Hodge and His Masters (2024)

PREFACE

The papers of which this volume is composed originally appeared inthe

Standard

, and are now republished by permission of theEditor.

In manners, mode of thought, and way of life, there is perhapsno class of the community less uniform than the agricultural. Thediversities 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, tosuch a degree, in fact, that they should perhaps take the firstplace, having no one to allow them in turn a 20 per cent, reductionof their liabilities. It must be remembered that the landowner willnot receive the fruits of returning prosperity when it comes forsome time after they have reached the farmer. Two good seasons willbe needed before the landowner begins to recoup.

Country towns are now so closely connected with agriculture thata description of the one would be incomplete without some mentionof the other. The aggregate capital employed by the business men ofthese small towns must amount to an immense sum, and thedepreciation of their investments is of more than localconcern.

Although the labourer at the present moment is a little in thebackground, and has the best of the bargain, since wages have notmuch fallen, if at all; yet he will doubtless come to the frontagain. For as agriculture revives, and the sun shines, theorganisations by which he is represented will naturally displayfresh vigour.

But the rapid progress of education in the villages and outlyingdistricts is the element which is most worthy of thoughtfulconsideration. On the one hand, it may perhaps cause a powerfuldemand for corresponding privileges; and on the other, counteractthe tendency to unreasonable expectations. In any case, it is afact that cannot be ignored. Meantime, all I claim for thefollowing sketches is that they are written in a fair and impartialspirit.

RICHARD JEFFERIES.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

HODGE AND HIS MASTERS

CHAPTER I

THE FARMERS' PARLIAMENT

The doorway of the Jason Inn at Woolbury had nothing particular todistinguish it from the other doorways of the same extremely narrowstreet. There was no porch, nor could there possibly be one, for anordinary porch would reach half across the roadway. There were nosteps to go up, there was no entrance hall, no space speciallyprovided for crowds of visitors; simply nothing but an ordinarystreet-door opening directly on the street, and very little, ifany, broader or higher than those of the private houses adjacent.There was not even the usual covered way or archway leading intothe courtyard behind, so often found at old country inns; theapproach to the stables and coach-houses was through a separate andeven more narrow and winding street, necessitating a detour of somequarter of a mile. The dead, dull wall was worn smooth in places bythe involuntary rubbings it had received from the shoulders offoot-passengers thrust rudely against it as the market-people camepouring in or out, or both together.

Had the spot been in the most crowded district of the busiestpart of the metropolis, where every inch of ground is worth anenormous sum, the buildings could not have been more jammedtogether, nor the inconvenience greater. Yet the little town was inthe very midst of one of the most purely agricultural counties,where land, to all appearance, was plentiful, and where there wasample room and 'verge enough' to build fifty such places. Thepavement in front of the inn was barely eighteen inches wide; twopersons could not pass each other on it, nor walk abreast. If acart came along the roadway, and a trap had to go by it, thefoot-passengers had to squeeze up against the wall, lest the box ofthe wheel projecting over the kerb should push them down. If agreat waggon came loaded with wool, the chances were whether acarriage could pass it or not; as for a waggon-load of straw thatprojected from the sides, nothing could get by, but all mustwait—coroneted panel or plain four-wheel—till the hugemass had rumbled and jolted into the more open market-place.

But hard, indeed, must have been the flag-stones to withstandthe wear and tear of the endless iron-shod shoes that tramped toand fro these mere ribbons of pavements. For, besides the throughtraffic out from the market-place to the broad macadamised roadthat had taken the place and the route of an ancient Roman road,there were the customers to the shops that lined each side of thestreet. Into some of these you stepped from the pavement down, asit were, into a cave, the level of the shop being eight or teninches below the street, while the first floor projected over thepavement quite to the edge of the kerb. To enter these shops it wasnecessary to stoop, and when you were inside there was barely roomto turn round. Other shops were, indeed, level with the street; butyou had to be careful, because the threshold was not flush with thepavement, but rose a couple of inches and then fell again, a verytrap to the toe of the unwary. Many had no glass at all, but wereopen, like a butcher's or fishmonger's. Those that had glass wereso restricted for space that, rich as they might be within in thegood things of the earth, they could make no 'display.' All thegenius of a West-end shopman could not have made an artisticarrangement in that narrow space and in that bad light; for, thoughso small below, the houses rose high, and the street being sonarrow 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 wasgenuine. The trade of a country market-town, especially when thatmarket-town, like Woolbury, dates from the earliest days of Englishhistory, is hereditary. It flows to the same store and to the sameshop year after year, generation after generation, century aftercentury. The farmer who walks into the saddler's here goes inbecause his father went there before him. His father went inbecause his father dealt there, and so on farther back than memorycan trace. It might almost be said that whole villages go toparticular shops. You may see the agricultural labourers' wives,for instance, on a Saturday leave the village in a bevy of ten or adozen, and all march in to the same tradesman. Of course in theselatter days speculative men and 'co-operative' prices,industriously placarded, have sapped and undermined thisold-fashioned system. Yet even now it retains sufficient hold to bea marked feature of country life. To the through traffic,therefore, had to be added the steady flow of customers to theshops.

On a market-day like this there is, of course, the incessantentry and exit of carts, waggons, traps, gigs, four-wheels, and alarge number of private carriages. The number of private carriagesis, indeed, very remarkable, as also the succession of gentlemen onthoroughbred horses—a proof of the number of resident gentryin the neighbourhood, and of its general prosperity. Cart-horsesfurbished up for sale, with straw-bound tails and glistening skins;'baaing' flocks of sheep; squeaking pigs; bullocks with their headsheld ominously low, some going, some returning, from the auctionyard; shouting drovers; lads rushing hither and thither; dogsbarking; everything and everybody crushing, jostling, pushingthrough the narrow street. An old shepherd, who has done hismaster's business, comes along the pavement, trudging thoughtfuland slow, with ashen staff. One hand is in his pocket, the elbow ofthe arm projecting; he is feeling a fourpenny-piece, anddeliberating at which 'tap' he shall spend it. He fills up theentire pavement, and stolidly plods on, turning ladies and all intothe roadway; not from intentional rudeness, but from sheerinability to perceive that he is causing inconvenience.

Unless you know the exact spot it is difficult in all this crowdand pushing, with a nervous dread of being gored from behind by abull, or thrown off your feet by a sudden charge of sheep, todiscover the door of the Jason Inn. That door has been open everylegitimate and lawful hour this hundred years; but you will verylikely be carried past it and have to struggle back. Then it is noteasy to enter, for half a dozen stalwart farmers and farmers' sonsare coming out; while two young fellows stand just inside, close tothe sliding bar-window, blocking up the passage, to exchangeoccasional nods and smiles with the barmaid.

However, by degrees you shuffle along the sanded passage, andpast the door of the bar, which is full of farmers as thick as theycan stand, or sit. The rattle of glasses, the chink of spoons, thehum of voices, the stamping of feet, the calls and orders, andsounds of laughter, mingle in confusion. Cigar-smoke and the steamfrom the glasses fill the room—all too small—with athick white mist, through which rubicund faces dimly shine like thered sun through a fog.

Some at the tables are struggling to write cheques, withcontinual jogs at the elbow, with ink that will not flow, pens thatscratch and splutter, blotting-paper that smudges and blots. Someare examining cards of an auction, and discussing the prices whichthey have marked in the margin in pencil. The good-humoured uproaris beyond description, and is increased by more farmers forcingtheir way in from the rear, where are their horses ortraps—by farmers eagerly inquiring for dealers or friends,and by messengers from the shops loaded with parcels to place inthe customer's vehicle.

At last you get beyond the bar-room door and reach the end ofthe passage, where is a wide staircase, and at the foot a talleight-day clock. A maid-servant comes tripping down, and in answerto 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 isthree-quarters of an hour after the time fixed for the reading of amost important paper before a meeting specially convened, beforethe assembled Parliament of Hodge's masters, and you thought youwould be too late. A glance at the staircase proves the truth ofthe maid's story. It has no carpet, but it is white aswell-scrubbed wood could well be. There is no stain, no dust, nofoot-mark on it; no heavy shoe that has been tramping about in themud has been up there. But it is necessary to go on or go back, andof the two the first is the lesser evil.

The staircase is guarded by carved banisters, and after going uptwo flights you enter a large and vacant apartment prepared for themeeting of the farmers' club. At the farther end is a smallmahogany table, with an armchair for the president, paper, pens,ink, blotting-paper, and a wax candle and matches, in case heshould want a light. Two less dignified chairs are for thesecretary (whose box, containing the club records, books ofreference, &c., is on the table), and for the secretary'sclerk. Rows of plain chairs stretch across the room, rank afterrank; these are for the audience. And last of all are two longforms, as if for Hodge, if Hodge chooses to come.

A gleam of the afternoon sun—as the clouds partawhile—attracts one naturally to the window. The thickness ofthe wall in which it is placed must be some two or three feet, sothat there is a recess on which to put your arms, if you do notmind the dust, and look out. The window is half open, and thesounds of the street come up, 'baaing' and bellowing and squeaking,the roll of wheels, the tramp of feet, and, more distant, theshouting of an auctioneer in the market-place, whose stentoriantones come round the corner as he puts up rickcloths for sale.Noise of man and animal below; above, here in the chamber ofscience, vacancy and silence. Looking upwards, a narrow streak ofblue sky can be seen above the ancient house across the way.

After awhile there comes the mellow sound of bells from thechurch which is near by, though out of sight; bells with a soft,old-world tone; bells that chime slowly and succeed each otherwithout haste, ringing forth a holy melody composed centuries ago.It is as well to pause a minute and listen to their voice, even inthis railroad age of hurry. Over the busy market-place the notes goforth, and presently the hum comes back and dwells in the recess ofthe window. It is a full hour after the time fixed, and now atlast, as the carillon finishes, there are sounds of heavy bootsupon 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 secretaryarrives; finally the president appears, and with him the lecturer.There is a hum of greeting; the minutes are read; the presidentintroduces the professor, and the latter stands forth to read hispaper—'Science, the Remedy for Agricultural Depression.'

Farmers, he pointed out, had themselves only to blame for thepresent period of distress. For many years past science had beenlike the voice crying in the wilderness, and few, a very few only,had listened. Men had, indeed, come to the clubs; but they had goneaway home again, and, as the swine of the proverb, returned totheir wallowing in the mire. One blade of grass still grew wheretwo or even three might be grown; he questioned whether farmers hadany real desire to grow the extra blades. If they did, they hadmerely to employ the means provided for them. Everything had beenliterally put into their hands; but what was the result? Why,nothing—in point of fact, nothing. The country at large wasstill undrained. The very A B C of progress had been neglected. Heshould be afraid to say what proportion of the land was yetundrained, for he should be contradicted, called ill names, andcried down. But if they would look around them they could see forthemselves. They would see meadows full of rank, coarse grass inthe furrows, which neither horse nor cattle would touch. They wouldsee in the wheat-fields patches of the crop sickly, weak, feeble,and altogether poor; that was where the water had stood anddestroyed the natural power of the seed. The same cause gave originto that mass of weeds which was the standing disgrace of arabledistricts.

But men shut their eyes wilfully to these plain facts, and criedout that the rain had ruined them. It was not the rain—it wastheir own intense dislike of making any improvement. The visinertiæ of the agricultural class was beyond the limit oflanguage to describe. Why, if the land had been drained the rainwould have done comparatively little damage, and thus they wouldhave been independent of the seasons. Look, again, at the hay crop;how many thousand tons of hay had been wasted because men would notbelieve that anything would answer which had not been done by theirforefathers! The hay might have been saved by three distinctmethods. The grass might have been piled against hurdles or lightframe-work and so dried by the wind; it might have been pitted inthe earth and preserved still green; or it might have been dried bymachinery and the hot blast. A gentleman had invented a machine,the utility of which had been demonstrated beyond all doubt. Butno; farmers folded their hands and watched their hay rotting.

As for the wheat crop, how could they expect a wheat crop? Theyhad not cleaned the soil—there were horse-hoes, and everyspecies of contrivances for the purpose; but they would not usethem. They had not ploughed deeply: they had merely scratched thesurface as if with a pin. How could the thin upper crust of theearth—the mere rind three inches thick—be expected toyield crop after crop for a hundred years? Deep ploughing couldonly be done by steam: now how many farmers possessed or usedsteam-ploughs? Why, there were whole districts where such a thingwas unknown. They had neglected to manure the soil; to restore toit the chemical constituents of the crops. But to speak uponartificial manure was enough to drive any man who had the power ofthought into temporary insanity. It was so utterly dispiriting tosee men positively turning away from the means of obtaining goodcrops, and then crying out that they were ruined. With drains,steam-ploughs, and artificial manure, a farmer might defy theweather.

Of course, continued the professor, it was assumed that thefarmer had good substantial buildings and sufficient capital. Thefirst he could get if he chose; and without the second, withoutcapital, he had no business to be farming at all. He was simplystopping the road of a better man, and the sooner he was driven outof the way the better. The neglect of machinery was mostdisheartening. A farmer bought one machine, perhaps areaping-machine, and then because that solitary article did notimmediately make his fortune he declared that machinery wasuseless. Could the force of folly farther go? With machinery theycould do just as they liked. They could compel the earth to yield,and smile at the most tropical rain, or the most continuousdrought. If only the voice of science had been listened to, therewould have been no depression at all. Even now it was not toolate.

Those who were wise would at once set to work to drain, topurchase artificial manure, and set up steam power, and thereby toprovide themselves with the means of stemming the tide ofdepression. By these means they could maintain a head of stock thatwould be more than double what was now kept upon equal acreage. Heknew full well one of the objections that would be made againstthese statements. It would be said that certain individuals haddone all this, had deep ploughed, had manured, had kept a greathead of valuable stock, had used every resource, and yet hadsuffered. This was true. He deeply regretted to say it wastrue.

But why had they suffered? Not because of the steam, themachinery, the artificial manure, the improvements they had set onfoot; but because of the folly of their neighbours, of theagricultural class generally. The great mass of farmers had made noimprovements; and, when the time of distress came, they were beatendown at every point. It was through these men and their failuresthat the price of stock and of produce fell, and that so muchstress was put upon the said individuals through no fault of theirown. He would go further, and he would say that had it not been forthe noble efforts of such individuals—the pioneers ofa*griculture and its main props and stays—the condition offarming 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, thedeep ploughing they had accomplished, the great head of stock theyhad got together, and so on. These enabled them to weather thestorm.

The cry for a reduction of rent was an irresistible proof ofwhat he had put forth—that it was the farmers themselves whowere to blame. This cry was a confession of their own incompetency.If you analysed it—if you traced the general cry home toparticular people—you always found that those people wereincapables. The fact was, farming, as a rule, was conducted on thehand-to-mouth principle, and the least stress or strain caused anoutcry. He must be forgiven if he seemed to speak with unusualacerbity. He intended no offence. But it was his duty. In such acondition of things it would be folly to mince matters, to speaksoftly while everything was going to pieces. He repeated, once forall, it was their own fault. Science could supply the remedy, andscience alone; if they would not call in the aid of science theymust suffer, and their privations must be upon their own heads.Science said, Drain, use artificial manure, plough deeply, keep thebest breed of stock, put capital into the soil. Call science totheir aid, and they might defy the seasons.

The professor sat down and thrust his hand through his hair. Thepresident invited discussion. For some few minutes no one rose;presently, after a whispered conversation with his friend, anelderly farmer stood up from the forms at the very back of theroom. He made no pretence to rounded periods, but spoke much betterthan might have been expected; he had a small piece of paper in hishand, on which he had made notes as the lecture proceeded.

He said that the lecturer had made out a very good case. He hadproved to demonstration, in the most logical manner, that farmerswere fools. Well, no doubt, all the world agreed with him, foreverybody thought he could teach the farmer. The chemist, thegrocer, the baker, the banker, the wine merchant, the lawyer, thedoctor, the clerk, the mechanic, the merchant, the editor, theprinter, the stockbroker, the colliery owner, the ironmaster, theclergyman, and the Methodist preacher, the very cabmen and railwayporters, policemen, and no doubt the crossing-sweepers—to usean expressive Americanism, all the whole "jing-bang"—couldteach the ignorant jackass of a farmer.

Some few years ago he went into a draper's shop to bring home aparcel for his wife, and happened to enter into conversation withthe draper himself. The draper said he was just going to sell offthe business and go into dairy farming, which was the most payingthing out. That was just when there came over from America a patentmachine for milking cows. The draper's idea was to milk all hiscows by one of these articles, and so dispense with labour. He sawno more of him for a long time, but had heard that morning that hewent into a dairy farm, got rid of all his money, and was nowtramping the country as a pedlar with a pack at his back. Everybodythought 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, notonly uncalled-for and priggish, but downright brutal. It was thatthe man with little capital ought to be driven out of farming, andthe sooner he went to the wall the better. Now, how would all thegrocers and other tradesmen whom he had just enumerated like to betold that if they had not got 10,000l. each they ought to goat once to the workhouse! That would be a fine remedy for thedepression of trade.

He always thought it was considered rather meritorious if a manwith 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, andmust be eradicated. Well, he did not hesitate to say that he hadbeen a small man himself, and began in a very small way. Perhapsthe lecturer would think him a small man still, as he was not amillionaire; but he could pay his way, which went for something inthe eyes of old-fashioned people, and perhaps he had a pound or twoover. He should say but one word more, for he was aware that therewas a thunderstorm rapidly coming up, and he supposed science wouldnot prevent him from getting a wet jacket. He should like to askthe lecturer if he could give the name of one single scientificfarmer who had prospered?

Having said this much, the old gentleman put on his overcoat andbusted out of the room, and several others followed him, for therain was already splashing against the window-panes. Others lookedat their watches, and, seeing it was late, rose one by one andslipped off. The president asked if any one would continue thediscussion, and, as no one rose, invited the professor toreply.

The professor gathered his papers and stood up. Then there camea heavy rolling sound—the unmistakable boom of distantthunder. He said that the gentleman who had left so abruptly hadquite misconstrued the tenour of his paper. So far from intendingto describe farmers as lacking in intelligence, all he wished toshow was that they did not use their natural abilities, from acertain traditionary bowing to custom. They did not like theirneighbours to think that they were doing anything novel. No onerespected the feelings that had grown up and strengthened fromchildhood, no one respected the habits of our ancestors, more thanhe did; no one knew better the solid virtues that adorned the homesof agriculturists. Far, indeed, be it from him to sayaught—[Boom! and the rattling of rain against thewindow]—aught that could—but he saw that gentlemen wereanxious to get home, and would conclude.

A vote of thanks was hurriedly got over, and the assembly brokeup and hastened down the staircase. They found the passage below soblocked with farmers who had crowded in out of the storm thatmovement was impossible. The place was darkened by the overhangingclouds, the atmosphere thick and close with the smoke and thecrush. Flashes of brilliant lightning seemed to sweep down thenarrow street, which ran like a brook with the storm-water; thethunder seemed to descend and shake the solid walls. 'It's ratherhard on the professor,' said one farmer to another. 'What wouldscience do in a thunderstorm?' He had hardly spoken when the hailsuddenly came down, and the round white globules, rebounding fromthe pavement, rolled in at the open door. Each paused as he liftedhis glass and thought of the harvest. As for Hodge, who wasreaping, he had to take shelter how he might in the open fields.Boom! flash! boom!—splash and hiss, as the hail rushed alongthe narrow street.

CHAPTER II

LEAVING HIS FARM

A large white poster, fresh and glaring, is pasted on the wall of abarn that stands beside a narrow country lane. So plain anadvertisem*nt, without any colour or attempt at 'display,' would bepassed unnoticed among the endless devices on a town hoarding.There nothing can be hoped to be looked at unless novel andstrange, or even incomprehensible. But here the oblong piece ofblack and white contrasts sufficiently in itself with red brick anddull brown wooden framing, with tall shadowy elms, and the glint ofsunshine on the streamlet that flows with a ceaseless murmur acrossthe hollow of the lane. Every man that comes along stays to readit.

The dealer in his trap—his name painted in white letterson the shaft—pulls up his quick pony, and sits askew on hisseat to read. He has probably seen it before in the bar of thewayside inn, roughly hung on a nail, and swaying to and fro withthe draught along the passage. He may have seen it, too, on thehanding-post at the lonely cross-roads, stuck on in such a mannerthat, in order to peruse it, it is necessary to walk round thepost. The same formal announcement appears also in the local weeklypapers—there are at least two now in the smallestplace—and he has read it there. Yet he pauses to glance at itagain, for the country mind requires reiteration before it canthoroughly grasp and realise the simplest fact. The poster must beread and re-read, and the printer's name observed and commented on,or, if handled, the thickness of the paper felt between thumb andfinger. After a month or two of this process people at last beginto accept it as a reality, like cattle or trees—somethingsubstantial, 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 withthe 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 theheavy waggon rumbles by, turns his back, and goes on with utterindifference.

The old men, working so many years on a single farm, and whoseminds were formed in days when a change of tenancy happened once inhalf a century, have so identified themselves with the order ofthings in the parish that it seems to personally affect them when afarmer leaves his place. But young Hodge cares nothing about hismaster, or his fellow's master. Whether they go or stay, prosperousor decaying, it matters nothing to him. He takes good wages, andcan jingle some small silver in his pocket when he comes to thetavern a mile or so ahead; so 'gee-up' and let us get there asrapidly as possible.

An hour later a farmer passes on horseback; his horse all toobroad for his short legs that stick out at the side and show someinches of stocking between the bottom of his trousers and hisboots. A sturdy, thick-set man, with a wide face, brickdust colour,fringed with close-cut red whiskers, and a chest so broad he seemscompelled to wear his coat unbuttoned. He pulls off his hat andwipes his partly bald head with a coloured handkerchief, stares atthe poster a few minutes, and walks his horse away, evidently indeep thought. Two boys—cottagers' children—come homefrom school; they look round to see that no one observes, and thenthrow flints at the paper till the sound of footsteps alarmsthem.

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 shallowstream, and the cool water splashes above their fetlocks. Theshooting season is near at hand, Parliament has risen, and thelandlords have returned home. Instead of the Row, papa must takehis darling a ride through the lanes, a little dusty as the autumncomes on, and pauses to read the notice on the wall. It is hisneighbour's tenant, not his, but it comes home to him here. It isthe real thing—the fact—not the mere seeing it in thepapers, or the warning hints in the letters of his own steward.'Papa,' is rather quiet for the rest of the ride. Ever since he wasa lad—how many years ago is that?—he has shot with hisneighbour's party over this farm, and recollects the tenant well,and with that friendly feeling that grows up towards what we seeyear after year. In a day or two the clergyman drives by with hislow four-wheel and fat pony, notes the poster as the pony slackensat the descent to the water, and tells himself to remember and getthe tithe. Some few Sundays, and Farmer Smith will appear in churchno more.

Farmer Smith this beautiful morning is looking at the wheat,which is, and is not, his. It would have been cut in an ordinaryseason, but the rains have delayed the ripening. He wonders how thecrop ever came up at all through the mass of weeds that choked it,the spurrey that filled the spaces between the stalks below, thebindweed that climbed up them, the wild camomile flowering andflourishing at the edge, the tall thistles lifting their headsabove it in bunches, and the great docks whose red seeds showed ata distance. He sent in some men, as much to give them something todo as for any real good, one day, who in a few hours pulled upenough docks to fill a cart. They came across a number of snakes,and decapitated the reptiles with their hoes, and afterwards hungthem all up—tied together by the tail—to a bough. Thebunch of headless snakes hangs there still, swinging to and fro asthe wind plays through the oak. Vermin, too, revel in weeds, whichencourage the mice and rats, and are, perhaps, quite as much acause of their increase as any acts of the gamekeeper.

Farmer Smith a few years since was very anxious for the renewalof his lease, just as those about to enter on tenancies desiredleases above everything. All the agricultural world agreed that alease was the best thing possible—the clubs discussed it, thepapers preached it. It was a safeguard; it allowed the tenant todevelop his energies, and to put his capital into the soil withoutfear. He had no dread of being turned out before he could get itback. Nothing like a lease—the certain preventative of allagricultural ills. There was, to appearance, a great deal of truthin these arguments, which in their day made much impression, andcaused a movement in that direction. Who could foresee that in afew short years men would be eager to get rid of their leases onany terms? Yet such was the fact. The very men who had longed soeagerly for the blessing of security of tenure found it the worstthing possible for their interest.

Mr. Smith got his lease, and paid for it tolerably stiffly, forat that period all agricultural prices were inflated—from theprice of a lease to that of a calf. He covenanted to pay a certainfixed rental for so many acres of arable and a small proportion ofgrass for a fixed time. He covenanted to cultivate the soil by afixed rotation; not to sow this nor that, nor to be guided by thechange of the markets, or the character of the seasons, or theappearance of powerful foreign competitors. There was the parchmentprepared with all the niceties of wording that so many generationsof lawyers had polished to the highest pitch; not a loophole, notso much as a t left uncrossed, or a doubtful interlineation.But although the parchment did not alter a jot, the times andseasons did. Wheat fell in price, vast shipments came even fromIndia, cattle and sheep from America, wool from Australia, horsesfrom France; tinned provisions and meats poured in by the ton, andcheese, and butter, and bacon by the thousand tons. Labour at thesame time rose. His expenditure increased, his income decreased;his rent remained the same, and rent audit came round with theutmost regularity.

Mr. Smith began to think about his lease, and question whetherit was such an unmixed blessing. There was no getting out of it,that was certain. The seasons grew worse and worse. Smith asked fora reduction of rent. He got, like others, ten per cent, returned,which, he said looked very liberal to those who knew nothing offarming, and was in reality about as useful as a dry biscuit flungat a man who has eaten nothing for a week. Besides which, it wasonly a gracious condescension, and might not be repeated next year,unless he kept on his good behaviour, and paid court to theclergyman and the steward. Unable to get at what he wanted in adirect way, Smith tried an indirect one. He went at game, andinsisted on its being reduced in number. This he could do accordingto the usual terms of agreement; but when it came to the point hefound that the person called in to assess the damage put it at amuch lower figure than he had himself; and who was to decide whatwas or was not a reasonable head of game? This attack of his on thegame did him no good whatever, and was not unnaturally borne inmind—let us not say resented.

He next tried to get permission to sell straw—a permissionthat he saw granted to others in moderation. But he was thenreminded of a speech he had made at a club, when, in a moment oftemper (and sherry), he had let out a piece of his mind, whichpiece of his mind was duly published in the local papers, andcaused 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 tobe abused in public, the more especially when, looking atprecedents, we do not deserve it. Smith next went to the assessmentcommittee to get his taxes reduced, on the ground of a loss ofrevenue. The committee sympathised with him, but found that theymust assess him according to his rent. At least so they were thenadvised, and only did their duty.

By this time the local bankers had scented a time of troubleapproaching in the commercial and agricultural world; they began todraw 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 sopersistently complained that people began to suspect there reallywas something wrong with his finances. He endeavoured to explain,but was met with the tale that he had himself started. He thenhonestly produced his books, and laid his position bare to the lastpenny.

The banker believed him, and renewed part of the advance for ashort period; but he began, to cogitate in this wise: 'Here is afarmer of long experience, born of a farming family, and ahardworking fellow, and, more than that, honest. If this man, whohas hitherto had the command of a fair amount of capital, cannotmake his books balance better than this, what must be the case withsome 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? Wemust be careful; these are hard times.' In short, Smith, withoutmeaning it, did his neighbours an immense deal of harm. His veryhonesty injured them. By slow degrees the bank got 'tighter' withits customers. It leaked out—all things leak out—thatSmith had said too much, and he became unpopular, which did notincrease his contentment.

Finally he gave notice that unless the rent was reduced heshould not apply to renew the lease, which would soon expire. Hehad not the least intention in his secret mind of leaving the farm;he never dreamed that his notice would be accepted. He and his haddwelt there for a hundred years, and were as much part and parcelof the place as the elm-trees in the hedges. So many farms were inthe market going a-begging for tenants, it was not probable alandlord would let a good man go for the sake of a few shillings anacre. But the months went by and the landlord's agents gave nosign, and at last Smith realised that he was really going toleave.

Though he had so long talked of going, it came upon him like athunderbolt. It was like an attack of some violent fever thatshakes a strong man and leaves him as weak as a child. The farmer,whose meals had been so hearty, could not relish his food. Hisbreakfast dwindled to a pretence; his lunch fell off; his dinnergrew less; his supper faded; his spirits and water, the oldfamiliar 'nightcap,' did him no good. His jolly ringing laugh washeard no more; from a thorough gossip he became taciturn, andbarely opened his lips. His clothes began to hang about him,instead of fitting him all too tight; his complexion lost the redcolour and became sallow; his eyes had a furtive look in them, sodifferent to the old straightforward glance.

Some said he would take to his bed and die; some said he wouldjump 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 wentround his fields just the same as before—perhaps a littlemore mechanically; but still the old routine of daily work was gonethrough. Leases, though for a short period, do not expire in a day;after awhile time began to produce its usual effect. The sharpnessof the pain wore off, and he set to work to make the best ofmatters. He understood the capacity of each field as well as othersunderstand the yielding power of a little garden. His former studyhad been to preserve something like a balance between what he putin and what he took out of the soil. Now it became the subject ofconsideration how to get the most out without putting anything in.Artificial manures were reduced to the lowest quantity and of thecheapest quality, such as was used being, in fact, nothing but tothrow dust, literally, in the eyes of other people. Times were sobad that he could not be expected, under the most favourablecirc*mstances, to consume much cake in the stalls or make muchmanure in that way.

One by one extra expenditures were cut off. Gates, instead ofbeing repaired, were propped up by running a pole across. Labourwas eschewed in every possible way. Hedges were left uncut; ditcheswere left uncleaned. The team of horses was reduced, and theploughing done next to nothing. Cleaning and weeding were graduallyabandoned. Several fields were allowed to become overrun withgrass, not the least attention being paid to them; the weeds sprangup, and the grass ran over from the hedges. The wheat crop was keptto the smallest area. Wheat requires more previous labour and careas to soil than any other crop. Labour and preparation cost money,and he was determined not to spend a shilling more than he wasabsolutely compelled. He contrived to escape the sowing, of wheataltogether on some part of the farm, leaving it out of therotation. That was a direct infringement of the letter of theagreement; but who was to prove that he had evaded it? The stewardcould not recollect the crops on several hundred acres; theneighbouring tenants, of course, knew very well; but although Smithhad become unpopular, they were not going to tell tales of him. Hesold everything he dared off the farm, and many things that he didnot dare. He took everything out of the soil that it was possibleto take out. The last Michaelmas was approaching, and he walkedround in the warm August sunshine to look at the wheat.

He sat down on an old roller that lay in the corner of thefield, and thought over the position of things. He calculated thatit would cost the incoming tenant an expenditure of from onethousand two hundred pounds to one thousand five hundred pounds toput the farm, which was a large one, into proper condition. Itcould not be got into such condition under three years of labour.The new tenant must therefore be prepared to lay out a heavy sum ofmoney, to wait while the improvement went on, must live how hecould meanwhile, and look forward some three years for thecommencement of his profit. To such a state had the farm beenbrought in a brief time. And how would the landlord come off? Thenew tenant would certainly make his bargain in accordance with thestate of the land. For the first year the rent paid would benominal; for the second, perhaps a third or half the usual sum; nottill the third year could the landlord hope to get his full rental.That full rental, too, would be lower than previously, because thegeneral depression had sent down arable rents everywhere, and noone would pay on the old scale.

Smith thought very hard things of the landlord, and felt that heshould have his revenge. On the other hand, the landlord thoughtvery hard things of Smith, and not wilhout reason. That an oldtenant, the descendant of one of the oldest tenant-farmer families,should exhaust the soil in this way seemed the blackest return forthe good feeling that had existed for several generations. Therewas great irritation on both sides.

Smith had, however, to face one difficulty. He must either takeanother farm at once, or live on his capital. The interest of hiscapital—if invested temporarily in Governmentsecurities—would hardly suffice to maintain the comfortablestyle of living he and his rather large family of grown-up sons anddaughters had been accustomed to. He sometimes heard a faint, faroff 'still small voice,' that seemed to say it would have beenwiser to stay on, and wait till the reaction took place and farmingrecovered. The loss he would have sustained by staying on would,perhaps, not have been larger than the loss he must now sustain byliving on capital till such time as he saw something to suit him.And had he been altogether wise in omitting all endeavours to gainhis end by conciliatory means? Might not gentle persuasion andcourteous language have ultimately produced an impression? Mightnot terms have been arranged had he not been so vehement? The newtenant, notwithstanding that he would have to contend with theshocking state of the farm, had such favourable terms that if heonly stayed long enough to let the soil recover, Smith knew he mustmake a good thing of it.

But as he sat on the wooden roller under the shade of a tree andthought these things, listening to the rustle of the golden wheatas 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 heremembered that his pass-book at the bank showed a very respectablerow of figures, buttoned up his coat, and strolled homeward with asmile on his features. The date fixed for the sale, as announced bythe poster on the barn, came round, and a crowd gathered to see thelast of the old tenant. Old Hodge viewed the scene from a distance,resting against a gate, with his chin on his hand. He was thinkingof the days when he first went to plough, years ago, under Smith'sfather. If Smith had been about to enter on another farm old Hodgewould have girded up his loins, packed his worldly goods in awaggon, and followed his master's fortunes thither. But Smith wasgoing to live on his capital awhile; and old Hodge had already hadnotice to quit his cottage. In his latter days he must work for anew master. Down at the sale young Hodge was lounging round, handsin pocket, whistling—for there was some beer going about. Theexcitement of the day was a pleasurable sensation, and as for hismaster he might go to Kansas or Hong-Kong.

CHAPTER III

A MAN OF PROGRESS

The sweet sound of rustling leaves, as soothing as the rush offalling water, made a gentle music over a group of three personssitting at the extremity of a lawn. Upon their right was aplantation or belt of trees, which sheltered them from the noondaysun; on the left the green sward reached to the house; from theopen window came the rippling notes of a piano, and now and againthe soft accents of the Italian tongue. The walls of the gardenshut out the world and the wind—the blue sky stretched abovefrom one tree-top to another, and in those tree-tops the coolbreeze, grateful to the reapers in the fields, played with boughand leaf. In the centre of the group was a small table, and on itsome tall glasses of antique make, and a flask of wine. By the ladylay a Japanese parasol, carelessly dropped on the grass. She washandsome, and elegantly dressed; her long drooping eyelashesfringed eyes that were almost closed in luxurious enjoyment; herslender hand beat time to the distant song. Of the two gentlemenone was her brother—the other, a farmer, her husband. Thebrother wore a pith helmet, and his bronzed cheek told of serviceunder tropical suns. The husband was scarcely less brown; stillyoung, and very active-looking, you might guess his age at forty;but his bare forehead (he had thrown his hat on the ground) wasmarked with the line caused by involuntary contraction of themuscles when thinking. There was an air of anxiety, of restlessfeverish energy, about him. But just for the moment he was calm andhappy, turning over the pages of a book. Suddenly he looked up, andbegan to declaim, in a clear, sweet voice:

'He's speaking now,
Or murmuring, "Where's my serpent of old Nile?"
For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
With most delicious poison!'

Just then there came the sharp rattle of machinery borne on thewind; he recollected himself, shut the volume, and rose from hisseat. 'The men have finished luncheon,' he said; 'I must go and seehow things are getting on.' The Indian officer, after one glanceback at the house, went with him. There was a private footpaththrough the plantation of trees, and down this the two disappeared.Soon afterwards the piano ceased, and a lady came slowly across thelawn, still humming the air she had been playing. She was thefarmer's sister, and was engaged to the officer. The wife looked upfrom the book which she had taken from the table, with a smile ofwelcome. But the smile faded as she said—'They have gone outto the reapers. Oh, this farm will worry him out of his life! How Iwish he had never bought it! Don't let Alick have anything to dowith farms or land, dear, when you are married.'

The girl laughed, sat down, took her hand, and asked if matterswere really so serious.

'It is not so much the money I trouble about,' said the wife.'It is Cecil himself. His nature is too fine for these dull clods.You know him, dear; his mind is full of art—look at theseglasses—of music and pictures. Why, he has just been reading"Antony and Cleopatra," and now he's gone to look after reapers.Then, he is so fiery and quick, and wants everything done in aminute, like the men of business in the "City." He keeps his watchtimed to a second, and expects the men to be there. They are soslow. Everything agricultural is so slow. They say we shall havefine seasons in two or three years; only think, years. Thisis what weighs on Cecil.'

By this time the two men had walked through the plantation, andpaused at a small gate that opened on the fields. The ground fellrapidly away, sloping down for half a mile, so that every portionof the fields below was visible at once. The house and gardens weresituate on the hill; the farmer had only to stand on the edge tooverlook half his place.

'What a splendid view!' said the officer. The entire slope wasyellow with wheat—on either hand, and in front the surface ofthe crop extended unbroken by hedge, tree, or apparent division.Two reaping-machines were being driven rapidly round and round,cutting as they went; one was a self-binder and threw the sheavesoff already bound; the other only laid the corn low, and it hadafterwards to be gathered up and bound by hand-labour. There wasreally a small army of labourers in the field; but it was so largethey made but little show.

'You have a first-rate crop,' said the visitor; 'I see no weeds,or not more than usual; it is a capital crop.'

'Yes,' replied the farmer, 'it is a fine crop; but just thinkwhat it cost me to produce it, and bear in mind, too, the price Ishall get for it.' He took out his pocket-book, and began toexplain.

While thus occupied he looked anything but a farmer. His dresswas indeed light and careless, but it was the carelessness ofbreeding, not slovenliness. His hands were brown, but there wereclean white cuffs on his wrist and gold studs; his neck was brown,but his linen spotless. The face was too delicate, too refined withall its bronze; the frame was well developed, but too active; itlacked the heavy thickness and the lumbering gait of the farmerbred to the plough. He might have conducted a great financialoperation; he might have been the head of a great mercantile house;he might have been on 'Change; but that stiff clay there, stubbornand unimpressionable, was not in his style.

Cecil had gone into farming, in fact, as a 'commercialspeculation,' with the view of realising cent. per cent. He beganat the time when it was daily announced that old-fashioned farmingwas a thing of the past. Business maxims and business practice wereto be the rule of the future. Farming was not to be farming; it wasto be emphatically 'business,' the same as iron, coal, or cotton.Thus managed, with steam as the motive power, a fortune might bemade out of the land, in the same way as out of a colliery or amine. But it must be done in a commercial manner; there must be norestrictions upon the employment of capital, no fixed rotation ofcrops, no clauses forbidding the sale of any products. Cecil found,however, that the possessors of large estates would not let him afarm on these conditions. These ignorant people (as he thoughtthem) insisted upon keeping up the traditionary customs; they wouldnot contract themselves out of the ancient form of lease.

But Cecil was a man of capital. He really had a large sum ofmoney, and this short-sighted policy (as he termed it) of thelandlords only made him the more eager to convince them howmistaken they were to refuse anything to a man who could putcapital into the soil. He resolved to be his own landlord, andordered his agents to find him a small estate and to purchase itoutright. There was not much difficulty in finding an estate, andCecil bought it. But he was even then annoyed and disgusted withthe formalities, the investigation of title, the completion ofdeeds, and astounded at the length of a lawyer's bill.

Being at last established in possession Cecil set to work, andat the same time set every agricultural tongue wagging within aradius of twenty miles. He grubbed up all the hedges, and threw thewhole of his arable land into one vast field, and had it levelledwith the theodolite. He drained it six feet deep at an enormouscost. He built an engine-shed with a centrifugal pump, which forcedwater from the stream that ran through the lower ground over theentire property, and even to the topmost storey of his house. Helaid a light tramway across the widest part of his estate, and sentthe labourers to and fro their work in trucks. The chaff-cutters,root-pulpers, the winnowing-machine—everything was driven bysteam. Teams of horses and waggons seemed to be always going to thecanal wharf for coal, which he ordered from the pit wholesale.

A fine set of steam-ploughing tackle was put to work, and,having once commenced, the beat of the engines never seemed tocease. They were for ever at work tearing up the subsoil andbringing it to the surface. If he could have done it, he would haveploughed ten feet deep. Tons of artificial manure came by canalboat—positively boat loads—and were stored in thewarehouse. For he put up a regular warehouse for the storage ofmaterials; the heavy articles on the ground floor, the lighterabove, hoisted up by a small crane. There was, too, an office,where the 'engineer' attended every morning to take his orders, asthe bailiff might at the back-door of an old farmhouse. Substantialbuildings were erected for the shorthorn cattle.

The meadows upon the estate, like the corn-fields, were allthrown together, such divisions as were necessary being made byiron railings. Machines of every class and character wereprovided—reaping-machines, mowing-machines, horse-hoes,horse-rakes, elevators—everything was to be done bymachinery. That nothing might be incomplete, some new andwell-designed cottages were erected for the skilledartisans—they could scarcely be called labourers—whowere engaged to work these engines. The estate had previouslyconsisted of several small farms: these were now thrown all intoone, otherwise there would not have been room for this greatenterprise.

A complete system of booking was organised. From the sale of abullock to the skin of a calf, everything was put down on paper.All these entries, made in books specially prepared andconveniently ruled for the purpose, came under Cecil's eye weekly,and were by him re-entered in his ledgers. This writing took up alarge part of his time, and the labour was sometimes so severe thathe could barely get through it; yet he would not allow himself aclerk, being economical in that one thing only. It was a saying inthe place that not a speck of dust could be blown on to the estateby the wind, or a straw blown off, without it being duly entered inthe master's books.

Cecil's idea was to excel in all things. Some had been famousfor shorthorns before him, others for sheep, and others again forwheat. He would be celebrated for all. His shorthorns should fetchfabulous prices; his sheep should be known all over the world; hiswheat should be the crop of the season. In this way he invested hiscapital in the soil with a thoroughness unsurpassed. As if to provethat he was right, the success of his enterprise seemed from thefirst assured. His crops of wheat, in which he especially putfaith, and which he grew year after year upon the same land,totally ignoring the ancient rotations, were the wonder of theneighbourhood. Men came from far and near to see them. Such was theeffect of draining, turning up the subsoil, continual ploughing,and the consequent atmospheric action upon the exposed earth, andof liberal manure, that here stood such crops of wheat as had neverpreviously been seen. These he sold, as they stood, by auction; andno sooner had the purchasers cleared the ground than the engineswent to work again, tearing up the earth. His meadow lands wereirrigated by the centrifugal pump, and yielded three crops insteadof one. His shorthorns began to get known—for he spared noexpense upon them—and already one or two profitable sales hadbeen held. His sheep prospered; there was not so much noise madeabout them, but, perhaps, they really paid better thananything.

Meantime, Cecil kept open house, with wine and refreshments, andeven beds for everybody who chose to come and inspect his place.Nothing gave him such delight as to conduct visitors over theestate and to enter into minute details of his system. As for theneighbouring farmers they were only too welcome. These thingsbecame noised abroad, and people arrived from strange and far-offplaces, and were shown over this Pioneer's Farm, as Cecil loved tocall it. His example was triumphantly quoted by every one who spokeon agricultural progress. Cecil himself was the life and soul ofthe farmers' club in the adjacent market town. It was not so muchthe speeches he made as his manner. His enthusiasm was contagious.If a scheme was started, if an experiment was suggested, Cecil'scheque-book came out directly, and the thing was set on footwithout delay. His easy, elastic step, his bright eye, his warm,hearty handshake, seemed to electrify people—to put some ofhis own spirit into them. The circle of his influence was everincreasing—the very oldest fogeys, who had prophesied everykind of failure, were being gradually won over.

Cecil himself was transcendently happy in his work; his mind wasin it; no exertion, no care or trouble, was too much. He workedharder than any navvy, and never felt fatigue. People said ofhim—'What a wonderful man!' He was so genuine, so earnest, sothorough, men could not choose but believe in him. The sun shonebrightly, the crops ripened, the hum of the threshing-machinedroned on the wind—all was life and happiness. In the summerevenings pleasant groups met upon the lawn; the song, the jest wentround; now and then an informal dance, arranged with much laughter,whiled away the merry hours till the stars appeared above the treesand the dew descended.

Yet to-day, as the two leaned over the little gate in theplantation and looked down upon the reapers, the deep groove whichcontinual thought causes was all too visible on Cecil's forehead.He explained to the officer how his difficulties had come about.His first years upon the farm or estate—it was really ratheran estate than a farm—had been fairly prosperous,notwithstanding the immense outlay of capital. A good percentage,in some cases a high-rate of percentage, had been returned upon themoney put into the soil. The seasons were good, the crops large andsuperabundant. Men's minds were full of confidence, they boughtfreely, and were launching out in all directions.

They wanted good shorthorn cattle—he sold them cattle;they wanted sheep—he sold them sheep. They wanted wheat, andhe sold them the standing crops, took the money, and so cleared hisprofit and saved himself trouble. It was, in fact, a period ofinflation. Like stocks and shares, everything was going up;everybody hastening to get rich. Shorthorns with a strain of blueblood fetched fancy prices; corn crops ruled high; every singlething sold well. The dry seasons suited the soil of the estate, andthe machinery he had purchased was rapidly repaying its first costin the saving of labour. His whole system was succeeding, and hesaw his way to realise his cent. per cent.

But by degrees the dream faded. He attributed it in the firstplace to the stagnation, the almost extinction, of the iron trade,the blowing out of furnaces, and the consequent cessation of thedemand for the best class of food on the part of thousands ofoperatives and mechanics, who had hitherto been the farmers' bestcustomers. They would have the best of everything when their wageswere high; as their wages declined their purchases declined. In abrief period, far briefer than would be imagined, this shrinking ofdemand reacted upon agriculture. The English farmer made his profitupon superior articles—the cheaper class came from abroad socopiously that he could not compete against so vast a supply.

When the demand for high-class products fell, the English farmerfelt it directly. Cecil considered that it was the dire distress inthe manufacturing districts, the stagnation of trade and commerceand the great failures in business centres, that were the chiefcauses of low prices and falling agricultural markets. The rise oflabour was but a trifling item. He had always paid good wages togood men, and always meant to. The succession of wet seasons wasmore serious, of course; it lowered the actual yield, and increasedthe cost of procuring the yield; but as his lands were welldrained, and had been kept clean he believed he could havewithstood the seasons for awhile.

The one heavy cloud that overhung agriculture, in his opinionwas the extraordinary and almost world-spread depression of trade,and his argument was very simple. When men prospered they boughtfreely, indulged in luxurious living, kept horses, servants, gaveparties, and consumed indirectly large quantities of food. As theymade fortunes they bought estates and lived half the year likecountry gentlemen—that competition sent up the price of land.The converse was equally true. In times of pressure households werereduced, servants dismissed, horses sold, carriages suppressed.Rich and poor acted alike in different degrees but as the workingpopulation was so much more numerous it was through the low wagesof the working population in cities and manufacturing districtsthat the farmers suffered most.

It was a period of depression—there was no confidence, nospeculation. For instance a year or two since the crop of standingwheat then growing on the very field before their eyes was sold byauction, and several lots brought from 16l. to 18l.per acre. This year the same wheat would not fetch 8l. peracre; and, not satisfied with that price, he had determined to reapand thresh it himself. It was the same with the shorthorns, withthe hay, and indeed with everything except sheep, which had been amainstay and support to him.

'Yet even now,' concluded Cecil, shutting his pocket-book, 'Ifeel convinced that my plan and my system will be a success. I cansee that I committed one great mistake—I made all myimprovements at once, laid out all my capital, and crippled myself. I should have done one thing at a time. I should, as it were,have grown my improvements—one this year, one next. As itwas, I denuded myself of capital. Had the times continuedfavourable it would not have mattered, as my income would have beenlarge. But the times became adverse before I was firmly settled,and, to be plain, I can but just keep things going without aloan—dear Bella will not be able to go to the sea this year;but we are both determined not to borrow.'

'In a year or two I am convinced we shall flourish again; butthe waiting, Alick, the waiting, is the trial. You know I amimpatient. Of course, the old-fashioned people, the farmers, allexpect me to go through the Bankruptcy Court. They always saidthese new-fangled plans would not answer, and now they are surethey were right. Well, I forgive them their croaking, though mostof them have dined at my table and drank my wine. I forgive themtheir croaking, for so they were bred up from childhood. Were Iill-natured, I might even smile at them, for they are failing andleaving their farms by the dozen, which seems a pretty good proofthat their antiquated system is at best no better than mine. But Ican see what they cannot see—signs of improvement. The steelindustry is giving men work; the iron industry is reviving; themines are slowly coming into work again; America is purchasing ofus largely; and when other nations purchase of us, part, at least,of the money always finds its way to the farmer. Next season, too,the weather may be more propitious.

'I shall hold on, Alick—a depression is certain to befollowed by a rise. That has been the history of trade andagriculture for generations. Nothing will ever convince me that itwas intended for English agriculturists to go on using woodenploughs, to wear smock-frocks, and plod round and round in the sameold track for ever. In no other way but by science, by steam, bymachinery, by artificial manure, and, in one word, by the exerciseof intelligence, can we compete with the world. It is ridiculous tosuppose we can do so by returning to the ignorance and prejudice ofour ancestors. No; we must beat the world by superior intelligenceand superior energy. But intelligence, mind, has ever had everyobstacle to contend against. Look at M. Lesseps and his wonderfulSuez Canal. I tell you that to introduce scientific farming intoEngland, in the face of tradition, custom, and prejudice, is a farharder task than overcoming the desert sand.'

CHAPTER IV

GOING DOWNHILL

An aged man, coming out of an arable field into the lane, pauses tolook back. He is shabbily clad, and there is more than one rent inhis coat; yet it is a coat that has once been a good one, and of asuperior cut to what a labourer would purchase. In the field theploughman to whom he has been speaking has started his team again.A lad walks beside the horses, the iron creaks, and the ploughmanholding the handles seems now to press upon them with his weight,and now to be himself bodily pulled along. A dull November cloudoverspreads the sky, and misty skits of small rain sweep across thelandscape. As the old man looks back from the gate, the chillbreeze whistles through the boughs of the oak above him, tearingoff the brown dry leaves, and shaking out the acorns to fall at hisfeet. It lifts his grey hair, and penetrates the threadbare coat.As he turns to go, something catches his eye on the ground, andfrom the mud in the gateway he picks up a cast horse-shoe. With therusty iron in his hand he passes slowly down the lane, and, as hegoes, the bitter wind drives the fallen leaves that have been lyingbeside the way rustling and dancing after him.

From a farmer occupying a good-sized farm he had descended to bea farmer's bailiff in the same locality. But a few months since hewas himself a tenant, and now he is a bailiff at 15s. a weekand a cottage. There is nothing dramatic, nothing sensational, inthe history of his descent; but it is, perhaps, all the more fullof bitter human experiences. As a man going down a steep hill,after a long while finds himself on the edge of a precipitous chalkpit, and topples in one fall to the bottom, so, though the processof going downhill occupied so long, the actual finish came almostsuddenly. Thus it was that from being a master he found himself aservant. He does not complain, nor appeal for pity. His back is alittle more bowed, he feels the cold a little more, his step is yetmore spiritless. But all he says about it is that 'Hard work nevermade any money yet.'

He has worked exceedingly hard all his lifetime. In his youth,though the family were then well-to-do, he was not permitted tolounge about in idleness, but had to work with the rest in thefields. He dragged his heavy nailed shoes over the furrows with theplough; he reaped and loaded in harvest time; in winter he trimmedthe hedgerows, split logs, and looked after the cattle. He enjoyedno luxurious education—luxurious in the sense ofscientifically arranged dormitories, ample meals, and vacations tobe spent on horseback, or with the breechloader. Trudging to andfro the neighbouring country town, in wind, and wet, and snow, toschool, his letters were thrashed into him. In holiday time he wentto work—his holidays, in fact, were so arranged as to fall atthe time when the lad could be of most use in the field. If anoccasion arose when a lad was wanted, his lessons had to wait whilehe lent a hand. He had his play, of course, as boys in all ageshave had; but it was play of a rude character with the plough lads,and the almost equally rough sons of farmers, who worked likeploughmen.

In those days the strong made no pretence to protect the weak,or to abnegate their natural power. The biggest lad used his thewsand sinews to knock over the lesser without mercy, till the lesserby degrees grew strong enough to retaliate. To be thrashed, beaten,and kicked was so universal an experience that no one ever imaginedit was not correct, or thought of complaining. They accepted it asa matter of course. As he grew older his work simply grew harder,and in no respect differed from that of the labourers, except thathe directed what should be done next, but none the less assisted todo it.

Thus the days went on, the weeks, and months, and years. He wasclose upon forty years old before he had his own will for a singleday. Up to almost that age he worked on his father's farm as alabourer among the labourers, as much under parental authority aswhen he was a boy of ten. When the old man died it was notsurprising that the son, so long held down in bondage—bondagefrom which he had not the spirit to escape—gave way for ashort period to riotous living. There was hard drinking,horse-racing, and card-playing, and waste of substancegenerally.

But it was not for long, for several reasons. In the firstplace, the lad of forty years, suddenly broken forth as it werefrom school, had gone past the age when youth plunges beyondrecall. He was a grown man, neither wise nor clever; but with aman's sedateness of spirit and a man's hopes. There was no innateevil in his nature to lead him into unrighteous courses. Perhapshis fault rather lay in his inoffensive disposition—hesubmitted too easily. Then, in the second place, there was not muchmoney, and what there was had to meet many calls.

The son found that the father, though reputed a substantial man,and a man among farmers of high esteem and good family, had beenanything but rich. First there were secret debts that had run onfor fully thirty years—sums of from fifty to one hundredpounds—borrowed in the days of his youth, when he, too, hadat last been released in a similar manner from similar bondage, tomeet the riotous living in which he also had indulged. In thoseearlier days there had been more substance in cattle and corn, andhe had had no difficulty in borrowing ready money from adjoiningfarmers, who afterwards helped him to drink it away. These booncompanions had now grown old. They had never pressed their ancientcomrade for the principal, the interest being paid regularly. Butnow their ancient comrade was dead they wanted their money,especially when they saw the son indulging himself, and did notknow how far he might go. Their money was paid, and reduced thebalance in hand materially.

Now came a still more serious matter. The old man, years ago,when corn farming paid so handsomely, had been induced by theprospect of profit to take a second and yet larger farm, nearly allarable. To do this he was obliged, in farming phrase, to 'takeup'—i.e. to borrow—a thousand pounds, which wasadvanced to him by the bank. Being a man of substance, wellreputed, and at that date with many friends, the thousand poundswas forthcoming readily, and on favourable terms. The enterprise,however, did not prosper; times changed, and wheat was not soprofitable. In the end he had the wisdom to accept his losses andrelinquish the second farm before it ate him up. Had he onlycarried his wisdom a little farther and repaid the whole of thebank's advance, all might yet have been well. But he only repaidfive hundred pounds, leaving five hundred pounds still owing. Thebank having regularly received the interest, and believing the oldgentleman upright—as he was—was not at all anxious tohave the money back, as it was earning fair interest. So the fivehundred remained on loan, and, as it seemed, for no very definitepurpose.

Whether the old gentleman liked to feel that he had so muchmoney at command (a weakness of human nature common enough), orwhether he thought he could increase the produce of his farm byputting it in the soil, it is not possible to say. He certainly putthe five hundred out of sight somewhere, for when his son succeededhim it was nowhere to be found. After repaying the small loans tohis father's old friends, upon looking round the son saw cattle,corn, hay, and furniture, but no five hundred pounds in readymoney. The ready money had been muddled away—simply muddledaway, for the old man had worked hard, and was not at allextravagant.

The bank asked for the five hundred, but not in a pressingmanner, for the belief still existed that there was money in thefamily. That belief was still further fostered because the oldfriends whose loans had been repaid talked about that repayment,and so gave a colour to the idea. The heir, in his slow way,thought the matter over and decided to continue the loan. He couldonly repay it by instalments—a mode which, to a farmerbrought up in the old style, is almost impossible, for though hemight meet one he would be sure to put off the next—or byselling stock (equivalent to giving up his place), or by borrowingafresh. So he asked and obtained a continuation of the loan of thefive hundred, and was accommodated, on condition that some one'backed' him. Some one in the family did back him, and the fatalmistake was committed of perpetuating this burden. A loan neverremains at the same sum; it increases if it is not reduced. Initself the five hundred was not at all a heavy amount for the farmto carry, but it was the nucleus around which additional burdenspiled themselves up. By a species of gravitation such a burdenattracts others, till the last straw breaks the camel's back. This,however, was not all.

The heir discovered another secret which likewise contributed tosober him. It appeared that the farm, or rather the stock and soon, was really not all his father's. His father's brother had ashare in it—a share of which even the most inquisitivegossips of the place were ignorant. The brother being the eldest(himself in business as a farmer at some distance) had the mostmoney, and had advanced a certain sum to the younger to enable himto start his farm, more than a generation since. From that day tothis not one shilling of the principal had been repaid, and theinterest only partially and at long intervals. If the interest wereall claimed it would now amount to nearly as much as the principal.The brother—or, rather, the uncle—did not make himselfat all unpleasant in the matter. He only asked for about half theinterest due to him, and at the same time gave the heir a severecaution not to continue the aforesaid riotous living. The heir, nowquite brought down to earth after his momentary exaltation, saw theabsolute necessity of acquiescence. With a little management hepaid the interest—leaving himself with barely enough to workthe farm. The uncle, on his part, did not act unkindly; it was hewho 'backed' the heir up at the bank in the matter of thecontinuation of the loan of the five hundred pounds. This fivehundred pounds the heir had never seen and never would see: so faras he was concerned it did not exist; it was a mere figure, but afigure for which he must pay. In all these circ*mstances there wasnothing at all exceptional.

At this hour throughout the width and breadth of the countrythere are doubtless many farmers' heirs stepping into theirfathers' shoes, and at this very moment looking into their affairs.It may be safely said that few indeed are those fortunateindividuals who find themselves clear of similar embarrassments. Inthis particular case detailed above, if the heir's circ*mstanceshad been rigidly reduced to figures—if a professionalaccountant had examined them—it would have been found that,although in possession of a large farm, he had not got one scrap ofcapital.

But he was in possession of the farm, and upon that simple factof possession he henceforth lived, like so many, many more of hisclass. He returned to the routine of labour, which was a part ofhis life. After awhile he married, as a man of forty mightnaturally wish to, and without any imputation of imprudence so faras his own age was concerned. The wife he chose was one from hisown class, a good woman, but, as is said to be often the case, shereflected the weakness of her husband's character. He now workedharder than ever—a labourer with the labourers. He thus savedhimself the weekly expense of the wages of alabourer—perhaps, as labourers do not greatly exertthemselves, of a man and a boy. But while thus slaving with hishands and saving this small sum in wages, he could not walk roundand have an eye upon the other men. They could therefore waste alarge amount of time, and thus he lost twice what he saved. Still,his intention was commendable, and his persistent, unvarying labourreally wonderful. Had he but been sharper with his men he mightstill have got a fair day's work out of them while working himself.From the habit of associating with them from boyhood he had fallensomewhat into their own loose, indefinite manner, and had lost theprestige which attaches to a master. To them he seemed like one ofthemselves, and they were as much inclined to argue with him as toobey. When he met them in the morning he would say, 'Perhaps we hadbetter do so and so,' or 'Suppose we go and do this or that.' Theyoften thought otherwise; and it usually ended in a compromise, themaster having his way in part, and the men in part. This lack ofdecision ran through all, and undid all that his hard workachieved. Everything was muddled from morn till night, from year'send to year's end. As children came the living indoors becameharder, and the work out of doors still more laborious.

If a farmer can put away fifty pounds a year, after paying hisrent and expenses, if he can lay by a clear fifty pounds of profit,he thinks himself a prosperous man. If this farmer, after fortyyears of saving, should chance to be succeeded by a son as thrifty,when, he too has carried on the same process for another twentyyears, then the family may be, for village society, wealthy, withthree or even four thousand pounds, besides goods and gear. This issupposing all things favourable, and men of some ability, makingthe most of their opportunities. Now reverse the process. Whenchildren came, as said before, our hard-working farmer found theliving indoors harder, and the labour without heavier. Instead ofsaving fifty pounds a year, at first the two sides of the account(not that he ever kept any books) about balanced. Then, by degrees,the balance dropped the wrong way. There was a loss, of twenty orthirty pounds on the year, and presently of forty or fifty pounds,which could only be made good by borrowing, and so increasing thepayment of interest.

Although it takes sixty years—two generations—toaccumulate a village fortune by saving fifty pounds a year, it doesnot occupy so long to reduce a farmer to poverty when half that sumis annually lost. There was no strongly marked and radical defectin his system of farming to amount for it; it was the muddling, andthe muddling only, that did it. His work was blind. He would nevermiss giving the pigs their dinner, he rose at half-past three inthe morning, and foddered the cattle in the grey dawn, or milked acertain number of cows, with unvarying regularity. But he had noforesight, and no observation whatever. If you saw him crossing afield, and went after him, you might walk close behind, placingyour foot in the mark just left by his shoe, and he would neverknow it. With his hands behind his back, and his eyes upon theground, he would plod across the field, perfectly unconscious thatany one was following him. He carried on the old rotation ofcropping in the piece of arable land belonging to the farm, but intotal oblivion of any advantage to be obtained by local change oftreatment. He could plan nothing out for next year. He spentnothing, or next to nothing, on improved implements; but, on theother hand, he saved nothing, from a lack of resource andcontrivance.

As the years went by he fell out of the social life of thetimes; that is, out of the social life of his own circle. Heregularly fed the pigs; but when he heard that the neighbours, wereall going in to the town to attend some important agriculturalmeeting, or to start some useful movement, he put his hands behindhis back and said that he should not go; he did not understandanything about it. There never used to be anything of that sort. Sohe went in to luncheon on bread and cheese and small ale. Such acourse could only bring him into the contempt of his fellow-men. Hebecame a nonentity. No one had any respect for or confidence inhim. Otherwise, possibly, he might have obtained powerful help, forthe memory of what his family had been had not yet died out.

Men saw that he lived and worked as a labourer; they gave him nocredit for the work, but they despised him for the meanness andchurlishness of his life. There was neither a piano nor a decanterof sherry in his house. He was utterly out of accord with thetimes. By degrees, after many years, it became apparent to all thathe was going downhill. The stock upon the farm was not so large norof so good a character as had been the case. The manner of menvisibly changed towards him. The small dealers, even the verycarriers along the road, the higglers, and other persons who callat a farm on petty business, gave him clearly to know in their owncoarse way that they despised him. They flatly contradicted him,and bore him down with loud tongues. He stood it all meekly,without showing any spirit; but, on the other hand, withoutresentment, for he never said ill of any man behind his back.

It was put about now that he drank, because some busybody hadseen a jar of spirits carried into the house from the winemerchant's cart. A jar of spirits had been delivered at the houseat intervals for years and years, far back into his father's time,and every one of those who now expressed their disgust at hissupposed drinking habits had sipped their tumblers in that housewithout stint. He did not drink—he did not take one-half athome what his neighbours imbibed without injury at markets andauctions every week of their lives. But he was growing poor, andthey called to mind that brief spell of extravagance years ago, andpointed out to their acquaintances how the sin of the Prodigal wascoming home to him.

No man drinks the bitter cup of poverty to the dregs like thedeclining farmer. The descent is so slow; there is time to drainevery drop, and to linger over the flavour. It may be eight, orten, or fifteen years about. He cannot, like the bankrupttradesman, even when the fatal notice comes, put up his shutters atonce and retire from view. Even at the end, after the notice, sixmonths at least elapse before all is over—before the farm issurrendered, and the sale of household furniture and effects takesplace. He is full in public view all that time. So far as hisneighbours are concerned he is in public view for years previously.He has to rise in the morning and meet them in the fields. He seesthem in the road; he passes through groups of them in themarket-place. As he goes by they look after him, and perhapsaudibly wonder how long he will last. These people all knew himfrom a lad, and can trace every inch of his descent. The labourersin the field know it, and by their manner show that they knowit.

His wife—his wife who worked so hard for so many, manyyears—is made to know it too. She is conspicuously omittedfrom the social gatherings that occur from time to time. Theneighbours' wives do not call; their well-dressed daughters, asthey rattle by to the town in basket-carriage or dog-cart, lookaskance at the shabby figure walking slowly on the path beside theroad. They criticise the shabby shawl; they sneer at the slow stepwhich is the inevitable result of hard work, the cares ofmaternity, and of age. So they flaunt past with an odour ofperfume, and leave the 'old lady' to plod unrecognised.

The end came at last. All this blind work of his was of no availagainst the ocean steamer and her cargo of wheat and meat from theteeming regions of the West. Nor was it of avail against the fallof prices, and the decreased yield consequent upon a succession ofbad seasons. The general lack of confidence pressed heavily upon aman who did not even attempt to take his natural place among hisfellow-men. The loan from the bank had gradually grown from five toseven or eight hundred by thirties, and forties, and fifties addedto it by degrees; and the bank—informed, perhaps, by the samebusybodies who had discovered that he drank—declined furtherassistance, and notified that part, at least, of the principal mustbe repaid. The landlord had long been well aware of the state ofaffairs, but refrained from action out of a feeling for the oldfamily. But the land, from the farmer's utter lack of capital, wasnow going from bad to worse. The bank having declined to advancefurther, the rent began to fall into arrear. The landlord caused itto be conveyed to his tenant that if he would quit the farm, whichwas a large one, he could go into a smaller, and his affairs mightperhaps be arranged.

The old man—for he was now growing old—put his handsbehind his back and said nothing, but went on with his usualroutine of work. Whether he had become dulled and deadened andcared nothing, whether hope was extinct, or he could not wrenchhimself from the old place, he said nothing. Even then some furthertime elapsed—so slow is the farmer's fall that he mightalmost be excused for thinking that it would never come. But nowcame the news that the old uncle who had 'backed' him at the bankhad been found dead in bed of sheer old age. Then the long-keptsecret came out at last. The dead man's executors claimed the moneyadvanced so many, many years ago.

This discovery finished it. The neighbours soon had food forgossip in the fact that a load of hay which he had sold was met inthe road by the landlord's agent and turned back. By the strictletter of his agreement he could not sell hay off the farm; but ithad been permitted for years. When they heard this they knew it wasall over. The landlord, of course, put in his claim; the banktheirs. In a few months the household furniture and effects weresold, and the farmer and his aged wife stepped into the highway intheir shabby clothes.

He did not, however, starve; he passed to a cottage on theoutskirts of the village, and became bailiff for the tenant of thatvery arable farm to work which years ago his father had borrowedthe thousand pounds that ultimately proved their ruin. He made abetter bailiff than a farmer, being at home with every detail ofpractice, but incapable of general treatment. His wife does alittle washing and charing; not much, for she is old and feeble. Nocharity is offered to them—they have outlived oldfriends—nor do they appeal for any. The people of the villagedo not heed them, nor reflect upon the spectacle in their midst.They are merged and lost in the vast multitude of the agriculturalpoor. Only two of their children survive; but these, having earlyleft the farm and gone into a city, are fairly well-to-do. That, atleast, is a comfort to the old folk.

It is, however, doubtful whether the old man, as he walks downthe lane with his hands behind his back and the dead leaves drivenby the November breeze rustling after, has much feeling of any kindleft. Hard work and adversity have probably deadened his finersenses. Else one would think he could never endure to work as aservant upon that farm of all others, nor to daily pass the scenesof his youth. For yonder, well in sight as he turns a corner of thelane, stands the house where he dwelt so many, many years; wherethe events of his life came slowly to pass; where he was born;where his bride came home; where his children were born, and fromwhose door he went forth penniless.

Seeing this every day, surely that old man, if he have but onespark of feeling left, must drink the lees of poverty to the lastfinal doubly bitter dregs.

CHAPTER V

THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER

'Where do he get the money from, you?' 'It be curious, bean't it; Iminds when his father drove folks' pigs to market.' These remarkspassed between two old farmers, one standing on the sward by theroadside, and the other talking to him over the low ledge, as agentleman drove by in a Whitechapel dog-cart, groom behind. Thegentleman glanced at the two farmers, and just acknowledged theirexistence with a careless nod, looking at the moment over theirheads and far away.

There is no class so jealous of a rapid rise as old-fashionedfarming people. They seem to think that if a man once drove pigs tomarket he should always continue to do so, and all his descendantslikewise. Their ideas in a measure approximate to those of casteamong the Hindoos. It is a crime to move out of the originalgroove; if a man be lowly he must remain lowly, or never beforgiven. The lapse of time makes not the least difference. If ittakes the man thirty years to get into a fair position he is nonethe less guilty. A period equal to the existence of a generation isnot sufficient excuse for him. He is not one whit better than if hehad made his money by a lucky bet on a racehorse. Nor can he everhope to live down this terrible social misdemeanour, especially ifit is accompanied by the least ostentation.

Now, in the present day a man who gets money shows off more thanever was the case. In the olden time the means of luxury werelimited, and the fortunate could do little more than drink, andtempt others to drink. But to-day the fortunate farmer in thedog-cart, dressed like a gentleman, drove his thorough-bred, andcarried his groom behind. Frank D——, Esq., in the slangof the time, 'did the thing grand!' The dog-cart was a first-ratearticle. The horse was a high-stepper, such as are not to be boughtfor a song; the turn-out was at the first glance perfect. But ifyou looked keenly at the groom, there was a suspicion of the ploughin his face and attitude. He did not sit like a man to the mannerborn. He was lumpy; he lacked the light, active stylecharacteristic of the thoroughbred groom, who is as distinct abreed as the thoroughbred horse. The man looked as if he had beentaken from the plough and was conscious of it. His feet were intop-boots, but he could not forget the heavy action induced by along course of walking in wet furrows. The critics by the hedgewere not capable of detecting these niceties. The broad facts wereenough for them. There was the gentleman in his ulster, there wasthe resplendent turn-out, there was the groom, and there was thethoroughbred horse. The man's father drove their pigs to market,and they wanted to know where he got the money from.

Meantime Mr. D——, having carelessly nodded, had goneon. Half a mile farther some of his own fields were contiguous tothe road, yet he did not, after the fashion of the farmergenerally, pause to gaze at them searchingly; he went on with thesame careless glance. This fact, which the old-fashioned folk hadoften observed, troubled them greatly. It seemed so unnatural, soopposite to the old ideas and ways, that a man should take noapparent interest in his own farm. They said that Frank was nothingof a farmer; he knew nothing of farming. They looked at his ricks;they were badly built, and still worse thatched. They examined hismeadows, and saw wisps of hay lying about, evidence of neglect; thefields had not been properly raked. His ploughed fields were fullof weeds, and not half worked enough. His labourers had acquired ahappy-go-lucky style, and did their work anyhow or not at all,having no one to look after them. So, clearly, it was not Frank'sgood farming that made him so rich, and enabled him to take so highand leading a position.

Nor was it his education or his 'company' manners. The old folknoted his boorishness and lack of the little refinements which markthe gentleman. His very voice was rude and hoarse, and seemedeither to grumble or to roar forth his meaning. They had frequentlyheard him speak in public—he was generally on the platformwhen any local movement was in progress—and could notunderstand why he was put up there to address the audience, unlessit was for his infinite brass. The language he employed was rude,his sentences disjointed, his meaning incoherent; but he had aknack of an apropos jest, not always altogether savoury, butwhich made a mixed assembly laugh. As his public speeches did notseem very brilliant, they supposed he must have the gift ofpersuasion, in private. He did not even ride well tohounds—an accomplishment that has proved a passport to agreat landlord's favour before now—for he had an awkward,and, to the eye, not too secure a seat in the saddle.

Nor was it his personal appearance. He was very tall andungainly, with a long neck and a small round head on the top of it.His features were flat, and the skin much wrinkled; there seemednothing in his countenance to recommend him to the notice of theother sex. Yet he had been twice married; the last time to acomparatively young lady with some money, who dressed in the heightof fashion.

