earth is forced to be self-supporting--to restore to itself how it
can the elements carried away in wheat and straw and root. Except a
few ill-fed sheep, except some small quantities of manure from the
cattle-yards, no human aid, so to say, reaches the much-abused soil.
A crop of green mustard is sometimes ploughed in to decompose and
fertilize, but as it had to be grown first the advantage is
doubtful. The one object is to spend as little as possible upon the
soil, and to get as much out of it as may be. Granted that in
numbers of cases no trickery be practised, that the old rotation of
crops is honestly followed, and no evil meant, yet even then, in
course of time, a soil just scratched on the surface, never fairly
manured, and always in use, must of necessity deteriorate. Then,
when such an effect is too patent to be any longer overlooked, when
the decline of the produce begins to alarm him, the farmer, perhaps,
buys a few hundredweight of artificial manure, and frugally scatters
it abroad. This causes 'a flash in the pan'; it acts as a momentary
stimulus; it is like endeavouring to repair a worn-out constitution
with doses of strong cordial; there springs up a vigorous vegetation
one year, and the next the earth is more exhausted than before.
Soils cannot be made highly fertile all at once even by
superphosphates; it is the inability to discern this fact which
leads many to still argue in the face of experience that artificial
manures are of no avail. The slow oxen, the lumbering wooden plough,
the equally lumbering heavy waggon, the primitive bush-harrow, made
simply of a bush cut down and dragged at a horse's tail--these are
symbols of a standstill policy utterly at variance with the times.
Then this man loudly complains that things are not as they used to
be--that wheat is so low in price it will not yield any profit, that
labour is so high and everything so dear; and, truly, it is easy to
conceive that the present age, with its competition and eagerness to
advance, must really press very seriously upon him.
Most persons have been interested enough, however little connected
with agriculture, to at least once in their lives walk round an
agricultural show, and to express their astonishment at the size and
rotundity of the cattle exhibited. How easy, judging from such a
passing view of the finest products of the country centred in one
spot, to go away with the idea that under every hawthorn hedge a
prize bullock of enormous girth is peacefully grazing! Should the
same person ever go across country, through gaps and over brooks,
taking an Asmodeus-like glance into every field, how marvellously
would he find that he had been deceived! He might travel miles, and
fly over scores of fields, and find no such animals, nor anything
approaching to them. By making inquiries he would perhaps discover
in most districts one spot where something of the kind could be
seen--an oasis in the midst of a desert. On the farm he would see a
long range of handsome outhouses, tiled or slated, with comfortable
stalls and every means of removing litter and manure, tanks for
liquid manure, skilled attendants busy in feeding, in preparing
food, storehouses full of cake. A steam-engine in one of the
sheds--perhaps a portable engine, used also for threshing--drives
the machinery which slices up or pulps roots, cuts up chaff, pumps
up water, and performs a score of other useful functions. The yards
are dry, well paved, and clean; everything smells clean; there are
no foul heaps of decaying matter breeding loathsome things and
fungi; yet nothing is wasted, not even the rain that falls upon the
slates and drops from the eaves. The stock within are worthy to
compare with those magnificent beasts seen at the show. It is from
these places that the prize animals are drawn; it is here that the
beef which makes England famous is fattened; it is from here that
splendid creatures are sent abroad to America or the Colonies, to
improve the breed in those distant countries. Now step forth again
over the hedge, down yonder in the meadows.
This is a cow-pen, one of the old-fashioned style; in the dairy and
pasture counties you may find them by hundreds still. It is pitched
by the side of a tall hedge, or in an angle of two hedges, which
themselves form two walls of the enclosure. The third is the
cow-house and shedding itself; the fourth is made of willow rods.
These rods are placed upright, confined between horizontal poles,
and when new this simple contrivance is not wholly to be despised;
but when the rods decay, as they do quickly, then gaps are formed,
through which the rain and sleet and bitter wind penetrate with
ease. Inside this willow paling is a lower hedge, so to say, two
feet distant from the other, made of willow work twisted--like a
continuous hurdle. Into this rude manger, when the yard is full of
cattle, the fodder is thrown. Here and there about the yard, also,
stand cumbrous cribs for fodder, at which two cows can feed at once.
