Alton Locke, Tailor and Poet.

Charles Kingsley.

Characters:

Time, 1830.

A. L. Mr. Crossthwaite, I want to speak to you. I want you to advise me.

Mr. C. I have known that a long time.

A. L. Then why did you never say a kind word to me?

Mr. C. I was waiting to see whether you were worth it. Besides, I wanted to see whether you trusted me enough to ask me. Now you’ve broke the ice at last, in with you head and ears, and see what you can fish out.

A. L. I am very unhappy.

Mr. C. That’s no new disorder, as I know of.

A. L. No; but I think the reason I am unhappy is a strange one; at least, I never read of but one person else in the same way. I want to educate myself and I can’t.

Mr. C. You must have read precious little, then, if you think yourself in a strange way. Bless the boy’s heart! And what the dickens do you want to be educating yourself for? If you had one-tenth the trouble taken with you that is taken with every pig-headed son of an aristocrat—

A. L. Am I clever?

Mr. C. Clever? What, haven’t you found that out yet? Don’t try to put that on me!

A. L. Really, I never thought of it.

Mr. C. More simpleton you! I heard said the other day that you were a thorough young genius.

A. L. It sounds very grand, and I should certainly like to have a good education. But I can’t see whose injustice keeps me out of one if I can’t afford to pay for it.

Mr. C. Whose? Why, the parsons’, to be sure. They’ve got the monopoly of education in England, and get their bread by it. Of course, it’s their interest to keep up the price of their commodity, and let no man have a taste of it who can’t pay down handsomely.

A. L. But I thought the clergy were doing so much to help the poor. At least, I hear all the dissenting ministers grumbling at their continual interference.

Mr. C. Ay, educating them to make them slaves and bigots. They don’t teach them what they teach their own sons.

A. L. But there are countless stories of great Englishmen who have risen from the lowest ranks.

Mr. C. Ay; but where are the stories of those who have not risen? Dead men tell no tales; and this old whited sepulcher, society, ain’t going to turn informer against itself.

A. L. I trust and hope that if God intends me to rise he will open the way for me. Perhaps the very struggles and sorrows of a poor genius may teach him more than ever wealth and prosperity could.

Mr. C. True, Alton, my boy, and that’s my only comfort. It does make men of us, this bitter battle of life. We workingmen, when we do come out of the furnace, come out steel and granite, and woe to the papier-maché gentleman that runs against us!