy very timid here: ‘‘ that perhaps I tried to learn
too much,,and that if I had asked to be allowed to try
alittle Jess, lamight have ’——

“No, Jupe, mo,” said Mr. Gradgrind, shaking his
head in his,profoundest and. most, eminently practical
way. “No. The course you pursued, you. pursued
according to’ the system—the .system—and there.is no
more to be said about it.. I can only suppose that the
cireumstances .of your early life were too unfavorable
to the developement of your reasoning powers, and
that we began too late. Still, as I have said already, I
am disappointed.”’

“Iwish I could have made a better acknowledgment,
sir, of your kindness to a poor forlorn girl who had no
claim upon you, and of your protection of her.”

* Don’t shed. tears,’’ said Mr.. Gradgrind. “Don’t
shed tears... Ldon't complain of you. You are an affec-
tionate, earnest, good young woman, and—and we must
makeythat do.” ; 7
oi Thank, you, sir, very» much,” said, Sissy, with a
grateful curtsey. i

“ You are useful to. Mrs. Gradgrind, and (in a general-
ly pervading way) you are serviceable in the famil
also,; 80 understand from Miss Louisa, and, indeed,
so [have observed myself. I therefore hope}”’ said Mr.
Gradgrind, “that you can make yourself happy in
those relations.’’ f i toot

‘‘T should have nothing to ‘wish, sirpif” —+

“1 undérstand you,” said. Mr. Gradgrind; you still
reférto your father. Ihave heard from Miss Louisa.
that you still preserve that bottle. Well! If your
training in the scienceof ona at exaet results had

have: been wiser on

these points: I will say no more.’’

»» He really tiked Sissy too well to have-a contempt for

her; otherwise, he held her calculating powers in such
very, slight estimation that he must haye fallen upon
that conclusion, Somehow or other, he had become
possessed by an idea that there was something in this
girl which could hardly be sét fo.th in a. tabular form.
Her.capacity of definition might,be. easily stated at a

very low figure, her mathematical knowledge at no-
thing; yet he was not sure thatif he had been required,
for example, fo tick her off into colunms in a parlia-
mentary return, he would have qiite known how to
divide her. ae ’ .

In some stages of his manufacture of the human fab~
 

   

42.

ric, the processes of Time dre very rapid. Young
Thomas and Sissy being both at such astage of their
working up, these changes were effected in a year or
two: while Mr. Gradgrind himself seemed stationary
in his course, and underwent no alteration.

Except one, which was apart from his necessary pro-
gress through the mill, Time hustled him into a little
noisy and rather dirty machinery, in a by-corner, and
made him Member of Parliament for Coketown: one
of the respected members for ounce weights and meas-
ures, one of the representatives of the multiplication
table, one of the deaf honorable gentlemen, dumb hon-
orable gentlemen, blind honorable gentlemen, lame
honorable gentlemen, dead honorable gentlemen. to
every other consideration. Else wherefore live we in
a Christian land, eighteen hundred and odd years after
our Master ?

All this while, Louisa had been passing on, so quiet
and reserved, and so much given to watching the bright
ashes at twilight as they fell into the grate and became
extinct, that from the period when her father had said
she was almost a young woman—which seemed but
yesterday—she had scarcely attracted his notice again,
when he found her quite a young woman.

“Quite ayoung 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,and Louisa came to bid him good-bye before his
departure—as he was not to be home until late and she
would not see-him again until the morning—he held
her in his arms, looking at her in his kindest manner,
and said: »

“My dear Louisa, you are @ woman |’’

She shewered with the old, quick, searching look of
the night when she was found at the Circus ; then cast.
down her eyes. “ Yes, father.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I must speak with
you alone and seriously. Come to me in my room after
breakfast to-morrow, will you ?”’

“Yes, father.”’

«Your hands are rather cold, Louisa.
well?”

“Quite well, father.’’

« And cheerful ?”

She looked at him again, and smiled in her peculiar
manner. “I am as cheerful, father, as J usually am, or
usually have been.’’

“ That’s well,” said Mr. Gradgrind. So, he kissed her
and went away; and Louisa returned to the serene
apartment of the hair-cutting character, and leaning
her elbow on her hand, looked again at the short-lived
sparks that so soon subsided into ashes.

“ Are you there, Loo ?” said her brother, looking in at
the door. He was quite a young gentleman of pleasure
now, and not quite a prepossessing one.

“Dear Tom,” she answered, rising and embracing
him, “ how long it.is since you have been to see me!”

“Why, 1 have been otherwise engaged, Loo, in the
evenings ; and in the daytime old Bounderby has been
keeping mé at it rather. But I touch him up with you,
when he comes it too strong, and so we preserve an un-
derstanding. Isay! Has father said anything partic-
ular to-you, to-day, or yesterday, Loo?”

“No, Tom. But he told me to-night that he wished
to do so in the morning.” E

“Ah! -That’s what I mean,” said Tom. “Do you

Are you not

“ No.” 4

“Then Ill tell you. He’s with old Bounderby. They
are having a regular confab together, up at the Bank.
Why at the Bank, do you think? Well, I'll tell you
again. To keep Mrs, Sparsit’s ears as far off as possible,

I Sor

With her hand upon her brother’s shoulder, Louisa
still stood looking at the fire. Her brother glanced at
her face with greater interest than usual, and, en-
circling her waist with his arm, drew her coaxingly to
him.

“You are very fond of me, ain’t you, Loo ?”’

“Indeed I am, Tom, though you do let such long in-
terval& go by without coming to see me.”

“Well, sister of mine,” said Tom, “when you say
that, you are near my thoughts. We might be so much
oftener together—mightn’t we? Always- together, al-
most—mightn’t we? It would do me a great deal of
good if you were to make up your mind ‘tol know what,
Loo. It would be s splendid thing for me. It would be
uncommonly jolly!”

Her thoughtfulness baffled his cunning scrutiny. He
could make nothing of her face. He pressed her in his
arm, and kissed her cheek. She returned the kiss, but
still looked at the fire.

“Tsay, Loo! I thought I'd come, and just hint to
you what was going on : though I supposed you’d most
likely guess, even if you didn’t know. I can’t stay, be-
cause I’m engaged to some fellows to-night. Youwon’t
forget how fond you are of me?”

“No, dear Tom, I won’t forget.”

“ ’s a capital girl.” said Tom. “ Good-bye,
Lou.” y

' She gavé him an affectionate good-night, and went
out with him to the door, whence the fires of Coketown
could be seen making the distance lurid. She stood
there, looking steadfastly towards them, and 1.stenin
to his departing steps. They retreated quickly, an
glad to get away from Stone Lodge; and she stood
there yet, when he was gone and all was quiet. It
seemed ag if, first in her own fire within the house,
and then in the fiery haze without, she tried to discover
what kind of woof Old Time, that test and longest-
established Spinner of all, would weave from the
threads he had already spun into a woman. But his
factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his
Hands are mutes.

 

HARD TIMES.

: ee
CHAPTER XV.
FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

aLTHOUGH Mr. Gradgrind did not take after Blue
Beard, his room was quitea bluechamber in its abun-
dence of blue books. Whatever they could. prove
(which is usually anything you like), they proved there,
in an army constantly strengthening by the arrival of
new recruits. In that charmed apartment, the most
complicated social questions were cast up, got into ex-
act-totals and finally settled—if those concerned could
only have been brought to know it. As if an astro-
nomical observatory should be made without any win-
dows, and the astronomer within should arrange the
starry universe solely by pen, ink, and paper, so Mr.
Gradgrind, in his Observatory (and there are many
like it), had noneed to cast an eye upon the teeming
myriads of human beings aroundhim, but could settle
all-their destinies on a slate, and wipe out all their
tears with one dirty little bit of sponge.

To this Observatory, then: a stern room, with a
deadly statistical clock in it, which measured every
second with a beat likes, rap upon a coffin-lid; Lousia
repaired on the appointed morning. A window looked
towards Coketown; and when she sat down near her
father’s table, she saw the high chimneys and the
long tracts of smoke looming in the heavy distance
-gloomily. ;

“My dear Lousia,’”’ said her father, ‘‘I prepared you
lass night to give me your serious attention in thecon-
versation we are now going to have together.
have been so well ceniaoe and you do,I am happy to
say, 80 much justice to the education you have re-
ceived, that.I have perfect confidence in your good
sense. You are not impulsive, you are not romantic,
you are accustomed to view everything from the
strong dispassionate ground of reason and calculation.
From. that ground. alone, know -you. 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 a. proposal
of marriage that has been made to me.”

Again he waited, and again she answered not one word.
This so tar surprised him, as to induce him gently to
repeat, ‘‘a proposal of marriage, my dear.” To which
she returned, without any visible emotion whatever.

ba r hear you, father. I am attending, I assure
you.’ ¥

“Well |” said Mr. Gradgrind, breaking into a smile,
after being for the moment at aloss, ‘‘you are even
more dispassionate than I expected, Louisa. Or, per-
haps youare not unprepared forthe announcement. I
have it in charge to make?”

“‘Tcannot say that, father, until I hear it.
or unprepared, I wish to hear it all from you.
to hear you state it to me, father.’”’

Strange to relate, Mr. Gradgrind was not so collect-
ed at this moment as his daughter was... He took a pa-
per-knife in his hand, turned it over, laidit down, took
it up again, and even then had to look along the blade
of it, considering how to go on.

*« What you say, my dear Louisa, is perfectly reason-
able., Ihave undertaken then to let-you know that—
in short, that Mr. Bounderby has informed me that he,
has long watched your pues with particular inter-
est and a and has long hoped that the time
might ultimately arrive when he should offer you his
hand in marriage. That time, to which he has so long,
and certainly with great constancy, looked forward, is
nowcome. Mr. Bounderby has made his proposal of
marriage to me, and has entreated me to make it known
to you, and to express his hope that you will take it
into your favorable consideration.”

Silence between them. The deadly statistical clock
very hollow. The distant smoke very black and

Prepared
I wish

heavy. f

“Pather,” said Louisa, “‘do you think I love Mr.
Bounderby ?” :

“Mr Gradgrind was extremely discomfited by this

unexpected question. ‘Well, my child,” he returned,
“l—really—cannot take upon myself to say.”

“Father,” pursued Louisa in exactly the same yoice
as before, ‘do you ask me tolove Mr. Bounderby?’”’

“ My dear Louisa, no. No, Iask nothing.”

“ Father,’’she still pursued, ‘‘does Mr. Bounderby
ask mé to love him ?”

“Really, my. dear,” said Mr, Gradgrind, “it is dif-
ficult to answer your question ’’—— : '

“ Difficult to-answer it, Yes or No, father?’’

“Certainly, my dear. Because;’’ here was some-
thing to demonstrate, and it set him up again; ‘“ be-
cause the reply depends so materially, Louisa, on the
sense in which we use the expression. Now, Mr.
Bounderby does not do you the injustice, and does not do
himself the injustice, of pretending to anything fanciful,
fantastic, or (1 am using synonymous terms) sentimen-
tal. Mr. Bounderby would have seen you grow up un-
der his eyes, to very little purpose, if he could so. far
forget what is due to your good sense, not,to say to his,
as to address you from such ground. Therefore, per-
haps the expression itself—I merely suggest this to
you, my dear—may be a little misplaced.”

“What would you advise me to use in its stead,
father ?” 5 ? P

“ Why, my dear Louisa,” said. Mr. Gradgrjnd, com-
pletely recovered by this time, “I would advise you
(since you ask me) to consider this question, as you
have been accustomed to consider every other question,
simply as one of tangible Fact. The ignorant and the
giddy may embarrass such subjects with irrelevant
fancies, and other absurdities that have no existence,
properly viewed—really no existence—but it is no
compliment to you to say that you know better.
Now, what are the Facts of this case ?, You are, we will
say in round numbers, twenty years of age; Mr. Bound-
erby is, we willsay in round numbers, fifty. There is
some disparity in your respective years, but in your

You |

 

means and positions there is none; on the contrary,
there is a great suitability. Then the question arises,
is this one disparity sufficient to operate as a bar to
such a marriage? In considering. this question, it is
not unimportant to take into account the statistics of
marriage, so far as they have yet been obtained, in En-
gland and Wales. I find, on reference to the figures,
that a large proportion of these marriages are contract-
ed between parties of very unequal ages, and that the
elder of these contracting parties is,in rather more
than three-fourths of these instances, the bridegroom.
It is remarkable as showing the wide prevalence of this
law, that among the. natives of the British possessions
in India, also in a considerable part of China, and
among the Calmucks of Tartary, the best means of
computation yet furnished us by travelers, yield sim-
ilar results. The disparity I have mentioned, there-
fore, almost ceases to be a disparity, and (virtually) all
but disappears.’’

“What do you recommend, father?’ asked Louisa,
her reserved composure not in the least affected by
these gratifying results, ‘that I should substitute for
the term I used just now? For the misplaced ex-
pression ?” :

“Louisa,” returned her father, “it appears to me
that nothing can be plainer. Confining yourself rigid-
ly to Fact, the question of Fact you state to yourself is:
Does Mr. Bounderby ask me to marry him? Yes, he:
does. The sole remaining question then is: Shall I
marry him? I think nothing can be plainer than
that,”

“Shall Imarry him?’’ repeated Louisa, with great:
deliberation.

“Precisely. And it is satisfactory to me, as your
father, my dear Louisa, to know that you do not come
to the consideration of that question with the previous.
habits of mind and habits of life that belong to many
young women.”

“No, father,” she returned, “Ido not.”

“T now leave you to judge for yourself,” said Mr.
Gradgrind. “I have stated the case, as such cases are:
usually stated. among practical minds; I have stated.
it, as the case of your mother and myself was stated in
its time. The rest, my dear Louisa,is for you to de-
cide.’’

From, the beginning, she had sat looking at him fix-
edly. As he now leaned back in his chair, and bent his
deep-set eyes upon her in his turn, perhaps he might.
have seen one wavering moment in her, when she was
impelled to throw herself upon his breast, and give
him the pent-up confidences of her heart. But, to see
it, he must have overleaped at a bound the artificial
barriers he had for many years been erecting, between
himself and all those subtle essences of humanity
which will elude the utmost cunning of algebra until
the last trumpetever to be sounded shall blow even
algebra to wreck. The barriers were too many and too
high for such aleap. ‘With his unbending, utilitarian,
matter-of-fact face, he hardened her again ; and the
moment shot away into the plumbless depths of the
past, to mingle with all the lost opportunities that are
drowned there.

Removing her eyes from him, she sat so long looking
silently towards the town, that he said at length -
“Are you consulting the chimneys of the Coketown
works, Louisa ?” ,

“There seems to be nothing there but languid and
monotonous smoke. Yet when the\night comes, fire
bursts out, father!’ she answered, turning quickly.

“Of course Iknow that, Louisa. I do not see the ap-
plication of the remark.” To do him justice he did
not, at all. °

She passed it away with & sliglit motion of her hand,
and concentrating her attention upon him again, said :
“Father, I have often thought that life is very short.’
This 7 80 distinctly one of his subjects that he inter-
posed: :

“Tt is short,no doubt, my dear. Still, the average
duration of human life is proved to have increased of
late years, The calculations of various life assurance
and annuity offices, among other figures, which cannot.
go Wrong, have established the fact.”

“I speak of my own life, father.”

“OQ, indeed? Still,” said Mr. Grandgrind, “I need
not point out toyou, Louisa, that itis governed by the
laws which govern lives in the aggregate.”

“While it lasts, I would wish todo the little I can,
and the littleI am fit for. Whatdoes it matter!”

Mr. Gradgrind seemed rather at a loss to understand
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 me to marry him.
The question I haye to ask myself is, shall I marry
him? That isso, father, isit not? You have told me
so, father. Have you not?”

“ Certainly, my dear.”

“Yet it be so. Since Mr. Bounderby likes to take
me thus, I am satisfied to accept his proposal. Tell
him, father, as soon as you please, that was my an-
swer. Repeat it, word for word, if you can, because I
should wish him to know what I said.”

“It is quite right, my dear,” retorted her father ap-
provingly, ‘to exact. I will observe your very
proper request, Have you any wish in reference to the.
period of your marriage, my child?”

«None, father, What does it matter !’’

Mr. Gradgrind had drawn his chair a little nearer to:
her, and taken her hand. But, her tition of these
words seemed to strike with some little discord on his
ear. He paused to look at her, and, still holding her
hand, said: : t

“Louisa, I have not considered it essential to ask you
one question, because the possibility implied in it ap-
peared to me to be too remote. But perhaps, I ought:
todo so, You have never entertained in secret any
otber proposal ?””

“Father,” she returned, almost scornfully, ‘‘ what.
other proposal can have been made to me? Whom

 

Ie, ,

 

ea

 
La

ie ,

 

 

- Well,

HARD TIMES.

 

hayeIseen? Where have I been? What are my heart’s | Bounderby, “ifshe takes it in the fainting way, I'll | sit wasresolved to have compassion on him, as a Victim.

experiences ?”

“My dear’ Louisa,” returned Mr. Gradgrind, reas-
sured and satisfied, ‘‘ You correct ie justly. I merely
wished to discharge my duty.”

i “What do J know, tather,” said Louisa in her quiet

aanner, ‘of tastes and fancies; of aspirations and af-
tections ; of all that part of my nature in which such
light things might have been nourished? What escape
‘have I had from-problems that could be demonstrated,
and realities that could be grasped?” As she said it,
she unconsciously closed her hand, as if upon a solid
object, and slowly opened it as though she were releas-
ing dust or ash.

“My dear,” assented her eminently practical parent,
“* quite true, quite true.”

“Why, father,” she pursued, “ what a strange ques-
tion toask me, The baby-preference that even I have
‘heard of as common‘among children, has never had its
resting-place within my breast. You have been so
careful of me, that I never had a child’s heart. You
‘have trained me so well, that I never dreamed a child’s
dream. You have dealt so wisely with me; father,from
my cradle to this hour, that I never had.a child’s belief
or a child’s fear.’’

Mr. Gradgrind was quite moved by his success, and
by this testimony to it. ‘My dear Louisa,’’ said he,
you -abundantly repay my care, Kiss me, my dear

irl.”

. So his daughter kissed him. Detaining her in his
embrace, he said, “I may assure you now, my favor-
ite child, that I am made happy by the sound de-
cision at which you have arrived. Mr. Boun-
derby is a very remarkable man; and what lit-
tle disparity can be said to exist between you
—if any—is more ‘than counterbalanced by the tone
your mind has acquired. It hasalways been my object
80 to educate you, as that you might, while still in
your early youth. be (ifI may so*express myself) al-
most any age. Kiss me once more, Louisa. Now, let
us go and find your mother.”

Accordingly, they went down to the drawing-room,
where the esteemed lady with no nonsense about her,
was recumbent as usual, while Sissy worked beside
her. She gave some feeble signs of returning anima-
tion when they entered, and presently the faint trans-
parency was presented in a sitting attitude.

“Mrs. Gradgrind,” said her’ husband, who had
waited for the achievement of this feat with some im-
patience, “allow me to present to you Mrs. Boun-
derby.” - : i

“Oh!” said Mrs, Gradgrind, “‘so you have settled it.
I’m sure I hope your health may be, good,
Louisa; forif your head begins to split as soon as you
are married, which was the case with mine, I cannot
consider that you are to be envied, though I have no
doubt you think you are, as all girls do. However, I
give you joy, ny dear—and Lhope you may now turn
all your ological studies to good account, I am sure I
do! Imust give youa kiss ofcongratulation, Louisa ;
but don’t touch my right shoulder, for there’s some-
thingrnnning down it all day long.- And now you
see,” whimpered Mrs. Gradgrind, adjusting her shawls
atter the affectionate ceremony, “I shall be worrying
niyself, morning, noon, and night, to know what. I am
to call him 1” , ‘ “

“Mrs, Gradgrind,”’ said her husband, solemnly,
“* what do you mean ?’’

“Whatever I am to call him, Mr. Gradgrind, when he
ig married to Louisa! I must call him something.
It’s impossible,” said Mrs. Gradgrind, with a mingled
sense of politeness and injury, ‘‘ to be constantly ad-
dressing him and never giving hima name. I cannot
-eall him Josiah, for the name is iisupportable to me.
You yourself wouldn’t hear of Joe, you very well
know. Am I tocall my own son-in-law, Mister. Not,I
‘believe, unless the time hds arrived when, as an invalid,
Lam to be trampléd upon by my relations. Then,
what am I to call him !” ?

Nobody present having any.suggestion to offer in the
remarkable emergency, Mrs. Gradgrind departed this
-life for the time being, after delivering the following
-codicil to-her remarks already executed: ‘

* Ag to the wedding, all I ask, Louisa, is,—and I ask
it with a fluttering in my chest, which actually extends
to the soles. of my feet—that it may take place soon.
Otherwise, I know itis one of those subjects I shall
never hear the last of.”

When Mr. d had presented Mrs. Bounderby,
‘Sissy had suddenly turned her head, and. looked
-in wonder, inpity,in sorrow, in doubt, in a multi-

tude of emotions, towards Louisa. Louisa had
known it, and seen it, without looking at
her. From that moment she was impassive,

proud, and cold—held Sissy at a distance—changed to
her altogether. ,

CHAPTER XVI.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Mn. Bounprrsy’s first disquietude on hearing of his
happiness, was occasioned by the, necessity of impart-
ing it to Mrs, 'Sparsit; He could not make up his mind
how to do that, or what the consequences of the step
might be. Whether she would instantly depart, bag
and baggage, to Lady Scadgers, or would positively re-
fuse to budge from the premises; whether she would
be plaintive or abusive, tearful or tearing; whether she
would break her heart, or break the looking-glass; Mr.
Bounderby could not at all foresee. However, as it
must be done, he had. no choice but to do it; so, after
-attempting.several letters, and failing in them all, he
resolved to do it by word of mouth.

On his way home, on the evening he set aside for this
momentous purpose, he took the precaution of step-
“ping into achemist’s shop.and buying a bottle of the
wery strongest smelling-salts.. ‘By George !’’ said Mr.

 

13

 

have the skin off her nose, at all, events!’’ But, in
spite of being thus forearmed, he entered his own house
with anything but a courageous air; and appeared be-
fore the object of his misgivings, like a dog who was
conscious of coming direct from the pantry.

**Good-evening,”’ Mr. Bounderby !” :

“Good-evening, ma'am, good-evening.”” He drew
up his chair, and, Mrs. Sparsit drew. back hers,
as who should say, ‘‘ Your fireside, sir. I freely
admit it. It is for you to occupy it all, if you think
proper.’’

“Don’t go to the North Pole; ma’am!” said Mr.
Bounderby.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit, and returned,
though short of her former position.

Mr. Bounderby sat looking at her, as, with the points
of astiff, sharp pair of scissors, she picked out holes
for some inscrutable ornamental purpose, in a piece of
cambric. An operation which, taken in connection
with the bushy eyebrows and the Roman nose, sug-
gested with some liveliness the idea of a hawk engaged
upon the eyes of a tough little bird. She was so stead-
fastly occupied, that many minutes elapsed before she
looked up from.her work; when she did so, Mr.
Bounderby bespoke her attention with a hitch of his
head.

Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am,’”’ said. Mr. Bounderby, putting
his hands in his pockets, and assuring himself with his
right. hand that the cork of the little bottle was
ready for use, ‘I have no occasion to say to you, that
you are not only a lady born and bred, buta devilish
sensible woman.”’

“Sir,” returned the lady, ‘this is, indeed, not the
first time that you have honored me with similar ex-
pressions of your good opinion.”

“Mrs. Sparsit ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby, “I am
going to astonish you.”

“Yes, sir?’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, interrogatively,
and in the most tranquil manner possible. She gen-
rally wore mittens, and she now laid down her work,
and smoothed those mittens.

“Tam going, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “to marry
Tom Gradgrind’s daughter.”

“Yes, sir?’ returned Mrs, Sparsit. “I hope you
may be happy, Mr. Bounderby. Oh, indeed, Fhope you
may be. happy, sir!” And she said it with such great
condescension, as well as with such great compassion
for him, that Bounderby—far more disconcerted than
if she had thrown her work-box at the mirror, or
swooned on the hearth-rug—corked up the smelling-
salts tight in his pocket, and thought, “‘ Now confound
this woman, who could haye ever guessed that she
would have taken it in this way !”

“T wish with all my heart, sir,”’ said Mrs. Sparsit, in
a highly superior manner; somehow she seemed, in a
moment, to have established aright to pity him ever
afterwards; “that you may be in all respects very
happy.”

“Well, ma’am,”’ returned Bounderby, with some re-
sentment in his tone: which was clearly lowered,
though in spite of himself, ‘*I am obliged to you. I
hope I shall be.”

“Do you, sir!’ said Mrs, Sparsit, with’ great affability.
“ But naturally do you; of course you do.’

A very awkward pause on Mr. Bounderby’s part’ suc-
ceeded. Mrs. Sparsit sedately resumed her work, and
occasionally gave asmall cough which soundeil like the
cough of conscious strength and forbearance.

“Well, ma’am,’’ resumed Bounderby, “ under these
circumstances, I imagine it would not be agreeable to a
character like yours to remain here, though you would
be very welcome here.”

“Oh dear no, sir, I could on no account think of
that!” Mrs. Sparsit shook her head, still in her highly
superior manner, and a little changed the small cough
—coughing now as if the spirit of prophecy rose within
her, but had better be coughed down.

“However, ma’am,” said Bounderby, “there are
apartments at the Bank, where a born and bred lady, as
keeper of the place; would be rather a catch than other-
wise; and if the same terms ”’——

“Tbeg your pardon, sir. You were so good as to
promise that you would always substitute the phrase,
annual compliment,” .

“Well, ma’am’ annual compliment. If the same an-
nusl compliment would be acceptable there, why, I
see nothing to part us unless you do.”

“Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “The proposal is like
yourself, and if the position I shall assume at the Bank
is one that I could occupy without descending lower
in the social scale ’——

“Why, ofcourse it is,” said Bounderby. “If it was
not, ma‘am, you don’t suppose that I should offer it to
a lady who has moved in the society you have moved
in. Not that J care for such society, you know! But
you do.”* :

“Mr. Bounderby, you are very considerate.”

“You'll have your own private apartments, and
you'll have your coals and your candles and all the
rest of it, and you'll have your maid to attend upon
you, and you'll have your light porter to protect you,
and you'll be what I take the liberty of considering
precious comfortable,” said Bounderby,

 

“ Sir,” rejoined Mrs, Sparsit, “say no more. In
yielding up my trust here, Ishall not be freed from tlie |
necessity of eating the bread of dependence :” she |
might have said the sweetbread, for that delicate ar-
ticle in a sayory brown sauce was her favorite supper :
“and I would rather receive it from your hand, than
from any other. - Therefore, sir, I accept your offer
gratefully, and with many sincere acknowledgements
for past favors. And I hope, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit,
concluding in an impressively compassionate manner,
“I fondly hope that Miss Gradgrind may be all you de-
sire and deserve !’’ ,

Nothing moved Mrs Sparsit from that position any
more. It was in vain for Bounderby to bluster or to
assert himself in any of his explosive ways ; Mrs, Spar.

|
|
}
|

| vious to the sun’s rays.

She was polite, obliging, cheerful, hopeful; but, the more
polite, the more obliging, the more cheerful, the more
hopeful, the more exemplary altogether, she; the forlorn-
er Sacrifice and Victim, he. She had that tenderness for
his melancholy fate, that his great red countenance used
to break out into cold perspirations when she looked at
him.

Meanwhile, the marriage was appointed to be solem:
nized in eight weeks’ time, and Mr, Bounderby went
every evelliing to Stone Lodge, as an accepted wooer.
Love was made on these occasions in the form of brace-
l.ts ; and, on all occasions. during the period of be-
trothal, took a manufacturing aspect. Dresses were
made, jewelry was made, cakes and gloves were made,
settlements were made, and an extensive assortment of
Facts did appropriate honor tothe contract. The busi-
ness was all Fact, from first to last. The Hours didnot
go through any of those rosy performances, which fool-
ish poets have ascribed to them at such times ; neither
did the clocks go any faster or any slower, than at other
seasons. The deadly statistical recorder on the Grad-
grind observatory knocked every second inthe head as
- was born, and buried it with his accustomed regu-

arity.

So the day came, as all other days come to people who
will only stick to reason ; and when it came, there were
married in the church of the florid wooden legs—that
popular order of architecture—Josiah Bounderby Es-
quire of Coketown, to Louisa eldest daughter of Thomas
Gradgrind Esquire of Stone Lodge, M. P. for that bor-
ough. And when they were united in holy matri-
mony, they went home to breakfast at Stone Lodge
aforesaid.

There was an improving party assembled on the
auspicious occasion, who knew what everything they
had to eat and drink was made of, and how it was im-
ported or exported, and in what quantities, and im
what, bottoms, whether native or foreign, and all about
it, The bridesmaids, down to little Jane Gradgrind,
were, in an intellectual point of view, fit helpmates for
the calculating boy ; and there was no nonsense about
any of the company.

After breakfast, the bridegroom addreesed them in
the following terms:

“Ladies anid gentlemen, I am Josiah Bounderby of
Coketown. Since you have done my wife and myself
the honor of drinking our healths and happiness, I'sup-
pose I must acknowledge the same; though, as yon all
know me, and know what I am, and what my extraction
was, you won’t expect a speech from a man who, when
he sees 4 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
a Post a Pump, or a Pump a Post, or either of them a
toothpick. If you want a speech this morning, my
friend and father-in-law, Tom Gradgrind, is a Member
of Parliament, and you know where to get it. I am not
your man. However,ifI feel alittle independent when
I look around this table to-day, and reflect how little I
thought of marrying Tom Gradgrind’s daughter when I
was a ragged street-boy, who hever washed his face
unless it was at a pump, and that not oftener than once
a fortnight, I hope I may bé excused. So, I hope you
like my feeling independent;, if you don’t I can’t help
it. Ido feelindependent. Now I have mentioned, and
you have mentioned, that Iam this day married to Tom
Gradgrind’s daughter. Iam very gladtobe so, I haye
long wished to be so. I have watched her bringing
up, and I believe she is worthy of me. At the
same, time—not to deceive you—I_ believe I am
worthy. of her. So, I thdnk you, on both our parts,
for the good will you have shown towards us; and the
best wish I can give the unmarried part of the present
company, is this: Thope every bachelor may tind as
good a wife as I have found. And I hope every spinster
may find as good a husband as my. wife has found.”

Shortly after which oration, as they were going on &
nuptial trip to Lyons, in order that Mr. Bounderby
might take the opportunity of seeing how the Hands
got on in those parts, and whether they, too, required
to be fed with gold spoons; thé happy pair departed for
the railroad, Tho bride, in passing down stairs, dressed
for her journey, found Tom whiting for her—flushed,
a with his feelings, or the vinous part of the break-

‘ast,

“What a game girl you are, to be such a first-rate
sister, Loo!”’ whispered Tom.

She clung to him, as she should have clung to some
far better nature that day, and was a little shaken in
her reserved composure for the first time. ‘

“Old Bounderby’s quite ready,’”’ said Tom. “Time's
up. Good-bye! [I shall be on the look-out for you
when you come back, I say, my dearLoo! Ayn’tit um
commonly jolly now !""

BOOK THE SECOND.
REAPING.

CHAPTER I.
EFYECTS IN THE BANK.

Asunny midsumnier day. There waa such a thing
sometimes, even in Cokétown.

Seen trom a distance in such weather, Coketown lay
shrouded in a haze of its own, which appeared imper-
You only knew the town was
there, because you knew there could have been no such
sulky blotch upon the prospect without a town. A
blur of soot and smoke, now confusedly tending this
way, now that way, now aspiring tothe vault of Hea-
ven, now murkily creeping along the earth, as the wind
rose and fell, or changed its quarter: a dense formless

jumble, with sheets of cross light in it, that showed

nothing but masses of darkn' ss :—Coketown in the
distance was suggestive of itself, though not a brick of
it could be seen. -
   

"3a

BARD TIMES.

 

 

The wonder was, if was there at all. It had been
ruined so often, that it was amazing how it had ‘borne’
so. mary shocks. Surely there never was such a fragile |
china-ware.as that of which the millers. of Coketown
were made. Handle them never so lightly, and they
fell to pieces with such ease that you might suspect
them of having been flawed before, ‘They were ruined,
when they were required to send laboring children to
school ; they. were ruined when inspectors were ap-
pointed to look into their works; they were ruined, when
such inspectors considered it doubtful whether they
were quite justified in chopping people‘up with their
machinery ; they were utterly undone, when it was
hinted that perhaps they need not always make quite
so muchsmoke, Besides Mr, Bounderby’s gold ‘spoon
which was.generaNy received in Coketown, enother
preyalent fiction was yery popular there. It took the
form of a threat. Whenever a Coketowner telt he was
ill-used—that is to say, whenever he was not left en-
tirely alone, and it. was proposed to hold him accounta-
ble for the consequences of any of his acts—he was
sure to come out with the awful menace, that he would
“sooner pitch his property into the Atlantic.” This
had terrified the Home Secretary within an inch of his
life, on several occasions,

However, the Coketowners were so patriotic after all,
that they never, tad pitched their property into the
Atlantic yet, but onthe contrary, had been kind enough
to.take mighty good care of it. So there it was, in the
haze yonder ; and it increased and multiplied.

The streets were hot and dusty on the sunimer day,
and the sun was so bright that it even’ shone through
the heavy.yapor drooping over Coketown, and could
not be looked at_steadily,- Stokers emerged from low
underground doorways into factory. yards, and sat on
steps, and posts, and palings, wiping their’ swarthy
visages, and contemplating coais.. The whole town
séemed to be frying in oil,. There was a stifling smell
of hot oil everywhere.. The steam-engines shone with
it, the dresses of the Hands were soiled ‘with it, the
mills throughout their many stories oozed and trickled
it.. The atmosphere of those Fairy palaces was like the
breath of the simoon; and their inhabitants, wasting
with heat, toiled languidly in the desert. _But no tem+
perature made the melancholy mad elephants” more
mad or more sune. Their wearisome, heads went’ u
and down at the same rate,in hot weather and cold,
wet weather and dry, fair weather and foul. The
measured motion of their shadows on the walls, was
the substitute Coketown had to show for the shadows
of rustling’ woods; while, for the summer hum of in-
sects, it could offer, all the year round, from the dawn
of Monday to the night of Saturday, the whirr of shafts
and wheels. ;

Drowsily they whirred all through this ‘sunny “day,
making the passenger more sleepy and more hot as he
passed the humming ‘walls of the mills.~ Sun-blinds,
and sprinkling of water, a little cooled the main streets
and the shops; but the mills, and the courts and alleys
baked ata fierceheat. Down upon the river that was
black and thick with dye,some Coketown boys wbo
were at large—a rare sight there—rowed a crazy boat,
which made a spumous track upon the water $s it
jogged along, while every dip ofan oar stirred up vile
*mells. But the sun itself, however beneficent gen-
erally, was less kind to Coketown than hard frost, and
tarely looked intently into any of its closer regions
without engendering more death than life. So does the
eye of Heaven itself become an evil eyv, when incapable
or sordid hands are interposed be*ween it and the
things it looks upon to bless. .

Mrs, Sparsit satin her afternoon apartment at the ||

Bank, on the shadier side of the frying street. Office-
hours were over; and at that period of the day,in ‘warm
weather, she usually embertished with her genteel
presence, amanagerial bosrd-room over the public office,
Her own private sitting-room was a story higher, at the
window of which post of observation she was ready,
every morning, to + Mr. Bounderby, as he came
across the road, with the sympathising recognition
appropriate toa Victim. Hehad been married now a
year; and Mrs, Sparsit had never released him from her
détermined pity a moment. ' a
The Bank offered no.violence to the wholesome
monotony of the town. It was another red briék
house, with black outside shutters, green inside blinds,
® dlack street-door up two white steps, a brazen door-
late, and a brazen door-handle full stop.. It was a size
ger than Mr. Bounderby’s house, as other houses
were trom a size, to. half-a-dozen sizes smaller; in all
other particulars, it was strictly according to pattern.
Mr. Sparsit was conscious that by coming in the even-
ing-tide among the desks and writing impléments, she
shed a feminine, not to say also aristocratic grace upon
, the office. Seated, with hermeedlework or netting ap-
paratus, at the window, she had a self-laudatory sense
of correcting, by her ladylike»deportment, the rude
business aspect of the place. With this impression of
her interesting character upon her, Mrs. Sparsit con-
sidered herself, in some sort, the Bank Fairy, The
townspeople who, in their passing and repassing, saw
her there, regarded her as the Bank, Dragon keeping
watch over the treasures of the mine.
“What those treasures were, Mr. Spatsit knew as little as
they did. Gold andsilver coin, precious paper‘ secrets |

 

be deciphered on'them-when Mr. Sparsit tried... Lastly,
she‘was guardian over a little armory of cutlasses and
carbines, arrayed in vengeful. order ‘above one of the
official chimney-pieces; and over that respectable tradi-
tion never to be separated from a place of business
claiming to be wealthy—a row of fire-bucketse—vessels
calculated to be of no physical utility on any occasion,
but observed to exercise afine moral influence, almost
equal to bullion, on most beholders.

A deafserving-woman and the light porter completed
Mrs, Sparsit’s empire. The deaf serving-woman was
rumored to be wealthy; and a saying had for years gone
about among the lower orders of Coketown, that she
would be murdered some night when the Bank was
shut, for the sake of her money. It was generally con-
sidered, indeed, that she had been due some time, and
ought to have fallen long ago; but she had kept her
life, and her situation, with an-ill-conditioned tenacity
that occasioned much offense and disappointment.

Mrs, Sparsit’s tea was just set for her on a pert little
table, with its tripod of legs'in an attitude, which she
insinuated after office-hours, into the company of the
stern, leather-topped, long board-table that bestrode
the middle of theroom. The light porter placed the
tea-try on it, knuckling his foreliead as a form of hom-
age.

“Thank you, Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“Thank you, ma’am,” returned the light porter) He
‘was a very light porter indeed ; as light as in'the days
when ‘he blinkingly defined’ a horse, for girl number
twenty. t

“Allis shut up, Bitzer?” said M~s. Sparsit.

“ Allis shut up; ma’am.”

“And what,” said Mrs. Sparsis, pouring out‘her tea,
“is the news of the day ?} Anything?”

‘©Well, ma’am, I can’t-say tbit'l have heard anything
particular. Our people are a »ad lot, ma’am ; but that
is no news, unfortunately ”’

“What are the restless *retches doing now?’ asked
Mrs. Sparsit. :

“‘ Merely going on in the old way; ma’am Uniting,
and leaguing, and engawing to stand by one'another.”

“It is much to be regretted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, mak-
ing her nose more Roman and her eyebrows 'more
Coriolanian in the strength of: her severity, “ that the
united masters al vw of any‘such class-combinations.””

