the office of public prosecutor, and nothing more unpopular could be
imagined. The agriculturist who holds the office of guardian does
not feel it his duty to act as common spy and informer, and he may
certainly be pardoned if he neglects to act contrary to his feelings
as a gentleman. Therefore he rides by the stinking pond, the
overcrowded cottages, the polluted water, week by week, and says
nothing whatever. It is easy to remark that the board has its
inspector, who is paid to report upon these matters; but the
inspector has, in the first place, to traverse an enormous extent of
country, and has no opportunity of becoming acquainted with
nuisances which are not unbearably offensive. He has usually other
duties to perform which occupy the greater part of his time, and he
is certainly not overpaid for the work he does and the distance he
travels. He also has his natural feelings upon the subject of making
himself disagreeable, and he shrinks from interference, unless
instructed by his superiors. His position is not sufficiently
independent to render him, in all cases, a free agent; so it happens
that the rural sanitary authority is practically a nullity. It is
too cumbrous, it meets at too great a distance, and its powers,
after all, even when at last set in motion, are too limited to have
any appreciable effect in ameliorating the condition of village
life. But even if this nominal body were actively engaged in
prosecuting offenders, the desired result would be far from being
attained. One of the most serious matters is the supply of water for
public use in villages. At the present moment there exists no
authority which can cause a parish to be supplied with good drinking
water. While the great centres of population have received the most
minute attention from the Legislature, the large population which
resides in villages has been left to its own devices, with the
exception of the three measures, the first of which is unsuitable
and strenuously opposed, the second a dead-letter, and the third
cumbrous and practically inoperative.
Let us now examine the authorities which act under ancient
enactments, or by reason of long standing, immemorial custom. The
first of these may be taken to be the Vestry. The powers of the
vestries appear to have formerly been somewhat extended, but in
these latter times the influence they exercise has been very much
curtailed. At the time when each parish relieved its own poor, the
Vestry was practically the governing authority of the village, and
possessed almost unlimited power, so far as the poor were concerned.
That power was derived from its control over the supply of bread to
the destitute. As the greater part of the working population
received relief, it followed that the Vestry, composed of the
agriculturists and landowners, was practically autocratic. Still
longer ago, when the laws of the land contained certain enactments
as to the attendance of persons at church, the Vestry had still
greater powers. But at present, in most parishes, the Vestry is a
nominal assembly, and frequently there is a difficulty in getting
sufficient numbers of people together to constitute a legal
authority. The poor rate is no longer made at the Vestry; the church
rate is a thing of the past; and what is then left? There is the
appointment of overseers, churchwardens, and similar formal matters;
but the power has departed. In all probability they will never be
resuscitated, because in all authorities of the kind there is a
suspicion of Church influence; and there seems to be almost as much
dislike to any shadow of that as against the political and temporal
claims of the Roman Pontiff. The Vestry can never again become a
popular vehicle of administration. The second is the Board of
Guardians--though this is not properly a village or local authority
at all, but merely a representative firm for the supervision of
certain funds in which a number of villages are partners, and which
can only be applied to a few stated purposes, under strictly limited
conditions. There is no popular feeling involved in the expenditure
of this fund, except that of economy, and almost any ratepayer may
be trusted to vote for this; so that the office of guardian is a
most routine one, and offers no opportunity of reform. Often one
gentleman will represent a village for twenty years, being simply
nominated, or even not as much as nominated, from year to year. If
at last he grows tired of the monotony, and mentions it to his
friends, they nominate another gentleman, always chosen for his
good-fellowship and known dislike to change or interference--a man,
in fact, without any violent opinions. He is nominated, and takes
his seat. There is no emulation, no excitement. The Board of
Guardians would assume more of the character of a local authority if
it possessed greater freedom of action. But its course is so rigidly
bound down by minute regulations and precedents that it really has
no volition of its own, and can only deal with circumstances as
they arise, according to a code laid down at a distance. It is not
permitted to discriminate; it can neither relax nor repress; it is
