HODGE AND HIS MASTERS
BY
RICHARD JEFFERIES
Author of 'The Gamekeeper at Home,' 'Wild Life in a Southern County,'
'The Amateur Poacher,' 'Round About A Great Estate,' Etc.
PREFACE
The papers of which this volume is composed originally appeared in the
_Standard_, and are now republished by permission of the Editor.
In manners, mode of thought, and way of life, there is perhaps no class of
the community less uniform than the agricultural. The diversities are so
great as to amount to contradictions. Individuality of character is most
marked, and, varying an old saw, it might be said, so many farmers so many
minds.
Next to the tenants the landowners have felt the depression, to such a
degree, in fact, that they should perhaps take the first place, having no
one to allow them in turn a 20 per cent, reduction of their liabilities.
It must be remembered that the landowner will not receive the fruits of
returning prosperity when it comes for some time after they have reached
the farmer. Two good seasons will be needed before the landowner begins to
recoup.
Country towns are now so closely connected with agriculture that a
description of the one would be incomplete without some mention of the
other. The aggregate capital employed by the business men of these small
towns must amount to an immense sum, and the depreciation of their
investments is of more than local concern.
Although the labourer at the present moment is a little in the background,
and has the best of the bargain, since wages have not much fallen, if at
all; yet he will doubtless come to the front again. For as agriculture
revives, and the sun shines, the organisations by which he is represented
will naturally display fresh vigour.
But the rapid progress of education in the villages and outlying districts
is the element which is most worthy of thoughtful consideration. On the
one hand, it may perhaps cause a powerful demand for corresponding
privileges; and on the other, counteract the tendency to unreasonable
expectations. In any case, it is a fact that cannot be ignored. Meantime,
all I claim for the following sketches is that they are written in a fair
and impartial spirit.
RICHARD JEFFERIES.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FARMERS' PARLIAMENT
II. LEAVING HIS FARM
III. A MAN OF PROGRESS
IV. GOING DOWNHILL
V. THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER
VI. AN AGRICULTURAL GENIUS--OLD STYLE
VII. THE GIG AND THE FOUR-IN-HAND. A BICYCLE FARMER
VIII. HAYMAKING. 'THE JUKE'S COUNTRY'
IX. THE FINE LADY FARMER. COUNTRY GIRLS
X. MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS
XI. FLEECEBOROUGH. A 'DESPOT'
XII. THE SQUIRE'S 'ROUND ROBIN'
XIII. AN AMBITIOUS SQUIRE
XIV. THE PARSON'S WIFE
XV. A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE
XVI. THE SOLICITOR
XVII. 'COUNTY COURT DAY'
XVIII. THE BANK. THE OLD NEWSPAPER
XIX. THE VILLAGE FACTORY. VILLAGE VISITORS. WILLOW-WORK
XX. HODGE'S FIELDS
XXI. A WINTER'S MORNING
XXII. THE LABOURER'S CHILDREN, COTTAGE GIRLS
XXIII. THE LOW 'PUBLIC' IDLERS
XXIV. THE COTTAGE CHARTER, FOUR-ACRE FARMERS
XXV. LANDLORDS' DIFFICULTIES, THE LABOURER AS A POWER. MODERN CLERGY
XXVI. A WHEAT COUNTRY
XXVII. GRASS COUNTRIES
XXVIII. HODGE'S LAST MASTERS, CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
THE FARMERS' PARLIAMENT
The doorway of the Jason Inn at Woolbury had nothing particular to
distinguish it from the other doorways of the same extremely narrow
street. There was no porch, nor could there possibly be one, for an
ordinary porch would reach half across the roadway. There were no steps to
go up, there was no entrance hall, no space specially provided for crowds
of visitors; simply nothing but an ordinary street-door opening directly
on the street, and very little, if any, broader or higher than those of
the private houses adjacent. There was not even the usual covered way or
archway leading into the courtyard behind, so often found at old country
inns; the approach to the stables and coach-houses was through a separate
and even more narrow and winding street, necessitating a detour of some
quarter of a mile. The dead, dull wall was worn smooth in places by the
involuntary rubbings it had received from the shoulders of foot-passengers
thrust rudely against it as the market-people came pouring in or out, or
both together.
