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air； the little mouldy rations 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。
Among 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 humour which had told
immensely with the House of Commons on the occasion of his
entertaining it with his （and the Board of Directors’） view of a
railway accident； in which the most careful officers ever known；
employed by the most liberal managers ever heard of； assisted by
the finest mechanical contrivances ever devised； the whole in
action on the best line ever constructed； 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
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Hard Times 162
the slain was a cow； and among the scattered articles unowned； a
widow’s cap。 And the honourable member had so tickled the
House （which has a delicate sense of humour） by putting the cap
on the cow； that it became impatient of any serious reference to
the Coroner’s Inquest； and brought the railway off with Cheers
and Laughter。
Now； this gentleman had a younger brother of still better
appearance than himself； who had tried life as a Cornet of
Dragoons； and found it a bore； and had afterwards tried it in the
train of an English minister 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 honourable and jocular member fraternally said one
day； “Jem； there’s a good opening among the hard Fact fellows；
and they want men。 I wonder you don’t go in for statistics。” Jem；
rather taken by the novelty of the idea； and very hard up for a
change； was as ready to “go in” for statistics as for anything else。
So； he went in。 He coached himself up with a blue book or two；
and his brother put it about among the hard Fact fellows； and said；
“If you want to bring in； for any place； a handsome dog who can
make you a devilish good speech； look after my brother Jem； for
he’s your man。” After a few dashes in the public meeting way； Mr
Gradgrind and a council of political sages approved of Jem； and it
was resolved to send him down to Coketown； to become known
there and in the neighbourhood。 Hence the letter Jem had last
night shown to Mrs Sparsit； which Mr Bounderby now held in his
hand； superscribed； “Josiah Bounderby； Esquire； Banker；
Coketown。 Specially to introduce James Harthouse； Esquire。
Thomas Gradgrind。”
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Hard Times 163
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
window； in a state of mind so disconsolate； that he was already
half disposed to “go in” for something else。
“My name； sir；” said his visitor； “is Josiah Bounderby 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 been accustomed to。 Therefore； if
you’ll 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。 “I don’t promise it。
First of all； you see our smoke。 That’s meat and drink to us。 It’s the
healthiest thing in the world in all respects； and particularly for
the lungs。 If you are one of those who want us to consume it； I
differ from you。 We are 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 a
lot 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
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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 fed
on turtle soup and venison with a gold spoon。 And now you know
the place。”
Mr Harthouse professed himself in the highest degree
instructed and refreshed； by this condensed epitome of the whole
Coketown question。
“Why； you see；” replied Mr Bounderby； “it suits my disposition
to have a full understanding with a man； particularly with a public
man； when I make his acquaintance。 I have only one thing more to
say to you； Mr Harthouse； before assuring you of the pleasure with
which I shall respond to the utmost of my poor ability； to my friend
Tom Gradgrind’s letter of introduction。 You are a man of family。
Don’t you deceive yourself by supposin