AS WE ARE AND AS WE MAY BE

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 THE TEN YEARS' TENANT. 

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AS WE ARE AND AS WE MAY BE

LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1903

FOREWORD. 

_The reader of these Essays, which are not chronologically arranged, is asked to notice the date in each case affixed to them. Almostwithout exception, those passages which cannot fail to strike him asnearly exact repetitions, whether of argument or of example, will beseen to have been written at considerable intervals of time. A seriesof papers, composed in different circumstances, and with no design ofcollective re-issue in any particular form, will always present theserepetitions; and they serve to emphasize the author's message. Thelapse of time will also account for the apparent inaccuracy of a fewstatements, and for the fact that some of the occurrences alluded toin the future tense were accomplished during Sir Walter Besant'slifetime. 'As We Are and As We May Be' is the exposition of apractical philanthropist's creed, and of his hopes for the progress ofhis fellow-countrymen. Some of these hopes may never be realized; somehe had the great happiness to see bear fruit. And for the realizationof all he spared no pains. The personal service of humanity, that inthese pages he urges repeatedly on others, he was himself ever thefirst to give. _

CONTENTS

 PAGE

THE ENDOWMENT OF THE DAUGHTER 1

FROM THIRTEEN TO SEVENTEEN 24

THE PEOPLE'S PALACE 50

SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CITY 67

A RIVERSIDE PARISH 106

ST. KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER 137

THE UPWARD PRESSURE 166

THE LAND OF ROMANCE 203

THE LAND OF REALITY 224

ART AND THE PEOPLE 246

THE AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE 271

THE ASSOCIATED LIFE 296

AS WE ARE AND AS WE MAY BE

THE ENDOWMENT OF THE DAUGHTER. 

Those who begin to consider the subject of the working woman discoverpresently that there is a vast field of inquiry lying quite withintheir reach, without any trouble of going into slums or inquiring ofsweaters. This is the field occupied by the gentlewoman who works fora livelihood. She is not always, perhaps, gentle in quite the oldsense, but she is gentle in that new and better sense which meansculture, education, and refinement. There are now thousands of theseworking gentlewomen, and the number is daily increasing. A few amongthem--a very few--are working happily and successfully; some areworking contentedly, others with murmuring and discontent at thehardness of the work and the poorness of the pay. Others, again, arealways trying, and for the most part vainly, to get work--any kind ofwork--which will bring in money--any small sum of money. This is adreadful spectacle, to any who have eyes to see, of gentlewomenstruggling, snatching, importuning, begging for work. No one knows, who has not looked into the field, how crowded it is, and how sad asight it presents. 

For my own part I think it is a shame that a lady should ever have tostand in the labour market for hire like a milkmaid at a statute fair. I think that the rush of women into the labour market is a mostlamentable thing. Labour, and especially labour which is withoutorganization or union, has to wage an incessant battle--always gettingbeaten--against greed and injustice: the natural enemy of labour isthe employer, especially the impecunious employer; in the strugglewomen always get worsted. Again, in whatever trade or calling theyattempt, the great majority of women are hopelessly incompetent. As inthe lower occupations, so in the higher, the greatest obstacle tosuccess is incompetence. How should gentlewomen be anything butincompetent? They have not been taught anything special, they have notbeen 'put through the mill'; mostly, they are fit only for thoseemployments which require the single quality that everybody canclaim--general intelligence. Hopeless indeed is the position of thatwoman who brings into the intellectual labour market nothing butgeneral intelligence. She is exactly like the labourer who knows notrade, and has nothing but his strong frame and his pair of hands. Tothat man falls the hardest work and the smallest wage. To the womanwith general intelligence is assigned the lowest drudgery ofintellectual labour. And yet there are so many clamouring for this, orfor anything. A few months ago a certain weekly magazine stated thatI, the writer, had started an Association for Providing Ladies withCopying Work--all in capitals. The number of letters which came to meby every post in consequence of that statement was incredible. Thewriters implored me to give them a share of that copying work; theytold terrible, heart-rending stories of suffering. Of course, therewas no such Association. There is, now that typewriting is fairlyestablished, no copying work left to speak of. Even now the lettershave not quite ceased to arrive. 

The existence of this army of necessitous gentlewomen is a new thingin the land. That is to say, there have always been ladies who have'come down in the world'--not a seaside lodging-housekeeper but hasknown better days. There have always been girls who never expected tobe poor; always suffered to live in a fool's paradise who ought tohave been taught some way of earning their livelihood. Never till now, however, has this army of gentlewomen been so great, or its distressso acute. One reason--it is one which threatens to increase withaccelerated rapidity--is the depression of agriculture. I think wehardly realize the magnitude of this great national disaster. Webelieve that it is only the landlords, or the landlords and farmers, who are suffering. If that were all--but can one member of the bodypolitic suffer and the rest go free from pain? All the trade of thesmall towns droops with agriculture; the professional men of thecountry towns lose their practice; clergymen who depend upon glebe, dissenting ministers who depend upon the townspeople, lose theirincome; the labourers, the craftsmen--why, it bewilders one even tothink of the widespread ruin which will follow the agriculturaldepression if it continues. And every day carriage becomes cheaper, and food products of all kinds are conveyed at lower prices and fromgreater distances. Every fall in price makes it more difficult to letthe farms, drives the rustics in greater numbers from the country tothe town, lays the curse of labour upon thousands of untrainedgentlewomen, and makes it more difficult for them to escape in the oldway, that of marriage. 

Another reason is the enormous increase during the last thirty yearsof the cultivated classes. We have all, except the very lowest, movedupwards. The working-man wears broadcloth and has his club; thetradesman who has grown rich also has his club, his daughters areyoung ladies of culture, his sons are educated at the public schoolsand the universities--things perfectly proper and laudable. Thethickness of the cultured stratum grows greater every day. But thosewho belong to the lower part of that stratum--those whose position isnot as yet strengthened by family connections and the accumulations ofgenerations--are apt to yield and to be crushed down by the firstapproach of misfortune. Then the daughters who, in the lastgeneration, would have joined the working girls and become dressmakersin a 'genteel' way, join the ranks of distressed gentlewomen. 

Everybody knows the way up the social ladder. It has been shown tothose below by millions of twinkling feet. It is a broad ladder upwhich people are always climbing, some slowly, some quickly--fromcorduroy to broadcloth; from workshop to counter; from shop-boy tomaster; from shop to office; from trade to profession; from thebedroom over the shop to the great country villa. The other day abricklayer told me that his grandfather and the first Lord O. 's fatherwere old pals: they used to go poaching together; but the parent ofLord O. Was so clever as to open a shop, where he sold what his friendpoached. The shop began it you see. The way up is known to everybody. But there is another way which we seldom regard; it is the way downagain. The Family Rise is the commonest phenomenon. Is not the nameLegion of those of whom men say, partly with the pride of connectingthemselves with greatness, partly with the natural desire, which smallmen always show, to tear away something of that greatness, 'Why, Iknew him when his father had a shop!' The Family Fall is lessconspicuous. Yet there are always as many going down as climbing up. You cannot, in fact, stay still. You must either climb or slipdown--unless, indeed, you have got your leg over the topmost rung, which means the stability of an hereditary title and landed property. We all ought to have hereditary titles and landed property, in orderto insure national prosperity for ever. Novelists do not, as a rule, treat of the Sinking Back because it is a depressing subject. Thereare many ways of falling. Mostly, the father makes an ass of himselfin the way of business or speculation; or he dies too soon; or hissons possess none of their father's ability; or they take to drink. Anyhow, down goes the Family, at first slowly, but with everincreasing rapidity, back to its original level. There is no countryin the world--certainly not the United States--where a young man mayrise to distinction with greater ease than this realm of the ThreeKingdoms. There is also none where the families show a greateralacrity in sinking. But the most reluctant to go down, those whocling most tightly to the social level which they think they havereached, are the daughters; so that when misfortunes fall upon themthey are ready to deny themselves everything rather than lose thesocial dignity which they think belongs to them. 

Again, a steady feeder of these ranks is the large family of girls. Itis astonishing what a number of families there are in which they areall, or nearly all, girls. The father is, perhaps, a professional manof some kind, whose blamelessness has not brought him solid success, so that there is always tightness. And it is beautiful to remark thecheerfulness of the girls, and how they accept the tightness as anecessary part of the World's Order; and how they welcome each newfeminine arrival as if it was really going to add a solid lump ofcomfort to the family joy. These girls face work from the beginning. Well for them if they have any better training than the ordinaryday-school, or any special teaching at all. 

Another--the most potent cause of all--is the complete revolution ofopinion as regards woman's work which has been effected in the courseof a single generation. Thirty years ago, if a girl was compelled toearn her bread by her own work, what could she do? There were a few--avery few--who wrote; many very excellent persons held writing to be'unladylike. ' There were a few--a very few--who painted; there weresome--but very few, and those chiefly the daughters of actors--whowent on the stage. All the rest of the women who maintainedthemselves, and were called, by courtesy, ladies, became governesses. Some taught in schools, where they endured hardness--remember theaccount of the school where Charlotte Brontë was educated. Some wentto live in private houses--think of the governess in the old novel, meek and gentle, snubbed by her employer, bullied by her pupils, andinsulted by the footman, until the young Prince came along. Some wentfrom house to house as daily governesses. Even in teaching they weregreatly restricted. Man was called in to teach dancing; he went roundamong the schools in black silk stockings, with a kit under his arm, and could caper wonderfully. Woman could only teach dancing at theawful risk of showing her ankles. Who cares now whether a woman showsher ankles or not? It makes one think of Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, and of the admiration which those sly dogs expressed for a neat pairof ankles. Man, again, taught drawing; man taught music; man taughtsinging; man taught writing; man taught arithmetic; man taught Frenchand Italian; German was not taught at all. Indeed, had it not been forgeography and the use of the globes, and the right handling of theblackboard, there would have been nothing at all left for thegoverness to teach. Forty years ago, however, she was great on theChurch Catechism and a martinet as to the Sunday sermon. 

It was not every girl, even then, who could teach. I remember one ladywho in her young days had refused to teach on the ground that shewould have to be hanged for child-murder if she tried. Those who didnot teach, unless they married and became mistresses of their own_ménage_, stayed at home until the parents died, and then went to livewith a brother or a married sister. What family would be without theunmarried sister, the universal aunt? Sometimes, perhaps, she became amere unpaid household servant, who could not give notice. But onewould fain hope that these were rare cases. 

Now, however, all is changed. The doors are thrown wide open. With afew exceptions--to be sure, the Church, the Law, and Engineering areimportant exceptions--a woman can enter upon any career she pleases. The average woman, specially trained, should do at any intellectualwork nearly as well as the average man. The old prejudice against thework of women is practically extinct. Love of independence and thenewly awakened impatience of the old shackles, in addition to theforces already mentioned, are everywhere driving girls to take upprofessional lives. 

Not only are the doors of the old avenues thrown open: we have creatednew ways for the women who work. Literature offers a hundred paths, each one with stimulating examples of feminine success. There isjournalism, into which women are only now beginning to enter by onesand twos. Before long they will sweep in with a flood. In medicine, which requires arduous study and great bodily strength, they do notenter in large numbers. Acting is a fashionable craze. Art covers aswide a field as literature. Education in girls' schools of the highestkind has passed into their own hands. Moreover, women can now do manythings--and remain gentlewomen--which were formerly impossible. Somekeep furniture shops, some are decorators, some are dressmakers, somemake or sell embroidery. 

In all these professions two things are wanting--natural aptitude andspecial training. Unfortunately, the competition is encumbered andcrowded with those who have neither, or else both imperfectly, developed. 

The present state of things is somewhat as follows: The world containsa great open market, where the demand for first-class work of everykind is practically inexhaustible. In literature everything reallygood commands instant attention, respect--and payment. But it must bereally good. Publishers are always looking about for genius. Editors--even the much-abused editors--are always looking about forgood and popular writers. But the world is critical. To become popularrequires a combination of qualities, which include special training, education, and natural aptitude. Art, again, in every possible branch, offers recognition--and pay--for good work. But it must be reallygood. The world is even more critical in Art than in Literature. Inthe theatre, managers are always looking about for good plays, goodactors, and good actresses. In scholarship, women who have takenuniversity honours command good salaries and an honourable position ifthey can teach. In music, a really good composer, player, or singer, is always received with joy and the usual solid marks of approval. Inthis great open Market there is no favouritism possible, because thepublic, which is scornful of failure--making no allowance, andreceiving no excuses--is also generous and quick to recognise success. In this Market clever women have exactly the same chances as clevermen; their work commands the same price. George Eliot is as well paidas Thackeray; and the Market is full of the most splendid prizes bothof praise and pudding. It is a most wonderful Market. In all otherMarkets the stalls are full of good things which the vendors areanxious to sell, but cannot. In this Market nothing is offered but itis snapped up greedily by the buyers; there are even, indeed, men whobuy up the things before they reach the open Market. In other Marketsthe cry of those who stand at the stalls is 'Buy, buy, buy!' In thisMarket it is the buyers who cry out continually, 'Bring out more waresto sell. ' Only to think of this Market, and of the thousands ofgentlewomen outside, fills the heart with sadness. 

For outside, there is quite another kind of Market. Here there arelong lines of stalls behind which stand the gentlewomen eagerlyoffering their wares. Alas! here is Art in every shape, but it is notthe art which we can buy. Here are painting and drawing; here arecoloured photographs, painted china, art embroideries, and fine work. Here are offered original songs and original music. Here are standinglong lines of those who want to teach, and are most melancholy becausethey have no degree or diploma, and know nothing. Here are standingthose who wait to be hired, and who will do anything in which 'generalintelligence' will show the way; lastly, there is a whole quarter atleast a quarter--of the Market filled with stalls covered withmanuscripts, and there are thousands of women offering thesemanuscripts. The publishers and the editors walk slowly along beforethe stalls and receive the manuscripts, which they look at and thenlay down, though their writers weep and wail and wring their hands. Presently there comes along a man greatly resembling in the expressionof his face the wild and savage wolf trying to smile. His habit is totake up a manuscript, and presently to express, with the aid ofstrange oaths and ejaculations, wonder and imagination. ''Fore Gad, madam!' he says, ''tis fine! 'Twill take the town by storm! 'Tis animmortal piece! Your own, madam? Truly 'tis wonderful! Nay, madam, butI must have it. 'Twill cost you for the printing of it a paltry sixtypounds or so, and for return, believe me, 'twill prove a new Potosi. 'This is the confidence trick under another form. The unfortunate womanbegs and borrows the money, of which she will never again see onefarthing; and if her book be produced, no one will ever buy a copy. 

The women at these stalls are always changing. They grow tired ofwaiting when no one will buy: they go away. A few may be traced. Theybecome type-writers: they become cashiers in shops; they sit in theouter office of photographers and receive the visitors: they 'devil'for literary men: they make extracts: they conduct researches and lookup authorities: they address envelopes; some, I suppose, go home againand contrive to live somehow with their relations. What becomes of therest no man can tell. Only when men get together and talk of thesethings it is whispered that there is no family, however prosperous, but has its unsuccessful members--no House, however great, which hasnot its hangers-on and followers, like the _ribauderie_ of an army, helpless and penniless. 

Considering, therefore, the miseries, drudgeries, insults, andhumiliations which await the necessitous gentlewoman in her quest forwork and a living, and the fact that these ladies are increasing innumber, and likely to increase, I venture to call attention to certainpreventive steps which may be applied--not for those who are now inthis hell, but for those innocent children whose lot it may be to jointhe hapless band. The subject concerns all of us who have to work, allwho have to provide for our families; it concerns every woman who hasdaughters: it concerns the girls themselves to such a degree that, ifthey knew or suspected the dangers before them they would cry aloudfor prevention, they would rebel, they would strike the FifthCommandment out of the Tables. So great, so terrible, are the dangersbefore them. 

The absolute duty of teaching girls who may at some future time haveto depend upon themselves some trade, calling or profession, seems amere axiom, a thing which cannot be disputed or denied. Yet it has noteven begun to be practised. If any thought is taken at all of thiscontingency, 'general intelligence' is still relied upon. There are, however, other ways of facing the future. 

In France, as everybody knows, no girl born of respectable parents isunprovided with a _dot_; there is no family, however poor, which doesnot strive and save in order to find their daughter some kind of_dot_. If she has no _dot_, she remains unmarried. The amount of the_dot_ is determined by the social position of the parents. No marriageis arranged without the _dot_ forming an important part of thebusiness. No bride goes empty-handed out of her father's house. Andsince families in France are much smaller than in this country, a muchsmaller proportion of girls go unmarried. 

In this country no girls of the lower class, and few of the middleclass, ever have any _dot_ at all. They go to their husbandsempty-handed, unless, as sometimes happens, the father makes anallowance to the daughter. All they have is their expectation of whatmay come to them after the father's death, when there will beinsurances and savings to be divided. The daughter who marries has no_dot_. The daughter who remains unmarried has no fortune until herfather dies: very often she has none after that event. 

In Germany, where the custom of the _dot_ is not, I believe, soprevalent, there are companies or societies founded for the expresspurpose of providing for unmarried women. They work, I am told, with akind of tontine--it is, in fact, a lottery. On the birth of a girl thefather inscribes her name on the books of the company, and pays acertain small sum every year on her account. At the age oftwenty-five, if she is still unmarried, she receives the right ofliving rent free in two rooms, and becomes entitled to a certain smallannuity. If she marries she has nothing. Those who marry, therefore, pay for those who do not marry. It is the same principle as with lifeinsurances: those who live long pay for those who die young. If weassume, for instance, that four girls out of five marry, which seems afair proportion, the fifth girl receives five times her own premium. Suppose that her father has paid £5 a year for her for twenty-oneyears, she would receive the amount, at compound interest, of £25 ayear for twenty-one years--namely, about a thousand pounds. 

Only consider what a thousand pounds may mean to a girl. It may beinvested to produce £35 a year--that is to say, 13s. 6d. A week. Suchan income, paltry as it seems, may be invaluable; it may supplementher scanty earnings: it may enable her to take a holiday: it may giveher time to look about her: it may keep her out of the sweater'shands: it may help her to develop her powers and to step into thefront rank. What gratitude would not the necessitous gentlewomanbestow upon any who would endow her with 13s. 6d. A week? Why, thereare Homes where she could live in comfort on 12s. , and have a solid1s. 6d. To spare. She would even be able to give alms to others not sorich. 

Take, then, a thousand pounds--£35 a year--as a minimum. Take the caseof a professional man who cannot save much, but who is resolved onendowing his daughters with an annuity of at least £35 a year. Thereare ways and means of doing this which are advertised freely andplaced in everybody's hands. Yet they seem to fail in impressing thepublic. One does not hear among one's professional friends of theendowment of girls. Yet one does hear, constantly, that someone isdead and has left his daughters without a penny. 

First of all, the rules and regulations of the Post Office, which arepublished every quarter, provide what seems the most simple of theseways. 

I take one table only, that of the cost of an annuity deferred fortwenty-five years. If the child is five years of age, and under six, an annuity of £1, beginning after twenty-five years, can be purchasedfor a yearly premium of 12s. 7d. , or for a payment of £12 3s. 8d. , themoney to be returned in case of the child's death. An annuity of £35, therefore, would cost a yearly premium of £22 0s. 5d. , or a lump sumof £426 8s. 4d. 

One or two of the insurance companies have also prepared tables forthe endowment of children. I find, for instance, in the tables issuedby the North British and Mercantile that an annual payment of £3 11s. Begun at infancy will insure the sum of £100 at twenty-one years ofage, with the return of the premium should the child die, or that £3510s. Paid annually will insure the sum of £1, 000. There is also inthese tables a method of payment by which, should the father die andthe premiums be therefore discontinued, the money will be paid justthe same. No doubt, if the practice were to spread, every insurancecompany would take up this kind of business. 

It is not every young married man who could afford to pay so large asum of money as £426 in one lump; on the contrary, very few indeedcould do so. But suppose, which is quite possible, that he were topurchase, with the first £12 he could save, a deferred annuity of £1for his child, and so with the next £12, and so with the next, untilhe had placed her beyond the reach of actual destitution; and suppose, again, that his conscience was so much awakened to the duty of thusproviding for her that amusement and pleasure would be postponed orcurtailed until this duty was performed, just as amusement is notthought of until the rent and taxes and housekeeping are firstdefrayed: in that case there would be few young married people indeedwho would not speedily be able to purchase this small annuity of £35 ayear. And with every successive payment the sense of the value of thething, its importance, its necessity, would grow more and more in themind; and with every payment would increase the satisfaction offeeling that the child was removed from destitution by one pound ayear more. It took a very long time to create in men's minds the dutyof life insurance. That has now taken so firm a hold on people that, although the English bride brings no dot, the bridegroom is notpermitted to marry her until he settles a life insurance upon her. When once the mother thoroughly understands that by the exercise of alittle more self-denial her daughter can be rendered independent forlife, that self-denial will certainly not be wanting. Think of thevast sums of money which are squandered by the middle classes of thiscountry, even though they are more provident than the working classes. The money is not spent in any kind of riot: not at all; the middleclasses are, on the whole, most decorous and sober: it is spent inliving just a little more luxuriously than the many changes andchances of mortal life should permit. It is by lowering the standardof living that the money must be saved for the endowment of thedaughters; and since the children cost less in infancy than when theygrow older, it is then that the saving must be made. Everyone knowsthat there are thousands of young married people who can only by dintof the strictest economy make both ends meet. It is not for them thatI speak. Another voice, far more powerful than mine, should thunderinto their hearts the selfishness and the wickedness of bringing intothe world children for whom they can make no provision whatever, andwho are destined to be thrown into the battle-field of labour providedwith no other weapons than the knowledge of reading and writing. It isbad enough for the boys; but as for the girls--they had better havebeen thrown as soon as born to the lions. I speak rather to those whoare in better plight, who live comfortably upon the year's income, which is not too much, and who look forward to putting their boys inthe way of an ambitious career, and to marrying their daughters. Butas for the endowment of the girls, they have not even begun to thinkabout it. Their conscience has not been yet awakened, their fears notyet aroused; they look abroad and see their friends struck down bydeath or disaster, but they never think it may be their turn next. Andyet the happiness to reflect, if death or disaster does come, thatyour girls are safe!

One sees here, besides, a splendid opening for the rich uncle, thebenevolent godfather, the affectionate grandfather, the kindly aunt, the successful brother. They will come bearing gifts--not the silvercup, if you please, but the Deferred Annuity. 'I bring you, my dear, in honour of your little Molly's birthday, an increase of five poundsto her Deferred Annuity. This makes it up to twenty pounds, and themoney-box getting on, you say, to another pound. Capital! we shallhave her thirty-five pounds in no time now. ' What a noble field forthe uncle!

The endowment of the daughter is essentially a woman's question. Thebride, or at least her mother for her, ought to consider that, thoughevery family quiver varies in capacity with the income, her own lotmay be to have a quiver full. Heaven forbid, as Montaigne said, thatwe should interfere with the feminine methods, but common prudenceseems to dictate the duty of this forecast. Let, therefore, the demandfor endowment come from the bride's mother. All that she would bejustified in asking of a man whose means are as yet narrow, would besuch an endowment, gradually purchased, as would keep the girls fromstarvation. 

For my own part, I think that no woman should be forced to work atall, except at such things as please her. When a woman marries, forinstance, she voluntarily engages herself to do a vast quantity ofwork. To look after the house and to bring up the children involvesdaily, unremitting labour and thought. If she has a vocation for anykind of work, as for Art, or Letters, or Teaching, let her obey thecall and find her happiness. Generally she has none. The averagewoman--I make this statement with complete confidence--hatescompulsory work: she hates and loathes it. There are, it is true, somekinds of work which must be done by women. Well, there will always beenough for those occupations among women who prefer work to idleness. 

There is another very serious consideration. There is only so muchwork--a limited quantity--in the world: so many hands for whomoccupation can be found--and the number of hands wanted does not verygreatly exceed that of the male hands ready for it. Now, by givingthis work to women, we take it from the men. If we open the CivilService to women, we take so many posts from the men, which we give tothe women, _at a lower salary_; if they become cashiers, accountants, clerks, they take these places from the men, _at a lower salary_. Always they take lower pay, and turn the men out. Well, the men musteither go elsewhere, or they must take the lower pay. In either casethe happiest lot of all--that of marriage--is rendered more difficult, because the men are made poorer; the position of the toiler becomesharder, because he gets worse pay; then man's sense of responsibilityfor the women of his family is destroyed. Nay, in some cases the menactually live, and live contentedly, upon the labour of their wives. But when all is said about women, and their rights and wrongs, andtheir work and place, and their equality and their superiority, wefall back at last upon nature. There is still, and will always remainwith us, the sense in man that it is his duty to work for his wife, and the sense in woman that nothing is better for her than to receivethe fruits of her husband's labour. 

Let us endow the Daughters: those who are not clever, in order to savethem from the struggles of the Incompetent and the hopelessness of theDependent; those who are clever, so as to give them time for work andtraining. The Bread-winner may die: his powers may cease: he may losehis clients, his reputation, his popularity, his business; in athousand forms misfortune and poverty may fall upon him. Think of thehappiness with which he would then contemplate that endowment of aDeferred Annuity. And the endowment will not prevent or interfere withany work the girls may wish to do. It will even help them in theirwork. My brothers, let our girls work if they wish; perhaps they willbe happier if they work let them work at whatever kind of work theymay desire; but not--oh not--because they must. 

[1888. ]

FROM THIRTEEN TO SEVENTEEN

In the history of every measure designed for the amelioration of thepeople there may be observed four distinct and clearly marked stages. First, there is the original project, fresh from the brain of thedreamer, glowing with the colours of his imagination, a figure fairand strong as the newly born Athênê. By its single-handed powermankind are to be regenerated, and the millennium is to be at oncetaken in hand. There are no difficulties which it will not at onceclear away; there are no obstacles which will not vanish at itsapproach as the morning mist is burned up by the newly risen sun. Thedreamer creates a school, and presently among his disciples therearises one who is practical enough to reduce the dream to a possibleand working scheme. The advocates of the Cause are still, however, agood way from getting the scheme established. The battle with theopposition follows, in which one has to contend--first with those whocannot be touched by any generous aims, always a pretty large body;next with those who are afraid of the people; and lastly with thosewho have private interests of their own to defend. The triumph whichpresently arrives by no means concludes the history of the agitation, because there is certain to follow at no distant day the discoverythat the measure has somehow failed to achieve those glorious resultswhich were so freely promised. It has, in fact, gone to swell thepages of that chronicle, not yet written, which may be called the'History of the Well-intentioned. '

The emancipation of the West Indian slaves, for instance, has not beenaccompanied by the burning desire for progress--industrial, artistic, or educational--which was confidently anticipated. Quite the contrary. Yet--which is a point which continually recurs in the History of theWell-intentioned--one would not, if it were possible, go back to theformer conditions. It is better that the negro should lie idle, andsleep in the sun all his days, than that he should work under theoverseer's lash. For the free man there is always hope; for the slavethere is none. Again, the first apostles of Co-operation expectednothing less than that their ideas would be universally, immediately, and ardently adopted. That was a good many years ago. The method ofCo-operation still offers the most wonderful vision of universalwelfare, easily attainable on the simple condition of honesty, everput before humanity; yet we see how little has been achieved and hownumerous have been the failures. Again, though the advantages oftemperance are continually preached to working men, beer remains thenational beverage; yet even those of us who would rather see theworking classes sober and self-restrained than water-drinkers by Actof Parliament or solemn pledge, acknowledge how good it is that thepreaching of temperance was begun. Again, we have got most of thosePoints for which the Chartists once so passionately struggled. As forthose we have not got, there is no longer much enthusiasm left forthem. The world does not seem so far very substantially advanced bythe concession of the Points; yet we would not willingly give themback and return to the old order. Again, we have opened free museums, containing all kinds of beautiful things: the people visit them inthousands; yet they remain ignorant of Art, and have no yearningdiscoverable for Art. In spite of this, we would not willingly closethe museums. 

The dreamer, in fact, leaves altogether out of his reckoning certainfactors of humanity which his first practical advocate only partiallytakes into account. These are stupidity, apathy, ignorance, greed, indolence, and the Easy Way. There are doubtless others, because inhumanity as in physics no one can estimate all the forces, but theseare the most readily recognised; and the last two perhaps are the mostimportant, because the great mass of mankind are certainly born withan incurable indolence of mind or body, which keeps them rooted in theold grooves and destroys every germ of ambition at its firstappearance. 

The latest failure of the Well-intentioned, so far as we have yetfound out, is the Education Act, for which the London rate has nowmounted to nine-pence in the pound. It is a failure, like theemancipation of the slaves; because, though it has done some thingswell, it has wholly failed to achieve the great results confidentlypredicted for it by its advocates in the year '68. What is more, wenow understand that it never can achieve those results. 

It was going, we were told, to give all English children a sound andthorough elementary education. It was, further, going to inspire thosechildren with the ardour for knowledge, so that, on leaving school, they would carry on their studies and continually advance in learning. It was going to take away the national reproach of ignorance, and tomake us the best educated country in the world. 

As for what it has done and is doing, the children are taught to read, write, cipher, and spell (this accomplishment being wholly useless tothem and its mastery a sheer waste of time). They are also taught alittle singing, and a few other things; and in general terms the BoardSchools do, I suppose, impart as good an education to the children asthe time at their disposal will allow. They command the services of agreat body of well-trained, disciplined, and zealous teachers, againstwhose intelligence and conscientious work nothing can be alleged. Andyet, with the very best intentions of Board and teachers, thepractical result has been, as is now maintained, that but a very smallpercentage of all the children who go through the schools are educatedat all. 

This is an extremely disagreeable discovery. It is, however, as willpresently be seen, a result which might have been expected. Those wholooked for so splendid an outcome of this magnificent educationalmachinery, this enormous expenditure, forgot to take into account twoor three very important factors. They were, first, those we havealready indicated, stupidity, apathy, and indolence; and next, theexigencies and conditions of labour. These shall be presentlyexplained. Meantime, the discovery once made, and once plainly stated, seems to have been frankly acknowledged and recognised by all who areinterested in educational questions: it has been made the subject of agreat meeting at the Mansion House, which was addressed by men ofevery class: and it has, further, which is a very valuable andencouraging circumstance, been seriously taken up by the Trades Unionsand the working men. 

As for the situation, it is briefly as follows:

The children leave the Board Schools, for the most part, at the age ofthirteen, when they have passed the standard which exempts them fromfurther attendance; or if they are half-timers, they remain until theyare fourteen. At this ripe age, when the education of the richer classis only just beginning, these children have to leave school and beginwork. Whatever kind of work this may be, it is certain to involve aday's labour of ten hours. It might be thought--at one time it wasfully expected--that the children would by this age have received suchan impetus and imbibed so great a love for reading that they would oftheir own accord continue to read and study on the lines laid down, and eagerly make use of such facilities as might be provided for them. In the History of the Well-intentioned we shall find that we arealways crediting the working classes with virtues which no other classcan boast. In this case we credited the children of working men with aclear insight into their own best interests; with resolution andpatience; with industry; with the power of resisting temptation, andwith the strength to forego present enjoyment. This is a good deal toexpect of them. But apply the sane situation to a boy of the middleclass. He is taken from school at sixteen and sent to a merchant'soffice or a shop. Here he works from nine till six, or perhaps later. How many of these lads, when their day's work is over--what proportionof the whole--make any attempt at all to carry on their education orto learn anything new? For instance, there are two things, theacquisition of which doubles the marketable value of a clerk: one is aknowledge of shorthand, and the other is the power of reading andwriting a foreign language. This is a fact which all clerks very wellunderstand. But not one in a hundred possesses the industry andresolution necessary to acquire this knowledge, and this, though he istaught from infancy to desire a good income, and knows that thisadditional power will go far to procure it. Again, these boys comefrom homes where there are some books at least, some journals, andsome papers; and they hear at their offices and at home talk whichshould stimulate them to effort. Yet most of them lie where they are. 

If such boys as these remain in indolence, what are we to expect ofthose who belong to the lower levels? For they have no books at home, no magazines, no journals; they hear no talk of learning or knowledge;if they wanted to read, what are they to read? and where are they tofind books? Free libraries are few and far between: in all London, forinstance, I can find but five or six. They are those at the Guildhall, Bethnal Green, Westminster, Camden Town, Notting Hill, andKnightsbridge. Put a red dot upon each of these sites on the map ofLondon, and consider how very small can be the influence of theselibraries over the whole of this great city. Boys and girls atthirteen have no inclination to read newspapers; there remains, therefore, nothing but the penny novelette for those who have anydesire to read at all. There is, it is true, the evening school, butit is not often found to possess attractions for these children. Again, after their day's work and confinement in the hot rooms, theyare tired; they want fresh air and exercise. To sum up: there are noexisting inducements for the children to read and study; most of themare sluggish of intellect; outside the evening schools there are nofacilities for them at all; they have no books; when evening comesthey are tired; they do not understand their own interests; after aday's work they like an evening's rest; of the two paths open to everyman at every juncture, one is for the most part hidden to children, and the other is always the easier. 

