She clung to him as she would have clung to some far better nature that day, and was shaken in her composure for the first time.

III.—­Mr. James Harthouse

The Gradgrind party wanting assistance in the House of Commons, Mr. James Harthouse, who was of good family and appearance, and had tried most things and found them a bore, was sent down to Coketown to study the neighbourhood with a view to entering Parliament.

Mr. Bounderby at once pounced upon him, and James Harthouse was introduced to Mrs. Bounderby and her brother.  Tom Gradgrind, junior, brought up under a continuous system of restraint, was a hypocrite, a thief, and, to Mr. James Harthouse, a whelp.

Yet the visitor saw at once that the whelp was the only creature Mrs. Bounderby cared for, and it occurred to him, as time went on, that to win Mrs. Bounderby’s affection (for he made no secret of his contempt for politics), he must devote himself to the whelp.

Mr. Bounderby was proud to have Mr. James Harthouse under his roof, proud to show off his greatness and self-importance to this gentleman from London.

“You’re a gentleman, and I don’t pretend to be one.  You’re a man of family.  I am a bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of rag, tag, and bobtail,” said Mr. Bounderby.

At the same time Mr. Bounderby blustered at his wife and bullied his hands, so that Mr. Harthouse might understand his independence.

One of these hands, Stephen Blackpool, an old, steady, faithful workman, who had been boycotted by his fellows for refusing to join a trade union, was summoned to Mr. Bounderby’s presence in order that Harthouse might see a specimen of the people that had to be dealt with.

Blackpool said he had nought to say about the trade union business; he had given a promise not to join, that was all.

“Not to me, you know!” said Bounderby.

“Oh, no sir; not to you!”

“Here’s a gentleman from London present,” Mr. Bounderby said, pointing at Harthouse.  “A Parliament gentleman.  Now, what do you complain of?”

“I ha’ not come here, sir, to complain.  I were sent for.  Indeed, we are in a muddle, sir.  Look round town—­so rich as ’tis.  Look how we live, and where we live, an’ in what numbers; and look how the mills is always a-goin’, and how they never works us no nigher to any distant object, ‘cepting always, death.  Sir, I cannot, wi’ my little learning, tell the gentleman what will better this; though some working men o’ this town could.  But the strong hand will never do’t; nor yet lettin’ alone will never do’t.  Ratin’ us as so much power and reg’latin’ us as if we was figures in a sum, will never do’t.”

“Now, it’s clear to me,” said Mr. Bounderby, “that you are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance.  And you are such a raspish, ill-conditioned chap that even your own union—­the men who know you best—­will have nothing to do with you.  And I tell you what, I go so far along with them for a novelty, that I’ll have nothing to do with you either.  You can finish off what you’re at, and then go elsewhere.”