LEAVING HIS FARM
A large white poster, fresh and glaring, is pasted on the wall of a barn
that stands beside a narrow country lane. So plain an advertisement,
without any colour or attempt at 'display,' would be passed unnoticed
among the endless devices on a town hoarding. There nothing can be hoped
to be looked at unless novel and strange, or even incomprehensible. But
here the oblong piece of black and white contrasts sufficiently in itself
with red brick and dull brown wooden framing, with tall shadowy elms, and
the glint of sunshine on the streamlet that flows with a ceaseless murmur
across the hollow of the lane. Every man that comes along stays to read
it.
The dealer in his trap--his name painted in white letters on the
shaft--pulls up his quick pony, and sits askew on his seat to read. He has
probably seen it before in the bar of the wayside inn, roughly hung on a
nail, and swaying to and fro with the draught along the passage. He may
have seen it, too, on the handing-post at the lonely cross-roads, stuck on
in such a manner that, in order to peruse it, it is necessary to walk
round the post. The same formal announcement appears also in the local
weekly papers--there are at least two now in the smallest place--and he
has read it there. Yet he pauses to glance at it again, for the country
mind requires reiteration before it can thoroughly grasp and realise the
simplest fact. The poster must be read and re-read, and the printer's name
observed and commented on, or, if handled, the thickness of the paper felt
between thumb and finger. After a month or two of this process people at
last begin to accept it as a reality, like cattle or trees--something
substantial, and not mere words.
The carter, with his waggon, if he be an elderly man, cries 'Whoa!' and,
standing close to the wall, points to each letter with the top of his
whip--where it bends--and so spells out 'Sale by Auction.' If he be a
young man he looks up at it as the heavy waggon rumbles by, turns his
back, and goes on with utter indifference.
The old men, working so many years on a single farm, and whose minds were
formed in days when a change of tenancy happened once in half a century,
have so identified themselves with the order of things in the parish that
it seems to personally affect them when a farmer leaves his place. But
young Hodge cares nothing about his master, or his fellow's master.
Whether they go or stay, prosperous or decaying, it matters nothing to
him. He takes good wages, and can jingle some small silver in his pocket
when he comes to the tavern a mile or so ahead; so 'gee-up' and let us get
there as rapidly as possible.
An hour later a farmer passes on horseback; his horse all too broad for
his short legs that stick out at the side and show some inches of stocking
between the bottom of his trousers and his boots. A sturdy, thick-set man,
with a wide face, brickdust colour, fringed with close-cut red whiskers,
and a chest so broad he seems compelled to wear his coat unbuttoned. He
pulls off his hat and wipes his partly bald head with a coloured
handkerchief, stares at the poster a few minutes, and walks his horse
away, evidently in deep thought. Two boys--cottagers' children--come home
from school; they look round to see that no one observes, and then throw
flints at the paper till the sound of footsteps alarms them.
Towards the evening a gentleman and lady, the first middle-aged, the
latter very young--father and daughter--approach, their horses seeming to
linger as they walk through the shallow stream, and the cool water
splashes above their fetlocks. The shooting season is near at hand,
Parliament has risen, and the landlords have returned home. Instead of the
Row, papa must take his darling a ride through the lanes, a little dusty
as the autumn comes on, and pauses to read the notice on the wall. It is
his neighbour's tenant, not his, but it comes home to him here. It is the
real thing--the fact--not the mere seeing it in the papers, or the warning
hints in the letters of his own steward. 'Papa,' is rather quiet for the
rest of the ride. Ever since he was a lad--how many years ago is that?--he
has shot with his neighbour's party over this farm, and recollects the
tenant well, and with that friendly feeling that grows up towards what we
see year after year. In a day or two the clergyman drives by with his low
four-wheel and fat pony, notes the poster as the pony slackens at the
descent to the water, and tells himself to remember and get the tithe.
Some few Sundays, and Farmer Smith will appear in church no more.
