FOR THE PEOPLE’s WOODS AND STREAMS
Saving the Forests—‘The monstrous Nation’—Walking with Lord
Morley—The Boat Race—Safeguarding the Rivers.
[Sidenote: The shearing of a Statesman.]
Fawcett had the knack of saving time and getting the most out of it. One
spring day when he was going to pay a promised visit, absent-mindedly he
put his hand to his hair, which he found rather long. Discovering that
he had five minutes to spare, he shouted in his cheerful loud voice to
the cabby through the opening in the roof of the hansom: ‘stop at the
first hairdresser’s shop.’ Arrived there he sprang out quickly and
rushed in to the barber, exclaiming as he whizzed past him: ‘Cut off as
much of my hair as you can in five minutes.’ Literally following these
directions with zealous enthusiasm, the man quickly left his victim
absolutely shorn to the skull, so that when Fawcett put on his hat it
was far too large for him. A few minutes later he was shown into the
drawing-room at the very minute of his appointment. He felt extremely
embarrassed and sheepish coming in his despoiled condition, but his
hostess, rising to meet him, exclaimed with as much tact as concealed
surprise: ‘O Mr. Fawcett, what an improvement! I have never before been
able to see the beautiful shape of your head.’ So the hostess tempered
the wind to the shorn statesman. There was sufficient truth for art in
her flattery, as Fawcett’s head was really of an unusually fine shape,
massive, rugged—even beautiful.
[Sidenote: He loved to be read to.]
He loved to be read to, and he kept a separate book for each friend who
entertained him in this fashion. One day _The Rhyme of the Duchess May_
was being read to him. In each stanza of the poem recurs the phrase
‘Toll slowly.’ The whole thing was admirably read—with pathetic emphasis
on the refrain. One of the audience says: ‘We all thought that Fawcett
was asleep, but to our amusement, when the reader had finished, he said
enthusiastically, with his generous voice, “Thank you very much;
beautifully read, but don’t you think that you might have left out that
‘told slowly’?”
[Illustration: HENRY FAWCETT AND HIS FATHER]
[Sidenote: Salisbury Close.]
He continued a frequent visitor at Salisbury, and always fitted in with
the home ways. His parents had come to pass their closing year in a
house in the Cathedral Close. Opposite the house there was a stretch of
old wall, where before breakfast Fawcett used to walk quite by himself,
enjoying a seclusion and peace such as was his in the court of his old
Cambridge College. The gates of the close are shut at eleven o’clock
every night. Miss Fawcett tells the following: ‘As Henry liked to walk
the last thing at night before going to bed, and as it was not always
convenient for one of us to accompany him, we arranged for him to go
with the gate closer on his rounds. So regularly, when Harry was at
home, the gate closer’s voice would be heard at half-past ten, “I’ve
come for Mr. Harry,” and together they would sally forth and lock the
ancient gates about the close.’ The scheme worked admirably to the
entire satisfaction of Fawcett, and to the delight of the watchman, who,
like the rest of the world, found Fawcett a stimulating and cheering
companion. He awakened the seeing man’s interest in the beauty of the
cathedral which they passed in their nightly patrol, and often asked if
a different planet had yet appeared on the horizon, if the moon could be
seen over the church tower, or if the clouds were obscuring the stars.
[Sidenote: The New Forest in peril.]
Though he had passed his childhood on the edge of the New Forest, it is
doubtful if Fawcett ever saw its beauties excepting with his mind’s eye
and by the help of his friends’ description.
In the seventies he was fond of going there and combining the comfort
and joy that he always found in his walk by the great trees with a
fishing expedition at Ibbesley. Here he liked to stay with his fisher
friend Tizard and his good wife, sharing their homely meals and chat;
the place abounded in birds whose singing delighted him. It was here
that he caught the huge salmon that graced the table at his father’s and
mother’s golden wedding feast.
On these fishing expeditions he heard of the mania for money-making that
threatened to rout the ancient spirit of romance which for centuries had
lived in the seclusion of the great oaks and beeches. One enterprising
surveyor said that the old wood should be cleared ’smack smooth.’ The
patrician ancient trees were being replaced by symmetrical lines of
Scotch firs planted for sacrifice by fire or for building purposes.
Fawcett in answer to inquiry was informed that the woods would not be
cleared till the House of Commons had come to a division on the
treatment of open spaces. Not content with this rather vague answer, he
moved that ‘no ornamental timber should be felled, and no timber
whatever should be cut except for necessary purposes, whilst legislation
was pending.’ This resolution came none too soon and ’stood between the
forest and the axe’ for six years. The official point of view was that
the term ‘public’ was misused; it really meant taxpayers, not tourists,
nor even the neighbouring residents. The official duty consisted in
making an income for the nation and making the most of the property of
the Heir Apparent, so that he might make a better bargain on the next
settlement of the Civil List. No resolution of the House of Commons
could prevent the commissioner in charge of the New Forest from
performing his duties, which were similar to those of a trustee of a
settled estate.
[Sidenote: The Forest—Health and Art.]