Frank had two families—one, grown up, by his first wife,the second in the nursery—but it made no difference to him.All were well dressed and well educated; the nursery maids and theinfants went out for their airings in a carriage and pair. Mrs.D——, gay as a Parisian belle, and not withoutpretensions to beauty, was seen at balls, parties, and every othersocial amusem*nt. She seemed to have the entréeeverywhere in the county. All this greatly upset and troubled theold folk, whose heads Frank looked over as he carelessly noddedthem good-morning driving by. The cottage people from whose rankshis family had so lately risen, however, had a very decided opinionupon the subject, and expressed it forcibly. "'Pend upon it," theysaid, "'pend upon it, he have zucked zumbody in zumhow."

This unkind conclusion was perhaps not quite true. The fact was,that Frank, aided by circ*mstances, had discovered the ease withwhich a man can borrow. That was his secret—his philosopher'sstone. To a certain extent, and in certain ways, he really was aclever man, and he had the luck to begin many years ago whenfarming was on the ascending side of the cycle. The single solidbasis of his success was his thorough knowledge of cattle—hisproficiency in dealership. Perhaps this was learnt while assistinghis father to drive other folks' pigs to market. At all events,there was no man in the county who so completely understood cattleand sheep, for buying and selling purposes, as Frank. At first hegained his reputation by advising others what and when to buy; bydegrees, as people began to see that he was always right, they feltconfidence in him, and assisted him to make small investments onhis own account. There were then few auctioneers, and cattle weresold in open market. If a man really was a judge, it was as good tohim as a reputation for good ale is to an innkeeper. Men flock to abarrel of good ale no matter whether the inn be low class or highclass. Men gather about a good judge of cattle, and will back himup. By degrees D—— managed to rent a small farm, morefor the purpose of having a place to turn his cattle into than forfarming proper—he was, in fact, a small dealer.

Soon afterwards there was an election. During the election,Frank gained the good-will of a local solicitor and politicalagent. He proved himself an active and perhaps a discreetlyunscrupulous assistant. The solicitor thought he saw in Franktalent of a certain order—a talent through which he (thesolicitor) might draw unto himself a share of other people's money.The lawyer's judgment of men was as keen as Frank's judgment ofcattle. He helped Frank to get into a large farm, advancing themoney with which to work it. He ran no risk; for, of course, he hadFrank tight in the grasp of his legal fist, and he was the agentfor the landlord. The secret was this—the lawyer paid hisclients four per cent, for the safe investment of their money.Frank had the money, worked a large farm with it, and speculated inthe cattle markets, and realised some fifteen or perhaps twenty percent., of which the lawyer took the larger share. Something of thissort has been done in other businesses besides farming. Frank,however, was not the man to remain in a state of tutelage, workingfor another. His forte was not saving—simple accumulation wasnot for him; but he looked round the district to discover those whohad saved.

Now, it is a fact that no man is so foolish with his money asthe working farmer in a small way, who has put by a little coin. Heis extremely careful about a fourpenny piece, and will wrap asovereign up in several scraps of paper lest he should lose it; butwith his hundred or two hundred pounds he is quite helpless. It hasvery likely occupied him the best part of his lifetime to add onefive-pound note to another, money most literally earned in thesweat of his brow; and at last he lends it to a man like Frank, whohas the wit to drive a carriage and ride a thoroughbred. With thestrange inconsistency so characteristic of human nature, ahalf-educated, working farmer of this sort will sneer in his rudeway at the pretensions of such a man, and at the same time bow downbefore him.

Frank knew this instinctively, and, as soon as ever he began toget on, set up a blood-horse and a turn-out. By dint of such vulgarshow and his own plausible tongue he persuaded more than one suchold fellow to advance him money. Mayhap these confiding persons,like a certain Shallow, J.P., have since earnestly besought him invain to return them five hundred of their thousand. In like mannerone or two elderly ladies—cunning as magpies in their ownconceit—let him have a few spare hundreds. They thought theycould lay out this money to better advantage than the safe familyadviser 'uncle John,' with his talk of the Indian railways and aguaranteed five per cent. They thought (for awhile) that they haddone a very clever thing on the sly in lending their spare hundredsto the great Mr. Frank D—— at a high rate of interest,and by this time would perhaps be glad to get the money back againin the tea-caddy.

But Frank was not the man to be satisfied with such small game.After a time he succeeded in getting at the 'squire.' The squirehad nothing but the rents of his farms to live upon, and wasnaturally anxious for an improving tenant who would lay out moneyand put capital into the soil. He was not so foolish as to thinkthat Frank was a safe man, and of course he had legal advice uponthe matter. The squire thought, in fact, that although Frankhimself had no money, Frank could get it out of others, and spendit upon his place. It did not concern the squire where or how Frankgot his money, provided he had it—he as landlord was securein case of a crash, because the law gave him precedence over allother creditors. So Frank ultimately stepped into one of thesquire's largest farms and cut a finer dash than ever.

There are distinct social degrees in agriculture. The man whooccupies a great farm under a squire is a person of much moreimportance than he who holds a little tenancy of a smallproprietor. Frank began to take the lead among the farmers of theneighbourhood, to make his appearance at public meetings, and tobecome a recognised politician—of course upon the side mostpowerful in that locality, and most likely to serve his owninterest. His assurance, and, it must be owned, his ready wit,helped him in coming to the front. When at the front, he wasinvited to the houses of really well-to-do country people. Theycondoned his bluff manners—they were the mark of the true,solid British agriculturist. Some perhaps in their hearts thoughtthat another day they might want a tenant, and this man would servetheir turn. As a matter of fact, Frank took every unoccupied farmwhich he could get at a tolerably reasonable rent. He never seemedsatisfied with the acreage he held, but was ever desirous ofextending it. He took farm after farm, till at last he held an areaequal to a fine estate. For some years there has been a dispositionon the part of landlords to throw farms together, making many smallones into one large one. For the time, at all events, Frank seemedto do very well with all these farms to look after. Of course thesame old-fashioned folk made ill-natured remarks, and insisted uponit that he merely got what he could out of the soil, and did notcare in the least how the farming was done. Nevertheless, heflourished—the high prices and general inflation of theperiod playing into his hand.

Frank was now a very big man, the biggest man thereabout. And itwas now that he began to tap another source of supply—to, asit were, open a fresh cask—i.e. the local bank. Atfirst he only asked for a hundred or so, a mere bagatelle, for afew days—only temporary convenience. The bank was glad to gethold of what really looked like legitimate business, and heobtained the bagatelle in the easiest manner—so easily thatit surprised him. He did not himself yet quite know how completelyhis showy style of life, his large acreage, his speeches, andpolitics, and familiarity with great people, had imposed upon theworld in which he lived. He now began to realise that he wassomebody. He repaid the loan to the day, waited awhile and took alarger one, and from that time the frequency and the amount of hisloans went on increasing.

We have seen in these latter days bank directors bitterlycomplaining that they could not lend money at more than 7/8 or even1/2 per cent., so little demand was there for accommodation. Theypositively could not lend their money; they had millions in theirtills unemployed, and practically going a-begging. But here wasFrank paying seven per cent, for short loans, and upon acontinually enlarging amount. His system, so far as the seasonswere concerned, was something like this. He took a loan (or renewedan old one) at the bank on the security of the first draught oflambs for sale, say, in June. This paid the labourers and theworking expenses of the hay harvest, and of preparing for the corn.He took the next upon the second draught of lambs in August, whichpaid the reapers. He took a third on the security of the crops,partly cut, or in process of cutting, for his Michaelmas rent. Thenfor the fall of the year he kept on threshing out and selling as herequired money, and had enough left to pay for the winter's work.This was Frank's system—the system of too many farmers, farmore than would be believed. Details of course vary, and not all,like Frank, need three loans at least in the season to keep themgoing. It is not every man who mortgages his lambs, his ewes (thedraught from a flock for sale), and the standing crops insuccession.

But of late years farming has been carried on in such anatmosphere of loans, and credit, and percentage, and so forth, thatno one knows what is or what is not mortgaged. You see a flock ofsheep on a farm, but you do not know to whom they belong. You seethe cattle in the meadow, but you do not know who has a lien uponthem. You see the farmer upon his thoroughbred, but you do not knowto whom in reality the horse belongs. It is all loans and debt. Thevendors of artificial manure are said not to be averse sometimes tomake an advance on reasonable terms to those enterprising anddeserving farmers who grow so many tons of roots, and win thesilver cups, and so on, for the hugest mangold grown with theirparticular manure. The proprietors of the milk-walks in London aresaid to advance money to the struggling dairymen who send themtheir milk. And latterly the worst of usurers have found out thefarmers—i.e. the men who advance on bills of sale offurniture, and sell up the wretched client who does not pay to thehour. Upon such bills of sale English farmers have been borrowingmoney, and with the usual disastrous results. In fact, till thedisastrous results became so conspicuous, no one guessed that thefarmer had descended so far. Yet, it is a fact, and a sad one.

All the while the tradespeople of the market-towns—thevery people who have made the loudest outcry about the depressionand the losses they have sustained—these very people havebeen pressing their goods upon the farmers, whom they must haveknown were many of them hardly able to pay their rents. Those whohave not seen it cannot imagine what a struggle and competition hasbeen going on in little places where one would think the very wordwas unknown, just to persuade the farmer and the farmer's family toaccept credit. But there is another side to it. The same tradesmanwho to-day begs—positively begs—the farmer to take hisgoods on any terms, in six months' time sends his bill, and, if itbe not paid immediately, puts the County Court machinery inmotion.

Now this to the old-fashioned farmer is a very bitter thing. Hehas never had the least experience of the County Court; his familynever were sued for debt since they can remember. They have alwaysbeen used to a year's credit at least—often two, and eventhree. To be threatened with public exposure in the County Courtbecause a little matter of five pounds ten is not settled instantlyis bitter indeed. And to be sued so arbitrarily by the verytradesman who almost stuffed his goods down their throats is morebitter still.

Frank D——, Esq.'s coarse grandeur answered very wellindeed so long as prices were high. While the harvests were largeand the markets inflated; while cattle fetched good money; whilemen's hearts were full of mirth—all went well. It iswhispered now that the grand Frank has secretly borrowed25l. of a little cottage shopkeeper in the adjacentvillage—a man who sells farthing candles and ounces oftea—to pay his reapers. It is also currently whispered thatFrank is the only man really safe, for the followingreason—they are all 'in' so deep they find it necessary tokeep him going. The squire is 'in,' the bank is 'in,' the lawyer is'in,' the small farmers with two hundred pounds capital are 'in,'and the elderly ladies who took their bank-notes out of theirtea-caddies are 'in.' That is to say, Mr. Frank owes them so muchmoney that, rather than he should come to grief (when, they mustlose pretty well all), they prefer to keep him afloat. It is anoticeable fact that Frank is the only man who has not raised hisvoice and shouted 'Depression.' Perhaps the squire thinks that sorepellent a note, if struck by a leading man like Frank, might notbe to his interest, and has conveyed that thought to the gentlemanin the dog-cart with the groom behind. There are, however, variousspecies of the façade farmer.

'What kind of agriculture is practised here?' the visitor fromtown naturally asks his host, as they stroll towards the turnips(in another district), with shouldered guns. 'Oh, you had bettersee Mr. X——,' is the reply, 'He is our leadingagriculturist; he'll tell you all about it.' Everybody repeats thesame story, and once Mr. X——'s name is startedeverybody talks of him. The squire, the clergyman—even incasually calling at a shop in the market town, or at the hotel(there are few inns now)—wherever he goes the visitor hearsfrom all of Mr. X——. A successful man—mostsuccessful, progressive, scientific, intellectual. 'Like to seehim? Nothing easier. Introduction? Nonsense. Why, he'd be delightedto see you. Come with me.'

Protesting feebly against intruding on privacy, the visitor ishurried away, and expecting to meet a solid, sturdy, and somewhatgruff old gentleman of the John Hull type, endeavors to hunt upsome ideas about shorthorns and bacon pigs. He is a littleastonished upon entering the pleasure grounds to see one or moregardeners busy among the parterres and shrubberies, therhododendrons, the cedar deodaras, the laurels, the pampas grass,the 'carpet gardening' beds, and the glass of distant hothousesglittering in the sun. A carriage and pair, being slowly driven bya man in livery from the door down to the extensive stabling,passes—clearly some of the family have just returned. Onringing, the callers are shown through a spacious hall with abronze or two on the marble table, into a drawing-room, elegantlyfurnished. There is a short iron grand open with a score carelesslyleft by the last player, a harp in the corner, half hidden by thecurtains, some pieces of Nankin china on the side tables.

Where are the cow-sheds? Looking out of window a level lawnextends, and on it two young gentlemen are playing tennis, inappropriate costume. The laboured platitudes that had been preparedabout shorthorns and bacon pigs are quite forgotten, and thevisitor is just about to ask the question if his guide has notmissed the farm-house and called at the squire's, when Mr.X—— comes briskly in, and laughs all apology aboutintrusion to the winds in his genial manner. He insists on hisfriends taking some refreshment, will not take refusal; and such isthe power of his vivacity, that they find themselves sippingMadeira and are pressed to come and dine in the evening, before oneat least knows exactly where he is. 'Just a homely spread, youknow; pot-luck; a bit of fish and a glass of Moet; now docome.' This curious mixture of bluff cordiality, with unexpectedsnatches of refinement, is Mr. X——'s great charm.'Style of farming; tell you with pleasure.' [Rings the bell.]'John' (to the manservant), 'take this key and bring me accountbook No. 6 B, Copse Farm; that will be the best way to begin.'

If the visitor knows anything of country life, he cannot helprecollecting that, if the old type of farmer was close andmysterious about anything, it was his accounts. Not a word could begot out of him of profit or loss, or revenue: he would barely tellyou his rent per acre, and it was doubtful if his very wife eversaw his pass-book. Opening account book No. 6 B, the explanationproceeds.

'My system of agriculture is simplicity itself, sir. It is allfounded on one beautiful commercial precept. Our friends roundabout here [with a wave of the hand, indicating the countryside]—our old folks—whenever they got a guinea put itout of sight, made a hoard, hid it in a stocking, or behind a brickin the chimney. Ha! ha! Consequently their operations were alwaysrestricted to the same identical locality—no scope, sir, noexpansion. Now my plan is—invest every penny. Make everyshilling pay for the use of half a crown, and turn the half-crowninto seven and sixpence. Credit is the soul of business. There youhave it. Simplicity itself. Here are the books; see for yourself. Ipublish my balance half-yearly—like a company. Then thepublic see what you are doing. The earth, sir, as I said at thedinner the other day (the idea was much applauded), the earth islike the Bank of England—you may draw on it to any extent;there's always a reserve to meet you. You positively can't overdrawthe account. You see there's such a solid security behind you. Thefact is, I bring commercial principles into agriculture; the resultis, grand success. However, here's the book; just glance over thefigures.'

The said figures utterly bewilder the visitor, who in courtesyruns his eye from top to bottom of the long columns—farmingaccounts are really the most complicated that can beimagined—so he, meantime, while turning over the pages,mentally absorbs the personality of the commercial agriculturist.He sees a tall, thin farmer, a brown face and neck, long restlesssinewy hands, perpetually twiddling with a cigar or a goldpencil-case—generally the cigar, or rather the extinct stumpof it, which he every now and then sucks abstractedly, in totaloblivion as to its condition. His dress would pass muster intowns—well cut, and probably from Bond Street. He affects afrock and high hat one day, and knickerbockers and sun helmet thenext. His pockets are full of papers, letters, etc., and as hesearches amid the mass for some memorandum to show, glimpses may beseen of certain oblong strips of blue paper with an impressedstamp.

'Very satisfactory,' says the visitor, handing back No 6 B; 'mayI inquire how many acres you occupy?'

Out comes a note-book. 'Hum! There's a thousand down in thevale, and fifteen hundred upland, and the new place is about ninehundred, and the meadows—I've mislaid the meadows—butit's near about four thousand. Different holdings, of course. Greatnuisance that, sir; transit, you see, costs money. City gentlemenknow that. Absurd system in this country—the land parcelledout in little allotment gardens of two or three hundred acres. Why,there's a little paltry hundred and twenty acre freehold dairy farmlies between my vale and upland, and the fellow won't let mywaggons or ploughing-tackle take the short cut, ridiculous. Time itwas altered, sir. Shooting? Why, yes; I have the shooting. Glad ifyou'd come over.'

Then more Madeira, and after it a stroll through the gardens andshrubberies and down to the sheds, a mile, or nearly, distant.There, a somewhat confused vision of 'grand shorthorns,' and aninexplicable jumble of pedigrees, grand-dams, and'g-g-g-g-g-g-dams,' as the catalogues have it; handsome huntersparaded, steam-engines pumping water, steam-engines slicing uproots, distant columns of smoke where steam-engines are tearing upthe soil. All the while a scientific disquisition on ammonia andthe constituent parts and probable value of town sewage as comparedwith guano. And at intervals, and at parting, a pressing invitationto dinner [when pineapples or hot-house grapes are certain to maketheir appearance at dessert]—such a flow of genial eloquencesurely was never heard before!

It requires a week at least of calm reflection, and manyquestions to his host, before the visitor—quite carriedaway—can begin to arrange his ideas, and to come slowly tothe opinion that though Mr. X—— is as open as the dayand frank to a fault, it will take him a precious long time to getto the bottom of Mr. X——'s system; that is to say, ifthere is any bottom at all to it.

Mr. X—— is, in brief, a gambler. Not in a dishonest,or even suspicious sense, but a pure gambler. He is a giganticagricultural speculator; his system is, as he candidly told you,credit. Credit not only with the bank, but with everybody. He hasactually been making use of you, his casual and unexpected visitor,as an instrument. You are certain to talk about him; the more he istalked of the better, it gives him a reputation, which is beginningto mean a great deal in agriculture as it has so long in otherpursuits. You are sure to tell everybody who ever chooses toconverse with you about the country of Mr. X——, and Mr.X——'s engines, cattle, horses, profuse hospitality, andprogressive science.

To be socially popular is a part of his system; he sows cornamong society as freely as over his land, and looks to some grainsto take root, and bring him increase a hundred fold, as indeed theydo. Whatever movement is originated in the neighbourhood finds himoccupying a prominent position. He goes to London as therepresentative of the local agricultural chamber; perhaps waitsupon a Cabinet Minister as one of the deputation. He speaksregularly at the local chamber meetings; his name is ever in thepapers. The press are invited to inspect his farms, and arefurnished with minute details. Every now and then a sketch of hislife and doings, perhaps illustrated with a portrait, appears insome agricultural periodical. At certain seasons of the yearparties of gentlemen are conducted over his place. In parochial ordistrict matters he is a leading man.

Is it a cottage flower-show, a penny reading, a cricket club, abenefit society—it does not matter what, his subscriptions,his name, and his voice are heard in it. He is the life and soul ofit; the energy comes from him, though others higher in the scalemay be the nominal heads. And the nominal heads, knowing that hecan be relied upon politically, are grateful, and give him theirgood word freely. He hunts, and is a welcome companion—themeet frequently takes place at his house, or some of the huntsmencall for lunch; in fact, the latter is an invariable thing.Everybody calls for lunch who happens to pass near any day; thehouse has a reputation for hospitality. He is the clergyman's righthand—as in managing the school committee. When the bishopcomes to the confirmation, he is introduced as 'my chief laysupporter.' At the Rural Diaconal Conference, 'my chief supporter'is one of the lay speakers. Thus he obtains every man's good wordwhose good word is worth anything. Social credit means commercialcredit. Yet he is not altogether acting a part—he reallylikes taking the lead and pushing forward, and means a good deal ofwhat he says.

He is especially quite honest in his hospitality. All the same,so far as business is concerned, it is pure gambling, which mayanswer very well in favourable times, but is not unlikely to end infailure should the strain of depression become too severe. Personalpopularity, however, will tide him over a great deal. When a man isspoken highly of by gentry, clergy, literally everybody, the bankis remarkably accommodating. Such a man may get for his baresignature—almost pressed on him, as if his acceptance of itwere a favour—what another would have to deposit solidsecurity for.

In plain language, he borrows money and invests it in everypossible way. His farms are simply the basis of his credit. He buysblood shorthorns, he buys blood horses, and he sells them again. Hebuys wheat, hay, &c., to dispose of them at a profit. If hechose, he could explain to you the meaning of contango, and even ofthat mysterious term to the uninitiated, 'backwardation.' Hisspeculations for the 'account' are sometimes heavy. So much so,that occasionally, with thousands invested, he has hardly any readymoney. But, then, there are the crops; he can get money on thecoming crops. There is, too, the live stock money can be borrowedon the stock.

Here lies the secret reason of the dread of foreign cattledisease. The increase of our flocks and herds is, of course, apatriotic cry (and founded on fact); but the secret pinch isthis—if foot-and-mouth, pleuro-pneumonia, or rinderpestthreaten the stock, the tenant-farmer cannot borrow on thatsecurity. The local bankers shake their heads—three cases ofrinderpest are equivalent to a reduction of 25 per cent. in theborrowing power of the agriculturist. The auctioneers and ourfriends have large transactions—'paper' here again. Withcertain members of the hunt he books bets to a high amount; hisface is not unknown at Tattersall's or at the race meetings. But hedoes not flourish the betting-book in the face of society. Hebets—and holds his tongue. Some folks have an ancient andfoolish prejudice against betting; he respects sincereconvictions.

Far and away he is the best fellow, the most pleasant company inthe shire, always welcome everywhere. He has read widely, is welleducated; but, above all, he is ever jolly, and his jollity iscontagious. Despite his investments and speculations, his brownever wears that sombre aspect of gloomy care, that knittedconcentration of wrinkles seen on the face of the City man, whogoes daily to his 'office.' The out-of-door bluffness, the cheeryringing voice, and the upright form only to be gained in the saddleover the breezy uplands, cling to him still. He wakes everybody up,and, risky as perhaps some of his speculations are, is sociallyenlivening.

The two young gentlemen, by-the-by, observed playing lawn-tennisfrom the drawing-room window, are two of his pupils, whose highpremiums and payments assist to keep up the free and generoustable, and who find farming a very pleasant profession. The moststriking characteristic of their tutor is his Yankee-like fertilityof resource and bold innovations—the very antipodes of theold style of 'clod-compeller.'

CHAPTER VI

AN AGRICULTURAL GENIUS—OLD STYLE

Towards the hour of noon Harry Hodson, of Upcourt Farm, was slowlyascending the long slope that led to his dwelling. In his left handhe carried a hare, which swung slightly to and fro as he steppedout, and the black-tipped ears rubbed now and then against a bunchof grass. His double-barrel was under his right arm. Every day atthe same hour Harry turned towards home, for he adhered to the waysof his fathers and dined at half-past twelve, except when thestress of harvest, or some important agricultural operation,disturbed the usual household arrangements. It was a beautifulOctober day, sunny and almost still, and, as he got on the highground, he paused and looked round. The stubbles stretched far awayon one side, where the country rose and fell in undulations. On thedistant horizon a column of smoke, broadening at the top, lifteditself into the sky; he knew it was from the funnel of asteam-plough, whose furnace had just been replenished with coal.The appearance of the smoke somewhat resembled that left by asteamer at sea when the vessel is just below the horizon. On theother hand were wooded meadows, where the rooks werecawing—some in the oaks, some as they wheeled round in theair. Just beneath him stood a row of wheat ricks—his own. Hisgaze finally rested upon their conical roofs with satisfaction, andhe then resumed his walk.

Even as he moved he seemed to bask in the sunshine; the sunshinepouring down from the sky above, the material sunshine of thegoodly wheat ricks, and the physical sunshine of personal healthand vigour. His walk was the walk of a strong, prosperousman—each step long, steady, and firm, but quite devoid ofhaste. He was, perhaps, forty years of age, in the very prime oflife, and though stooping a little, like so many countrymen, verytall, and built proportionately broad across the shoulders andchest. His features were handsome—perhaps there was a traceof indolence in their good-humoured expression—and he had athick black beard just marked with one thin wavy line of grey. Thattrace of snow, if anything, rather added to the manliness of hisaspect, and conveyed the impression that he was at the fulness oflife when youth and experience meet. If anything, indeed, he lookedtoo comfortable, too placid. A little ambition, a littlerestlessness, would perhaps have been good for him.

By degrees he got nearer to the house; but it was by degreesonly, for he stayed to look over every gate, and up into almostevery tree. He stopped to listen as his ear caught the sound ofhoofs on the distant road, and again at the faint noise of a gunfired a mile away. At the corner of a field a team ofhorses—his own—were resting awhile as the carter andhis lad ate their luncheon. Harry stayed to talk to the man, andyet again at the barn door to speak to his men at work within withthe winnowing machine. The homestead stood on an eminence, but washidden by elms and sycamores, so that it was possible to pass at adistance without observing it.

On entering the sitting-room Harry leaned his gun against thewall in the angle between it and the bureau, from which actionalone it might have been known that he was a bachelor, and thatthere were no children about the house to get into danger withfire-arms. His elderly aunt, who acted as housekeeper, was alreadyat table waiting for him. It was spread with a snow-white cloth,and almost equally snow-white platter for bread—so much andso well was it cleaned. They ate home-baked bread; they were somany miles from a town or baker that it was difficult to get servedregularly, a circ*mstance which preserved that wholesomeinstitution. There was a chine of bacon, small ale, and a plentifulsupply of good potatoes. The farmer did full justice to the sweetpicking off the chine, and then lingered over an old cheese. Veryfew words were spoken.

Then, after his dinner, he sat in his arm-chair—the samethat he had used for many years—and took a book. For Harryrather enjoyed a book, provided it was not too new. He read worksof science, thirty years old, solid and correct, but somewhatbehind the age; he read histories, such as were current in theearly part of the present century, but none of a later date thanthe end of the wars of the First Napoleon. The only thing modern hecared for in literature was a 'society' journal, sent weekly fromLondon. These publications are widely read in the better class offarmsteads now. Harry knew something of most things, even ofgeology. He could show you the huge vertebræ of some extinctsaurian, found while draining was being done. He knew enough ofarchæology to be able to tell any enthusiastic student whochanced to come along where to find the tumuli and the earthworkson the Downs. He had several Roman coins, and a fine bronzespearhead, which had been found upon the farm. These were kept withcare, and produced to visitors with pride. Harry really did possessa wide fund of solid, if quiet, knowledge. Presently, after readinga chapter or two, he would drop off into a siesta, till somemessage came from the men or the bailiff, asking forinstructions.

The farmstead was, in fact, a mansion of large size, an oldmanor-house, and had it been situate near a fashionable suburb andbeen placed in repair would have been worth to let as much perannum as the rent of a small farm. But it stood in a singularlylonely and outlying position, far from any village of size, muchless a town, and the very highway even was so distant that youcould only hear the horse's hoofs when the current of air came fromthat direction. This was his aunt's—thehousekeeper's—great complaint, the distance to the highway.She grumbled because she could not see the carriers' carts and theteams go by; she wanted to know what was going on.

Harry, however, seemed contented with the placid calm of thevast house that was practically empty, and rarely left it, exceptfor his regular weekly visit to market. After the fashion of athoroughbred farmer he was often rather late home on market nights.There were three brothers, all in farms, and all well to do; theother two were married, and Harry was finely plagued about being abachelor. But the placid life at the old place—he hadsucceeded to his father—somehow seemed to content him. He hadvisitors at Christmas, he read his books of winter evenings andafter dinner; in autumn he strolled round with his double-barreland knocked over a hare or so, and so slumbered away the days. Buthe never neglected the farming-everything was done almost exactlyas it had been done by his father.

Old Harry Hodson was in his time one of the characters of thatcountry side. He was the true founder of the Hodson family. Theyhad been yeomen in a small way for generations, farming littleholdings, and working like labourers, plodding on, and never heardof outside their fifty-acre farms. So they might have continuedtill this day had not old Harry Hodson arose to be thegenius—the very Napoleon—of farming in that district.When the present Harry, the younger, had a visitor to histaste—i.e. one who was not in a hurry—he would,in the evening, pull out the books and papers and letters of hislate father from the bureau (beside which stood the gun), andexplain how the money was made. The logs crackled and sparkled onthe hearth, the lamp burnt clear and bright; there was a lowsinging sound in the chimney; the elderly aunt nodded and worked inher arm-chair, and woke up and mixed fresh spirits and water, andwent off to sleep again; and still Harry would sit and smoke andsip and talk. By-and-by the aunt would wish the visitor good-night,draw up the clock, and depart, after mixing fresh tumblers andcasting more logs upon the fire, for well she knew her nephew'sways. Harry was no tippler, he never got intoxicated; but he wouldsit and smoke and sip and talk with a friend, and tell him allabout it till the white daylight came peeping through the chinks inthe shutters.

Old Harry Hodson, then, made the money, and put two of his sonsin large farms, and paid all their expenses, so that they startedfair, besides leaving his own farm to the third. Old Harry Hodsonmade the money, yet he could not have done it had he not marriedthe exact woman. Women have made the fortunes of Emperors by theiradvice and assistance, and the greatest men the world has seen haveowned that their success was owing to feminine counsel. In likemanner a woman made the policy of an obscure farmer a success. Whenthe old gentleman began to get well to do, and when he found histeeth not so strong as of yore, and his palate less able to facethe coarse, fat, yellowy bacon that then formed the staple of thehousehold fare, he actually ventured so far as to have one joint ofbutcher's meat, generally a leg of mutton, once a week. It wascooked for Sunday, and, so far as that kind of meat was concerned,lasted till the next Sunday. But his wife met this extravagantinnovation with furious opposition. It was sheer waste; it wassomething almost unpardonably prodigal. They had eaten bacon alltheir lives, often bacon with the bristles thick upon it, and tothrow away money like this was positively wicked. However, the-oldgentleman, being stubborn as a horse-nail, persisted; the wife,still grumbling, calmed down; and the one joint of meat became aninstitution. Harry, the younger, still kept it up; but it had lostit* significance in his day, for he had a fowl or two in the week,and a hare or a partridge, and, besides, had the choicest hams.

Now, this dispute between the old gentleman and hiswife—this dispute as to which should be mostparsimonious—was typical of their whole course of life. Ifone saved cheese-parings, the other would go without cheese at all,and be content with dry bread. They lived—indeed, harder thantheir own labourers, and it sometimes happened that the food theythought good enough was refused by a cottager. When a strangecarter, or shepherd, or other labourer came to the house from adistance, perhaps with a waggon for a load of produce or with somesheep, it was the custom to give them some lunch. These men,unaccustomed even in their own cottages to such coarse food, oftendeclined to eat it, and went away empty, but not before deliveringtheir opinion of the fare, expressed in language of the rudestkind.

No economy was too small for old Hodson; in the house his wifedid almost all the work. Nowadays a farmer's house alone keeps thewomen of one, or even two, cottages fully employed. The washing issent out, and occupies one cottage woman the best part of her sparetime. Other women come in to do the extra work, the cleaning up andscouring, and so on. The expense of employing these women is notgreat; but still it is an expense. Old Mrs. Hodson did everythingherself, and the children roughed it how they could, playing in themire with the pigs and geese. Afterwards, when old Hodson began toget a little money, they were sent to a school in a market town.There they certainly did pick up the rudiments, but lived almost ashard as at home. Old Hodson, to give an instance of his method,would not even fatten a pig, because it cost a trifle of readymoney for 'toppings,' or meal, and nothing on earth could inducehim to part with a coin that he had once grasped. He never fatteneda pig (meaning for sale), but sold the young porkers directly theywere large enough to fetch a sovereign a-piece, and kept themoney.

The same system was carried on throughout the farm. The one hethen occupied was of small extent, and he did a very largeproportion of the work himself. He did not purchase stock at all inthe modern sense; he grew them. If he went to a sale he bought oneor two despicable-looking cattle at the lowest price, drove themhome, and let them gradually gather condition. The grass they ategrew almost as they ate it—in his own words, 'They cut theirown victuals'—i.e. with their teeth. He did not missthe grass blades, but had he paid a high price then he would havemissed the money.

Here he was in direct conflict with modern farming. The theoryof the farming of the present day is that time is money, and,according to this, Hodson made a great mistake. He should havegiven a high price for his stock, have paid for cake, &c., andfattened them up as fast as possible, and then realised. The logicis correct, and in any business or manufacture could not begainsaid. But Hodson did just the reverse. He did not mind hiscattle taking a little time to get into condition, provided theycost him no ready money. Theoretically, the grass they aterepresented money, and might have been converted to a better use.But in practice the reverse came true. He succeeded, and other menfailed. His cattle and his sheep, which he bought cheap and out ofcondition, quietly improved (time being no object), and he soldthem at a profit, from which there were no long bills to deduct forcake.

He purchased no machinery whilst in this small place—whichwas chiefly grass land—with the exception of a second-handhaymaking machine. The money he made he put out at interest onmortgage of real property, and it brought in about 4 per cent. Itwas said that in some few cases where the security was good he lentit at a much higher rate to other farmers of twenty times hisoutward show. After awhile he went into the great farm now occupiedby his son Harry, and commenced operations without borrowing asingle shilling. The reason was because he was in no hurry. Heslowly grew his money in the little farm, and then, and not tillthen, essayed the greater. Even then he would not have ventured hadnot the circ*mstances been peculiarly favourable. Like the present,it was a time of depression generally, and in this particular casethe former tenant had lived high and farmed bad. The land was inthe worst possible state, the landlord could not let it, and Hodsonwas given to understand that he could have it for next to nothingat first.

Now it was at this crisis of his life that he showed that in hisown sphere he possessed the true attribute of genius. Most men whohad practised rigid economy for twenty years, whose hours, anddays, and weeks had been occupied with little petty details, how tosave a penny here and a fourpenny bit yonder, would have becomefossilised in the process. Their minds would have become as narrowas their ways. They would have shrunk from any venture, andcontinued in the old course to the end of their time.

Old Hodson, mean to the last degree in his way of living, narrowto the narrowest point where sixpence could be got, neverthelesshad a mind. He saw that his opportunity had come, and he struck. Hetook the great corn farm, and left his little place. The wholecountry side at once pronounced him mad, and naturally anticipatedhis failure. The country side did not yet understand two things.They did not know how much money he had saved, and they did notknow the capacity of his mind. He had not only saved money, andjudiciously invested it, but he had kept it a profound secret,because he feared if his landlord learnt that he was saving moneyso fast the rent of the little farm would have been speedilyraised. Here, again, he was in direct conflict with the modernfarmer. The modern man, if he has a good harvest or makes a profit,at once buys a 'turn-out,' and grand furniture, and in every way'exalts his gate,' When landlords saw their tenants living in astyle but little inferior to that they themselves kept up, it wasnot really very surprising that the rents a few years back began torise so rapidly. In a measure tenants had themselves to blame forthat upward movement.

Old Hodson carried his money to a long distance from home toinvest, so anxious was he that neither his landlord nor any oneelse should know how quickly he was getting rich. So he enteredupon his new venture—the great upland farm, with its broadcornfields, its expanse of sheep walk and down, its meadows in thehollow, its copses (the copses alone almost as big as his originalholding), with plenty of money in his pocket, and without beingbeholden to bank or lawyer for a single groat. Men thought that thesize of the place, the big manor-house, and so on, would turn hishead. Nothing of the kind; he proceeded as cautiously and prudentlyas previously. He began by degrees. Instead of investing somethousand pounds in implements and machinery at a single swoop,instead of purchasing three hundred sheep right off with a singlecheque, he commenced with one thing at a time. In this course hewas favoured by the condition of the land, and by the conditions ofthe agreement. He got it, as it were, gradually into cultivation,not all at once; he got his stock together, a score or two at atime, as he felt they would answer. By the year the landlord was tohave the full rent: the new tenant was quite able to pay it, anddid pay it without hesitation at the very hour it was due. Hebought very little machinery, nothing but what was absolutelynecessary—no expensive steam-plough. His one great idea wasstill the same, i.e. spend no money.

Yet he was not bigoted or prejudiced to the customs of hisancestors—another proof that he was a man of mind. Hodsonforesaw, before he had been long at Upcourt Farm, that corn was notgoing in future to be so all in all important as it had been. As hesaid himself, 'We must go to our flocks now for our rent, and notto our barn doors.' His aim, therefore, became to farm into andthrough his flock, and it paid him well. Here was a man at onceeconomical to the verge of meanness, prudent to the edge oftimidity, yet capable of venturing when he saw his chance; andabove all, when that venture succeeded, capable of still living onbacon and bread and cheese, and putting the money by.

In his earlier days Hodson was as close of speech as ofexpenditure, and kept his proceedings a profound secret. As he grewolder and took less active exercise—the son resident at homecarrying out his instructions—he became more garrulous andliked to talk about his system. The chief topic of his discoursewas that a farmer in his day paid but one rent, to the landlord,whereas now, on the modern plan, he paid eight rents, and sometimesnine. First, of course, the modern farmer paid his landlord (1);next he paid the seedsman (2); then the manure manufacturer (3);the implement manufacturer (4); the auctioneer (5); the railroad,for transit (6); the banker, for short loans (7); the lawyer orwhoever advanced half his original capital (8); the schoolmaster(9).

To begin at the end, the rent paid by the modern farmer to theschoolmaster included the payment for the parish school; and,secondly, and far more important, the sum paid for the education ofhis own children. Hodson maintained that many farmers paid as muchhard cash for the education of their children, and for thenecessary social surroundings incident to that education, as menused to pay for the entire sustenance of their households. Thenthere was the borrowed capital, and the short loans from thebanker; the interest on these two made two more rents. Farmers paidrent to the railroad for the transit of their goods. Theauctioneer, whether he sold cattle and sheep, or whether he had adepôt for horses, was a new man whose profits were derivedfrom the farmers. There were few or no auctioneers or horsedepositories when he began business; now the auctioneer waseverywhere, and every country town of any consequence had itsestablishment for the reception and sale of horses. Farmers sunkenough capital in steam-ploughs and machinery to stock a small farmon the old system, and the interest on this sunk capitalrepresented another rent. It was the same with the artificialmanure merchant and with the seedsman. Farmers used to grow theirown seed, or, at most, bought from the corn dealers or a neighbourif by chance they were out. Now the seedsman was an importantperson, and a grand shop might be found, often several shops, inevery market town, the owners of which shops must likewise liveupon the farmer. Here were eight or nine people to pay rent toinstead of one.

No wonder farming nowadays was not profitable. No wonder farmerscould not put their sons into farms. Let any one look round theirown neighbourhood and count up how many farmers had managed to dothat. Why, they were hardly to be found. Farmers' sons had to gointo the towns to get a livelihood now. Farming was too expensive abusiness on the modern system—it was a luxury for a rich man,who could afford to pay eight or nine landlords at once. The way hehad got on was by paying one landlord only. Old Hodson alwaysfinished his lecture by thrusting both hands into his breechespockets, and whispering to you confidentially that it was not theleast use for a man to go into farming now unless he had got tenthousand pounds.

It was through the genius of this man that his three sons weredoing so well. At the present day, Harry, the younger, took hisease in his arm-chair after his substantial but plain dinner, withlittle care about the markets or the general depression. For muchof the land was on high ground and dry, and the soil therebenefited by the wet. At the same time sheep sold well, and Harry'sflocks were large and noted. So he sauntered round with his gun,and knocked over a hare, and came comfortably home to dinner, easyin his mind, body, and pocket.

Harry was not a man of energy and intense concentrated purposelike his father. He could never have built up a fortune, but, themoney being there, Harry was just the man to keep it. He wassufficiently prudent to run no risk and to avoid speculation. Hewas sufficiently frugal not to waste his substance on riotousliving, and he was naturally of a placid temperament, so that hewas satisfied to silently and gradually accumulate little bylittle. His knowledge of farming, imbibed from his father, extendedinto every detail. If he seldom touched an implement now, he had inhis youth worked like the labourers, and literally followed theplough. He was constantly about on the place, and his eye, bykeeping the men employed, earned far more money than his single armcould have done. Thus he dwelt in the lonely manor-house, a livingproof of the wisdom of his father's system.

Harry is now looking, in his slow complacent way, for a wife.Being forty years of age, he is not in a great hurry, and is not atall inclined to make a present of himself to the first pretty facehe meets. He does not like the girl of the period; he fears shewould spend too much money. Nor, on the other hand, does he carefor the country hoyden, whose mind and person have never risenabove the cheese-tub, with red hands, awkward gait, loud voice, andlimited conversation. He has read too much, in his quiet way, andobserved too much, in his quiet way, also, for that. He wants agirl well educated, but not above her station, unaffected and yetcomely, fond of home and home duties, and yet not homely. And itwould be well if she had a few hundreds—a very small sumwould do—for her dower. It is not that he wants the money,which can be settled on herself; but there is a vein of the old,prudent common sense running through Harry's character. He is in nohurry; in time he will meet with her somewhere.

CHAPTER VII

THE GIG AND THE FOUR-IN-HAND. A BICYCLE FARMER

Two vehicles were gradually approaching each other from oppositedirections on a long, straight stretch of country road, which, atthe first glance, appeared level. The glare of the August sunshinereflected from the white dust, the intense heat that caused aflickering motion of the air like that which may be seen over aflue, the monotonous low cropped hedges, the scarcity of trees, andboundless plain of cornfields, all tended to deceive the eye. Theroad was not really level, but rose and fell in narrow, steepvalleys, that crossed it at right angles—the glance sawacross these valleys without recognising their existence. It wascurious to observe how first one and then the other vehiclesuddenly disappeared, as if they had sunk into the ground, andremained hidden for some time. During the disappearance the vehiclewas occupied in cautiously going down one steep slope and slowlyascending the other. It then seemed to rapidly come nearer tillanother hollow intervened, and it was abruptly checked. The peoplewho were driving could observe each other from a long distance, andmight naturally think that they should pass directly, instead ofwhich they did not seem to get much nearer. Some miles away, wherethe same road crossed the Downs, it looked from afar like a whiteline drawn perpendicularly up the hill.

The road itself was narrow, hardly wider than a lane, but oneither side was a broad strip of turf, each strip quite twice thewidth of the metalled portion. On the verge of the dust the redpimpernel opened its flowers to the bright blue cloudless sky, andthe lowly convolvulus grew thickly among the tall dusty bennets.Sweet short clover flowers stood but a little way back; stillnearer the hedges the grass was coarser, long, and wire-like. Tallthistles stood beside the water furrows and beside the ditch, andround the hawthorn bushes that grew at intervals on the swardisolated from the hedge. Loose flints of great size lay here andthere among the grass, perhaps rolled aside surreptitiously by thestone-breakers to save themselves trouble. Everything hot anddusty. The clover dusty, the convolvulus dusty, the brambles andhawthorn, the small scattered elms all dusty, all longing for ashower or for a cool breeze.

The reapers were at work in the wheat, but the plain was solevel that it was not possible to see them without mounting upon aflint heap. Then their heads were just visible as they stoodupright, but when they stooped to use the hook they disappeared.Yonder, however, a solitary man in his shirt-sleeves perched upabove the corn went round and round the field, and beside himstrange awkward arms seemed to beat down the wheat. He was drivinga reaping machine, to which the windmill-like arms belonged. Besidethe road a shepherd lingered, leaning on a gate, while his flock,which he was driving just as fast and no faster than they cared toeat their way along the sward, fed part on one side and part on theother. Now and then two or three sheep crossed over with thetinkling of a bell. In the silence and stillness and brooding heat,the larks came and dusted themselves in the white impalpable powderof the road. Farther away the partridges stole quietly to ananthill at the edge of some barley. By the white road, a whitemilestone, chipped and defaced, stood almost hidden among thistlesand brambles. Some white railings guarded the sides of a bridge, orrather a low arch over a dry watercourse. Heat, dust, a glaringwhiteness, and a boundless expanse of golden wheat on eitherhand.

After awhile a towering four-in-hand coach rose out of thehollow where it had been hidden, and came bowling along the level.The rapid hoofs beat the dust, which sprang up and followed behindin a cloud, stretching far in the rear, for in so still anatmosphere the particles were long before they settled again. Whiteparasols and light dust coats—everything that could becontrived for coolness—gay feathers and fluttering fringes,whose wearers sat in easy attitudes enjoying the breeze created bythe swift motion. Upon such a day the roof of a coach is morepleasant than the thickest shade, because of that current of air,for the same leaves that keep off the sun also prevent a passingzephyr from refreshing the forehead. But the swifter the horses thesweeter the fresh wind to fan the delicate cheek and droopingeyelid of indolent beauty. So idle were they all that they barelyspoke, and could only smile instead of laugh if one exerted himselfto utter a good jest. The gentleman who handled the ribbons was theonly one thoroughly awake.

His eyes were downcast, indeed, because they never left hishorses, but his ears were sharply alive to the rhythmic beat of thehoofs and the faint creak and occasional jingle of the harness. Hada single shoe failed to send forth the proper sound as it struckthe hard dry road, had there been a creak or a jingle too many, ortoo few, those ears would instantly have detected it. The downcasteyes that looked neither to the right nor left—at the goldenwheat or the broad fields of barley—were keenly watching theears of the team, and noting how one of the leaders lathered andflung white froth upon the dust. From that height the bowed backsof the reapers were visible in the corn. The reapers caught sightof the coach, and stood up to look, and wiped their brows, and adistant hurrah came from the boys among them. In all the pomp andglory of paint and varnish the tall coach rolled on, gently swayingfrom side to side as the springs yielded to the irregularities ofthe road. It came with a heavy rumble like far-away thunder overthe low arch that spanned the dry water-course.

Meantime the vehicle approaching from the opposite direction hadalso appeared out of a hollow. It was a high, narrow gig of ancientmake, drawn by a horse too low for the shafts and too fat for work.In the gig sat two people closely pressed together by reason of itsnarrow dimensions. The lady wore a black silk dress, of good andindeed costly material, but white with the dust that had settledupon it. Her hands were covered with black cotton gloves, and sheheld a black umbrella. Her face was hidden by a black veil; thincorkscrew curls fringed the back of her head. She was stout, andsat heavily in the gig. The man wore a grey suit, too short in thetrousers—at least they appeared so as he sat with his kneeswide apart, and the toe of one heavy boot partly projecting at theside of the dash-board. A much-worn straw hat was drawn over hiseyes, and he held a short whip in his red hand. He did not presshis horse, but allowed the lazy animal to go jog-trot at his ownpace. The panels of the gig had lost their original shining polish;the varnish had cracked and worn, till the surface was rough andgrey. The harness was equally bare and worn, the reins mended morethan once. The whole ramshackle concern looked as if it wouldpresently fall to pieces, but the horse was in much too good acondition.

When the four-in-hand had come within about a hundred yards, thefarmer pulled his left rein hard, and drew his gig right out of theroad on to the sward, and then stopped dead, to give the coach thefull use of the way. As it passed he took off his straw hat, andhis wife stooped low as a makeshift for bowing. An outsider mighthave thought that the aristocratic coach would have gone by thisextremely humble couple without so much as noticing it. But thegentleman who was driving lifted his hat to the dowdy lady, with agesture of marked politeness, and a young and elegantly-dressedlady, his sister, nodded and smiled, and waved her hand to her.After the coach had rolled some fifty yards away, the farmer pulledinto the road, and went on through the cloud of dust it had leftbehind it, with a complacent smile upon his hard and weather-wornfeatures. 'A' be a nice young gentleman, the Honourable be,' saidhe presently. 'So be Lady Blanche,' replied his wife, lifting herveil and looking back after the four-in-hand. 'I'm sure her smile'sthat sweet it be a pleasure for to see her.'

Half a mile farther the farmer drew out of the road again, droveclose to the hedge, stopped, and stood up to look over. Astrongly-built young man, who had been driving the reaping machinein his shirt-sleeves, alighted from his seat and came across to thehedge.

'Goes very well to-day,' he said, meaning that the machineanswered.

'You be got into a good upstanding piece, John,' replied the oldman sharply in his thin jerky voice, which curiously contrastedwith his still powerful frame. 'You take un in there and tryun'—pointing to a piece where the crop had been beaten downby a storm, and where the reapers were at work. 'You had better putthe rattletrap thing away, John, and go in and help they. Neverwasted money in all my life over such a thing as that before. Whatbe he going to do all the winter? Bide and rust, I 'spose. Can youput un to cut off they nettles along the ditch among theystones?'

'It would break the knives,' said the son.

'But you could cut um with a hook, couldn't you?' asked the oldman, in a tone that was meant to convey withering contempt of amachine that could only do one thing, and must perforce lie idleten months of the year.

'That's hardly a fair way of looking at it,' the sonventured.

'John,' said his mother, severely, 'I can't think how you youngmen can contradict your father. I'm sure young men never spoke soin my time; and I'm sure your father has been prospered in hisfarming' (she felt her silk dress), 'and has done very well withoutany machines, which cost a deal of money—and Heaven knowsthere's a vast amount going out every day.'

A gruff voice interrupted her—one of the reapers hadadvanced along the hedge, with a large earthenware jar in hishand.

'Measter,' he shouted to the farmer in the gig, 'can't you sendus out some better tackle than this yer stuff?'

He poured some ale out of the jar on the stubble with anexpression of utter disgust.

'It be the same as I drink myself,' said the farmer, sharply,and immediately sat down, struck the horse, and drove off.

His son and the labourer—who could hardly have beendistinguished apart so far as their dress went—stood gazingafter him for a few minutes. They then turned, and each went backto his work without a word.

The farmer drove on steadily homewards at the same jog-trot pacethat had been his wont these forty years. The house stood aconsiderable distance back from the road: it was a gabled buildingof large size, and not without interest. It was approached by adrive that crossed a green, where some ducks were waddling about,and entered the front garden, which was surrounded by a low wall.Within was a lawn and an ancient yew tree. The porch was overgrownwith ivy, and the trees that rose behind the grey tiles of the roofset the old house in a frame of foliage. A fine old Englishhomestead, where any man might be proud to dwell. But the farmerdid not turn up the drive. He followed the road till he came to agate leading into the rickyard, and, there getting out of the gig,held the gate open while the horse walked through. He never usedthe drive or the front door, but always came in and went out at theback, through the rickyard.

The front garden and lawn were kept in good order, but no onebelonging to the house ever frequented it. Had any stranger drivenup to the front door, he might have hammered away with the narrowknocker—there was no bell—for half an hour beforemaking any one hear, and then probably it would have been by theaccident of the servant going by the passage, and not by dint ofnoise. The household lived in the back part of the house. There wasa parlour well furnished, sweet with flowers placed there freshdaily, and with the odour of those in the garden, whose scent camein at the ever open window; but no one sat in it from week's end toweek's end. The whole life of the inmates passed in two backrooms—a sitting-room and kitchen.

With some slight concessions to the times only, FarmerM—— led the life his fathers led before him, and farmedhis tenancy upon the same principles. He did not, indeed, dine withthe labourers, but he ate very much the same food as they did. Somesaid he would eat what no labourer or servant would touch; and, ashe had stated, drank the same smallest of small beer. His wife madea large quantity of home-made wine every year, of which she partookin a moderate degree, and which was the liquor usually set beforevisitors. They rose early, and at once went about their work. Hesaw his men, and then got on his horse and rode round the farm. Hereturned to luncheon, saw the men again, and again went out andtook a turn of work with them. He rode a horse because of thedistance—the farm being large—not for pleasure. Withoutit he could not have visited his fields often enough to satisfyhimself that the labourers were going on with their work. He didnot hunt, nor shoot—he had the right, but never exercised it;though occasionally he was seen about the newly-sown fields with asingle-barrel gun, firing at the birds that congregated in crowds.Neither would he allow his sons to shoot or hunt.

One worked with the labourers, acting as workingbailiff—it was he who drove the reaping machine, which, afterlong argument and much persuasion the farmer bought, only togrumble at and abuse every day afterwards. The other wasapprenticed as a lad to a builder and carpenter of the market town,and learned the trade exactly as the rest of the men did there. Helodged in the town in the cheapest of houses, ate hard bread andcheese with the carpenters and masons and bricklayers, and was gladwhen the pittance he received was raised a shilling a week. Oncenow and then he walked over to the farm on Sundays orholidays—he was not allowed to come too often. They did noteven send him in a basket of apples from the great orchard; all theapples were carefully gathered and sold.

These two sons were now grown men, strong and robust, and bettereducated than would have been imagined—thanks to their ownindustry and good sense, and not to any schooling they received.Two finer specimens of physical manhood it would have beendifficult to find, yet their wages were no more than those ofordinary labourers and workmen. The bailiff, the eldest, had apound a week, out of which he had to purchase every necessary, andfrom which five shillings were deducted for lodgings. It may bethat he helped himself to various little perquisites, but hisincome from every source was not equal to that of a junior clerk.The other nominally received more, being now a skilled workman; butas he had to pay for his lodgings and food in town, he was reallyhardly so well off. Neither of these young men had the least chanceof marrying till their father should die; nothing on earth wouldinduce him to part with the money required to set the one inbusiness up or the other in a separate farm. He had worked all histime under his father, and it seemed to him perfectly natural thathis sons should work all their time under him.

There was one daughter, and she, too, was out at work. She washousekeeper to an infirm old farmer; that is to say, shesuperintended the dairy and the kitchen, and received hardly asmuch as a cook in a London establishment. Like the sons, she wasfinely developed physically, and had more of the manners of a ladythan seemed possible under the circ*mstances.

Her father's principles of farming were much the same as hisplan of housekeeping and family government. It consisted of neverspending any money. He bought no machines. The reaping machine wasthe one exception, and a bitter point with the old man. He enteredon no extensive draining works, nor worried his landlord to beginthem. He was content with the tumble-down sheds till it waspossible to shelter cattle in them no longer. Sometimes he wascompelled to purchase a small quantity of artificial manure, but itwas with extreme reluctance. He calculated to produce sufficientmanure in the stalls, for he kept a large head of fattening cattle,and sheep to the greatest extent possible. He would rather let afield lie fallow, and go without the crop from it, till nature hadrestored the exhausted fertility, than supply that fertility at thecost of spending money. The one guiding motto of his life was'Save, not invest.' When once he got hold of a sovereign he partedwith it no more; not though all the scientific professors in theworld came to him with their analyses, and statistics, anddiscoveries. He put it in the bank, just as his father would haveput it into a strong box under his bed. There it remained, and theinterest that accrued, small as it was, was added to it.

Yet it was his pride to do his land well. He manured it well,because he kept cattle and sheep, especially the latter, to thefullest capacity of his acreage; and because, as said before, hecould and did afford to let land lie fallow when necessary. He wasin no hurry. He was not anxious for so much immediate percentageupon an investment in artificial manure or steam-plough. He mighthave said, with a greater man, 'Time and I are two.' It was Time,the slow passage of the years, that gave him his profit. He wasalways providing for the future; he was never out of anything,because he was never obliged to force a sale of produce in order toget the ready cash to pay the bank its interest upon borrowedmoney. He never borrowed; neither did he ever make a speech, oreven so much as attend a farmers' club, to listen to a scientificlecture. But his teams of horses were the admiration of the countryside—no such horses came into the market town. His rent waspaid punctually, and always with country bank-notes—none ofyour clean, newfangled cheques, or Bank of England crisp paper, butsoiled, greasy country notes of small denomination.

Farmer M—— never asked for a return or reduction ofhis rent. The neighbours said that he was cheaply rented: that wasnot true in regard to the land itself. But he certainly was cheaplyrented if the condition of the farm was looked at. In the course ofso many long years of careful farming he had got his place intosuch a state of cultivation that it could stand two or three badseasons without much deterioration. The same bad seasons quitespoiled the land of such of his neighbours as had relied upon aconstant application of stimulants to the soil. The stimulatingsubstances being no longer applied, as they could not afford to buythem, the land fell back and appeared poor.

Farmer M——, of course, grumbled at the weather, butthe crops belied his lips. He was, in fact, wealthy—not thewealth that is seen in cities, but rich for a countryman. He couldhave started both his sons in business with solid capital. Yet hedrank small beer which the reapers despised, and drove about in arusty old gig, with thousands to his credit at that old countrybank. When he got home that afternoon, he carefully put away somebags of coin for the wages of the men, which he had been to fetch,and at once started out for the rickyard, to see how things wereprogressing. So the Honourable on the tall four-in-hand salutedwith marked emphasis the humble gig that pulled right out of theroad to give him the way, and the Lady Blanche waved her hand tothe dowdy in the dusty black silk with her sweetest smile. TheHonourable, when he went over the farm with his breechloader,invariably came in and drank a glass of the small beer. The LadyBlanche, at least once in the autumn, rode up, alighted, and drankone glass of the home-made wine with the dowdy. Her papa, thelandlord, was an invalid, but he as invariably sent a splendidbasket of hot-house grapes. But Farmer M—— was behindthe age.

Had he looked over the hedge in the evening, he might have seena row of reapers walking down the road at the sudden sound of ajingling bell behind them, open their line, and wheel like a squad,part to the right and part to the left, to let the bicycle pass.After it had gone by they closed their rank, and trudged on towardthe village. They had been at work all day in the uplands among thecorn, cutting away with their hooks low down the yellow straw. Theybegan in the early morning, and had first to walk two miles or moreup to the harvest field. Stooping, as they worked, to strike lowenough, the hot sun poured his fierce rays upon their shoulders andthe backs of their necks. The sinews of the right arm hadcontinually to drive the steel through straw and tough weedsentangled in the wheat. There was no shadow to sit under forluncheon, save that at the side of the shocks, where the sheavesradiated heat and interrupted the light air, so that the shadow waswarmer than the sunshine. Coarse cold bacon and bread, cheese, anda jar of small beer, or a tin can of weak cold tea, were all theyhad to supply them with fresh strength for further labour.

At last the evening came, the jackets so long thrown aside wereresumed, and the walk home began. After so many hours of wearisomelabour it was hardly strange that their natural senses weredulled—that they did not look about them, nor converse gaily.By mutual, if unexpressed consent, they intended to call at thewayside inn when they reached it, to rest on the hard benchoutside, and take a quart of stronger ale. Thus trudging homewardsafter that exhausting day, they did not hear the almost silentapproach of the bicycle behind till the rider rang his bell. Whenhe had passed, the rider worked his feet faster, and swiftly spedaway along the dry and dusty road. He was a tall young gentleman,whose form was well set off and shown by the tight-fitting bicyclecostume. He rode well and with perfect command—the track leftin the dust was straight, there was no wobbling or uncertainty.

'That be a better job than ourn, you,' said one of the men, asthey watched the bicycle rapidly proceeding ahead.

'Ay,' replied his mate, 'he be a vine varmer, he be.'

Master Phillip, having a clear stretch of road, put on hisutmost speed, and neither heard the comments made upon him, norwould ha e cared if he had. He was in haste, for he was late, andfeared every minute to hear the distant dinner bell. It was hisvacation, and Master Phillip, having temporarily left his studies,was visiting a gentleman who had taken a country mansion andshooting for the season. His host had accumulated wealth in the'City,' and naturally considered himself an authority on countrymatters. Master Phillip's 'governor' was likewise in a large way ofbusiness, and possessed of wealth, and thought it the correct thingfor one of his sons to 'go in' for agriculture—a highlygenteel occupation, if rightly followed, with capital andintelligence. Phillip liked to ride his bicycle in the cool of theevening, and was supposed in these excursions to be taking a surveyof the soil and the crops, and to be comparing the style ofa*griculture in the district to that to which he had been trainedwhile pursuing his studies. He slipped past the wayside inn; heglided by the cottages and gardens at the outskirts of the village;and then, leaving the more thickly inhabited part on one side, wentby a rickyard. Men were busy in the yard putting up the last loadof the evening, and the farmer in his shirt-sleeves was workingamong and directing the rest. The bicyclist without a glance rodeon, and shortly after reached the lodge gates. They were open, inanticipation of his arrival.

He rode up the long drive, across the park, under the old elms,and alighted at the mansion before the dinner bell rang, much tohis relief; for his host had more than one daughter, and Phillipliked to arrange his toilet to perfection before he joined theirsociety. His twenty-five-guinea dressing-case, elaborately fittedup—too completely indeed, for he had no use for therazor—soon enabled him to trim and prepare for thedining-room. His five-guinea coat, elegant studs, spotless shirtand wristbands, valuable seal ring on one finger, patent leatherboots, keyless watch, eyeglass, gold toothpick in one pocket, wereall carefully selected, and in the best possible style. Mr.Phillip—he would have scorned the boyish 'master'—was agentleman, from the perfumed locks above to the polished patentleather below. There was ton in his very air, in the 'ah,ah,' of his treble London tone of voice, the antithesis of thebroad country bass. He had a firm belief in the fitness ofthings—in the unities, so to speak, of suit, action, andtime.

When his team were struggling to force the ball by kick, orother permitted means, across the tented field, Phillip was arrayedin accurate football costume. When he stood on the close-mown lawnwithin the white-marked square of tennis and faced the net, hisjacket was barred or striped with scarlet. Then there was thebicycle dress, the morning coat, the shooting jacket, and thedinner coat, not to mention the Ulster or Connaught overcoat, thedust coat, and minor items innumerable. Whether Phillip rolled inthe mire at football, or bestrode a bicycle, or sat down tosnow-white tablecloth and napkin, he conscientiously dressed thepart. The very completeness of his prescribed studies—theexhaustive character of the curriculum-naturally induced a frame ofmind not to be satisfied with anything short of absolute precision,and perhaps even apt to extend itself into dilettanteism.

Like geology, the science of agriculture is so vast, it embracesso wide a range, that one really hardly knows where it begins orends. Phillip's knowledge was universal. He understood all aboutastronomy, and had prepared an abstract of figures proving theconnection of sun-spots, rainfall, and the price of wheat. Algebrawas the easiest and at the same time the most accurate mode ofconducting the intricate calculations arising out of thecomplicated question of food—of flesh formers and heatgenerators—that is to say, how much a sheep increased inweight by gnawing a turnip. Nothing could be more useful thanbotany-those who could not distinguish between a dicotyledon and amonocotyledon could certainly never rightly grasp the nature of ahedgerow. Bellis perennis and Sinapis arvensis werenot to be confounded, and Triticum repens was a sure sign ofa bad farmer. Chemistry proved that too small a quantity ofsilicate made John Barleycorn weak in the knee; ammonia, animalphosphates, nitrogen, and so on, were mere names to many ignorantfolk. The various stages and the different developments of insectlife were next to be considered.

As to the soil and strata—the very groundwork of afarm—geology was the true guide to the proper selection ofsuitable seed. Crops had been garnered by the aid of the electriclight, the plough had been driven by the Gramme machine;electricity, then, would play a foremost part in future farming,and should be studied with enthusiasm. Without mathematics nothingcould be done; without ornithological study, how know which birdrevelled on grain and which destroyed injurious insects? Spectrumanalysis detected the adulteration of valuable compounds; thephotographer recorded the exact action of the trotting horse; thetelephone might convey orders from one end of an estate to theother; and thus you might go through the whole alphabet, the wholecyclopædia of science, and apply every single branch toagriculture.

It is to be hoped that Phillip's conversational account of hisstudies has been correctly reproduced here. The chemical terms lookrather weak, but the memory of an ordinary listener can hardly beexpected to retain such a mass of technicalities. He had piles ofstrongly-bound books, the reward of successful examinations,besides diplomas and certificates of proficiency. These subjectscould be pursued under cover, but there was besides the field work,which had a more practical sound; model farms to be visited;steam-engines to be seen at work; lectures to be listened to on thespot; deep-drainage operations, a new drill, or a new sheaf-binderto be looked at. Then there were the experimentalplots—something like the little parterres seen at theedge of lawns.

One plot was sown without manure, another was sown with manure,a third had a different kind of manure. The dozen mangolds grown inone patch were pulled up and carefully weighed. The grains of wheatin an ear standing in an adjacent patch were counted and recorded.As these plots were about a yard wide, and could be kept clean, nomatter what the weather; and as a wheelbarrow load of clay, orchalk, or sand thrown down would alter the geological formation,the results obtained from them were certainly instructive, andwould be very useful as a guide to the cultivation of a thousandacres. There was also a large, heavy iron roller, which thescholars could if they chose drag round and round the gravelpath.

Architecture, again, touches the agriculturist nearly. Herequires buildings for the pigs, cattle, horses, labourers, engineand machinery, lastly, for himself. Out of doors almost anyfarmhouse that could be visited might be made by a lecturer anillustrative example of what ought to be avoided. Scarcely onecould be found that was not full of mistakes—utterly wrong,and erected regardless of design and utility. Within doors, withink, tracing paper, compasses, straight-edge and ruler, reallyvaluable ground plans, front elevations, and so on, could be laiddown. Altogether, with this circle of science to study, the futurefarmer had very hard work to face. Such exhaustive mental labourinduced a certain nervousness that could only be allayed byrelaxation. The bicycle afforded a grateful change. Mounted uponthe slender, swift-revolving wheel, Mr. Phillip in the cool of theevening, after the long day of study, sometimes proceeded tostretch his limbs. The light cigar soothed his weary andoverstrained mind.

The bicycle by-and-by, as if drawn by the power of gravitation,approached more and more nearly to the distant town. It threadedthe streets, and finally stopped in the archway of an inn. There,leaned against the wall, under the eye of the respectful ostler,the bicycle reposed. The owner strolled upstairs, and in thecompany of choice spirits studied the laws of right angles, ofmotion, and retarding friction, upon the level surface of thebilliard table. Somewhere in a not much frequented street therecould be seen a small window in which a coloured plate of fashionswas always displayed. There were also some bonnets, trimming, andtasteful feathers. Nothing could be more attractive than thiswindow. The milliner was young and pretty, and seemed to have acousin equally young and pretty. Poor, lonely, friendlesscreatures, it was not surprising they should welcome a littleflirtation. The bicycle which so swiftly carries the young man ofthe present day beyond the penetrating vision of his aunt or tutorhas much to answer for.

But, as pointed out previously, such exhaustive scientifictraining naturally tends to make the mind mathematical. It cannotbe satisfied unless its surroundings—the substantialrealisation of the concrete-are perfect. So Mr. Phillip had a suitfor every purpose—for football, cricket, tennis, bicycle,shooting, dining, and strolling about. In the same way he possesseda perfect armoury of athletic and other useful implements. Therewere fine bats by the best makers for cricket, rods for troutfishing, splendid modified choke-bores, saddles, jockey caps, andso on. A gentleman like this could hardly long remain in thesolitary halls of learning—society must claim him forparties, balls, dinners, and the usual round. It was understoodthat his 'governor' was a man of substantial wealth; that Phillipwould certainly be placed in an extensive farm, to play thepleasant part of a gentleman farmer. People with marriageabledaughters looked upon the clever scholar as a desirable addition totheir drawing-rooms. Phillip, in short, found himself by degreesinvolved in a whirl of festivities, and was never at a loss whereto go for amusem*nt when he could obtain leave to seekrelaxation. If such social adulation made him a little vain, if itled to the purchase of a twenty-five-guinea dressing-case, and tofrequent consultations with the tailor, it really was not Phillip'sfault. He felt himself popular, and accepted the position.

When the vacation came, gathering up a fresh pile ofgrandly-bound prize books, broad sheets of diplomas, andcertificates, Phillip departed to his friend's mansion for thepartridge shooting. Coming down the road on the bicycle he overtookthe reapers, and sprang his bell to warn them. The reapers thoughtPhillip's job better than theirs.

At dinner, while sipping his claret, Phillip delivered hisopinion upon the agriculture of the district, which he had surveyedfrom his bicycle. It was incomplete, stationary, or retrograde. Theform of the fields alone was an index to the character of thefarmers who cultivated them. Not one had a regular shape. Thefields were neither circles, squares, parallelograms, nortriangles. One side, perhaps, might be straight; the hedgerow onthe other had a dozen curves, and came up to a point. With suchirregular enclosures it was impossible that the farmer could planout his course with the necessary accuracy. The same incompletenessran through everything—one field was well tilled, the nextindifferently, the third full of weeds. Here was a good moderncattle-shed, well-designed for the purpose; yonder was atumble-down building, with holes in the roof and walls.

So, too, with the implements—a farmer never seemed to havea complete set. One farmer had, perhaps, a reaping machine, but hehad not got an elevator; another had an elevator, but nosteam-plough. No one had a full set of machinery. If they drained,they only drained one field; the entire farm was never by anypossibility finished straight off. If the farmer had two new lightcarts of approved construction, he was sure to have three oldrumbling waggons, in drawing which there was a great waste ofpower. Why not have all light carts? There was no uniformity. Thefarming mind lacked breadth of view, and dwelt too much on detail.It was not, of course, the fault of the tenants of the present day,but the very houses they inhabited were always put in the wrongplace. Where the ground was low, flat, and liable to be flooded,the farmhouse was always built by a brook. When the storms ofwinter came the brook overflowed, and the place was almostinaccessible. In hilly districts, where there was not much water,the farmhouse was situate on the slope, or perhaps on the plateauabove, and in summer very likely every drop of water used had to bedrawn up there from a distance in tanks.

The whole of rural England, in short, wanted rearranging uponmathematical principles. To begin at the smallest divisions, thefields should be mapped out like the squares of a chessboard; next,the parishes; and, lastly, the counties. You ought to be able towork steam-ploughing tackle across a whole parish, if the ropecould be made strong enough. If you talked with a farmer, you foundhim somehow or other quite incapable of following a logicalsequence of argument. He got on very well for a few sentences, but,just as one was going to come to the conclusion, his mind seized onsome little paltry detail, and refused to move any farther. Hepositively could not follow you to a logical conclusion. If you,for instance, tried to show him that a certain course of croppingwas the correct one for certain fields, he would listen for awhile,and then suddenly declare that the turnips in one of the saidfields last year were a failure. That particular crop of turnipshad nothing at all to do with the system at large, but the farmercould see nothing else.

What had struck him most, however, in that particular district,as he traversed it on the bicycle, was the great loss of time thatmust result from the absence of rapid means of communication onlarge farms. The distance across a large farm might, perhaps, be amile. Some farms were not very broad, but extended in a narrowstrip for a great way. Hours were occupied in riding round suchfarms, hours which might be saved by simple means. Suppose, forexample, that a gang of labourers were at work in theharvest-field, three-quarters of a mile from the farmhouse. Now,why not have a field telegraph, like that employed in militaryoperations? The cable or wire was rolled on a drum like those usedfor watering a lawn. All that was needed was to harness a pony, andthe drum would unroll and lay the wire as it revolved. The farmercould then sit in his office and telegraph his instructions withouta moment's delay. He could tap the barometer, and wire to thebailiff in the field to be expeditious, for the mercury wasfalling. Practically, there was no more necessity for the farmer togo outside his office than for a merchant in Mincing Lane. Themerchant did not sail in every ship whose cargo was consigned tohim: why should the farmer watch every waggon loaded? Steam coulddrive the farmer's plough, cut the chaff, pump the water, and, inshort, do everything. The field telegraph could be laid down to anyrequired spot with the greatest ease, and thus, sitting in hisoffice chair, the farmer could control the operations of the farmwithout once soiling his hands. Mr. Phillip, as he concluded hisremarks, reached his glass of claret, and thus incidentallyexhibited his own hand, which was as white as a lady's.

CHAPTER VIII

HAYMAKING. 'THE JUKE'S COUNTRY'

A rattling, thumping, booming noise, like the beating of their wardrums by savages, comes over the hedge where the bees are busy atthe bramble flowers. The bees take no heed, they pass from flowerto flower, seeking the sweet honey to store at home in the hive, astheir bee ancestors did before the Roman legions marched to CoweyStakes. Their habits have not changed; their 'social' relations arethe same; they have not called in the aid of machinery to enlargetheir liquid, wealth, or to increase the facility of collecting it.There is a low murmur rather than a buzz along the hedgerow; butover it the hot summer breeze brings the thumping, rattling,booming sound of hollow metal striking against the ground or incontact with other metal. These ringing noises, which so littleaccord with the sweet-scented hay and green hedgerows, are causedby the careless handling of milk tins dragged hither and thither bythe men who are getting the afternoon milk ready for transit to therailway station miles away. Each tin bears a brazen badge engravedwith the name of the milkman who will retail its contents indistant London. It may be delivered to the countess in Belgravia,and reach her dainty lip in the morning chocolate, or it may beeagerly swallowed up by the half-starved children of some backcourt in the purlieus of the Seven Dials.

