The strike was over, the grinders poured into the works, and the grindstones revolved¹. Henry Little leaned against an angle of the building, and listened with aching heart to their remorseless thunder. He stood there disconsolate—the one workman out of work—and sipped² the bitter cup, defeat. Then he walked out at the gates, and wandered languidly into the streets. He was miserable³, and had nobody to mourn to, for the main cause of his grief lay beneath the surface of this defeat; and how could he reveal it, now that his ambitious love looked utter madness? Young as he was, he had seen there is no sympathy in the world for any man who loves out of his sphere. Indeed, whatever cures or crushes such a passion, is hailed by the by-standers as a sharp but wholesome⁴ medicine.  
He sauntered about, and examined all the shops with lack-luster eye. He looked in at everything, but observed nothing, scarcely saw anything. All his senses were turned inward. It was such a pitiable and galling⁵ result of a gallant⁶ fight. Even the insurance office had got the better of him. It had taken one-third of his savings⁷, and the very next day his trade was gone, and his life in no danger. The “Gosshawk” had plucked him, and the trade had tied his hands. Rack his invention how he would, he could see no way of becoming a master in Hillsborough, except by leaving Hillsborough, and working hard and long in some other town. He felt in his own heart the love and constancy to do this; but his reason told him such constancy would be wasted; for while he was working at a distance, the impression, if any, he had made on her would wear away, and some man born with money, would step in and carry her gayly off. This thought returned to him again and again, and exasperated⁸ him so at last, that he resolved to go to “Woodbine Villa⁹,” and tell her his heart before he left the place. Then he should be rejected, no doubt, but perhaps pitied, and not so easily forgotten as if he had melted silently away.
 
He walked up the hill, first rapidly, then slowly. He called at “Woodbine Villa.”
 
The answer was “Not at home.”
 
“Everything is against me,” said he.
 
He wandered wearily down again, and just at the entrance of the town he met a gentleman with a lady on each arm, and one of those ladies was Miss Carden. The fortunate cavalier was Mr. Coventry, whom Henry would have seen long before this, but he had been in Paris for the last four months. He had come back fuller than ever of agreeable gossip, and Grace was chatting away to him, and beaming with pleasure, as innocent girls do, when out on a walk with a companion they like. She was so absorbed she did not even see Henry Little. He went off the pavement to make room for their tyrannical crinolines, and passed unnoticed.
 
He had flushed with joy at first sight of her, but now a deadly qualm seized him. The gentleman was handsome and commanding; Miss Carden seemed very happy, hanging on his arm; none the less bright and happy that he, her humble¹⁰ worshiper, was downcast and wretched.
 
It did not positively¹¹ prove much; yet it indicated how little he must be to her: and somehow it made him realize more clearly the great disadvantage at which he lay, compared with an admirer belonging to her own class. Hitherto his senses had always been against his reason: but now for once they co-operated with his judgment¹², and made him feel that, were he to toil¹³ for years in London, or Birmingham, and amass¹⁴ a fortune, he should only be where that gentleman was already; and while the workman, far away, was slaving, that gentleman and others would be courting her. She might refuse one or two. But she would not refuse them all.
 
Then, in his despair, he murmured, “Would to God I had never seen her!”
 
He made a fierce resolve he would go home, and tell his mother she could pack up.
 
He quickened his steps, for fear his poor sorrowful heart should falter¹⁶.
 
But, when he had settled on this course, lo! a fountain of universal hatred¹⁷ seemed to bubble in his heart. He burned to inflict¹⁸ some mortal injury upon Jobson, Parkin, Grotait, Cheetham, and all who had taken a part, either active or passive, in goading¹⁹ him to despair. Now Mr. Cheetham's works lay right in his way; and it struck him he could make Cheetham smart a little. Cheetham's god was money. Cheetham had thrown him over for money. He would go to Cheetham, and drive a dagger²⁰ into his pocket.
 
He walked into the office. Mr. Cheetham was not there: but he found Bayne and Dr. Amboyne.
 
“Mr. Bayne,” said he, abruptly²¹, “I am come for my month's wages.”
 
The tone was so aggressive, Bayne looked alarmed. “Why, Little, poor Mr. Cheetham is gone home with a bad headache, and a sore heart.”
 
