_Reigate, Wednesday Evening, 19th October, 1825._
Having some business at Hartswood, near Reigate, I intended to come off
this morning on horseback, along with my son Richard, but it rained so
furiously the last night, that we gave up the horse project for to-day,
being, by appointment, to be at Reigate by ten o'clock to-day: so that
we came off this morning at five o'clock, in a post-chaise, intending to
return home and take our horses. Finding, however, that we cannot quit
this place till Friday, we have now sent for our horses, though the
weather is dreadfully wet. But we are under a farmhouse roof, and the
wind may whistle and the rain fall as much as they like.
_Reigate, Thursday Evening, 20th October._
Having done my business at Hartswood to-day about eleven o'clock, I went
to a sale at a farm, which the farmer is quitting. Here I had a view of
what has long been going on all over the country. The farm, which
belongs to _Christ's Hospital_, has been held by a man of the name of
Charington, in whose family the lease has been, I hear, a great number
of years. The house is hidden by trees. It stands in the Weald of
Surrey, close by the _River Mole_, which is here a mere rivulet, though
just below this house the rivulet supplies the very prettiest flour-mill
I ever saw in my life.
Everything about this farmhouse was formerly the scene of _plain
manners_ and _plentiful living_. Oak clothes-chests, oak bedsteads, oak
chests of drawers, and oak tables to eat on, long, strong, and well
supplied with joint stools. Some of the things were many hundreds of
years old. But all appeared to be in a state of decay and nearly of
_disuse_. There appeared to have been hardly any _family_ in that house,
where formerly there were, in all probability, from ten to fifteen men,
boys, and maids: and, which was the worst of all, there was a _parlour_.
Aye, and a _carpet_ and _bell-pull_ too! One end of the front of this
once plain and substantial house had been moulded into a "_parlour_;"
and there was the mahogany table, and the fine chairs, and the fine
glass, and all as bare-faced upstart as any stock-jobber in the kingdom
can boast of. And there were the decanters, the glasses, the
"dinner-set" of crockery-ware, and all just in the true stock-jobber
style. And I dare say it has been _'Squire_ Charington and the _Miss_
Charington's; and not plain Master Charington, and his son Hodge, and
his daughter Betty Charington, all of whom this accursed system has, in
all likelihood, transmuted into a species of mock gentlefolks, while it
has ground the labourers down into real slaves. Why do not farmers now
_feed_ and _lodge_ their work-people, as they did formerly? Because they
cannot keep them _upon so little_ as they give them in wages. This is
the real cause of the change. There needs no more to prove that the lot
of the working classes has become worse than it formerly was. This fact
alone is quite sufficient to settle this point. All the world knows,
that a number of people, boarded in the same house, and at the same
table, can, with as good food, be boarded much cheaper than those
persons divided into twos, threes, or fours, can be boarded. This is a
well-known truth: therefore, if the farmer now shuts his pantry against
his labourers, and pays them wholly in money, is it not clear, that he
does it because he thereby gives them a living _cheaper_ to him; that is
to say, a _worse_ living than formerly? Mind, he has _a house_ for them;
a kitchen for them to sit in, bed rooms for them to sleep in, tables,
and stools, and benches, of everlasting duration. All these he has: all
these _cost him nothing_; and yet so much does he gain by pinching them
in wages, that he lets all these things remain as of no use, rather than
feed labourers in the house. Judge, then, of the _change_ that has taken
place in the condition of these labourers! And be astonished, if you
can, at the _pauperism_ and the _crimes_ that now disgrace this once
happy and moral England.
