Two can play at that game. Cousin George in the mean time, though taking no part in the conversation—a circumstance which strikes us as rather odd—has likewise fallen in love with the beautiful apparition, and, after her departure, drives Alton "mad with jealousy and indignation," by talking about the lady rather rapturously, as a young snob of his kidney is pretty certain to do under circumstances such as are described. The kinsmen part, and Alton returns to the garret full of the thoughts of Lillian. She becomes his muse, and with the aid of a stray volume of Tennyson, he sets himself sedulously to the task of elaborating poetry. Sandy Mackaye, his censor, betrays no great admiration for his earlier efforts, which indeed are rather milk-and-water, and recommends him to become a poet for the people, pointing out to him, in various scenes of wretchedness which they visit, the true elements of the sublime. The graphic power and real pathos of those scenes afford a marvellous contrast to the rubbish which is profusely interspersed through the volumes. It is much to be regretted that an author, who can write so naturally and well, should allow himself to mar his narrative and destroy its interest, by the introduction not only of absurdities in point of incident, but of whole chapters of mystical jargon, inculcating doctrines which, we are quite sure, are not distinctly comprehended even by himself. He has got much to learn, if not to unlearn, before he can do full justice to his natural powers. So long as he addicts himself, both in thought and language, to the use of general terms, he must fail in producing that effect which he otherwise might easily achieve.
Alton then, though still a tailor, becomes a poet; and, after two years and a half incubation, produces a manuscript volume, enough to fill a small octavo, under the somewhat spoliative and suspicious title of Songs of the Highways. Still no talk of publishing. Then comes a movement among the tailors, caused by Alton's master determining to follow the example of others, and reduce wages. A private meeting of the operatives is held, at which John Crossthwaite the Flint counsels resistance and a general strike; but the faint-hearted Dungs fly from him, and he finds no supporter save Alton. The two resolve, coûte qui coûte, to hold out, and Crossthwaite takes his friend that night to a Chartist meeting, where he is sworn to all the points.
Never more did Alton bury needle in the hem of a garment. Nobody would give employment to the two protesters; so John Crossthwaite, being a man of a practical tendency, and not bad at statistics, determined to turn an honest penny by writing for a Chartist newspaper, and would have persuaded Alton to do the same, had not Sandy Mackaye interposed, and very properly represented that his young friend was too juvenile to become a martyr. So it was fixed at a general council that Alton should prepare his bundle, including his precious manuscripts, and start on foot for Cambridge, where his cousin was, to see whether he could not procure help to have his volume launched into the world. We must pass over his journey to Cambridge, interesting as it is, to arrive at his cousin's rooms. There he finds George with half-a-dozen of his companions all equipped for a rowing match, and just about to start. George behaves like a trump, orders him luncheon, and then departs for the river, whither Alton follows, with the intention of seeing the fun. His behaviour is a libel on the Cockneys. He sees Lillian on the opposite side of the river, and makes an ass of himself; then he bursts into ecstasies at the sight of the boats, feeling "my soul stirred up to a sort of sweet madness, not merely by the shouts and cheers of the mob around me, but by the loud, fierce pulse of the rowlocles; the swift whispering rush of the long, snake-like eight oars; the swirl and gurgle of the water on their wake; the grim, breathless silence of the straining rowers. My blood boiled over, and fierce tears swelled into my eyes; for I, too, was a man and an Englishman." The author should have added—and a tailor to boot. So Alton, like an idiot, begins to roar and shout, and is ridden over by a young sprig of nobility, in whose way he insists on standing; and is soused in the river; and insults another young nobleman, Lord Lynedale, of whom more anon, who picks him up, and out of good nature offers him half-a-crown: all which shows, or is intended to show, that our friend is a splendid specimen of the aristocracy of nature. Well—to cut a long story short—he returns to his cousin's rooms, is kindly received, introduced to a supper party of Cantabs, and afterwards to Lord Lynedale, for whom he corrects certain proofs, and receives a sovereign in return. The said Lord Lynedale is engaged to a lady, the same with "the deeper voice than most"—not Lillian—who accosted him in the Dulwich Gallery. She is the niece of a Dean Winnstay, Lillian being the daughter. They meet. She recognises him, and he favours us with a sketch of Miss Eleanor Staunton. "She was beautiful, but with the face and figure rather of a Juno than a Venus—dark, imperious, restless—the lips almost too firmly set, the brow almost too massive and projecting—a queen, rather to be feared than loved—but a queen still, as truly royal as the man into whose face she was looking up with eager admiration and delight, as he pointed out to her eloquently the several beauties of the landscape." So Alton is introduced to the Dean, and finally asked down to the deanery.
The result, of course, is, that he becomes, if possible, ten times more deeply in love than before with Venus Victrix, who is naughty enough to flirt with Snip, and to astonish him by singing certain of his songs. As a matter of course, he immediately conjures up an imaginary Eden, with an arbour of cucumber vine, in which he, Alton, and she, Lillian, are to figure as Adam and Eve—we trust in such becoming costume as his previous pursuits must have given him the taste to devise. Miss Staunton, however, does not appear to relish the liaison, and rather throws cold water upon it, which damper Locke seems to attribute to jealousy! though it afterwards turns out to have been dictated by a higher feeling; namely, her conviction that Lillian was too shallow-hearted to be a fit object for the affections of the inspired tailor!! The old Dean meanwhile, quite unconscious of the ravages which young Remnants is making in his family circle, bores him with lectures on entomology, and finally agrees to patronise his poems, and head a subscription list, provided he will expunge certain passages which savour of republican principles. Alton consents; and as a reward for his so doing, Miss Staunton pronounces him to be "weak," and Lillian deplores that he has spoilt his best verses, which her cousin had set to music. Reading these things, we begin to comprehend the deep anxiety of Petruchio to get the tailor out of his house,—
"Hortensio; say thou wilt see the tailor paid:
Go, take it hence; begone, and say no more."