“All the better. I don't want to tell him to his face he is a bragging²² cur; all I want out of him now is my money; and you can pay me that.”
 
The pacific Bayne cast a piteous glance at Dr. Amboyne. “I have told you the whole business, sir. Oughtn't Mr. Little to wait till to-morrow, and talk it over with Mr. Cheetham? I'm only a servant: and a man of peace.”
 
“Whether he ought or not, I think I can answer for him that he will.”
 
“I can't, sir,” said Henry, sturdily. “I leave the town to-morrow.”
 
“Oh, that alters the case. But must you leave us so soon?”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“I am very sorry for that. Tell me your reason. I don't ask out of mere²³ curiosity.”
 
Henry replied with less than his usual candor²⁴; “Is it not reason enough for leaving a place, that my life has been attempted in it, and now my livelihood²⁵ is taken?”
 
“Those are strong reasons. But, on the other hand, your life is no longer in danger; and your livelihood is not gone; for, to speak plainly, I came over here the moment I heard you were discharged, to ask if you would enter my service on the same terms as Mr. Cheetham gave you, only guineas instead of pounds.”
 
“What, turn doctor?”
 
“Oh dear, no; the doctors' union would forbid that. No, Mr. Little, I am going to ask you to pay me a compliment; to try my service blindfold²⁶ for one week. You can leave it if you don't like it; but give me one week's trial.”
 
“How can I refuse you that?” said Henry, hanging his head. “You have been a good friend to me. But, sir, mark my words, this place will be my destruction. Well, when am I to begin work?”
 
“To-morrow, at ten.”
 
“So be it,” said Henry, wearily, then left the works and went home; but, as he went, he said to himself. “It is not my doing.” And his double-faced heart glowed and exulted²⁷ secretly.
 
He told his mother how the Trades had beaten him, and he was out of work.
 
Mrs. Little consoled him hypocritically. She was delighted. Then he told her his departure had been delayed by Dr. Amboyne: that made her look a little anxious.
 
“One question, dear: now the union has beaten you, they will not be so spiteful, will they?”
 
“Oh, no. That is all over. The conquerors²⁸ can afford to be good-natured. Confound them!”
 
“Then that is all I care about. Then do not leave Hillsborough. Why should you? Wait here patiently. You do not know what may turn up.”
 
“What, mother, do YOU want to stay here now?” said Henry, opening his eyes with astonishment²⁹.
 
“Wherever my son is happy and safe from harm, there I wish to stay—of course.”
 
Next morning Henry called on Dr. Amboyne, and found him in his study, teaching what looked a boy of sixteen, but was twenty-two, to read monosyllables. On Little's entrance the pupil retired³⁰ front his uphill work, and glowered³¹ with vacillating eyes. The lad had a fair feminine face, with three ill things in it: a want, a wildness, and a weakness. To be sure Henry saw it at a disadvantage: for vivid intelligence would come now and then across this mild, wild, vacant face, like the breeze that sweeps a farm-yard pond.
 
“Good-morning, Little. This is your fellow-workman.”
 
“He does not look up to much,” said Henry, with all a workman's bluntness.
 
“What, you have found him out! Never mind; he can beat the town at one or two things, and it is for these we will use him. Some call him an idiot. The expression is neat and vigorous, but not precise; so I have christened him the Anomaly. Anomaly, this is Mr. Little; go and shake hands with him, and admire him.”
 
The Anomaly went directly, and gazed into Little's face for some time.
 
He then made his report. “He is beautiful and black.”
 
