In Charles Kingsley's popular novel, "Alton Locke," we find a vivid and truthful picture of the London tailor's workshop, and the slavery of the workmen, which may be quoted here in illustration:— "I stumbled after Mr. Jones up a dark, narrow iron staircase, till we emerged through a trap-door into a garret at the top of the house. I recoiled with disgust at the scene before me; and here I was to work—perhaps through life! A low lean-to room, stifling me with the combined odours of human breath and perspiration, stale beer, the sweet sickly smell of gin, and the sour and hardly less disgusting one of new cloth. On the floor, thick with dust and dirt, scraps of stuff and ends of thread, sat some dozen haggard, untidy, shoeless men, with a mingled look of care and recklessness that made me shudder. The windows were tight closed to keep out the cold winter air; and the condensed breath ran in streams down the panes, checkering the dreary outlook of chimney-tops and smoke. The conductor handed me over to one of the men. "'Here Crossthwaite, take this younker and make a tailor of him. Keep him next you, and prick him up with your needle if he shirks.' "He disappeared down the trap-door, and mechanically, as if in a dream, I sat down by the man and listened to his instructions, kindly enough bestowed. But I did not remain in peace two minutes. A burst of chatter rose as the foreman vanished, and a tall, bloated, sharp-nosed young man next me bawled in my ear— "'I say, young 'un, fork out the tin and pay your footing at Conscrumption Hospital!' "'What do you mean?' "'An't he just green?—Down with the stumpy—a tizzy for a pot of half-and-half.' "'I never drink beer.' "'Then never do,' whispered the man at my side; 'as sure as hell's hell, it's your only chance.' "There was a fierce, deep earnestness in the tone, which made me look up at the speaker, but the other instantly chimed in. "'Oh, yer don't, don't yer, my young Father Mathy! then yer'll soon learn it here if yer want to keep your victuals down.' "'And I have promised to take my wages home to my mother.' "'Oh criminy! hark to that, my coves! here's a chap as is going to take the blunt home to his mammy.' "'Ta'nt much of it the old un'll see,' said another. 'Ven yer pockets it at the Cock and Bottle, my kiddy, yer won't find much of it left o' Sunday mornings.' "'Don't his mother know he's out?' asked another; 'and won't she know it— Ven he's sitting in his glory Half-price at the Vic-tory. Oh no, ve never mentions her—her name is never heard. Certainly not, by no means. Why should it?'