The land produces, on an average, what it always produced; but there is
a new distribution of the produce. This 'Squire Charington's father
used, I dare say, to sit at the head of the oak-table along with his
men, say grace to them, and cut up the meat and the pudding. He might
take a cup of _strong beer_ to himself, when they had none; but that was
pretty nearly all the difference in their manner of living. So that
_all_ lived well. But the _'Squire_ had many _wine-decanters_ and
_wine-glasses_ and "a _dinner set_" and a "_breakfast set_," and
"_desert knives_:" and these evidently imply carryings on and a
consumption that must of necessity have greatly robbed the long oak
table if it had remained fully tenanted. That long table could not share
in the work of the decanters and the dinner set. Therefore, it became
almost untenanted; the labourers retreated to hovels, called cottages;
and, instead of board and lodging, they got money; so little of it as to
enable the employer to drink wine; but, then, that he might not reduce
them to _quite starvation_, they were enabled to come to him, in the
_king's name_, and demand food _as paupers_. And, now, mind, that which
a man receives in the _king's name_, he knows well he has _by force_;
and it is not in nature that he should _thank_ anybody for it, and least
of all the party _from whom it is forced_. Then, if this sort of force
be insufficient to obtain him enough to eat and to keep him warm, is it
surprising, if he think it no great offence against God (who created no
man to starve) to use another sort of FORCE more within his own control?
Is it, in short, surprising, if he resort to _theft_ and _robbery_?
This is not only the _natural_ progress, but it _has been_ the progress
in England. The blame is not justly imputed to 'Squire Charington and
his like: the blame belongs to the infernal stock-jobbing system. There
was no reason to expect, that farmers would not endeavour to keep pace,
in point of show and luxury, with fund-holders, and with all the tribes
that _war_ and _taxes_ created. Farmers were not the authors of the
mischief; and _now_ they are compelled to shut the labourers out of
their houses, and to pinch them in their wages in order to be able to
pay their own taxes; and, besides this, the manners and the principles
of the working class are so changed, that a sort of self-preservation
bids the farmer (especially in some counties) to keep them from beneath
his roof.
I could not quit this farmhouse without reflecting on the thousands of
scores of bacon and thousands of bushels of bread that had been eaten
from the long oak-table which, I said to myself, is now perhaps, going
at last, to the bottom of a bridge that some stock-jobber will stick up
over an artificial river in his cockney garden. "_By ---- it shan't_,"
said I, almost in a real passion: and so I requested a friend to buy it
for me; and if he do so, I will take it to Kensington, or to
Fleet-street, and keep it for the good it has done in the world.
When the old farmhouses are down (and down they must come in time) what
a miserable thing the country will be! Those that are now erected are
mere painted shells, with a Mistress within, who is stuck up in a place
she calls a _parlour_, with, if she have children, the "young ladies and
gentlemen" about her: some showy chairs and a sofa (a _sofa_ by all
means): half a dozen prints in gilt frames hanging up: some swinging
book-shelves with novels and tracts upon them: a dinner brought in by a
girl that is perhaps better "educated" than she: two or three nick-nacks
to eat instead of a piece of bacon and a pudding: the house too neat for
a dirty-shoed carter to be allowed to come into; and everything
proclaiming to every sensible beholder, that there is here a constant
anxiety to make a _show_ not warranted by the reality. The children
(which is the worst part of it) are all too clever to _work_: they are
all to be _gentlefolks_. Go to plough! Good God! What, "young gentlemen"
go to plough! They become _clerks_, or some skimmy-dish thing or other.
They flee from the dirty _work_ as cunning horses do from the bridle.
What misery is all this! What a mass of materials for producing that
general and _dreadful convulsion_ that must, first or last, come and
blow this funding and jobbing and enslaving and starving system to
atoms!
I was going, to-day, by the side of a plat of ground, where there was a
very fine flock of _turkeys_. I stopped to admire them, and observed to
the owner how fine they were, when he answered, "We owe them entirely
_to you_, Sir, for we never raised one till we read your _Cottage
Economy_." I then told him, that we had, this year, raised two broods at
Kensington, one black and one white, one of nine and one of eight; but,
that, about three weeks back, they appeared to become dull and pale
about the head; and, that, therefore, I sent them to a farmhouse, where
they recovered instantly, and the broods being such a contrast to each
other in point of colour, they were now, when prowling over a grass
field amongst the most agreeable sights that I had ever seen. I intended
of course, to let them get their full growth at Kensington, where they
were in a grass plat about fifteen yards square, and where I thought
that the feeding of them, in great abundance, with lettuces and other
greens from the garden, together with grain, would carry them on to
perfection. But I found that I was wrong; and that, though you may raise
them to a certain size, in a small place and with such management, they
then, if so much confined, begin to be sickly. Several of mine began
actually to droop: and, the very day they were sent into the country,
they became as gay as ever, and, in three days, all the colour about
their heads came back to them.