“I've seen him blacker. Now leave off admiring him, and look at these pictures while I prose. Two thousand philosophers are writing us dead with 'Labor³² and Capital.' But I vary the bore. 'Life, Labor, and Capital,' is my chant: and, whereas Life has hitherto been banished³³ from the discussion, I put Life in its true place, at the head of the trio. (And Life I divide into long Life, and happy Life.) The subject is too vast to be dealt with all at once; but I'll give you a peep of it. The rustic³⁴ laborer³⁵ in the South sells his labor for too little money to support life comfortably. That is a foul³⁶ wrong. The rustic laborer in the North has small wages, compared with a pitman, or a cutler; but he has enough for health, and he lives longer and more happily than either the pitman or the cutler; so that account is square, in my view of things. But now dive into the Hillsborough trades, and you will find this just balance of Life, Labor, and Capital regarded in some, but defied in others: a forger³⁷ is paid as much or more than a dry-grinder, though forging is a hard but tolerably healthy trade, and dry-grinding means an early death after fifteen years of disease and misery³⁸. The file-cutters are even more killed and less paid. What is to be done then? Raise the wages of the more homicidal trades! But this could only be done by all the unions acting³⁹ in concert. Now the rival philosophers, who direct the unions, are all against Democritus—that's myself; they set no value on life. And indeed the most intelligent one, Grotait, smiles blandly⁴⁰ on Death, and would grind his scythe⁴¹ for him—AT THE STATEMENT PRICE—because that scythe thins the labor market, and so helps keep up prices.”
 
“Then what can we do? I'm a proof one can't fight the unions.”
 
“Do? Why, lay hold of the stick at the other end. Let Pseudo-Philosophy set the means above the end, and fix its shortsighted eyes on Labor and Capital, omitting Life. (What does it profit a file-cutter if he gains his master's whole capital and loses his own life?) But you and I, Mr. Little, are true philosophers and the work we are about to enter on is—saving cutlers' lives.”
 
“I'd rather help take them.”
 
“Of course; and that is why I made the pounds guineas.”
 
“All right, sir,” said Henry, coloring. “I don't expect to get six guineas a week for whistling my own tune¹⁵. How are we to do the job?”
 
“By putting our heads together. You have, on the side of your temple, a protuberance, which I have noticed in the crania of inventors. So I want you to go round the works, and observe for yourself how Life is thrown gayly away, in a moment, by needless accident, and painfully gnawed⁴³ away by steel-dust, stone grit⁴⁴, sulphuret of lead, etc.; and then cudgel your brain for remedies.”
 
“Sir,” said Henry, “I am afraid I shall not earn my money. My heart is not in the job.”
 
“Revenge is what you would like to be at, not Philanthropy—eh?”
 
“Ay, doctor.” And his black eye flashed fire.
 
“Well, well, that is natural. Humor my crotchet just now, and perhaps I may humor yours a month or two hence. I think I could lay my hand on the fellow who blew you up.”
 
“What, sir! Ah! tell me that, and I'll do as much philanthropy as you like—after—”
 
“After you have punched your fellow-creature's head.”
 
“But it is impossible, sir. How can you know? These acts are kept as secret as the grave.”
 
“And how often has the grave revealed its secrets to observant men? Dr. Donne sauntered about among graves, and saw a sexton turn up a skull⁴⁵. He examined it, found a nail in it, identified the skull, and had the murderess hung. She was safe from the sexton and the rest of the parish, but not from a stray observer. Well, the day you were blown up, I observed something, and arrived at a conclusion, by my art.”
 
“What, physic?”
 
“Oh, dear, no; my other art, my art of arts, that I don't get paid for; the art of putting myself in other people's places. I'll tell you. While you lay on the ground, in Mr. Cheetham's yard, I scanned the workmen's faces. They were full of pity and regret, and were much alike in expression—all but one. That one looked a man awakened⁴⁶ from a dream. His face was wild, stupid, confused, astonished. 'Hallo!' said I, 'why are your looks so unlike the looks of your fellows?' Instantly I put myself in his place. I ceased to be the Democritus, or laughing philosopher of Hillsborough, and became a low uneducated brute⁴⁷ of a workman. Then I asked this brute, viz, myself, why I was staring and glaring in that way, stupidly astonished, at the injured man? 'Were you concerned in the criminal act, ye blackguard?' said I to myself. The next step was to put myself in the place of the criminal. I did so; and I realized that I, the criminal, had done the act to please the unions, and expecting the sympathy of all union workmen to be with me. Also that I, being an ignorant brute, had never pictured to myself what suffering I should inflict. But what was the result? I now saw the sufferer, and did not like my own act; and I found all the sympathy of my fellows went with him, and that I was loathed⁴⁸ and execrated⁴⁹, and should be lynched on the spot were I to own my act. I now whipped back to Dr. Amboyne with the theory thus obtained, and compared it with that face; the two fitted each other, and I saw the criminal before me.”
 
