Stephen Blackpool

           IentertainaweakideathattheEnglishpeopleareashard-workedasanypeopleuponwhomthesunshines.Iacknowledgetothisridiculousidiosyncrasy,asareasonwhyIwouldgivethemalittlemoreplay.

           InthehardestworkingpartofCoketown;intheinnermostfortificationsofthatuglycitadel,whereNaturewasasstronglybrickedoutaskillingairsandgaseswerebrickedin;attheheartofthelabyrinthofnarrowcourtsuponcourts,andclosestreetsuponstreets,whichhadcomeintoexistencepiecemeal,everypieceinaviolenthurryforsomeoneman’spurpose,andthewholeanunnaturalfamily,shouldering,andtrampling,andpressingoneanothertodeath;inthelastclosenookofthisgreatexhaustedreceiver,wherethechimneys,forwantofairtomakeadraught,werebuiltinanimmensevarietyofstuntedandcrookedshapes,asthougheveryhouseputoutasignofthekindofpeoplewhomightbeexpectedtobeborninit;amongthemultitudeofCoketown,genericallycalled‘theHands,’—aracewhowouldhavefoundmorefavourwithsomepeople,ifProvidencehadseenfittomakethemonlyhands,or,likethelowercreaturesoftheseashore,onlyhandsandstomachs—livedacertainStephenBlackpool,fortyyearsofage.

           Stephenlookedolder,buthehadhadahardlife.Itissaidthateverylifehasitsrosesandthorns;thereseemed,however,tohavebeenamisadventureormistakeinStephen’scase,wherebysomebodyelsehadbecomepossessedofhisroses,andhehadbecomepossessedofthesamesomebodyelse’sthornsinadditiontohisown.