In one corner there is a small pond, muddy, stagnant, covered with
duckweed, perhaps reached by a steep, 'pitched' descent, slippery,
and difficult for the cattle to get down. They foul the very water
they drink. The cow-house, as it is called, is really merely adapted
for one or two cows at a time, at the period of calving--dark,
narrow, awkward. The skilling, or open house where the cows lie and
chew the cud in winter, is built of boards or slabs at the back, and
in front supported upon oaken posts standing on stones. The roof is
of thatch, green with moss; in wet weather the water drips steadily
from the eaves, making one long gutter. In the eaves the wrens make
their nests in the spring, and roost there in winter. The floor here
is hard, certainly, and dry; the yard itself is a sea of muck. Never
properly stoned or pitched, and without a drain, the loose stones
cannot keep the mud down, and it works up under the hoofs of the
cattle in a filthy mass. Over this there is litter and manure a foot
deep; or, if the fogger does clean up the manure, he leaves it in
great heaps scattered about, and on the huge dunghill just outside
the yard he will show you a fine crop of mushrooms cunningly hidden
under a light layer of litter. It is his boast that the cow-pen was
built in the three sevens; on one ancient beam, worm-eaten and
cracked, there may perhaps be seen the inscription '1777' cut deep
into the wood. Over all, at the back of the cow-pen, stands a row of
tall elm-trees, dripping in wet weather upon the thatch, in the
autumn showering their yellow leaves into the hay, in a gale
dropping dead branches into the yard. The tenant seems to think even
this shelter effeminate, and speaks regretfully of the old hardy
breed which stood all weathers, and wanted no more cover than was
afforded by a hawthorn bush. From here a few calves find their way
to the butcher, and towards Christmas one or two moderately fat
beasts.
Near by lives a dairy farmer, who, without going to the length of
the famous stock-breeder whose stalls are the pride of the district,
yet fills his meadows with a handsome herd of productive shorthorns,
giving splendid results in butter, milk, and cheese, and who sends
to the market a succession of animals which, if not equal to the
gigantic prize beasts, are nevertheless valuable to the consumer.
This tenant does good work, both for himself and for the labourers,
the landlord, and the country. His meadows are a sight in themselves
to the experienced eye--well drained, great double mounds thinned
out, but the supply of wood not quite destroyed--not a rush, a
'bullpoll,' a thistle, or a 'rattle,' those yellow pests of mowing
grass, to be seen. They have been weeded out as carefully as the
arable farmer weeds his plants. Where broad deep furrows used to
breed those aquatic grasses which the cattle left, drains have been
put in and soil thrown over till the level was brought up to the
rest of the field. The manure carts have evidently been at work
here, perhaps the liquid manure tank also, and some artificial aid
in places where required, both of seed and manure. The number of
stock kept is the fullest tale the land will bear, and he does not
hesitate to help the hay with cake in the fattening stalls. For
there are stalls, not so elaborately furnished as those of the
famous stock-breeder, but comfortable, clean, and healthy. Nothing
is wasted here either. So far as practicable the fields have been
enlarged by throwing two or three smaller enclosures together. He
does not require so much machinery as the great arable farmer, but
here are mowing machines, haymaking machines, horse-rakes, chain
harrows, chaff-cutters, light carts instead of heavy waggons--every
labour-saving appliance. Without any noise or puff this man is doing
good work, and silently reaping his reward. Glance for a moment at
an adjacent field: it is an old 'leaze' or ground not mown, but used
for grazing. It has the appearance of a desert, a wilderness. The
high, thick hedges encroach upon the land; the ditches are quite
arched over by the brambles and briars which trail out far into the
grass. Broad deep furrows are full of tough, grey aquatic grass,
'bullpolls,' and short brown rushes; in winter they are so many
small brooks. Tall bennets from last year and thistle abound--half
the growth is useless for cattle; in autumn the air here is white
with the clouds of thistle-down. It is a tolerably large field, but
the meadows held by the same tenant are small, with double mounds
and trees, rows of spreading oaks and tall elms; these meadows run
up into the strangest nooks and corners. Sometimes, where they
follow the course of a brook which winds and turns, actually an area
equal to about half the available field is occupied by the hedges.