Therefore they spend their evenings in the streets. They wouldsometimes, I dare say, prefer the gallery of the theatre or themusic-hall, but these are not often within reach of their means. Thestreet is always open to them. Here they find their companions of theworkroom; here they feel the strong, swift current of life; heresomething is always happening; here there are always new pleasures;here they can talk and play, unrestrained, left wholly to themselves, taking for pattern those who are a little older than themselves. Asfor their favourite amusements and their pleasures, they grow yearlycoarser; as for their conversation, it grows continually viler, untilZola himself would be ashamed to reproduce the talk of these youngpeople. The love which these children have for the street iswonderful; no boulevard in the world, I am sure, is more loved by itsfrequenters than the Whitechapel Road, unless it be the High Street, Islington. Especially is this the case with the girls. There is acertain working girls' club with which I am acquainted whose members, when they leave the club at ten, go back every night to the streetsand walk about till midnight; they would rather give up their clubthan the street. As for the moral aspect of this roaming about thestreets, that may for a moment be neglected. Consider the situationfrom an educational point of view. How long, do you think, does ittake to forget almost all that the boys and girls learned at school?'The garden, ' says one who knows, 'which by daily culture has beenbrought into such an admirable and promising condition, is given overto utter neglect; the money, the time, the labour, bestowed upon itare lost. ' In the first two years after leaving school it is said thatthey have forgotten everything. There is, however, it is objected, theuse and exercise of the intellectual faculty. Can that, once taught, ever be forgotten? By way of reply, consider this case. The other daytwenty young mechanics were persuaded to join a South Kensingtonclass. Of the whole twenty one only struggled through the course andpassed his examination; the rest dropped off, one after the other, insheer despair, because they had lost not only the little knowledgethey had once acquired, but even the methods of application and studywhich they had formerly been able to exercise. There are exceptions, of course; it is computed, in fact, that there are 4 per cent. OfBoard School boys and girls who carry on their studies in the eveningschools, but this proportion is said to be decreasing. After thirteen, no school, no books, no reading or writing, nothing to keep up the oldknowledge, no kind of conversation that stimulates; no examples ofperseverance; in a great many cases no church, chapel, orSunday-school; the street for playground, exercise, observation, andtalk; what kind of young men and maidens are we to expect that theseboys and girls will become? If this were the exact, plain, and nakedtruth we were in a parlous state indeed. Fortunately, however, therearc in every parish mitigations, introduced principally by those whocome from the city of Samaria, or it would be bad indeed for the nextgeneration. There are a few girls' clubs; the church, the chapel, andthe Sunday-school get hold of many children; visiting and kindlyladies look after others. There are working boys' institutes here andthere, but these things taken together are almost powerless with thegreat mass which remains unaffected. The evil for the most part lieshidden, yet one sometimes lights upon a case which shows that theresults of our own neglect of the children may be such as cannot beplaced on paper for general reading. For instance, on last August BankHoliday I was on Hampstead Heath. The East Heath was crowded with anoisy, turbulent, good-tempered mob, enjoying, as a London crowdalways does, the mere presence of a multitude. There was a littlerough horse-play and the exchange of favourite witticisms, and therewas some preaching and a great singing of irreverent parodies; therewas little drunkenness and little bad behaviour except for half adozen troops or companies of girls. They were quite young, none ofthem apparently over fifteen or sixteen. They were running abouttogether, not courting the company of the boys, but contented withtheir own society, and loudly talking and shouting as they ran amongthe swings and merry-go-rounds and other attractions of the fair. Imay safely aver that language more vile and depraved, revealingknowledge and thoughts more vile and depraved, I have never heard fromany grown men or women in the worst part of the town. At mereprofanity, of course, these girls would be easily defeated by men, butnot in absolute vileness. The quiet working men among whom they ranlooked on in amazement and disgust; they had never heard anything inall their lives to equal the abomination of these girls' language. Now, they were girls who had all, I suppose, passed the third orfourth standard. At thirteen they had gone into the workshop and thestreet. Of all the various contrivances to influence the young not onehad as yet caught hold of them; the kerbstone and the pavements of thestreet were their schools; as for their conversation, it had in thisshort time developed to a vileness so amazing. What refininginfluence, what trace of good manners, what desire for better things, what self-restraint, respect, or government, was left in the minds ofthese girls as a part of their education? As one of the bystanders, himself of the working class, said to me, 'God help their husbands!'Yes, poverty has many stings; but there can be none sharper than thenecessity of marrying one of these poor neglected creatures. 

We do not, therefore, only leave the children without education; wealso leave them, at the most important age, I suppose, of anynamely--the age of early adolescence--without guidance or supervision. How should we like our own girls left free to run about the streets atthirteen years of age? Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen--howcan we ever forget this time?--there falls upon boy and girl alike astrange and subtle change. It is a time when the brain is full ofstrange new imaginings, when the thoughts go vaguely forth to unknownsplendours; when the continuity of self is broken, and the lad ofto-day is different from him of yesterday; when the energies, physicaland intellectual, wake into new life, and impel the youth in newdirections. Everyone has been young, but somehow we forget that sweetspring season. Let us try to remember, in the interests of theuncared-for youths and girls, the time of glorious dreaming, when theboy became a man, and stood upon some peak in Darien to gaze upon thepurple isles of life in the great ocean beyond, peopled by men whowere as heroes and by women who were as goddesses. Our own dreamingwas glorified, to be sure, with memories of things we had read; yet, as we dreamed, so, but without the colour lent to our visions, thesesallow-faced lads, with the long and ugly coats and the round-toppedhats, are dreaming now. For want of our help their dreams becomenightmares, and in their brains are born devils of every evil passion. And, for the girls, although not all can become so bad as thosefoul-mouthed young Bacchantes and raging Mænads of Hamstead Heath, itwould seem as if nothing could be left to them, after the education ofthe gutter--nothing at all--of the things which we associate with holyand gracious womanhood. 

Truly, from the moral as well as the educational point of view, hereis a great evil disclosed. There is, however, another aspect of thequestion, which must not be forgotten. If we are to hold our place atthe head of the industrial countries of the world, our workmen musthave technical education. But this can only be received by those whopossess already a certain amount of knowledge, and that a good dealbeyond the grasp of a child of thirteen years. How, then, can it bemade to reach those who have lost the whole of what once they knew?

These facts are, I believe, beyond any dispute or doubt. They haveonly to be stated in order to be appreciated. They affect not Londononly, but every great town. The working men themselves have recognisedthe gravity of the situation, and are anxious to provide some remedy. At Nottingham an address, signed on behalf of the School Board and theNottingham Trades Council, has been addressed to the employers oflabour, entreating them to assist in the establishment and maintenanceof remedial measures. At the meeting of the Trades Unions'representatives held in London last year, two resolutions on thesubject were passed; and the School Boards of London, Glasgow, andNottingham are all willing to lend their schools for evening use. Forthere is but one thing possible or practical--the evening school, InGermany, Switzerland, Holland, and Belgium, children are by lawcompelled to attend 'continuation' schools until the age of sixteen. In some places the zeal of the people for education outstrips even theGovernment regulations. At the town of Chemnitz, in Saxony, forexample, with a population of 92, 000 inhabitants, the Workmen's Unionhave started a Continuation school with a far more comprehensivesystem of subjects and classes than that provided by legislation. Itis attended by over 2, 000 scholars, a very large proportion of theinhabitants between thirteen and eighteen years of age. There isnothing possible but the evening school. The children _must_ be sentto work at thirteen or fourteen; they _must_ work all day; it is onlyin the evening school that this education can be carried on, and thatthey can be rescued from the contaminations and dangers of thestreets. But two difficulties present themselves. There is no law bywhich the children can be compelled to attend the evening school. How, then, can they be made to come in? And if the rate is now ninepence, what will it be when to the burden of the elementary school is addedthat of the Continuation school?

A scheme has been proposed which has so far met with favour that acommittee, including persons of every class, has been formed topromote it. Briefly it is as follows:

The Continuation school is to be established in this country. Thedifficulties of the situation will be met, not by compelling thechildren to attend, but by persuading and attracting them. Much ishoped from parents' influence now that working men understand thesituation; much may be hoped from the children themselves beinginterested, and from others' example. The Continuation school willhave two branches--the recreative and the instructive. And since aftera hard day's work the children must have amusement, play will be foundfor them in the shape of 'Rhythmic Drill, ' which is defined as'pleasant orderly movement accompanied by music, ' and the instructionis promised to be conveyed in a more attractive and pleasing mannerthan that of the elementary schools. The latter announcement is atfirst discouraging, because effective teaching must requireintellectual exercise and application, which may not always proveattractive. As regards the former, it seems as if the projectors werereally going at last to recognise dancing as one of the mostdelightful, healthful, and innocent amusements possible. I am quitesure that if we can only make up our minds to give the young peopleplenty of dancing, they will gratefully, in exchange, attend anynumber of science classes. Next, there will be singing--a great dealof singing, of course, in parts--which will still further lead to thatorderly association of young men and maidens which is so desirable athing and so wholesome for the human soul. There will also be classesin drawing and design--the very commencement of technical instructionand the necessary foundation of skilled handicraft. There will be forboys classes in some elementary science bearing on their trade; forgirls there will be lessons in domestic economy and elementarycooking; and for both boys and girls there will be classes in thoseminor arts which are just now coming to the front, such as modelling, wood-carving, repoussé work, and so forth. In fact, if the childrencan only be persuaded to come in, or can be hailed in, from thestreets, there is no end at all to the things which may be taughtthem. 

As regards the management of these schools, it seems, as if we couldhardly do better than follow the example of Nottingham. Here they havealready five evening schools, and seven working men are appointedmanagers for each school. The work is thus made essentiallydemocratic. These managers have begun by calling upon clergymen, Sunday-school teachers, employers of labour, leaders of trades unions, and, one supposes, _pères de famille_ generally, to use theirinfluence in making children attend these schools. The management ofsuch schools by the people is a feature of the greatest interest andimportance. As regards the girls' schools, it is suggested that 'lady'managers should be appointed for each school. Alas! It is not yetthought possible or desirable that working women should be appointed. Then follows the question of expense. It cannot be supposed that therate-payer is going to look on with indifference to so great anadditional burden as this stupendous work threatens to lay upon him. But let him rest easy. It is not proposed to add one penny to therates. The schools are to cost nothing--a fact which will add greatlyto their popularity and assist their establishment. It is proposed topay the necessary expenses of Board School teachers' work there willbe nothing to pay for the use of the buildings--by the Governmentgrant for drawing and for one other specific class subject. Next, asmall additional grant will be asked for singing, and one formodelling, carving, or design: the standards must be divided in theevening schools, and there must be necessarily a more elastic methodof examination adopted for the evening than for the day schools, onewhich will be more observant of intelligence than careful of memoryconcerning facts. Still, when all the aid that can be expected is gotfrom the Government grants, the, schools will not be self-supporting. Here, then, comes in the really novel part of the project. _The restmust be supplied by voluntary work. _ The trained staff of the SchoolBoard teachers will instruct the classes in those subjects required orsanctioned by the Department for which grants are made; but for allother subjects--the recreative, the technical, the scientific, theminor arts, the history, the dancing, and the rest--the schools willdepend wholly upon volunteer teachers. 

We must not disguise the audacity of the scheme. There are, I believe, in London alone 120 schools, for which 2, 400 volunteers will berequired. They must not be mere amateurs or kindly, benevolent people, who will lightly or in a fit of enthusiasm undertake the work, andafter a month or so throw it over in weariness of the drudgery; theymust be honest workers, who will give thought and take trouble overthe work they have in hand, who will keep to their time, stick totheir engagement, study the art of teaching, and be amenable to orderand discipline. Are there so many as 2, 400 such teachers to be foundin London, without counting the many thousands wanted for the rest ofthe country? It seems a good-sized army of volunteers to raise. 

Let us, however, consider. First, there is the hopeful fact that theSunday-School Union numbers 12, 000 teachers--all voluntary andunpaid--in London alone. There is, next, another hopeful fact in therapid development of the Home Arts Association, which has existed forno more than a year or two. The teaching is wholly voluntary; andvolunteers are crowding in faster than the slender means of theSociety can provide schools for them to teach in, and the machinery, materials, and tools to teach with. Even with these facts before us, the projector and dreamer of the scheme may appear a bold man when heasks for 2, 400 men and women to help him, not in a religious but apurely secular scheme. Yet it may not appear to many people purelysecular when they remember that he asks for this large army ofunselfish men and women--so unselfish as to give some of their time, thought, and activity for nothing, not even praise, but only out oflove for the children--from a population of four millions, all of whomhave been taught, and most believe, that self-sacrifice is the mostdivine thing that man can offer. To suppose that one in every twothousand is willing to the extent of an hour or two every week tofollow at a distance the example of his acknowledged Master does not, after all, seem so very extravagant, For my own part, I believe thatfor every post there will be a dozen volunteers. Is that extravagant?It means no more than a poor 1 per cent, of such distant followers. 

Those who go at all among the poor, and try to find out for themselvessomething of what goes on beneath the surface, presently become awareof a most remarkable movement, whispers of which from time to timereach the upper strata. All over London--no doubt over other greattowns as well, but I know no other great town--there are at this dayliving, for the most part in obscurity, unpaid, and in some casesalone, men and women of the gentle class, among the poor, working forthem, thinking for them, and even in some cases thinking with them. One such case I know where a gentlewoman has spent the greater part ofher life among the industrial poor of the East End, so that she hascome to think as they think, to look on things from their point ofview, though not to talk as they talk. Some of these men are vicars, curates, Nonconformist ministers, Roman Catholic clergymen; some ofthe women are Roman Catholic sisters and nuns; others are sham nuns, Anglicans, who seem to find that an ugly dress keeps them moresteadily to their work; others are deaconesses or Bible-women. Some, again, and it is to these that one turns with the greatest hope--theymay or may not be actuated by religious motives--are bound by no vows, nor tied to any church. When twenty years ago Edward Denison went tolive in Philpot Lane, he was quite alone in his voluntary work. He hadno companion to try that experiment with him. Now he would be one ofmany. At Toynbee Hall are gathered together a company of young andgenerous hearts, who give their best without grudge or stint to theirpoorer brethren. There are rich men who have retired from the hauntsof the wealthy, and voluntarily chosen to place their homes among thepoor. There are men who work all day at business, and in the eveningdevote themselves to the care of working boys; there are women, underno vows, who read in hospitals, preside at cheap dinners, take care ofgirls' clubs, collect rents, and in a thousand ways bring light andkindness into dark places. The clergy of the Established Church, whomay be regarded as almoners and missionaries of civilization ratherthan of religion, seeing how few of the poor attend their services, can generally command voluntary help when they ask for it. Voluntarywork in generous enterprise is no longer, happily, so rare that menregard it with surprise; yet it belongs essentially to this century, and almost to this generation. Since the Reformation the work ofEnglish charity presents three distinct aspects. First came thefoundation of almshouses and the endowment of doles. Nothing, surely, can be more delightful than to found an almshouse, and to considerthat for generations to come there will be a haven of rest providedfor so many old people past their work. The soul of King James'sconfectioner--good Balthazar Sanchez--must, we feel sure, stillcontemplate his cottages at Tottenham with complacency; one hopes HisMajesty was not overcharged in the matter of pasties and comfits inorder to find the endowment for those cottages. Even the dole of a fewloaves every Sunday to as many aged poor has its attraction, thoughnecessarily falling far short of the solid satisfaction to be derivedfrom the foundation of an almshouse. But the period of almshousespassed away, and that of Societies succeeded. For a hundred years thewell-to-do of this country have been greatly liberal for every kind ofphilanthropic effort. But they have conducted their charity as theyhave conducted their business, by drawing cheques. The clergy, thesecretaries, and the committees have done the active work, administering the funds subscribed by the rich man's cheques. Thesystem of cheque-charity has its merits as well as its defects, because the help given does generally reach the people for whom it wasintended. Compared, however, with the real thing, which is essentiallypersonal, it may be likened unto the good old method--which gave therich man so glorious an advantage--of getting into heaven by payingfor masses. Its principal defect is that it keeps apart the rich andpoor, creates and widens the breach between classes, causing those whohave the money to consider that it is theirs by Divine right, andthose who have it not to forget that the origin of wealth is thriftand patience and energy, and that the way to wealth is always open forall who dare to enter and to practise these virtues. 

It has been reserved for this century, almost for this generation, todiscover that the highest form of charity is personal effort andself-sacrifice. It has also been reserved for this time to show thatwhat was only possible in former times for those who were under vows, so that in old days they man or woman who was moved by the enthusiasmof humanity put on robe or veil and swore celibacy and obedience, canreally be practised quite as well without religious vows, peculiardress, articles of religion, papal allegiance, or anything of thekind. The doubter, the agnostic, the atheist, may as truly sacrificehimself and give up his life for humanity as the most saintly of thefaithful. There was an enthusiast fifteen years ago who cheerfullyendured prison and exile, poverty and persecution, for what seemed tohim the one thing in the world desirable and necessary to mankind. Ibelieve he was an atheist. Then came a time when, for a brief moment, the dream was realized. And immediately afterwards it crumbled to thedust. When all was lost, the poor old man arose, and, bareheaded, hiswhite hair flying behind him in the breeze, this martyr to humanitymounted a barricade, and stood there until the bullets brought himdeath. This is the enthusiasm which may be intensified, disciplined, and ennobled by religion, but it is independent of religion; it is apersonal quality, like the power of feeling music or writing poetry. When it is encouraged and developed, it produces men and women who canonly find their true happiness in renouncing all personal ambitions, and giving up all hopes of distinction. They have hitherto sought theopportunity of satisfying this instinctive yearning in the Church andin the convent. They have now found a readier if not a happier way, with more liberty of action and fewer chains of rule and custom, outside the Church, as lay-helpers. It seems to me, perhaps because Iam old enough to have fallen under the influence of Maurice'steaching, that a large part of this voluntary spirit is due to thewritings of that great teacher and his followers. Certainly theCollege for Working Men and Women was founded by men of his school, and has grown and now flourishes exceedingly, and is a monument ofvoluntary effort sustained, passing from hand to hand, continuallygrowing, and always bringing together more and more closely those whoteach and those who are taught. Cheque-charity may harden the heart ofhim who gives, and pauperize him who takes. That charity which ispersonal can neither harden nor pauperize. 

Considering these things, therefore, the impulse to personal effortwhich has fallen upon us, the greatness of the work that is to bedone, the simplicity of the means to be employed, and the cooperationof the better kind of working men themselves, I cannot but think thatthe promoters of this scheme have only to hold up their hands in orderto collect as many voluntary teachers as they wish to have. 

There is a selfish side to this scheme which ought not to be entirelyoverlooked. It is this: The wealth of Great Britain is not, as someseem to suppose, a gold-mine into which we can dig at pleasure; nor isit a mine of coal or iron into which we can dig as the demand arises. Our wealth is nothing but the prosperity of the country, and thisdepends wholly on the industry, the patience, and the skill of theworking man; everything we possess is locked up, somehow or other, inindustrial enterprise, or depends upon the success of industrialenterprise; our railways, our ships, our shares of every kind, eventhe interest of our National Debt, depend upon the maintenance of ourtrade. The dividends even of gas and water companies depend upon thesuccessful carrying on of trade and manufactures. We may readilyconceive of a time when--our manufactures ruined by superior foreignintelligence and skill, our railways earning no profit, our carryingtrade lost, our agriculture destroyed by foreign imports, our farmswithout farmers, our houses without tenants--the boasted wealth ofEngland will have vanished like a splendid dream of the morning, andthe children of the rich will have become even as the children of thepoor; all this may be within measurable distance, and may very wellhappen before the death of men who are now no more than middle-aged. Considering this, as well as the other points in favour of the schemebefore us, it may be owned that it is best to look after the boys andgirls while it is yet time. 

[1886. ]

THE PEOPLE'S PALACE

Now that the foundations of the Palace are fairly laid, and the wallsof the Great Hall are rapidly rising, and the future existence of thisinstitution for good or for evil seems assured, it may be permitted toone who has watched day by day, with the keenest interest, the resultof Sir Edmund Currie's appeals, to offer a few remarks on the mannerin which these appeals have been received, and on the mental attitudeof the public towards the class whom it is desired to befriend. 

I. It is, to begin with, highly significant that the recreative sideof the Palace has not been so strongly insisted upon as itseducational side. Is this because the working man, for whom the Palaceis building, has suddenly developed an extraordinary ardour foreducation, and a previously unexpected desire for the acquisition ofknowledge in all its branches? Not at all. It is because therecreative part of the scheme has few attractions for the generalpublic, and because the educational part, once it began to assume apractical shape, was seen to possess possibilities which could begrasped by everyone. Whatever be the future of the Palace as regardsthe recreation of the people, one thing is quite clear--that itseducational capacities are almost boundless, and that there will befounded here a University for the People of a kind hitherto unknownand undreamed of. 

The recreation of the people, in fact, has proved a stumbling-blockrather than an attraction. It is a new idea suddenly presented topeople who have never considered the subject of recreation at all, save in connection with skittles, so to speak. Now it seems hardlynecessary to erect a splendid palace for the better convenience of theskittle alley. The objections, in fact, to supporting the scheme onthe ground of its recreative aims show a mixture of prejudice andignorance which ought to astonish us were we not daily, in everybusiness transaction and in every talk with friend or stranger, encountering, and very likely revealing, the most wonderful prejudiceand ignorance. One should never be surprised at finding great blackpatches in every mind. 

The black patch which concerns us, in the minds of those who have beenasked to support the People's Palace, is the subject of recreation. 'There are enough music-halls. What have the working classes to dowith recreation? If we give anything for the people it will be fortheir improvement, not for their amusement. ' To these three objectionsall the rest may be reduced. Each objection points to a prejudice ofvery ancient standing, or else to a deep-seated ignorance of the wholesubject. 

To deal with the first. It is assumed that recreation means amusement, idle and purposeless, if not skittles with beer and tobacco, then themusic-hall with beer and tobacco, the comic man bawling a topical songand executing the famous clog-dance. If one points out that it is notamusement that is meant, but recreation, which is explained to mean avery different thing, while a truer conception of what recreationreally means may be seized, then there remains a rooted disbelief asto the power of the working man to rise above his beer and skittles. It is a disbelief not at all based upon familiarity with the mannersand customs of the working man, because the ordinary well-to-docitizen, however much he may have read of manners and customs in othercountries, is, as a rule, perfectly ignorant and perfectly incuriousas to those of his fellow-countrymen; nor is it based upon the beliefthat the working man is imperfect in mind or body; but on an assurancethat the working man will never lift himself to the level of thehigher form of recreation, simply because the ordinary man knowshimself and his own practice. He desires to be amused, and accordingto his manner of life he finds amusement in tobacco, reading, cards, music, or the theatre. 

Consider the well-to-do man in pursuit of recreation. He has a club;he goes to his club every day; perhaps he gets whist there; verylikely he belongs to one of the modern sepulchral places where themembers do not know each other and every man glares at his neighbour. There is a billiard-table in all clubs as well as a card-room. Apartfrom cards and billiards the clubs recognise no form of recreationwhatever. There are not in any club that I know, except the Savage, musical instruments: if you were to propose to have a piano, and tosing at it, I suppose the universal astonishment would be too greatfor words. At the Arts, I believe, some of the members sometimes hangup pictures of their own for exhibition and criticism, but at no otherclub is there any recognition of Art. There are good libraries at twoor three clubs, but many have none. In fact, the clubs which belong togentlemen are organized as if there was no other occupation possiblefor civilized people in polite society, except dining, smoking, reading papers, or playing whist and billiards. The working men whohave recently established clubs of their own in imitation of theWest-End clubs are said to be finding them so dull that, where theycannot turn them into political organizations, they have tolerated theintroduction of gambling. When clubs were first established gamblingwas everywhere the favourite recreation, so that the working men areonly beginning where their predecessors began sixty years ago. 

Of all the Arts the average man, be he gentleman or mechanic, knowsnone. He has never learned to play any instrument at all; he cannotuse his voice in taking a part, he cannot paint, draw, carve in woodor ivory, use a lathe, or make anything that the wide world wants touse. He cannot write poetry, or drama, or fiction; he is no orator; heplays no games of cards except whist, and no other games at all of anykind. What can he do? He can practise the trade he has learned, bywhich he makes his money. He knows how to convey property, how to buyand sell stock and shares, how to carry on business in the City. This, if you please, is all he knows. And when you propose that the workingman shall, have an opportunity of learning and practising Art in anyof its multitudinous varieties, he laughs derisively, because, whichis a very natural and sensible thing to do, he puts himself in thatman's place, and he knows that he would not be tempted to undergo thedrudgery and the drill of learning one of the Arts, even did that Artappear to him in the form of a nymph more lovely than Helen of Troy. 

The second objection belongs to the old order of prejudice. It used tobe assumed that there were two distinct orders of human beings; it wasthe privilege of the higher order to be maintained by the labour ofthe lower; for the higher order was reserved all the graces, refinements, and joys of this fleeting life. The lower order wereprivileged to work for their betters, and to have, in the briefintervals between work and sleep, their own coarse enjoyments, whichwere not the same as those of the upper class; they were ordained byProvidence to be different, not only in degree, but also in kind. Theprivileges of the former class have received of late years manygrievous knocks. They have had to admit into their body, as capable ofthe higher social pleasures and of polite culture, an enormousaccession of people who actually work for their own bread--even peoplein trade; and it is beginning to be perceived that theiramusements--also, which seems the last straw, their vices--canactually be enjoyed by the base mechanical sort, insomuch that, ifthis kind of thing goes on, there must in the end follow an effacementof all classes, and the peer will walk arm and arm with theblacksmith. But class distinctions die hard, and the working men arenot yet all ready for the disciplined recreation which will help tobreak down the barriers, and we may not look for this millenniumwithin the lifetime of living men. It is enough to note that the oldfeeling still lingers even among those who, a hundred years ago, whenclass distinctions were in their worst and most odious form, wouldhave been ranked among those incapable of refinement and ignorant ofpolite manners. 

The third objection, that the people should only be helped in the wayof education and self-improvement, is, at first sight, worthy ofrespect. But it involves the theory that it is the duty of the workingman when he has done his day's work to devote his evenings to morework of a harder kind. There is a kind of hypocrisy in this feeling. Why should the working man be fired with that ardour for knowledgewhich is not expected of ourselves? I look round among my ownacquaintances and friends, and I declare that I do not know a singlehousehold, except where the head of it is a literary man, andtherefore obliged to be always studying and learning, in which themembers spend their evenings after the day's work in the acquisitionof new branches of learning. One may go farther: even of those whobelong to the learned professions, few indeed there are who carry ontheir studies beyond the point where their knowledge has a marketablevalue. The doctor learns his craft as thoroughly as he can, and, afterhe has passed, reads no more than is just necessary to keep his eyesopen to new lights; the solicitor knows enough law to carry on hisbusiness, and reads no more. As for the schoolmaster--who ever heardof a classical master reading any more Latin and Greek than he readswith the boys? and who ever heard of a mathematical master keeping uphis knowledge of the higher branches, which put him among thewranglers of his year, but are not wanted in the school? Even the ladswho have just begun to go into the City, and who know very well thattheir value would be enormously increased by a practical and realknowledge of French, German, or shorthand, will not take the troubleto acquire it. Yet, with the knowledge of all this, we expect theworking man in his hours of leisure, and after a day physicallyexhausting, to sit down and work at something intellectual. There are, without doubt, some men so strong and so avid of knowledge that theywill do this, but these are not many, and they do not long remainworking men. 

The People's Palace offers recreation to all who wish to fitthemselves for its practice and enjoyment. But it is recreation of akind which demands skill, patience, discipline, drill, and obedienceto law. Those who master any one of the Arts, the practice of whichconstitutes true recreation, have left once and for ever the ranks ofdisorder: they belong, by virtue of their aptitude and theireducation--say, by virtue of their Election--to the army of Law andOrder. They will not, we may be sure, be recruited from those whomlong years of labour and want of cultivation have tendered stiff offinger, slow of ear and of eye, impenetrable of brain. We must getthem from the boys and girls. We must be content if the elders learnto take delight in the hand-work which they cannot execute, thedecorative work which they can never hope wholly to understand, themusic and singing in which they themselves will never take a part. 

But they will by no means be left out. They will have the library, thewriting and reading rooms, the conversation and smoking rooms, withthose games of skill which are loved by all men. There will beentertainments, concerts, and performances for them. And for those whodesire to learn there will be classes, lectures, and lecturers. At thesame time, I do not, I confess, anticipate a rush of young working mento share in these joys and privileges. This part of the Palace willgrow and develop by degrees, because it is through the boys and girlsthat the real work and usefulness of the Palace will be effected, andnot by means of the men. Of course, there will be from the outset asmall proportion capable of rightly using the place. For all thesereasons, it seems as if we may be very well contented that therecreation part of the scheme has been for the moment kept in thebackground. 

II. Let us turn to the educational side of the scheme. 

When a lad has passed the standards--very likely a bright, cleverlittle chap, who had passed the sixth and even the seventh standardwith credit--it becomes necessary for him immediately to earn thegreater part of his own living. It is not in the power of his father, who lives from week to week, or even from day to day, to apprenticehis boys and put them to a trade. They must earn their living at once. What are they to do?

At the very age when these boys have reached the point when theintellect, already partly trained and the hand, not yet trained atall, should begin to work together, they are faced by the terriblefact--how terrible to them they little know--that they can be taughtno trade. They must go out into the world with a pair of unskilledhands, and nothing more. Consider. A country lad learns every daysomething new; he learns continually by daily practice how to use hishands and his strength, by the time he is eighteen he has become avery highly skilled agriculturist; he knows and can do a great manymost useful and necessary things. But the town lad, if he learns notrade, learns nothing. He will never have any chance in life; he cannever have any chance; he is foredoomed to misery; he will all hislife be a servant of the lowest kind; he will never have the leastindependence; he will, in all probability, be one of those who waitday by day for the chance gifts of Luck. At the best, he can but getinto the railway service, or into some house of business where theywant porters and carriers. 

There is, however, a great demand for boys, who can earn fiveshillings a week as shop boys, errand boys, and so forth. Our cleverlad, therefore, who has done so well at school, becomes a fruiterer'slad, cleans out the shop, carries round the baskets, and is generallyuseful; he gets a rise in a year or two, to seven shillings andsixpence; presently he is dismissed to make room for a younger boy whowill take five shillings. Shall we follow the lad farther? If he gets, as we hope he may, steady employment, we see him next, at the age offifteen, marching about the streets in the evening with a girl of thesame age to whom he makes love, and smoking 'fags, ' or cigarettes. There are thousands of such pairs to be seen everywhere; in VictoriaPark on Sundays, or Hampstead Heath on Saturday evenings, everyevening in the great thoroughfares--in Oxford Street as much as inWhitechapel, in the music-halls and in the public-houses. You may seethem sitting together on doorsteps as well as promenading thepavement. If there is any way of spending the evenings moredestructive of every good gift and useful quality of manhood andwomanhood than this, I know not what it is. The idleness anduselessness of it, the precocious abuse of tobacco, the premature andforced development of the emotions which should belong to love at alater period, the loss of such intellectual attainments as had alreadybeen acquired, the vacuous mind, the contentment to remain in thelower depths--in a word, the waste and wanton ruin of a life involvedin such a youth, make the contemplation of this pair the mostmelancholy sight in the world. The boy's early cleverness is gone, thebrightness has left his eyes, he reads no more, he has forgotten allhe ever learned, he thinks only now of keeping his berth, if he hasone, or of getting another if he has lost his last. But there is worseto follow, for at eighteen he will marry the little slip of a girl, and by the time she is five-and-twenty there will be half a dozenchildren born in poverty and privation for a similar life of povertyand privation, and the hapless parents will have endured all thatthere is to be endured from the evils of hunger, cold, starvingchildren, and want of work. 

This couple were thrown together because they were left to themselvesand uncared for; they marry because they have nothing else to thinkabout; they remain in misery because the husband knows no trade, andbecause of mere hands unskilled and ignorant there are already morethan enough. 

The Palace is going to take that boy out of the streets: it is goingto remove both from boy and girl the temptation--that of the idlehand--to go away and get married. It will fill that lad's mind withthoughts and make those hands deft and crafty. 