“Good heavens! This is very deep.”
 
“No slop-basin was ever deeper. So leave it for the present, and go to work. Here are cards admitting you, as my commissioner⁵⁰, to all the principal works. Begin with—Stop a moment, while I put myself in your place. Let me see, 'Cheetham's grinders think they have turned me out of Hillsborough. That mortifies⁵¹ a young man of merit like me. Confound 'em! I should like to show them they have not the power to drive me out. Combine how they will, I rise superior. I forge as they could not forge: that was my real crime. Well, I'll be their superior still. I'm their inspector⁵², and their benefactor⁵³, at higher wages than they, poor devils, will ever earn at inspecting and benefiting, or any thing else.' Ah! your color rises. I've hit the right nail, isn't it an excellent and most transmigratory art? Then begin with Cheetham. By-the-bye, the Anomaly has spotted⁵⁴ a defective⁵⁵ grindstone there. Scrutinize⁵⁶ all his departments severely⁵⁷; for no man values his people's lives less than my good friend John Cheetham. Away with you both; and God speed you.”
 
Henry walked down the street with the Anomaly, and tried to gauge⁵⁸ his intellects.
 
“What's your real name, my man?”
 
“Silly Billy.”
 
“Oh, then I'm afraid you can't do much to help me.”
 
“Oh yes, I can, because—”
 
“Because what?”
 
“Because I like you.”
 
“Well, that's lucky, any way.”
 
“Billy can catch trout⁵⁹ when nobody else can,” said the youngster, turning his eyes proudly up to Henry's.
 
“Oh, indeed! But you see that is not exactly what the doctor wants us for.”
 
“Nay⁶⁰; he's wrapped up in trout. If it wasn't for Billy and the trout, he'd die right off.”
 
Henry turned a look of silent pity on the boy, and left him in his pleasing illusion. He wondered that Dr. Amboyne should have tacked⁶¹ this biped on to him.
 
They entered Cheetham's works, and Henry marched grimly into the office, and showed Mr. Bayne his credentials⁶².
 
“Why, Little, you had no need of that.”
 
“Oh, it is as well to have no misunderstanding with your employer's masters. I visit these works for my present employer, Dr. Amboyne, with the consent of Mr. Cheetham, here written.”
 
“Very well, sir,” said Bayne, obsequiously⁶⁴; “and I respectfully solicit⁶⁵ the honor of conducting our esteemed⁶⁶ visitor.”
 
A young man's ill-humor could not stand against this. “Come along, old fellow,” said Henry. “I'm a bear, with a sore heart; but who could be such a brute as quarrel with you? Let us begin with the chaps who drove me out—the grinders. I'm hired to philanthropize 'em—d—n 'em.”
 
They went among the dry-grinders first; and Henry made the following observations. The workman's hair and clothes were powdered with grit and dust from the grindstones. The very air was impregnated with it, and soon irritated his own lungs perceptibly. Here was early death, by bronchitis and lung diseases, reduced to a certainty. But he also learned from the men that the quantity of metal ground off was prodigious⁶⁷, and entered their bodies they scarce knew how. A razor-grinder showed him his shirt: it was a deep buff-color. “There, sir,” said he, “that was clean on yesterday. All the washerwomen in Hillsbro' can't make a shirt of mine any other color but that.” The effect on life, health, and happiness was visible; a single glance revealed rounded shoulders and narrow chests, caused partly by the grinder's position on his horsing, a position very injurious to the organs of breathing, and partly by the two devil's dusts that filled the air; cadaverous faces, the muscles of which betrayed habitual⁶⁸ suffering, coughs short and dry, or with a frothy expectoration peculiar⁶⁹ to the trade. In answer to questions, many complained of a fearful tightness across the chest, of inability to eat or to digest. One said it took him five minutes to get up the factory stairs, and he had to lean against the wall several times.
 
A razor-grinder of twenty-two, with death in his face, told Henry he had come into that room when he was eleven. “It soon takes hold of boys,” said he. “I've got what I shall never get shut on.”
 
Another, who looked ill, but not dying, received Henry's sympathy with a terrible apathy⁷⁰. “I'm twenty-eight,” said he; “and a fork-grinder is an old cock at thirty. I must look to drop off my perch⁷¹ in a year or two, like the rest.”
 