Sturdy milkmaids may still be seen in London, sweeping thecrowded pavement clear before them as they walk with swingingtread, a yoke on their shoulders, from door to door. Some remnantof the traditional dairy thus survives in the stony streets thatare separated so widely from the country. But here, beside the hay,the hedgerows, the bees, the flowers that precede theblackberries—here in the heart of the meadows the romance hasdeparted. Everything is mechanical or scientific. From therefrigerator that cools the milk, the thermometer that tests itstemperature, the lactometer that proves its quality, all ismechanical precision. The tins themselves are metal—wood, theold country material for almost every purpose, iseschewed—and they are swung up into a waggon specially builtfor the purpose. It is the very antithesis of the jolting andcumbrous waggon used for generations in the hay-fields and amongthe corn. It is light, elegantly proportioned, painted,varnished—the work rather of a coachbuilder than acartwright. The horse harnessed in it is equally unlike thecart-horse. A quick, wiry horse, that may be driven in a trap orgig, is the style—one that will rattle along and catch thetrain.

The driver takes his seat and handles the reins with the air ofa man driving a tradesman's van, instead of walking, like the trueold carter, or sitting on the shaft. The vehicle rattles off to thestation, where ten, fifteen, or perhaps twenty such converge at thesame hour, and then ensues a scene of bustle, chaff, and roughlanguage. The tins are placed in the van specially reserved forthem, the whistle sounds, the passengers—who have beenwondering why on earth there was all this noise and delay at alittle roadside station without so much as a visiblesteeple—withdraw their heads from the windows; the wheelsrevolve, and, gathering speed, the train disappears round thecurve, hastening to the metropolis. Then the empty tins returnedfrom town have to be conveyed home with more rattling, thumping andbooming of hollow tin—there to be carefully cleansed, forwhich purpose vast quantities of hot water must be ready, and coal,of course, must be consumed in proportion.

This beautiful afternoon the booming seems to sound more thanusual; it may perhaps be the wind that carries the noise along. ButMr. George, the farmer, who has been working among the haymakers,steps out from the rank, and going some way aside pauses awhile toconsider. You should not address him as Farmer George. Farmer as anaffix is not the thing now; farmers are 'Mr. So-and-so.' Not thatthere is any false pride about the present individual; his memorygoes back too far, and he has had too much experience of the world.He leans on his prong—the sharp forks worn bright as silverfrom use—stuck in the sward, and his chest pressing on thetop of the handle, or rather on both hands, with which he holds it.The handle makes an angle of forty-five degrees with his body, andthus gives considerable support and relief while he reflects.

He leans on his prong, facing to windward, and gazing straightinto the teeth of the light breeze, as he has done these forty andodd summers past. Like the captain of a sailing ship, the eye ofthe master haymaker must be always watching the horizon towindward. He depends on the sky, like the mariner, and spreads hiscanvas and shapes his course by the clouds. He must note theirvarying form and drift; the height and thickness and hue; whetherthere is a dew in the evenings; whether the distant hills areclearly defined or misty; and what the sunset portends. From thesigns of the sunset he learns, like the antique Romanhusbandman—

'When the south projects a stormy day,
And when the clearing north will puff the cloudsaway.'

According as the interpretation of the signs be favourable,adverse, or doubtful, so he gives his orders.

This afternoon, as he stands leaning on the prong, he marks thesoft air which seems itself to be heated, and renders the shade, ifyou seek it for coolness, as sultry as the open field. The fliesare numerous and busy—the horses can barely stand still, andnod their heads to shake them off. The hills seem near, and thetrees on the summit are distinctly visible. Such noises as areheard seem exaggerated and hollow. There is but little cloud, merethin flecks; but the horizon has a brassy look, and the blue of thesky is hard and opaque. Farmer George recollects that the barometerhe tapped before coming out showed a falling mercury; he does notlike these appearances, more especially the heated breeze. There isa large quantity of hay in the meadow, much of it quite ready forcarting, indeed, the waggons are picking it up as fast as they can,and the rest, if left spread about through nextday—Sunday—would be fit on Monday.

On Sunday there are no wages to pay to the labourers; but thesun, if it shines, works as hard and effectually as ever. It isalways a temptation to the haymaker to leave his half-made hayspread about for Sunday, so that on Monday morning he may find itmade. Another reason why he hesitates is because he knows he willhave trouble with the labourers, who will want to be off early asit is Saturday. They are not so ready to work an hour or twoovertime as when he was a boy. On the other hand, he recollectsthat the weather cablegrams from America foretell the arrival of adepression. What would his grandfather have thought of adjustingthe work in an English meadow to the tenour of news from the otherside of the Atlantic?

Suddenly, while he ponders, there arises a shout from thelabourers. The hay in one spot, as if seized by an invisible force,lifts itself up and revolves round and round, rising higher everyturn. A miniature cyclone is whirling it up—a column of haytwisting in a circle and rising above the trees. Then the force ofthe whirlwind spends itself; some of the hay falls on the oaks, andsome drifts with the breeze across the field before it sinks.

This decides him at once. He resolves to have all the hay cartedthat he can, and the remainder put up into hayco*cks. The mengrumble when they hear it; perhaps a year ago they would haveopenly mutinied, and refused to work beyond the usual hour. But,though wages are still high, the labourers feel that they are notso much the masters as they were—they grumble, but obey. Thehayco*cks are put up, and the rick-cloth unfolded over the partlymade rick. Farmer George himself sees to it that the cloth does nottouch the rick at the edges, or the rain, if it comes, will gothrough instead of shooting off, and that the ropes are taut andfirmly belayed. His caution is justified in the night by a violentthunderstorm, and in the morning it is raining steadily.

It rains again on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Thursday itdoes not rain, but the hedges are wet, the ground is soaked, thegrass hung with raindrops, the sky heavy with masses of driftingcloud. The hay cannot be touched; it must lie a day tillsufficiently dry. Friday is more hopeful. He walks out into thefields, and kicks a hayco*ck half over. The hay is still wet, but hecongratulates himself that not much damage is done. Saturday Iswarm and fine—work goes on again. But Sunday is near. Sundayis fiery hot. Monday, the rain pours down with tropicalvehemence.

Thus the monotonous, heart-breaking days go by and lengthen intoweeks, and the weeks extend into months. The wheat is turningcolour, and still the hay lies about, and the farmer has ceasedeven to tap the barometer. Those fields that are not cut are brownas brown can be—the grass has seeded and is over ripe. Thelabourers come every day, and some trifling job is found forthem—the garden path is weeded, the nettles cut, and suchlittle matters done. Their wages are paid every week in silver andgold—harvest wages, for which no stroke of harvest work hasbeen done. He must keep them on, because any day the weather maybrighten, and then they will be wanted. But the weather does notbrighten, and the drain of ready cash continues. Besides the men,tho mowing machine is idle in the shed. Even if the rain ceases,the crops are so laid that it is doubtful if it can be employed.The horse-rake is idle, the elevator is idle, the haymaking machineis idle, and these represent capital, if not to a large amount. Henotes the price of hay at the market. For months past it has beenlow—so low that it has hardly paid him to sell that portionof old hay which he felt he could spare. From October of last yearto June of this [1879] the price remained about the same. It is nowrising, but he has no more old hay to part with, and the new is notyet made. He has to bear in mind that his herd of cows has to bekept in high feed all the winter, to supply an unvarying quantityof milk to the London purchaser.

These wet days, forcing himunwillingly to stay within doors, send him to his books andaccounts, and they tell a story somewhat at variance with theprevalent belief that dairy-farming is the only branch of farmingthat is still profitable. First, as to the milk-selling. Cowsnaturally yield a larger supply in the summer than in winter but bythe provisions of the contract between the farmer and the milkmanthe quantity sent in summer is not to exceed and the quantity inwinter not to fall short of, a stipulated amount.[1] The price received in summer is about fivepenceor fivepence-halfpenny per imperial gallon, afterwards retailed inLondon at about one shilling and eightpence. When the cost ofconveyance to the station, of the horses, of the wear and tear, ofthe men who have to be paid for doing nothing else but look afterthe milk, is deducted, the profit to the farmer is but small. Hethinks, too, that he notices a decided falling-off in the demandfor milk even at this price.

Some dairies find a difficulty in disposing of themilk—they cannot find a purchaser. He has himself aconsiderable surplus over and above what the contract allows him tosend. This must either be wasted entirely or made into butter andcheese. In order to make cheese, the plant, the tubs, vats,presses, and so on, must be kept in readiness, and there must be anexperienced person to superintend the work. This person must bepaid a salary, and lodge and board in the house, representingtherefore a considerable outlay. The cheese, when made and sent tomarket, fluctuates of course in price: it may be as low asfourpence a pound wholesale; it may go as high as sixpence.Fourpence a pound wholesale will not pay for the making; sixpencewill leave a profit; but of late the price has gone rather to thelower than the higher figure. A few years since, when the ironindustries flourished, this kind of cheese had a good and readysale, and there was a profit belonging to it; but since the irontrade has been in so depressed a condition this cheese has soldbadly. The surplus milk consequently brings no profit, and is onlymade into cheese because it shall not be wasted, and in the hopethat possibly a favourable turn of the cheese market may happen.Neither the summer cheese nor the summer milk is bringing him in afortune.

Meantime the hay is spoiling in the fields. But a few years ago,when agricultural prices were inflated, and men's minds were fullof confidence, he recollects seeing standing grass crops sold byauction for 5l. the acre, and in some cases even higherprices were realised. This year similar auctions of standing grasscrops hardly realised 30s. an acre, and in some instances apurchaser could not be found even at that price. The difference inthe value of grass represented by these prices is very great.

He has no pigs to sell, because, for a long while past, he hashad nothing upon which to feed them, the milk being sold. Thepigsties are full of weeds; he can hardly fatten one for his ownuse, and has scarcely better facilities for keeping pigs than anagricultural labourer. The carriage of the milk to the stationrequires at least two quick horses, and perhaps more; one cannot doit twice a day, even with a very moderate load. The hard highwayand the incessant work would soon knock a single horse up. Themowing machine and the horse-rake must be drawn by a similar horse,so that the dairy farm may be said to require a style of horse likethat employed by omnibus proprietors. The acreage being limited, hecan only keep a certain number of horses, and, therefore, has noroom for a brood mare.

Farmer George is aware that nothing now pays like a brood cartmare with fair good luck. The colt born in April is often sold sixmonths afterwards, in September, for 20l. or 25l.,and even up to 30l., according to excellence. The value ofcart-horse colts has risen greatly, and those who are fortunatelyable to maintain a brood mare have reaped the profit. But Mr.George, selling the milk, and keeping a whole stud of nags for themilk cart, the mowing machine, the horse-rake, and so forth, cannotmaintain a brood mare as well. In the winter, it is true, the milkmay sell for as high a price as tenpence per gallon of four quarts,but then he has a difficulty in procuring the quantity contractedfor, and may perhaps have to buy of neighbours to keep up theprecise supply.

His herd must also be managed for the purpose, and must be wellfed, and he will probably have to buy food for them in addition tohis hay. The nag horses, too, that draw the milk waggon, have to befed during the winter, and are no slight expense. As for fatteninga beast in a stall, with a view to take the prize at Christmas atthe local show, he has abandoned that, finding that it costs moreto bring the animal up to the condition required than he canafterwards sell it for. There is no profit in that. America pressesupon him hard, too—as hard, or harder, than on thewheat-grower. Cases have been known of American cheese being soldin manufacturing towns as low as twopence per poundretail—given away by despairing competition.

How, then, is the dairyman to succeed when he cannot, positivelycannot, make cheese to sell at less than fourpence per poundwholesale? Of course such instances are exceptional, but Americancheese is usually sold a penny or more a pound below the Englishordinary, and this cuts the ground from under the dairyman's feet;and the American cheese too is acquiring a reputation for richness,and, price for price, surpasses the English in quality. Some peoplewho have long cherished a prejudice against the American havefound, upon at last being induced to try the two, that the Canadiancheddar is actually superior to the English cheddar, the Englishselling at tenpence per pound and the Canadian at sevenpence.

Mr. George finds he pays a very high rent for his grassland—some 50s. per acre—and upon reckoning upthe figures in his account-books heaves a sigh. His neighboursperchance may be making fortunes, though they tell quite adifferent tale, but he feels that he is not growing rich. The workis hard, or rather it is continuous. No one has to attend to hisduties so regularly all the year round as the man who looks aftercows. They cannot be left a single day from the 1st of January tothe 31st of December. Nor is the social state of things altogetherpleasant to reflect on. His sons and daughters have all left home;not one would stay and take to the dairy work. They have gone intothe towns, and found more congenial employment there. He is himselfgrowing in years. His wife, having once left off making cheese whenthe milk selling commenced, and having tasted the sweets of rest,is unwilling to return to that hard labour. When it is done he mustpay some one to do it.

In every way ready money is going out of the house. Cash to paythe haymakers idling about in the sheds out of the rain; cash topay the men who manage the milk; cash to pay the woman who makesthe cheese out of the surplus milk; cash to pay the blacksmith forcontinually re-shoeing the milk cart nags and for mending machines;cash to pay the brewer and the butcher and the baker, neither ofwhom took a sovereign here when he was a lad, for his father atehis own bacon, brewed his own beer, and baked his own bread; cashto pay for the education of the cottagers' children; cash, a greatdeal of cash, to pay the landlord.

Mr. George, having had enough of his accounts, rises and goes tothe window. A rain cloud sweeping along the distant hills hashidden them from sight, and the rack hurries overhead driven beforethe stormy wind. There comes a knock at the door. It is thecollector calling the second time for the poor rates, which havegrown heavier of late.

But, however delayed, the haymaking is finished at last, andby-and-by, when the leaves have fallen and the hunting commences, agood run drives away for the time at least the memory of sounpropitious a season. Then Mr. George some mild morning forms oneof a little group of well-mounted farmers waiting at a quiet cornerwhile the hounds draw a great wood. Two of them are men long pastmiddle age, whose once tawny beards are grizzled, but who are stillgame, perhaps more so than the rising generation. The rest havefollowed them here, aware that these old hands know every inch ofthe country, and are certain to be in the right place. The spot isnot far from the park wall, where the wood runs up into awedge-shaped point, and ends in a low mound and hedge. Most of thecompany at the meet in the park have naturally cantered across thelevel sward, scattering the sheep as they go, and are now assembledalong the side of the wood, near where a green 'drive' goes throughit, and apparently gives direct access to the fields beyond. Fromthence they can see the huntsman in the wood occasionally, andtrace the exact course the hounds are taking in their search.

A gallant show it is by the wood! Horsem*n and horsewomen, latecomers hastening up, restless horses, a throng for ever in motion,and every now and then the blast of a horn rising up from the treesbeneath. A gallant show indeed, but two old cunning ones and theirfollowers have slipped away down to this obscure corner where theycan see nothing of it, and are themselves hidden. They know thatthe wood is triangular in shape, and that from this, the apex, theyhave merely to pass the low hedge in front, and, turning to theleft, ride along the lower side, and so bisect the course the foxwill probably take. They know that the 'drive,' which offers sostraight and easy a descent through the wood from the park, ispleasant enough till the lower ground is reached. There the soft,oozy earth, which can never dry under the trees, is poached into aslough through which even timber carriages cannot be drawn. Nor cana horseman slip aside, because of the ash poles and thorn thickets.Those who are trapped there must return to the park and gallop allround the wood outside, unless they like to venture a roll in thatliquid mud. Any one can go to a meet, but to know all thepeculiarities of the covers is only given to those who have riddenover the country these forty years. In this corner a detached copseof spruce fir keeps off the wind—the direction of which theyhave noted—and in this shelter it is almost warm.

The distant crack of a whip, the solitary cry of a hound, ahollow shout, and similar sounds, come frequently, and now and thenthere is an irrepressible stir in the little group as they hear oneof the many false alarms that always occur in drawing a great wood.To these noises they are keenly sensitive, but utterly ignore thesigns of other life around them. A pheasant, alarmed by the hounds,comes running quietly, thinking to escape into the line of isolatedcopses that commences here; but, suddenly confronted by thehorsem*n just outside, rises with an uproar, and goes sailing downover the fields. Two squirrels, happy in the mild weather, friskout of the copse into the dank grass, till a curvet of one of thehorses frightens them up into the firs again.

Horses and men are becoming impatient. 'That dalled keeper hasleft an earth open,' remarks one of the riders. His companionpoints with his whip at the hedge just where it joins the wood. Along slender muzzle is thrust for a moment cautiously over the baresandy mound under cover of a thorn stole. One sniff, and it iswithdrawn. The fox thought also to steal away along the copses, theworst and most baffling course he could choose. Five minutesafterwards, and there is this time no mistake. There comes from thepark above the low, dull, rushing roar of hundreds of hoofs, thatstrike the sward together, and force by sheer weight the reluctantearth to resound. The two old hands lead over the hedge, and thelittle company, slipping along below the wood, find themselves wellon the track, far in front of the main body. There is a block inthe treacherous 'drive,' those who where foremost struggling to getback, and those behind struggling to come down. The rest at last,learning the truth, are galloping round the outside, and taking itout of their horses before they get on the course at all.

It is a splendid burst, and the pace is terrible. The farmers'powerful horses find it heavy going across the fresh ploughedfurrows and the wet 'squishey' meadows, where the double moundscannot be shirked. Now a lull, and the two old hands, a little atfault, make for the rising ground, where are some ricks, and athreshing machine at work, thinking from thence to see over thetall hedgerows. Upon the rick the labourers have stopped work, andare eagerly watching the chase, for from that height they can seethe whole field. Yonder the main body have found a succession offields with the gates all open: some carting is in progress, andthe gates have been left open for the carter's convenience. Ahundred horsem*n and eight or ten ladies are galloping in anextended line along this route, riding hardest, as often happens,when the hounds are quiet, that they may be ready when the chidingcommences.

Suddenly the labourers exclaim and point, the hounds open, andthe farmers, knowing from the direction they point where to ride,are off. But this time the fox has doubled, so that the squadronsh*therto behind are now closest up, and the farmers in the rear:thus the fortune of war changes, and the race is not to the swift.The labourers on the rick, which stands on the side of a hill, arefully as excited as the riders, and they can see what the hunterhimself rarely views, i.e. the fox slipping ahead before thehounds. Then they turn to alternately laugh at, and shoutdirections to a disconsolate gentleman, who, ignorant of thedistrict, is pounded in a small meadow. He is riding franticallyround and round, afraid to risk the broad brook which encircles it,because of the treacherous bank, and maddened by the receding soundof the chase. A boy gets off the rick and runs to earn sixpence byshowing a way out. So from the rick Hodge has his share of thesport, and at that elevation can see over a wide stretch of whathe—changing the 'd' into a 'j'—calls 'the juke'scountry.'

It is a famous land. There are spaces, which on the map looklarge, and yet have no distinctive character, no individuality asit were. Such broad expanses of plain and vale are usefullyemployed in the production of cattle and corn. Villages, hamlets,even towns are dotted about them, but a list of such places wouldnot contain a single name that would catch the eye. Thoughoccupying so many square miles, the district, so far as the worldis concerned, is non-existent. It is socially a blank. But 'thejuke's country' is a well-known land. There are names connectedwith it which are familiar not only in England, but all the worldover, where men—and where do they not?—converse ofsport. Something beyond mere utility, beyond ploughing and sowing,has given it within its bounds a species of separate nationality.The personal influence of an acknowledged leader has organisedsociety and impressed it with a quiet enthusiasm. Even thebitterest Radical forgives the patrician who shoots or ridesexceptionally well, and hunting is a pursuit which brings the peerand the commoner side by side.

The agricultural population speak as one man upon the subject.The old farmer will tell you with pride how his advice was soughtwhen disease entered the kennels, and how his remedy saved thelives of valuable hounds. The farmer's son, a mere lad, whose headbarely rises to his saddle, talks of 'the duke' as his hero. Thisboy knows the country, and can ride straight, better than many agentleman with groom and second horse behind. Already, like hiselders, he looks forward impatiently to the fall of the leaf. Thetenants' wives and daughters allude with pleasure to the annualsocial gatherings at the mansion, and it is apparent that somethinglike a real bond exists between landlord and tenant. No false prideseparates the one from the other—intercourse is easy, for aman of high and ancient lineage can speak freely to the humblestlabourer without endangering his precedence. It needs none of theparvenu's hauteur and pomp to support his dignity. Everytenant is treated alike.

On small estates there is sometimes a complaint that the largesttenant is petted while the lesser are harshly treated. Nothing ofthat is known here. The tenants are as well content as it ispossible for men to be who are passing under the universaldepression. Noblesse oblige—it would be impossible forthat ancient house to stoop to meanness. The head rides to thehunt, as his ancestors rode to battle, with a hundred horsem*nbehind him. His colours are like the co*ckades of olden times. Oncenow and then even Royalty honours the meet with its presence. Roundthat ancient house the goodwill of the county gathers; and when anyfamily event—as a marriage—takes place, the heartycongratulations offered come from far beyond the actual property.His pastime is not without its use—all are agreed thathunting really does improve the breed of horses. Certainly it givesa life, a go, a social movement to the country which nothing elseimparts.

It is a pleasant land withal—a land of hill and vale, ofwood and copse. How well remembered are the copses on the hills,and the steeples, those time-honoured landmarks to wanderingriders! The small meadows with double mounds have held captive manya stranger. The river that winds through them enters by-and-by asmall but ancient town, with its memories of the fierce Danes, andits present talk of the hunt. About five o'clock on winterafternoons there is a clank of spurs in the courtyard of the oldinn, and the bar is crowded with men in breeches and top-boots. Asthey refresh themselves there is a ceaseless hum of conversation,how so-and-so came a cropper, how another went at the brook instyle, or how some poor horse got staked and was mercifully shot. Atalk, in short, like that in camp after a battle, of wounds andglory. Most of these men are tenant farmers, and reference is sureto be made to the price of cheese, and the forthcoming localagricultural show.

This old market town has been noted for generations as a greatcheese centre. It is not, perhaps, the most convenient situationfor such a market, and its population is inconsiderable; but thetrade is, somehow or other, a tradition of the place, andtraditions are hard to shake. Efforts have been made to establishrival markets in towns nearer to the modern resorts of commerce,but in vain. The attempt has always proved a failure, and to thisday the prices quoted at this place rule those of the adjoiningcounties, and are watched in distant cities. The depression madeitself felt here in a very practical manner, for prices fell tosuch an extent that the manufacture of the old style of cheesebecame almost a dead loss. Some farmers abandoned it, and at muchtrouble and expense changed their system, and began to produceCheddar and Stilton. But when the Stilton was at last ready, therewas no demand for it. Almost suddenly, however, and quite recently,a demand sprang up, and the price of that cheese rose. They sayhere in the bar that this probably saved many from difficulties;large stocks that had been lying on hand unsaleable for monthsgoing off at a good price. They hope that it is an omen ofreturning prosperity, and do not fail to observe the remarkableillustration it affords of the close connection between trade andagriculture. For no sooner did the iron trade revive than the priceof cheese responded. The elder men cannot refrain from chucklingover the altered tone of the inhabitants of cities towards thefarmers. 'Years ago,' they say, 'we were held up to scorn, and toldthat we were quite useless; there was nothing so contemptible asthe British farmer. Now they have discovered that, after all, weare some good, and even Manchester sympathises with us.'

It is now hoped that the forthcoming local show—largelypatronised and promoted by the chief of the huntingfield—will be better than was at one time anticipated. Thosewho would like to see the real working of an agricultural show suchas this should contrive to visit the yard early in the morning ofthe opening day, some few hours before the public are admitted. Thebustle, the crash of excited exhibitors, the cries of men in chargeof cattle, the apparently inextricable confusion, as if everythinghad been put off to the last moment—the whole scene isintensely agricultural. Every one is calling for the secretary. Adrover wants to know where to put his fat cattle; a carter wants toask where a great cart-horse is to stand—he and his horsetogether are hopelessly floundering about in the crowd. The agentof a firm of implement manufacturers has a telegram that anothermachine is coming, and is anxious for extra space; therepresentative of an artificial manure factory is vainly seeking aparcel that has got mislaid. The seedsman requires permission tosomewhat shift his stall; wherever is the secretary?

When he appears, a clergyman at once pounces on him to apply fortickets for the dinner, and is followed by a farmer, who must havea form and an explanation how to fill it up. One of his labourershas decided at the last minute to enter for a prize—he hashad a year to make up his mind in. A crowd of members of theSociety are pushing round for a private view, and watching thejudges at their work. They all turn to the secretary to ask wheresuch and such an exhibit may be found, and demand why on earth thecatalogues are not ready? Mr. Secretary, a stout tenant farmer, inbreeches and top-boots, whose broad face beams with good nature(selected, perhaps, for that very quality), pants and wipes hisforehead, for, despite the cold, the exertion and the universalflurry have made him quiet hot. He gives every inquirer a civilanswer, and affably begs the eager folk that press upon him to comeup into the committee-room.

At this a satisfied smile replaces the troubled expression upontheir faces. They feel that their difficulties are at an end; theyhave got hold of the right man at last—there is somethingsoothing in the very sound of the committee-room. When they get upinto this important apartment they find it quite empty. There is ablazing fire in the grate, and littered on the long table is a massof forms, letters, lists, and proofs of the catalogue waiting forthe judges' decision to be entered. After half an hour or so theirhopes begin to fall, and possibly some one goes down to try andhaul the secretary up into his office. The messenger finds thatmuch-desired man in the midst of an excited group; one has him bythe arm pulling him forward, another by the coat dragging him back,a third is bawling at him at the top of a powerful voice.

By-and-by, however, the secretary comes panting up into thecommittee-room with a letter in his hand and a pleased expressionon his features. He announces that he has just had a note from hisGrace, who, with his party, will be here early, and who hopes thatall is going on well. Then to business, and it is surprising howquickly he disposes of it. A farmer himself, he knows exactly whatis wanted, and gives the right order without a moment's hesitation.It is no new experience to him, and despite all this apparentconfusion, everything presently falls into its place.

After the opening of the show there is a meeting, at whichcertain prizes are distributed, among them rewards to the bestploughman in 'the juke's country,' and to those labourers who haveremained longest in the service of one master. For the gracefulduty of presentation a marchioness has been selected, who, withother visitors of high social rank, has come over from that famoushunting mansion. To meet that brilliant party the wholeagricultural interest has assembled. The room is crowded withtenant farmers, the entire hunting field is present. Everyclergyman in the district is here, together with the gentry, andmany visitors for the hunting season. Among them, shoulder toshoulder, are numbers of agricultural labourers, their wives, anddaughters, dressed in their best for the occasion. After somespeeches, a name is called, and an aged labourer steps forward.

His grandchildren are behind him; two of his sons, quite elderlythemselves, attend him almost to the front, so that he may have tomake but a few steps unsupported. The old man is frosted with age,and moves stiffly, like a piece of mechanism rather than a livingcreature, nor is there any expression—neither smile norinterest—upon his absolutely immobile features. He wearsbreeches and gaiters, and a blue coat cut in the style of twogenerations since. There is a small clear space in the midst of thewell-dressed throng. There he stands, and for the moment the hum ishushed.

For sixty years that old man laboured upon one farm; sixty yearsof ploughing and sowing, sixty harvests. What excitement, whatdiscoveries and inventions—with what giant strides the worldhas progressed while he quietly followed the plough! Anacknowledgment has been publicly awarded to him for that long andfaithful service. He puts forth his arm; his dry, horny fingers arecrooked, and he can neither straighten nor bend them. Not the leastsign appears upon his countenance that he is even conscious of whatis passing. There is a quick flash of jewelled rings ungloved tothe light, and the reward is placed in that claw-like grasp by thewhite hand of the marchioness.

Not all the gallant cavalry of the land fearlessly charginghedge and brook can, however, repel the invasion of a foe mightierthan their chief. Frost sometimes comes and checks their gaiety.Snow falls, and levels every furrow, and then Hodge going to hiswork in the morning can clearly trace the track of one of his mostpowerful masters, Squire Reynard, who has been abroad in the night,and, likely enough, throttled the traditional grey goose. Thefarmer watches for the frozen thatch to drip; the gentlemanvisiting the stable looks up disconsolately at the iciclesdependent from the slated eave with the same hope. The sight of astray seagull wandering inland is gladly welcomed, as the harbingerof drenching clouds sweeping up on soft south-westerly gales fromthe nearest coast.

The hunt is up once more, and so short are the hours of the dayin the dead of the year, that early night often closes round thechase. From out of the gloom and the mist comes the distant note ofthe horn, with a weird and old-world sound. By-and-by the labourer,trudging homeward, is overtaken by a hunter whose horse's neckdroops with weariness. His boots are splashed with mud, his coattorn by the thorns. He is a visitor, vainly trying to find his wayhome, having come some ten or fifteen miles across country sincethe morning. The labourer shows the route—the longest wayround is the shortest at night—and as they go listens eagerlyto the hunter's tale of the run. At the cross roads they part withmutual goodwill towards each other, and a shilling, easily earned,pays that night for the cottager's pipe and glass of ale.

Footnotes:

Animprovement upon this system has been introduced by the leadingmetropolitian dairy company. The farmer is asked to fix a minimumquantity which he will engage to supply daily, but he can send asmuch more as he likes. This permits of economical and naturalmanagement in a dairy, which was very difficult under the rigidrule mentioned above.

CHAPTER IX

THE FINE LADY FARMER. COUNTRY GIRLS

A pair of well-matched bays in silver-plated harness, and driven bya coachman in livery, turn an easy curve round a corner of thenarrow country road, forcing you to step on the sward by thecrimson-leaved bramble bushes, and sprinkling the dust over thepreviously glossy surface of the newly fallen horse chestnuts. Twoladies, elegantly dressed, lounge in the carriage with thatgraceful idleness—that indifferent indolence—only to beacquired in an atmosphere of luxury. Before they pass out of sightround another turn of the road it is possible to observe that oneat least possesses hair of the fashionable hue, and a complexiondelicately brilliant—whether wholly natural or partly aidedby art. The other must be pronounced a shade less rich in thecolours of youth, but is perhaps even more expensively dressed. Anexperienced observer would at once put them down as mother anddaughter, as, indeed, they are.

The polished spokes of the wheels glitter in the sun, the hoofsof the high-stepping pair beat the firm road in regular cadence,and smoothly the carriage rolls on till the brown beech at thecorner hides it. But a sense of wealth, of social station, andrefinement—strange and in strong contrast to the rusticscene—lingers behind, like a faint odour of perfume. Thereare the slow teams pulling stolidly at the ploughs—they werestopped, of course, for the carters to stare at the equipage; thereare the wheat ricks; yonder a lone farmstead, and black cattlegrazing in the pasture. Surely the costly bays, whose hoofs mayeven now be heard, must belong to the lordly owner of these broadacres—this undulating landscape of grass and stubble, whichis not beautiful but evidently fertile!

A very brief inquiry at the adjacent market town disposes ofthis natural conclusion. It is the carriage of a tenantfarmer—but what a tenant! The shopkeepers here are eloquent,positively gratefully eloquent, in the praise of his wife anddaughter. Customers!—no such customers had been known in theold borough from time immemorial. The tradesman as he speaksinvoluntarily pulls out his till, glances in, and shuts it up witha satisfied bang. The old style of farmer, solid and substantialenough, fumbling at the bottom of his canvas bag for silver andgold, was a crusty curmudgeon where silk and satin, kid gloves, andso forth were concerned. His wife had to look sharp after herpoultry, geese and turkeys, and such similar perquisites, in orderto indulge in any innocent vanity, notwithstanding that the rentwas paid and a heavy balance at the bank.

Then he would have such a length of credit—a year atleast—and nowadays a shopkeeper, though sure of his money,cannot wait long for it. But to ask for the account was to givemortal offence. The bill would be paid with the remark, intended tobe intensely sarcastic, 'Suppose you thought we was a-going to runaway—eh?' and the door would never again be darkened by thoseantique breeches and gaiters. As for the common run of ordinaryfarmers, their wives bought a good deal, but wanted it cheap and,looking at the low price of corn and the 'paper' there was floatingabout, it did not do to allow a long bill to be run up. But theGrange people—ah! the Grange people put some life into theplace. 'Money! they must have heaps of money' (lowering his voiceto a whisper). 'Why, Mrs. —— brought him a fortune,sir; why, she's got a larger income than our squire' (as if itwere, rank treason to say so). 'Mr. —— has got moneytoo, and bless you, they holds their heads as high as theirlandlord's, and good reason they should. They spend as much in aweek as the squire do in a month, and don't cheapen nothing, andyour cheque just whenever you like to ask for it. That's what Icalls gentlefolks.' For till and counter gauge long descent, andheraldic quarterings, and ancestral Crusaders, far below the chinkof ready money, that synonym for all the virtues.

The Grange people, indeed, are so conspicuous, that there islittle secrecy about them or their affairs. The house they residein—it cannot be called a farmstead—is a largevilla-like mansion of recent erection, and fitted with every modernconvenience. The real farmstead which it supplanted lies in ahollow at some distance, and is occupied by the head bailiff, forthere are several employed. As the architecture of the villa isconsonant with modern 'taste,' so too the inferior is furnished inthe 'best style,' of course under the supervision of the mistress.Mrs. —— has filled it with rosewood and ormolu, withchairs completely gilt, legs, back, seat, and all, with luxuriousottomans, 'occasional' tables inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, softcarpets, polished brazen grate-fittings, semi-ecclesiastical,semi-mediæval, and so forth.

Everywhere the glitter of glass, mirrors over the mantelpieces,mirrors let into panels, glass chiffoniers, and pendent prisms ofglass round the ornamental candlesticks. Mixed with this some ofthe latest productions of the new English Renaissance—stiff,straight-back, plain oak chairs, such as men in armour may haveused—together with Japanese screens. In short, just such amedley of artistic styles as may be seen in scores of suburbanvillas where money is of little account, and even in houses ofhigher social pretensions. There is the usual illustrateddining-room literature, the usual bric-à-brac, theusual cabinet series of poets. There are oil paintings on thewalls; there is an immense amount of the most expensiveelectroplate on the dinner table; the toilet accessories in theguest chambers are 'elegant' and recherché. Theupholsterer has not been grudged.

For Mrs. —— is the daughter of a commercial man, oneof the principals of a great firm, and has been accustomed to thesethings from her youth upwards. She has no sympathies with the past,that even yet is loth to quit its hold of the soil and of those whoare bred upon it. The ancient simplicity and plainness of countrylife are positively repulsive to her; she associates them withpoverty. Her sympathies are with warm, well-lighted rooms, full ofcomfort, shadowless because of the glare of much gas. She is notvulgar, just the reverse—she is a thorough lady, but she isnot of the country and its traditions. She is the city and thesuburb transplanted to the midst of corn, and grass, and cattle.She has her maid, skilled in the toilet, her carriage and pair andpony carriage, grooms, footmen, just exactly as she would have donehad she brought her magnificent dowry to a villa at Sydenham.

In the season, with her daughter, she goes to town, and drivesdaily in the park, just the same as to-day she has driven throughthe leaf-strewn country-lane to the market town. They go also tothe sea-side, and now and then to the Continent. They are, ofcourse, invited to the local balls, and to many of the best houseson more private occasions. The ramifications of finance do notexcept the proudest descendants of the Crusaders, and the 'firm'has its clients even among them. Bonnets come down from MadameLouise, boxes of novels from Mudie's; 'Le Follet' is read in theoriginal, and many a Parisian romance as well. Visitors arecontinually coming and going—the carriage is perpetuallybackwards and forwards to the distant railway station. Friends cometo the shooting, the hunting, the fishing; there is never any lackof society.

The house is full of servants, and need be, to wait upon thesepeople. Now, in former days, and not such a great while since, thebest of servants came from the country. Mistresses sought for them,and mourned when, having imbibed town ways and town independence,they took their departure to 'better' themselves. But that is athing of the past; it is gone with the disappearance of the oldstyle of country life. Servant girls in farmhouses when young usedto have a terribly hard life: hard work, hard fare, up early of amorning, stone flags under foot by day, bare boards under footupstairs, small pay, and hard words too often. But they turned outthe best of women, the healthiest and strongest, the most soughtafter. Now they learn a great deal about Timbuctoo, and will soon,no doubt, about Cyprus; but the 'servant from the country' is nomore. Nothing less will suit them to begin with than the service ofthe parish clergyman, then they aspire to the Grange, get there,and receive a finishing education, and can never afterwardscondescend to go where a footman is not kept. They become, inshort, fine ladies, whose fathers are still at theplough—ladies who at home have been glad of bread and bacon,and now cannot possibly survive without hot butcher's meat everyday, and game and fish in their seasons.

But to return. Mrs. —— and her daughter have alsotheir saddle horses. They do not often hunt, but frequently go tothe meet. They have, it is true, an acceptable excuse forpreferring riding to walking—the fashion of tying the dressback so tightly makes it extremely difficult for a lady to get overa country stile. The rigours of winter only enable them to appeareven yet more charming in furs and sealskin. In all this the Grangepeople have not laid themselves open to any reproach as to theextravagance or pretension of their doings. With them it isgenuine, real, unaffected: in brief, they have money, and have aright to what it can purchase.

Mr. —— is not a tenant farmer from necessity;personally he is not a farmer at all, and knows no more ofshorthorns than the veriest 'City' man. He has a certain taste forcountry life, and this is his way of enjoying it—and a veryacute way, too, when you come to analyse it. The major portion ofhis capital is, with his wife's, in the 'firm'; it is administeredand employed for him by men whose family interests and his areidentical, whose knowledge of business is profound, whose owncapital is there too. It is a fortunate state of things, notbrought about in a day, but the growth of more than one generation.Now this man, as has been remarked, has a taste for countrylife—that is to say, he is an enthusiast overhorses—not betting, but horses in their best form. He likesto ride and drive about, to shoot, and fish, and hunt. There isnothing despicable in this, but, after the manner of men, of coursehe must find an excuse.

He found it in the children when they were young—two boysand one girl. It was better for them to have country air, to rideabout the country lanes, and over the hills. The atmospherealtogether was more healthy, more manly than in the suburbs of acity. The excuse is a good one. Now come the means; two plans areopen to him. He can buy an estate, or he can rent a large farm, orrather series of farms. If he purchases a fine estate he mustwithdraw his capital from business. In the first place, that wouldbe inconvenient to old friends, and even unjust to them; in thesecond place, it would reduce his income most materially. Supposewe say, not for absolute exactness, but for the sake of presentcontrast, that capital well invested in business brings in ten percent. The same capital invested in land brings in, say, three percent. nominally; but is it as much in reality if you deduct thoseexpensive improvements upon which tenants insist nowadays, and thefive per cents, and ten per cents, allowed off the rent in badyears? At all events, it is certain that landlords, as a class, areinvesting more and more every year in business, which looks as ifthey did not consider land itself sufficiently remunerative. Inaddition, when you have bought your estate, should you subsequentlywish to realise, the difficulties and delays are very trying. Youcannot go down to your broker and say, 'Sell me a thousand acresthis morning.' Capital in land is locked up.

Mr. ——, having been trained in traditions of readymoney and easy transfer, does not like this prospect. But as thetenant of a great farm it is quite another matter. The larger partof his capital still remains in the 'firm,' and earns him ahandsome income. That which is invested in stock, cattle, horses,implements, &c., is in a sense readily negotiable if ever heshould desire to leave. Instead of having to pet and pamperdiscontented tenants, his landlord has to pet and pamper him. Hehas, in fact, got the upper hand. There are plenty of landlords whowould be only too glad to get the rich Mr. —— to manureand deep-plough their lands; but there are comparatively few Mr.——'s whose rent-day payments can be implicitly reliedon. Mr. ——, in point of fact, gets all the sweets ofthe country gentleman's life, and leaves the owner all the sour. Hehas no heir presumptive to check his proceedings; no law of entailto restrain him; no old settlements to bind him hand and foot; noneof those hundred and one family interests to consult whichaccumulate in the course of years around a landed estate, and soseriously curtail the freedom of the man in possession, the head ofthe family. So far as liberty and financial considerations go, heis much better off than his landlord, who perhaps has a title.Though he knows nothing of farming, he has the family instinct ofaccounts and figures; he audits the balance-sheets and books of hisbailiff personally, and is not easily cheated. Small peculations ofcourse go on, but nothing serious. The farms pay their way, andcontribute a trifle towards the household expenses. For the rest,it is taken out in liberty, out-of-door life, field sports, andunlimited horses. His wife and daughter mix in the best society thecounty affords, besides their annual visits to town and thesea-side: they probably enjoy thrice the liberty and pleasure theywould elsewhere. Certainly they are in blooming health. The eldestson is studying for the law, the younger has the commercialinstinct more strongly developed, and is already with the 'firm.'Both of them get the full benefit of country life whenever theywish; both of them feel that there is plenty of capital behindthem, and not the slightest jealousy exists on account ofprimogeniture. Of course they have their troubles—what familyhas not its troubles?—but on the whole their position is anenviable one.

When Mrs. —— and her daughter rustle into their pewat church—placed next in honour to that of the proprietor ofthe soil—all eyes are turned upon them. The old-fashionedfarmer's wife, who until her years pressed heavily upon her madethe cheese and butter in her husband's dairy, is not so old butthat her eyes can distinguish the colour of a ribbon. She may talkof such things as vanities, and unknown in her day, but for allthat a pair of keen eyes criticise skirt, and trimmings, andbraidings, and so forth, as displayed up in the Grange pew. Herdaughter, who is quite young—for in her mother's time farmingpeople did not marry till late in life—brings a still keenerpair of eyes to bear in the same direction.

The bonnets from Regent Street are things to think over and talkof. The old lady disinters her ancient finery; the girl, by hook orcrook, is determined to dress in the fashion. If one farmer's wifeis a fine lady, why not another? Do not even the servant girls atthe Grange come out twenty times finer than people who have acanvas bag full of sovereigns at home, and many such bags at thebank? So that the Grange people, though they pay their wayhandsomely, and plough deep and manure lavishly, and lead the vanof agriculture, are not, perhaps, an unmixed good. They help onthat sapping and undermining of the ancient, sturdy simplicity, thesolid oak of country character, replacing it with veneer. It isnot, of course, all, or a tenth part, their fault, or in any waytraceable to them. It is part and parcel of the wide-spread socialchanges which have gradually been proceeding.

But the tenant farmer's wife who made the butter and cheese, andeven helped to salt bacon, where is she now? Where are the healthydaughters that used to assist her? The wife is a finelady—not, indeed, with carriage and pair, but with a dandydog-cart at least; not with three-guinea bonnets, but with a costlysealskin jacket. There are kid gloves on her hands; there is asuspicion of perfume about her; there is a rustling of silk andsatin, and a waving of ostrich feathers. The daughter is pale andinteresting, and interprets Beethoven, and paints the old mill;while a skilled person, hired at a high price, rules in the dairy.The son rides a-hunting, and is glib on the odds. The'offices'—such it is the fashion to call the places in whichwork was formerly done—are carefully kept in the background.The violets and snowdrops and crocuses are rooted up, all the sweetand tender old flowers ruthlessly eradicated, to make way for ablazing parterre after the manner of the suburban villa—gayin the summer, in the spring a wilderness of clay, in the autumn ahowling desert of musty evergreens..

The 'civilisation' of the town has, in fact, gone out and takenroot afresh in the country. There is no reason why the farmershould not be educated; there is no reason why his wife should notwear a sealskin jacket, or the daughter interpret Beethoven. Butthe question arises, Has not some of the old stubborn spirit ofearnest work and careful prudence gone with the advent of the pianoand the oil painting? While wearing the dress of a lady, the wifecannot tuck up her sleeves and see to the butter, or even feed thepoultry, which are down at the pen across 'a nasty dirty field.' Itis easy to say that farming is gone to the dogs, that corn is low,and stock uncertain, and rents high, and so forth. All that istrue, but difficulties are nothing new; nor must too much beexpected from the land.

A moderate-sized farm, of from 200 to 800 acres, will no moreenable the mistress and the misses to play the fine lady to-daythan it would two generations ago. It requires work now the same asthen—steady, persevering work—and, what is moreimportant, prudence, economy, parsimony if you like; nor do thesenecessarily mean the coarse manners of a former age. Manners may begood, education may be good, the intellect and even the artisticsense may be cultivated, and yet extravagance avoided. The proverbis true still: 'You cannot have your hare and cook him too.' Now somany cook their hares in the present day without even waiting tocatch them first. A euphuism has been invented to cover thewrongfulness of this system; it is now called 'discounting.' Thefine lady farmers discount their husbands' corn and fat cattle,cheese and butter, before they reach the market. By-and-by theplough stops in the furrow, and the team is put up to auction, andfarewell is said to the old homestead for evermore.

There was no warmer welcome to be met with in life than used tobe bestowed upon the fortunate visitor to an old house in thecountry where the people were not exactly farmers in the ordinarysense, because they were sufficiently well off to be independent,and yet made no pretence to gentility. You dropped in quiteunexpectedly and informally after a pleasant stroll about thefields with a double-barrel, untrammelled by any attendant. Thedogs were all over cleavers sticking to their coats, and your bootshad to be wiped with a wisp of straw; your pocket was heavy with acouple of rabbits or a hare, and your hands black enough frompowder and handling gates and stiles. But they made you feelimmediately that such trifles were not of the slightestaccount.

The dogs were allowed to rush in anyhow and set to work to licktheir paws by the fire as if the house was their own. Your apologyabout your boots and general state of disorder was received with asmile by the mistress, who said she had sons of her own, and knewtheir ways. Forthwith one sturdy son seized the double-barrel, andconveyed it to a place of safety; a second took the rabbits or thehare, that you might not be incommoded by such a lump in yourpocket, and sent the game on home to your quarters by a labourer; athird relieved you of your hat. As many tall young ladies rose tooffer you a seat, so that it was really difficult to know which wayto turn, besides which the old grandfather with silvery hairpressed you to take his chair by the fire.

They had just sat down to the old-fashioned tea at half-pastfour, and in a moment there was a cup and plate ready. The tea hada fragrant scent, warm and grateful after the moist atmosphere ofthe meadows, smelling of decaying leaves. The mistress suggestedthat a nip of brandy might improve it, thinking that tea was hardlystrong enough for a man. But that was, declined; for what could bemore delicious than the sweet, thick cream poured in by a liberalhand? A fine ham had already been put on the table, as if bymagic—the girls really seemed to anticipate everything youcould possibly want. As for the butter, it was exquisite, and so,too, the home-baked bread, the more so, because only touched in theprocesses of preparing by the whitest and softest of hands. Suchsimple things become luxuries when brought to perfection by lovingcare. The old dog on the hearthrug came thrusting his nose intoyour hands, making almost too great friends, being perfectly wellaware (cunning old fellow) that he could coax more out of a visitorthan one of the family, who knew how he had stuffed all day.

Over all there was an atmosphere of welcome, a genialbrightness. The young men were anxious to tell you where the bestsport could be got. The young ladies had a merry, genuine,unaffected smile—clearly delighted to see you, and not in theleast ashamed of it. They showed an evident desire to please,without a trace of an arriére pensée. Tall,well-developed, in the height of good health, the bloom upon thecheek and the brilliant eyes formed a picture irresistiblycharming. But it was the merry laugh that so long dwelt in thememory—nothing so thoroughly enchants one as the woman wholaughs from her heart in the joyousness of youth. They joinedfreely in the conversation, but did not thrust themselves forward.They were, of course, eager for news of the far away world, but nota hint was breathed of those social scandals which now form ourfavourite gossip. From little side remarks concerning domesticmatters it was evident that they were well acquainted withhousehold duties. Indeed, they assisted to remove the things fromthe table without any consciousness that it was a menial task.

It was not long after tea before, drawing round the fire, pipeswere produced, and you were asked to smoke. Of course you declinedon account of the ladies, but it was none the less pleasant to beasked. There was the great secret of it all-the genuine, liberal,open-handed and open-hearted proffering of all the house containedto the guest. And it was none the less an amusing conversationbecause each of the girls candidly avowed her own opinions uponsuch topics as were started—blushing a little, it is true, ifyou asked the reason for the opinion, for ladies are not alwaysquite ready with the why and wherefore. But the contrast ofcharacter, the individuality displayed, gave a zest and interest tothe talk; so that the hour wore late before you were aware of it.Then, if you would go, two, at least, of the three boys piloted youby the best and cleanest route, and did not wish you farewell tillyou were in the straight road. This was not so many years ago.

Today, if you call at such a country house, how strangelydifferent is the reception! None of the family come to the door tomeet you. A servant shows you into a parlour—drawing-room isthe proper word now—well carpeted and furnished in the modernstyle. She then takes your name—what a world of change isshown in that trifling piece of etiquette! By-and-by, after theproper interval, the ladies enter in morning costume, not a straycurl allowed to wander from its stern bands, nature rigidlyrepressed, decorum—'Society'—in every flounce andtrimming. You feel that you have committed a solecism coming onfoot, and so carrying the soil on your boots from the fieldswithout into so elegant an apartment Visitors are obviouslyexpected to arrive on wheels, and in correct trim for company. Aremark about the crops falls on barren ground; a questionconcerning the dairy, ignorantly hazarded, is received with so muchhauteur that at last you see such subjects are consideredvulgar. Then a touch of the bell, and decanters of port and sherryare produced and our wine presented to you on an electro salvertogether with sweet biscuits. It is the correct thing to sip oneglass and eat one biscuit.

The conversation is so insipid, so entirely confined to themerest platitudes, that it becomes absolutely a relief to escape.You are not pressed to stay and dine, as you would have been in theold days—not because there is a lack of hospitality, butbecause they would prefer a little time for preparation in orderthat the dinner might be got up in polite style. So youdepart—chilled and depressed. No one steps with you to openthe gate and exchange a second farewell, and express a cordial wishto see you again there. You feel that you must walk in measuredstep and place your hat precisely perpendicular, for the eyes of'Society' are upon you. What a comfort when you turn a cornerbehind the hedge and can thrust your hands into your pockets andwhistle!

The young ladies, however, still possess one thing which theycannot yet destroy—the good constitution and the rosy lookderived from ancestors whose days were spent in the field under theglorious sunshine and the dews of heaven. They worry themselvesabout it in secret and wish they could appear moreladylike—i.e. thin and white. Nor can they feel quite solanguid and indifferent, and blasé as they desire.Thank Heaven they cannot! But they have succeeded in obliteratingthe faintest trace of character, and in suppressing the slightestapproach to animation. They have all got just the same opinions onthe same topics—that is to say, they have none at all; theidea of a laugh has departed. There is a dead line of uniformity.But if you are sufficiently intimate to enter into the inner lifeof the place it will soon be apparent that they either are or wishto appear up to the 'ways of the world.'

They read the so-called social journals, and absorb the gossip,tittle-tattle, and personalities—absorb it because they haveno means of comparison or of checking the impression it produces ofthe general loose tone of society. They know all about it, muchmore than you do. No turn of the latest divorce case or greatsocial exposure has escaped them, and the light, careless way inwhich it is the fashion nowadays to talk openly of such things, asif they were got up like a novel—only with livingcharacters—for amusem*nt, has penetrated into this distantcircle. But then they have been to half the leadingwatering-places—from Brighton to Scarborough; as for London,it is an open book to them; the railways have long dissipated thepleasing mysteries that once hung over the metropolis. Talk of thissort is, of course, only talk; still it is not a satisfactory signof the times. If the country girl is no longer the hoyden thatswung on the gates and romped in the hay, neither has she theinnocent thought of the olden days.

At the same time our friends are greatly devoted to theChurch—old people used to attend on Sundays as a sacred andtime honoured duty, but the girls leave them far behind, for theydrive up in a pony carriage to the distant church at least twice aweek besides. They talk of matins and even-song; they are full ofvestments, and have seen 'such lovely things' in that line. AtChristmas and Easter they are mainly instrumental in decorating theinterior till it becomes perfectly gaudy with colour, and the oldfolk mutter and shake their heads. Their devotion in gettinghothouse flowers is quite touching. One is naturally inclined tolook with a liberal eye upon what is capable of a goodconstruction. But is all this quite spontaneous? Has the new curatenothing at all to do with it? Is it not considered rather thecorrect thing to be 'High' in views, and even to manifest anUltramontane tendency? There is a rather too evident determinationto go to the extreme—the girls are clearly bent uponthrusting themselves to the very front of the parish, so that noone shall be talked of but the Misses ——. Anything isseized upon, that will afford an opening for posing before theworld of the parish, whether it be an extreme fashion in dress orin ritual.

And the parish is splitting up into social cliques. These girls,the local leaders of fashion, hold their heads far above thosefarmers' sons who bear a hand in the field. No one is eligible whotakes a share in manual work: not even to be invited to the house,or even to be acknowledged if met in the road. The Misses——, whose papa is well-to-do, and simply rides round onhorseback to speak to the men with his steam-plough, could notpossibly demean themselves to acknowledge the existence of theyoung men who actually handle a fork in the haymaking time. Nothingless than the curate is worthy of their smile. A very great changehas come over country society in this way. Of course, men (andwomen) with money were always more eligible than those without; butit is not so very long ago that one and all—well-to-do andpoor—had one bond in common. Whether they farmed large orsmall acres, all worked personally. There was no disgrace in thetouch of the plough—rather the contrary; now it iscontamination itself.

The consequence is that the former general goodwill andacquaintanceship is no more. There are no friendly meetings; thereis a distinct social barrier between the man and the woman wholabours and the one who does not. These fashionable young ladiescould not possibly even go into the hayfield because the sun wouldspoil their complexion, they refresh themselves with aëratedwaters instead. They could not possibly enter the dairy because itsmells so nasty. They would not know their father's teams if theymet them on the road. As for speaking to the workpeople—theidea would be too absurd!

Once on a time a lift in the waggon just across the wet turf tothe macadamised road—if it chanced to be going thatway—would have been looked upon as a fortunate thing. TheMisses —— would indeed stare if one of their papa'scarters touched his hat and suggested that they should get up. Theyhave a pony carriage and groom of their own. He drives themilk-cart to the railway station in the morning; in the afternoonhe dons the correct suit and drives the Misses —— intothe town to shopping. Now there exists a bitter jealousy betweenthe daughters of the tradesmen in the said town and these youngladies. There is a race between them as to which shall be first infashion and social rank. The Misses —— know very wellthat it galls their rivals to see them driving about so grandlyhalf the afternoon up and down the streets, and to see the biglocal people lift their hats, as the banker, with whom, of course,the large farmer has intimate dealings. All this is very little; onpaper it reads moan and contemptible: but in life it isreal—in life these littlenesses play a great part. The Misses—— know nothing of those long treasured recipesformerly handed down in old country houses, and never enter thekitchen. No doubt, if the fashion for teaching cooking presentlypenetrates into the parish, they will take a leading part, and withmuch show and blowing of trumpets instruct the cottager how to boilthe pot. Anything, in short, that happens to be the rage willattract them, but there is little that is genuine about them,except the eagerness for a new excitement.

What manner of men shall accept these ladies as their futurehelpmates? The tenant farmers are few and far between that couldsupport their expenditure upon dress, the servants they wouldrequire, and last, but not least, the waste which alwaysaccompanies ignorance in household management. Nor, indeed, do theylook for tenant farmers, but hope for something higher in thescale.

The Misses —— are fortunate in possessing a 'papa'sufficiently well-to-do to enable them to live in this manner. Butthere are hundreds of young ladies whose fathers have not got somuch capital in their farms, while what they have is perhapsborrowed. Of course these girls help cheerfully in the household,in the dairy, and so forth? No. Some are forced by necessity toassist in the household with unwilling hands: but few, indeed,enter the dairy. All dislike the idea of manual labour, thoughnever so slight. Therefore they acquire a smattering of knowledge,and go out as governesses. They earn but a small stipend in thatprofession, because they have rarely gone through a sufficientlystrict course of study themselves. But they would rather live withstrangers, accepting a position which is often invidious, than lifta hand to work at home, so great is the repugnance to manuallabour. These, again, have no domestic knowledge (beyond that ofteaching children), none of cooking, or general householdmanagement. If they marry a tenant farmer of their own class, withbut small capital, they are too often a burden financially. Whencecomes this intense dislike to hand work—this preference forthe worst paid head work? It is not confined, of course, to thegentler sex. No more striking feature of modern country life can befound.

You cannot blame these girls, whether poor or moderatelywell-to-do, for thinking of something higher, more refined andelevating than the cheese-tub or the kitchen. It is natural, and itis right, that they should wish to rise above that old, dull, deadlevel in which their mothers and grandmothers worked from youth toage. The world has gone on since then—it is a world ofeducation, books, and wider sympathies. In all this they must andought to share. The problem is how to enjoy the intellectualprogress of the century and yet not forfeit the advantages of thehand labour and the thrift of our ancestors? How shall we sit uplate at night, burning the midnight oil of study, and yet rise withthe dawn, strong from sweet sleep, to guide the plough? One goodthing must be scored down to the credit of the country girls of theday. They have done much to educate the men. They have shamed themout of the old rough, boorish ways; compelled them to abandon theformer coarseness, to become more gentlemanly in manner. By theirinterest in the greater world of society, literature, art, andmusic (more musical publications probably are now sold for thecountry in a month than used to be in a year), they have made thesomewhat narrow-sighted farmer glance outside his parish. If therising generation of tenant farmers have lost much of the bigotedprovincial mode of thought, together with the provincialpronunciation, it is undoubtedly due to the influence of the higherideal of womanhood that now occupies their minds. And this is agood work to have accomplished.

CHAPTER X

MADEMOISELLE, THE GOVERNESS

A country 'roadside' railway station seemed deserted upon a warmAugust afternoon. It was all but concealed on that level ground bythe hedges and trees of the fields with which it was surrounded.There was no sound of man or wheels, and nothing moving upon theplatform. On the low green banks of the rail, where the mast-liketelegraph poles stood, the broad leaves of the coltsfoot almostcovered the earth, and were dusty with the sand whirled up an hoursince behind the rushing express. By the footpath, higher up underthe close-cropped hedge, the yarrow flourished, lifting its whiteflower beside the trodden soil. The heavy boots of the platelayerswalking to and fro to their work on the permanent way brushedagainst it, and crushed the venturous fibres of the creepingcinquefoil that stretched into the path. From the yellow standingwheat the sparrows rose in a bevy, and settled upon the hedge,chirping merrily. Farther away, where a meadow had been latelymown, the swallows glided to and fro, but just above the shortgrass, round and round, under the shadow of the solitary oaks. Overthe green aftermath is the swallows' favourite haunt when the day,though passing fair, does not look like settled weather. For lackof such weather the reapers have not yet entered the ripening corn.

But, for the hour, the sun shines brightly, and a narrow linealong the upper surfaces of the metals, burnished by the polishingfriction of a thousand wheels, glints like silver under the rays.The red brick of the booking-office looks redder and more staringunder the fierce light. The door is locked, and there is nowaiting-room in which to take shelter; nothing but a projectingroof over a part of the platform. On the lintel is thestationmaster's name painted in small white letters, like the nameof the landlord over the doorway of an inn. Two corded boxes lie onthe platform, and near them stand half a dozen rusty milk tins,empty. With the exception of a tortoiseshell cat basking in thesunshine, there seems nothing living in the station, and the longendless rails stretching on either side in a straight line arevacant. For hours during the day the place slumbers, and apassenger gliding by in the express may well wonder why a stationwas built at all in the midst of trees and hedges without so muchas a single visible house.

But by night and very early in the morning there is bustleenough. Then the white painted cattle pen yonder, from which theanimals are forced into the cattle trucks, is full of frightenedbeasts, lowing doubtfully, and only goaded in by the resoundingblows upon their backs. Then the sheep file in in more patientranks, but also doubtful and bleating as they go. An engine snortsto and fro, shunting coal waggons on to the siding—coal forthe traction engines, and to be consumed in threshing out thegolden harvest around. Signalmen, with red and green lights, rushhither and thither, the bull's-eyes now concealed by the trucks,and now flashing out brightly like strange will-o'-the-wisps. Atintervals long and heavy goods trains go by, causing the solidearth to tremble.

Presently the sun rises over the distant hills, and the red armsof the signals stand out clearly defined, and then the noise ofwheels, the shouts of the drivers, and the quick sound of hoofsbetoken the approach of the milk carts with their freight for theearly morning train. From the platform it is out of sight; but afew yards from the gate a small inn is hidden under the tall elmsof the hedgerow. It has sprung up since the railway came, and iscalled the Railway Hotel. It proffers good stabling, and even a flyand posting for the passenger who finds himself set down at thatlonely place—a mere road—without the certainty of afriendly carriage meeting him. The porter may, perhaps, be takinghis glass within. The inspector or stationmaster (whichever may betechnically correct), now that the afternoon express has gonesafely through, has strolled up the line to his garden, to see howhis potatoes are getting on. He knows full well that the slow,stopping train despatched just after it will not reach his stationfor at least an hour.

Outside the 'Hotel' stands a pony cart—a gaily colouredtravelling rug lies across the seat, and the pony, a perfect littlebeauty, is cropping the grass by the hedge side. By-and-by acountryman comes up the road, evidently a labourer dressed in hisbest—he hastens to the 'Hotel,' instead of to the station,and finds from the porter that he is at least twenty minutes toosoon. Then a waggon arrives, and stops while the carter drinks.Presently the porter and the labourer stroll together over to theplatform, and after them a young fellow—a farmer's son, notyet a man but more than a boy—comes out and re-arranges thetravelling rug in the pony cart. He then walks on to the platform,whistling defiantly with his hands in his pockets, as if he had gotan unpleasant duty to perform, but was not going to be intimidated.He watches the stationmaster unlock the booking-office, and followshim in out of idle curiosity.

It is booking-office, parcel-office, waiting-room and allcombined, and the telegraph instrument is there too, some of theneedles blocked over with a scrap of paper. The place is crammedwith sacks, bags, boxes, parcels and goods mixed together, such asironwork for agricultural machines, and in a corner lies arick-cloth smelling strongly of tar like the rigging of a ship. Onthe counter, for there is no sliding window as usual at largestations, stands the ticket-stamping machine, surrounded with pilesof forms, invoices, notices, letters, and the endless documentsinseparable from railway business, all printed on a peculiar paperwith a faint shade of yellow.

Somebody says 'A' be coming,' and the young farmer walks out towatch the white steam now just visible far away over the trees. Thetrain runs round the curve on to the straight, and the engine infront grows gradually larger and larger as it comes nearer, visiblyvibrating till the brake draws it up at the platform.

Master Jack has no difficulty in identifying the passenger hehas come to meet. His sister, a governess, coming home for aholiday, is the only person that alights, and the labourer, dressedfor the occasion, is the only one who gets in. No sooner is he inthan he gapes out of the window open-mouthed at MissS——. She wears a light Ulster to protect her dress fromthe dust and dirt of travel. Her fashionable hat has an air of theWest End; her gloved hand holds a dainty little bag; she steps asthose must do who wear tight dresses and high heels to their boots.Up goes her parasol instantly to shade her delicate complexion fromthe glaring sun. Master Jack does not even take her hand, or kissher; he looks her up and down with a kind of contemptuousadmiration, nods, and asks how much luggage? He has, you see, beenrepulsed for 'gush' on previous occasions. Mademoiselle points toher luggage, which the porter, indeed, has already taken out. Heworked in his boyhood on her father's farm, and attends upon herwith cheerful alacrity. She gives him a small coin, but looks theother way, without a sign of recognition. The luggage is placed inthe pony cart.

Mademoiselle gets in without so much as patting the beautifullittle creature in the shafts. Her ticket is the only first-classticket that has been given up at that lonely station all the week.'Do make haste,' she remarks petulantly as her brother pauses tospeak to a passing man who looks like a dealer. Master Jack turnsthe pony cart, and away they go rattling down the road. The porter,whilom an agricultural labourer, looks after them with a long andsteady stare. It is not the first time he has seen this, but he canhardly take it in yet.

'She do come the lady grandish, don't her?' the dealer remarksmeditatively. 'Now her father——'

'Ay,' interrupts the porter, 'he be one of the old sort; butshe——' he cannot get any further for lack of anappropriate illustration. The arrival of mademoiselle periodicallytakes their breath away at that little place.

As the pair rattle along in the pony trap there is for a time atotal silence. Mademoiselle looks neither to the right nor theleft, and asks after nobody. She does not note the subtle tint ofbronze that has begun to steal over the wheat, nor the darkdiscoloured hay, witness of rough weather, still lying in themeadows. Her face—it is a very pretty face—does notlight up with any enthusiasm as well-remembered spots come intosight. A horseman rides round a bend of the road, and meetsthem—he stares hard at her—she takes no heed. It is ayoung farmer, an old acquaintance, anxious for some sign ofrecognition. After he has passed he lifts his hat, like a truecountryman, unready at the moment. As for the brother, his featuresexpress gathering and almost irrepressible disgust. He kicks withhis heavy boots, he whistles, and once now and then gives a speciesof yell. Mademoiselle turns up her pretty nose, and readjusts herchevron gloves.

'Have you not got any cuffs, Jack?' she asks, 'your wrists lookso bare without them.'

Jack makes no reply. Another silence. Presently he points withan expression meant to be sardonic at a distant farmhouse with hiswhip.

'Jenny's married,' he says, full well aware that thisannouncement will wake her up, for there had been of old a sort ofsemi-feud or rivalry between the two girls, daughters ofneighbouring farmers, and both with pretensions to good looks.

'Who to?' she asks eagerly.

'To old Billy L——; lots of tin.'

'Pshaw!' replies mademoiselle. 'Why, he's sixty, a nasty, dirtyold wretch.'

'He has plenty of money,' suggests Jack.

'What you think plenty of money, perhaps. He is nothing but afarmer,' as if a farmer was quite beneath her notice.

Just then a farmer rode out into the road from the gateway of afield, and Jack pulled up the pony. The farmer was stout, elderly,and florid; he appeared fairly well-to-do by his dress, but wasnone too particular to use his razor regularly. Yet there was atenderness—almost a pathos—in the simple words heused:—'Georgie, dear, come home?' 'Yes, papa,' and she kissedhis scrubby chin as he bent down from his horse. He would not go tothe station to meet her; but he had been waiting about behind thehedge for an hour to see her come along. He rode beside the ponycart, but Georgie did not say anything more, or ask after any oneelse.

As they turned a corner the farmer pointed ahead. 'There's yourmother, Georgie, looking over the garden wall.' The yearning motherhad been there these two hours, knowing that her darling could notarrive before a certain time, and yet unable in her impatience tostay within. Those old eyes were dim with tears under thespectacles as Georgie quietly kissed her forehead, and thensuddenly, with something like generous feeling, her lips.

They went in, an old pointer, whose days in the stubble werenearly over, following close at Georgie's heels, but withoutobtaining a pat for his loving memory. The table was spread fortea—a snowy cloth, the whitest of bread, the most deliciousgolden butter, the ham fresh cooked, as Georgie might be hungry,the thick cream, the silver teapot, polished for Georgie, and thebright flowers in the vase before her plate. The window was open,with its view of the old, old hills, and a breath of summer aircame in from the meadow. The girl glanced round, frowned, and wentupstairs to her room without a word, passing on the landing theancient clock in its tall case, ticking loud and slow.

And this was 'home.' The whole place jarred upon her, fresh asshe was from a fine house in Belgravia. The sitting-room beneath,which she had so quickly left, looked cheerful and homely, but itwas that very homeliness that jarred upon her. The teapot was realsilver, but it was of old-fashioned shape. Solid as the furniturewas, and still after so many years of service worth money, yet itwas chipped by kicks from iron-shod boots, which had also worn thedingy carpet bare. There was an absence of the nick-nacks thatstrew the rooms of people in 'Society.' There was not even abell-handle to pull; if you wanted the maid of all work, you mustopen the door and call to her. These little things, trifles as theymay be, repelled her. It was a bitter cup to her to come'home.'

Mr. S—— was a farmer of fair means, and, comparedwith many of his neighbours, well-to-do, and well connected. But hewas still a yeoman only, and personally made pretensions to nothingmore. Though he himself had received little or no education, hequite saw the value of it, and was determined that his childrenshould be abreast of the times. Accordingly, so soon as Georgiegrew old enough, a governess with high recommendations, and whoasked what the farmer then thought a high price (he knows moreabout such things now!) was had down from London. Of course therudimentary A B C of learning could just as well have been impartedby an ordinary person, but Mr. and Mrs. S—— had afeeling which they could not perhaps have expressed in words, thatit was not so much the actual reading and writing, and French andmusic, and so on, as a social influence that was needed togradually train the little country girl into a young lady fit tomove in higher society.

The governess did her work thoroughly. Georgie was not allowedto walk in the wet grass, to climb up the ladder on to thehalf-completed hayrick, and romp under the rick-cloth, to paddlewith naked feet in the shallow brook, or any other of the thingsthat country children have done from time immemorial. Such thingsshe was taught were not ladylike, and, above all, she was kept awayfrom the cottage people. She was not permitted to enter theirdoors, to converse with the women, or to watch the carter with hishorses. Such vulgar folk and their vulgar dialect were to becarefully avoided. Nor must she get into a hedge after abird's-nest, lest she should tear her frock.

It was not long before the governess really ruled the house. Thefarmer felt himself totally unable to interfere in these matters;they were outside his experience altogether. His wife did not likeit, but for Georgie's sake she gave up her former habits, andendeavoured to order the house according to the ideas of thegoverness from London. The traditions, as it were, of the placewere upset. It was not a solitary instance, the same thing hashappened in scores of farmhouses to a more or less degree. Mr.S—— all his life had ridden on horseback, or driven agig, which did very well for him and his wife. But the governessthought Georgie ought to learn to ride and drive, and gigs were somuch out of fashion. So the pony cart and pony were purchased forher, and in this she went into the distant market town twice ormore weekly. Sometimes it was for shopping, sometimes to fetchhousehold goods, sometimes to see friends; any excuse answered verywell. The governess said, and really believed, that it was betterfor Georgie to be away from the farm as much as possible, to seetown people (if only a country town), and to learn their ways.

The many cheap illustrated papers giving the last details offashionable costumes were, of course, brought home to be carefullyread in the evenings. These publications have a large circulationnow in farmhouses. Naturally Georgie soon began to talk about, andtake an interest—as girls will do—in the younggentlemen of the town, and who was and who was not eligible. As forthe loud-voiced young farmers, with their slouching walk, theirill-fitting clothes, and stupid talk about cows and wheat, theywere intolerable. A banker's clerk at least—nothing could bethought of under a clerk in the local banks; of course, his salarywas not high, but then his 'position.' The retail grocers andbakers and such people were quite beneath one's notice—low,common persons. The 'professional tradesmen' (whatever that may be)were decidedly better, and could be tolerated. The solicitors, bankmanagers, one or two brewers (wholesale—nothing retail),large corn factors or coal merchants, who kept a carriage of somekind—these formed the select society next under, and, as itwere, surrounding the clergy and gentry. Georgie at twelve yearsold looked at least as high as one of these; a farmhouse was to beavoided above all things.

As she grew older her mind was full of the local assembly ball.The ball had been held for forty years or more, and had all thattime been in the hands of the exclusive upper circles of the markettown. They only asked their own families, relations (not the poorones), and visitors. When Georgie was invited to this ball it wasindeed a triumph. Her poor mother cried with pleasure over her balldress. Poor woman, she was a good, a too good, mother, but she hadnever been to a ball. There were, of course, parties, picnics, andso on, to which Georgie, having entered the charmed circle, was nowasked; and thus her mind from the beginning centred in the town.The sheep-fold, the cattle-pen, the cheese-tub, these were thrustaside. They did not interest her, she barely understood the meaningwhen her father took the first prize at an important cattle show.What So-and-so would wear at the flower show, where all the selectwould come, much more nearly concerned her.

