He has but one room for himself, his wife, and their family of three or
four children. By self-denial, by abstinence from drink, by daily toil,
he and his wife are able to feed and clothe the children. Pleasure for
him and for them is impossible; he cannot afford to spend a sixpence on
a visit to the park, nor a penny on a newspaper or a book. Holidays are
out of the question, and he must see those he loves languish without
fresh air, and sometimes without the doctor’s care, though air and
care are necessities of life. The future does not attract his gaze and
give him restful hours; as he thinks of ‘the years that are before’ he
cannot think of a time when work will be done, and he will be free to
go and come and rest as he will. In the labourer’s future there are
only the workhouse and the grave. He hardly dares to think at all, for
thought suggests that to-morrow a change in trade or a master’s whim
may throw him out of work and leave him unable to pay for rent or for
food. The labourers--and it is to be remembered that they form the
largest class in the nation--have few thoughts of joy and little hope
of rest; they are well off if in a day they can obtain ten hours of the
dreariest labour, if they can return to a weather-proof room, if they
can eat a meal in silence while the children sleep around, and then
turn into bed to save coal and light; they are well off indeed, only
because they are stolid and indifferent. Their lives all through the
days and years slope into a darkness which is not ‘quieted by hope.’
If the wages be 40_s._ a week the condition is still one to depress
those who on Sunday bless God for their creation. The skilled artisan,
having paid rent and club money and provided household necessaries, has
no margin out of which to provide for pleasure, for old age, or even
for the best medical skill. There can be for him no quiet hours with
books or pictures, while his children or friends make music for his
solace. He can invite no friends for a Christmas dance; he can wander
in the thought of no future of pleasure or of rest. England is the land
of sad monuments. The saddest monument is, perhaps, ‘the respectable
working man,’ who has been erected in honour of Thrift. His brains,
which might have shown the world how to save men, have been spent in
saving pennies; his life, which might have been happy and full, has
been dulled and saddened by taking ‘thought for the morrow.’
This ought not so to be, and this will not always be. The question
therefore naturally occurs, ‘Why should not the State provide what
is needed?’ This is the question to which the Socialist is ready
with many a response. Some of his suggestions, even if good, are
impracticable. It may be urged, for instance, that relief works should
be started, that State workshops should be opened, and starvation made
impossible. Or it may be urged that the land should be nationalised and
large incomes divided. To such suggestions, and to many like them, it
is a sufficient answer that they are impracticable. Their attainment,
even were it desirable, is not within measurable distance, and to press
them is likely to distract attention from what is possible. If a boy
who goes out ‘in the interest of the fox’ can spoil a hunt by dragging
a herring across the scent, a well-meaning socialist may hinder reform
by drawing a fair fancy across the line of men’s imagination. All real
progress must be by growth; the new must be a development of the old,
and not a branch added on from another root. A change which does not
fit into and grow out of things that already exist is not a practicable
change, and such are some of the changes now advocated by socialists
upon platforms. The condition of the people is one not to be long
endured, but the answer to the question, ‘What can the State do?’ must
be a practicable one, or we shall waste time, make mistakes, rouse up
anarchy, and destroy much that is good.
Facing, then, the whole position, we see that among the majority
of Englishmen life is poor; that among the few life is made rich.
The thoughts stored in books, the beauty rescued from nature and
preserved in pictures, the intercourse made possible by means of steam
locomotion, stir powers in the few which lie asleep in the many. If it
be true, as the poet says, that men ‘live by admiration,’ it is the
few who live, for it is they who know that which is worth admiration.
It seems a hard thing--but I believe that it is on the line of
truth--to say that the dock labourer cannot live the life of Christ; he
may, by loving and trusting, live a higher life than that lived by many
rich men, but he cannot live the highest life possible to men of this
time. To live the life of Christ is to make manifest the truth and to
enjoy the beauty of God. The labourer who knows nothing of the law of
life which has been revealed by the discoveries of science, who knows
nothing which, by admiration, can lift him out of himself, cannot live
the highest life of his day, as Christ lived the highest life of His
day. The social reformer must go alongside the Christian missionary, if
he be not himself the Christian missionary.