Had the spot been in the most crowded district of the busiest part of the
metropolis, where every inch of ground is worth an enormous sum, the
buildings could not have been more jammed together, nor the inconvenience
greater. Yet the little town was in the very midst of one of the most
purely agricultural counties, where land, to all appearance, was
plentiful, and where there was ample room and 'verge enough' to build
fifty such places. The pavement in front of the inn was barely eighteen
inches wide; two persons could not pass each other on it, nor walk
abreast. If a cart came along the roadway, and a trap had to go by it, the
foot-passengers had to squeeze up against the wall, lest the box of the
wheel projecting over the kerb should push them down. If a great waggon
came loaded with wool, the chances were whether a carriage could pass it
or not; as for a waggon-load of straw that projected from the sides,
nothing could get by, but all must wait--coroneted panel or plain
four-wheel--till the huge mass had rumbled and jolted into the more open
market-place.
But hard, indeed, must have been the flag-stones to withstand the wear and
tear of the endless iron-shod shoes that tramped to and fro these mere
ribbons of pavements. For, besides the through traffic out from the
market-place to the broad macadamised road that had taken the place and
the route of an ancient Roman road, there were the customers to the shops
that lined each side of the street. Into some of these you stepped from
the pavement down, as it were, into a cave, the level of the shop being
eight or ten inches below the street, while the first floor projected over
the pavement quite to the edge of the kerb. To enter these shops it was
necessary to stoop, and when you were inside there was barely room to turn
round. Other shops were, indeed, level with the street; but you had to be
careful, because the threshold was not flush with the pavement, but rose a
couple of inches and then fell again, a very trap to the toe of the
unwary. Many had no glass at all, but were open, like a butcher's or
fishmonger's. Those that had glass were so restricted for space that, rich
as they might be within in the good things of the earth, they could make
no 'display.' All the genius of a West-end shopman could not have made an
artistic arrangement in that narrow space and in that bad light; for,
though so small below, the houses rose high, and the street being so
narrow the sunshine rarely penetrated into it.
But mean as a metropolitan shopman might have thought the spot, the
business done there was large, and, more than that, it was genuine. The
trade of a country market-town, especially when that market-town, like
Woolbury, dates from the earliest days of English history, is hereditary.
It flows to the same store and to the same shop year after year,
generation after generation, century after century. The farmer who walks
into the saddler's here goes in because his father went there before him.
His father went in because his father dealt there, and so on farther back
than memory can trace. It might almost be said that whole villages go to
particular shops. You may see the agricultural labourers' wives, for
instance, on a Saturday leave the village in a bevy of ten or a dozen, and
all march in to the same tradesman. Of course in these latter days
speculative men and 'co-operative' prices, industriously placarded, have
sapped and undermined this old-fashioned system. Yet even now it retains
sufficient hold to be a marked feature of country life. To the through
traffic, therefore, had to be added the steady flow of customers to the
shops.
On a market-day like this there is, of course, the incessant entry and
exit of carts, waggons, traps, gigs, four-wheels, and a large number of
private carriages. The number of private carriages is, indeed, very
remarkable, as also the succession of gentlemen on thoroughbred horses--a
proof of the number of resident gentry in the neighbourhood, and of its
general prosperity. Cart-horses furbished up for sale, with straw-bound
tails and glistening skins; 'baaing' flocks of sheep; squeaking pigs;
bullocks with their heads held ominously low, some going, some returning,
from the auction yard; shouting drovers; lads rushing hither and thither;
dogs barking; everything and everybody crushing, jostling, pushing through
the narrow street. An old shepherd, who has done his master's business,
comes along the pavement, trudging thoughtful and slow, with ashen staff.
One hand is in his pocket, the elbow of the arm projecting; he is feeling
a fourpenny-piece, and deliberating at which 'tap' he shall spend it. He
fills up the entire pavement, and stolidly plods on, turning ladies and
all into the roadway; not from intentional rudeness, but from sheer
inability to perceive that he is causing inconvenience.
Unless you know the exact spot it is difficult in all this crowd and
pushing, with a nervous dread of being gored from behind by a bull, or
thrown off your feet by a sudden charge of sheep, to discover the door of
the Jason Inn. That door has been open every legitimate and lawful hour
this hundred years; but you will very likely be carried past it and have
to struggle back. Then it is not easy to enter, for half a dozen stalwart
farmers and farmers' sons are coming out; while two young fellows stand
just inside, close to the sliding bar-window, blocking up the passage, to
exchange occasional nods and smiles with the barmaid.
However, by degrees you shuffle along the sanded passage, and past the
door of the bar, which is full of farmers as thick as they can stand, or
sit. The rattle of glasses, the chink of spoons, the hum of voices, the
stamping of feet, the calls and orders, and sounds of laughter, mingle in
confusion. Cigar-smoke and the steam from the glasses fill the room--all
too small--with a thick white mist, through which rubicund faces dimly
shine like the red sun through a fog.
