cottages are to be had, there are no sellers, and the cost of
transfer is prohibitive; men are shifted on, they have no security
of tenure, they are passed on from farm to farm and can settle
nowhere. The competition for a house in some districts is keen to
the last degree; it seems as if there were eager crowds waiting for
homes. Recently while roaming on the Sussex hills I met an ancient
shepherd whose hair was white as snow, though he stood upright
enough. I inquired the names of the hills there, and he replied that
he did not know; he was a stranger, he had only been moved there
lately. How strangely changed are things when a grey-headed shepherd
does not know the names of his hills! At a time of life when he
ought to have been comfortably settled he had had to shift.
Sentiment is more stubborn than fact. People will face the sternest
facts, dire facts, stubborn facts, and stay on in spite of all; but
once let sentiment alter and away they troop. So I think that some
part of the distaste for farming visible about us is due to change
of sentiment--to feeling repelled--as well as to unfruitful years.
Men have stood out against weary weather in all ages of agriculture,
but lately they have felt hurt and repelled, the sentiment of
attachment to home has been rudely torn up, and so now the current
sets against farming, though farms are often offered on advantageous
terms. In the same way, besides the stubborn facts that drive the
labourer from the village and prevent his return to settle, there is
a yet more stubborn sentiment repelling him. Made a man of by
education--not only of books, but the unconscious education of
progressive times--the labourer and his son and daughter have
thoughts of independence. To be humbly subservient to the will of
those above them, to be docilely obedient, not only to the employer,
but to all in some sort of authority, is not attractive to them.
Plainly put, the rule of parson and squire, tenant and guardian, is
repellent to them in these days. They would rather go away. If they
do save money in cities, they do not care to return and settle under
the thumb of these their old masters. Besides more attractive facts,
the sentiment of independence must be called into existence before
the labourer, or, for the matter of that, the small farmer's son,
will willingly settle in the village. That sense of independence can
only arise when the village governs itself by its own council,
irrespective of parson, squire, tenant, or guardian. Towards that
end the power to vote is almost certain to drift slowly.
Nothing can be conceived more harshly antagonistic to the feelings
of a naturally industrious race of men than the knowledge that as a
mass they are looked upon as prospective 'paupers.' I detest this
word so much that it is painful to me to write it; I put it between
inverted commas as a sort of protest, so that it may appear a hated
intruder, and not native to the text. The local government existing
at this day in country districts is practically based upon the
assumption that every labouring man will one day be a 'pauper,' will
one day come to the workhouse. By the workhouse and its board the
cottage is governed; the workhouse is the centre, the bureau, the
_hotel de ville_. The venue of local government must be changed
before the labourer can feel independent, and it will be changed
doubtless as he becomes conscious of the new power he has acquired.
Shall the bitterness of the workhouse at last pass away? Let us hope
so let us be thankful indeed if the franchise leads to the downfall
of those cruel walls. Yet what is the cruelty of cold walls to the
cruelty of 'system'? A workhouse in the country is usually situated
as nearly as possible in the centre of the Union, it may be miles
from the outlying parishes. Thither the worn-out cottager is borne
away from the fields, his cronies, his little helps to old age such
as the corner where the sun shines, the friend who allows little
amenities, to dwindle and die. The workhouse bureau extends its
unfeeling hands into every detail of cottage life. No wonder the
labourer does not deny himself to save money in order to settle
where these things are done. A happy day it will be when the
workhouse door is shut and the building sold for materials. A
gentleman not long since wrote to me a vindication of his
workhouse--I cannot at the moment place my hand on the figures he
sent me, but I grant that they were conclusive from his point of
view; they were not extravagant, the administration appeared
correct. But this is not my point of view at all. Figures are not
humanity. The workhouse and the poor-law system are inhuman,
debasing, and injurious to the whole country, and the better they
are administered, the worse it really is, since it affords a
specious pretext for their continuance. What would be the use of a
captain assuring his passengers that the ship was well found, plenty
of coal in the bunkers, the engines oiled and working smoothly, when
they did not want to go to the port for which he was steering? An
exact dose of poison may be administered, but what comfort is it to
the victim to assure him that it was accurately measured to a minim?
What is the value of informing me that the 'paupers' are properly
looked after when I do not want any 'paupers'?
But how manage without the poor-law system? There are several ways.
There is the insurance method: space will not permit of discussion
in this paper, but one fact which speaks volumes may be alluded to.
Two large societies exist in this country called the 'Oddfellows'
and the 'Foresters'; they number their members by the million; they
assist their members not only at home, but all over the world (which
is what no poor-law has ever done); they govern themselves by their
own laws, and they prosper exceedingly--an honour to the nation.