_“ Yes, ma’am,’” said Bitzer. ' ‘ .

“Being united themselyes, they ought one and all to
set their faces against employing any man whois united
with any other man,” said Mrs. Sparsit.’

“They lidve ‘done ‘that, ma’am,’”” returned Bitzer ;
“but it rther fell through, ma’am.”

“Ido aot pretend to understand these things,”’ said
Mrs. Aparsit, with dignity, ‘(my lot having been
origiually cast in a widely different sphere ; and Mr,
Spersit, as a Powler, being also quite out of the pale of
apy such dissensions. I only know that these people
must be conquered, and that it’s high time it was done,
once forall.” ?

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, with a demonstration
of great respect for Mrs. Sparsit’s oracular authority.
“You couldn't put.it clearer, 1am sure, ma’am.”’

As thie was his usual hour for having a little confi-
dential chat. with Mrs. Sparsit, and as he had already
caught her eye, and seen that she was going to ask him
something, he made a pretense of arranging the rulers,
inkstands, and so-forth, while that lady went on with
her tea, glancing through the open window, down into
the street. et

- Has it been a busy day, Bitzer?’ asked Mrs. Spar-
sit.

“Not a very busy day, my lady. . About.an average
day.” He now and then slided into my Jady, instead of
ma’am, as an involuntary acknowledgment of Mrs.
Sparsit’s personal dignity and claims to reverence,

“The clerks,” said Mrs. Sparsit,‘carefully brushing
an imperceptible crumb of bread and butter from, her
left,.hand mitten, “are trustworthy, punctual, and in-
dustrious, Of course ?’” ; '

a bg ma’am, pretty fairma’am, With the usual ex-
ception,” ao

He held the respectable office, of general spy and in-
former in the establishmént, for which volunteer ser-
vice he received a present at Christmas, over and above
his weekly wage...He had grown into an extremely
clear-headed, cautious, prudent youhg man, who was
safe to rise in. the world. His mind was so exactly
regulated, that he had no affections or passions. All
his proceedings were the result of the nicest and cold-
est calculation ; and it was not without cause that Mrs,
Sparsit habitually observed of him that he wasa young
man.of the. steadiest principle she had ever known.
Having satisfied himself, on his father’s death, that his
mother hada right of settlement in Coketown, this ex-
cellent young economist had asserted that right for her
with such a stedfast adherence to the principle of the
case, that she, had been shut up in the work-house ever
since. It must be admitted that he allowed her half a
pound of tea a year, which was weak in him: first be-
cause all gifts have an inevitable tendency to pauper-
ize the recipient ; and secondly, because his'only rea-
sonable transaction in that commodity would have been
to buy it for as little as he could possibly give, and sell
it for as much as he could possibly get ; it having been
clearly ascertained by philosophers that in this is com-

that if divulged would bring vague destruction upon prised the whole duty of man—not a part of man’s
Vague persons (generally, however, people whom she | duty, but the whole. .

disliked), were the chief items in her ideal catalogue |

thereof. For the rest. she knew that after office-hours, ma’am,” repeated Bitzer.”

she reigned supreme over all the office funiture, and over |

«Pretty fai, ma’am. “With the usual’ exception,

“Ah—h!”’ sajd Mrs. Sparsit, shaking her head over

2locked-up iron room with three locks, against tle | her tea-cup, and taking a long gulp.

door of which strong chamber the light porter laid ‘his |

“Mr. Thomas, ma’am, I doubt Mr. Thomas very

head every night, on a truckle bed, that disappeared at mitch, ma’am. I don’t like his-ways at all.”

cockcrow. Further, she was lady paramount over

“Bitzer,” said Mrs. Sparsit, in a very impressive man-

certain vaults in the basement, sharply spiked off from | ner, “do you recollect my having said anything to you
communication with the predatory world: and over thie | respecting names ?”

relics of the current day’s work,’ consisting of ‘blots’ of

'“Y beg your pardon, ma’am. It’s quite true that you

ink, worn-out pens, fragments of wafers, and scraps of | did object to names being used, and they’re always
paper torn so small, that nothing interesting could ever | best avoided,”

 

“Please to remember that I have a charge here,”
said Mrs, Sparsit, with her air of state. ‘I hold a trust
here, Bitzer, under Mr. Bounderby. However improb- '
able both Mr. Bounderby and myself might have deem-
edit years ago, that he would ever become my patron,
making me an annual compliment, I cannot but regard
him in that, light. From Mr. Bounderby I have re-
ceived every.acknowledgment of my social station, and
every recognition of my family descent, that I could
possibly expect, More, far.more. Therefore, to my
patron I will be scrupulously true. And I do not con-
sider, I will not‘consider, I cannot consider,’’ said Mrs.
Sparsit, with a most extensive stock on hand.of honor
and morality,‘ that I should be scrupulously true, if I
allowed names to be mentioned under this roof, that:
are unfortunately—most unfortunately—no, doubt of
that—connected with his.”

Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, and again begged.
pardon.

“No, Bitzer,” continued Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘say an ‘indi-
vidual, and I will hear you, say Mr. Thomas, and,you
must excise me.”

“ With the usual éxception, ma’am,’’ said Bitzer, try-
ing back, “ of an individual.”

“Ah—h!’’ Mrs, Sparsit repeated the ejaculation, the
shake of the head over her tea-cup, and the long gulp,
as taking up the.conversation again at the point where.
it had been interrupted.

“An individual, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “has never
been what:he ought to have been, since he first 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 hadnit a friend and relation at court,
ma’am |”

“Ahh!” said Mrs. Sparsit, with another melan-
choly shake of her head.”

“Tonly hope, ma’am’’ pursued Bitzer, “‘ that his friend.
and relation may not supply him with the means of
carrying on.. Otherwise, ma’am, we know out of whose
pocket that money comes.” «-

*Ah—h!” sighed Mrs. Sparsit again, with another
melancholy shake of her head.

‘“He is to be pitied, ma’am. The last party I have
alluded to is.to be pitied, ma'am,” said Bitzer.

“Yes, Bitzer,’’ said Mrs. Sparsit.. ‘I have, always:
pitied the delusion,,always.”’ :

“As to anindividual, ma'am,” said Bitzer. dropping
his voice and drawing nearer,‘ he is a8 improvident ab.
any of the people in this town. And you know what.
their improvidence is, ma’am. No one could wish to
know it better than a lady of youreminence does,”’

“They would do well,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “ to
take example by you, Bitzer,”

“Thank you, ma’am. But, since you do refer to me,
now look at me,ma’am. I have putby.a little, ma’am,
already. That gratuity which I receive at Christ-
mas, ma’am; I never touch it. I don’t evengo the
length of my wages, though they’re net high, ma’am.
Why can’t'they doas I have done,ma’am? What one
person can do, another can do.”

This, again, was*among the fictions of Coketown.
Any Capitalist there, who had made sixty thousand
pounds out of sixpence, always professed to wonder
why the sixty thousand nearest Hands, did’t each make
sixty thousand pounds out of sixpence, and more or
less reproached them every one for not accomplishing
the little feat. What I did you cando. . Why don’t you
go and do it?

“As to their wanting recreations, ma’am,’’ said Bitzer,
“it’s stuffand nonsense. ZJdon’t want recreations. I
never did, and I never shall; I don’t like’em. As.to
théir combining together ; thereare many of them, I
have no doubt, that ‘by watching and informing upon
one another, could earn a trifle now and then, whether
in money or good will, and improve their livelihood.
Then, why don’t they improve it, ma'am? It's the
first consideration of arational creature, and it’s what.
they pretend to want.” ;

“ Pretend, indeed |’’,said Mars. Sparsit. é

“I am sure weare constantly hearing, ma’am, till it
becomes quite nauseous, concerning their wives and
families,” said Bitzer. “Why look at me,ma’m? J
don’t want a wife and family. Why, should they ?”

“Because they are improvident,”’ said: Mrs. Sparsit.

“ Yes,ma’am,” returned’ Bitzer, “‘ that’s Where it’ is.
If they were more provident, and less perverse, ma’am,
what would they do? They would say, ‘While my hat:
covers my family? or “while my bonnet covers my
family ’—as the case might be, ma’am—'I’ have only
oné to feed and that’s the person I most like to-feed’ ”

“To be sure,” assented Mrs. Sparsit, eating muffin.

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Bitzer, knuckling his fore-
head again, in return forthe favor of Mrs. Sparsit’s im-
proving conversation. ‘Would you wish a little more-
hot water, ma’am, or is there anything else that Icould
fetch you?”

“ Nothing just now, Bitzer.”

“Thank you, ma/am. © I shouldn’t wish to disturb
you at your meal, ma’am, particularly tea, know-
ing your —- for it,” said Bitzer, craning a
little to look over into the street from where
he stood,“ but. there’s a gentleman been looking up
here for a minute or so, ma’am, and he has come across
as ifhe was going toknock. That is his knock,ma’am,
no doupt.’’

He stepped to the window; and looking out and draw-
ing in his head again, confirmed himself with, “Yes,
ma’am. Would you wish the gentleman tobe shown
in, ma’am ?” ?

“TI don’t know who it can be,” said Mrs. Sparsit,
wiping her mouth, and arranging her mittens.

“A stratiger, ma’am, evidently.” P .

“ What a stranger can want at the Bank at this time
of the evening, unless he comesupon some business for
which he is too late; I don’t know,” said Mrs. Sparsit,
“but I-hold acharge in this establishment from Mr_
Bounderby, afid I will never shrink from it. If to
see him is any part of the duty I have accepted, I wilh
see him. Use your own discretion, Bitzer.”

 

vw

ye

 

—~

|

 

 
wv?

2

 

 

HARD TIMES,

15

 

 

Here the ‘visitor, all. unconscieus. of Mrs. Sparsit’s
magnanimous words, repeated his knock soloudly that
the light porter hastened down to open the door, while
Mrs. Sparsit took the precaution of concealing her
little table, with all its appliances upon it, in a cup-
board, and then decamped up stairs, that she might
appear, if needful, with the greater dignity,

“If you please, ma’am, the gentleman would wish to
see you,’ said Bitzer, with hislight eye at Mrs. Spar-
sit’s keyhole. So Mrs. Sparsit, who had improved the
interval by touching up her cap, took her classical
features down stairs again, and entered the board-room
in the manner of a Roman matron going outside the
city walls to treat. with an invading general,

The visitor having strolled to the window, and being
then engaged in looking carelessly-out, was as unmoved
by this impressive entry as man could possibly be. He
stood whistling to himself with all imaginable cool-
ness, with his hat still on anda certain air of exhaus-
tion upon him, in part arising from excessive summer,
and in part from excessive gentility. For,it was to be
seen with halfian eye that he was a thorough gentle-
man, made.to the model of the time; weary of every-
thing, and putting no more faith in anything than
Lucifer. See

“I believe, sir,’”’ quoth Mrs. Sparsit, “ you wished to
Bee me.”

“I beg your pardon,’”’ he said, turning and removing
his hat; “ pray exeuse’me.” %

“Humph!” thought Mrs. Sparsit, as she made a
stately bend. . “Five and thirty, good-looking, good
figure, good teeth, good voice, good breeding, well-dress-
ed, dark hair, bold eyes.’ All which Mrs. Sparsit ob-
served injher womanly way—like the Sultan who put
his head in the pail of water—merely in dipping down
and coming up again.

“ Please to be seated, sir,’ said Mrs. Sparsit.

“Thank you. Allow me.” He placed achair for her,
put remained himself carelessly lounging against the
table. “TI left my servant at the railway looking after
the luggage—very heavy train and vast quantity of it
in the van—and strolled on, looking about me. Ex-
ceedingly odd place. Will you allow me to ask you if
it’s always as black as this ?’’

“In general much blacker,’’ returned Mrs, Sparsit, in
her uncompromising way.

“Is it possible! Excuse me:
think?”

“No, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit. “It was once my
good or ill fortune, as it may be—before I became a
widow—to move in a very different sphere. My hus-
band was a Powler.”

“4 a your pardon, really!’’ said the stranger.
“Was ?’—» ° f

Mrs. Sparsit repeated, ‘‘A Powler.” ‘‘Powler Fam-
ily,” said the stranger, after.reflecting a few moments.
Mrs. Sparsit signified assent. The stranger seemed a
little more fatigued than before. ;

“You must be very much bored here?” was the in-
ference he drew from the communication. ;

“Tam the servant of circumstances, sir,” said Mrs.
Sparsit, ‘and I have long adapted myself to the goy-
erning power of my lite.”

“Very philosophical,” returned the stranger, “and
very exemplary and laudable, and’’— It seemed to be
scarcely worth his while to finish the sentence, so he
played with his watch-chain wearily.

“ May I be permitted to ask, sir,”* said Mrs. Sparsit,
“to what I am indebted for the favor of ’’——

“ Assuredly,” said the stranger. ‘Much obliged to
you for reminding me. Iam the bearer of a letter of
introduction to Mr. Bounderby the banker. Walking
through this extraordinarily black town, while they
were getting dinner ready 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 something fluffy,
which I assume to be the raw material;’"—_.

Mrs. Sparsit inclined her head.

“—Raw material—where Mr. Bounderby the banker
might. reside. Upon which, misled no doubt by the
word Banker, he directed me tothe Bank. Fact being, I
presume, that Mr, Bounderby the Banker, does not re-
side in the edifice in which I haye the honor of offering
this explanation?” —_. , oes ;

“No sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “he does not.”

“Thank you. I had no intention of eoliverns my
letter at:the present. moment, nor have I, But stroll-
ing on tothe Bank to kill time, and having the good
fortune to observe at. the window,” towards which he
languidly waved hishand, and slightly bowed, “a lady
of a superior and agreeable appearance, I con-
sidered that Lcould not do better than take the liberty
of asking that lady where Mr. Bounderby the Banker
does live. Which Laccordingly venture, with all suitable
apologies to do.”

The inattention and indolence of his manner Were
sufficiently relieved, to Mrs. Sparsit’s thinking, bya
certain gallantry at ease, which offered her homage too,
Here he was, for instance, at this moment all but sit-
ting on the table, and yet lazily bending over her, asif
he acknowledged an attraction in her that made her
charming—in her way. i .

‘‘ Banks, I know, are always suspicious, and officially
must be,” said the stranger, Whose lightness and
smoothness of speech were pleasant likewise; sutgesting
matter far more sensible and hymorous than it ever
contained—which was perhaps a shrewd device of the
founder of this numerous sect, whosoever may have
been that great man: ‘therefore, I may observe that
my letter—here it .is—is from the member for this

you are nota native, I

place—Gi nd—whom I have had the pleasure of
knowing in London.”
Mrs. Sparsit recognized the hand, intimated that

such confirmation was quite unnecessary, and gave

Mr. Bounderby’s address, with all needful clues and

directions in aid, :
“Thousand thanks,” said the stranger.

“ Of course
you know the Banker well ?” ’

 

“ Yes, sir,” rejoined Mrs. Sparsit. “In my dependent
relation towards him, I have known him ten years.’”’

“Quite an eternity! I think he married Gradgrind’s
daughter ?’’

“Yes,” said Mrs. Sparsit, suddenly compressing
her mouth, “he had that—honor,”

“The lady is quite a philosopher, I'm told?”

“Indeed, sir,”’ said Mrs. Sparsit. ‘“‘ Js she ?’’

“Excuse my impertinent curiosity,” pursued ‘the | ready to go in’ for statistics as for anything else.

stranger, fluttering over Mrs. Sparsit’s eyebrows, with
apropitiatory air, “ hut you know the family, and know
the world, Iam about to know the family, and may
have much to do with them. Is the lady so very alarm-
ing? Herfather gives her sucha portentously hard-
headed reputation, that I have a burning desire to know.
Is she absolutely unapproachable? Repellently and
stunningly clever? Isee, by your meaning smile, you
think not, You have poured balm into my anxious
soul. Astoage,now. Forty! Five and thirty?”

Mrs, Sparsit laughed outright. ‘Achit,’’ said she:
“Not twenty when she was married.”

 

 

 

abroad, and found it a bore; and had then strolled to
Jerusalem, and got bored there; and had then gone
yachting about the -world, and got bored everywhere.
To whom this honorable and jocular member traternally
said one day, ‘Jem, there’s a good opening amony the
hard Fact tellows, and they want men. 1 wonder you .
don’t go in for statistics.” Jem, rather taken by the
novelty of the idea, and very hard up for change, was us
So,
he went in, He coached himself up with a.blue-book
or two ; and hisbrother put it about among the hard
Fact fellows, and said, ‘It you want to bring in, for
any place, a handsome dog who can make you a devil-
ish good speech, look atter my brother Jem, for he’s
your man.” After afew dashes 4 the public meeting
way, Mr. Gradgrind and a council of political sages ap-
proved of Jem, and it was resdlved to send him down
to Coketown, to become known there and in the neigh-
borhood. Hence the letter Jem had last night shown

| to Mrs. Sparsit, which Mr. Bounderby now held in his.
| hand;

superscribed, “Josiah . Bounderby, Esquire,

“Igive you my honor, Mrs. Powler,’”’ returned the | Banker, Coketown. Specially to introduce James Hart-

stranger, detaching himself from the table, ‘‘that I) house, Esquire.

never was so astonished in my life !”
It really did seem to impress him, to the utmost ex-
tent of his capacity of being impressed. He looked at

his informant for full a quarter of a minute, and ap- |

peared to have the surprise in his mind all the time.
“T assure you, Mrs, Powler,” he then said, much ex-
hausted, “that the father’s manner prepared me for @
grim and stony maturity. Iam obliged to you, of all
things, for correcting so absurd a mistake. Pray ex-
cuse my intrusion, any thanks. Good-day !’”’

He bowed himself out; and Mrs. Sparsit, hiding in
the window curtain, saw him languishing down the
street on the shady side of the way, observed of all the
town.

“What do you think of the gentleman, Bitzer?” she
asked the light porter, when he canie to take away.

“Spends a deal of monéy on his dress, ma’am.”’

“It must be admitted,” said Mrs. Sparsit, “that it’s
very tasteful.”

“ Yes, ma’am,” returned Bitzer, “if «that’s worth the
money.” .

“Besides which, ma’am,” resumed: Bitzer, while he
was polishing the table, “ he looks to measif hegamed.””

“It’s immoral to game,” said Mrs. Sparsit.

“It’s ridiculous, ma’am,” said Bitzer, “because the
chances are against'the players.”

Whether it was that the heat prevented Mrs. Sparsit
from working, or whether it was that her hand was out,
she did no work that night. She sat at the window,
when the sun began to sink behind the smoke; she sat
there, when the smoke was burning red, when the
color faded trom it, when darkness seemed to rise slow-
ly out of the ground, and creep upward, upward, up
to the housetops, up the church steeple, up to the
summits of the tactory chimneys, up to the sky.
Without a candle in the room, Mrs. Sparsit sat at
the window with her hands before her, mot. thinking
much of the sounds of the evening, the whooping
of boys, the barking of dogs, the rumbling of wheels,
the steps and Voices of passengers, the shrill street
cries, the clogs upon the pavement when it was their
hour for going by, the shutting-up of shop-shutters.
Not until the light porter announced that her nocturnal
sweetbread was ready, did Mrs. Sparsit arouse herself
from her reverie, and convey her dense black eyebrows
—by that time creased with meditation, as if they need-
ed ironing out—up stairs.

“O, you Fool!” said Mrs. Sparsit, when she was
alone &t her supper. Whom she meant she did notsay;
but she could scarcely have meant the sweetbread.

CHAPTER I.
MR. JAMES HARTHOUBE.

Tue Gradgrind party wanted assistance in cutting the
throats of the Graces. They went. about recruiting;
and where could they enlist recruits more hopefully,
than among the fine gentlemen who, having found out
everything to be worth nothing, were equally ready
for anything? . 4

Moreover, the healthy spirits who had mounted to
this sublime height were attractive to many of
the Gradgrind school. They liked fine gentlemen;
they pretended that they did not, but they did,
They became exhausted in. imitation of them ; and.
they es in their speech like them ; and they
served out, withan enervated air, the little mouldy ra-
tions of political economy, on which they regaled their
disciples. There never before was seen on earth such
a wonderful hybrid race as was thus produced.

aaa the fine gentlemen not regularly belonging to
the Gradgrind school, there was one of a good family
and a better appearance, with a ‘happy turn of humor
which had told immensely with the House of Com-
mions on the occasion of His entertaining it with his
(and the Board of Directors’) view of a railway acci-
dent, in which the most careful officers ever known,
employed by the most liberal managers ever heard of,
assisted by the finest mechanical contrivances ever de-
vised, the whole in action on the best line ever con-
structed, had killed five people and wounded thirty-
two, by a casualty without which the excellence of the
whole system would have been positively incomplete.
Among the slain was a cow, and among the scattered
articles unowned, a widow’s cap. And the honorable
member had go tickled the House (which has a delicate
sense Of humor) by putting the cap on the cow, that it
became impatient of any serious reference to the Cor-
oner’s Inquest, and»brought the railway. off with
Cheers and Laughter,

Now, this gentleman hada younger brother of still
better appearance than himself; who had tried life as a
Cornet of Dragoons, and found it a bore'y and had after-
wards tried itin’ the traim ofan English minister

 

 

Thomas Gradgrind,”

Within an hour of the receipt of this dispatch and
Mr. James Harthouse’s card, Mr. Bounderby put on his
hat and went down to the hotel, There he found Mr.
James Harthouse looking out of a window, in a state
of mind so disconsolate, that. he was already half dis-
posed to ‘goin ”’ for something else.

“My name, sir,” said. his visitor, ‘‘is Josiah Bound-
erby, of Coketown.”

Mr. James Harthouse was very happy indeed (though
he scarcely looked so), to have a pleasure he had long
expected,

“ Coketown, sir,”’ said Bounderby, obstinately taking
a@ chair, ‘‘is not the kind of place you have béen ac-
customed to. Therefore; if you will allow me—or
whether you will or not, for I am a plain man—I’'ll tell
you something about it before we go any further.”

Mr. Harthouse would be charmed,

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Bounderby, “TI
don’t promise it.. First, of all, you see our smoké.
That’s meat and drink to us, It’s the healthiest thing
inthe world in all respects, and particularly for the
lungs. If you are one of those who us want to consume
it, I differ from you. We aré not going to wear the
bottoms of our boilers out any faster than we wear ‘em
out.now, for all the humbugging sentiment in Great
Britain and Ireland.”

By way, of “going in” to the fullest extent, Mr.
Harthouse rejoined, ‘“ Mr. Bounderby, I ‘assure you I
am entirely and, completely of your way of thinking.
On conviction.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Bounderby. “Now,
you have heard of alot of talk about the work in our
mills, no doubt. You have! Very good. I'll state the
fact of it to you. It’s the pleasantest work there is,
and it’s the lightest work there is, and it’s the
best paid) work there is. More than that, we
couldn’t improve the mills themselves, unless we
laid down Turkey carpets on the floors. Which we’re
not a-going to 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 in life. That object
is, to be fed on turtle soup and venison with a gold
spoon. Now, they're not a-going—none of ’em—ever to
be fedon turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon.
And now you know the place.”

Mr. Harthouse professed himself in the highest de~
gree instructed and refreshed, by this condensed epit-
ome ef the whole Coketown question.

“Why, you see,’’ replied, Mr. Bounderby, “it suits
my disposition to have a full understanding with a
man, pessouletly, with a public man, when I make hia
acquaintance. I have only ong thing more to.say to
you, Mr. Harthouse, before assuring you of the pleastire
with which I shall respond, to the utmost of my poor
ability, tomy friend Tom Gradgrind’s letter of intro-
duction, You are a man of family. Don’t you deceive
yourself by supposing for a moment that Jam a man of
family, Iamya bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap
of tag, rag, and bobtail.’”” .

If snituag , could have exalted Jem’s interest in Mr.
Bounderby, it would have been this very circumstance,
Or, so he told him. et

“So now,” said Bounderby, “ we may shake hands.on
equal terms. I say, equal terms, because although I
know whatI am, and the exact depth of the gutter I
haye lifted myself out of, better than any man does, I
am, a8 proud as you are, Lam just as proud as-you are.
Having now asserted my independence in a proper man-
ner, Imay come to how do you find yourself, and I
hope you're pretty well.”

The better, Mr. Harthouse gave him to understand as
they shook hands, for the salubrious ait of Coketown,
Mr. Bounderby received the answer with favor.

“Perhaps you know,” said he, “tor perhaps yon don’t
know, I married Tom Gradgrind’s daughter. If you
have nothing better to do than to walk up town-with
me, Ishall be glad to introduce you to Tom Gradgrind’s
daughter,’’

“Mr. Bounderby,” said Jem, “you anticipate my
dearest wishes.”

They went out without further discourse; and Mr,
Bounderby piloted the new acquaintance who 80
strongly contrasted with him, to the private red brick
dwelling, with the black outside shutters, the green in-
sidé blinds, and the black street door up the two white
steps. In the drawing-room of which mansion, there
presently entered to them the most remarkable girl
Mr. James Harthouse had ever seen, She was 80 con-
strained, and yet so careless ; 60 reserved, and yet £0
watchful; so cold and proud, and yet so sensitively
ashamed of her husband’s. braggart humility—from
which she shrunk as if every example of it were a cut
ora blow ; that it was quite a new sensation to observe
her, In face she was no Jess remarkable than in.man-
“4

ener

   

16

HARD TIMES.

 

 

ner. Her features’ were handsome ; but-their natural | that he (Bounderby) had eaten in his youth at least-three
play was so locked up, that it seemed impossible to | horses under the guise of polonies and saveloys. These

guess at their genuine expression.

Utterly indifferent, recitals, Jem, in a languid. manner, receiyed with

perfectly selt-reliant, never at a loss, and yet never at | “charming!” every now and then; and they probably
het 9ase, With her figure in company with them there,| would have decided him to “goin” for Jerusalem

:and her mind apparently quite alone—it was of no use | again to-morrow morning, had he been less curious re-

going in” yet awhile to comprehend this girl, for she  specting Louisa,

baffled all penetration.

“Is there nothing,” he thought, glancing at her as

From the mistress of the house, the visitor glanced | she sat atthe head of the table, where her youthful
to the house itself. There was no mute sign of a wo- | figure, small and slight, but very graceful, looked as

manin the room.
fanciful little device, however trivial, anywhere’express-
ed her influence. Cheerless and comfortless, boastfully
and doggedly rich, there the room stared at its present
occupants, unsoftened and unrelieved by_the least
trace of any womanly occupation. As Mr. Bounderby
stood in the midst of his household gods, so those un-
relenting divinities occupied their places around Mr.
Bounderby, anid they were worthy of one another, and
well matched. "

«“ This, sir,’ said Mr. Bounderby, “‘is’my wife, Mrs.
Bounderby; Tom Gradgrind’s eldest daughter. ‘Loo,
Mr. James Harthouse. Mr. Harthouse has joined your
father’s muster-roll. If he is not Tom Gradgrind’s
colleague betore long, I ‘believe we shall at least hear
of him in connection with one of our neighboring
towns. You observe, Mr. Harthouse, that my wife is
my junior. I don’t know wha‘ she saw in me 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 for anything, I should be troubled to recom-
mend you to a better adviser than Loo Bounderby.”

To a more agreeable adyiser, or one from whom he
would be more likely to learn, Mr. Harthouse could
never be recommended.

“Come,” said his host.. “If you’re in the compli-
mentary line, you’ll get on here, for you’ll meet with
no competition. I have never been in the way of learn-
ing compliments myself, and I don’t profess to under-
stand the art of paying ’em. In fact, despise ’em. But
your bringing up was different from mine; mine was a
real thing, by George! You’re a gentleman, and I
don’t pretend to be one. I am Josiah Bounderby of
Coketown, and that’senough forme. However, though
Zam not influenced by manners and station, Loo Boun-
derby may be. She hadn’t my advantages—disadvan-
tages you would call ’em; but I call ’em adyantages—
80 you'll not waste your power, I dare say.”

“Mr. Bounderby,’’ said Jem, turning with a smile to
Louisa, “is anoble animal in a comparatively natural
state, quite free from the harness in which a conven-
tional hack like myself works.” f

“You respect Mr. Bounderby very much,” she quietly
returned. “It is natural that you should.”

He was disgracefully thrown out for a gentleman
who had seen so much of the world, and thought:

“Now how am I to take this?”

“You are poing to devote yourself, as I gather from
what Mr, Bounhderby has said, to the service of your
country. You have made up your mind,” said Louisa,
still standing before him where she had first stopped—in
all the singular contrariety of her self-possession, and
her being obviously very ill at ease—“ to show the na-
tion the way out of allits difficulties.”

“Mrs. Bounderby,” he returned, laughing, “‘ upon my
honor, no. I will make no such pretence to you. I
have seen alittle, here and there, up and down. I have
found it all to be very worthless, as everybody has, and
as some confess they haye, and some do not; and I am
going in foryour respected father’s opinions—really be-
cause I have nochoice of opinions, and may as well back
them as anything else.” ?

« “Have you none of your own ?”. asked Louisa.

_ ‘Ihave not so much as the ‘slightest predilection
left. LIassure you I attach not the least importance to
any opinions. The result of the varieties of boredom I
have undergone, is a conviction (unless conviction is too
industrious a word for the lazy sentiment Ientertain on
the subject), that any set of ideas will do just as much
good as any other set, and just as much harm as any
other set. There’s an English family with a charm-
ing Italian motto, “What will be, will be. It’s the
only truth going!”

This vicious assumption of honesty is dishonesty—a
vice so dangerous, so deadly, and so common—seemed,
he observed, little to impress herin his favor. He
followed up the advantage, by saying in his pleasantest
manner; ‘a manner to which she might attach as much
or as little meaning as she pleased: ‘The side that can
prove anything in a line of units, tens, hundreds, and
thousands, Mrs.Bounderby, seems to mé to afford the
most fun, and to give a man the best chance. I am
quite as much attached to it as if I believed it. I am
quite ready to go in for it, tothe same extent as ifI
believedit. And what more could I possibly do, if I
did believe it |” .

“You are a singular politician,” said Louisa.

' “Pardon me; I have not even that merit. We are ue
largest party in the state, Iassure you, Mrs. Bounderby,
if we all fell out of are adopted ranks and were reviewed
together.”

Mr. Bounderby, who had been in danger of bursting
in silence, interposed here. witha project for pustpon- |
ing the family dinner till hal ‘past six and taking Mr,
James Harthouse in the meantime on around of visits to
the voting and interesting notabilities of Coketown and
its vicinity. The round of visits was made; and Mr.
James Harthouse witha discreet use of his blue coach-
ing, camé off triumphantly, though with a considerable
accession of boredom.

In the evening, he found the dinner-table laid for
four, but they sat down only three. It was an’appro-
priate occasion for Mr. Bounderby to dicuss the flavor
of the hap’orth of stewed eels he had purchased in the
streets at eight years old; and also of the inferior water,
specially used for laying the dust, with which he had
washed down that repast. He likewise entertained
his guest over the soup and fish, with the calculation

No graceful little adornment, no | pretty as it looked misplaced ; “is there nothing that

will move that face ?’’ 4

Yes!. By Jupiter, there was something, and here it
was, in an unexpected shape! Tom appeared. 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 had wondered
so long at her impassive face. She put out her hand—
a pretty little soft hand; and her fingers closed upon
her brother’s, as if she would have carried them to her
lips.

“ Ay, ay?” thought the visitor.
only creature she cares for.. So, so!

The whelp was presented, and took his chair.
appellation was not flattering, but not unmerited.

“ When I was your age, young Tom,’ said Bounderby,
“I was punctual, or I got no dinner!’

“When you were my age,’’ returned Tom, “you
hadn’t a wrong balance to get right, and hadn’t to
dregs afterwards.” x

“Never mind that now,” said Bounderby,

“Well, then,’’ grumbied Tom, “Don’t begin with
me.”

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, perfectly hear-
ing this under-strain as it went on; “your brother’s
face is quite familiar to me.
abroad? Or at some public school, perhaps ?”’

“No,” she returned, quite interested, ‘‘he has neyer
been abroad yet, and was educated here, 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 her face,
for he was a sullen young fellow, ungracious in his
manner even to her. So much the greater must have
been the solitude of her, heart, and her need of some
one on whom to bestow it. ‘‘So much the more is
this whelp the only creature she has ever cared for,”
thought Mr. James Harthouse, turning it over and
over. “So much the more. So much the more.”

Both in ‘his sister’s presence, and after she had left
the room, the whelp took no pains to hide his contempt
for Mr. Bounderby, whenever he could indulge it with-
out the observaticn of that independent man, by
making wry faces, or shutting one eye, Withont_re-
sponding to these telegraphic communications, Mr.
Harthouse encouraged him much in the course of the
evening, and showed an unusual liking for him. At
last, when he rose to return to his hotel, and was a
little doubtful whether he knew the way by night, the
whelp immediately proffered his services as guide, and
turned out with him to escort him thither.

“This whelp is the
The

 

CHAPTER III.
THE WHELP.

Tr was. very remarkable that a young gentleman who
had been brought up under one continuous’ system of
unnatural restraint should be a hypocrite; but it was
certainly the case with Tom. It was very strange that
a young gentleman who had never been left to his own

guidance for five consecutive minutes, should be in-
capable at last of governing himself; but soit was with
Tom. It was altogether unaccountablo that a young
gentleman whose imagination had been strangled in his
cradle, should be still inconvenienced by its ghost in
the form of sensualities; but such a monster, beyond
all doubt, was Tom. yo

“Do you smoke?’ asked Mr. James Harthouse, when
they. came to the hotel. ,

“T believe you !’’»said Tom. .

He could do no less than ask Tom up; and Tom
could do no less than go up, What. with, a cooling
drink adapted to the weather, but not so weak as cool;
and what with a rarer tobacco than was to be bought
in those parts; Tom was soon in a highly free and easy
state at his end uf the sofa, and more than ever dis-
posed to admire his new friend at the other end.

Tom blew his smoke aside, after he had been smoking
a little while, and took an observation of his friend.

“He don’t seem to care about his dress,” thought
Tom, ‘and yet how capitally he does it. What an easy
swell he is |”

Mr. James Harthouse, happening to catch Tom’s eye,
remarkéd that he drank nothing, and filled his glass
with his own negligent hand.

“Thank’ee,’”’ said Tom. *Thank’ee. Well, Mr. Hart-
house, I hope you have had about a dose of old Bound-
erby to-night.’ Tom said this with one eye shut up
again, and looking over his glass knowingly, at his en-
tertainer.

“A yery good fellow, indeed!’ returned Mr. James
Harthouse. ;

“You think so, don’t you?” said Tom. And shut up
his eye again.

Mr. James Harthouse smiled; and rising from his
end of the sofa, and lounging with his back against the
chimney-piece, so that he stood before the empty fire-
grate as he smoked, in front of Tom, and looking down
at him, observed: sr
“‘What a.comical brother-in-law you are !’’

“What a comical brother-in-law old Bounderby is, I
think you mean,” said Tom. 4
“You are apiece of caustic, Tom,” retorted Mr.
James Harthouse. -

 

There was something 80 very agreeable in being go

Can I haye seen him |

+ periority.

intimate with such.a waistcoat; in being called om, in
such an intimate way, by such a- voice; in*beingion
such off-hand terms so soon, with such a pair of
whiskers; that Tom was uncommonly pleased with
himself. . {

“Oh! I'don’t care for old Bounderby,” said he, “if
you mean that. I have always called old Bounderby
by the same name when I have talked about him, and I
have always thought of him in the same way. I am
not going to begin to be polite now about old Bounder-
by. It would be rather late in the day.”’

“Don’t mind me,” returned James; +‘ but take care
when his wife is by, you know.”

“His wite?”’ said'Tom. ‘My sister Loo? Oh, yes!”
and he laughed and took a little more of the cooling

rink. i

James Harthouse continued to lounge in the same
place and attitude, smoking his cigar in his own easy
way, and looking pleasantly at the whelp, as if he knew
himself to be a kind of agreeable demon who had only
to hover over him, and he mnst give up his whole soul
if required. It certainly did seem that the whelp
yielded to this influence. He looked at his companion
sneakingly, he looked at him admiringly, he looked at
him boldly, and put up one leg on the sofa.

“My sister Loo?’ said Tom, “She never cared for
old Bounderby.”’

“That’s the past tense, Tom,” returned Mr. James
Harthouse, striking the ash from his cigar with his
little finger. We are inthe present tense, now.”

“Verb, neuter, not to care. Indicative mood, present
tense. First person singular, I do not care; second
person singular, thou dost not care; third person
singular, she does not care,” returned Tom,

“Good! Very quaint!” said his friend. ‘‘Though
you don’t mean it.”

“But I do mean it,” cried Tom. ‘Upon my honor!
Why, you won’t tell me, Mr. Harthouse that you really
suppose my sister Loo does care for old Bounderby.’’

“My dear fellow,’ returned the other, what am I
bound to suppose, when I find two married people liy-
ing in harmony and happiness ?’’

Tom had by this time got both his legs on the sofa.
If his second leg had not been already there when he
was called a dear fellow, he would have put it up at
that great great. stage of the conversation. Feeling it
necessary to do something then, he stretched himself
out at greater length, and reclining with the back of
his head’ on the end of the sofa, and smoking with an
infinite assumption of negligence, turned his common
face, and not too sober eyes, towards the face looking
down upon him so.carelessly yet so potently.

“ You know our governor, Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom,
“and therefore you needn’t be surprised that Loo mar-
ried old Bounderby. She never hada lover, and the
governor proposed old Bounderby, and she took him,’’

“Very dutiful in your interesting sister,’’ said Mr.
James Harthouse.

“Yes, but she wouldn’t have been as dutiful, and it
would not havecome off as easily,’’ returned the whelp,
“if it hadn’t been for me.”

The tempter merely lifted his'eyebrows; but the
whelp was obliged to go on.

“I per uaded her,” he said with an edifying aif of su-
“T was stuck into old Bounderby’s bank
(where I never wanted to be), and I knew I should get
into scrapes there, if she put old Bounderby’s pipe out;
so I told her my wishes, and she came into them. She
would do anything for me. It was very game of her,
wasn’t it?” ,

“It was charming, Tom !’’ “ 4 ‘

“Not that it was altogether so important to her as it
was to me,”’ continued Tom coolly, ‘because my lib-
erty and comfort, and perhaps my getting on, depended
on it; and she had no other lover, and staying at home
was like staying in jail—especially when I was gone.
It. wasn’t as if she gave up another lover for old Bound-
erby; but still it was a good thing for her.”

“ Perfectly delightful. And she gets on so placidly.”

“Oh,” returned Tom, with contemptuous patronage,
“she’s a regular girl. A girl can get on anywhere.
She has settled down to the life, and she don’t mind. It
does just ag well as another. Besides, though Loo isa
girl, she’s not a common sort of girl. Shecanshut her-
self up within. herself, and think—as I have often
known her sit and watch the fire—for an hour at a
stretch.”