Into this brook the liquid sewage from the cow-pens filtrates, or,
worse still, accumulates in a hollow, making a pond, disgusting to
look at, but which liquid, if properly applied, is worth almost its
weight in gold. The very gateways of the fields in winter are a
Slough of Despond, where the wheels sink in up to the axles, and in
summer great ruts jolt the loads almost off the waggons.
Where the steam-plough is kept, where first-class stock are bred,
there the labourer is well housed, and his complaints are few and
faint. There cottages with decent and even really capital
accommodation for the families spring up, and are provided with
extensive gardens. It is not easy, in the absence of statistics, to
compare the difference in the amount of money put in circulation by
these contrasted farms, but it must be something extraordinary.
First comes the capital expenditure upon machinery--ploughs,
engines, drills, what not--then the annual expenditure upon labour,
which, despite the employment of machinery, is as great or greater
upon a progressive farm as upon one conducted on stagnant
principle. Add to this the cost of artificial manure, of cake and
feeding-stuffs, etc., and the total will be something very heavy.
Now, all this expenditure, this circulation of coin, means not only
gain to the individual, but gain to the country at large. Whenever
in a town a great manufactory is opened and gives employment to
several hundred hands, at the same time increasing the production
of a valuable material, the profit--the _outside_ profit, so to
say--is as great to others as to the proprietors. But these
half-cultivated lands, these tons upon tons of wasted manure, these
broad hedges and weed-grown fields, represent upon the other hand
an equal loss. The labouring classes in the rural districts are
eager for more work. They may popularly be supposed to look with
suspicion upon change, but such an idea is a mistaken one. They
anxiously wait the approach of such works as new railways or
extension of old ones in the hope of additional employment. Work is
their gold-mine, and the best mine of all. The capitalist,
therefore, who sets himself to improve his holding is the very man
they most desire to see. What scope is there for work upon a
stagnant dairy farm of one hundred and fifty acres? A couple of
foggers and milkers, a hedger and ditcher, two or three women at
times, and there is the end. And such work!--mere animal labour,
leading to so little result. The effect of constant, of lifelong
application in such labour cannot but be deteriorating to the mind.
The master himself must feel the dull routine. The steam-plough
teaches the labourer who works near it something; the sight must
react upon him, utterly opposed as it is to all the traditions of
the past. The enterprise of the master must convey some small
spirit of energy into the mind of the man. Where the cottages are
built of wattle and daub, low and thatched--mere sheds, in
fact--where the gardens are small, and the allotments, if any, far
distant, and where the men wear a sullen, apathetic look, be sure
the agriculture of the district is at a low ebb.
Are not these few pictures sufficient to show beyond a cavil that
the agriculture of this country exhibits the strangest inequalities?
Anyone who chooses can verify the facts stated, and may perhaps
discover more curious anomalies still. The spirit of science is
undoubtedly abroad in the homes of the English farmers, and immense
are the strides that have been taken; but still greater is the work
that remains to be done. Suppose anyone had a garden, and carefully
manured, and dug over and over again, and raked, and broke up all
the larger clods, and well watered one particular section of it,
leaving all the rest to follow the dictates of wild nature, could he
possibly expect the same amount of produce from those portions
which, practically speaking, took care of themselves? Here are men
of intellect and energy employing every possible means to develop
the latent powers of the soil, and producing extraordinary results
in grain and meat. Here also are others who, in so far as
circumstances permit, follow in their footsteps. But there remains a
large area in the great garden of England which, practically
speaking, takes care of itself. The grass grows, the seed sprouts
and germinates, very much how they may, with little or no aid from
man. It does not require much penetration to arrive at the obvious
conclusion that the yield does not nearly approach the possible
production. Neither in meat nor corn is the tale equal to what it
well might be. All due allowance must be made for barren soils of
sand or chalk with thinnest layers of earth; yet then there is an
enormous area, where the soil is good and fertile, not properly
productive. It would be extremely unfair to cast the blame wholly
upon the tenants. They have achieved wonders in the past twenty
years; they have made gigantic efforts and bestirred themselves
right manfully. But a man may wander over his farm and note with
discontented eye the many things he would like to do--the drains he
would like to lay down, the manure he would like to spread abroad,
the new stalls he would gladly build, the machine he so much
wants--and then, shrugging his shoulders, reflect that he has not
got the capital to do it with. Almost to a man they are sincerely
desirous of progress; those who cannot follow in great things do in
little. Science and invention have done almost all that they can be
expected to do; chemistry and research have supplied powerful
fertilizers. Machinery has been made to do work which at first sight
seems incapable of being carried on by wheels and cranks. Science
and invention may rest awhile: what is wanted is the universal
application of their improvements by the aid of more capital. We
want the great garden equally highly cultivated everywhere.
