by what chances, and wi’ what sameness; and look how the mills is awlus a-goin’, and how they never works us no nigher to onny dis’ant object—’ceptin awlus Death. Look how you considers of us, and writes of us, and talks of us, and goes up wi’ yor deputations to Secretaries o’ State ’bout us, and how yo are awlus right, and how we are awlus wrong, and 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 generation unto generation. Who can look on ’t, sir, and fairly tell a man ’tis not a muddle?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Bounderby. “Now perhaps you’ll let the gentleman know how you would set this muddle (as you’re so fond of calling it) to rights.”
“I donno, sir. I canna be expecten to ’t. ’Tis not me as should be looken to for that, sir. ’Tis them as is put ower me, and ower aw the rest of us. What do they tak’ upon themseln, sir, if not to do ’t?”
“I’ll tell you something towards it, at any rate,” returned Mr. Bounderby. “We will make an example of half-a-dozen Slackbridges. We’ll indict the blackguards for felony, and get ’em shipped off to penal settlements.”
Stephen gravely shook his head.
“Don’t tell me we won’t, man,” said Mr. Bounderby, by this time blowing a hurricane, “because we will, I tell you!”
“Sir,” returned Stephen, with a quiet confidence of absolute certainty, “if yo was t’ tak’ a hundred Slackbridges—aw as there is, an’ 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. Mischeevous 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 troubles’s made, sir. ’Tis not wi’ them ’t commences. I ha’ no favour for ’em—I ha’ no reason to favour ’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, an’ will be heer when I am gone. Put that clock aboard a ship an’ pack it off to Norfolk Island, an’ the time will go on just the same. So ’tis wi’ Slackbridge every bit.”
Reverting for a moment to his former refuge, he observed a cautionary movement of her eyes towards the door. Stepping back, he put his hand upon the lock. But he had not spoken out of his own will and desire, and he felt it in his heart a noble return for his late injurious treatment to be faithful to the last to those who had repudiated him. He stayed to finish what was in his mind.
“Sir, I canna, 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 to mak’ one side, unnat’rally awlus and forever right, and toother side unnat’rally awlus and forever wrong will never, never do ’t. Nor yet lettin’ alone will never do ’t. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw’en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sitch-like misery can last. Not drawin’ nigh to fo’k, 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 themseln—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, rating ’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 and souls to hope—when aw goes quiet, draggin’ on wi’ ’em as if they’d nowt o’ th’ kind, and when aw