“Ay,ay?. Has resources of her own,” said Harthouse
smoking quietly. .

“Not so much of thatas you may suppose,” returned
Tom; ‘for our governor had her crammed with all
sorts of dry bones’sand sawdust. It’s his system.”

“Formed his daughter on his‘own model?” sug-
gested Harthouse.

“His daughter! Ah! and everybody else. Why he
formed Me that way,” said Tom.

“Impossible,!’*

“He did though,’ said Tom, shaxing ais head. “I
mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home
and went to old Bounderby’s, I was as flat as a warm-
ing-pan, and knew no more about life than any oyster
does.”

*“‘Come Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke’s 4
joke.”

“Upon my soul!” said the whelp. “I am serious;
Iam indeed!” He smoked with great gravity and dig-
nity for a little while, and then added, in a highly com-
placent tone, “Oh! F have picked up a little, since. I
don’t deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks
to the governor.””

“ And your intelligent sister?”

“My intelligent sister is about where she was. She
used to complain to me that ‘she had nothing {o fall
back upon, that girls usually fall back upon; and I
don’t see how she is to have got over that since. But
she, don’t mind,’’ he sagaciously added, puffing at his
cigar again. ‘Girls can always get on somehow.”

“Calling at the bank yesterday evening, for

 

Mr. Bounderby’s address, I found an ancient lady

:

YF

 
a

 

tom

HARD TIMES.

 

there; who seems to entertain great admiration for your |
sister,’ observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away |
the last remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out. |

“Mother Sparsit?” said Tom. “What! you have
seen her already, have you?” /

His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his
mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather
unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap
lis nose several times with his finger,

“Mother Sparsit’s feeling for Loo is more than ad-
miration, T should think,” said Tom. “Say affection
and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at
Bounderby when he was a Bachelor. Ohno!”

These were the Jast words spoken by the whelp,
before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by
complete oblivion. He was roused from the iatter state
by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot,
and also of a voice saying: ‘ Come, it’s late. Be off!”

“Well!” he said, scrambling from the sofa. “ I must
take my leave of you though. Isay. Yours is very
good tobacco. But it’s too mild.’

“Yes, it’s too mild,” returned his éntertainer.

“Tt’s—it’s ridiculously mild,” said Tom. ‘ Where's
the door?) Good night !”

He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter
through a mist, which, after giving him some trouble
and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in
which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty
easily, though not yet free from an impression of the
presence and influence of his new friend—as if he were
lounging somewhere in the air, in the same negligent
attitude, regarding him with the same look.

The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had |
had any sense of what he had done that night, and had
been less of a whelp and more ofa brother, he might
have turned short on the road, might have gone down
to the ill-smelling river’ that was dyed black, might
have gone to bed in it for good and all, and have cur-
tained his head for ever with its filthy waters.

 

{ CHAPTER Iv.
MEN AND BROTHERS.

“On, my friends, the down-trodden operatives of
Coketown! Ob my friends and fellow-countrymen.
the slaves of an iron-handed and a grinding despotism !
‘Oh my triends and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen
and fellow-men !
when we must rally round one another as One united |
power, and crumble into dust the oppressors that too |
long have battened upon the plunder of our families,
upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labor of our
hands, upon the strength of our sinews, upou the God-
created glorious rights of Humanity, and upon the
‘holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood !’’

““Good!’’ ‘Hear, hear, hear!’ ‘‘ Hurrah !” and other
cries arose in many voices from various parts of the
densely crowded and suffocating close. Hall, in which
the orator, perched on astage, delivered himself of this
and what other froth and fume he hadin him. He had
declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was as
hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring at the top of
his voice under a flaring gas-light, clenching his fists,
‘knitting his brows, setting his teeth, and pounding
-with his arms, he had taken so much out of himself by
this time, that he was brought to a stop, and called for
a glass of water.

The orator haying refreshed himself, wiped his cor-
rngated forehead from left to right several times with
his handkerchief folded into a pad, and concentrated all
his revived forces, in asneer of great disdaine and bitter-
mess. :

**But, oh my friends and brothers! Oh men and
Englishmen, the down-trodden operatives of Coke-
town! What shall we say of that man—that working-
man, thatI should find it necessary #0 to libel the
glorious name—who, being practically and well ac-
quainted with the grievances and wrongs of you, thein-
jured pith and marrow of this land, and having heard

‘ou, with anoble and majestic unanimity that will make
bt ta tremble, resolve for to subscribe to the funds
ot the United Aggregate Tribunal, and to abide by the
injunctions issued by that body for your benefit, what-
ever they may be—what, I ask you, will you say of that
working-man, since such I must acknowledge him tobe,
who, at such atime, deserts his post, and sells his flag;
who, at such a time, turns a traitor and a craven and a
Tecreant; who, at such a time, is notashamed to make
to you the dastardly and humiliating avowal that he will
hold himeelf aloof, and will not be one of those associa-
ted in the gallant stand for Freedom and for Right?”

The assembly was divided at this point. There were
some groans and hisses, but the general sense of honor
was much too strong for the condemnation of a man
unheard. ‘‘ Be sure you're right, Slackbridge!"’ “ Put
him up!” “Let's hear him!’ Such things were said
on many sides, Finally, one strong voice called out,
«Is the man here? If the man’s heer, Slackbridge, let’s
hear the man himgeln, ‘stead o’ yo.” Which was re-
ceived with a round of applause.

Slackbridge, the orator, looked about him with:a
withering smile; and holding out his right hand at
arm’s length (as the manner of all Slackbridges is), to
still the thundering sea, waited until there was a pro-
found silence. ;

“Oh my friends and fellow-men,” said Slackbridge
tuen ,shaking his head wtth violent scorn, “I do not
wonder that you, the prostrate sons of labor, are incred-
uious of the existence of such aman. But he who sold
his birthright for a mess of pottage existed, and Judas
Teese’, existed, and Castlereagh existed, and this man
exists {” . j

Here, a brief press and confusion near the stage, end-
ed inthe man himself standing at the orator’s side be-
fore the concourse. He was pale and a little moved in
the face—his lips especially showed it; but he stood

Itell you that the hour is come |

 

 

quiet, with his. left Shand at his chin,.waiting to be
heard. There was a chairman to regulate the proceed

ings, and this functionary now took the case into his |

own hands.

“My friends,”’ said he, by virtue o’ my office as your
president, I ashes 0’ our friend Slackbridge, who may
be a little over hetter in this business to take his Seat,
while this man Stephen’Blackpool is heern. You all
know this man Stephen Blackpool.
awlung 0’ his misfort’ns, and his good name.”

With that,'the chairman shook him frankly by the
hand, and sat down again. Slackbridge likewise sat

; down, wiping his hot forehead—always from left to-|

right, and never the reverse way.

“My friends,’ Stephen began, in the midst of a dead
calm, ‘I ha’ hed what’s been spok’r! o’ me, anil ‘tis
lickly that I shan’t mend it. But I'd liefer yon’d hearn
the truth concernln mysein, fro my lips than fro onny
other man’s, though I never cud’n speak afore so
monny, wi’out bein moydert and muddled.”

Slackbridge shook his head, as if he would shake it
off, in his bitterness,

“T’m th’ one single Hand in Boundery’s mill, 0’ a’
the men theer, as don’t coom in wi’ th’ proposed
reg’lation, I canna coom in wi’ ’em. My friends, I
doubt their doin’ yoonny good. Licker they'll do yo
hurt.”

Slackbridge laughed, folded his arms, and frowned
sarcastically.

“But ’t ant sommuch for that as I-stands out. If
that were aw, I’d coom in wi’ th’ rest. But Ilha’ my
reasons—mine, yo see—for being hindered; not on’y
now, but awlus—awlus—awlus—life long !”

Slackbridge jumped up and stood beside him, gnash-
ing and tearing. ‘Oh, my friends, what but this did I
tell you? Oh, my fellow-countrymen, what warning
but this did I give you? And how shows this recreant
conduct in a man on whom unequal laws are known to
have fallen heavy? Oh you Englishmen, I ask you
how does this subornation show in one of yourselves,
who is thus consenting to his own Undoing and to
yours, and to your children’s and your children’s chil-
dren's ?”’

There was some applause and some crying of Shame
upon the man; but the greater part of the audience
were quiet. They looked at Stephen’s worn face, ren-

dered more pathetic by the homely emotions it |

ewinced; and, in the kindness of their nature, they were
more sorry than indignant.

“Tis this Delegate’s trade for t’ speak,” said Stephen,
“an he’s paid for it, an he knows his work. Let him
keep to’t. Let him give no heed to what I hg had’n
to bear. That's not for him. That not for nobbody but
mé,”

“There was a propriety, not to say a dignity, in these
words, that made the hearers yet more quiet and atten-
tive. The same strong voice called out, ‘‘Slackbridge,
let the man be heern, an ‘howd thee tongue!” Then
the place was wonderfully still.

“My brothers,”’ said Stephen, whose low voice was
distinctly heard, and my fellow workmén—for that yo
are tome, though not, as 1knows on,to this delegate heer
—tI ha but a word to sen, and I could sen nommore if I
was to speak till Strike o’day. Iknow weel, aw what's
aforemé. I know weel that yo are aw resolve to ha
nommore ado wi’ a man who is not wi’ ye in this mat-
ter. . [know weel that if I was alyin parisht i’ th’
road, yo’d feel it right to pass me by, as a forrener and
stranger. What I ha getn I mun mak th’ best on.”’

“Stephen Blackpool,” said the chairman, rising,
“think on ’tagen. Think on’t once agen, lad, afore
thour’t shunned by aw owd friends.”

There was an universal murmur to the same effect,
though no man articulated a word. Every eye was
fixed on Stephen’s face. To repent of his determina-
tion, would be to take aload from all their minds. He
looked around him, and knew that’it was so. Not a
grain of anger with them was in his heart; he knew
them, far below their surface weaknesses and miscon-
ceptions, as no one but their fellow-laborers could.

“Tha 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 by holding up
his arms, and stood for the moment in that attitude;
not speaking until they slowly dropped at his-sides.

“‘Monny’s the pleasant word as soom here has spok’n
wi’ me ; monny’s thejface I see heer, as I firstseen when I
were young and lighter heart’n than now. Iha never
had no fratch afore, 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,” ad-
dressing Stackbridge, “but ’tis easier to ca’ than »mak’
out. So let be.”

He had moved away a pace or two to come down
from the platform, when he remembered something he
had not said, and returned again.

“Haply,” he said, turning his furrowed face slowly
about, that he might as it were individually address
the whole audience, those both near and distant ;
“haply, when this question has been tak’n up and dis-
coosed, there’ll be a threat to turn out if I’m let to
work among yo. I hopeI shall die ere ever such a
time cooms, andI shall work solitary among yo unless
it cooms—truly, I mun to do ’t, my friends; not to
brave yo, but to live. I ba nobbut work to live by;
and wheerever can I go, I who ha worked sin I were no
height at aw, in Coketown heer? I mak’ nocomplaints
o’ bein turned to the wa’, o’ being outcasten and over-
looken fro this time forrard, but I hope I shall be let to
work. Ifthere is any right for me at aw, my friends, I
think ’tis that.”

Not a word was spoken. Not asound was andible in
the building, but the slight rustle of men moving a lit-
tle apart, all along the centre of the room, to open a
means of passing out to the man with whom they had all
bound themselves to renounce companionship. Look-
ing at no one, and going his way with a lowly steadi-
ness upon him that aaserted nothing and songht noth-
ing, Old Stephen, with all his troubles on his head, left
the scene. :

You know him |

17

Thus easily did Stephen Blackpool fall into the lone-
; liest of lives, the lite of solitude among a familiar
| crowd.

| The first four days of his endurance were days so
| long and heavy, that he began to be appalled by the
| prospect betore him. Not only did he see no Rachael
all the time, but heavoided every chance of seeing
her ; for, although he knew thatthe prohibition did
not yet extend to the women working in. the fac-
tories, he found that some of them: with whom he was
acquainted were changed to him, and he feared to try
others, and dreaded that Rachel might be even singled
out from the restif 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 was leaving his work
at night, a young man of a very light complexion ac-
costed him in the street.

“Your name's Blackpool, ain’t it?” said the young
man,

Stephen colored to find. himself with his hat in his
hand, in his gratitude for being spoken to, or thesud-
denness of it, or both.” He made a 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 men in ques-
tion.

Stephen answered “ Yes,” again.

‘“I supposed so, trom their all appearing to keep 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?” said Bitzer.
“You're expected, and have only to tell the servant it’s
you. I belong to the Bank ; so, if you go straight up
oe me (I was sent to fetch you), you’ll save me a
walk.”

Stephen whose way had been in the contrary direc-
tion, turned about, and betook himself as in duty
bound, to the red brick castle of the giant Bounderby.

 

CHAPTER Y.

| MEN AND MASTERS,

| “Wext, Stephen,” said Bounderby, in his windy
manner, “what’s this I hear? What have these
pests of the earth been doing to you? Come in, and
speak up.”

It was into the drawing-rodm that he was thus bid-
den. Ateatable was set out; and Mr. Bounderby’s
young wife, and her brother, and 4 great gentleman
trom London, were present. To whom Stephen made
his obeisance, closing the door and standing near it
with his hat in his hand.

“This ig the man I was telling you about, Hart-
house,’ said Mr. Bounderby. The gentleman he ad-
dressed, who was talking to Mrs. Bounderby on the
sofa, got up, saying in an indojient way, ‘Oh really ?”’
and dawdled to the hearthrug, where Mr. Bounderby
stood,

“Now,” said Mr. Bounderby, ‘speak up |”

After the four days he had passed, this address fell
rudely and discordantly on Stephen’s-ear. Besides
being arough handling of his wounded mind, it seemed
| to assume that he really was the self-interested deserter
| he had been called.

“ What were it, sir,” said Stephen, “as yo were pleased
to’want wi’ me?” .

“Here's a gentleman from London. present,’’ Mr.
Bounderby made a back-lianded point at Mr. James
Harthouse with his thumb, “a Parliament gentleman.
| Ishould like him to hear a short bit of dialogue be-
| tween you and me, instead of taking the substance of
| it—for I know precious well, beforehand, what it will
be ; nobody knows better than I do, take notice |—in-
stead of receiving it on trust, from my mouth.”’

Stephen bent his head to the gentleman from
London, and showed a rather more troubled mind than
usual.

ear y what do you complain of ?” asked Mr. Bound-
erby.

“Tha’ notcoom here, sir,” Stephen reminded him, “to
complain. Icoom for. that I were sdént for.’’

“What,” repeated Mr. Bounderby, folding hia armas,
“do you people, in a general way, complain of ?”’

Stephen looked at him with some little irresolu-
—— moment, and then- seemed to make up his
mind,

“ Sir, I never were good at showin o’t, though [ ha’
had’n my share of feeling o’t. ‘Deed we are in a mud-
dle, sir. Look round town—so rich as ’tis—and see the
numbers o’ people as has been broughten into bein
heer, for to weave, an to card, an to piece out a livin’,
aw the same one way, somehow,’twixt their cradles and
their graves. Look how we live, an wheer we live, an
in what numbers, an by what chances, an wi’ what
sameness ; and look how the mills is awlus agoin, and
how they never works us no nigher to ony dis’ant
object—cepting awlus Death. Look how you considers
of us, anti writes of us, an talks of us, an goes up wi’ yer
deputations to Secretaries o’ State "bout us, an how yo
are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, an never
had’n no reason in us sin ever we were born. Look how
this ha growen an growen, sir, bigger an bigger, broader
an broader, harder an harder, fro year to year, fro gen-
ration unto generation. Who can look on’t sir, and
tairly tell a man ’tis not a muddle?” .

“Of course,” said Mr. Bouhderby. ‘Now perhaps
you'll let the gentleman know how you would set
this muddle (as you’re so fond of calling it) to rights.”

“T donno, sir. I canna be expectento’t. ‘Tis not me
as should be looken to for that, sir. "Tis them aa is put
ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they
tak upon themseln, sir, if not to do’t.””

“Tl tell you something towards it, at any rate,’’ re-
turned Mr: Bounderby. ‘“ We will maké an example
of half dozen Slackbridges. We'll indict the black-
guards for felony, and get ’em shipped off to penal sot-
ments, .

 

 

 
  

 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

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 quiet confidence |

of absolute certainty, “it yo was t’ tak a hundred Slack-
bridges—aw as there is, and aw the number ten times
towd—an was t’ sew ’em up in separate sacks, an sink
’em in the deepest ocean as were made ere ever dry
land coom to be, yo’d leave the muddle just wheer ’tis.
Mischeivous strangers !’’ said Stephen, with an anxious
smile; “when ha’ we not -heern, I am sure, sin
ever we can call to mind, o’ th’ mischeevous strangers !
*Tis not by them the trouble’s made, sir. ’Tis not wi’
them ’t commences. _I ha no favor for ’em—TI ha no rea-
son to favor ’em—but ’tis hopeless and useless to
dream o’ takin them fro their trade,. stead o’ takin
their trade fro them! Aw that’s now about me in this
room were heer afore I coom, and will be heer when I
am gone! Put that clock aboard aship an pack it off
to Norfolk Island, an the time will go on just. the
same. So ’tis wi’ Slackbridge every bit.”

* Sir, Lcanna, wi’ my little learning an my common
way, tell the genelman what will better.aw this—
though some working men o’ this town could, above
my powers—but I can tell him what I know will never
do’t. “The strong hand will never do’t. Vict’ry and
triumph will never do’t. Agreeing fur te mak one side
unnat’rally awlus and for ever right, and toother: side
unnat’rally awlus and for ever wrong, Will never, never
do’t. ‘Nor yet lettin alone will never do’t. Let, thou-
sands upon thousands alone, aw leadin the like lives
and aw taw’en into the like muddle, and they will be
asione, and yO will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpas-
sable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as
sitch-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi’
kindness and patience an cheery ways, that so draws
nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so
cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ what they
need themseJn—like, I humbly believe, as no people
the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat—will
never do’t till th’ Sun turns t’ ice. Most o’ aw, ratin
’em as so much Power, and reg’latin’’em as if they was
figures in a soom, or machines: wi’out loves and
likens, wi’out memories and inclinations, wi’out souls
to weary ahd souls to hope—when aw goes quiet, drag-
gin on wi’ ’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, an when
aw goes onquiet, reproachip ‘em for their want o’ sitch
humanly feelins in their dealins wi’ yo—this will never
do’t, sir, till’ God's work is onmade.”

Stephen'stooa with the open door in his hand, wait-
ing to know if anything more were expected of him.

“Just stop a moment,” said Mr. Bounderby, exces-
sively. red in the face. ‘‘I told you, the last time you
were here with a grievance, that you had better turn

about and come out of that. And I also told you, if-

you remember, that I was 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 have always got a
grievance. And you. go about, sewing it and raising
crops... That's the business of your life, my friend,”
-Sthephen shook his head, mutely protesting that in-
deed he had other business to do for his life.

“You are snch a waspish, raspish, ill-conditioned
chap, you see,” said Mr. Bounderby, “that even your
own Union, the men who know you best, will. have
nothing “to do with you. I never thought those fel-
lows could bevright im anything; but I tell you: what!
Iso far go a with them for novelty, that J'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. Boun-
derby, with a meaning nod, ‘‘ and then goelsewhere.”’

“Sir, yo know weel,”’ said Stephen, expressively,
“that ifI canna get work wi’ yo, I canna get it else-
wheer.” .

-The reply was, ‘‘ What I know, I know; and what you
know, you know. I have no more to say about it.”

Stephen, with a sigh, and saying, barely above his
breath, ‘‘Heaven help us aw in this wotld!” he de-
part ‘

. .

 

CHAPTER V1.
FADING AWayY.

In-was: falling dark when Stephen came out of Mr.
Bounderby’s house. The shadows of night had gathered
#0 fast, that he: did not:look about him when, he closed
the door, but plodded straight along the street. Noth-
ing was further from his thoughts than the curious
old woman: he had encountered on his previous visit
to the same house, when he hearda step behind him
that be knew, and, turning, saw her in Rachael’s com-

pany.

He saw Rachael first, as he had heard her only,

“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 woman returned.
«Here I am again, you see.”

“ But how wi’ Rachael?’ said Stephen, falling into
their step, walking between them,and looking from
the one to the other.

“Why, 1 come to be with this good lass pretty
much as I came to be with you,” said the old woman
cheerfully, taking the reply upon “herself. My visit-
ing ‘time is later this year than usual, for I have been
rather troubled with shortness of breath, and so put it
off till the weather was fine and warm. For the same
reason I don’t make all my journey in one day, but di-
vide itintotwodays, and-get a bed to-night at the Trav-
lers’ Coffee House down by the railroad (a nice clean
house), “and\.go back’ Parliamentary at six in the
morning. Well, but what has this to do with this
good lass, says you? I’m going to tell you. I have
heard of Mr. Bounderby being married. I read it in

| “Suppose she be?

| the paper, where it looked grand—oh it looked fine!”
| the old woman dwelt on it with strange enthusiasm :
| “and I want tosee his wife. I have never seen her
yet. Now, if you’ll believe me, she hasn’t come out of
that house since noon to-day. Sonot to give her up
too easily, I was waiting about, a little last bit’ more,
| when I passed close to this good lass two or three
| times ; and her face being so friendly I spoke to her,
| and she spoke tome. There !’’ said the old woman to
| Stephen, ‘‘ you can make all the rest ouf for yourself
now, a deal shorter than I can, I dare say !”’

Once again, Siephen had to conquer an instinctive
propensity to dislike this old woman, though her man-
ner was a8 honest and simple as a manner possibly
could be. With a gentleness that was as natural to
him as he knew it to be to Rachael, he pursued the
| subject that interested her in her old age. “
| “Well, missus,” said he, “I ha seen the lady, and she
| were yoong and hansom. Wi’ fine dark thinkin éyes,
and a still way, Rachael, asI.ha never seen the like
on.”

« Young and handsome.
quite delighted. .““As bonny as a rose!
happy wite !”

«‘ Aye, missus, I suppose she be,’’ said Stephen.
with a doubtful glance at Rachael.

She must be.
ter’s wife,” returned the old woman.

Stephen nodded assent. ‘Though as to, master,”
said he, glancing again at Rachael, “not master onny
more... That’s aw enden twixt him and me.”

“Have you left his work, Stenhen?” asked Rachael,
anxiously and quickly. ‘

“Why Rachael,” he replied, “ whether I ha lef’n his
work, or whether his work, ha let’n me, cooins t’ th’
same. His work and me are parted. "Tis as weel so—
better, lwere thinkin when yocoom up wi’ me. It
would ha brought’p trouble upun trouble if I had stay-
ed theer, Haply ’tisa kindness to monny thatI go;
haply ‘tis a kindnessto myselu; anyways it mun be
done. I mun turn my face fro Coketown fur th’ time,
and seek, a fort’n, dear, by beginnin tresh.”’

“ Where will you go, Stephen?”

“I donno t’night,’” said he, lifting off his hat,and
smoothing his thin hair with the flat of his hand.
«But I’m not goin’ t’night, Rachael, nor yet t’morrow.
Tan’t easy overmuch, t’ know -wheer t’ turn, but a
good heart willcoom to me.”

Herein, too, the sense of even thinking unselfishly
aided him. Before he had somuch as closed Mr,
Bounderby’s door, he had reflected that at least his
being obliged to go away was good for her, as it would
save her fromthe chance of being brought into ques-
tion for not withdrawing from him. Though it would
cost him a hard pang to leave her, and though he could
think of no similar place in which his condemnation
would not pursue him perhaps it was almost.a relief
to be forced away fromthe endurance of the last. four
days, even to unknown difficulties and distréssess, .

So he said, with truth, “I’m more leetsome, Rachael,
under ’t, than I couldn ha’ believed.” It was not her
part to maké his burden heavier. She answered with
her comforting smile, and the three walked on to-
gether. ’

“Coom to my poor place, missus,” said Stephen,
“and take a coop,o’ tea, Rachael will coom then; and
afterwards I'll see the safe ’t thy travelers’ lodgin’. ’T
may be long, Rachel, ere ever Iha th’ chance 0’ thy
coompany agen.”

They complied, and the three went on to the, house
where he lodged. When they. turned into a narrow
street, Stephen glanced at his window witha dread that
always haunted his desolate home ; butit was open, as
he had lett it, andno one was there. The evil spirit.of
his life had flitted away again, monthsago, and he had
heard no more of hersince, The only evidence of Her
last return now were the scantier niovables im Lis room,
and the grayer hair upon his Head,

He lighted a candle, set,out, his little tea-board got.
hot water from below, and brought in small portions of
teaand sugar, a loaf, and some butter, from the nearest
shop. The bread was new and crusty, the butter fresh,
and the sugar lump, of course—in fulfillment of the
standard: testimony of the Coketown magnates, that
these people lived like princes, sir.. Rachael made the
tea (so large a party, necessitated the borrowing of a
cup), andthe visitor enjoyed it mightily. It »was the
first glimpse of sociality the host.had had, for many
days. He, too, with the world a wide heath before
him, enjoyed the meal—again in corroboration of the
magnates, as exemplifying the utter want of calculation,
on the part-of these people, sir. :

*«Tha vever 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. he jet husband (one
of the best. one record). was already dead, by Mrs. Peg-
ler’s calculation, when Stephen was born.

. “’Twere a bad job too, to lose so'good a one,” said
Stephen. Onny children ?”

Mrs, Pegler’s cup, rattling against her saucer, as she
held it, denoted some nervousnéss on her part. ‘ No,”
she said. ‘‘ Not now, not now.”

“ Dead, Stephen,”’ Rachael softly hinted. :

“I’m sooary I ha’ spok’n on’t,” said Stephen, “I
ought t’-had’n in my mind asI might touch a sore
place. I—I blame myseln.” ;

While he excused himself, the old lady’s cup rattled
more and more. ‘I had ason,”’ she said, curiously dis-
tressed, and not by any of the usual appearances of sor-
row; ‘‘and he did well, wonderfully well. ° But he is
not to be spoken of if you please. Heis”— Putting
down her cup, she moved her hands as if she would
have added, by her action, “dead!” Then she said,
aloud, ‘I have lost him.” .

"Stephen had not yet got the better of his having given
the old lady pain, when his landlady came stumbling
up the narrow stairs, and calling him to the door, whis

Yes !’’ cried the old woman,
And what a

But

She’s your mas-

 

pered in his ear. Mrs. Pegler was by no meatis deaf, for
she caught a word as it was uttered.

“ Bounderby !” she cried, in a suppressed voice, start-
ing up trom the table. “Oh, hide me! Don’t let me
be seen tor the world. Don’t let him come up till I’ve
got away. Pray, pray!" She trembled, and was excess-
ively agitated; getting’ behind Rachael, when Rachael
tried to reassure her; and not seeming to know what
she was about.

“But hearken, missus, hearken;” said Stephen, as-
tonished, ‘“ Tisn’t Mr. Bounderty; ‘tis his wife. Yor
not fearfo’ o’ her. Yo was hey-go-mad abuut her, but

| an hour sin.”

“But are you sure it’s the lady, and not the gentle-
man ?’’ she asked, still trembling.

“Certain sure |’’ a

“Well then, pray don’t speak to me, nor yet take any
notice of me,” said the old woman. ‘Let me be quite
to myself in this corner.”

“Stephen nodded, luoking to Rachael for an explana-
tion, which she was,quite unable to give him; took the
candle, went down stairs, andin a few moments returned,
lighting Louisa into the room. She was followed by
the whelp.

Rachael had risen, and stood apart with her shawl and.
bonnet in her hand, when Stephen, himself profound. °
edly astonished by this visit, put the candle on the table,
Then hetoo stood, with hie doubled hand upon the table
bear it, waiting to be dddressed.

For the first time in her lite, Louisa had come into
one of the dwellings of the’ Coketown lands; for the
first time in her life, she was face to face with anything
like individuality in connection with them”

She stood for some moments looking ‘round the
room. From the few chairs, the few books, the com-
mon prints, and the’ bed, she glanced to the two wo-
men, and to Stephen.

“I have come to speak to you, in consequence ot
what passed just now. I should like to be serviceable
to you, if you will let me. 4s this your wife?

Rachael raised her eyes, and they sufficiently an-
swered no, and dropped again.

“I remember,” said, Louisa, reddening at her mis-
take ; ‘‘I recollect, now, to have heard your domestic
misfortunes spoken otf, though I was not attending to
the particulars at the time. It wasnot my meaning to
ask a-question that would give pain to any one here. If
Ishouldask any other question that may happen to
have that result, give me credit, if you please, for be+
ing in ignorance how to speak to you as I ought.”

As Stephen had but a little while ago instinctively
addressed himself to her, so she now instinctively ad-
dressed herself to Rachael. Her manner was short and’
abrupt, yet faltering and timid. F

“He has told you what has passed between himself
and my husband? You would be his*first resource,
I think.”

: Ihave heard the end of it, young lady,” said Rach- 4
ael.” ;

“Did I understand that, being rejected by one eni-
ployer, he would probably be rejected by all? I
thought he said as much ?”

“The chances are very small, young 1aay—uext to
nothing—for @ man who gets a” bad name among
them ?”

“What shall I ynderstahd that you mean by a bad
mame ?”’

“The name of being troublesome.” P

«He fell into suspicion,” said Louisa, “ with his fel-
low-weayers, because he had made a promise not to be
one of them. I think it must have’been to you that he
made that promise. Might I ask you y he made

Rachael burst‘into tears. “I didn’t seek it of him,
poor lad. I prayed him to avoid trouble for his own
good, little thinking he’d come'to it through me, But

know he’d die a hundréd deaths, ere ever he’d break
his word. I know that of him well.”

“Stephen had remained quietly attentive, in his usual
thoughtful attitude, with his hand at his chin, a

Louisa turned her head to him, and bent it witha
deference that was new inher. She looked from him
to Rachael, and her features softenéd. >

“What will'you do?” she asked him. And her ‘voice
had softened too. , : :

“Weel, ma‘am,” said Stephen, making the best of it
with asmile ; “when Tha finished off, 1 mun quit thie
part, an try another. Fortnet or misforfnet, a man ¢an
but try; there’s nowt to be done wi’out tryin’ —cept
laying down"an dying.” ~~ * : P '

“ How will you travel ?” ,

* Afoot, ny kind ledy, afoot.” a ‘

‘Louisa colored; and @ purse appearéd in Hér hand.
The rustling of a bank-note was audible, as she unfolded.
one and laid it on the table. 3 ,

* Rachael, will you tell him—for’ yon know “how,
without offense—that this is treely his, to help him on.
his way? ’ Will you entreat him to'take it ?” <

“Tcanna do that, young lady}” she answered, turn-
ing her head aside. ‘‘ Bless you for thinking o’ the poor
lad wi’ such tenderness. But ’tis’ for him to know his
heart, and what is right according to it.”

“ Not e’en Rachel,” said Stephen, when hé stood again
with his face uncovered, “could mak sicth a kind of-
‘ferin’, by onny words, kinder. T’ show that I’m nota
man wi’out reason and gratitude, I'll tak two pound.
I'll borrow’t for t’ pay’t’ back. *Twill be the sweetest .
work as ever IT ha done, that puts it in my power t’ ac- '
knowledge once more my Jastin’ thankfulness for this
present action.” ‘

She was fain to “teké up the note again, and to
substitute the much smaller sum he had named.

Tom had sat upon the bed, swinging one lég and
sucking his walking-stick with sufficient unconcern,
until the visit had attained this stage. Seeing his sis-
ter ready to depart; he got up, rather hurriedly, and
put in a word.

“Just wait a moment, Loo! -Before'we go, I should

 

like to speak to him a moment. Something comes in‘o

 
HARD TIMES.

19

 

 

my head. If you'll step out on the stairs, Blackpool
I'll mention it. Never mind alight, man!’ Tom was
remarkably impatient of his moying towards the cup-
poard, to get one, “It don’t want a light.”

Stephen followed him out, and Tom closed’the room
door, and held the lock in his hand.

“Tsay |’ he whispered. “TIthink Icando youagood
turn. Don’t ask me what it is, because it may not come
to anything. But there’s no harm.in 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,” said Tom,
“who brought you the message to-night. I call him
our light porter, because I belong to the Bank too.”

Stephen thought, ‘ What a hurry he is in!” He
spoke so confusedly,

“ Well!’ sdid Tom. Now look here!
off?”

“T’ day’s, Monday,’’ replied Stephen, considering.
“ Why, sir, Friday or Saturday, nigh bout.’

“Friday or Saturday,” said Tom. “Now, look here!
Iam not sure that I can do you the good turn I want to
do you—that's my sister, you know, in yourroom—but
I may be able to, and if I should not be able to, there’s
no harm done. SolI tell you what. You’ll know our
light porter again ?’

“Yes sure,” said Stephen.

“Very well,” returned Tom. “ When you leave work
of anight, between this and your going away, just hang
about the Bank an hour or so, will you? Don’t take
on, as if you meant anything, if he should see you hang-
ing about there; because I shan’t put him up to speak
to you, unless I find I can do you the service I want to
do you. In that case he’ll have a note or a message for
you, but not else. Now look here! You are sure you
understand.”

. He had wormed a finger, in the darkness, through a
buttonhole of Stephen’s coat, and was screwing. that
corner of the garment tight up, round and round, in an
extraordinary manner.

“J understand, sir,’”’ said Stephen.

* Now ‘look here!’”’ repeated Tom. ‘*Be sure you
don’t make’any mistake then, and don’t forget, I shall
tell my sister as we go home, what I have in view, and
she'll approve, I know. Now look here! You're all
right, are: you? You understand all about it? Very
well then. Come along, Loo!’’

He pushed the door open as he called her, but did not
return into the room, or wait to be lighted down the
narrow-stairs. . He was at the bottom when she began
to descend, and was in the street before she could take
his arm.

Mrs. Pegler remained in her corner until the brother
and sister were gone, and until Stephen came back with
the candle in his hand. She was in a state of inexpress-

When are you

ible admiration, of Mrs. Bounderby, and, like an un-,/

accountable old woman, wept, ‘‘ because she was such a
pretty dear.” Yet Mrs. Pegler was so flurried lest the
object of her admiration should return by chance, or
anybody else should come, that her cheerfulness was
ended for, that night. It was late too, to people who
rose early and worked hard ; therefore the party broke
up; and Stephen and Rachael escorted their mysteri-
ous acquaintance to the door of the Travelers’ Coffee
House,,where they parted from her.

They walked back together to the corner of the street
where Rachael lived, and as they drew nearer and nearer
to it, silence crept upon them. When they came to the
dark» corner where their unfrequent meetings always
ended, they stopped, still silent, as if both were afraid

to speak.

“] shall strive t’ see thee agen, Rachael, afore I go,
but if not "—— :

“Thou wilt not, Stephen, I know. ’Tis better that
we make up our minds to be open wi’ one another.”

“ Thou’rt awlus right. ’Tis bolder and better. I ha
been, thinkin then, Rachael, that as ‘tis but a day or two
that remains, ’twere better for thee, my dear, not t’ be
seen wi’ me., ‘I might bring thee into trouble, for no

ood.” ?
. “Tig not for. that, Stephen, that mind. But thou
know’est our old agreement. "Tis for that.”

“Well, well,” said he. “Tis better, onnyways.”

“Thou’lt write tome and tell me all that happens,
Stephen ?” - ;

“Yes. What can I sdy now, but. Heaven be wi’ thee,
Heayen bless thee, Heaven thank thee and reward
thee !’’ 5 a ;

“May it bless thee, Stephen, too, in all thy wander-
ings, and send thee peace and rest at last !’’

“Ttowd,.thee, my dear,’’ said Stephen Blackpool—
“ that night—that I would never ‘see or think o’ onny-
thing that angered me, but thou, so much better than
me, should’st be beside it. ‘Thou’rt beside it now.
Thou mak’st me see it wi’ a bettereye. Bless thee.
Good-night. Good-bye 1"

It was but a hurried parting in a common street, yet
it was a sacred remembrance to these two common
people. : . a

Stephen’ worked ‘the next day, and the next, un-
cheered by a word from any one, and shunnéd in all his
comings and goings as before. At the end of the se-
cond day, he saw land; at the end of the third; his
loom stoody empty. — 2

He had overstayed his hour in the street outside the
Bank, on each of the first two evenings; and nothing
had happened there, good or bad? That hemight not
be remiss in his part of the engagement, he resolved to
wait full two hours, on this third and last night.

Much relieved when the two hours were at last ac-
complished, he went away at a quick pace, as a recom-
pense for so much loitering.

He had only to take leave of his landlady, and lie |

down on his temporary, bed upon the floor; for his
bundle was made up for to-morrow, and all was ar-
ranged for his departure. He meant to be clear of the
town very early’; before the Hands were in the streets.

It was barely daybreak, when, with a parting look
yound his room, mournfully wondering whether he

‘| not order ’em out. Yet so things

should ever see it again, he went out. The town was
as entirely deserted as if the inhabitants had abandoned
it, rather than hold communication with him. Every-
thing looked wan at that hour. Even the coming sun
made but a pale waste in the sky, like a sad sea.

So strange to turn from the chimneys to the birds.
So strange to have the road-dust on his feet instead of
the coal-grit. So strange to have lived to his time of
life, and yet to be beginning like a boy this summer
tmhorning! With these musings in his mind, and his
bundle under his arm, Stephen took his attentive face
along the high,road. And the trees arched over him,
whispering that he left a true and loving heart behind.

 

CHAPTER VII.
GUNPOWDER.

Mr. James HarruovuseE, “ going in’”’ for his adopted
party, soon began to score. With the aid of a little
more coaching for the ‘political sages, a little more
genteel listlessness for the general society, and a toler-
able management of the assumed honesty in dishonesty
most effective and most patronized of the polite deadly
sins, he speedily came to be considered of much
promise. Tbe not being troubled with earnestness was
a grand point n his favor, enabling him to take to the
hard Fact fellows, with as good a grace as if he had
been born one of the tribe, and to throw all other
tribes overboard, as conscious hypocrites.

“Whom none of us believe, my dear Mrs. Bounderby,
and who do not believe themselves. “The only differ-
ence between us and the professors of virtue or benev-

'olence,, or philanthropy—never mind the name—is,
that we know it is all meaningless, and say 80 ; while
they know it equally and will neyer say so.”

