MY friend Philosewers and I, contemplating a farm-labourer the other day,
who was drinking his mug of beer on a settle at a roadside ale-house
door, we fell to humming the fag-end of an old ditty, of which the poor
man and his beer, and the sin of parting them, form the doleful burden.
Philosewers then mentioned to me that a friend of his in an agricultural
county—say a Hertfordshire friend—had, for two years last past,
endeavoured to reconcile the poor man and his beer to public morality, by
making it a point of honour between himself and the poor man that the
latter should use his beer and not abuse it. Interested in an effort of
so unobtrusive and unspeechifying a nature, “O Philosewers,” said I,
after the manner of the dreary sages in Eastern apologues, “Show me, I
pray, the man who deems that temperance can be attained without a medal,
an oration, a banner, and a denunciation of half the world, and who has
at once the head and heart to set about it!”
Philosewers expressing, in reply, his willingness to gratify the dreary
sage, an appointment was made for the purpose. And on the day fixed, I,
the Dreary one, accompanied by Philosewers, went down Nor’-West per
railway, in search of temperate temperance. It was a thunderous day; and
the clouds were so immoderately watery, and so very much disposed to sour
all the beer in Hertfordshire, that they seemed to have taken the pledge.
But, the sun burst forth gaily in the afternoon, and gilded the old
gables, and old mullioned windows, and old weathercock and old
clock-face, of the quaint old house which is the dwelling of the man we
sought. How shall I describe him? As one of the most famous practical
chemists of the age? That designation will do as well as another—better,
perhaps, than most others. And his name? Friar Bacon.
“Though, take notice, Philosewers,” said I, behind my hand, “that the
first Friar Bacon had not that handsome lady-wife beside him. Wherein, O
Philosewers, he was a chemist, wretched and forlorn, compared with his
successor. Young Romeo bade the holy father Lawrence hang up philosophy,
unless philosophy could make a Juliet. Chemistry would infallibly be
hanged if its life were staked on making anything half so pleasant as
this Juliet.” The gentle Philosewers smiled assent.
The foregoing whisper from myself, the Dreary one, tickled the ear of
Philosewers, as we walked on the trim garden terrace before dinner, among
the early leaves and blossoms; two peacocks, apparently in very tight new
boots, occasionally crossing the gravel at a distance. The sun, shining
through the old house-windows, now and then flashed out some brilliant
piece of colour from bright hangings within, or upon the old oak
panelling; similarly, Friar Bacon, as we paced to and fro, revealed
little glimpses of his good work.
“It is not much,” said he. “It is no wonderful thing. There used to be
a great deal of drunkenness here, and I wanted to make it better if I
could. The people are very ignorant, and have been much neglected, and I
wanted to make _that_ better, if I could. My utmost object was, to help
them to a little self-government and a little homely pleasure. I only
show the way to better things, and advise them. I never act for them; I
never interfere; above all, I never patronise.”
I had said to Philosewers as we came along Nor’-West that patronage was
one of the curses of England; I appeared to rise in the estimation of
Philosewers when thus confirmed.
“And so,” said Friar Bacon, “I established my Allotment-club, and my
pig-clubs, and those little Concerts by the ladies of my own family, of
which we have the last of the season this evening. They are a great
success, for the people here are amazingly fond of music. But there is
the early dinner-bell, and I have no need to talk of my endeavours when
you will soon see them in their working dress”.
Dinner done, behold the Friar, Philosewers, and myself the Dreary one,
walking, at six o’clock, across the fields, to the “Club-house.”
As we swung open the last field-gate and entered the Allotment-grounds,
many members were already on their way to the Club, which stands in the
midst of the allotments. Who could help thinking of the wonderful
contrast between these club-men and the club-men of St. James’s Street,
or Pall Mall, in London! Look at yonder prematurely old man, doubled up
with work, and leaning on a rude stick more crooked than himself, slowly
trudging to the club-house, in a shapeless hat like an Italian
harlequin’s, or an old brown-paper bag, leathern leggings, and dull green
smock-frock, looking as though duck-weed had accumulated on it—the result
of its stagnant life—or as if it were a vegetable production, originally
meant to blow into something better, but stopped somehow. Compare him
with Old Cousin Feenix, ambling along St. James’s Street, got up in the
style of a couple of generations ago, and with a head of hair, a
complexion, and a set of teeth, profoundly impossible to be believed in
by the widest stretch of human credulity. Can they both be men and
brothers? Verily they are. And although Cousin Feenix has lived so fast
that he will die at Baden-Baden, and although this club-man in the frock
has lived, ever since he came to man’s estate, on nine shillings a week,
and is sure to die in the Union if he die in bed, yet he brought as much
into the world as Cousin Feenix, and will take as much out—more, for more
of him is real.
A pretty, simple building, the club-house, with a rustic colonnade
outside, under which the members can sit on wet evenings, looking at the
patches of ground they cultivate for themselves; within, a
well-ventilated room, large and lofty, cheerful pavement of coloured
tiles, a bar for serving out the beer, good supply of forms and chairs,
and a brave big chimney-corner, where the fire burns cheerfully.
Adjoining this room, another:
“Built for a reading-room,” said Friar Bacon; “but not much used—yet.”
The dreary sage, looking in through the window, perceiving a fixed
reading-desk within, and inquiring its use:
“I have Service there,” said Friar Bacon. “They never went anywhere to
hear prayers, and of course it would be hopeless to help them to be
happier and better, if they had no religious feeling at all.”
“The whole place is very pretty.” Thus the sage.
“I am glad you think so. I built it for the holders of the
Allotment-grounds, and gave it them: only requiring them to manage it by
a committee of their own appointing, and never to get drunk there. They
never have got drunk there.”
“Yet they have their beer freely?”
“O yes. As much as they choose to buy. The club gets its beer direct
from the brewer, by the barrel. So they get it good; at once much
cheaper, and much better, than at the public-house. The members take it
in turns to be steward, and serve out the beer: if a man should decline
to serve when his turn came, he would pay a fine of twopence. The
steward lasts, as long as the barrel lasts. When there is a new barrel,
there is a new steward.”
“What a noble fire is roaring up that chimney!”
“Yes, a capital fire. Every member pays a halfpenny a week.”
“Every member must be the holder of an Allotment-garden?”
“Yes; for which he pays five shillings a year. The Allotments you see
about us, occupy some sixteen or eighteen acres, and each garden is as
large as experience shows one man to be able to manage. You see how
admirably they are tilled, and how much they get off them. They are
always working in them in their spare hours; and when a man wants a mug
of beer, instead of going off to the village and the public-house, he
puts down his spade or his hoe, comes to the club-house and gets it, and
goes back to his work. When he has done work, he likes to have his beer
at the club, still, and to sit and look at his little crops as they
thrive.”
“They seem to manage the club very well.”
“Perfectly well. Here are their own rules. They made them. I never
interfere with them, except to advise them when they ask me.”
RULES AND REGULATIONS
MADE BY THE COMMITTEE