This town of Reigate had, in former times, a Priory, which had
considerable estates in the neighbourhood; and this is brought to my
recollection by a circumstance which has recently taken place in this
very town. We all know how long it has been the fashion for us to take
it for _granted_, that the monasteries were _bad things_; but, of late,
I have made some hundreds of thousands of very good Protestants begin to
suspect, that monasteries were better than _poor-rates_, and that monks
and nuns, who _fed the poor_, were better than sinecure and pension men
and women, who _feed upon the poor_. But, how came the monasteries! How
came this that was at Reigate, for instance? Why, it was, if I recollect
correctly, _founded by a Surrey gentleman_, who gave this spot and other
estates to it, and who, as was usual, provided that masses were to be
said in it for his soul and those of others, and that it should, as
usual, give aid to the poor and needy.
Now, upon the face of the transaction, what _harm_ could this do the
community? On the contrary, it must, one would think, do it _good_; for
here was this estate given to a set of landlords who never could quit
the spot; who could have no families; who could save no money; who could
hold no private property; who could make no will; who must spend all
their income at Reigate and near it; who as was the custom, fed the
poor, administered to the sick, and taught some, at least, of the
people, _gratis_. This, upon the face of the thing, seems to be a very
good way of disposing of a rich man's estate.
"Aye, but," it is said, "he left his estate away from his relations."
That is not _sure_, by any means. The contrary is fairly to be presumed.
Doubtless, it was the custom for Catholic Priests, before they took
their leave of a dying rich man, to advise him to think of the _Church
and the Poor_; that is to say to exhort him to bequeath something to
them; and this has been made a monstrous charge against that Church. It
is surprising how blind men are, when they have a mind to be blind; what
despicable dolts they are, when they desire to be cheated. We, of the
Church of England, must have a special deal of good sense and of
modesty, to be sure, to rail against the Catholic Church on this
account, when our Common Prayer Book, copied from an Act of Parliament,
_commands our Parsons to do just the same thing_!
Ah! say the Dissenters, and particularly the Unitarians; that queer
sect, who will have all the wisdom in the world to themselves; who will
believe and won't believe; who will be Christians and who won't have a
_Christ_; who will laugh at you, if you believe in the Trinity, and who
would (if they could) boil you in oil if you do not believe in the
Resurrection: "Oh!" say the Dissenters, "we know very well, that your
_Church Parsons_ are commanded to get, if they can, dying people to
give their money and estates to the Church and _the poor_, as they call
the concern, though the _poor_, we believe, come in for very little
which is got in this way. But what is _your Church_? We are the real
Christians; and we, upon our souls, never play such tricks; never, no
never, terrify old women out of their stockings full of guineas." "And,
as to us," say the Unitarians, "we, the most _liberal_ creatures upon
earth; we, whose virtue is indignant at the tricks by which the Monks
and Nuns got legacies from dying people to the injury of heirs and other
relations; we, who are the really enlightened, the truly consistent, the
benevolent, the disinterested, the exclusive patentees of the _salt of
the earth_, which is sold only at, or by express permission from our old
and original warehouse and manufactory, Essex-street, in the Strand,
first street on the left, going from Temple Bar towards Charing Cross;
we defy you to show that Unitarian Parsons...."