Mr. Bounderby had taken possession of &@ house and
grounds, about fifteen miles from the town, and acces-
sible within a mile or two, by a railway striding on
many arches over a wild country, undermined by de-
serted coal-shafts, and spotted at night by fires and
black shapes of stationary engines at pit’s. mouths.
This country, gradually softening towards the neigh-
borhood of Mr. Bounderby’s retreat, there mellowed
into, a rustic landseape, golden with heath, and snowy
with hawthorn in the spring of the year, and tremu-
lous with leaves and their shadows all the summer-
time. The bank had foreclosed a mortgage effected on
the property thus pleasantly situated, by one of the
Coketown magnates, who, in his determination to make
a shorter cut than usual to an-enormous fortune, over-
speculated himself by about two hundred thousand
pounds. These accidents did sometimes happen in the
best-regulated families of Coketown, but the bank-
rupts‘had noconnection whatever with the improvi-
dent classes. ,

It afforded Mr. Bounderby extreme satisfaction to in-
stall himself in this snug little estate, and with de-
monstrative humility to grow cabbages in the flower-
garden. He delighted to live barrack-fashion among
the elegant furniture, and he bullied the very pictures
with his origin. ‘‘ Why, sir,” he wouldsay to a visitor,
“T am told that Nickits,” the late owner, “‘ gave seven
hundred pound for that Sea-beach. Now, to be plain
with you, if I ever, in the whole course of my life; take
seven looks at it, ata hundred pound a look, it will be
as much as Ishall do. No, by George? I don’t forget
that Iam Josiah Bounderby, of Coketown. For years
upon years, the only pictures in my possession, or that
Icould have gotinto my possession by any méans, unless
I stole ’em, were the engravings of a man shaving him-
self in a boot. on the blacking-bottles that I was over-
joyed to use in cleaning boots with, and that I sold
when they were empty for a farthing a-piece, and glad
to get it!” :

Then he would address Mr. Harthouse in the same
style.

“ Harthouse, you have a couple of horses down here.

Bring half a dozen more if you like, and we'll find room
for’em. There’s stabling in this place fora dozen
horses ; and unless Nickits is belied, he kept the full
number. A round dozen of ’em, sir. When that) man
was a boy, he went to Wéstminster School, Went’ to
Westminster School as ‘a King’s Scholar, when I ‘was
principally living on garbage, and sleeping in market-
baskets. Why, f I wanted to keep a dozen horses—
which I don’t, for one’s enough for me—I couldn’t bear
to see ’em ‘in'their stalls here, and think what my own
lodging used to be. Icouldn’t) look at ’em, sir, and
come round, You
see this place; you know what sort of a place it is ;
you are aware that there’s not a completer place of its
size in this kingdom orelsewhere—I don’t care where
—and here, got into the middle of it, likea maggot into
anut, is Josiah Bounderby. While Nickits (as aman
came to my office, and told me yesterday), Nickits, who
used to act in Latin, in the Westminster School plays,
with the chief-justices and the nobility of this country
applauding him till they were black im the face, is
driveling at this minute—driveling, sir!—~in a fifth
floor, up a narrow dark back street in Antwerp.”

It was among the leafy shadows of this retirement,
in the long sultry summer days, that Mr. Harthouse
began to prove the face which had set him wondering
when he first saw it, and to try if it would change for
him,

“Mrs. Bounderby, I esteem it a most fortunate acci-
dent that I find you alone here. I have for some time
| had a particular wish to speak to you.”
| It was not by any wonderful accident that he found
her, the time of day being that at which she was always
alone, and the place being her favorite resort. It was
an opening in a dark wood, where some felled trees
| lay, and where she would sit watching the fallen leaves
| of last year, a8 she had watched the. falling ashes at
| home.

He sat down beside her with a glance at her face, .
“Your brother. My young friend Tom ’’——
Her color brightened, and she turned to him with a

 

 

look: of interest. “I never in my life,”’ he thought:
“saw anything so remarkable and so captivating as
the lightning of those features!’ His face betrayed
his thoughts—perhaps without betraying him, for
rage ats have been according to its instructions so to

jo.
“Pardon me. The expression of your sisterly “in-
terest. is so beautiful—Tom should be so proud of it—L
know this is inexcusable, but 1am.so compelled to ad-
mire.”

“ Being so impulsive,’’ she said composedly.

“Mrs. Bounderby, no: you know I make no pretence
with you. You know Iam a sordid piece of human
nature, ready to.sell myself at any time for any reason-
able sum, and altogether incapableof any Arcadian pro-
ceeding whatever.” ;

“T am waiting,” she, returned, “for your futher re-
ference to my brother.”

“You are rigid with me, and I deserveit. I am as
worthless a dog as you will find, except that I am not
false—not false, But you surprised and started me
from my subject, which was your brother. 1 have an
interest in him.”

‘Have you an interest in anything, Mr. Harthouse ?’”
she asked, half incredulously and half gratefully.

“If you had asked me when I first came here, Ishould.
have saidno. I must.say now—even at the hazard of
appearing to make a pretence, and of justly awakening
your incredulity—yes.”’

She made a slight movement as if she were trying to
speak, but could not find voice; at length she said:
“Mr. Harthouse, I give you credit for being interested
in my brother.”

“Thank you. I claim to deserve it. You know how
little I do claim, but I will go that length. You have
done so much for him, you are so found of him; your
whole life, Mrs. Bounderby, expresses such charmin
self-forgetfulness on his. account—pardon me again—.
am running wide of the subject, I am interested in
him for his own sake.’’ ;

She had made the slightest action possible, as ifshe
would have risen in a hurry and gone away. She had
turned the course of what he said at that instant, and.
she remained. j

“Mrs. Bounderby,” he resumed, in a lighter manner,
and-yet with a show of effortin assuming it, which was
even more expressive than the manner he dismissed;
“it is no irrevocable offense in a young fellow of your
brother’s years, if he is heedless, inconsiderate, and ex-
pensive—a little dissipated, in the common phrase. Is.
he?” 2

“Yes.”
hice low me. to be frank. _Doyou think he games at

“I think he makes bets.’”’ Mr, Harthouse waiting,
as ifthat were not her whole, answer, she added “Tf
know he does.”

* Of course he loses?”

“ Yesy’ :

«Everybody does lose who bets. . May I hint at the.
probability of your sometime supplying him with
money for these purposes ?”’

She sat, looking down; but, at this question,.raised
her eyes searchingly and a little resentfully,

“ Aequit me of impertinent curiosity, my dear Mrs.
Bounderby. I think'Tom may be gradually falling into
trouble, and I wish to stretch out.a helping hand to
him from the depths of my wicked experience—Shall I.
say again, for his suke? Is that necessary ?’’

She seemed to try to answer, but nothing came of
it

“Candidly to confess everything that has occurred
to me,” said James Harthouse, again gliding with the
same appearance of etfort into his more airy manner;
“IT will confide to youmy doubt whether he has had
many advantages, Whether—torgive my plainness—
whether, any great amount of confidence is likely to
have heén: established.between himself and his most

*worthy tather.”’ . >

“Ido not,” said Louisa, flushing with her own great
remembrance in that, wise, “ think it likely,”

Or, between himself, and—I may trust to your ae
fect understanding of my meaning, I am sure—and his

highly esteemed brother-in-law.”

She flushed deeper and deeper, and was burning'red,
when she replied in a fainter voice, “I do not fuink
that likely, either,”

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said Harthouse, after a short si-
lence, ‘‘ may there be a better confidence between your-
aaa me? Tom has borrowed a considerable sum
of you?” "' '

“You will understand, Mr Harthouse,” she returned
after some indecision: she had been more or lessun-
certain and troubled throughout the conversation, and
yet had in the. main preserved her self-contained
manner; “ you will understand that if I tell you what.
you press toknow,it is not by way of complaint:
or regret. I would never complain or anything,
and what I have done I do not in the least regret.’

“So spirited, too!’’ thought James Harthouse. .

“When I married, I found that my brother was even
at that time heavily in debt. Heavily for him, I mean.
Heavily enough to oblige me to sell some trinkets. They
were no sacrifice. I sold them’ yery willingly. I at-
tached no value to them. They were quite worthless.
to me.” ‘

Either she saw in his face that he knew, or she only
feared in her conscience that he knew, that she spoke
of some of her husband’s gifts. She stopped, and red-
dened again. * If he had not known it before, he would
have known it then, though he had been amuch duller
man than he was, a

“Since then, I have given my brother, at various
times, what money I could spare: im short, what:
money I have had. Confiding in you-at all, on the faith
of the interest you profess for him, I will not:do so by
halves. Since you haye been in the habit of oe
here, he has wanted in one sum as much as a hun
pounds. I have not been able to giveit to him, I have .

 
t

brother, _or inclined to consider it a venial offence.”

come down. Tete

‘thie ai * be as well, = ‘to. walk

towards hir D ourselves in hi . He has

‘been very silent and doleful of late. Perhaps, his.

brotherly ¢ i is touched—if there are such

things , upon my honor; I hear
of them meet tae sien tol inthem.”. -

_ she was

20 HARD TIMES.

 

‘felt uneasy for the consequences of his being so in-| the contrary and I should do it gat if I had as good
volved, but I have kept these secrets until now, when"! reason. However; never mind this now; it’s. not. very
I trust them to your honor. ‘I have held no confidence | interesting toyou, and I am sick of the subject. San
with any one, because—you anticipated my reason just | ‘They walked on to the house, where Louisa quitted
now,” she abruptly broke off. the visitor's arm and/went in. He stood looking atter
He was a ‘ready man, and he saw, and seized, an op-:| her as she ascended the steps, and passed into the
‘portunity here of presenting her own image to her, | shadow ofthe door; then put his hand upon her broth-
@lizhtly disguised as her brother, -

ers shoulder again, and invited him with a confidential |

—

_ between us--I obey. I cannot forgive him for not being

4 thet Ghai Iseem to’be protesting that I am 4 sort

took
caer ereh :

“Tam ‘ou are mercenary, Tom.”
' “aforconary,? Tom. «Who is not merce-
nary? Aske m:

“Mrs. Bounderby, though a graceless person, of the |
world worldly, I feel the utmost interest, I assure you, |
in what you tell me. I cannot possibly be hard upon
your brother. T understand and share the wise con-.
Sideration with which you regard his errors. With all |
possible respect both for Mr. Gradgrind and for Mr.
Bounderby, I think I perceive that he has not been for-
tunate in his training. Bred at a disadvantage towards |
the society in which he has his part to play, he rushes |
into these extremes for himself, from opposite extremes |
that have long been forced—with the very best inten-
tions we have no doubt—upon him. Mr. Bounderby's |
fine bluff English independence, though a most charm- |
ing characteristic, does not—as we have agreed--invite |
confidence. If [might venture to remark that it is the |
least in the world deficient in that delicacy to which a |
youth mistaken, a character misconceived, and abilities |
“misdirected, would turn for relief and guidance, should |
express what it presents to my own view.”

As she sat looking straight before her, across ‘the |

g lights upon the grass into the darkness of the |
beyond, he saw in her face her application of his
aed distinctly uttered words. -

“All allowance,” he continued, “must be made. I
have one great fault to find with Tom, however, which
I cannot Jorgive, and for which I take him. heavily to
account.”

Louisa turned her eyes = his face, and ae hint
what fault was that?

“ Perhaps,’’ he returned, “ I have said gnough,2 Per-
chaps it would have been better, on the whole, if no
allusion to it had escaped me.””

“You alarm me, Mr. Harthouse. -
it.”

“To relieve you from neédless apprehension—and as

his confidence regarding your brotlier, which I prize I
oe sure above all possible things, has been established

 

Pray let me know

more sensible in eyery word, look, and act of his life, of
the afféction Of his best best friend ; of the devotion of. his
‘best ; “of her unselfishness ; of her sacrifice. The
return he’ makes her, within my observation, is a very
poor one. What she has done for him demands his
constant love and gratitude, not his ill-humor and
ag Careless fellow as Lam, Lam not so indifferent,

Mrs. Bounderby, as to be regardless of this vice in your

The wood floated before her, for her-eyes were suf-
fused with tears. y rose from .a deep'well, long
concealed, and her heart was filled with acute pain that
found no relief in them.

“In a word, it is to correct your brother in this, Mrs.
Bounderby, that‘I must aspire. » ~ better knowledge
of his circumstances, and my direction and advic
extricating him—rather yaluable, I hope, as coming
from a on amitch larger scale—will give me
‘some influence over him, _ all I gain I shall certainly

use towards tliis end. I have said enough, and more

a , when, upon my honor, I have not.the
least intention to mskeany protestation to that. effect,

‘arm, and

  

pt? ho stammered “1 didn’t know you were
me Tom,” said Mr. Harthouse, putting
as , shoulder-and turning him wo that
pe cnet se house “together,
a returned Tom, , “On! You mean
fair Shines : totpse sopiaeanee Of fawéribing some |
nee a that, a en y aplegs oe Jair
reature a slashing une r own dis
would tako a fanoy to me. he might be as ugly as

rich, without an: of losing me. I'd carve
her name as often as she liked.”

“ Have you Sisk to be a failing of mine, Tom?”’
Louisa, showing no other sense of -his discontent

ill-nature.
“You know whether the mosis you, Loo,” returned

ae Toms tn.’ ae a eel adil
“Tom as people
are now and then,”’ eee “Don’t ieee

r. “fo knows much better.
‘is Phe wk express-

 

of h
ioe t teuaeg hi he
Cnee al her hat ae ever praised her | quite

 

Mens praleld hee tor betng |

nod to a walk in the garden.

bee my fine fellow, I want to have a w ord with
you.”

They had stopped among a disorder of roses—it was
) part of Mr. Bounderby’s humility to keep Nickits’s roses
on a reduced scale—and Tom sat down on a terrate-par-
apet, plucking buds and picking them to pieces; while
| his powerful Familiar stood over him, with a foot upon
the parapet, and his figure easily resting on the arm
supported by that knee. They were just visible trom
her window. Perhaps she saw them.

“Tom, what’s the matter ?””

“Oh! Mr. Harthouse,” said Tom, with a POM: or
am hard up, and bothered out of my life.’

'“ My good fellow,soamI.” ..

“You!” returned Tom.
rineens Mr. Harthouse, I am in ahorrible mess.

You have no idea what a state I have got myself into—
what a state my sister might have got me out of, if she
would only have done it.’ “
' He took to biting the rose buds now, and tearing them
away from his teeth with a hand that trembled like an
infirm old man's. After one exceedingly observant look
at him, his companion relapsed into his lightest air.

“Tom, you are inconsiderate ; you expect too much

of your ‘sister. You have had ag ot her, you dog,
you know you have.” P

“ Well, Mr. Harthouse, Iknow I have. How else was.
I-to get it? Here’s old Bounderby always boasting
hat at my age he lived upon two-pence a month, ‘or
something of that sort. Here’s my father drawing what
he calls a ~ line, and tying me down to it froma baby,
neck and heels. Here’s my mother who never has any-

| thing of her own, except her complaints. What is a fel-

low to do for money, and where, am I to look for it, if

‘not to my sister?”

He was almost crying, and scattered the buds about
by dozens. Mr. Harthouse took him persuasively by
the coat. i ; pecideteetil :

“But, my dear Tom, if your sister has not got
it "— : ae

* at got it, Mr. Harthouse? I don’t say she has got
it. I may have wanted more than she was likely to have
got. But then she ought toget it. It’s of no use pre-
tending to make a secret of matters now, after what I
have told you already ; you know she didn’t marry old
Bounderby for her own sake, or for his sake, but for my.

sake: Then why doesn’t she get who: I want, out of

him, for my sake? She is not obliged to say what she
is going to do with it; she is sharp enough ; she could
manage to coax it out ‘ot him, if she chose. Then why
doesn’t she choose, when I tell her of what consequence.
itis? Butno. Theréshe sits in his company like a
stone, instead of making ‘herself agreeable und getting
it easily. Idon’t know w hat you may call this, but, I
call it unnatural condu Z

There was a piece of wich anions water immediately’
below the parapet, on the other side, into which Mr.
James Harthouse had a very strong inclination to pitch’
Mr. Thomas Gradgrind, Junior, as the injured men of

ketown threatened to pitch hale pecberte into the

tluntic. But he, preserved his easy attitude; and
nothing more solid went over the stone balustrade than
the pet | rosebuds now floating about; a little

“My yong ‘Tom, ” said Harthouse, “let me try to ber
your banker.”
“ For God’s sake,” replied Tom, suddenly, “ don? t}
pe, about bankers !’’ And’ ver: Rapes he’ norn in con-,
trast with the roses. Very w .

Mrs Harthouse, as a thoroughly well-bred man, ac-
customed to the best society, was not to be surprised—
he could - sgh have been affected—but he raised his

eyelids a more, as if they were lifted by a feeble
srushadmonten . Albeit it wasas ae against the tM
Mo of his sch¢ Oana Colle as it was penpent
aan of the Gradgrind College. ;
“What is the sent need, Tom? Three figures?
‘out with them, y what they are.’
“Mr, house,” returned Tom, now actiialty cry-

ing ; his tears were better than his injuries, how-

ever ee a figure he made: “It’s too eee ‘

I bho’

hadi bet ae use to me at present.
had i te pot be of use tome. But Tam very much
; you're a true friend,”
friend! > “Whelp, whelp !’” oot Mr. Hart-
nnotise ; “what an ass you

“And I take our offer as a great “Sodom” sad Tom,
grasping his Sed. “ a great kindness, Mr. Hart.
ouse.””

“Well,” returned the other, “it may be of more use

by and by. And, my good tellow, if ia whl open your |

bedevilments to.me when they come thick upon you, I
= show you better ways out of them than you oan,
find for y: ourself.”

“Thank you,” sail Tom, shaking his head dismally,
and chewing rosebuds. “I wish I had known you
sooner, Mr. Harthouse.” ;

' “ Now. you see, Tom,’* said Mr, Harthouse in conelu-
sion, himself tossing over a rose or two, a8 a contribu-
tion to the island, which was always driiting to the wall
as if it wanted to become a part of the mainland ;
. eae man is‘selfish in everything he does, and I am

tly like the rest of my fellow-creatures. Iam
necately intent ;”" the languor of his desperation being |

tropical ; ‘eon your softening towards your sister
—which you ought to do ; and on your being a more

“Yon are the picture of

=

loving and agreeable sort of brother—which you er
to, bev’... ‘

“J will be, Mr. “Harthouse. spi

‘No time like the present, Tom. Begin at once.”

“Certainly I will. And my sister Loo shall say so.”

“Having made which bargain, Tom,” said Harthouse, ”
‘clapping him on the shoulder again, With an air which
left him at liberty to-infer—as he did, poor fool—that
this condition was imposed upon him in mere careless
good nature to lessen his sense of obligation, “ we will
tear ourselves asunder until dinner-time.’”

When Tom appeared before dinner, though his mind
seemed heavy enough, his-body was on thealert ; and
- he appeared before Mr. Bounderby came in. “I didn't
mean to be cross, Loo,” he said, giving her his hand,
and kissing her. ‘“{ know you are fond of me, and you
know I am fond of you.”

After this, there was a smile upon Uonisa's face that
day, for some one else. Alas, for someone else!

“So much the less is the whelp the only creature
that she cares for,” thought James Harthouse, revers-
ing the reflection of his first day’s knowledge of her
pretty face. ‘So much the less, so much the less.” |

CHAPTER VIII.
EXPLOSION,

TH next morning was too bright a morning for sleep,
and James Harthouse rose early.

As he had rather a long ride to. take that day—for
there was a public occasion “ to do” at some distance,
which afforded a.tolerable opportunity of going in for
the Gradgrind men—he dressed early, and. went down
to breakfast. He was anxious to see if she had relapsed
since the previous evening. No. He resumed where
he had leit off. There was a look of interest for him
again.

He got through the day as much (or as little) to his
own satisfaction, as was to be expected under the fati-
guing circumstances; and came riding back at six
o’clock. There was a sweep of some alt mile between
the lodge and the house, and he was riding along at a
foot pace over the smooth gravel, once Nickits’s, when °
Mr. Bounderby ‘burst out of the shrubbery, with such
violence as to make his horse shy across theroad.
es * eee !" cried Mr. Bounderby: “Have you

ear

a Heard what ?” said Harthouse, soothing his horse,
and egal favoring Mr.’ ae with no ane
wishes.

“Then you haven’t heard |”

oa] have heard you, and so has ‘this erate I nave
heard nothing else.”

’Mr. Bounderby, red and hot, planted ate ae in
centre of the path before the Horde! ‘8 head, to. explo
his bombshell wit: mnore effect. «

«The Bank's rob! :

«Robbed Inst might, if, Rot raondinary

“Ro ast night, 5 bed 3 in an ex
manner. Robbed witha false ey

“Of much ?”’:

Mr. Bounderby, in his dpaize to shake +16 most of it.
‘reaily seemed mortified by* being obliged to
one no; not°of very’ much. a = might ‘nave:
“Deen.” - -

“Of how much ?”

“Oh! as asum—if you stick £6 a 8 sum—of not snore
than a hundred and fifty pound,” said derby, with |
impatience. ‘ But it’s not tl the sum; it’s the fact. It's’
the fact of the Bank being robbed, that’s the important
circumstance. Iam surprised you don’t see it.”

“My dear Bounderby,”” said James, Seen, ,and
giving his bridle to his seryant. — it;"and am
“43 Overcome as rH can possibly iteatee “shh me to be, by
m | Jose yer. allow. rded ae -: mental view. x ‘
less, I may pe, ongratulate y: as
which I do with ail. os soul. I: Mintek you—on your not —
having sustained a greater loss.’

“‘Thank’ee,” replied Bounderby, in a short, ungra-
cious manner. “But 1 et ou what. mA Kill have
been twenty thou: nd pi 7

“ Saeesl ght | ! .By the Lord, Ppeen
ge ee OBE mL. ‘ou su;

80. By Geor, ge!" said Mr. Bounase » with
menacing ie s and shakes of his head. “Tt might h ha
been re § enty.. There’s no knowing what it wo 7
have wouldn’t have been, as it was, but for
‘fellows’ "less disturbed.” , ;

Louisa had come up now, and Mrs, Sparsit and Bitzo?.
“Here's Tom Gradgrind’s daughter
ayetiveteat att £ have been, if you don’t,” blus:

, sir, ag if she was shot ree
told her! Never knew her to > such a thin,
— her credit, under the circumstances, rp tis tonne opin-
ont’ '

She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse
“| begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very
slowly, asked her how the ro robbery had eee com-,

mitted.

“Why, I am going to tell you,” said , irri
coe A gn Fein R oR weil Fy op BRE yg

eD 80 y ic’ 8
have begun to tell you pefenes, You know bile tat uly
(for she 2s a lady), Mrs.

“Thave ly had the ee

“Very well, And this young man, Bitzer,*you saw
him. too on the same occasion ?” Mr. Harthonse in-
clined his in aoe assent ‘and Bitzer knuckled his fore-

ead.

Very well. They live at the Bank.

4 You know
then Wnre 5° S0e Pane perhaps? Very well. Yesterday _
afternoon, at the close of the business a every-
thing was put away as usual. In the iron room

 

this youny fellow sleeps outside of, there was
mind ante. In the little safe in young “Tom's :

 

 
>

- whether previously concealed in the house or not re-

HARD TIMES.

22

 

 

 

closet, the safe used for’ petty purposes, there was a
hundred and fifty odd pound.”

“A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,’’ said Bitzer.

“Come !”’ retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel
round upon him, “let’s have none of your interrup-
tions. It’s enough to be robbed while you’re snoring
because you're too comfortable, without being put
right with your four seven ones. I didn’t snore, my-
self, when I was 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 a sneaking
manner, and séemed at once particularly impressed
and depressed by the instance last given of Mr. Boun-
derby’s moral abstinence.

“A hundred and fifty odd pound,” resumed Mr.
Bounderby. ‘That sum of money, young Tom locked
in his safe; not a very strong safe, but that’s no matter
now. Everything was left all right. Some time in the
night, while this young fellow snoréd—Mrs. Sparsit,
mna’am, you say you have heard him snore?’

“Sir,” returned Mrs, Sparsit. ‘‘I cannot say that I
have heard him precisely snore, and therefore must not
make that statement. But on winter evenings, when
he has fallen asleep at his table I have heard him what
I should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have
heard him on such occasions produce sounds of nature
similar to what may be sometimes. heard in Dutch
clocks. Not,’’ said Mrs.Sparsit, with a lofty sense of
giving strict evidence, “that Iwould convey any im-
putation on his moral character. Far from it. I have
always considered Bitzer a young man of the most up-
right principle; and to that I beg to bear my testi-
mony.”

“Well!” said the exasperated Bounderby, “while he
was snoring, or choking, or Dutch-clocking, or some-
thing or other—being asleep—some fellows, somehow,

maing to be seen, got to young Tom’s safe, forced it,
and abstracted the contents. Being then disturbed,
they made off; letting themselves out at the main door
and double-locking it again (it was’ double-locked, and
the key under Mrs. Sparsit’s pillow) with a false key,
which was picked up in the street near the Bank, about
twelve o'clock to-day. No alarm takes place, till this
ehap, Bitzer, turns out this morning, and begins to
open and prepare the offices for business. Then, look-
ing at Tom’s safe, he sees the door ajar, and finds the
lock forced, and the money gone.”

“Where is Tom, by the bye?” asked Harthouse,
glancing round,

“He has been helping the police,” said Bounderby,
*‘and stays behind at the Bank. I wish these fellows
had tried to rob me when I was at his time oflife. They
would have been out of pocket if'they had invested
eighteenpence in the job; I can tell ‘em that.”

“Isanybody suspected ?”

“Suspected? I should think there was somébody
suspected. Egod!’”’ said Bounderby, relinquishing
Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his heated head. “Josiah
Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and no-
body suspected. No, thank you!”

“Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was sus-
pected ?”’

“Well,” said Bounderby, stopping and facing about
to confront them all, “I'll tell you. It’s not to be
mentioned everywhere ; it’s not to be mentioned any-
where: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there's
gang of ’em) may be thrown off their guard, So
take’ this in- confidence. Now wait a bit.” Mr,
Bounderby wiped his head again “What should
you say to;” here he violently exploded; “toa Hand
being in it?”

“I hope,” said Harthouse; lazily, “not our friend
ei Bay Poot instead

“ Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,” returned Bound
“and that’s the man.” ; —

Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and
surprise.

“Oh, yes! I know!” said Bounderby, immediately
catching at-the sound, “I know! I am used to that.
I know all about it. They are the finest people in the
world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the
gab, they have. They only want to have-their rights
explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show
me a dissatisfied Hand, and I’ll show you @ man that’s
fit for anything bad, I don’t care what it is.”

Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which
some pains had been taken to disseminate—and which
some people really believed,

“But I am acquainted with these chaps,” said
Bounderby. “I can read ’em off, like books. Mrs.
Sparsit,ma’am, appeal to you. What warning did I
give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house,
when the express object of his visit was to know how
he could knock Religion over, and floor the Establish-
ed Church ?—Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connec-
tions, you are on @ level with the aristocracy—did I
say, or didT not say, to that fellow, ‘you can’t hide
the truth from me; you are not the kind of fellow I
like; you’ll come to no good ?’”

“Assuredly, sir,” returned Mrs, Sparsit, “ you did,
ina highly impressive manner, give him such an ad-
monition.”’ eed .

‘When he shocked you, ma’am,” said Bounderby;
“whien hie shocked your feelings.” ee

“ Yes, sir,’ returne rs. Sparsit, with a meek shake
of her head, “he certainly did so. Though I do not
mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on
such points—more foolish if the term is preferred—
than they might have been, if I had always occupied
my present position.”

Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr.
Harthouse, as much as to say: “Iam the proprietor of
this female, and she’s worth your attention; I think.”
Then resumed his discourse.

“You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said

‘to “wait for the simple mutton.’

 

to him when you saw him, I didn’t mince the matter
with him, I am never mealy with ‘em. I xNEw ’em.”

Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went
off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my
infancy—only with this difference, that he is a worse
subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do
before he went? What do you say ;” Mr. Bounderby,
with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown
at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a
tambourine ; ‘‘ to his being seen—night after night—
watching the Bank ?—to his lurking about there—atter
dark ?—To its striking Mrs. Sparsit—that he could be
lurking for no good—To her calling Bitzer’s attention
to yim, and their both taking notice of him—And to
its appearing on inquiry to-day—that he was also notic-
ed by the neighbors?’ Having come to the climax, Mr.
Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambou-
rine on his head.

“Suspicious,” said James Harthouse, “certainly.”

“T think s0, sir,” said Bounderby, with a defiant nod.
“I think so. But there are more of ’eminit. There’s
an old woman. One never hears of these things till the
mischiet’s done; all sorts of defects are found out in
the stable door after the horse is stolen ; there’s an old
woman turns up now.. An old woman who seems to
have been flying into town on a brookstick, every now
and then. She watches the place a whole day before
this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him,
she steals away with him, and holds a council with him
—I suppose, to make her report on going off duty, and
be damned to her.”

There was such a person in the room that night, and
she shrunk from observation, thought Louisa,

“ This is not all of ’em, even as we already know ’em,”’
said Bounderby, with many nods, of hidden meaning.
“But I have said enough for the present. You'll have
the goodness to keep it quiet, and mention it to no one.
It may take time, but we shall have ’em. It’s policy to
give ’em line enough, and there's no objection to that.”

“Of course, they will be punished with the utmost
rigor of the law, as notice-boards observe,” replied
James Harthouse, “and serve them right. Fellows who
go in for Banks must take the consequences. If there
were no consequences, we should all go in for Banks.’’
He had gently taken Louisa’s parasol from her hand,
and had put it up for her; and she walked under its
shade, though the sun did not shine there.

“For the present, Loo Bounderby,”’ said her husband,
“here’s Mrs. Sparsit to look after. Mrs. Sparsit’s nerves
have been acted upon by this business, and she’ll stay
here a day or two. So, make her comfortable.”

“Thank you very much, sir’ that discreet lady ob-
served, ‘but pray do not let My comfort be acon-
sideration. Anything will do for Me.”

It soon appeared that if Mrs. Sparsit hada failing in
her association with that domestic. establishment, it
was that she was so excessively regardless of herself
and regardless of others, as to bea nuisance. On be-
ing shown her chamber, she was so dreadfully sensible
of its comforts as to suggest the inference that she
would have preferred to pass the night on the mangle
inthelaundry. True, the Powlers and the Scadgerses
were accustomed to splendor “but it is my duty to
rémember,” Mrs. Sparsit was fond of observing with a
lofty grace ; particularly when any of the domestics
were present, “that what I was, I am no longer.
Indeed,” said she, “if Icould altogether cancel the re-
membrance that Mr, Sparsit was a Powler, or that I
myself am related to the Scadgers family; or ifI could
even revoke the fact and make myself a person of com-
mon descent and ordinary connexions; I would gladly
do so. ‘I should think it, under existing circumstances,
right to do so.” The same Hermetical state of
mind led to her renunciation of made dishes and wines
at dinner, until fairly commanded by Mr. Bounderby
totake them ; when she said, ‘Indeed you are very
good, sir;” and departed from a resolution of which
she had made rather formal and public announcement,
She was’ likewise
deeply apologetic for wanting the salt; and, feeling
amiably bound to bear out Mr. Bounderby to the full-
est extent in the testimony he had borne to her nerves,
occasionally sat back in her chair and silently wept;
at which periods a tear of large dimensions. like a crys-
tal ear-ring, might be observed (or rather, must be, for
it insisted on public 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 her head, as who would say, “ Alas
poor Yorick !” After allowing herself to be betrayed
into these evidences of emotion, she would force a
lambent brightness, and would be fitfully cheerful,
and would say, “You have still good spirits, sir, I am
thankful to find;” and would appear to hail it as 4
blessed dispensation that Mr. Bounderby bore up as he
did, One idiosyncrasy for which she often apologised,
she found it excessively difficult to conquer. She had.
a@ curious propensity to call Mrs. Bounderby “Miss
Gradgrind,” and yielded to it some three or four score
times in the course of the evening. Her repetition
of this mistake covered Mrs. Sparsit with modest con-
fusion; but indeed, she said, it seemed so natural to
say Miss Gradgrind; whereas, to persuade herselt that
the young lady whom she had had the happiness of
knowing from achild could be really and truly Mrs.
Bounderby, she found almost impossible. It was a
further singularity of this remarkable case, that the
more she thought about it, the more impossible it ap-
peared; “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 the evidence, found the suspected per-
sons guilty, and sentenced them to the extreme punish-
ment of thelaw. That done, Bitzer was dismissed to
town with instructions to recommend Tom to come
home by the mail-train.

When candles were brought, Mrs. Sparsit murmured,
“Don’t be low, sir. Pray let me see you cheerful, sir,

as I used to do.” Mr. Bounderby, upon whom these:
consolations had begun to produce the effect of making
him, in a bull-headed blundering way, sentimental,
sighed like some large sea-animal. ‘“Icannot bear to
see you so, sir,’’ said Mrs. Sparsit, “Try a hand at
backgammon, sir, as you used to do when I had the
honor of living under your roof.” “I haven’t played
backgammon, ma’am,’’ said Mr. Bounderby, “since
that time.’’ “No, sir,” sdid Mrs. Sparsit, soothingly,
“Tam aware that you have not. I remember that Miss.
Gradgrind takes no interest in the game. But I shall
be happy, sir, if you will condescend.”

They played near a window, openin
It was a fine night: not moonlight, but sultry and
fragrant. Louisa and Mr. Harthouse strolled out into
the garden, where their voices could be heard in the
stillness, though not what they said. Mrs. Sparsit,
from her place at the backgammon board, was con
stantly straining her eyes to pierce the shadows with-
out. ‘“ What's the matter, ma'am ?” said Mr, Bounder-
by; ‘“‘you don’t see a Fire, do you?” “Oh dear no,
sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘I was thinking of the
dew.” ‘What have you got to do with the dew,
ma’am ?” said Mr. Bounderby. “It’s not myself, sir,’”
returned Mrs. Sparsit, ‘‘I am fearful of Miss Grad-
grind’s taking cold,” ‘She never takes cold,” said Mr.
Bounderby. ‘Really, sir?’ said Mrs. Sparsit. And
was affected with a cough in the throat. ,

When the time drew near for retiring, Mr. Bounderby
took a glass of water. ‘Oh, sir?” said Mrs. Sparsit.
“Not your sherry warm, with lemon-peel and nut-
meg?” “Why I have got out of the habit of taking it
now, ma’am,” said Mr. Bounderby. “The more’s the
pity, sir,” returned Mrs, Sparsit ; “you are losing al’
your good old habits. Cheer up,sir! If Miss Grad-
gat will permit me, I will offer to make it for you, as

have often done.”

Miss Gradgrind readily permitting Mrs. Sparsit to do
anything she pleased, that considerate lady made the
beverage, and handed it to Mr. Bounderby, “It will
do you good, sir. It will warm your heart. It is the
sort of thing you want, and ought to take, sir.” And
when Mr. Bounderby. said, ‘‘ Your health, ma’am !” she
answered with great feeling, “Thank you, sir. The
same to you, and happiness also.” Finally, she wished
him good night, with great pathos ; and Mr. Bounderby
went to bed, with & maudlin persuasion that he had
been crossed in something tender, though he could not,
for his life, have mentioned what it was. ;

Long after Louisa had undressed and lain down, she
watched and waited for her brother’s coming home.
That could hardly be, she knew, until an hour past.
midnight; but in the country silence, which did any-
thing but calm the trouble of her thoughts, time lagged
wearily. At last, when the darkness and stillness had
seemed for hours to thicken one another, she heard the
bell at the gate. She felt as though she would have
been glad that it rang on until daylight; but it ceased,
and the circles of its last sound spread out fainter and
wider in the air, and all was dead again.

She waited yet some quarter of an hour, as she
judged. Then she arose, put on a loose robe, and went:
out of her room in the dark, and up the staircase to her
brother’s room. His door being shut, she softly open-
ed it and spoke to him, approaching his bed with a
noiseless step.

She kneeled down beside it, passed her arm over his
neck, and drew his face to hers: She knew that he
only, feigned to be asleep, but she said nothing to
him.

He started by-and-by as if he were just then awaken-
| ed, and asked who that was, and what was the mat-
ter

“Tom, have you anything to tell me? If ever you
loved me in your life, and have anything concealed
trom everyone besides, tell it to me.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Loo. You have been.
dreaming.”

“‘ My dear brother; ”’ she laid her head down on hie
illow, and her hair flowed over him as if she would
ide him fron everyone but herself: “is there nothing

that you have to tell me? Is there nothing youn can
tell me if you will? You can tell me nothing that will
change me. O, Tom. tell me the truth !”

“TI don’t know what you mean, Loo!”

“As you lie here alone, my*dear, in the melancholy
night, so you must lie somewhere one night, when
even I, if am living then, shall have left you. As I
am here beside you, barefoot, unclothed, undistin-
guishable in darkness, so must I lie through all the
night of my decay, until Iam dust. In the name of
that time, Tom, tell me the truth now!”

“ What is it you want to know?”

“You may be certain; ’”’ in the energy of her love she
took him to her bosom asif he were a child; “that I
will/not reproach you. You may be certain that, I will
be compassionate and true toyou. You may be certain
that I will save you at whatever cost, O Tom, have
you nothing to tell me? Whisper very softly, Say
only ‘ yes,’ and I shall understand you !"’

She turned her ear to his lips, but he remained dog-
gedly silent. ?

“Not a word, Tom?”

“‘How can I say Yes, or how can I say No, when I
don’t know what you mean? Loo, you are a brave,
kind girl, worthy I begin to think ofa bette brother,
than ee But I have nothing more to say. Go to bed,

0 to -
¢ “You are tired,’ she whispered presently, more in.
her usual way.

«Yes, Iam quite tired out.”

“You have been so hurried and disturbed to-day.
Have any tresh discoveries been made ?”’

“Only those you have heard of, from—him.”

“Tom, have you said to anyone that we made a visit
to those Reople, and that we saw those three ther.’”

“No. Didn’t you. yourself icularly ask me to
beep. it quiet, when you asked me to go there with
you?”

on the garden.

 

 
 

: Me alie?”

_ * found her gone, Speen ator bed, fastened his door, and

ea ae

_,, in the way’ inspiration.

 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

, But I did not know then ynat was 8 going to

“ Yes.
Ahappen.”

“Nor I neither. How could 1?”’

He was very quick upon her with this retort.