In other words, the Palace will open a great technical school for allthe trades as well as for all the Arts. It is reckoned that threeyears' training in the evenings will give a boy a trade. Once masterof a trade his future is assured, because somewhere in the world thereis always a want of tradesmen of every kind. There may be too manyshoemakers in London while they are wanted in Queensland;cabinet-makers and carpenters may be overcrowded here, but there areall the English-speaking countries in the world to choose from. 

There can be no doubt that the schools will be crowded. The success ofthe schools at the old Polytechnic (where there are 8, 000 boys), ofthe Whittington Club, of the Finsbury Technical Schools, leave nodoubt possible that the East-End Palace Schools will be crammed witheager learners. The Palace is in the very heart and centre of EastLondon, with its two millions, mostly working men; trams, trains, andomnibuses make it accessible from every part of this vast city--fromBromley, Bow and Stratford, from Poplar, Stepney and Ratcliff, fromBethnal Green and Spitalfields. Yet but two or three years, and therewill be 20, 000 boys and more flocking to those gates which shut outthe Earthly Hell of ignorance, dependence, and poverty, and open thedoors to the Earthly Paradise of skilled hands and drilled eye, ofplenty and the dignity of manhood. Why, if it were only to stop theseearly marriages--if only for the sake of the poor child-mother and theunborn children doomed, if they see the light, to life-longmisery--one would shower upon the Palace all the money that is askedto complete it. Think--with every stone that is laid in its place, with every hour of work that each mason bestows upon its walls, thereis another couple rescued, one more lad made into a man, one more girlsuffered to grow into a woman before she becomes a mother, one morehumble household furnished with the means of a livelihood, one moreunborn family rescued from the curse of hopeless poverty. 

The remaining portions of the scheme, with its provision for women aswell as men, its entertainments, its University extension lectures, reading-rooms, and schools of Art in all its branches, can only befully realized when the first generation of these boys has passedthrough the technical schools, and they have learned to look upon thePalace as their own, to consider its halls and cloisters the mostdelightful place in the world. And what the Palace may then become, what a perennial fountain it may prove of all that makes for thepurification and elevation of life, one would fain endeavour todepict, but may not, for fear of the charge of extravagance. 

III. There is one other point which those who have read thecorrespondence and comments upon the proposed institution in thepapers have noted with amusement rather than with astonishment. It isa point which comes out in everything that has been written on thescheme, except by the actual founders. It is the profound distrustwith which the more wealthy classes regard the working men--not thepoor, so-called, but the working men. They do not seem even to havebegun trusting them: they speak and think of them as if they werechildren in leading-strings; as if they were certain to accept withgratitude whatever gifts may be bestowed upon them, even when they aresafe-guarded and carefully regulated as for mischievous boys; as ifthe working men were constantly looking for guidance to the classwhich has the money. It is true that the working men are alwayslooking for guidance, just like the rest of us. 'Lord, send a leader!'It is the cry of all mankind in all ages. But that the working menregard the people who live in villas, and are genteel, as possessingmore wisdom than themselves is by no means certain. 

This feeling was, of course, most deeply marked when the great DrinkQuestion arose, as it was bound to arise. We have heard how meetingswere called, and resolutions passed by worthy people against theadmission of intoxicating drinks into the Palace. At one of themeetings they had the audacity to pass a resolution that 'East Londonwill never be satisfied until intoxicating drink of any kind isprohibited in the Palace. ' East London! with its thousands ofpublic-houses! Dear me! Then, if East London passed such a resolution, its hypocrisy surpasses the hypocrisy of the Scribes and Pharisees. If, however, a little knot of people choose to call themselves EastLondon, or Babylon, or Rome, and to pass resolutions in the name ofthose cities, we can accept their resolutions for what they are worth. Whether the working man will adopt them and put them into practice isanother matter altogether. 

Let us remember, and constantly bear in mind, that the Palace is to be_governed by the people for themselves_. Otherwise it would be betterfor East London that it had never been erected. Whatever we do orresolve is, in fact, subject to the will of the governing body. As forpassing a resolution on drink for the Palace, we might just as wellresolve that drink shall not be sold to the members of the House ofCommons, and expect them instantly to close their cellars. If thegoverning body wish to have drink in the Palace they will have it, whether we like it or not. But it shows the profound distrust of thepeople that these restrictions should be attempted and theseresolutions passed. For my own part, considering the needlessness ofdrink in such a place, the abundant facilities provided outside, andthe enormous additional trouble, danger, and expense entailed byletting drink be sold in a place where there will be every eveningthousands of young people, I am quite sure that the governingbody--that is to say, the chosen representatives of East London--willnever admit it within their walls. 

We do not trust the working man. We have given over to him the wholeof the power. All the power there is we have given to him, because hestands in an enormous majority. We have made him absolute master ofthis realm of Great Britain and Ireland. What could we do more for aman whom we blindly and implicitly trusted? Yet the working man, forwhom we have done so much, we have not yet begun to trust. 

SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CITY

On Saturday afternoon, when the last of the clerks bangs the greatdoor behind him and steps out of the office on his way home; when theshutters of the warehouses are at last all closed; there falls uponthe street a silence and loneliness which lasts from three o'clock onSaturday till eight o'clock on Monday--a sleep unbroken for forty-onelong hours. In the main arteries, it is true, there is always a littlelife; the tramp of feet never ceases day or night in Fleet Street orCheapside. But in all the narrow streets branching north and south, east and west, of the great thoroughfares there is silence--there issleep. This Sabbath of forty hours' duration is absolutelyunparalleled in any other City of the world. There is no other place, there never has been any other place, in which not only work ceases, but where the workers also disappear. In that far-off City of theRabbis called Sambatyon, where live the descendants of the Ten Tribes, the river which surrounds and protects the City with its broad andmighty flood, too strong for boats to cross, ceases to flow on theSabbath; but it is not pretended that the people cease to live there. Of no other City can it be said that it sleeps from Saturday nighttill Monday morning. 

An attempt is made to awaken the City every Sunday morning when thebells begin to ring, and there is as great and joyful a ringing fromevery church tower or steeple as if the bells were calling thefaithful, as of old, by the hundred thousand; they go on ringingbecause it is their duty; they were hung up there for no otherpurpose; hidden away in the towers, they do not know that the peoplehave all gone away, and that they ring to empty houses and desertedstreets. For there is no response. At most one may see a solitaryfigure dressed in black stuff creeping stealthily along like a ghoston her way from the empty house to the empty church. When the bellsleave off silence falls again, there is no one in the street. One'sown footsteps echo from the wall; we walk along in a dream; old wordsand old rhymes crowd into the brain. It is a dead City--a City newlydead--we are gazing upon the dead. 

 Life and thought have gone away Side by side. All within is dark as night. In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door So frequent on its hinge before. 

Silence everywhere. The blinds are down in every window of the tallstack of offices, the doors are all closed, if there are shutters theyare up, there are no carte in the streets, no porters carry burdens, there are no wheelbarrows, there is no more work done of any kind orsort. Even the taverns and the eating-shops are shut--no one isthinking of work. To-morrow--Monday--poverty will lift again his cruelarm, and drive the world to work with crack of whip. The needle-womanwill appear again with her bundle of work; the porters, the packers, the carmen, the clerks, the merchants themselves will all comeback--the vast army of those who earn their daily bread in the Citywill troop back again. But as for to-day, nobody works; we are all atrest; we are at peace; we are taking holiday. 

This is the day--this is the time--for those who would study the Cityand its monuments. It is only on this day, and at this time, that thechurches are all open. It is only on this day, and at this time, thata man may wander at his ease and find out how the history of the pastis illustrated by the names of the streets, by the houses and thesites, and by the few old things which still remain, even by the oldthings, names and all, which have perished. The area of the City issmall; its widest part, from Blackfriars to the Tower, is but a singlemile in length, and its greatest depth is no more that half a mile Butit is so crowded and crammed full of sites sacred to this or thatmemory of its long life of two thousand busy years, there is so muchto think of in every street, that a pilgrim may spend all his Sundaymornings for years and never get to the end of London City. I shouldhardly like to say how many Sunday mornings I have myself spent inwandering about the City, Yet I can never go into it without makingsome new discovery. Only last week, for instance, I discovered in thevery midst of the City, in its most crowded part, nothing less than ahouse--with a private garden. I had thought that the last wasdestroyed about four years ago when they pulled down a certain nobleold merchant's mansion, No, there is one other stall left; perhapsmore. There are gardens, I know, belonging to certain Companies'Halls; there is the ivy-planted garden of Amen Court; there areburying-grounds laid out as gardens; but this is the only house I knowin the City which has a private garden at the back. One must not saywhere it is, otherwise that garden will be seized and built upon. Thisthe owner evidently fears, for he has surrounded it by a high wall, sothat no one shall be able to seize it, no rich man shall covet it, andoffer to buy it and build great warehouses upon it, and theunderground railway shall not dig it out and swallow it up. 

In such journeyings and wanderings one must not go with an empty mind, otherwise there will be neither pleasure nor profit. The traveller, says Emerson, brings away from his travels precisely what he tookthere. Not his mind but his climate, says Horace, does he change whotravels beyond the seas. In other words, if a man who knows nothing ofarchæology goes to see a collection of flint implements, or a personignorant of art goes to see a picture gallery, he comes away asignorant as he went, because flint implements by themselves, orpictures by themselves, teach nothing. They can teach nothing. So, ifa man who knows nothing of history should stand before Guildhall onthe quietest Sunday in the whole year he will see nothing but abuilding, he will hear nothing but the fluttering wings of thepigeons. And if he wanders in the streets he will see nothing but talland ugly houses, all with their blinds pulled down. Before he goes ona pilgrimage in the City he must first prepare his mind by readinghistory. This is not difficult to find. If he is in earnest he willget the great 'Survey of London, ' by Strype and Stow, published in theyear 1720 in two folio volumes. If this is too much for him, there arePeter Cunningham, Timbs, Thornbury, Walford, Hare, Loftie, and a dozenothers, all of whom have a good deal to tell him, though there islittle to tell, save a tale of destruction, after Strype and Stow. 

Thus, before he begins he should learn something of Roman London, Saxon London, Norman London, of London medieval, London under theTudors, London of the Stuarts, and London of the Georges. He shouldlearn how the municipality arose, gaining one liberty after another, and letting go of none, but all the more jealously guarding each as asacred inheritance; how the trade of the City grew more and more; howthe Companies were formed, one after the other, for the protection oftrade interests. Then he should learn how the Sovereign and greatnobles have always kept themselves in close connection with the City, even in the proudest times of the Barons, even in the days when thenobles were supposed to have most despised the burgesses and the menof trade. He should learn, besides, how the City itself, its houses, and its streets, grew and covered up the space within the wall, andspread itself without; he should learn the meaning of the names--whyone street is called College Hill and another Jewry and anotherMinories. Armed with such knowledge as this, every new ramble willbring home to him more and more vividly the history of the past. Hewill never be solitary, even at noon on Sunday morning even in SuffolkStreet or Pudding Lane, because all the streets will be thronged withfigures of the dead, silent ghosts haunting the scenes where theylived and loved and died, and felt the fierce joys of venture, ofrisk, and enterprise. 

But let no man ramble aimlessly. It is pleasant, I own, to wander fromstreet to street idly remembering what has happened here; but it ismore profitable to map out a walk beforehand, to read up all that canbe ascertained about it before sallying forth, and to carry a notebookto set down the things that may be observed or discovered. 

Or, which is another method, he may consider the City with regard tocertain divisions of subjects. He may make, for instance, a specialstudy of the London churches. The City, small as it is, formerlycontained nearly 150 parishes, each with its church, itsburying-ground, and its parish charities. Some of these were notrebuilt after the Great Fire, some have been wickedly and wantonlydestroyed in these latter days. A few yet survive which were notburned down in that great calamity. These are St. Helen and St. Ethelburga; St. Katherine Cree, the last expiring effort of Gothic, consecrated by Archbishop Laud; All Hallows, Barking, and St. Giles. Most of the existing City churches were built by Wren, as you know. Ithink I have seen them nearly all, and in every one, howeverexternally unpromising, I have found something curious, Interesting, and unexpected--some wealth of wood-carving, some relic of the pastsnatched from the names, some monument, some association with themedieval city. 

Of course, it is well to visit these churches on the Saturdayafternoon or Monday morning, when they are swept before and after theservice; but as one is never quite certain of finding them open, itis, perhaps, best to take them after service on the Sunday. If youshow a real interest in the church, you will find the pew-opener orverger pleased to let you see everything, not only the monuments andthe carvings in the church, but also the treasures of the vestry, inwhich are preserved many interesting things--old maps, portraits, olddeeds and gifts, old charities--now all clean swept away by theCharity Commission--ancient Bibles and Prayer-books, muniment chests, embroidered palls, old registers with signatures historical--all thesethings are found in the vestry of the City church. 

Then there are the churchyards. We are familiar with the little oblongarea open to the street, surrounded by tall warehouses, one tomb leftin the middle, and three headstones ranged against the wall, patchesof green mould to represent grass, and a litter of scraps of paper andorange-peel. This is fondly believed to be the churchyard of some oldchurch burned down or rebuilt. There are dozens of these in the City;it is sometimes difficult to find out the name of the church to whichthey once belonged. Every time a building is erected adjacent to themthey become smaller, and when they happened to lie behind the housesthey were shut in and forgotten, covered over and built upon whennobody was looking, and so their very memory perished. 

It is curious to look for them. For instance, there is a certain greatburying ground laid down in Strype's map of the year 1720. It is thererepresented as so large that to cover it up would be a big thing. Nosingle man would dare to appropriate all at once so huge a slice ofland. I went, therefore, in search of this particular churchyard, andI found a very curious thing. On one side of the ground stands a greatprinting office. As the gate was open I walked in. At the back of theprinting office is a flagged court or yard. In the court the boys--itwas the dinner hour--were leaping and running. Not one of them knowsnow that he is running and jumping over the bones of his ancestors. Itis clean forgotten that here was a great churchyard. Another greatburying ground long since built over lay at the back of Botolph's Lanein Thames Street. That is built over and forgotten. There is anotherwhere lies the dust of the marvellous boy Chatterton. I am due that ofthe thousands who every day seek this spot not one can tell orremember that it was once a burying ground. On this spot the paupersof the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn, were buried--Chatterton, thatpoor young pauper! with them. And it is now a market, FarringdonMarket--close to Farringdon Street--opposite the site of the Old FleetPrison whence came so many of the bodies which now lie beneath theseflags. 

Or, a pilgrim may consider the City with special reference to thegreat Houses which formerly stood within its walls. There were palacesin the City--King Athelstan had one; King Richard II. Lived for a timein the City; Richard III. Lived here; Henry V. Had a house here. Ofthe great nobles, the Beaumonts, Scropes, Arundells, Bigods all hadhouses. The names of Worcester House, Buckingham House, HerefordHouse, suggest the great Lords who formerly lived here. And the namesof Crosby Hall, Basinghall, Gresham House, College Hill, recall themerchants who built themselves palaces and entertained kings. 

Again, there are the City Companies and their Halls. Very few visitorsever make the round of the Halls: yet they are most curious, andcontain treasures great and various. It is not always easy to seethese treasures, but the conscientious pilgrim, who, by the way, mustnot seek entrance into these Halls on the Sunday morning, willpersevere until he has managed to see them all. 

As for the sights of the City--the things which Baedeker enumerates, and which foreign and country visitors run to see--the Tower, theMonument, the Guildhall, the Mansion House, the Royal Exchange, theMint, St. Paul's, and the rest, I say nothing, because the pilgrimdoes not waste his Sunday morning over things to be seen as well onany other day. But there are some things to be seen every day whichare best approached on Sunday, by reason of the peace which prevailsand a certain solemnity in the air. I would, for instance, choose tovisit the Charter House on a Sunday morning, I would sit with thePensioners in their quiet chapel, and I would stroll about thepeaceful courts of that holy place, venerable not only for its historybut for the broken and ruined lives--often ruined only in purse, butrich in honour and in noble record--of the fifty bedesmen orpensioners who rest there in the evening of their days. And quiteapart from its associations, I know no more beautiful place in theCity or anywhere else than the ancient Charter House. 

Again, we may wander in the City and remember the great men who havemade certain streets for ever famous. Thus, to stand in Bread Streetis to think of Milton. Here he was born, here he was baptized, herefor a time he lived. Or we may visit Blackfriars and remember theElizabethan dramatists. Here Shakespeare had a house--it was among theruins of old Blackfriars Abbey, part of the foundations of which werefound when some years ago they made an extension of the Times'printing office. Broad Street recalls the memory of Gresham, whilethat of Whittington lingers along Thames Street and College Hill andclings to St. Michael's Church. In that parish he lived and died. Herehe founded the College of the Holy Spirit which still exists in theHighgate Almshouses; on its site the boys of Mercers School now studyand play. His tomb was burned in the Great Fire and his ashesscattered, but the very streets preserve his name. Boas Alley, ofwhich there are two, records the fact that Whittington brought aconduit or Boss of fresh water to this spot. It was he who pavedGuildhall, he who built a hall for the Grey Friars, now the Blue CoatSchool, he who rebuilt Newgate; of all the merchants who have adornedthe great City not one whose memory is so widely spread and whoseexample has so long survived his death. When country boys think of theCity of London they still think of Whittington. 

Perhaps you are afraid that the preparation, the reading, for such awalk about the City would be dull. I have never found it so. I do notthink that anyone who has the least love for, or knowledge of, oldthings would find such reading dull. There are, to be sure, someunhappy creatures who love nothing but what is new, and esteemeverything for what it will fetch. These are the people who are alwaystrying to pull down the City churches. They are at this very momentpulling down another, the poor old church of St. Mary Magdalen. Thetower is down, the roof is off the windows are all broken, in a weekor two the church will be razed to the ground, and in a year or twoits very memory will have perished. Why, we vainly ask, do they pullit down? What harm has the old church done? To be sure itscongregation numbered less than a dozen, but then we must not estimatean old church by a modern congregation. There has been a church herefrom time immemorial. It is mentioned in the year 1120. It was, therefore, certainly a Saxon church. Edward the Confessor probablyworshipped here--perhaps King Alfred himself. One of its Rectors wasJohn Carpenter, executor of Whittington, and founder of the City ofLondon School; another was Barham, author of the 'Ingoldsby Legends. 'The loss of St. Mary Magdalen is one more link with the pastabsolutely destroyed, never to be replaced. These destroyers, forinstance, are the kind of people who pulled down Sion College. Asoften as I pass the spot where that place once stood I mourn andlament its loss more and more. It was the college of the City clergy, they were its guardians, it was their library, it contained theirreading hall; formerly it held their garden, and it had theiralmshouses. There was hardly any place in the City more peaceful ormore beautiful than the long narrow room which held their library. Itwas a very ancient site--formerly the site of Elsing's Hospital, theoldest hospital in the whole City. Everything about it was venerable, and yet the City clergy themselves--its official guardians--sold itfor what it would fetch, and stuck up the horrid thing on theembankment which they call Sion College. There they still use the oldseal and arms of the college. But there is no more a SionCollege--that is gone. You cannot replace it. You might as well teardown King's College Chapel at Cambridge and call Dr. Parker's CityTemple by that honoured and ancient name. Well, for such people as themajority of the City clergy who can do such things, there can be novoice or utterance at all from ancient stones, the past can have nolessons, no teachings for them, there can be no message to them fromthe dead who should still live for them in memory and association. Forthem the ancient City and its citizens are dumb. 

Now that we know what to expect and what to look for, let us taketogether a Sunday morning ramble in a certain part of the City. Wewill go on a morning in early summer, when the leaves of those treeswhich still stand in the old City churchyards are bright with theirfirst tender green, and when the river, as we catch glimpses of it, shows a broad surface of dancing waves across to the stairs and bargesof old Southwark. We will take this walk at the quietest hour in thewhole week, between eleven and twelve. All the churches are open forservice. We will look in noiselessly, but, indeed, we shall find nocongregations to disturb, only, literally, two or three gatheredtogether. 

I will take you to the very heart of the City. Perhaps you havethought that the heart of the City is that open triangular space facedby the Royal Exchange, and flanked by the Bank of England and theMansion House. We have taught ourselves to think this, in ignorance ofthe City history. But a hundred and fifty years ago there was noMansion House, three hundred years ago there was no Royal Exchange, and the Bank of England itself is but a mushroom building of the daybefore yesterday. 

In the long life of London--it covers two thousand years--the chiefseat of its trade, the chief artery of its circulation, has beenThames Street. Along here for seventeen hundred years were carried onthe chief events in the drama which we call the History of London. Itspast origin, its growth and expansion, are indicated along this line. Here the City merchants of old--Whittingtons, Fitzwarrens, Sevenokes, Greshams--thronged to do their business. To these wharves came thevessels laden from Antwerp, Hamburg, Riga, Bordeaux, Lisbon, Venice, Genoa, and far-off Smyrna and the Levant. This line stretches acrossthe whole breadth of the City. It indicates the former extent of theCity, what was behind it originally was the mass of houses built toaccommodate those who could no longer find room on the riverside. Itis now a narrow, dark, and dirty street; its south side is coveredwith quays and wharves; narrow lanes lead to ancient river stairs; itsnorth side is lined with warehouses, the streets which run out of itare also dark and narrow lanes with offices on either side. It is nolonger one of the great arteries of the City. Those who come here useit not for a thoroughfare but for a place of business. When theirbusiness is done they go away; the churches, of which there were onceso many, are more deserted here than in any other part of the City Letme give you a little--a very little--of its history. 

Two thousand years ago, or thereabouts, the City of London was firstbegun. At that time the Thames valley, where now stands GreaterLondon, was a vast morass, sometimes flooded at high tide, everywherelow and swampy, studded with islands or bits of ground rising a fewfeet above the level--such was Thorney Island, on which WestminsterAbbey was built; such was the original site of Chelsea and Battersea. 

On the south side the swamp and low ground continued until the groundbegan to rise for the first low Surrey Hills at what is now calledClapham Rise. On the north side the swamp was bordered by awell-defined cliff from ten to thirty or forty feet high, whichfollowed a curve, approaching the river edge from the east till itreached where is now Tower Hill, where it nearly touched the water, and the spot now called Dowgate--a continuation of WalbrookStreet--where the river actually washed its base, and where itpresented two little hillocks side by side, with thebrook--Walbrook--running into the river between. This was a naturalsite for a town--two hills, a tidal river in front, a freshwaterstream between. Here was a spot adapted both for fortification and forcommunication with the outer world. Here, then, the town began to bebuilt. How the trade began I cannot tell you, but it did begin, andgrew very rapidly, Now, as it grew it became necessary for the peopleto stretch out and expand; there was no longer any room on the twohillocks; they, therefore, built a strong wall to keep out the riverand put up houses, quays, and store-houses above and along thiswall--portions of which have been found quite recently. The river oncekept out--although the cliff receded again--the marsh became dry land, but, in fact, the cliff receded a very little way, and the slopes ofthe streets north of Thames Street show exactly how far it went back. Many hundreds of years later precisely the same course was adopted forthe rescue of Wapping from the marsh in which it stood. They built astrong river wall, and Wapping grew up on and behind that wall, justexactly as London itself had done long before. 

The citizens of London had, from a very early time, their two ports ofBillingsgate and Queenhithe, both of them still ports. They had alsotheir communication with the south by means of a ferry, which ran fromthe place now called the Old Swan Stairs to a port or dock on theSurrey side, still existing, afterwards called St. Mary of the Ferry, or St. Mary Overies. The City became rapidly populous and full oftrade and wealth. Vast numbers of ships came yearly, bringingmerchandise, and taking away what the country had to export. Tacitus, writing in the year 61, says that the City then was full of merchantsand their wares. It is also certain that the Londoners, who havealways been a pugnacious and a valiant folk, already showed that sideof their character, for we learn that, shortly before the landing ofJulius Cæsar, they had a great battle in the Middlesex Forest with thepeople of Verulam, now St Albans. The Verulamites had reason to repentof their rashness in coming out to meet the Londoners, for they wererouted with great slaughter, and never ventured on another trial ofstrength. As for the site of the battle, it has been pretty clearlydemonstrated by Professor Hales that it took place close to ParliamentHill, at Hampstead, and the barrow on the newly acquired part of theHeath probably marks the burial-place of the forgotten heroes whoperished on that field. And as for the Londoners who fought and won, let us remember that they came from this part of the modern City--fromThames Street. 

The town was walled between the years 350 and 369. The building of theRoman wall has determined down to these days the circuit of the City. Now, here a very curious and suggestive point has been raised. In ornear all other Roman towns are remains of amphitheatres, theatres andtemples. There is an amphitheatre near Rutupiæ, the presentRichborough; everybody knows the amphitheatres of Nîmes, Arles andVerona; but in or near London there have never been found any tracesof amphitheatres or temples whatever. Was the City then, so early, Christian? Observe, again, that the earliest churches were dedicated, not to British saints, or to the saints and martyrs of the second orthird centuries--the centuries of persecution--but to the Apostlesthemselves--to St. Peter, St. Paul, St. James, St. Stephen, St. Mary, St. Philip. These facts, it is thought, seem to indicate that veryearly in the history of the City its people were Christians. When theRoman wall was built, Thames Street already possessed most of thestreets which you now see branching northward up the hill, and southto the river stairs, the space beyond was occupied by villas andgardens, and the life of the merchants and Roman officers who lived inthem was as luxurious as wealth and civilization could make it. 

You now understand why I have called Thames Street the heart of theCity. It was the first part built and settled, the first cradle of thegreat trade of England. More than this, it continued to be the thiefcentre of trade; its wharves received the imports and exports; itswarehouses behind stored them; its streets which ran up the slopingground grew with the growth of the trade; new streets continuallysprang up until villas and gardens were gradually built over and thewhole area was covered; but all sprang in the first place from ThamesStreet; everything grew out of the trade carried on along the river. We are going to walk through all the five riverside wards belonging tothis street. There are one or two things to note in advance, if onlyto show how this quarter remained the most populous and the most busypart of London. The City of London has eighty companies. Forty ofthese have--or had--Halls of their own. Out of the forty Halls nofewer than twenty-two belong to these five wards, while one company, the Fishmongers', had at one time six Halls, or places of meeting, inand about Thames Street. Again, the City of London formerly had about150 churches. Along the river, that is, in and about Thames Streetalone, there were at least twenty-four, or one-sixth of the wholenumber. Lastly, to show the estimation in which this part was held, out of the great houses formerly belonging to the King and nobles, those of Castle Baynard, Cold Harbour, the Erber, Tower Royal, and theKing's Wardrobe belong to Thames Street, while the names of Beaumont, Scrope, Derby, Worcester, Burleigh, Suffolk, and Arundell connecthouses in the five wards of Thames Street with noble families, in thedays when knights and nobles rode along the street, side by side withthe Lord Mayor and Sheriffs of the City. 

In Thames Street are the ancient markets of Billingsgate andQueenhithe. The former has been a market and a port for more than athousand years. Customs and tolls were paid here in the time of KingEthelred the Second, that is, in the year 979. The exclusive sale offish here is comparatively modern, that is, it is not three hundredyears old. As for Queenhithe it is still more ancient thanBillingsgate. Its earliest name was Edred Hithe, that is, Edred'swharf. It was given by King Stephen to the Convent of the HolyTrinity. It returned, however, to the Crown, and was given by KingHenry III. To the Queen Eleanor, whence it was called the Queen's Bankor Queenhithe. On the west side of Queenhithe lived Sir RichardGresham, father of Sir Thomas Gresham, in a great house that hadbelonged to the Earls and Dukes of Norfolk. 

The splendid building of the Custom House on the south side is thefifth Custom House that has been put up on the same spot. The firstwas built by one John Churchman, Sheriff in the year 1385; the next inthe reign of Queen Elizabeth--it was furnished with high-pitchedgables and a water gate, this was burned down in the Great Fire. Wrenbuilt the third, which was burned down in 1718; one Ripley built thefourth, which was also burned down in 1814. The present building wasdesigned by David Laing and cost nearly half a million. 

Until quite recently a little narrow and dirty passage to the river, known as Coldharbour Lane, commemorated the site of a great Palace, known as the Cold Harbour, which stood here overlooking the river withmany gables. It was already standing in the reign of Edward II. Itbelonged successively to Sir John Poultney; to John Holland, Duke ofExeter--that Duke who was buried in St. Katherine's Hospital; to HenryV. , who lived here for a brief period when Prince of Wales; to RichardIII. ; to the College of Heralds; and to Henry VIII. Finally, it wasburned in the Great Fire, but during the last hundred years of itslife the old Palace fell into decay and was let out in tenements topoor people. The City Brewery now stands on the site of Cold Harbour. 

Close beside this great house--the site itself now entirely covered bythe railway--was the Steelyard. This was the centre of the Germantrade; here the merchants of the Hanseatic League were permitted todwell and to store the goods which they imported. The history of theGerman merchants in London is a very important chapter in that ofLondon. They came here in the year 1250, they formed a fraternity oftheir own, living together, by Royal permission, in a kind of college, with a great and stately hall, wharves, quays, and square courts. Thebuilding is represented, before it was burned down in the Great Fire, as picturesque, with many gables crowded together like the whole ofLondon. Their trade was extremely valuable to them; they importedRhenish wines, grain of all kinds, cordage and cables, pitch, tar, flax, deal timber, linen fabrics, wax, steel, and many other things. They obtained concession after concession until practically theyenjoyed a monopoly. For this they had to pay certain tolls or duties. They were made, for instance, to maintain one of the City gates. Theywere compelled to live together in their own quarters. Their monopolylasted for 300 years, during which the London merchants, especiallythe Association called Merchant Adventurers, who belonged principallyto the Mercers' Company, continued to besiege the Sovereign withpetitions and complaints. It was not until the reign of QueenElizabeth that they were finally turned out and expelled the Kingdom. Their house and grounds were converted into a store-house for theRoyal Navy. At the same time the old Navy Office, which had formerlystood in Mark Lane, was transferred to the suppressed college andchapel belonging to All Hallows, Barking, in Seething Lane, where youmay still see, if you go to look for them, the old stone pillars ofthe gates and the old courtyard which was originally the court of thecollege, then the court of the Navy Office, and now the court of thewarehouse belonging to the London Docks. As for the unfortunateSteelyard, that, as I said, is now completely covered by the CannonStreet Railway. As you walk under the railway arch you may now looksouthward and say, 'Here for 300 years lived the Hanseaticmerchants--here the fraternity had their warehouses, their exchange, their great Hall. Here the German porters loaded and cleared theships, the German clerks took notes and kept accounts, and the Germanmerchants bought and sold. ' They ventured not far from their ownplace; the Londoners have never loved foreigners or the sound of anunknown language; they lived here making money as fast as they couldand then going home to Lubeck, Bremen, or Hamburg, others coming totake their place. 

On Dowgate Hill was another famous old house called the Erber--whichis, I suppose, the same word as Harbour. It belonged at successiveperiods to Lord Scroope, the Earl of Warwick, the Earl of Salisbury, and to George, Duke of Clarence. This house, too, perished in theFire. In this street Sir Francis Drake lived, and here are now threeCompanies' Halls. Close by, on Laurence Poultney Hill, lived Dr. William Harvey, who discovered the circulation of the blood. 

In Suffolk Lane the Earls of Suffolk had a great house, and here, before they moved to Charter House, stood the Merchant Taylors'School. Three Companies had their Halls on the riverside--theWatermen's at the bottom of Cold Harbour Lane; the Dyers' at thebottom of Angel Alley; and the Vintners' which still stands close toSouthwark Bridge. 

Nearly at the end of the street was Baynard's Castle. You may stillsee the name on the gate of a wharf, and it also gives its name to theward. This was the western fortress of the City, just as the Tower wasthe eastern; but with this difference, that Castle Baynard belonged tothe City during the troubled time when the Crown and the City wereconstantly in conflict. The Tower, on the other hand, always belongedto the Crown. Baynard's Castle belonged, in fact, to the FitzWalters, hereditary barons of the City. One of their functions was at theoutbreak of a war to appear at the west door of St. Paul's, armed andmounted, with twenty attendants, there to receive from the Lord Mayorthe banner of the City, a horse worth £20, and £20 in money. Finally, the castle became, I do not know how, Crown property. It was burned tothe ground, but rebuilt by Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. Within thiscastle the Duke of Buckingham offered the Crown to Richard III. , andhere the Privy Council proclaimed Queen Mary. The castle afterwardsfell into the hands of the Earls of Shrewsbury. It was destroyed inthe Great Fire. It consisted of two courts: the south front of thebuildings faced the river, the north front, with the principalentrance, was in Thames Street. 