Stop your protestations and hear my Reigate anecdote, which, as I said
above, brought the recollection of the Old Priory into my head. The
readers of the Register heard me, several times, some years ago, mention
Mr. Baron Maseres, who was, for a great many years, what they call
Cursitor Baron of the Exchequer. He lived partly in London and partly at
Reigate, for more, I believe, than half a century; and he died, about
two years ago, or less, leaving, I am told, _more than a quarter of a
million of money_. The Baron came to see me, in Pall Mall, in 1800. He
always came frequently to see me, wherever I was in London; not by any
means omitting to _come to see me in Newgate_, where I was imprisoned
for two years, with a thousand pounds fine and seven years heavy bail,
for having expressed my indignation at the flogging of Englishmen, in
the heart of England, under a guard of German bayonets; and to Newgate
he always came in _his wig and gown_, in order, as he said, to show his
abhorrence of the sentence. I several times passed a week, or more, with
the Baron at his house, at Reigate, and might have passed many more, if
my time and taste would have permitted me to accept of his invitations.
Therefore, I knew the Baron well. He was a most conscientious man; he
was when I first knew him, still a very clever man; he retained all his
faculties to a very great age; in 1815, I think it was, I got a letter
from him, written in a firm hand, correctly as to grammar, and ably as
to matter, and he must then have been little short of ninety. He never
was a bright man; but had always been a very sensible, just and humane
man, and a man too who always cared a great deal for the public good;
and he was the only man that I ever heard of, who refused to have his
salary augmented, when an augmentation was offered, and when all other
such salaries were augmented. I had heard of this: I asked him about it
when I saw him again; and he said: "There was no _work_ to be added, and
I saw no justice in adding to the salary. It must," added he, "be _paid
by somebody_, and the more I take, the less that somebody must have."
He did not save money for money's sake. He saved it because his habits
would not let him spend it. He kept a house in Rathbone Place, chambers
in the Temple, and his very pretty place at Reigate. He was by no means
stingy, but his scale and habits were cheap. Then, consider, too, a
bachelor of nearly a hundred years old. His father left him a fortune,
his brother (who also died a very old bachelor), left him another; and
the money lay in the funds, and it went on doubling itself over and over
again, till it became that immense mass which we have seen above, and
which, when the Baron was making his will, he had neither Catholic
priest nor Protestant parson to exhort him to leave to the church and
the poor, instead of his relations; though, as we shall presently see,
he had somebody else to whom to leave his great heap of money.
The Baron was a most implacable enemy of the Catholics, as Catholics.
There was rather a peculiar reason for this, his grand-father having
been a _French Hugonot_ and having fled with his children to England, at
the time of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz. The Baron was a very
humane man; his humanity made him assist to support the French emigrant
priests; but, at the same time, he caused Sir Richard Musgrave's book
against the Irish Catholics to be published at his own expense. He and I
never agreed upon this subject; and this subject was, with him, a
_vital_ one. He had no asperity in his nature; he was naturally all
gentleness and benevolence; and, therefore, he never _resented_ what I
said to him on this subject (and which nobody else ever, I believe,
ventured to say to him): but he did not like it; and he liked it less
because I certainly beat him in the argument. However, this was long
before he visited me in Newgate: and it never produced (though the
dispute was frequently revived) any difference in his conduct towards
me, which was uniformly friendly to the last time I saw him before his
memory was gone.
There was great excuse for the Baron. From his very birth he had been
taught to hate and abhor the Catholic religion. He had been told, that
his father and mother had been driven out of France by the Catholics:
and there was _that mother_ dinning this in his ears, and all manner of
horrible stories along with it, during all the tender years of his life.
In short, the prejudice made part of his very frame. In the year 1803,
in August, I think it was, I had gone down to his house on a Friday,
and was there on a Sunday. After dinner he and I and his brother walked
to the Priory, as is still called the mansion house, in the dell at
Reigate, which is now occupied by Lord Eastnor, and in which a Mr.
Birket, I think, then lived. After coming away from the Priory, the
Baron (whose native place was Betchworth, about two or three miles from
Reigate) who knew the history of every house and every thing else in
this part of the country, began to tell me why the place was called _the
Priory_. From this he came to the _superstition_ and _dark ignorance_
that induced people to found monasteries; and he dwelt particularly on
the _injustice to heirs and relations_; and he went on, in the usual
Protestant strain, and with all the bitterness of which he was capable,
against those _crafty priests_, who thus _plundered families_ by means
of the influence which they had over people in their dotage, or who were
naturally weak-minded.