At the high-class academy where her education was finished thesame process went on. The other girls quickly made her thoroughlyunderstand (a bitter knowledge) that the great people in the littlemarket town, the very richest of them, were but poor in comparisonwith their papas. Their papas were in the 'City,' or on ''Change,'and had as many thousands a year as the largest farmer she knewcould reckon hundreds. Georgie felt ashamed of her papa,recollecting his crumpled old hat, and his scrubby chin. Beingreally a nice girl, under the veneer that was so industriouslyplaced upon her, she made friends among her fellow scholars, andwas invited to more than one of their grand homes in Kensington andthe suburbs of London. There she learned all the pomp of villalife, which put into the shade the small incomes which displayedtheir miserable vanities in the petty market town. Footmen,butlers, late dinners, wines, carriages, the ceaseless gossip of'Society' were enough to dazzle the eyes of a girl born so near thecowshed. The dresses she had to wear to mix with these grandfriends cost a good deal—her parents sacrificing their owncomforts for her advantage—and yet, in comparison with thebeautiful costumes she saw, they seemed shabby.

Georgie was so far fortunate as to make friends of some of theelder people, and when she had passed her examinations, andobtained the diplomas and certificates which are now all essential,through their interest she obtained at starting a very high salary.It was not long before she received as much as sixty or seventypounds a year. It was not only that she really was a clever andaccomplished girl, but her recommendations were influential. Shewas employed by wealthy people, who really did not care what theypaid so long as their children were in good hands. Now to the oldfolk at home, and to the neighbours, this seemed an immense salaryfor a girl, especially when the carriage, the footmen, the wines,and late dinners, and so on, were taken into consideration. Themoney, however, was of very little use to her. She found itnecessary to dress equal to her place. She had to have severaldresses to wear, according to the time of day, and she had to havenew ones very often, or she might be told petulantly and pointedlyby her mistress that 'one gets so weary of seeing the same dressesevery day.' Instead of the high salary leaving a handsome profit,her father had occasionally to pay a stiff bill for her. But thenthe 'position'—look at the 'position' and the society.

Georgie, in process of time, went to Scotland, to Paris, theSouth of France, to Rome, and Naples. Being a discreet girl, andhaving a winning manner, she became as much a companion to hermistress as governess, and thus saw and heard more of the worldthan she would otherwise have done. She saw some very grand peopleindeed occasionally. After this, after the Continent, and, aboveall, London in the season, the annual visit to the old farmhousecame to be a bitter time of trial. Georgie had come home now for afew days only, to ask for money, and already before she hadscarcely spoken had rushed upstairs to hide her feeling ofrepulsion in the privacy of her room.

Her welcome had been warm, and she knew that under the rudeexterior it was more than warm; but the absence of refinementjarred upon her. It all seemed so uncouth. She shrank from thehomely rooms; the very voice of her mother, trembling with emotion,shocked her ear, unaccustomed to country pronunciation. She missedthe soft accents of the drawing-room. From her window she could seenothing but the peaceful fields—the hateful green trees andhedges, the wheat, and the hateful old hills. How miserable it wasnot to be born to Grosvenor Square!

Georgie's case was, of course, exceptional in so far as her'success' was concerned. She possessed good natural parts,discretion, and had the advantage of high-class recommendations.But apart from her 'success,' her case was not exceptional. Thesame thing is going on in hundreds of farmhouses. The daughtersfrom the earliest age are brought up under a system of educationthe practical tendency of which is to train their minds out of theassociations of farming. When later on they go out to teach theyare themselves taught by the social surroundings of the householdsinto which they enter to still more dislike the old-fashioned waysof agriculture. Take twenty farmers' families, where there aregirls, and out of that twenty fifteen will be found to be preparingfor a scholastic life. The farmer's daughter does not like theshop-counter, and, as she cannot stay at home, there is nothingleft to her but the profession of governess. Once thoroughly imbuedwith these 'social' ideas, and a return to the farm is almostimpossible. The result is a continuous drain of women out ofa*griculture—of the very women best fitted in the beginning tobe the helpmate of the farmer. In no other calling is theassistance of the wife so valuable; it is not too much to say thatpart at least of the decadence of agriculture is owing to the lackof women willing to devote themselves as their mothers did beforethem. It follows that by degrees the farming caste is dying out.The sons go to the city, the daughters go to the city; in ageneration, or little more, a once well-known farming familybecomes extinct so far as agriculture is concerned.

How could such a girl as poor Georgie, looking out of window atthe hateful fields, and all at discord with the peaceful scene,settle down as the mistress of a lonely farmhouse?

CHAPTER XI

FLEECEBOROUGH. A 'DESPOT'

An agricultural district, like a little kingdom, has its owncapital city. The district itself is as well defined as if afrontier line had been marked out around it, with sentinels andbarriers across the roads, and special tolls and duties. Yet anordinary traveller, upon approaching, fails to perceive thedifference, and may, perhaps, drive right through the territorywithout knowing it. The fields roll on and rise into the hills, thehills sink again into a plain, just the same as elsewhere; thereare cornfields and meadows; villages and farmsteads, and no visibleboundary. Nor is it recognised upon the map. It does not fit intoany political or legal limit; it is neither a county, half acounty, a hundred, or police division. But to the farmer it is adistinct land. If he comes from a distance he will at once noticelittle peculiarities in the fields, the crops, the stock, orcustoms, and will immediately inquire if it be not such and such aplace that he has heard of. If he resides within thirty miles or sohe will ever since boyhood have heard 'the uplands' talked of as ifit were a separate country, as distinct as France. Cattle from theuplands, sheep, horses, labourers, corn or hay, or anything andanybody from thence, he has grown up accustomed to regard almost asforeign.

There is good reason, from an agricultural point of view, forthis. The district, with its capital city, Fleeceborough, really isdistinct, well marked, and defined. The very soil and substrata arecharacteristic. The products are wheat, and cattle, and sheep, thesame as elsewhere, but the proportions of each, the kind of sheep,the traditionary methods and farm customs are separate and marked.The rotation of crops is different, the agreements are on adifferent basis, the very gates to the fields have peculiarfastenings, not used in other places. Instead of hedges, thefields, perhaps, are often divided by dry stone walls, on which,when they have become old, curious plants may sometimes be found.For the flora, too, is distinct; you may find herbs here that donot exist a little way off, and on the other hand, search how youwill, you will not discover one single specimen of a simple flowerwhich strews the meadows elsewhere.

Here the very farmhouses are built upon a different plan, andwith different materials; the barns are covered with old stoneslates, instead of tiles or thatch. The people are a nation amongstthemselves. Their accent is peculiar and easily recognised, andthey have their own folklore, their own household habits,particular dainties, and way of life. The tenant farmers, themillers, the innkeepers, and every Hodge within 'the uplands' (notby any means all hills)—in short, every one is a citizen ofFleeceborough. Hodge may tend his flock on distant pastures, mayfodder his cattle in far-away meadows, and dwell in little hamletshardly heard of, but all the same he is a Fleeceborough man. It ishis centre; thither he looks for everything.

The place is a little market town, the total of whose populationin the census records sounds absurdly small; yet it is a completeworld in itself; a capital city, with its kingdom and its ruler,for the territory is practically the property of a single family.Enter Fleeceborough by whichever route you will, the first objectthat fixes the attention is an immensely high and endless wall. Ifyou come by carriage one way, you skirt it for a long distance; ifyou come the other, you see it as you pass through the narrowstreets every now and then at the end of them, closing the prospectand overtopping the lesser houses. By railway it is conspicuousfrom the windows; and if you walk about the place, you continuallycome upon it. It towers up perpendicular and inaccessible, like thecurtain wall of an old fortification: here and there the upperbranches of some great cedar or tall pine just show above it. Oneor more streets for a space run conterminous with it—the wallon one side, the low cottage-houses on the other, and theirchimneys are below the coping. It does not really encircle thetown, yet it seems everywhere, and is the great fact of theplace.

If you wander about examining this wall, and wondering where itbegins and where it ends, and what is inside, you may perchancecome upon a gateway of noble proportions. It is open, but onehesitates to pass through, despite the pleasant vista of trees andgreen sward beyond. There is a watchman's wooden hut, and the agedsentinel is reading his newspaper in the shadow, his breastdecorated with medal and clasp, that tell of honourable service. Ascarlet-coated soldier may, too, be strolling thereabout, and thecastellated top of a barrack-like building near at hand issuggestive of military force. You hesitate, but the warden invitesyou to walk at your leisure under the old trees, and along theendless glades. If you enter, you pass under the metal scrollworkof the iron gates, and, above, the gilded circle of a coronetglistens in the sunshine. These are the private demesnes of aprince and ruler of Hodge—the very highest and most powerfulof his masters in that part of the country. The vast wall encloseshis pleasure-grounds and mansion; the broad iron gates give accessto mile after mile of park and wood, and the decorated warden orpensioner has but to open them for the free entry of allFleeceborough and her citizens. Of course the position of thebarrack is a mere accident, yet it gives an air of power andauthority—the place is really as open, the beautiful park ascommon and accessible as the hill-top under the sky. A peer only atWestminster, here he is a prince, whose dominions are almostco-extensive with the horizon; and this, the capital city, is forthe most part his.

Far away stretches that little kingdom, with its minor towns ofvillages, hamlets, and farms. Broad green meadows, where the cattlegraze beside the streams and in the plains; rolling uplands,ploughed and sown, where the barley nourishes; deep richwheatlands; high hills and shadowy woods; grey church towers; newglaring schools; quiet wayside inns, and ancient farmhousestenanted for generations by the same families.

Farmers have long since discovered that it is best to rent undera very large owner, whether personal as in this case, or impersonalas a college or corporation. A very large owner like this can be,and is, more liberal. He puts up sheds, and he drains, andimproves, and builds good cottages for the labourers. Provided, ofcourse, that no serious malpractice comes to light, he, asrepresented by his steward, never interferes, and the tenant ispersonally free. No one watches his goings out and comings in; hehas no sense of an eye for ever looking over the park wall. Thereis a total absence of the grasping spirit sometimes shown. Thefarmer does not feel that he will be worried to his last shilling.In case of unfavourable seasons the landlord makes no difficulty inreturning a portion of the rent; he anticipates such anapplication. Such immense possessions can support losses whichwould press most heavily upon comparatively small properties. Atone side of the estate the soil perchance is light and porous, andis all the better for rain; on the other, half across the county,or quite, the soil is deep and heavy and naturally well watered andflourishes in dry summers. So that there is generally some oneprospering if another suffers, and thus a balance ismaintained.

A reserve of wealth has, too, slowly accumulated in the familycoffers, which, in exceptional years, tides the owner over withlittle or no appreciable inconvenience. With an income like this,special allowances, even generous allowances, can be and are made,and so the tenants cease to feel that their landlord is living outof their labour. The agreements are just; there is no rapacity.Very likely the original lease or arrangement has expired half acentury since; but no one troubles to renew it. It is wellunderstood that no change will be effected. The tenure is as steadyas if the tenant had an Act of Parliament at his back.

When men have once settled, they and their descendants remain,generation after generation. By degrees their sons and sons'descendants settle too, and the same name occurs perhaps in a dozenadjacent places. It is this fixed unchangeable character of thedistrict which has enabled the mass of the tenants not indeed tobecome wealthy, but to acquire a solid, substantial standing. Infarming affairs money can be got together only in the slow passageof years; experience has proved that beyond a doubt. These peoplehave been stationary for a length of time, and the moss of theproverb has grown around them. They walk sturdily, and look all menin the face; their fathers put money in the purse. Times are hardhere as everywhere, but if they cannot, for the present season, putmore in that purse, its contents are not, at all events, muchdiminished, and enable them to maintain the same straightforwardmanliness and independence. By-and-by, they know there will comethe chink of the coin again.

When the tenant is stationary, the labourer is also. He stays inthe same cottage on the same farm all his life, his descendantsremain and work for the same tenant family. He can trace hisdescent in the locality for a hundred years. From time immemorialboth Hodge and his immediate employers have looked towardsFleeceborough as their capital. Hodge goes in to the market incharge of his master's sheep, his wife trudges in for householdnecessaries. All the hamlet goes in to the annual fairs. Everycottager in the hamlet knows somebody in the town; the girls gothere to service, the boys to get employment. The little villageshops obtain their goods from thence. All the produce—wheat,barley, oats, hay, cattle, and sheep—is sent into the capitalto the various markets held there. The very ideas held in thevillages by the inhabitants come from Fleeceborough; the localpapers published there are sold all round, and supply them withnews, arguments, and the politics of the little kingdom. Thefarmers look to Fleeceborough just as much or more. It is areligious duty to be seen there on market days. Not a man missesbeing there; if he is not visible, his circle note it, and guess atvarious explanations.

Each man has his own particular hostelry, where his father, andhis grandfather, put up before him, and where he is expected todine in the same old room, with the pictures of famous rams, thathave fetched fabulous prices, framed against the walls, and ram'shorns of exceptional size and peculiar curve fixed up above themantelpiece. Men come in in groups of two or three, as dinner timeapproaches, and chat about sheep and wool, and wool and sheep; butno one finally settles himself at the table till the chairmanarrives. He is a stout, substantial farmer, who has dined thereevery market day for the last thirty or forty years.

Everybody has his own particular seat, which he is certain tofind kept for him. The dinner itself is simple enough, the waitersperhaps still more simple, but the quality of the viands is beyondpraise. The mutton is juicy and delicious, as it should be wherethe sheep is the very idol of all men's thoughts; the beef is shortand tender of grain; the vegetables, nothing can equal them, andthey are all here, asparagus and all, in profusion. The landlordgrows his own vegetables—every householder in Fleeceboroughhas an ample garden—and produces the fruit from his ownorchards for the tarts. Ever and anon a waiter walks round with acan of ale and fills the glasses, whether asked or not. Beef andmutton, vegetables and fruit tarts, and ale are simple and plainfare, but when they are served in the best form, how will yousurpass them? The real English cheese, the fresh salads, theexquisite butter—everything on the table is genuine, juicy,succulent, and rich. Could such a dinner be found in London, howthe folk would crowd thither! Finally, comes the waiter with histwo clean plates, the upper one to receive the money, the lower toretain what is his. If you are a stranger, and remember what youhave been charged elsewhere in smoky cities for tough beef, stringymutton, waxy potatoes, and the very bread black with smuts, youselect half a sovereign and drop it on the upper plate. In thetwinkling of an eye eight shillings are returned to you; the chargeis a florin only.

They live well in Fleeceborough, as every fresh experience ofthe place will prove; they have plentiful food, and of the bestquality; poultry abounds, for every resident having a great garden(many, too, have paddocks) keeps fowls; fresh eggs are common; asfor vegetables and fruit, the abundance is not to be described. Averitable cornucopia—a horn of plenty—seems to foreverpour a shower of these good things into their houses. And theirale! To the first sight it is not tempting. It is thick, dark, adeep wine colour; a slight aroma rises from it like that whichdwells in bonded warehouses. The first taste is not pleasing; butit induces a second, and a third. By-and-by the flavour grows uponthe palate; and now beware, for if a small quantity be thrown uponthe fire it will blaze up with a blue flame like pure alcohol. Thatdark vinous-looking ale is full of the strength of malt and hops;it is the brandy of the barley. The unwary find their headscuriously queer before they have partaken, as it seems to them, ofa couple of glasses. The very spirit and character of Fleeceboroughis embodied in the ale; rich, strong, genuine. No one knows whatEnglish ale is till he has tried this.

After the market dinner the guests sit still—they do nothurry away to counter and desk; they rest awhile, and dwell as itwere on the flavour of their food. There is a hum of pleasant talk,for each man is a right boon companion. The burden of that talk hasbeen the same for generations—sheep and wool, wool and sheep.Occasionally mysterious allusions are made to 'he,' what 'he' willdo with a certain farm, whether 'he' will support such and such amovement, or subscribe to some particular fund, what view will 'he'take of the local question of the day? Perhaps some one has hadspecial information of the step 'he' is likely to take; then thatfavoured man is an object of the deepest interest, and iscross-questioned all round the table till his small item ofauthentic intelligence has been thoroughly assimilated. 'He' is theresident within those vast and endless walls, with the metal gatesand the gilded coronet above—the prince of this kingdom andits capital city. To rightly see the subjects loyally hasteninghither, let any one ascend the church tower on market day.

It is remarkably high, and from thence the various roadsconverging on the town are visible. The province lies stretched outbeneath. There is the gleam of water—the little river, withits ancient mills—that flows beside the town; there are themeadows, with their pleasant footpaths. Yonder the ploughed fieldsand woods, and yet more distant the open hills. Along every road,and there are many, the folk are hastening to their capital city,in gigs, on horseback, in dog-traps and four-wheels, or sturdilytrudging afoot. The breeze comes sweet and exhilarating from thehills and over the broad acres and green woods; it strikes thechest as you lean against the parapet, and the jackdaws suspendthemselves in mid-air with outstretched wings upheld by its force.For how many years, how many centuries, has this little town andthis district around it been distinct and separate? In the daysbefore the arrival of the Roman legions it was the country of adistinct tribe, or nation, of the original Britons. But if we speakof history we shall never have done, for the town and its antiqueabbey (of which this tower is a mere remnant) have mingled more orless in every change that has occurred, down from the earthworkcamp yonder on the hills to to-day—down to the last puff ofthe locomotive there below, as its driver shuts off steam and runsin with passengers and dealers for the market, with the papers, andthe latest novel from London.

Something of the old local patriotism survives, and is vigorousin the town here. Men marry in the place, find their childrenemployment in the place, and will not move, if they can help it.Their families—well-to-do and humble alike—have beenthere for so many, many years. The very carter, or the littletailor working in his shop-window, will tell you (and prove to youby records) that his ancestor stood to the barricade with pike ormatchlock when the army of King or Parliament, as the case may be,besieged the sturdy town two hundred years ago. He has a longerpedigree than many a titled dweller in Belgravia. All these peoplebelieve in Fleeceborough. When fate forces them to quit—whenthe young man seeks his fortune in New Zealand or America—hewrites home the fullest information, and his letters published inthe local print read curiously to an outsider, so full are they oflocal inquiries, and answers to friends who wished to know this orthat. In the end he comes back—should he succeed in gettingthe gold which tempted him away—to pass his latter daysgossiping round with the dear old folk, and to marry amongst them.Yet, with all their deep local patriotism, they are not bigoted ornarrow-minded; there is too much literature abroad for that, andthey have the cosiest reading-room wherein to learn all that passesin the world. They have a town council held now and then in anancient wainscoted hall, with painted panels and coats of arms,carved oaken seats black with age, and narrow windows from whichmen once looked down into the street, wearing trunk hose andrapier.

But they have at least two other councils that meet much moreoften, and that meet by night. When his books are balanced, whenhis shop is shut, after he has strolled round his garden, and takenhis supper, the tradesman or shopkeeper walks down to his inn, andthere finds his circle assembled. They are all there, the rich andthe moderately well-to-do, the struggling, and the poor. Eachdelivers his opinion over the social glass, or between thedeliberate puffs of his cigar or pipe. The drinking is extremelymoderate, the smoking not quite so temperate; but neither the glassnor the cigar are the real attractions. It is the commonhall—the informal place of meeting.

It is here that, the real government of the town isplanned—the mere formal resolutions voted in the ancientcouncil-room are the outcome of the open talk, and the quietwhisper here. No matter what subject is to the front, the questionis always heard—What will 'he' do? What will 'he' say to it?The Volunteers compete for prizes which 'he' offers. The cottagehospital; the flower show; the cattle show, or agriculturalexhibition; the new market buildings arose through hissubscriptions and influence; the artesian well, sunk that the townmight have the best of water, was bored at his expense; and so onthrough the whole list of town affairs. When 'he' takes the leadall the lesser gentry—many of whom, perhaps, live in hismanor houses—follow suit, and with such powerful support toback it a movement is sure to succeed, yet 'he' is rarely seen; hishand rarely felt; everything is done, but without obtrusiveness. Atthese nightly councils at the chief hostelries the farmers of thedistrict are almost as numerous as the townsmen. They ride in tohear the news and exchange their own small coin of gossip. Theywant to know what 'he' is going to do, and little by little ofcourse it leaks out.

But the town is not all so loyal. There is a section which isall the more vehemently rebellious because of the spectacle of itsstaid and comfortable neighbours. This section is very small, butmakes a considerable noise. It holds meetings and utterstreasonable speeches, and denounces the 'despot' in fiery language.It protests against a free and open park; it abhors artesian wells;it detests the throwing open of nut woods that all may go fortha-nutting; it waxes righteously indignant at every gift, be itprizes for the flower show or a new market site. It scorns thosemean-spirited citizens that cheer these kindly deeds. It asks why?Why should we wait till the park gates are open? Why stay till thenut woods are declared ready? Why be thankful for pure water? Whynot take our own? This one man has no right to these parks andwoods and pleasure grounds and vast walls; these square miles ofploughed fields, meadows and hills. By right they should all besplit up into little plots to grow our potatoes. Away with gildedcoronet and watchman, batter down these walls, burn the ancientdeeds and archives, put pick and lever to the tall church tower;let us have the rights of man! These violent ebullitions make notthe least different. All the insults they can devise, all the pettyobstructions they can set up, the mud they can fling, does notalter the calm course of the 'despot' one jot. The artesian well isbored, and they can drink pure water or not, as pleases them. Theprizes are offered, and they can compete or stand aloof.Fleeceborough smiles when it meets at night in its council-rooms,with its glass and pipe; Fleeceborough knows that the traditionalpolicy of the Hall will continue, and that policy is acceptable toit.

What manner of man is this 'despot' and prince behind his vastwalls? Verily his physique matters nothing; whether he be old or ofmiddle age, tall or short, infirm or strong. The policy of thehouse keeps the actual head and owner rather in the background. Hispresence is never obtruded; he is rarely seen; you may stay in hiscapital for months and never catch a glimpse of him. He will notappear at meetings, that every man may be free, nor hesitate to sayhis say, and abuse what he lists to abuse. The policy is simplyperfect freedom, with support and substantial assistance to any andto every movement set on foot by the respectable men ofFleeceborough, or by the tenant farmers round about. This has beengoing on for generations; so that the personnel of the actual ownerconcerns little. His predecessors did it, he does it, and the nextto come will do it. It is the tradition of the house. Nothing isleft undone that a true princely spirit could do to improve, tobeautify, or to preserve.

The antiquities of the old, old town are kept for it, and notpermitted to decay; the ancient tesselated pavements of Romanvillas carefully protected from the weather; the remnants of theenclosing walls which the legions built for their defence savedfrom destruction; the coins of the emperors and of our own earlykings collected; the spurs, swords, spearheads, all the fragmentsof past ages arranged for inspection and study by every one whodesires to ponder over them. Chipped flints and arrowheads, thebones of animals long extinct, and the strange evidences of yetmore ancient creatures that swam in the seas of the prehistoricworld, these too are preserved at his cost and expense.Archæologists, geologists, and other men of science come fromafar to see these things and to carry away their lessons. Thememories of the place are cherished. There was a famous poet whosang in the woods about the park; his hermitage remains, andnothing is lost that was his. Art-treasures there are, too,heirlooms to be seen behind those vast walls by any who will be atthe trouble of asking.

Such is the policy of Hodge's own prince, whose silent influenceis felt in every household for miles about, and felt, as all mustadmit, however prejudiced against the system, in this case forgood. His influence reaches far beyond the bounds even of thatimmense property. The example communicates itself to others, andhalf the county responds to that pleasant impulse. It is aresponsible position to hold; something, perhaps, a little likethat of the Medici at Florence in the olden times. But here thereis no gonfalon, no golden chain of office, no velvet doublet,cloak, and rapier, no guards with arquebuss or polished crossbow.An entire absence of state and ceremony marks this almost unseenbut powerful sway. The cycle of the seasons brings round times oftrial here as over the entire world, but the conditions under whichthe trial is sustained could scarcely in our day, and under ourcomplicated social and political system, be much morefavourable.

CHAPTER XII

THE SQUIRE'S 'ROUND ROBIN'

A co*ck pheasant flies in frantic haste across the road, beating theair with wide-stretched wings, and fast as he goes, puts on yet afaster spurt as the shot comes rattling up through the boughs ofthe oak beneath him. The ground is, however, unfavourable to thesportsman, and the bird escapes. The fir copse from which thepheasant rose covers a rather sharp descent on one side of thehighway. On the level above are the ploughed fields, but the slopeitself is too abrupt for agricultural operations, and the soilperhaps thin and worthless. It is therefore occupied by a smallplantation. On the opposite side of the road there grows a fine rowof oaks in a hedge, under whose shade the dust takes long to drywhen once damped by a shower. The sportsman who fired stands in theroad; the beaters are above, for they desire the game to fly in acertain direction; and what with the narrow space between the firsand the oaks, the spreading boughs, and the uncertainty of the spotwhere the pheasant would break cover, it is not surprising that hemissed.

The shot, after tearing through the boughs, rises to some heightin the air, and, making a curve, falls of its own weight only, likepattering hail—and as harmless—upon an aged woman,just then trudging slowly round the corner. She is a cottager, andhas been to fetch the weekly dole of parish bread that helps tosupport herself and infirm husband. She wears a long cloak thatnearly sweeps the ground on account of her much-bowed back, andcarries a flag basket full of bread in one hand, and a bulgingumbrella, which answers as a walking stick, in the other. The poorold body, much startled, but not in the least injured, scuttlesback round the corner, exclaiming, 'Lor! it be Filbard a-shooting:spose a'had better bide a bit till he ha' done.' She has not longto wait. The young gentleman standing in the road gets a shot atanother co*ck; this time the bird flies askew, instead of straightacross, and so gives him a better opportunity. The pheasant fallscrash among the nettles and brambles beside the road. Then a secondand older gentleman emerges from the plantation, and after a time akeeper, who picks up the game.

The party then proceed along the road, and coming round thecorner the great black retriever runs up to the old woman with themost friendly intentions, but to her intense confusion, for she isjust in the act of dropping a lowly curtsey when the dog rubsagainst her. The young gentleman smiles at her alarm and calls thedog; the elder walks on utterly indifferent. A little way up theroad the party get over the gate into the meadows on that side, andmake for another outlying plantation. Then, and not till then, doesthe old woman set out again, upon her slow and laborious journey.'Filbard be just like a gatepost,' she mutters; 'a' don't take nonotice of anybody.' Though she had dropped the squire so lowly acurtsey, and in his presence would have behaved with profoundrespect, behind his back and out of hearing she called him by hisfamily name without any prefix. The cottagers thereabout almostalways did this in speaking among themselves of their localmagnate. They rarely said 'Mr.'; it was generally 'Filbard,' or,even more familiarly, 'Jim Filbard.' Extremes meet. They hardlydared open their mouths when they saw him, and yet spoke of himafterwards as if he sat with them at bacon and cabbage time.

Squire Filbard and one of his sons were walking round theoutlying copses that October day with the object of driving thepheasants in towards the great Filbard wood, rather than of makinga bag. The birds were inclined to wander about, and the squirethought a little judicious shooting round the outskirts would dogood, and at the same time give his son some sport withoutdisturbing the head of game he kept up in the wood itself. Thesquire was large made, tall, and well proportioned, and with abearded, manly countenance. His neck was, perhaps, a little thickand apoplectic-looking, but burnt to a healthy brick-dust colour byexposure to the sun. The passing years had drawn some crows'-feetround the eyes, but his step was firm, his back straight, and hewalked his ancestral acres every inch the master. The defect of hisfeatures was the thinness of the lips, and a want of character in anose which did not accord with a good forehead. His hands, too,were very large and puffy; his finger-nails (scrupulously clean)were correspondingly large, and cut to a sharp point, that seemedto project beyond the tip of the finger, and gave it a scratchyappearance.

The chimneys of Filbard Hall showed for some distance above thetrees of the park, for the house stood on high ground. It was ofred brick, somewhat square in style, and had little of the trueElizabethan character—it was doubtless later in date, thoughnot modern. The chimneys, however, had a pleasing appearance overthe trees; they were in stacks, and rather larger, or broaderapparently at the top than where they rose from the roof. Suchchimneys are not often seen on recent buildings. A chimney seems asimple matter, and yet the aspect of a house from a distance muchdepends upon its outline. The mansion was of large size, and stoodin an extensive park, through which carriage drives swept up to thefront from different lodge gates. Each of the drives passed underavenues of trees—the park seemed to stretch on either handwithout enclosure or boundary—and the approach was notwithout a certain stateliness. Within the apartments werecommodious, and from several there were really beautiful views.Some ancient furniture, handed down generation after generation,gave a character to the rooms; the oak staircase was much admired,and so was the wainscoating of one part.

The usual family portraits hung on the walls, but the presentsquire had rather pushed them aside in favour of his own peculiarhobby. He collected antique Italian pictures—many onpanels—in the pre-Raphaelite style. Some of these he hadpicked up in London, others he had found and purchased on theContinent. There were saints with glories or nimbi roundtheir heads, Madonnas and kneeling Magi, the manger under a kind ofpenthouse, and similar subjects—subjects the highest thatcould be chosen. The gilding of the nimbi seemed well donecertainly, and was still bright, but to the ordinary eye thestiffness of the figures, the lack of grace, the absence of soul inthe composition was distressingly apparent. It was, however, thesquire's hobby, and it must be admitted that he had very highauthority upon his side. Some sensitive persons rather shrank fromseeing him handle these painted panels with those peculiar scratchyfinger-nails; it set their teeth on edge. He gave considerable sumsof money for many of these paintings, the only liberality hepermitted himself, or was capable of.

His own room or study was almost bare, and the solitary windowlooked on a paved passage that led to the stables. There wasnothing in it but a large table, a bookcase, and two or three ofthe commonest horsehair chairs; the carpet was worn bare. He hadselected this room because there was a door close by opening on thepaved passage. Thus the bailiff of the Home Farm, the steward, thegamekeeper, the policeman, or any one who wished to see him onbusiness, could come to the side door from the back and be shown into him without passing through the mansion. This certainly was aconvenient arrangement; yet one would have thought that he wouldhave had a second and more private study in which to follow his ownnatural bent of mind. But the squire received the gardener and gavehim directions about the cucumbers—for he descended even tosuch minutiæ as that—sitting at the same table on whichhe had just written to an Italian art collector respecting apicture, or to some great friend begging him to come and inspect afresh acquisition. The bookcase contained a few law books, a manualfor the direction of justices—the squire was on thecommission—a copy of Burke, and in one corner of a shelf afew musty papers referring to family history. These were of somevalue, and the squire was proud of showing them to those who tookan interest in archæology; yet he kept them much as if theyhad been receipts for the footman's livery, or a dozen bottles ofstable medicine. He wrote with a quill pen, and as it went up anddown it scratched the paper as if it had been those sharpprojecting finger-nails.

In this study he spent many hours when at home—he roselate, and after breakfast repaired hither. The steward was usuallyin attendance. He was a commonplace man, but little above thedescription of a labourer. He received wages not much superior tothose a labourer takes in summer time, but as he lived at the HomeFarm (which was in hand) there were of course some perquisites. Aslow, quiet man, of little or no education, he pottered about andlooked after things in general. One morning perhaps he would comein to talk with the squire about the ash wood they were going tocut in the ensuing winter, or about the oak bark which had not beenpaid for. Or it might be the Alderney cow or the poultry at theHome Farm, or a few fresh tiles on the roof of the pig-sty, whichwas decaying. A cart wanted a new pair of wheels or a shaft. One ofthe tenants wanted a new shed put up, but it did not seemnecessary; the old one would do very well if people were not sofidgety. The wife or daughter of one of the cottage people wastaking to drink and getting into bad ways. This or that farmer hadhad some sheep die. Another farmer had bought some newsilver-mounted harness, and so on, through all the villagegossip.

Often it was the gamekeeper instead of the steward who came inor was sent for. The squire kept a large head of pheasants forcertain reasons, but he was not over-anxious to pay for them. Thekeeper grumbled about his wages, that he had no perquisites, andthat the shooting season never brought him any fees—unlessthe squire let the place; he only wished he let it every year.This, of course, was said aside; to the squire he was hat in hand.He had to produce his vouchers for food for the pheasants and dogs,and to give particulars why a certain gate on the plantation wantedrenewing. The steward had seen it, and thought it might berepaired; why did the keeper think it ought to be renewedaltogether? And was there not plenty of larch timber lying about,that had been thrown and not sold, that would make a very goodspar-gate, without purchasing one? Why couldn't old Hooker, thehedge carpenter, knock it up cheap?

Next came the coachman—the squire did not keep up anythingof a stud, just enough to work the carriage, and some ordinaryriding horses and a pony for the children. The coachman had toexplain why a new lock was wanted on the stable door; why theblacksmith's bill was so much for shoes; after which there was along gossip about the horses of a gentleman who had come down andrented a place for the season. The gardener sometimes had aninterview about the quantity of apples that might be sold from theorchard, and twenty other peddling details, in which the squiredelighted. As for the butler, time at last had brought him to bearwith patience the inquisition about the waste corks and the emptybottles.

The squire would have had the cook in and discussed thestock-pot with her for a full hour, but the cook set up her back.She wouldn't, no, that she wouldn't; and the squire found that thecook was mistress of the situation. She was the only personage whodid not pass him with deference. She tossed her head, and told herfellow-servants audibly that he was a poor, mean-spirited man; andas for missis, she was a regular Tartar—there! In this theythoroughly agreed. The coachman and footman, when out with thecarriage, and chancing to get a talk with other coachmen andfootmen, were full of it. He was the meanest master they had everknown; yet they could not say that he paid less wages, or that theywere ill-fed—it was this meddling, peddling interference theyresented. The groom, when he rode into town for the letter-bag,always stopped to tell Ills friends some fresh instance of it. Allthe shopkeepers and tradesmen, and everybody else, had heard of it.But they were none the less obsequious when the squire passed upthe street. The servants were never so glad as when young mastercame home with the liberal views imbibed in modern centres oflearning, and with a free, frank mode of speech. But miss, the soledaughter, they simply hated; she seemed to have ten times themeanness of her papa, and had been a tell-tale from childhood. Thekitchen said she saved her curl papers to sell as waste paper.

The 'missis' was as haughty, as unapproachable, and disdainfulas the master was inquisitive; she never spoke to, looked at, noracknowledged any one—except the three largest tenants andtheir wives. To these, who paid heavily, she was gracious. Shedressed in the very extreme and front of fashion—the squirehimself quite plainly, without the least pretence of dandyism.Hateful as the village folk thought her hauteur and opencontempt for them, they said she was more the lady than the squirewas the gentleman.

The squire's time, when at home, like everything else, waspeddled away. He rode into market one day of the week; he went tochurch on Sundays with unfailing regularity, and he generallyattended the petty sessional bench on a third day. Upon the bench,from the long standing of his family, he occupied a prominentposition. His mind invariably seized the minutiæ of theevidence, and never seemed to see the point or the broad bearingsof the case. He would utterly confuse a truthful witness, forinstance, who chanced to say that he met the defendant in the road.'But you said just now that you and he were both going the sameway; how, then, could you meet him?' the squire would ask, frowningsternly. Whether the witness overtook or met the defendant matterednothing to the point at issue; but the squire, having got asatisfactory explanation, turned aside, with an aggravating air ofcleverness. For the rest of the week the squire could not accountfor his time. He sometimes, indeed, in the hunting season, rode tothe meet; but he rarely followed. He had none of the enthusiasmthat makes a hunter; besides, it made the horse in such a heat, andwould work him out too quick for economy.

He went out shooting, but not in regular trim. He would carryhis gun across to the Home Farm, and knock over a rabbit on theway; then spend two hours looking at the Alderney cow, the roof ofthe pig-sty, and the poultry, and presently stroll across a cornerof the wood, and shoot a pheasant. The head of game was kept up forthe purpose of letting the mansion from time to time when thesquire or his lady thought it desirable to go on the Continent,that the daughter might acquire the graces of travel. A visit toLondon in the season, a visit to the seaside, and then home in theautumn to peddle about the estate, made up the year when they didnot go abroad. There was a broad park, noble trees, a greatmansion, a stately approach; but within it seemed all littleness ofspirit.

The squire's own private study—the morning-room of theowner of this fine estate—was, as previously observed, nextthe passage that led to the stables, and the one window looked outon a blank wall. It was in this room that he conducted his businessand pleasure, and his art researches. It was here that he receivedthe famous 'Round Robin' from his tenants. The estate was not verylarge—something between 3,000 and 4,000 acres—but muchof it was good and fertile, though heavy land, and highly rented.Had the squire received the whole of his rents for his own privateuse he would have been well off as squires go. But there was a flawor hitch somewhere in the right, or title, or succession. No oneknew the precise circ*mstances, because, like so many similarfamily disputes, when the lawyers were ready, and the case had comebefore the tribunal, a compromise was arrived at, the terms ofwhich were only known to the tribunal and the parties directlyconcerned.

But everybody knew that the squire had to pay heavy pensions tovarious members of another branch of the family; and it wasimagined that he did not feel quite fixed in the tenure—thatpossibly the case might, under certain circ*mstances, be heard ofa*gain—since it was noticed that he did not plant trees, ormake improvements, or in any way proceed to increase the permanentattractions of the estate. It seemed as if he felt he was onlylodging there. He appeared to try and get all he could off theplace—without absolute damage—and to invest or spendnothing. After all these payments had been made the squire's incomewas much reduced, and thus, with all these broad acres, theseextensive woods, and park, and mansion, pleasure grounds, game, andso forth, he was really a poor man. Not poor in the sense of actualwant, but a man in his position had, of course, a certainappearance to keep up. Horses, carriages—even cooks—arenot to be had for nothing, and are absolutely essential to thosewho are compelled to maintain any kind of dignity. Sons withliberal ideas are expensive; a daughter is expensive; a wife whoinsists on dressing in the fashion is expensive.

Now, taking all those things into consideration, andremembering, too, that the squire as a good father (which he wasadmittedly) wished to make provision for the future of hischildren, it may perhaps, after all, be questioned whether hereally was so mean and little of spirit as appeared. Under thecirc*mstances, if he wished to save, the only way open to him wasto be careful in little things. Even his hobby—thepre-Raphaelite pictures—was not without its advantage in thissense; the collection was certainly worth more than he gave for it,for he got it all by careful bargaining, and it could be sold againat a profit. The careful superintendence of the Alderney cow, thecucumber frames, and the rabbits, might all be carried out for thevery best of objects, the good of his children.

Now, the squire was, of course, very well aware of the troublesof agriculture, the wetness of the seasons—which played havocwith the game—the low prices, and the loud talk that wasgoing on around him. But he made no sign. He might have been deaf,dumb, and blind. He walked by the wheat, but did not see thedeficiency of the crop, nor the extraordinary growth of weeds.There were voices in the air like the mutterings of a coming storm,but he did not hear them. There were paragraphs in thepapers—how So-and-So had liberally reduced the rents orreturned a percentage; but he did not read them, or did notunderstand. Rent days came and went, and no sign was made. Hissolicitor received the rents, but nothing could be got out of himby the farmers. The little farmers hardly liked to take the lead:some of them did not dare. The three largest farmers looked at eachother and wondered which would speak first. They were awkwardlysituated. The squire's wife acknowledged their wives and daughters,and once now and then deigned to invite them to the mansion. Thesquire himself presented them with specimens of a valuable breed ofpoultry he was bringing up at the Home Farm. It was difficult tobegin unpleasant business.

Meantime the solicitor gathered up the cheques, wished them goodafternoon and departed. Another rent day came round, and still nosign. The squire's policy was, in fact, to ignore. He ignored thedepression altogether—could not see that it existed in thatcounty at all. Recollect, it was the only policy open to him.Whether the rents paid to him were large or small, his expenseswould be the same. There were the members of the other branch ofthe family to be paid in full. There were the carriages, theservants, the gamekeepers, and so on. He could reduce nothing; nowonder that he was slow to acknowledge that he must be himselfreduced. The fatal day—so long dreaded—came atlast.

A large letter lay on the table in the study one morning, alongwith the other letters. He did not recognise the handwriting, andnaturally opened it first. It was a 'Round Robin' from the tenants.All had signed a memorial, setting forth the depression, andrespectfully, even humbly, asking that their case be taken intoconsideration, and that a percentage be returned, or the rentreduced. Their heavy land, they pointed out, had been peculiarlydifficult to work in such seasons. They had suffered exceptionally,and they trusted he would take no offence. But there was anunmistakable hint that they were in earnest. All signedit—from the ungrateful largest tenants, who had had presentsof fancy poultry, and whose wives had been smiled upon, down to thesmallest working farmer, who could hardly be distinguished from hisown labourers.

The squire read the names over twice, pointing to each with hissharp, scratchy finger-nail. There were other letters from themembers of the other branch of the family whose pensions were justdue in full. Suppose he returned ten per cent. of the rents to thetenants, that would not be like ten per cent. upon the entirerental, but perhaps twenty-five or thirty per cent, upon thatportion of the rental which actually went into his own pocket. Aman can hardly be expected to cheerfully tender other people athird of his income. But sprawling and ill-written as many of thesignatures were to the 'Round Robin'—the pen held by heavyhands—yet they were genuine, and constituted a verysubstantial fact, that must be yielded to.

CHAPTER XIII

AN AMBITIOUS SQUIRE

Perhaps the magistrate most regular in his attendance at a certaincountry Petty Sessional Court is young Squire Marthorne. Those whohave had business to transact at such Courts know the difficultythat often arises from the absence of a second magistrate, therebeing a numerous class of cases with which one justice of the peaceis not permitted to deal. There must be two, and it sometimeshappens that only one is forthcoming. The procedure adopted variesmuch in different divisions, according to the population and thepercentage of charges brought up. Usually a particular day isappointed when it is understood that a full bench will be present,but it not unfrequently happens that another and less formalmeeting has to be held, at which the attendance is uncertain. Thedistrict in which Mr. Marthorne resides chances to be somewhatpopulous, and to include one or two turbulent places that furnish asteady supply of offenders. The practice therefore is to hold twoCourts a week; at one of these, on the Saturday, the more importantcases are arranged to be heard, when there are always plenty ofmagistrates. At the other, on the Tuesday, remands and smallermatters are taken, and there then used to be some delay.

One justice thought his neighbour would go, another thought thesame of his neighbour, and the result was nobody went. Havingtacitly bound themselves to attend once a week, the justices, manyof whom resided miles away, did not care formally to pledgethemselves to be invariably present on a second day. Sometimes thebusiness on that second day was next to nothing, but occasionallyserious affairs turned up, when messengers had to be despatched togather a quorum.

But latterly this uncertainty has been put an end to through theregular attendance of young Squire Marthorne, of Marthorne House.The Marthornes are an old family, and one of the best connected inthe county, though by no means rich, and, whether it was the lackof great wealth or a want of energy, they had until recently ratherdropped out of the governing circle. When, however, the youngsquire, soon after his accession to the property, in the naturalcourse of events, was nominated to the Commission of the Peace, hebegan to exhibit qualities calculated to bring him to the front. Hedeveloped an aptitude for business, and at the same time showed apersonal tact and judgment which seemed to promise a future verydifferent from the previous stagnation of his family.

These qualities came first into play at the Petty Sessions,which, apart from the criminal business, is practically an informalweekly Parliament of local landowners. Marthorne, of course, waswell known to the rest long before his appearance among them as acolleague. He had gained some reputation at college; but that hadlong since been forgotten in the prestige he had attained as abrilliant foxhunter. Even in the days before his accession, whenhis finances were notoriously low, he had somehow contrived to ridea first-rate horse. Everybody likes a man who rides a good horse.At the same time there was nothing horsey about him; he was alwaysthe gentleman. Since his succession the young squire, as he wasfamiliarly described—most of the others beingelderly—-had selected his horses with such skill that it waswell known a very great man had noticed them, so that when he cameto the Bench, young as he was, Marthorne escaped the unpleasantprocess of finding his level—i.e. being thoroughly putdown.

If not received quite as an equal by that assemblage of elderlygentlemen, he was made to feel that at all events they would listento what he had to say. That is a very great point gained. Marthorneused his advantage with judgment. He displayed a modesty highlycommendable in a young man. He listened, and only spoke for thepurpose of acquiring information. Nothing is so pleasing as to finda man of intelligence willingly constituting himself your pupil.They were all anxious to teach him the business of the county, andthe more he endeavoured to learn from them the cleverer theythought him.

Now, the business of the county was not very intricate; thedetails were innumerable, but the general drift was easy toacquire. Much more complicated to see through were all the littlepersonal likings, dislikings, petty spites, foibles, hobbies,secret understandings, family jars, and so forth, which reallydecide a man's vote, or the scale into which he throws hisinfluence. There were scores of squires dotted over the county,each of whom possessed local power more or less considerable, andeach of whom might perchance have private relations with men whoheld high office in the State. Every family had its history and itsarchives containing records of negotiations with other families.People who met with all outward friendliness, and belonged to thesame party, might have grudges half a century old, but not yetforgotten. If you made friends with one, you might mortally offendthe other. The other would say nothing, but another day a whisperto some great authority might destroy the hopes of the aspirant.Those who would attain to power must study the inner social life,and learn the secret motives that animate men. But to get at thesecret behind the speech, the private thought behind the vote,would occupy one for years.

Marthorne, of course, having been born and bred in the circle,knew the main facts; but, when he came to really set himself towork, he quickly felt that he was ignorant, and that at any momenthe might irritate some one's hidden prejudice. He looked round foran older man who knew all about it, and could inform him. This manhe found in the person of the Vice-Chairman of the Petty Sessions.The nominal Chairman, like many other unpaid officials, held theplace because of old family greatness, not from any personalability—family greatness which was in reality a meretradition. The Vice-Chairman was the true centre and spirit of thecircle.

A man of vast aptitude for details, he liked county business forits own sake, and understood every technicality. With little or nopersonal ambition, he had assisted in every political and socialmovement in the county for half a century, and knew the secretmotives of every individual landowner. With large wealth, nothingto do, and childless, he took a liking to young Marthorne. The oldman wished for nothing better than to talk; the young squirelistened attentively. The old man was delighted to find some onewho would sit with him through the long hours of Petty Sessionalbusiness. Thus it was that the people who had to attend the LocalBoard, whether it was a Saturday, the principal day, or whether itwas a Tuesday, that had previously been so trying, found theirbusiness facilitated by the attendance of two magistrates. TheVice-Chairman was always there, and Mr. Marthorne was always there.It sometimes happened that while Hodge the lately intoxicated, orHodge the recent pugilist, was stolidly waiting for his sentence,the two justices in the retiring room were convulsed with laughter;the one recounting, the other imbibing, some curious racy anecdoteconcerning the family history of a local magnate.

Meantime, the young squire was steadily gaining a reputation forsolid qualities, for work and application. Not only at the Bench,but at the Board of Guardians and at other Boards where the justiceof the peace is ex officio a member, he steadily worked atdetails, sat patiently upon committees, audited endless accounts,read interminable reports, and was never weary of work. The farmersbegan to talk about him, and to remark to each other what awonderful talent for business he possessed, and what apleasant-speaking young gentleman he was. The applause was wellearned, for probably there is no duller or more monotonous workthan that of attending Boards which never declare dividends. Henext appeared at the farmers' club, at first as a mere spectator,and next, though with evident diffidence, as a speaker.

Marthorne was no orator; he felt when he stood up to speak anodd sensation in the throat, as if the glottis had contracted. Hewas, in fact, very nervous, and for the first two or threesentences had not the least idea what he had said. But he forcedhimself to say it—his will overruled his physical weakness.When said it was not much—only a few safeplatitudes—but it was a distinct advance. He felt that nexttime he should do better, and that his tongue would obey his mind.His remarks appeared in the local print, and he had started as aspeaker. He was resolved to be a speaker, for it is evident to allthat, without frequent public speech, no one can now be arepresentative man. Marthorne, after this, never lost anopportunity of speaking—if merely to second a resolution, topropose a toast, he made the most of it. One rule he laid down forhimself, namely, never to say anything original. He was notspeaking to propound a new theory, a new creed, or view of life.His aim was to become the mouthpiece of his party. Most probablythe thought that seemed to him so clever might, if publiclyexpressed, offend some important people. He, therefore, carefullyavoided anything original. High authorities are now never silent;when Parliament closes they still continue to address the public,and generally upon more or less stirring questions of the time.

In those addresses, delivered by the very leaders of his ownparty, Marthorne found the material, and caught from their diligentperusal the spirit in which to use it. In this way, withoututtering a single original idea of his own, and with very littleoriginality of expression, the young orator succeeded perfectly inhis aim. First, he became recognised as a speaker, and, therefore,extremely useful; secondly, he was recognised as one of thesoundest exponents of politics in the county. Marthorne was notonly clever, but 'safe.' His repute for the latter quality was ofeven more service to him than for talent; to be 'safe' in suchthings is a very great recommendation. Personal reputation is ofslow growth, but it does grow. The Vice-Chairman, Marthorne'sfriend and mentor, had connections with very high people indeed. Hementioned Marthorne to the very high people. These, in their turn,occasionally cast a glance at what Marthorne was doing. Now andthen they read a speech of his, and thought it extremely good,solid, and well put. It was understood that a certain M.P. wouldretire at the next election; and they asked themselves whom theyhad to take his place?

While this important question was exercising the minds of thosein authority, Marthorne was energetically at work gaining thesocial suffrage. The young squire's lady—he had married inhis minority for beauty and intelligence, and not formoney—was discovered to be a very interesting young person.Her beauty and intelligence, and, let it be added, her truedevotion to her husband's cause, proved of fifty times more valueto him than a dowry of many manors. Her tact smoothed the wayeverywhere; she made friends for him in all directions, especiallyperhaps during the London season. Under the whirl and glitter ofthat fascinating time there are latent possibilities of importantbusiness. Both Marthorne and his lady had by birth and connectionsthe entrée into leading circles; but many who havethat entrée never attain to more influence in societythan the furniture of the drawing-room.

These two never for a moment lost sight of the country whilethey enjoyed themselves in town. Everything they said or did wassaid and done with a view to conciliate people who might havedirect or indirect influence in the country. In these matters,ladies of position still retain considerable power in their hands.The young squire and his wife put themselves to immense trouble toget the good-will of such persons, and being of engaging mannersthey in time succeeded. This was not effected at once, but three orfour years are a very short time in which to develop personalinfluence, and their success within so brief a period arguesconsiderable skill.

At home again in the autumn the same efforts were diligentlycontinued. The mansion itself was but of moderate size and by nomeans convenient, but the squire's lady transformed it from agaunt, commonplace country house into an elegant and charmingresidence. This she contrived without great expense by the exerciseof good taste and a gift of discriminating between what was andwhat was not. The exterior she left alone—to alter anexterior costs a heavy sum and often fails. But the interior shegradually fitted in a novel fettle, almost entirely after her owndesign. The gardens, too, under her supervision, became equallyinviting. The house got talked about, and was itself a socialsuccess.

On his part, the squire paid as much attention to the estate. Itwas not large, far from sufficient of itself, indeed, to supportany social or political pretensions without the most rigid economy.And the pair were rigidly economical. The lady dressed in theheight of the fashion, and drove the most beautiful horses, and yetshe never wasted a shilling upon herself. Her own little privatewhims and fancies she resolutely refused to gratify. Every coin wasspent where it would produce effect. In like manner, the squireliterally never had half a sovereign in his pocket. He selected thewines in his cellar with the greatest care, and paid for themprices which the wine merchant, in these days of cheap wines, wasunaccustomed to receive from men of thrice his income. The squirepaid for the very best wine, and in private drank a cheap claret.But his guests, many of them elderly gentlemen, when once they haddined with him never forgot to come again. His bins became knownthroughout the county; very influential people indeed spoke of themwith affection. It was in this way that the squire got a high valueout of his by no means extensive rents.

He also looked after the estate personally. Hodge, eating hisluncheon under the hedge in October, as he slowly munched hiscrust, watched the squire strolling about the fields, with his gununder his arm, and wondered why he did not try the turnips. Thesquire never went into the turnip field, and seemed quite obliviousthat he carried a gun, for when a covey rose at his feet he did notfire, but simply marked them down. His mind, in fact, was busy withmore important matters, and, fond as he was of shooting, he wantedthe birds for some one else's delectation. After he had had theplace a little while, there was not a square inch of waste groundto be found. When the tenants were callous to hints, the squiregave them pretty clearly to understand that he meant his land to beimproved, and improved it was. He himself of his own free motiveand initiative ordered new buildings to be erected where he, bypersonal inspection, saw that they would pay. He drained to someextent, but not very largely, thinking that capital sunk in drains,except in particular soils, did not return for many years.

Anxious as he was to keep plenty of game, he killed off therabbits, and grubbed up many of the small covers at the corners andsides of arable fields which the tenants believed injurious tocrops. He repaired labourers' cottages, and added offices tofarmsteads. In short, he did everything that could be done withouttoo heavy an expenditure. To kill off the rabbits, to grub thesmaller coverts, to drain the marshy spots, to thatch the cottages,put up cattle sheds, and so on, could be effected without burdeningthe estate with a loan. But, small as these improvements were inthemselves, yet, taken together, they made an appreciabledifference.

There was a distinct increase in the revenue of the estate afterthe first two years. The increase arose in part from the diminishedexpenses, for it has been found that a tumble-down place is morecostly to maintain than one in good repair. The tenants at firstwere rather alarmed, fearing lest the change should end in ageneral rise of rents. It did not. The squire only asked anincrease when he had admittedly raised the value of the land, andthen only to a moderate amount. By degrees he acquired a reputationas the most just of landlords. His tenantry were not onlysatisfied, but proud of him; for they began to foresee what wasgoing to happen.

Yet all these things had been done for his own interest—sotrue is it that the interest of the landlord and the tenant areidentical. The squire had simply acted judiciously, and frompersonal inspection. He studied his estate, and attended to itpersonally. Of course he could not have done these things had henot succeeded to a place but little encumbered with familysettlements. He did them from interested motives, and not from meresentiment. But, nevertheless, credit of a high order was justlyaccorded to him. So young a man might naturally have expended hisincome on pleasure. So young a wife might have spent his rents infrivolity. They worked towards an end, but it was a worthyend—for ambition, if not too extravagant, is a virtue. Menwith votes and influence compared this squire in their minds withother squires, whose lives seemed spent in a slumberousdonothingness.

Thus, by degrees, the young squire's mansion and estate added tohis reputation. The labour which all this represented was immense.Both the squire and his wife worked harder than a merchant in hisoffice. Attending Boards and farmers' clubs, making speeches,carrying on correspondence, looking after the estate, dischargingsocial duties, filled up every moment of his time. Superintendingthe house, the garden, corresponding, and a hundred other labours,filled up every moment of hers. They were never idle; to risesocially and politically requires as great or greater work than fora poor man to achieve a fortune.

Ultimately the desired result began to be apparent. There grewup a general feeling that the squire was the best man for the placein Parliament which, in the course of events, must ere long bevacant. There was much heartburning and jealousy secretly feltamong men twice his age, who had waited and hoped for years forsuch an opening, till at last they had rusted and become incapableof effort. But, cynical as they might be in private, they were toowise to go openly against the stream. A few friendly words spokenin season by a great man whose goodwill had been gained decided thematter. At an informal meeting of the party—how much more iseffected at informal than at formal assemblies!—Marthorne wasintroduced as the successor to the then representative. The youngsquire's estate could not, of course, bear the heavy pecuniarystrain which must arise; but before those who had the control ofthese things finally selected him they had ascertained that therewould be no difficulty with respect to money. Marthorne's oldfriend and mentor, the wealthy Vice-Chairman of the Petty Sessions,who had inducted him into the county business, announced that heshould bear the larger part of the expense. He was not a littleproud of his protégé.

The same old friend and mentor, wise with the knowledge andexperience which long observation of men had given him, advised theyoung squire what to do when the depression first came uponagriculture. The old man said, 'Meet it; very likely it will notlast two years. What is that in the life of an estate?' So theyoung squire met it, and announced at once that he should return apercentage of his rents. 'But not too high a percentage,' said theold man; 'let us ascertain what the rest of the landowners think,else by a too liberal reduction you may seem to cast a reflectionupon them.' The percentage was returned, and continued, and theyoung squire has tided over the difficulty.

His own tenantry and the farming interest generally are proud ofhim. Hodge, who, slow as he is, likes a real man, says, 'He beantsuch a bad sort of a veller, you; a' beant above speaking to we!'When the time comes the young squire will certainly bereturned.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PARSON'S WIFE

It is pleasant, on a sunny day to walk through a field of wheatwhen the footpath is bordered on either side by the ripening crop,without the intervention of hedge or fence. Such a footpath,narrow, but well kept, leads from a certain country churchyard tothe highway road, and passes on the way a wicket gate in a thickevergreen shrubbery which surrounds the vicarage lawn and gardens.This afternoon the wheat stands still and upright, without amotion, in the burning sunshine, for the sun, though he has slopeda little from his highest meridian altitude, pours an even fiercerbeam than at the exact hour of noon. The shadeless field is exposedto the full glare of the brilliant light. There are no trees in thefield itself, the hedges are cut low and trimmed to the smallestproportions, and are devoid of timber; and, as the ground is highand close to the hills, all the trees in sight are beneath, and canbe overlooked. Whether in sunshine or storm there is noshelter—no medium; the wind rushes over with its utmost fury,or the heat rests on it undisturbed by the faintest current. Yet,sultry as it is, the footpath is a pleasant one to follow.

The wheat ears, all but ripe—to the ordinary eye they areripe, but the farmer is not quite satisfied—rise to the waistor higher, and tempt the hand to pluck them. Butterflies flutterover the surface, now descending to some flower hidden beneath, nowresuming their joyous journey. There is a rich ripe feeling in thevery atmosphere, the earth is yielding her wealth, and a delicatearoma rises from her generous gifts. Far as the eye can see, therolling plains and slopes present various tints ofyellow—wheat in different stages of ripeness, or of differentkinds; oats and barley—till the hedges and woods of the valeconceal the farther landscape on the one hand and the ridge of thehills upon the other.

Nothing conveys so strong an impression of substantial wealth asthe view of wheat-fields. A diamond ornament in a window may beticketed as worth so many hundreds of pounds; but the glitteringgem, and the sum it represents, seem rather abstract than real. Butthe wheat, the golden wheat, is a great fact that seizes hold ofthe mind; the idea comes of itself that it represents solidwealth.

The tiles of the vicarage roof—all of the house visibleabove the shrubbery—look so hot and dry in the glaringsunshine that it does not seem possible for vegetation to existupon them; yet they are tinted with lichen. The shrubbery has aninviting coolness about it—the thick evergreens, the hollieson which the berries are now green, the cedars and ornamental treesplanted so close together that the passer-by cannot see through,must surely afford a grateful shade—a contrast with the heatof the wheat-field and the dust of the highway below. Just withoutthe wicket gate a goat standing upon his hind legs, his fore legsplaced against the palings, is industriously nibbling the tenderestleaves of the shrubs and trees which he can reach. Thus extended tohis full length he can reach considerably higher than might besupposed, and is capable of much destruction. Doubtless he has gotout of bounds.

Inside the enclosure the reverend gentleman himself reclines inan arm-chair of cane-work placed under the shade of the verandah,just without the glass door or window opening from the drawing-roomupon the lawn. His head has fallen back and a little to one side,and an open book lies on his knee; his soft felt hat is bent andcrumpled; he has yielded to the heat and is slumbering. The blindsare partly down the window, but a glimpse can be obtained of aluxurious carpet, of tables in valuable woods and inlaid, of a finepiano, of china, and the thousand and one nicknacks of highlycivilised life. The reverend gentleman's suit of black, however, isnot new; it is, on the contrary, decidedly rusty, and the sole ofone of his boots, which is visible, is much worn. Over his head theroses twine round the pillars of the verandah, and there is aparterre of brilliant flowers not far from his feet.

His wife sits, a few yards distant, under a weeping ash, whosewell-trained boughs make a perfect tent, and shield her from thesun. She has a small table before her, and writing materials, andis making notes with the utmost despatch from some paper orjournal. She is no longer young, and there are marks of much careand trouble on her forehead; but she has still a pleasingexpression upon her features, her hands are exquisitely white, andher figure, once really good, retains some of the outline thatrendered it beautiful. Wherever you saw her you would say, That isa lady. But her dress, tasteful though it be, is made of thecheapest material, and looks, indeed, as if it had been carefullyfolded away last summer, and was now brought out to do duty asecond time.

The slow rumble of waggon wheels goes down the road, close tothe lawn, but concealed by the trees, against whose boughs thesheaves of the load rustle as they go past. Wealth rolling by uponthe waggon, wealth in the well-kept garden, in the smart lawn, inthe roses, the bright flowers, the substantial well-furnishedhouse, the luxurious carpet, and the china; wealth, too, all aroundin the vast expanse of ripening wheat. He has nothing to do but toslumber in the cane chair and receive his tithe of the harvest. Shehas nothing to do but to sit under the shadow of the weeping ashand dream dreams, or write verses. Such, at least, might be thefirst impression.

The publication from which she is so earnestly making notes isoccupied with the management of bees, and she is so busy becausethe paper is only borrowed, and has to be returned. Most of thepapers and books that come to the vicarage have to be hastily readfor the same reason. Mrs. F—— is doing her very bestand hardest to increase the Rev. F——'s income—shehas tried to do so for some years, and despite repeated failures isbravely, perhaps a little wearily, still trying. There is not muchleft for her to experiment with. The goat surreptitiously nibblingthe valuable shrubs outside the palings is a member of a flock thatonce seemed to promise fair. Goats at one time (she was persuaded)were the means of ready wealth—they could live anywhere, onanything (the shrubs to wit), and yielded such rich milk; it farsurpassed that of the shorthorn; there was the analysis to proveit! Such milk must of course be worth money, beside which therewere the kids, and the cheese and butter.

Alas! the goats quickly obtained so evil a reputation, worsethan that of the rabbits for biting off the shooting vegetation,that no one would have them on the land. The milk was all theanalysis declared it, but in that outlying village, which did notcontain two houses above the quality of a farmstead, there was noone to buy it. There was a prejudice against the butter which couldnot be got over; and the cheese—well, the cheese resembled atablet of dark soap. Hodge would not eat it at a gift; he smelt it,picked a morsel off on the tip of his clasp knife, and threw itaside in contempt. One by one the goats were got rid of, and nowbut two or three remained; she could not make up her mind to partwith all, for living creatures, however greatly they havedisappointed, always enlist the sympathies of women.

Poultry was the next grand discovery—they ate their headsoff, refused to lay eggs, and, when by frequent purchase theybecame numerous and promised to pay, quietly died by the score,seized with an epidemic. She learnt in visiting the cottagers howprofitable their allotment gardens were to them, and naturallyproceeded to argue that a larger piece of ground would yieldproportionately larger profit if cultivated on the same principle.If the cottagers could pay a rent for an acre which, in theaggregate, was three times that given by the ordinary farmer, andcould even then make a good thing of it, surely intelligence andskill might do the same on a more extended scale. How very foolishthe farmers were! they might raise at least four times the producethey did, and they might pay three times the rent. As the vicar hadsome hundred and fifty acres of glebe let at the usual agriculturalrent, if the tenants could be persuaded or instructed to farm onthe cottager's system, what an immense increase it would be to hisincome! The tenants, however, did not see it. They shrugged theirshoulders, and made no movement The energetic lady resolved to setan example, and to prove to them that they were wrong.

She rented an acre of arable land (at the side of the field),giving the tenant a fair price for it. First it had to be enclosedso as to be parted off from the open field. The cost of the palingsmade the vicar wince; his lady set it duly down to debit. Sheplanted one-half potatoes, as they paid thirty pounds per acre, andon the rest put in hundreds of currant bushes, set a strawberry bedand an asparagus bed, on the principle that luxuries of that kindfetch a high price and occupy no more space than cabbages. As theacre was cultivated entirely by the spade, the cost of the labourexpended upon it ran up the figures on the debit side to an amountwhich rather startled her. But the most dispiriting part of thecommencement was the length of time to wait before a crop came.According to her calculations that represented so much idle capitalsunk, instead of being rapidly turned over. However, she consoledherself with the pig-sty, in which were half a dozen animals, whosefeeding she often personally superintended.

The potatoes failed, and did not pay for the digging; thecurrant bushes were blighted; the strawberries were eaten bysnails, and, of course, no asparagus could be cut for three years;a little item, this last, quite overlooked. The pigs returnedexactly the sum spent upon them; there was neither profit nor loss,and there did not appear any chance of making a fortune out ofpork. The lady had to abandon the experiment quite disheartened,and found that, after all her care and energy, her books showed aloss of fifteen pounds. It was wonderful it was not more; labourwas so expensive, and no doubt she was cheated right and left.

She next tried to utilise her natural abilities, and to turn heraccomplishments to account. She painted; she illuminated texts; sheundertook difficult needlework of various kinds, in answer toadvertisem*nts which promised ample remuneration for a few hours'labour. Fifteen hours' hard work she found was worth justthreepence, and the materials cost one shilling: consequently shelaboriously worked herself poorer by ninepence.

Finally, she was studying bees, which really seemed to hold outsome prospect of success. Yonder were the hills where they couldfind thyme in abundance; the fields around supplied clover; and themeadows below were full of flowers. So that hot summer day, underthe weeping ash, she was deep in the study of the 'Ligurian queen,'the 'super' system, the mysteries of 'driving,' and making sketchesof patent hives. Looking up from her sketch she saw that herhusband had fallen asleep, and stayed to gaze at himthoughtfully.

He looked worn, and older than he really was; as if rest orchange would do him good; as if he required luxuries and petting.She sighed, and wondered whether the bees would enable her to buyhim such things, for though the house was well furnished andapparently surrounded with wealth, they were extremely poor. Yetshe did not care for money for their own household use so much asto give him the weight in parish affairs he so sadly needed. Shefelt that he was pushed aside, treated as a cipher, and that he hadlittle of the influence that properly belonged to him. Her twodaughters, their only children, were comfortably, though notgrandly, married and settled; there was no family anxiety. But thework, the parish, the people, all seemed to have slipped out of herhusband's hands. She could not but acknowledge that he was tooquiet and yielding, that he lacked the brazen voice, the personalforce that imposes upon men. But surely his good intentions, hisway of life, his gentle kindness should carry sway. Instead ofwhich the parish seemed to have quite left the Church, and theparson was outside the real modern life of the village. No matterwhat he did, even if popular, it soon seemed to pass out of hishands.

There was the school, for instance. He could indeed go acrossand visit it, but he had no control, no more than the verieststranger that strolled along the road. He had always been anxiousfor a good school, and had done the best he could with means solimited before the new Acts came into operation. When they werepassed he was the first to endeavour to carry them out and to savethe village the cost and the possible quarrelling of a schoolboard. He went through all the preliminary work, and reconciled, asfar as possible, the jarring interests that came into play. The twolargest landlords of the place were unfortunately not on goodterms. Whatever the one did the other was jealous of, so that whenone promised the necessary land for the school, and it wasaccepted, the other withdrew his patronage, and declined tosubscribe. With great efforts the vicar, nevertheless, got theschool erected, and to all appearance the difficulty wassurmounted.

But when the Government inspection took place it was found that,though not nearly filled with scholars, there was not sufficientcubic space to include the children of a distant outlying hamlet,which the vicar had hoped to manage by a dame school. These poorchildren, ill fed and young, could hardly stand walking to and fromthe village school—a matter of some five miles daily, andwhich in winter and wet weather was, in itself, a day's work fortheir weary little limbs. As the vicar could not raise money enoughto pay a certificated teacher at the proposed branch or dameschool, the scheme had to be abandoned. Then, according to redtape, it was necessary to enlarge the village school to accommodatethese few children, and this notwithstanding that the building wasnever full. The enlargement necessitated a great additionalexpenditure The ratepayers did, indeed, after much bickering andmuch persuasion, in the end pay off the deficiency; but in themeantime, the village had been brought to the verge of a schoolboard.

Religious differences came to the front—there was, infact, a trial of force between the denominations. Till then formany years these differences had slumbered and been almostforgotten; they were now brought into collision, and the socialquiet of the place was upset. A council of the chief farmers andsome others was ultimately formed, and, as a matter of fact, reallydid represent the inhabitants fairly well. But while it representedthe parish, it left the vicar quite outside. He had a voice, butnothing more. He was not the centre—the controllingspirit.

He bore it meekly enough, so far as he was personally concerned;but he grieved about it in connection with his deep religiousfeelings and his Church. The Church was not in the front of all, asit should be. It was hard after all his labour; the rebuffs, thebitter remarks, the sneers of those who had divergent views, and,perhaps worse than all, the cold indifference and apathy of thosewho wished things to remain in the old state, ignoring the factthat the law would not suffer it. There were many other thingsbesides the school, but they all went the same way. The moderninstitution was introduced, championed by the Church, worked for bythe Church, but when at last it was successful, somehow or other itseemed to have severed itself from the Church altogether. The vicarwalked about the village, and felt that, though nominally in it, hewas really out of it.

His wife saw it too, still more clearly than he did. She sawthat he had none of the gift of getting money out of people. Somemen seem only to have to come in contact with others to at oncereceive the fruits of their dormant benevolent feelings. The richman writes his cheque for 100l., the middle-class well-to-dosends his bank notes for 20l., the comfortable middle-classman his sovereigns. A testimonial is got up, an address engrossedon vellum, speeches are made, and a purse handed over containing adraft for so many hundreds, 'in recognition, not in reward, of yourlong continued and successful ministrations.' The art of causingthe purse-strings to open is an art that is not so well understood,perhaps, among the orthodox as by the unorthodox. The Rev.F—— either could not, or would not, or did not know howto ask, and he did not receive.

Just at present his finances were especially low. The tenantswho farmed the glebe land threatened to quit unless their rentswere materially reduced, and unless a considerable sum was expendedupon improvements. To some very rich men the reduction of rents hasmade a sensible difference; to the Rev. F—— it meantserious privations. But he had no choice; he had to be satisfiedwith that or nothing. Then the vicarage house, though substantialand pleasant to look at, was not in a good state within. The raincame through in more places than one, and the ancient woodwork ofthe roof was rotten. He had already done considerable repairing,and knew that he must soon do more. The nominal income of theliving was but moderate; but when the reductions were all made,nothing but a cheese-paring seemed left. From this hissubscriptions to certain ecclesiastical institutions had to bededucted.

Lastly, he had received a hint that a curate ought to be keptnow that his increasing age rendered him less active than before.There was less hope now than ever of anything being done for him inthe parish. The landowners complained of rent reductions, of farmsidle on their hands, and of increasing expenses. The farmersgrumbled about the inclement seasons, their continual losses, andthe falling markets. It was not a time when the churlish are almostgenerous, having such overflowing pockets. There was notestimonial, no address on vellum, no purse with banker's draft forthe enfeebled servant of the Church slumbering in the cane chair inthe verandah.

Yet the house was exquisitely kept, marvellously keptconsidering the class of servants they were obliged to put up with.The garden was bright and beautiful with flowers, the lawn smooth;there was an air of refinement everywhere. So the clergyman slept,and the wife turned again to her sketch of the patent hive, hopingthat the golden honey might at last bring some metallic gold. Thewaggon rumbled down the road, and Hodge, lying at full length onthe top of the load, could just see over the lowest part of theshrubbery, and thought to himself what a jolly life that parsonled, sleeping the hot hours away in the shade.

CHAPTER XV

A MODERN COUNTRY CURATE

'He can't stroddle thuck puddle, you: can a'?'

'He be going to try: a' will leave his shoe in it.'