In more ancient times there stood a tower west of Baynard's Castlecalled Montfichet, but of this building very few memorials remain. Again, there is said to have been a palace on Addle Hill, built byAthelstan. The Wardrobe was another great house acquired by KingEdward III. , close to the church still called St. Andrew's by theWardrobe. The memory of this house is still kept up by that veryinteresting little square, which looks exactly like a place in asouthern French town, called Wardrobe Place. One of the court officeswas that of Master of the Wardrobe. In old days he resided in thishouse and actually did take care of the King's clothes. The Queen'swardrobe, on the other hand, was kept in the other royal house, calledTower Royal, the house still surviving in the street so-called. Thiswas formerly King Stephen's palace. In the year 1331 it was granted bythe King to his Queen Philippa for her wardrobe. It was then called'La Réal, ' without the addition of the word 'tower, ' and the meaningand origin of the name are unknown. The palace stood in the parish ofSt. Thomas Apostle, the church of which was not rebuilt after theFire; but the name of the church survives in a small fragment of thestreet so-called. 

There were, therefore, in this small bit of London, at least fourroyal palaces, besides the great houses of the nobles that I haveenumerated. Half the City companies had their Halls here; and even tothis day there are standing here and there one or two of the solidhouses built by the merchants in the narrow streets north of ThamesStreet for their private residences. As late as the beginning of thepresent century the house now called the 'Shades, ' close to the SwanStairs, London Bridge, was built for his own town house by Lord MayorGarratt, who laid the foundation stone of London Bridge. Of the oldmerchants' houses, rich with carved woodwork, built with black timberround courts and gardens, not one now remains in the City. But thereare one or two remaining in the old inns of Southwark and the Old BellInn, Holborn, Yet the last great house built in the City, the MansionHouse, was itself originally built round a court. 

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You may, if you try, reconstruct Thames Street as it was before theFire. Its breadth was exactly the same as at present. Eight statelychurches stood, each with its own burial-ground, along the street. Thepalace of Baynard reared its gables on the right as you entered thestreet from the west. Lower down, on the same side, stood the greatHouse of Cold Harbour, also gabled. The low-gabled warehouses stoodround Queenhithe and Billingsgate; the Custom House was thronged withthose who came to pay their tolls and clear their dues; the broadcourt of the Steelyard--covered with boxes, bales, and casks, someexposed, some under sheds--stretched southward, behind its three greatgates. On the river-side stood its stately Hall. The Halls of theCompanies, great and noble houses, proclaimed the wealth and power ofthe merchants. On the north side stood the merchants' houses builtround their gardens. In those days they had no country houses, andthey wanted none. They could carry their falcons out into the fieldswhich began on the other side of the City wall, or across the river inthe low-lying lands of Bermondsey and Redriffe. The street was alreadycrammed and thronged with porters, carts, and wheelbarrows; it wasfull of noise; there were sailors and merchants from foreign parts. Already the Levantine was here, lithe and supple, black of eye, readyof tongue, quick with his dagger; and the Italian, passionate andeager; and the Spaniard, the Fleming, the Frenchman, and the Dutchman. All nations were here, as now, but they were then kept on board theirships or in their own quarters by night. The great merchants walked upand down, conversing, heedless of the noise, to which their ears wereso accustomed as to be deaf to them. The merchants had reason to begrave. Always there were wars and rumours of wars; always some piratefrom French shores was attacking their ships; their latest venture wastoo often overdue--the ship had to run the gauntlet of the Algeriangalleys, and no one could tell what might have happened; there wasplague at Antwerp--it might be lurking in the bales lying on the quaybefore them; there was civil war brewing; fortune is fickle--he whowas rich yesterday may be a beggar to-morrow. Merchants, in thosedays, did well to be grave. 

I have considered, so far, some of the great houses standing in oralong this historic street. Let us now note a few of the churches. 

All Hallows, Barking, the first walking from the east, commemorates inits name the fact that it formerly belonged to the great convent ofBarking in Essex, the gateway of which still stands at the entrance tothe churchyard. This church escaped the Fire. Here was buried the poetSurrey, Bishop Fisher, and Archbishop Laud. 

In the church of St. Magnus, London Bridge, the remains of MilesCoverdale, the translator of the Bible, rest: they were removed herefrom the Church of St. Bartholomew when it was pulled down to makemore room for the Bank of England. This church has perhaps the finesttower, lantern, and steeple of all the City churches, in front is asmall court planted with trees, whose foliage is strangely refreshingin early summer down in this dark place almost below the approach tothe bridge. The church itself is fine but not very interesting. I havesometimes counted as many as ten present at the Sunday morningservice. 

St. Michael's, Tower Royal, is Whittington's church. In this parish helived, though a house was long shown as his in Hart Street; here hedied; in this church he was buried--behind this church stood hisCollege of the Holy Spirit with its bedesmen and its ecclesiasticalstaff. If we pass the church and look in at the gateway on the north, we shall notice unmistakable signs of an ancient collegiate foundationin the disposition of the modern houses. Here is now the Mercers'School. In the church there is no adequate monument to the memory ofLondon's greatest merchant--the man who did so much for the City whichmade him so rich, who royally entertained the King and Queen in hisown house, and at the close of the banquet burned before their eyesthe royal bond for £60, 000, worth in modern money at least £600, 000. Inever think of Whittington without remembering a certain verse in theBook of Proverbs, 'Blessed is he who is diligent in his business, forhe shall stand before Kings. '

St. Nicolas Cole Abbey is, within, a kind of gilded drawing-room. There is gilt everywhere, gilt and wood-carving; and on Sundaymorning, thanks to the strange taste of the Vicar, who likes to dresshimself up in scarlet and green, and to have a boy making a smell witha swinging pot, there are sometimes more than the customary ten for acongregation. 

Of St. Mary Somerset only the tower remains. Why they pulled down thischurch, why they pulled down St. Michael's Queenhithe, or St. NicolasOlave, or St. Mary Magdalen, all in this part of London, passeth man'sunderstanding. If you want to find out what these churches were like, you may consult the book by Britton and Le Keux on London Churches. They are represented in a collection of steel engravings drawn afterthe fashion of eighty years ago, so as to bring out the strong pointswith great softening of unpleasant details. 

Many of the churches were not rebuilt after the Fire. This shows thatby the year 1666 this part of London was already beginning to beoccupied more by warehouses than by private dwellings. Among them wereSt. Andrew Hubberd, St. Benet Sherehog, St. Leonard, Eastcheap, AllHallows the Less, Holy Trinity, St. Martin Vintry, St. LaurencePoultney, St. Botolph Billingsgate, St. Thomas Apostle, St. MaryMounthaut, St. Peter's, St. Gregory's by St Paul, and St. Anne'sBlackfriars--thirteen in all. 

At St. Benet's Church--where Fielding was married--you may now hearthe service in the Welsh language, just as in Wellclose Square you mayhear it in Swedish. In Endell Street, Holborn, you may hear it inFrench, and in Palestine Place, Hackney, you may hear it in Hebrew. 

Certain spaces on old maps of London are coloured green to show wherestood certain churchyards. In Thames Street the churchyard of AllHallows the Less still stands; in Queen Street that of St. ThomasApostle, in Laurence Poultney Hill that of St. Laurence Poultney, avery large and well-kept churchyard; St. Dunstan's, All Hallows, Barking, St. Stephen's, Wallbrook all keep their churchyards still. That of St. Anne's, Blackfriars, stands retired behind the houses. Butthose of St. Nicolas Cole Abbey, St. Mary Somerset, St. Botolph's, andSt. Mary Magdalen, formerly large and crowded churchyards, still keptsacred in the year 1720, and, indeed, until further interments wereforbidden in the year 1845, are now quite built over and forgotten. What has become of the churchyards of St. Michael Royal, St. MichaelQueenhithe, St. Benet, St. George, St. Leonard Eastcheap, and St. James's Garlickhithe? Alas! no one knows. The tombstones are takenaway, the ground has been dug up, the coffin-wood burned, the bonesdispersed, and of all the thousands, the tens of thousands, ofcitizens buried there--old and young, rich and poor, Lord Mayors, aldermen, merchants, clerks, craftsmen, and servants--the dust of allis scattered abroad, the names of all are as much forgotten as if theynever lived. But they have lived, and if you seek their monument--lookaround. It is in the greatness, the wealth, the dignity of the modernCity, that these ancient citizens live again. Life is a long unitedchain with links that cannot be separated; the story of humanity isunbroken; it will go on continuous and continued until the Creator'sgreat purpose is fulfilled, and the drama of Man complete. 

In one or two of these churches all the churchyard left is a squareyard or two at the back of the church. In one of these tinyenclosures--I forget which now--I found that of all the headstones andtombs which had once adorned this now sadly diminished and attenuatedacre, there was left but one. It was a tombstone in memory of aninfant, aged eight months. Out of all the people buried here, who hadlived long and been held in honour, and thought that their memorywould last for many generations--perhaps as long as that ofWhittington or Gresham--only the name of this one baby left!

It was in the vaults of St. James's Garlickhithe, that they found, before the place was bricked up and left to be disturbed no more, manybodies in a state of perfect preservation--mummies. One of these hasbeen taken out and set up in a cupboard in the outer chapel. He isdecently guarded by a door kept locked, and is neatly framed in glass. You can see him by special application to the pew-opener, who holds acandle and points out his beauties. Perhaps in all the City churchesthere is no other object quite so curious as this old nameless mummy. He was once, it may be, Lord Mayor--a good many Lord Mayors have beenburied in this church--or, perhaps, he was a Sheriff, and wore asplendid chain; or he may have been the poorest and most miserablewretch of his time. It matters not; he has escaped the dust--he is amummy. Somehow he contrives to look superior, as if he was consciousof the fact and proud of it; he cannot smile, or nod, or wink, but hecan look superior. 

One more church and one more scene, and I have done. 

There is a church on the south side of Thames Street, close to thesite of the Steelyard--_i. E. _, almost under the railway arches whichlead to Cannon Street. It is not very much to look at. With oneexception, indeed, it is the ugliest church in the whole of LondonCity. It is a big oblong box, with round windows stuck in here andthere. Wren designed it, I believe, one evening after dinner, when hehad taken a glass or two more than his customary allowance of port ormountain. It is the church of All Hallows the Great combined with AllHallows the Less. Before the Fire it was a very beautiful church, witha cloister running round its churchyard on the south, and to the eastlooking out upon the lane that led to Cold Harbour House. This is thechurch to which the Hanseatic merchants for three hundred years camefor worship. Very near the church, on the river bank, stood theWaterman's Hall. To this church, therefore, came the 'prentices of thewatermen every Sunday. The Great Fire carried it away, with Steelyard, cloister, church, Waterman's Hall, Cold Harbour House, and everything. Then Wren, as I said, took a pencil and ruler one evening, and showedhow a square box could be constructed on the site. Now, let no manjudge by externals. If you can get into the church, you will berewarded by the sight of an eighteenth-century church left exactly asit was in those days of grave and sober merchants, and of Cityceremonies and church services attended in state. On the north side, against the middle of the wall, is planted what we now mostirreverently call a Three Decker. But we must not laugh, because ofall Three Deckers this is the most splendid. There is nothing in theCity more beautiful than the wood-carving which makes pulpit, sounding-board, reading-desk, and clerk's desk in this church preciousand wonderful. The old pews, which, I rejoice to say, have never beenremoved, are many of them richly and beautifully carved. The Pew ofState, reserved for the Lord Mayor and the Sheriffs, is a miracle ofart. Across the very middle of the church is a screen in carved wood, the most wonderful screen you ever saw, presented as a sign ofgratitude to their old church by the Hanseatic merchants. The east endis decorated by a wooden table, richly carved, and the reredos isdesigned by the great Christopher himself, no doubt for partialexpiation of his sin in making the church externally so hideous. Itconsists of a marble panel, on which are engraved the TenCommandments. On the left hand stands Aaron in full pontificals, asset forth in the Book of Leviticus or that of Numbers. On the righthand, in more humble guise, stands Moses, facing the people, in hishand a rod of gold. With this he points to the Commandments, whichcontain among them the whole Rule of Life. The pews are not arrangedto face the east, but are gathered round the pulpit in the north, themost desirable being those nearest the pulpit. In the outside pews, close to the east end, sat the watermen's 'prentices. These youngvillains, who were afterwards doubtless for the most part hanged, spent their time during the service in carving their initials, withrude pictures of ships, houses, and boats, with dates on the slopingdesks before them. There they still remain--because the pews areunchanged--with the dates 1720, 1730, 1740, and so on. From father toson they kept up this sacrilegious practice, hidden in the depths ofthe high pews. There is, behind the church, a vestry with wainscotingand more carved wood, and with portraits of bygone rectors, plans ofthe parish, and notes on the old parish charities, which exist nolonger. Through the vestry window one looks out upon a little garden. It is the churchyard. One sees how the old cloister ran. Formerly itwas full of tombs, and he who paced the cloister could meditate ondeath. Now it is an open and cheerful place, all the old tombs clearedaway--which is loss, not gain--and in the month of May it is brightwith flowers. At first sight it seems as if it was so completelyhidden away that it could gladden no man's eyes. That is not so. Inthe City Brewery there are certain windows which overlook this garden. These are the windows of the rooms where dwells a chiefofficer--Master Brewer, Master Taster, Master Chemist, I know not--ofthe City Brewery, last of the many breweries which once stood alongthe river bank. He, almost the only resident of the parish, can lookout, solitary and quiet, of the cool of an evening in early summer, and rejoice in the beauty of this little garden blossoming, all forhis eyes alone, in a desert. 

As one looks about this church the present fades away and the pastcomes back. I see, once more, the Rector, what time George II. WasKing, in full wig and black gown poring over his learned discourse. Below him sleeps his clerk. In the Lord Mayor's pew, robed in garmentsand chain of state, sleep my Lord Mayor and the worshipful theSheriffs; their footmen, all in blue and green and gold, are in theaisle; the rich merchant of the parish clad in black velvet, with silkstockings, silver buckles to their shoes, ruffles of the richest andrarest lace at their throats, and neckties of the same hanging downbefore their long silk waistcoats, sleep in their pews--it is a sleepytime for the Church Service--beside their wives and children. Thewives are grand in hoop, and powder, and painted face. We know what ismeant by rank in the days of King George II. In this our parish churchwe who are or have been wardens of our Company, aldermen who havepassed the chair, or aldermen who have yet to pass it, know what isdue to our position, and we bear ourselves accordingly. Ourinferiors--the clerks and the shopkeepers, the servants and the'prentices--we treat, it is true, with kindliness, but withcondescension and with authority. On those rare occasions when a Peercomes to our civic banquets we show him that we know what is due tohis rank. As for our life, it is centred in this parish; here are ourhouses, here we live, here we carry on our business, and here we die. Our poor are our servants when they are young and strong, and they areour bedesmen when they grow old. Do not, I entreat you, believe in thefiction that the Church neglected the poor during the last century. The poor in the City parishes were not neglected; the boys werethoroughly taught and conscientiously flogged, thieves were sent awayto be hanged, bad characters were turned out, the old were maintained, the sick were looked after, the parish organization was complete, andthe parish charities were many and generous. Outside the Cityprecincts, if you please, where there were few churches and greatparishes, always increasing in population, the poor were neglected;but in the City, never. But listen, the Rector has done. He finisheshis sermon with an admirable and appropriate quotation in Greek, whichI hope the congregation understands; he pronounces the prayer ofdismissal; the organ rolls, the clerk wakes up, the Lord Mayor and theSheriffs walk forth and get into their coaches, the footmen climb upbehind, the merchants and their families go out next, while all thepeople stand in respect to their masters and betters, and those set inauthority over them. Then come out the people themselves, and last ofall the 'prentice boys come clattering down the aisle. 

Let us awake. It is Sunday morning again, but the merchants are gone. The eighteenth century is gone, the church is empty, the parish isdeserted; the streets are silent. 

 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep; The river glideth at his own sweet will! Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart to lying still. 

A RIVERSIDE PARISH

There are several riverside parishes east of London Bridge, notcounting the ancient towns of Deptford and Greenwich, which formerlylay beyond London, and could not be reckoned as suburbs. The historyof all these parishes, till the present century, is the same. Once, south-east and west of London, there stretched a broad marsh coveredwith water at every spring-tide; here and there rose islets overgrownwith brambles, the haunt of wild fowl innumerable. In course of time, the city having grown and stretching out long arms along the bank, people began to build a broad and strong river-wall to keep out thefloods. This river-wall, which still remains, was gradually extendeduntil it reached the mouth of the river and ran quite round the lowcoast of Essex. To the marshes succeeded a vast level, low-lying, fertile region affording good pasture, excellent dairy farms, andgardens of fruit and vegetables. The only inhabitants of this districtwere the farmers and the farmhands. So things continued for a thousandyears, while the ships went up the river with wind and tide, and downthe river with wind and tide, and were moored below the Bridge, anddischarged their cargoes into lighters, which landed them on the quaysof London Port, between the Tower and the Bridge. As for the peoplewho did the work of the Port--the loading and the unloading--thosewhom now we call the stevedores, coalers, dockers, lightermen, andwatermen, they lived in the narrow lanes and crowded courts above andabout Thames Street. 

When the trade of London Port increased, these courts became morecrowded; some of them overflowed, and a colony outside the walls wasestablished in St. Katherine's Precinct beyond the Tower. Next to St. Katherine's lay the fields called by Stow 'Wappin in the Wose, ' orWash, where there were broken places in the wall, and the water pouredin so that it was as much a marsh as when there was no dyke at all. Then the Commissioners of Sewers thought it would be a good plan toencourage people to build along the wall, so that they would bepersonally interested in its preservation. Thus arose the Hamlet ofWapping, which, till far into the eighteenth century, consisted oflittle more than a single long street, with a few cross lanes, inhabited by sailor-folk. At this time--toward the end of thesixteenth century--began that great and wonderful development ofLondon trade which has continued without any cessation of growth. Gresham began it. He taught the citizens how to unite for the commonweal; he gave them a Bourse; he transferred the foreign trade ofAntwerp to the Thames. Then the service of the river grew apace; whereone lighter had sufficed there were now wanted ten; 'Wappin in theWose' became crowded Wapping; the long street stretched farther andfarther along the river beyond Shad's Well; beyond Ratcliff Cross, where the 'red cliff' came down nearly to the river bank; beyond the'Lime-house'; beyond the 'Poplar' Grove. The whole of that great cityof a million souls, now called East London, consisted, until the endof the last century, of Whitechapel and Bethnal Green, stillpreserving something of the old rusticity; of Mile End, Stepney andBow, and West Ham, hamlets set among fields, and market-gardens, andof that long fringe of riverside streets and houses. In these ruralhamlets great merchants had their country-houses; the place wasfertile; the air was wholesome; nowhere could one see finer flowers orfiner plants; the merchant-captains--both those at sea and thoseretired--had houses with garden-bowers and masts at Mile End Old Town. Captain Cook left his wife and children there when he went sailinground the world; here, because ground was cheap and plentiful, werelong rope-walks and tenter-grounds; here were roadside taverns andgardens for the thirsty Londoner on a summer evening, here were placedmany almshouses, dotted about among the gardens, where the poor oldfolks lengthened their days in peace and fresh air. 

But Riverside London was a far different place, here lived none butsailors, watermen, lightermen, and all those who had to do with shipsand shipping, with the wants and the pleasures of the sailors. Boatbuilders had their yards along the bank; mastmakers, sail-makers, rope-makers, block-makers; there were repairing docks dotted about alldown the river, each able to hold one ship at a time, like one or twostill remaining at Rotherhithe, there were ship-building yards ofconsiderable importance; all these places employed a vast number ofworkmen--carpenters, caulkers, painters, riggers, carvers offigure-heads, block-makers, stevedores, lightermen, watermen, victuallers, tavern-keepers, and all the roguery and _ribauderie_ thatalways gather round mercantile Jack ashore. A crowded suburb indeed itwas, and for the most part with no gentlefolk to give the people anexample of conduct, temperance, and religion--at best themaster-mariners, a decorous people, and the better class of tradesmen, to lead the way to church. And as time went on the better classvanished, until the riverside parishes became abandoned entirely tomercantile Jack, and to those who live by loading and unloading, repairing and building the ships, and by showing Jack ashore howfastest and best to spend his money. There were churches--Wapping, St. George in the East, Shadwell, and Lime-house--they are there to thisday; but Jack and his friends enter not their portals. Moreover, whenthey were built the function of the clergyman was to perform withdignity and reverence the services of the church; if people chose notto come, and the law of attendance could not be enforced, so much theworse for them. Though Jack kept out of church, there was somereligious life in the place, as is shown not only by the presence ofthe church, but also by that of the chapel. Now, wherever there is achapel it indicates thought, independence, and a sensible elevationabove the reckless, senseless rabble. Some kinds of Nonconformity alsoindicate a first step toward education and culture. 

He who now stands on London Bridge and looks down the river, will seea large number of steamers lying off the quays; there are barges, river steamers, and boats, there are great ocean steamers working upor down the river; but there is little to give the stranger even asuspicion of the enormous trade that is carried on at the Port ofLondon. That port is now hidden behind the dock gates; the trade isinvisible unless one enters the docks and reckons up the ships andtheir tonnage, the warehouses and their contents. But a hundred yearsago this trade was visible to any who chose to look at it, and theships in which the trade was carried on were visible as well. 

Below the Bridge, the river, for more than a mile, pursues a straightcourse with a uniform breadth. It then bends in a north-easterlydirection for a mile or so, when it turns southward, passing Deptfordand Greenwich. Now, a hundred years ago, for two miles and more belowthe bridge, the ships lay moored side by side in double lines, with anarrow channel between. There were no docks; all the loading and theunloading had to be done by means of barges and lighters in thestream. One can hardly realize this vast concourse of boats and bargesand ships; the thousands of men at work; the passage to and fro of thebarges laden to the water's edge, or returning empty to the ship'sside; the yeo-heave-oh! of the sailors hoisting up the casks and balesand cases; the shouting, the turmoil, the quarrelling, the fighting, the tumult upon the river, now so peaceful. But when we talk of ariverside parish we must remember this great concourse, because it wasthe cause of practices from which we suffer to the present day. 

Of these things we may be perfectly certain. First, that without thepresence among a people of some higher life, some nobler standard, than that of the senses, this people will sink rapidly and surely. Next, that no class of persons, whether in the better or the worserrank, can ever be trusted to be a law unto themselves. For whichreason we may continue to be grateful to our ancestors who caused tobe written in large letters of gold, for all the world to see once aweek, "THUS SAITH THE LORD, Thou shalt not steal, " and the rest: thelack of which reminder sometimes causes in Nonconformist circles, itis whispered, a deplorable separation of faith and works. The thirdmaxim, axiom, or self-evident proposition is, that when people cansteal without fear of consequences they will steal. All through thelast century, and indeed far into this, the only influence brought tobear upon the common people was that of authority. The master ruledhis servants; he watched over them; when they were young he had themcatechized and taught the sentiments proper to their station; he alsoflogged them soundly; when they grew up he gave them wages and work;he made them go to church regularly; he rewarded them for industry byfraternal care; he sent them to the almshouse when they were old. Atchurch the sermons were not for the servants but for the masters; yetthe former were reminded every week of the Ten Commandments, whichwere not only written out large for all to see, but were read out fortheir instruction every Sunday morning. The decay of authority is oneof the distinguishing features of the present century. 

But in Riverside London there were no masters, and there was noauthority for the great mass of the people. The sailor ashore had nomaster; the men who worked on the lighters and on the ships had nomaster except for the day; the ignoble horde of those who supplied thecoarse pleasures of the sailors had no masters; they were not made todo anything but what they pleased; the church was not for them; theirchildren were not sent to school; their only masters were the fear ofthe gallows, constantly before their eyes at Execution Dock and on theshores of the Isle of Dogs, and their profound respect for the cat o'nine tails. They knew no morality; they had no other restraint; theyall together slid, ran, fell, leaped, danced, and rolled swiftly andeasily adown the Primrose Path; they fell into a savagery the like ofwhich has never been known among English-folk since the days of theirconversion to the Christian faith. It is only by searching and pokingamong unknown pamphlets and forgotten books that one finds out theactual depths of the English savagery of the last century. And it isnot too much to say that for drunkenness, brutality, and ignorance, the Englishman of the baser kind touched about the lowest depth everreached by civilized man during the last century. What he was inRiverside London has been disclosed by Colquhoun, the PoliceMagistrate. Here he was not only a drunkard, a brawler, a torturer ofdumb beasts, a wife-beater, a profligate--he was also, with hisfellows, engaged every day, and all day long, in a vast systematicorganized depredation. The people of the riverside were all, to a man, river pirates; by day and by night they stole from the ships. Therewere often as many as a thousand vessels lying in the river; therewere many hundreds of boats, barges, and lighters engaged upon theircargoes, They practised their robberies in a thousand ingenious ways;they weighed the anchors and stole them; they cut adrift lighters whenthey were loaded, and when they had floated down the river theypillaged what they could carry and left the rest to sink or swim; theywaited till night and then rowed of to half-laden lighters and helpedthemselves. Sometimes they went on board the ships as stevedores andtossed bales overboard to a confederate in a boat below; or they werecoopers who carried under their aprons bags which they filled withsugar from the casks; or they took with them bladders for stealing therum. Some waded about in the mud at low tide to catch anything thatwas thrown to them from the ships. Some obtained admission to the shipas rat-catchers, and in that capacity were able to carry away plunderpreviously concealed by their friends; some, called _scuffle-hunters_, stood on the quays as porters, carrying bags under their long whiteaprons in which to hide whatever they could pilfer. It was estimatedthat, taking one year with another, the depredations from the shippingin the Port of London amounted to nearly a quarter of a millionsterling every year. All this was carried on by the riverside people. But, to make robbery successful, there must be accomplices, receiving-houses, fences, a way to dispose of the goods. In this casethe thieves had as their accomplices the whole of the population ofthe quarter where they lived. All the public-houses were secretmarkets attended by grocers and other tradesmen where the booty wassold by auction, and, to escape detection, fictitious bills andaccounts were given and received. The thieves were known amongthemselves by fancy names, which at once indicated the special line ofeach and showed the popularity of the calling; they were bold pirates, night plunderers, light horsemen, heavy horsemen, mud-larks, gamelightermen, scuffle-hunters and gangsmen. Their thefts enabled them tolive in the coarse profusion of meat and drink, which was all theywanted; yet they were always poor because their plunder was knockeddown for so little; they saved nothing; and they were always egged onto new robberies by the men who sold them drinks, by the women whotook their money from them, and by the honest merchants who attendedthe secret markets. 

I dwell upon the past because the present is its natural legacy. Whenyou read of the efforts now being made to raise the living, or atleast to prevent them from sinking any lower, remember that they arewhat the dead made them. We inherit more than the wealth of ourancestors; we inherit the consequences of their misdeeds. It is a mostexpensive thing to suffer the people to drop and sink; it is a sadburden which we lay upon posterity if we do not continually spend ourutmost in lifting them up. Why, we have been the best part of twothousand years in recovering the civilization which fell to pieceswhen the Roman Empire decayed. We have not been fifty years indragging up the very poor whom we neglected and left to themselves, the gallows, the cat, and the press-gang only a hundred years ago. Andhow slow, how slow and sometimes hopeless, is the work!

The establishment of river police and the construction of docks havecleared the river of all this gentry. Ships now enter the docks; theredischarge and receive; the labourers can carry away nothing throughthe dock-gates. No apron allows a bag to be hidden; policemen stand atthe gates to search the men; the old game is gone--what is left is asurviving spirit of lawlessness; the herding together; thehand-to-mouth life; the love of drink as the chief attainablepleasure; the absence of conscience and responsibility; and the oldbrutality. 

What the riverside then was may be learned by a small piece ofRotherhithe in which the old things still linger. Smallrepairing-docks, each capable of holding one vessel, are dotted alongthe street; to each are its great dock-gates, keeping out the hightide, and the quays and the shops and the caretaker's lodge; the shiplies in the dock shored up by timbers on either side, and the workmenare hammering, caulking, painting, and scraping the wooden hull; herbowsprit and her figurehead stick out over the street, Between thedocks are small two-storied houses, half of them little shops tryingto sell something; the public-house is frequent, but the 'Humours' ofRatcliff Highway are absent; mercantile Jack at Rotherhithe is mostlyNorwegian and has morals of his own. Such, however, as this littlevillage of Rotherhithe is, so were 'Wappin in the Wose, ' Shadwell, Ratcliff, and the 'Limehouse' a hundred years ago, with the additionof street fighting and brawling all day long; the perpetual adorationof rum, quarrels over stolen goods; quarrels over drunken drabs;quarrels over all-fours; the scraping of fiddles from everypublic-house, the noise of singing, feasting, and dancing, and anever-ending, still-beginning debauch, all hushed and quiet--as birdscower in the hedge at sight of the kestrel--when the press-gang sweptdown the narrow streets and carried off the lads, unwilling to leavethe girls and the grog, and put them aboard His Majesty's tender tomeet what fate might bring. 

The construction of the great docks has completely changed thisquarter. The Precinct of St. Katherine's by the Tower has almostentirely disappeared, being covered by St. Katherine's Dock; theLondon Dock has reduced Wapping to a strip covered with warehouses. But the church remains, so frankly proclaiming itself of theeighteenth century, with its great churchyard. The new Dock Basin, Limehouse Basin, and the West India Docks, have sliced huge cantlesout of Shadwell, Limehouse, and Poplar; the little private docks andboat-building yards have disappeared; here and there the dock remains, with its river gates gone, an ancient barge reposing in its black mud;here and there may be found a great building which was formerly awarehouse when ship-building was still carried on. That branch ofindustry was abandoned after 1868, when the shipwrights struck. Theiraction transferred the ship-building of the country to the Clyde, andthrew out of work thousands of men who had been earning large wages inthe yards. Before this unlucky event Riverside London had been roughand squalid, but there were in it plenty of people earning goodwages--skilled artisans, good craftsmen. Since then it has been nextdoor to starving. The effect of the shipwrights' strike may beillustrated in the history of one couple. 

The man, of Irish parentage, though born in Stepney, was a painter ordecorator of the saloons and cabins of the ships. He was ahighly-skilled workman of taste and dexterity; he could not only paintbut he could carve; he made about three pounds a week and lived incomfort. The wife, a decent Yorkshire woman whose manners were verymuch above those of the riverside folk, was a few years older than herhusband. They had no children. During the years of fatness they savednothing; the husband was not a drunkard, but, like most workmen, heliked to cut a figure and to make a show. So he saved little ornothing. When the yard was finally closed he had to cadge about forwork. Fifteen years later he was found in a single room of the meanesttenement-house; his furniture was reduced to a bed, a table, and achair; all that they had was a little tea and no money--no money atall. He was weak and ill, with trudging about in search of work; hewas lying exhausted on the bed while his wife sat crouched over thelittle bit of fire. This was how they had lived for fifteen years--thewhole time on the verge of starvation. Well, they were taken away;they were persuaded to leave their quarters and to try anther place, where odd jobs were found for the man, and where the woman madefriends in private families, for whom she did a little sewing. But itwas too late for the man; his privations had destroyed his sleight ofhand, though he knew it not; the fine workman was gone. He tookpainters' paralysis, and very often when work was offered his handwould drop before he could begin it; then the long years of trampingabout had made him restless; from time to time he was fain to borrow afew shillings and to go on the tramp again, pretending that he was insearch of work; he would stay away for a fortnight, marching aboutfrom place to place, heartily enjoying the change and the socialevening at the public-houses where he put up. For, though no drunkard, he loved to sit in a warm bar and to talk over the splendours of thepast. Then he died. No one, now looking at the neat old lady in theclean white cap and apron who sits all day in the nursery crooningover her work, would believe that she has gone through this ordeal byfamine, and served her fifteen years' term of starvation for the sinsof others. 

The Parish of St. James's, Ratcliff, is the least known of RiversideLondon. There is nothing about this parish in the Guide-books; nobodygoes to see it. Why should they? There is nothing to see. Yet it isnot without its romantic touches. Once there was here a cross--theRatcliff Cross--but nobody knows what it was, when it was erected, whyit was erected, or when it was pulled down. The oldest inhabitant nowat Ratcliff remembers that there was a cross here--the name surviveduntil the other day, attached to a little street, but that is nowgone. It is mentioned in Dryden. And on the Queen's Accession, in1837, she was proclaimed, among other places, at Ratcliff Cross--butwhy, no one knows. Once the Shipwrights' Company had their hall here;it stood among gardens where the scent of the gillyflower and thestock mingled with the scent of the tar from the neighbouringrope-yard and boat-building yard. In the old days, many were thefeasts which the jolly shipwrights held in their hall after service atSt. Dunstan's, Stepney. The hall is now pulled down, and the Company, which is one of the smallest, worth an income of less than a thousand, has never built another. Then there are the Ratcliff Stairs--ratherdirty and dilapidated to look at, but, at half-tide, affording thebest view one can get anywhere of the Pool and the shipping. In thegood old days of the scuffle-hunters and the heavy horsemen, the viewof the thousand ships moored in their long lines with the narrowpassage between was splendid. History has deigned to speak of RatcliffStairs. 'Twas by these steps that the gallant Willoughby embarked forhis fatal voyage; with flags flying and the discharge of guns hesailed past Greenwich, hoping that the King would come forth to seehim pass. Alas! the young King lay a-dying, and Willoughby himself wassailing off to meet his death. 

