of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied
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 were the whole of her diet,
And yet this old woman would NEVER be quiet.

Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any
analogy between the case of the Coketown
population and the case of the little
Gradgrinds? 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 the existence of the
Coketown working people had been for
scores of years deliberately set at naught?
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,
encouraging good humour and good spirits,
and giving them a vent—some recognised holiday,
though it were but for an honest dance
to a stirring band of music—some occasional
light pie in which even M'Choakumchild had
no finger—which craving must and would be
satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably
go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were
repealed?

"This man lives at Pod's End, and I don't
quite know Pod's End," said Mr. Gradgrind.
"Which is it, Bounderby?"

Mr. 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 came running
round the corner of the street, at a quick
pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom
Mr. Gradgrind recognised. "Halloa!" said
he. "Stop! Where are you going? Stop!"
Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitating,
and made him a curtsey.

"Why are you tearing about the streets,"
said Mr. Gradgrind," in this improper
manner?"

"I was—I was run after, sir," the girl
panted, "and I wanted to get away."

"Run after?" repeated Mr. Gradgrind.
"Who would run after you?"

The question was unexpectedly and
suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy,
Bitzer, who came round the corner with such
blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage
on the pavement, that he brought himself up
against Mr. Gradgrind's waistcoat, and
rebounded into the 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 after you, Jupe?"
asked Mr. Gradgrind.

"Yes, sir," said the girl reluctantly.

"No, I wasn't, sir!" cried Bitzer. " Not
till she 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
famous for never 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 horseriders." 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! I never
looked at her, sir. I asked her if 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 mischief
if you hadn't been a horse-rider!"

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

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

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking,
knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy,
turned about, and retreated.

"Now, girl," said Mr. Gradgrind, "take
this gentleman and me to your father's; we
are going there. What have you got in that
bottle you are carrying?"

"Gin," said Mr. Bounderby.

"Dear, no sir! It's the nine oils."

"The what?" cried Mr. Bounderby.

"The nine oils, sir. To rub father with."
Then, said Mr. Bounderby, with a loud,
short laugh, " what the devil do you rub your
father with nine oils for?"

"It's what our people always use, sir,
when they get any hurts in the ring," replied
the girl, looking 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 glanced up at his face,
with mingled astonishment 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 'em by posture-making, but by
being banged about. There was no rope-
dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground
and was larruped with the rope."

Mr. Gradgrind, though hard enough, was
by no means so rough a man as Mr.
Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all