Who knows what effect the flatteries of an insinuator like Alton Locke might have had upon the lively Katherina?
The list, however, is not yet made up—so Alton returns to London, and is entered upon the staff of the Weekly Warwhoop, a Chartist journal, conducted by one Mr O'Flynn, a red-hot Hibernian and republican. The engagement is not satisfactory. The editor has a playful habit of mutilating the articles of his contributors, and sometimes of putting in additional pepper, so as to adapt them to his own peculiar tastes and purposes; and Alton Locke finds that it goes rather against his conscience to libel the Church of England and the Universities by inventing falsehoods by the score, as he is earnestly entreated to do by his uncompromising chief. There is nothing like a peep behind the scenes. Alton begins to suspect that he may have been misled regarding matters of political faith, and that it is quite possible for a man to call himself a patriot, and yet be a consummate blackguard. Touching religious tenets, also, he has some qualms; a discourse which he happens to hear from a peripatetic idiot of the Emersonian school having put new notions into his head, and he is especially attracted by the dogma that "sin is only a lower form of good." He next breaks with O'Flynn, encounters his cousin George, now in orders, though certainly quite unfitted for the duties of his profession; and a regular quarrel ensues on the subject of Lillian, whom George is determined to win. Poetical justice demands that both whelps should be soused in the kennel. Alton gets a new engagement from "the editor of a popular journal of the Howitt and Eliza Cook school;" and at last brings out his poems, which, though considerably castrated, have the good fortune to take with the public. Then he is asked to be at the Dean's town residence, to meet with divers "leaders of scientific discovery in this wondrous age; and more than one poet, too, over whose works I had gloated, whom I had worshipped in secret." In short, he felt that "he was taking his place there among the holy guild of authors." Nor are these all his triumphs. Lillian smiles upon him; and Lady Ellerton, formerly Miss Staunton, who has since been wedded to Lord Lynedale, and raised to a higher title in the peerage, introduces him to the —— ambassador, evidently the Chevalier Bunsen, who instantly invites him to Germany! "I am anxious," quoth the ambassador, "to encourage a holy spiritual fraternisation between the two great branches of the Teutonic stock, by welcoming all brave young English spirits to their ancient fatherland. Perhaps, hereafter, your kind friends here will be able to lend you to me"!! So the brave young English spirit goes home that night in a perfect whirl of excitement. In the morning comes reaction. Alton, on going to leave his card for the Dean, finds the house shut up, and is informed that the young Earl of Ellerton has been killed by a fall from his horse, and that the whole family are gone to the country. "That day was the first of June 1845. On the 10th of April 1848, I saw Lillian Winnstay again. Dare I write my history between these two points of time?" By all means: and, if you please, get on a little faster.
It will naturally occur to the reader that Messrs Crossthwaite and Mackaye could not be remarkably well pleased at witnessing their friend's intromissions with the aristocracy. The docking of the poems had been the first symptom of retrogression from the Chartist camp; the acceptance of invitations to exclusive soirées was a still more grievous offence. Accordingly, Alton began to suffer for his sins. His old employer, O'Flynn, was down upon him in the columns of the Warwhoop, tomahawking him for his verses, ridiculing his pretensions, exposing his private history, and denouncing him as no better than a renegade. Then, somebody sent him a pair of plush breeches, in evident token of his flunkyism—a doubleedged and cruel insult which nearly drove him distracted. Old Sandy Mackaye, over his pipe and tumbler of toddy, descanted upon the degeneracy of the age, and John Crossthwaite told him in so many words that he had disappointed his expectations most miserably. Under these circumstances, Alton felt that there was nothing for him but to redeem his character as a Chartist by some daring step, even though it brought him within the iron grasp of the law. An opportunity soon presented itself. There was distress among the agricultural labourers in several districts; a monster meeting was to be held; and the club to which Alton belonged determined to send down a delegate to represent them. Alton instantly proffered himself for the somewhat perilous post: and the warmth of his protestations and entreaties overcame the suspicions, and removed the jealousy, of his comrades. Even O'Flynn pronounced him to be "a broth of a boy." In the midst of the meeting, however, he was startled by a glimpse of the countenance of his cousin George, who, it afterwards appears, had come thither as a spy, armed with a bowie-knife and revolver!
As a delegate, therefore, Alton goes down to the place of rendezvous, in the neighbourhood of the Deanery, where he had once been hospitably entertained; listens to several speeches on the low rate of wages, which he justly considers to be rather purposeless and incoherent; strives to inculcate the principles of the Charter, which the agriculturists won't listen to; and finally, by a flaming harangue on the rights of man, sends them off in a body to a neighbouring hall to plunder, burn, and destroy. Of course he is actuated by none but the most praiseworthy and philanthropic motives. The mob do their work as usual, and proceed to arson and pillage; Mr Locke, who has accompanied them, all the while preaching respect to the sacred rights of property. A handful of yeomanry approach; the mob begins to scamper; and the misunderstood patriot and poet is cut down in the act of rescuing a desk from the clutches of an agricultural Turpin. He is tried, of course, for the offence; John Crossthwaite and Mackaye are brought to speak to character, but they break down under the cross-examination. An extempore witness, however, gives evidence in his favour, which suffices to clear him of the most serious part of the charge. He intends to make a magnificent speech in his defence, and has actually got through three sentences, "looking fixedly and proudly at the reverend face opposite," when a slight deviation of the eye reveals to him the form of Lillian!
"There she was! There she had been the whole time—right opposite to me, close to the judge—cold, bright, curious—smiling! And, as our eyes met, she turned away, and whispered gaily something to a young man beside her.