The parish contains four good houses, all of which, I believe, aremarked in Roque's map of 1745. 

One of these is now the vicarage of the new church. It is a large, solid, and substantial house, built early in the last century, when asyet the light horsemen and lumpers were no nearer than Wapping. Thewalls of the dining-room are painted with Italian landscapes, to whichbelongs a romance. The paintings were executed by a young Italianartist. For the sake of convenience he was allowed by the merchant whothen lived here, and employed him, to stay in the house. Now themerchant had a daughter, and she was fair. The artist was a goodlyyouth, and inflammable; as the poet says, their eyes met; presently, as the poet goes on, their lips met; then the merchant found out whatwas going on, and ordered the young man, with good old Britishdetermination, out of the house. The young man retired to his room, presumably to pack up his things. But he did not go out of the house;instead of that, he hanged himself in his room. His ghost, naturally, continued to remain in the house, and has been seen by many. Why hehas not long ago joined the ghost of the young lady is not clearunless that, like many ghosts, his chief pleasure is in keeping asmiserable as he possibly can. 

The second large house of the parish is apparently of the same date, but the broad garden in which it formerly stood has been built overwith mean tenement houses. Nothing is known about it; at presentcertain Roman Catholic sisters live in it, and carry on some kind ofwork. 

The third great house is one of the few surviving specimens of themerchant's warehouse and residence in one. It is now an old andtumbledown place. Its ancient history I know not. What rich and costlybales were hoisted into this warehouse; what goods lay here waiting tobe carried down the Stairs, and so on board ship in the Pool; whatfortunes were made and lost here one knows not. Its ancient history isgone and lost, but it has a modern history. Here a certain man began, in a small way, a work which has grown to be great; here he spent andwas spent; here he gave his life for the work, which was for thechildren of the poor. He was a young physician; he saw in this squalidand crowded neighbourhood the lives of the children needlesslysacrificed by the thousand for the want of a hospital; to be taken illin the wretched room where the whole family lived was to die; thenearest hospital was two miles away. The young physician had butslender means, but he had a stout heart. He found this house empty, its rent a song. He took it, put in half a dozen beds, constitutedhimself the physician and his wife the nurse, and opened theChildren's Hospital. Very soon the rooms became wards; the wardsbecame crowded with children; the one nurse was multiplied by twenty;the one physician by six. Very soon, too, the physician lay upon hisdeath-bed, killed by the work. But the Children's Hospital wasfounded, and now it stands, not far off, a stately building with oneof its wards--the Heckford Ward--named after the physician who gavehis own life to save the children. When the house ceased to be ahospital it was taken by a Mr. Dawson, who was the first to start herea club for the very rough lads. He, too, gave his life for the cause, for the illness which killed him was due to overwork and neglect. Devotion and death are therefore associated with this old house. 

The fourth large house is now degraded to a common lodging-house. Butit has still its fine old staircase. 

The Parish of St. James's, Ratcliff, consists of an irregular patch ofground having the river on the south, and the Commercial Road, one ofthe great arteries of London, on the north. It contains about seventhousand people, of whom some three thousand are Irish Catholics. Itincludes a number of small, mean, and squalid streets; there is notanywhere in the great city a collection of streets smaller or meaner. The people live in tenement-houses, very often one family for everyroom--in one street, for instance, of fifty houses, there are onehundred and thirty families. The men are nearly alldock-labourers--the descendants of the scuffle-hunters, whosetraditions still survive, perhaps, in an unconquerable hatred ofgovernment. The women and girls are shirt-makers, tailoresses, jam-makers, biscuit-makers, match-makers, and rope-makers. 

In this parish the only gentlefolk are the clergy and the ladiesworking in the parish for the Church; there are no substantialshopkeepers, no private residents, no lawyer, no doctor, noprofessional people of any kind; there are thirty-six public-houses, or one to every hundred adults, so that if each spends on an averageonly two shillings a week, the weekly takings of each are ten pounds. Till lately there were forty-six, but ten have been suppressed; thereare no places of public entertainment, there are no books, there arehardly any papers except some of those Irish papers whose continuedsufferance gives the lie to their own everlasting charges of Englishtyranny. Most significant of all, there are no Dissenting chapels, with one remarkable exception. Fifteen chapels in the three parishesof Ratcliff, Shadwell, and St. George's have been closed during thelast twenty years. Does this mean conversion to the Anglican Church?Not exactly; it means, first, that the people have become too poor tomaintain a chapel, and next, that they have become too poor to thinkof religion. So long as an Englishman's head is above the grindingmisery, he exercises, as he should, a free and independent choice ofcreeds, thereby vindicating and assorting his liberties. Here there isno chapel, therefore no one thinks; they lie like sheep; of death andits possibilities no one heeds; they live from day to day; when theyare young they believe they will be always young; when they are old, so far as they know, they have been always old. 

The people being such as they are--so poor, so hopeless, soignorant--what is done for them? How are they helped upward? How arethey driven, pushed, shoved, pulled, to prevent them from sinkingstill lower? For they are not at the lowest depths; they are notcriminals; up to their lights they are honest; that poor fellow whostands with his hands ready--all he has got in the wide world--onlyhis hands--no trade, no craft, no skill--will give you a good day'swork if you engage him; he will not steal things; he will drink morethan he should with the money you give him; he will knock his wifedown if she angers him; but he is not a criminal. That step has yet tobe taken; he will not take it; but his children may, and unless theyare prevented they certainly will. For the London-born child very soonlearns the meaning of the Easy Way and the Primrose Path. We have todo with the people ignorant, drunken, helpless, always at the point ofdestitution, their whole thoughts as much concentrated upon thedifficulty of the daily bread as ever were those of their ancestor whoroamed about the Middlesex Forest and hunted the bear with a club, andshot the wild goose with a flint-headed arrow. 

First there is the Church work; that is to say, the various agenciesand machinery directed by the Vicar. It may be new to some readers, especially to Americans, to learn how much of the time and thoughts ofour Anglican beneficed clergymen are wanted for things not directlyreligious. The church, a plain and unpretending edifice, built in theyear 1838, is served by the Vicar and two curates. There are dailyservices, and on Sundays an early celebration. The average attendanceat the Sunday morning mid-day service is about one hundred; in theevening it is generally double that number. They are all adults. Forthe children another service is held in the Mission Room, The averageattendance at the Sunday-schools and Bible-classes is about threehundred and fifty, and would be more if the Vicar had a larger staffof teachers, of whom, however, there are forty-two. The whole numberof men and women engaged in organized work connected with the Churchis about one hundred and twenty-six. Some of them are ladies from theother end of London, but most belong to the parish itself; in thechoir, for instance, are found a barber, a postman, a caretaker, andone or two small shopkeepers, all living in the parish, When weremember that Ratcliff is not what is called a 'show' parish, that thenewspapers never talk about it, and that rich people never hear of it, this indicates a very considerable support to Church work. 

In addition to the church proper there is the 'Mission Chapel, ' whereother services are held. One day in the week there is a sale ofclothes at very low prices. They are sold rather than given, becauseif the women have paid a few pence for them they are less willing topawn them than if they had received them for nothing. In the MissionChapel are held classes for young girls and services for children. 

The churchyard, like so many of the London churchyards, has beenconverted into a recreation ground, where there are trees andflower-beds, and benches for old and young. 

Outside the Church, but yet connected with it, there is, first, theGirls' Club. The girls of Ratcliff are all working-girls; as might beexpected, a rough and wild company, as untrained as colts, yet open tokindly and considerate treatment. Their first yearning is for finery;give them a high hat with a flaring ostrich feather, a plush jacket, and a 'fringe, ' and they are happy. There are seventy-five of thesegirls; they use their club every evening, and they have variousclasses, though it cannot be said that they are desirous of learninganything. Needlework, especially, they dislike; they dance, sing, havemusical drill, and read a little. Five ladies who work for the churchand for the club live in the club-house, and other ladies come to lendassistance. When we consider what the homes and the companions ofthese girls are, what kind of men will be their husbands, and thatthey are to become mothers of the next generation, it seems as if onecould not possibly attempt a more useful achievement than theircivilization. Above all, this club stands in the way of the greatestcurse of East London--the boy and girl marriage. For the elder womenthere are Mothers' Meetings, at which two hundred attend every week;and there are branches of the Societies for Nursing and HelpingMarried Women. For general purposes there is a Parish Sick andDistress Fund; a fund for giving dinners to poor children; there is afrequent distribution of fruit, vegetables, and flowers, sent up bypeople from the country. And for the children there is a large roomwhich they can use as a play-room from four o'clock till half-pastseven. Here they are at least warm; were it not for this room theywould have to run about the cold streets; here they have games andpictures and toys. In connection with the work for the girls, help isgiven by the Metropolitan Association for Befriending Young Servants, which takes charge of a good many of the girls. 

For the men there is one of the institutions called a Tee-To-Tum Club, which has a grand café open to everybody all day long; the membersmanage the club themselves; they have a concert once a week, adramatic performance once a week, a gymnastic display once a week; onSunday they have a lecture or an address, with a discussion after it;and they have smaller clubs attached for football, cricket, rowing, and swimming. 

For the younger lads there is another club, of one hundred and sixtymembers; they also have their gymnasium, their football, cricket, andswimming clubs; their classes for carpentry, wood-carving, singing, and shorthand; their savings' bank, their sick club, and theirlibrary. 

Only the better class of lads belong to this club. But there is alower set, those who lounge about the streets at night, and take togambling and betting. For these boys the children's play-room isopened in the evening; here they read, talk, box, and play bagstelle, draughts, and dominoes, These lads are as rough as can be found, yeton the whole they give very little trouble. 

Another important institution is the Country Holiday; this isaccomplished by saving. It means, while it lasts, an expenditure offive shillings a week; sometimes the lads are taken to the seaside andlive in a barn; sometimes the girls are sent to a village and placedabout in cottages. A great number of the girls and lads go off everyyear a-hopping in Kent. 

Add to these the temperance societies, and we seem to complete theorganized work of the Church. It must, however, be remembered thatthis work is not confined to those who attend the services or areAnglican in name. The clergy and the ladies who help them go about thewhole parish from house to house; they know all the people in everyhouse, to whatever creed they belong; their visits are looked for as akind of right; they are not insulted even by the roughest; they aretrusted by all; as they go along the streets the children run afterthem and hang upon their dress; if a strange man is walking with oneof these ladies, they catch at his hands and pull at hiscoat-tails--we judge of a man, you see, by his companions. All thismachinery seems costly. It is, of course, far beyond the slenderresources of the parish. It demands, however, no more than £850 ayear, of which £310 is found by different societies and the sum of£540 has to be raised somehow. 

There are, it has been stated, no more than seven thousand people inthis parish, of whom nearly half belong to the Church of Rome. Itwould therefore almost seem as if every man, woman, and child in theplace must be brought under the influence of all this work. In a senseall the people do feel the influence of the Church, whether they areAnglicans or not. The parish system, as you have seen, provideseverything; for the men, clubs; for the women, nursing in sickness, friendly counsel always, help in trouble; the girls are broughttogether and kept out of mischief and encouraged in self-respect byladies who understand what they want and how they look at things, thegrown lads are taken from the streets, and, with the younger boys, aretaught arts and crafts, and are trained in manly exercises just as ifthey were boys of Eton and Harrow. The Church services, which used tobe everything, are now only a part of the parish work. The clergy areat once servants of the altar, preachers, teachers, almoners, leadersin all kinds of societies and clubs, and providers of amusements andrecreation. The people look on, hold out their hands, receive, atfirst indifferently--but presently, one by one, awaken to a new sense. As they receive they cannot choose but to discover that these ladieshave given up their luxurious homes and the life of ease in order towork among them. They also discover that these young gentlemen who'run' the dubs, teach the boys gymnastics, boxing, drawing, carving, and the rest, give up for this all their evenings--the flower of theday in the flower of life. What for? What do they get for it? Not inthis parish only, but in every parish the same kind of thing goes onand spreads daily. This--observe--is the last step _but one_ ofcharity. For the progress of charity is as follows: First, there isthe pitiful dole to the beggar; then the bequest to monk andmonastery; then the founding of the almshouse and the parish charity;then the Easter and the Christmas offerings; then the gift to thealmoner; then the cheque to a society; next--latest and best--personalservice among the poor. This is both flower and fruit of charity. Onething only remains. And before long this thing also shall come to passas well. 

Those who live in the dens and witness these things done daily must bestocks and stones if they were not moved by them. They are not stocksand stones; they are actually, though slowly, moved by them; the oldhatred of the Church--you may find it expressed in the working man'spapers of fifty years ago--is dying out rapidly in our great towns;the brawling is better, even the drinking is diminishing. And there isanother--perhaps an unexpected--result. Not only are the poor turningto the Church which befriends them, the Church which they used toderide, but the clergy are turning to the poor; there are many forwhom the condition of the people is above all other earthlyconsiderations. If that great conflict--long predicted--of capital andlabour ever takes place, it is safe to prophecy that the Church willnot desert the poor. 

Apart from the Church what machinery is at work? First, because thereare so many Catholics in the place, one must think of them. It is, however, difficult to ascertain the Catholic agencies at work amongthese people. The people are told that they must go to mass; RomanCatholic sisters give dinners to children; there is the Roman Leagueof the Cross--a temperance association; I think that the Catholics arein great measure left to the charities of the Anglicans, so long asthese do not try to convert the Romans. 

The Salvation Army people attempt nothing--absolutely nothing in thisparish. There are at present neither Baptist, nor Wesleyan, norIndependent chapels in the place. A few years ago, on the appearanceof the book called the 'Bitter Cry of Outcast London, ' an attempt wasmade by the last-named body; they found an old chapel belonging to theCongregationalists, with an endowment of £80 a year, which they turnedinto a mission-hall, and carried on with spirit for two years missionwork in the place; they soon obtained large funds, which they seem tohave lavished with more zeal than discretion. Presently their moneywas all gone and they could get no more; then the chapel was turnedinto a night-shelter. Next It was burned to the ground. It is nowrebuilt and is again a night-shelter. There is, however, an historicmonument in the parish with which remains a survival of formeractivity. It is a Quaker meeting-house which dates back to 1667. Itstands within its walls, quiet and decorous; there are the chapel, theante-room, and the burial-ground. The congregation still meet, reducedto fifty; they still hold their Sunday-school; and not far off one ofthe fraternity carries on a Crêche which takes care of seventy oreighty babies, and is blessed every day by as many mothers. 

Considering all these agencies--how they are at work day after day, never resting, never ceasing, never relaxing their hold, alwayscompelling the people more and more within the circle of theirinfluence; how they incline the hearts of the children to betterthings and show them how to win these better things--one wonders thatthe whole parish is not already clad in white robes and sitting withharp and crown. On the other hand, walking down London Street, Ratcliff, looking at the foul houses, hearing the foul language, seeing the poor women with black eyes, watching the multitudinouschildren in the mud, one wonders whether even these agencies areenough to stem the tide and to prevent this mass of people fromfalling lower and lower still into the hell of savagery. This parishis one of the poorest in London; it is one of the least known; it isone of the least visited. Explorers of slums seldom come here; it isnot fashionably miserable. Yet all these fine things are done here, and as in this parish so in every other. It is continually stated as amere commonplace--one may see the thing advanced everywhere, in'thoughtful' papers, in leading articles--that the Church of Romealone can produce its self-sacrificing martyrs, its lives of puredevotion. Then what of these parish-workers of the Church of England?What of that young physician who worked himself to death for thechildren? What of the young men--not one here and there but indozens--who give up all that young men mostly love for the sake oflaborious nights among rough and rude lads? What of the gentlewomenwho pass long years--give up their youth, their beauty, and theirstrength--among girls and women whose language is at first like a blowto them? What of the clergy themselves, always, all day long, livingin the midst of the very poor--hardly paid, always giving out of theirpoverty, forgotten in their obscurity, far from any chance ofpromotion, too hard-worked to read or study, dropped out of all theold scholarly circles? Nay, my brothers, we cannot allow to the Churchof Rome all the unselfish men and women. Father Damien is one of us aswell. I have met him--I know him by sight--he lives and has longlived, in Riverside London. 

ST. KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER

On the 30th day of October, in the year of grace one thousand eighthundred and twenty-five, there was gathered together a congregation toassist at the mournfullest service ever heard in any church. The placewas the Precinct of St. Katherine's, the church was that known as St. Katherine's by the Tower--the most ancient and venerable church in thewhole of East London--a city which now has but two ancient churchesleft, those of Bow and of Stepney, without counting the old tower ofHackney. 

Suppose it was advertised that the last and the farewell service, before the demolition of the Abbey, would be held at Westminster on acertain day; that after the service the old church would be pulleddown; that some of the monuments would be removed, the rest destroyed;that the bones of the illustrious dead would be carted away andscattered, and that the site would be occupied by warehouses used forcommercial purposes. One can picture the frantic rage and despair withwhich the news would everywhere be received; one can imagine thestirring of the hearts of all those who to every part of the worldinherit the Anglo-Saxon speech, one can hear the sobbing and thewailing which accompany the last anthem, the last sermon, the lastprayer. 

St. Katherine's by the Tower was the Abbey of East London, poor andsmall, certainly, compared with the Cathedral church of the City andthe Abbey of the West; but stately and ancient; endowed by half adozen Sovereigns; consecrated by the memory of seven hundred years, filled with the monuments of great men and small men buried within herwalls; standing in her own Precinct; with her own Courts, Spiritualand Temporal; with her own judges and officers; surrounded by theclaustral buildings belonging to Master, Brethren, Sisters, andBedeswomen. The church and the hospital had long survived theintentions of the founders; yet as they stood, so situated, soancient, so venerable, amid a dense population of rough sailors andsailor folk, with such enormous possibilities for good and usefulwork, sacred and secular, one is lost in wonder that the consent ofParliament, even for purposes of gain, could be obtained for theirdestruction. Yet St. Katherine's was destroyed. When the voice of thepreacher died away, the destroyers began their work. They pulled downthe church; they hacked up the monuments, and dug up the bones; theydestroyed the Master's house, and cut down the trees in his quietorchard; they pulled down the Brothers' houses round the littleancient square; they pulled down the row of Sisters' houses and theBedeswomen's houses; they swept the people out of the Precinct, anddestroyed the streets; they pulled down the Courts, Spiritual andTemporal, and opened the doors of the prison; they grubbed up theburying ground, and with the bones and the dust of the dead, and therubbish of the foundations, they filled up the old reservoir of theChelsea water-works, and enabled Mr. 

Cubitt to build Eccleston Square. When all was gone they let the waterinto the big hole they had made, and called it St. Katherine's Dock. All this done, they became aware of certain prickings of conscience. They had utterly demolished and swept away and destroyed a thing whichcould never be replaced; they were fain to do something to appeasethose prickings. They therefore stuck up a new chapel, which thearchitect called Gothic, with six neat houses in two rows, and a largehouse with a garden in Regent's Park, and this they called St. Katherine's, 'Sirs, ' they said, 'it is not true that we have destroyedthat ancient foundation at all; we have only removed it to anotherplace. Behold your St. Katherine's!' Of course it is nothing of thekind. It is not St. Katherine's. It is a sham, a house of Shams andShadows. 

Thus was St. Katherine's destroyed; not for the needs of the City, because it is not clear that the new docks were wanted, or that therewas no other place for them, but in sheer inability to understand whatthe place meant as to the past, and what it might be made to do in thefuture. The story of the Hospital has been often told: partly, as byDucarel and by Lysons, for the historical interest; partly, as by Mr. Simcox Lea, in protest against the present we of its revenues. It iswith the latter object, though I disagree altogether with Mr. Lea'sconclusions, that I ask leave to tell the story once more. The storywill have to be told, perhaps, again and again, until people can bemade to understand the uselessness and the waste and the foolishnessof the present establishment in the Park, which has assumed and bearsthe style and title of St. Katherine's Hospital by the Tower. 

The beginning of the Hospital dates seven hundred and forty yearsback, when Matilda, Stephen's Queen, founded it for the purpose ofhaving masses said for the repose of her two children, Baldwin andMatilda, She ordered that the Hospital should consist of a Master, Brothers, Sisters, and certain poor persons--probably the same as inthe later foundation. She appointed the Prior and Canons of HolyTrinity to have perpetual custody of the Hospital; and she reserved toherself and all succeeding Queens of England the nomination, of theMaster. Her grant was approved by the King, the Archbishop ofCanterbury, and the Pope. Shortly afterwards William of Ypres bestowedthe land of Edredeshede, afterwards called Queenhythe, on the Prioryof Holy Trinity, subject to an annual payment of £20 to the Hospitalof Katherine's by the Tower. 

This was the original foundation. It was not a Charity; it was aReligious House with a definite duty--to pray for the souls of twochildren; it had no other charitable objects than belong to anyreligious foundation--viz. , the giving of alms to the poor, nor was itintended as a church for the people; in those days there were nopeople outside the Tower, save the inhabitants of a few scatteredcottages along the river Wall, and the farmhouses of Steban Heath. Itwas simply founded for the benefit of two little princes' souls. Onerefrains from asking what was done for the little paupers' souls inthose days. 

The Prior and Canons of Holy Trinity without Aldgate continued toexercise some authority over the Hospital, but apparently--the subjectonly interests the ecclesiastical historian--against the protests andgrumblings of the St. Katherine's Society. It was, however, formallyhanded over to them, a hundred and forty years later, by Henry theThird. After his death, Queen Eleanor, for some reason, now dimlyintelligible, wanted to get the Hospital into her own hands. TheBishop of London took it away from the Priory and transferred it toher. Then, perhaps with the view of preventing any subsequent claim bythe Priory, she declared the Hospital dissolved. 

Here ends the first chapter in the history of the Hospital. Thefoundation for the souls of the two princes existed no longer--thechildren, no doubt, having been long since sung out of Purgatory. Queen Eleanor, however, immediately refounded it. The Hospital was, asbefore, to consist of a Master, three Brothers, three Sisters, andbedeswomen. It was also provided that six poor scholars were to be fedand clothed--not educated, The Queen further provided that on Novemberthe 16th of every year twelve pence each should be given to the poorscholars, and the same amount to twenty-four poor persons; and that onNovember the 20th, the anniversary of the King's death, one thousandpoor men should receive one halfpenny each. Here is the firstintroduction of a charity. The Hospital is no longer an ecclesiasticalfoundation only; it maintains scholars and gives substantial alms. Whoreceived these alms? Of course the people in the neighbourhood--ifthere were no inhabitants in the Precinct, the poor of Portsoken Ward. In either case the charity would be local--a point of the greatestimportance. Queen Eleanor also continued her predecessor's rule thatthe patronage of the Hospital should remain in the hands of the Queensof England for ever; when there was no Queen, then in the hands of theQueen Dowager; failing in her, in those of the King. This rule stillobtains. The Queen appoints the Master, Brothers, and Sisters of theHouse of Shams in Regent's Park, just as her predecessors appointedthose of St. Katherine's by the Tower. 

Queen Eleanor was followed by other royal benefactors. Edward theSecond, for example, gave the Hospital the rectory of St. Peter's inNorthampton. Queen Philippa, who, like Eleanor, regarded the placewith especial affection, endowed it with the manor of Upchurch inKent, and that of Queenbury in Hertfordshire. She also founded achantry with £10 a year for a chaplain. Edward the Third foundedanother chantry in honour of Philippa, with a charge of £10 a yearupon the Hanaper Office; he also conferred upon it the right ofcutting wood for fuel in the Forest of Essex. Richard the Second gaveit the manor of Reshyndene in Sheppy, and 120 acres of land inMinster. Henry the Sixth gave it the manors of Chesingbury inWiltshire, and Quasley in Hants; he also granted a charter, with theprivilege of holding a fair. Lastly, Henry the Eighth founded, inconnection with St. Katherine's by the Tower, the Guild of St. Barbara, consisting of a Master, three Wardens, and a great number ofmembers, among whom were Cardinal Wolsey, the Duke and Duchess ofNorfolk, the Duke and Duchess of Buckingham, the Earl and Countess ofShrewsbury, and the Earl and Countess of Northumberland, with othergreat and illustrious persons. 

This is a goodly list of benefactors. It is evident that St. Katherine's was a foundation regarded by the Kings and Queens ofEngland with great favour. Other benefactors it had, notably JohnHolland, Duke of Exeter, Lord High Admiral and Constable of the Tower, himself of royal descent. He was buried in the church, with his twowives, and bequeathed to the Hospital the manor of Much Gaddesden. Healso gave it a cup of beryl, garnished with gold, pearls, and preciousstones, and a chalice of gold for the celebration of the HolySacrament. 

In the year 1546 all the lands belonging to the Hospital weretransferred to the Crown. 

At this time the whole revenue of the Hospital was £364 12s. 6d. , andthe expenditure was £210 6s. 5d. ; the difference being the value ofthe mastership. The Master at the dissolution was Gilbert Lathom, apriest, and the brothers were five in number--namely, the originalthree, and the two priests for the chantries. Four of the five had'for his stipend, mete, and drynke, by yere, ' the sum of £8, which isfivepence farthing a day; the other had £9, which is sixpence a day. It would be interesting, by comparison of prices, to ascertain howmuch could be purchased with sixpence a day. The three Sisters hadalso £8 year, and the Bedeswomen had each two pounds five shillingsand sixpence a year. There were six scholars at £4 a year each for'their mete, drynke, clothes, and other necessaries'; and there werefour servants, a steward, a butler, a cook, and an under-cook, whocost £5 a year each. There were two gardens and a yard orcourt--namely, the square, bounded by the houses of the Brothers, andthe church. 

This marks the closing of the second chapter in the history of theHospital. With the cessation of saying masses for the dead itsreligious character expired. There remained only the services in thechurch for the inhabitants of the Precinct in the time of Henry VIII. 

The only use of the Hospital was now as a charity. Fortunately, theplace was not, like the Priory of the Holy Trinity, granted to acourtier, otherwise it would have been swept away just as that Priory, or that of Elsing's Spital, was swept away. It continued after a whileto carry on its existence, but with changes. It was secularized. TheMasters for a hundred and fifty years, not counting the interval ofQueen Mary's reign, were laymen. The Brothers were generally laymen. The first Master of the third period was Sir Thomas Seymour; he wassucceeded by Sir Francis Flemyng, Lieutenant General of the King'sOrdnance. Flemyng was deprived by Queen Mary, who appointed oneFrancis Mallet, a priest, in his place. Queen Elizabeth dispossessedMalet, and appointed Thomas Wilson, a layman and a Doctor at Laws. During his mastership there were no Brothers, and only a few Sistersor Bedeswomen. The Hospital then became a rich sinecure. Among theMasters were Sir Julius Cæsar, Master of the Rolls; Sir Robert Acton;Dr. Coxe; three Montague brothers, Walter, Henry, and George; LordBrownker; the Earl of Feversham; Sir Henry Newton, Judge of the HighCourt of Admiralty; the Hon. George Berkeley; and Sir James Butler. The Brothers had been re-established--their names are enumerated byDucarel--one or two of them were clerks in orders, but all the restwere laymen. They still received the old stipend of £8 a year, with asmall house. As for the rest of the greatly increased income it wentto the Master after the manner common to all the old charities. Duringthe latter half of the sixteenth and the whole of the seventeenthcentury St. Katherine's by the Tower consisted of a beautiful oldchurch standing with its buildings clustered round it--a Master'shouse, rich in carved and ancient wood-work, with its gardens andorchards; its houses for the Brothers, Sisters, and Bedeswomen, eachof whom continued to receive the same salary as that ordained by QueenEleanor. Service was held in the church for the inhabitants of thePrecinct, but the Hospital was wholly secular. The Master devoured byfar the greater part of the revenue, and the alms-people--Brothers, Sisters, and Bedeswomen--had no duties to perform of any kind. 

In the year 1698 this, the third chapter in the life of the Hospital, was closed. The Lord Chancellor, Lord Somers, held in that year aVisitation of the Hospital, the result of which is interesting, because it shows, first, a lingering of the old ecclesiasticaltraditions, and, next, the sense that something useful ought to bedone with the income of the Hospital. It was therefore ordered in thenew regulations provided by the Chancellor that the Brothers should bein Holy Orders, and that a school of thirty-five boys and fifteengirls should be maintained by the Hospital. It does not appear thatany duties were expected of the Brothers. Like the Fellows of collegesat Oxford and Cambridge, they were all to be in priests' orders, andfor exactly the same reason, because at the original foundations ofthe colleges, as well as of the Hospital, the Fellows were allpriests. As for the Master, he remained a layman. This new order ofthings, therefore, raised the position of the Brothers, and gave a newdignity to the Hospital; further, the School as well as the Bedeswomendefined its position as a charity. It still fell far, very far, shortof what it might have done, but it was not between the years 1698 and1825 quite so useless as it had been. A plan of the Precinct, withdrawings of the church, within and without, and of the monuments inthe church, may be found in Lysons. The obscurity of the Hospital, andthe neglect into which it fell during the last century, are shown bythe small attention paid to it in the books on London of the lastcentury, and the early years of the present century. Thus, inHarrison's 'History of London, ' though nearly every church in the Cityand its immediate suburbs is figured, St. Katherine's is not drawn. InStrype (edition 1720) there is no drawing of St. Katherine's; inDodsley's 'London, ' 1761, it is described but not figured; andWilkinson, in his 'Londina Illustrata, ' passes it over entirely. TheHospital buildings consisted of a square, of which the north side wasoccupied by the Master's house, with a large garden behind, and theMaster's orchard between his garden and the river; on the east andwest sides were the Brothers' houses; and on the south side of thesquare was the church and the chapter-house. On the east of the churchwas the burying-ground. South of the church was the Sisters' close, with the houses occupied by the Sisters and the Bedeswomen. The oldBrothers' houses were taken down and rebuilt about the year 1755, andthe Master's house, an ancient building, full of carved timber-work, had also been taken down, so that in the year 1825, when the Hospitalwas finally destroyed, the only venerable building standing in thePrecinct was the church itself. To look at the drawings of this oldchurch and to think of the loving care with which it would have beentreated had it been allowed to stand till this day, and then toconsider the 'Gothic' edifice in Regent's Park, is indeed saddening. The church consisted of the nave and chancel with two aisles, built byBishop Beckington, formerly the Master. The east window, 30 feet highand 25 feet wide, had once been most beautiful when its windows werestained. The tracery was still fine; a St. Katherine's wheel occupiedthe highest part, and beneath it was a rose; but none of the windowshad preserved their painted glass, so that the general effect of theinterior must have been cold. The carved wood of the stalls and thegreat pulpit, presented by Sir Julius Cæsar, may still be seen in theRegent's Park Chapel, where are also some of the monuments. Of thesethe church was full. The finest (now in Regent's Park) was that ofJohn Holland, Duke of Exeter, and his two wives. There was one of theHon. George Montague, Master of the Hospital, who died in the year1681; and there was the monument with kneeling figures of one Cuttingand his wife, with his coat of arms. The seats of the stalls arecuriously carved, as is so often found, with grotesque figures--humanbirds, monkeys, lions, boys riding hogs, angels playing bagpipes, beasts with human heads, pelicans feeding their young, and the devilwith hoof and horns carrying off a brace of souls. There was more thanthe customary wealth epitaphs. Thus, on the tablet to the memory ofthe daughter of one of the Brothers was written:

 'Thus we by want, more than by having, learn The worth of things in which we claim concern. '

On that of William Cutting, a benefactor to Gonville and Caius, Cambridge, is written:

 'Not dead, if good deedes could keep men alive, Nor all dead since good deedes do men revive. Gunville and Kaies his good deedes maie record, And will (no doubt) him praise therefor afford. '

On the tablet of Charles Stamford, clergyman:

 'Mille modis morimur mortaies, nascimur uno: Sunt hominum morbi milie sed una salus. '

And to the memory of Robert Beadles, free-mason, one of His Majesty'sgunners of the Tower, who died in the year 1683:

 'He now rests quiet, in his grave secure; Where still the noise of guns he can endure; His martial soul is doubtless now at rest, Who in his lifetime was so oft oppressed With care and fears, and strange cross acts of late, But now is happy and in glorious state. The blustering storm of life with him is o'er, And he is landed on that happy shore Where 'tis that he can hope and fear no more. '

There they lay buried, the good people of St. Katherine's Precinct. They were of all trades, but chiefly belonged to those who go down tothe sea in ships. On the list of names are those of half a dozencaptains, one of them captain of H. M. S. _Monmouth_, who died in theyear 1706, aged 31 years; there are the names of Lieutenants; thereare those of sailmakers and gunners; there is a sergeant of Admiralty, a moneyer of the Tower, a weaver, a citizen and stationer, a Dutchmanwho fell overboard and was drowned, a surveyor and collector--all thetrades and callings that would gather together in this littleriverside district separated and cut off from the rest of London. Among the people who lived here were the descendants of them who cameaway with the English on the taking of Calais, Guisnes, and Hames. They settled in a street called Hames and Guisnes Lane, corrupted intoHangman's Gains. A census taken in the reign of Queen Elizabeth showedthat of those resident in the Precinct, 328 were Dutch, 8 were Danes, 5 were Polanders, 69 Were French--all hat-makers--2 Spanish, 1Italian, and 12 Scotch. Verstegan, the antiquary, was born here, andhere lived Raymond Lully. During the last century the Precinct cane tobe inhabited almost entirely by sailors, belonging to every nation andevery religion under the sun. 