VILLAGE ORGANIZATION
The great centres of population have almost entirely occupied the
attention of our legislators of late years, and even those measures
which affect the rural districts, or which may be extended to affect
them at the will of the residents, have had their origin in the wish
to provide for large towns. The Education Act arose out of a natural
desire to place the means of learning within the reach of the dense
population of such centres as London, Birmingham, Manchester, and
others of that class; and although its operation extends to the
whole country, yet those who have had any experience of its method
of working in agricultural parishes will recognize at once that its
designers did not contemplate the conditions of rural life when they
were framing their Bill. What is reasonable enough when applied to
cities is often extremely inconvenient when applied to villages. It
would almost seem as if the framers of the Bill left out of sight
the circumstances which obtain in agricultural districts. It was
obviously drawn up with a view to cities and towns, where an
organization exists which can be called in to assist the new
institution. This indifference of the Bill to the conditions of
country life is one of the reasons why it is so reluctantly complied
with. The number of School Boards which have been called into
existence in the country is extremely small, and even where they do
exist they cannot be taken as representing a real outcome of opinion
on the part of the inhabitants. They owe their establishment to
certain causes which, in process of time, bring the parish under the
operation of the Act, with or without the will of the residents.
This is particularly the case in parishes where there is no large
landlord, no one to take the initiative, and no large farmers to
support the clergyman in his attempt to obtain, or maintain, an
independent school. The matter is distinct from political feelings.
It arises in a measure from the desultory village life, which
possesses no organization, no power of combination. Here is a large
and fairly populous parish without any great landowners, and, as a
natural consequence, also without any large farmers. The property of
the parish is in the hands of some score of persons; it may be split
up into almost infinitesimal holdings in the village itself. Now,
everyone knows the thoroughly independent character of an English
farmer. He will follow what he considers the natural lead of his
landlord, if he occupy a superior social position. He will follow
his landlord in a sturdy, independent way, but he will follow no one
else. Let there be no great landowner in the parish, and any
combination on the part of the agriculturists becomes impossible.
One man has one idea, another another, and each and all are
determined not to yield an inch. Most of them are decidedly against
the introduction of a School Board, and are quite ready to subscribe
towards an independent school; but, then, when it comes to the
administration of the school funds, there must be managers appointed
to carry the plan into execution, and these managers must confer
with the clergyman. Now here are endless elements of confusion and
disagreement. One man thinks he ought to be a manager, and does not
approve of the conduct of those who are in charge. Another dislikes
the tone of the clergyman. A third takes a personal dislike to the
schoolmaster who is employed. One little discord leads to further
complication; someone loses his temper, and personalities are
introduced; then it is all over with the subscription, and the
school ceases, simply because there are no funds. Finally, the
Imperial authorities step in, and finding education at a dead-lock,
a School Board is presently established, though in all probability
nine out of ten are against it, but hold their peace in the hope of
at last getting some kind of organization. So it will be found that
the few country School Boards which exist are in parishes where
there is no large landowner, or where the owner is a non-resident,
or the property in Chancery. In other words, they exist in places
where there is no natural chief to give expression to the feelings
of the parish.
