But everybody in
the city regarded these signs of decay as the best proof of the
prosperity of the place. Commerce and self-interest, they said, had
got the better of violence, and the troubles of the past were whelmed
in the riches that flowed in at their open gates.

Indeed, there was one sect of philosophers in it which taught that it
would be better to forget all the past history of the city, were it not
that its former imperfections taught its present inhabitants how
superior they and their times were, and enabled them to glory over
their ancestors. There were even certain quacks in the city who
advertised pills for enabling people to think well of themselves, and
some few bought of them, but most laughed, and said, with evident
truth, that they did not require them. Indeed, the general theme of
discourse when they met was, how much wiser they were than their
fathers.

Curdie crossed the river, and began to ascend the winding road that led
up to the city. They met a good many idlers, and all stared at them.
It was no wonder they should stare, but there was an unfriendliness in
their looks which Curdie did not like. No one, however, offered them
any molestation: Lina did not invite liberties. After a long ascent,
they reached the principal gate of the city and entered.

The street was very steep, ascending toward the palace, which rose in
great strength above all the houses. Just as they entered, a baker,
whose shop was a few doors inside the gate, came out in his white
apron, and ran to the shop of his friend, the barber, on the opposite
side of the way. But as he ran he stumbled and fell heavily. Curdie
hastened to help him up, and found he had bruised his forehead badly.
He swore grievously at the stone for tripping him up, declaring it was
the third time he had fallen over it within the last month; and saying
what was the king about that he allowed such a stone to stick up
forever on the main street of his royal residence of Gwyntystorm! What
was a king for if he would not take care of his people's heads! And he
stroked his forehead tenderly.

'Was it your head or your feet that ought to bear the blame of your
fall?' asked Curdie.

'Why, you booby of a miner! My feet, of course,' answered the baker.

'Nay, then,' said Curdie, 'the king can't be to blame.'

'Oh, I see!' said the baker. 'You're laying a trap for me. Of course,
if you come to that, it was my head that ought to have looked af