This was the place which it was permitted to certain promoters of aDock Company to destroy utterly. A place with a history of sevenhundred years, which might, had its ecclesiastical character beenpreserved and developed, have been converted into a cathedral for EastLondon; or, if its secular character had been maintained, might havebecome a noble centre of all kinds of useful work for the greatchaotic city of East London. They suffered it to be destroyed. It hasbeen destroyed for sixty years. As for calling the place in Regent'sPark St. Katherine's Hospital, that, I repeat, is absurd. There is nolonger a St. Katherine's Hospital. As well call the garish newbuilding on the embankment Sion College. That is not, indeed, SionCollege. The London Clergy, who, of all people, might have beenexpected to guard the monuments of the past, have sold Sion Collegefor what it would fetch. The site of the Cripplegate nunnery; ofElsing's Spital for blind men; of Sion College, or Clergy House, hasbeen destroyed by its own trustees. The sweet old place, thepeacefullest spot in the whole city, with its long low library, itsBedesmen's rooms, and its quiet reading room, is gone. You might justas well destroy Trinity College, Cambridge, and then stick up a modernwing to Somerset House, and call that Trinity. In the same way St. Katherine's by the Tower was destroyed sixty years ago. 

Let me repeat that the Hospital suffered four changes. 

First, it was founded by Queen Matilda, for the repose of herchildren's souls. Next, it was dissolved and again founded, andsubsequently endowed as a Religious House with chantries, certaindefinite duties of masses for the dead, certain charitable trusts, andother functions. Thirdly, when the Mass ceased to be said it wassecularized completely. Service was held in the church, but theHospital became a perfectly secular charity, supporting a fewalmspeople with niggard hand, and a Master in great splendour. Fourthly, it was again treated as a semi-ecclesiastical foundation, for reasons which do not appear. At the same time, while its charitieswere enlarged, no duties were assigned to the Brothers, who seem tohave been considered as Fellows, forming the Society, and, therefore, like the Fellows at Oxford and Cambridge, obliged to be in HolyOrders. Lastly, as we have seen, it was destroyed. 

After the Hospital had been destroyed, a scheme for the management ofthe revenues was suggested to Lord Elden, then Lord Chancellor, andafterwards approved by Lord Lyndhurst. The question before theChancellor was, one would think, the following: 'Here is an annualrevenue of £5, 000 and more, released by the destruction of theHospital. How can it be best applied for the general good or for thebenefit of the crowded city around the site of the old Hospital?'That, however, was not the view of the Lord Chancellor. He said, practically:

'Here is a large property which has hitherto been devoted to the useof maintaining in idleness, and not as a reward or pension for goodwork done, a Master, three Brothers, three Sisters, and ten poorwomen. The ecclesiastical purposes for which the property wasoriginally got together have long since utterly vanished. The churchin which service used to be held is abolished, and the place where itstood is turned into a dock. We will build a new church where none iswanted, we will perpetuate the waste of all this money; the stipendsof the Brothers and Sisters shall be raised; to the Brothers shall beassigned, nominally, the service in the chapel, but they shall have achaplain or reader, to prevent this duty from becoming onerous; theSisters shall have nothing at all to do; the Bedeswomen shall bedeprived of their houses and shall receive no advance in their pay, but they shall be doubled in number. Twenty Bedesmen shall also beadded with the same pay, viz. , £10 a year, or 4s. A week. [NOTE: Notethat in 1545 each Bedeswomen received 10d, a week, and each Sister3s. , so that the proportion of Bedeswoman's pay to Sister's pay wasthen as 1:3'6. But Lord Lyndhurst takes away the houses from the poorwomen and gives them no more pay, so that, without _counting the lossof their houses_, the Bedeswoman's pay under Victoria is to theSister's pay as 1:19. The Victorian Bedeswoman was thereforerelatively reduced in proportion to the Sister six-fold compared withher Tudor predecessor. ] The Master shall have a beautiful house with agarden, conservancy, stabling for seven horses, and £1, 200 a year, besides comfortable perquisites. He shall have no duties except thepresidency of the chapter. And in order that the thing may not seemperfectly and profoundly ridiculous there shall be a school oftwenty-four boys and twelve girls. '

This was the solution proposed and adopted by two eminent Chancellors, and carried into effect for thirty years. During the years 1858-1863the average revenue was £7, 460 8s. 2-3/4d. Of this sum the Master, Brethren, and Sisters absorbed with their buildings £4, 102 8s. 2-3/4d. ; the management expenses Were £909 5s. 6d. ; the chapel cost£211 17s. 11d. , sundries amounted to £141 6s. 10-3/4 d. ; and theuseful portion of the expenditure was represented by the sum of £5549s. 7-1/2 d. Absolute uselessness--for the chapel was by no meanswanted--is represented by £6, 904, and usefulness by £554--a proportionof very nearly 12-1/2:1. 

Yet another opportunity occurred of dealing rationally with this largeproperty. 

In the year 1871 a Royal Commission was appointed to examine 'intoseveral matters relative to the Royal Hospital of St. Katherine nearthe Tower. ' The question might again have been raised how best toapply the large revenues for the general good. The Commissioners hadbefore them quite clearly the way in which the seven thousand and oddpounds a year was being spent; they could arrive as easily asourselves at the proportion above set forth, viz. :

 Waste : usefulness :: 12-1/2 : 1. 

They threw away this opportunity; they could not tear away theecclesiastical rags with which the new foundation of 1827--the mockSt. Katherine's--has been wrapped in imitation of the old. In an agewhen the universities have been secularized, when the Fellows ofcolleges are no longer required to be in Orders, when every uselessold charity is being reformed, and every endowment reconsidered with aview to making it useful to the living as, under former conditions, itwas to the dead, they actually proposed to increase the uselessnessand the waste by adding a fourth Brother (which has not been done), and raising the stipends of Brothers and Sisters. They alsorecommended the establishment of an upper school, with 'foundationboarders. ' Considering that the upper and middle classes have alreadyappropriated to their own use almost every educational endowment inthe country, this proposition seems too ridiculous. The whole Reportis indeed a marvellous illustration of the tenacity of old prejudices. Yet it did one good thing; it recommended that the accounts of theHospital should be submitted every year to the Charity Commissioners, thus distinctly recognising the fact that the new foundation is not anecclesiastical institution, but a charity. 

The Report mentions several propositions which had been laid beforethe Commissioners during their inquiry for the application of therevenues. The Committee of the Adult Orphan Institution thought thatthey should like to administer the funds; the Rector of St. George's-in-the-East thought that he should very much like to use themfor the purpose of converting that parish into 'a collegiate church, under a dean and canons, who, with a sisterhood, might devotethemselves to the spiritual benefit, etc. '; others suggested that amissionary collegiate church should be established 'as a centre ofmissionary work for the East of London, with model schools, refuges, reformatories, etc. , conducted by the clergy. ' Others, again, pleadedfor the use of the money in aid of the crowded parishes near thePrecinct. 

The Commissioners were of a different opinion. The Hospital, theysaid, never had a local character. This is the most startlingstatement that ever issued from the mouth of a Lord Chancellor. Not alocal character? Then for whom were the services of the church held?Where were the Bedeswomen found? Where the poor scholars? Where didthe church stand? Who got the doles? Not a local character? We mightas well contend, for example, that Rochester Cathedral and Close andSchool have no local character; that Portsmouth Dockyard has no localcharacter; that Westminster School has no local character. St. Katherine's Hospital belonged to its Precinct, where it had stood forsome hundred years. As well pretend that the Tower itself has no localcharacter. The 'local character' of St. Katherine's grew year by year:the founder thought only to make a bridge for her children frompurgatory to heaven by the harmonious voices of the Master, theBrothers, and the Sisters; but purpose widens. Presently purgatorydisappears, and the whole ecclesiastical part of the foundation, except service in the church, vanishes with it. There remain, however, the revenues, and these belong, if any revenues could, to thelocality. 

In the year 1863 the proportion of waste to profit was as 12-1/2:1. Has this proportion in the quarter of a century which has elapsedincreased or has it decreased?

From time to time, as we have seen, the question forces itself uponmen's minds--whether this revenue could not be administered to betteradvantage. Lord Somers encounters the difficulty in the year 1698;Lord Lyndhurst in 1829; Lord Hatherley in 1871. I suppose that even aLord Chancellor does not claim infallible wisdom. Therefore I ventureto insist upon the facts that the Reformation destroyed the ReligiousHouse of St. Katherine; that the changes made by Lord Somers only madethe old Hospital useless; and that the Royal Commission of the year1871 confirmed, in the new foundation, the later uselessness of theold. The House of Shams and Shadows in Regent's Park is not the oldSt. Katherine's at all; that is dead and done with; it is a funguswhich sprang up yesterday, which is not wholesome for human food, anduses up, for no good purpose, the soil in which it grows. 

Yet, because one would not be charged with unfairness, what does theRev. Simcox Lea, in his history of St. Katherine's Hospital (Longmans, 1878), say?

'St. Katherine's Hospital is an Ecclesiastical Corporation, returnedas a "Promotion Spiritual" in the reign of Henry VIII. , and soacknowledged by law in the reign of Charles I. It takes its place as aCollegiate Church with Westminster and Windsor. The Clerical Head ofits Chapter, the Master of the Hospital, will be entitled, unless HerMajesty shall see fit otherwise to direct, to the style of VeryReverend and the rank of Dean. The Brothers have the status anddignity of Canons Residentiary, and through the Sisters of the Chapterthe parallel dignity of Canonesses is preserved, under another style, to the English Church of our day. The Collegiate Chapter holds itsentire revenues subject to certain eleemosynary trusts embodied in itsoriginal constitution, the ecclesiastical and the charitable chargesbelonging alike to all the estates instead of being assignedseparately to different portions of them. .. . All these principles ofthe constitution of St. Katherine's must be kept in view in any schemewhich it may be proposed to submit, or in any suggestions which may beoffered through the press, for the consideration of the LordChancellor in reference to the advice which he may submit to theQueen. .. . St. Katherine's Hospital is no more a "Charity" thanWestminster Abbey is a Charity, and to describe it as such, after thetrue facts of the case are known, will leave any writer or speakeropen to the charge of discourtesy, directly offered to a capitularbody whose personal constitution is worthy of its high and ancientcorporate ecclesiastical dignity, and indirectly through the membersof the Chapter, to the Queen. '

It will thus be seen that those of us who think that the place is aCharity, and therefore call it one--including Lord Eldon and LordLyndhurst, the Report of the Charity Commissioners in 1866, and LordHatherley in 1871--are open to the charge of discourtesy. Well, let usremain open to that charge; it does not kill. If it is not a Charity, what is it? A place for getting the souls of rich men out ofpurgatory? But the souls of rich men no longer in this country havethe privilege of being bought out of purgatory. Then what is it? Aplace where seven well-born ladies and gentlemen are provided withexcellent houses and comfortable incomes--for doing what? Nothing. 

Let us, if we must, offer a compromise. Let the Master, Brothers, andSisters, now forming the Society of New St. Katherine's, remain inRegent's Park. We will not disturb them. Let them enjoy their salariesso long as they live. At their deaths let those who love shams andpretences appoint other Brothers and Sisters who will have all thedignity of the position without the houses or the salaries. We mayeven go so far as to provide a chaplain for the service of the chapel, if the good people of the Terraces would like those services tocontinue. But as for the rest of the income one cannot choose butask--and, if the request be not granted, ask again, and again--that itbe restored to that part of London to which it belongs. One would not, with the person who communicated with the Commissioners, insult EastLondon by founding a 'Missionary' College in its midst unless it beallowed to have branches in Belgravia, Lincoln's Inn, the Temple, St. John's Wood, South Kensington, and other parts of West London; we willcertainly not ask permission to turn St. George's-in-the-East into aCollegiate Church with a Dean and Canons, 'and a sisterhood. ' But onemust ask that the pretence and show of keeping up this ugly anduseless modern place as the ancient and venerable Hospital beabandoned as soon as possible. That old Hospital is dead anddestroyed; its ecclesiastical existence had been dead long before, itslands and houses and funds remain to be used for the benefit of theliving. 

Ten thousand pounds a year! This is a goodly estate. Think what tenthousand pounds a year might do, well administered! Think of theterrible and criminal waste in suffering all that money, which belongsto East London, to be given away--year after year--in profitless almsto ladies and gentlemen in return for no services rendered or evenpretended. Ten thousand pounds a year would run a magnificent schoolof industrial education; it would teach thousands of lads and girlshow to use their heads and hands; it would be a perennial livingstream, changing the thirsty desert into flowery meads and fruitfulvineyards; it would save thousands of boys from the dreadful doom--athing of these latter days--of being able to learn no trade; it woulddignify thousands, and tens of thousands, of lives with the knowledgeand mastery of a craft; it would save from degradation and fromslavery thousands of women; it would restrain thousands of men fromthe beery slums of drink and crime. Above all--perhaps this is themain consideration--the judicious employment of ten thousand pounds ayear would be presently worth many millions a year to London from theskilled labour it would cultivate and the many arts it would developand foster. 

It is a cruel thing--a most cruel thing--to destroy wantonly anythingthat is venerable with age and associated with the memories of thepast. It was a horrible thing to destroy that old Hospital. But it isgone. The house of Shams and Shadows in Regent's Park has got nothingwhatever to do with it. Its revenues did not make the old Hospital;that was made up by its ancient church; by the old buildings clusteredround the church; by the old customs of the Precinct, with its Courts, temporal and spiritual, its offices and its prison; by itsburial-grounds, with its Bedesmen and Bedeswomen, and by the roughsailor population which dwelt in its narrow lanes and courts. How_could_ that place be allowed to suffer destruction? But when the oldthing is gone we must cast about for the best uses of anything whichonce belonged to it. And of all the uses to which the revenues of theold Hospital might be put, the present seems the most unfit and theleast worthy. 

Again, if Queen Matilda in these days wished to do a good work, whatwould she found? There are many purposes for which benevolent personsbequeath and grant money. They are not the old purposes. They allmean, nowadays, the advancement and bettering of the people. A greatlady spends thousands in founding a market; a man with much moneypresents a free library to his native town; collections are made forhospitals; everything is for the bettering of the people. We have notyet advanced to the stage of bettering he rich people; but that willcome very shortly. In fact, the condition of the rich is alreadyexciting the gravest apprehensions among their poorer brethren. We cantrace, easily enough, the progress and growth of charity. It begins athome, with anxiety for one's own soul first, and the souls of one'schildren next. Charities give way to doles; doles are succeeded byalmshouses; these again by charity schools. The present generation hasbegun to understand that the truest charity consists in throwing openthe doors to honest effort, and in helping those who help themselves. Else what is the meaning of technical schools? What else mean theclasses at the People's Palace, the Polytechnic, the EveningRecreation Schools, and the City of London Guilds Institute?

I believe that a conviction of the new truer charity, and of thefutility of the old modes, is destined to sink deeper and deeper intomen's hearts, until our working classes will perhaps fall into theextreme in unforgiving hardness towards those whom unthrift, profligacy, idleness, have brought to want. But with this convictionis growing up the absolute necessity of more technical schools andbetter industrial training. We want to make our handicraftsmen betterthan any foreigners. More than that, there are some who say that thevery existence of the United Kingdom as a Power depends upon our doingthis. Can we afford any longer to keep up, at a yearly loss of all thepower represented by ten thousand pounds a year, that house of Shamsand Shadows which we call by the name of the ancient and venerableHospital of St. Katherine's by the Tower?

THE UPWARD PRESSURE:

A PROPHETIC CHAPTER FROM THE 'HISTORY OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY'

The most striking part of the great Social Revolution which waswitnessed by the earlier years of the twentieth century was the eventwhich preceded that Revolution, made it possible, and moulded it;namely, the Conquest of the Professions by the people. Happily it wasa Conquest achieved without exciting any active opposition; itadvanced unnoticed, step by step, and it was unsuspected, as regardsits real significance, until the end was inevitable and visible toall. It is my purpose in this Chapter, first to show what was theposition of the mass of the nation before this event, as regards theProfessions; and next to relate briefly the successive events whichled to the Conquest, and so prepared the way for the abolition of allthat was then left of the old aristocratic régime. 

Speaking in general terms--the exceptions shall be notedafterward--the Professions during the whole of the nineteenth centurywere jealously barred and closed in and fenced round. Admission, intheory, could only be obtained by young men of gentle birth and goodbreeding. Not that there was any expressed rule to that effect. It wasnot written over the gateway of Lincoln's Inn that none but gentlemenwere to be admitted, nor was it ever stated in any book or paper thatnone but gentlemen were to be called. But, as you will be shownimmediately, the barring of the gate against the lad of humble originwas quite as effectually accomplished without any law, mule, orregulation whatever. 

The professional avenues of distinction which, early in the twentiethcentury, were only three or four, had, by the end of the century, beenmultiplied tenfold by the birth or creation of new Professions. Formerly a young man of ambition might go into tho Church, into one ofthe two services, into the Law, or into Medicine. He might also, if hewere a country gentleman, go into the House of Commons. At the end ofthe century the professional career included, besides these, all thevarious branches of Science, all the forms of Art, all the divisionsof Literature, Music, Architecture, the Drama, Engineering, Teaching, Archaeology, Political Economy, and, in fact, every conceivablesubject to which the mind of man can worthily devote itself. 

In all these branches there were great--in some, very great--prizes tobe obtained; prizes not always of money, but of honour: in some ofthem the prizes included what was considered the greatest of allrewards--a Peerage. The country, indeed, was already beginning toinsist that the national distinctions should be bestowed upon allthose--and only upon those--who rendered real services to the State. One poet had been made a Peer. One man of science had been made aPrivy Councillor, and another a Peer; two painters had been madebaronets; and the humble distinction of Knight Bachelor, which hadbeen tossed contemptuously to city sheriffs, provincial mayors, andundistinguished persons who used back-stairs influence to get thetitle, was now brought into better consideration by being shared by afew musicians, engineers, physicians, and others. Nothing could moreclearly show the real contempt in which literature and science wereheld in an aristocratic country than that, although there were a dozendegrees of peerage and half a dozen orders of knighthood, there wasnot one order reserved for men of science, literature, and art. Feebleprotests from time to time were made against this absurdity, but inthe end it proved useful, because the chief argument against thecontinuance of titles of honour in the great debate on the subject, inthe year 1920, was the fact that all through the nineteenth centurythe men who most deserved the thanks and recognition of the State were(with the exception of soldiers and lawyers) absolutely neglected bythe Court and the House of Lords. 

Let us consider by what usages, rather than by what rules, theProfessions were barred to the people. In the Church a young man couldnot be ordained under the age of twenty-three. Nor would the Bishopordain him, as a rule, unless he was a graduate of Oxford orCambridge. This meant that he was to stay at school, and that a goodschool, till the age of nineteen; that he was then to devote fouryears more to carrying on his studies in a very expensive manner; inother words, that he must be able to spend at least a thousand poundsbefore he could obtain Orders, and that he would then receive pay at amuch lower rate than a good carpenter or engine-driver. 

At the Bar it was the custom for a man to enter his name after leavingthe University: he would then be called at five or six-and-twenty. Ayoung man must be able to keep himself until that age, and evenlonger, because a lawyer's practice begins slowly. There were alsovery heavy dues on entrance and on being called. In plain terms, noyoung man could enter at the Bar who did not possess or command, atleast, a thousand pounds. 

In the lower branch of the law a young man might, it is true, beadmitted at twenty-one. But he had to pay a heavy premium for hisarticles, and large fees both at entrance and on passing theexamination which admitted him. Not much less, therefore, includinghis maintenance, than a thousand pounds would be required of himbefore he began to make anything for himself. A medical man, even onewho only desired to become a general practitioner, had to work througha five years' course, with hospital fees. Like the solicitor, he mightqualify for about a thousand pounds. 

In all the new Professions, chemistry, physics, biology, zoology, geology, botany, and the other branches of science, engineering, mining, surveying, assying, architecture, actuarywork--everything--long a apprenticeship was needed with specialstudies in costly colleges. 

In Teaching, he who aspired to the more distinguished branches had nochance at all, unless he was a graduate in the highest honours ofOxford and Cambridge. 

In the Arts--painting, sculpture, music--long practice, devoted study, and exclusive thought were essential. 

The Civil Service was divided into two branches, both open tocompetitive examination. The higher branch attracted first-class menof Oxford and Cambridge; the lower, clever and well-taught men fromthe Middle Class Schools. But the latter could not pass into theformer. 

In the Army, the only branch in which a man could live upon his paywas the scientific branch, open to anybody who could compete in a verystiff examination after a long and very expensive course of study, andcould pay £200 a year for two or three years after entrance. In theother branches of the services, a young lieutenant could not live uponhis pay. 

In the Navy the examinations were frequent and severe, while the paywas very small. 

The barrier, therefore, which kept the Professions in the hands of theupper classes was a simple tollgate. At the toll stood a man. 'Come, 'he said, holding out an inexorable palm. 'With an education which hascost you already a thousand pounds, be ready to pay down anotherthousand more. Then you shall be admitted among the ranks of those forwhom are reserved the highest prizes of the State--viz. , Authority, Honour, and Wealth. '

It is apparent, then, that no one could enter the Professions who hadno money. No need to write up 'None but the sons of gentlemen mayapply. ' Very many sons of gentlemen, in fact, had to turn awaysorrowfully after gazing with wistful eyes upon that ladder which theyknew that they, too, could climb, as well as a Denman or an Erskine. As for the sons of poor parents, they could not so much as think ofthe ladder: they hardly knew that it existed: they cared nothing aboutit. As well sigh for the Lord Mayor's gilt carriage and four, or theField Marshal's baton. No poor lad could aspire to the Professions atall. In other words, out of a population of thirty-seven millions, oreight millions of families, the way of distinction was open only tothe young man belonging to the half million families--perhapsless--who could expend upon their son's education a thousand poundsapiece. 

Nor for a long time was the exclusion felt or even recognised. He whowished to rise out of the working class either became a small masterof his own trade, or else he opened a small shop of some kind. But hedid not aspire to become a physician or a barrister or a clergyman. And it never occurred to him that such a career could be open to him. 

But as happened every day, such a man had got on in the world and wasambitious for his son, he made him a doctor or a solicitor, thesebeing the two Professions which cost least--or perhaps he made him amechanical engineer, though it might cost a good deal more. Perhaps ifthe boy was clever, he managed to send him to the University with theintention of getting him ordained. Such was the first upward step ingentility--first, to become a master instead of a servant; then, tobelong to a profession rather than a trade. Always, however, one hadto settle with the man at the toll. 

He was inexorable. 'Pay down, ' he said, 'a thousand pounds if youwould be admitted within this bar. '

The young man, therefore, whose father worked for wages, or for asmall salary, or in a small way of trade, could not so much as dreamof entering any of the Professions. They were as much closed to him asthe gates of Paradise. But during the nineteenth century a newProfession was created, and this was open to him. This they could notclose. It had already grown went and strong before they thought ofclosing it. It was open to the poor man's son. He went into it. Andwith the help of it, as with a key, he opened all the rest. You shallunderstand immediately what this was. 

I have spoken of certain exceptions to this exclusion of the lowerclasses. There were provided at the public schools and theUniversities scholarships founded for the purpose of enabling poorlads to carry on their studies. 'The schools had long ceased to be theproperty of the poor for whom they were designed: their scholarships, mostly of recent foundation, were granted by competitive examinationto those boys who had already spent a large sum of money onpreliminary work. The scholarships of the colleges at Oxford andCambridge were also given by examination, without the leastconsideration of the candidates' private resources. There was, however, a chance that a poor lad might get one of these. If he did, everything was open to him. The annals of the Universities containnumberless instances in which lads from the lower middle class madetheir way, and a few instances--a very few--here one and there one--inwhich the sons of working men thus forced themselves upward. We mustremember these scholarships when we speak of the barrier, but we mustnot attach too much importance to them. One may also recall manyinstances of generosity when a bay of parts was discovered, educated, and sent to the University by a rich or noble patron. 

In the Army, again, many men rose from the ranks and obtainedcommissions. In the Navy, this was always impossible, with one or twobrilliant exceptions--as the case of Captain Cook. 

It may be said that there are many cases on record in which men ofquite humble origin have advanced themselves in trade, even tobecoming Lord Mayor of London. Could not a poor lad do in thenineteenth century what Whittington did in the fourteenth? Could henot tie up his belongings in a handkerchief and make for London, wherethe streets were paved with gold, and the walls were built of jasper?Well, you see, in this matter of the poor lad and his elevation togiddy heights there has been a little mistake, principally due to thechap-books. The poor lad who worked his way upward in the nineteenthcentury belonged to the bourgeoise, not the craftsman class. While hisschoolfellows remained clerks, he, by some early good fortune--bymarriage, by cousinship, was enabled to get his foot on the ladder, upwhich he proceeded to climb with strength and resolution. The poor ladwho got on in earlier times was the son of a country gentleman. DickWhittington was the son of Sir William Whittington, Knight andafterwards outlaw. He was apprenticed to his cousin, Sir JohnFitzwarren, Mercer and merchant-adventurer, son of Sir WilliamFitzwarren, Knight. Again, Chichele, Lord Mayor, and his youngerbrother, Sheriff, and his elder brother, Archbishop of Canterbury, were sons of one Chichele, Gentleman and Armiger of Higham Ferrers inthe county of Northampton. Sir Thomas Gresham was the son of SirRichard Gresham, nephew of Sir John Gresham, and younger brother ofSir John Gresham, also of a good old country family. In fact, we maylook in vain through the annals of London city for the rise of thehumble boy from the ranks of the craftsmen. Once or twice, perhaps, one may find such a case. If we consider the early years of thenineteenth century, when the long wars attracted to the army all theyounger sons, it does seem as if the Mayors and Aldermen must havecome from very humble beginnings. Even then, however, we find oninvestigation that the city fathers of that time had mostly sprungfrom small shops. They were never, to begin with, craftsmen, and atthe end of the century any such rise was never dreamed of by the mostambitious. The clerk, if a lad became a clerk, remained a clerk: hehad no hope of becoming anything else. The shopman remained a shopman, his only hope being the establishment of himself as a master if hecould save enough money. The craftsman remained a craftsman. And forpartnerships there were always plenty--younger sons and others--eagerto buy themselves in, or there were sons and nephews waiting theirturn. No son of a working man, or a clerk, could hope for any otheradvancement in the City than advancement to higher salary for long andfaithful service. 

Once more, then, the situation was this: To him who could afford toearn nothing till he was two-and-twenty, and little till he wasfive-and-twenty, and could find the money for fees, lectures, andcourses and coaches, everything that the country had to offer wasopen. With this limitation there was never any country in which prizeswere more open than Great Britain and Ireland. A clever lad mightenter the Royal Engineers or Artillery with a tolerable certainty ofbeing a Colonel and a K. C. B. At fifty; or he might go into the Churchwhere if he had ability and had cultivated eloquence and possessedgood manners, he might count on a Bishopric; or he might go to theBar, where, if he was lucky, he might become a judge or even LordChancellor. Unless, however, he could provide the capital wanted foradmission, he could attain to nothing--nothing--nothing. 

What became, then, of the clever lad? In some cases he became a clerk, crowding into a trade already overcrowded. He trampled on hiscompetitors, because most of them, the sons and grandsons of clerks, had no ambition and no perception of the things wanted. This youngfellow had. He taught himself the things that were wanted; hegenerally took therefore the best place. But he had to remain a clerk. 

Or, more often, he became a teacher in a Board School. In thiscapacity he obtained a certain amount of social consideration, acertain amount of independence, and an income varying From £150 to£400 a year. 

Or, which also happened frequently, he might become a dissentingminister of the humbler kind. In that case he had every chance ofpassing through life in a little chapel at a small town, a slave tohis own, and to his congregation's, narrow prejudices. 

Or, he might go abroad, to one of the Colonies. Earlier in thecentury, between the years 1850 and 1880, many poor lads had gone toAustralia or New Zealand and had done well for themselves, a few hadbecome millionaires; but by the year 1890 these Colonies, consideredas likely places wherein it young man could advance himself, seemedplayed out. Working-men they wanted, but not clever and pennilessyoung fellows. 

He might, it has been suggested, go into the House. There were alreadyone or two workingmen in the House. But they were sent thereespecially to represent certain interests by working-men, not becausetheir representative was an ambitious and clever young man. And theworking-man's member, so far, had advanced a very little way as apolitical success. It was not in Politics that a young man would findhis opening. 

This brings us to the one career open to him--he might become aJournalist. It is an attractive profession: and even in its lowerwalks it seems a branch of literature. There is independence of hours:the pay depends upon the man's power of work: there are great openingsin it and--to the rising lad at least--what seems a noble possibilityin the shape of pay. Many distinguished men have been journalists, from Charles Dickens downward. Nearly all the novelists have dabbledwith journalism; and, since all of us cannot be novelists, the youngman might reflect that there are editor, sub-editors, assistanteditors, news-editors, leader writers, descriptive writers, reviewers, dramatic critics, art and music critics, wanted for every paper. Hecould become a journalist and he could rise to the achievement ofthese ambitions. 

At first he rose a very little way, despite his ambition, because inevery branch of letters imperfect education is an insuperableobstacle. Still he could become news-editor, descriptive reporter, paragraph writer, and even, in the case of country papers, editor. Sometimes he passed from the office of the journal to that of one ofthe many societies, where he became secretary and succeeded in gettinghis name associated with some cause, which gave him some position andconsideration. Whether he succeeded greatly or not, his whole objectwas to pass from the class which has no possible future to the classfor which everything is open. His sons would be gentlemen, and if hecould only find the necessary funds, they should make what he had beenunable to make, an attempt upon the prizes of the State. 

This was the situation at the beginning of the last decade of thenineteenth century. It is summed up by saying that all the avenues tohonour and power were closed and barred to the lad who could notcommand a thousand pounds at least. Let us pass on. 

Most thoughtful people have considered the growth and development ofthe great educational movement whose origin belongs to the nineteenthcentury; whose development so profoundly affects the history of ourown. 

It began, like the spread of scientific knowledge, and the reforms inthe Old Constitution, and everything else, with the introduction ofrailways. Before the end of the century the country was covered withschools, as it was also covered with railways. There was hardly a manor woman living when the nineteenth century ended who could not read;there were few indeed who did not read. But the school coursenaturally taught little beyond the elements and was already completedwhen the pupil reached his fourteenth year. He was then taken fromschool and put to work, apprenticed--set to something which was to behis trade. Clever or stupid, keen of intellect or dull, that was to bethe lot of the boy. He was set to learn how to earn his livelihood. 

About the year 1885 or 1890--no exact date can be fixed for the birthof a new idea--began a very remarkable extension of the educationalmovement. It was discovered by philanthropists that something ought tobe done with the boys after they had left school. The first intentionsseem to have been simply to keep them out of mischief. Having nothingto do the lads naturally took to loafing about the streets, smokingbad tobacco, drinking, gambling, and precocious love-making. It wasalso perceived by economists about the same time that unless somethingwas done for technical education, the old superiority of the Britishcraftsman would speedily vanish. It was further pointed out that theeducation of the Board Schools gave the pupils little more than themastery of the merest elements, the tools by means of which knowledgecould be acquired. In order, therefore, to carry on general educationand to provide technical training there were started simultaneously inevery great town, but especially in London, Technical Schools, 'Continuation' Classes, Polytechnics, Young Men's Associations andClubs, Guilds for instruction and recreation--under whatever form theywere known, they were all schools. 