Facing, then, the whole position, we see first the poverty of life
which besets the majority of the people, and further we recognise that
the remedy must be one which shall be practicable, and shall not affect
the sense of independence. It is difficult to state any principle which
such remedy should follow. If it be said that men’s _needs_, not their
_wants_, may be supplied by others’ help, then it is necessary to set
up an arbitrary definition and to define _wants_ as those good things
which a man recognises to be necessary for his life, and _needs_ as
those good things the good of which is unseen by the individual to
whose well-being, in the interests of the whole, they are necessary.
Food and clothing would thus be an example of a man’s _wants_,
education of his _needs_; and it might, according to this definition,
be a statement of a principle to say that the remedy for the sadness
of English labour is to be sought in letting the State provide for
a man’s needs while he is left to provide for his own wants. It is,
however, a statement which, depending on an arbitrary and shifting
definition, would not be understood. If, as another statement of a
principle, it be said that means of life may be provided, while for
means of livelihood a man must work, then it becomes difficult to draw
a distinction, for some means of life are also means of livelihood.
There is no principle as yet stated according to which limits of State
interference may be defined.
The better plan is to consider the laws which are accepted as laws of
England, and to study how, by their development, a remedy may be found.
On the statute book there are many socialistic laws. The Poor Law, the
Education Act, the Established Church, the Land Act, the Artisans’
Dwellings Act, and the Libraries Act are socialistic.
The Poor Law provides relief for the destitute and medical care for
the poor. By a system of outdoor relief it has won the condemnation of
many who care for the poor, and see that outdoor relief robs them of
their energy, their self-respect, and their homes. There is no reason,
however, why the Poor Law should not be developed in more healthy ways.
Pensions of 8_s._ or 10_s._ a week might be given to every citizen who
had kept himself until the age of 60 without workhouse aid. If such
pensions were the right of all, none would be tempted to lie to get
them, nor would any be tempted to spy and bully in order to show the
undesert of applicants. So long as relief is a matter of desert, and so
long as the most conscientious relieving officers are liable to err,
there must be mistakes both on the side of indulgence and of neglect.
The one objection to out-relief, which is at present recognised by the
poor, is that the system puts it in the power of the relieving officer
to act as judge in matters of which he must be ignorant, so that he
gives relief to the careless or crafty and passes over those who in
self-respect hide their trouble. Pensions, too, it may be added, would
be no more corrupting to the labourer who works for his country in the
workshop than for the civil servant who works for his country at the
desk, and the cost of pensions would be no greater than is the cost of
infirmaries and almshouses. In one way or another the old and the poor
are now kept by those who are richer, and the present method is not a
cheap one.
Many men and women fail because they do not know how to work. The
workhouses might be made schools of industry. If the ignorant could be
detained in workhouses until they had learnt the use of a tool and the
pleasure of work, these establishments would become technical schools
of the kind most needed, and yearly add a large sum to the wealth of
the nation.
Lastly, the whole system of medical relief might be so organised as to
provide for every citizen the skill and care necessary for his cure in
sickness. As it is, no labourer nor artisan is expected to make such
provision, as there are hospitals, infirmaries, and dispensaries to
supply his wants. By application or by letter he can gain admission to
any of these, and he is expected to be grateful. Medical relief is thus
supplied; to organise the relief is merely to take another step along
a path already entered, and properly organised the relief need not
pauperise. The necessity of begging for a letter, the obligation of
humbly waiting at hospital or dispensary doors, the chance that real
needs may be unskilfully treated--these are the things which degrade a
man. If all the dispensaries, hospitals, and infirmaries were properly
ordered, controlled by the State, and open as a matter of right to
all comers, it would be possible for every citizen at the dispensary
to get the necessary advice and medicine, and thence, if he would, to
enter a hospital without any sense of degradation. The national health
is the nation’s interest, and without additional outlay it could be
brought about that every man, woman, and child should have the medical
treatment necessary to their condition. The rich would still get
sufficient advantage, but it would no longer happen that the lives most
useful to the nation would be left to the care of practitioners who,
however kind and devoted, cannot provide either adequate drugs or spare
the time for necessary study when for visit and drugs the charge cannot
be more than 1_s._ or 1_s._ 6_d._
By some such development as these suggested, without any break with old
traditions, without any fear of pauperising the people, the Poor Law
might help to make the life of England healthier and more restful.