Farmer Smith this beautiful morning is looking at the wheat, which is, and
is not, his. It would have been cut in an ordinary season, but the rains
have delayed the ripening. He wonders how the crop ever came up at all
through the mass of weeds that choked it, the spurrey that filled the
spaces between the stalks below, the bindweed that climbed up them, the
wild camomile flowering and flourishing at the edge, the tall thistles
lifting their heads above it in bunches, and the great docks whose red
seeds showed at a distance. He sent in some men, as much to give them
something to do as for any real good, one day, who in a few hours pulled
up enough docks to fill a cart. They came across a number of snakes, and
decapitated the reptiles with their hoes, and afterwards hung them all
up--tied together by the tail--to a bough. The bunch of headless snakes
hangs there still, swinging to and fro as the wind plays through the oak.
Vermin, too, revel in weeds, which encourage the mice and rats, and are,
perhaps, quite as much a cause of their increase as any acts of the
gamekeeper.
Farmer Smith a few years since was very anxious for the renewal of his
lease, just as those about to enter on tenancies desired leases above
everything. All the agricultural world agreed that a lease was the best
thing possible--the clubs discussed it, the papers preached it. It was a
safeguard; it allowed the tenant to develop his energies, and to put his
capital into the soil without fear. He had no dread of being turned out
before he could get it back. Nothing like a lease--the certain
preventative of all agricultural ills. There was, to appearance, a great
deal of truth in these arguments, which in their day made much impression,
and caused a movement in that direction. Who could foresee that in a few
short years men would be eager to get rid of their leases on any terms?
Yet such was the fact. The very men who had longed so eagerly for the
blessing of security of tenure found it the worst thing possible for their
interest.
Mr. Smith got his lease, and paid for it tolerably stiffly, for at that
period all agricultural prices were inflated--from the price of a lease to
that of a calf. He covenanted to pay a certain fixed rental for so many
acres of arable and a small proportion of grass for a fixed time. He
covenanted to cultivate the soil by a fixed rotation; not to sow this nor
that, nor to be guided by the change of the markets, or the character of
the seasons, or the appearance of powerful foreign competitors. There was
the parchment prepared with all the niceties of wording that so many
generations of lawyers had polished to the highest pitch; not a loophole,
not so much as a _t_ left uncrossed, or a doubtful interlineation. But
although the parchment did not alter a jot, the times and seasons did.
Wheat fell in price, vast shipments came even from India, cattle and sheep
from America, wool from Australia, horses from France; tinned provisions
and meats poured in by the ton, and cheese, and butter, and bacon by the
thousand tons. Labour at the same time rose. His expenditure increased,
his income decreased; his rent remained the same, and rent audit came
round with the utmost regularity.
Mr. Smith began to think about his lease, and question whether it was such
an unmixed blessing. There was no getting out of it, that was certain. The
seasons grew worse and worse. Smith asked for a reduction of rent. He got,
like others, ten per cent, returned, which, he said looked very liberal to
those who knew nothing of farming, and was in reality about as useful as a
dry biscuit flung at a man who has eaten nothing for a week. Besides
which, it was only a gracious condescension, and might not be repeated
next year, unless he kept on his good behaviour, and paid court to the
clergyman and the steward. Unable to get at what he wanted in a direct
way, Smith tried an indirect one. He went at game, and insisted on its
being reduced in number. This he could do according to the usual terms of
agreement; but when it came to the point he found that the person called
in to assess the damage put it at a much lower figure than he had himself;
and who was to decide what was or was not a reasonable head of game? This
attack of his on the game did him no good whatever, and was not
unnaturally borne in mind--let us not say resented.
He next tried to get permission to sell straw--a permission that he saw
granted to others in moderation. But he was then reminded of a speech he
had made at a club, when, in a moment of temper (and sherry), he had let
out a piece of his mind, which piece of his mind was duly published in the
local papers, and caused a sensation. Somebody called the landlord's
attention to it, and he did not like it. Nor can he be blamed; we none of
us like to be abused in public, the more especially when, looking at
precedents, we do not deserve it. Smith next went to the assessment
committee to get his taxes reduced, on the ground of a loss of revenue.