Then the young working lad was invited to enter himself at one ofthese places, and to spend his evenings there. 'Come, ' said thefounders, 'you are at an age when everything is new and everything isdelightful. Give up all your present joys. Send the girl with whom youkeep company, night after night, home to her mother. Put down yourcherished cigarette, cease to stand about in bars, give up drinkingbeer, go no more to the music-hall. Abandon all that you delight in. And come to us. After working all day long at your trade, come to usand work all the evening at books. '

A strange invitation! To forego delights and live laborious evenings. Stranger still, the lads accepted the invitation. They accepted inthousands. They consented to work every evening as well as every day. The inducements to join were, in fact, artfully devised with a fullknowledge of boys' nature. What a boy desires, over and aboveeverything else, more than the company of a girl, more than idleness, more than gambling, more than beer-drinking, more than tobacco, isassociation with other lads of the same age. These Polytechnics orInstitutes or Clubs gave him, first of all, that association. Theyprovided him with societies of every kind. They added recreation tostudy; pleasure to work. If half of the evening was spent in aclassroom, or in a workshop, the other half was passed in orderlyamusement. There was, moreover, every kind of choice; the lad felthimself free, there were, to be sure, barriers here and there, but hedid not feel them; there was a steady pressure upon him in certaindirections, but he did not feel it; in some there wereprayer-meetings; the boys were not obliged to go, but some time orother they found themselves present. Then there were some who wore theblue ribbon of temperance; nobody was obliged to assume that symbol, but somehow most of them did, without feeling that they had beenpressed to do so. For the very work and life and atmosphere of theplace into which beer was not admitted gave them a dislike for beer, with its coarse and rough associations. Insensibly the boy who joinedwas led upward to a nobler and higher level. 

The motives which were strong enough to persuade a working lad to workon, over hours, may he partly understood by considering one of theseInstitutions--the largest and the most popular--the Polytechnic ofRegent Street, called familiarly the Regent Street 'Poly, ' with itsthirteen thousand members. Take first its social side, as offeringnaturally greater attractions than its educational side. It containedabout forty clubs. The new member on joining was asked in a pamphletthese three questions:

1. 'Do you wish to make friends?'

2. 'Are you anxious to improve yourself?'

3. 'Do you seek the best opportunities of recreation in your leisurehours?'

Observe that the serious object is placed between the other two. Whatthe Poly lads said to the new member was: 'Come in and have a good oldtime with us. ' It was for the good old time that the new memberjoined. Once in he could look about him and choose. The Gymnasium, theBoxing Club, the Swimming Club, the Roller-skating Club, the Cricket, Football, Lawn Tennis, Athletic, Rowing, Cycling, Ramblers andHarriers Clubs all invited him to join. Surely, among so many clubsthere must be one that he would like. Of course they had their showyuniform, their envied Captains and other officers, their field days, their public days, and their prizes. Or there was the Volunteer Corps, with its Artillery Brigade, and its Volunteer Medical Staff Corps. There was the Parliament, conducted on the same rules as that of theHouse of Commons. For the quieter lads there were Sketching, NaturalHistory, Photographic, Orchestral, and Choral Societies. There was aNatural History Society and an Electrical Engineering Society. Therewere also associations for religious and moral objects; a ChristianWorkers' Union, a Temperance Society, a Social League, a PolytechnicMission, and a Bible Class. There were reading-rooms andrefreshment-rooms; in the suburbs there were playing-fields for them. Up the river was a house-boat for the Rowing Club, the largest on theThames. Add to all this an intense 'College feeling'; an ardententhusiasm for the Poly; friendships the most faithful; a wholesome, invigorating, stimulating atmosphere; the encouragement always felt ofbravo endeavour and noble effort, and high principle--in one word thegift to the young fellows of the working class of all that the publicschools and universities could offer that was best and most precious. Such an institution as the Polytechnic--mother and sister of so manyothers--was a revolution in itself. 

But for the second question: 'Are you anxious to improve yourself?'What answer was given? Strange to say the answer was also verydecidedly in the affirmative. 

The young fellows were anxious to improve themselves. Now, mark thedifference between these working lads and the boys from the publicschools. Had such a question been put to the latter their answer wouldhave been a contemptuous stare, or a contemptuous laugh. Improvethemselves? They were already improved. They were so far improved thatnine-tenths of them were contented with the moderate amount ofknowledge necessary for the practice of their professions. If onebecame a solicitor, a doctor, a schoolmaster, a barrister, aclergyman, it was sufficient for him, in most cases, just to pass theexaminations. Then, no further improvement for the rest of theirnatural life. But these others, who had everything to gain, whoseambitions were just awakening, who were just beginning to understandthat there was every inducement to improve themselves, joined theclasses, and began to work with as much zeal as they showed in theirplay. 

What they learned concerns us little. It may be recorded, however, that they learned everything. Practical trades were taught; technicalclasses were held; there was a School of Science in which suchsubjects as chemistry, physics, mathematics, mechanics, building, weretaught. There was a School of Art, in which wood modelling, carving, and other minor arts were taught, as well as painting and drawing. There was a Commercial School for Arithmetic, Book-keeping, Shorthand, Typewriting; French, German, etc. , were taught; there were MusicalClasses, Elocution Classes, a School of Engineering, a School ofPhotography. Enough; it will be seen that everything a lad mightdesire to learn he could learn and did learn. 

But the Polytechnic was only one of many such institutions. In Londonalone there existed, in the year 1893, between two and three hundred, large and small; there were nearly fifty branches of the UniversityExtension Scheme; the Continuation classes were held in many BoardSchools, while of special clubs, mostly for athletic purposes, thenumber was legion. As for the numbers enrolled in these associations, already in 1893, when those things were all young, one finds 13, 000members of the Regent Street Poly, 4, 000 at the People's Palace; thesame number at the Birkbeck; the same at the Goldsmiths' Institute; atthe City of London College, 2, 500; and so on. Of the Athletic Clubsthe Cyclists' Union alone contained no fewer than 20, 000 members. 

Figures may mean anything. It is, however, significant that in apopulation of five millions which gives perhaps 700, 000 young menbetween fifteen and twenty, of whom about 100, 000 were below the rankof craftsmen and 100, 000 above, there should have been found a fewyears after the introduction of the system about 70, 000 youths wiseenough and resolute enough to join these classes. 

It must be owned that only the more generous spirits--the noblersort--were attracted by the Polytechnics. They were a first selectionfrom the mass. Of these, again, another selection was made--those fewwho studied the things which at first sight appeared to be leastuseful. Everyone who knew a craft could see the wisdom of acquiringperfection in his trade; everyone who was a clerk, or who hoped tobecome a clerk, could see the advantage of learning shorthand, book-keeping, French and German. What did that boy aim at who studiedLatin, Greek, and Mathematics, matriculated and took his degree at theLondon University, then an examining body only? Why did he learn timethings? He did not learn them, remember, in the perfunctory way inwhich a public-school boy generally works through his subjects; helearned as if he meant to know these subjects; he devoured his books;he tore the heart out of them; he compelled them to give up theirsecrets. He had everything to get for himself, while the public-schoolboy had everything given to him. 

When it was done, when he had acquired as much knowledge as anyaverage boy from the best public school, when he had read in the PolyReading Room all that there was to read, what was he to do? For whenhe looked about him he saw, stretching before him, fair and stately, the long avenues which led to distinction; but before each there was atoll-gate, and at the gate stood a man, saying, 'Pay me first athousand pounds. Then, and not till then, you shall enter. '

Alas! and he had not a sixpence--he, or his parents. And so perforcehe must stand aside, while other lads, without his intellect andcourage, paid the money, and were admitted. 

There was but one outlet. He might become a journalist. He had learnedshorthand, a necessary accomplishment; therefore, he got anappointment as reporter and general hand on a country paper. Such ayouth in these years of which we write was uncommon, but he very soonbecame much more common. The charm of learning was discovered by onelad after another. The chance of exchanging the craftsman's work forthe scholar's work, never thought of before, fired the brains ofhundreds first, and thousands afterward. Then began a rage forlearning. All those who had abilities even mediocre tried to escapetheir lot by working at the higher subjects. It was reproached to thePolytechnics that their original purpose, to bring the boys togetherfor common discipline and orderly recreation, and to train them intheir crafts, was departed from, and that all their energies were nowdevoted to turning working lads into classical scholars, mathematicians, logicians, and historians. 

Nor was the complaint wholly unfounded. But it was too late to recede. The boys crowded to the classes; they read and worked with incredibleeagerness; they thought that to be a man of books was better than tobe a man with a saw and a plane. Ambition seized them seized them bytens of thousands; they would rise. Learning was their stepping-stone. The recreative side of the Polytechnics was lost in the educationalside. Never before had there been such an ardour, such a thirst forknowledge; yet only for knowledge as a means to rise. And there wasbut one outlet. That, in the course of a few years, became congested. Journalism, as the number of papers increased, demanded more workmen, and still more. These young men from the Polytechnic filled up everyvacancy. They had seized upon this profession and made it their own;those who did not belong to them were gradually, but surely, ousted. It was recognised that it was the profession of the young man whowanted to get on. Some there were who affected to lament an allegeddecay; the old scholarly style, they said, was gone; there was alsogone the old reverence for authority, rank, and the established order. Perhaps the journal, as the new men made it, was above all vigorous. But it was _true_, which could not always be said of the papers beforetheir time. From their college--the old Poly--the young men carriedaway a love of truth and right dealing which, once imported into thenewspaper press, made it an engine far more mighty--an influence farmore potent--than ever it had been before. There may have been someloss in style, though many of them wrote gracefully, and many showedon occasion a wonderful command of wit, sarcasm and satire. Butbecause the papers were always truthful the writers always knew whatthey wanted, and so their work had the strength of directness. 

A few, but very few, continued at the work, whatever it might be, towhich they had been apprenticed. Then their lives were spent in a dayof painful drudgery, followed by an evening of delightful study. Veryfew heard of these men. Now and then one would be discovered by aclergyman working in his parish; now and then one emerged fromobscurity by means of a letter or a paper contributed to some journal. Most of them lived and died unknown. 

Yet there was one. His case is remarkable because it first set rollingthe ball of reform, He was by trade a metal turner and fitter; he hadthe reputation of being an unsociable man because he went home everyday after work and stayed there; he was unmarried and lived alone in asmall, four-roomed cottage near Kilburn, one of a collection ofWorkmen's villages. Here it was known that he had a room which he hadfurnished with a furnace, a table, shelves and bottles, and that heworked every evening at something. One day there appeared in ascientific paper an article containing an account of certaindiscoveries of the greatest importance, signed by a name utterlyunknown to scientific men. The article was followed by others, all ofthe greatest interest and originality. The man himself had little ideaof the importance of his own discoveries. When his cottage wasbesieged by leaders in the world of science, he was amazed; he showedhis simple laboratory to his visitors; he spoke of his labourscarelessly; he told them that he was a metal turner by trade, that heworked every day for an employer at a wage of thirty-five shillings aweek, and that he was able to devote his evenings to reading andresearch. They made him an F. R. S. , the first working man who had everattained that honour. They tried to get him put upon the Civil List, but the First Lord of the Treasury had already, according to the usualcustom, given away the annual grant made by the House for Literature, Science and Art, to the widows and daughters of Civil servants. Thisattempt failing, the Royal Society, in order to take him away from hisdrudgery, created a small sinecure post for him, and in this way foundan excuse for giving him a pension. 

Then some writer in a London 'Daily' asked how it was that with hisgenius for science, which, it was now recalled, had been remarkedwhile he was a student at the South London Poly, this man had beenallowed to remain at his trade. 

And the answer was, 'Because there is no opening for such an one. '

It is very astonishing, when we consider the obvious nature of certaintruths, to remark how slow man is to find them out. Now, thisexclusion of all those who could not afford to pay his toll to the manat the gate had, up to that moment, been accepted as if it were a lawof Nature. As in other things, men said, if they talked about thematter at all, 'What is, must be. What is, shall be. What is, hasalways been. What is, has been ordained by God Himself. ' There isnothing more difficult than to effect a reform in men's minds. Thereformer has, first, to persuade people to listen. Sometimes he neversucceeds, even in this, the very beginning. When they do listen, thething, being new to them, irritates them. They therefore call himnames. If he persists they call him worse names. If they can, they puthim in prison, hang him, burn him. If they cannot do this, and he goeson preaching new things, they presently begin to listen with morerespect. One or two converts are made. The reformer expands his views;his demands become larger; his claims far exceed the modest dimensionsof his first timid words. And so the reform, bit by bit, is effected. 

At first, then, the demand was for nothing more than an easierentrance into the scientific world, This naturally rose out of thecase. 'Let us, ' they said, 'take care that to such a man as this anyand every branch of science shall be thrown open. But for that purposeit is necessary that scholarships, whether given at school or college, shall be sufficient for the maintenance as well as for the tuitionfees of those who hold them. ' These scholarships, it was argued, hadbeen founded for poor students, and belonged to them. All the paperstook up the question, and all, with one or two exceptions, were infavour of 'restoring'--that was the phrase--'his scholarships'; 'his, 'it was said, assuming that they were his originally--to the poor man. In vain was it pointed out that these scholarships had been for themost part founded in recent times when public schools and universitieshad long become the property of the richer class, and that they wereneeded as aids for those who were not rich, not as means ofmaintenance for those who wanted to rise out from one class intoanother. 

The cry was raised at the General Election; the majority came intopower pledged to the hilt to restore his scholarships to the poorstudent. Then, of course, a compromise was effected. There was createda class of scholarships at certain public schools for which candidateshad to produce evidence that they possessed nothing, and that theirparents would not assist them. Similar scholarships were created atOxford and Cambridge, out of existing revenues, and it was hoped thatconcessions opening all the advantages that the public schools anduniversities had to give would prove sufficient. By this time thecountry was fully awakened to the danger of having thrown upon theirhands a great class of young men who thought themselves too welleducated for any of the lower kinds of work, and were too numerous forthe only work open to them. No one, as yet, it must be remembered, hadventured to propose throwing open the Professions. 

The concessions were found, however, to make very little difference. Now and then a lad with a scholarship forced his way to the head of apublic school, and carried off the highest honours at the University. Mostly, however, the poor scholar was uncomfortable; he could neitherspeak, nor think, nor behave like his fellows; the atmosphere chilledhim; too often he failed to justify the early promise; if he succeededin getting a 'poor' scholarship at college, he too often ended hisUniversity career with second-class Honours, which were of no use tohim at all, and so he was again face to face with the question: Whatto do? His college would not continue to support him. He could not geta mastership in a good school because there was a prejudice against'poor' scholars, who were supposed incapable of acquiring the mannersof a gentleman. So he, too, fell back upon the only outlet, and triedto become a journalist. 

Every day the pressure increased; the pay of the journalist went down;work could be got for next to nothing, and still the lads poured intothe classes by the thousand, all hoping to exchange the curse oflabour by their hands for that of labour by the pen. No one as yet hadperceived the great truth which has so enormously increased thehappiness of our time that all labour is honourable and respectable, though to some kinds of labour we assign greater, and some lesser, honour. The one thought was to leave the ranks of the working man. 

It is not to be supposed that this great class would suffer and starvein silence. On the contrary, they were continually proclaiming theirwoes; the papers were filled with letters and articles. 'What shall wedo with our boys?' was the heading that one saw every day, somewhereor other. What, indeed! No one ventured to say that they had better goback to their trade; no one ventured to point out that a man might bea good cabinet-maker although he knew the Integral Calculus. If onetimidly asked what good purpose was gained by making so many scholars, that man was called Philistine, first; obstructive, next; and otherstronger names afterward. And yet no one ventured to point out thatall the Professions--and not science only, through theUniversities--might be thrown open. 

Sooner or later this suggestion was certain to be made. It appeared, first of all, in an unsigned letter addressed to one of the eveningpapers. The writer of the letter was almost certainly one of thesuffering class. He began by setting forth the situation, as I havedescribed it above, quite simply and truly. He showed, as I haveshown, that the Professions and the Services were closed to those whohad no money. And he advanced for the first time the audaciousproposal that they should be thrown open to all on the simplecondition of passing an examination. 'This examination, ' he said, 'maybe made as severe as can be desired or devised. There is noexamination so severe that the students of our Polytechnics cannotface and pass it triumphantly. Let the examination, if you will, beintended to admit none but those who have taken or can takefirst-class Honours. The Poly students need not fear to face astandard even so high as this. Why should the higher walks of life bereserved for those who have money to begin with? Why should moneystand in the way of honour? Among the thousands of young men who haveprofited by the opportunities offered to them there must be some whoare born to be lawyers; some who are born to be doctors; some who areborn to be preachers; some who are born to be administrators. ' And soon, at length. It was not, however, by a letter in a paper, or by theleading articles and the correspondence which followed that thesuggested change was effected. But the idea was started. It was talkedabout; it grew as the pressure increased it grew more and more. Meetings were held at which violent speeches were delivered: thequestion of opening the Professions was declared of nationalimportance; at the General Election which followed some months afterthe appearance of the letter, members were returned who were pledgedto promote the immediate throwing open of all the Professions to allwho could pass a certain examination; and the first step was taken inopening all commissions in the Army to competitive examination. 

The Professions, however, remained obstinate. Law and Medicine refusedto make the least concession. It was not until an Act of Parliamentcompelled them that the Inns of Court, the Law Institute, the Collegesof Physicians, Surgeons, and Apothecaries consented to admitall-comers without fees and by examination alone. 

Then followed such a rush into the Professions as had never beforebeen witnessed. Already too full, they became at once absolutelycongested and choked. Every other man was either a doctor or asolicitor. It was at first thought that by making examinations of thegreatest severity possible the rush might be arrested. But this provedimpossible, for the simple reason that an examination for admission, necessarily a mere 'pass' examination, must be governed and limited bythe intellect of the average candidate. Moreover, in Medicine, if toosevere an examination is proposed, the candidate sacrifices actualpractice and observation in the Hospital wards to book-work. Thereforethe examinations remained much as they always had been, and all theclever lads from all the Polytechnics became, in an incredibly shorttime, members of the Learned Professions. 

There can be no doubt that the Bench and the Bar, that Medicine andSurgery, owe to the emancipation of the Professions many of theirnoblest members. Great names occur to every one which belong to thisand that Polytechnic, and are written on the walls in letters of goldas an encouragement to succeeding generations. One would not go backto the old state of things. At the same time there were losses andthere are regrets. So great, for instance, was the competition inMedicine that the sixpenny General Practitioner established himselfeverywhere, even in the most fashionable quarters; so numerous weresolicitors that the old system of a recognised tariff was swept awayand gave place to open competition as in trade. That the two branchesof the law should be fused into one was inevitable; that the splendidincomes formerly derived from successful practice should disappear wasalso a matter of course. And there were many who regretted not onlythe loss of the old professional rules and the old incomes, but alsothe old professional _esprit de corps_--the old jealousy for thehonour and dignity of the profession: the old brotherhood. All thiswas gone. Every man's hand was against his neighbour; advocates sentin contracts for the job; the physicians undertook a case for so much;the surgeon operated for a contract price; the usages of trade wereall transferred to the Professions. 

As for the Services, the Navy remained an aristocratic body; boys werereceived too young for the Polytechnic lads to have a chance; also, the pay was too small to tempt them, and the work was too scientific. In the Army a few appeared from time to time, but it cannot be saidthat as officers the working-classes made a good figure. They were notaccustomed to command; they were wanting in the manners of the camp aswell as those of the court; they were neither polished enough norrough enough; the influence of the Poly might produce good soldierobedient, high-principled, and brave; but it could not produce goodofficers, who must be, to begin with, lads born in the atmosphere ofauthority, the sons of gentlemen or the sons of officers. Yet evenhere there were exceptions. Every one, for instance, will remember thecase of the general--once a Poly boy--who successfully defended Heratagainst an overwhelming host of Russians in the year 1935. 

It was not enough to throw open the Professions. Some there were inwhich, whether they were thrown open or not, a new-comer withoutfamily or capital or influence could never get any work. Thus it wouldseem that Engineering was a profession very favourable to suchnew-comers. It proved the contrary. All engineers in practice hadpupils--sons, cousins, nephews--to whom they gave their appointments. To the new-comer nothing was given. What good, then, had been effectedby this revolution? Nothing but the crowding into the learnedProfessions of penniless clever lads? Nothing but the destruction ofthe old dignity and self-respect of Law and Medicine? Nothing but thedegradation of a Profession to the competition of trade?

Much more than this had been achieved. The Democratic movement whichhad marked the nineteenth century received its final impulse from thisgreat change. Everyone knows that the House of Lords, long before theend of that century, had ceased to represent the old aristocracy. Theold names were, for the most part, extinct. A Cecil, a Stanley, aHoward, a Neville, a Bruce, might yet be found, but by far the greaterpart of the Peers were of yesterday. Nor could the House be kept up atall but for new creations. They were made from rich trade or from theLaw, the latter conferring respect and dignity upon the House. Butlawyers could no longer be made Peers. They were rough in manners, andthey had no longer great incomes. Moreover, the nation demanded thatits honours should be equally bestowed upon all those who renderedservice to the State, and all were poor. Now a House of poor Lords isabsurd. Equally absurd is a House of Lords all brewers. Hence the fallof the House of Lords was certain. In the year 1924 it was finallyabolished. 

In the next chapter I propose to relate what followed this rush intothe Professions. We have seen how the grant of the higher education toworking lads caused the Conquest of the Professions and brought aboutthe change I have indicated. We have seen how this revolution wasbound to sweep away in its course the last relics of the oldaristocratic constitution of the country. It remains to be told howlearning, when it became the common possession of all clever lads, ceased to be a possession by which money could be made, except by thevery foremost. Then the boys went back to their trades. If the reignof the gentleman is over, the learning and the power and culture thathas belonged to the gentleman now belongs to the craftsman. This, atleast, must be admitted to be pure gain. For one man who read andstudied and thought one hundred years ago, there are now a thousand. Editions of good books are now issued by a hundred thousand at a time. The Professions are still the avenues to honours. Still, as before, the men whom the people respect are the followers of science, thegreat Advocate the great Preacher, the great Engineer, the greatSurgeon, the great Dramatist, the great Novelist, the great Poet. Thatthe national honours no longer take the form of the Peerage will not, I think, at this hour, be admitted to be a subject for regret by eventhe stanchest Conservative. 

[1893. ]

I. --THE LAND OF ROMANCE

At the back of the setting sun; beyond the glories of the evening; onthe other side of the broad, mysterious ocean, lay for ninegenerations of Englishmen the Land of Romance. It began--for theEnglish youth--to be the Land of Romance from the very day when JohnCabot discovered it for the Bristol merchants it continued to be theirLand of Romance while every sailor-captain discovered new rivers, newgulfs, and new islands, and went in search of new north-west passages, while the rovers, freebooters, privateers and buccaneers, put out intheir crazy, ill-found craft, to rob and slay the Spaniard; while themystery of the unknown still lay upon it; long after the mystery hadmostly gone out of it, save for the mystery of the Aztec; it remainedthe Land of Romance when New England was fully settled and Virginiaalready an old colony; it was the English Land of Romance while KingGeorge's redcoats fought side by side with the colonials, to drive theFrench out of the continent for ever. 

We have had India, as well. Surely, in the splendid story of the longstruggle with France for the Empire of the East, in the achievementsof our soldiers, in the names of Clive, Lawrence, Havelock; in thesetting of the piece, so to speak, in its people, its wisdom, itsfaith, its cities, its triumphs, its costumes, its gold and silver andprecious stones and costly stuffs--there is material wherewith tocreate a romance of its own, sufficient to fire the blood and stir thepulse and light the eye. Or, we have had Australia, New Zealand, theCape of Good Hope; coral isles, strongholds, fortresses, islands here, and great slices and cantles of continent there. We have had all thesepossessions, but round none of these places has there grown up theromance which clung to the shores of America, from the mouth of theOrinoco round the Spanish Main, and from Florida to Labrador. Thisromance formerly belonged to the whole of our people. In theirimaginations--in their dreams--they turned to America. There came atime when this romance was destroyed violently and suddenly, and, apparently, for ever. In another shape it has grown up again, for someof us; it is taking fresh root in some hearts, and putting forth newbranches with new blossoms, to bear new fruit. America may become, once more, the Land of Romance to the Englishman. I say with intent, the Englishman. For, if you consider, it was the Englishman, not theScot or the Irishman, who discovered America by means of John Cabotand his Bristol merchants--not to speak of Leif, the son of Eric, orof Madoc, the Welshman. It was the Englishman, not the Scot or theIrishman, who fought the Spaniard; who sent planters to Barbadoes; whosettled colonists and convicts in Virginia; from England, not fromIreland or Scotland, went forth the Pilgrims and the Puritans. Whilethe Scottish gentlemen were still taking service in foreigncourts--as, for example, the Admirable Crichton with the Duke ofMantua--the young Englishman was sailing with Cavendish or Drake; hewas fighting and meeting death under desperadoes, such as Oxenham; hewas even, later on, serving with L'Olonnois, Kidd, or Henry Morgan. All the history of North America before the War of Independence isEnglish history. Scotland and Ireland hardly came into it until theeighteenth century; till then their only share in American history wasthe deportation of rebels to the plantations. The country wasdiscovered by England, colonized by England; it was always regarded byEngland as specially her own child; the sole attempt made by Scotlandat colonization was a failure; and to this day it is England that thedescendants of the older American families regard as the cradle oftheir name and race. 

As for the men who created this romance, they belong to a time whenthe world had renewed her youth, put the old things behind, and begunafresh, with new lands to conquer, a new faith to hold, new learning, new ideas, and new literature. Those who sit down to consider theElizabethan age presently fall to lamenting that they were born threehundred years too late to share those glories. Their hearts, especially if they are young, beat the faster only to think of Drake. They long to climb that tree in the Cordilleras and to look down, asDrake and Oxenham looked down, upon the old ocean in the East and thenew ocean in the West; they would like to go on pilgrimage to Nombrede Dios--Brothers, what a Gest was that!--and to Cartagena, whereDrake took the great Spanish ship out of the very harbour, under thevery nose of the Spaniard, they would like to have been on board the_Golden Hind_, when Drake captured that nobly laden vessel, _Our Ladyof the Conception_, and used her cargo of silver for ballasting hisown ship. Drake--the 'Dragon'--is the typical English hero; he isGalahad in the Court of the Lady Gloriana; he is one of the longseries of noble knights and valiant soldiers, their lives enriched andaglow with splendid achievements, who illumine the page of Englishhistory, from King Alfred to Charles Gordon. 

The first and greatest of the Elizabethan knights is Drake; but therewere others of nearly equal note. What of Raleigh, who actuallyfounded the United States by sending the first colonists toVirginia--the country where the grapes grew wild? What of MartinFrobisher and Humphrey Gilbert? What of Cavendish? What of CaptainAmidas? What of Davis and half a score more? The exploits andvictories and discoveries--in many cases, the disasters and death--ofthese sea-dogs filled the country from end to end with pride, andevery young, generous heart with envy. They, too, would sail WestwardHo! to fight the Spaniard--three score of Englishmen against thousandDons--and sail home again, heavy laden with the silver ingots of Peru, taken at Palengue or Nombre de Dios. Kingsley has written a book aboutthese adventurers; a very good book it is; but his pictures are marredwith the touch of the ecclesiastic--we need not suppose that the youngmen sat always Bible in hand, talked like seminarists, or thought likecurates. The rovers who sailed with Drake and Raleigh had theirreligion, like their rations, served out to them. Sailors always do. Drake, the captain, might and did, consult the Bible for encouragementand hope. Even he, however, reserved the right of using profane oaths;that right survived the older form of faith. In a word, theElizabethan sailor--although a Protestant--was, in all respects, likehis predecessor, save that on this new battle-field he was filled witha larger confidence and an audacity almost incredible to readof--almost impossible to think upon. 

This was the first phase of the romance which grew up along the shoresof America. So far it belongs to the Spanish Main and to the Isthmusof Panama. The romance remained when the Elizabethans passedaway--they were followed by the buccaneers, privateers, marooners andpirates--a degenerate company, but not without their picturesque side. Pierre le Grand, François l'Olonnois, Henry Morgan, are captains onlyone degree more piratical than Drake and Raleigh. Edward Teach, Kidd, Avery, Bartholomew Roberts were pirates only because they plunderedships English and French as well as Spanish; that they were roaring, reckless, deboshed villains as well, detracted little from the renownwith which their names and exploits were surrounded, and that theywere mostly hanged in the end was an accident common to such a life, the men under Drake were also sometimes hanged, though they weremostly killed by sword, bullet, or fever. The romance remained. Thelad who would have enlisted under Drake found no difficulty in joiningMorgan, and, if the occasion offered, he was ready to join the boldCaptain Kidd with alacrity. 

The seventeenth century furnished another kind of romance. It was thecentury of settlement. In the year 1606, after Sir Walter Raleigh hadled the way, the Virginia Company sent out the _Susan Constant_ withtwo smaller ships, containing a handful of colonists. They settled onthe James River. Among them was John Smith, an adventurer andfree-lance quite of the Elizabethan strain. In him John Oxenham livedagain. We all know the story of Captain John Smith. He began hiscareer by killing Turks; he continued it by exploring the creeks andrivers of Virginia, with endless adventures. Sometimes he was aprisoner of the Indians. Once, if his own account is true, he wasrescued from imminent death by the intervention of Pocahontas, calledPrincess--or Lady Rebecca. He explored Chesapeake Bay, and he gave thename of New England to the country north of Cape Cod. Such histories, of which this is only one, kept alive in England the adventurousspirit and the romance of the West. The dream of _finding_ gold hadvanished: what belonged to the present were the things done andsuffered in His Majesty's plantations with all that they suggested. Itis most certain that in every age there are thousands who continuallyyearn for the 'way of war' and the life of battle. Mostly, they failin their ambitions because in these times the nations fear war. In theseventeenth century there was always good fighting to be got somewherein Europe; if everything else failed there were the American Coloniesand the Indians--plenty of fighting always among the Indians. 

Besides the romance of war there was the romance of religious freedom. Everybody in America knows the story of the _Mayflower_ and herPilgrims in 1620, and the coming of the Puritans in 1630 under JohnWinthrop and the Massachusetts Company. I suppose, also, that allAmericans know of the _Ark_ and the _Dove_, and of Lord Baltimore'sCatholic, but tolerant, colony of Maryland. They know as well the veryodd story of Carolina and its 'Lords Proprietors' and the aristocraticform of government attempted there; of the Quakers in Pennsylvania, and the Temperance Colony of Georgia. One may recall as well theinflux of Germans by thousands in the early part of the eighteenthcentury, and the first immigration of Irish Presbyterians, the flowerof the Irish nation, driven abroad by the stupidity and fanaticism oftheir own Government, which wanted to make them conform to the IrishEpiscopal Church. In the whole history of Irish misgovernment there isnothing more stupid than this persecution of Irish Presbyterians. But, indeed, we may not blame our forefathers for this stupidity. Persecution of this kind belonged to the times. It seems to usinconceivably stupid that men should be exiled because they would notacknowledge the authority of a bishop, but, out of Maryland, there wasnowhere any real religious toleration; the dream of every sect was totrample down and to destroy all other sects. Our people in Irelandwere no worse than the people of Salem and Boston. Religioustoleration was not yet understood. Therefore, it was only playing thegame according to the laws of the game when the United Kingdom threwaway tens of thousands--the strongest, the most able, the mostindustrious, the most loyal--of her Irish subjects, because they wouldnot change one sect for another; and retained the Roman Catholics, hereditary rebels, who were numerically too strong to be turned out. 

All these things are perfectly well known to the American reader. Butis it also well known to the American reader--has he ever askedhimself--how these things affected and impressed the mind of England?

In this way. The Land of Romance was no longer the fable land where adozen Protestant soldiers, headed by the invincible Dragon, coulddrive out a whole garrison of Catholic Spaniards and sack a town. Ithad ceased to be another Ophir and a richer Golconda; but it was theLand of Religious Freedom. The Church of England and Ireland, by lawestablished, had no power across the ocean. America, to theNonconformist of the seventeenth century, was a haven and a refugeever open in case of need. The history of Nonconformity shows thevital necessity of such a refuge. The very existence of free Americagave to the English Nonconformist strength and courage. Such apersecution as that of the Irish Presbyterians became impossible whenit had been once demonstrated that, should the worst happen, thepersecuted religionists would escape by voluntary exile. 

