They were fined again and again. But they held indignation meetings on
Burston Green. Lovers of fair play and freedom flocked in, the money was
collected, and the fines paid. They refused to crook the pregnant hinges
of the knee. Their children should not return to Council Block, whilst
old England stands upon a rock, unless proper inquiry was held, and the
teachers re-instated. The opposition has simply strengthened their
resolves. A little kindness, a little Christian charity, a little of the
spirit of give and take in the early stages, and all would have been
better than well. To-day, however, to deny men and women who, out of
their daily toil, pay for education, etc., a voice in the management of
what concerns them nearly and dearly is simply autocratic presumption.
Harassed by law, denied the right to choose those whom they loved to
teach their children, they determined not to be coerced. They refused to
attend the churches or chapels. They held huge demonstrations upon the
village green. The surrounding villagers and townsfolk came to hear and
see. So the revolt spreads. “Those who came to scoff oft remained to
pray.” Real, live addresses were given by friends, who reanimated the
hopes of the past, crystallised the spirit of the dead Christ, and made
hearts throb and eyes fill as they vividly brought before others the
poor, persecuted, maligned, crucified friend of fishermen, Magdalen, and
poor folks. The village green blossomed; the dream of brotherhood,
fellowship, and fraternity, as prophesied by murdered John Ball—the
so-called mad priest of Kent—became reality.
John Sutton, sheep dipper, baptised the children. John was also
christened. Christened after his Christian name, he became John the
Baptist.
Higdon and his wife and the villagers hunted around to find some lowly
shelter for the little mites, some of whom had come from miles away to be
taught. They found one at last. A blind man took pity on them. He let
a carpenter’s shop to them.
A carpenter’s shop! And where on earth may we discover a school for
budding humanity so pregnant with meaning as a humble carpenter’s shop?
Surely no palace grand, no poplar-dwarfing sun-kissed steeple, no Moslem
mosque gold glittering in Eastern city, contains such deep meanings to
reverent minds as a carpenter’s shop. No ancient mausoleum, no Egyptian
pyramid, containing swathed mummy bones of ancient Pharoah, who scuttled
through life’s short day, may call forth such sentiments, or inspiration
to die if need be on behalf of the poor and the needy, the homeless and
friendless. So to this humble shop came the children. Here came the
boys and girls who had struck against Council Syntax and Burston
Junkerism.
They were helped by their mothers. If the lot of the agricultural
labourer, the Lazarus of civilisation, is hard, the lot of the labourers’
labourer is harder still. Little joy in life has she. Divorced from the
beauties of science and art, no electric lights, no hot and cold water on
the slopstone, no airy, fairy, decorated bedrooms, no well paved and
lighted streets, no quick transit, no musical evenings, scientific
lectures, melodious operas, sweet string bands, no cinema, no long cycle.
No! Grinding toil. Dark, slushy, snowy lanes in winter, grime and
poverty, poor wages, daily struggles, patching and mending, sewing and
knitting, washing and baking, sometimes toiling and moiling in rain-swept
fields for bare pittance, wearing sodden shoddy, or soaking on wind-swept
wastes. Go to Burston and meet your sisters, keeping up their hearts on
miserable wages, and even giving out of their scant doles a little
offering to their beloved strike school.
With scarce a copper to bless themselves with, they rented the
carpenter’s shop at £3 per year. Out o’ poorly furnished homes they gave
their chairs, their tables, stools, lamps, knick-knacks, of little value
perhaps, but potent as widows’ mite. They cleaned, scrubbed, scoured,
and mothered that school, as they are doing it to-day.
Lucky scholars to have so much mother-love enveloping them! To have such
mem’ries clustering round. To think that the world’s toiler, sweet son
o’ Mary, spent His early college days in the carpenter’s shop. Was He
not apprenticed to manual labour? Did He not sanctify it? May He not
have rehearsed future discourses and similar surroundings, whilst sawing
and planing, mending, making, and creating in His self-chosen University
of Adversity, so that He might humanise the world, the world which to-day
is deaf to His teachings. Had His parables, His philosophy of honest
poverty, His contempt of lordship and riches been laid to heart, Europe
would not be in flames to-day.
And, as my labour of love draws to a close, I grieve to say that trouble
is coming to Burston village once more. The rector has given notice to
three of the glebe tenants. The blind man, who let the carpenter’s shop,
is one. This means the closing down of the school. Two other parents
are also in similar plight, and this is a presage of further
victimisation perchance in the future.
Shall all the anxieties, the struggles, and the hopes of the past sixteen
months end in this clearance of the Higdons and their friends, the
closing of the carpenter’s shop, shall it end like this? If so, I do not
envy the rector his victory. Nay, rather do I think it will not only be
a barren one, but a distinct blow against the religion he is supposed to
represent. What Christianity is this?