Three people have received notice to quit the globe. The Bishop of
Norwich has been appealed to. The _Eastern Daily Press_, July 28th,
1915, which lies on my knee as I write, contains his photo. He is
standing outside the Hospital for the Indigent Blind, in Magdalen Street,
Norwich, with the Earl and Countess of Leicester, looking as though he
had his meals more regularly than many village folk.
Surely he is interested in the blind of Burston, also? Shall they be
ousted? Will he allow his rector to press this injustice? But he has
been appealed to. Here is his reply:
The Palace,
Norwich.
Dear Sir,—I am directed by the Bishop of Norwich to acknowledge
receipt of your letter of the 15th, and to say that if the persons
named feel aggrieved they should seek redress through the legal
tribunals.
Yours faithfully,
J. A. Parsons, _Secretary_.
E. B. Reeves.
So His Lordship, with income of £4,500 per year, palace, etc., advises
three poor folk, one of whom is blind, to “seek redress through the legal
tribunals.” This be certainly His Lordship’s grim joke. How poor folk,
waxing lean and keeping families on between £40 and £50 per year,
sometimes feasting on bread and lard, whilst glebe owners munch biscuits
and cream, can indulge in such luxury as “_The Law_” passes what Darby
Doyle would call “the wit av mortial man.”
The only law we can appeal to under these circumstances is the Law of
Humanity. The ancient tribunal, _vox populi_, _vox Dei_: The voice of
the people is the voice of God.
I would that these people had better advocate than myself. Their cause
is founded on justice, reason, and truth. They want public inquiry
which, I believe, will end in their well-beloved teachers reinstatement.
The tyranny of the countryside is still a menace to freedom of thought
and action. I have done my best to explain this.
To the Braves of Burston I tender my appreciation and admiration for
their gallant sixteen months’ struggle. They are the pioneers. They are
real live women, with red corpuscles dancing in their veins, not the
phagocytes of serfdom. None but James Oppenheim, the poet, may do them
justice: