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• What is Imagery Poetry?
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It was very strange to walk through the streets on a Sunday morning, and note how few of them the barbarous jangling of bells that was driving the sick and nervous mad, called away from their own quarter, from their own close rooms, from the corners of their own streets, where they lounged listlessly, gazing at all the church and chapel going, as at a thing with which they had no manner of concern.

Nor was it merely the stranger who noticed this, because there was a native organization in Coketown itself, whose members were to be heard of in the House of Commons every session, indignantly petitioning for acts of parliament that should make these people religious by main force. Then came the Teetotal Society, who complained that these same people would get drunk, and showed in tabular statements that they did get drunk, and proved at tea parties that no inducement, human or Divine except a medal , would induce them to forego their custom of getting drunk.

Then came the experienced chaplain of the jail, with more tabular statements, outdoing all the previous tabular statements, and showing that the same people would resort to low haunts, hidden from the public eye, where they heard low singing and saw low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A. Then came Mr. Gradgrind and Mr. Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present moment walking through Coketown, and both eminently practical, who could, on occasion, furnish more tabular statements derived from their own personal experience, and illustrated by cases they had known and seen, from which it clearly appeared—in short, it was the only clear thing in the case—that these same people were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that do what you would for them they were never thankful for it, gentlemen; that they were restless, gentlemen; that they never knew what they wanted; that they lived upon the best, and bought fresh butter; and insisted on Mocha coffee, and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied and unmanageable.

In short, it was the moral of the old nursery fable:. There was an old woman, and what do you think? She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink; Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet, And yet this old woman would NEVER be quiet. 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? Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more respecting it.

So they stopped for a moment, looking about. Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr. Gradgrind recognized.

What is Imagery Poetry?

Where are you going! The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr. How dare you dash against—everybody—in this manner? Bounderby with this. I never looked at her, sir. I asked her if she would know how to define a horse to-morrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked.

Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along. The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying? There was no rope-dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larruped with the rope.

Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as Mr. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago.

She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public-house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it. Bounderby, entering last with his metallic laugh. Beneath that inscription again, in a flowing scroll, the painter had touched off the lines:. Framed and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy little bar, was another Pegasus—a theatrical one—with real gauze let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and his ethereal harness made of red silk.

As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign, and as it had not grown light enough within to see the picture, Mr.

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Bounderby received no offence from these idealities. They followed the girl up some steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, and stopped in the dark while she went on for a candle. They expected every moment to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly trained performing dog had not barked when the girl and the candle appeared together. It was a mean, shabbily furnished room, with a bed in it.

They heard the doors of rooms above, opening and shutting as Sissy went from one to another in quest of her father; and presently they heard voices expressing surprise. She came bounding down again in a great hurry, opened a battered and mangy old hair trunk, found it empty, and looked round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror. Before Mr. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair, brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre.

His legs were very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr.

Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth, and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy.

Childers, glancing round the room. You may or you may not be aware for perhaps you have not been much in the audience , that Jupe has missed his tip very often, lately. Gradgrind, glancing at the potent Bounderby for assistance. Childers interpreted.

Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him. Get out, get out! Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. You were going to give me a message for Jupe? Do you know much of him? He was goosed last night, he was goosed the night before last, he was goosed to-day. Gradgrind, forcing the word out of himself, with great solemnity and reluctance.

Childers, superciliously throwing the interpretation over his shoulder, and accompanying it with a shake of his long hair—which all shook at once. A man so fond of his daughter, that he runs away from her! This is devilish good! I know what these things are. You may be astonished to hear it, but my mother—ran away from me.

Do I excuse her for it? Have I ever excused her for it?

Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. Childers, facing about. You have got some building of your own I dare say, now?

Eyeing Mr. Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her. Because they were never asunder. Both Mr. Childers and Master Kidderminster walked in a curious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees.

Gradgrind, approvingly. Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. Nor I! He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here—and a bit of writing for her, there—and a bit of ciphering for her, somewhere else—these seven years. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr. From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl.

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I suppose, however, he had this move in his mind—he was always half-cracked—and then considered her provided for. Still, if her father really has left her, without any connivance on her part—Bounderby, let me have a word with you.

Upon this, Mr. Childers politely betook himself, with his equestrian walk, to the landing outside the door, and there stood stroking his face, and softly whistling. While thus engaged, he overheard such phrases in Mr. I say no. I advise you not. I say by no means. Think of it, Bounderby, in that point of view.

Childers, gradually insinuated themselves and him into the room.