Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any analogy between the case of the Coketown population and the case of the little Gradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sober senses and acquainted with figures, are to be told at this time of day, that one of the foremost elements in the existence of the Coketown working-people had been for scores of years, deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew within them for some physical relief⁠—some relaxation, encouraging good humour and good spirits, and giving them a vent⁠—some recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest dance to a stirring band of music⁠—some occasional light pie in which even M’Choakumchild had no finger⁠—which craving must and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were repealed?

“This man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t quite know Pod’s End,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Which is it, Bounderby?”