In the same way the Education Act might be developed in conjunction
with the Church and the Universities to make the life of England
wiser and fuller. A complete system of national education ought to
take the child from the nursery, pass him through high schools to the
University, and then provide him with means to develop the higher life
of which all are capable. Some steps have already been made in this
direction, but secondary schools or high schools are still needed,
and the Church organisation will have to be made popular, so as to
represent, not the opinions of a mediæval sect, but the opinions of
nineteenth-century Englishmen. Schools in which it would be possible
to learn the facts and thoughts new to this age, Churches in which, by
ministers in sympathy with their hearers and by the use of forms native
of the times, men could be lightened with light upon their souls, would
add an untold quantity to the sum of national life.
Alongside of such development much might be done with the Libraries
Act and with the powers which local bodies have to keep up parks and
gardens. It would be as easy to find in every neighbourhood a site for
the people’s playground as it is for the workhouse, and all might have,
what is now the privilege of the rich, a place for quiet, the sight of
green grass and fair flowers. It would be as easy to build a library as
an infirmary. In every parish there might be rooms lighted and warmed,
where cosy chairs and well-filled shelves might invite the weary man to
wander in other times and climes with other mates and minds. In every
locality there might be a hall where music, or pictures, or the talk
of friends would call into action sleeping powers, and by admiration
arouse the deadened to life. The best things gain nothing by being
made private property; a fine picture possessed by the State will give
the individual who looks at it as much pleasure as if he possessed it.
It is no idle dream that the Crystal Palace might become a national
institution, open free for the enjoyment of all, dedicated to the
service of the people, for the recreation of their lives, by means of
music, knowledge, and beauty.
If still it be said that none of these good things touch the want
most recognised, the need of better dwellings, then we have in the
Artisans’ Dwellings Act a law which only requires wise handling to be
made to serve this purpose. A local board has now the power to pull
down rookeries and to let the ground at a price which will enable
honest builders to erect decent dwellings at low rents. Unwisely
handled, the law may only destroy existing dwellings and put heavy
compensation into the pockets of unworthy landlords and fees into those
of active officials; wisely handled, the same law might at no very
great expense replace the houses which now ruin the life of the poor
and disgrace the English name.
Thus it is--and other laws, such as the Irish Land Act, are open to
the same process of development--that without revolution reform could
be wrought. I can conceive a great change in the condition of the
people, worked out in our own generation, without any revolution or
break with the past. With wages at their present rate I can yet imagine
the houses made strong and healthy, education and public baths made
free, and the possibility of investing in land made easy. I can imagine
that, without increase of their private wealth, the poor might have
in libraries, music-halls, and flower gardens that on which wealth is
spent. I can imagine the youth of the nation made strong by means of
fresh air and the doctor’s care, the aged made restful by means of
honourable pensions. I can imagine the Church as the people’s Church,
its buildings the halls where they are taught by their chosen teachers,
the meeting-places where they learn the secret of union and brotherly
love, the houses of prayer where in the presence of the Best they lift
themselves into the higher life of duty and devotion to right--all this
I can imagine, because it is practicable. I cannot imagine that which
must be reached by new departures and so-called Continental practices.
Any scheme, whatever it may promise in the future, which involves
revolution in the present is impracticable, and any flirting with it is
likely to hinder the progress of reform.