’ “ Ought I'to say, after what has happened,” said his
sister, standing by the bed—she had gradually with-
drawn herself and risen, ‘that I made’ that visit?
Should I so? MustI Bay so?” t
“G Good. Heavens, Loo,” returned hér brother, “ you
are Soeit the habit of asking wy advice. Say what
you like. Ifyou keep it to yourself, I shall keep it to
‘myself. If you disclose it, there’s'an end of it.”
uti was too dark for either to see the other’s face; but
Eker very attentive, and to conside before
agealite
"a Tom. do you believe the man I gave the money to,
is really implicated in this crime ?”
“I don’t know. 1 don’t see why he shouldn’t be.”
“He seemed to mean honest man.’
bid Another person may seem to you dishonest, and yet
Not be so.”
ere was a pause, tor ne had hesitated and stopped.
* “Tn short,” resumed ‘Tom, as if he had made up his
mind, “if you come to that, perhaps I was so far from
being-altogether in his favor, that I took him outside the
door to tel] him quietly, “that 1 thought he might
consider himself very well off to get such a windfall as
he Wad got from my sister, and tuat I hoped he would
anake good use of it. You remember whether IT took
him fee or not. I say nothing“against the man; he
a VERY good | fellow, for anything Tknow; TI hope’

Mas he offended py what you said ?”
“No, ee took it ae wy well; he was civil enya
" ‘Where are you, Loo 6 sat upin bed and kissed her.
- “Good-night, my dear, good-night!” ’
«You five nothing more to tell me ?”
“No., What should Ihave? You wouldn’t have me

w wonidyrt “Have ‘you do that to-night, Tom; of all
Sie life; many and much: happier as ~

Laon’ t say anything to get to sleep.
4 _ » 80 ie
i ape turned found, drew the coverlet

ag See that time had come
ee po at spared ‘She stood for ‘some
* ate at the bedside be before hee gi ie moved away. She
oe at the door, looked back when she had opened
ed hini if he had called ‘her. » But he lay

Santa he thaw cae closed ee returned to her

aie Then the wretched

 

looked cautiously up and

| oronely enying ne Peay Ton vig he , hatetall a 7

mo 07 er, a

stone sepeten no” sede Hates

ate aie tae Mnprontahly eae on a good in -
” nametie * .

ate caarrER a

t marie , f 3

Ses aid scprpatmbnantn tan teaanns er,
Spansrr’s nerves being slow to recover their tone,

orthy a stay of some weeks in dura-
Bou e's retreat, ‘where, notwith-
a ohh Ao “of m

ed upon
‘Diboiotaited of her~ rec. station,
with noble fortitude to lodging, as

“one aya Ys Rae's Arpoge fee on the: fat of the
hole term on this recess from the |

eee pore a4 os, § vu. 5 : ‘ea of,
+ opt: b

cae eee ee

 
   
  
  
 
   

eer upon him in

hs ibe pe settl tit was), and’
uisa would we ctoet to her as a
had eon ed with his greatness
sorthti he. oe to do,
sight oh arsit easily, So
res a pete pitch of again

in solitude, he said to hervat

b ; before her de; A om
you ? ace ¢ f ae of a}:
aturda hia thes sal ha i weather a aig Gy till
) turned, d, in effect, |:
though f the I cs ee persuasion ; oat ‘To hear is

3. Sparsit wr ‘not a poetical woman; butishe.
dea in the nature of an allegorical) fancy,
yer head. © eae eee of Louisa,
nent tion ‘of her impenetrable
eanor, Which keenly v etted and sharpened Mrs.
t's edge,"must ha iven her as it were a lift,
e erected in her mind a
, With a dark pit of shame and ruin at)
the bottom ; and down those stairs, from er to day:
our to hour, she saw Lowisa coming.
e the business of Mrs. Sparsit’s life, to look:

  
   
  

 
 

Seas i 5 to watch Louise coming down.

it 2 | Slowly, ed. ckly, sometimes
ho ‘at one bout, Woihotitiits foppt gy newer fie

. If she had once turned might

ee - hues death of Mrs. S parsit in spleen and grief. |

She had wt oien ad at the day, and on

e day,, ir, ad the weekly invi-

107 it wawin good spirits;
sald 8! sit may venture to ask @

1g you do—have

ely ne: ou, OY adit: ‘Lam so'tired, that “I = !

not it into his explostye comi-
a hi, superior woman | ahead

-on which you | how. and when it: c
in. me, for I well.| she k

not yet. Under the circum-

wuts Why, ma’am, no;
Rome wasn’t built in a

stances, I didn’t expect it yet.
day, ma‘am.”’
akon true, sir,” said Mrs. *Sparsit, shaking her
e:

-“ Nor yet ina week, ma’am.”
»- “No; indeed, sir,’”’ “returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a
gentle melancholy upon her.

“Ina similar manner, ma’am,” said Bounderby, «L
can wait, you know. If Romulus and Bemus could.|
wait, Josiah Bounderby can wait. They were. better
off in their youth than I was, however. They had a |
she-wolf for a nurse ; J had only a she-wolf for a grand- |
mother. She didn’t give any milk, ma’am; she pre
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 aboutit. It’s’ in hand, though;
and young Tom, who rather sticks to business at
present—somethin new for him; he hadn’t the
schooling Thad—i Phetpiny: My injunction is, Keep it
quiet, and let it seem to blow over. Do what you like
under the rose, but-don’t give a sign of what you're
about; or half a hundred of ’em will combine together:

good. Keep it quiet, and the thiéves will grow in con=
fidence by little and little, and we shall have ’em’”’

“Very sagacious, indéed, sir,’’ said’ Mrs. Sparsit.
“Very interesting. The old woman you mentioned,
sir’’—

“The old woman I mentioned, ‘ma’ami,” said Boun-
nae cutting the matter short, as it was nothing to’
boast about, ‘is not laid hola of; but, she may take
her oath she will be, if that is any satisfaction to her
yillainous old mind. Inthe meantime, ma’am, Iam
of opinion, if you ask me my opinion, that the less she
is talked about, the better.”

That same evening, Mrs. Sparsit, in her chamber
window, resting from, her, packing operations, looked
soreeals her great, staircase and, saw Louisa still des-
cending,

She sat by Mr. Harthouse, in an alcove in the garden,
talking vety low, he stood leaning. over her, as they

whispered together, and his tace, almost,touched her
hair. “Ifnot quite !’’ said, Mrs...Sparsit, straining her
tant to hear a word of their discourse, oreyen.to- know |
that they were speaking softly, otherwise than from the
einem of their, figures; but what they. said was
. “You recollect the man, Mr. Harthouse ? sie

“Oh, F seni ny | ¥

* His face, an his manner, and what he ‘said? 7

Perfectly. And an infinitely dreary person he ap-

‘ed tans tobe. Lengthy and prosy in the extreme.
pens as knowing to hold forth, in the humble-virtue
peeboot Be atoguteics 3 but, I assure you I thought at the
time, ‘My good fellow, ‘you are oyer-doing this !’””

-Taan,’””
“My dear Louisa—as Tom says.” Which he never
did say, “You know ng good | ot the fellow?” ,
“No, certainly. A
“Nor of any ther such person?” ”
“How can I,”’

nothing of them, men or wonren ?”

“My dear Louisa, then consent tp fk the sub
missive, representation of ames devoted friend, who
knows ees of several varieties of his excellent
en a r excellent they a quite.
to believe, in spite of such little aoibios aa, as A} Lema
hel g themselves to what they ean hold of. This
fellow talks. .Well ; ,every fellow, talks,» He professes’
morality.) Well ;, all sorts ofhumbugs profess mogility-
From the House of Commons to the House of Correc-
tion, there isa a profession of morality,. except
amnong our people; it really is that exception which
makes our people quité reviving. You saw and heard
"Hore was one of the. fluffy, classes pulled up
and | ‘extremely short een esteemed friend Mr. Bo pce
by—who, as we know, is not possessed of that cacy
which would soften so, tight a hand. The aoa r of
the fluffy classes w: .d, exasperated, left the house
grumbling, met somebody who proposed to him to go
in for some share, in this Bank. business,.went in,
something in his pocket which pas nothing init before,
and relieved hjs mind extremely. Really ‘he would
have, been an Wepre, instead of a common, fellow, |
if he had not availed himself. of ee an 9) Peer te | uy
Or he may hay 8 PHBA S it altogether, it he had a} @
cleverness.”
“* Talmost fee's as though it’ must be het in ‘me.’ re
turned Louisa, after sitting thoughtfiil awhile, «to
So ready to agree with you, and to be so iightened in my
heart by what you sa Ns
_.“Tonly sa; reasonable ; hothing worse. T
have talked-i r cary my P friond Tom more than onco—
of course I oe on terms of yeas confidence with
T he is quite of my opinion, andl am quite of
his, Will you walk ?”
‘They strolled away, among thé lanes beginning to.be
indistinct in the twilight—she leaning on his arm—an
she little thought how she was going own, down, down,

Mrs, Sparsit’s staircase.
Night and day, ra, arsit kept it standing. “When
had arriy! e bottom and disappeared ip
; Se nih it might i ih npon her if it would ;
until then, there it was to be,.a Building, “before a ;
Sparsit’s eyes. And there Louisa always was, “upon it
And always gliding down, down, down! _ ““

» Mrs. 8; saw James Harthouse come and go; Sand
heard. him here and there; she saw the
the face he had studied ; she, too, ean a a ticely
louded; how ‘

ept her black eyes wide open,
pity, with no touch re commnnaies

tne no-toueh of

 

the robbery?” e4

fO¥

t a Je

and get this fellow who has bolted, out of reach for |

hawk’s eyes to the:utmost. Mrs. Sparsit was too dis- |.

oe Tt has been very dificult to me to think ill of that |

she returned, with more of ee first |.
| manner on her than he had lately. ue 1 when, Tknow

t | nurture:

‘interest. In the interest of seeing her, ‘omnareog, |

with no hand to stay her, nearer and nearer to the bot-
tom of this new Giant’s Staircase.

With all her deference for, Mr. Bounderby as. contra-
distinguished from his portrait, Mrs, Sparsit had not
the smallest intention of interrupting the descent.
Eager. to see it accomplished, and yet patient, she
waited for the last fall, as for the ripeness and fullness
of the pasrent of her’ hopes. Hushed in expectancy,
she kept her wary gaze upon the stairs ; and seldom so
much as darkly shook her right mitten (with her fist
init,) at the figure coming down.

The figure descended the great stairs, steadily, stead-
ily; always verging, like a weight im deep water, to
the black gulf at the bottom, fn

Mr. Gradgrind, apprised ot his wife's decease, Made an
expedition from London, and buried her in a business-
like manner, He then returned with promptitude to
the national cinder-heap, and resumed his, sifting for
the odds. and ends he wanted; and his throwing of the
dust about into the eyes of other people who wanted
ee odds and enn fact owns his Parliamentary

uties.

 

CHAPTER X.
DOWN. .

THE national dustmen, after entertaining one another
with a great many noisy little fights among themselves,
had dispersed for the present, and Mr. Gradgrind was at
home for the vacation.

He sat writing in the room with the deadly statistical
clock, proving something no doubt—probably,in the
main, that the Good Samaritan was a Bad Economist.
The noise of the rain did not disturb. him much: but
it attracted his attention sufficiently to make him-raise
his head sometimes, as if he were rather remonstrating
with the elements. When it, thundered. very loudly,
he glanced towards Coketown, haying it in his mind
that some of. the ‘tall chimneys paighs be struck by
lightning.

The thunder was rolling into - diatence: and. the, rain
was pouring down like adeluge, when the door of his
rogm opened, He looked round the lamp upon his
eo and Sw, with amazement, Ninel daughter.

** Louisa |” nuh

“ Pather,I want to-speak to: you.”

What is the matter? How strange you -look |. And
good Heaven,” said. Mr.. Gradgrind, wondering more
and In gas “have yqu come here exposed to this
storm re

’ She put her hands to her dress, as ifshehardly knew.
« Yes.’ Then she uncovered her head,and letting her
| cloak and hood fall where they might, stood looking at
him : so colorless, so dishevled, so defiant and despair-
ing, that he was afraid of her. -
“What is it? Iconjure you, Louisa, ‘tell ao" What is
the matter.” >
She dropped into a chair before am, and put her cold
hand Combat Sx
“Father, you. you have trained me from my ‘cradle ”
“Yes, Louisa.” :
d 540 curse the hour in which c was born ito such a
estiny.”’
He looked at her in doubt and dread, vacantly repeat-
ing : ‘Curse the hour? Curse the hour?’

“ How could you give me lite, and take from me all
the snepeedaltenhieee that raise it from the state of
conscious death ? Where are the graces of my soul?
‘Where are the sentiments.of my ~ heart? What have
you done, O father, what haye you done with the garden

reba. ehonld, haye bloomed once, in this erepawebserness

she struck herself with béth her hands upon her
osom.

“Ifit had ever beén here, its ashes’alone sould a
me from the void in which my whole life sinks. I did
not mean to say this: but, father, Sop Temember the
a time we e conversed in in i se

for what he

He had bee: la
heard ‘now, that i it was ras with h aifheul whe answered,

tomy lips now, ‘would. have risen
to my lips then, it you had given me.a moment's help.
I don’t re’ you, father, What. you, have.never
din me, you-have never nurtured in yourself ;
but O! if you had only done anlone nacnae fi you had
only neglected me, what a qpaseect hap-
pier creature I should have on thie’

On hearing this, after all his care, he Bowed his head

his iad and groaned aloud.

mi ‘ather, if you had known, when we were last to-
gether ere, what even I feared while I strove against
ny | uns ory Hatacal Bi mpting. hak thei sy
a eve: ura ‘om p’ at has my

; if you. had known that there lingered |
Prete? gy er ay affections, w
‘being ‘cheris d into aePtEe defying
tions ever Ro ‘mi
arithmetic than h wrens wae ve sciven
me to the husband whom Iam oes that I hatel”

He said, “ me me my, poor child.”

ap sgeed anne

 

peradcruee more nae
with them, apto hope in my ite sphere, 40
them betier ?” : ne 24
» £0, no, no, No, Louisa.” ab ; ahs
Yet, ‘inf had bye stone Spanien
x eaenene, onan a
tet ile. Sree
e: = ee
ah sv been lion ties ry ae more

mpegs

“Would yor e@ doomed me, at say time, to the
oe and blight ¢ hat have hardened and ,spoiled me ?
nang you have robbed me—for no one’s enrichment—
— dbo a a of this-world—of the
|. imine et e spring and summer ot
y belief, : gues what is sordid and bad in
ie eal hn ae Ishould

 

a

—

SS

 

 
HARD TIMES.

 

Pm

 

“<<

loving, more contented, more innocent and human in
all good respects, than Iam with the eyes Ihave. Now,
hear what I have come to say.’

He moved, to support her with his arm. She rising
as he did so, they stood close together; she, with a hand
upon his shoulder, looking fixedly in his face.

“With a hunger and thirst upon me, father, which
have never been for a moment appeased; with an ar-
dent impulse towards some. region where rules, and
figures, and definitions were not quite absolute; Thave
grown up, battling every inch of my way.’

«“T never knew you were unhappy, my child.”

» “Father, I always knew it. In this strife I have al-
~ most repulsed and crushed my better angel into a de-
mon: What I have learned has left me doubting, mis-
believing, despising, . regretting, what I haye not
» learned; and: my dismal resource has been to think
| that life would soon go by, and that nothing in it
| » could be worth the ee and trouble of a contest.”
| “ And you so young, Louisa !’’ he said with pity.
' “And L so young. In» this condition, tather—for I
show you now, without fear or favor, the ordinary dead-
ened state of my mind as J know it—you proposed my
husband tome. Itook him. Inever made a pretence
‘to him or'youw'that-Lloved him. I knew, and, father,
you knew, and he knew, that I never: did. I was not
» wholly indifferent, for hada hope of being apogee
° and useful to Tom.» I made that wild escape into some-
thing visionary, and haveslowly found out how wild it
was. But Tom been the subject of all, the little
tenderness of my life; perhaps he became so because
Iknew so well how to pity him. It matters little now,
except as it may isyne y you to think more leniently of
his erro errors.”
As her father held her in his. arms, she put her other
“hand upon:his other shoulder, and, still looking: fixedly
©) sine his , went on.
«When I was irrevocably married, there rose up into
' rebellion against the tie, the old strife, made fiercer by
» : all causes of disparity which arise out of our, two in-
dividual natures, and which no general laws shall ever
rule or state for me, father, until they shall be able to
direct the aatonaiae where to: abpike his knife nto the
secrets of soul.”

=<

;

 

 

+ “Louisa!” heasaid,.and vesid:imploringly, ;-for he

fe -.- wellremembered what had passed between them a
their former interview, » é

“ [donot reproach you; father, I make no complaint,
I am here with another object.”

« What can I do, child ?, Ask me what: you will, v

“Tam coming to it.. Father, chance then threw into,
‘my way 4 new acquaintance ; 4 man such as-I had
had no experienceof ; used to the world ; light, pe
ished, easy ; ‘making no pomees ‘avowing the:
estimate of. everything, » i was half afraid
to form in secret ; cade ouieee 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.

g eed
while, who cared for anathangnlient O oe
a ae for et t ttm
ga & Mo -you, Louisa!"
“ t. instinctively. have Yoosened - his |)
é hold, a, b that a, lt her strength departing from her,
pom ne @ oe lating fire in the even st Mr.

+2 Seton
' tet or mnotiatn of his plea for claiming my confidence;
It matters “Bi fittie how he gainetlit, Father, he did
=) ite ou know of the. meres mapanertiage
® 6 s00n Pale just as well.”

; “Her father’s Tuco was ashy white, and he pete her in

: ‘both his arms. |
“T have done no worse, Tr have not. disgraced you.

apna en ~~
~

SET meee

I don’t know.”

*

‘pressed

| not like itself—and in her figure, drawn up, resolute
d ‘to finish by a last effort what she had to aiytothe feel;
bp SS jong suppressed broke loose.
ef , my husband being away, he ‘bas
\ - with me, lover.
i expects me, ae I could release: myself. of his: presence
-) “by no other means. I do not know that Lam sorry, I |:
i * do not-know'that’ Iam ashamed, Ido not know that,L
i am degraded in my own esteem.’ »All-that I know is,

i that your phil your teaching
i --me.—Now, father, you have o brought me to, this.

r by some other means |”
ye) é ander his hold in time to prevent her sin
ao ‘ok but she cried out in a terrible voice, “
you hold me!» Let ‘me fall-upon ‘the
gown Ye rae he laid her down there, and saw the
ai Insensibie ap, at ean feet. of hinerstas. lying,

ware

» shut
ag y

BOOK THE - THIRD.
: » eer ith: eee

 

i iad eacee aaa ea be
if ANOTHER a NEEDFUL.

: hun ans va

t , | Lovrsa atorpor, and her eyes Yengetily
j _ _»} opened om herold bed. at: home.and her old room. -It
( mrs seemed, at eee that’ happened since the:
‘ days when | oe ee ae a peers sare e
Ss _ + ghadows ofa di sight, the oven -
i _ came more real to her sight, the oventa oe more
» Teal to her mind;

Bn could scarcely move ber head. Yor pain and heavi-

, her eyes were: stnaiar and sore, and she was very

, Acurious passive inattention had such posses- |
sion of her, that the coarse of her little sister in the

room did not attract her notice for ore time. Even

when their eyes had mot, and = sister had approached

There seemed’ to. be a
between uss I only wondered it snes

"But if you ask me whether I’ have loved: him, or do |
love him, I pelt, you one. father, that it may be so..

Sire took her tisndls stidldeniy tom his shoulders and’
them both upon her side; while in her — his.

been
This: minute he

will not save.

the bed, Louisa lay for minutes. looking at her in si-
lence, and suffering her timidly to ho! d her passive
hand, before she asked:

ai When was I brought to this room ?”

“ Last night, Lousia.”

«Who brought me here ?’’

“ Sissy, I believe.”

“Why do you beliave 80?”

“Because I found her here this morning. She didn’t
come to my bedside to wake me, as she always does ;
and I went to look for her. She was not in her own |
room either; andi went looking for her aJl over the |
house, until I found her here, taking care of you and
cooling your head. Will you see father? Sissy said I
was to tell him when you woke.””

“What a beaming face you have, Jane !”’ said Louisa,
i her young sister—timidly still—bent, down to kiss
er.

“Have I? 1am very glad you think 80.
it must be Sissy’s fa be,

The arm Louisa had begun to twine about her neck
unbent itself. “You can tell father if you will.’’ Then,
staying her a moment, she said, “It was you Who made
‘my room so cheérful, and gave it this look of wel-
come ?””

“Oh no, Louisa, it was done before I came. It was” ——

Louisa turned upon her pillow; and’ heard no more.
When her sister had withdrawn, she turned her head
back again, and lay with her face towards the door,
until it opened and her father entered. *

He had a jaded anxious look upon him, and his hand,
usually steady, trembled in hers, He sat down at the:
side of thé bed, any. asking how she was and dwel-
ling on the necessity of her keeping very quiet after
her agitation and exposure to the weather last night. |
He spoke in a subdued and troubled voice, very dif-
ferent from his usual dictatorial manner, and was often
at’a loss for words.

“My dear Louisa. My poor daughtér. ”” He was so
much ata loss at. that ee that he stopped alto-
gether, He tried again.

““My unfortunate child,” The place was'so difficult
to get over, that he tried again.

“Tt would be hopeless tor me, Louisa, to eidddrot to
tell you how overwhelmed I have ‘been, and still am,
by what broke upon me last ‘night. The ground on
Mpiche. stand has ceased to be solid under my feet.

he only support on which L leaned, and the strength
of which it seemed and still does seem, impossible to
aupetios has given away in an instant. I am stunned
by FP discoveries, T have no Selfish meaning in
Ww! it ;, but I'find the shock of what broke” upon
me lsat ght to be very heavy inde

She could give him no comfort herein.
suffered the wreck ofher whole life upon the rock.

“J will not say, Louisa, that ifyou had by happy
chance undeceived me some time ago it would have
been better for us both; better for your peace, and bet-
ter for mine. For Lam sensible that it may not have
been a part of my system to inyite any confidence of

_T am sure

that kind. I haye proved my system to myself,
i and [have rigidly Riministered it, ani must bear the

responsibility. of its failures. I onl
rar oig my favorite, child,, that I

righ

He, said it, earnestly, aed to do him Justice he had.
In, gauging fathomless deeps with little mean
excise-rod, and in staggering over the fares with his”
rusty stiff-legged compasses, ho had meant to do great

ee ‘Within the limits of his short tether he had:

-entreat you to be-
ave ‘meant to” do

‘tumbled about, lating the flowers of existence
with greater singleness of p than sey. of the
| blatant personages whose ony he kep'

a3 am well assured of what you bsg Tan ee. I know
I have. epeen your favorite child. I know you have
intended to make ‘me_happy. I have neyer blamed
you, and I never shall.”
He took ~her, ‘outstretched “hand, and retained it in

tri
: a gaid Mr. Gradgrind, slowly, and with hestth:
tion, as well as with a wretched sense of helplessness,
“Tf I see reason. to mistrust myself for the past,
a I should also mistrust myself.for the present
and the future.. in aa unreservedly to you, I do. TI

pam from feeling conyinced now, oe Perr differ-
ent I might have fit on only this time yesterday, that I
for the trust you repose in me; that [know how

to y Nepead to the appeal you have come home to make
tome; that [ have the right instinct—supposing it for
the moment to be some quality of that nature—how to
hel; yous and to set. you right, my child.” —~
turned upon her ow, and lay with her face
upon her arm, 80 that he could not see*it. All her
wi iidness.and passion led; but, though | ©
Batt she was not in “Her father was changed
Ino hing so much as in the respect that he would
ave been glad to see her in tears
«Some persons hold,” hé pursued, wal hie
“ that there is a wisdom of the yon pened at there
- ig oe of the Heart. I Le T ae but,
mistrust my: dow. ve su
ded the Head to be sllieuhciont «Tt may not be ai
nt: how can Ly, ng to say it is!

 

enture i
tr hat other kind of wisdom shoutd be w Ht Tneglected, ed,
and atone be the instinct that is wante t

She baa}

 

He suggested it very doubttully, as if he were half
unwilling to admit it even now. She made him no
answer; lying betore him on the bed, still half dressed,
much as he had seén her lying on the floor of his room

‘| last night.

‘ Louisa,’’ and his hand rested on her hair again, “ I
have been absent from here, my dear, a good deal of
late; and though your : sister’s training has been pur-
sued according to—the system,” he appeared to come
to that word with great reluctance always,“ it has
necessarily been modified by daily associations begun,
in her case, at an early age. Iask you—ignorantly and
humbly, my daughter—for the better, do you think ?”’

-‘‘ Father,’ she, replied, without. stirring, ‘if any
harmony has been awakened in her young breast that
was mute in mine until it turned to discord, let her
thank Heaven for it,.and go upon her happier way, tak-
ing it as her greatest blessing that she has ayoided my
way.’

“Omy child, my child!” he said ina forlorn manner,
“Tam an: awirr man to see you thus! What avails
it to me that’you do not reproach me, if I so bitterly re-
proach myself!" He bent his. head, and spoke low to
her. “ Louisa, I have a misgiving that some change
may have been slowly working about me in this house,
by mere love and gratitude; that- what the Head had
left undone and could not do, the Heart may ern been
doing silently. - Can it be so ” ‘

She made him no reply.

“T am not + too proud to believes it, Louisa, How
could I be arrogant, and:you before me!» Can it be so?
Is it so, my dear ?”’

He looked upon her, once more, ‘lying Sob away
there; and without another word went out of the room.
He had not been long gone, when she heard a li =
— near the door, and ~— that some one stood

her:

She did not raise her head, A dull anger that she
should be Seen in her distress, and that the involuntary
look she had so resented should come to'this fulfillment,
smouldered within her like an° unwholesome fire. All —
closely imprisoned forces ‘rend and®des' ‘The air
that-would be healthful to the earth} the water that
would enrich it, the heat that would ripem it, tear it
‘when ohn up. Soin her bosom even now; the strong-
est qualities she possessed, long turned upon them-
a became a heap’ of obauracy/ Anes Tose against a

em

It was well that soft toucl came upon ‘her neck, and
that she understood: herself to be- sup; to have

en asleep. The sympathetic peat not ——. her
resentment. Let it lie ere, let it lie

‘Itlay there, warming into a a ida of énitor
thoughts; and she rested. As she softenéd with tho
quiet, and the conscjousness of being so watched, some
tears made their way into her eyes. The face touched
hers, and she knew that there were tears upon it too,
and she the cause of them. ,
.. As Louisa feigned to rouse herself, and sat up, Sissy
retired, so that she stOod placid]; iy near the bedside.
“ThopelI have not disturbed you., I have come to
ask if, yon would let me,stay with you?’
y should you stay withme? My sister ‘will miss.
you. You are everything to her.”
‘Am 1?” returned ae. 5 Ra her head. “T would
be something to you, 1 might
“What?” said baton a ost stern! ‘f
“Whatever you want most, if I goul be that, At all

events, Lwould like to try ‘to o be as near it as I can.
And however far off that may be, I will Or tire of
trying. Will you let me?” :

; father sent you to ask ‘me.” **
“No, indeed,” replied Sissy. “He told Si that. I ‘
might come in now, but he sent ‘me away from the
room this morhing—or at least ”"— ‘She heat ted and

atl what 2 2” said Louisa, with her oi

    
 

“My dear, I haye remained all night a my table, | °° Wy thongst tit Bast 1f that’I zie
eeenaaeing Baath oo een cone a x your eee Reaes, sa for I wat very HA ws tain whether you, wi e) like
anon consider that bet ine. been known to me for sofa we ies ya pied you sataues "°°
hours, has. been concealed by you. for years; when I} “4, hope not, er have always.10 ved you, ant b
consider under what immediate pressure it has been ala x Ne hod a ak you ably hotli be am ie 1. ave

forced.from, you at last; Icome to the conclusion that oy to mo little shortly batons h you. f
Tre ot but distrust myself.’ I dened abit.” Xi ome.

fle imi ght-haye added more than all, when” he sa\ we | Not. ve iittle: and it 0 Ca ‘knew 80. ch, and I
the f: Soe eeon et him. He did add it in effect, mew row Seat oben tacts int ny SAYS, Bc
ee oa softly moved her d hair fom ing x frien ae ia .

ehead Stat hes hand. Such li ona: ht to complain of, and was not at all hurt,” ;

another man, were very noticeable in him; an a a Her color.rose as she said it modestly. and. urried)y.

j ree received them as if they had been words Louisa understood the aang pretence, and | er heart

"smote yt try? said Si mola nod eae her
“May 4 ssy, @ ened to .
— to the neck that was insensibl

er.

Louisa, taking down the hand. that would

braced her in another moment, held it in
and answered: —
' “First, Sissy, do you know who Iam? I am soproud
and so hardened, so confused and trou so resentful
and unjust to every one and to myself, everything
is ari and w ne to me. Poe aot that re-
pel i: :

“Tam so maleney,: and all that osha have made
6 otherwise is so laid waste, that lf I had been
S shauaberee this hour, and inven of bing phen enced a
youthink me, had to | plest

we em-
,of hers

truths, I could not want a ‘de te ae wetnee
honor, all the than £do- of which I am quite devoid, more —
Wass Pe

In the’ innisoative felt , and the
brimrhing up of her ol devoted pan. nage He =

vale one like a beautiful

sof tho othr ese att aay beg
and join its fellow there. She fell upon her Iknecs, and

Bet \

 

Owe
 

HARD TIMES.

 

 

clinging to this stroller’s child, looked up at her al-| this newspaper, when the waiter appeared and said, at

most with veneration.
“Forgive me! pity me! help me!
on my great need, and let me lay this heap of mine
* upon a loving heart.”
“Oh, lay it here!” cried Sissy.
dear.”

“Lay it here, my

CHAPTER II.
VERY RIDICULOUS,

Mr. JaMEs HarTHovuse passed @ whole night anda
day in a state of somuch hurry, that the World, with
its best of glass in its eye, would’ scarcely have recog-
nized him during that insane interval as the brother
Jem of the honorable and jocular member. He was
positively agitated. He several times spoke with an
emphasis, similar to the vulgar manner. He went in
and went out in an unaccountable way, like a man
without an object. He rode like.a highwayman.) In a
word, he was so horribly bored by existfng circum-
stances thst he forgot to go in for boredom in the man-
ner prescribed by the authorities.

After putting his horse at Coketown through the
storm, as if it were a leap, he waited upall night; from
time to.ringing his bell with the greatest fury, charg-
ing the porter who kept watch with delinqueney in
withholding letters or messages that could not fail to
have been entrusted to him, and demanding restitution
on the spot. The dawn coming, the morning coming,
and the day coming, and neither message nor letter
coming with either, he went down to the country-
house. There the report was, Mr. Bounderby away,
and Mrs. Bounderby in town, Left for town suddenly
last evening. Not even known to be gone until receipt
of message, importing that her return was not to be
expected for the present.

In these cireumstances he had nothing for it but to
follow herto town. He went to the house in town.
Mrs. Bounderby was not there. He looked in at the
bank. Mr. Bounderby away, and Mrs. Sparsit away.
Who could have been reduced to sudden extremity for
the company of that griffin ?

“Well, Idon’t know,” said Tom, who had his own
reasons for being uneasy aboutit. ‘She was off some-
where at daybreak this morning. She’s always full of
mystery. Ihate her! SolIdo that 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, I like
that. I was waiting for you, Mr. Harthouse, till it

came down as J never saw it come down before. Where.

was I too? Where were you, you mean ?”

“I was prevented from coming—detained.”

“ Detained |" murmured Tom. ‘Two of us were de-
tained. I was detained looking for you, till I lost every
train but the mail. It would have been a pleasant job
to go down by that on suchanight, and have to walk
home through a pond. I was obliged to sleep in town
after all.”

“Where ?”

“Where? Why, in my own bed at Bounderby’s.”

“Did you see your sister ?”’

“How the deuce,” retorted Tom, staring, ‘could I
see my sister when she was fifteen miles off?”

Cursing these quick retorts of the young gentleman
to whom he was so true a friend, Mr. Harthouse dis-
embarrassed himself of that interview with the small-
est conceivable amount of ceremony, and debated for
the huhdreth time: what all this could mean? He
made only one thing clear. It was, that whether she

was in town or out of town, whether he had been pre-.

mature with her who was so hard to comprehend, or
she had lost courage, or they were distovered; or some
mischance or mistake, at present incomprehensible,
had occurred, he must remain to confront his fortune,
whatever it was. The hotel where he was known to
live when condemned to the region of blackness, was
the stake to which he was tied. As to all the rest—
What willbe, will be. .

“So, whether I anr waiting for a hostile message, or
an assignation, or & penitent remonstrance, or an im-
promptu wrestle with my friend Bounderby in the
Lancashire manner, which would seem as likely as any-
thing else in the present state of affairs—I’ll dine,”
said Mr. James Harthouse. ‘‘Bounderby has the ad-
vantage in point of weight ; and if anything of a British
nature is to come off between us it may be as well to
be in training.” ;

Therefore he rang the bell, and tossing himself negli-
gently on @ sofa, ordered “ Some dinner at six—with a

efsteak in it,” and got through the intervening time
as well as he could. That was not particularly well;
for he remained in the
hours went on, and no kind of explanation offered itself,
his perplexity augmented at compound interest.

However, he took affairs as coolly as it was in human
nature to do, and entertained himself with the facetious
idea of the training more than once. “It wouldn’t be
bad,” he yawned at one time, “to give the waiter five
shillings, and throw him.” At another time it occurr-
ed to him, “Ora fellow of about thirteen or fourteen
stone might be hired by the hour.” But these jests
did not tell materially on the afternoon, or his sus-
pense ; and, sooth to say, they both lagged fearfully.

It was impossible, even before dinner, to avoid often
walking about in the pattern of the carpet, looking out
of the window, listening at the door for footsteps, and
occasionally becoming rather’ hot when any steps ap-
proached that room. But, after dinner, when the day
turned to twilight, and the twilight turned to night,
aud still no communication was made tohim, it began
to be; as he expressed it, “like the Holy Office and slow
torture.’’ ~ However, still true to his conviction that

indifference was the genuine high- breeding (the only
conviction he had) he seized this crisis as the opportu-
nity for ordering candles and a newspaper.

He had been trying in vain, for half an hour, to read

— perplexity, and, as the

 

| once mysteriously and apologetically:
Have compassion |

“Beg your (pardon, sir. You're wanted, sir, if you

please.”

A géneral recollection that this was the kind of thing |

the Police said to the swell mob, caused Mr. Harthouse
to ask the waiter in return, with bristling indignation,
what the Devil he meant by “ wanted ?”

“Beg your pardon, sir. Young lady outside, sir,
wishes to see you.”

“Outside? Where?’

“Outside the door, sir.”

Giving the waiter to the personage before-mentioned,
asa blockhead ‘duly qualified for that consignment,
Mr. Harthouse hurried into the gallery. A young
woman whom he had never seen stood there. Plainly
dressed, very quiet, very pretty. As he conducted her
into the room and placed achair for her, he observed,
by the light of the candles, that she was even prettier
than he had at first believed. Her face was innocent
and youthful, and its expression remarkably pleasant.
She was not afraid of him, or in any way disconcerted;
she seemed to have her mind entirely pre-occupied
with the occasion of her visit, and to have substituted
that consideration for. herself.

“T speak to Mr. Harthouse?” she said, when they
were alone.

“To Mr. Harthouse.” He added in his mind, “And
you speak to him with the most confiding eyes I ever
saw, and the most earnest voice (though so quiet) I
ever heard.”

“IfI do not understand—and I do not, sir,” said
Sissy, “ what your honor as.a gentleman binds you to,
in other matters :”’ the blood really rose in his face as
she began in these words: “I am sure I may rely upon
it to keep my visit secret, and to keep secret what I
am going tosay. I will rely upon it, if you will tell
me I may. say for trust’ ——

“You may, I assure you.”

“T am young, as you see; I am alone, as you see,
In coming to you, sir, Ihave no advice or encourage-
ment beyond my own hope.”

He thought ““ But that is very strong,” as he followed
the momentary upward glance of her eyes. He thought
besides, ‘‘ This is a very odd beginning. I don’t see
where we are going.”

“TI think,’ said Sissy, ‘you have already
whom [left just now?”

“T have been in the greatest concern and uneasiness
during the last four-and-twenty hours (which have
appeared as many years,)” he returned, ‘‘on a lady’s
account. The hopes Ihave been encouraged to form
es you come from that lady, do not deceive me, I

rust,’’ ’

“left her within an hour.”

“Ah——?” ;

« At her father’s ?””

Mr. Harthouse's face lengthened in spite of his cool-

ness, and his perplexity increased. ‘Then I certainly,”
he thought, “ do notsee where we are going.”
..“She hurried there last night. She arrived there in
great agitation, and was insensible all through the
night. Iliye at her father’s, and was with her. You
may be sire, sir, you will never see her again as long
as you live.”

Mr, Harthouse drew a long breath; and, if ever man
found himself in the position of not knowing what to
say, made the discovery beyond all question that he
was so. circumstanced. The child-like ingenuousness
with which his visitor spoke, her modest fearlessness,
her truthfulness which put all artifice aside, her entire
forgetfulness of herself in her earnest quiet holding to
the object with which she had come; all this, together
with her reliance on his easily-given promise—which
in itself shamed him—presented something in which
he was so inexperienced, and against which he knew
any of his usual weapons would fall so powerless ; that
not a word could he rally to his relief. ‘

At last he said:

“ So startling an announcement, so confidently made,
and by such lips, is really disconcerting in the last de-
gree. May I be permitted to inquire if you are charged
to convey that information to me in those hopeless
words by the lady of whom you speak ?”

“T have no charge from her.”

“The drowning man catches at the straw: With no
disrespect for your judgemnt, and with no doubt of
your sincerity, excuse my saying that I cling to the be-
lief that there is yet hope that Iam not condemned to
perpetal exile from that lady’s presence.”

“There is not the least hope. The first object of my
coming here, sir, is to assure you that you must be-
lieve that there is no more hope of your ever speaking
with her again, than there would be if she had died
when she came home last night.”

“Must believe? But if I can’t—or if I should by in-
firmity of nature be obstinate—and won’t—”

“It is still true. There is no hope.”

James Harthouse looked at her with an incredulous
smile upon his lips; but her mind looked over and be-
yond him, and the smile was quite thrown away.

He bit his lip, and took a little time for considera-
tion.

“Well! If it should unhappily appear,” he said,
“after due pains on my part, that I am brought to a
position so desolate as this banishment, I shall not be-
come the lady’s persecutor. But you said you had no
commission from her ?’”’ ‘

“T have. only the commission ‘of my love for her,
and her love for me.’ ‘I have no other trust than that
I have been with her since she came homie, and
that she has given me her confidence. I have no
further trust, than that I know something of her char-
acter and her marriage. O, Mr. Harthouse, I think you
had that trust too!”

