the making of it better; that every man felt his only hope to be in his allying himself to the comrades by whom he was surrounded; and that in this belief, right or wrong (unhappily wrong then), the whole of that crowd were gravely, deeply, faithfully in earnest, must have been as plain to anyone who chose to see what was there as the bare beams of the roof and the whitened brick walls. Nor could any such spectator fail to know in his own breast that these men, through their very delusions, showed great qualities, susceptible of being turned to the happiest and best account; and that to pretend (on the strength of sweeping axioms, howsoever cut and dried) that they went astray wholly without cause, and of their own irrational wills, was to pretend that there could be smoke without fire, death without birth, harvest without seed, anything or everything produced from nothing.

The orator, having refreshed himself, wiped his corrugated forehead from left to right several times with his handkerchief folded into a pad, and concentrated all his revived forces in a sneer of great disdain and bitterness.

“But, oh, my friends and brothers! Oh, men and Englishmen, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! What shall we say of that man, that working-man—that I should find it necessary so to libel the glorious name—who, being practically and well acquainted with the grievances and wrongs of you, the injured pith and marrow of this land, and having heard you, with a noble and majestic unanimity that will make Tyrants tremble, resolve for to subscribe to the funds of the United Aggregate Tribunal, and to abide by the injunctions issued by that body for your benefit, whatever they may be—what, I ask you, will you say of that working-man, since such I must acknowledge him to be, who, at such a time, deserts his post, and sells his flag; who, at such a time, turns a traitor and a craven and a recreant; who, at such a time, is not ashamed to make to you the dastardly and humiliating avowal that he will hold himself aloof, and will not be one of those associated 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 honour 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 heer? If the man’s heer, Slackbridge, let’s hear the man himseln, ’stead o’ yo.” Which was received 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 profound silence.

“Oh, my friends and fellow-men!” said Slackbridge then, shaking his head with violent scorn, “I do not wonder that you, the prostrate sons of labour, are incredulous of the existence of such a man. But he who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage existed, and Judas Iscariot existed, and Castlereagh existed, and this man exists!”

Here, a brief press and confusion near the stage ended in the man himself standing at the orator’s side before the concourse. He was pale and a little moved in the face—his lips especially showed it—but he stood quiet, with his left hand at his chin, waiting to be heard. There was a chairman to regulate the proceedings, 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 o’ our friend Slackbridge, who may be a little over hetter in this business, to take his seat, whiles this man Stephen Blackpool is heern. You all know this man Stephen Blackpool. You know him awlung o’ 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’n o’ me, and ’tis lickly that I shan’t mend it. But I’d liefer you’d hearn the truth concernin’ myseln fro my lips than fro onny other man’s, though I never cud’n speak afore so monny wi’out bein moydert