absolutely inelastic. In consequence it does not approach to the
idea of a real local power, but rather resembles an assembly of
unpaid clerks doling out infinitesimal sums of money to an endless
stream of creditors, according to written instructions left by the
absent head of the firm. Next there is the Highway Board; but this
also possesses but limited authority, and deals only with roads. It
has merely to see that the roads are kept in good repair, and that
no encroachments are made upon them. Like the Board of Guardians, it
is a most useful body; but its influence upon village life is
indirect and indeterminate. There only remains the Court Leet. This,
the most ancient and absolute of all, nevertheless approaches in
principle nearest to the ideal of a local village authority. It is
supposed to be composed of the lord of the manor, and of his court
or jury of tenants, and its object is to see that the rights of the
manor are maintained. The Court Leet was formerly a very important
assembly, but in our time its offices are minute, and only apply to
small interests. It is held at long intervals of time--as long, in
some instances, as seven years--and is summoned by the steward of
the lord of the manor, and commonly held at an inn, refreshments
being supplied by the lord. Here come all the poor persons who
occupy cottages or garden grounds on quit-rent, and pay their rent,
which may amount in seven years to as much as fourteen shillings. A
member of the court will, perhaps, draw the attention of the court
to the fact that a certain ditch or watercourse has become choked
up, and requires clearing out or diverting; and if this ditch be
upon the manor, the court can order it to be attended to. On the
manor they have also jurisdiction over timber, paths, and similar
matters, and can order that a cottage which is dilapidated shall be
repaired or removed. In point of fact, however, the Court Leet is
merely a jovial assembly of the tenants upon the estate of the
landowner, who drink so many bottles of sherry at his expense, and
set to right a few minute grievances.
In many places--the vast majority, indeed--there is no longer any
Court Leet held, because the manorial rights have become faint and
indistinct with the passage of time; the manor has been sold, split
up into two or three estates, the entail cut off; or the manor as a
manor has totally disappeared under the changes of ownership, and
the various deeds and liabilities which have arisen. But this
merely general gathering of the farmers of the village--where Court
Leets are still held, all farmers are invited, irrespective of
their supposed allegiance to the lord of the manor or not--this
pleasant dinner and sherry party, which meets to go through
obsolete customs, and exercise minute and barely legal rights,
contains nevertheless many of the elements of a desirable local
authority. It is composed of gentlemen of all shades of opinion; no
politics are introduced. It meets in the village itself, and under
the direct sanction of the landowner. Its powers are confined to
strictly local matters, and its members are thoroughly acquainted
with those matters. The affairs of the village are discussed
without acrimony, and a certain amount of understanding arrived at.
It regulates disputes and grievances arising between the
inhabitants of cottage property, and can see that that property is
habitable. It acts more by custom, habit, more by acquiescence of
the parties than by any imperious, hard-and-fast law laid down at a
distance from the scene. But any hope of the resuscitation of Court
Leets must not be entertained, because in so many places the manor
is now merely 'reputed,' and has no proper existence; because, too,
the lord of the manor may be living at a distance, and possess
scarcely any property in the parish, except his 'rights.' The idea,
however, of the agriculturists and principal residents in a village
meeting in a friendly manner together, under the direct leadership
of the largest landowner, to discuss village matters, is one that
may be revived with some prospect of success. At present, who,
pray, has the power of so much as convening a meeting of the
parishioners, or of taking the sense of the village? It may be done
by the churchwardens convening a Vestry, but a Vestry is extremely
limited in authority, unpopular, and without any cohesion. Under
the new Education Acts the signatures of a certain number of
ratepayers to a requisition compels the officer appointed by law to
call a meeting, but only for objects connected with the school.
Upon consideration it appears that there really is no village
authority at all; no recognized place or time at which the
principal inhabitants can meet together and discuss the affairs of
the parish with a prospect of immediate action resulting. The
meetings of the magistrates at petty sessions, quarter sessions,
and at various other times are purposely omitted from this
argument, because there is rarely more than one magistrate resident
in a village, or at most two, and the assemblies of these gentlemen
at a distance from their homes cannot be taken to form a village
council in any sense of the term.