Such were the remarks that passed between two agricultural womenwho from behind the hedge were watching the approach of the curatealong a deep miry lane. Where they stood the meadow was high abovethe level of the lane, which was enclosed by steep banks thicklyovergrown with bramble, briar, and thorn. The meadows each sidenaturally drained into the hollow, which during a storm was filledwith a rushing torrent, and even after a period of dry weather wasstill moist, for the overhanging trees prevented evaporation. A rowof sarsen stones at irregular intervals were intended to affordfirm footing to the wayfarer, but they were nothing more than trapsfor the unwary. Upon placing the foot on the smooth rounded surfaceit immediately slipped, and descended at an angle into a wateryhole. The thick, stiff, yellow clay held the water like a basin;the ruts, quite two feet deep, where waggon wheels had been drawnthrough by main force, were full to the brim. In summer heats theymight have dried, but in November, though fine, they neverwould.

Yet if the adventurous passenger, after gamely struggling,paused awhile to take breath, and looked up from the mud, the viewabove was beautiful. The sun shone, and lit up the oaks, whoseevery leaf was brown or buff; the gnats played in thousands in themild air under the branches. Through the coloured leaves the bluesky was visible, and far ahead a faintly bluish shadow fell athwartthe hollow. There were still blackberries on the bramble, besidewhich the brown fern filled the open spaces, and behind upon thebanks the mosses clothed the ground and the roots of the trees witha deep green. Two or more fieldfares were watching in an elm somedistance down; the flock to which they belonged was feeding, partlyin the meadow and partly in the hedge. Every now and then the larksflew over, uttering their call-note. Behind a bunch of rushes ayoung rabbit crouched in the ditch on the earth thrown out from thehole hard by, doubtful in his mind whether to stay there or toenter the burrow.

It was so still and mild between the banks, where there was notthe least current of air, that the curate grew quite warm with theexertion. His boots adhered to the clay, in which they sank atevery step; they came out with a 'sock, sock.' He now followed themarks of footsteps, planting his step where the weight of somecarter or shepherd had pressed the mud down firm. Where thesefailed he was attracted by a narrow grass-grown ridge, a few incheswide, between two sets of ruts. In a minute he felt the ridgegiving beneath him as the earth slipped into the watery ruts. Nexthe crept along the very edge of the ditch, where the briars hookedin the tail of his black frock-coat, and an unnoticed projectingbough quietly lifted his shovel-hat off, but benevolently held itsuspended, instead of dropping it in the mud. Still he madeprogress, though slow; now with a giant stride across anexceptionally doubtful spot, now zigzagging from side to side. Thelane was long, and he seemed to make but little advance. But therewas a spirit in him not to be stayed by mud, or clay, or any otherobstacle. It is pleasant to see an enthusiast, whether right orwrong, in these cynical days. He was too young to have acquiredmuch worldly wisdom, but he was full of the high spirit whicharises from thorough conviction and the sense of personalconsecration conferred by the mission on the man. He pushed onsteadily till brought to a stop by a puddle, broad, deep, andimpassable, which extended right across the lane, and was some sixor eight yards long. He tried to slip past at the side, but thebanks were thick with thorns, and the brambles overhung the water;the outer bushes coated with adhesive mud. Then he sounded thepuddle with his stick as far as he could reach, and found it deepand the bottom soft, so that the foot would sink into it. Heconsidered, and looked up and down the lane.

The two women, of whose presence he was unconscious, watched himfrom the high and dry level of the meadow, concealed behind thebushes and the oaks. They wore a species of smock frock gathered inround the waist by a band over their ordinary dress; these smockfrocks had once been white, but were now discoloured with dirt andthe weather. They were both stout and stolid-looking, hardy as thetrees under which they stood. They were acorn picking, searchingfor the dropped acorns in the long rank grass by the hedge, underthe brown leaves, on the banks, and in the furrows. The boughs ofthe oak spread wide—the glory of the tree is itshead—and the acorns are found in a circle corresponding withthe outer circumference of the branches. Some are still fartherafield, because in falling they strike the boughs and glance aside.A long slender pole leaning against the hedge was used to thrashthe boughs within reach, and so to knock down any thatremained.

A sack half filled was on the ground close to the trunk of theoak, and by it was a heap of dead sticks, to be presently carriedhome to boil the kettle. Two brown urchins assisted them, and wentwhere the women could not go, crawling under the thorns into thehedge, and creeping along the side of the steep bank, gatheringacorns that had fallen into the mouths of the rabbit holes, or thatwere lying under the stoles. Out of sight under the bushes theycould do much as they liked, looking for fallen nuts instead ofacorns, or eating a stray blackberry, while their mothers rootedabout among the grass and leaves of the meadow. Such continualstooping would be weary work for any one not accustomed to it. Asthey worked from tree to tree they did not observe the colours ofthe leaves, or the wood-pigeons, or the pheasant looking along theedge of the ditch on the opposite side of the field. If they pausedit was to gossip or to abuse the boys for not bringing more acornsto the sack.

But when the boys, hunting in the hedge, descried the curate inthe distance and came back with the news, the two women weresuddenly interested. The pheasants, the wood-pigeons, or thecoloured leaves were not worthy of a glance. To see a gentleman upto his ankles in mud was quite an attraction. The one stood withher lap half-full of acorns; the other with a basket on her arm.The two urchins lay down on the ground, and peered from behind athorn stole, their brown faces scarcely distinguishable from thebrown leaves, except for their twinkling eyes. The puddle was toowide to step across, as the women had said, nor was there any wayround it.

The curate looked all round twice, but he was not the man to goback. He tucked up his troupers nearly to the knee—he worethem short always—and stepped into the water. At this theurchins could barely suppress a shout of delight—they did,however, suppress it—and craned forward to see him splash.The curate waded slowly to the middle, getting deeper and deeper,and then suddenly found firmer footing, and walked the rest of theway with the water barely over his boots. After he was through hecleansed his boots on a wisp of grass and set off at a good pace,for the ground past the pool began to rise, and the lane wasconsequently drier. The women turned again to their acorns,remarking, in a tone with something like respect in it, 'He didn'tstop for the mud, you: did a'?'

Presently the curate reached the highway with its hard surface,and again increased his pace. The hedges here were cut each side,and as he walked rapidly, leaning forward, his shovel-hat andshoulders were visible above them, and his coat tails floated inthe breeze of his own progress. His heavy boots—they wereextremely thick and heavy, though without nails—tramped,tramped, on the hard road. With a stout walking-stick in one hand,and in the other a book, he strode forward, still more swiftly asit seemed at every stride. A tall young man, his features seemedthin and almost haggard; out of correspondence with a large frame,they looked as if asceticism had drawn and sharpened them. Therewas earnestness and eagerness—almost feverisheagerness—in the expression of his face. He passed themeadows, the stubble fields, the green root crops, the men atplough, who noticed his swift walk, contrasting with their own slowmotion; and as he went his way now and then consulted a little slipof paper, upon which he had jotted memoranda of his engagements.Work, work, work—ceaseless work. How came this? What couldthere be to do in a sparely-populated agricultural district with,to appearance, hardly a cottage to a mile?

After nearly an hour's walking he entered the outskirts of alittle country town, slumbering outside the railway system, and,turning aside from the street, stopped at the door of the ancientvicarage. The resident within is the ecclesiastical head of twoseparate hamlets lying at some miles' distance from his own parish.Each of these hamlets possesses a church, though the population isof the very sparsest, and in each he maintains a resident curate. Athird curate assists him in the duties of the home parish, which isa large one, that is, in extent. From one of these distant hamletsthe curate, who struggled so bravely through the mire, has walkedin to consult with his superior. He is shown into the library, andsinks not unwillingly into a chair to wait for the vicar, who isengaged with a district visitor, or lay sister.

This part of the house is ancient, and dates from medievaltimes. Some have conjectured that the present library and theadjoining rooms (the partitions being modern) originally formed therefectory of a monastic establishment. Others assign it to anotheruse; but all agree that it is monastic and antique. The black oakrafters of the roof, polished as it were by age, meet overheadunconcealed by ceiling. Upon the wall in one place a figure seemsat the first glance to be in the act to glide forth like a spectrefrom the solid stone. The effect is caused by the subduedcolouring, which is shadowy and indistinct. It was perhaps gaudywhen first painted; but when a painting has been hidden by a coator two of plaster, afterwards as carefully removed as it wascarelessly laid on, the tints lose their brilliancy. Some saintedwoman in a flowing robe, with upraised arm, stands ever in the actto bless. Only half one of the windows of the original hall is inthis apartment—the partition wall divides it. There yetremain a few stained panes in the upper part; few as they are andsmall, yet the coloured light that enters through them seems totone the room.

The furniture, of oak, is plain and spare to the verge of agaunt severity, and there is not one single picture-frame on thewide expanse of wall. On the table are a few books and someletters, with foreign postmarks, and addressed in the crabbedhandwriting of Continental scholars. Over the table a brazen lamphangs suspended by a slender chain. In a corner are some fragmentsof stone mouldings and wood carvings like the panel of an ancientpew. There are no shelves and no bookcase. Besides those on thetable, one volume lies on the floor, which is without carpet orcovering, but absolutely clean: and by the wall, not far from thefireplace, is an open chest, ancient and ponderous, in which arethe works of the Fathers. The grate has been removed from thefireplace and the hearth restored; for in that outlying districtthere is plenty of wood. Though of modern make, the heavy brassfire-irons are of ancient shape. The fire has gone out—thelogs are white with the ash that forms upon decaying embers; it isclear that the owner of this bare apartment, called a library, butreally a study, is not one who thinks of his own personal comfort.If examined closely the floor yonder bears the marks of feet thathave walked monotonously to and fro in hours of thought. When theeye has taken in these things, as the rustle of the brown leavesblown against the pane without in the silence is plainly audible,the mind seems in an instant to slip back four hundred years.

The weary curate has closed his eyes, and starts as a servantenters bringing him wine, for the vicar, utterly oblivious of hisown comfort, is ever on the watch for that of others. Hispredecessor, a portly man, happy in his home alone, and, as reportsaid, loving his ease and his palate, before he was preferred to aricher living, called in the advice of architects as to convertingthe ancient refectory to some use. In his time it was a merelumber-room, into which all the odds and ends of the house werethrown. Plans were accordingly prepared for turning one part of itinto a cosy breakfast parlour, and the other into a conservatory.Before any steps, however, were taken he received hispreferment—good things flow to the rich—and departed,leaving behind him a favourable memory. If any inhabitant wereasked what the old vicar did, or said, and what work heaccomplished, the reply invariably was, 'Oh! hum! he was a verygood sort of man: he never interfered with anybody oranything!'

Accustomed to such an even tenour of things, all the visinertiæ of the parish revolted when the new vicarimmediately evinced a determination to do his work thoroughly. Therestless energy of the man alone set the stolid old folk at onceagainst him. They could not 'a-bear to see he a-flying all over theparish: why couldn't he bide at home?' No one is so rigidly opposedto the least alteration in the conduct of the service as the oldfarmer or farmer's wife, who for forty years and more has listenedto the same old hymn, the same sing-song response, the same styleof sermon. It is vain to say that the change is still no more thanwhat was—contemplated by the Book of Common Prayer. Theynaturally interpret that book by what they have been accustomed tofrom childhood. The vicar's innovations were really mostinoffensive, and well within even a narrow reading of the rubric.The fault lay in the fact that they were innovations, so far as thepractice of that parish was concerned. So the old folk raised theirvoices in a chorus of horror, and when they met gossiped over theawful downfall of the faith. All that the vicar had yet done was tointone a part of the service, and at once many announced that theyshould stay away.

Next he introduced a choir. The sweet voices of the white-robedboys rising along the vaulted roof of the old church melted thehearts of those who, with excuses for their curiosity to theirneighbours, ventured to go and hear them. The vicar had a naturaltalent, almost a genius, for music. There was a long struggle inhis mind whether he might or might not permit himself an organ inhis library. He decided it against himself, mortifying the spiritas well as the flesh, but in the service of the Church he felt thathe might yield to his inclination. By degrees he gathered round himthe best voices of the parish; the young of both sexes came gladlyafter awhile to swell the volume of song. How powerful is theinfluence of holy music upon such minds as are at all inclined toserious devotion! The church filled more and more every Sunday, andpeople came from the farthest corners of the parish, walking milesto listen. The young people grew enthusiastic, and one by one theold folk yielded and followed them.

At the same time the church itself seemed to change. It had beencold and gloomy, and gaunt within, for so many generations, that noone noticed it. A place of tombs, men hurried away from it asquickly as possible. Now, little touches here and there graduallygave it the aspect of habitation. The new curtains hung at the doorof the vestry, and drawn, too, across the main entrance whenservice began, the fleur-de-lys on the crimson ground gavean impression of warmth. The old tarnished brazen fittings of thepews were burnished up, a new and larger stove (supplied at thevicar's expense) diffused at least some little heat in winter. Acurate came, one who worked heart and soul with the vicar, and theservice became very nearly choral, the vicar now wearing thevestment which his degree gave him the strict right to assume.There were brazen candlesticks behind the altar, and beautifulflowers. Before, the interior was all black and white. Now therewas a sense of colour, of crimson curtains, of polished brass, offlowers, and rich-toned altar cloth. The place was lit up with anew light. After the first revolt of the old folk there was littleopposition, because the vicar, being a man who had studied humannature and full of practical wisdom as well as learning, did allthings gradually. One thing as introduced at a time, and thetransition—after the first start—was effectedimperceptibly. Nor was any extravagant ritual thrust upon thecongregation; nor any suspicious doctrine broached.

In that outlying country place, where men had no knowledge ofcathedrals, half the offices of the Church had been forgotten. Thevicar brought them back again. He began early morning services; hehad the church open all day for private prayer. He reminded thefolk of Lent and Eastertide, which, except for the traditionalpancakes, had almost passed out of their lives. Festivals, saints'days, midnight service, and, above all, the Communion, wereinsisted upon and brought home to them. As in many other countrydistricts, the Communion had nearly dropped into disuse. At firsthe was alone, but by-and-by a group of willing lay helpers grew uparound him. The churchwardens began to work with him; then a few ofthe larger tenant farmers. Of the two great landed proprietors, onewas for him from the first, the other made no active opposition,but stood aloof. When, in the autumn, the family of the one thatwas for him came home, a fresh impetus was given. The ladies of themansion came forward to join in the parish and Church work, andthen other ladies, less exalted, but fairly well-to-do, who hadonly been waiting for a leader, crowded after.

For the first time in the memory of man the parish began to be'visited.' Lay sisters accepted the charge of districts; and thusthere was not a cottage, nor an old woman, but had the changebrought home to her. Confirmation, which had been almost forgotten,was revived, and it was surprising what a number of girls cameforward to be prepared. The Bishop, who was not at all predisposedto view the 'movement' with favour, when he saw the full church,the devotional congregation, and after he had visited the vicarageand seen into what was going on personally, expressed openly aguarded approval, and went away secretly well pleased. Rightly orwrongly, there was a 'movement' in the parish and the outlyinghamlets: and thus it was that the curate, struggling through themire, carried in his face the expression of hard work. Work, work,work; the vicar, his three curates and band of lay helpers, workedincessantly.

Besides his strictly parochial duties, the vicar wrote a manualfor use in the schools, he attended the Chambers of Agriculture,and supported certain social movements among the farmers; heattended meetings, and, both socially and politically, by force ofcharacter, energy, and the gift of speech, became a power in thecountry side. Still striving onwards, he wrote in Londonperiodicals, he published a book, he looked from the silence of hisgaunt study towards the great world, and sometimes dreamed of whathe might have done had he not been buried in the country, and ofwhat he might even yet accomplish. All who came in contact with himfelt the influence of his concentrated purpose: one and all, afterthey had worked their hardest, thought they had still not done somuch as he would have done.

The man's charm of manner was not to be resisted; he believedhis office far above monarchs, but there was no personalpretension. That gentle, pleasing manner, with the sense ofintellectual power behind it, quite overcame the old folk. They allspoke with complacent pride of 'our vicar'; and, what was more,opened their purses. The interior of the church was restored, and anoble organ built. When its beautiful notes rose and fell, whensweet voices swelled the wave of sound, then even the vicar'srestless spirit was soothed in the fulfilment of his hope. A largeproportion of the upper and middle class of the parish was, withouta doubt, now gathered around him; and there was much sympathymanifested from adjacent parishes with his objects, sympathy whichoften took the form of subscriptions from distant people.

But what said Hodge to it all? Hodge said nothing. Some fewyoung cottage people who had good voices, and liked to use them,naturally now went to church. So did the old women and old men, whohad an eye to charity. But the strong, sturdy men, the carters andshepherds, stood aloof; the bulk and backbone of the agriculturallabouring population were not in the least affected. They viewedthe movement with utter indifference. They cleaned their boots on aSunday morning while the bells were ringing, and walked down totheir allotments, and came home and ate their cabbage, and were asoblivious of the vicar as the wind that blew. They had no presentquarrel with the Church; no complaint whatever; nor apparently anyold memory or grudge; yet there was a something, a blank space asit were, between them and the Church. If anything, the 'movement'rather set them against going.

Agricultural cottagers have a strong bias towards Dissent in oneform or another; village chapels are always well filled. Dissent,of course, would naturally rather dislike a movement of the kind.But there was no active or even passive opposition. The cottagefolk just ignored the Church; nothing more and nothing less. Noefforts were spared to obtain their good-will and to draw them intothe fold, but there was absolutely no response. Not a labourer'sfamily in that wide district was left unvisited. The cottages werescattered far apart, dotted here and there, one or two down in anarrow coombe surrounded on three sides by the green wall of thehills. Others stood on the bleak plains, unsheltered by tree orhedge, exposed to the keen winds that swept across the level, yetelevated fields. A new cottage built in modern style, with glaringred brick, was perched on the side of a hill, where it was visiblemiles away. An old thatched one stood in a hollow quite alone, halfa mile from the highway, and so hidden by the oaks that an armymight have ravaged the country and never found it. How many, manymiles of weary walking such rounds as these required!

Though they had, perhaps, never received a 'visitor' before, itwas wonderful with what skill the cottage womenespecially—the men being often away at work—adaptedthemselves to the new régime. Each time they told amore pitiful tale, set in such a realistic framing of hardship andexposure that a stranger could not choose but believe. In the artof encouraging attentions of this sort no one excels the cottagewomen; the stories they will relate, with the smallest detailsinserted in the right place, are something marvellous. At first youwould exclaim with the deepest commiseration, such a case ofsuffering and privation as this cannot possibly be equalled by anyin the parish; but calling at the next cottage, you are presentedwith a yet more moving relation, till you find the whole populationare plunged in misery and afflicted with incredible troubles. Theycannot, surely, be the same folk that work so sturdily at harvest.But when the curate has administered words of consolation anddropped the small silver dole in the palm, when his shovel-hat andblack frock-coat tails have disappeared round the corner of thecopse, then in a single second he drops utterly out of mind. No onecomes to church the more. If inquiries are made why they did notcome, a hundred excuses are ready; the rain, a bad foot, illness ofthe infant, a cow taken ill and requiring attention, and so on.

After some months of such experience the curate's spiritsgradually decline; his belief in human nature is sadly shaken. Menwho openly oppose, who argue and deny, are comparatively easy todeal with; there is the excitement of the battle with evil. But apopulation that listens, and apparently accepts the message, thatis so thankful for little charities, and always civil, and yetturns away utterly indifferent, what is to be done with it? Mightnot the message nearly as well be taken to the cow at her crib, orthe horse at his manger? They, too, would receive a wisp of sweethay willingly from the hand.

But the more bitter the experience, the harder the trial, themore conscientiously the curate proceeds upon his duty, strugglingbravely through the mire. He adds another mile to his dailyjourney: he denies himself some further innocent recreation. Thecottages in the open fields are comparatively pleasant to visit,the sweet fresh air carries away effluvia. Those that are socuriously crowded together in the village are sinks of foul smell,and may be of worse—places where, if fever come, it takeshold and quits not. His superior requests him earnestly to refrainawhile and to take rest, to recruit himself with aholiday—even orders him to desist from overmuch labour. Theman's mind is in it, and he cannot obey. What is the result?

Some lovely autumn day, at a watering-place, you may perchancebe strolling by the sea, with crowds of well-dressed, happy peopleon the one side, and on the other the calm sunlit plain where boatsare passing to and fro. A bath-chair approaches, and a young manclad in black gets out of it, where some friendly iron railingsafford him a support for his hand. There, step by step, leaningheavily on the rails, he essays to walk as a child. The sockets ofhis joints yield beneath him, the limbs are loose, the ankle twistsaside; each step is an enterprise, and to gain a yard a task. Thusday by day the convalescent strives to accustom the sinews to theirwork. It is a painful spectacle; how different, how strangelyaltered, from the upright frame and the swift stride that struggledthrough the miry lane, perhaps even then bearing the seeds ofdisease imbibed in some foul village den, where duty calledhim!

His wan, white face seems featureless; there is nothing but apair of deep-set eyes. But as you pass, and momentarily catch theirglance, they are bright and burning still with living faith.

CHAPTER XVI

THE SOLICITOR

In glancing along the street of a country town, a house maysometimes be observed of a different and superior description tothe general row of buildings. It is larger, rises higher, andaltogether occupies more space. The façade is stylish, inarchitectural fashion of half a century since. To the modern eye itmay not perhaps look so interesting as the true old gabled roofswhich seem so thoroughly English, nor, on the other hand, so brightand cheerful as the modern suburban villa. But it is substantialand roomy within. The weather has given the front a sombre hue, andthe windows are dingy, as if they rarely or never knew the care ofa housemaid. On the ground floor the windows that would otherwiselook on to the street are blocked to almost half their height witha wire blind so closely woven that no one can see in, and it is noteasy to see out. The doorway is large, with stone steps andporch—the doorway of a gentleman's house. There is businessclose at hand—shops and inns, and all the usual offices of atown—but, though in the midst, this house wears an air ofseparation from the rest of the street.

When it was built—say fifty years ago, or more—itwas, in fact, the dwelling-house of an independent gentleman.Similar houses may be found in other parts of the place, onceinhabited by retired and wealthy people. Such persons no longerlive in towns of this kind—they build villas with lawns andpleasure grounds outside in the environs, or, though stillretaining their pecuniary interest, reside at a distance. Likelarge cities, country towns are now almost given over to offices,shops, workshops, and hotels. Those who have made money get awayfrom the streets as quickly as possible. Upon approaching nearer tothis particular building the street door will be found to be wideopen to the public, and, if you venture still closer, a name may beseen painted in black letters upon the side of the passage wall,after the manner of the brokers in the courts off ThrogmortonStreet, or of the lawyers in the Temple. It is, in fact, the officeof a country solicitor—most emphatically one of Hodge's manymasters—and is admirably suited for his purpose, on accountof its roomy interior.

The first door within opens on the clerks' room, and should youmodestly knock on the panels instead of at once turning the handle,a voice will invite you to 'Come in.' Half of the room ispartitioned off for the clerks, who sit at a long high desk, with alow railing or screen in front of them. Before the senior is abrass rail, along which he can, if he chooses, draw a red curtain.He is too hard at work and intent upon some manuscript to so muchas raise his head as you enter. But the two younger men, eager fora change, look over the screen, and very civilly offer to attend toyour business. When you have said that you wish to see the head ofthe firm, you naturally imagine that your name will be at onceshouted up the tube, and that in a minute or two, at farthest, youwill be ushered into the presence of the principal. In that smallcountry town there cannot surely be much work for a lawyer, and avisitor must be quite an event. Instead, however, of using the tubethey turn to the elder clerk, and a whispered conversation takesplace, of which some broken sentences may be caught—'He can'tbe disturbed,' 'It's no use,' 'Must wait.' Then the elder clerklooks over his brass rail and says he is very sorry, but theprincipal is engaged, the directors of a company are with him, andit is quite impossible to say exactly when they will leave. It maybe ten minutes, or an hour. But if you like to wait (pointing withhis quill to a chair) your name shall be sent up directly thedirectors leave.

You glance at the deck, and elect to wait. The older clerk nodshis head, and instantly resumes his writing. The chair is old andhard—the stuffing compressed by a generation of wearysuitors; there are two others at equal distances along the wall.The only other furniture is a small but solid table, upon whichstands a brass copying-press. On the mantelpiece there are scalesfor letter-weighing, paper clips full of papers, a countyPost-office directory, a railway time-table card nailed to thewall, and a box of paper-fasteners. Over it is a map, dusty anddingy, of some estate laid out for building purposes, with awinding stream running through it, roads passing at right angles,and the points of the compass indicated in an upper corner.

On the other side of the room, by the window, a framedadvertisem*nt hangs against the wall, like a picture, setting forththe capital and reserve and the various advantages offered by aninsurance company, for which the firm are the local agents. Betweenthe chairs are two boards fixed to the wall with some kind of hookor nail for the suspension of posters and printed bills. Theseboards are covered with such posters, announcing sales by auction,farms to be let, houses to be had on lease, shares in a local bankor gasworks for sale, and so on, for all of which properties thefirm are the legal representatives. Though the room is of fair sizethe ceiling is low, as in often the case in old houses, and it has,in consequence, become darkened by smoke and dust, therein, afterawhile, giving a gloomy, oppressive feeling to any one who haslittle else to gaze at. The blind at the window rises far too highto allow of looking out, and the ground glass above it was designedto prevent the clerks from wasting their time watching thepassers-by in the street. There is, however, one place where theglass is worn and transparent, and every now and then one of thetwo younger clerks mounts on his stool and takes a peep through toreport to his companion.

The restraint arising from the presence of a stranger soon wearsoff; the whisper rises to a buzz of talk; they laugh, and pelt eachother with pellets of paper. The older clerk takes not the leastheed. He writes steadily on, and never lifts his head from thepaper—long hours of labour have dimmed his sight, and he hasto stoop close over the folio. He may be preparing a brief, he maybe copying a deposition, or perhaps making a copy of a deed; butwhatever it is, his whole mind is absorbed and concentrated on hispen. There must be no blot, no erasure, no interlineation. The handof the clock moves slowly, and the half-heard talk and jests of thejunior clerks—one of whom you suspect of making a pen-and-inksketch of you—mingle with the ceaseless scrape of thesenior's pen, and the low buzz of two black flies that circle forever round and round just beneath the grimy ceiling. Occasionallynoises of the street penetrate; the rumble of loaded waggons, thetramp of nailed shoes, or the sharp quick sound of a trottinghorse's hoofs. Then the junior jumps up and gazes through thepeephole. The directors are a very long time upstairs. What cantheir business be? Why are there directors at all in little countrytowns?

Presently there are heavy footsteps in the passage, the doorslowly opens, and an elderly labourer, hat in hand, peers in. Noone takes the least notice of him. He leans on his stick and blinkshis eyes, looking all round the room; then taps with the stick andclears his throat—'Be he in yet?' he asks, with emphasis onthe 'he.' 'No, he be not in,' replies a junior, mocking the oldman's accent and grammar. The senior looks up, 'Call at twoo'clock, the deed is not ready,' and down goes his head again. 'Amain bit o' bother about this yer margidge' (mortgage), thelabourer remarks, as he turns to go out, not without a complacentsmile on his features for the law's delays seem to him grand, andhe feels important. He has a little property—a cottage andgarden—upon which he is raising a small sum for some purpose,and this 'margidge' is one of the great events of his life. Hetalked about it for two or three years before he ventured to beginit; he has been weeks making up his mind exactly what to do afterhis first interview with the solicitor—he would have beenmonths had not the solicitor at last made it plain that he couldwaste no more time—and when it is finally completed he willtalk about it again to the end of his days. He will be in and outasking for 'he' all day long at intervals, and when the interviewtakes place it will be only for the purpose of having everythingalready settled explained over to him for the fiftieth time. Hisheavy shoes drag slowly down the passage—he will go to thestreet corner and talk with the carters who come in, and the oldwomen, with their baskets, a-shopping, about 'this yer lawjob.'

There is a swifter step on the lead-covered staircase, and aclerk appears, coming from the upper rooms. He has a telegram and aletter in one hand, and a bundle of papers in the other. He showsthe telegram and the letter to his fellow clerks—even thegrave senior just glances at the contents silently, elevates hiseyebrows, and returns to his work. After a few minutes' talk and ajest or two the clerk rushes upstairs again.

Another caller comes. It is a stout, florid man, a young farmeror farmer's son, riding-whip in hand, who produces a red-boundrate-book from a pocket in his coat made on purpose to hold theunwieldy volume. He is a rate-collector for his parish, and hascalled about some technicalities. The grave senior clerk examinesthe book, but cannot solve the difficulties pointed out by thecollector, and, placing it on one side, recommends the inquirer tocall in two hours' time. Steps again on the stairs, and anotherclerk comes down leisurely, and after him still another. Their onlybusiness is to exchange a few words with their friends, forpastime, and they go up again.

As the morning draws on, the callers become more numerous, andit is easy to tell the positions they occupy by the degree ofattention they receive from the clerks. A tradesman calls three orfour times, with short intervals between—he runs over fromhis shop; the two juniors do not trouble to so much as look overthe screen, and barely take the trouble to answer the anxiousinquiry if the principal is yet disengaged. They know, perhaps, toomuch about his bills and the state of his credit. A builder looksin—the juniors are tolerably civil and explain to him that itis no use calling for yet another hour at least. The builderconsults his watch, and decides to see the chief clerk (who ishimself an attorney, having passed the examination), and isforthwith conducted upstairs. A burly farmer appears, and the gravesenior puts his head up to answer, and expresses his sorrow thatthe principal is so occupied. The burly farmer, however, who isevidently a man of substance, thinks that the chief clerk can alsodo what he wants, and he, too, is ushered upstairs. Another farmerenters—a rather rougher-looking man—and, without sayinga word, turns to the advertisem*nt boards on which the posters offarms to be let, &c., are displayed. These he examines with thegreatest care, pointing with his forefinger as he slowly reads, andmuttering to himself. Presently he moves to go. 'Anything to suityou, sir?' asks the senior clerk. 'Aw, no; I knows they be too muchmoney,' he replies, and walks out.

A gentleman next enters, and immediately the juniors sink out ofsight, and scribble away with eager application; the senior putsdown his pen and comes out from his desk. It is a squire andmagistrate. The senior respectfully apologises for his employerbeing so occupied. The gentleman seems a little impatient. Theclerk rubs his hands together deprecatingly, and makes a desperateventure. He goes upstairs, and in a few minutes returns; the papersare not ready, but shall be sent over that evening in any case.With this even the squire must fain be satisfied and depart. Theburly farmer and the builder come downstairs together amicablychatting, and after them the chief clerk himself. Though young, hehas already an expression of decision upon his features, an air ofbusiness about him; in fact, were he not thoroughly up to his workhe would not remain in that office long. To hold that place is aguarantee of ability. He has a bundle of cheques, drafts, &c.,in his hand, and after a few words with the grave senior at thedesk, strolls across to the bank.

No sooner has the door closed behind him than a shoal of clerkscome tripping down on tip-toe, and others appear from the back ofthe house. They make use of the opportunity for a little gossip.Voices are heard in the passage, and an aged and infirm labouringman is helped in by a woman and a younger man. The clerks take nonotice, and the poor old follow props himself against the wall, notdaring to take a chair. He is a witness. He can neither read norwrite, but he can recollect 'thuck ould tree,' and can depose to afact worth perhaps hundreds of pounds. He has come in to beexamined; he will be driven in a week or two's time from thevillage to the railway station in a fly, and will talk about it andhis visit to London till the lamp of life dies out.

A footman calls with a note, a groom brings another, the lettersare carelessly cast aside, till one of the juniors, who has beenwatching from the peephole, reports that the chief clerk is coming,and everybody scuttles back to his place. Callers come still morethickly; another solicitor, well-to-do, and treated with the utmostdeference; more tradesmen; farmers; two or three auctioneers, inquick succession; the well-brushed editor of a local paper; asecond attorney, none too well dressed, with scrubby chin and facesuspiciously cloudy, with an odour of spirits and water and tobaccoclinging to his rusty coat. He belongs to a disappearing type ofcountry lawyer, and is the wreck, perhaps, of high hopes and goodopportunities. Yet, wreck as he is, when he gets up at the PettySessions to defend some labourer, the bench of magistrates listento his maundering argument as deferentially as if he were a Q.C.They pity him, and they respect his cloth. The scrubby attorneywhistles a tune, and utters an oath when he learns the principal isengaged. Then he marches out, with his hat on one side of his head,to take another 'refresher.'

Two telegrams arrive, and are thrown aside; then a gentlemanappears, whom the senior goes out to meet with an air of deference,and whom he actually conducts himself upstairs to the principal'sroom. It is a local banker, who is thus admitted to the directors'consultation. The slow hand of the clock goes round, and, sittingwearily on the hard chair, you wonder if ever it will be possibleto see this much-sought man. By-and-by a door opens above, there isa great sound of voices and chatting, and half a dozengentlemen—mostly landed proprietors from theirappearance—come downstairs. They are the directors, and theconsultation is over. The senior clerk immediately goes to theprincipal, and shortly afterwards reappears and asks you to comeup.

As you mount the lead-covered stairs you glance down and observethe anxious tradesman, the ancient labourer, and several others whohave crowded in, all eyeing you with jealous glances. But thesenior is holding the door open—you enter, and it closesnoiselessly behind you. A hand with a pen in it points to a chair,with a muttered 'Pardon—half a moment' and while thesolicitor just jots down his notes you can glance round theapartment. Shelves of calf-bound law books; piles of japanneddeed-boxes, some marked in white letters 'Trustees of,' or'Executors of' and pigeon-holes full of papers seem to quite hidethe walls. The floor is covered with some material noiseless towalk on (the door, too, is double, to exclude noise and draught);the furniture is solid and valuable; the arm-chair you occupycapacious and luxurious. On the wall hangs a section of theOrdnance map of the district. But the large table, which almostfills the centre of the room, quickly draws the attention fromeverything else.

It is on that table that all the business is done; all theenergies of the place are controlled and directed from thence. Atthe first glance it appears to support a more chaotic mass ofpapers. They completely conceal it, except just at the edge.Bundles of letters tied with thin red tape, letters loose, lettersunopened; parchment deeds with the seals and signature justvisible; deeds with the top and the words, 'This indenture,' aloneglowing out from the confusion; deeds neatly folded; broadmanuscript briefs; papers fastened with brass fasteners; papershastily pinned together; old newspapers marked and underlined inred ink; a large sectional map, half unrolled and hanging over theedge; a small deed-box, the lid open, and full of blue paper inoblong strips; a tall porcupine-quill pen sticking up like aspire; pocket-books; books open; books with half a dozen papers inthem for markers; altogether an utter chaos. But the confusion isonly apparent; the master mind knows the exact position of everydocument, and can lay his hand on it the moment it is wanted.

The business is such that even the master mind can barely keeppace with it. This great house can hardly contain it; all theclerks we saw rushing about cannot get through the work, and muchof the mechanical copying or engrossing goes to London to be done.The entire round of country life comes here. The rolling hillswhere the shepherd watches his flock, the broad plains where theploughman guides the share, the pleasant meadows where the roancattle chew the cud, the extensive parks, the shady woods, sweetstreams, and hedges overgrown with honeysuckle, all have theirwritten counterpart in those japanned deed-boxes. Solid as is theland over which Hodge walks stolid and slow, these mere writtenwords on parchment are the masters of it all. The squire comes hereabout intricate concerns of family settlements which in theirsphere are as hard to arrange as the diplomatic transactions ofGovernments. He comes about his tenants and his rent; he comes toget new tenants.

The tenants resort to the solicitor for farms, for improvements,reductions, leases, to negotiate advances, to insure for thevarious affairs of life. The clergyman comes on questions thatarise out of his benefice, the churchyard, ecclesiasticalprivileges, the schools, and about his own private property. Thelabourer comes about his cottage and garden—an estate asimportant to him as his three thousand acres to the squire—oras a witness. The tradesman, the builder, the banker come forfinancial as well as legal objects. As the town develops, and plotsare needed for houses and streets, the resort to the solicitorincreases tenfold. Companies are formed and require his advice.Local government needs his assistance. He may sit in an officialposition in the County Court, or at the bench of the PettySessions. Law suits—locally great— are carried throughin the upper Courts of the metropolis; the counsel's name appearsin the papers, but it is the country solicitor who has preparedeverything for him, and who has marshalled that regiment ofwitnesses from remote hamlets of the earth. His widening circle oflandlord clients have each their attendant circles of tenants, whofeel confidence in their leader's legal adviser. Parochial officerscome to him; overseer, rate-collector, church warden, tithing-man.The all-important work of registering voters fills up the spacebetween one election and another. At the election his offices arelike the head-quarters of an army. He may represent some ancientcollege, or corporation with lands of vast extent. Ladies with alittle capital go home content when he has invested their money inmortgage of real property. Still the work goes on increasing;additional clerks have to be employed; a fresh wing has to be builtto the old house. He has, too, his social duties; he is, perhaps,the head or mainspring of a church movement—this is not forprofit, but from conviction. His lady is carried to and fro in thebrougham, making social visits. He promotes athletic clubs,reading-rooms, shows, exhibitions. He is eagerly seized upon bypromoters of all kinds, because he possesses the gift oforganisation. It becomes a labour merely to catalogue hisengagements like this. Let the rain rain, or the sun shine, the pennever stays work.

Personally he is the very antithesis is of what might bepredicated of the slow, comfortable, old-fashioned lawyer. He is inthe prime of life, physically full of vigour, mentally perseveringwith untiring perseverance, the embodiment of energy, ever anxiousto act, to do rather than to delay. As you talk with him you findhis leading idea seems to be to arrange your own half-formed viewsfor you; in short, to show you what you really do want, to put yourdesire into shape. He interprets you. Many of the clients who cometo him are the most impracticable men in the world. A farmer, forinstance, with a little money, is in search of a farm. Find himtwenty farms just the size for his capital, he will visit them alland discover a fault in each, and waver and waver till the properseason for entering on possession is past. The great problem withcountry people is how to bring them to the point. You may think youhave got all your witnesses ready for the train for London, and, asthe bell rings, find that one has slipped away half a mile to talkwith the blacksmith about the shoeing of his mare. Even the squireis trying when, he talks of this or that settlement. Of course, ashe is educated, no lengthy and oft-repeated explanations areneeded; but the squire forgets that time is valuable, and lingersmerely to chat. He has so much time to spare, he is apt to overlookthat the solicitor has none. The clergyman will talk, talk, talk inrounded periods, and nothing will stop him; very often he driveshis wife in with him from the village, and the wife must have hersay. As for Hodge and his mortgage, ten years would not suffice forhis business, were he allowed to wander on. The problem is to bringthese impracticable people to the point with perfect courtesy. Asyou talk with him yourself, you feel tempted to prolong theinterview—so lucid an intellect exercises an indefinablecharm.

Keen and shrewd as he is, the solicitor has a kindly reputation.Men say that he is slow to press them, that he makes allowances forcirc*mstances; that if the tenant is honestly willing to dischargehis obligation he need fear no arbitrary selling up. But he isequally reputed swift of punishment upon those who would takeshelter behind more shallow pretence, or attempt downright deceit.Let a man only be straightforward, and the solicitor will waitrather than put the law in force. Therefore, he is popular, andpeople have faith in him. But the labour, the incessantsupervision, the jotting down of notes, the ceaseless interviews,the arguments, the correspondence, the work that is never finishedwhen night comes, tell even upon that physical vigour and mentalelasticity. Hodge sleeps sound and sees the days go by with calmcomplacency. The man who holds that solid earth, as it were, in thejapanned boxes finds a nervous feeling growing upon him despite hisstrength of will. Presently nature will have her way; and, wearyand hungry for fresh air, he rushes off for awhile to distanttrout-stream, moor, or stubble.

CHAPTER XVII

'COUNTY-COURT DAY'

The monthly sitting of the County Court in a country market town isan event of much interest in all the villages around, so many ofthe causes concerning agricultural people. 'County-Court Day' islooked upon as a date in the calendar by which to recollect when athing happened, or to arrange for the future.

As the visitor enters the doorway of the Court, at a distancethe scene appears imposing. Brass railings and red curtainspartition off about a third of the hall, and immediately in therear of this the Judge sits high above the rest on a raised andcarpeted dais. The elevation and isolation of the central figureadds a solemn dignity to his office. His features set, as it were,in the wig, stand out in sharp relief—they are of a keenlyintellectual cast, and have something of the precise clearness ofan antique cameo. The expression is that of a mind in continuousexercise—of a mind accustomed not to slow but to quickdeliberation, and to instant decision. The definition of the facegives the eyes the aspect of penetration, as if they saw at oncebeneath the surface of things.

If the visitor looks only at the Judge he will realise thedignity of the law; the law which is the outcome and result of somany centuries of thought. But if he glances aside from the centralfigure the impression is weakened by the miserable, hollow, anddingy framing. The carpet upon the daïs and the red curtainsbefore it ill conceal the paltry substructure. It is composed ofseveral large tables, heavy and shapeless as benches, placed sideby side to form a platform. The curtains are dingy and threadbarethe walls dingy; the ceiling, though lofty, dingy; the boxes oneither side for Plaintiff and Defendant are scratched and defacedby the innumerable witnesses who have blundered into them, kickingtheir shoes against the woodwork. The entire apparatus is movable,and can be taken to pieces in ten minutes, or part of it employedfor meetings of any description. There is nothing appropriate orconvenient; it is a makeshift, and altogether unequal to thepretensions of a Court now perhaps the most useful and mostresorted to of any that sit in the country.

Quarter sessions and assizes come only at long intervals, areheld only in particular time-honoured places, and take cognisanceonly of very serious offences which happily are not numerous. TheCounty Court at the present day has had its jurisdiction soenlarged that it is really, in country districts, the leadingtribunal, and the one best adapted to modern wants, because itsprocedure is to a great extent free from obsolete forms andtechnicalities. The Plaintiff and the Defendant literally facetheir Judge, practically converse with him, and can tell theirstory in their own simple and natural way. It is a fact that theimportance and usefulness of the country County Court has in mostplaces far outgrown the arrangements made for it. The Judges maywith reason complain that while their duties have been enormouslyadded to, their convenience has not been equally studied, nor theirsalaries correspondingly increased.

In front, and below the Judge's desk, just outside the redcurtain, is a long and broad table, at which the High Bailiff sitsfacing the hall. By his side the Registrar's clerk from time totime makes notes in a ponderous volume which contains a minute andexact record of every claim. Opposite, and at each end, the lawyershave their chairs and strew the table with their papers.

As a rule a higher class of lawyers appear in the County Courtthan before the Petty Sessional Bench. A local solicitor of abilityno sooner gets a 'conveyancing' practice than he finds his time toovaluable to be spent arguing in cases of assault or petty larceny.He ceases to attend the Petty Sessions, unless his private clientsare interested or some exceptional circ*mstances induce him. In theCounty Court cases often arise which concern property, houses andlands, and the fulfilment of contracts. Some of the very bestlawyers of the district may consequently be seen at that table, andfrequently a barrister or two of standing specially retained isamong them.

A low wooden partition, crossing the entire width of the hall,separates the 'bar' from the general public, Plaintiff andDefendant being admitted through a gangway. As the hall is notcarpeted, nor covered with any material, a new-comer must walk ontip-toe to avoid raising the echo of hollow boards, or run the riskof a reproof from the Judge, anxiously endeavouring to catch theaccents of a mumbling witness. Groups of people stand near thewindows whispering, and occasionally forgetting, in the eagernessof the argument, that talking is prohibited. The room is alreadyfull, but will be crowded when the 'horse case' comes on again.Nothing is of so much interest as a 'horse case.' The issues raisedconcern almost every countryman, and the parties are generally wellknown. All the idlers of the town are here, and among them many arascal who has been, through the processes, and comes again tolisten and possibly learn a dodge by which to delay the executionof judgment. Some few of the more favoured and respectable personshave obtained entrance to the space allotted to the solicitors, andhave planted themselves in a solid circle round the fire,effectually preventing the heat from benefiting anyone else.Another fire, carefully tended by a bailiff, burns in the gratebehind the Judge, but, as his seat is so far from it, withoutadding much to his comfort. A chilly draught sweeps along thefloor, and yet at the same time there is a close and somewhat fetidatmosphere at the height at which men breathe. The place is illwarmed and worse ventilated; altogether without convenience, andcomfortless.

To-day the Judge, to suit the convenience of the solicitorsengaged in the 'horse case,' who have requested permission toconsult in private, has asked for a short defended cause to fill upthe interval till they are ready to resume. The High Bailiff calls'Brown v. Jones,' claim 8s. for goods supplied. Noone at first answers, but after several calls a woman in the bodyof the Court comes forward. She is partly deaf, and until nudged byher neighbours did not hear her husband's name. The Plaintiff is asmall village dealer in tobacco, snuff, coarse groceries, candles,and so on. His wife looks after the little shop and he works withhorse and cart, hauling and doing odd jobs for the farmers. Insteadof attending himself he has sent his wife to conduct the case. TheDefendant is a labourer living in the same village, who, like somany of his class, has got into debt. He, too, has sent his wife torepresent him. This is the usual course of the cottagers, and ofa*gricultural people who are better off than cottagers. The menshirk out of difficulties of this kind by going off in the morningearly to their work with the parting remark, 'Aw, you'd better seeabout it; I don't knaw nothing about such jobs.'

The High Bailiff has no easy task to swear the Plaintiff'srepresentative. First, she takes the book and kisses it before theformula prescribed has been repeated. Then she waits till thesentence is finished and lifts the book with the left hand insteadof the right. The Registrar's clerk has to go across to the box andshout an explanation into her ear. 'Tell the truth,' says the oldlady, with alacrity; 'why, that's what I be come for.' The Judgeasks her what it is she claims, and she replies that that man, theRegistrar's clerk, has got it all written down in his book. Shethen turns to the Defendant's wife, who stands in the box opposite,and shouts to her, 'You knows you ain't paid it.'

It is in vain that the Judge endeavours to question her, in vainthat the High Bailiff tries to calm her, in vain that the clerklays his hand on her arm—she is bent on telling the Defendanta bit of her mind. The Court is perforce compelled to wait till itis over, when the Judge, seeing that talking is of no avail, goesat once to the root of the matter and asks to see her books. Adirty account-book, such as may be purchased for threepence, ishanded up to him; the binding is broken, and some of the leaves areloose. It is neither a day-book, a ledger, nor anythingelse—there is no system whatever, and indeed the Plaintiffadmits that she only put down about half of it, and trusted tomemory for the rest. Here is a date, and after it some figures, butno articles mentioned, neither tea nor candles. Next come somegroceries, and the price, but no one's name, so that it isimpossible to tell who had the goods. Then there are pages withmysterious dots and strokes and half-strokes, which ultimately turnout to mean ounces and half-ounces of tobacco. These have neithername nor value attached. From end to end nothing is crossed off, sothat whether an account be paid or not cannot be ascertained.

While the Judge laboriously examines every page, trying by thelight of former experience to arrive at some idea of the meaning,the Defendant's wife takes up her parable. She chatters in returnat the Plaintiff, then she addresses the High Bailiff, who ordersher to remain quiet, and, finally, turns round and speaks to thecrowd. The Judge, absorbed in the attempt to master theaccount-book, does not for the moment notice this, till, as hecomes to the conclusion that the book is utterly valueless, helooks up and finds the Defendant with her back turned gesticulatingand describing her wrongs to the audience. Even his command ofsilence is with reluctance obeyed, and she continues to mutter toherself. When order is restored the Judge asks for her defence,when the woman immediately produces a receipt, purporting to be forthis very eight shillings' worth. At the sight of this torn anddirty piece of paper the Plaintiff works herself into a fury, andspeaks so fast and so loud (as deaf people will) that no one elsecan be heard. Till she is made to understand that she will be sentout of Court she does not desist. The Judge looks at the receipt,and finds it correct; but still the Plaintiff positively declaresthat she has never had the money. Yet she admits that the receiptis in her handwriting. The Judge asks the Defendant who paid overthe cash, and she replies that it was her husband. The account-bookcontains no memorandum of any payment at all. With difficulty theJudge again obtains silence, and once more endeavours to understanda page of the account-book to which the Plaintiff persists inpointing. His idea is now to identify the various articlesmentioned in the receipt with the articles put down on thatparticular page.

After at least three-quarters of an hour, during which the bookis handed to and fro by the clerk from Judge to Plaintiff, that shemay explain the meaning of the hieroglyphics, some light at lastbegins to dawn. By dint of patiently separating the mixed entriesthe Judge presently arrives at a partial comprehension of what thePlaintiff has been trying to convey. The amount of the receiptedbill and the amount of the entries in the page of the account-bookare the same; but the articles entered in the book and thoseadmitted to be paid for are not. The receipt mentions candles; theaccount-book has no candles. Clearly they are two different debts,which chanced to come to the same figure. The receipt, however, isnot dated, and whether it is the Defendant who is wilfullymisrepresenting, or whether the Plaintiff is under a mistakennotion, the Judge for the time cannot decide. The Defendantdeclares that she does not know the date and cannot fix it—itwas a 'main bit ago,' and that is all she can say.

For the third time the Judge, patient to the last degree, wadesthrough the account-book. Meanwhile the hands of the clock havemoved on. Instead of being a short case, this apparently simplematter has proved a long one, and already as the afternoon advancesthe light of the dull winter's day declines. The solicitors engagedin the 'horse case,' who retired to consult, hoping to come to asettlement, returned into Court fully an hour ago, and have sincebeen sitting at the table waiting to resume. Besides these somefour or five other lawyers of equal standing are anxiously lookingfor a chance of commencing their business. All their clients arewaiting, and the witnesses; they have all crowded into the Court,the close atmosphere of which is almost intolerable.

But having begun the case the Judge gives it his full andundivided attention. Solicitors, clients, witnesses, cases thatinterest the public, causes that concern valuable property, orimportant contracts must all be put aside till this trifling matteris settled. He is as anxious as any, or more so, to get on, becausedelay causes business to accumulate—the adjourned causes, ofcourse, having to be heard at next Court, and thus swelling thelist to an inordinate length. But, impatient as he may be,especially as he is convinced that one or other of the parties iskeeping back a part of the truth, he is determined that the subjectshall be searched to the bottom. The petty village shopkeeper andthe humble cottager obtain as full or fuller attention than thewell-to-do Plaintiffs and Defendants who can bring down barristersfrom London.

'What have you there?' the Registrar's clerk demands of thePlaintiff presently. She has been searching in her pocket for asnuff-box wherewith to refresh herself, and, unable to immediatelydiscover it, has emptied the contents of the pocket on the ledge ofthe witness-box. Among the rest is another little account-book.

'Let me see that,' demands the Judge, rather sharply, and nowonder. 'Why did you not produce it before?'

'Aw, he be last year's un; some of it be two years ago,' is thereply.

Another long pause. The Judge silently examines every page ofthe account-book two years old. Suddenly he looks up. 'Thisreceipt,' he says, 'was given for an account rendered eighteenmonths ago. Here in this older book are the entries correspondingwith it. The present claim is for a second series of articles whichhappened to come to the same amount, and the Defendant, findingthat the receipt was not dated, has endeavoured to make it do dutyfor the two.'

'I tould you so,' interrupts the Plaintiff. 'I tould you so, butyou wouldn't listen to I.'

The Judge continues that he is not sure he ought not to committhe Defendant, and then, with a gesture of weary disgust, throwsdown his pen and breaks off in the middle of his sentence to askthe High Bailiff if there are any other judgments out against theDefendant. So many years' experience of the drifts, subterfuges,paltry misrepresentations and suppressions—all the mean anddespicable side of poor humanity—have indeed wearied him,but, at the same time, taught forbearance. He hesitates to beangry, and delays to punish. The people are poor, exceedingly poor.The Defendant's wife says she has eight children; they areignorant, and, in short, cannot be, in equity, judged as others inbetter circ*mstances. There are two other judgments against theDefendant, who is earning about 12s. a week, and the verdict is 1s.a month, first payment that day three weeks.

Then the solicitor for the Plaintiff in the 'horse case' risesand informs the Judge that the parties cannot settle it, and thecase must proceed. The Plaintiff and Defendant take their places,and some thirty witnesses file through the gangway to thewitness-room to be out of Court. The bailiffs light the gas as thegloom deepens, and the solicitor begins his opening speech. TheJudge has leant back in his chair, closed his eyes, and composedhimself to listen. By the time two witnesses have been examined thehour has arrived when the Judge can sit no longer. He must leave,because on the morrow he has to hold a Court in another part of thecounty. The important 'horse case' and the other causes must wait amonth.. He sits to the very last moment, then hastily stuffs deeds,documents, papers of all descriptions into a portmanteau alreadyoverflowing, and rushes to his carriage.

He will go through much the same work to-morrow; combating theirritating misrepresentations, exposing suppressors, discoveringthe truth under a mountain of crass stupidity and wilful deceit.Next day he will be again at work; and the same process will go onthe following week. In the month there are perhaps about fivedays—exclusive of Sundays—upon which he does not sit.But those days are not holidays. They are spent in patientlyreading a mass of deeds, indentures, contracts, vouchers,affidavits, evidence of every description and of the mostvoluminous character. These have been put in by solicitors, as partof their cases, and require the most careful attention. Besidescauses that are actually argued out in open Court, there are otherswhich, by consent of both parties, are placed in his hands asarbitrator. Many involve nice points of law, and require a writtenjudgment in well-chosen words.

The work of the County Court Judge at the present day is simplyenormous; it is ceaseless and never finished, and it demands apatience which nothing can ruffle. No matter how much falsehood mayannoy him, a Judge with arbitrary power entrusted to him must notpermit indignation alone to govern his decision. He must makeallowances for all.

For the County Court in country districts has become a tribunalwhose decisions enter, as it were, into the very life of thepeople. It is not concerned with a few important cases only; it hasto arrange and finally settle what are really household affairs.Take any village, and make inquiries how many householders thereare who have not at one time or other come under the jurisdictionof the County Court? Either as Plaintiff, or Defendant, or aswitness, almost every one has had such experience, and those whohave not have been threatened with it. Beside those defended casesthat come before the Judge, there are hundreds upon hundreds ofpetty claims, to which no defence is offered, and which areadjudicated upon by the Registrar at the same time that the Judgehears the defended causes.

The labourer, like so many farmers in a different way, lives oncredit and is perpetually in debt. He purchases his weekly goods onthe security of hoeing, harvest, or piece work, and his wages arecontinually absorbed in payment of instalments, just as thetenant-farmer's income is too often absorbed in the payment ofinterest and instalments of his loans. No one seems ever to paywithout at least a threat of the County Court, which thus occupiesa position like a firm appointed to perpetually liquidate a vastestate. It is for ever collecting shillings and half-crowns.

This is one aspect of the County Court; the other is itsposition with respect to property. It is the great arbitrator ofproperty—of houses and land, and deeds and contracts. Ofrecent years the number of the owners of land has immenselyincreased—that is, of small pieces—and the litigationhas correspondingly grown. There is enough work for a man of highlegal ability in settling causes of this character alone, withoutany 'horse case' with thirty witnesses, or any dispute thatinvolves the conflict of personal testimony.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BANK. THE OLD NEWSPAPER

The most imposing building in a certain country market town is theold Bank, so called familiarly to distinguish it from the new one.The premises of the old Bank would be quite unapproached ingrandeur, locally, were it not for the enterprise of the newestablishment. Nothing could be finer than the façade of theold Bank, which stands out clear and elegant in its fresh paintamong the somewhat dingy houses and shops of the main street. It israther larger in size, more lofty, and has the advantage of being afew yards nearer to the railway station. But the rival institutionruns it very close. It occupies a corner on the very verge of themarket-place—its door facing the farmer as he concludes hisdeal—and it is within a minute of the best hotels, where muchbusiness is done. It is equally white and clean with fresh paint,and equally elegant in design.

A stranger, upon a nice consideration of the circ*mstances,might find a difficulty in deciding on which to bestow hispatronage; and perhaps the chief recommendation of the oldestablishment lies in the fact that it is the older of the two. Thevalue of antiquity was never better understood than in these moderndays. Shrewd men of business have observed that the quality ofbeing ancient is the foundation of credit. Men believe in thatwhich has been long established. Their fathers dealt there, theydeal themselves, and if a new-comer takes up his residence he isadvised to do likewise.

A visitor desirous of looking on the outside, at least ofcountry banking, would naturally be conducted to the old Bank. Ifit were an ordinary day, i.e. not a market or fair, he mightstand on the pavement in front sunning himself without the leastinconvenience from the passenger traffic. He would see, on glancingUp and down the street, one or two aged cottage women going in orout of the grocer's, a postman strolling round, and a distantpoliceman at the farthest corner. A sprinkling of boys playingmarbles at the side of the pavement, and two men loading a waggonwith sacks of flour from a warehouse, complete the scene as far ashuman life is concerned. There are dogs basking on doorsteps,larger dogs rambling with idleness in the slow sway of their tails,and overhead black swifts (whose nests are in the roofs of thehigher houses) dash to and fro, uttering their shrill screech.

The outer door of the bank is wide open—fastenedback—ostentatiously open, and up the passage another mahoganydoor, closed, bears a polished brazen plate with the word 'Manager'engraved upon it. Everything within is large and massive. The swingdoor itself yields with the slow motion of solidity, and unless youare agile as it closes in the rear, thrusts you forward like astrong gale. The apartment is large and lofty: there is room for acrowd, but at present there is no one at the counter. It is longenough and broad enough for the business of twenty customers atonce; so broad that the clerks on the other side are beyond arm'sreach. But they have shovels with which to push the gold towardsyou, and in a small glass stand is a sponge kept constantly damp,across which the cashier draws his finger as he counts the silver,the slight moisture enabling him to sort the coin more swiftly.

The fittings are perfect, as perfect as in a London bank, andthere is an air of extreme precision. Yonder open drawers are fullof pass-books; upon the desks and on the broad mantelpiece arepiles of cheques, not scattered in disorder but arranged in exactheaps. The very inkstands are heavy and vast, and you just catch aglimpse round the edge of the semi-sentry box which guards the deskof the chief cashier, of a ledger so huge that the mind can hardlyrealise the extent of the business which requires such ponderousvolumes to record it. Then beyond these a glass door, half open,apparently leads to the manager's room, for within it is a tablestrewn with papers, and you can see the green-painted iron wall ofa safe.

The clerks, like the place, are somewhat imposing; they are inno hurry, they allow you time to look round you and imbibe thesense of awe which the magnificent mahogany counter and the brazenfittings, all the evidences of wealth, are so calculated toinspire. The hollow sound of your footstep on the floor does notseem heard; the slight 'Ahem!' you utter after you have waited afew moments attracts no attention, nor the rustling of your papers.The junior clerks are adding up column after column of figures, andare totally absorbed; the chief cashier is pondering deeply over aletter and annotating it. By-and-by he puts it down, and slowlyapproaches. But after you have gone through the preliminaryceremony of waiting, which is an institution of the place, thetreatment quite changes. Your business is accomplished withpractised ease, any information you may require is forthcoming onthe instant, and deft fingers pass you the coin. In brief, thewhole machinery of banking is here as complete as in LombardStreet. The complicated ramifications of commercial transactionsare as well understood and as closely studied as in the 'City.' Nomatter what your wishes, provided, of course, that your credentialsare unimpeachable, they will be conducted for you satisfactorilyand without delay.

Yet the green meadows are within an arrow shot, and standing onthe threshold and looking down a cross street you can see the elmsof the hedgerows closing in the prospect. It is really wonderfulthat such conveniences should he found in so apparentlyinsignificant a place. The intelligence and courtesy of theofficials is most marked. It is clear, upon reflection, that suchintelligence, such manners, and knowledge not only of business butof men (for a banker and a banker's agent has often to judge at amoment's notice whether a man be a rogue or honest), cannot be hadfor nothing. They must be paid for, and, in so far at least as theheads are concerned, paid liberally. It is known that the old Bankhas often paid twenty and twenty-five per cent, to itsshareholders. Where does all this money come from? From Hodge,toiling in the field and earning his livelihood in the sweat of hisbrow? One would hardly think so at first, and yet there are nogreat businesses or manufactories here. Somehow or other the moneythat pays for this courtesy and commercial knowledge, for thesemagnificent premises and furniture, that pays the shareholderstwenty-five per cent., must be drawn from the green meadows, thecornfields, and the hills where the sheep feed.

On an ordinary day the customers that come to the bank's countermay be reckoned on the fingers. Early in the morning thePost-Office people come for their cash and change; next, some ofthe landlords of the principal inns with their takings; afterwards,such of the tradesmen as have cheques to pay in. Later on thelawyers' clerks, or the solicitors themselves drop in; in thelatter case for a chat with the manager. A farmer or two may call,especially on a Friday, for the cash to pay the labourers next day,and so the morning passes. In the afternoon one or more of thelocal gentry or clergy may drive up or may not—it is a chanceeither way—and as the hour draws near for closing some of thetradesmen come hurrying in again. Then the day, so far as thepublic are concerned, is over. To-morrow sees the same eventrepeated.

On a market-day there is a great bustle; men hustle in and out,with a bluff disregard of conventional politeness, but with nointention of rudeness. Through the open doors comes the lowing ofcattle, and the baaing of sheep; the farmers and dealers that crowdin and out bring with them an odour of animals that exhales fromtheir garments. The clerks are now none too many, the long broadcounter none too large; the resources of the establishment aretaxed to the utmost. The manager is there in person, attending tothe more important customers.

In the crush are many ladies who would find their businessfacilitated by coming on a different day. But market-day is atradition with all classes; even the gentry appear in greaternumbers. If you go forth into the Market-place you will find itthronged with farmers. If you go into the Corn Hall or Exchange,where the corndealers have their stands, and where business incereals and seeds is transacted; if you walk across to the auctionyard for cattle, or to the horse depository, where an auction ofhorses is proceeding; everywhere you have to push your way throughgroups of agriculturists. The hotels are full of them (thestable-yards full of their various conveyances), and therestaurant, the latest innovation in country towns, is equallyfilled with farmers taking a chop, and the inner rooms with ladiesdiscussing coffee and light refreshments.

Now every farmer of all this crowd has his cheque-book in thebreast pocket of his coat. Let his business be what it may, thepurchase of cattle, sheep, horses, or implements, seed, or anyother necessary, no coin passes. The parties, if the transaction beprivate, adjourn to their favourite inn, and out comes thecheque-book. If a purchase be effected at either of the auctionsproceeding it is paid for by cheque, and, on the other hand, shouldthe farmer be the vendor, his money comes to him in the shape of acheque. With the exception of his dinner and the ostler, the farmerwho comes to market carries on all his transactions with paper. Thelandlord of the hotel takes cash for the dinner, and the ostlertakes his shilling. For the rest, it is all cheques cheques,cheques; so that the whole business of agriculture, from thepurchase of the seed to the sale of the crop, passes through thebank.

The toll taken by the bank upon such transactions as simplebuying and selling is practically nil; its profit isindirect. But besides the indirect profit there is the directspeculation of making advances at high interest, discounting bills,and similar business. It might almost be said that the crops arereally the property of the local banks, so large in the aggregateare the advances made upon them. The bank has, in fact, to studythe seasons, the weather, the probable market prices, the import ofgrain and cattle, and to keep an eye upon the agriculture of theworld. The harvest and the prices concern it quite as much as theactual farmer who tills the soil. In good seasons, with a cropabove the average, the business of the bank expands incorresponding ratio. The manager and directors feel that they canadvance with confidence; the farmer has the means to pay. In badseasons and with short crops the farmer is more anxious than everto borrow; but the bank is obliged to contract its sphere ofoperations.

It usually happens that one or more of the directors of acountry bank are themselves farmers in a large way—gentlemenfarmers, but with practical knowledge. They are men whose entirelives have been spent in the locality, and who have a very widecircle of acquaintances and friends among agriculturists. Theirforefathers were stationed there before them, and thus there hasbeen an accumulation of local knowledge. They not only thoroughlyunderstand the soil of the neighbourhood, and can forecast theeffect of particular seasons with certainty, but they possess anintimate knowledge of family history, what farmer is in a bad way,who is doubtful, or who has always had a sterling reputation. Anold-established country bank has almost always one or more suchconfidential advisers. Their assistance is invaluable.

Since agriculture became in this way, through the adoption ofbanking, so intimately connected with commerce, it has responded,like other businesses, to the fluctuations of trade. The value ofmoney in Threadneedle Street affects the farmer in an obscurehamlet a hundred miles away, whose fathers knew nothing of moneyexcept as a coin, a token of value, and understood nothing of theexport or import of gold. The farmer's business is conductedthrough the bank, but, on the other hand, the bank cannot restrictit* operations to the mere countryside. It is bound up in everypossible manner with the vast institutions of the metropolis. Itsprivate profits depend upon the rate of discount and the tone ofthe money market exactly in the same way as with those vastinstitutions. A difficulty, a crisis there is immediately felt bythe country bank, whose dealings with its farmer customers are inturn affected.

Thus commerce acts upon agriculture. Per contra, thetradesmen of the town who go to the bank every morning would tellyou with doleful faces that the condition of agriculture acts upontrade in a most practical manner. Neither the farmer, nor thefarmer's wife and family expend nearly so much as they did at theirshops, and consequently the sums they carry over to the bank aremuch diminished in amount. The local country tradesman probablyfeels the depression of agriculture all but as much as the farmerhimself. The tradesman is perhaps supported by the bank; if hecannot meet his liabilities the bank is compelled to withdraw thatsupport.

Much of this country banking seems to have grown up in veryrecent times. Any elderly farmer out yonder in the noisy marketwould tell you that in his young days when he first did business hehad to carry coin with him, especially if at a distance from home.It was then the custom to attend markets and fairs a long way off,such markets being centres where the dealers and drovers broughtcattle. The dealers would accept nothing but cash; they would nothave looked at a cheque had such a thing been proffered them. Thisold Bank prides itself upon the reputation it enjoyed, even inthose days. It had the power of issuing notes, and these notes wereaccepted by such men, even at a great distance, the bank having sogood a name. They were even preferred to the notes of the Bank ofEngland, which at one time, in outlying country places, were lookedon with distrust, a state of things which seems almost incredibleto the present generation.

In those days men had no confidence. That mutual businessunderstanding, the credit which is the basis of all commerce of thepresent time, did not exist. Of course this only applies to thecountry and to country trading; the business men of cities wereyears in advance of the agriculturists in this respect. But so goodwas the reputation of the old Bank, even in those times, that itsnotes were readily accepted. It is, indeed, surprising what areputation some of the best of the country banks have achieved.Their names are scarcely seen in the money articles of the dailypress. But they do a solid business of great extent, and theirnames in agricultural circles are names of power. So the old Bankhere, though within an arrow shot of the green meadows, though onordinary days a single clerk might attend to its customers, hasreally a valuable clientèle.

Of late years shrewd men of business discovered that the ranksof the British farmer offered a wonderful opportunity forlegitimate banking. The farmer, though he may not be rich, must ofnecessity be the manager, if not the actual owner, of considerablecapital. A man who farms, if only a hundred acres, must have somecapital. It may not be his own—it may be borrowed; still hehas the use of it. Here, then, a wide field opened itself tobanking enterprise. Certainly there has been a remarkable extensionof banking institutions in the country. Every market town has itsbank, and in most cases two—branches of course, but banks toall intents and purposes. Branches are started everywhere.

The new Bank in this particular little town is not really new.It is simply a branch set up by a well-established bank whoseoriginal centre may perhaps be in another county. It is every whitas respectable as the other, and as well conducted. Its branch asyet lacks local antiquity, but that is the only difference. Thecompetition for the farmer's business between these branches,scattered all over the length and breadth of the country, must ofnecessity be close. When the branch, or new Bank, came here, it wasstarted in grand premises specially erected for it, in the mostconvenient situation that could be secured.

Till then the business of the old Bank had been carried on in asmall and dingy basem*nt. The room was narrow, badly lit, and stillworse ventilated, so that on busy days both the clerks and thecustomers complained of the stuffy atmosphere. The ancient fittingshad become worn and defaced; the ceiling was grimy; theconveniences in every way defective. When it was known that a newbranch was to be opened the directors of the old Bank resolved thatthe building, which had so long been found inadequate, should beentirely renovated. They pulled it down, and the presentmagnificent structure took its place.

Thus this little country town now possesses two banks, whosefaçades could hardly be surpassed in a city. There isperhaps a little rivalry between the managers of the twoinstitutions, in social as well as in business matters. Being solong established there the old Bank numbers among its customerssome of the largest landed proprietors, the leading clergy, andsolicitors. The manager coming into contact with these, and beinghimself a man of intelligence, naturally occupies a certainposition. If any public movement is set on foot, the banks striveas to which shall be most to the fore, and, aided by its antiquity,the old Bank, perhaps, secures a social precedence. Both managersbelong to the 'carriage people' of the town.

Hodge comes into the place, walking slowly behind cattle orsheep, or jolting in on a waggon. His wife comes, too, on foot,through the roughest weather, to fetch her household goods. Hisdaughter comes into the hiring fair, and stands waiting foremployment on the pavement in the same spot used for the purposefrom time immemorial, within sight of the stately façades ofthe banks. He himself has stood in the market-place with reapinghook or hoe looking for a master. Humble as he may be, it is clearthat the wealth in those cellars—the notes and the goldpushed over the counters in shovels—must somehow come fromthe labour which he and his immediate employer—thefarmer—go through in the field.

It is becoming more and more the practice for the carter, orshepherd, who desires a new situation, to advertise. Instead ofwaiting for the chance of the hiring fair, he trudges into themarket town and calls at the office of the oldest established localpaper. There his wishes are reduced to writing for him, he pays hismoney, and his advertisem*nt appears. If there is an farmeradvertising for a man, as is often the case, he at the same timetakes the address, and goes over to offer his services. The farmerand the labourer alike look to the advertisem*nt columns as themedium between them.

The vitality and influence of the old-fashioned local newspaperis indeed a remarkable feature of country life. It would be thoughtthat in these days of cheap literature, these papers, chargingtwopence, threepence, and even fourpence per copy, could notpossibly continue to exist. But, contrary to all expectation, theyhave taken quite a fresh start, and possess a stronger hold thanever upon the agricultural population. They enter into the oldhomesteads, and every member of the farmer's family carefully scansthem, certain of finding a reference to this or that subject orperson in whom he takes an interest.

Some such papers practically defy competition. In the outlyingtowns, where no factories have introduced a new element, it is vainfor the most enterprising to start another. The squire, theclergyman, the lawyer, the tenant-farmer, the wayside innkeeperstick to the old weekly paper, and nothing can shake it. It is oneof the institutions of agriculture.

The office is, perhaps, in a side street of the quietmarket-town, and there is no display to catch the casual purchaser.No mystery surrounds the editor's sanctum; the visitor has but toknock, and is at once admitted to his presence. An office couldscarcely be more plainly furnished. A common table, which has,however, one great virtue—it does not shake when writtenon—occupies the centre. Upon one side is a large desk orbureau; the account-books lying open show that the editor, besideshis literary labour, has to spend much time in double entry. Twochairs are so completely hidden under 'exchanges' that no one cansit upon them. Several of these 'exchanges' are from the UnitedStates or Australia, for the colonists are often more interestedand concerned about local affairs in the old country than they arewith the doings in the metropolis. Against the wall, too, hangs apicture of a fine steamer careering under sail and steam, and nearit a coloured sectional map of some new township marked out insquares. These are the advertisem*nts of an Atlantic or Australianline, or of both; and the editor is their agent. When the youngploughman resolves to quit the hamlet for the backwoods of Americaor the sheepwalks of Australia, he comes here to engage his berth.When the young farmer wearies of waiting for dead men'sshoes—in no other way can he hope to occupy an Englishfarm—he calls here and pays his passage-money, and his broadshoulders and willing hands are shipped to a land that will welcomehim. A single shelf supports a few books, all for reference, suchas the 'Clergy List,' for the Church is studied, and the slightestchange that concerns the district carefully recorded.