Only one, of all these victims, seemed to trouble his head about whether death and disease could be averted⁷². This one complained that some employers provided fans to drive the dust from the grinder, but Cheetham would not go to the expense.
 
The rest that Henry spoke⁷³ to accepted their fate doggedly⁷⁴. They were ready to complain, but not to move a finger in self-defense. Their fathers had been ground out young, and why not they?
 
Indifferent to life, health, and happiness, they could nevertheless be inflamed⁷⁵ about sixpence a week. In other words, the money-price of their labor was every thing to them, the blood-price nothing.
 
Henry found this out, and it gave him a glimpse into the mind of Amboyne.
 
He felt quite confused, and began to waver between hate, contempt, and pity. Was it really these poor doomed⁷⁶ wretches⁷⁷ who had robbed him of his livelihood? Could men so miscalculate the size of things, as to strike because an inoffensive individual was making complete caring-tools all by himself, and yet not strike, nor even stipulate⁷⁸ for fans, to carry disease and death away from their own vitals? Why it seemed wasting hate, to bestow⁷⁹ it on these blind idiots.
 
He went on to the wet-grinders, and he found their trade much healthier than dry-grinding: yet there were drawbacks. They suffered from the grit whenever a new stone was hung and raced. They were also subject to a canker of the hands, and to colds, coughs, and inflammations, from perspiration⁸⁰ checked by cold draughts⁸¹ and drenched⁸² floors. These floors were often of mud, and so the wet stagnated⁸³ and chilled their feet, while their bodies were very hot. Excellent recipe for filling graves.
 
Here Bayne retired to his books, and Henry proceeded to the saw-grinders, and entered their rooms with no little interest, for they were an envied trade. They had been for many years governed by Grotait, than whom no man in England saw clearer; though such men as Amboyne saw further. Grotait, by a system of Machiavellian⁸⁴ policy, ingeniously devised and carried out, nobly, basely, craftily⁸⁵, forcibly, benevolently⁸⁶, ruthlessly, whichever way best suited the particular occasion, had built a model union; and still, with unremitting zeal⁸⁷ and vigilance, contrived⁸⁸ to keep numbers down and prices up—which is the great union problem.
 
The work was hard, but it was done in a position favorable to the lungs, and the men were healthy, brawny⁸⁹ fellows; one or two were of remarkable⁹⁰ stature⁹¹.
 
Up to this moment Silly Billy had fully⁴² justified⁹² that title. He had stuck to Henry's side like a dog, but with no more interest in the inquiry⁹³ than a calf⁹⁴, indeed, his wandering eye and vacant face had indicated that his scanty⁹⁵ wits were wool-gathering miles from the place that contained his body.
 
But, as soon as he entered the saw-grinders' room, his features lighted up, and his eye kindled⁹⁶. He now took up a commanding position in the center, and appeared to be listening keenly. And he had not listened many seconds before he cried out, “There's the bad music! there! there!” And he pointed⁹⁷ to a grindstone that was turning and doing its work exactly like the others. “Oh, the bad music!” cried Billy. “It is out of tune. It says, 'Murder! murder! Out of tune!'”
 
Henry thought it his duty to inspect the grindstone so vigorously denounced, and, naturally enough, went in front of the grinder. But Billy pulled him violently to the side. “You musn't stand there,” said he. “That is the way they fly when they break, and kill the poor father, and then the mother lets down her hair, and the boy goes crazed.”
 
By this time the men were attracted by the Anomaly's gestures and exclamations⁹⁸, and several left their work, and came round him. “What is amiss, Billy? a flawed stone, eh? which is it?”
 
“Here! here!” said the boy. “This is the wheel of death. Kill it, break it, smash it, before it kills another father.”
 
Henry spoke to the grinder, and asked him if there was anything amiss with the stone.
 
The man seemed singularly uneasy at being spoken to: however he made answer sullenly⁹⁹ that he had seen better ones, and worse ones, and all.
 