The places where agriculturists and the principal inhabitants of
the parish do meet together and discuss matters in a friendly
spirit are the churchyard, before service, the market dinner, the
hunting-field, and the village inn. The last has fallen into
disuse. It used to be the custom to meet at the central village inn
night after night to hear the news, as well as for convivial
purposes. In those days of slow travelling and few posts, the news
was communicated from village to village by pedlars, or carriers'
carts calling, as they went, at each inn. But now it is a rare
thing to find farmers at the inn in their own village. The old
drinking habits have died out. It is not that there is any
prejudice against the inn; but there is a cessation of the
inducement to sit there night after night. People do not care to
drink as they used to, and they can get the news just as well at
home. The parlour at the inn has ceased to be the village
parliament. The hunting-field is an unfavourable place for
discussion, since in the midst of a remark the hounds may start,
and away go speaker and listener, and the subject is forgotten. The
market dinner is not so general and friendly a meeting as it was.
There is a large admixture of manure and machinery agents,
travellers for seed-merchants, corn-dealers, and others who have no
interest in purely local matters, and the dinner itself is somewhat
formal, with its regular courses of fish and so forth, till the
talk is more or less constrained and general. The churchyard is a
singular place of meeting, but it is still popular. The
agriculturist walks into the yard about a quarter to eleven, sees a
friend; a third joins; then the squire strolls round from his
carriage, and a pleasant chat ensues, till the ceasing bell reminds
them that service is about to commence. But this is a very narrow
representation of the village, and is perhaps never made up on two
occasions of the same persons. The duration of the gathering is
extremely short, and it has no cohesion or power of action.
It is difficult to convey an adequate idea of the desultory nature
of village life. There is an utter lack of any kind of cohesion, a
total absence of any common interest, or social bond of union. There
is no _esprit de corps_. In old times there was, to a certain
extent--in the days when each village was divided against its
neighbour, and fiercely contested with it the honour of sending
forth the best backsword player. No one wishes those times to
return. We have still village cricket clubs, who meet each other in
friendly battle, but there is no enthusiasm over it. The players
themselves are scarcely excited, and it is often difficult to get
sufficient together to fulfil an engagement. There is the dinner of
the village benefit club, year after year. The object of the club is
of the best, but its appearance upon club-day is a woeful spectacle
to eyes that naturally look for a little taste upon an occasion of
supposed festivity. What can be more melancholy than a procession of
men clad in ill-fitting black clothes, in which they are evidently
uncomfortable, with blue scarves over the shoulder, headed with a
blatant brass band, and going first to church, and then all round
the place for beer? They eat their dinner and disperse, and then
there is an end of the matter. There is no social bond of union, no
connection.
It is questionable whether this desultoriness is a matter for
congratulation. It fosters an idle, slow, clumsy, heedless race of
men--men who are but great children, who have no public feeling
whatever--without a leading idea. This fact was most patently
exhibited at the last General Election, when the agricultural
labourers for the first time exercised the franchise freely to any
extent. The great majority of them voted plump for the candidate
favoured by the squire or by the farmer. There was nothing
unreasonable in this; it is natural and fit that men should support
the candidate who comes nearest to their interest; but, then, let
there be some better reason for it than the simple fact 'that master
goes that way.' Whether it be for Liberal or Conservative, whatever
be the party, surely it is desirable that the labourer should
possess a leading idea, an independent conviction of what is for the
public good. Let it be a mistaken conviction, it is better than an
absence of all feeling; but politics are no part of the question.
Politics apart, the villager might surely have some conception of
what is best for his own native place, the parish in which he was
born and bred, and with every field in which he is familiar. But no,
nothing of the kind. He goes to and fro his work, receives his
wages, spends them at the ale-house, and wanders listlessly about.