Beneath this, the ponderous volumes that contain the file of thepaper for the last forty years are piled, their weight too greatfor a shelf resting on the floor. The series constitutes a completeand authentic local history. People often come from a distance toconsult it, for it is the only register that affords more than thesimple entry of birth and death.

There is a life in the villages and hamlets around, in thelittle places that are not even hamlets, which to the folk whodwell in them is fully as important as that of the greatest city.Farmhouses are not like the villas of cities and city suburbs. Thevilla has hardly any individuality; it is but one of many, eachresembling the other, and scarcely separated. To-day one familyoccupies it, tomorrow another, next year perhaps a third, andneither of these has any real connection with the place. They aresojourners, not inhabitants, drawn thither by business or pleasure;they come and go, and leave no mark behind. But the farmhouse has ahistory. The same family have lived in it for, perhaps, a hundredyears: they have married and intermarried, and become identifiedwith the locality. To them all the petty events of village lifehave a meaning and importance: the slow changes that take place andare chronicled in the old newspaper have a sad significance, forthey mark that flux of time which is carrying them, too, onwards totheir rest.

These columns of the file, therefore, that to a stranger seem ablank, to the old folk and their descendants are like a mirror, inwhich they can see the faces of the loved ones who passed away ageneration since. They are the archives of the hamlets round about:a farmer can find from them when his grandfather quitted the oldfarm, and read an account of the sale. Men who left the village intheir youth for the distant city or the still more distantcolonies, as they grow in years often feel an irresistible desireto revisit the old, old place. The home they so fondly recollect isin other hands, and yet in itself but little changed. A few linesin the plainest language found in the file here tell to such agreybeard a story that fills his eyes with tears. But even astranger who took the trouble to turn over the folios would now andthen find matter to interest him: such as curious notes ofarchæological discovery, accounts of local customs now falleninto disuse, and traditions of the past. Many of these are worthyof collection in more accessible form.

There is hardly anything else in the room except the wastebasket under the table. As the visitor enters, a lad goes out witha roll of manuscript in his hand, and the editor looks up from hismonotonous task of proof-reading, for he has that duty also toperform. Whatever he is doing, some one is certain to call andbreak off the thread of his thought. The bailiff or farm-steward ofa neighbouring estate comes in to insert an advertisem*nt of timberfor sale, or of the auction of the ash-poles annually felled. Agamekeeper calls with a notice not to sport or trespass on certainlands. The editor has to write out the advertisem*nt for thesepeople, and for many of the farmers who come, for countrymen havethe greatest dislike to literary effort of any kind, and can hardlybe persuaded to write a letter. Even when they have written theletter they get the daughter to address the envelope, lest the PostOffice should smile at their rude penmanship. The business ofpreparing the advertisem*nt is not quickly concluded, for just asit is put down to their fancy, they recollect another item whichhas to be added. Then they stand and gossip about the family at themansion and the affairs of the parish generally, totally obliviousof the valuable time they are wasting. Farmers look in to advertisea cottage or a house in the village to let, and stay to explain thestate of the crops, and the why and the wherefore of So-and-soleaving his tenancy.

The largest advertisers invariably put off their orders till themorning of the paper going to press, from sheer inattention. Onthat busy morning, auctioneers' clerks rush in with columns ofauction sales of cattle, sheep, horses, hay, or standing crops(according to the season of the year), and every species of farmproduce. After them come the solicitors' clerks, with equallyimportant and lengthy notices of legal matters concerning theeffects of farmers who have fallen into difficulties, of parochialor turnpike affairs, or 'Pursuant to an Act intitled "An Act tofurther amend the Law and to Relieve Trustees."' These notices havebeen lying on their desks for days, but are perversely sent down atthe last moment, and upset the entire make-up of the paper.

Just as the editor has arranged for these, and is in the act torush up into the press-room, a timid knock announces a poor cottagegirl, who has walked in from a hamlet six or seven miles away toinquire the address of a lady who wants a servant. Thisadvertisem*nt appeared at least three weeks since, for country folkcould in no wise make up their minds to apply under three weeks,and necessitates a search back through the file, and a reference todivers papers. He cannot in common courtesy leave the poor girl towait his convenience, and meantime the steam is up and the machinewaiting. When the address is discovered, the girl thinks she cannotremember it, and so he has to write it down on a piece of paper forher.

He has no highly organised staff to carry on the routine work;he has to look after every department as well as the purelyeditorial part. Almost every one who has a scrap of news or gossiplooks in at the office to chat about it with him. Farmers, who havedriven in to the town from distant villages, call to tell him ofthe trouble they are having over the new schools, and the conflictin the parish as to whether they shall or shall not have a schoolboard. Clergymen from outlying vicarages come to mention that acottage flower show, a penny reading, a confirmation, or some suchevent, is impending, and to suggest the propriety of a full andspecial account. Occasionally a leading landed proprietor iscloseted with him, for at least an hour, discussing local politics,and ascertaining from him the tone of feeling in the district.

Modern agricultural society insists upon publicity. The smallestvillage event must be chronicled, or some one will feeldissatisfied, and inquire why it was not put in the paper. Thiscontinual looking towards the paper for everything causes it toexercise a very considerable amount of influence. Perhaps theclergy and gentry are in some things less powerful than the localnewspaper, for, from a variety of causes, agricultural society hasbecome extremely sensitive to public opinion. The temperate andthoughtful arguments put forward by a paper in which they haveconfidence directly affect the tenant-farmers. On the other hand,as expressing the views of the tenant-farmers, the paper materiallyinfluences the course taken by the landed proprietors.

In country districts the mere numerical circulation of a weeklypublication is no measure of its importance. The position of thesubscribers is the true test. These old-established papers, infact, represent property. They are the organs of all who possesslands, houses, stock, produce; in short, of the middle class. Thisis evident from the advertising columns. The lawyer, theauctioneer, the land agent, the farmer, all who have any substance,publish their business in this medium. Official countyadvertisem*nts appear in it. The carter and the shepherd look downthe column of situations vacant as they call at the village inn fora glass of ale, or, if they cannot read, ask some one to read forthem. But they do not purchase this kind of newspaper. The cottagerspells over prints advocating the disestablishment of the Church,the division of great estates, and the general subversion of thepresent order of things. Yet when the labourer advertises, he goesto the paper subscribed to by his master. The disappearance of suchan obsolete and expensive paper is frequently announced asimminent; but the obsolete and expensive print, instead ofdisappearing, nourishes with renewed vitality. Solid matter,temperate argument, and genuine work, in the long ran, pay thebest. An editor who thus conducts his paper is highly appreciatedby the local chiefs of his party, and may even help to contributeto the success of an Administration.

The personal labour involved in such editing must be great fromthe absence of trained assistance, and because the materials mustbe furnished by incompetent hands. Local news must be forwarded bylocal people, perhaps by a village tailor with literary tastes.Such correspondents often indulge in insinuations, or fulsomeflattery, which must be carefully eliminated. From another villagean account of some event comes from the schoolmaster—quite animportant person nowadays!—who writes in a fair, round handand uses the finest language and the longest words. He invariablyputs 'hebdomadal' for 'weekly.' A lawyer's clerk writes a narrativeof some case, on blue foolscap, and, after the manner of legaldocuments, without a single stop from beginning to end.

Once a year comes the labour of preparing the sheet almanac.This useful publication is much valued by the tenants of thedistrict, and may be found pinned against the wall for readyreference in most farmhouses. Besides the calendar it contains alist of county and other officials, dates of quarter sessions andassizes, fair days and markets, records of the prices obtained atthe annual sales of rams or shorthorns on leading farms, andsimilar agricultural information.

The editor has very likely been born in the district, and hasthus grown up to understand the wants and the spirit of the farmingclass. He is acquainted with the family history of theneighbourhood, a knowledge which is of much advantage in enablinghim to avoid unnecessarily irritating personal susceptibilities.His private library is not without interest. It mainly consists ofold books picked up at the farmhouse sales of thirty years. At suchdisposals of household effects volumes sometimes come to light thathave been buried for generations among lumber. Many of these booksare valuable and all worth examination. A man of simple andretiring habits, his garden is perhaps his greatest solace, andnext to that a drive or stroll through the green meadows around.Incessant mental labour has forced him to wear glasses before histime, and it is a relief and pleasure to the eyes to dwell on greensward and leaf. Such a man performs a worthy part in country life,and possesses the esteem of the country side.

CHAPTER XIX

THE VILLAGE FACTORY. VILLAGE VISITORS. WILLOW-WORK

In the daytime the centre of a certain village may be said to bethe shop of the agricultural machinist. The majority of thecottagers are away in the fields at work, and the place iselsewhere almost quiet. A column of smoke and a distant din guidethe visitor to the spot where the hammers are clattering on theanvils.

Twisted iron, rusty from exposure, lies in confusion on theblackened ground before the shed. Coal-dust and the carbondeposited from volumes of thick smoke have darkened the earth, andcoated everything with a black crust. The windows of the shed arebroken, probably by the accidental contact of long rods of ironcarelessly cast aside, and some of the slates of the roof appeargone just above the furnace, as if removed for ventilation and theescape of the intense heat. There is a creaking of stiff leather asthe bellows rise and fall, and the roar of the blast as it isforced up through the glowing coals.

A ceaseless hum of wheels in motion comes from the rear, and thepeculiar crackling sound of a band in rapid revolution round thedrum of the engine and the shaft. Then the grinding scrape of sharpsteel on iron as the edge of the tool cuts shavings from the solidmetal rotating swiftly in the lathe. As blow follows blow thered-hot 'scale,' driven from the surface of the iron on the anvilby the heavy sledge, flies rattling against the window in a sprayof fire. The ring of metal, the clatter, the roaring, and hissingof steam, fill the air, and through it rises now and then theshrill quick calls of men in command.

Outside, and as it seems but a stone's throw distant, stands theold grey church, and about it the still, silent, green-grown moundsover those who once followed the quiet plough.

Bound the corner of the village street comes a man with a grimyred flag, and over the roofs of the cottages rises a cloud ofsmoke, and behind it yet another. Two steam ploughing engines arereturning from their work to their place beside the shed to waitfresh orders. The broad wheels of the engines block up the entirewidth of the street, and but just escape overthrowing the feeblepalings in front of the cottage doors. Within those palings thechildren at play scarcely turn to look; the very infants that canhardly toddle are so accustomed to the ponderous wonder that theycalmly gnaw the crusts that keep them contented. It requires a fullhour to get the unwieldy engines up the incline and round the sharpturns on to the open space by the workshop. The driver has to'back,' and go-a-head, and 'back' again, a dozen times before hecan reach the place, for that narrow bye-way was not planned outfor such traffic. A mere path leading to some cottages in the rear,it was rarely used even by carts before the machinist came, and itis a feat of skill to get the engines in without, like a conqueror,entering by a breach battered in the walls. When, at last, theyhave been piloted into position, the steam is blown off, and therushing hiss sounds all over the village. The white vapour coversthe ground like a cloud, and the noise re-echoes against the oldgrey church, but the jackdaws do not even rise from thebattlements.

These engines and their corresponding tackle are the chiefstock-in-trade of the village machinist. He lets them out to thefarmers of the district, which is principally arable; that is, hecontracts to do their ploughing and scarifying at so much per acre.In the ploughing seasons the engines are for ever on the road, andwith their tackle dragging behind them take up the highway like atrain. One day you may hear the hum and noise from a distant fieldon the left; in a day or two it comes from another on the right;next week it has shifted again, and is heard farther offnorthwards, and so all round the compass.

The visitor, driving about the neighbourhood, cannot but noticethe huge and cumbrous-looking plough left awhile on the sward bythe roadside. One-half of the shares stand up high in the air, theother half touch the ground, and it is so nicely balanced that boyssometimes play at see-saw on it. He will meet the iron monsterwhich draws this plough by the bridge over the brook, pausing whileits insatiable thirst is stayed from the stream. He will see itpatiently waiting, with a slight curl of steam over the boiler, bythe wayside inn while its attendants take their lunch.

It sometimes happens in wet weather that the engines cannot bemoved from the field where they have been ploughing. The soilbecomes so soft from absorbing so much water that it will not bearup the heavy weight. Logs and poles are laid down to form atemporary way, but the great wheels sink too deeply, and theengines have to be left covered with tarpaulins. They have beenknown to remain till the fresh green leaves of spring on the hedgesand trees almost hid them from sight.

The machinist has another and lighter traction engine which doesnot plough, but travels from farm to farm with a threshing machine.In autumn it is in full work threshing, and in winter driveschaff-cutters for the larger farmers. Occasionally it draws a loadof coal in waggons or trucks built for the purpose. Hodge'sforefathers knew no rival at plough time; after the harvest theythreshed the corn all the winter with the flail. Now the iron horseworks faster and harder than he.

Some of the great tenant-farmers have sets of ploughing-enginesand tackle of their own, and these are frequently at themachinist's for repairs. The reaping, mowing, threshing, haymaking,hoeing, raking, and other machines and implements also oftenrequire mending. Once now and then a bicyclist calls to have hismachine attended to, something having given way while on a tour.Thus the village factory is in constant work, but has to encounterimmense competition.

Country towns of any size usually possess at least onemanufactory of agricultural implements, and some of these factorieshave acquired a reputation which reaches over sea. The visitor tosuch a foundry is shown medals that have been granted forexcellence of work exhibited in Vienna, and may see machines inprocess of construction which will be used upon the Continent; sothat the village machinist, though apparently isolated, withnothing but fields around him, has in reality competitors uponevery side.

Ploughing engines, again, travel great distances, and there arefirms that send their tackle across a county or two. Still thevillage factory, being on the spot, has plenty of local work, andthe clatter of hammers, the roar of the blast, and the hum ofwheels never cease at the shed. Busy workmen pass to and fro, lithemen, quick of step and motion, who come from Leeds, or some similarmanufacturing town, and whose very step distinguishes them in amoment from the agricultural labourer.

A sturdy ploughboy comes up with a piece of iron on hisshoulder; it does not look large, but it is as much as he cancarry. One edge of it is polished by the friction of the earththrough which it has been forced; it has to be straightened, orrepaired, and the ploughboy waits while it is done. He sits downoutside the shed on a broken and rusty iron wheel, choosing a spotwhere the sun shines and the building keeps off the wind. There,among the twisted iron, ruins and fragments of machines, he takesout his hunch of bread and cheese, and great clasp knife, andquietly enjoys his luncheon. He is utterly indifferent to the noiseof the revolving wheels, the creak of the bellows, the hiss ofsteam; he makes no inquiry about this or that, and shows no desireto understand the wonders of mechanics. Something in hisattitude—in the immobility, the almost animal repose of limb;something in the expression of his features, the self-containedoblivion, so to say, suggests an Oriental absence of aspiration.Only by negatives and side-lights, as it were, can any idea beconveyed of his contented indifference. He munches his crust; and,when he has done, carefully, and with vast deliberation, relaceshis heavy shoe. The sunshine illumines the old grey church beforehim, and falls on the low green mounds, almost level with thesward, which cover his ancestors.

These modern inventions, this steam, and electric telegraph, andeven the printing-press have but just skimmed the surface ofvillage life. If they were removed—if the pressure fromwithout, from the world around, ceased, in how few years thevillage and the hamlet would revert to their originalcondition!

On summer afternoons, towards five or six o'clock, a four-wheelcarriage—useful, but not pretentious—comes slowly upthe hill leading to the village. The single occupant is an elderlyman, the somewhat wearied expression of whose features is caused bya continuous application to business. The horse, too well fed forwork, takes his own time up the hill, and when at the summit thereins are gently shaken, makes but an idle pretence to move faster,for he knows that his master is too good-natured and forbearing touse the whip, except to fondly stroke his back. The reins arescarcely needed to guide the horse along the familiar road to alarge farmhouse on the outskirts of the village, where at the gatetwo or more children are waiting to welcome 'papa.'

Though a farmhouse, the garden is laid out in the style so oftenseen around detached villas, with a lawn for tennis and croquet,parterres bright with summer flowers, and seats under the pleasantshade of the trees. Within it is furnished in villa fashion, and isin fact let to a well-to-do tradesman of the market town a fewmiles distant. He has wisely sent his family for the summer monthsto inhale the clear air of the hills, as exhilarating as that ofthe sea. There they can ride the pony and donkeys over the opensward, and romp and play at gipsying. Every evening he drives outto join them, and every morning returns to his office. The housebelongs to some large tenant-farmer, who has a little freeholdproperty, and thus makes a profit from it.

This practice of hiring a village home for the summer has becomecommon of recent years among the leading tradesmen of countrytowns. Such visitors are welcome to the cottage folk. They requirethe service of a labourer now and then; they want fresh eggs, andvegetables from the allotment gardens. The women have the familywashing to do, and a girl is often needed to assist indoors, or aboy to clean the knives and shoes. Many perquisites fall to thecottage people—cast aside dresses, and so on; besides whichthere are little gifts and kindnesses from the lady and herchildren.

Towards November, again, the congregation in the old church oneSunday morning find subject for speculation concerning a strangerwho enters a certain well-appointed pew appropriated to TheChestnuts. He is clearly the new tenant who has taken it for thehunting season. The Chestnuts is a mansion built in modern stylefor a former landowner. As it is outside the great hunting centresit is let at a low rental compared with its accommodation. Thelabourers are glad to see that the place is let again, for althoughthe half-pay officer—the new occupant—who has retired,wounded and decorated, from the service of a grateful country, hasprobably not a third the income of the tradesman, and five timesthe social appearance to maintain, still there will be profit to begot from him.

What chance has such a gentleman in bargaining with thecottagers? How should he know the village value of a cabbage? Howshould he understand the farmyard value of a fowl? It may possiblystrike him as odd that vegetables should be so dear when, as herides about, he sees whole fields green with them. He sees plentyof fowls, and geese, and turkeys, gobbling and cackling about thefarmyards, and can perhaps after awhile faintly perceive that theyare the perquisites of the ladies of the tenants' households, whodrive him a very hard bargain. He, too, has cast aside suits,shoes, hats, and so forth, really but little worn, to give away tothe poor. If married, his family require some help from the cottagewomen; and there are odd jobs, well paid for, on the place for themen. Thus the cottagers are glad of the arrival of their newmasters, the one in the summer, the other in the winter months.

The 'chapel-folk' of the place have so increased in numbers andaffluence that they have erected a large and commodious building inthe village. Besides the cottagers, many farmers go to the chapel,driving in from the ends of the parish. It is a curiouscirc*mstance that many of the largest dealers in agriculturalproduce, such as cheese, bacon, and corn, and the owners of thebusiest wharves where coal and timber, slate, and similar materialsare stored, belong to the Dissenting community. There are someagricultural districts where this class of business is quiteabsorbed by Dissenters—almost as much as money-changing andbanking business is said to be the exclusive property of Jews insome Continental countries. Such dealers are often substantial and,for the country, even wealthy men. Then there are the Dissentingtradesmen of the market town. All these together form a species ofguild. The large chapel in the village was built by their unitedsubscriptions. They support each other in a marked manner in timesof difficulty, so that it is rare for a tenant-farmer of thepersuasion to lose his position unless by wilful misconduct. Thismutual support is so very marked as to be quite a characteristicfact.

The cottagers and their families go to chapel with thesemasters. But sometimes the cottager, as he approaches the chapeldoor, finds upon it (as in the church porch) a small printed noticeaffixed there by the overseers. If the labourer is now recognisedas a person whose opinion is to be consulted, on the other hand hefinds that he is not without responsibilities. The rate-collectorknocks at the cottage door as well as at the farmer's. By gradualdegrees village rates are becoming a serious burden, and thoughtheir chief incidence may be upon the landlord and the tenant,indirectly they begin to come home to the labourer. The school rateis voluntary, but it is none the less a rate; the cemetery, theancient churchyard being no more available, has had to be paid for,and, as usual, probably cost twice what was anticipated. Thehighways, the sanitary authority, not to speak of poor relief, alldemand a share. Each in itself may be only a straw, but accumulatedstraws in time fill a waggon.

One side of the stable of the village inn, which faces the road,presents a broad surface for the country bill-sticker. He comes outfrom the market town, and travels on foot for a whole day together,from hamlet to hamlet. posting up the contents of his bag in themost outlying and lonely districts. Every villager as he passes byreads the announcements on the wall: the circus coming to themarket town, some jeweller's marvellous watches, the selling off ofspring or summer goods by the drapers at an immense reduction, oncenow and then a proclamation headed V.R., and the sales of farmstock (the tenants leaving) and of large freehold properties.

These latter are much discussed by the callers at the inn. Acarter comes along perhaps with a loaded waggon from some distance,and as he stays to drink his quart talks of the changes that areproceeding or imminent in his locality. Thus the fact that changesare contemplated is often widely known before the actualadvertisem*nt is issued. The labourers who hear the carter's storytell it again to their own employer next time they see him, and thefarmer meeting another farmer gossips over it again.

There has grown up a general feeling in the villages andagricultural districts that the landed estates around them are nolonger stable and enduring. A feeling of uncertainty is abroad, andno one is surprised to hear that some other place, or person, isgoing. It is rumoured that this great landlord is about to sell asmany farms as the family settlements will let him. Another is onlywaiting for the majority of his son to accomplish the same object.Others, it is said, are proceeding abroad to retrench. Propertiesare coming into the market in unexpected directions, and others areonly kept back because the price of land has fallen, and there is adifficulty in selling a large estate. If divided into a number oflots, each of small size, land still fetches its value, and can bereadily sold; but that is not always convenient, and purchasershesitate to invest in extensive estates. But though kept back,efforts are being made to retrench, and, it is said, old mansionsthat have never been let before can now be hired for the season.Not only the tenant-farmers, but the landowners are pacing througha period of depression, and their tenure too is uncertain. Such isthe talk of the country side as it comes to the village inn.

Once a week the discordant note of a horn or bugle, loudly blownby a man who does not understand his instrument, is heard atintervals. It is the newspaper vendor, who, like the bill-sticker,starts from the market town on foot, and goes through the villagewith a terrible din. He stops at the garden gate in the palingsbefore the thatched cottage, delivers his print to the old woman orthe child sent out with the copper, and starts again with aflourish of his trumpet. His business is chiefly with thecottagers, and his print is very likely full of abuse of the landedproprietors as a body. He is a product of modern days, almost thelatest, and as he goes from cottage door to cottage door, thediscordant uproar of his trumpet is a sign of the times.

In some districts the osier plantations give employment to aconsiderable number of persons. The tall poles are made into postsand rails; the trunks of the pollard trees when thrown are cut intosmall timber that serves many minor purposes; the brushwood or topsthat are cut every now and then make thatching sticks and fa*ggots;sometimes hedges are made of a kind of willow wicker-work forenclosing gardens. It is, however, the plantations of withy orosier that are most important. The willow grows so often in or nearto water that in common opinion the association cannot be toocomplete. But in the arrangement of an osier-bed water is utilised,indeed, but kept in its place—i.e. at the roots, and not overthe stoles. The osier should not stand in water, or rise, as itwere, out of a lake—the water should be in the soilunderneath, and the level of the ground higher than the surface ofthe adjacent stream.

Before planting, the land has to be dug or ploughed, andcleared; the weeds collected in the same way as on an arable field.The sticks are then set in rows eighteen inches apart, each stick(that afterwards becomes a stole) a foot from its neighbours of thesame row. At first the weeds require keeping down, but after awhilethe crop itself kills them a good deal. Several willows spring fromeach planted stick, and at the end of twelve months the first cropis ready for cutting. Next year the stick or stole will send upstill more shoots, and give a larger yield.

The sorts generally planted are called Black Spanish and WalnutLeaf. The first has a darker bark, and is a tough wood; the otherhas a light yellow bark, and grows smoother and without knots,which is better for working up into the manufactured article.Either will grow to nine feet high—the average height is sixor seven feet. The usual time for cutting is about GoodFriday—that is, just before the leaf appears. After cutting,the rods are stacked upright in water, in long trenches six inchesdeep prepared for the purpose, and there they remain till the leafcomes out. The power of growth displayed by the willow iswonderful—a bough has only to be stuck in the earth, or theend of a pole placed in the brook, for the sap to rise and shootsto push forth.

When the leaf shows the willows are carried to the 'brakes,' andthe work of stripping off the bark commences. A 'brake' somewhatresembles a pair of very blunt scissors permanently fixed open at acertain angle, and rigidly supported at a convenient height fromthe ground. The operator stands behind it, and selecting a longwand from the heap beside him places it in the 'brake,' and pullsit through, slightly pressing it downwards. As he draws it towardshim, the edges of the iron tear the bark and peel it along thewhole length of the stick. There is a knack in the operation, ofcourse, but when it is acquired the wand is peeled in a moment by adexterous turn of the wrist, the bark falls to the ground on theother side of the brake, and the now white stick is thrown to theright, where a pile soon accumulates. The peel is handy for tyingup, and when dried makes a capital material for lighting fires.This stripping of the osiers is a most busy time in theneighbourhood of the large plantations—almost likehop-picking—for men, women, and children can all help. Itdoes not require so much strength as skill and patience.

After the peeling the sticks have to be dried by exposure to thesun; they are then sorted into lengths, and sold in bundles. If itis desired to keep them any time they must be thoroughly dried, orthey will 'heat' and rot and become useless. This willow harvest islooked forward to by the cottagers who live along the rivers as anopportunity for earning extra money. The quantity of osier thustreated seems immense, and yet the demand is said to be steady, andas the year advances the price of the willow rises. It ismanufactured into all kinds of baskets—on farms, especiallyarable farms, numbers of baskets are used. Clothes baskets, marketbaskets, chaff baskets, bassinettes or cradles, &c., are somefew of the articles manufactured from it. Large quantities ofwillow, too, are worked up unpeeled into hampers of all kinds. Thenumber of hampers used in these days is beyond computation, and asthey are constantly wearing out, fresh ones have to be made. Anadvantage of the willow is that it enables the farmer to derive aprofit from land that would otherwise be comparatively valueless.Good land, indeed, is hardly fitted for osier; it would grow rankwith much pith in the centre, and therefore liable to break. Oncommon land, on the contrary, it grows just right, and not toocoarse. Almost any scrap or corner does for willow, and if properlytended it speedily pays for the labour.

The digging and preparation of the ground gives employment, andafterwards the weeding and the work required to clean the channelsthat conduct water round and through the beds. Then there is thecutting and the peeling, and finally the basket-making; and thusthe willow, though so common as to be little regarded, finds workfor many hands.

CHAPTER XX

HODGE'S FIELDS

The labourer working all the year round in the open air cannot butnote to some degree those changes in tree and plant which coincidewith the variations of his daily employment. Early in March, as hewalks along the southern side of the hedge, where the dead oakleaves still cumber the trailing ivy, he can scarcely avoid seeingthat pointed tongues of green are pushing up. Some have widenedinto black-spotted leaves; some are notched like the many-barbedbone harpoons of savage races. The hardy docks are showing, and theyoung nettles have risen up. Slowly the dark and grey hues ofwinter are yielding to the lively tints of spring. The blackthornhas white buds on its lesser branches, and the warm rays of the sunhave drawn forth the buds on one favoured hawthorn in a shelterednook, so that the green of the coming leaf is visible. Bramblebushes still retain their forlorn, shrivelled foliage; the hardyall but evergreen leaves can stand cold, but when biting winds fromthe north and east blow for weeks together even these curl at theedge and die.

The remarkable power of wind upon leaves is sometimes seen inMay, when a strong gale, even from the west, will so beat andbatter the tender horse-chestnut sprays that they bruise andblacken. The slow plough traverses the earth, and the white dustrises from the road and drifts into the field. In winter thedistant copse seemed black; now it appears of a dull reddish brownfrom the innumerable catkins and buds. The delicate sprays of thebirch are fringed with them, the aspen has a load of brown, thereare green catkins on the bare hazel boughs, and the willows havewhite 'puss*-cats.' The horse-chestnut buds—the hue of darkvarnish—have enlarged, and stick to the finger if touched;some are so swollen as to nearly burst and let the green appear.Already it is becoming more difficult to look right through thecopse. In winter the light could be seen on the other side; nowcatkin, bud, and opening leaf have thickened and check the view.The same effect was produced not long since by the rime on thebranches in the frosty mornings; while each smallest twig was thuslined with crystal it was not possible to see through. Tangledweeds float down the brook, catching against projecting branchesthat dip into the stream, or slowly rotating and carried apparentlyup the current by the eddy and back-water behind the bridge. In thepond the frogs have congregated in great numbers; their constant'croo-croo' is audible at some distance.

The meadows, so long bound by frost and covered with snow, areslowly losing their wan aspect, and assuming a warmer green as theyoung blades of grass come upwards. Where the plough or harrow haspassed over the clods they quickly change from the rich brown offresh-turned soil to a whiter colour, the dryness of the atmosphereimmediately dissipating the moisture in the earth. So, examine whatyou will, from the clod to the tiniest branch, the hedge, themound, the water—everywhere a step forward has been taken.The difference in a particular case may be minute; but it is there,and together these faint indications show how closely spring isapproaching.

As the sun rises the chaffinch utters his bold challenge on thetree; the notes are so rapid that they seem to come all at once.Welcome, indeed, is the song of the first finch. Sparrows are busyin the garden—the hens are by far the most numerous now, halfa dozen together perch on the bushes. One suddenly darts forth andseizes a black insect as it flies in the sunshine. The bee, too, isabroad, and once now and then a yellow butterfly. From the copse onthe warmer days comes occasionally the deep hollow bass of the woodpigeon. On the very topmost branch of an elm a magpie has perched;now he looks this way, and then turns that, bowing in the oddestmanner, and jerking his long tail up and down. Then two of themflutter across the field—feebly, as if they had barelystrength to reach the trees in the opposite hedge. Extending theirwings they float slowly, and every now and then the body undulatesalong its entire length. Rooks are building—they fly and feednow in pairs; the rookery is alive with them. To the steeple thejackdaws have returned and fly round and round; now one holds hiswings rigid and slides down at an angle of sixty degrees at abreakneck pace, as if about to dash himself in fragments on thegarden beneath.

Sometimes there come a few days which are like summer. There isan almost cloudless sky, a gentle warm breeze, and a bright sunfilling the fields with a glow of light. The air, though soft andgenial, is dry, and perhaps it is this quality which gives sopeculiar a definition to hedge, tree, and hill. A firm, almosthard, outline brings copse and wood into clear relief; the distanceacross the broadest fields appears sensibly diminished. Suchfreedom from moisture has a deliciously exhilarating effect onthose who breathe so pure an atmosphere. The winds of March differ,indeed, in a remarkable manner from, the gales of the early year,which, even when they blow from a mild quarter, compel one to keepin constant movement because of the aqueous vapour they carry. Butthe true March wind, though too boisterous to be exactly genial,causes a joyous sense of freshness, as if the very blood in theveins were refined and quickened upon inhaling it. There is adifference in its roar—the note is distinct from the harshsound of the chilly winter blast. On the lonely highway at night,when other noises are silent, the March breeze rushes through thetall elms in a wild cadence. The white clouds hasten over,illuminated from behind by a moon approaching the full; every nowand then a break shows a clear blue sky and a star shining. Now aloud roar resounds along the hedgerow like the deafening boom ofthe surge; it moderates, dies away, then an elm close by bends andsounds as the blast comes again. In another moment the note iscaught up and repeated by a distant tree, and so one after anotherjoins the song till the chorus reaches its highest pitch. Then itsinks again, and so continues with pauses and deep inspirations,for March is like a strong man drawing his breath full and long ashe starts to run a race.

The sky, too, like the earth, whose hedges, trees, and meadowsare acquiring fresher colours, has now a more lovely aspect. Atnoon-day, if the clouds be absent, it is a rich azure; after sunseta ruddy glow appears almost all round the horizon, while thethrushes sing in the wood till the twilight declines. At night,when the moon does not rise till late, the heavens are brilliantwith stars. In the east Arcturus is up; the Great Bear, the LesserBear, and Cassiopeia are ranged about the Pole. Procyon goes beforethe Dog; the noble constellation of Orion stretches broad acrossthe sky; almost overhead lucent Capella looks down. Aries droopstowards the west; the Bull follows with the red Aldebaran, and thePleiades. Behind these, Castor and Pollux, and next the cloudlike,nebulous Cancer. Largest of all, great Sirius is flaming in thesouth, quivering with the ebb and flow of his light, sometimes withan emerald scintillation like a dewdrop on which a sunbeamglances.

The busy summer, with its haymaking, reaping, and continuoussuccession of harvest work, passes too swiftly for reflection bothfor masters and men. But in the calm of autumn there is time againto look round. Then white columns of smoke rise up slowly into thetranquil atmosphere, till they overtop the tallest elms, and theodour of the burning couch is carried across the meadows from thelately-ploughed stubble, where the weeds have been collected inheaps and fired. The stubble itself, short and in regular lines,affords less and less cover every year. As the seed is now drilledin, and the plants grow in mathematically straight lines, of coursewhen the crop is reaped, if you stand at one side of the field youcan see right across between the short stubbs, so that a mousecould hardly find shelter. Then quickly come the noisy steamploughing engines, after them the couch collectors, and finally theheaps are burnt, and the strong scent of smoke hangs over theground. Against these interruptions of their haunts and quiet wayswhat are the partridges to do? Even at night the place is scarcelytheir own, for every now and then as the breeze comes along, thesmouldering fires are fanned into bright flame, enough to alarm theboldest bird.

In another broad arable field, where the teams have beendragging the plough, but have only just opened a few furrows andgone home, a flock of sheep are feeding, or rather picking up alittle, having been, turned in, that nothing might be lost. Thereis a sense of quietness—of repose; the trees of the copseclose by are still, and the dying leaf as it drops falls straightto the ground. A faint haze clings to the distant woods at the footof the hills; it is afternoon, the best part of an autumn day, andsufficiently warm to make the stile a pleasant resting-place. Adark cloud, whose edges rise curve upon curve, hangs in the sky,fringed with bright white light, for the sun is behind it, andlong, narrow streamers of light radiate from the upper part likethe pointed rays of an antique crown. Across an interval of blue tothe eastward a second massive cloud, white and shining as if beatenout of solid silver, fronts the sun, and reflects the beams passinghorizontally through the upper ether downwards on the earth like amirror.

The sparrows in the stubble rise in a flock and settle downagain. Yonder a solitary lark is singing. Then the sun emerges, andthe yellow autumn beams flood the pale stubble and the dark redearth of the furrow. On the bushes in the hedge hang the vines ofthe bryony, bearing thick masses of red berries. The hawthornleaves in places have turned pale, and are touched, too, towardsthe stalk with a deep brown hue. The contrast of the two tintscauses an accidental colour resembling that of bronze, whichcatches the eye at the first glance, but disappears on lookingcloser. Spots of yellow on the elms seem the more brilliant fromthe background of dull green. The drooping foliage of the birchexhibits a paler yellow; the nut-tree bushes shed brown leaves uponthe ground. Perhaps the beech leaves are the most beautiful; two orthree tints are blended on the topmost boughs. There is a ruddyorange hue, a tawny brown, and a bright green; the sunlight comesand mingles these together. The same leaf will sometimes show twoat least of these colours—green shading into brown, or into aruddy gold. Later on, the oaks, in a monochrome of buff, will rivalthe beeches. Now and then an acorn drops from the tree overhead,with a smart tap on the hard earth, and rebounds some inches high.Some of these that fall are already dark—almostblack—but if opened they will be found bored by a grub. Theyare not yet ripe as a crop; the rooks are a good guide in thatrespect, and they have not yet set steadily to work upon this theirfavourite autumn food. Others that have fallen and been knocked outof the cup are a light yellow at the base and green towards themiddle and the point; the yellow part is that which has beencovered by the cup. In the sward there is a small hole from out ofwhich creeps a wasp at intervals; it is a nest, and some few ofthem are still at work. But their motions are slow and lackvivacity; before long, numbers must die, and already many havesuccumbed after crawling miserably on the ground which they spurneda short while since, when with a brisk buzz they flew from apple toplum.

In the quiet woodland lane a covey of partridges are running toand fro on the short sward at the side, and near them two or threepheasants are searching for food. The geometricalspiders—some of them look almost as big as a nut—hangtheir webs spun to a regular pattern on the bushes. The fungiflourish; there is a huge specimen on the elm there, but theflowers are nearly gone.

A few steps down the lane, upon looking over a gate into a largearable field where the harrow has broken up the clods, a faintbluish tinge may be noticed on the dull earth in the more distantparts. A second glance shows that it is caused by a great flock ofwoodpigeons. Some more come down out of the elms and join theircompanions; there must be a hundred and fifty or two hundred ofthem. The woodpigeon on the ground at a distance is difficult todistinguish, or rather to define individually—the pale bluetint seems to confuse the eye with a kind of haze. Though the flocktake little notice now—knowing themselves to be far out ofgunshot—yet they would be quickly on the alert if an attemptwere made to approach them.

Already some of the elms are becoming bare—there are gapsin the foliage where the winds have carried away the leaves. On thebramble bushes the blackberries cluster thickly, unseen andungathered in this wild spot. The happy hearts that goa-blackberrying think little of the past: yet there is a deep, amournful significance attached to that joyous time. For how manycenturies have the blackberries tempted men, women, and childrenout into the fields, laughing at scratched hands and nettles, andclinging burrs, all merrily endured for the sake of so simple atreasure-trove. Under the relics of the ancient pile-dwellings ofSwitzerland, disinterred from the peat and other deposits, havebeen found quantities of blackberry seeds, together with traces ofcrabs and sloes; so that by the dwellers in those primeval villagesin the midst of the lakes the wild fruits of autumn were sought formuch as we seek them now; the old instincts are strong in usstill.

The fieldfares will soon be here now, and the redwings, comingas they have done for generations about the time of the sowing ofthe corn. Without an almanack they know the dates; so the oldsportsmen used to declare that their pointers and setters wereperfectly aware when September was approaching, and showed it byunusual restlessness. By the brook the meadows are green and thegrass long still; the flags, too, are green, though numbers of deadleaves float down on the current. There is green again where theroot crops are flourishing; but the brown tints are striving hard,and must soon gain the mastery of colour. From the barn comes theclatter of the winnowing machine, and the floor is covered withheaps of grain.

After the sun has gone down and the shadows are deepening, it islighter in the open stubbles than in the enclosed meadows—theshort white stubbs seem to reflect what little light there is. Thepartridges call to each other, and after each call run a few yardsswiftly, till they assemble at the well-known spot where theyroost. Then comes a hare stealing by without a sound. Suddenly heperceives that he is watched, and goes off at a rapid pace, lost inthe brooding shadow across the field. Yonder a row ofconical-roofed wheat-ricks stand out boldly against the sky, andabove them a planet shines.

Still later, in November, the morning mist lingers over gorseand heath, and on the upper surfaces of the long dank grass blades,bowed by their own weight, are white beads of dew. Wherever the eyeseeks an object to dwell on, there the cloud-like mist seems tothicken as though to hide it. The bushes and thickets are swathedin the vapour; yonder, in the hollow, it clusters about the oaksand hangs upon the hedge looming in the distance. There it nosky—a motionless, colourless something spreads above; it is,of course, the same mist, but looking upwards it apparently recedesand becomes indefinite. The glance finds no point to reston—as on the edges of clouds—it is a mere opaqueexpanse. But the air is dry, the moisture does not deposit itself,it remains suspended, and waits but the wind to rise and depart.The stillness is utter: not a bird calls or insect buzzes by. Inpassing beneath the oaks the very leaves have forgotten to fall.Only those already on the sward, touched by the frost, crumbleunder the footstep. When green they would have yielded to theweight, but now stiffened they resist it and are crushed, breakingin pieces.

A creaking and metallic rattle, as of chains, comes across thearable field—a steady gaze reveals the dim outline of a teamof horses slowly dragging the plough, their shapes indistinctlyseen against the hedge. A bent figure follows, and by-and-byanother distinct creak and rattle, and yet a third in anotherdirection, show that there are more teams at work, plodding to andfro. Watching their shadowy forms, suddenly the eye catches achange in the light somewhere. Over the meadow yonder the mist isilluminated; it is not sunshine, but a white light, only visible bycontrast with the darker mist around. It lasts a few moments, andthen moves, and appears a second time by the copse. Though hiddenhere, the disk of the sun must be partly visible there, and as thewhite light does not remain long in one place, it is evident thatthere is motion now in the vast mass of vapour. Looking upwardsthere is the faintest suspicion of the palest blue, dull and dimmedby mist, so faint that its position cannot be fixed, and the nextinstant it is gone again.

But the teams at plough are growing momentarily distinct—abreath of air touches the cheek, then a leaf breaks away from thebough and starts forth as if bent on a journey, but loses theimpetus and sinks to the ground. Soon afterwards the beams of thesun light up a distant oak that glows in the hedge—a richdeep buff—and it stands out, clear, distinct, and beautiful,the chosen and selected one, the first to receive the ray. Rapidlythe mist vanishes—disappearing rather than floating away; acircle of blue sky opens overhead, and, finally, travelling slowly,comes the sunshine over the furrows. There is a perceptible senseof warmth—the colours that start into life add to thefeeling. The bare birch has no leaf to reflect it, but its whitebark shines, and beyond it two great elms, the one a pale green andthe other a pale yellow, stand side by side. The brake fern is deadand withered; the tip of each frond curled over downwards by thefrost, but it forms a brown background to the dull green furzewhich is alight here and there with scattered blossom, by contrastso brilliantly yellow as to seem like flame. Polished holly leavesglisten, and a bunch of tawny fungus rears itself above thegrass.

On the sheltered sunny bank lie the maple leaves fallen from thebushes, which form a bulwark against the north wind; they havesimply dropped upon the ivy which almost covers the bank. Standinghere with the oaks overhead and the thick bushes on the northernside it is quite warm and genial; so much so that if is hard torealise that winter is at hand. But even in the shortest days,could we only get rid of the clouds and wind, we should find thesunshine sufficiently powerful to make the noontide pleasant. It isnot that the sun is weak or low down, nor because of the sharpfrosts, that winter with us is dreary and chill. The real cause isthe prevalence of cloud, through which only a dull light canpenetrate, and of moisture-laden winds.

If our winter sun had fair play we should find the climate verydifferent. Even as it is, now and then comes a break in the massesof vapour streaming across the sky, and if you are only shelteredfrom the wind (or stand at a southern window), the temperatureimmediately rises. For this reason the temperatures registered bythermometers are often far from being a correct record of the realweather we have had. A bitter frost early in the morning sends themercury below zero, but perhaps, by eleven o'clock the day is warm,the sky being clear and the wind still. The last registerinstituted—that of the duration of sunshine, if taken inconnection with the state of the wind—is the best record ofthe temperature that we have actually felt. These thoughtsnaturally arise under the oaks here as the bright sunlight streamsdown from a sky the more deeply blue from contrast with the brown,and buff, and yellow leaves of the trees.

Hark! There comes a joyous music over the fields—first onehound's, note, then two, then three, and then a chorus; they areopening up a strong scent. It rises and falls—now it iscoming nearer, in a moment I shall see them break through the hedgeon the ridge—surely that was a shout! Just in the very momentof expectation the loud tongues cease; I wait, listeningbreathlessly, but presently a straggling cry or two shows that thepack has turned and are spread wide trying to recover. By degreesthe sounds die away; and I stroll onwards.

A thick border of dark green firs bounds the copse—thebrown leaves that have fallen from the oaks have lodged on thefoliage of the firs and are there supported. In the shelteredcorner some of the bracken has partly escaped the frost, one frondhas two colours. On one side of the rib it is green and on theother yellow. The grass is strewn with the leaves of the aspen,which have turned quite black. Under the great elms there seems asudden increase of light—it is caused by the leaves whichstill remain on the branches; they are all of the palest yellow,and, as you pass under, give the impression of the tree having beenlit up—illuminated with its own colour. From the bushes hangthe red berries of the night shade, and the fruit on the briarsglistens in the sun. Inside the copse stand innumerable thistlesshoulder high, dead and gaunt; and a grey border running round thefield at the bottom of the hedge shows where the tall, strong weedsof summer have withered up. A bird flutters round the topmostboughs of the elm yonder and disappears with a flash ofblue—it is a jay. Here the grass of the meadow has anundertone of grey; then an arable field succeeds, where six stronghorses are drawing the heavy drill, and great bags of the preciousseed are lying on the furrows.

Another meadow, where note a broken bough of elder, the leaveson which have turned black, while still on its living branches theyare green, and then a clump of beeches. The trunks are full ofknot-holes, after a dead bough has fallen off and the stump hasrotted away, the bark curls over the orifice and seemingly healsthe wound more smoothly and completely than with other trees. Butthe mischief is proceeding all the same, despite that flatteringappearance; outwardly the bark looks smooth and healthy, but probethe hole and the rottenness is working inwards. A sudden gap in theclump attracts the glance, and there—with one great beechtrunk on this side and another on that—is a view opening downon the distant valley far below. The wood beneath looks dwarfed,and the uneven tops of the trees, some green, some tinted, areapparently so close together as to hide aught else, and the shadowsof the clouds move over it as over a sea. A haze upon the horizonbrings plain and sky together there; on one side, in the fardistance a huge block, a rude vastness stands out dusky and dimlydefined—it is a spur of the rolling hills.

Out in the plain, many a mile away, the sharp, needle-like pointof a steeple rises white above the trees, which there shade andmingle into a dark mass—so brilliantly white as to seemhardly real. Sweeping the view round, there is a strange and totalabsence of houses or signs of habitation, other than the steeple,and now that, too, is gone. It has utterly vanished—where,but a few moments before it glowed with whiteness, is absolutelynothing. The disappearance is almost weird in the broad daylight,as if solid stone could sink into the earth. Searching for itsuddenly a village appears some way on the right—the whitewalls stand out bright and clear, one of the houses is evidently oflarge size, and placed on a slight elevation is a prominent object.But as we look it fades, grows blurred and indistinct, and inanother moment is gone. The whole village has vanished—in itsplace is nothing; so swift is the change that the mind scarcelycredits the senses.

A deep shadow creeping towards us explains it. Where thesunlight falls, there steeple or house glows and shines; when ithas passed, the haze that is really there, though itself invisible,instantly blots out the picture. The thing may be seen over andover again in the course of a few minutes; it would be difficultfor an artist to catch so fleeting an effect. The shadow of thecloud is not black—it lacks several shades ofthat—there is in it a faint and yet decided tint of blue.This tone of blue is not the same everywhere—here it isalmost distinct, there it fades; it is an aerial colour whichrather hints itself than shows. Commencing the descent the view isat once lost, but we pass a beech whose beauty is not easilyconveyed. The winds have scarcely rifled it; being in a shelteredspot on the slope, the leaves are nearly perfect. All those on theouter boughs are a rich brown—some, perhaps, almost orange.But there is an inner mass of branches of lesser size which droopdownwards, something after the manner of a weeping willow; and theleaves on these are still green and show through. Upon the wholetree a flood of sunshine pours, and over it is the azure sky. Themingling, shading, and contrast of these colours give a lovelyresult—the tree is aglow, its foliage ripe with colour.

Farther down comes the steady sound of deliberate blows, and theupper branches of the hedge falls beneath the steel. A sturdylabourer, with a bill on a pole, strikes slow and strong and cutsdown the hedge to an even height. A dreadful weapon that simpletool must have been in the old days before the advent of thearquebus. For with the exception of the spike, which is not neededfor hedge work, it is almost an exact copy of the brown bill ofancient warfare; it is brown still, except where sharpened. Wieldedby a sinewy arm, what, gaping gashes it must have slit through helmand mail and severed bone! Watch the man there—he slices offthe tough thorn as though it were straw. He notes not the beauty ofthe beech above him, nor the sun, nor the sky; but on the otherhand, when the sky is hidden, the sun gone, and the beautiful beechtorn by the raving winds neither does he heed that. Rain andtempest affect him not; the glaring heat of summer, the bitterfrost of winter are alike to him. He is built up like an oak.Believe it, the man that from his boyhood has stood ankle-deep inthe chill water of the ditch, patiently labouring with axe andbill; who has trudged across the furrow, hand on plough, facingsleet and mist; who has swung the sickle under the summersun—this is the man for the trenches. This is the man whomneither the snows of the North nor the sun of the South canvanquish; who will dig and delve, and carry traverse and coveredway forward in the face of the fortress, who will lie on the bareground in the night. For they who go up to battle must fight thehard earth and the tempest, as well as face bayonet and ball. As ofyore with the brown bill, so now with the rifle—the musclesthat have been trained about the hedges and fields will not failEngland in the hour of danger.

Hark!—a distant whoop—another, a blast of a horn,and then a burst of chiding that makes the woods ring. Down dropsthe bill, and together, heedless of any social difference in thecommon joy, we scramble to the highest mound, and see the packsweep in full cry across the furrows. Crash—it is the bushesbreaking, as the first foam-flecked, wearied horse hardly rises tohis leap, and yet crushes safely through, opening a way, which isquickly widened by the straggling troop behind. Ha! down the lanefrom the hill dashes another squadron that has eroded the chord ofthe arc and comes in fresher. Ay, and a third is entering at thebottom there, one by one, over the brook. Woods, field, and paths,but just before an empty solitude, are alive with men and horses.Up yonder, along the ridge, gallops another troop in single file,well defined against the sky, going parallel to the hounds. What aview they must have of the scene below! Two ladies who ride up withtorn skirts cannot lift their panting horses at the double mound.Well, let us defy 'wilful damage' for once. The gate, jealouslypadlocked, is swiftly hoisted off its hinges, and away they go withhearty thanks. We slip the gate on again just as some one hails tous across the field to wait a minute, but seeing it is only a manwe calmly replace the timber and let him take his chance. He isexcited, but we smile stolidly. In another minute the wave of lifeis gone; it has swept over and disappeared as swiftly as it came.The wood, the field, and lane seem painfully—positivelypainfully—empty. Slowly the hedger and ditcher goes back tohis work, where in the shade under the bushes even now the dewlingers.

So there are days to be enjoyed out of doors even in much-abusedNovember. And when the wind rises and the storm is near, if you getunder the lee of a good thick copse there is a wild pleasure in thefrenzy that passes over. With a rush the leaves stream outwards,thickening the air, whirling round and round; the tree-tops bendand sigh, the blast strikes them, and in an instant they arestripped and bare. A spectral rustling, as the darkness falls andthe black cloud approaches, is the fallen leaves in the copse,lifted up from their repose and dashed against the underwood. Thena howl of wrath descends and fills the sense of hearing, so thatfor the moment it is hard to tell what is happening. A rushing hissfollows, and the rain hurtles through the branches, driving sohorizontally as to pass overhead. The sheltering thorn-thicketstirs, and a long, deep, moaning roar rises from the fir-trees.Another howl that seems to stun—to so fill the ears withsound that they cannot hear—the aerial host charges thetree-ranks, and the shock makes them tremble to the root. Stillanother and another; twigs and broken boughs fly before it andstrew the sward; larger branches that have long been dead fallcrashing downwards; leaves are forced right through thethorn-thicket, and strike against the face. Fortunately, so fiercea fury cannot last; presently the billows of wind that strike thewood come at longer intervals and with less vigour; then the rainincreases, and yet a little while and the storm has swept on. Thevery fury—the utter abandon—of its rage is itscharm; the spirit rises to meet it, and revels in the roar andbuffeting. By-and-by they who have faced it have their reward. Thewind sinks, the rain ceases, a pale blue sky shows above, and thenyonder appears a majesty of cloud—a Himalaya of vapour. Cragon crag rises the vast pile—such jagged and pointed rocks asnever man found on earth, or, if he found, could climb—toppedwith a peak that towers to the heavens, and leans—visiblyleans—and threatens to fall and overwhelm the weak world atit* feet. A gleam as of snow glitters on the upper rocks, thepasses are gloomy and dark, the faces of the precipice are lit upwith a golden gleam from the rapidly-sinking sun. So the magicstructure stands and sees the great round disk go down. The nightgathers around those giant mounts and dark space receives them.

CHAPTER XXI

A WINTER'S MORNING

The pale beams of the waning moon still cast a shadow of thecottage, when the labourer rises from his heavy sleep on a winter'smorning. Often he huddles on his things and slips his feet into histhick 'water-tights'—which are stiff and hard, having beenwet over night—by no other light than this. If the householdis comparatively well managed, however, he strikes a match, and his'dip' shows at the window. But he generally prefers to save acandle, and clatters down the narrow steep stairs in thesemi-darkness, takes a piece of bread and cheese, and steps forthinto the sharp air. The cabbages in the garden he notes are coveredwith white frost, so is the grass in the fields, and the footpathis hard under foot. In the furrows is a little ice—whitebecause the water has shrunk from beneath it, leaving ithollow—and on the stile is a crust of rime, cold to thetouch, which he brushes off in getting over. Overhead the sky isclear—cloudless but pale—and the stars, though not yetfading, have lost the brilliant glitter of midnight. Then, in alltheir glory, the idea of their globular shape is easily accepted;but in the morning, just as the dawn is breaking, the absence ofglitter comes the impression of flatness—circular rather thanglobular. But yonder, over the elms, above the cowpens, the greatmorning star has risen, shining far brighter, in proportion, thanthe moon; an intensely clear metallic light—like incandescentsilver.

The shadows of the trees on the frosted ground are dull. As thefootpath winds by the hedge the noise of his footstep startles theblackbird roosting in the bushes, and he bustles out and fliesacross the field. There is more rime on the posts and rails aroundthe rickyard, and the thatch on the haystack is white with it inplaces. He draws out the broad hay-knife—a vast blade, wideat the handle, the edge gradually curving to a point—and thensearches for the rubber or whetstone, stuck somewhere in the sideof the rick. At the first sound of the stone upon the steel thecattle in the adjoining yard and sheds utter a few low 'moos,' andthere is a stir among them. Mounting the ladder he forces the knifewith both hands into the hay, making a square cut which bendsoutwards, opening from the main mass till it appears on the pointof parting and letting him fall with it to the ground. But longpractice has taught him how to balance himself half on the ladder,half on the hay. Presently, with a truss unbound and loose on hishead, he enters the yard, and passes from crib to crib, leaving alittle here and a little there, for if he fills one first, therewill be quarrelling among the cows, and besides, if the crib is tooliberally filled, they will pull it out and tread it under foot.The cattle that are in the sheds fattening for Christmas have cakeas well, and this must be supplied in just proportion.

The hour of milking, which used to be pretty general everywhere,varies now in different places, to suit the necessities of the milktrade. The milk has, perhaps, to travel three or four miles to therailway station; near great towns, where some of the farmersdeliver milk themselves from house to house, the cows are milkedsoon after noonday. What would their grandfathers have said tothat? But where the old customs have not much altered, the milkersits down in the morning to his cow with the stars still visibleoverhead, punching his hat well into her side—a hat wellbattered and thickly coated with grease, for the skin of the cowexudes an unctuous substance. This hat he keeps for the purpose. Acouple of milking pails—they are of large size—form aheavy load when filled. The milker, as he walks back to thefarmhouse, bends his head under the yoke—whence so many menare round-shouldered—and steps slowly with a peculiar swayingmotion of the body, which slight swing prevents it fromspilling.

Another man who has to be up while the moon casts a shadow isthe carter, who must begin to feed his team very early in order toget them to eat sufficient. If the manger be over-filled they spilland waste it, and at the same time will not eat so much. This istedious work. Then the lads come and polish up the harness, and sosoon as it is well light get out to plough. The custom with thehorses is to begin to work as early as possible, but to strike offin the afternoon some time before the other men, the lads ridinghome astride. The strength of the carthorse has to be husbandedcarefully, and the labour performed must be adjusted to it and tothe food, i.e. fuel, consumed. To manage a large team of horses, soas to keep them in good condition, with glossy coats and willingstep, and yet to get the maximum of work out of them, requires longexperience and constant attention. The carter, therefore, is a manof much importance on a farm. If he is up to his duties he is amost valuable servant; if he neglects them he is a costly nuisance,not so much from his pay, but because of the hindrance anddisorganisation of the whole farm-work which such neglectentails.

Foggers and milkers, if their cottages are near at hand, havingfinished the first part of the day's work, can often go back hometo breakfast, and, if they have a good woman in the cottage, find afire and hot tea ready. The carter can rarely leave his horses forthat, and, therefore, eats his breakfast in the stable; but then hehas the advantage that up to the time of starting forth he is undercover. The fogger and milker, on the other hand, are often exposedto the most violent tempests. A gale of wind, accompanied withheavy rain, often readies its climax just about the dawn. They findthe soil saturated, and the step sinks into it—the furrowsare full of water; the cow-yard, though drained, is a pool, nodrain being capable of carrying it off quick enough. The thatch ofthe sheds drips continually; the haystack drips; the thatch of thestack, which has to be pulled off before the hay-knife can be used,is wet; the old decaying wood of the rails and gates is wet. Theysit on the three-legged milking-stool (whose rude workmanship hastaken a dull polish from use) in a puddle; the hair of the cow,against which the head is placed, is wet; the wind blows the raininto the nape of the neck behind, the position being stooping.Staggering under the heavy yoke homewards, the boots sink deep intothe slush and mire in the gateways, the weight carried sinking themwell in. The teams do not usually work in very wet weather, andmost of the out-door work waits; but the cattle must be attendedto, Sundays and holidays included. Even in summer it often happensthat a thunderstorm bursts about that time of the morning. But inwinter, when the rain is driven by a furious wind, when the lanternis blown out, and the fogger stumbles in pitchy darkness throughmud and water, it would be difficult to imagine a condition ofthings which concentrates more discomfort.

If, as often happens, the man is far from home—perhaps hehas walked a mile or two to work—of course he cannot changehis clothes, or get near a fire, unless in the farmer's kitchen. Insome places the kitchen is open to the men, and on Sundays, at allevents, they get a breakfast free. But the kindly old habits aredying out before the hard-and-fast money system and the abidingeffects of Unionism, which, even when not prominently displayed,causes a silent, sullen estrangement.

Shepherds, too, sometimes visit the fold very early in themorning, and in the lambing season may be said to be about both dayand night. They come, however, under a different category to therest of the men, because they have no regular hours, but are guidedsolely by the season and the work. A shepherd often takes his easewhen other men are busily labouring. On the other hand, he isfrequently anxiously engaged when they are sleeping. His sheep rulehis life, and he has little to do with the artificial divisions oftime.

Hedgers and ditchers often work by the piece, and so take theirown time for meals; the ash woods, which are cut in the winter, arealso usually thrown by the piece. Hedging and ditching, if doneproperly, is hard work, especially if there is any grubbing. Thoughthe arms get warm from swinging the grub-axe or billhook, orcleaning out the ditch and plastering and smoothing the side of themound with the spade, yet feet and ankles are chilled by the waterin the ditch. This is often dammed up and so kept back partially,but it generally forces its way through. The ditcher has a board tostand on; there is a hole through it, and a projecting stickattached, with which to drag it into position. But the soft soilallows the board to sink, and he often throws it aside as moreencumbrance than use. He has some small perquisites: he is allowedto carry home a bundle of wood or a log every night, and may gatherup the remnants after the fa*ggoting is finished. On the other hand,he cannot work in bad weather.

Other men come to the farm buildings to commence work about thetime the carter has got his horses fed, groomed, and harnessed, andafter the fogger and milker have completed their early duties. Ifit is a frosty morning and the ground firm, so as to bear up a cartwithout poaching the soil too much, the manure is carried out intothe fields. This is plain, straightforward labour, and cannot belooked upon as hard work. If the cattle want no further attention,the foggers and milkers turn their hands after breakfast towhatever may be going on. Some considerable time is taken up inslicing roots with the machine, or chaff-cutting—monotonouswork of a simple character, and chiefly consisting in turning ahandle.

The general hands—those who come on when the carter isready, and who are usually young men, not yet settled down to anyparticular branch—seem to get the best end of the stick. Theydo not begin so early in the morning by some time as the fogger,milker, carter, or shepherd; consequently, if the cottagearrangements are tolerable, they can get a comfortable breakfastfirst. They have no anxieties or trouble whatever; the work may behard in itself, but there is no particular hurry (in theirestimation) and they do not distress themselves. They receivenearly the same wages as the others who have the care of valuableflocks, herds, and horses; the difference is but a shilling or two,and, to make up for that, they do not work on Sundays. Now, thefogger must feed his cows, the carter his horse, the shepherd lookto his sheep every day; consequently their extra wages arethoroughly well earned. The young labourer—who is simply alabourer, and professes no special branch—is, therefore, in acertain sense, the best off. He is rarely hired by theyear—he prefers to be free, so that when harvest comes he maygo where wages chance to be highest. He is an independent person,and full of youth, strength, and with little experience of life, isapt to be rough in his manners and not overcivil. His wages toooften go in liquor, but if such a young man keeps steady (and thereare a few that do keep steady) he does very well indeed, having nofamily to maintain.

A set of men who work very hard are those who go with thesteam-ploughing tackle. Their pay is so arranged as to depend in ameasure on the number of acres they plough. They get the steam upas early as possible in the morning, and continue as late as theycan at night. Just after the harvest, when the days are long, and,indeed, it is still summer, they work for extremely long hours.Their great difficulty lies in getting water. This must becontinually fetched in carts, and, of course, requires a horse andman. These are not always forthcoming in the early morning, butthey begin as soon as they can get water for the boiler, and do notstop till the field be finished or it is dark.

The women do not find much work in the fields during the winter.Now and then comes a day's employment with the threshing-machinewhen the farmer wants a rick of corn threshed out. In pasture ordairy districts some of them go out into the meadows and spread themanure. They wear gaiters, and sometimes a kind of hood for thehead. If done carefully, it is hard work for thearms—knocking the manure into small pieces by striking itwith a fork swung to and fro smartly.

In the spring, when the great heaps of roots areopened—having been protected all the winter by a layer ofstraw and earth—it is necessary to trim them before they areused. This is often done by a woman. She has a stool or log of woodto sit on, and arranges a couple of sacks or something of the kind,so as to form a screen and keep off the bitter winds which are thenso common—colder than those of the winter proper. With ascreen one side, the heap of roots the other, and the hedge on thethird, she is in some sense sheltered, and, taking her food withher, may stay there the whole day long, quite alone in the solitudeof the broad, open, arable fields.

From a variety of causes, the number of women working in thefields is much less than was formerly the case; thus presentingprecisely the reverse state of things to that complained of intowns, where the clerks, &c., say that they are undersold byfemale labour. The contrast is rather curious. The price of women'slabour has, too, risen; and there does not appear to be anyrepugnance on their part to field-work. Whether the conclusion isto be accepted that there has been a diminution in the actualnumber of women living in rural places, it is impossible to decidewith any accuracy. But there are signs that female labour hasdrifted to the towns quite as much as male—especially theyounger girls. In some places it seems rare to see a young girlworking in the field (meaning in winter)—those that are to befound are generally women well advanced in life. Spring and summerwork brings forth more, but not nearly so many as used to be thecase.

Although the work of the farm begins so soon in the morning, itis, on the other hand, in the cold months, over early. 'The nightcometh when no man can work' was, one would think, originally meantin reference to agricultural labour. It grows dusk before half-pastfour on a dull winter's day, and by five is almost, if not quite,dark. Lanterns may be moving in the cowyards and stables; butelsewhere all is quiet—the hedger and ditcher cannot see tostrike his blow, the ploughs have ceased to move for some time, thelabourer's workshop—the field—is not lighted by gas asthe rooms of cities.

The shortness of the winter day is one of the primary reasonswhy, in accordance with ancient custom, wages are lowered at thattime. In summer, on the contrary, the hours are long, and the payhigh—which more than makes up for the winter reduction. Alabourer who has any prudence can, in fact, do very well by puttingby a portion of his extra summer wages for the winter; if he doesnot choose to exercise common sense, he cannot expect the farmer(or any manufacturer) to pay the same price for a little work andshort time as for much work and long hours. Reviewing the work thelabourer actually does in winter, it seems fair and just to statethat the foggers, or milkers, i.e. the men who attend on cattle,the carters, and the shepherds, work hard, continuously, and oftenin the face of the most inclement weather. The mere labourers, who,as previously remarked, are usually younger and single men, do notwork so hard, nor so long. And when they are at it—whetherturning the handle of a winnowing machine in a barn, cutting ahedge, spreading manure, or digging—it must be said that theydo not put the energy into it of which their brawny arms arecapable.

'The least work and the most money,' however, is a maxim notconfined to the agricultural labourer. Recently I had occasion topass through a busy London street in the West-end where the macadamof the roadway was being picked up by some score of men, and, beingfull of the subject of labour, I watched the process. Using theright hand as a fulcrum and keeping it stationary, each navvyslowly lifted his pick with the left half-way up, about on a levelwith his waistcoat, when the point of the pick was barely two feetabove the ground. He then let it fall—simply by its ownweight—producing a tiny indentation such as might be causedby the kick of one's heel It required about three such strokes, ifthey could so called strokes, to detach one single small stone.After that exhausting labor the man stood at ease for a fewminutes, so that there were often three or four at once staringabout them, while several others lounged against the wooden railingplaced to keep vehicles back.

A more irritating spectacle it would be hard to imagine. Idle asmuch agricultural labour is, it is rarely so lazy as that. Howcontractors get their work done, if that is a sample, it is apuzzle to understand. The complaint of the poor character of thework performed by the agricultural labourer seems also true of otherdepartments, where labour—pure and simple labour of thews andsinews—is concerned. The rich city merchant, who goes to hisoffice daily, positively works harder, in spite of all his money.So do the shopmen and assistants behind their counters; so do thegirls in drapers' shops, standing the whole day and far into theevening when, as just observed, the fields have been dark forhours; so, indeed, do most men and women who earn their bread byany other means than mere bodily strength.

But the cattle-men, carters, and shepherds, men with familiesand settled, often seem to take an interest in their charges, inthe cows, horses, or sheep; some of them are really industrious,deserving men. The worst feature of unionism is the lumping of alltogether, for where one man is hardly worth his salt, another is agood workman. It is strange that such men as this should choose tothrow in their lot with so many who are idle—whom they mustknow to be idle—thus jeopardising their own position for thesake of those who are not worth one-fifth the sacrifice theagricultural cottager must be called upon to make in a strike. Thehard-working carter or cattle-man, according to the union theory,is to lose his pay, his cottage, his garden, and get into bad odourwith his employer, who previously trusted him, and was willing togive him assistance, in order that the day labourer who has noresponsibilities either of his own or his master's, and who hasalready the best end of the stick, should enjoy still furtheropportunities for idleness.

CHAPTER XXII

THE LABOURER'S CHILDREN. COTTAGE GIRLS

In the coldest weather one or more of the labourer's children aresure to be found in the farmyard somewhere. After the mother hasdressed her boy (who may be about three or four years old) in themorning, he is at once turned out of doors to take care of himself,and if, as is often the case, the cottage is within a shortdistance of the farmyard, thither he toddles directly. He standsabout the stable door, watching the harnessing of the greatcarthorses, which are, from the very first, the object of hisintense admiration. But he has already learnt to keep out of theway, knowing that his presence would not otherwise be tolerated amoment, and occupies a position which enables him to dart quicklybehind a tree, or a rick.

When the horses are gone he visits the outhouse, where thesteam-engine is driving the chaff-cutter, or peers in at the hugedoors of the barn, where with wide wooden shovel the grain is beingmoved. Or he may be met with round the hay-ricks, dragging a log ofwood by a piece of tar cord, the log representing a plough. As youcome upon him suddenly he draws up to the rick as if the hay washis natural protector, and looks up at you with half-frightened,half-curious gaze, and mouth open. His hat is an old one of hisfather's, a mile too big, coming down over his ears to hisshoulders, well greased from ancient use—a thing not withoutit* advantage, since it makes it impervious to rain. He wears whatwas a white jacket, but is now the colour of the prevailing soil ofthe place; a belt; and a pair of stumping boots, the very picturein miniature of his father's, heeled and tipped with iron. Hisnaked legs are red with the cold, but thick and strong; his cheeksare plump and firm, his round blue eyes bright, his hair almostwhite, like bleached straw.

An hour or two ago his skin was clean enough, for he was sentout well washed, but it is now pretty well grimed, for he has beenmaking himself happy in the dirt, as a boy should do if he be aboy. For one thing it is clean dirt, nothing but pure mother earth,and not the nasty unctuous filth of city courts and back lanes. Ifyou speak to him he answers you sturdily—if you can catch themeaning of his words, doubly difficult from accent and imperfectknowledge of construction. But he means well, and if you send himon an errand will run off to find 'measter' as fast as his shortstature will allow. He will potter about the farmyard the wholemorning, perhaps turning up at home for a lunch of a slice of breadwell larded. His little sister, not so old as himself, is there,already beginning her education in the cares of maternity, lookingafter the helpless baby that crawls over the wooden threshold ofthe door with bare head, despite the bitter cold. Once during theday he may perhaps steal round the farmhouse, and peer wistfullyfrom behind the tubs or buckets into the kitchen, when, if themistress chances to be about, he is pretty certain to pick up sometrifle in the edible line.

How those prosperous parents who dwell in highly-rented suburbanvillas, and send out their children for a walk with a couple ofnurses, and a 'bow-wow' to run beside the perambulator, would beeaten up with anxiety did their well-dressed boys or girls playwhere this young son of toil finds his amusem*nt! Under the veryhoofs of the carthorses—he will go out to them when they areloose in the field, three or four in a group, under a tree, when itlooks as if the slightest movement on their part must crush him;down to the side of the deep broad brook to swim sticks in it forboats, where a slip on the treacherous mud would plunge him in, andwhere the chance of rescue—everybody being half a mile awayat work—would be absolutely nil. The cows cometrampling through the yard; the bull bellows in the meadow; great,grunting sows, savage when they have young, go by, thrusting theirnoses into and turning up the earth for food; steam ploughingengines pant and rumble about; carts are continually coming andgoing; and he is all day in the midst of it without guardian of anykind whatsoever. The fog, and frost, and cutting winter winds makehim snivel and cry with the cold, and yet there he is out init—in the draughts that blow round the ricks, and through thehedge bare of leaves. The rain rushes down pitilessly—hecreeps inside the barn or shed, and with a stick splashes thepuddles. The long glaring days of summer see him exposed to thescorching heat in the hay, or the still hotter harvest field.Through it all he grows stout and strong, and seems happyenough.

He is, perhaps, more fortunate than his sister, who has to takepart in the household work from very early age. But the villageschool claims them both after awhile; and the greater number ofsuch schools are well filled, taking into consideration the longdistances the children have to come and the frequent bad state ofthe roads and lanes. Both the employers and the children's ownparents get them to school as much as possible; the former put on amild compulsion, the latter for the most part are really anxiousfor the schooling, and have even an exaggerated idea of the valueof education. In some cases it would seem as if the parentsactually educated themselves in some degree from their ownchildren, questioning them as to what they have been told. But, onthe other hand, the labourer objects to paying for the teaching,and thinks the few coppers he is charged a terrible extortion.

The lads, as they grow older and leave school, can almost alwaysfind immediate employment with their father on the same farm, or onone close by. Though they do not now go out to work so soon, yet,on the other hand, when they do commence they receive higher weeklywages. The price paid for boys' labour now is such that it becomesa very important addition to the aggregate income of the cottager.When a man has got a couple of boys out, bringing home so much perweek, his own money, of course, goes very much farther.

The girls go less and less into the field. If at home, theyassist their parents at harvest time when work is done by the acre,and the more a man can cut the better he is off; but their aim isdomestic service, and they prefer to be engaged in the towns. Theyshirk the work of a farmhouse, especially if it is a dairy, and soit has come to be quite a complaint among farmers' wives, in manyplaces, that servants are not to be obtained. Those that areavailable are mere children, whose mothers like them to go outanywhere at first, just to obtain an insight into the duties of aservant. The farmer's wife has the trouble and annoyance ofteaching these girls the rudiments of household work, and then, themoment they are beginning to be useful, they leave, and almostinvariably go to the towns. Those that remain are the slow-witted,or those who are tied in a measure by family difficulties—asa bedridden mother to attend to; or, perhaps, an illegitimate childof her own may fetter the cottage girl. Then she goes out in thedaytime to work at the farmhouse, and returns to sleep at home.