They have solved the difficulty for themselves.
When the village governs itself and takes all matters into its own
hands, in time the sentiment of independence may grow up and men
begin to work and strive and save, that they may settle at home. It
would be a very noble thing indeed if the true English feeling for
home life should become the dominant passion of the country once
again. By home life I mean that which gathers about a house,
however small, standing in its own grounds. Something comes into
existence about such a house, an influence, a pervading feeling,
like some warm colour softening the whole, tinting the lichen on
the wall, even the very smoke-marks on the chimney. It is home, and
the men and women born there will never lose the tone it has given
them. Such homes are the strength of a land. The emigrant who
leaves us for the backwoods hopes to carve out a home for himself
there, and we consider that an ambition to be admired. I hope the
day will come when some at least of our people may be able to set
up homes for themselves in their own country. To-day, if they would
live, they must crowd into the city, often to dwell in the midst of
hideous squalor, or they must cross the ocean. They would rather
endure the squalor, rather say farewell for ever and sail for
America, than stay in the village where everyone is master, and
none of their class can be independent. The village must be its own
master before it becomes popular. County government may be
reformed with advantage, but that is not enough, because it must
necessarily be too far off. People in the country are scattered,
and each little centre is naturally only concerned with itself. A
government having its centre at the county town is too far away,
and is likely to bear too much resemblance to the boards of
guardians and present authorities, to be representative of land and
money rather than of men. Progress can only be made in each little
centre separately by means of village councils, genuinely
representative of the village folk, unswayed by mansion, vicarage,
or farm. Then by degrees we may hope to see the re-awakening of
English home-life in contradistinction to that unhappy restlessness
which drives so many to the cities.
Men will then wake up and work with energy because they will have
hope. The slow, plodding manner of the labourer--the dull ways even
of the many industrious cottagers--these will disappear, giving
place to push and enterprise. Why does a lawyer work as no navvy
works? Why does a cabinet minister labour the year through as hard
as a miner? Because they have a mental object. So will the labourer
work when he has a mental object--to possess a home for himself.
Whenever such homes become numerous and the new life of the country
begins to flow, pressure will soon be brought to bear for the
removal of the mediaeval law which prevents the use of steam on
common roads. Modern as the law is, it is mediaeval in its tendency
as much as a law would be for the restriction of steam on the
ocean. Suppose a statute compelling all ships to sail, or, if they
steamed, not to exceed four miles an hour! One of the greatest
drawbacks to agriculture is the cost and difficulty of transit;
wheat, flour, and other foods come from America at far less expense
in proportion than it takes to send a waggon-load to London. This
cost of transit in the United Kingdom will ultimately, one would
think, become the question of the day, concerning as it does every
individual. Agriculture on a large scale finds it a heavy drawback;
to agriculture on a small scale it is often prohibitory. A man may
cultivate his two-acre plot and produce vegetables and fruit, but if
he cannot get his produce to London (or some great city), the demand
for it is small, and the value low in proportion. As settlers
increase, as the village becomes its own master, and men pass part
at least of their time labouring on their own land, the difficulty
will be felt to be a very serious one. Transit they must have, and
steam alone can supply it. Engines and cars can be built to run on
common roads almost as easily as on rails, and as for danger it is
merely the interested outcry of those who deal in horses. There is
no danger. Fine smooth roads exist all over the country; they have
been kept up from coaching days as if in a prophetic spirit for
their future use by steam. Upon these roads engines and cars can
travel at a good fair pace, collecting produce, and either
delivering it to the through lines of rail, or passing it on from
road-train to road-train till it reaches the city. This is a very
important matter indeed, for in the future easier and quicker
transit will become imperative for agriculture. The impost of
extraordinary tithe--the whole system of tithe--again, is doomed
when once the country begins to live its new life. Freedom of
cultivation is ten times more needful to the small than to the large
proprietor.
These changes closely examined lose their threatening aspect, so
much so that the marvel is they did not commence fifty years ago
instead of waiting till now, and even now to be only potential. What
is there in the present condition of agriculture to make farmer or
landowner anxious that the existing system of things should
continue? Surely nothing; surely every consideration points in
favour of moderate change. Those who quote the example of France,
and would argue that dissatisfaction must, as there, increase with
efforts to allay it, must know full well in their hearts that there
is no comparison whatever with France. The two peoples are so
entirely different. So little contents our race that the danger is
rather the other way, that they will be too easily satisfied. Such
changes as I have indicated, when examined closely, are really so
mild that in full operation they would scarcely make any difference
in the relation of the classes. Such village councils would be very
anxious for the existence of the farmer, and for his interests to be
respected, for the sufficient reason that they know the value of
wages. Perhaps they might even, under certain conditions, become
almost too willing partisans of the farmer for their best interests
to be served. I can imagine such conditions easily enough, and the
possibility of the three sections, labourer, farmer, and owner,
becoming more closely welded together than ever. There is far more
stolidity to be regretted than revolution to be feared. The danger
is lest the new voters should stolidify--crystallize--in tacit
league with existing conditions; not lest we should go hop, skip,
and jump over Niagara.
