“Sir, I canna, wi’ my little learning an’ my common way, tell the genelman what will better aw this⁠—though some working men o’ this town could, above my powers⁠—but I can tell him what I know will never do ’t. The strong hand will never do ’t. Vict’ry and triumph will never do ’t. Agreeing fur to mak one side unnat’rally awlus and forever right, and toother side unnat’rally awlus and forever wrong, will never, never do ’t. Nor yet lettin alone will never do ’t. Let thousands upon thousands alone, aw leading the like lives and aw faw’en into the like muddle, and they will be as one, and yo will be as anoother, wi’ a black unpassable world betwixt yo, just as long or short a time as sich-like misery can last. Not drawin nigh to fok, wi’ kindness and patience an’ cheery ways, that so draws nigh to one another in their monny troubles, and so cherishes one another in their distresses wi’ what they need themseln⁠—like, I humbly believe, as no people the genelman ha seen in aw his travels can beat⁠—will never do ’t till th’ Sun turns t’ ice.