Cottage girls have taken to themselves no small airs of recentyears—they dress, so far as their means will go, as flashilyas servants in cities, and stand upon their dignity. Thisfoolishness has, perhaps, one good effect—it tends todiminish the illegitimate births. The girls are learning moreself-respect—if they could only achieve that and eschew theother follies it would be a clear gain. It may be questionedwhether purely agricultural marriages are as common as formerly.The girl who leaves her home for service in the towns sees a classof men—grooms, footmen, artisans, and workmengenerally—not only receiving higher wages than the labourersin her native parish, but possessing a certain amount ofcomparative refinement. It is not surprising that she prefers, ifpossible, to marry among these.

On the other hand, the young labourer, who knows that he can getgood wages wherever he likes to go, has become somewhat of awanderer. He roams about, not only from village to village, butfrom county to county; perhaps works for a time as a navvy on somedistant railway, and thus associates with a different class of men,and picks up a sort of coarse cynicism. He does not care to marryand settle and tie himself down to a routine of labour—hedespises home pleasures, preferring to spend his entire earningsupon himself. The roaming habits of the rising generation oflabourers is an important consideration, and it has an effect inmany ways. Statistics are not available; but the impression left onthe mind is that purely rural marriages are not so frequent,notwithstanding that wages at large have risen. When a young mandoes marry, he and his wife not uncommonly live for a length oftime with his parents, occupying a part of the cottage.

Had any one gone into a cottage some few years back and inquiredabout the family, most probably the head of the house could havepointed out all his sons and daughters engaged in or near theparish. Most likely his own father was at work almost within hail.Uncles, cousins, various relations, were all near by. He could tellwhere everybody was. To-day if a similar inquiry wore made, theanswer would often be very different. The old people might be aboutstill, but the younger would be found scattered over the earth.One, perhaps, went to the United States or Canada in the height ofthe labourers' agitation some years ago, when agents were busyenlisting recruits for the Far West. Since then another hasdeparted for Australia, taking with him his wife. Others havemigrated northwards, or to some other point of thecompass—they are still in the old country, but the exactwhereabouts is not known. The girls are in service a hundred milesaway—some married in the manufacturing districts. To themiddle-aged, steady, stay-at-home labourer, the place does not seema bit like it used to. Even the young boys are restless, andtalking of going somewhere. This may not be the case with everysingle individual cottage family, but it is so with a great number.The stolid phalanx of agricultural labour is slowlydisintegrating.

If there yet remains anything idyllic in the surroundings ofrural cottage life, it may be found where the unmarried butgrown-up sons—supposing these, of course, to besteady—remain at home with their parents. The father and headof the house, having been employed upon one farm for the lastthirty years or more, though nominally carter, is really a kind ofbailiff. The two young men work on at the same place, and lodge athome, paying a small weekly sum for board and lodging. Their sisteris probably away in service; their mother manages the cottage. Sheoccasionally bears a hand in indoor work at the farmhouse, and inthe harvest time aids a little in the field, but otherwise does notlabour. What is the result? Plenty to eat, good beds, fairly goodfurniture, sufficient fuel, and some provision for contingencies,through the benefit club. As the wages are not consumed in drink,they have always a little ready money, and, in short, are asindependent as it is possible for working men to be, especially if,as is often the case, the cottage and garden is their own, or isheld on a small quit-rent. If either of the sons in time desires tomarry, he does not start utterly unprovided. His father's influencewith the farmer is pretty sure to procure him a cottage; he hassome small savings himself, and his parents in the course of yearshave accumulated some extra furniture, which is given to him.

If a cottage, where the occupants are steady like this, bevisited in the evening, say towards seven o'clock, when dinner ison the table (labourers dining or supping after the conclusion ofthe day's work), the fare will often be found of a substantialcharacter. There may be a piece of mutton—not, of course, theprime cut, but wholesome meat—cabbages, parsnips, carrots(labourers like a profusion of vegetables), all laid out in adecent manner. The food is plain, but solid and plentiful. If thesister out in service wishes to change her situation, she has ahome to go to meanwhile. Should any dispute occur with the employerthe cottage is still there, and affords a shelter till thedifficulty is settled or other work obtained. In towns the workmanwho has been earning six or even ten shillings a day, and paying ahigh rent (carefully collected every week), no sooner gets hisdischarge than he receives notice to quit his lodgings, because theowner knows he will not be paid. But when the agricultural labourerhas a quit-rent cottage, or one of his own, he has a permanentresource, and can look round for another engagement.

The cooking in the best cottages would not commend itself to thestudent of that art: in those where the woman is shiftless it wouldbe deemed simply intolerable. Evidence of this is only too apparenton approaching cottages, especially towards the evening. Comingfrom the fresh air of the fields, perhaps from the sweet scent ofclover or of new-mown grass, the odour which arises from thecottages is peculiarly offensive. It is not that they are dirtyinside—the floor may be scrubbed, the walls brushed, thechairs clean, and the beds tidy; it is from outside that all thenoisome exhalations taint the breeze. The refuse vegetables, thewashings, the liquid and solid rubbish generally is cast out intothe ditch, often open to the highway road, and there festers tillthe first storm sweeps it away. The cleanest woman indoors thinksnothing disgusting out of doors, and hardly goes a step from herthreshold to cast away indescribable filth. Now, a good deal ofthis refuse is the remains of imperfect cooking—masses ofsoddened cabbage, part of which only is eaten, and the rest storedfor the pig or thrown into the ditch. The place smells of soaking,saturated cabbage for yards and yards round about.

But it is much easier to condemn the cottage cook than to showher how to do better. It is even doubtful whether professedscientific cooks could tell her what to do. The difficulty arisesfrom the rough, coarse taste of the labourer, and the fact, whichit is useless to ignore, that he must have something solid, andindeed, bulky. Thin clear soups—though proved to abound withnourishment and of delicious flavour—are utterly beside hiswants. Give him the finest soup; give himpâtés, or even more meatyentrées, and his remark will be that it is very nice,but he wants 'summat to eat.' His teeth are large, his jaws strong,his digestive powers such as would astonish a city man; he likessolid food, bacon, butcher's meat, cheese, or something that giveshim a sense of fulness, like a mass of vegetables. This is thenatural result of his training and work in the fields. Thematerials used by the cottage cook are often quite capable of beingmade into agreeable dishes, but then those dishes would not suitthe man. All the soups and kickshaws—though excellent inthemselves—in the world are not, for his purpose, equal to around of beef or a side of bacon. Let any one go and labour dailyin the field, and they will come quickly to the same opinion. Yetsomething might certainly be done in the way of preventing waste.The real secret lies in the education of the women whenyoung—that is, for the future. But, taking the present day,looking at things as they actually exist, it is no use abusing orlecturing the cottage cook. She might, perhaps, be persuaded toadopt a systematic plan of disposing of the refuse.

The Saturday half-holiday is scarcely so closely observed inrural labour as in urban. The work closes earlier, that is, so faras the day labourer is concerned, for he gets the best of this asof other things. But, half-holiday or not, cows have to be fed andmilked, sheep must be looked after, and the stable attended to, sothat the regular men do not get off much sooner. In winter, thedays being short, they get little advantage from the short time; insummer they do. Compensation is, however, as much as possibleafforded to the settled men who have gardens, by giving them ahalf-day now and then when work is slack to attend to them.

On Sunday morning the labourer cleans and polishes his boots(after digging the potatoes for dinner), puts on a black or darkcoat, put his hands in his pockets—a marked featurethis—and rambles down to his garden or the allotment. There,if it be spring or summer, he is sure to find some acquaintanceslikewise 'looking round.' This seems to be one of the greatestpleasures of the labourer, noting the growth of a cabbage here, andthe promise of potatoes yonder; he does not work, but strolls toand fro, discussing the vegetable prospect. Then back home in timefor dinner—the great event of Sunday, being often the onlyday in the week that he can get a hot dinner in the middle of theday. It is his day at home, and though he may ramble out he nevergoes far.

Ladies residing in the country are accustomed to receiveperiodical appeals from friends in town asking their assistance inprocuring servants. So frequent are such appeals that there wouldseem to be a popular belief that the supply is inexhaustible. Thevillages are supposed to be full of girls, all ready to enterservice, and, though a little uncouth in manner, possessednevertheless of sterling good qualities. The letter is usuallycouched in something like the following terms:—'Do you happento know of a really good girl that would suit us? You are aware ofthe scale on which our household is conducted, and how very modestour requirements are. All we want is a strong, healthy, honestgirl, ready and willing to work and to learn, and who will take aninterest in the place, and who will not ask too extravagant aprice. She can have a good home with us as long as ever she likesto stay. My dear, you really cannot tell what a difficulty weexperience in getting servants who are not "uppish," and who aretrustworthy and do not mind working, and if you can find us one inthose pretty villages round you, we shall be so much obliged,'&c.

The fact that a servant from the country is supposed, in thenature of things, to be honest and willing, hardworking, strong,and healthy, and almost everything else, speaks well for thegeneral character of the girls brought up in agricultural cottages.It is, however, quite a mistake to suppose the supply to belimitless; it is just the reverse; the really good servants fromany particular district are quickly exhausted, and then, if thefriends in town will insist upon a girl from the country, theycannot complain if they do not get precisely what they want. Themigration, indeed, of servants from the villages to the towns has,for the time being, rather overdone itself. The best of those whor*sponded to the first demand were picked out some time since; manyof those now to be had are not of the first class, and the youngare not yet grown up. After awhile, as educationprogresses—bringing with it better manners—there may bea fresh supply; meantime, really good country girls are difficultto obtain. But the demand is as great as ever. From the squire'slady down to the wife of the small tenant-farmer, one and allreceive the same requests from friends in town. The character ofthe true country servant stands as high as ever.

Let us hope that the polish of progress may not too much overlaythe solid if humble virtues which procured that character for herclass. Some efforts are being made here and there to direct thecourse of young girls after leaving the village schools—toput them in the right way and give them the benefit of example. Asyet such efforts are confined to individuals. The object iscertainly worth the formation of local organisations, for, toooften, on quitting the school, the young village girl comes incontact with anything but elevating influences, and, unfortunately,her own mother is not always the best guide. The position of aservant in town is well known, the antecedents of a girl before shereaches town perhaps not so thoroughly, while the lives of thosewho remain in the villages drop out of sight of the greatworld.

As a child, the cottage girl 'roughs' it in the road and in thefields. In winter she learns to slide, and to endure the cold andrain, till she often becomes what, to any one accustomed to a moredelicate life, seems positively impervious to weather. The servantsin old-fashioned farmhouses really did not seem to know what it wasto feel cold. Even nowadays, a servant fresh from an outlyinghamlet, where her parents probably could procure but little fuelbeyond what was necessary for cooking, at first cares not an atomwhether there be a fire in the kitchen or not. Such girls are ashardy as the men of their native place. After a time, hot rooms anda profusion of meat and good living generally saps and underminesthis natural strength. Then they shiver like town-bred people.

The cottage child is often locked out by her parents, who go towork and leave her in charge of her still smaller brothers andsisters. They play about the hedges and ditches, and very rarelycome to any harm. In autumn their little fingers are employedpicking up the acorns fallen from the oaks, for which the formerspay so much per bushel. In spring is their happiest time. The joyof life—the warm sunshine and pleasant breeze ofspring—is not wholly lost upon them, despite their hard fare,and the not very affectionate treatment they receive at home. Sucha girl may then be seen sitting under a willow beside the brook,with her charges around her—the little brother that can justtoddle, the baby that can but crawl and crow in the green freshgrass. Between them lies a whole pile of flowers—dandelionstems made into rings, and the rings joined together so as to forma chain, rushes plaited, blue-bells, cowslips tied up in balls, andcowslips loose, their yellow petals scattered over the sward.

The brook flows murmuring by, with an occasional splash, as awater-rat dives from the bank or a fish rises to an insect. Thechildren weave their flowers and chant some old doggrel rhymes withlittle or no meaning. Long afterwards that girl will retain anunconscious memory of the scene, when, wheeling her employer'schildren out on some suburban road, she seeks a green meadow andmakes a cowslip ball for the delighted infants. In summer they godown to the hay-field, but dare not meddle with the hay, which thebailiff does not like to see disturbed; they remain under theshadow of the hedge. In autumn they search for the berries, likethe birds, nibbling the hips and haws, tasting crabs and sloes, orfeasting on the fruit of a hazel-bush.

Be it spring or summer, autumn or winter, wherever the child maybe, her eyes are ever on the watch to find a dead stick or a brokenbranch, too heavy to lift, but which may be dragged behind, inorder to feed the cottage fire at night. That is her first duty asa child; if she remains in the hamlet that will be her duty throughlife, and to the last, as an aged woman. So in London, round thepurlieus of buildings in the course of erection—even in thecentral thoroughfares, in busy Fleet Street—children hangabout the temporary hoardings, and pick up the chips and splintersof deal. But the latter have not the pleasure of the blue-bells andcowslips, nor even of the hips and haws, nor does the fresh purebreeze play upon their foreheads.

Rough though it be, the childhood of the cottage girl is notwithout its recompenses, the most valuable of which is sturdyhealth. Now that good schools are open to every village, so soon asthe children are old enough to walk the distance, oftenconsiderable, they are sent off every morning. At all events, if itdoes nothing else, it causes the mothers to give them a dailytidying up, which is in itself an advantage. They travel under thecharge of the girl; often two or three such small parties joincompany, coming from as many cottages. In the warmer months, thelanes and fields they cross form a long playground for them, andpicking flowers and searching for birds'-nests pass away the time.In winter they have to face the mire and rain.

When the girl leaves school she is hardly old enough to enterservice, and too often in the year or so that elapses before she'goes out' much mischief is done. She is then at an age when themind is peculiarly receptive, and the ways of the young labourerswith whom she is thrown into contact are not very refined. Herfirst essay at 'service' is often as day-nursemaid at some adjacentfarmhouse, taking care of the younger children in the day, andreturning home to sleep. She then wanders with the children aboutthe same fields she visited long before. This system used to becommon enough, but latterly it has not worked well, because theparents expect the girl to progress so rapidly. She must be a womanand receive a woman's wages almost before she has ceased to be agirl. If she does not disdain to enter a farmhouse as kitchen-maidher wages will probably be about six pounds a year at first. Ofcourse the exact sum varies very much in different localities andin different cases. It is but a small sum of money, yet it is oftenall she is worth.

The cottage is a poor preparation even for the humblestmiddle-class home. Those ladies in towns who have engaged countryservants are well aware of the amount of teaching they requirebefore they can go through the simplest duties in a satisfactorymanner. But most of these girls have already been out several timesbefore reaching town. What a difficulty, then, the first farmer'swife must have had in drilling the rudiments of civilised life intothem! Indeed, the vexations and annoyances connected with servantsare no light weight upon the patience of the tenant-farmer. Hiswife is perpetually preparing servant girls for the service ofother people.

She is a kind of unpaid teacher, for ever shaping the roughmaterial which, so soon as it is worth higher wages than atenant-farmer can usually pay, is off, and the business has to bebegun over again. No one who had not seen it would believe howclumsy and unthinking such girls are on first 'going out.' It is,too, the flightiest and giddiest period of theirexistence—before the girl sobers down into the woman. In thehouses of the majority of tenant-farmers the mistress herself hasto be a good deal in the kitchen, and therefore comes into closepersonal contact with the servants, and feels these things acutely.Except in the case of gentleman-farmers it may, perhaps, be saidthat almost all the wives of farmers have had experience of thiskind.

The girls are not nearly so tractable as formerly—they arefully aware of their own value and put it extremely high; a word issufficient, and if not pleased they leave immediately. Wages riseyearly to about the limit of twelve pounds. In mentioning that sumit is not set down as an exact figure, for circ*mstances of coursevary in every case. But it is seldom that servants in farmhouses ofthe middle class receive more than that. Until recently fewobtained so much. Most of them that are worth anything never resttill they reach the towns, and take service in the villas of thewealthy suburban residents. Some few, however, remain in thecountry from preference, feeling a strong affection for theirnative place, for their parents and friends. Notwithstanding thegeneral tendency to roam, this love of home is by no means extinct,but shows itself very decidedly in some of the village girls.

The fogger, or milker, who comes to the farmhouse door in themorning may not present a very attractive appearance in the eyes ofthose accustomed to see well-dressed people; but it may be quitedifferent with the young girl whose early associations have madeher oblivious of dirt. She does not notice the bits of hay clingingto the smockfrock, the greasy hat and begrimed face, or the clumsyboots thickly coated with mud. A kiss may be quite as sweet,despite these mere outside accidents. In her way she is full ofimagination and fancy—what her mistress would call 'giddy.'Within doors an eye may be on her, so she slips out to thewood-stack in the yard, ostensibly to fetch a log for the fire, andindulges in a few moments of flirtation behind the shelter of thefa*ggots. In the summer she works doubly hard in the morning, andgets everything forward, so that she may go out to the fieldhaymaking in the afternoon, when she may meet her particularfriend, and also, perhaps, his rival.

On Sundays she gladly walks two or more miles across the fieldsto church, knowing full well that some one will be lounging about acertain stile, or lying on the sward by a gate waiting for her. Thepractice of coquetry is as delightful in the country lane as in thesaloons of wealth, though the ways in which it exhibits itself maybe rude in comparison. So that love is sometimes the detainingforce which keeps the girl in the country. Some of the younglabourers are almost heirs to property in their eyes. One isperhaps the son of the carrier, who owns a couple of cottages letout to tenants; or the son of the blacksmith, at whom several capsare set, and about whom no little jealousy rages. On the whole,servants in the country, at least at farmhouses, have much moreliberty than they could possibly get in town.

The work is hard in the morning, but generally much less for therest of the day; in the evening there is often scarcely anything todo. So that the farmhouse servant has much time to herself, and isnot too strictly confined indoors when not at work. There is a gooddeal of 'company,' too; men coming to the door, men in therick-yards and cattle-yards, men in the barn, labourers passing totheir work, and so on. It is not so dull a life as might appear.Indeed, a farmhouse servant probably sees twice as many of her ownclass in the course of a week as a servant in town.

Vanity, of course, is not to be shut out even from so simple anexistence: the girl must have a 'fashionable' bonnet, and a pair ofthin tight boots, let the lanes be never so dirty or the fieldsnever so wet. In point of education they have much improved oflate, and most can now read and write. But when they write home theletter is often read to the mother by some friend; the girl'sparents being nearly or quite illiterate. Tenant-farmers' wives areoften asked to act as notaries in such cases by cottage women onthe receipt of letters from their children.

When such a girl marries in the village she usually finds thework of the cottage harder than that of the farmhouse. It is morecontinuous, and when children arrive the trouble of nursing has tobe added to the other duties, and to occasional work in the fields.The agricultural labourer's wife, indeed, has a harder lot than herhusband. His toil is for the most part over when he leaves thefield, but the woman's is never finished. When the man reaches homehe does not care, or will not turn his hand to anything, except,perhaps, to fetch a pail of water, and he is not well pleased ifasked to do that. The want of conveniences like an accessible watersupply is severely felt by the women in many villages and hamlets;whilst in others there is a quantity running to waste. Many of themen obtain a more than liberal amount of beer, while the womenscarcely get any at all. While working in the field they areallowed a small quantity by some farmers; at home they havenone.

Very few cottage women are inclined to drink, and they areseldom seen at 'public' or intoxicated. On Saturdays most of themwalk into the nearest town, perhaps five or more miles distant, inorder to buy household stuff. Often a whole bevy of neighbours thenmeet and return home together, and that is about the only time whenthey call at the roadside inn. Laden with heavy parcels, with along walk yet before them, and after a hard week's work, it is notsurprising that they should want some refreshment, but the quantityof ale then purchased is very small. When there are a number ofyoung children, and the parents endeavour to keep them decent, thewoman works very hard indeed. Many farmers' wives take muchinterest in such families, where there is an evident endeavour togo straight, and assist the women in various ways, as with cast-offclothing for the children. A basketful of apples even from thefarmer's orchard is a treat to the children, for, though better fedthan formerly, their diet is necessarily monotonous, and such fruitas may be grown in the cottage garden is, of course, sold.

With the exception of vegetables the cottager now buys almosteverything and produces nothing for home use; no home-spunclothing—not even a home-baked loaf. Instances have beenobserved where cottagers have gone to much expense (for them) tobuild ovens, and after baking a few batches abandoned the project.Besides the cheap outfitters in the towns, the pack-drapers comeround visiting every cottage. Such drapers have no shop-window, andmake no display, but employ several men carrying packs, who workthrough the villages on foot and range over a wide stretch ofcountry.

Agricultural women, other than those belonging to the familiesof tenant-farmers, may be summed up as employed in the followingmanner. Bailiff's wives and daughters: these are not supposed, onextensive farms, to work in the field. The wife frequently hascharge of the small home dairy, and the daughter assists at thehouse. Sometimes they also attend to the poultry, now occasionallykept in large numbers. A bailiff's daughter sometimes becomeshousekeeper to a farmer. Dairymaids of the ordinary class—notcompetent to make special cheese—are becoming rarer, onaccount of the demand for their services decreasing—the milktrade and cheap foreign cheese having rendered common sorts ofcheese unprofitable. They are usually cottagers. Of the marriedlabouring women and the indoor servants something has already beensaid. In most villages a seamstress or two may be found, and hasplenty of work to do for the farmers' families. The better class ofhousekeepers, and those professional dairymaids who superintend themaking of superior cheese, are generally more or less nearlyrelated to the families of tenant-farmers.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LOW 'PUBLIC' IDLERS

The wise old saw that good wine needs no bush does not hold true inthe case of the labourer; it would require a very large bush indeedto attract him to the best of beer offered for sale underlegitimate conditions. In fact, he cares not a rap about goodbeer—that is, intrinsically good, a genuine product of maltand hops. He would rather grumble at it, unless, perchance, it wasa gift; and even then would criticise it behind the donor's back,holding the quart cup aslant so as to see the bottom in one place,and get a better view of the liquor. The great breweries whosenames are household words in cities, and whose interest it is tomaintain a high standard of quality for the delectation of theirmillion consumers, do not exalt their garish painted advertisem*ntsin gilded letters as tall as Tom Thumb over the doors of villagealehouses. You might call for Bass at Cairo, Bombay, Sydney, or SanFrancisco, and Bass would be forthcoming. But if you knocked thetrestle-table with the bottom of a tankard (the correct way) in arural public, as a signal to the cellar you might call for Bass invain.

When the agricultural labourer drops in on his way home from hiswork of a winter evening—heralding his approach by castingdown a couple of logs or bundle of wood which he has been carryingwith a thud outside the door—he does not demand liquor ofthat character. When in harvest time, after sundown—when theshadows forbid farther cutting with the fa*gging hook at the tallwheat—he sits on the form without, under the elm tree, andfeels a whole pocketful of silver, flush of money like agold-digger at a fortunate rush, he does not indulge in Allsopp orGuinness. He hoarsely orders a 'pot' of some local brewer'smanufacture—a man who knows exactly what he likes, andarranges to meet the hardy digestion of the mower and the reaper.He prefers a rather dark beer with a certain twang faintlysuggestive of liquorice and tobacco, with a sense of 'body,' athickness in it, and which is no sooner swallowed than a clammypalate demands a second gulp to wash away the relics of the first.Ugh! The second requires a third swig, and still a fourth, andappetite increasing with that it feeds on, the stream rushes downthe brazen throat that burns for more.

Like the Northern demi-god who drank unwittingly at the oceanfrom a horn and could not empty it, but nevertheless caused the ebbof the sea, so our toper, if he cannot contain the cask, will bringit down to the third hoop if time and credit will but serve. Itwould require a ganger's staff to measure his capacity—infact, the limit of the labourer's liquor-power, especially insummer, has never yet been reached. A man will lie on his back inthe harvest field, under a hedge sweet with the June roses thatsmile upon the hay, and never move or take his lips away till agallon has entered into his being, for it can hardly be said to beswallowed. Two gallons a day is not an uncommon consumption withmen who swing the scythe or reaping-hook.

This of course is small beer; but the stuff called for at thelow public in the village, or by the road just outside, thoughindescribably nauseous to a non-vitiated palate, is not 'small.' Itis a heady liquid, which if anyone drinks, not being accustomed toit, will leave its effects upon him for hours afterwards. But thisis what the labourer likes. He prefers something that he can feel;something that, if sufficiently indulged in, will make even histhick head spin and his temples ache next morning. Then he has hadthe value of his money. So that really good ale would require avery large bush indeed before it attracted his custom.

It is a marked feature of labouring life that the respectableinn of the village at which the travelling farmer, or even personshigher in rank, occasionally call, which has a decent stable, andwhose liquors are of a genuine character, is almost deserted by themen who seek the reeking tap of the ill-favoured public which formsthe clubhouse of all the vice of the village. While the farmer orpassing stranger, calling at the decent house really forrefreshment, drinks but a glass or two and departs, the frequentersof the low place never quit their seats till the law compels them,so that for sixpence spent in the one by men with cheque-books intheir pockets, five shillings are spent in the other by men whohave not got a loaf of bread at home for their half-starvingchildren and pinched wife. To an unprincipled landlord clearly thissort of custom is decidedly preferable, and thus it is that theseplaces are a real hardship to the licensed victualler whose effortit is to keep an orderly house.

The influence of the low public upon the agricultural labourer'slife is incalculable—it is his club, almost his home. Therehe becomes brutalised; there he spends his all; and if he awakes tothe wretched state of his own family at last, instead ofremembering that it is his own act, he turns round, accuses thefarmer of starvation wages, shouts for what is really Communism,and perhaps even in his sullen rage descends to crime. Let us gowith him into such a rural den.

Beware that you do not knock your head against thesmoke-blackened beams of the low ceiling, and do not put your elbowcarelessly on the deal table, stained with spilled ale, leftuncleaned from last night, together with little heaps of ashes,tapped out from pipes, and spots of grease from the tallow candles.The old-fashioned settles which gave so cosy an air in the oldentime to the inn room, and which still linger in some of the houses,are not here—merely forms and cheap chairs. A great pot hangsover the fire, for the family cooking is done in the publicapartment; but do not ask to join in the meal, for though the foodmay be more savoury than is dreamed of in your philosophy, thetwo-grained forks have not been cleaned these many a day. Neitheris the butcher's wooden skewer, just extracted from the meat, anelegant toothpick if you are fastidious.

But these things are trifles when the dish is a plump pheasant,jugged hare, brown partridges, or trout—perhaps not exactlyin season—as the chance may be; or a couple of boiled fowls,or a turkey, or some similar toothsome morsel. Perhaps it is thegamey taste thus induced that enables them to enjoy joints from thebutcher which are downright tainted, for it is characteristic ofthe place and people on the one hand to dine on the very best, asabove, and yet to higgle over a halfpenny a pound at the shop.Nowhere else in all the parish, from the polished mahogany at thesquire's mansion to the ancient solid oaken table at thesubstantial old-fashioned farmer's, can there be found such aconstant supply of food usually considered as almost the privilegeof the rich. Bacon, it is true, they eat of the coarsest kind; butwith it eggs new laid and delicious. In brief, it is the strangesthodge-podge of pheasant and bread and cheese, asparagus andcabbage. But somehow, whatever is good, whatever is held inestimation, makes its appearance in that grimy little back room onthat ragged, dirty table-cloth.

Who pays for these things? Are they paid for at all? There is nolicensed dealer in game in the village nor within many miles, andit seems passing strange. But there are other things almost ascurious. The wood pile in the back yard is ever high and bulky; letthe fire burn never so clear in the frosty days there is always aregular supply of firewood. It is the same with coal. Yet there isno copse attached to the place, nor is the landlord ever seenchopping for himself, nor are the farmers in the habit of receivinglarge orders for logs and fa*ggots. By the power of some magic spellall things drift hitherward. A magnet which will draw logs oftimber and fa*ggots half across the parish, which will pullpheasants off their perch, extract trout from the deep, and staythe swift hare in midst of her career, is a power indeed to beenvied. Had any enchanter of mediæval days so potent acharm?

Perhaps it is the engaging and attractive character of thelandlord himself. He is a tall, lanky man, usually seen inslippers, and trousers too short for his limbs; he 'sloppets' aboutin his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, hands in pockets, and shouldersforward almost in a hump. He hangs about the place, now bringing ina log, now carrying a bucket, now spinning a mop, now slouchingdown the garden to feed the numerous fowls that scratch around thestumps of cabbages. Anything, in short, but work. Sometimes,however, he takes the trap and horse, and is supposed to be gone ona dealing expedition. Sometimes it is only to carry a jar of beerup to the men in the field, and to mouch a good armful of fresh-cutclover for provender from the swathe. He sips gin the live-longday—weak gin always—every hour from morn till a cruelLegislature compels the closing of the shutters. He is neverintoxicated—it is simply a habit, a sort of fuel to feed thelow cunning in which his soul delights. So far from intoxication ishe, that there is a fable of some hard knocks and ill usage, andeven of a thick head being beaten against the harder stones of thecourtyard behind, when the said thick head was helpless from muchale. Such matters are hushed up in the dark places of the earth. Sofar from intoxication is he, that he has the keenest eye tobusiness.

There is a lone rick-yard up in the fields yonder to which thecarters come from the farm far away to fetch hay, and straw, and soforth. They halt at the public, and are noticed to enjoy goodliving there, nor are they asked for their score. A few trusses ofhay, or bundles of straw, a bushel of corn, or some such trifle isleft behind merely out of good-fellowship. Waggons come up ladenwith tons of coal for the farms miles above, far from a railwaystation; three or four teams, perhaps, one after the other. Just aknob or two can scarcely be missed, and a little of the small in asack-bag. The bundles of wood thrown down at the door by thelabourers as they enter are rarely picked up again; they disappear,and the hearth at home is cold. The foxes are blamed for the geeseand the chickens, and the hunt execrated for not killing enoughcubs, but Reynard is not always guilty. Eggs and poultry vanish.The shepherds have ample opportunities for disposing of a few sparelambs to a general dealer whose trap is handy. Certainly,continuous gin does not chill the faculties.

If a can of ale is left in the outhouse at the back and happensto be found by a few choice spirits at the hour when the vicar isjust commencing his sermon in church on Sunday, it is by the purestaccident. The turnip and swede greens left at the door, pickedwholesale from the farmers' fields; the potatoes produced from coatpockets by fingers which have been sorting heaps at the farmstead;the apples which would have been crushed under foot if thelabourers had not considerately picked them up—all these andscores of other matters scarce worth naming find their way overthat threshold. Perhaps the man is genial, his manners enticing,his stories amusing, his jokes witty? Not at all. He is a silentfellow, scarce opening his mouth except to curse the poor scrub ofa maid servant, or to abuse a man who has not paid his score. Heslinks in and lights his pipe, smokes it silently, and slinks outagain. He is the octopus of the hamlet, fastening on the cottagehomes and sucking the life-blood from them. He misses nothing, andnothing comes amiss to him.

His wife, perhaps, then, may be the centre of attraction? She isa short, stout woman, whose cheeks as she walks wobble with fat,whose face is ever dirty, and dress (at home) slatternly. Butmayhap her heart is in the right place, and when Hodge is missedfrom his accustomed seat by the fire of an evening, when it isbruited abroad that he is down with illness, hurriedly slips on herbonnet, and saying nothing, carries a basket of good things tocheer the inner man? Or, when his wife is confined, perhaps shebrings some little delicacies, a breast of pheasant, a bottle ofport wine, and strengthens her with motherly counsel in the hour ofher travail. Is this so? Hodge's wife could tell you that thecottage door has never been darkened by her presence: that sheindeed would not acknowledge her if passed by chance on the road.For the landlady sails forth to the adjacent town in all the gloryof those fine feathers that proverbially make the fine bird.

It is a goodly spectacle to see her in rustling ample silk, incostly sealskin, in a bonnet 'loud' but rich, shading a countenancethat glows ruddy red as a furnace. A gold chain encircles herportly neck, with a gold watch thereto attached; gold rings uponher fingers, in one of which sparkles a brilliant diamond; goldearrings, gold brooch, kid gloves bursting from the fatness of thefingers they encase. The dingy trap and limping rawboned hack whichcarry her to the outskirts of the town scarcely harmonise with somuch glory. But at the outskirts she alights, and enters the streetin full dignity. By some potent alchemy the sweat of Hodge's browhas become condensed into that sparkling diamond, which isdisclosed when the glove is drawn off in the shops, to theadmiration of all beholders.

Or, if not the wife, perhaps it may be the daughter who is themagnet that draws the very timber across the parish? She is notill-looking, and might pass muster in her best dress were it notfor a squareness of build, like the set of a man rather than thefull curves associated with woman. She is rarely seen in the houseat all, and neither talks to the men nor the women who enter. Shesallies forth at night, and her friends are the scampish among thesons of the lower class of tenant-farmers.

This is the family. How strange and yet how undeniable is itthat such a house should attract the men whose self-interest, onewould imagine, would lead them to shun it, and if they must spendtheir hard-won earnings, at least to get a good article for theirmoney! It proves that an appeal to reason is not always the way tomanage the working man. Such a low house is always a nest ofa*gitation: there the idle, drunken, and ill-conditioned have theirrendezvous, there evil is hatched, and from there men take theirfirst step on the road that leads to the gaol. The place is oftencrowded at night—there is scarcely room to sit or stand, theatmosphere is thick with smoke, and a hoarse roar of jarring voicesfills it, above which rises the stave of a song shouted in oneunvarying key from some corner. Money pours in apace—thedraughts are deep, and long, and frequent, the mugs are large, thethirst insatiate. The takings, compared with the size and situationof the house, must be high, and yet, with all this custom andprofit, the landlord and his family still grovel. And grovel theywill in dirt, vice, low cunning, and iniquity—as the serpentwent on his belly in the dust—to the end of their days.

Why do these places exist? Because in England justice is evertempered with mercy; sometimes with too much mercy. The residentsquire and magistrate knows the extent of the evil only too well.He sees it with his own eyes in the village; he sees it broughtbefore him on the bench; the clergyman tells him of it, so do thegamekeeper and the policeman. His tenants complain of it. He isperpetually reminded of it, and of what it may ultimately mean asthese places become the centres of communistic propagandas. Butthough perfectly aware of the evil, to suppress it is quite anothermatter.

First, you must find the power, and then, having the power, thequestion arises, is it wise to exercise it? Though the men whofrequent such dens are often of the lowest type, or on their way tothat condition, they are not all of that character. Men of ahard-working and honest stamp go there as well. All have theirrights alike—rights and liberties which must be held sacredeven at some disadvantage. In short, the reprobate nature of theplace may be established, but while it is the chosen resort of thepeople, or of a section of them, unless some great and manifestharm arises it cannot be touched. The magistrate will willinglycontrol it as far as lies in his province, but unless directlyinstructed by the Legislature he cannot go farther. The truth is,it lies with the labourer himself. He is not obliged to visitthere. A respectable inn may be found in every village if hedesires that wholesome conviviality which, when it does notoverstep certain bounds, forms a bond between man and man. Weresuch low houses suddenly put down, what an outcry would be raisedof favouritism, tyranny, and so on! When the labourer turns againstthem himself, he will speedily find powerful friends to assist inattaining the object.

If ever a man deserved a good glass of beer it is theagricultural labourer upon the conclusion of his day's work,exposed as he is to the wear and tear of the elements. Afterfollowing the slow plough along the furrows through the mist; aftertending the sheep on the hills where the rain beats with furiousenergy; after grubbing up the tough roots of trees, and splittingthem with axe and wedge and mallet, a man may naturally ask forrefreshment. And it is equally natural that he should desire totake it in the society of his fellows, with whom he can associatefreely and speak his mind unchecked. The glass of ale would nothurt him; it is the insidious temptation proffered in certainquarters to do evil for an extra quart. Nothing forms so strong atemptation as the knowledge that a safe receiver is near athand.

He must not be harshly judged because of the mere quantity hecan take, for a quart of ale to him is really no more than a glassof wine to the 'City' gentleman who lives delicately. He is to bepitied rather than condemned, and aided out of the blunder ratherthan chastised. Punishment, indeed, waits upon him only toodoggedly, and overtakes him too quickly in the shape of sorrows andprivations at home. The evil lies not in the ale, but in thecharacter of the man that sold him the ale, and who is, at the sametime, the worst enemy of the legitimately-trading innkeeper. Noone, indeed, has better cause than the labourer to exclaim, 'Saveme from my friends!' To do the bulk of the labourers bare justiceit must be stated that there is a certain bluff honesty andfrankness among them, a rude candour, which entitles them toconsiderable respect as a body. There are also men here and therewhose strength of character would certainty have obtainedfavourable acknowledgment had their lot been cast in a higher rankof life. But, at the same time, the labourer is not always soinnocent and free from guile—so lamblike as it suits thepurpose of some to proclaim, in order that his rural simplicity maysecure sympathy. There are very queer black sheep in the flock, andit rather unfortunately happens that these, in more ways than one,force themselves, sometimes most unpleasantly, upon the notice ofthe tenant-farmer and the landlord.

A specimen or two may easily be selected from that circle ofchoice manhood whose head-quarters are at the low 'public.' A tall,well-built man stands forward, and at the first glance a strangermight take him for a favourable example. He holds himself moreupright than most of his class, he is not ill-looking, and a markedair of deference towards those who address him conveys rather apleasing impression. He can read fairly well and sign his name.This man, who is still young, began life as carter's lad, in whichoccupation he had not been long engaged before the horse-haircarefully accumulated as a perquisite disappeared. Whipcord andsimilar small articles next vanished, and finally a handsome newwhip. This last, not being so easily disposed of, was traced to hispossession and procured him a sound thrashing. Some short timeafterwards a carthorse was found in the fields stabbed in severalplaces, though, fortunately, not severely. Having already the badname that hangs the dog, he was strongly suspected of thisdastardly act in revenge for the thrashing from the carter, andthreat of dismissal from the employer. No evidence, however, couldbe procured, and though he was sent about his business he escapedpunishment. As he grew older he fell in with a tribe ofsemi-gipsies, and wandered in their company for a year or two,learning their petty pilfering tricks. He then returned toagriculture labour, and, notwithstanding the ill-flavour that clungabout his doings, found no difficulty in obtaining employment.

It is rare in agriculture for a man to be asked much about hischaracter, unless he is to be put into a position of some trust. Intrades and factories—on railways, too—an applicant foremployment is not only questioned, but has to produce evidence asto his immediate antecedents at least. But the custom in farmingprescribes no such checks; if the farmer requires a man, theapplicant is put on to work at once, if he looks at all likely.This is especially the case in times of pressure, as when there isa great deal of hoeing to be done, in harvest, and when extra handsare wanted to assist in feeding the threshing machine. Then thefirst that comes along the road is received, and scarcely aquestion asked. The custom operates well enough in one way, since aman is nearly sure of procuring employment, and encounters noobstacles; on the other hand, there is less encouragement topreserve a good character. So the fellow mentioned quickly got workwhen he applied for it, and went on pretty steadily for a period.He then married, and speedily discovered the true use ofwomen—i.e. to work for idle men. The moment he learnt that hecould subsist upon her labour he ceased to make any effort, andpassed his time lounging about.

The wife, though neither handsome nor clever, was a hard-workingperson, and supported herself and idle husband by taking inwashing. Indignation has often been expressed at the moral code ofsavages, which permits the man to lie in his hammock while thewoman cultivates the maize; but, excepting the difference in thecolour of the skin, the substitution of dirty white for copperyredness, there is really no distinction. Probably washing is of thetwo harder work than hoeing maize. The fellow 'hung about,' anddoubtless occasionally put in practice the tricks he had acquiredfrom his nomad friends.

The only time he worked was in the height of the harvest, whenhigh wages are paid. But then his money went in drink, and drinkoften caused him to neglect the labour he had undertaken, at animportant juncture when time was of consequence. On one suchoccasion the employer lost his temper and gave him a piece of hismind, ending by a threat of proceedings for breach of contract. Anight or two afterwards the farmer's rick-yard was ablaze, and afew months later the incendiary found himself commencing a term ofpenal servitude. There he was obliged to work, began to walkupright, and acquired that peculiarly marked air of deference whichat first contrasts rather pleasantly with the somewhat gruffaddress of most labourers. During his absence the wife almostprospered, having plenty of employment and many kind friends. Hesignalised his return by administering a thrashing—just tore-assert his authority—which, however, the poor womanreceived with equanimity, remarking that it was only his way. Herecommenced his lounging life, working occasionally when money wasto be easily earned—for the convict stain does not prevent aman getting agricultural employment—and spending the money inliquor. When tolerably sober he is, in a sense, harmless; ifintoxicated, his companions give him the road to himself.

Now there is nothing exceptionally characteristic of theagricultural labourer in the career of such a man. Members of otherclasses of the working community are often sent to penal servitude,and sometimes men of education and social position. But it ischaracteristic of agricultural life that a man with the stigma ofpenal servitude can return and encounter no overpowering prejudiceagainst him. There are work and wages, for him if he likes to takethem. No one throws his former guilt in his face. He may not beoffered a place of confidence, nor be trusted with money, as theupper labourers—carters for instance—sometimes are. Butthe means of subsistence are open to him, and he will not be drivenby the memory of one crime to commit another.

There is no school of crime in the country. Children are notbrought up from the earliest age to beg and steal, to utterloquacious falsehood, or entrap the benevolent with sham suffering.Hoary thieves do not keep academies for the instruction of littlefingers in the art of theft. The science of burglary is unstudied.Though farmhouses are often situate in the most lonely places acase of burglary rarely occurs, and if it does, is still morerarely traced to a local resident. In such houses there issometimes a good deal of old silver plate, accumulated in thecourse of generations—a fact that must be perfectly wellknown to the labouring class, through the women indoor-servants.Yet such attempts are quite exceptional. So, too, are robberiesfrom the person with violence. Serious crime is, indeed,comparatively scarce. The cases that come before the Petty Sessionsare, for the most part, drunkenness, quarreling, neglect orabsenteeism from work, affiliation, petty theft, and so on.

The fact speaks well for the rural population; it speaks verybadly for such characters as the one that has been described. If hewill not turn into the path of honest labour, that is his ownfault. The injury he does is this, that he encourages others to beidle. Labouring men quit the field under the influence of temporarythirst, or that desire for a few minutes' change which is not initself blameworthy. They enter the low 'public,' call for theirquart, and intend to leave again immediately. But the lazy fellowin the corner opens conversation, is asked to drink, more is calledfor, there is a toss-up to decide who shall pay, in which the idleadept, of course, escapes, and so the thing goes on. Such a manbecomes a cause of idleness, and a nuisance to the farmers.

Another individual is a huge, raw-boned, double-jointed giant ofa man, whose muscular strength must be enormous, but whose weaknessis beer. He is a good workman, and of a civil, obligingdisposition. He will commence, for instance, making drains for afarmer with the greatest energy, and in the best of tempers. Adrain requires some little skill. The farmer visits the work day byday, and notes with approval that it is being done well. But aboutthe third or fourth day the clever workman, whose immense strengthmakes the employment mere child's play to him, civilly asks for asmall advance of money. Now the farmer has no objection to that,but hands it to him with some misgiving. Next morning no laboureris to be seen. The day passes, and the next. Then a lad brings theintelligence that his parent is just recovering from a heavydrinking bout and will be back soon. There is the history of fortyyears!

The same incident is repeated once or twice a month all the yearround. Now it is a drain, now hedge-cutting, now hoeing, nowhaymaking, and now reaping. Three or four days' work excellentlyperformed; then a bed in a ditch and empty pockets. The man'sreally vast strength carries him through the prostration, and theknocks and bangs and tumbles received in a helpless state. But whata life! The worst of it is the man is not a reprobate—not ahang-dog, lounging rascal, but perfectly honest, willing to oblige,harmless and inoffensive even when intoxicated, and skilful at hislabour. What is to be done with him? What is the farmer to do whohas only such men to rely on—perhaps in manycases—without this fellow's honesty and goodtemper—qualities which constantly give him a lift? It issimply an epitome of the difficulties too commonly met with in thefield—bright sunshine, good weather, ripe crops, and men halfunconscious, or quite, snoring under a hedge! There is noencouragement to the tenant to pay high wages in experiences likethis.

A third example is a rakish-looking lad just rising intomanhood. Such young men are very much in demand and he would nothave the slightest difficulty in obtaining employment, yet he isconstantly out of work. When a boy he began by summoning the carterwhere he was engaged for cuffing him, charging the man with anassault. It turned out to be a trumpery case, and the Bench advisedhis parents to make him return and fulfil his contract. His parentsthought differently of it. They had become imbued with aninordinate sense of their own importance. They had a high idea ofthe rights of labour; Jack, in short, was a good deal better thanhis master, and must be treated with distinguished respect. Thedoctrines of the Union countenanced the deduction; so the boy didnot return. Another place was found for him.

In the course of a few months he came again before the Bench.The complaint was now one of wrongful dismissal, and a claim for aone pound bonus, which by the agreement was to have been paid atthe end of the year if his conduct proved satisfactory. It wasshown that his conduct had been the reverse of satisfactory; thathe refused to obey orders, that he 'cheeked' the carters, that heran away home for a day or two, and was encouraged in these goingson by the father. The magistrates, always on the side of peace,endeavoured to procure a reconciliation, the farmer even paid downthe bonus, but it was of no use. The lad did not return.

With little variations the same game has continued ever since.Now it is he that complains, now it is his new master; but any waythere is always a summons, and his face is as familiar in the courtas that of the chairman. His case is typical. What is a farmer todo who has to deal with a rising generation full of thisspirit?

Then there are the regular workhouse families, who areperpetually applying for parochial relief. From the eldest down tothe youngest member they seem to have no stamina; they fall illwhen all others are well, as if afflicted with a species ofparalysis that affects body, mind, and moral sense at once. If thephrase may be used without irreverence, there is no health in them.The slightest difficulty is sufficient to send an apparentlystrong, hale man whining to the workhouse. He localises hiscomplaint in his foot, or his arm, or his shoulder; but, in truth,he does not know himself what is the matter with him. The realillness is weakness of calibre—a looseness of fibre. Many alabourer has an aching limb from rheumatism, and goes to plough allthe same; many a poor cottage woman suffers from that prevalentagony, and bravely gets through her task, and keeps her cottagetidy. But these people cannot do it—they positively cannot.The summer brings them pain, the winter brings pain, their wholelife is one long appeal ad misericordiam.

The disease seems to spread with the multiplication of thefamily: the sons have it, and the sons' sons after them, so much sothat even to bear the name is sufficient to stamp the owner as amiserable helpless being. All human wretchedness is, of course, tobe deeply commiserated, and yet it is exasperating to see one manstill doing his best under real trouble, and another eatingcontentedly the bread of idleness when there seems nothing wrongexcept a total lack of energy. The old men go to the workhouse, theyoung men go, the women and the children; if they are out one monththe next sees their return. These again are but broken reeds torely upon. The golden harvest might rot upon the ground for alltheir gathering, the grass wither and die as it stands, without thetouch of the scythe, the very waggons and carts fall to pieces inthe sheds. There is no work to be got out of them.

The village, too, has its rookery, though not quite in the samesense as the city. Traced to its beginning, it is generally foundto have originated upon a waste piece of ground, where somesquatters settled and built their cabins. These, by the growth ofbetter houses around, and the rise of property, have now become ofsome value, not so much for the materials as the site. To theoriginal hovels additions have been made by degrees, and fresh hutssqueezed in till every inch of space is as closely occupied as in aback court of the metropolis. Within the cottages are low pitched,dirty, narrow, and contracted, without proper conveniences, or evena yard or court.

The social condition of the inhabitants is unpleasant tocontemplate. The young men, as they grow up, arrive at anexaggerated idea of the value of their parents' property—thecottage of three rooms—and bitter animosities arise betweenthem. One is accused of having had his share out in money; anotherhas got into trouble and had his fine paid for him; the eldest wasprobably born before wedlock; so there are plenty of materials forrecrimination. Then one, or even two of them bring home a wife, orat least a woman, and three families live beneath a singleroof—with results it is easy to imagine, both as regardsbickering and immorality. They have no wish to quit the place andenter cottages with better accommodation: they might rent others ofthe farmers, but they prefer to be independent, and, besides, willnot move lest they should lose their rights. Very likely a fewlodgers are taken in to add to the confusion. As regularly asclockwork cross summonses are taken out before the Bench, and thenthe women on either side reveal an unequalled power of abuse andloquacity, leaving a decided impression that it is six to one andhalf a dozen to the other.

These rookeries do not furnish forth burglars and accomplishedpickpockets, like those of cities, but they do send out a gang oflazy, scamping fellows and coarse women, who are almost useless. Iftheir employer does not please them—if he points out that awaste of time has taken place, or that something has beenneglected—off they go, for, having a hole to creep into, theydo not care an atom whether they lose a job or not. The availablehands, therefore, upon whom the farmers can count are always verymuch below the sum total of the able-bodied population. There mustbe deducted the idle men and women, the drunkards, the neversatisfied, as the lad who sued every master; the workhousefamilies, the rookery families, and those who every harvest leavethe place, and wander a great distance in search of exceptionallyhigh wages. When all these are subtracted, the residue remaining isoften insufficient to do the work of the farms in a proper manner.It is got through somehow by scratch-packs, so to say—menpicked up from the roads, aged men who cannot do much, but whoseenergy puts the younger fellows to shame, lads paid far beyond thevalue of the work they actually accomplish.

Work done in this way is, of course, incomplete andunsatisfactory, and the fact supplies one of the reasons whyfarmers seem disinclined to pay high wages. It is not because theyobject to pay well for hard work, but because they cannot get thehard work. There is consequently a growing reliance upon floatinglabour—upon the men and women who tramp round everyseason—rather than on the resident population. Even in theabsence of any outward agitation—of a strike or open movementin that direction—the farmer has considerable difficulties tocontend with in procuring labour. He has still further difficultiesin managing it when he has got it. Most labourers have their ownpeculiar way of finishing a job; and however much that style ofdoing it may run counter to the farmer's idea of the matter inhand, he has to let the man proceed after his own fashion. If hecorrected, or showed the man what he wanted, he would run the riskof not getting it done at all. There is no one so thoroughlyobstinate as an ignorant labourer full of his own consequence.Giving, then, full credit to those men whose honest endeavours tofulfil their duty have already been acknowledged, it is a completedelusion to suppose that all are equally manly.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE COTTAGE CHARTER. FOUR-ACRE FARMERS

The songs sung by the labourer at the alehouse or the harvest homeare not of his own composing. The tunes whistled by the ploughboyas he goes down the road to his work in the dawn were not writtenfor him. Green meads and rolling lands of wheat—true fieldsof the cloth of gold—have never yet inspired those who dwellupon them with songs uprising from the soil. The solitude of thehills over whose tops the summer sun seems to linger so long hasnot filled the shepherd's heart with a wistful yearning that mustbe expressed in verse or music. Neither he nor the ploughman in thevale have heard or seen aught that stirs them in Nature. Theshepherd has never surprised an Immortal reclining on the thymeunder the shade of a hawthorn bush at sunny noontide; nor has theploughman seen the shadowy outline of a divine huntress through themist that clings to the wood across the field.

These people have no myths; no heroes. They look back on noHeroic Age, no Achilles, no Agamemnon, and no Homer. The past isvacant. The have not even a 'Wacht am Rhein' or 'Marseillaise' tochaunt in chorus with quickened step and flashing eye. No; nor evena ballad of the hearth, handed down from father to son, to be sungat home festivals, as a treasured silver tankard is brought out todrink the health of a honoured guest. Ballads there are in oldbooks—ballads of days when the yew bow was in every man'shands, and war and the chase gave life a colour; but they are dead.A cart comes slowly down the road, and the labourer with it singsas he jogs along; but, if you listen, it tells you nothing ofwheat, or hay, or flocks and herds, nothing of the old gods andheroes. It is a street ditty such as you may hear the gutter arabsyelling in London, and coming from a music hall.

So, too, in material things—in the affairs of life, inpolitics, and social hopes—the labourer has no well-definedcreed of race. He has no genuine programme of the future; thatwhich is put forward in his name is not from him. Some years ago,talking with an aged labourer in a district where at that time no'agitation' had taken place, I endeavoured to get from himsomething like a definition of the wants of his class. He had livedmany years, and worked all the while in the field; what was hisexperience of their secret wishes? what was the Cottage Charter? Ittook some time to get him to understand what was required; he hadbeen ready enough previously to grumble about this or that detail,but when it came to principles he was vague. The grumbles, thecomplaints, and so forth, had never been codified. However, bydegrees I got at it, and very simple it was:—Point 1, Betterwages; (2) more cottages; (3) good-sized gardens; (4) 'larning' forthe children. That was the sum of the cottager's creed—hisown genuine aspirations.

Since then every one of these points has been obtained, orsubstantial progress made towards it. Though wages are perhapsslightly lower or rather stationary at the present moment, yet theyare much higher than used to be the case. At the same time vastimportations of foreign food keep the necessaries of life at alower figure. The number of cottages available has been greatlyincreased—hardly a landlord but could produce accounts ofsums of money spent in this direction. To almost all of these largegardens are now attached. Learning for the children is provided bythe schools erected in every single parish, for the most part bythe exertions of the owners and occupiers of land.

Practically, therefore, the four points of the real CottageCharter have been attained, or as nearly as is possible. Why, then,is it that dissatisfaction is still expressed? The reply is,because a new programme has been introduced to the labourer fromwithout. It originated in no labourer's mind, it is not the outcomeof a genuine feeling widespread among the masses, nor is it theheartbroken call for deliverance issuing from the lips of thepoet-leader of a downtrodden people. It is totally foreign to thecottage proper—something new, strange, and as yet scarcelyunderstood in its full meaning by those who nominally supportit.

The points of the new Cottage Charter are—(1) Theconfiscation of large estates; (2) the subdivision of land; (3) theabolition of the laws of settlement of land; (4) the administrationof the land by the authorities of State; (5) the confiscation ofglebe lands for division and distribution; (6) the abolition ofChurch tithes; (7) extension of the county franchise; (8) educationgratis, free of fees, or payment of any kind; (9) high wages,winter and summer alike, irrespective of season, prosperity, oradversity. No. 6 is thrown in chiefly for the purpose of anappearance of identity of interest between the labourer and thetenant against the Church. Of late it has rather been the cue ofthe leaders of the agitation to promote, or seem to promote, acoalition between the labourer and the dissatisfied tenant, therebygiving the movement a more colourable pretence in the eyes of thepublic. Few tenants, however dissatisfied, have been deceived bythe shallow device.

This programme emanated from no carter or shepherd, ploughman orfogger. It was not thought out under the hedge when the June rosesdecked the bushes; nor painfully written down on the deal table inthe cottage while the winter rain pattered against the window, and,coming down the wide chimney, hissed upon the embers. It wasbrought to the cottage door from a distance; it has been iteratedand reiterated till at last some begin to think they really do wantall these things. But with the majority even now the propagandafalls flat. They do not enter into the spirit of it. No. 9 they dounderstand; that appeals direct, and men may be excused if, with aview which as yet extends so short a space around, they have notgrasped the fact that wages cannot by any artificial combinationwhatever be kept at a high level. The idea of high wages brings amass of labourers together; they vote for what they are instructedto vote, and are thus nominally pledged to the other eight pointsof the new charter Such a conception as the confiscation andsubdivision of estates never occurred to the genuine labourers.

An aged man was listening to a graphic account of what the newstate of things would be like. There would be no squire, no parson,no woods or preserves—all grubbed for cabbagegardens—no parks, no farmers. 'No farmers,' said the oldfellow, 'then who's to pay I my wages?' There he hit the blot, nodoubt. If the first four points of the new charter were carriedinto effect, agricultural wages would no longer exist. But if sucha consummation depends upon the action of the cottager it will be along time coming. The idea did not originate with him—hecares nothing for it—and can only be got to support it underthe guise of an agitation for wages. Except by persistent stirringfrom without he cannot be got to move even then. The labourer, infact, is not by any means such a fool as his own leaders endeavourto make him out. He is perfectly well aware that the farmer, or anyperson who stands in the position of the farmer, cannot pay thesame money in winter as in summer.

Two new cottages of a very superior character were erected inthe corner of an arable field, abutting on the highway. As left bythe builders a more uninviting spot could scarcely be imagined. Thecottages themselves were well designed and well built, but thesurroundings were like a wilderness. Heaps of rubbish here, brokenbricks there, the ground trampled hard as the road itself. Nopartition from the ploughed field behind beyond a mere shallowtrench enclosing what was supposed to be the garden. Everythingbleak, unpromising, cold, and unpleasant. Two families went intothese cottages, the men working on the adjoining farm. The aspectof the place immediately began to change. The rubbish was removed,the best of it going to improve the paths and approaches; aquick-set hedge was planted round the enclosure. Evening afterevening, be the weather what it might, these two men were in thatgarden at work—after a long day in the fields. In the dinnerhour even they sometimes snatched a few minutes to trim something.Their spades turned over the whole of the soil, and plantingcommenced. Plots were laid out for cabbage, plots for potatoes,onions, parsnips.

Then having provided necessaries for the immediate future theyset about preparing for extras. Fruit trees—apple, plum, anddamson—were planted; also some roses. Next beehives appearedand were elevated on stands and duly protected from the rain. Thelast work was the building of pigsties—rude indeed and madeof a few slabs—but sufficient to answer the purpose. Flowersin pots appeared in the windows, flowers appeared beside the gardenpaths. The change was so complete and so quickly effected I couldhardly realise that so short a time since there had been nothingthere but a blank open space. Persons travelling along the roadcould not choose but look on and admire the transformation.

I had often been struck with the flourishing appearance ofcottage gardens, but then those gardens were of old date and hadreached that perfection in course of years. But here the thingseemed to grow up under one's eyes. All was effected by sheerenergy. Instead of spending their evenings wastefully at 'public,'these men went out into their gardens and made what was a desertliterally bloom. Nor did they seem conscious of doing anythingextraordinary, but worked away in the most matter-of-fact manner,calling no one's attention to their progress. It would be hard tosay which garden of the two showed the better result. Their wivesare tidy, their children clean, their cottages grow more cosy andhomelike day by day; yet they work in the fields that come up totheir very doors, and receive nothing but the ordinary agriculturalwages of the district.

This proves what can be done when the agricultural labourerreally wants to do it. And in a very large number of cases it mustfurther be admitted that he does want to do it, and succeeds. Ifany one when passing through a rural district will look closely atthe cottages and gardens he will frequently find evidence ofsimilar energy, and not unfrequently of something approaching verynearly to taste. For why does the labourer train honeysuckle up hisporch, and the out-of-door grape up the southern end of his house?Why does he let the houseleek remain on the roof; why trim andencourage the thick growth of ivy that clothes the chimney?Certainly not for utility, nor pecuniary profit. It is because hehas some amount of appreciation of the beauty of flowers, of vineleaf, and green ivy. Men like these are the real backbone of ourpeasantry. They are not the agitators; it is the idle hang-dogs whoform the disturbing element in the village.

The settled agricultural labourer, of all others, has the leastinducement to strike or leave his work. The longer he can stay inone place the better for him in many ways. His fruit-trees, whichhe planted years ago, are coming to perfection, and bear sufficientfruit in favourable years not only to give him some variety ofdiet, but to bring in a sum in hard cash with which to purchaseextras. The soil of the garden, long manured and dug, is twice asfertile as when he first disturbed the earth. The hedges have grownhigh, and keep off the bitter winds. In short, the place is home,and he sits under his own vine and fig-tree. It is not to hisadvantage to leave this and go miles away. It is different with themechanic who lives in a back court devoid of sunshine, hardlyvisited by the fresh breeze, without a tree, without a yard ofearth to which to become attached. The factory closes, the bell issilent, the hands are discharged; provided he can get freshemployment it matters little. He leaves the back court withoutregret, and enters another in a distant town. But an agriculturallabourer who has planted his own place feels an affection for it.The young men wander and are restless; the middle-aged men who haveonce anchored do not like to quit. They have got the four points oftheir own genuine charter; those who would infuse further vaguehopes are not doing them any other service than to divert them fromthe substance to the shadow.

Past those two new cottages which have been mentioned there runsa road which is a main thoroughfare. Along this road during theyear this change was worked there walked a mournfulprocession—men and women on tramp. Some of these weredoubtless rogues and vagabonds by nature and choice; but many, verymany, were poor fellows who had really lost employment, and weregradually becoming degraded to the company of the professionalbeggar. The closing of collieries, mines, workshops, iron furnaces,&c., had thrown hundreds on the mercy of chance charity, andcompelled them to wander to and fro. How men like these on trampmust have envied the comfortable cottages, the well-stockedgardens, the pigsties, the beehives, and the roses of thelabourers!

If the labourer has never gone up on the floodtide of prosperityto the champagne wages of the miner, neither has he descended tothe woe which fell on South Wales when children searched thedust-heaps for food, nor to that suffering which forces those whoseinstinct is independence to the soup-kitchen. He has had, and stillhas, steady employment at a rate of wages sufficient, as is shownby the appearance of his cottage itself, to maintain him incomparative comfort. The furnace may be blown out, and strong menmay ask themselves, What shall we do next? But still the ploughturns up the earth morning after morning. The colliery may close,but still the corn ripens, and extra wages are paid to the harvestmen.

This continuous employment without even a fear of cessation isan advantage, the value of which it is difficult to estimate. Hiswages are not only sufficient to maintain him, he can even save alittle. The benefit clubs in so many villages are a proof ofit—each member subscribes so much. Whether conducted on a'sound financial basis' or not, the fact of the subscriptionscannot be denied, nor that assistance is derived from them. TheUnion itself is supported in the same way; proving that the wages,however complained of, are sufficient, at any rate, to permit ofsubscriptions.

It is held out to the labourer, as an inducement to agitatebriskly, that, in time, a state of things will be brought aboutwhen every man will have a small farm of four or five acres uponwhich to live comfortably, independent of a master. Occasionalinstances, however, of labourers endeavouring to exist upon a fewacres have already been observed, and illustrate the practicalworking of the scheme. In one case a labourer occupied a piece ofground, about three acres in extent, at a low rental paid to thelord of the manor, the spot having originally been waste, thoughthe soil was fairly good. He started under favourable conditions,because he possessed a cottage and garden and a pair of horses withwhich he did a considerable amount of hauling.

He now set up as a farmer, ploughed and sowed, dug and weeded,kept his own hours, and went into the market and walked about asindependent as any one. After a while the three acres began toabsorb nearly all his time, so that the hauling, which was thereally profitable part of the business, had to be neglected. Then,the ready money not coming in so fast, the horses had to go withoutcorn, and pick up what they could along the roadside, on the sward,and out of the hedges. They had, of course, to be looked afterwhile thus feeding, which occupied two of the children, so thatthese could neither go to school nor earn anything by working onthe adjacent farms. The horses meantime grew poor in condition; thewinter tried them greatly from want of proper fodder; and whencalled upon to do hauling they were not equal to the task. In thecountry, at a distance from towns, there is not always a goodmarket for vegetables, even when grown. The residents mostly supplythemselves, and what is raised for export has to be sold atwholesale prices.

The produce of the three acres consequently did not come up tothe tenant's expectation, particularly as potatoes, on account ofthe disease, could not be relied on. Meantime he had no weeklymoney coming in regularly, and his wife and family had often toassist him, diminishing their own earnings at the same time; whilehe was in the dilemma that if he did hauling he must employ and paya man to work on the 'farm,' and if he worked himself he could notgo out with his team. In harvest time, when the smaller farmerswould have hired his horses, waggon, and himself and family toassist them, he had to get in his own harvest, and so lost the hardcash.

He now discovered that there was one thing he had omitted, andwhich was doubtless the cause why he did not flourish as he shouldhave done according to his calculations. All the agriculturistsaround kept live stock—he had none. Here was the grandsecret—it was stock that paid: he must have a cow. So he setto work industriously enough, and put up a shed. Then, partly byhis own small savings, partly by the assistance of the members ofthe sect to which he belonged, he purchased the desired animal andsold her milk. In summer this really answered fairly well whilethere was green food for nothing in plenty by the side oflittle-frequented roads, whither the cow was daily led. But so soonas the winter approached the same difficulty as with the horsesarose, i.e., scarcity of fodder. The cow soon got miserably poor,while the horses fell off yet further, if that were possible. Thecalf that arrived died; next, one of the horses. The 'hat' was sentround again, and a fresh horse bought; the spring came on, andthere seemed another chance. What with milking and attending to thecow, and working on the 'farm,' scarcely an hour remained in whichto earn money with the horses. No provision could be laid by forthe winter. The live stock—the cow and horses—devouredpart of the produce of the three acres, so that there was less tosell.

Another winter finished it. The cow had to be sold, but a thirdtime the 'hat' was sent round and saved the horses. Grown wisernow, the 'farmer' stuck to his hauling, and only worked his plot atodd times. In this way, by hauling and letting out his team inharvest, and working himself and family at the same time for wages,he earned a good deal of money, and kept afloat very comfortably.He made no further attempt to live out of the 'farm,' which was nowsown with one or two crops only in the same rotation as a field,and no longer cultivated on the garden system. Had it not been forthe subscriptions he must have given it up entirely long before.Bitter experience demonstrated how false the calculations had beenwhich seemed to show—on the basis of the produce of a smallallotment—that a man might live on three or four acres.

He is not the only example of an extravagant estimate being putupon the possible product of land: it is a fallacy that has beenfondly believed in by more logical minds than the poor cottager.That more may be got out of the soil than is the case at present isperfectly true; the mistake lies in the proposed method of doingit.

There was a piece of land between thirty and forty acres inextent, chiefly arable, which chanced to come into the possessionof a gentleman, who made no pretence to a knowledge of agriculture,but was naturally desirous of receiving the highest rental. Up tothat time it had been occupied by a farmer at thirty shillings peracre, which was thought the full value. He did not particularlywant it, as it lay separated from the farm proper, and gave it upwith the greatest alacrity when asked to do so in favour of a newtenant. This man turned out to be a villager—a blustering,ignorant fellow—who had, however, saved a small sum byhauling, which had been increased by the receipt of a littlelegacy. He was confident that he could show the farmers how to doit—he had worked at plough, had reaped, and tended cattle,and had horses of his own, and was quite sure that farming was aprofitable business, and that the tenants had their land dirtcheap. He 'knowed' all about it.

He offered three pounds an acre for the piece at once, which wasaccepted, notwithstanding a warning conveyed to the owner that hisnew tenant had scarcely sufficient money to pay a year's rent atthat rate. But so rapid a rise in the value of his land quitedazzled the proprietor, and the labourer—for he was reallynothing better, though fortunate enough to have a littlemoney—entered on his farm. When this was known, it wastriumphantly remarked that if a man could actually pay double theformer rent, what an enormous profit the tenant-farmers must havebeen making! Yet they wanted to reduce the poor man's wages. On theother hand, there were not wanting hints that the man's secret ideawas to exhaust the land and then leave it. But this was not thecase—he was honestly in earnest, only he had got anexaggerated notion of the profits of farming. It is scarcelynecessary to say that the rent for the third half year was notforthcoming, and the poor fellow lost his all. The land then wentbegging at the old price, for it had become so dirty—full ofweeds from want of proper cleaning—that it was some timebefore any one would take it.

In a third case the attempt of a labouring man to live upon asmall plot of land was successful—at least for some time. Butit happened in this way. The land he occupied, about six acres, wassituated on the outskirts of a populous town. It was moderatelyrented and of fairly good quality. His method of procedure was tocultivate a small portion—as much as he could convenientlymanage without having to pay too much for assistance—as amarket garden. Being close to his customers, and with a steadydemand at good prices all the season, this paid very well indeed.The remainder was ploughed and cropped precisely the same as thefields of larger farms. For these crops he could always get adecent price. The wealthy owners of the villas scattered about,some keeping as many horses as a gentleman with a country seat,were glad to obtain fresh fodder for their stables, and oftenbought the crops standing, which to him was especially profitable,because he could not well afford the cost of the labour he mustemploy to harvest them.

In addition, he kept several pigs, which were also profitable,because the larger part of their food cost him nothing but thetrouble of fetching it. The occupants of the houses in the townwere glad to get rid of the refuse vegetables, &c.; of these hehad a constant supply. The pigs, too, helped him with manure. Nexthe emptied ash-pits in the town, and sifted the cinders; the betterpart went on his own fire, the other on his land. As he understoodgardening, he undertook the care of several small gardens, whichbrought in a little money. All the rubbish, leaves, trimmings,&c., which he swept from the gardens he burnt, and spread theashes abroad to fertilise his miniature farm.

In spring he beat carpets, and so made more shillings; he hadalso a small shed, or workshop, and did rough carpentering. Hishorse did his own work, and occasionally that of others; so that inhalf a dozen different ways he made money independent of theproduce of his land. That produce, too, paid well, because of theadjacent town, and he was able to engage assistance now and then.Yet, even with all these things, it was hard work, and requiredeconomical management to eke it out. Still it was done, and underthe same conditions doubtless might be done by others. But theneverything lies in those conditions. The town at hand, theknowledge of gardening, carpentering, and so on, made just all thedifference.

If the land were subdivided in the manner the labourer isinstructed would be so advantageous, comparatively few of the plotswould be near towns. Some of the new 'farmers' would findthemselves in the centre of Salisbury Plain, with the sterntrilithons of Stonehenge looking down upon their efforts. Theoccupier of a plot of four acres in such a position—manymiles from the nearest town—would experience a hard lotindeed if he attempted to live by it. If he grew vegetables forsale, the cost of carriage would diminish their value; if for food,he could scarcely subsist upon cabbage and onions all the yearround. To thoroughly work four acres would occupy his whole time,nor would the farmers care for the assistance of a man who couldonly come now and then in an irregular manner. There would be novilla gardens to attend to, no ash-pits to empty, no tubs of refusefor the pig, no carpets to beat, no one who wanted roughcarpentering done. He could not pay any one to assist him in thecultivation of the plot.

And then, how about his clothes, boots and shoes, and so forth?Suppose him with a family, where would their boots and shoes comefrom? Without any wages—that is, hard cash receivedweekly—it would be next to impossible to purchase thesethings. A man could hardly be condemned to a more miserableexistence. In the case of the tenant of a few acres who made a fairliving near a large town, it must be remembered that he understoodtwo trades, gardening and carpentering, and found constantemployment at these, which in all probability would indeed havemaintained him without any land at all. But it is not every man whopossesses technical knowledge of this kind, or who can turn hishand to several things. Imagine a town surrounded by two or threethousand such small occupiers, let them be never so clever; wherewould the extra employment come from; where would be the ashpits toempty? Where one could do well, a dozen could do nothing. If theargument be carried still further, and we imagine the whole countryso cut up and settled, the difficulty only increases, because everyman living (or starving) on his own plot would be totally unable topay another to help him, or to get employment himself. No bettermethod could be contrived to cause a fall in the value oflabour.

The examples of France and China are continually quoted insupport of subdivision. In the case of France, let us ask whetherany of our stalwart labourers would for a single week consent tolive as the French peasant does? Would they forego their white,wheaten bread, and eat rye bread in its place? Would they takekindly to bread which contained a large proportion of meal groundfrom the edible chestnut? Would they feel merry over vegetablesoups? Verily the nature of the man must change first; and we haveread something about the leopard and his spots. You cannot raisebeef and mutton upon four acres and feed yourself at the same time;if you raise bacon you must sell it in order to buy clothes.

The French peasant saves by stinting, and puts aside a franc bypinching both belly and back. He works extremely hard, and for longhours. Our labourers can work as hard as he, but it must be in adifferent way; they must have plenty to eat and drink, and they donot understand little economies.