The committee sympathised with him, but found that they must assess him
according to his rent. At least so they were then advised, and only did
their duty.
By this time the local bankers had scented a time of trouble approaching
in the commercial and agricultural world; they began to draw in their more
doubtful advances, or to refuse to renew them. As a matter of fact, Smith
was a perfectly sound man, but he had so persistently complained that
people began to suspect there really was something wrong with his
finances. He endeavoured to explain, but was met with the tale that he had
himself started. He then honestly produced his books, and laid his
position bare to the last penny.
The banker believed him, and renewed part of the advance for a short
period; but he began, to cogitate in this wise: 'Here is a farmer of long
experience, born of a farming family, and a hardworking fellow, and, more
than that, honest. If this man, who has hitherto had the command of a fair
amount of capital, cannot make his books balance better than this, what
must be the case with some of our customers? There are many who ride about
on hunters, and have a bin of decent wine. How much of all this is
genuine? We must be careful; these are hard times.' In short, Smith,
without meaning it, did his neighbours an immense deal of harm. His very
honesty injured them. By slow degrees the bank got 'tighter' with its
customers. It leaked out--all things leak out--that Smith had said too
much, and he became unpopular, which did not increase his contentment.
Finally he gave notice that unless the rent was reduced he should not
apply to renew the lease, which would soon expire. He had not the least
intention in his secret mind of leaving the farm; he never dreamed that
his notice would be accepted. He and his had dwelt there for a hundred
years, and were as much part and parcel of the place as the elm-trees in
the hedges. So many farms were in the market going a-begging for tenants,
it was not probable a landlord would let a good man go for the sake of a
few shillings an acre. But the months went by and the landlord's agents
gave no sign, and at last Smith realised that he was really going to
leave.
Though he had so long talked of going, it came upon him like a
thunderbolt. It was like an attack of some violent fever that shakes a
strong man and leaves him as weak as a child. The farmer, whose meals had
been so hearty, could not relish his food. His breakfast dwindled to a
pretence; his lunch fell off; his dinner grew less; his supper faded; his
spirits and water, the old familiar 'nightcap,' did him no good. His jolly
ringing laugh was heard no more; from a thorough gossip he became
taciturn, and barely opened his lips. His clothes began to hang about him,
instead of fitting him all too tight; his complexion lost the red colour
and became sallow; his eyes had a furtive look in them, so different to
the old straightforward glance.
Some said he would take to his bed and die; some said he would jump into
the pond one night, to be known no more in this world. But he neither
jumped into the pond nor took to his bed. He went round his fields just
the same as before--perhaps a little more mechanically; but still the old
routine of daily work was gone through. Leases, though for a short period,
do not expire in a day; after awhile time began to produce its usual
effect. The sharpness of the pain wore off, and he set to work to make the
best of matters. He understood the capacity of each field as well as
others understand the yielding power of a little garden. His former study
had been to preserve something like a balance between what he put in and
what he took out of the soil. Now it became the subject of consideration
how to get the most out without putting anything in. Artificial manures
were reduced to the lowest quantity and of the cheapest quality, such as
was used being, in fact, nothing but to throw dust, literally, in the eyes
of other people. Times were so bad that he could not be expected, under
the most favourable circumstances, to consume much cake in the stalls or
make much manure in that way.
One by one extra expenditures were cut off. Gates, instead of being
repaired, were propped up by running a pole across. Labour was eschewed in
every possible way. Hedges were left uncut; ditches were left uncleaned.
The team of horses was reduced, and the ploughing done next to nothing.
