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Updated: August 20, 2024
At this moment, Stephen Morley, for the reader has doubtless discovered that the stranger who held colloquy with the colliers was the friend of Walter Gerard, arrived at the tommy-shop, which was about half-way between the house where he had passed the night and Wodgate.
The Wodgate girl, with a back like a grasshopper, of the Baptist school religion, who had married Tummas, once a pupil of the Bishop and still his fervent follower, although he had cut open his pupil's head, was the daughter of a man who had worked many years in Diggs' field, had suffered much under his intolerable yoke, and at the present moment was deep in his awful ledger.
And the lank, haggard youth laughed merrily, as if he had been recounting a series of the happiest adventures. "But is there no redress for such iniquitous oppression," said Morley, who had listened with astonishment to this complacent statement. "Is there no magistrate to apply to?" "No no," said the filer with an air of obvious pride, "we don't have no magistrates at Wodgate.
In the first place it is a real aristocracy; it is privileged, but it does something for its privileges. It is distinguished from the main body not merely by name. It is the most knowing class at Wodgate; it possesses indeed in its way complete knowledge; and it imparts in its manner a certain quantity of it to those whom it guides. Thus it is an aristocracy that leads, and therefore a fact.
"Come don't you preach," said the Chartist. "The Charter is a thing the people can understand, especially when they are masters of the country; but as for moral force, I should like to know how I could have marched from Wodgate to Mowbray with that on my banner." "Wodgate," said Morley, "that's a queer place." "Wodgate," said Hatton, "what Wodgate is that?"
"I'm at home," said Mr Nixon, "but 'tis the first time I ever heard Hell-house Yard called Wodgate." "It's called so in joggraphy," said Juggins. "But you hay'nt going to Hell-house Yard this time of night!" said Mr Nixon. "I'd as soon think of going down the pit with the windlass turned by lushy Bob." "Tayn't a journey for Christians," said Juggins.
No wages can tempt the Wodgate man from his native home, that squatters' seat which soon assumed the form of a large village, and then in turn soon expanded into a town, and at the present moment numbers its population by swarming thousands, lodged in the most miserable tenements in the most hideous burgh in the ugliest country in the world. But it has its enduring spell.
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