Fawcett received signed petitions protesting against the devastation of
the forest. In 1875 the Government, this time a Conservative Government,
appointed a select committee on the condition of the New Forest. Fawcett
gave evidence and spoke forcibly. ‘The forest should be preserved as a
national park. Any money which could be made by its enclosure was not
worth considering in comparison with the effects upon the health,
happiness, and morality of the people. Even arguing the matter from a
purely economical point of view, the influence of the forest on the
health and artistic faculties of the people had a far greater money
value than that of the mere timber.’ His comment of the effect of the
beauty of the forest on the ‘artistic faculties of the people’ must have
been peculiarly impressive; that a blind man could see so true, plead so
wisely and far-seeingly for the best influence that his fellows could
get from the right of those historic glades. Fawcett suggested that
these honest, if penny-wise, stewards could ease their consciences by
accepting the liberal compensation which the nation would be glad to
pay. It was a mere superstition to feel that though neither the Crown
nor the nation wished it, there was need to treat the forest as it would
be treated by a timber merchant. He wisely pointed out that the
Secretary of the Treasury had four years before used the same arguments
to good purpose on behalf of the Thames Embankment Gardens. The
committee speedily reported, and an Act was passed to preserve the
ancient woods, and stop destructive enclosures, and the Verderer’s Court
was reconstituted, so as to represent the commoners more effectually.
[Sidenote: Fawcett _versus_ Ruskin.]
It is when dwelling on this fight of Fawcett’s for beauty versus money
that it is amusing to realise that he was once challenged by Ruskin to a
public debate—Fawcett to defend the political economy of his day against
Ruskin’s charge that it was radically opposed to Christianity. Fawcett
wisely realised that they would have no common meeting-ground and
refused to enter the lists.
[Sidenote: ‘The monstrous Notion.’]
The general questions of enclosures had still to be settled. The old
method had been stopped for all time in Fawcett’s Battle of Wisley
Common, but no new machinery had been substituted. Bills were brought in
two or three times, but failed to win sufficient support to be carried.
In 1876 Lord Cross, the Home Secretary, brought in a Bill which showed a
distinct advance in public opinion. Nevertheless, it did not satisfy the
Commons Preservation Society. Next, the chairman of the society, Mr.
Shaw Lefevre, now Lord Eversley, moved a resolution embodying the
enactment of provisions and safeguards. The Bill was supported by a
speaker who at the same time attacked what he chose to call ‘the
monstrous notion,’ _i.e._ that the inhabitants of large towns had a
right to wander over distant commons as they pleased. Fawcett, who also
supported the Bill in a vigorous speech, swooped down, seized this
‘monstrous notion’ and held it aloft for admiration and support, and
contended that the commons were a great and valuable possession for the
people of the entire country.’ He had again to insist that the bill did
not adequately protect the labourers nor provide sufficient security
against a ruthless enclosure of commons. He pointed out that ‘under the
old Enclosure Commission, 5,500,000 acres had been added to the estates
of great proprietors, whilst villagers by the hundred had lost their
rights of pasture, and now found it difficult to provide milk for their
children. Yet the commission which had used this procedure was still to
be trusted.’ ‘The worst and most mischievous of all economies,’ he
declared, ‘was that which aggrandised a few, and made a paltry addition
to the sum-total of wealth by shutting out the poor from fresh air and
lovely scenery.’ The bill passed through the committee, doggedly, though
not very successfully, opposed by Fawcett and his friends.
Lord Eversley and Fawcett succeeded later in amending the procedure to
be followed by the Enclosure Commissioners. The Commissioners were
instructed that they must have proof that any proposed enclosure should
be of real benefit to the neighbourhood as well as to private interests.
Furthermore, every enclosure scheme had to be submitted to a standing
committee of the House of Commons of which Fawcett was one of the first
members.
[Sidenote: Charm of Home.]
The unfailing charm of Fawcett’s home life was a constant delight and
rest to him. Mrs. Fawcett’s share in his career was of the greatest
possible moment. Their only child Philippa began to be a source of great
pleasure, and she enjoyed being with her father on his country
expeditions as much as he delighted in having her with him.
Declaring firmly that he believed in at least eleven hours’ skating,
this serious statesman would often ponder deeply, as he thoughtfully
rubbed his blue glasses and replaced them on his nose, how with
ingenuity it would be possible to contrive to fit in another hour on the
ice. He not only skated by himself, depending only on the voice of his
companion to steer him, but he insisted that his wife, daughter,
secretary, and two maids should all turn out to have a good time with
him. Only the cook, on the uncontrovertible score of old age, was
excused.
Little Philippa greatly enjoyed accompanying her father, and whistling
in order to guide him. When she was about nine years old she had
returned from a wonderful skate, when she had steered him in the
customary fashion. She told her mother all about it and what fun they
had had, on a particularly difficult route, her father depending solely
on her piping to guide him. ‘And what did you whistle?’ asked the
mother. ‘Oh, just “Gentle Jesus,”’ came the prompt reply.
[Sidenote: Hymns.]