Cleaning and weeding were gradually abandoned. Several fields were allowed
to become overrun with grass, not the least attention being paid to them;
the weeds sprang up, and the grass ran over from the hedges. The wheat
crop was kept to the smallest area. Wheat requires more previous labour
and care as to soil than any other crop. Labour and preparation cost
money, and he was determined not to spend a shilling more than he was
absolutely compelled. He contrived to escape the sowing, of wheat
altogether on some part of the farm, leaving it out of the rotation. That
was a direct infringement of the letter of the agreement; but who was to
prove that he had evaded it? The steward could not recollect the crops on
several hundred acres; the neighbouring tenants, of course, knew very
well; but although Smith had become unpopular, they were not going to tell
tales of him. He sold everything he dared off the farm, and many things
that he did not dare. He took everything out of the soil that it was
possible to take out. The last Michaelmas was approaching, and he walked
round in the warm August sunshine to look at the wheat.
He sat down on an old roller that lay in the corner of the field, and
thought over the position of things. He calculated that it would cost the
incoming tenant an expenditure of from one thousand two hundred pounds to
one thousand five hundred pounds to put the farm, which was a large one,
into proper condition. It could not be got into such condition under three
years of labour. The new tenant must therefore be prepared to lay out a
heavy sum of money, to wait while the improvement went on, must live how
he could meanwhile, and look forward some three years for the commencement
of his profit. To such a state had the farm been brought in a brief time.
And how would the landlord come off? The new tenant would certainly make
his bargain in accordance with the state of the land. For the first year
the rent paid would be nominal; for the second, perhaps a third or half
the usual sum; not till the third year could the landlord hope to get his
full rental. That full rental, too, would be lower than previously,
because the general depression had sent down arable rents everywhere, and
no one would pay on the old scale.
Smith thought very hard things of the landlord, and felt that he should
have his revenge. On the other hand, the landlord thought very hard things
of Smith, and not without reason. That an old tenant, the descendant of
one of the oldest tenant-farmer families, should exhaust the soil in this
way seemed the blackest return for the good feeling that had existed for
several generations. There was great irritation on both sides.
Smith had, however, to face one difficulty. He must either take another
farm at once, or live on his capital. The interest of his capital--if
invested temporarily in Government securities--would hardly suffice to
maintain the comfortable style of living he and his rather large family of
grown-up sons and daughters had been accustomed to. He sometimes heard a
faint, far off 'still small voice,' that seemed to say it would have been
wiser to stay on, and wait till the reaction took place and farming
recovered. The loss he would have sustained by staying on would, perhaps,
not have been larger than the loss he must now sustain by living on
capital till such time as he saw something to suit him. And had he been
altogether wise in omitting all endeavours to gain his end by conciliatory
means? Might not gentle persuasion and courteous language have ultimately
produced an impression? Might not terms have been arranged had he not been
so vehement? The new tenant, notwithstanding that he would have to contend
with the shocking state of the farm, had such favourable terms that if he
only stayed long enough to let the soil recover, Smith knew he must make a
good thing of it.
But as he sat on the wooden roller under the shade of a tree and thought
these things, listening to the rustle of the golden wheat as it moved in
the breeze, he pulled a newspaper out of his pocket, and glanced down a
long, long list of farms to let. Then he remembered that his pass-book at
the bank showed a very respectable row of figures, buttoned up his coat,
and strolled homeward with a smile on his features. The date fixed for the
sale, as announced by the poster on the barn, came round, and a crowd
gathered to see the last of the old tenant. Old Hodge viewed the scene
from a distance, resting against a gate, with his chin on his hand. He was
thinking of the days when he first went to plough, years ago, under
Smith's father. If Smith had been about to enter on another farm old Hodge
would have girded up his loins, packed his worldly goods in a waggon, and
followed his master's fortunes thither. But Smith was going to live on his
capital awhile; and old Hodge had already had notice to quit his cottage.
In his latter days he must work for a new master. Down at the sale young
Hodge was lounging round, hands in pocket, whistling--for there was some
beer going about. The excitement of the day was a pleasurable sensation,
and as for his master he might go to Kansas or Hong-Kong.