The very conception of a public feeling never occurs to him; it is
all desultory. A little desultory work--except in harvest,
labourer's work cannot be called downright _work_--a little
desultory talk, a little desultory rambling about, a good deal of
desultory drinking: these are the sum and total of it; no, add a
little desultory smoking and purposeless mischief to make it
complete. Why should not the labourer be made to feel an interest in
the welfare, the prosperity, and progress of his own village? Why
should he not be supplied with a motive for united action? All
experience teaches that united action, even on small matters, has a
tendency to enlarge the minds and the whole powers of those engaged.
The labourer feels so little interest in his own progress, because
the matter is only brought before him in its individual bearing. You
can rarely interest a single person in the improvement of himself,
but you can interest a number in the progress of that number as a
body. The vacancy of mind, the absence of any ennobling aspiration,
so noticeable in the agricultural labourer, is a painful fact. Does
it not, in great measure, arise from this very desultory life--from
this procrastinating dislike to active exertion? Supply a motive--a
general public motive--and the labourer will wake up. At the present
moment, what interest has an ordinary agricultural labourer in the
affairs of his own village? Practically none whatever. He may,
perhaps, pay rates; but these are administered at a distance, and he
knows nothing of the system by which they are dispensed. If his
next-door neighbour's cottage is tumbling down, the thatch in holes,
the doors off their hinges, it matters nothing to him. Certainly, he
cannot himself pay for its renovation, and there is no fund to which
he can subscribe so much as a penny with that object in view. A
number of cottages may be without a supply of water. Well, he cannot
help it; probably he never gives a thought to it. There is no
governing body in the place responsible for such things--no body in
the election of which he has any hand. He puts his hands in his
pockets and slouches about, smoking a short pipe, and drinks a quart
at the nearest ale-house. He is totally indifferent. To go still
further, there can be no doubt that the absence of any such ruling
body, even if ruling only on sufferance, has a deteriorating effect
upon the minds of the best-informed and broadest-minded
agriculturist. He sees a nuisance or a grievance, possibly something
that may approach the nature of a calamity. 'Ah, well,' he sighs, 'I
can't help it; I've no power to interfere.' He walks round his farm,
examines his sheep, pats his horses, and rides to market, and
naturally forgets all about it. Were there any ready and available
means by which the nuisance could be removed, or the calamity in
some measure averted, the very same man would at once put it in
motion, and never cease till the desired result was attained; but
the total absence of any authority, any common centre, tends to
foster what appears an utter indifference. How can it be otherwise?
The absence of such a body tends, therefore, in two ways to the
injury of the labourer: first, because he has no means of helping
himself; and, secondly, because those above him in social station
have no means of assisting him. But why cannot the squire step in
and do all that is wanted? What is there that the landowner is not
expected to do? He is compelled by the law to contribute to the
maintenance of roads by heavy subscriptions, while men of much
larger income, but no real property, ride over them free of cost. He
is expected by public opinion to rebuild all the cottages on his
estate, introducing all the modern improvements, to furnish them
with large plots of garden ground, to supply them with coal during
the winter at nominal cost, to pay three parts of the expense of
erecting schools, and what not. He is expected to extend the
farm-buildings upon the farms, to rebuild the farmsteads, and now to
compensate the tenants for improvements, though he may not
particularly care for them, knowing full well by experience that
improvements are a long time before they pay any interest on the
principal invested. Now we expect him to remove all nuisances in the
village, to supply water, to exercise a wise paternal authority, and
all at his own cost. The whole thing is unreasonable. Many
landowners have succeeded to heavily-burdened estates. The best
estates pay, it must be remembered, but a very small comparative
interest upon their value--in some instances not more than two and a
half per cent. Moreover, almost all landowners do take an interest
in improvements, and are ready to forward them; but can a gentleman
be expected to go round from cottage to cottage performing the
duties of an inspector of nuisances? and, if he did so, would it be
tolerated for an instant? The outcry would be raised of
interference, tyranny, overbearing insolence, intolerable intrusion.
It is undoubtedly the landowner's duty to forward all reasonable
schemes of improvement; but if the inhabitants are utterly
indifferent to progress of any kind, it is not his duty to issue an
autocratical ukase. Let the inhabitants combine, in however loose
and informal a manner, and the landowner will always be ready to
assist them with purse and moral support.