He was touched in the cavity where his heart should
have been—in that nest of addled eggs, whére the
birds of heaven would have lived, if they had not been
whistled away—by the fervor of this reproach. ~

guessed

 

“Tam not amoral sort of fellow,” he said, “and I
never make any pretensjons to the character of amoral
sort of fellow. Iam as immoral as need be. At’ the

is the subject of the present conversation, or in unfor-
tunately compromising her in any way, or in comumit-

 

#

4

same time, in bringing any distress upon the lady el

ting myself by any expression of sentiments towards
her, not perfectly reconcilable with—in fact with—the
domestic hearth ; or in taking any advantage: of. her
father’s being a machine, or her brothers being a
whelp, or of her husband’s being a bear ; I beg to be al-
lowed to assure you that I have had no particularly
evil intentions, but have glided on from one step to
another with a smoothness so perfectly diabolical, that
I had not the slightest idea the catalogue was half so
long until I began to turn it over. Whereas I find,”
said Mr. James Harthouse, in conclusion, “that it is
really in several volumes.” 3

Though he éaid all this in his frivolous way, the way
seemed, for that once, aconscious polishing of but an
ugly surface. He was silent fora moment ; and then
proceeded with a more self-possessed air, though with
traces of vexation and disappointment that would not.
be polished out.

“ After what has been just now represented to me, in
a manner I find it impossible to doubt—I know of hard-
ly any Other source from which I could have accepted
it so readily—I feel bound to say to you, in whom the
confidence you have mentioned has been reposed, that.
I cannot refuse to contemplate the possibility (how-
ever unexpected) of my: seeing the lady no more. Iam
solely to blame for the thing having come to this—and
—and, I cannot say,” he added, rather hard up for a
general peroration, “that I have any sanguine expec-
tation of ever becoming a moral sort of fellow, or that I
have any belief in any moral sort of fellow whatever.”

Sissy’s face sufficiently showed that her appeal to
him ‘was not finished.

“You spoke,” he resumed, as she raised her eyes to
him again, “of you first: object. I may assume that.
there is a second to be mentioned ?”’

Yes,”

“Will you oblige me by confiding it?”

“Mr. Harthouse,” returned Sissy, witha blend-
ing of gentleness and steadiness that quite deteat-
ed him, and with a simple confidence in his. being
bound todo what she required, that held him at
a singular disadvantage, “the only reparation that
remains with you, ‘is to leave here immediately
and finally. I am quite sure that you can mitigaté
in no other way the wrong and harm you have done.
Iam quite sure that itis the only compensaticn you
haveleft it in your powertomake. I donot say thatitis
much, or that.itis enough; but it is something, and it
is necessary. Therefore, though without any other au-
thority than I have given you, and even without the
knowledge of any other person than yourself and my-

self, Lask you to depart from this place to-night, under ;

an obligation never to return to it.”

It she had asserted any influence over him beyond
her plain faith in the truth and right of what she said;
if she had concealed the least doubt or irresolution, or
had harbored for the best purpose any. reserve or pre-
tence; if she had shown, or felt, the slightest trace of
any sensitiveness to his: ridicule or his astonishment,
or any remonstrance he might offer; he would have
carried it against her at this point. But he could as
easily have changed a clear sky by looking at it in sur-
prise, 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 of business, preposter-
ous enough in itself, but which I have gone in for, and
sworn by, and am supposed to be devoted to in’ quite a
desperate manner? You probably are not aware 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 a turn
or two across the room, dubiously, “it’s so alarmingly
absurd. It would make a man go ridiculous, after going
im fof these fellows, to back out in such an incompre-
hensible way.”

“TI am quite sure,” repeated Sissy, “ that it is the
only reparation in your power, sir. Iam quite sure,
or I would not have come here.”

He glanced at her face, and walked about again.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what tosay. So im-
mensely absurd!” . :

It fell to his lot, now, to stipulate for secrecy.

-“Tf I were to to do such a very ridiculous thing,” he
said, stopping again presently, and leaning against the
chimney-piece, “it could only bein the most inviola-
ble confidence.” ‘

« Twill trust to you, sir,” returned Sissy, “ and you
will trust to me.” i

His leaning against the chimney-piece reminded him
of the night with the whelp. It was the self-same
chimney-piece, and somehow he felt as if he were the
whelp to-night. He could make no way at all.

“| suppose aman never was placed in a more ridicue
lous position,” he said, after looking down, and look-
ing up, and laughing, and frowning, and walking off,
and walking back again. ‘But I see no way out of it.
What will be, will be. This will be, I suppose. FE
must take off myself, I imagine—in short, I engage to
do it.”

Sissy rose. She was not surprised by the result, but
she was happy in it, and her face beamed brightly.

“You will permit me to say,” continued Mr: James
Harthouse, “that I doubt if any other ambassador, or
ambassadress, could have addressed me with the same
success. I must not only regard myself as being in a
very ridiculous position, butas being vanquished at
all points. Will you allow me the privilege of remem-
bering my enemy’s name ?” ;

“ My name?” said the ambassadress.

aire only nameI could possibly care to know,” to-
night.” .

“Sissy Jupe.”

——2--

ls

 
 

 

 

HARD... TIMES.

 

 

«Pardon my curiosity at parting. Related to the
family ?” wil

“I am only a poor girl,” returned Sissy. “I was
separated from my father—he was only a stroller—and
taken pity on by . Gradgrind. I have lived in the
house ever since.” d

She was gone.

“It wanted this to’complete the defeat,’ said Mr.
James Harthouse, sinking, with a resigned air, on the
aofa, after standing transfixed a little while. “The de-
feat may now be considered perfectly accomplished.
Only a poor girl—only a stroller—only James Hart-
house made nothing of—only James Harthouse a
Great Pyramid of failure.” ‘

The Great Pyramid put it into his head to go up the
‘Nile. He took a pen upon the instant, and wrote the
following note (in appropriate hieroglyphics) to his
brother : ‘

DEAR Jack.—All up at Coketown. Bored out of the place,
and going in for camels. Aflectionately, 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 from that part of the
country, and showing where he would be found for the
next fortnight. The other, similar in effect, to Mr.
Gradgrind. Almost as soon as the ink was dry upon
their superscriptions, he had left the tall chimneys of
Coketown behind, and was in a railway carriage, tear-
ing and glaring over the dark landscape.

‘he moral sort of fellows might suppose that Mr.
Jame Harthouse derived some comfortable reflections
afterwards, from this prompt retreat, as one of his few
actions that made any amends for anything, and as a
token to himself that he had escaped the climax of a
very bad business, But it was notso,atall, A secret
sense of having failed had been ridiculous—a dread of
what other fellows who went in for similar sorts of
things, would say at his expense if they knew it—so
oppressed him, that what was about the very best pas-
age in his life was the one of all others he would not
have owned to on any account, and the only one that
made him ashamed of himself.

CHAPTER III.
: | VERY DECIDED. :

Tue indefatigable Mrs. Sparsit, with a violent cold
upon her, her voice reduced to a whisper, and her state-
ly frame so racked by continual sneezes that it seemed
in danger of dismemberment, gaye chase to her patron
until she found him in the metropolis ; and there, ma-
jestically sweeping in upon him at his hotel in St.
James's Street, exploded the combustibles with which
she was charged, and blew up. Having executed her
mission with infinite relish, this high-minded woman
then fainted away on Mr. Bounderby’s coat-collar. ~

Mr. Bounderby’s first proceedure was to shake Mrs.
Sparsit off, and leave her to progress as she might
t th various stages of suffering on the floor. He
next had recourse to the administration of potent re-
storatives, such as screwing the patient's thumbs, smit-
ing her. hands, abundantly watering her face, and
inserting salt in her mouth. When these attentions
had recovered her (which they speedily did), he hustled
her into a fast train without offering any other refresh-
— and carried her back to Coketown more dead that

ve. ® : "

Regarded as a classical ruin, Mrs. Sparsit was an in-
teres! ‘le on her arrival at her journey’s end ;
but considered in any other light, the amount of dam-
ago she had by that time sustained was excessive, and
impaired her claims to admiration. Utterly heedless
of the wear and tear of her clothes and constitution, and
adamant to her pathetic sneezes, Mr. Bounderby im-
mediately crammed her into a coach, and bore her off
to Stone La ‘ ; 5

“Now, Tom Gradgrind,” said Bounderby, bursting
into his father-in-law’s room late at night ; “here’s a
lady here—Mrs. Sparsit—you know Mrs. Sparsit—who
Fra something to say to you that will strike you

ou haye missed my letter!’ exclaimed Mr. Grad-

ind, r by the ap: tion.
bain widen pout lester, sir!” bawled Bounderby. “Tho
‘present time is no time for letters. No man shall talk
to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown about letters, with
his mind in the state it’s in now.” ;

«Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, in a tone of tem-
perate remonstrance, “I speak of a very special letter I

_have written to you, in reference to Louisa.”

“Tom nd,” replied Bounderby, knocking the
flat of his several times with great vehemence on
the table, “I speak of a very special messenger that has
come to me, in reference to Louisa. Mrs. Sparsit,
ama’am, stand forward |”

That unfortunate lady hereupon essaying to offer tes-
timony, without any voice and with painful gestures
expressive of an ‘Yahamed throat, became so aggravat-
ing and underwent so many facial contortions, that Mr.

ee unable to bear it,,seized her by the arm
and shi her.
“If you can't’ get it out, ma’am,” said Bounderby,
~ “leave me to get itout. This is nota time for a lady,
however aaa connected, to be totally inaudible, and
seemingly ot marbles. Tom Tk Mrs.
¢ latterly found herself, by accident, in a situa-
tion to overhear a conversation out of doors between
_ daughter and your precious gentleman-friend,
James Harthouse.” _ PIey,
“Indeed!” said Mr. Gradgrind. es
“Ant Indeed!” cried Bounderby. “And in that
conversatien ’— ’

?

 

“Tt is not necessary to repeat its tenor, Bounderby. | in previous years. The enlightenment has been pain-

I know what passed.”

| 1ully forced upon me, and the discovery is not mine.’ [

“You do? Perhaps,” said Bounderby, starting with | think there are—Bounderby, you will be surprised: to
all his might at his so quiet and assuasive father-in- | hear me say this—I think there are qualities in Louisa,
law; “ you know where your daughter is at the present | which—which have been harshly neglected, and—anda

time ?’’
“Undoubtedly.
“Here?” ‘
“My dear Bounderly, let me beg you to restrain
these loud outhreaks, on all accounts. Louisa is here.
The moment she could detach herself from that inter-
view with the person of whom you speak, and whom
I deeply regret ‘to haye been the means of introducing
to you, Louisa hurried here, for protection. I, myself,
not been at home many hours, when I received
her—here, in this room. She hurried by the train to
town, she ran from town to this house, through a rag-
ing storm, and presented herself before me in a state of
‘distraction. Of course,she has remained here ever
since. Let me entreat you, for your own sake and for

She is here.”

‘hers, to be more quiet.”

Mr. Bounderby silently gazed about him for some

moments, in every direction except Mrs. Sparsit’s di-
rection ; and, then, abruptly turning upon the niece
of Lady Scadgers, said to that wretched woman :
* “Now, ma’am! We shall be happy to hear any little
apology you may think proper to offer, for going about
the country at express pacc, with no other luggage
than a Cook-and-a-Bull, ma’am ?”’

“Sir,” whispered Mrs. Sparsit,‘ my nerves are at
‘present too much shaken, and my health at present
too much impaired,in your service, to admit of my
doing more than taking refuge in tears.”’

(Which she did.)

“Well, ma’am,’” said Bounderby, “without making
any observation to you that may not be made with
propriety to a woman of good family, what I have got
to add to that, is that there is something else’in which
it appears to me you may take refuge, namely, a coach.
And the coach in which wecame here, being at the door,
you'll allow me to hand you down to it, and pack you
home to the Bank; where the best course for you
to pursue, will be to put your feet into the hottest
water you can bear, and take a glassof scalding rum
‘and butter after you get into bed.” With these words,
Mr. Bounderby extended his right hand to the weep-
ing lady and escorted her to the conveyance in ques-
tion, shedding many plaintive sneezes by the way. He
soon returned alone. : k

“Now, as you showed me in your face, Tom Grad-
grind, that. you wanted to speak to me,” he resumed,
“hereIam. But, I am not in a very agreeable state, I
tell you plainly; not relishing this business, even as
it is, and not considering that I am at any time as duti-
fully and submissively treated by your daughter, as
Josiah Bounderby of Coketown ought to be treated by
his wife. You have your opinion, I dare say; and [
have mine, I know. If you mean tosay anything to
me to-night, that goes against this candid remark, you
had better let it alone.” ‘

Mr. Gradgrind, it will be observed, being much soft-
ened, Mr. Boundereby took particular pains to harden
himself at all points. It was his amiable nature.

“My dear Bounderby,” Mr. Gradgrind began im re-

ply. . :

‘*Now, you'll excuse me,”’ said Bounderby, “ but I
don’t want-to be too dear. That, to start with. When
I begin to be deartoa man, I generally find that his
intention is to come over me. Iam not speaking to
you politely; but, as you are aware, Iam not polite.
you like politeness, you know where to get it. You
have your gentleman-friends you know, and they'll
serve you with as much of the article as you may
want. I don’t keep it myself.” ;

“Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “we are all
liable to mistakes ”"——~ ~

“I thought you couldn’t make ’em,” interrupted
Bounderby, 4

“Perhaps I thought so. But, I say we are all liable
to mistakes; and I should feel sensible of your deli-
cacy, and grateful for it, if you would spare me these
references to Harthouse. Ishall not associate him in
our conversation with your intimacy and encourage-
mend pray do not persist in connecting him with
mine,” :

“I never mentioned his name,” said Bounderby.

“Well, well!’’ returned Mr. Gradgrind, with a
patient, even a submissive air. And he sat for a little
while pondering. “Bounderby, I see reason to
doubt whether we have ever qui understood Louisa.”
_ “ Who do you mean by We?”

“Let me say I, then,”' he returned, in answer to the
coarsely blurted question; “I doubt whether I have
been quite right in the manner of her education.”

“There you hit it,” returned Bounderby. ‘There I
agree with you. You have found it out at last, have
ou? Education! I'll tell you what education is—To
tumbled out of doors, neck and crop, and put upon
the shortest allowance of everything except blows.
That's what Zcall education.” . :

“I think en fot sense will perceive,” Mr. Grad-
grind rémonstrated in all humility, “that whatever
the merits of such a system may be, it would be diffi-
cult of general application to girls.”

“T'don’t see it at ll, sir,” returned the obstinate
Bounderby. -

“Well,” sighed Mr. Gradgrind, ‘we will not enter
into the question. I assure you I have no desire to be
controversial. I seek to repair what is amiss, if I pos-
sibly can; and I hope you will assist me in a good
spirit, Bounderby, for I have bsen very much dis-
tressed.” — :

“T don’t understand you yet,” said Bounderby, with
determined obstinacy, ‘‘and therefore I won’t make

any mises.’” t . :

af the course of a few hours, my dear Mr. Bound-
— —< a — ,in eae oh,
and propitiatory manner, ‘I appear to myself to have
become better informed as to Louisa’s character, than

little perverted. And—and I would suggest toyou,

| that—that if you would kindly meet me in a timely

|

 

endeavor to leave her to her better nature for a while—
arm to encourage it to develope itself by tenderness and
consideration—it—it would the the better for the hap-
piness of all of us. Louisa,” said Mr. Gradgrind, sha-
ding his face with his hand, “has always been my fa-
vorite child.”

The blustrous Bounderby crimsoned and swelled to
such an extent on hearing these words, that he seemed
to be, and probably was, on the brink of afit. With his
very ears a bright purple shot with crimson, he pent
up his indignation, however, and said :

“You'd like to keep her here for a time.”

“‘I—I had intended to recommend, my dear Bound-
erby, that you would allow Louisa to remain ‘here on @
visit, and be attended to by Sissy (I mean of oourse Ce-
cilia Jupe), who understands her, and in whom she
trusts.”

“J gather from this, Tom Gradgrind,”’ said Bound.
erby, standing up with his hands in his pockets, “ that
you are of the opinion that there’s what people. call
oe incompatibility between Loo Bounderby and my-
self.” ’ ;

“I fear there is at present a general incompatibility
between Louisa, and—and—and almost all the relations
in oe. I have placed her,’’ was her father's sorrowful
reply. ,

“Now look here, Tom Gradgrind,’’ said the flushed
Bounderby, confronting him with his legs wide apart,
his hands deeper in his pockets, and _ his hair like a hay
field wherein his windy anger was boisterous. ‘ You
have said your say; I am going to say mine. I ama
Coketown man. Iam Josh Bounderby of Coketown. I
know the bricks of this town, and I know the works of
this town, and [ know the chimneys of this town, and
I know the smoke of this town, and I know the
hands of this town. I know ’em all pretty well.
They’re real. When a man tells me anything
about imaginative qualities, 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 that he wants to be set up with a coach and six.
That's what your daughter wants. Since you are of
opinion that she ought to have what she wants, I
recommend you to provide it for her. Because, Tom
Gradgrind, she will never have it from me.”

“Bounderby,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “I hoped, after

my entreaty,
tone.”

“Just wait a bit,” retorted Bunderby, “you have
said your say,I believe, I heard you out; hear me
out, if you please. Don’t make yourself a spectacle of
unfairness as well as inconsistency, because, although

you would have taken a different

Lam sorry to see Tom Gradgrind reduced to his present —

‘position, I should be doubly sorry to see him brought
so low as that. Now, there’s an incompatibility of
some sort or another, Iam Fuh to understand by you,
between your daughter and me. I'll give you to under-
stand, in reply to that, that there unquestionably is an
incompatibility of the first magnitude—to be summed
up in this—that your daughter don’t properly know
her husband’s merits, and is not imp: with such
& sense as would become her, by George! of the honor

If | of his alliance.. That’s plain speaking, hope.” —.

m Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “ this is unrea-

sonable. .
“Is it?’ said Bounderby. “I am glad to hear you
sayso. Because when Tom Gradgrind with his new
lights tells me what I say is unreasonable, I am con-
ced at once it must. devilish sensible. With
your permission Iam going on. You know my .
and you know that for a g ‘many years of my T
didn’t want a shoeing-horn, in consequence of not hay-
ingashoe. Yet you may believe or not, as you think
proper, that there are ladies—born ladi ouging to
families—Families !—who next to worship the ground

I walk on.” F :
this like a rocket, at his father-in-

He discharged
a Wheres daughter,” proceeded Bounderb

““Whereas your daughter,” p: underby,
“is far from being a born lady.
self. Not that I care a pinch of candle-snuff about
such things, for you are very well aware I don’t; but
that such is the fact,and you, Tom Gradgrind, can’t
change it. Why do I say this?” 4

“Not, I fear,” observed Mr. Gradgrind, in a low
voice, “to spare me." *

“ Hear me out,” said Bounderby, “and refrain from
cutting in till your turn comes round, I say this, be-
cause highly connected females have been astonis
tosee the way in which your daughter has cond:
herself, and to witness her insensibility. They have
wondered how I have suffered it. Aud I wonder myself
Rr ee ae — ~ Pa a, 259%

“Bounderby,” return’ . ind, rising, “ the
less we say tonight the hotter, F hise i =

“On the contrary, Tom ind, the more we say
to-night, the better, I think. is,’”’ the considera-
tion checked him, “till I have said all I mean to say,
and then I don’t care how soon we stop. I come to 4
question that may shorten the business. What do you
mean by the you made just now?” .

““What do I mean, Bounderby ?”’ :

“By your a ' tion,” said Bounderby,

with an inflexible jerk of the hayfield.
“I mean that I hope you may be induced to arrange
ina friendly manner, for allowing Louisa npemns of ro-
pose and reflection here, which may tend toa gradual.
alteration for the better in. many respects”

“To a softening down of your ideas of the incompati-
bility?” said Bounderby. 4 mt

“Tf you put if in those terms.”

“What made you think of this?’ said Bounderby. _

you know, your- |

 
 

26

HARD TIHMFS.

 

 

 

“JT have already said, I fear Louisa has not been un-
derstood. Is it asking too much, Bounderby, that you,
so far her elder, should aid in trying to set her right?
Youvhave accepted a great charge ot her ; for better, for
worse, for ’’——

Mr. Boanderby may have been annoyed by the repe-
tition ofthis own. words to Stephen Blackpool, but he
cut the quotation short with an angry start.

“Come !’ said he, “I don’t want to be told about
that. Iknow what I took her for, as well as you do.
Never you mind what I took her for; that’s my look
out.”

“I was merely going on to remark, Bounderby, that
we may all be more orlessin the wrong, not even
excepting you ; and that some yielding on your part,
remembering the trust you have accepted, may not
only be an act of true kindness, but perhaps a debt in-
curred towards Louisa.”

“I think differently,” blustered Bounderby. ‘Iam
going to finish this business according to my own
opinions. Now,Idon’t want to make a quarrel of it
with you, Tom Gradgrind. To tell you the truth, I
don’t think it would be worthy of my reputation, to
quarrel on such a subject. As to your gentleman-
friend, he may take himself off, wherever he likes
best. If he falls in my way, I shall tell him my mind;
it he don’t fall in my way,I shan’t, for it won’t be
worth my while todoit. As to your daughter, whom
IE made Loo Bounderby, and might have done better by
leaving Loo Gradgrind, if she don’t come home to-
morrow, by twelve o’clock at noon, I shall understand
that she prefers to stay away, and I shall send her
wearing apparel and soforth over here, and you'll take
charge of her for the future. » What shall I say to
people in general, of the incompatibility that led to my
so laying down the law, wil! be this. I am Josiah Bound-
erby, and I had my bringing-up ; she’s the daughter of
Tom Gradgrind, and she had her bringing-up; and the
two horses wouldn’t pull together. I am pretty well
knownrto be rather an uncommon man, I believe ; and
most people will understand fast enough that it must
bea woman rather out of the common, also, who in
the long run, would come up to my mark.”

“Let me seriously entreat you to reconsider this,
Bounderby,” urged Mr. Gradgrind, “ before you com-
mit yourself to such a decision.”

“« lalways come to.a decision,’’ said Bounderby, toss-
ing his hat on: “‘ and whatever I do, I do at once. I
should be surprised at Tom Gradgrind’s addressing
such aremark to Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, know-
ing what he knows of him, if I could be surprised by
anything Tom Gradgrind did, after his making himself
a@ party tosentiméntal humbug. I have given you my
decision, and Ihave got no more to say, Good-night!”

So Mr. Bounderby went hometo his town house to
bed. Atfiveminutes past twelve o’clock next day, he
directed Mrs. Bounderby’s property to be carefully
packed up and sent to Tom Gradgrind’s ; advertised his
country retreat for sale by private contract; and re-
sumed a bachelor life.

CHAPTER IV.

LOST.

THE robbery at the Bank had not languished before,
and did not cease to occupy a front place in the atten-
tion of the principal of that establishment now. In
boastful proof of his promptitudeand activity; as a re-
markable man, and a self-made man, and a commercial
wonder more admirable than Venus, who had risen. out
ofthe mud instead of the sea, he liked to show how lit-
tle his domestic affairs abated his business ardor. Conse-
quently in the first few weeks of his resumed bachelor-
hood, he even advanced upon his usual display of bustle
and every day made such a rout in renéwing his in-
vestigations into the robbery, that the officers who had
it in hand, almost wished it had never been Committed.

They were all at fault too, and off the scent. Although
they had been so quiet since the first outbreak of the
matter, that most people really did suppose it to have
been abandoned as hopeless, nothing new occurred.
No implicated man or,woman took untimely courage,
or made a self-betraying step. More remarkable yet,
Stephen Blackpool could not be heard of, and the mys-
terious old woman remained a mystery.

Things having come to this pass, and showing no
latent signs of stirring beyond it, the upshot of Mr.
Bounderby’s investigations was,: that he resolved to
hazard a bold burst. He drew up a placard, offering
Twenty Pounds reward for the apprehension ot Stephen
Blackpool, suspected of complicity in the robbery of
the Coketown Bank on sucha night ; he described the
said Stephen Blackpool by dress, complexion, estimated
height,and manner, as minutely as he could; he re-
cited how he had left the town, and in what direction
he had been last seen going ; he had the whole printed
in great black letters on a staring broad sheet ; and. he
caused the walls to be posted with it in the dead of
night, so that it should strike upon the sight of the
whole population at one blow.

The factory-bells had need to ring’their loudest that
morning to disperse the groups of workers who stood
in the tardy daybreak, collected round the placards, de-
vouring them with eager eyes. Notthe least eager of
the eyes assembled, were the eyes of those who could
not read. These people, as they listened to the friendly
yoice that read aloud—there was always some such
ready to help them—stared at the characters which
meant so much with a vague awe and respect that
would have been half ludicrous, if any aspect of public
ignorance could eyer be otherwise than threatening
and fullof evil. Many ears and eyes were busy with a
vision of the matter of these placards, among turning
spindles, rattling looms, and whirling wheels for hours
afterwards ; and when the hands cleared out again
into the streets, there were still as many readers as be-

 

too that night: and Slackbridge had obtained a clean
bill trom the printer, and had brought it-in his pocket.
O my friends. and fellow countrymen, the down-trodden
operatives of Coketownh, oh my fellow brothers and tel-
low workmen and fellow citizens and fellow men, what
a to-do was there, when Slackbridge unfolded what he
called “ that damning document,” and held it up to the
gaze, and for the execration, of the working man com-
munity! ‘Oh my fellow men, behold ot what a traitor
in the camp of those great spirits who are enrolled upon
the holy scroll of Justice and of Union, is appropriately
capable! Oh my prostrate friends, with the galling
yoke of tyrants on your necks and the iron foot of des-
potism treading down your fallen forms into the dust
of the earth, upon which right glad would your op-
pressors be to see you creeping on your bellies all the
days of 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, of Stephen Blackpool, with a
slight stoop in his shoulders and about five foot seven
in height, as set forth in this degrading and disgusting
document, this blighting bill, this pernicious placard,
this abominable advertisement; and with what majesty
of denouncement will you crush the viper, who would
bring this stain and shame upon the God-like race that
happily have cast him out for ever! Yes, my com-
patriots, happily cast him out and sent him forth!
For you remember how he stvuod here before you on
this platform; you remember how, face to face, and
foot to foot, I pursued him through all his intricate
windings; you remember how he sneaked and slunk,
and sidled, and splitted of straws, until with not aninch
of ground to which to cling,I hurled him out from
amongst us: an object forthe undying finger of scorn to
point at, and for the avenging fire of every free and
thinking mind toscorch andsear! . Andnow my friends
—my laboring friends, for I rejoice and triumph in that
stigma—my friends whose hard but honest beds are
made in toil, and whose scanty but independent pots
are, boiled in hardship; and, now I say, my friends,
what appellation has that dastard craven taken to him-
self, when, with the mask torn from his features, he
stands before us in all his native deformity, a What?
Athief! A plunderer! A proscribed fugitive, with a
price upon his head; a fester and a wound upon the
noble character of the Coketown operative! Therefore,
my band of brothers in a sacred bond, to which your
children and your children’s children yet unborn have
set their infant hands and seals, I propose to you on
the part of the United Aggregate Tribunal, ever watch-
ful for your welfare, ever zealous for your benefit, that
this meeting does resolve: That Stephen Blaskpool,
weaver, referred to in this placard, having been already
solemnly disowned by the community of Coketown
Hands, the same are free from the shame of his mis-
deeds, and cannot as a class be reproached with his dis-
honest actions ?”’

Thus Slackbridge: gnashing and perspiring after a
prodigious sort. A few stern voices called out ‘No !’’
and a score or two hailed with dissenting cries of “‘ Hear,
héar !’”’ the caution from one man, “Slackbrige y’or
over hetter int ; y’or goen too fast 2”? But these were pig-
mies against an army; the general assemblage. sub-
scribed to the gospel according to Slackbridge, and gave
three cheers for him, as he sat demonstratively panting
at them.

These men and women were yet in the streets, pass-
ing quietiy to their homes, when Sissy, who had
been called away from Louisa some minutes before, re-
turned.

“« Who is it ?’’ asked Louisa.

“It is Mr. Bounderby,” said Sissy, timid of the name,
“and your brother Mr. Tom, anda young woman who
says her name is Rachel, and that you know her.’”’

“What do they want, Sissy dear?”

“They want to see you. Rachael has been crying, and
seems angry,”

“Father,” said Louisa, for he was present, “I cannot
refuse to see them, for a reason that will explain itself.
Shall they come in here ?” ,

As he answered in the affirmative, Sissy went away to
bring them. She re-appeared with them directly Tom
was last ; and remained standing in the obscurest part
of the room near the door.

“Mrs. Bounderby,” said her husband, entering with
a cool nod, “I don’t disturb you,I hope. This is an
unseasonable hour, but here.is a young woman who
has been making statements which render my visit
necessary. Tom Gradgrind, as your son, young Tom,
refuses for some obstinate reason or other to say any-
thing at all. about those statements, good or bad, lam
obliged to confront her with your daughter.” :

“You haye seen me once before, young lady,” said
Rachel, standing in front of Louisa,

Tom coughed.

“You have seen me, young lady,” repeated Rachel, as
she did not answer.

Tom coughed again.

“Thave.” f

»

Rachael cast her eyes proudly towards. Mr. Bound- |

erby, andsaid,:“ Will you make it known, young lady,
where, and who was. there ?’”’

“I went to the house where Stephen Blackpool
lodged, on the night of his discharge from his work,
andI saw you there. He was there too; and an old
woman who 4id not speak, and whom I could scarcely
see, stood ina dark corner. My brother was with me.”

“Why couldn’t you say so, young Tom ?’’ demanded
Bounderby. ; ;

“JT promised my sister I wouldn’t.” Which Louisa
hastily confirmed. ‘And besides,’ said the whelp bit-
terly, ‘‘shetells her own story so precious well—and
so full—that what business had I to take it out of her
mouth ?”

“Say, young lady, if you please,” pursued’ Rachael,
«why in anévil hour, you ever came to Stephen’s that

ré. ; | night?”
Slackbridge, the delegate, had to address hie audience '

“J felt compassion for him,” said Louisa, her color

deepening, “‘and I wished to know what he was going
to do, and I wished to offer him assistunce.”’

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Bounderby. . “ Much flat-
tered and obliged.”

“Did you offer him,” asked Rachael, “a bank note?”

“Yes; but he refused it, and would only take two
pounds in gold.

Rachael cast her eyes towards Mr. Bounderby again.

“Oh, certainly !’’ suid Bounderby. “If you put the
question whether your ridiculous and improbable ac-
count was true or not, I am bound to gay it’s con-
firmed.”

“Young lady,”’ said Rachael, ‘Stephen Blackpool is
now named as a thief in public print all over this town,
and where else! There have been & meeting to-night
where he have been spoken ofin the same shameful
way. Stephen! The honestest lad, the truest lad, the
best |” Her indignation failed her, and she broke off,
sobbing.

‘Iam very, very sorry,”’ said Louisa.

“O, young lady, young lady,” returned Rachael, “I
hope you may be, but I don’t know! I can’t say what.
you may ha’ done! The like of you don’t know us,
don’t care for us, don’t belong to us. Iam no 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
mindin to what trouble you brought such as the poor
lad. I said then, bless you for coming; and I said it of
my poor heart, you seemed to take so pitifully tohim;
but I don’t know now, I don’t know !”

Louisa could not reproach her or her unjust suspi-
cions; she was so faithful to her idea of theman, and so
afflicted. }

‘And when I think,” said Rachael through her sobs,
“that the poor lad was so grateful, thinkin you so good
to him--whenI mind that he put his hand over his
hard-worken face to hide the tears that you brought up
there—O, I hope you may be sorry, ‘and ha’ no bad
cause to be it; but I don’t know, I don’t know !’”’

“You're a pretty article.” growled the whelp, moving
uneasily in his dark corner, “to come here with these
precious imputations! You ought to be bundled out
for not knowing how to behave yourself, and you would
be by rights.”

She said nothingin reply; and her low weeping was
the only sound that was heard, until Mr. Bounderby
spoke.

“Come!” said he, “you know what you have en-
gaged todo. You had better give your mind to that;
not this.”

““’Deed,I am loath,” returned Rachel, drying her
eyes, ‘that any here should see me like this; but I
won’t beseen soagain. Young lady, when I had read
what’s put in print of Stephen—and what has just as
much truthin it as if it had been put in printof you—
Iwent straight to the Bank to say I knew where
Stephen was, and to give a sure and certain promise
that he should be here in two days. I couldn’t
meet wi’ Mr. Bounderby then, and your brother sent
me away, and I tried to find you, but you was not to
be found, and I went back to work. Soon asI come out
of the Mill to-night, I hastened to hear what was’ said
of Stephen—for I know wi’ pride he will come back to
shame it !|—and then I went again to seek Mr. Bound-
erby, and I found him, and I told him every word I
sain: and he believed no word I said, and brought me

ere.”” t

“So far, that’s trueenough,” assented Mr. Bounderby,
with his handsin hig pockets and his haton. “But I
have known you people before to-day, you'll observe,
and I know you néver die fur want of talking.
Now, I recommend’ you not’ so much ‘to mind
talking just now, as doing. You have undertaken
to do something; all Iremark upon that at present
is, do it !’’

“Ihave written to Stephen by the.post that went
out this afternoon, as I have written to him once be-
fore sin’ he went away,” ’said Rachel; ‘‘and he will be
here, at furthest, in two days.”

“Then, I'll tell you something. You are not aware
perhaps,’’ retorted Mr. Bounderby, “that you ‘your-
self have been looked after now and then, not being
considered quite free from suspicion in this business,
on account of most people being judged according to
the company they keep. The post-office’ hasn’t been
forgotten either. What I’ll tell you is, that no letter
to Stephen Blackpool has ever got into it. There-
fore, what has become of yours, I leave 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, “as much as

‘

»

”

a

oe

a week, when he sent me the only letter I have had —

from him, saying that he was forced toseek work in
nother name.’’

“Oh, by George !” cried Bounderby, shaking his head,
with a whistle, “‘hechanges his name, does he!. That’s
rather unlucky, too, forsuch an immaculate chap. It’s
considered a little suspicious in Courts of Justice,

I believe, when an Innocent. happens to have many
names.”

“What,” said Rachael, with the tears in her eyes
again, ‘‘ what, young lady, in the name of Mercy, was .
leit the poor lad to do! The masters against him on
one hand, the men against him on the other, he only
wanting to work hard in peace, and do what he felt
right. Can aman have no soul of his own, no mind of
his own? Must he go wrong all through wi’ this side,
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 clear himself.”

“You need have no fear of that, young lady.
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, come back
wi’ the unmerited reproach of being brought back. He

He ie

 

shall come back of his own accord to clear himself, and
put all those that have injured his good character,

 
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HARD TIMES.

 

 

and he not here for its defence,toshame. I have told
him ae has been done against him,” said Rachael,
throwing off all distrust as arock throws off the sea,
“‘and he will be here, at furthest, in two days.”

“ Notwithstanding which,” added Mr. Bounderby, “ if
he can be laid hold of any sooner, he shall have an ear-
lier opportunity of clearing himself. As to you, I have
nothing against you; what you came and told me turns
out to be true, and I have given you the means of provy-
ing it to be true, and there's anend of it. Iwish you
good-night all! I must be off to look a little further
into this.” of:

ee ea out of his corner when Mr. Bounderby
moved, moved with him, kept close to him, and went
away with him, ‘The only parting salutation.of which
he delivered himself was a sulky ‘‘ Good-night, father!”
With a brief speech, and a scowl at his sister, he left the
house.

' Since his sheet anchor had come home, Mr. Grad-
grind had been sparing of speech. He still sat silent,
when Louisa mildly said :

“ Rachael, you will not distrust me one day, when you
know me better.” 7

“It goes against me,” Rachael answered, in a gentle
manner; “to mistrust any one; but when I am so mis-
trusted—when we all are—I cannot keep such things

uite out of my mind. Iask your pardon for having
doe you an injury. Idon’t think what Isaid now.
Yet Imight come to think it again, wi’ the poor lad so
wronged.” f Y ; 4

“Did you tell him in your letter,” inquired Sissy,
“that suspicion seemed to have fallen upon him, be-
cause he had been seen about the bank at night? He
would then know what he would have to explain on
on coming back, and would be ready.”

«Yes, dear,” she returned; “but Ican’t guess what
can have eyer taken him there. He never used to go
there. It was never in his way. His way was the same
ag mine, and not near it.” . ‘

Sissy had already been at her side asking her where
she live

”

and whether she might come to-morrow
night, to nquire if there were news of him.
“T doubt,” said Rachael, ‘if he can be here till next

a Then I will come next night, too,” said Sissy.

When Rachel, assenting to this, was gone, Mr. Grad-
grind lifted up his head, and said to his daughter :

“Louisa, my dear. I have never, that I know of, seen
this Do you helieve him to be implicated ?””

oe {think have believed it, father, though with great
difficulty. Ido not believeit now.” _—

“Thatis.to say, you once persuaded yourself to be-
lieve it, from knowing hlm to be suspected. His ap-
pearance and manner; are they so honest?”

“Very honest.” ‘ ‘ .

a ee ae ee aot to pe pa qs I << ey
self,’’ sai . Gri ind, musing, ‘‘ does the real cul-

t par these accusations? Where ishe? Who

he?” P

Nmaelsaee, bia bind sean. looking oxy gacla,
he iupon his hand again, looking gray and old,
Louisa, with aface of fear and pity, hurriedly went

over to him, and close at hisside. Her eyes by acci-

dent met Sissy’s at the moment. Sissy flushed and
, and Louisa put her hand on ber lip.

Next night, when Sissy returned home and told’
Louisa that Stephen was not come. she told itina
w) r. Next night again, when she came home with
the e@ account, and added that he had not been
heard of, she spoke in the same low frightened tone.
From the moment of that interchange of looks, they
never uttered his name, or any reference to him, aloud;
nor eee the subject of the robbery, when Mr.

The Peete Oe tan out, three da d
two n 8 out, three days an

nights ran out, and Stephen Blackpool was not come,
andremained unheard of. On the fourth day, Rachel,
with unabated confidence, but considering her despatch
to have miscarried, went up tothe Bank, and showed
her a letter from him with his address, at a working

- colony, one’ of many, not upon the main road, sixty

miles away. Messengers were sent to that place, and
the whole town looked for Stephen to be brought in

next day. 3

During this whole time the whelp moved about with’
Mr. Bounderby like his shadow, assisting in all the

roceedings. He was greatly excited, horribly fevered,
bit his nails down to the quick, spoke in a hard rattlin,
voice, and with lips that were black and burnt up. A
the hour when the suspected man was looked for, the
whelp was at the station; offering to wager that he had
made off hefore the arrival of those who were sent in
quest of him, and that he would not appear.

The whelp was right. The messengers returned

alone. Rachael’s letter had: gone, Rachael’s letter had

been delivered. Stephen Blackpool had decamped in
that same hour; and no soul knew more of him. The
only doubt in Coketown was, whether Rachel had writ-
ten int good faith, believing that he really would come
back, or warning him tofly. On this point opinion was
divided. a

Six days, seven days, far on into another week. The
wretched whelp plucked up a ghastly courage, and be-
gan to grow defiant. ‘ Was the suspected fellow the
thief? A pretty question! If not, where was the man,
and why did he not come back ?”