Henry was, however, aware, that the breaking of a large grindstone, while revolving¹⁰⁰ by steam power, was a serious, and often a fatal thing; he therefore made a private mark upon the wall opposite the grindstone, and took his excited companion to Bayne. “This poor lad says he has found a defective grindstone. It is impossible for me to test it while it is running. Will you let us into the works when the saw-grinders have left?”
 
Bayne hem'd and haw'd a little, but consented. He would remain behind half an-hour to oblige Little.
 
Henry gave the Anomaly his dinner, and then inspected the file-cutters in two great works. Here he found suicide reduced to a system. Whereof anon.
 
Returning, to keep his appointment with Bayne he met a well-dressed man, who stopped Billy, and accosted¹⁰¹ him kindly¹⁰².
 
Henry strolled on.
 
He heard their voices behind him all the way, and the man stopped at Cheetham's gate, which rather surprised him. “Has Billy told you what we are at?” said he.
 
“Yes. But the very look of him was enough. I know Billy and his ways, better than you do.”
 
“Very likely. What, are you coming in with us?”
 
“If you have no objection.”
 
The door was opened by Bayne in person. He started at the sight of the companion his friend had picked up, and asked him, with marked civility, if there was anything amiss. “Not that I know of,” was the reply. “I merely thought that my experience might be of some little service to you in an inquiry of this kind.”
 
“Not a doubt of it, sir,” said Bayne, and led the way with his lantern, for it was past sunset. On the road, the visitor asked if anybody had marked the accused stone. Henry said he should know it again. “That is right,” said the other.
 
On entering the room, this personage took Billy by the arm, and held him. “Let us have no false alarms,” he said, and blindfolded¹⁰³ the boy with his handkerchief in a moment.
 
And now an examination commenced, which the time and the place rendered curious and striking.
 
It was a long, lofty room; the back part mainly occupied by the drums that were turned by the driving-power. The power was on the floor above, and acted by means of huge bands that came down through holes in the ceiling and turned the drums. From each of these drums came two leather bands, each of which turned a pulley-wheel, and each pulley-wheel a grindstone, to whose axle it was attached; but now the grindstones rested in the troughs, and the great wheel-bands hung limp, and the other bands lay along loose and serpentine¹⁰⁴. In the dim light of a single lamp, it all looked like a gigantic polypus with its limbs extended lazily, and its fingers holding semi-circular claws: for of the grindstones less than half is visible.
 
Billy was a timid creature, and this blindfolding¹⁰⁵ business rather scared him: he had almost to be dragged within reach of these gaunt antennae¹⁰⁶. But each time they got him to touch a grindstone, his body changed its character from shrinking and doubtful, to erect¹⁰⁷ and energetic, and he applied¹⁰⁸ his test. This boy carried with him, night and day, a little wooden hammer, like an auctioneer's, and with this he now tapped each stone several times, searching for the one he had denounced: and, at each experiment, he begged the others to keep away from him and leave him alone with the subject of his experiment; which they did, and held up the lamp and threw the light on him.
 
Six heavy grindstones he tapped, and approved, three he even praised and called “good music.”
 
The seventh he struck twice, first gently, then hard and drew back from it, screaming “Oh, the bad music! Oh, the wheel of death!” and tried to tear the handkerchief from his eyes.
 
“Be quiet, Billy,” said the visitor, calmly; and, putting his arm round the boy's neck, drew him to his side, and detached the handkerchief, all in a certain paternal¹⁰⁹ way that seemed to betoken¹¹⁰ a kindly disposition¹¹¹. But, whilst he was doing this, he said to Henry, “Now—you marked a stone in daylight; which was it?”
 
“No, no, I didn't mark the stone, but I wrote on the wall just opposite. Lend us the light, Bayne. By George! here is my mark right opposite this stone.”
 
“Then Billy's right. Well done, Billy.” He put his hand in his pocket and gave him a new shilling. He then inquired of Bayne, with the air of a pupil seeking advice from a master, whether this discovery ought not to be acted upon.
 
“What would you suggest, sir?” asked Bayne, with equal deference¹¹².
 
“Oh, if I was sure I should not be considered presumptuous¹¹³ in offering my advice, I would say, Turn the stone into the yard, and bang a new one. You have got three excellent ones outside; from Buckhurst quarry¹¹⁴, by the look of them.”
 
“It shall be done, s............