But now there rises the obvious objection, ‘All this will cost much
money;’ ‘Free education means 1_d._ in the pound; libraries and museums
mean 2_d._;’ ‘The suggested changes would absorb more than 1_s._; the
ratepayers could not stand it.’
I agree; the present ratepayers could not pay heavier rates. There must
be other means of raising the money. Some scheme for graduated taxing
might be possible; but perhaps I may be told that such a scheme means
the introduction of a new principle, and is as much outside my present
scope as the scheme for nationalisation of the land. Well, there
remains the wealth locked up in the endowed charities, the increase
which would be brought to the revenue by a new assessment of the
land-tax, and the sum which might be saved by abolishing sinecures and
waste in every public office.
The wealth of the endowed charities has never been realised, and if
that amount be not reduced in paying for elementary education, it might
do much to make life happier. If men saw to what uses this money could
be put, they would not be so ready to back up an agitation raised on
the School Board to get hold of this money for School Board work. They
would say, ‘No; the schools are safe; in some way they must be provided
and paid for. We won’t shield the Board from attacks of ratepayers by
giving them our money to spend; we want that for things which the
board cannot provide.’ There is also a vast sum which might be got by
a new assessment--which in some cases would be a re-imposition--of the
land-tax, and by a closer scrutiny into the ways of public offices.
The land-tax returns the same amount as it returned more than two
hundred years ago, while rents have gone on increasing. The abuses of
sinecures and of useless officials are patent to all who know anything
of public work in small areas; and it is possible that what is done
in the vestry, on a small scale, is developed by the atmosphere of
grander surroundings into grander proportions. The parish reformer can
put his finger on one or two officials who are not wanted, but whose
salary of a few hundreds seems hardly worth the saving; perchance the
parliamentary reformer might put his finger on unnecessary officials
whose salaries amount to thousands. Out of the sums thus gained or
saved a great fund could be entrusted to the governing body of London,
and the responsibility would then lie with the electors to choose men
capable of administering vast wealth, so as to give to all the means of
developing their highest possibilities.
Perhaps, though, it is unwise to go into these details and attempt to
show how the necessary money may be raised. In England poverty and
wealth have met together. It is the fellow-citizens of the poor who see
them in East London without joy and without hope. The money which is
wasted on fruitless pleasures and fruitless effort would be sufficient
to do all, and more than has been suggested in this paper. There is no
want of the necessary money, and much is yearly spent--some of it in
vain--on efforts on societies or on armies, which promise to save the
people. When it is clearly seen that wealth may provide some of the
means by which their fellow-countrymen may be saved from dreariness and
sickness if not from sin, then the difficulty as to the way in which
the money may be raised will not long hinder action.
The ways and means of improving the condition of the people are at
hand. It is time we gave up the game of party politics and took to
real work. It is time we gave up speculation and did what waits the
doing. Here are men and women. Are they what they might be? Are they
like the Son of Man? How can they be helped to reach the standard of
their manhood? That is the question of the day; before that of Ireland,
Egypt, or the Game Laws. The answer to that question will divide, by
other than by party lines, the leaders of men. He who answers it so as
to weld old and new together will be the statesman of the future.
SAMUEL A. BARNETT.
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XIII.
_THE WORK OF RIGHTEOUSNESS._[1]
[1] A sermon preached on Advent Sunday, November 27, 1887, at St.
Jude’s Church, Whitechapel, before a body of men and women engaged in
the work of social reform.
‘If I find ... fifty righteous within the city, then I will spare
all the place for their sakes.’--_Genesis_ xviii. 26.
My first thought, as I face you this evening, is of your variety--of
your different classes and creeds, of your various communities, and
your various views. My second thought is of your common object, of the
one longing--the voice of your real selves--which converts variety
into unity. You would save the city. Like Abraham, you have seen doom
impending; like Buddha, you have seen sights in your daily walk which
make the life of ease impossible. You have met poverty, ignorance, and
sin.