‘Where was the man, and why did he not come back ? |-

Ta the dead of night the echoes of his own words,
which had rolled Heaven knows how far away in the
daytime, came back instead, and abided by him until
morning.

oa _ CHAPTER V.

FOUND. ; .

Day @ad night again, day and night again. No Ste-

vile Bick pos. ere was the man. and why did he
not come back ! ;

Every night, Sissy went to Rachael’s lodging, and sat
with her in her small neat room. All day, Rachael
toiled as such people must toil, whatever their anx-
jeties. The smoke-serpents were indifferent who was
lost or found, who turned out bad or good; the melan-
choly mad elephants, like the Hard Fact man, abated
nothing of their set routine, whatever happened. Day
and night again, day and nightagain. The monotony
was unbroken, Even Stephen Blackpool’s disappear-
ance was falling into the general way, and becoming as
monotonous a wonder as any piece of machinery in
Coketown.

“I misdout,” said Rachael, “if there is as many as
twenty left in all this place, who have any trust in the
poor dear lad now.”’

She said it to Sissy, as they sat in her lodging, light-
ed only by thelamp at the street corner. Sissy had
come there when it was already dark, to await her re-
turn from work; and they had since sat at the window
where Rachael had found her, wanting no brighter
light to shine on their sorrowful talk. 5

“If it hadn’t been mercifully brought about, that I
was to have you to speak to,’”’ pursued Rachael, “ times
are, when I think my mind would not have kept right.
ButI get hope and strength through you; and you be-
lieve that though appearances may rise against him, he
will be proved clear.”

“Ido believe so,” returned Sissy, “ with my whole
heart. I feel so certain, Rachael, that the confidence
you holdin yours against all discouragement is not
like to be wrong, that I have no more doubt of him
than if I had known him through as many years of
trial as you have.”

“ And I, my dear,” said Rachael, with a trembling in
her voice, “that have known him through them all, tobe,
according to his quiet ways, so faithful to everything
honest and good, thatif he was never to be heard of
more, and I was tolive to be a hundred years old,
could say with my last breath, God knows my. heart.
have never once left trusting Stephen Blackpool!’ .

“We all believe, up at the Lodge, Rachael, that he
will be freed from suspicion, sooner or later.”

“The better I know it to be so believed there, my
dear,” said Rachael, ‘and the kinder I feel it that you
come away from there, purposely to comfort me, and
keep me company, and be seen wi’ me when I am not
yet free from all suspicion myself, the more grieved I
am that I should ever have spoken those mistrusting
words to the young mr a And yet ’”’——

“ You don’t mistrust her now, Rachael?” a

“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 slow communing
with herself, that Sissy, sitting by her side, was obliged
to listen with attention.

“IT can’t at all times keep out of my mind, mistrust-
ings of some one. Ican’t think who ’tis, I can’t think
how or why it may be done, but I mistrust that some
one has put Stephen out oftheway. I mistrust that by

his coming back of his own accord, and showing him-
self innocent before them all, some oné would be con-
put him out of the way.”

“That isa dreadful thought,” said Sissy, turning
dered.” j

Sissy shuddered, and turned paler yet. -

Rachael, ‘“‘ and it will come sometimes, though “I do all
Ican to keep it out, wi’ counting cn to high mbers
when I were a child—1 fall into such a wild, hot hurry,
that, however tired Iam, I want to walk fast, miles an
I'll walk home wi’ you.”

“He might fall ill upon the journey back,” said Sissy,
case, there are many places on the road where he

“But he isin none ofthem. He has been sought for
in all, aud he’s not there.’” . ‘

“He'd walk the journey in two days. Ifhe was foot-
sore and couldn't walk, I sent him, in the letter he got,
to spare.” -

“Let us hope that to-morrow will bring something

Her gentle hand adjusted Rachael's shawl upon her
shining black hair in the usual manner of her wearing
of Hands where here and there, lingering at street-cor-
ners; but it was supper-time with the greater part of

“You're not so hurried now, Rachael, and your hand
is cooler.”’ ‘
little fresh. *Times when I can't, I turn weak and con-
fused.” b
may be wanted at any time to stand by Stephen. To-
morrow is Saturday. If no news comes to-morrow, let
strengthen you for another week. Will you go?”

“Yes, dear.” ,
Bounderby’s house stood. The way to Sissy’s destina-
tion led them past the door, and they were going
Coketown, which had put a number of vehicles in mo-
tion, and scattered a considerable bustle.about the town,
them as they approached Mr. Bounderby’s, and one of
the latter drew up with such briskness as they were in
voluntarily. The bright gaslight over Mr. Bounderby’s
steps showed them Mrs. Sparsit in the coach, in an ec-

 

founded, who—to prevent that—bas stopped him, and
pale,

“It is a dreadful thought to think he may be mnr-

“When it makes its way into my mind, dear,” said
as ] work, and saying over and overpieces that I knew
miles. I must get the better of this before bed-timo.
faintly offering a worn-out scrap of hope; ‘‘and in such
might stop.” — ,

“True,” was Sissy’s reluctant admission.
the money to ride, lest he should have none of his own
better, Rachael. Come into the air.”
it, and they went out. The night being fine, little knots
them, and there were but few people in the streets.

“I get better, dear, if I can only walk, and breathe a

_“But you must not begin to fail, Rachael, for you

us walk in the country on- Sunday morning, and

They were by this time in the street where Mr.
straight towards it. Some train had newly arrived in
Several coaches were rattling before them and behind
the act of passing the house, that they looked round in-
stacy of excitement, struggling to open the door; Mrs,

| reyersing her former word of command.

an seeing them at the same moment; called to them
0 stop.

“It’s a coincidence,” exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, as she
was released by the coachman. ‘It’s a Providence!
Come out, ma’am |” then said Mrs. Sparsit, to some one
inside, “come out, or we'll have you dragged out |”

Hereupon, no.other than the mysterious old woman.
descended, Whom Mrs. Sparsit incontinently collared.

“Leave her alone, Se !” cried Mrs. Sparsit,
with great energy. ‘Let nobody touch her. She be-
longs tome. Come in,ma’am !” thensaid Mrs. Sparsit,
“Come in,
ma’am, or we'll have you dragged in!”

The spectacle of a matron of classical deportment,
seizing an ancient woman by the throat, and haling her
into a dwelling-house, would haye been, under any cir-
cumstances, sufficient temptation to all true English
stragglers so blest as to witness it, to force a way into
that dwelling-house and see the matter out. But when
the phenomenon was enhanced by the notoriety and
mystery by this time associated all over the town, with

with an irresistible attraction, though the roof had
been expected to ‘fall upon their heads, Accordingly,
the chance witnesses on the spouse. consisting of the
busiest of the neighbors to the nnmber of some five-
and-twenty, closed in after Sissy and Rachael, as they
closed in after Mrs. Sparsit and her prize; afd the
whole body made a disorderly irruption into Mr.
Bounderby’s dining-room, where the people behind lost.
not a moment’s time in mounting on the chairs, to get.
the better of the people in front.

“Fetch Mr. Bounderby down!” cried Mrs. 8:

“ Rachael, young woman; you know who this is?”’

“Tt’s Mrs. Pegler,” said Rachael,

“T should think itis!’ cried Mrs. Sparsit, exulting.
“Fetch Mr. Bounderby. Stand away, everybody !”’
Here old Mrs. Pegler, muffling herself up, and shrink-
ing from observation, whispered a word of entreaty.
“Don’t tell me,” said Mrs. Sparsit, aloud, “I have told
you twenty times, coming along, that I will not leave
you till I have have handed you over to him myself.”

Mr. Bounderby now appeared, accompanied by Mr.
Gradgrind and the whelp, with whom he had been
been holding conference up stairs. Mr. Bounderby
looked more astonished than hospitable, at sight of
this uninvited party in his dining-room. :

“Why, what’s the matter now!”? said he. “Mrs.
Sparsit, ma’am ?” ns

“Sir,” explained that worthy woman, “I trust it is
my good fortune to produce a person you have much
desired to find. Stimulated by my wish to relieve
your mind, sir, and connecting together such imper-
tect clues to the part of the country in which that per-
son might be supposed to reside, as have been afforded
by the young woman, Rachael, fortunately now present.
to identity, I have had the happiness to succeed, and to
bring that person with me F need not say most un-
willingly on her part. It has not beén, sir, without.
some trouble that I have effected this; but trouble in
your service is to me a pleasure, and hunger, thirst, and
cold a real gratification.” :

Here Mrs. Sparsit ceased; for Mr. Bounderby’s vi
exhibited an extraordinary combination of all odbiine
colors and expressions of discomfiture, as old Mrs.
Pegler was disclosed to his view.

“Why, what do you mean by this?” was his highly
unexpected demand, in great warmth. “TI ask*you,.
what do you mean by this, Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am ?’”

“Sir l’? exclaimed Mrs. Sparsit, faintly. _

_ “Why don’t you mind your own business, ma’am ?””
roared Bounderby. ‘How dare you go and poke your
officious nose into my family affairs?” . 2
_. This allusion to her favorite feature overpowered.
Mrs, Sparsit. She sat down stiffly in a chair, as if she.
were frozen; and, with a fixed stare at Mr. Bounderby,
slowly grated her mittens against one another, as if they
WaMy deat Rosishs?” ‘cries: Pe bling.
“My dear ah!” cri ; ler, trem! e
‘My darling boy ! reo a
tha tae sh was dog want would tet Weagrossls

a new she was doing what would not bi

to you, but she would doit” sr r

do something or other to her?” asked Bounderby.

“My own boy! She threatened me that if I resisted.
her, I should be brought by constables, and it was

a’'— Mrs. Pegler glanced timidly but proudly round.
the walls—“ such a fine house as this, indeed, indeed,

have always lived quiet and secret, Josiah, my dear. I

said I was your mother. Ihaye admired you at a dis-—
tance; and if I have come to town sometimes, with long
times between, to take a proud peep at you, I have done
it unbeknawn, my love, and gone away again.”

in impatiant mortification up and down at the side of
the long dining-table, while the spectators greedily took
in every syllable of Mrs. Pegler’s ap; "
succeeding syllable became more a round “4
Mr. Bounderby still walking up and down when i
we had done, Mr. Gradgrind addressed that maligned.
old lady : : seca

‘Tam surprised, madam,” he observed with severity,.
“that in your old age you have the face to claim Mr-
Bounderby for your son, after your unnatural and in-
a ocean of him.”

“‘ Me unnatural !” cried poor old Mrs. Pegler. ‘ Me in-~
human! : To my dear boy? ais

“Dear!” repeated Mr. Gradgring. “Yes; dear im
his self-made prosperity, madam, I dare say. Not very
dear, however, when you deserted him in ‘his. ine
— —s him to the brutality of a drunken grand-
mother.” :

 

“I deserted my Josiah !’’ cried Mrs. Pregler, clasping
her hands. “Now, Lord forgive you, sir, for your

the Bank robbery, it would have lured the stragglers in, °

I am not to blame. It’s not my —

“What did you let her bring you for? Couldn’t
knock her cap off, or her tooth out, or scratch belt or

tter to come quietly than make that stir in such

itisnot my fault! My dear, noble, stately boy! I.
have never broken the’ oop einon once. I haye never —

Mr. Bonnderby, with his hands in his pockets, walked —

and af each —

  
HARD TIMES. ©

 

 

' Pts

wicked imaginations, and for your scandal against. the
t memory of my poor mother, who died in my arms bé-
fore Josiah was born. May you repent of it, sir, and
live to know better!”
Sue was so very earnest and injured, that’ Mr. Grad-
{ grind, shocked by the possibility which dawned upon
«him, said in a gentler tone :
“Do you deny, then, madam, that you left your son

to—to be brought up in the gutter?” *

«« Josiah in the gutter!” exclaimed Mrs. Pegler. “No
' such a thing, sir. Never! For shame on you! My
dear boy knows, and will give you to know, that though
he come of humble parents, he come of parents that
loved him as dear as the best could, and never thought
it hardship on themselves to pinch a bit that he might
write and cipher beautiful, and I’ve his books at home
to show it! Aye, have I!’ said Mrs. Pegler, with in-
i dignant pride. ‘‘Andmy dear boy knows, and will give
| -you to know, sir, that after his beloved fatter died when
he was eight years old, his mother, too, could pinch a
bit, as it was her duty and her pleasure, and her pride
to do it, to help him out in life, and put him ’pren-
tice. Anda steady lad he was, and a kind master he
‘had to lend him a hand, and well he worked his own
way forward to be rich and thriving. And J’ll give
syou to know, sir—for this my dear boy won’t—
‘that though his mother kept but a little village
«shop, he never forgot her, but pensioned me on
thirty pound a year—more than 1 want, for I put
‘by out of it—only making the condition that I was to
“keep down in my own part, and make no boasts about
‘him, and not trouble him. And I never have, except
with Jooking at him once a year, when he’has never
‘knowed it. And it’s right,” said poor old Mrs. Pegler,
in affectionaté championship, “that I should kcep down
in my own part, and I have no doubts that if l was here
I should do a many unbefitting things, and Iam well
contented, and I can keep my pride in my Josiah to

anyself, and I can love for loye’s own suke! And I am
. ashamed of you, sir,’’ said Mrs. Pegler, lastly, ‘‘ for your
landers and suspicions. And I never stood here before,
nor never wanted to stand here when my dear son said
mo. And Ishouldn’t be here now, if it hadn’t been for
being brought here, And for shame uporyou, O for
shame, to accuse me of being a bad mother to my son,
with my son standing here to tell you so different!”

The bystanders, on and off the dining-room chairs,
raised a murmur of sympathy with Mrs. Pegler, and
Mr. Gradgrind felt himself innocently placed in'a very
distressing. predicament, when Bounderby, who had
never ceased walking up_and down, and had every mo-
meént swelled larger and larger, and grown redder and
redder, stopped short. : :

“T don’t exactly know,”’ said Mr, Bounderby, “how I
come to be favored with the attendance of the present
company, but I-don’t inquire. When they're quite
satisfied, perhaps they’ll be so good as to disperse ;
whether they’re satisfied or not, perhaps they'll be so
good as to disperse, I’m not bound to deliver a lecturé
on my family affairs, [have not underiaken to do it,
and I'm not a-going to doit. Therefore those who ex-
pect any explanation whatever upon that branch of the
subject, will be disappointed—particularly Tom Grad-
grind, and he can’t know it too soon. In reference to
the Bank robbery, there has been a mistake made, con-
cerning my mother. If there hadn’t been over-officious-
ness it wouldn’t have be¢n made,and 1 hate over-offi-
-ciousness at all times, whether or ee Good-evening !’"”

Although Mr. Bounderby carried it off in these terms,

Penh ne a

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2 ‘hol e door nee the company to depart, there
af was lustering sheepishness upon him, at once ex-
; trerpoty areabtalien and _superlatively absurd. Detected

as the Bully of humility, who had built his windy
on upon lies, and in his boastfulness had put
hem paper as far away from him as if he had ad-

ie mean claim (there is no meaner) to tack
on to a pedigree, he cut a most ridiculous
<—— With the people filing off at the door he held,
who he kn

town, to be given to the four winds, he could not have
looked 3 Bully more shorn and forlorn, if he bad had
his cropped. Eyen that unlucky female, Mrs.
fallen from her pinnacle of exultation into the
, of Despond, was not in 80 bad a plight as that
remarkable man and self-made Humbug, Josiah Boun-
derby of Coketown. | ;
Rachael and Sissy, leaving Mrs. Pegler to occupy a
‘bed at her son’s for that night, walked together to the
at Stone Lodge and there parted. Mr. Gradgrind
em before they had gone very far, and spoke
‘much interest of Stephen Blackpool ; for whom
ht this signal failure of the suspicions against
r was likely to work well. we es
the whelp; throughout this scene as on all
other late occasions, he had stuck close to Bounderby.
He seemed to feel that as mt as Bounderby could
no discovery without his knowledge, he was so
- far safe. He never visited his sister, and only seen
her once since she went home; that is to say, on the
night when he still stuck close to Bounderby, as al-
ready related.

There was one dim unformed fear lingering about his.
sister’s mind, to which she never gaye utterance, which
sit 1 ti teful boy with a

_ dreadful mystery, The same dark possibility had pre-
sented itself in the same shapeless guise, this very day,
Sissy, when Rachael spoke of some one who would

be confounded by Stephen’s return, having put him

_ out of the way. had never spoken of harboring
v any suspicion of her brother, in connexion with the
oz robbery, she and Sissy had held no confidence on the
‘ag "= save in that one interchange of looks when the
a us father rested his gray head on his hand;
Bey od but it was understood between them, and they both
| ss mew it. 'Tl®s other fear was so awful, that it hovered
He __-abont each of them like a ghoatly shatiow ; neither dar-
Hf
}

g

 

near the other.

Bee sis, ‘to think of its being near herself, far less of its
still the forced spirit which the whelp had

And

 

ww would carry what passed to the whole |’

plucked up throve with him. If Stephen Blackpool

ee not the thief, let him show himself. Why didn’t
er s -

Anothér night. Another day and night. No Stephen
Blackpool. Where was the man, and why did he not

come back ?

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE STARLIGHT.

Tae Sunday was a bright Sunday in autumn, clear
and'cool, when early in the morning Sissy and Rachael
met, to walk in the country. E

As Coketown cast ashes not only on its own head but
on the neighborhood’s too—after the manner of those
pious persons who do penance for theirown sins by put-
ting other people into sackcloth—it was customary for
those who now and then thirsted for a draught of pure
air, which is not absolutely the most wicked among
the vanities of life, to get afew miles away by the rail-
read, and then begin their walk, or their lounge in the
fields. Sissy and Rachael helped themselves out of the
smoke by the usual means, and were put down at a
station about midway between the town and Mr.
Bounderby’s retreat.

Though the green landscape was blotted here and
there with heaps of coal, it was green elsewhere, and
there were trees to see, and there were larks singing
(though it was Sunday), and there were pleasant scents
in the air, and all was overarched by a bright blue sky.
In the distance one way, Coketown showed as a black
mist ; in another distance, hills began to rise; in a
third, there was a faint change in the light of the hori-
zon, where it shone upon the far-off sea. Under their
feet, the grass was fresh; beautiful shadows of
branches flickered upon it, and speckled it ; hedgerows
were luxuriant ; everything was at peace.
pits’ mouths, and lean old horses that had worn the

circle of their daily labor into the ground, were alike |

quiet ; wheels had. ceased for a short space to turn:
and the great wheel of earth seemed to revolve without
the shocks and noises of another time.

They walked on across the fields and down the shady
‘lanes, sometimes getting over a tragment of a fence so
rotten that it dropped at atouch of the foot, some-
times passing near a wreck of bricks and beams over-
grown with grass, marking the site of deserted works.
They followed paths and tracks: however slight
Mounds where the grass was rank and high, and where
brambles, dock-weed, and such-like vegetation, were
confusedly heaped together, they always avoided ; for
dismal stories were told in that country of the old pits
hidden beneath such indications. weeif 43

The sun was high when they sat down torest. They
had seen no one, near or distant, for a long time.; and
the solitudé remained unbroken. ‘It is so still here,
Rachael, and the way is so untrodden, that I think we
must be the firs who have been here all the summer.”

As Sissy said it, her eyes were attracted by ‘another of
those rotten fragments of fence upon the ground. She
got up to look at it. “And yet I don’t know. This
has not been broken very long. The wood is quite fresh
where it gave way. Here are tootsteps too.—O Ra-
chael!”

She ran back, and caught. her round the neck. Ra-
chael had already started up.

“What is the matter?” ‘ ies

“I don’t know. There is a hat lying in,the grass.”

They went forward together. Rachael took it up,
shaking from-head to foot. She broke into a passion of
tears and lamentations : prephen, Blackpool was written
in his own hand on the inside. j

“Othe poor lad, the poor lad! He has been made
away with. He is lying murdered here!”

“Is there—bas the hat any blood uponit?’’ Sissy
faltered, - é ‘

They were afraid to look; but they did examine it,
and found no mark of violence, inside or out. It had
been lying there some days, for rain and dew had
stained it, and the mark of its shape was on the grass
where it had fallen, They looked fearfully about them,
without moving, but could see nothing more. “ Ra-

chael,” Sissy: whispered, “I will go on alittle by my-
self.”

She had unclasped her hand, and was in the act of
stepping forward, when Rachael caught her in her
arms with a scream that resounded over the wide land-
scape. Beforethem, at their very feet, was the brink
of a black ragged chasm hidden by the thick grass.
‘They sprang back, and fell upon their knees, each hid-
ing her face upon the other's neck. .

“ O,my good Lord! He’s down there ! Down there!”
At first this, and her terrific screams, were all that
could be got from Rachael, by any tears, by any prayers,
by any representations, by any means. It was impossi-
ble to hush her; and it was deadly necessary to hold her,
or she would have flung herself down the shaft, _

“« Rachael, dear Rachael, good Rachael, for the love
of Heaven not these dreadfulcries! Think of Stephen,
think of Stephen, think of Stephen !"" ; y .

By an earnest repetition of this entreaty, poured out

in ali the agony of such a moment, Sissy at lust brought

her to be silent, and to look at her witu a tearless face
of stone. heap

“Rachael, Stephen may be living. You wouldn’t
leave him lying maimed atthe bottom of this dreadful
place, amoment, if you could bring help to him!”

« No, no, no!” \

“ Don’tstir from here, for his sake! Let me go and
listen.” 4

She shuddered to approach the pit; but sue crept
towards it on her hands and knees, and called to him as
loud asshe could call. Sie listened, but no sound re-
plied. She called again and listened ; still no answer-
ing sound. She did this, twenty, thirty times. She
took a little clod of earth from the broken ground
where he had stumbled, and threw itin. She could

 

not hear it fall.

| help.
| must go in different directions, seeking aid. You shall
| go by the way we have come, and I will go forward by

Engines at |

 

| _ The wide prospect, so beautiful in its stillness but a
| few minutes ago, almost carried despair to ‘her brave

heart, as she rose and looked all round her, seeing no
“Rachael, we must lose not a moment. We

the path. Tell any one you see, and every one what

bas happened. Think of Stephen, thinkot Stephen !”
She knew by Rachael’s face that she might trust her

now. And atter standing for a moment to see her run-

‘| ning, wringing her hands as she ran, she turned and
went upon her own search ; she stopped at the hedge

to tie hershawl there asa guide to the place, then threw
her bonnet aside, and ran as she had never run before.

Run, Sissy, run, in Heaven’s name! Don’t stop for
breath. Run, run! Quickening herself by carrying
such eutreaties in her thoughts, she ran from field to
field, and lane to lane, and place to place, as she had
never run before ; until she came to ashed by an en-
ee where two men lay in the shade, asleep on
straw.

First to wake them, and next to tell them, all so wild
and breathless as she was, what had brought
her there, were difficulties; but they no soon-
er understood her than their spirits, were on fire
like hers. One of the men was in a drunken slumber,
but on his comrade’s shouting to him that a man had
fallen down the Old Hell Shaft, he started out toa
pool of dirty water, put his head init, and came back
sober.

With these two men she ran to another half-a-mile
further, and with that one to another, while they ran
elsewhere. Then a horse was found; and she got an-
other man to ride for life or death to the railroad, and
send a message to Louisa, which she wrote and gave
him. By this time a whole village was up; and wind-
lasses, ropes, poles, candles, lanterns, all things neces-
sary, were fast collecting and being brought into one
place, to be carried to the Old Hell Shaft.

It seemed now hours and hours since she had left the
lost man lying in the graye where he had been buried
alive. She could not bear to remain away from it any
longer—it was like’ deserting him—and she hurried -
swiftly back, accompanied by half-d-dozen laborers, in-

‘cluding the drunken man whom the news had sobered,

and who was the best man of all. When they came to
the Old Hell Shaft, they found it was as lonely as when
she had left it. The men called and listened as she had
done, and examined the edge of the chasm, and settled
how it had happened, and then sat down to wait until
the implements they wanted should come up. °

Every sound of insects in the air, ever stirring of the
leaves, every whisper among these men, made Sissy
tremble, for she thought it was a cry at the bottom of
the pit. But the wind blew idly over it, and no
sound arose to the surface, and they sat upon the
grass, waiting and waiting. After they had waited
some time, straggling people who had heard of '
the accident began to come up; then the real
help of implements began to arrive. In the midst
of this; Rachel returned ; and with her party there was
a@ surgeon, who brought some wine and medicines.
But, the expectation among the people that the man
would be found alive, was very slight indeed. °

There being now people enough present to impede
the work, the sobered man put biniselt at the head of
the rest, or was put there by general consent, and made
a-lirge ring round Old Hell Shaft, ahd appointed men |
tokeep it. Besides such yolunteers as we “a
to work, only Sissy and Rachel were at teak be mitted
within this ring ; but, later in the day, when the mes-
sage brought an express from Coketown, Mr. Gradgrind
and Louisa, and Mr. Bounderby, and the whelp, were
also there. ‘ ox}

The sun was four hours lower than when Sissy and
Rachel had first sat down upon the grass, before a means
of enabling two men to descend securely was ri ¥
with poles and ropes. Difficulties had arisen in the ,
construction of this machine, simple as it was ; requis-
ites had been found wanting, and messages had had to go
and return. It was five o’clock in the afternoon of the
bright autumnal Sunday, before a candle was sent down
totry the air, while three or four rough faces stood —
crowded close together, attentively watching it: the
men at the windlass lowering as they were told. The
candle was brought up again, feebly burning, and then
some water was castin. Then the bucket was hooked
on; and the sobered man and another got in with
lights, giving the word “ Lower away.” :

As the rope went out, tight and strained, and the
windlass creaked, there was not a breath among the -
one ortwo hundred men and women looking on, that

came ag it was wont to come. The signal was given,
and the windlass stop with abundant to spare.
Apparently so long an interval ensued with the men

at the windlass standing idle, that some women
shrieked that another accident had happened! But-the
surgeon who held the watch, declared five minutes not
to have elapsed yet, and sternly admonished them to
keep silence. He had not well done speaking, when the
windlass was reversed and worked again.

eyes knew that it did not go as heavily as it would if
both workmen had been coming up, and that only one ~
was returning.

_The rope came in tight.and strained; and ring after
ring was coiled upon the barrel of the windlass, and all
eyes were fastened on the pit. The sobered man was
brought up and a briskly on the grass. There wag »
an universal cry of “ Alive or dead?” and then a deep,
profound hush. : é #i

When he said “ Alive!’ a great shout arose and many:
eyes had tears in them. ‘

“But he’s hurt very bad,” he added, as soon as he
could make himself heard agsin. “ Where’s doctor?
He's hurt so very bad, sir, that we donno how to get
him up.” :

They all consulted together, and looked anxiously at
the surgeon, as he asked some questions, and s his-
head on receiving the replies. The sun was setting now;

 

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HARD TIMES.

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and the red light in the evening sky touched every face
there, and caused it to be distinctly seen in all its wrapt
suspense. f

The consultation ended in the men returning to the
windlass, and the pitman going down again, carrying
the wine and some other small matters with him. Then
the other maneame up. Inthe meantime, under the
surgeon’s directions, some men brought a hurdle, on

which others made a thick bed of spare clothes covered:

with loose straw, while he-himself contrived some band-
ages and slings from shawls and handkerchiefs. As
these were made, they were hung upon an arm of the
pitman who had last come up, with instructions how to
use them; and as he stood, shown by the light he car-
ried, leaning his powerful loose hand upon one of the
poles, and sometimes glancing down the pit, and some-
times glancing around upon the people, he was not the
least conspicuous figure inthe scene. It.was dark now,
and torches were kindled.

It appeared from the little this man said to those
about him, which was quickly repeated all over the
circle, that the lost man had fallen upon a mass of
crumbled rubbish with which the pit was half choked
up, and that his fall had been further broken by some
jagged earth at the side. He lay upon his back with
one arm doubled under him, and according tohis own
belief had hardly stirred since he fell, excepting that he
had moved his free hand to a side pocket, in which he
remembered to have some bread and meat (of which he
had swallowed crumbs,) and had likewise scooped up a
little water in it now and then. He had come straight
away from his work, on being written to, and had walked
the whole journey; and was on his way to Mr. Bound-
erby’s country-house after dark, when he fell. He was
crossing that dangerous country at such a dangerous
time, because he was not innocent of what was laid to
his charge, and couldn’t rest from coming the nearest
way to deliver himself up. The Old Hell Shaft, the
pitman said, with a curse upon it, was worthy of its
bad name to the last; for though Stephen could speak
now, he believed it would soon be found to have
mangled the life out of him.

When all was ready, this man still taking his last
hurried ——_ from his comrades and the surgeon
after the windlass began to lower him, disappeared into
the pit. The rope went out as before, the signal was
made as before, and the windlassstopped. No man re-
moved his hand from itnow. Every one waited with
his grasp set; and his body bent down to the work
ready toreverse and windin. Atle th the signal was
given, and all the ring leaned forward. }

For, now, the rope came in, tightened, and strained

t the men turned heavily
and the windlass complained, It was scarcely endur-

» able to look at the rope, and think of itsgiving way.

But, ring after ring was coiled upon the barrel of the
windlass safely, and the connecting chains appeared,
and finally the bucket with the two men holding on
the sides—a sight to make the head swim, and oppress
the heart—and tenderly supporting between them,
slung and tied within, the figure of a poor, crushed,
human creature. :

Alow murmur of pity went round the throng and

the women wept aloud, as this form, almost without | -

form, was moved very slowly from its iron deliverance,
and laid upon the bed of straw. At first, none but the
surgeon went close to it, He did what he could in its
adjustment on the couch, but the best that he could do
was to cover it, That gently done, he called to him
Rachael and Sissy. atthat time the pale, worn,
patient face was seen looking up at the sky, with the
broken right hand ale bare On the outside of the
covering garments, and if waiting to be taken by an-
other hand. p 3 i

They gave him drink, moistened his face with water,
and administered some drops of cordial and wine.
Though he lay quite motionless looking up at the sky,
he smiled and said, ‘‘ Rachael.”

She stooped down on the grass at his side, and bent
over him until her eyes were between his and the sky.
for he could not so much as turn them to look at
her, ‘

“Rachael, my dear.’ :

She took his hand. He smiled again and said, “ Don’t

let's go.” i
“Thou’rtin great pain, my own dear Stephen ?””
“Tha’ been, but Rot now. I ha’ been—dreadful, and

dree, and long, my dear—but ’tis ower now. Ah, Ra-
clel, aw amuddle! Fro’ first to last, a muddle!’

The spectre of his old look seemed to pass as he said
the word.
“T ha’ fell into th’ pit, my dear, as have cost wi'in the
knowledge o’ old folk now livin’, hundreds and hun-
dreds o’ men’s lives—fathers, sons, brothers, dear to
thousands an thousands; an keepin ’em fro’ want and
hunger. LIha’ fell into a pit that ha’ been wi’ th’ Fire-

BS damp crueller «naan battle. I ha’ read on’t in the public

petition, as onny one may read, fro’ the men that works
in pits, in which they ha’ pray’n an pray’n the law-
makers for Christ’s sake not to let their work be mur-
der to ’em, but to spare ’em for th’ wives and children
that they loves as well as cer ge loves theirs. When
it were in work, it killed wi’out need; 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 against any one.
Merely as the truth. ;

“Thy little sister, Rachael, thou hast not forgot her.
Thou'rt not like to forget her now, and me so nigh her.

Thou know’st—poor, patient, suffrin, dear—how thou
' didst work for her, seet’n all or ong in her little chair
at thy winder, and how she died, young and misshapen,
-awlung o’ sickly air as had’n no need to be, an awlung

_ 0’ working people’s miserable homes. A muddle! Aw

amuddle!’’” - f
' Louisa approached him ; but he could not see her,

lying with his face turned up to the night sky.
“Tt aw th’ things that tooches us, my dear, was not
so muddled, I should’n ha’ had’n need to coom heer,

 

if we was not ina muddle among ourseln, I should’n
ha’ been, by my own fellow-weavers and workin’ bro-
thers, so mistook.

But, in the a he appeared at breakfast at the
usual hour, and took his usual place at the table. Aged.

If Mr. Bounderby had ever know’d | and bent he looked, and quite bowed down ; and yet he

me right—if he’d ever know’d me at aw—he would’n | looked a wiser man, and a better man, 'than in the days.

ha’ took’n offence wi’ me. He would’n ha’ suspect’n
me. But look up yonder, Rachel! Look abooye !’”’

Following his eyes, she saw that he was gazing at a
star.

“It ha’ shined upon me,’ he said reverently, “in my
pain and trouble down below. It ha’ shined into my
mind. I ha’ look’n at’t an thowt o’ thee, Rachael, till
the muddle in my mind have cleared awa, above a bit,
Ihope. Ifsoom ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstan’in me
better, I, too, ha’ been wantin’ in unnerstan’n them
better. When I got thy letter, I easily believen that
what the yoong ledy sen an done to me, an what her
brother sen an done to me, was one, and that there
were a wicked plot betwixt ’em. When I fell, I were in
anger wi’ her, and hurryin on t’ be as onjust t’ her as
oothers was t’me. But in our judgments, like as in
our doins, we mun bear and forbear. In my pain an
trouble looking up yonder,—wi’ it shinin, on me—I
ha’ seen more clear, and ha’ made it my dyin’ prayer
that aw th’ world may on’y coom toogether more, an
get a better unnerstan’in o’one another, than when I
were in’t my own weak seln.”

Louisa hearing What he said, bent over himon the
opposite side to Rachael, so that he could see her.

“You ha’ heard ?” he said aftera few moments si-

lence. “1 ha’ not forgot you, ledy.”

“Yes, Stephen,2I have heard you. And your prayer
is mine.”

“You ha’ a father. Will yo tak’ a message to
him?”

“He is here,” said Louisa, with dread.
bring him to you ?”

“Tt yo pleas.”

Louisa returned with her father. Standing hand-
in-hand, they both looked down upon the solemn
countenance.

“Sir, yo will clear me an mak my name good wi aw
men. This I leave to yo.”

Mr. Gradgrind was troubled and asked how ?

“Sir,” was the reply: “ your son will tell yo how.
Ask him. I mak no charges: I leave none ahint me:
nota single word. Iha’ seen an spok’n wi’ yor son,
one night. Iask no more o’ yo than that yo clear
me—and I trust to yo to do ’t.”

The bearers being now ready to carry him away, and
the surgeon being anxious for his removal, those who
had torches or lanterns, prepared to go in front of the
litter. fore it was raised, and while they were ar-
ranging how to go, he said to Rachael looking upward
at the star:

“ Often as I coom to myseln, and found it shinin’ on
me down: there in my trouble, I thowt it were the star
as guided to Our Saviour’s home, I awmust think it be
the very star |’’ ‘

They lifted him up, and he was overjoyed to find that
they were about to take him in the direction whither
the star seemed to him to lead.

“Rachael, belovedlass! Don’tlet gomy hand. We
may walk toogether t’night, my dear !|’”

“I will hold thy hand, and keep beside thee,
Stephen, all the way,” wis
‘ “Bless thee! Will somebody be pleased to coover my

lace 1””

They carried him very gently along the fields, and
down the lanes, and over the wide landscape; Rachael
always holding the handin hers, Very few whispers
broke the mournful silence. It was soon a funeral pro-
cession. The star had shown him where to find the
God of the poor; and through humility and sorrow
and forgiveness, he had gone to his Redeemer’s rest.

“Shall I

 

CHAPTER VII.

WHELP-HUNTING.

Brrore the ring formed round the Old Hell Shaft
was broken, one figure had disappeared from within it.
Mr. Bounderby and his shadow had not stood near
Louisa, who held her father’s arm, but in a retired
place by themselves. When Mr. Gradgrind was sum-
moned to the couch, Sissy, attentive to all that hap-
pened, slipped behind that wicked shadow—a sight in
the horror of his face, if there had been eyes there for
any sight but one—and whispered in his ear. Without
turning his head, he conferred with her a few moments,
and yanished. Thus the whelp had gone out of the
eircle before the people moved.

When the father reached home, he sent a message to
Mr. Bounderby’s, desiring his son to come to him
directly. The reply was, that Mr. Bounderby having
missed him in the crowd, and seeing nothing of him
since, had supposed him to be at Stone Lodge.

“TI believe, father,” said Louisa, ‘he will not come
back to town to-night.” Mr. Gradgrind turned away,
and said no more.

In the morning, he went down to the Bank himself
as soon as it was opened, and seeing his son's place
empty (he had not the courage to look in at first), went
back along the street to meet Mr. Bounderby on his
way there. To whom he said that, for reasons he would
soon explain, but entreated not then to be asked for, he
had found it necessary to employ his son at a distance
for alittle while. Also, that he was charged with the
duty of vindicating Stephen Blackpool’s memory, and
declaring the thief. Mr. Bounderby quite confounded,
stood stock-still inthe street after his father-in-law had
left him, swelling like an immense soap-bubble, with-
out its beauty. ei

Mr. Gradgrind went home, locked himself in his room,
and kept it allthat day. When Sissy and Louisa tapped
at his door, he said, without opening it, “‘ Not now, my
dears ; in the evening.” On their return in the eve-
ning, he said, ‘I am not able yet—to-morrow.” He ate
nothing all day, and had no candle after dark ; and they
heard him walking to and fro late at night. é

 

when in this life he wanted nothing but Facts. Betore
he leftthe room, he appointed a time for them to come
to him; and sv, with his gray head drooping, went
away,

“‘ Dear father,” said Louisa, when they kept their ap-
pointment, “ you have three young children left. ‘They
= be different, I will be different yet, with Heaven’s

elp.”

She gave her hand to Sissy, as if she meant with her
help too. :

“Your wretched brother,” said Mr. Gradgrind. ‘Do
you think he had [arom this robbery, when he went
with you to the lodging ?’

“I fear so, father. I know he had wanted money
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 on him ?”’

“I think it must have flashed upon him while he sat.
there, father. For, asked him to go there with me,
The visit did not originate with him.”

‘He had some conversation with the poor man. Did
he take him aside ?”

“He took him out of the room, I asked him after-
wards, why he had done so, and he made a plausible
excuse; but since last night, father, and when I re-
membered the circumstances by its light, I am afraid I
can imagine too truly what passed between them.” _

“Let me know,” said her father, “if your thoughts.
present your guilty brother in the same dark view as.
mine.”

“Tfear, father,’ hesitated Louisa, ‘that he must
have made some representation to Stephen Blackpool—
perhaps in my name, perhaps in his own—which in-
duced him to do ing faith and honesty, what he had
never done before, and to wait about the Bank those.
two or three nights before he left the town.”

Too plain!” returned the father. ‘ Too plain!’