Some at the tables are struggling to write cheques, with continual jogs at
the elbow, with ink that will not flow, pens that scratch and splutter,
blotting-paper that smudges and blots. Some are examining cards of an
auction, and discussing the prices which they have marked in the margin in
pencil. The good-humoured uproar is beyond description, and is increased
by more farmers forcing their way in from the rear, where are their horses
or traps--by farmers eagerly inquiring for dealers or friends, and by
messengers from the shops loaded with parcels to place in the customer's
vehicle.
At last you get beyond the bar-room door and reach the end of the passage,
where is a wide staircase, and at the foot a tall eight-day clock. A
maid-servant comes tripping down, and in answer to inquiry replies that
that is the way up, and the room is ready, but she adds with a smile that
there is no one there yet. It is three-quarters of an hour after the time
fixed for the reading of a most important paper before a meeting specially
convened, before the assembled Parliament of Hodge's masters, and you
thought you would be too late. A glance at the staircase proves the truth
of the maid's story. It has no carpet, but it is white as well-scrubbed
wood could well be. There is no stain, no dust, no foot-mark on it; no
heavy shoe that has been tramping about in the mud has been up there. But
it is necessary to go on or go back, and of the two the first is the
lesser evil.
The staircase is guarded by carved banisters, and after going up two
flights you enter a large and vacant apartment prepared for the meeting of
the farmers' club. At the farther end is a small mahogany table, with an
armchair for the president, paper, pens, ink, blotting-paper, and a wax
candle and matches, in case he should want a light. Two less dignified
chairs are for the secretary (whose box, containing the club records,
books of reference, &c., is on the table), and for the secretary's clerk.
Rows of plain chairs stretch across the room, rank after rank; these are
for the audience. And last of all are two long forms, as if for Hodge, if
Hodge chooses to come.
A gleam of the afternoon sun--as the clouds part awhile--attracts one
naturally to the window. The thickness of the wall in which it is placed
must be some two or three feet, so that there is a recess on which to put
your arms, if you do not mind the dust, and look out. The window is half
open, and the sounds of the street come up, 'baaing' and bellowing and
squeaking, the roll of wheels, the tramp of feet, and, more distant, the
shouting of an auctioneer in the market-place, whose stentorian tones come
round the corner as he puts up rickcloths for sale. Noise of man and
animal below; above, here in the chamber of science, vacancy and silence.
Looking upwards, a narrow streak of blue sky can be seen above the ancient
house across the way.
After awhile there comes the mellow sound of bells from the church which
is near by, though out of sight; bells with a soft, old-world tone; bells
that chime slowly and succeed each other without haste, ringing forth a
holy melody composed centuries ago. It is as well to pause a minute and
listen to their voice, even in this railroad age of hurry. Over the busy
market-place the notes go forth, and presently the hum comes back and
dwells in the recess of the window. It is a full hour after the time
fixed, and now at last, as the carillon finishes, there are sounds of
heavy boots upon the staircase. Three or four farmers gather on the
landing; they converse together just outside. The secretary's clerk comes,
and walks to the table; more farmers, who, now they have company, boldly
enter and take seats; still more farmers; the secretary arrives; finally
the president appears, and with him the lecturer. There is a hum of
greeting; the minutes are read; the president introduces the professor,
and the latter stands forth to read his paper--'Science, the Remedy for
Agricultural Depression.'
Farmers, he pointed out, had themselves only to blame for the present
period of distress. For many years past science had been like the voice
crying in the wilderness, and few, a very few only, had listened. Men had,
indeed, come to the clubs; but they had gone away home again, and, as the
swine of the proverb, returned to their wallowing in the mire. One blade
of grass still grew where two or even three might be grown; he questioned
whether farmers had any real desire to grow the extra blades. If they did,
they had merely to employ the means provided for them. Everything had been
literally put into their hands; but what was the result? Why, nothing--in
point of fact, nothing. The country at large was still undrained. The very
A B C of progress had been neglected. He should be afraid to say what
proportion of the land was yet undrained, for he should be contradicted,
called ill names, and cried down. But if they would look around them they
could see for themselves. They would see meadows full of rank, coarse
grass in the furrows, which neither horse nor cattle would touch. They
would see in the wheat-fields patches of the crop sickly, weak, feeble,
and altogether poor; that was where the water had stood and destroyed the
natural power of the seed. The same cause gave origin to that mass of
weeds which was the standing disgrace of arable districts.