A probable result of these changes is an increase in the value of
land: if thousands of people should ever really begin to desire it,
and to work and save for the object of buying it, analogy would
suppose a rise in value. Instead of a loss there would be a gain to
the landowner, and I think to the farmer, who would have a larger
supply of labour, and possibly a strong posse of supporters at the
poll in their men. Instead of division coalescence is more probable.
The greater his freedom, the greater his attachment to home, the
more settled the labourer, the firmer will become the position of
all three classes. The landowner has nothing whatever to fear for
his park, his mansion, his privacy, his shooting, or anything else.
What is taken will be paid for, and no more will be taken than
needful. Parks and woods are becoming of priceless value; we should
have to preserve a few landlords if only to have parks and woods.
Perfect rights of possession are not at all incompatible with
enjoyment by the people. There are domains to be found where people
wander at their will, and enjoy themselves as much as they please,
and yet the owner retains every right. It is true that there are
also numerous parks rigidly closed to the public, demonstrating the
folly of the proprietors--square miles of folly. The use of a little
compulsion to open them would not be at all deplorable. But it must
stop there and not encroach farther. Having obtained the use, be
careful not to destroy.
The one great aim I have in all my thoughts is the acquisition of
public and the preservation of private liberty. Freedom is the most
valuable of all things, and is to be sought with all our powers of
mind and hand. Freedom does not mean injustice, but neither will it
put up with injustice. A singular misapprehension seems to be widely
spread in our time; it is that there are two great criminals, the
poor man or 'pauper' and the landlord. At opposite extremes of the
scale they are regarded as equally guilty. Every right--the right to
vote, the right to live in his native village, the right to be
buried decently--is taken from the unhappy poor man or 'pauper.' He
is a criminal. To own land is to be guilty of unpardonable sin,
nothing is so bad; as criminals are ordered to be searched and
everything taken from them, so everything is to be taken from the
landowner. The injustice to both is equally evident. Anyone by
chance of circumstances, uncontrollable, may be reduced to extreme
poverty; how cruel to punish the unfortunate with the loss of civil
rights! Anyone by good fortune and labour may acquire wealth, and
would naturally wish to purchase land: is he then guilty? In equity
both the poor and the rich should enjoy the same civil rights.
Let the new voter then bear in mind above all things the value of
individual liberty, and not be too anxious to destroy the liberty of
others, an action that invariably recoils. Let him, having obtained
his freedom, beware how he surrenders it again either to local
influence in the shape of land or money, or to the outside orator
who may urge him on for his own ends. Efforts will be made no doubt
to use the new voter for the purposes of cliques and fanatics. He
can always test the value of their object by the question of wages
and food--'How will it affect my wages and food?'--and probably that
is the test he will apply. A little knot of resolute and
straightforward men should be formed in every village to see that
the natural outcome of the franchise is obtained. They can begin as
vigilance committees, and will ultimately reach to legal status as
councils.
THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER
Ten years have passed away,[4] and the Wiltshire labourers have
only moved in two things--education and discontent. I had the
pleasure then of pointing out in 'Fraser' that there were causes
at work promising a considerable advance in the labourers'
condition. I regret to say now that the advance, which in a
measure did take place, has been checkmated by other circumstances,
and there they remain much as I left them, except in book-learning
and mental restlessness. They possess certain permanent
improvements--unexhausted improvements in agricultural language--but
these, in some way or other, do not seem now so valuable as they
looked. Ten years since important steps were being taken for the
material benefit of the labouring class. Landowners had awakened to
the advantage of attaching the peasantry to the soil, and were
spending large sums of money building cottages. Everywhere cottages
were put up on sanitary principles, so that to-day few farms on
great estates are without homes for the men. This substantial
improvement remains, and cannot fade away. Much building, too, was
progressing about the farmsteads; the cattle-sheds were undergoing
renovation, and this to some degree concerned the labourer, who now
began to do more of his work under cover. The efforts of every
writer and speaker in the country had not been without effect,
and allotments, or large gardens, were added to most cottage
homes. The movement, however, was slow, and promised more than it
performed, so that there are still cottages which have not shared
in it. But, on the whole, an advance in this respect did occur,
and the aggregate acreage of gardens and allotments must be
very considerably larger now than formerly. These are solid
considerations to quote on the favourable side. I have been
thinking to see if I could find anything else. I cannot call to
mind anything tangible, but there is certainly more liberty, an air
of freedom and independence--something more of the 'do as I please'
feeling exhibited. Then the sum ends. At that time experiments were
being tried on an extended scale in the field: such as draining,
the enlargement of fields by removing hedges, the formation of
private roads, the buildings already mentioned, and new systems of
agriculture, so that there was a general stir and bustle which
meant not only better wages but wages for more persons. The latter
is of the utmost importance to the tenant-labourer, by which I mean
a man who is settled, because it keeps his sons at home. Common
experience all over the world has always shown that three or four
or more people can mess together, as in camps, at a cheaper rate
than they can live separately. If the father of the family can find
work for his boys within a reasonable distance of home, with their
united contributions they can furnish a very comfortable table, one
to which no one could object to sit down, and then still have a sum
over and above with which to purchase clothes, and even to indulge
personal fancies. Such a pleasant state of things requires that
work should be plentiful in the neighbourhood. Work at that time
was plentiful, and contented and even prosperous homes of this kind
could be found. Here is just where the difficulty arises. From a
variety of causes the work has subsided. The father of the
family--the settled man, the tenant-labourer--keeps on as of yore,
but the boys cannot get employment near home. They have to seek it
afar, one here, one yonder--all apart, and the wages each
separately receives do but just keep them in food among strangers.
It is this scarcity of work which in part seems to have
counterbalanced the improvements which promised so well. Instead of
the progress naturally to be expected you find the same insolvency,
the same wearisome monotony of existence in debt, the same hopeless
countenances and conversation.
[4] Written in 1887.
There has been a contraction of enterprise everywhere, and a
consequent diminution of employment. When a factory shuts its
doors, the fact is patent to all who pass. The hum of machinery is
stopped, and smoke no longer floats from the chimney; the building
itself, large and regular--a sort of emphasized plainness of
architecture--cannot be overlooked. It is evident to everyone that
work has ceased, and the least reflection shows that hundreds of
men, perhaps hundreds of families, are reduced from former
comparative prosperity. But when ten thousand acres of land fall
out of cultivation, the fact is scarcely noticed. There the land is
just the same, and perhaps some effort is still made to keep it from
becoming altogether foul, so that a glance detects no difference.
The village feels it, but the world does not see it. The farmer has
left, and the money he paid over as wages once a week is no longer
forthcoming. Each man's separate portion of that sum was not much in
comparison with the earnings of fortunate artisans, but it was
money. Ten, twelve, or as much as fifteen shillings a week made a
home; but just sufficient to purchase food and meet other
requirements, such as clothes; yet still a home. On the cessation of
the twelve shillings where is the labourer to find a substitute for
it? Our country is limited in extent, and it has long been settled
to its utmost capacity. Under present circumstances there is no room
anywhere for more than the existing labouring population. It is
questionable if a district could be found where, under these present
circumstances, room could be found for ten more farmers' men. Only
so many men can live as can be employed; in each district there are
only so many farmers; they cannot enlarge their territories; and
thus it is that every agricultural parish is full to its utmost.
Some places among meadows appear almost empty. No one is at work in
the fields as you pass; there are cattle swishing their tails in the
shadow of the elms, but not a single visible person; acres upon
acres of grass, and no human being. Towards the latter part of the
afternoon, if the visitor has patience to wait, there will be a
sound of shouting, which the cattle understand, and begin in their
slow way to obey by moving in its direction. Milking time has come,
and one or two men come out to fetch in the cows. That over, for the
rest of the evening and till milking time in the morning the meadows
will be vacant. Naturally it would be supposed that there is room
here for a great number of people. Whole crowds might migrate into
these grassy fields, put up shanties, and set to work. But set to
work at what? That is just the difficulty. Whole crowds could come
here and find plenty of room to walk about--and starve! Cattle
require but few to look after them. Milch cattle need most, but
grazing beasts practically no one, for one can look after so many.
Upon inquiry it would be found that this empty parish is really
quite full. Very likely there are empty cottages, and yet it is
quite full. A cottage is of no use unless the occupier can obtain
regular weekly wages. The farmers are already paying as many as they
can find work for, and not one extra hand is wanted; except, of
course, in the press of hay-harvest, but no one can settle on one
month's work out of twelve. When ten or fifteen thousand acres of
land fall out of cultivation, and farmers leave, what is to become
of the labouring families they kept? What has become of them?