China, we are told, however, supports the largest population inthe world in this manner. Not a particle is wasted, not a squarefoot of land but bears something edible. The sewage of towns isutilised, and causes crops to spring forth; every scrap of refusemanures a garden. The Chinese have attained that ideal agriculturewhich puts the greatest amount into the soil, takes the greatestamount out of it, and absolutely wastes nothing. The picture iscertainly charming.

There are, however, a few considerations on the other side. Thequestion arises whether our labourers would enjoy a plump rat forsupper? The question also arises why the Six Companies are engagedin transhipping Chinese labour from China to America? In Californiathe Chinese work at a rate of wages absolutely impossible to thewhite man—hence the Chinese difficulty there. In Queensland asimilar thing is going on. Crowds of Chinese enter, or haveentered, the country eager for work. If the agriculture of China isso perfect; if the sewage is utilised; if every man has his plot;if the population cannot possibly become too great, why on earthare the Chinese labourers so anxious to get to America orAustralia, and to take the white man's wages? And is that system ofa*griculture so perfect? It is not long since the Chinese Ambassadorformally conveyed the thanks of his countrymen for the generousassistance forwarded from England during the late fearful famine inChina. The starvation of multitudes of wretched human beings is aghastly comment upon this ideal agriculture. The Chinese yellowspectre has even threatened England; hints have been heard ofimporting Chinese into this country to take that silver and goldwhich our own men disdained. Those who desire to destroy our landsystem should look round them for a more palatable illustrationthan is afforded by the great Chinese problem.

The truth in the matter seems to be this. A labourer does verywell with a garden; he can do very well, too, if he has anallotment in addition, provided it be not too far from home. Up toa quarter of an acre—in some cases half an acre—itanswers, because he can cultivate it at odd times, and so receivehis weekly wages without interruption. But when the plot exceedswhat he can cultivate in this way—when he has to give wholeweeks to it—then, of course, he forfeits the cash everySaturday night, and soon begins to lose ground. The original gardenof moderate size yielded very highly in proportion to its extent,because of the amount of labour expended on it, and because it waswell manured. But three or four acres, to yield in like degree,require an amount of manure which it is quite out of a labourer'spower to purchase; and he cannot keep live stock to produce it.Neither can he pay men to work for him consequently, instead ofbeing more highly cultivated than the large farms, such plots wouldnot be kept so clean and free from weeds, or be so well manured anddeeply ploughed as the fields of the regular agriculturist.

CHAPTER XXV

LANDLORDS' DIFFICULTIES. THE LABOURER AS A POWER. MODERNCLERGY

The altered tone of the labouring population has caused theposition of the landlord, especially if resident, to be one ofconsiderable difficulty. Something like diplomatic tact isnecessary in dealing with the social and political problems whichnow press themselves upon the country gentleman. Forces are at workwhich are constantly endeavouring to upset the village equilibrium,and it is quite in vain to ignore their existence. However honestlyhe may desire peace and goodwill to reign, it is impossible for aman to escape the influence of his own wealth and property. Thesecompel him to be a sort of centre around which everything revolves.His duties extend far beyond the set, formal lines—the easygroove of old times—and are concerned with matters which wereonce thought the exclusive domain of the statesman or thephilosopher.

The growth of a public opinion among the rural population is agreat fact which cannot be overlooked. Some analogy may be tracedbetween the awaking of a large class, hitherto almost silent, andthe strange new developments which occur in the freshly-settledterritories of the United States. There, all kinds of socialexperiments are pushed to the extreme characteristic of Americanenergy. A Salt Lake City and civilised polygamy, and a variety ofsmall communities endeavouring to work out new theories of propertyand government, attest a frame of mind escaped from the control oftradition, and groping its way to the future. Nothing soextravagant, of course, distinguishes the movement among theagricultural labourers of this country. There have been strikes;indignation meetings held expressly for the purpose of excitingpublic opinion; an attempt to experimentalise by a kind ofjoint-stock farming, labourers holding shares; and a preaching ofdoctrines which savour much of Communism. There have been marchesto London, and annual gatherings on hill tops. These are all withinthe pale of law, and outrage no social customs. But they proclaim astate of mind restless and unsatisfied, striving for something new,and not exactly knowing what.

Without a vote for the most part, without an all-embracingorganisation—for the Union is somewhat limited inextent—with few newspapers expressing their views, with stillfewer champions in the upper ranks, the agricultural labourers havebecome in a sense a power in the land. It is a power that is feltrather individually than collectively—it affects isolatedplaces, but these in the aggregate reach importance. This powerpresses on the landlord—the resident countrygentleman—upon one side; upon the other, the dissatisfiedtenant-farmers present a rugged front.

As a body the tenant-farmers are loyal to theirlandlords—in some cases enthusiastically loyal. It cannot,however, be denied that this is not universal. There are men who,though unable to put forth a substantial grievance, are ceaselesslyagitating. The landlord, in view of unfavourable seasons, remits apercentage of rent. He relaxes certain clauses in leases, hereduces the ground game, he shows a disposition to meet reasonable,and even unreasonable, demands. It is useless. There exists a classof tenant-farmers who are not to be satisfied with the removal ofgrievances in detail. They are animated by aprinciple—something far beyond such trifles. Unconsciously,no doubt, in many cases that principle approximates very nearly tothe doctrine proclaimed in so many words by the communistic circlesof cities. It amounts to a total abolition of the present system ofland tenure. The dissatisfied tenant does not go so far as minutesubdivisions of land into plots of a few acres. He pauses at themoderate and middle way which would make the tenant of three orfour hundred acres the owner of the soil. In short, he would stepinto the landlord's place.

Of course, many do not go so far as this; still there is a classof farmers who are for ever writing to the papers, making speeches,protesting, and so on, till the landlord feels that, do what hemay, he will be severely criticised. Even if personally insulted hemust betray no irritation, or desire to part with the tenant, lesthe be accused of stifling opinion. Probably no man in England is sosystematically browbeaten all round as the country gentleman. Hereare two main divisions—one on each side—ever pressingupon him, and, besides these, there are other forces at work. Avillage, in fact, at the present day, is often a perfectbattle-ground of struggling parties.

When the smouldering labour difficulty comes to a point in anyparticular district the representatives of the labourers lose notime in illustrating the cottager's case by contrast with thelandlord's position. He owns so many thousand acres, producing anincome of so many thousand pounds. Hodge, who has just receivednotice of a reduction of a shilling per week, survives on bacon andcabbage. Most mansions have a small home farm attached, where, ofcourse, some few men are employed in the direct service of thelandlord. This home farm becomes the bone of contention. Here, theysay, is a man with many thousands a year, who, in the midst ofbitter wintry weather, has struck a shilling a week off the wagesof his poor labourers. But the fact is that the landlord'srepresentative—his steward—has been forced to this stepby the action and opinion of the tenant-farmers.

The argument is very cogent and clear. They say, 'We pay a rentwhich is almost as much as the land will bear; we suffer by foreigncompetition, bad seasons and so on, the market is falling, and weare compelled to reduce our labour expenditure. But then ourworkmen say that at the home farm the wages paid are a shilling ortwo higher, and therefore they will not accept a reduction. Now youmust reduce your wages or your tenants must suffer.' It is like atradesman with a large independent income giving his workmen highwages out of that independent income, whilst other tradesmen, whohave only their business to rely on, are compelled by this exampleto pay more than they can afford. This is obviously an unjust andeven cruel thing. Consequently though a landlord may possess anincome of many thousands, he cannot, without downright injustice tohis tenants, pay his immediate employés more thanthose tenants find it possible to pay.

Such is the simple explanation of what has been described as apiece of terrible tyranny. The very reduction of rent made by thelandlord to the tenant is seized as a proof by the labourer thatthe farmer, having less now to pay, can afford to give him moremoney. Thus the last move of the labour party has been to urge thetenant-farmer to endeavour to become his own landlord. On the onehand, certain dissatisfied tenants have made use of the labouragitation to bring pressure upon the landlord to reduce rent, andgrant this and that privilege. They have done their best, and ingreat part succeeded, in getting up a cry that rent must come down,that the landlord's position must be altered, and so forth. On theother hand, the labour party try to use the dissatisfied tenant asa fulcrum by means of which to bring their lever to bear upon thelandlord. Both together, by every possible method, endeavour toenlist popular sympathy against him.

There exists a party in cities who are animated by the mostextraordinary rancour against landlords withoutexception—good, bad, and indifferent—just because theyare landlords. This party welcomes the agitating labourer and thediscontented tenant with open arms, and the chorus swells stilllouder. Now the landlords, as a body, are quite aware of thedifficulties under which farming has been conducted of late, andexhibit a decided inclination to meet and assist the tenant. But itby no means suits the agitator to admit this; he would of the tworather the landlord showed an impracticable disposition, in orderthat there might be grounds for violent declamation.

Fortunately there is a solid substratum of tenants whose soundcommon sense prevents them from listening to the rather enchantingcry, 'Every man his own landlord.' They may desire and obtain areduction of rent, but they treat it as a purely businesstransaction, and there lies all the difference. They do not makethe shilling an acre less the groundwork of a revolution; becauseten per cent, is remitted at the audit they do not cry forconfiscation. But it is characteristic of common sense to remainsilent, as it is of extravagance to make a noise. Thus the opinionof the majority of tenants is not heard; but the restless minoritywrite and speak; the agitating labourer, through his agent, writesand speaks, and the anti-landlord party in cities write and speak.A pleasant position for the landlord this! Anxious to meetreasonable wishes he is confronted with unreasonable demands, andabused all round.

Besides the labour difficulty, which has been so blazed abroadas to obscure the rest, there are really many other questionsagitating the village. The school erected under the Education Act,whilst it is doing good work, is at the same time in many cases ascene of conflict. The landlord can hardly remain aloof, try how hewill, because his larger tenants are so closely interested. He hasprobably given the land and subscribed heavily—a school boardhas been avoided; but, of course, there is a committee ofmanagement, which is composed of members of every party andreligious denomination. That is fair enough, and the actual workaccomplished is really very good. But, if outwardly peace, it isinwardly contention. First, the agitating labourer is strongly ofopinion that, besides giving the land and subscribing, and paying alarge voluntary rate, the landlord ought to defray the annualexpenses and save him the weekly pence. The sectarian bodies,though neutralised by their own divisions, are ill-affected behindtheir mask, and would throw it off if they got the opportunity. Theone thing, and the one thing only, that keeps them quiet is thequestion of expense. Suppose by a united effort—and probablyon a poll of the parish the chapel-goers in mere numbers wouldexceed the church people—they shake off the landlord and hisparty, and proceed to a school board as provided by the Act? Well,then they must find the annual expenses, and these must be raisedby a rate.

Now at present the cottager loudly grumbles because he is askedto contribute a few coppers; but suppose he were called upon to paya heavy rate? Possibly he might in such a case turn round againsthis present leaders, and throw them overboard in disgust. Seeingthis possibility all too clearly, the sectarian bodies remainquiescent. They have no real grievance, because their prejudicesare carefully respected; but it is not the nature of men to preferbeing governed, even to their good, to governing. Consequently,though no battle royal takes place, it is a mistake to suppose thatbecause 'education' is now tolerably quiet there is universalsatisfaction. Just the reverse is true, and under the surface thereis a constant undermining process proceeding. Without any downrightcollision there is a distinct division into opposing ranks.

Another matter which looms larger as time goes on arises out ofthe gradual—in some cases the rapid—filling up of thevillage churchyards. It is melancholy to think that so solemn asubject should threaten to become a ground for bitter controversy;but that much animosity of feeling has already appeared is wellknown. Already many village graveyards are overcrowded, and it isbecoming difficult to arrange for the future. From a practicalpoint of view there is really but little difficulty, because thelandlords in almost every instance are willing to give thenecessary ground. The contention arises in another form, which itwould be out of place to enter upon here. It will be sufficient torecall the fact that such a question is approaching.

Rural sanitation, again, comes to the front day by day. Theprevention of overcrowding in cottages, the disposal of sewage, thesupply of water—these and similar matters press upon theattention of the authorities. Out of consideration for the pocketsof the ratepayers—many of whom are of the poorestclass—these things are perhaps rather shelved than pushedforward; but it is impossible to avoid them altogether. Every nowand then something has to be done. Whatever takes place, of coursethe landlord, as the central person, comes in for the chief shareof the burden. If the rates increase, on the one hand, thelabourers complain that their wages are not sufficient to pay them;and, on the other, the tenants state that the pressure on theagriculturist is already as much as he can sustain. The labourerexpects the landlord to relieve him; the tenant grumbles if he alsois not relieved. Outside and beyond the landlord's power as theowner of the soil, as magistrate and ex-officio guardian,and so on, he cannot divest himself of a personal—afamily—influence, which at once gives him a leading position,and causes everything to be expected of him. He must arbitratehere, persuade there, compel yonder, conciliate everybody, andsubscribe all round.

This was, perhaps, easy enough years ago, but it is now a verydifferent matter. No little diplomatic skill is needful to balanceparties, and preserve at least an outward peace in the parish. Hehas to note the variations of public opinion, and avoid givingoffence. In his official capacity as magistrate the same difficultyarises. One of the most delicate tasks that the magistracy have hadset them of recent years has been arbitrating between tenant andman—between, in effect, capital and labour. That is not, ofcourse, the legal, but it is the true, definition. It is a mostinvidious position, and it speaks highly for the scrupulous justicewith which the law has been administered that a watchful andjealous—a bitterly inimical party—ever ready, above allthings, to attempt a sensation—have not been able to detect amagistrate giving a partial decision.

In cases which involve a question of wages or non-fulfilment ofcontract it has often happened that a purely personal element hasbeen introduced. The labourer asserts that he has been unfairlytreated, that implied promises have been broken, perquisiteswithheld, and abuse lavished upon him. On the opposite side, themaster alleges that he has been made a convenience—the manstaying with him in winter, when his services were of little use,and leaving in summer; that his neglect has caused injury to accrueto cattle; that he has used bad language. Here is a conflict ofclass against class—feeling against feeling. The point indispute has, of course, to be decided by evidence, but whicheverway evidence leads the magistrates to pronounce their verdict, itis distasteful. If the labourer is victorious, he and his friends'crow' over the farmers; and the farmer himself grumbles that thelandlords are afraid of the men, and will never pronounce againstthem. If the reverse, the labourers cry out upon the partiality ofthe magistrates, who favour each other's tenants. In both cases thedecision has been given according to law. But the knowledge thatthis kind of feeling exists—that he is in reality arbitratingbetween capital and labour—renders the resident landlorddoubly careful what steps he takes at home in his private capacity.He hardly knows which way to turn when a question crops up,desiring, above all things, to preserve peace.

It has been said that of late there has come into existence inthe political world 'a power behind Parliament.' Somewhat in thesame sense it may be said that the labourer has become a powerbehind the apparent authorities of the rural community. Whetherdirectly, or through the discontented tenant, or by aid of thecircles in cities who hold advanced views, the labourer brings apressure to bear upon almost every aspect of country life. Thatpressure is not sufficient to break in pieces the existing order ofthings; but it is sufficient to cause an unpleasant tension. Shouldit increase, much of the peculiar attraction of country life willbe destroyed. Even hunting, which it would have been thought everyindividual son of the soil would stand up for, is not allowed tocontinue unchallenged. Displays of a most disagreeable spirit mustbe fresh in the memories of all; and such instances have shown adisposition to multiply. Besides the more public difficulties,there are also social ones which beset the landowner. It is truethat all of these do not originate with the labourer, or evenconcern him, but he it dragged into them to suit the convenience ofothers. 'Coquetting with a vote' is an art tolerably wellunderstood in these days; the labourer has not got a nominal vote,yet he is the 'power behind,' and may be utilised.

There is another feature of modern rural life too marked to beignored, and that is the increased activity of the resident clergy.This energy is exhibited by all alike, irrespective of opinion uponecclesiastical questions, and concerns an inquiry into theposition, of the labourer, because for the most part it is directedtowards practical objects. It shows itself in matters that have nodirect bearing upon the Church, but are connected with the everydaylife of the people. It finds work to do outside the precincts ofthe Church—beyond the walls of the building. This work is ofa nature that continually increases, and as it extends becomes morelaborious.

The parsonage is often an almost ideal presentment of peace andrepose. Trees cluster about it that in summer cast a pleasantshade, and in winter the thick evergreen shrubberies shut out thenoisy winds. Upon the one side the green meadows go down to thebrook, upon the other the cornfields stretch away to the hills.Footpaths lead out into the wheat and beside the hedge, where thewild flowers bloom—flowers to be lovingly studied, food formany a day-dream. The village is out of sight in thehollow—all is quiet and still, save for the song of the larkthat drops from the sky. The house is old, very old; the tiles dullcoloured, the walls grey, the calm dignity of age clings to it.

A place surely this for reverie—the abode of thought. Butthe man within is busy—full of action. The edge of the greatquestions of the day has reached the village, and he must be up anddoing. He does not, indeed, lift the latch of the cottage or thefarmhouse door indiscreetly—not unless aware that hispresence will not be resented. He is anxious to avoid irritatingindividual susceptibilities. But wherever people are gatheredtogether, be it for sport or be it in earnest, wherever a man maygo in open day, thither he goes, and with a set purpose beforehandmakes it felt that he is there. He does not remain a passivespectator in the background, but comes as prominently to the frontas is compatible with due courtesy.

When the cloth is cleared at the ordinary in the market town,and the farmers proceed to the business of their club, or chamber,he appears in the doorway, and quietly takes a seat not far fromthe chair. If the discussion be purely technical he says nothing;if it touch, as it frequently does, upon social topics, such asthose that arise out of education, of the labour question, of theposition of the farmer apart from the mere ploughing and sowing,then he delivers his opinion. When the local agriculturalexhibition is proceeding and the annual dinner is held he sits atthe social board, and presently makes his speech. The villagebenefit club holds its fête—he is there too, perhapspresiding at the dinner, and addresses the assembled men. He takespart in the organisation of the cottage flower show; exerts himselfearnestly about the allotments and the winter coal club, andendeavours to provide the younger people with amusem*nts that donot lead to evil—supporting cricket and such games as may beplayed apart from gambling and liquor.

This is but the barest catalogue of his work; there is nothingthat arises, no part of the life of the village and the countryside, to which he does not set his hand. All this is apart fromabstract theology. Religion, of course, is in his heart; but hedoes not carry a list of dogmas in his hand, rather keeping his ownpeculiar office in the background, knowing that many of those withwhom he mingles are members of various sects. He is simplypreaching the practical Christianity of brotherhood and goodwill.It is a work that can never be finished, and that is everextending. His leading idea is not to check the inevitable motionof the age, but to lone it.

He is not permitted to pursue this course unmolested; there areparties in the village that silently oppose his every footstep. Ifthe battle were open it would be easier to win it, but it isconcealed. The Church is not often denounced from the housetop, butit is certainly denounced under the roof. The poor and ignorant areinstructed that the Church is their greatest enemy, the upholder oftyranny, the instrument of their subjection, synonymous withlowered wages and privation, more iniquitous than the landowner.The clergyman is a Protestant Jesuit—a man of deepest guile.The coal club, the cricket, the flower show, the allotments, thevillage fête, everything in which he has a hand issimply an effort to win the good will of the populace, to keep themquiet, lest they arise and overthrow the property of the Church.The poor man has but a few shillings a week, and the clergyman isthe friend of the farmer, who reduces his wages—the Churchowns millions and millions sterling. How self-evident, therefore,that the Church is the cottager's enemy!

See, too, how he is beautifying that church, restoring it,making it light and pleasant to those who resort to it; see how hecauses sweeter music and singing, and puts new life into theservice. This a lesson learnt from the City of the SevenHills—this is the mark of the Beast. But the ultimate aim maybe traced to the same base motive—the preservation of thatenormous property.

Another party is for pure secularism. This is not so numerouslyrepresented, but has increased of recent years. From politicalmotives both of these silently oppose him. Nor are the poor andignorant alone among the ranks of his foes. There are sometenant-farmers among them, but their attitude is not so coarselyantagonistic. They take no action against, but they do not assist,him. So that, although, as he goes about the parish, he is notgreeted with hisses, the clergyman is full well aware that hisactivity is a thorn in the side of many. They once reproached himwith a too prolonged reverie in the seclusion of the parsonage; nowthey would gladly thrust him back again.

It may be urged, too, that all his efforts have not producedmuch visible effect. The pews are no more crowded than formerly; insome cases the absence of visible effect is said to be extremelydisheartening. But the fact is that it is yet early to expect much;neither must it be expected in that direction. It is almost thefirst principle of science that reaction is equal to action; it maybe safely assumed, then, that after awhile these labours will bearfruit. The tone of the rising generation must perforce be softenedand modified by them.

There exists at the present day a class that is morallyapathetic. In every village, in every hamlet, every detached groupof cottages, there are numbers of labouring men who are simplyindifferent to church and to chapel alike. They neither deny noraffirm the primary truths taught in all places of worship; they aresimply indifferent. Sunday comes and sees them lounging about thecottage door. They do not drink to excess, they are not more givento swearing than others, they are equally honest, and are not ofill-repute. But the moral sense seems extinct—the very ideaof anything beyond gross earthly advantages never occurs to them.The days go past, the wages are paid, the food is eaten, and thereis all.

Looking at it from the purely philosophic point of view there issomething sad in this dull apathy. The most pronounced materialisthas a faith in some form of beauty—matter itself is capableof ideal shapes in his conception. These people know no ideal. Itseems impossible to reach them, because there is no chord that willrespond to the most skilful touch. This class is very numerousnow—a disheartening fact. Yet perhaps the activity and energyof the clergyman may be ultimately destined to find its reaction,to produce its effect among these very people. They may slowlylearn to appreciate tangible, practical work, though utterlyinsensible to direct moral teaching and the finest eloquence of thepulpit. Finding by degrees that he is really endeavouring toimprove their material existence, they may in time awake to a senseof something higher.

What is wanted is a perception of the truth that progress andcivilisation ought not to end with merematerial—mechanical—comfort or wealth. A cottager oughtto learn that when the highest wages of the best paid artisan arereadied it is not the greatest privilege of the man to throwmutton chops to dogs and make piles of empty champagne bottles. Itmight almost be said that one cause of the former extravagance andthe recent distress and turbulence of the working classes is theabsence of an ideal from their minds.

Besides this moral apathy, the cottager too often assumes anattitude distinctly antagonistic to every species of authority, andparticularly to that prestige hitherto attached to property.Each man is a law to himself, and does that which seems good in hisown eyes. He does not pause to ask himself, What will my neighbourthink of this? He simply thinks of no one but himself, takescounsel of no one, and cares not what the result may be. It is thesame in little things as great. Respect for authority is extinct.The modern progressive cottager is perfectly certain that he knowsas much as his immediate employer, the squire, and the parson puttogether with the experience of the world at their back. He is nowthe judge—the infallible authority himself. He is wiser farthan all the learned and the thoughtful, wiser than the prophetsthemselves. Priest, politician, and philosopher must bow theirheads and listen to the dictum of the ploughman.

This feeling shows itself most strikingly in the disregard ofproperty. There used to be a certain tacit agreement among all menthat those who possessed capital, rank, or reputation should betreated with courtesy. That courtesy did not imply that thelandowner, the capitalist, or the minister of religion, wasnecessarily in himself superior. But it did imply that those whoadministered property really represented the general order in whichall were interested. So in a court of justice, all who enter removetheir hats, not out of servile adulation of the person inauthority, but from respect for the majesty of the law, which it isevery individual's interest to uphold. But now, metaphoricallyspeaking, the labourer removes his hat for no man. Whether in thecase of a manufacturer or of a tenant of a thousand-acre farm thething is the same. The cottager can scarcely nod his employer acommon greeting in the morning. Courtesy is no longer practised.The idea in the man's mind appears to be to express contempt forbig employer's property. It is an unpleasant symptom.

At present it is not, however, an active, but a passive force; amoral vis inertiæ. Here again the clergyman meets witha cold rebuff. No eloquence, persuasion, personal influence even,can produce more than a passing impression. But here again,perhaps, his practical activity may bring about its reaction. Intime the cottager will be compelled to admit that, at least, coalclub, benefit society, cricket, allotment, &c., have done himno harm. In time he may even see that property and authority arenot always entirely selfish—that they may do good, and beworthy, at all events, of courteous acknowledgment.

These two characteristics, moral apathy and contempt ofproperty—i.e., of social order—are probably exercisingconsiderable influence in shaping the labourer's future. Free ofmental restraint, his own will must work its way for good or evil.It is true that the rise or fall of wages may check or hasten thedevelopment of that future. In either case it is not, however,probable that he will return to the old grooves; indeed, thegrooves themselves are gone, and the logic of events must force himto move onwards. That motion, in its turn, must affect the rest ofthe community. Let the mind's eye glance for a moment over thecountry at large. The villages among the hills, the villages on theplains, in the valleys, and beside the streams represent in theaggregate an enormous power. Separately such hamlets seem small andfeeble—unable to impress their will upon the world. Buttogether they contain a vast crowd, which, united, may shoulderitself an irresistible course, pushing aside all obstacles by merephysical weight.

The effect of education has been, and seems likely to be, tosupply a certain unity of thought, if not of action, among thesepeople. The solid common sense—the law-abiding character ofthe majority—is sufficient security against any violentmovement. But how important it becomes that that common senseshould be strengthened against the assaults of an insidiousSocialism! A man's education does not come to an end when he leavesschool. He then just begins to form his opinions, and in nine casesout of ten thinks what he hears and what he reads. Here, in theagricultural labourer class, are many hundred thousand young menexactly in this stage, educating themselves in moral, social, andpolitical opinion.

In short, the future literature of the labourer becomes aserious question. He will think what he reads; and what he reads atthe present moment is of anything but an elevating character. Hewill think, too, what he hears; and he hears much of an enticingbut subversive political creed, and little of any other. There arebusy tongues earnestly teaching him to despise property and socialorder, to suggest the overthrow of existing institutions; there isscarcely any one to instruct him in the true lesson of history. Whocalls together an audience of agricultural labourers to explain toand interest them in the story of their own country? There are manywho are only too anxious to use the agricultural labourer as themeans to effect ends which he scarcely understands. But there arefew, indeed, who are anxious to instruct him in science orliterature for his own sake.

CHAPTER XXVI

A WHEAT COUNTRY

The aspect of a corn-growing district in the colder months isperhaps more dreary than that of any other country scene. It iswinter made visible. The very houses at the edge of the villagestand out harsh and angular, especially if modern and slated, forthe old thatched cottages are not without a curve in the line ofthe eaves. No trees or bushes shelter them from the bitter windthat rushes across the plain, and, because of the absence of treesround the outskirts, the village may be seen from a great distance.

The wayfarer, as he approaches along the interminable road, thatnow rises over a hill and now descends into a valley, observes itfrom afar, his view uninterrupted by wood, but the vastness of theplain seems to shorten his step, so that he barely gains on thereceding roofs. The hedges by the road are cropped—cut downmercilessly—and do not afford the slightest protectionagainst wind, or rain, or sleet. If he would pause awhile to resthis weary limbs no friendly bush keeps off the chilling blast.Yonder, half a mile in front, a waggon creeps up the hill, alwaysjust so much ahead, never overtaken, or seeming to alter itsposition, whether he walks slow or fast. The only apparentinhabitants of the solitude are the larks that every now and thencross the road in small flocks. Above, the sky is dull and gloomy;beneath, the earth, except, where some snow lingers, is of a stilldarker tint. On the northern side the low mounds are white withsnow here and there. Mile after mile the open level fields extendon either hand; now brown from the late passage of the plough, nowa pale yellow where the short stubble yet remains, divided by blacklines; the low-cropped hedges bare of leaves. A few small fircopses are scattered about, the only relief to the eye; all else islevel, dull, monotonous.

When the village is reached at last, it is found to be ofconsiderable size. The population is much greater than might havebeen anticipated from the desert-like solitude surrounding theplace. In actual numbers, of course, it will not bear comparisonwith manufacturing districts, but for its situation, it is quite alittle town. Compared with the villages situate in the midst ofgreat pastures—where grass is the all-important crop—itis really populous. Almost all the inhabitants find employment inthe fields around, helping to produce wheat and barley, oats androots. It is a little city of the staff of life—a metropolisof the plough.

Every single house, from that of the landowner, through therent; that of the clergyman, through the tithe—down to thehumblest cottage, is directly interested in the crop of corn. Thevery children playing about the gaps in the hedges are interestedin it, for can they not go gleaning? If the heralds had given theplace a coat of arms it should bear a sheaf of wheat. And thereason of its comparative populousness is to be found in the wheatalso. For the stubborn earth will not yield its riches withoutsevere and sustained labour. Instead of tickling it with a hoe, andwatching the golden harvest leap forth, scarifier and plough,harrow and drill in almost ceaseless succession, compel the clodsby sheer force of iron to deliver up their treasure. In anotherform it is almost like the quartz-crushing at the goldmines—the ore ground out from the solid rock. And here, inaddition, the ore has to be put into the rock first in the shape ofmanure.

All this labour requires hands to do it, and so—the supplyfor some time, at all events, answering the demand—thevillage teemed with men. In the autumn comes the ploughing, thecouch-picking and burning, often second ploughing, the sowing bydrill or hand, the threshing, &c. In the spring will come moreploughing, sowing, harrowing, hoeing. Modern agriculture hasincreased the labour done in the fields. Crops are arranged tosucceed crops, and each of these necessitates labour, and labour asecond and a third time. The work on arable land is never finished.A slackness there is in the dead of winter; but even then there isstill something doing—some draining, some trimming of hedges,carting manure for open field work. But beyond this there are thesheep in the pens to be attended to as the important time oflambing approaches, and there are the horned cattle in the stallsstill fattening, and leaving, as they reach maturity, for thebutcher.

The arable agriculturist, indeed, has a double weight upon hismind. He has money invested in the soil itself, seed lying awaitingthe genial warm rain that shall cause it to germinate, capital inevery furrow traced by the plough. He has money, on the other hand,in his stock, sheep, and cattle. A double anxiety is his; firstthat his crops may prosper, next that his stock may flourish. Herequires men to labour in the field, men to attend to the sheep,men to feed the bullocks; a crowd of labourers are supported byhim, with their wives and families. In addition to these he needsother labour—the inanimate assistance of the steam-engine,and the semi-intelligent co-operation of the horse. These, again,must be directed by men. Thus it is that the corn village hasbecome populous.

The original idea was that the introduction of machinery wouldreduce all this labour. In point of fact, it has, if anything,increased it. The steam-plough will not work itself; each of thetwo engines requires two men to attend to it; one, and often two,ride on the plough itself; another goes with the water-cart to feedthe boiler: others with the waggon for coal. The drill must havemen—and experienced men—with it, besides horses to drawit, and these again want men The threshing-machine employs quite alittle troop to feed it; and, turning to the stock in the stalls,roots will not pulp or slice themselves, nor will water pump itselfup into the troughs, nor chaff cut itself. The chaff-cutter andpump, and so on, all depend on human hands to keep them going. Suchis but a very brief outline of the innumerable ways in which arableagriculture gives employment. So the labourer and the labourer'sfamily flourish exceedingly in the corn tillage. Wages rise; hewaxes fat and strong and masterful, thinking that he holds thefarmer and the golden grain in the hollow of his hand.

But now a cloud arises and casts its shadow over the cottage. Ifthe farmer depends upon his men, so do the men in equal degreedepend upon the farmer. This they overlooked, but are now learningagain. The farmer, too, is not independent and self-sustained, butis at the mercy of many masters. The weather and the seasons areone master; the foreign producer is another; the markets, which arefurther influenced by the condition of trade at large, form a thirdmaster. He is, indeed, very much more in the position of a servantthan his labourer. Of late almost all these masters have combinedagainst the corn-growing farmer. Wheat is not only low but seemslikely to remain so. Foreign meat also competes with thedearly-made meat of the stalls. The markets are dull and tradedepressed everywhere. Finally a fresh master starts up in the shapeof the labourer himself, and demands higher wages.

For some length of time the corn-grower puts a courageous faceon the difficulties which beset him, and struggles on, hoping forbetter days. After awhile, however, seeing that his capital isdiminishing, because he has been, as it were, eating it, seeingthat there is no prospect of immediate relief, whatever may happenin the future, he is driven to one of two courses. He must quit theoccupation or he must reduce his expenditure. He must not only askthe labourer to accept a reduction, but he must, whereverpracticable, avoid employing labour at all.

Now comes the pressure on the corn village. Much but not all ofthat pressure the inhabitants have brought upon themselves throughendeavouring to squeeze the farmer too closely. If there had beenno labour organisation whatever when the arable agriculturist beganto suffer, as he undoubtedly has been suffering, the labourer musthave felt it in his turn. He has himself to blame if he has madethe pain more acute. He finds it in this way. Throughout thecorn-producing district there has been proceeding a gradualshrinkage, as it were, of speculative investment. Where anagriculturist would have ploughed deeper, and placed extraquantities of manure in the soil, with a view to an extra crop, hehas, instead, only just ploughed and cleaned and manured enough tokeep things going. Where he would have enlarged his flock of sheep,or added to the cattle in the stalls, and carried as much stock ashe possibly could, he has barely filled the stalls, and bought butjust enough cake and foods. Just enough, indeed, of late has beenhis watchword all through—just enough labour and no more.

This cutting down, stinting, and economy everywhere has toldupon the population of the village. The difference in theexpenditure upon a solitary farm may be but a trifle—a fewpounds; but when some score or more farms are taken, in theaggregate the decrease in the cash transferred from the pocket ofthe agriculturist to that of the labourer becomes somethingconsiderable. The same percentage on a hundred farms would amountto a large sum. In this manner the fact of the corn-producingfarmer being out of spirits with his profession reacts upon thecorn village. There is no positive distress, but there is just asense that there are more hands about than necessary. Yet at thesame moment there are not hands enough; a paradox which may beexplained in a measure by the introduction of machinery.

As already stated, machinery in the field does not reduce thenumber of men employed. But they are employed in a different way.The work all comes now in rushes. By the aid of the reaping machineacres are levelled in a day, and the cut corn demands the servicesof a crowd of men and women all at once, to tie it up in sheaves.Should the self-binders come into general use, and tie the wheatwith wire or string at the moment of cutting it, the matter oflabour will be left much in the same stage. A crowd of workpeoplewill be required all at once to pick up the sheaves, or to cartthem to the rick; and the difference will lie in this, that whilenow the crowd are employed, say twelve hours, then they will beemployed only nine. Just the same number—perhapsmore—but for less time. Under the old system, a dozen menworked all the winter through, hammering away with their flails inthe barns. Now the threshing-machine arrives, and the ricks arethreshed in a few days. As many men are wanted (and at double thewages) to feed the machine, to tend the 'elevator' carrying up thestraw to make the straw rick, to fetch water and coal for theengine, to drive it, &c. But instead of working for so manymonths, this rush lasts as many days.

Much the same thing happens all throughout arableagriculture—from the hoeing to the threshing—a troopare wanted one day, scarcely anybody the next. There is, of course,a steady undercurrent of continuous work for a certain fixed numberof hands; but over and above this are the periodical calls forextra labour, which of recent years, from the high wages paid, havebeen so profitable to the labourers. But when the agriculturistdraws in his investments, when he retrenches his expenditure, andendeavours, as far as practicable, to confine it to his regularmen, then the intermittent character of the extra work puts astrain upon the rest. They do not find so much to do, the pay isinsensibly decreasing, and they obtain, less casual employmentmeantime.

In the olden times a succession of bad harvests causedsufferings throughout the whole of England. Somewhat in likemanner, though in a greatly modified degree, the difficulties ofthe arable agriculturist at the present day press upon the cornvillages. In a time when the inhabitants saw the farmers, as theybelieved, flourishing and even treading on the heels of the squire,the corn villagers, thinking that the farmer was absolutelydependent upon them, led the van of the agitation for high wages.Now, when the force of circ*mstances has compressed wages again,they are both to submit. But discovering by slow degrees that noorganisation can compel, or create a demand for labour at anyprice, there are now signs on the one hand of acquiescence, and onthe other of partial emigration.

Thus the comparative density of the population in arabledistricts is at once a blessing and a trouble. It is not the'pranks' of the farmers that have caused emigration, or threats ofit. The farmer is unable to pay high wages, the men will not accepta moderate reduction, and the idle crowd, in effect, tread on eachother's heels. Pressure of that kind, and to that extent, islimited to a few localities only. The majority have sufficientcommon sense to see their error. But it is in arable districts thatagitation takes its extreme form. The very number of the populationgives any movement a vigour and emphasis that is wanting wherethere may be as much discontent but fewer to exhibit it. Thatpopulousness has been in the past of the greatest assistance to theagriculturist, and there is no reason why it should not be so inthe future, for it does not by any means follow that becauseagriculture is at present depressed it will always be so.

Let the months roll by and then approach the same village alongthe same road under the summer sun. The hedges, though low, aregreen, and bear the beautiful flowers of the wild convolvulus.Trees that were scarcely observed before, because bare of leaves,now appear, and crowds of birds, finches and sparrows, fly up fromthe corn. The black swifts wheel overhead, and the white-breastedswallows float in the azure. Over the broad plain extends a stillbroader roof of the purest blue—the landscape is so open thatthe sky seems as broad again as in the enclosedcountries—wide, limitless, very much as it does at sea. Onthe rising ground pause a moment and look round. Wheat and barleyand oats stretch mile after mile on either hand. Here the red wheattinges the view, there the whiter barley; but the prevailing hue isa light gold. Yonder green is the swede, or turnip, or mangold; butfrequent as are the fields of roots, the golden tint overpowers thegreen. A golden sun looks down upon the golden wheat—thewinds are still and the heat broods over the corn. It is pleasantto get under the scanty shadow of the stunted ash. Think whatwealth all that glorious beauty represents. Wealth to the rich man,wealth to the poor.

Come again in a few weeks' time and look down upon it. Theswarthy reapers are at work. They bend to their labour till thetall corn overtops their heads. Every now and then they rise up,and stand breast high among the wheat. Every field is full of them,men and women, young lads and girls, busy as they may be. Yonderthe reaping-machine, with its strange-looking arms revolving likethe vast claws of an unearthly monster beating down the grain, goesrapidly round and round in an ever-narrowing circle till the lastears fall. A crowd has pounced upon the cut corn. Behindthem—behind the reapers—everywhere abroad on the greatplain rises an army, regiment behind regiment, the sheaves stackedin regular ranks down the fields. Yet a little while, and over thatimmense expanse not one single, solitary straw will be leftstanding. Then the green roots show more strongly, and tint thelandscape. Next come the waggons, and after that the childrensearching for stray ears of wheat, for not one must be left behind.After that, in the ploughing time, while yet the sun shines warm,it is a sight to watch the teams from under the same ash tree,returning from their labour in the afternoon. Six horses here,eight horses there, twelve yonder, four far away; all in singlefile, slowly walking home, and needing no order or touch of whip todirect their steps to the well-known stables.

If any wish to see the work of farming in its full flush andvigour, let them visit a corn district at the harvest time. Down inthe village there scarcely any one is left at home; every man,woman, and child is out in the field. It is the day of prosperity,of continuous work for all, of high wages. It is, then, easy tounderstand why corn villages are populous. One cannot but feel thestrongest sympathy with these men. The scene altogether seems sothoroughly, so intensely English. The spirit of it enters into thespectator, and he feels that he, too, must try his hand at thereaping, and then slake his thirst from the same cup with thesebronzed sons of toil. Yet what a difficult problem lies underneathall this! While the reaper yonder slashes at the straw, huge shipsare on the ocean rushing through the foam to bring grain to thegreat cities to whom—and to all—cheap bread is soinestimable a blessing. Very likely, when he pauses in his work,and takes his luncheon, the crust he eats is made of flour groundout of grain that grew in far distant Minnesota, or some vastWestern State. Perhaps at the same moment the farmer himself sitsat his desk and adds up figure after figure, calculating the costof production, the expenditure on labour, the price of manure putinto the soil, the capital invested in the steam-plough, and thecost of feeding the bullocks that are already intended for the nextChristmas. Against these he places the market price of that wheathe can see being reaped from his window, and the price he receivesfor his fattened bullock. Then a vision rises before him of greenmeads and broad pastures slowly supplanting the corn; the ploughput away, and the scythe brought out and sharpened. If so, wherethen will be the crowd of men and women yonder working in thewheat? Is not this a great problem, one to be pondered over and nothastily dismissed?

Logical conclusions do not always come to pass in practice; evenyet there is plenty of time for a change which shall retain thesestalwart reapers amongst us, the strength and pride of the land.But if so, it is certain that it must be preceded by some earneston their part of a desire to remove that last straw from thefarmer's back—the last straw of extravagant labourdemands—which have slowly been dragging him down. They havebeen doing their very best to bring about the substitution of grassfor corn. And the farmer, too, perhaps, must look at home, and becontent to live in simpler fashion. To do so will certainly requireno little moral courage, for a prevalent social custom, like thatof living fully up to the income (not solely characteristic offarmers), is with difficulty faced and overcome.

CHAPTER XXVII

GRASS COUNTRIES

On the ground beside the bramble bushes that project into the fieldthe grass is white with hoar frost at noon-day, when the rest ofthe meadow has resumed its dull green winter tint. Behind thecopse, too, there is a broad belt of white—every place,indeed, that would be in the shadow were the sun to shine forth isof that colour.

The eager hunter frowns with impatience, knowing that though theeaves of the house may drip in the middle of the day, yet, whilethose white patches show in the shelter of the bramble bushes theearth will be hard and unyielding. His horse may clear the hedge,but how about the landing on that iron-like surface? Every oldhoof-mark in the sward, cut out sharp and clear as if with a steeldie, is so firm that the heaviest roller would not produce thesmallest effect upon it. At the gateways where the passage ofcattle has trodden away the turf, the mud, once almost impassable,is now hardened, and every cloven hoof that pressed it has left itsmark as if cast in metal. Along the furrows the ice has fallen in,and lies on the slope white and broken, the shallow water havingdried away beneath it. Dark hedges, dark trees—in thedistance they look almost black—nearer at hand the smallestbranches devoid of leaves are clearly defined against the sky.

As the northerly wind drifts the clouds before it the sun shinesdown, and the dead, dry grass and the innumerable tufts of the'leaze' which the cattle have not eaten, take a dull grey hue.Sheltered from the blast behind the thick, high hawthorn hedge anddouble mound, which is like a rampart reared against Boreas, it ispleasant even now to stroll to and fro in the sunshine. Thelongtailed titmice come along in parties of six or eight, callingto each other as in turn they visit every tree. Turning fromwatching these—see, a redbreast has perched on a branchbarely two yards distant, for, wherever you may be, there the robincomes and watches you. Whether looking in summer at the roses inthe garden, or waiting in winter for the pheasant to break cover orthe fox to steal forth, go where you will, in a minute or two, aredbreast appears intent on your proceedings.

Now comes a discordant squeaking of iron axles that have notbeen greased, and the jolting sound of wheels passing over rutswhose edges are hard and frost-bound. From the lane two manurecarts enter the meadow in slow procession, and, stopping at regularintervals, the men in charge take long poles with hooks at the endand drag down a certain quantity of the fertilising material. Thesharp frost is so far an advantage to the tenant of meadow landthat he can cart manure without cutting and poaching the turf, andeven without changing the ordinary for the extra set ofbroad-wheels on the cart. In the next meadow the hedge-cutters arebusy, their hands fenced with thick gloves to turn aside thethorns.

Near by are the hay-ricks and cow-pen where a metallic rattlingsound rises every now and then—the bull in the shed movinghis neck and dragging his chain through the ring. More than one ofthe hay-ricks have been already half cut away, for the severewinter makes the cows hungry, and if their yield of milk is to bekept up they must be well fed, so that the foggers have plenty todo. If the dairy, as is most probably the case, sends the milk toLondon, they have still more, because then a regular supply has tobe maintained, and for that a certain proportion of other food hasto be prepared in addition to the old-fashioned hay. The newsystem, indeed, has led to the employment of more labourout-of-doors, if less within. An extra fogger has to be put on, notonly because of the food, but because the milking has to be done inless time—with a despatch, indeed, that would have seemedunnatural to the old folk. Besides which the milk carts to and frothe railway station require drivers, whose time—as they haveto go some miles twice a day—is pretty nearly occupied withtheir horses and milk tins. So much is this the case that even insummer they can scarcely be spared to do a few hours haymaking.

The new system, therefore, of selling the milk instead of makingbutter and cheese is advantageous to the labourer by affording moreemployment in grass districts. It is steady work, too, lasting theentire year round, and well paid. The stock of cows in such casesis kept up to the very highest that the land will carry, which,again, gives more work. Although the closing of the cheese loftsand the superannuation of the churn has reduced the number offemale servants in the house, yet that is more than balanced by theextra work without. The cottage families, it is true, lose thebuttermilk which some farmers used to allow them; but wages arecertainly better.

There has been, in fact, a general stir and movement in dairydistricts since the milk selling commenced, which has beenfavourable to labour. A renewed life and energy has been visible onfarms where for generations things had gone on in the same sleepymanner. Efforts have been made to extend the area available forfeeding by grubbing hedges and cultivating pieces of groundhitherto given over to thistles, rushes, and rough grasses. Drainshave been put in so that the stagnant water in the soil might notcause the growth of those grasses which cattle will not touch.Fresh seed has been sown, and 'rattles' and similar plantsdestructive to the hay crop have been carefully eradicated. Newgales, new carts, and traps, all exhibit the same movement.

The cowyards in many districts were formerly in a verydilapidated condition. The thatch of the sheds was all worn away,mossgrown, and bored by the sparrows. Those in which the cows wereplaced at calving time were mere dark holes. The floor of the yardwas often soft, so that the hoofs of the cattle trod deep intoit—a perfect slough in wet weather. The cows themselves wereof a poor character, and in truth as poorly treated, for the haywas made badly—carelessly harvested, and the grass itself notof good quality—nor were the men always very humane, thinkinglittle of knocking the animals about.

Quite a change has come over all this. The cows now kept aremuch too valuable to be treated roughly, being selected fromshorthorn strains that yield large quantities of milk. No farmernow would allow any such knocking about. The hay itself is better,because the grass has been improved, and it is also harvestedcarefully. Rickcloths prevent rain from spoiling the rising rick,mowing machines, haymaking machines, and horse rakes enable a spellof good weather to be taken advantage of, and the hay got inquickly, instead of lying about till the rain returns. As for themanure, it is recognised to be gold in another shape, and insteadof being trodden under foot by the cattle and washed away by therain, it is utilised. The yard is drained and stoned so as to bedry—a change that effects a saving in litter, the value ofwhich has greatly risen. Sheds have been new thatched, andgenerally renovated, and even new roads laid down across the farms,and properly macadamised, in order that the milk carts might reachthe highway without the straining and difficulty consequent uponwheels sinking half up to the axles in winter.

In short, dairy farms have been swept and garnished, and evensomething like science introduced upon them. The thermometer insummer is in constant use to determine if the milk is sufficientlycooled to proceed upon its journey. That cooling of the milk aloneis a process that requires more labour to carry it out. Artificialmanures are spread abroad on the pastures. The dairy farmer has toa considerable extent awakened to the times, and, like the arableagriculturist, is endeavouring to bring modern appliances to bearupon his business. To those who recollect the old style of dairyfarmer the change seems marvellous indeed. Nowhere was the farmermore backward, more rude and primitive, than on the small dairyfarms. He was barely to be distinguished from the labourers,amongst whom he worked shoulder to shoulder; he spoke with theirbroad accent, and his ideas and theirs were nearly identical.

In ten years' time—just a short ten years only—whatan alteration has taken place! It is needless to say that thiscould not go on without the spending of money, and the spending ofmoney means the benefit of the labouring class. New cottages havebeen erected, of course on modern plans, so that many of the menare much better lodged than they were, and live nearer to theirwork—a great consideration where cows are the main object ofattention. The men have to be on the farm very early in themorning, and if they have a long walk it is a heavy drag upon them.Perhaps the constant intercourse with the towns and stationsresulting from the double daily visit of the milk carts hasquickened the minds of the labourers thus employed. Whatever may bethe cause, it is certain that they do exhibit an improvement, andare much 'smarter' than they used to be. It would be untrue to saythat no troubles with the labourers have arisen in meadowdistricts. There has been some friction about wages, but not nearlyapproaching the agitation elsewhere. And when a recent reduction ofwages commenced, many of the men themselves admitted that it wasinevitable. But the average earnings throughout the year stillcontinue, and are likely to continue far above the old rate ofpayment. Where special kinds of cheese are made the position of thelabourer has also improved.

Coming to the same district in summer time, the meadows have abeauty all their own. The hedges are populous with birds, the treeslovely, the brook green with flags, the luxuriantly-growing grassdecked with flowers. Nor has haymaking lost all its ancient charm.Though the old-fashioned sound of the mower sharpening his scytheis less often heard, being superseded by the continuous rattle ofthe mowing machine, yet the hay smells as sweetly as ever. Whilethe mowing machine, the haymaking machine, and horse rake give thefarmer the power of using the sunshine, when it comes, to the bestpurpose, they are not without an effect upon the labouringpopulation.

Just as in corn districts, machinery has not reduced the actualnumber of hands employed, but has made the work come in spells orrushes; so in the meadows the haymaking is shortened. The farmerwaits till good weather is assured for a few days. Then on goes hismowing machine and levels the crop of an entire field in no time.Immediately a whole crowd of labourers are required for making thehay and getting it when ready on the waggons. Under the old systemthe mowers usually got drunk about the third day of sunshine, andthe work came to a standstill. When it began to rain they recoveredthemselves, and slashed away vigorously—when it was notwanted. The effect of machinery has been much the same as on cornlands, with the addition that fewer women are now employed inhaymaking. Those that are employed are much better paid.

The hamlets of grass districts are not, as a rule, at allpopulous. There really are fewer people, and at the same time theimpression is increased by the scattered position of the dwellings.Instead of a great central village there are three or four smallhamlets a mile or two apart, and solitary groups of cottages nearfarmhouses. One result of this is, that allotment gardens are notso common, for the sufficient reason that, if a field were setapart for the purpose, the tenants of the plots would have to walkso far to the place that it would scarcely pay them. Gardens areconsequently attached to most cottages, and answer the samepurpose; some have small orchards as well.

The cottagers have also more firewood than is the case in somearable districts on account of the immense quantity of woodannually cut in copses and double-mound hedges. The rougher partbecomes the labourers' perquisite, and they can also purchase woodat a nominal rate from their employers. This more than compensatesfor the absence of gleaning. In addition, quantities of wood arecollected from hedges and ditches and under the trees—deadboughs that have fallen or been broken off by a gale.

The aspect of a grazing district presents a general resemblanceto that of a dairy one, with the difference that in the grazingeverything seems on a larger scale. Instead of small meadows shutin with hedges and trees, the grazing farms often comprise fieldsof immense extent; sometimes a single pasture is as large as asmall dairy farm. The herds of cattle are also more numerous; ofcourse they are of a different class, but, in mere numbers, agrazier often has three times as many bullocks as a dairy farmerhas cows. The mounds are quite as thickly timbered as in dairydistricts, but as they are much farther apart, the landscapeappears more open.

To a spectator looking down upon mile after mile of such pastureland in summer from an elevation it resembles a park of illimitableextent. Great fields after great fields roll away to thehorizon—groups of trees and small copses dot theslopes—roan and black cattle stand in the sheltering shadows.A dreamy haze hangs over the distant woods—all is large,open, noble. It suggests a life of freedom—the gun and thesaddle—and, indeed, it is here that hunting is enjoyed in itsfull perfection. The labourer falls almost out of sight in thesevast pastures. The population is sparse and scattered, the hamletsare few and far apart; even many of the farmhouses being onlyoccupied by bailiffs. In comparison with a dairy farm there islittle work to do. Cows have to be milked as well as foddered, andthe milk when obtained gives employment to many hands in thevarious processes it goes through. Here the bullocks have simply tobe fed and watched, the sheep in like manner have to be tended.Except in the haymaking season, therefore, there is scarcely ever apress for labour. Those who are employed have steady, continuouswork the year through, and are for the most part men of experiencein attending upon cattle, as indeed they need be, seeing the valueof the herds under their charge.

Although little direct agitation has taken place in pasturecountries, yet wages have equally risen. Pasture districts almostdrop out of the labour dispute. On the one hand the men are few, onthe other the rise of a shilling or so scarcely affects the farmer(so far as his grass land is concerned, if he has much corn as wellit is different), because of the small number of labourers hewants.

The great utility of pasture is, of course, the comparativelycheap production of meat, which goes to feed the population incities. Numbers of bullocks are fattened on corn land in stalls,but of late it has been stated that the cost of feeding under suchconditions is so high that scarcely any profit can be obtained. Thepasture farmer has by no means escaped without encounteringdifficulties; but still, with tolerably favourable seasons, he canproduce meat much more cheaply than the arable agriculturist. Yetit is one of the avowed objects of the labour organisation toprevent the increase of pasture land, to stop the laying down ofgrass, and even to plough up some of the old pastures. The reasongiven is that corn land supports so many more agriculturallabourers, which is so far true; but if corn farming cannot becarried on profitably without great reduction of the labourexpenses the argument is not worth much, while the narrowness ofthe view is at once evident. The proportion of pasture to arableland must settle itself, and be governed entirely by the sameconditions that affect other trades—i.e.. profit andloss.

It has already been pointed out that the labourer finds itpossible to support the Union with small payments, and also tosubscribe to benefit-clubs. The fact suggests the idea that, iffacilities were afforded, the labourer would become a considerabledepositor of pennies. The Post-office Savings Banks have done muchgood, the drawback is that the offices are often too distant fromthe labourer. There is an office in the village, but not half thepopulation live in the village. There are far-away hamlets andthings, besides lonely groups of three or four farmhouses, to whicha collective name can hardly be given, but which employ a number ofmen. A rural parish is 'all abroad'—the people are scattered.To go into the Post-office in the village may involve a walk ofseveral miles, and it is closed, too, on Saturday night when themen are flush of money.

The great difficulty with penny banks on the other hand is thereceiver—who is to be responsible for the money? Theclergyman would be only too glad, but many will have nothing to dowith anything under his influence simply because he is theclergyman. The estrangement that has been promoted between thelabourer and the tenant farmer effectually shuts the latter out.The landlord's agent cannot reside in fifty places at once. Thesums are too small to pay for a bank agent to reside in the villageand go round. There remain the men themselves; and why should notthey be trusted with the money? Men of their own class collect theUnion subscriptions, and faithfully pay them in.

Take the case of a little hamlet two, three, perhaps more milesfrom a Post-office Savings Bank, where some thirty labourers workon the farms. Why should not these thirty elect one of their ownnumber to receive their savings over Saturday—to be paid inby him at the Post-office? There are men among them who might besafely trusted with ten times the money, and if the Post-officecannot be opened on Saturday evenings for him to deposit it, it isquite certain that his employer would permit of his absence, on oneday, sufficiently long to go to the office and back. If the menwish to be absolutely independent in the matter, all they have todo is to work an extra hour for their agent's employer, and socompensate for his temporary absence. If the men had it in theirown hands like this they would enter into it with far greaterinterest, and it would take root among them. All that is requiredis the consent of the Post-office to receive moneys so deposited,and some one to broach the idea to the men in the variouslocalities. The great recommendation of the Post-office is that thelabouring classes everywhere have come to feel implicit faith inthe safety of deposits made in it. They have a confidence in itthat can never be attained by a private enterprise, howeverbenevolent, and it should therefore be utilised to the utmost.

To gentlemen accustomed to receive a regular income, a smalllump sum like ten or twenty pounds appears a totally inadequateprovision against old age. They institute elaborate calculations byprofessed accountants, to discover whether by any mode ofinvestment a small subscription proportionate to the labourer'swages can be made to provide him with an annuity. The result isscarcely satisfactory. But, in fact, though an annuity would be, ofcourse, preferable, even so small a sum as ten or twenty pounds isof the very highest value to an aged agricultural labourer,especially when he has a cottage, if not his own property, yet inwhich he has a right to reside. The neighbouring farmers, who haveknown him from their own boyhood, are always ready to give himlight jobs whenever practicable. So that in tolerable weather hestill earns something. His own children do a little for him. In thedead of the winter come a few weeks when he can do nothing, andfeels the lack of small comforts. It is just then that a couple ofsovereigns out of a hoard of twenty pounds will tide him over theinterval.

It is difficult to convey an idea of the value of these twoextra sovereigns to a man of such frugal habits and in thatposition. None but those who have mixed with the agricultural poorcan understand it. Now the wages that will hardly, by the mostcareful management, allow of the gradual purchase of an annuity,will readily permit such savings as these. It is simply a questionof the money-box. When the child's money-box is at hand the pennyis dropped in, and the amount accumulates; if there is no box handyit is spent in sweets. The same holds true of young and old alike.If, then, the annuity cannot be arranged, let the money-box, at allevents, be brought nearer. And the money-box in which the poor manall over the country has the most faith is the Post-office.

CHAPTER XXVIII

HODGE'S LAST MASTERS. CONCLUSION

After all the ploughing and the sowing, the hoeing and the harvest,comes the miserable end. Strong as the labourer may be, thick-setand capable of immense endurance; by slow degrees that strengthmust wear away. The limbs totter, the back is bowed, the dimmedsight can no longer guide the plough in a straight furrow, nor theweak hands wield the reaping-hook, Hodge, who, Atlas-like,supported upon his shoulders the agricultural world, comes in hisold age under the dominion of his last masters at the workhouse.There, indeed, he finds almost the whole array of his rulersassembled. Tenant farmers sit as the guardians of the poor fortheir respective parishes; the clergyman and the squire by virtueof their office as magistrates; and the tradesman as guardian forthe market town. Here are representatives of almost all hismasters, and it may seem to him a little strange that it shouldrequire so many to govern such feeble folk.

The board-room at the workhouse is a large and apparentlycomfortable apartment. The fire is piled with glowing coals, thered light from which gleams on the polished fender. A vast tableoccupies the centre, and around it are arranged seats, for each ofthe guardians. The chairman is, perhaps, a clergyman (andmagistrate), who for years has maintained something like peacebetween discordant elements. For the board-room is often abattle-field where political or sectarian animosities exhibitthemselves in a rugged way. The clergyman, by force of character,has at all events succeeded in moderating the personal asperity ofthe contending parties. Many of the stout, elderly farmers who sitround the table have been elected year after year, no one disputingwith them that tedious and thankless office. The clerk, always asolicitor, is also present, and his opinion is continuallyrequired. Knotty points of law are for ever arising over what seemsso simple a matter as the grant of a dole of bread.

The business, indeed, of relieving the agricultural poor is nolight one—a dozen or fifteen gentlemen often sit here thewhole day. The routine of examining the relieving officers' booksand receiving their reports takes up at least two hours.Agricultural unions often include a wide space of country, andgetting from one village to another consumes as much time as wouldbe needed for the actual relief of a much denser population. As aconsequence, more relieving officers are employed than would seemat first glance necessary. Each of these has his records topresent, and his accounts to be practically audited, a processnaturally interspersed with inquiries respecting cottagers known tothe guardians present.

Personal applications for out-door relief are then heard. Agroup of intending applicants has been waiting in the porch foradmission for some time. Women come for their daughters; daughtersfor their mothers; some want assistance during an approachingconfinement, others ask for a small loan, to be repaid byinstalments, with which to tide over their difficulties. Onecottage woman is occasionally deputed by several of her neighboursas their representative. The labourer or his wife stands before theBoard and makes a statement, supplemented by explanation from therelieving officer of the district. Another hour thus passes.Incidentally there arise cases of 'settlement' in distant parishes,when persons have become chargeable whose place of residence wasrecently, perhaps, half across the country. They have no parochialrights here and must be returned thither, after due inquiries madeby the clerk and the exchange of considerable correspondence.

The master of the workhouse is now called in and delivers hisweekly report of the conduct of the inmates, and any events thathave happened. One inmate, an ancient labourer, died that morningin the infirmary, not many hours before the meeting of the Board.The announcement is received with regretful exclamations, and thereis a cessation of business for a few minutes. Some of the oldfarmers who knew the deceased recount their connection with him,how he worked for them, and how his family has lived in the parishas cottagers from time immemorial. A reminiscence of a grim jokethat fell out forty years before, and of which the deceased was thebutt, causes a grave smile, and then to business again. The masterpossibly asks permission to punish a refractory inmate; punishmentis now very sparingly given in the house. A good many cases,however, come up from the Board to the magisterialBench—charges of tearing up clothing, fighting, damagingproperty, or of neglecting to maintain, or to repay relief advancedon loan. These cases are, of course, conducted by the clerk.

There is sometimes a report, to be read by one of the doctorswho receive salaries from the Board and attend to the variousdistricts, and occasionally some nuisance to be considered andorder taken for its compulsory removal on sanitary grounds. Thequestion of sanitation is becoming rather a difficult one inagricultural unions.

After this the various committees of the Board have to give inthe result of their deliberations, and the representative of tholadies' boarding-out committee presents a record of the workaccomplished. These various committees at times are burdened withthe most onerous labours, for upon them falls the duty of verifyingall the petty details of management. Every pound of soap, orcandles, scrubbing-brushes, and similar domestic items, pass undertheir inspection, not only the payments for them, but the actualarticles, or samples of them, being examined. Tenders for grocery,bread, wines and spirits for cases of illness, meat, coals, and soforth are opened and compared, vouchers, bills, receipts, invoices,and so forth checked and audited.

The amount of detail thus attended to is something immense, andthe accuracy required occupies hour after hour. There are wholelibraries of account-books, ledgers, red-bound relief-books, stowedaway, pile upon pile, in the house; archives going back to theopening of the establishment, and from which any trifling reliefgiven or expenditure inclined years ago can be extracted. Suchanother carefully-administered institution it would be hard tofind; nor is any proposed innovation or change adopted without thefullest discussion—it may be the suggested erection ofadditional premises, or the introduction of some fresh feature ofthe system, or some novel instructions sent down by the LocalGovernment Board.

When such matters or principles are to be discussed there iscertain to be a full gathering of the guardians and a trial ofstrength between the parties. Those who habitually neglect toattend, leaving the hard labour of administration to be borne bytheir colleagues, now appear in numbers, and the board-room iscrowded, many squires otherwise seldom seen coming in to give theirvotes. It is as much as the chairman can do to assuage the stormand to maintain an approach to personal politeness. Quiet as thecountry appears to the casual observer, there are, nevertheless,strong feelings under the surface, and at such gatherings thelong-cherished animosities burst forth.

Nothing at all events is done in a corner; everything is openlydiscussed and investigated. Every week the visiting committee goround the house, and enter every ward and store-room. They tasteand test the provisions, and the least shortcoming is certain to beseverely brought home to those who are fulfilling the contracts.They pass through the dormitories, and see that everything isclean; woe betide those responsible if a spot of dirt be visible!There is the further check of casual and unexpected visits from theguardians or magistrates. It is probable that not one crumb ofbread consumed is otherwise than good, and that not one singlecrumb is wasted. The waste is in the system—and a giganticwaste it is, whether inevitable as some contend, or capable ofbeing superseded by a different plan.

Of every hundred pounds paid by the ratepayers how much isabsorbed in the maintenance of the institution and itsramifications, and how very little reaches poor deserving Hodge!The undeserving and mean-spirited, of whom there are plenty inevery village, who endeavour to live upon the parish, receiverelief thrice as long and to thrice the amount as the hard-working,honest labourer, who keeps out to the very last moment. It is notthe fault of the guardians, but of the rigidity of the law. Surelya larger amount of discretionary power might be vested in them withadvantage! Some exceptional consideration is the just due of menwho have worked from the morn to the very eve of life.

The labourer whose decease was reported to the Board upon theirassembling was born some seventy-eight or seventy-nine years ago.The exact date is uncertain; many of the old men can only fix theirage by events that happened when they were growing from boys intomanhood. That it must have been nearer eighty than seventy yearssince is known, however, to the elderly farmers, who recollect himas a man with a family when they were young. The thatched cottagestood beside the road at one end of a long, narrow garden, enclosedfrom the highway by a hedge of elder. At the back there was a ditchand mound with elm-trees, and green meadows beyond. A few polesused to lean against the thatch, their tops rising above the ridge,and close by was a stack of thorn fa*ggots. In the garden three orfour aged and mossgrown apple-trees stood among the little plots ofpotatoes, and as many plum-trees in the elder hedge. One tallpear-tree with scored bark grew near the end of the cottage; itbore a large crop of pears, which were often admired by the peoplewho came along the road, but were really hard and woody. As a childhe played in the ditch and hedge, or crept through into the meadowand searched in the spring for violets to offer to the passers-by;or he swung on the gate in the lane and held it open for thefarmers in their gigs, in hope of a halfpenny.

As a lad he went forth with his father to work in the fields,and came home to the cabbage boiled for the evening meal. It wasnot a very roomy or commodious home to return to after so manyhours in the field, exposed to rain and wind, to snow, or summersun. The stones of the floor were uneven, and did not fit at theedges. There was a beam across the low ceiling, to avoid which, ashe grew older, he had to bow his head when crossing the apartment.A wooden ladder, or steps, not a staircase proper, behind thewhitewashed partition, led to the bedroom. The steps wereworm-eaten and worn. In the sitting-room the narrow panes of thesmall window were so overgrown with woodbine as to admit but littlelight. But in summer the door was wide open, and the light and thesoft air came in. The thick walls and thatch kept it warm and cosyin winter, when they gathered round the fire. Every day in hismanhood he went out to the field; every item, as it were, of lifecentred in that little cottage. In time he came to occupy it withhis own wife, and his children in their turn crept through thehedge, or swung upon the gate. They grew up, and one by one wentaway, till at last he was left alone.

He had not taken much conscious note of the changing aspect ofthe scene around him. The violets flowered year after year; stillhe went to plough. The May bloomed and scented the hedges; still hewent to his work. The green summer foliage became brown and theacorns fell from the oaks; still he laboured on, and saw the iceand snow, and heard the wind roar in the old familiar trees withoutmuch thought of it. But those old familiar trees, the particularhedges he had worked among so many years, the very turf of themeadows over which he had walked so many times, the view down theroad from the garden gate, the distant sign-post and thered-bricked farmhouse—all these things had become part of hislife. There was no hope nor joy left to him, but he wanted to stayon among them to the end. He liked to ridge up his little plot ofpotatoes; he liked to creep up his ladder and mend the thatch ofhis cottage; he liked to cut himself a cabbage, and to gather theone small basketful of apples. There was a kind of dull pleasure incropping the elder hedge, and even in collecting the dead branchesscattered under the trees. To be about the hedges, in the meadows,and along the brooks was necessary to him, and he liked to be atwork.

Three score and ten did not seem the limit of his working days;he still could and would hoe—a bowed back is no impediment,but perhaps rather an advantage, at that occupation. He could use aprong in the haymaking; he could reap a little, and do good servicetying up the cut corn. There were many little jobs on the farm thatrequired experience, combined with the plodding patience of age,and these he could do better than a stronger man. The years wentround again, and yet he worked. Indeed, the farther back a man'sbirth dates in the beginning of the present century the more heseems determined to labour. He worked on till every member of hisfamily had gone, most to their last home, and still went out attimes when the weather was not too severe. He worked on, andpottered round the garden, and watched the young green plumsswelling on his trees, and did a bit of gleaning, and thought thewheat would weigh bad when it was threshed out.

Presently people began to bestir themselves, and to ask whetherthere was no one to take care of the old man, who might die fromage and none near. Where were his own friends and relations? Onestrong son had enlisted and gone to India, and though his time hadexpired long ago, nothing had ever been heard of him. Another sonhad emigrated to Australia, and once sent back a present of money,and a message, written for him by a friend, that he was doing well.But of late, he, too, had dropped out of sight. Of three daughterswho grew up, two were known to be dead, and the third was believedto be in New Zealand. The old man was quite alone. He had no hopeand no joy, yet he was almost happy in a slow unfeeling waywandering about the garden and the cottage. But in the winter hishalf-frozen blood refused to circulate, his sinews would not movehis willing limbs, and he could not work.

His case came before the Board of Guardians. Those who knew allabout him wished to give him substantial relief in his own cottage,and to appoint some aged woman as nurse—a thing that isoccasionally done, and most humanely. But there were technicaldifficulties in the way; the cottage was either his own or partlyhis own, and relief could not be given to any one possessed of'property' Just then, too, there was a great movement against,out-door relief; official circulars came round warning Boards tocurtail it, and much fuss was made. In the result the old man wasdriven into the workhouse; muttering and grumbling, he had to bebodily carried to the trap, and thus by physical force was draggedfrom his home. In the workhouse there is of necessity a dead levelof monotony—there are many persons but no individuals. Thedining-hall is crossed with forms and narrow tables, somewhatresembling those formerly used in schools. On these at dinner-timeare placed a tin mug and a tin soup-plate for each person; everymug and every plate exactly alike. When the unfortunates have takentheir places, the master pronounces grace from an elevated desk atthe end of the hall.

Plain as is the fare, it was better than the old man had existedon for years; but though better it was not his dinner. He was notsitting in his old chair, at his own old table, round which hischildren had once gathered. He had not planted the cabbage, andtended it while it grew, and cut it himself. So it was, all throughthe workhouse life. The dormitories were clean, but the ward wasnot his old bedroom up the worm-eaten steps, with the slantingceiling, where as he woke in the morning he could hear the sparrowschirping, the chaffinch calling, and the lark singing aloft. Therewas a garden attached to the workhouse, where he could do a littleif he liked, but it was not his garden. He missed his plum-treesand apples, and the tall pear, and the lowly elder hedge. He lookedround raising his head with difficulty, and he could not see thesign-post, nor the familiar red-bricked farmhouse. He knew all therain that had fallen must have come through the thatch of the oldcottage in at least one place, and he would have liked to have goneand rethatched it with trembling hand. At home he could lift thelatch of the garden gate and go down the road when he wished. Herehe could not go outside the boundary—it was against theregulations. Everything to appearance had been monotonous in thecottage—but there he did not feel it monotonous.

At the workhouse the monotony weighed upon him. He used to thinkas he lay awake in bed that when the spring came nothing shouldkeep him in this place. He would take his discharge and go out, andborrow a hoe from somebody, and go and do a bit of work again, andbe about in the fields. That was his one hope all through his firstwinter. Nothing else enlivened it, except an occasional littlepresent of tobacco from the guardians who knew him. The springcame, but the rain was ceaseless. No work of the kind he could dowas possible in such weather. Still there was the summer, but thesummer was no improvement; in the autumn he felt weak, and was notable to walk far. The chance for which he had waited had gone.Again the winter came, and he now rapidly grew more feeble.

When once an aged man gives up, it seems strange at first thathe should be so utterly helpless. In the infirmary the real benefitof the workhouse reached him. The food, the little luxuries, theattention were far superior to anything he could possibly have hadat home. But still it was not home. The windows did not permit himfrom his bed to see the leafless trees or the dark woods anddistant hills. Left to himself, it is certain that of choice hewould have crawled under a rick, or into a hedge, if he could nothave reached his cottage.

The end came very slowly; he ceased to exist by imperceptibledegrees, like an oak-tree. He remained for days in asemi-unconscious state, neither moving nor speaking. It happened atlast. In the grey of the winter dawn, as the stars paled and thewhitened grass was stiff with hoar frost, and the rime coated everybranch of the tall elms, as the milker came from the pen and theyoung ploughboy whistled down the road to his work, the spirit ofthe aged man departed.

What amount of production did that old man's life of labourrepresent? What value must be put upon the service of the son thatfought in India; of the son that worked in Australia; of thedaughter in New Zealand, whose children will help to build up a newnation? These things surely have their value. Hodge died, and thevery grave-digger grumbled as he delved through the earthhard-bound in the iron frost, for it jarred his hand and mightbreak his spade. The low mound will soon be level, and the place ofhis burial shall not be known.