Alas! poor Baron! he does not seem to have at all foreseen what was to
become of his own money! What would he have said to me, if I had
answered his observations by predicting, that _he_ would give his great
mass of money to a little parson for that parson's own private use;
leave only a mere pittance to his own relations; leave the little parson
his house in which we were then sitting (along with all his other real
property); that the little parson would come into the house and take
possession; and that his own relations (two nieces) would walk out! Yet,
all this has actually taken place, and that, too, after the poor old
Baron's four score years of jokes about the tricks of _Popish_ priests,
practised, in the _dark ages_, upon the _ignorant_ and _superstitious_
people of Reigate.
When I first knew the Baron he was a staunch _Church of England man_. He
went to church every Sunday once, at least. He used to take me to
Reigate church; and I observed, that he was very well versed in his
prayer book. But a decisive proof of his zeal as a Church of England man
is, that he settled an annual sum on the incumbent of Reigate, in order
to induce him to preach, or pray (I forget which), in the church, twice
on a Sunday, instead of once; and, in case this additional preaching, or
praying, were not performed in Reigate church, the annuity was to go
(and sometimes it does now go) to the poor of an adjoining parish, and
not to those of Reigate, lest I suppose, the parson, the overseers, and
other rate-payers, might happen to think that the Baron's annuity would
be better laid out in food for the bodies than for the souls of the
poor; or, in other words, lest the money should be taken annually and
added to the poor-rates to ease the purses of the farmers.
It did not, I dare say, occur to the poor Baron (when he was making
this settlement), that he was now giving money to make a church parson
put up additional prayers, though he had, all his lifetime, been
laughing at those, who, in the _dark_ ages, gave money, for this
purpose, to Catholic priests. Nor did it, I dare say, occur, to the
Baron, that, in his contingent settlement of the annuity on the poor of
an adjoining parish, he as good as declared his opinion, that he
distrusted the piety of the parson, the overseers, the churchwardens,
and, indeed, of all the people of Reigate: yes, at the very moment that
he was providing additional prayers for them, he in the very same
parchment, put a provision, which clearly showed that he was thoroughly
convinced that they, overseers, churchwardens, people, parson and all,
loved money better than prayers.
What was this, then? Was it hypocrisy; was it ostentation? No: mistake.
The Baron thought that those who could not go to church in the morning
ought to have an opportunity of going in the afternoon. He was aware of
the power of money; but, when he came to make his obligatory clause, he
was compelled to do that which reflected great discredit on the very
church and religion, which it was his object to honour and uphold.
However, the Baron _was_ a staunch churchman as this fact clearly
proves: several years he had become what they call an _Unitarian_. The
first time (I think) that I perceived this, was in 1812. He came to see
me in Newgate, and he soon began to talk about _religion_, which had not
been much his habit. He went on at a great rate, laughing about the
Trinity; and I remember that he repeated the Unitarian distich, which
makes _a joke_ of the idea of there being a devil, and which they all
repeat to you, and at the same time laugh and look as cunning and as
priggish as Jack-daws; just as if they were wiser than all the rest of
the world! I hate to hear the conceited and disgusting prigs, seeming to
take it for granted, that they only are wise, because others _believe_
in the incarnation, without being able to reconcile it to _reason_. The
prigs don't consider, that there is no more _reason_ for the
_resurrection_ than for the _incarnation_; and yet having taken it into
their heads to _come up again_, they would murder you, if they dared, if
you were to deny the _resurrection_. I do most heartily despise this
priggish set for their conceit and impudence; but, seeing that they want
_reason_ for the incarnation; seeing that they will have _effects_,
here, ascribed to none but _usual causes_, let me put a question or two
to them.
1. _Whence_ comes the _white clover_, that comes up and covers all
the ground, in America, where hard-wood trees, after standing for
thousands of years, have been burnt down?
2. _Whence_ come (in similar cases as to self-woods) the
hurtleberries in some places, and the raspberries in others?
3. _Whence_ come fish in new made places where no fish have ever
been put?