He shaded his face, and remained silent for some mo-
ments. Recovering himself, he said ;

‘And now, how is he to be found? How igs he to be
saved from justice? In the few hours that I can possi-
bly allow to elapse before I publish the truth, how is
he to befound by us, and only by us? Ten thousand
pounds could not effect it.” ,

“Sissy has effected it, father.’’

- He raised his eyes to where she stood, like a good
fairy in his house, and said ina tone of softened grati-
“aan os grateful kindness, “It is always you, my
child !”” : ‘

“We had our fears,” Sissy explained, glancing at
Louisa, “ before yesterday; and when I saw you brought
to the side of the litter last night, and heard what pas-
sed (being close to Rachael all the time), I went to him
when no one saw, and said to him; ‘Don’t look at me.
See where your fatheris. Escape at once, for his sake
and your own!’ He was in a tremble before I whis-
pered to him, and he started and trembled more then,
and said, ‘Where canI go? I have very little money,
and I don’t know who will hideme!’ Ihave thought
of father’s old circus. I have not forgotten where Mr.
Sleary goes at this timeof year, and I read of him in a
a only the other day. I told him to hurry there,
and tell his name, and ask Mr. Sleary to hide him till I
came, ‘I'll get to him before the morning,’ he said.
And I saw him shrink away among the people,”

“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed his father. “He may
be got abroad yet.” ‘ *

It was the more hopeful as the town to which
Sissy had directed him was within three hours’
journey of Liverpool, whence he could be swiftly dis- _
patched to any part of the world. But, caution Yeing
necessary in communicating with him—for there was
a greatér danger every moment of his being suspected
now, and nobody could be sure at heart but that Mr,
Bounderby himself, in a bullying vien of public zeal,
ara. play a Roman part—it was consented that Sissy
and Louisa should repair to the place in question, by a
circuitous course, alone ; and that the unhappy father,
setting forth in an opposite direction, should get
round to the same bourne by another and wider route,
It was further agreed that he should not present’ him--
self to Mr.Sleary, lest his intentions should be mis-
trusted, or the intelligence of his arrival should cause
his son to take flight anew ; but, that the communica-
tion should be left to Sissy and Louisa to open ; and
that they should inform the cause of so much misery
and disgrace, of his father’s being at hand and of the
purpose for which they had come. When these ar-
rangements had been well considered, and were fully
understood by all three, it was time to begin to
them into execution. Early in the afternoon, Mr. Grad-
grind walked direct from his own house into the coun-
try, to be taken up on the line by which he was to
travel ; and at night the remaining two set forth upon
their different course, encouraged by not seeing any
face they knew. -

The two traveled all night, except when they were
left, for odd numbers of minutes, at branch places up
illimitable flights of steps, or down wells—which was
the only variety of those branches—and, early
in the morning, were turned out on a swamp, a mile
or two from the town they sought. From this dismal ¥
spot they were rescued by a savage old postilion, who
happened to be up early, kicking a horse in a fly ; and.
so were smuggled into the town by all the back lanes -
where the pigs lived: which, although not a magnifi-
cent or even savory approach, was, as is usual in such
cases, the legitimate highway. g

The first thiigthey saw on entering the town was
the skeleton of Sleary’s Circus. The company had
departed for another town more than twenty miles

‘off, and. had opened there last night. The connection

between the two places was by a hilly turnpike road,
and the traveling on that road was very slow. Though
they took but a hasty breakfast, and no rest (which it

 
HARD TIMES.

 

 

would have been in vain to seek under such anxious
circumstances), it was noon before they began to find
the bills of Sleary’s horse riding on barns and walls,
and one o'clock when they stopped in the market-
place.

A Grand Morning Performance by the Riders, com-
mencing at that very honr, was in course of announce-

ment by the bellman as they set their feet upon the |

stones of the street. Sissy recommended that, to avoid
making inquiries and attracting attention in the town,
they should present themselves to pay at the door. If
Mr. Sleary were taking the money, he would be sure to
know her, and would proceed with discretion. If he
were not, he would be sure to see them inside; and,
knowing whathe haddone with the fugitive, would
proceed with discretion still.

Therefore, they repaired, with fluttering hearts, to
the well-remembered booth. The flag with the in-
scription SLEARY’s HORSERIDING, was there; and the
Gothic niche was there; but Mr. Sleary was not there.
Master Kidderminster, grown too maturely turfy to
be received by the wildest credulity as Cupid any more,
had yielded to the invincible force of circumstances
(and his beard), and, in the capacity of aman who made
himself;generally useful, presided on this occasion
over the exchequer—having also a drum in reserve, on
which to expend his leisure moments and superfluous
forces. In the extreme sharpness of his lookout for
base coin, Mr. Kidderminster; as at present situated,
never saw anything but money; so Sissy passed him
unrecognized, and they went in.

The Emperor of Japan, on a steady old white horse
stenciled with black spots, was twirling five wash-
hand basins at once, as itis the favorite recreation of
that monarch to do. Sissy, though well acquainted
with his Royal line, had no personal knowledge of the
present. Emperor, and his. reign was peaceful. Miss
Josephine Sleary, in her celebrated graceful Equestrian
Tyrolean Flower-Act, was then announced by a new
clown (who humorously said Cauliflower Act), and Mr.
Sleary appeared, leading her in.

Mr. Sleary had only made one cut at-the Clown with

his long whip-lash, and the Clown had-only said, “If
you do it again, I’ll throw the horse at you!” when
Sissy was recognized both by father and daughter.’ But
they got through the Act. with great self-possession;
and Mr. Sleary,saving for the first instant, conveyed no
more expression into his locomotive eye than into his
fixed one. The performance seemed a little long to
Sissy and Louisa, particularly when it stopped to afford
the Clown an opportunity of telling Mr. Sleary (who
said ‘‘ Indeed, sir !’’ to all his observations in the calm-
est way, and with his eye on the house), about two legs
sitting on three legs looking at one leg, when in came
four legs, and laid hold of one leg, and up got two~legs,
caught hold of three legs, and threw ’em at four legs,
who ran away with oneleg. For, although an ingen-
ous Allegory relating to a butcher, a .three-legged
stool, a dog, anda leg of mutton, this narrative con-
sumed time; and they werein great suspense. At last,
however, little fair-haired Josephine made her courtsey
amid great applause; and the Clown, left alone in the
ring, had just warmed himself, and said, ‘“‘ Now Pll have
aturn!’’ when Sissy was touched on the shoulder, and
beckoned out. ;

She took Louisa with her; and they were received
by Mr. Sleary ina very little private apartment, with
canyas sides,a grass floor, and a wooden ceiling all aslant,
on which the box company stamped their approbation,
as if they were coming through. ‘Thethilla,” said
Mr. Sleary, who had brandy-and-water at hand, “it doth
me good to thee you. You wath alwayth a favorite with
uth, and you’ve done uth credith thinth the old timeth
I’m thure. You mutht thee our people, my dear, afore
we thpeak of bithnith, or they’ll break their hearth—
ethpethially the women. Here’th Jothphine hath been
and got married to E. W. B. Childerth, and thee hath
got a boy, and though he’th only three yearth old, he
thtickth on to any pony you can bring againth him.
He’th named The Little Wonder Of Theolathtic Equita-
tion ; and if you don’t hear of that boy at Athley’th,
you'll hear of him at Parith. And you recollect Kidder-
minthter, that wath thought to be rather thweet upon
yourthelf? Well. Hoe’th marriedtoo. Married a wid-
der. Old enough to be hith mother. Thee wath Tight-
rope, thee wath, and now thee’th nothing—on accounth
of fat. They’ve got two children, tho’ we’re thtrong in
the Fairy bithnith and the Nurthery dodge. If you
wath to thee our Children in the Wood, with their fa-
ther and mother both a dyin’ on a horthe—their uncle
a rethieving of ’em ath hith wardth, upon a horthe—
themthelvth both a goin’ a blackberryin’ on a horthe—
and the Robinth a coming in to cover ’em with leavth,
upon a horthe—you'd thay it wath the completht thing
ath ever you thet youreyeth on! And you remember
Emma Gordon, my dear, ath wath a ’motht a mother to
you? Ofcourtheyou do; Ineedn’ athk. Well! Em-
ma, thee loth herhuthband. He wath throw’da hea-
vy back-fall off a Elephant in a thort of a Pagoda thing
ath the Thultan of the Indieth, and he never got the
better of it ; and thee married a thecond time—married
a Cheethemonger ath fell in love with her from the
front—and he’th a Overtheer and makin’ a fortun.”

These various changes, Mr. Sleary, very short of
breath now, related with great heartiness, and with a
wonderful kind of innocence, considering what a bleary
and brandy-and-watery. old veteran he was. Afterwards
he brought in Josephine, and E. W. B. Childers (rather
deeply-lined in the jaws by daylight), and The Little
Wonder of Scholastic Equitation, and in a word, all the
company. Amazing creatures they were in Louisa’s eyes,
so white and pink of complexion, so scant of dress, and
so demonstrative of leg; but it was very agreeable to
see them crowding about Sissy, and very natural in
Sissy to be unable to refrain from tears.

“There! Now Thethilla hath kithd all the children,
and hugged all the women, and thaken handth all
round with all the men, clear, every one of you, and
Ting in the band for the second part !”

| As goon as they were gone, he continued in a low
| tone. “Now, Thethilla, I don’t athk to know any the-
| ereth, but I thuppothe I may conthider thith to be
| Mith Thquire.”’

} “This is his sister. Yes.”

| “And t’other on ’th daughter. That’h what I mean.
| Honey thee you well, mith, And I hope the Thquire’th

well ?”

|  ‘*My father will be here soon,” said Louisa, anxious
| to bring him tothe point. ‘ Is my brother safe ?”’
“Thafe and thound!” he replied. “i want you
jutht to take a peep at the Ring, mith, through here.
| Thethilia, you know the dodgeth; find a thpy-hole
for yourthelf.’”’

They each looked through a chink in the boards.

“That’h Jack the Giant Killer—piethe of comic
| infant bithnith,” said Sleary. ‘There’th a property-
+ houthe, you thee, for Jack to hide in; there’th my

Clown with a thauthepanlid and a thpit, for Jack’th
thervant ; there’th little Jack himthelf in a thplendid
thoot of armor; there’th two comic black thervanth
twitbe ath big ath the houthe, to thtand by it and to
| bring it in and clear it ; and the Giant (a very ecthpen-
thive 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’em well.
| You thee ’em all? Very good, Now, mith ;” he put a
| form for them to siton; “I have my opinionth, and
| the Thquire your father hath hith. Idon’t want to
| know what your brother’th been up to; ith better for
}me not to know. All I thay ith, the Thquire hath
| thtood by Thethilia, and I’ll thtand by the Thquire,
Your brother ith one 0’ them black thervanth.”

Louisa uttered an exclamation, partly of distress,
partly of satisfaction,

‘Ith a fact,” said Sleary, ‘‘and even knowin’it, you
couldn’tput your finger on him, Let the Thquire
come. Ithall keep your brother here after the per-
formanth. Ithant undreth him, nor yet wath hith
paint off. Let the Thquire come here atter the perfor-
manth, or come here yourthelf after the performanth,
and you thall find your brother, and have the whole
plathe to talk tohim in. Never mind the-lookth of
him, ath long ath he’th well hid.”

Louisa, with many thanks and with a lightened load,
detained Mr. Sleary nolongerthen. She left her lover
for her brother, with her eyes full of tears; and she
and Sissy went away until later in the afternoon.

Mr. Gradgrind arrived within an hour afterwards.
He too had encountered no one whom he knew; and
was now sanguine, with Sleary’s assistance, of getting
his disgraced son to Liverpool in the night. As neither
of the three could be his companion without almost
identifying him under any disguise, he prepared a
letter to a correspondent whom he could trust, be-
seeching him to-ship the bearer off at any cost, to
North or South America, or any distant part of the
world to which he could be thé most speedily and pri-
vately dispatched.

This done, they walked about, waiting for the Circus
to be quite vacated ; not only by the audience, but by
the company and by the horses. After watching it a
long time, they saw Mr. Sleary bring out a chair and
sit down by the side-door smoking}; as if that were his
signal that they might approach.

“Your thervant, Thquire,” was his cautious salu-
tion as they passedin. “If you wantme you'll find
mé here. You muthn’t mind your thon having a
comic livery on.”

They all three went in ; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down
forlorn on the clown’s performing chair in the middle
of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the
subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the
villanous whelp, sulky.to. the last, whom he had the
misery to call his son.

In a preposterous coat, like a beadle’s, with cuffs and
flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent ; in an im-
mense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a
mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and
everything of coarse material, moth-eaten, and
full of holes;, with seams in his black face, where
fear and heat had started through the greasy composi-
tion daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detest-
ably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic
livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means
have believed in, weighable and measureable fact
though it was. And one of his model children had
come to this!

At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but

owned altogether—he came down, bench by bench,
until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the
circle, as far as possible, within its limits from where
his father sat.

“How was this done ?” asked the father.

“How was what done?” moodily answered the son.

“This robbery,’ said the father, raiging his voice
upon the word.

“T forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up
ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was
found made long before. I dropped it that morning,
that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn’t
take the money all at once. I pretended to put my
balance away every night, but I didn’t. Now you know
all about it.’ :

“Tf a thunderbolt had fallen on me,” said the father,
“it would have shocked me less than this !”’

“I don’t see why,” grumbled the son. “So many
people are employed in situations of trust.; so many
people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have
heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law.
How can J help laws? You have comforted others with
such things, father. Comfort yourself!’’

The father buried his face in his hands, and the son
stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness, biting straw ;
his hands, with the black partly worn away inside,

 

persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding |
at length, ifany concession so sullenly made, can be call- |
ed yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy—for Louisa he dis- |

 

looking like the hands a monkey. The evening was
fast closing in ; and from time to time he turned the
whites of his eyes restleasly and impatiently towards
his father. They were the only parts of his face that
showed any lite or expression, the pigment upon it
was so thick.

. “You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad.’’

“TI suppose Imust. Ican’t be more miserable any-
where,’’ whimpered the whelp, ‘‘than I have been
here, ever since I can remember. That’s one thing.”

Mr. Gradgrind went to the door,.and returned with
Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, how to get
this deplorable object away ?

“Why, I’ve been thinking of it, Thquire. There’th
not muth time to lothe, tho you mnth thay yeth or
no. Ithover twenty mileth to the rail. There’th a
coath in half an hour that goeth t the rail, *purpothe
to cath the mail train, That train will take him right
to Liverpool.”’ ;

« But look at him,”’ groaned Mr. Gradguind.
any coach’’——

“T don’t mean that he thould go in the comic liv-
ery,” said Sleary. ‘Thay the word, aod I’ll make a
Jothkin of him, out of the wardrabe, in five minutes.’”’

“T don’t understand,” said Mr. Gradgrind. .

“A Jothkin—a carter. Make up your mind quick,
Thquire. There’ll be beer to feth. I’ve never met
with nothing but beer ath’ll ever clean a comic black-
amoor.”’ ;

Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented; Mr. Sleary rapidly
turned out from a box a smock-frock;a felt hat, and
other essentials; the whelp rapidly changed clothes be-
hind a screen of baize; Mr. Sleary vapidly brought beer,
and washed him white again. .

“Now,” said Sleary, ‘come alang to the ooath, and
jump up behind; I’ll go with you there, and they'll
thupothe you one of my people. Thay farewell to your
family, and tharp’th the word.” With which he deli-
cately retired. :

“Here is» your letter,” said Mr. Gradgrind. «All
necessary means will be provided foryou. Atone, by
repentance and better conduct, for the shocking action
you haye committed, and the dreadful:consequences to
which it has led. Give me your hand, my poor boy,
and may God forgive you as I do!”

The culprit was moved to a few abject tears ‘by these
words, and their pathetic tone. ut when Louisa
opened her arms he repulsed her afresh.

“Not you. I don’t want to have anything to say to

ou!’

“Oh, 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 wasin the greatest danger. Pretty.
love that! Coming out with every word about our
having gone to that place, wien you saw the net was ~
gathering round me. Pretty love that! You have
regularly given me up. You never cared for me.”

“Tharp’th word!” said Sleary at the door.

They all confusedly went out;. Louisa crying to him
that she forgave him, and loved him still} and that he
would one day be sorry to have left-her so, and glad to
think of these her last words, far away, when some one
ran against them. Mr. Gradgrind and Sissy, who were
both before him while his sister still clung to his
shoulder, stopped and recoiled. ;

For, there was Bitzer, out of breath, his thin lips
parted, his thin nostrils distended, his white eyelashes
quivering, his colorless face more colorless than ever,
as if he ran himself into a white heat, when other peo-
ple ran themselves into a glow. There hestood, pant-
ing and heaving, asif he had never stopped since the
night, now long ago, when he had run them down be-
fore.

“I’m sorry to interfere with your plans,” said Bitzer,
shaking his head, ‘‘ but I can’t allow myself to be done
by horseriders. I must have young Mr. Tom; he
mustn’t be got away by horseriders; here he is ina
smock frock, and I must have him!”

By the collar, too, it seemed, For,so he took posses-
sion of him.

«Will

CHAPTER VIII.
BAILOSOPHICAL.

Tury went back into the booth, Sleary shutting the
door to keep intruders out. Bitzer, still holding the
paralysed culprit by the collar, stood in the Ring,
blinking at his old patron through the darkness of the
twilight.

“ Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, broken down, and mis-
erably submissive to him, ‘‘ have you a heart ?”’

‘The circulation, sir,” returned Bitzer, smiling at the
oddity of the question, “‘couldn’t be carried on with-
out one. No man, sir, acquainted with the facts es-
tablished by Harvey relating to the circulation of the
blood, can doubt that I have a heart.”

*«Is it accessible,”’ cried Mr. Gradgrind, ‘‘ to any com-
passionate influence?” -

“It is accessible to Reason, sir,’ returned the excel-
lent 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 this wretched
youth,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ and crushing his miser-
able father? See his sister here. Pity us!’

“ Sir,” returned Bitzer, in a very business-like and
logical manner, “since you. ask me what motive I have
in reason, for taking young Mr. Tom back to Coketown,
it is only reasonable.to let you know. I have suspectet™
young Mr. Tom of this bank-robbery from the first. I
had had my eye upon him before that time, for I knew
his ways. I haye kept my observations t6 myself,
but I have made them; and I have got ample proofs
against him now, besides his running away, and be-
sides his own confession, which I was just in time

 
HARD TIMES.

Eg

 

 

to overhear, I had the pleasure of watching your
house yesterday morning, and following you here.
I am-going to take young Mr. Tom back to Coke-

! town, in order 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 his situation, sir, for it will be a
rise to me, and will do me good.” :

“If this ’ere is solely a question of self-interest
with you ”’—— Mr. Gradgrind began,

oo bee your pardon tor interrupting you, sir,” re-
turned Bitzer; “‘but I am sure: you know that the
whole social system is a question of self-interest.
What you must always appeal to, is a person’s self-in-
terest. It’s your only hold. We are so constituted.’ I
was brought up in that catechism when I was very
y' mae, sir, as you are aware.”

“What sum of money,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ will
you set. against your expected promotion a

‘Thank you, sir,” returned Bitzer, “for hinting at
the proposal; but I will not set any sum against it.
Knowing that your clear head would propose that al-+
ternative, I have gone over the calculations in my
mind: and I find that to compound a felony, even on
very high terms indeed, would not be as safe and good
for me as my improved prospects in the bank.’’

“Bitzer,” said Mr. Gradgrind, stretching out his
hands as though he would have said, See how misera-
ble Lam! “Bitzer, I have but one chance left to soften
you. You were many years at my school. If, in re-
membrance of the pains bestowed upon you there, you
can persuade yourself in any degree to disregard your
present interest and release my son, lentreat and pray
you to give him the-benefit of that remembrance.”

“Treally wonder, sir,” rejoined the old pupil, in an
argumentative manner, “to find you taking a position
so untonable. My schooling was paid for; it was a
bargain; and when I came away, the bargain ended.”

It was a fundamental principle of the Gradgrind phi- |

_ losophy, that everything was to be paid for. Nobody
was ever on any account to give anybody auything, or
render anybody help without purchase. Gratitude
was to be abolished, and the virtues springing from it
were not to be. Every inch of. the existence of man-
-kind, from birth to death, was to be a bargain across a
counter. And if we didn’t get to heaven that way, it
was not a politico-economical place, and’we had no
‘business there. ?

-“I don’t deny,’ added Bitzer, “that my schooling
‘was cheap.. But that comes right, sir. I was made in
the cheapest market, and have to dispose of myself in
the dearest.” . * i

He was a little troubled here, by Louisa and Sissy
ing. ‘
Pr yy don’t do that,’’ said he, ‘it’s of no use doing
that; it only worries. You seem to think that I have

some animosity = young Mr. Tom; whereas I

have none at all. Iam only going,on the reasonable

grounds I have mentioned, to take him back to Coke-
town. -If he was to resist, I should set up the cry of

oo ‘But, he won’t resist; you may depend

dt’

Mr. Sleary, who with his mouth open and his rolling
eye as immovably jammed in his head as his fixed one,
had listened to these doctrines with profound atten-
tion; here stepped forward.

“Thquire, you know perfectly well, and your
‘daughter knowth’ perfectly well (better than: you, be-
cauthe I thed it to her), that I didn’t know what your
thon had done, and that I didn’t want to know—I thed
it wath better not, though I only thought, then, it
wath thome thk a However, thith young man
having made it known to be a robbery of a bank, why,
that’h a theriouth thing ; muth, too theriouth a thing
for me to compound, ath thith young man hath
“very properly edit. Conthequently, Thquire, you
muthn’t vr with mo if I take thith young man’th
thide, and thay he’th right and there’th no help for it.
But I tell you what I'll do, Thquire; I'll drive your
thon and thith young man over to the rail, and pre-
vent expothure here. Ican’t conthent to do more, but
Tl do that.” - = itp

Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and deeper affliction
on Mr. Gradgrind’s part, followed this desertion of
them by their last friend. But, Sissy glanced at
him with great attention; nor did she in her own
breast misunderstand him. As they were all going
out again, he favored her with one slight roll of his
movable eye, desiring her to linger behind. As he
locked the door, he said excitedly :

“The Thquire thood by you, Thethilia, and I'll
thtand by the Thquire. More than that: thith ith a

 prethiouth rathéal, and belongth to that bluthterin,

'

Cove that my people nearly pitht out o’ winder. It’l
be a dark night ; I’ve got a horthe that’ll do anything
but thpeak ; I’ve got. a pony that’ll go fifteen mile an
hour with Childerth driving of him; I’ve got a dog
that'll keep @ man to one plathe four-and-twenty
hourth. Get a word with the young Thquire. Tell
him, when he theeth our horthe begin to danthe, not
to be afraid of being thpilt, but to look out for a pony-
gig coming up. Tell him, when he theeth that gig
clothe by, to jump down, and it'll take him off at a
rattling pathe. If my dog leth this young man thtir a
peg on foot, I give him leave to go. Andif my horthe
ever thirth from that thpot where he beginth a danth-
ing, till the morning—I don’t know him ?—Tharp’th
the word!” st oy
The word was so sharp, than in ten minutes Mr.

. Childers, sauritering about the market-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
barking round it, and Mr. Sleary instructing him, with
his one practicable eye, that Bitzer was the object of
his cular attentions. Soon after dark they all
three got in and started: the learned dog (a formidable
creature) already pinning Bitzer with his eye, and
@ticking close to the wheol on his side, that he might

 

be ready for him in the event of his showing the
slighest disposition to alight.

e other three sat up at the inn all night in great
suspense. At eight o’clock in the morning Mr. Sleary
and the dag reappeared: both in high spirits.

“All night, Thquire!” said Mr. Sleary, “your thon
may be aboard a thip by thith time. Childerth took
him off, an hour and a half after we left here latht night.
The horthe danthed the polka till he wath dead beat (he
would have walthed, if he hadn’t been in harneth), and
then I gave him the word and he went to thleep com-
fortable, When that prethiout young rathcal thed
he’d go for’ard afoot, the dog hung on to hith neck-
handkercher with all four legth.in the air and pulled
him down and rolled him over. Tho he come back
into the drag, and there he that, ’till I turned the
horthe’th head, at half-path thixth thith morning.”

Mr. Gradgrind overwhelmed him with thanks, of
course ; and hinted as delicately as he could, at a hand-
some remuneration in money. : |

“T don’t want money mythelf, Thquire ; but Chil- |
derth ith a family man, andif you wath to like to offer |
him a five-pound note, it mightn’t be unactheptable.
Likewithe if you wath to thtand a collar for the dog, or
a thet of bellth for the horthe, I thould be very glad to
take ’em. Brandy-and-water I alwayth take.’ He had
already called for a glass, and now called for another.
“Tf you wouldn’t think it going too far, Thquire, to
make 4 little thpread for the company at about three
and thixth a-head, not reckoning 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 a
Horthe-riding, a bethpeak, whenever you can, you'll
more than balanthe the account. Now, Thquire, if
your daughter will ethcuthe me, I thould like one
parting word with you.” a a ,

Louisa and Sissy withdrew into an adjoining room ;
Mr. Sleary, stirring and drinking his brandy-and-water
as he stood, wenton: vo

“Thquire, you don’t need to be told that dogth ith
wonderful animalth.” pa

“Their instinct,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “is surprising.”

“Whatever you call it—and Im bletht it J know
what to call it’—said Sleary, “it ith athtonithing.
The way in whith adog’ll find you—the dithtanthe he’ll
come !’’ ‘ ‘ .

. “His scent,” said Mr. Gradgrind, “ being so fine.”

“T’m bletht if I know what to call it,’’ repeated
Sleary, shaking his head, “but I have had dogth find
me, Thquire, in a way that made _me think whether
that dog hadn’t gone to another dog, and thed, ‘You
don’t happen to know a perthon .of the name of
Thleary, do you? Perthon of the name of Thleary, in
the Horthe-Riding way—thtout man—game eye?’ And }
whether that dog mightn’t have thed, ‘ Well, I can’t thay
I know him myself, but I know a dog that I think
would be likely to be acquainted with.him.’ And
whether’ that dog mightn’t have thought it over, and
thed. ‘Thleary Thleary! O yeth, to be thure! A
friend of mine menthioned him to me at one time. 1
can get you hith’addreth directly.’ In conthequenth
of my being afore the public, and going about tho muth,
you thee, there mutht bea number of doth acquainted
with me, Thquire, that J don’t know!”

Mr. Gradgrind seemed to be quite confounded by this
speculation. ,

“Any way,” said Sleary, after putting his lips to his
brandy-and-water, “ith fourteen months ago, Thquire,
thinthe we wath at Chethter. We wath getting up our
Children in the Wood one morning, when there cometh
into our Ring, by the thtage, door,a dog, He had tray-
elled a long way, he wath in very bad condithon, he
wath lame, and pretty well blind. He went round to
our children, one after another, ath if he wath a theek- |
ing for a child he know’d; and then hecome to me,
and throwd hithelf up behind, and thtood on hith two
pol weak ath he wath, and then he wagged hith
tailand died. Thquire, that dog wath Merrylegth.”

“ Sissy’s father’s dog!”’ '

“Thethilia’th father’th old dog. Now, Thquire. I
can take my oath, from my knowledge of that dog, that
that man wath dead—and buried— afore that dog come
back to me. Joth’phine and Childerth and me talked
it over a long time, whether I thould write or not. But
we agreed, ‘No, There’th nothing comfortable to tell ;
why unthettle her mind, and make her unhappy ?’ Tho,
whether her father bathely detherted her ; or whether
he broke hith own heart alone, rather than pull her
down along with him; never will be known, now,
Thquire, till—no, not till we know how the dogth
findth uth out!”

“She keeps the bottle that he sent for her, to this
hour ; and she will believe in his affection to the last
moment of her life,” said Mr. Gradgrind.

“It theemth to prethent two thingth toa perthon,
don’tit, Thquire?” said Mr. Sleary, musing as he
looked down into the depths of his brandy-and-water :
“one, that there ith » love in the world, not all Thelf-
interetht after all, but thomething very different ;
t’other, that it hath a way of ith own of calculating or
not calculating, whith thomehow or another ith at
leatht ath hard to give aname to, ath the wayth of the

dogth tthe
r. Gradgrind looked out of window, and" made
yeue- Mr. Sleary emptied his glass and recalled the
adies.

“Thethilia, my dear, kith me and good-bye! Mith
Thquire, to thee you treating of her like a thithter, and
a thither that you trutht and honor with all your heart
and more, ith a very pretty thing tome. I hope your
brother may live to be better detherving of you, and a
greater confort to you. Thquire, thake handth, firthtand
latht ! Don’t be croth with uth poor vagabondth,

_ mutht be amuthed. They can’t be alwayth alearn-
ng, nor yet they can’t be alwayth a working, they an’t
made for it. You mutht have uth, Thquire. Do the

 

| with turning like a great snowball.

withe thing and the kind thing too, and make the betht
of uth; not the wortht ! :

“ And I never thought before,’ said Mr. Sleary, put-
again to say it, “that I wath

ting his head in at the door
tho muth of a Cackler !”

CHAPTER IX.

FINAL.

Ir is a dangerous thing to see anything in the sphere
of a vain blusterer, before the vain blusterer sees it
himself. Mr. Bounderby felt that Mrs. Sparsit had. au-
daciously. anticipated him, and presymed to be wiser
than he. Inappeasably indignant with her for her tri-
umphant discovery of Mrs. Pegler, he turned this pre-
sumption, on the part of a woman in her dependent po-
sition, over and over in his mind, until it accumulated
At last he made
the discovery that to discharge this highly connected
female—to have it in his power to say, “She was a wo-
man 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 of crowning glory out of
the connection, and atthe same time to punish Mrs.
Sparsit according to 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 former days, where his portrait
was. Mrs. Sparsit sat'by the fire, with her foot in her
cotton stirrup, little thinking whither she was posting.

Since the Pegler affair, this gentlewoman had covered
her pity for Mr. Bounderby with a veil of quiet melan- |
choly and contrition. In virtue thereof, it had become
her habit to assume a woeful look; which woeful look
she now bestowed upon her patron. ;

*“What’s the matter now, ma’am ?” said Mr, Bound-
erby, in a very short, rough way.

“ Pray, sir,’’ returned Mrs. Sparsit, “do not bite my
nose off,’’

“Bite your nose off, ma’am!’’ repeated Mr. Bound-
erby. “ Your nose!’ meaning, as Mrs. Sparsit con-
ceived, that it was too developed a nose for the purpose.
After which offensive implication, he cut himself a
crust of bread, and threw the knife down with a noise.

Mrs. Sparsit took her foot out of the stirrup, and
said, ‘*‘ Mr. Bounderby, sir !’”’ S 4 33

“Well, ma'am ?’’ retorted Mr. Bounderby. “ What
are you staring at ?’’

“May I ask, sir,” said Mrs,
ruffled this morning ?”

“ Yes, ma’am.” ;

“ May I inquire, sir,” pursued the injured woman,
‘s whether Z am the unfortunate cause of your haying
lost your temper ?” ; ian.

“Now, I'll tell you what, ma’am,” said Bound-
erby, ‘Iam not come, here to be bullied. A female
may be highly connected, but she can’t be permitted to
bother and badger a man in my position, and I am not
going to put up with it.” (Mr. Bounderby felt it neces-
sary to get.on ; foreseeing that if he allowed of details,
he would be beaten.)

Mrs. Sparsit first elevated, then knitted, her Coriolg
nian eyebrows ; gathered up her work into its proper
basket, and rose. '

‘*Sir,” said she, majestically. ‘It is apparent to mo
that Iam in your way at present. I will retire 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,” said Bounderby,
passing her, and getting his hand upon the lock ; “be-
cause I can take the opportunity of saying a word to
you, before you go. Mrs. Sparsit, ma’am, I rather think
you are cramped here, do you know? It appears to me
that, under my humble roof, there’s hardly opening
i for a lady of your genius in other ‘people's —
affairs.” ‘

Mrs. Sparsit gave him a look of the darkest scorn,
and said with great politeness, ‘ Really, sir?”

“T have been thinking it over, you see, since the late |
affairs have happened, ma’am,” said Bounderby; “and
it appears to my poor judgment ’—— 4 .

“Oh! Pray, sir,” Mrs. Sparsit interposed, with spright-
ly cheerfulness, “don’t disparage your judgment.. Every-
body knows how unerting Mr. Bounderby’s judgment
is. Everybody has had proofs of it. It must be the
theme of general conversation, Disparage anything in

ourself but your judgment, sir,” said Mrs. Sparsit,

ughing. Sy

Mr. Bounderby, very red and uncomfortable, re-
sumed :

“Tt appears to me, ma’am, I say, that a different sort
of establishment altogether, would bring out a lady of
your powers. Such an establishment as your Pelation,
Lady Scadgers’s, now. Don’t you think you might find
some aftairs, there, ma’am, to interfere with ?””

“Tt never occurred to me before, sir,” returned Mrs. +
Sparsit ; “but now you mention it, I should think it
highly probable.” ; ‘ ’

“Then suppose you try, ma’am,” said Bounderby,
laying an envelope with a cheque in it, in her little
basket. “ You can take your own time for going: ma’am;
but perhaps in the meanwhile, it will be more
ble to a lady of your powers of mind, to eat her meals _
by herself, and not to be intruded upon. . I reall
ought to apologise to you—being only Josiah Boun-
derby of Coketown—for haying stood in your light so

long.’’

«Pray don’t name it, sir,” returned Mrs. ahs
that portrait could speak, sir—but it mad ea eae,
tage over the original of not possessing the r of
committing itself and disgusting others,—it would
testify, that a long period has elapsed since I first habit-
ually addressed it as the picture of a Noodle. Nothing
that a Noodle does can awaken surprise or in on ;
foes oe ‘of a Noodle can only ioopiee con:

Thus Saying, Mrs. Sparsit, with her Roman features

Sparsit, “have you been

‘

 
3

HARD TIMES.

 

 

like a model struck to commemorate her’ scorn
of Mr. Bounderby, surveyed him fixedly from
head to foot, swept disdainfully past him, and
ascended the staircase. Mr. Bounderby closed
the door, and stood before the fire; projecting
himself after his old explosive manner into his
portrait—and into futurity:

Into how much of futurity? He saw Mrs.
— fighting out a daily fight, at the points
ofall the weapons in the female armory, with the
grudging, smarting, peevish, tormenting Lady

cadgers, still laid up in bed with her mys-
terious leg, and, gobbling her insufficient income
down by about the middle of every quarter, in
a@ mean little airless lodging, a mere closet for
one, a mere crib for two; but did he see more?
Did he catch any glimpse of himself making a
show of Bitzer to strangers, as the rising young
man, so devoted to his master’s great merits,
who had won — Tom’s - place, and had
almost cap’ young Tom himself, in the
times when by various rascals he was spirited
away? Did he see any faint reflection of his
own image making a vain-glorious will whereby
five-and-twenty Humbugs past five-and-fifty
years of age, each taking 7 himself the
name, Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, should
forever dine in Bounderby Hall, forever lodge
in Bounderby Buildings,
Bounderby chapel, forever go to sleep under a
Bounderby chaplain, forever be supported out
of a Bounderby estate, and forever nauseate all
healthy stomachs, with a vast amount of Bound-
erby iderdash and bluster? Had he any
=. of the day, five years to come, when

osiah Bounderby of Coketown was to die of a
fit in the Coketown street, and this same precious
will was to begin its long career of quibble,
plunder, false pretences, vile example, little
service and much law? Probably not, Yet the
portrait was to see it all out.

Here was Mr. Gradgrind on the same day,
and in the same hour, sitting thoughtful in his
own room. How much of futurity did he see?
Did he see himself,’a white-haired, decrepit
man, bending his hitherto inflexible theories to
appointed circumstances; making his facts and

figures subservient to Faith, Hope and ae :
y

and no longer trying to grind that Heaven
trio in his dusty little mills? Did he catch sight
of himself, therefore much despised by his late
political associates? Did he see them in the era
of its being quite settled that the national dust-
men have only to do with one another, and owe
no duty to an abstraction called a People,
‘taunting the honorable gentleman” with this
and with that and with what not, five nights a
week, until the small hours of the morning?
Probably he had that much foreknowledge,
knowing his men.

Here was Louisa on the night of the same
day watching the fire as in days of yore, though
with a gentler and a humbler face. How much
of the future might arise before her vision?
Broadsides in the streets signed with her father’s
name, exonerating the late Stephen Blackpool,
weaver, from misplaced suspicion, and publish-
ing the guilt of his own son, with such extenua-
tion as his years and temptation (he could not
bring himself to add, his education) might be-
seech; were of the Present. So, Stephen Black-

ool’s tombstone, with her father’s record of

is death, was almost of the Present, for she
knew it was_to be. These things she could
plainly see. But, how much of the Future?

A working woman christened Rachael, after a
long illness once again appearing at the ringing
of the Factory bell, and passing to and fro at
the set hours among the Coketown: Hands;. a
woman of a pensive beauty, always dressed in
black, but sweet-tempered and serene, and even
cheerful; who, of the people in the place,
alone appeared to have compassion on a
de; , drunken wretch of her own sex, who
was sometimes seen in the town secretly beg-
ging of her, and crying to her; a woman wreek-
ing, ever working, but content to do it, and
preferring to do it as her natural lot, until she
should be too old to labor any more? Did Lou-
isa see this? Such a thing was to be.

A lonely brother, many thousands of miles
away writing, on paper blotted with tears, that
her words had too soon come true, and that all
the treasures in the world would bechesty ore
tered for asightof her dear face! At length this
brother coming nearer home, with hope of see-
ing her, and being delayed by illness; and then
a letter in a strange hand, saying ‘“‘he died in
hospital, of fever, such a day, and died in pen-
-itence and love of 7 his last word being

‘our name?” Did uisa see these things?
‘Buch things were to be.

Herself again a wife—a mother—lovingly
vetchful of her children, ever careful that they

forever attend a’

 

should have a childhood of the mind no less
than a childhood of the body, as knowing it to be
even a more beautiful thing, and a possession,
any hoarded scrap of which, is a blessing and
happiness to the wisest? Did Louisa see this?
Such a thing was never to be.

But, happy Sissy’s happy children loving her;
all children loving her; she, grown learned in
childish lore; thinking no innocent and pretty
pace ever to be despised; trying hard to know
her humbler fellow-creatures, and to beautify
their lives of machinery and reality with those
imaginative graces and delights, without which
the heart of infancy will wither up, the sturdiest
Ve em manhood will be morally stark death,
and the plainest national prosperity _. can
show, will be the Writing on the Wall,—she
holding this course as part of no fantastic vow,
or bond, or brotherhood, or sisterhood, or pledge,
or covenant, or fancy dress, or fancy fair: but
simply as a duty to be done,—did Louisa see

— things of herself? These things were to

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