But he had heard Devilsdust for years declare that Stephen
Morley was the deepest head in Mowbray, and though he
regretted the unfortunate weakness in favour of that imaginary
abstraction called Moral Force for which the editor of the
Phalanx was distinguished, still Devilsdust used to say that
if ever the great revolution were to occur by which the rights
of labour were to be recognised, though bolder spirits and
brawnier arms might consummate the change, there was only one
head among them that would be capable when they had gained
their power to guide it for the public weal, and as Devilsdust
used to add, "carry out the thing," and that was Morley.
It was a fine summer day, and Mowedale was as resplendent as
when Egremont amid its beauties first began to muse over the
beautiful. There was the same bloom over the sky, the same
shadowy lustre on the trees, the same sparkling brilliancy on
the waters. A herdsman following some kine was crossing the
stone bridge, and except their lowing as they stopped and
sniffed the current of fresh air in its centre, there was not
a sound.
Suddenly the tramp and hum of a multitude broke upon the
sunshiny silence. A vast crowd with some assumption of an
ill-disciplined order approached from the direction of
Mowbray.
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