Perhaps it is not amiss to indicate here the complete control that this
small person exercised over her giant father. At this period of her life
she had been imbued by her nurse with an intense devoutness. One Sunday
morning he was singing to himself: it is only proper to say that the
word singing is not an exact term, as all his friends and family are
agreed that he was incapable of producing melody or sweet noises. His
tiny daughter popped her head in at the crack of the door, saying
solemnly: ‘You mustn’t sing, it’s Sunday!’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked
Fawcett. ‘Wait,’ was the answer; closing the door his mentor
disappeared, doubtless to consult with the nurse who had filled her with
so much theological technique. Again the child appeared at the crack in
the door, saying briefly: ‘If it’s hymns you may, if it isn’t you
mayn’t,’ and the singing ceased abruptly!
[Sidenote: The sanctity of Open Spaces.]
Open spaces, especially those near the big towns, had in the railway
companies another and most powerful enemy. It was so much easier to take
a railway across a common than through the neighbouring enclosed land,
that there arose a serious risk that the commons though at last secured
for the people, would still be despoiled of their freshness and beauty.
Fawcett was quick to perceive this, and to try to save the open spaces
from such invasions of their sanctity. He was characteristically amused
once by the suggestion of some more prudent members of the Commons
Preservation Society that he might weaken their position by failure. It
was not by fear of defeat that he so often succeeded in turning defeat
into victory. He never hesitated in his attack. Even when
Postmaster-General he voted against his colleague, Mr. Chamberlain, the
President of the Board of Trade, on a question of railway encroachment
on Wimbledon Common.
It is a beautiful thing for all of us who have the privilege of enjoying
the glory of the commons and forests of England to appreciate that that
pleasure has been kept for us, and for countless others for all time,
largely by the valiant fight and generous labours of a man who, though
he loved them as he loved light, freedom and justice, and gave part of
his life to save them, could only see them through the eyes of others.
[Sidenote: Lord Morley takes Fawcett [on] a walk.]
Lord Morley tells of Fawcett on these lands which he saved for the poor.
Fawcett had been walking on Lord Morley’s arm over the Wimbledon
Commons, with that vigour and enjoyment in the exercise which he
invariably found. They paused on a hill. Lord Morley, impressed with the
unusual loveliness of the sunset and its ineffable melancholy, was
startled to hear Fawcett beside him ask wistfully: ‘Morley, is the
sunset very beautiful?’ ‘Yes,’ was the answer. ‘Ah, I thought so,’ came
the comment before a long silence, in which the blind man seemed to be
taking in the exquisite scene spread before his unseeing eyes.
We know how Fawcett’s deep love of nature and beauty was a strong factor
of his very being. He loved the forest and the hills, the fields and the
skies, and above all the rivers.
[Sidenote: Following the Boat Race.]
Until nearly the end of his life, Fawcett rarely missed the Oxford and
Cambridge rowing contests. It was a matter of course to see him ‘looking
over’ the crew of the college ‘eight’ and expressing his opinion frankly
about its fitness, or eagerly ‘watching’ a race. He followed the
University boat race on one occasion in a launch, and in the keenest
excitement continually asked his friend, ‘How are they going now,
Morgan? How near are they now?’
The race gained much zest for Fawcett from the motion of the tug from
which he watched it, from the noise of the water lapping against the
side of the boat, the splash of the oars, the occasional spray dashed in
his face as the little ship darted to hasten its course by benefiting in
an opening in the crowd of craft. The cheers of the spectators, the
calling of the coxswains to the straining crews, and even the occasional
tooting of an unmannerly tug, all gave colour to the picture for the
blind man. The river’s fascination perhaps even increased for him after
he could not see it.
[Sidenote: Safeguarding the Rivers.]
When the Thames needed a protector to safeguard its loveliness, it was
the blind man who eagerly urged that an organisation, similar to the
Commons Preservation Society, should be formed to protect the river, and
it was through his advice that a Select Committee with this object was
later appointed. He also took occasion to support Lord Bryce in his
efforts to abolish the system which hampered the public in their
enjoyment of the beauties of the Scottish Highlands.
Stephen speaks of his readiness to refuse prominence if he thought that
others could serve better than he, of his eagerness ‘to meet the
strength of the opposite case,’ to see his opponent’s point of view and
to judge it generously; he dwells on the great interest he took in
private life in considering impartially and thoughtfully his friends’
problems, so that his advice to them was of unusual value. The whole
chapter of this fight for the rights of those who were least able to
fight for themselves, sustained and led by a man who could not see or
enjoy, saving vicariously, what he was fighting for, is as heroic as any
in history. He faced the danger of losing his hard-won position, and
often alone made the decision to act against the advice of his friends
and his own interests and to stand for the right. In his simple direct
plea for justice he never rested until he got what was the people’s due,
and what must remain for all time a living monument to his singleness of
purpose and chivalrous bravery.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MEMBER FOR INDIA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
‘Let thy dauntless mind
Still ride in triumph over all mischance.’
Shakespeare.
‘Not from without us only, from
Within can come upon us light.’
------------------------------------------------------------------------