Agriculturists of all shades of political opinions are usually
averse to a School Board. An ill-defined feeling is very often the
strongest rule of conduct. Now there is an ill-defined but very
strong feeling that the introduction of a School Board means the
placing of the parish more or less under imperial rule, and
curtailing the freedom that has hitherto existed. This has been much
strengthened by the experience gained during the last few years of
the actual working of the Bill with respect to schools which are not
Board Schools, but which come under the Government inspection. Every
step of the proceedings shows only too plainly the utter unfitness
of the clauses of the Bill to rural conditions. One of the most
important clauses is that which insists upon a given amount of cubic
space for each individual child. This has often entailed the
greatest inconveniences, and very unnecessary expense. It was most
certainly desirable that overcrowding and the consequent evolution
of foul gases should be guarded against; and in great cities, where
the air is always more or less impure, and contaminated with the
effluvia from factories as well as from human breath, a large amount
of cubic feet of space might properly be insisted upon; but in
villages where the air is pure and free from the slightest
contamination, villages situated often on breezy hills, or at worst
in the midst of sweet meadow land, the hard-and-fast rule of so many
cubic feet is an intolerable burden upon the supporters of the
school. Still, that would not be so objectionable were it confined
to the actual number of attendants at the school; but it would
appear that the Government grant is not applicable to schools,
unless they are large enough to allow to all children in the parish
a certain given cubic space.
Now, as a matter of fact, nothing like all the children of the
parish attend the school. In rural districts, especially, where the
distance of cottages from the school is often very great, there will
always be a heavy percentage of absentees. There will also be a
percentage who attend schools in connection with a Dissenting
establishment, and even a certain number who attend private schools,
to say nothing of the numbers who never attend at all. It is, then,
extremely hard that the subscribers to a school should be compelled
to erect a building sufficiently large to allow of the given
quantity of space to each and every child in the parish. Matters
like these have convinced the residents in rural districts that the
Act was framed without any consideration of their peculiar position,
and they naturally feel repugnant to its introduction amongst them,
and decline to make it in any way a foundation of village
organization. The Act regulating the age at which children may be
employed in agriculture was also an extension of an original Act,
passed to protect the interest of children in cities and
manufacturing districts. There is no objection to the Act except
that it is a dead-letter. How many prosecutions have taken place
under it? No one ever hears of anything of the kind, and probably no
one ever will. The fact is, that since the universal use of
machinery there is not so ready an employment for boys and children
of that tender age as formerly. They are not by any means so
greatly in demand, neither do they pay so well, on account of the
much larger wages they now ask for. In addition, the farmers are
strongly in favour of the education of their labourers' children,
and place every facility in the way of those attending school. In
many parishes a very strong moral pressure is voluntarily put upon
the labouring poor to induce them to send their children, and the
labouring poor themselves have awakened in a measure to the
advantages of education. The Act, therefore, is practically a
dead-letter, and bears no influence upon village life. These two
Acts, and the alteration of the law relating to sanitary matters--by
which the Guardians of the Poor become the rural sanitary
authority--are the only legislation of modern days that goes direct
to the heart of rural districts. The rural sanitary authority
possesses great powers, but rarely exercises them. The constitution
of that body forbids an active supervision. It is made up of one or
two gentlemen from each parish, who are generally elected to that
office without any contest, and simply because their brother farmers
feel confidence in their judgment. The principal objects to which
their attention is directed while at the board is to see that no
unnecessary expenditure is permitted, so as to keep the rates at the
lowest possible figure, and to state all they know of the conduct
and position of the poor of their own parishes who apply for relief,
in which latter matter they afford the most valuable assistance,
many of the applicants having been known to them for a score of
years or more. But if there is one thing a farmer dislikes more than
another it is meddling and interfering with other persons' business.
He would sooner put up with any amount of inconvenience, and even
serious annoyance, than take an active step to remove the cause of
his grumbling, if that step involves the operation of the law
against his neighbours. The guardian who rides to the board meeting
week after week may be perfectly well aware that the village which
he represents is suffering under a common nuisance: that there is a
pond in the middle of the place which emits an offensive odour; that
there are three or four cottages in a dilapidated condition and
unfit for human habitation, or crowded to excess with dirty tenants;
or that the sewage of the place flows in an open ditch into the
brook which supplies the inhabitants with water. He has not got
power to deal with these matters personally, but he can, if he
chooses, bring them before the notice of the board, which can
instruct its inspector (probably also its relieving officer) to take
action at law against the nuisance. But it is not to be expected
that a single person will do anything of the kind.