But men shut their eyes wilfully to these plain facts, and cried out that
the rain had ruined them. It was not the rain--it was their own intense
dislike of making any improvement. The _vis inertiae_ of the agricultural
class was beyond the limit of language to describe. Why, if the land had
been drained the rain would have done comparatively little damage, and
thus they would have been independent of the seasons. Look, again, at the
hay crop; how many thousand tons of hay had been wasted because men would
not believe that anything would answer which had not been done by their
forefathers! The hay might have been saved by three distinct methods. The
grass might have been piled against hurdles or light frame-work and so
dried by the wind; it might have been pitted in the earth and preserved
still green; or it might have been dried by machinery and the hot blast. A
gentleman had invented a machine, the utility of which had been
demonstrated beyond all doubt. But no; farmers folded their hands and
watched their hay rotting.
As for the wheat crop, how could they expect a wheat crop? They had not
cleaned the soil--there were horse-hoes, and every species of contrivances
for the purpose; but they would not use them. They had not ploughed
deeply: they had merely scratched the surface as if with a pin. How could
the thin upper crust of the earth--the mere rind three inches thick--be
expected to yield crop after crop for a hundred years? Deep ploughing
could only be done by steam: now how many farmers possessed or used
steam-ploughs? Why, there were whole districts where such a thing was
unknown. They had neglected to manure the soil; to restore to it the
chemical constituents of the crops. But to speak upon artificial manure
was enough to drive any man who had the power of thought into temporary
insanity. It was so utterly dispiriting to see men positively turning away
from the means of obtaining good crops, and then crying out that they were
ruined. With drains, steam-ploughs, and artificial manure, a farmer might
defy the weather.
Of course, continued the professor, it was assumed that the farmer had
good substantial buildings and sufficient capital. The first he could get
if he chose; and without the second, without capital, he had no business
to be farming at all. He was simply stopping the road of a better man, and
the sooner he was driven out of the way the better. The neglect of
machinery was most disheartening. A farmer bought one machine, perhaps a
reaping-machine, and then because that solitary article did not
immediately make his fortune he declared that machinery was useless. Could
the force of folly farther go? With machinery they could do just as they
liked. They could compel the earth to yield, and smile at the most
tropical rain, or the most continuous drought. If only the voice of
science had been listened to, there would have been no depression at all.
Even now it was not too late.
Those who were wise would at once set to work to drain, to purchase
artificial manure, and set up steam power, and thereby to provide
themselves with the means of stemming the tide of depression. By these
means they could maintain a head of stock that would be more than double
what was now kept upon equal acreage. He knew full well one of the
objections that would be made against these statements. It would be said
that certain individuals had done all this, had deep ploughed, had
manured, had kept a great head of valuable stock, had used every resource,
and yet had suffered. This was true. He deeply regretted to say it was
true.
But why had they suffered? Not because of the steam, the machinery, the
artificial manure, the improvements they had set on foot; but because of
the folly of their neighbours, of the agricultural class generally. The
great mass of farmers had made no improvements; and, when the time of
distress came, they were beaten down at every point. It was through these
men and their failures that the price of stock and of produce fell, and
that so much stress was put upon the said individuals through no fault of
their own. He would go further, and he would say that had it not been for
the noble efforts of such individuals--the pioneers of agriculture and its
main props and stays--the condition of farming would have been simply
fifty times worse than it was. They, and they alone, had enabled it to
bear up so long against calamity. They had resources; the agricultural
class, as a rule, had none. Those resources were the manure they had put
into the soil, the deep ploughing they had accomplished, the great head of
stock they had got together, and so on. These enabled them to weather the
storm.
The cry for a reduction of rent was an irresistible proof of what he had
put forth--that it was the farmers themselves who were to blame. This cry
was a confession of their own incompetency. If you analysed it--if you
traced the general cry home to particular people--you always found that
those people were incapables. The fact was, farming, as a rule, was
conducted on the hand-to-mouth principle, and the least stress or strain
caused an outcry. He must be forgiven if he seemed to speak with unusual
acerbity. He intended no offence. But it was his duty. In such a condition
of things it would be folly to mince matters, to speak softly while
everything was going to pieces. He repeated, once for all, it was their
own fault. Science could supply the remedy, and science alone; if they
would not call in the aid of science they must suffer, and their
privations must be upon their own heads. Science said, Drain, use
artificial manure, plough deeply, keep the best breed of stock, put
capital into the soil. Call science to their aid, and they might defy the
seasons.