You have met Poverty. You know families whose weekly income is under
the price of a bottle of good wine; men dwarfed in stature, crippled in
body, the inmates of a hospital for want of sufficient food; women aged
and hardened, broken in spirit because their homes are too narrow for
cleanliness or for comfort; children who die because they cannot have
the care which preserves the children of the rich.
You have met Ignorance. You know men and women gifted with divine
powers, powers of clear sight and deep feeling, you have seen such
people taking shallow rhetoric for reason, delighting in exaggeration,
clamouring for force as a remedy, adopting swindlers as leaders, making
a game--a Sunday afternoon’s excitement--of matters which should tear
their hearts, killing time which might have been fruitful in thought
and joy and love. ‘The future belongs to the man who refuses to take
himself seriously,’ says the mocking philosopher. The ignorance which
accepts the teaching, and which goes with a light heart to agitate or
to repress agitation, is a sight to destroy anyone’s ease of mind.
You have met Sin, the degradation which comes of selfishness. In West
London it often hides under fine trappings. Culture covers a multitude
of sins. In the exquisitively ordered banquet intemperance and
self-indulgence are unnoticed; in the phraseology of the office greed
and selfishness pass as political economy; and in the polished talk of
books and of society impurity loses its true colour. You, though, are
familiar with East London, and here you see sin without its trappings;
you know that intemperance--over-eating and over-drinking--means a
brutalised nature; you know that greed is cruelty, and that impurity is
destructive both of reason and of feeling. You have seen the victims of
sin, that drunkard’s home, the gambler’s hell, and the sweater’s shop.
You know that the wages of sin is death, and that no culture can give
to Mammon any nobility or warm his heart with any spark of unselfish
joy.
Poverty, Ignorance, Sin--these threaten the city. Your common longing
is to avert its doom. Our fathers nourished a like longing. They hoped
in Free Trade, the Suffrage, the National Education, and they have been
disappointed.
Free Trade has, indeed, greatly increased wealth; the number of the
comfortable has been multiplied, but it is a question whether, in the
same proportion, the number of the uncomfortable has not also been
multiplied. Our England is larger than the England of fifty years ago,
but a larger body--like a giraffe’s throat--may only provide a larger
space for pain! At any rate, Free Trade, which has given us cheap
bread, has _not_ solved the problem of the unemployed.
The extension of the Suffrage, again, for which our fathers strove, has
had good results; but the example of later parliaments and the growing
tendency to legislate by demonstration hardly justifies their hopes.
Our fathers held that the possession of the Suffrage would be effective
to destroy Ignorance; they thought that responsibility would develop
the seriousness which is necessary to knowledge. They--like other good
men who need God’s forgiveness--fed Ignorance with abuse of opponents;
with exaggerations, with party cries, they bribed Ignorance to
establish its own executioner; and now Ignorance is too much puffed up
by flattery, too much enriched by bribes, to yield to the voice which
from the register and polling booth says, ‘England expects every man’
to vote according to his conscience, and then to submit to the common
will.
Lastly, the passing of the Education Act seemed to many to be the
beginning of a new age. Schools were rapidly built, money was freely
voted, and the children were compelled to attend. The Education Act
has not, however, taught the people what is due to themselves or to
others. Greed is not eradicated because its form is changed, and,
though criminals may be fewer, gambling is as degrading as thieving,
and oppression legally exerted over the weak is as cruel as the illegal
blow. The children do not leave school with the self-respect born of
consciousness of powers of heart and brain and hand, nor with the
humanity born of knowledge of others’ burdens. It seems, indeed, as if
their chief belief was in the value of competition, and their chief
aptitude a skill in satisfying an inspector with the least possible
amount of work. At any rate, at the end of twenty years, when a
generation has been through the schools, our streets are filled with
a mob of careless youths, and our labour market is overstocked with
workers whose work is not worth 4_d._ an hour.