The professor sat down and thrust his hand through his hair. The president
invited discussion. For some few minutes no one rose; presently, after a
whispered conversation with his friend, an elderly farmer stood up from
the forms at the very back of the room. He made no pretence to rounded
periods, but spoke much better than might have been expected; he had a
small piece of paper in his hand, on which he had made notes as the
lecture proceeded.
He said that the lecturer had made out a very good case. He had proved to
demonstration, in the most logical manner, that farmers were fools. Well,
no doubt, all the world agreed with him, for everybody thought he could
teach the farmer. The chemist, the grocer, the baker, the banker, the wine
merchant, the lawyer, the doctor, the clerk, the mechanic, the merchant,
the editor, the printer, the stockbroker, the colliery owner, the
ironmaster, the clergyman, and the Methodist preacher, the very cabmen and
railway porters, policemen, and no doubt the crossing-sweepers--to use an
expressive Americanism, all the whole "jing-bang"--could teach the
ignorant jackass of a farmer.
Some few years ago he went into a draper's shop to bring home a parcel for
his wife, and happened to enter into conversation with the draper himself.
The draper said he was just going to sell off the business and go into
dairy farming, which was the most paying thing out. That was just when
there came over from America a patent machine for milking cows. The
draper's idea was to milk all his cows by one of these articles, and so
dispense with labour. He saw no more of him for a long time, but had heard
that morning that he went into a dairy farm, got rid of all his money, and
was now tramping the country as a pedlar with a pack at his back.
Everybody thought he could teach the farmer till he tried farming himself,
and then he found his mistake.
One remark of the lecturer, if he might venture to say so, seemed to him,
a poor ignorant farmer of sixty years' standing, not only uncalled-for and
priggish, but downright brutal. It was that the man with little capital
ought to be driven out of farming, and the sooner he went to the wall the
better. Now, how would all the grocers and other tradesmen whom he had
just enumerated like to be told that if they had not got 10,000_l_. each
they ought to go at once to the workhouse! That would be a fine remedy for
the depression of trade.
He always thought it was considered rather meritorious if a man with small
capital, by hard work, honest dealing, and self-denial, managed to raise
himself and get up in the world. But, oh no; nothing of the kind; the
small man was the greatest sinner, and must be eradicated. Well, he did
not hesitate to say that he had been a small man himself, and began in a
very small way. Perhaps the lecturer would think him a small man still, as
he was not a millionaire; but he could pay his way, which went for
something in the eyes of old-fashioned people, and perhaps he had a pound
or two over. He should say but one word more, for he was aware that there
was a thunderstorm rapidly coming up, and he supposed science would not
prevent him from getting a wet jacket. He should like to ask the lecturer
if he could give the name of one single scientific farmer who had
prospered?
Having said this much, the old gentleman put on his overcoat and busted
out of the room, and several others followed him, for the rain was already
splashing against the window-panes. Others looked at their watches, and,
seeing it was late, rose one by one and slipped off. The president asked
if any one would continue the discussion, and, as no one rose, invited the
professor to reply.
The professor gathered his papers and stood up. Then there came a heavy
rolling sound--the unmistakable boom of distant thunder. He said that the
gentleman who had left so abruptly had quite misconstrued the tenour of
his paper. So far from intending to describe farmers as lacking in
intelligence, all he wished to show was that they did not use their
natural abilities, from a certain traditionary bowing to custom. They did
not like their neighbours to think that they were doing anything novel. No
one respected the feelings that had grown up and strengthened from
childhood, no one respected the habits of our ancestors, more than he did;
no one knew better the solid virtues that adorned the homes of
agriculturists. Far, indeed, be it from him to say aught--[Boom! and the
rattling of rain against the window]--aught that could--but he saw that
gentlemen were anxious to get home, and would conclude.
A vote of thanks was hurriedly got over, and the assembly broke up and
hastened down the staircase. They found the passage below so blocked with
farmers who had crowded in out of the storm that movement was impossible.
The place was darkened by the overhanging clouds, the atmosphere thick and
close with the smoke and the crush. Flashes of brilliant lightning seemed
to sweep down the narrow street, which ran like a brook with the
storm-water; the thunder seemed to descend and shake the solid walls.
'It's rather hard on the professor,' said one farmer to another. 'What
would science do in a thunderstorm?' He had hardly spoken when the hail
suddenly came down, and the round white globules, rebounding from the
pavement, rolled in at the open door. Each paused as he lifted his glass
and thought of the harvest. As for Hodge, who was reaping, he had to take
shelter how he might in the open fields. Boom! flash! boom!--splash and
hiss, as the hail rushed along the narrow street.