That the spirit of persecution long survived is proved by thelingering among us down to our own days of the religious disabilities. Within the memory of living men, no one outside the Church of Englandcould be educated at a public school; could take a degree at Oxford orCambridge; could hold a scholarship or a fellowship at any college;could become a professor at either university; could sit in the Houseof Commons; could be appointed to any municipal office; could hold acommission in the army or navy. These restrictions practically--thoughwith some exceptions--reduced Nonconformity in England to the lowermiddle class, the small traders. Their ministers, who had formerlybeen scholars and theologians, fell into ignorance; their creedsbecame narrower; they had no social influence; but for the example oftheir brethren across the ocean they would have melted away and beenlost like the Non-Jurors who expired fifty years ago in the lastsurviving member; or, like a hundred sects which have arisen, made ashow of flourishing for a while, and then perished. They weresustained, first, by the memory of a _victorious_ past; next, by thetradition of religious liberty; and, thirdly, by the report of acountry--a flourishing country--where there were no religiousdisabilities, no social inferiority on account of faith and creed. Notreports only: there was a continual passing to and fro between Bristoland Boston during three-fourths of the eighteenth century. Thecolonies were visited by traders, soldiers and sailors. John Dunton inthe year 1710 thought nothing of a voyage to Boston with a consignmentof books for sale. Ned Ward, another bookseller, made the same journeywith the same object. There exists a whole library of Quakerbiographies showing how these restless apostles travelled backwardsand forwards, crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, and journeying upand down the country, to preach their gospel. And the life of JohnWesley also proves that the Colonies were regarded as easilyaccessible. I have seen a correspondence between a family in Londonand their cousins in Philadelphia, in the reign of Queen Anne, whichbrings out very clearly the fact that they thought nothing of thevoyage, and fearlessly crossed the ocean on business or pleasure. Theconnection between the Colonies and England was much closer than weare apt to imagine. The Colonies were much better known by us than weare given to believe; they were regarded by the ecclesiastical mind asthe home of schismatic rebellion; but by the layman as the land wherethought was free. 

That was one side--perhaps the most important side. But the halo ofadventure still lay glowing in the western land. No colony but had itshistory of massacre, treachery, and war to the knife with the RedIndian. Long before the time of Fenimore Cooper the English lad couldread stories of dreadful tortures, of heroic daring, of patience andendurance, of revenges fierce, of daily and hourly peril. The blood ofthe Dragon ran yet in English veins. America was still to the heirsand successors of that Great Heart the Land of Romance and the Land ofGallant Fights. 

And such stories! That of Captain John Smith laying his head upon theblock that it might be smashed by the Indians' clubs, and of hisrescue by the Indian girl, afterwards the 'Princess Rebecca'; themassacre of three hundred and fifty men, women and children of theinfant colony of Virginia, a hundred stories of massacre. Or, thatstory of the mother's revenge, told, I believe, by Thoreau. Her namewas Hannah Dunstan. Her house was attacked by Indians; her husband andher elder children fled for their lives; she, with an infant of afortnight, and her nurse, were left behind. The Indians dashed out thebrains of the baby and forced the two women to march with them throughthe forest to their camp. Here they found an English boy, also aprisoner. Hannah Dunstan made the boy find out from one of the Indiansthe quickest way to strike with the tomahawk so as to kill and tosecure the scalp. The Indian told the boy. Now there were in the camptwo men, three women, and seven children. In the dead of night Hannahgot up, awakened her nurse and the boy, secured the tomahawks, and inthe way the unsuspecting Indian had taught the boy, she tomahawkedevery one--man, woman and child--except a boy who fled into thewoods--and took their scalps. Then she scuttled all the canoes butone, and taking the scalps with her as proof of her revenge, she putthe nurse and the boy into the canoe and paddled down the river. Sheescaped all roving bands and won her way home again to find herhusband and sons safe and well, and to show the scalps--the bloodpayment for her murdered child. Such were the stories told and retoldin every colonial township, round every fire; such were the storiesbrought home by the sailors and the merchants; they were published inbooks of travel. Think you that our English blood had grown sosluggish that it could not be fired by such tales? Think you that theromance of the Colonies was one whit less enthralling than the romanceof the Spanish Main?

I say nothing of the wars in which the British troops and theColonial, side by side, at last succeeded in driving the French out ofthe country. They belong to the history of the eighteenth century andto the expansion of the English-speaking race. But for them, NorthAmerica would now be half French and a quarter Spanish. These, however, were regular wars, with no more romance about them thanbelongs to war wherever it is conducted according to the war-game ofthe day. The manœuvres of generals and the deploying of men in massesinspire none but students, just as a fine game of chess can only bejudged by one who knows the game. Louisburg, Quebec, 'Queen Anne'sWar, ' 'King George's War'--Wolfe and Montcalm--these things and thesemen produced little effect upon the popular view of America. In thecolonies themselves murmurings and complaints began to make themselvesheard; as they became stronger, the discontent increased; but they didnot reach the ear of the average Englishman, who still looked acrossthe ocean and still saw the country bathed in all the glories of theWest. Then--violently, suddenly--all this romance which had grown uparound and after so much fighting, so many achievements, was brokenoff and destroyed. It perished with the War of Independence; it was nolonger possible when the Colonies had become not only a foreigncountry, but a country bitterly hostile. The romance of America wasdead. 

After the war was over, with much humiliation and shame for thenation--the better part of which had been against the war from theoutset--the country turned for consolation to the East. But, as hasbeen said above, neither India, nor Australia, nor New Zealand, hasever taken such a place in the affections of our country as thatcontinent which was planted by our own sons, for whose safety andfreedom from foreign enemies we cheerfully spent treasure incalculableand lives uncounted. 

Then came the long twenty-three years' war in which Great Britain, forthe most part single-handed, fought for the freedom of Europe againstthe most colossal tyranny ever devised by victorious captain. Nonation in the history of the world ever carried on such a war, sostubborn, so desperate, so vital. Had Great Britain failed, what wouldnow be the position of the world? The victories, the defeats, thesuccesses, the disasters, which marked that long struggle, at leastmade our people forget their humiliation in America. The final triumphgave us back, as it was certain to do, more than our former pride, more than our old self-reliance. America was forgotten, the old lovefor America was gone; how could we remember our former affectionswhen, at the very time when our need was the sorest, when every ship, every soldier, every sailor that we could find, was wanted to breakdown the power of the man who had subjugated the whole of Europe, except Russia and Great Britain, the United States--the very Land ofLiberty--did her best to cripple the Armies of Liberty by proclaimingwar against us? And now, indeed, there was nothing left at all of theold romance. It was quite, quite dead. In the popular imagination allwas forgotten, except that on the other side of the Atlantic lived animplacable enemy, whose rancour--it then seemed to our people--waseven greater than their boasted love of liberty. 

I take it that the very worst time in the history of the relation ofthe United States with this country was the first half of thiscentury. There was very little intercourse between the countries;there were very few travellers; there was ignorance on both sides, with misunderstandings, wilful misrepresentations and deliberateexaggerations. Remember how Nathaniel Hawthorne speaks about theEnglish people among whom he lived; read how Thoreau speaks of us whenhe visits Quebec. Is that time past? Hardly. Among the better class ofAmericans one seldom finds any trace of hatred to Great Britain. Ithink that, with the exception of Mr. W. D. Howells, I have never foundany American gentleman who would manifest such a passion. But, asregards the lower class of Americans, it is reported that there stillsurvives a meaningless, smouldering hostility. The going and thecoming, to and fro, are increasing and multiplying; arbitration seemsto be established as the best way of terminating internationaldisputes; if the tone of the press is not always gracious, it is notoften openly hostile; we may, perhaps, begin to hope, at last, thatthe future of the world will be secured for freedom by theconfederation of all the English-speaking nations. 

The old romance is dead. Yet--yet--as Kingsley cried, when he landedon a West Indian island, 'At last!' so I, also, when I found myself inNew England, was ready to cry. 'At last!' The old romance is noteverywhere dead, since there can be found one Englishman who, when hestands for the first time on New England soil, feels that one moredesire of his life has been satisfied. To see the East; to see Indiaand far Cathay; to see the tropics and to live for a while in atropical island; to be carried along the Grand Canal of Venice in agondola; to see the gardens of Boccaccio and the cell of Savonarola;to camp and hunt in the backwoods of Canada, and to walk the streetsof New York, all these things have I longed, from youth upwards, tosee and to do--yea, as ardently as ever Drake desired to set anEnglish sail upon the great and unknown sea, and all these things, andmany more, have been granted to me. One great thing--perhaps more thanone thing, one unsatisfied desire--remained undone. I would set footon the shore of New England. It is a sacred land, consecrated to melong years ago, for the sake of the things which I used to read--forthe sake of the long-yearning thoughts of childhood and the dim andmystic splendours which played about the land beyond the sunset, inthe days of my sunrise. 

'At last!'

Wherever a boy finds a quiet place for reading--an attic lumbered withrubbish, a bedroom cold and empty, even a corner on the stairs--hemakes of that place a theatre, in which he is the sole audience. Before his eyes--to him alone--the drama is played, with scenerycomplete and costume correct, by such actors as never yet played uponany other stage, so natural, so lifelike--nay, so godlike, and forthat very reason so lifelike. 

This boy sat where he could--in a crowded household it is not alwayspossible to get a quiet corner; wherever he sat, this stage rose upbefore him and the play went on. He saw upon that stage all thesethings of which I have spoken, and more. He saw the fight at Nombre deDios, the capture of the rich galleon, the sacking of Maracaibo. I donot know whether other boys of that time were reading the Americanauthors with such avidity, or whether it was by some chance that thesebooks were thrown in his way. Washington Irving, Fenimore Cooper, Prescott, Emerson (in parts), Longfellow, Whittier, Bryant, EdgarAllan Poe, Lowell, Holmes, not to mention Thoreau, Herman Melville, Dana, certain religious novelists and many others whose names I do notrecall, formed a tolerably large field of American reading for anEnglish boy--without prejudice, be it understood, to the writers ofhis own country. To him the country of the American writers becamealmost as well known as his own. One thing alone he could not read. When he came to the War of Independence, he closed the book andordered his theatre to vanish. And, to this day, the events of thatwar are only partly known to him. No boy who is jealous for hiscountry will read, except upon compulsion, the story of a war whichwas begun in stupidity, carried on with incompetence, and concludedwith humiliation. 

The attack on Panama, the beginning of the Colonies, the exiles forreligion, the long struggle with the French, the driving back of theIndians: it was a very fine drama--the Romance of America--in ever somany acts, and twice as many tableaux, that this boy saw. And alwayson the stage, now like Drake, now like Raleigh, now like MilesStandish, now like Captain John Smith, he saw a young Englishman, performing prodigies of valour and bearing a charmed life. Yet, do notthink that it was a play with nothing but fighting in it. There werethe Dutch burghers of New Amsterdam, under Walter the Doubter, or therenowned Peter Stuyvesant; there was Rip Van Winkle on the CatskillMountains; there were the king-killers, hiding in the rocks besideNewhaven; there were the witch trials of Salem; there was the peacefulvillage of Concord, from which came voices that echoed round and roundthe world; there was the Lake, lying still and silent, ringed by itswoods, where the solitary student of Nature loved to sit and watch andmeditate. Hundreds of things, too many to mention, were acted on thatboy's imaginary stage and lived in his brain as much as if he hadhimself played a part in them. 

As that boy grew up, the memory of this long pageant survived; therefell upon him the desire to see some of the places; such a desire, ifit is not gratified, dies away into a feeble spark--but it can alwaysbe blown again into a flame. This year the chance came to the boy, nowa graybeard, to see these places; and the spark flared up again, intoa bright, consuming flame. 

I have seen my Land of Romance; I have travelled for a few weeks amongthe New England places, and, with a sigh of satisfaction and relief, Isay with Kingsley: 'At Last!'

This romance, which belonged to my boyhood, and has grown up with me, and will never leave me, once belonged then, more or less, to thewhole of the English people. Except with those who, like me, have beenfed with the poetry and the literature of America, this romance isimpossible. I suppose that it can never come again. Something betterand more stable, however, may yet come to us, when the United Statesand Great Britain will be allied in amity as firm as that which nowholds together those Federated States. The thing is too vast, it istoo important, to be achieved in a day, or in a generation. But itwill come--it will come; it must come--it must come; Asia and Europemay become Chinese or Cossack, but our people shall rule over everyother land, and all the islands, and every sea. 

II. -THE LAND OF REALITY

When a man has received kindnesses unexpected and recognition unlookedfor from strangers and people in a foreign country on whom he had nokind of claim, it seems a mean and pitiful thing in that man to sitdown in cold blood and pick out the faults and imperfections, if hecan descry any, in that country. The 'cad with a kodak'--where did Ifind that happy collocation?--is to be found everywhere; that is quitecertain; every traveller, as is well known, feels himself justifiedafter six weeks of a country to sit in judgment upon that country andits institutions, its manners, its customs and its society; heconstitutes himself an authority upon that country for the rest of hislife. Do we not know the man who 'has been there'? Lord Palmerstonknew him. 'Beware, ' he used to say, 'of the man who has been there!'As Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs he was privileged to makequite a circle of acquaintance with the men who 'had been there'; andhe estimated their experience at its true value. 

The man who has been there very seldom speaks its language with somuch ease as to understand all classes; he has therefore no realchance of seeing and understanding things otherwise than as they seem. When an Englishman travels in America, however, he can speak thelanguage. Therefore, he thinks that he really does understand thethings he sees. Does he? Let us consider. To understand the truemeaning of things in any strange land is not to see certain things bythemselves, but to be able to see them in their relation to otherthings. Thus, the question of price must be taken with the question ofwage; that of supply with that of demand; that of things done with thenational opinion on such things; that of the continued existence ofcertain recognised evils with, the conditions and exigencies of thetime; and so on. Before an observer can understand the relative valueof this or that he must make a long and sometimes a profound study ofthe history of the country, the growth of the people, and the presentcondition of the nation. It is obvious that it is given to very fewvisitors to conduct such an investigation. Most of them have no time;very, very few have the intellectual grasp necessary for anundertaking of this magnitude. It is obvious, therefore, that thecriticism of a two months' traveller must be worthless generally, andimpertinent almost always. The kodak, you see, in the bands of thecads, produces mischievous and misleading pictures. 

Let us take one or two familiar instances of the dangers of hastyobjection. Nothing worries the average American visitor to GreatBritain more than the House of Lords, and, generally, the nationaldistinctions. He sees very plainly that the House of Lords no longerrepresents an aristocracy of ancient descent, because by far thegreater number of peers belong to modern creations and new families, chiefly of the trading class; that it no longer represents the men ofwhom the country has most reason to be proud, because out of the wholedomain of science, letters, and art there have been but two creationsin the history of the peerage. He sees, also, that an Englishman has, apparently, only to make enough money in order to command a peeragefor himself, and the elevation to a separate caste of himself and hischildren forever. Again, as regards the lower distinctions, heperceives that they are given for this reason and for that reason; buthe knows nothing at all of the services rendered to the State by thedozens of knights made every year, while he can see very well that themen of real distinction, whom he does know, never get any distinctionsat all. These difficulties perplex and irritate him. Probably he goeshome with a hasty generalization. 

But the answer to these objections is not difficult. Without posing asa champion of the House of Lords, one may point out that it is a veryancient and deep-rooted institution; that to pull it up would cost animmense deal of trouble; that it gives us a second or upper housequite free from the acknowledged dangers of popular election; that thelords have long ceased to oppose themselves to changes once clearlyand unmistakably demanded by the nation; that the hereditary powersactually exercised by the very small number of peers who sit in theHouse do give us an average exhibition of brain power quite equal tothat found in the House of Commons, in which are the six hundredchosen delegates of the people; that, as regards the elevation of richmen, a poor man cannot well accept a peerage, because custom does notpermit a peer to work for his livelihood; that it is necessary tocreate new peers continually, in order to keep as close a connectionas possible between the Lords and the Commons; _e. G. _, if a peer has ahundred brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, cousins, they are allcommoners and he is the one peer, so that for six hundred peers theremay be a hundred thousand people closely allied to the House of Lords. Again, as to the habitual contempt with which the advisers of theCrown pass over the men who by their science, art, and literaturebring honour upon their generation, the answer is, that when thenewspaper press thinks fit to take up the subject and becomes asjealous over the national distinctions as they are now over thenational finances, the thing will get itself righted. And not tillthen. I instance this point and these objections as illustrating whatis often said, and thought, by American visitors who record theirfirst impressions. 

The same kind of danger, of course, awaits the English traveller inAmerica. If he is an unwise traveller, he will note, for admiring orindignant quotation, many a thing which the wise traveller notes onlywith a query and the intention of finding out, if he can, what itmeans or why it is permitted. The first questions, in fact, for thestudent of manners and laws are why a thing is permitted, encouraged, or practised; how the thing in consideration affects the people whopractise it, and how they regard it. Thus, to go back to ancienthistory, English people, forty years ago, could not understand howslavery was allowed to continue in the States. We ourselves hadvirtuously given freedom to all our slaves; why should not theAmericans? We had not grown up under the institution, you see; we hadlittle personal knowledge of the negro; we believed that, in spite ofthe discouraging examples in Hayti and in our own Jamaica, there was asplendid future for the black, if only he could be free and educated. Again, none of our people realized, until the Civil War actually brokeout, the enormous magnitude of the interests involved; we had read'Uncle Tom's Cabin, ' and our hearts glowed with virtuous indignation;we could not understand the enormous difficulties of the question. Finally, we succeeded in enraging the South against us before the warbegan, because of our continual outcry against slavery; and inenraging the North after the war began, by reason of our totallyunexpected Southern sympathies. It is a curious history ofwrongheadedness and ignorance. 

This was a big thing. The things which the English traveller in theStates now notices are little things; as life is made up of littlethings, he is noting differences all day long, because everything thathe sees is different. Speech is different: the manner of enunciatingthe words is different; it is clearer, slower, more grammatical; amongthe better sort it is more careful; it is even academical. We Englishspeak thickly, far back in the throat, the voice choked by beard andmoustache, and we speak much more carelessly. Then the way of livingat the hotels is different; the rooms are much--very much--betterfurnished than would be found in towns of corresponding size inEngland--_e. G. _, at Providence, Rhode Island, which is not a largecity, there is a hotel which is most beautifully furnished; and atBuffalo, which is a city half the size of Birmingham, the hotel isperhaps better furnished than any hotel in London. An immense menu isplaced before the visitor for breakfast and dinner. There is anembarrassment of choice. Perhaps it is insular prejudice which makesone prefer the simple menu, the limited choice, and the plain food ofthe English hotels. At least, rightly or wrongly, the English hotelsappear to the English traveller the more comfortable. I return to thedifferences. In the preparation and the serving of food there aredifferences--the mid-day meal, far more in America than in England, isthe national dinner. In most American hotels that received us we foundthe evening meal called supper--and a very inferior spread it was, compared to the one o'clock service. In the drinks there is adifference--the iced water which forms so welcome a part of every mealin the States is generally the only drink; it is not common, out ofthe great cities, to see claret on the table. There are differences inthe conduct of the trains and in the form of the railway carriages;differences in the despatch and securing of luggage; difference in therailway whistle; difference in the management of the station, untilone knows the way about, travelling in America is a continual trial tothe temper. Until, for instance, an understanding of the manners andcustoms in this respect has been attained, the conveyance of theluggage to the hotel is a ruinous expense. And unless one understandsthe rough usage of luggage on American lines, there will be furthertrials of temper over the breakage of things. In France and Italy suchsmall differences do not exasperate, because they ate known to exist;one expects them; they are benighted foreigners who know no better. But in America, where they speak our own language, one seems to have aright, somehow, to expect that all the usages will be exactly thesame--and they are not; and so the cad with the kodak gets his chance. 

I can quite understand, even at this day, the making of a book whichshould hold up to ridicule the whole of a nation on account of thesedifferences. 'The Americans a great nation? Why, sir, I could notget--the whole time that I was them--such a simple thing as Englishmustard. The Americans a great nation? Well, sir, all I can say isthat their breakfast in the Wagner car is a greasy pretence. TheAmericans a great nation? They may be, sir; but all I can say is thatthere isn't such a thing--that I could discover--as an honestbar-parlour, where a man can have his pipe and his grog in comfort. 'And so on--the kind of thing may be multiplied indefinitely. What Mrs. Trollope did sixty years ago might be done again. 

But, if I had the time, I would write the companion volume--that ofthe American in England--in which it should be proved, after the samefashion, that this poor old country is in the last stage of decay, because we have compartment carriages on the railway; no checks forthe luggage; no electric trolleys in the street; at the hotels noelaborate menu, but only a simple dinner of fish and roast-beef; noiced water, an established Church (the clergy all bursting withfatness); a House of Lords (all profligates); and a Queen who chopsoff heads when so disposed. It would also be noted, as proving thecontemptible decay of the country, that a large proportion of thelower classes omit the aspirate; that rough holiday-makers laugh andsing and play the accordion as they take their trips abroad; that thefactory girls wear hideous hats and feathers; that all classes drinkbeer, and that men are often seen rolling drunk in the streets. Norwould the American traveller in Great Britain fail to observe, withthe scorn of a moralist, the political corruption of the time; hewould hold up to the contempt of the world the statesman who with theutmost vehemence condemns a movement one day which, on the followingday, in order to gain votes and recover power, he adopts, and withequal vehemence advocates; he would ask what can be the moralstandards of a country where a great party turns right round, at thebidding of their leader, and follows him like a flock of sheep, applauding, voting, advocating as he bids them, to-day, this--to-morrow, its opposite. 

These things and more will be found in that book of the American inEngland when it appears. You see how small and worthless andprejudiced would be such a volume. Well, it is precisely such a volumethat the ordinary traveller is capable of writing. All the things thatI have mentioned are accidentals; they are differences which meannothing; they are not essentials; what I wish to show is that he whowould think rightly of a country must disregard the accidentals andget at the essentials. What follows is my own attempt--which I am wellaware must be of the smallest account--to feel my way to two or threeessentials. 

First and foremost, one essential is that the country is full ofyouth. I have discovered this for myself, and I have learned what thefact means and how it affects the country. I had heard this said overand over again. It used to irritate me to hear a monotonous repetitionof the words, 'Sir, we are a young county. ' Young? At least, it isthree hundred years old; nor was it till I had passed through NewEngland, and seen Buffalo and Chicago--those cities which standbetween the east and time west--and was able to think and compare, that I began to understand the reality and the meaning of those words, which have now become so real and mean so much. It is not that thecities are new and the buildings put up yesterday; it is in theatmosphere of buoyancy, elation, self-reliance, and energy, which onedrinks in everywhere, that this sense of youth is apprehended. It isyouth full of confidence. Is there such a thing anywhere in America aspoverty or the fear of poverty? I do not think so. Men may be hard upor even stone-broke; there are slums; there are hard-worked women; butthere is no general fear of poverty. In the old countries the fear ofpoverty lies on all hearts like lead. To be sure, such a fear is asurvival in England. In the last century the strokes of fate weresudden and heavy, and a merchant sitting to-day in a place of greathonour and repute, an authority on 'Change, would find himself on themorrow in the Marshalsea or the Fleet, a prisoner for life; once downa man could not recover; he spent the rest of his life in captivity;he and his descendants, to the third and fourth generations--for itwas as unlucky to be the son of a bankrupt as the son of aconvict--grovelled in the gutter. There is no longer a Marshalsea or aFleet prison; but the dread of failure survives. In the States thatdread seems practically absent. 

Again, youth is extravagant; spends with both hands, cannot hear ofeconomy; burns the candle at both ends; eats the corn while it isgreen; trades upon the future; gives bills at long dates withouthesitation, and while the golden flood rolls past takes what it wantsand sends out its sons to help themselves. Why should youth makeprovisions for the sons of youth? The world is young; the riches ofthe world are beyond counting; they belong to the young; let us work, let us spend; let us enjoy, for youth is the time for work and forenjoyment. 

In youth, again, one is careless about little things; they will rightthemselves: persons of the baser sort pervert the freedom of thecountry to their own uses; they make 'corners' and 'rings' and stealthe money of the municipality; never mind; some day, when we havetime, we will straighten things out. In youth, also, one is tempted togallant apparel, bravery of show, a defiant bearing, gold and lace andcolour. In cities this tendency of youth is shown by great buildingsand big institutions. In youth, there is a natural exaggeration intalk: hence the spread-eagle of which we hear so much. Then everythingwhich belongs to youth must be better--beyond comparison better--thaneverything that belongs to age. In the last century, if you like, youth followed and imitated age; it is the note of this, our country, that youth is always advancing and stepping ahead of age. Even in thedaily press the youth of the country shows itself. Let age sit downand meditate; let such a paper as the London _Times_--that old, oldpaper--give every day three laboured and thoughtful essays written byscholars and philosophers on the topics of the day. It is not foryouth to ponder over the meaning and the tendencies of things; it isfor youth to act, to make history, to push things along; therefore letthe papers record everything that passes; perhaps when the country isold, when the time comes for meditation, the London _Times_ may beimitated, and even a weekly collection of essays, such as the_Saturday Review_ or the _Spectator_, may be successfully started inthe United States. Again, youth is apt to be jealous over its ownpretensions. Perhaps this quality also might be illustrated; but, forobvious reasons, we will not press this point. Lastly, youth knowsnothing of the time which came immediately before itself. It is nottill comparatively late in life that a man connects his owngeneration--his own history--with that which preceded him. When doesthe history of the United States begin--not for the man of letters orthe professor of history--but for the average man? It begins when theUnion begins: not before. There is a very beautiful and very noblehistory before the Union. But it is shared with Great Britain. Thereis a period of gallant and victorious war--but beside the colonialsmarched King George's red-coats. There was a brave struggle forsupremacy, and the French were victoriously driven out--but it was byEnglish fleets and with the help of English soldiers. Therefore, theaverage American mind refuses to dwell on this period. His countrymust spring at once, full armed, into the world. His country must beall his own. He wants no history, if you please, in which any othercountry has also a share. 

In a word, America seems to present all the possible characteristicsof youth. It is buoyant, confident, extravagant, ardent, elated, andproud. It lives in the present. The young men of twenty-one cannotbelieve in coming age; people do get to fifty, he believes; but, forhimself, age is so far off that he need not consider it. I observedthe youthfulness of America even in New England, but the country asone got farther west seemed to become more youthful. At Chicago, Isuppose, no one owns to more than five-and-twenty--youth isinfectious. I felt myself while in the city much under that age. 

Let us pass to another point--also an essential--the flaunting of theflag, I had the honour of assisting at the 'Sollemnia Academica, ' thecommencement of Harvard on the 28th of June last. I believe thatHarvard is the richest, as it is also the oldest, of Americanuniversities; it is also the largest in point of numbers. The functionwas celebrated in the college theatre; it was attended by the governorof the State with the lieutenant-governor and his aide-de-camp; therewas a notable gathering on the stage or platform, consisting of thepresident, professors and governors of the university, together withthose men of distinction whom the university proposed to honour with adegree. The floor, or pit, of the house was filled with the commencingbachelors; the gallery was crowded with spectators, chiefly ladies. After the ceremony we were invited to assist at the dinner given bythe students to the president, and a company among whom it was adistinction for a stranger to sit. The ceremony of conferring degreeswas interesting to an Englishman and a member of the older Cambridge, because it contained certain points of detail which had certainly beenbrought over by Harvard himself, the founder, from the old to the newCambridge. The dinner, or luncheon, was interesting for the speeches, for which it was the occasion and the excuse. The president, for hispart, reported the addition of $750, 000 to the wealth of the college, and called attention to the very remarkable feature of modern Americanliberality in the lavish gifts and endowments going on all over theStates to colleges and places of learning. He said that it wasunprecedented in history. With submissions to the learned president, not quite without precedent. The fourteenth and fifteenth centurieswitnessed a similar spirit in the foundation and endowment of collegesand schools in England and Scotland. About half the colleges of Oxfordand Cambridge, and three out of the four Scottish universities, belongto the period. Still, it is very remarkable to find this new largenessof mind. Since one has received great fortune, let this wealth bepassed on, not to make a son into an idle man, but to endow, with thebest gifts of learning and science, generation after generation of menborn for work. We, who are ourselves so richly endowed, and have beenso richly endowed for four hundred years, have no need to envy Harvardall her wealth, We may applaud the spirit which seeks not to enrich afamily but to advance the nation; all the more because we have manyinstances of a similar spirit in our own country. It is not thefurther endowment of Oxford and Cambridge that is continued by onerich man, but the foundation of new colleges, art galleries, andschools of art. Angerstein, Vernon, Alexander, Tate, are some of ourbenefactors in art. 

The endowments of Owens College, the Mason College, the Firth College, University College, London, are gifts of private persons. Since we donot produce rich men so freely as America, our endowments are neitherso many nor so great; but the spirit of endowment is with us as well. 

Presently one observed at this dinner a note of difference, whichafterwards gave food for reflection. It was this: All the speakers, one after the other, without exception, referred to the freeinstitutions of the nation, to the duty of citizens, and especially tothe responsibilities of those who were destined by the training andeducation of this venerable college to become the leaders of thecountry. Nothing whatever was said, by any of the speakers, on theachievements in scholarship, literature, or science made by formerscholars of the college; nothing was said of the promise in learningor science of the young men now beginning the world. Now, a year or soago, the master and fellows of a certain college of the olderCambridge bade to a feast as many of the old members of that collegeas would fill the hall. It was, of course, a very much smaller hallthan that of Harvard; but it was still a venerable college, themother, so to speak, of Emmanuel, and therefore the grandmother ofHarvard. The master, in his speech after dinner, spoke about nothingbut the glories of the college in its long list of worthies and thevery remarkable number of men, either living or recently passed away, whose work in the world had brought distinction to themselves andhonour to the college. In short, the college only existed in his mind, and in the minds of those present, for the advancement of learning, nor was there any other consideration possible for him in connectionwith the college. Is there, then, another view of Harvard College?There must be. The speakers suggested this new and American view. Thecollege, if my supposed discovery is true, is regarded as a placewhich is to furnish the State, not with scholars, for whom there willalways be a very limited demand, but with a large and perennial supplyof men of liberal education and sound principles, whose chief dutyshall be the maintenance of the freedom to which they are born, and asteady opposition to the corruption into which all free institutionsreadily fall without unceasing watchfulness. This thing I advance withsome hesitation. But it explains the inflated patriotism of thecarefully-prepared speech of the governor and the political (notpartisan) spirit of all the other speakers. Oxford and Cambridge havelong furnished the country with a learned clergy, a learned Bar, and(but this is past) a learned House of Commons. The tradition oflearning lingers still; nay, they are centres of learning beyondcomparison with any other universities in the world. Harvard also, Isuppose, provides a learned clergy; but its principal function, as itsrulers seemed to think, is to send out into the world every year agreat body of young men fully equipped to be leaders in the country. This is its chief glory; to do this effectively, I take it, is thechief desire of the president and the society. 

It cannot be denied that this is a very important duty, much moreimportant, for a special reason, in the States than it is in GreatBritain. I used to marvel, before making these observations, at theconstant flying of the stars and stripes everywhere; at the continualreminding as to freedom. 'Are there, ' one asks, 'no other countries inthe world which are free? In what single point is the freedom of theAmerican greater than the freedom of the Briton, the Canadian, of theAustralian?' In none, certainly. Yet we are not forever waving theUnion Jack everywhere and calling each other brothers in our gloriousliberty. Well: but let us think. In so vast a population, spread overso many States, each State being a different country, there willalways be ignorant men, men ready to give up everything for a selfishadvantage: there must always be a danger, unless it be continually metand beaten down, that the United may become the dis-United States. Why, European statesmen used to look forward confidently to thedisruption of the States from the Declaration of Independence down tothe Civil War. It was a commonplace that the country must inevitablyfall to pieces. The very possibility of a disruption is now not eventhought of: the thing is never mentioned. Why is this? Surely, becausethe idea of federation is not only taught and ground in at theelementary schools, but because the flag of federation is alwaysdisplayed as the chief glory of the nation at every place where two orthree Americans are gathered together. The symbol you see isunmistakable: it means Union, once for all; the word, the idea, thesymbol, it must be always kept before the eyes of the people; it is inthe wisdom of the rulers that the stars and stripes are foreverflaunted before the eyes of the people. 

And it is not only the ignorant and the selfish among Americansthemselves; it is the vast number of immigrants, increasing by half amillion every year, who have to be taught what citizenship means. Theoutward symbol is the readiest teacher; let them never forget thatthey live under the stars and stripes; let them learn--German, Norwegian, Italian, Irish--what it means to belong to the GreatRepublic. Is this all that a two months' visitor can bring away fromAmerica? It is the most important part of my plunder. What else hasbeen gathered up is hardly worth talking about, in comparison withthese two discoveries which are, after all, perhaps only useful tomyself: the discovery of the real youthfulness of the country and thediscovery of the real meaning and the necessity of the spread-eaglespeeches and the flaunting of the flag in season and out of season. Itmay seem a small thing to learn, but the lesson has wholly changed mypoint of view. The fact is perhaps hardly worth recording; it matterslittle what a single Englishman thinks; but if he can induce others tothink with him, or to modify their views in the same direction, it maymatter a great deal. 

And, of course, an Englishman must think of his own future--that ofhis own country. Before many years the United Kingdom must inevitablyundergo great changes: the vastness of the Empire will vanish; Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa will fall away and will becomeindependent republics; what these little islands will become then, Iknow not. What will become of the English-speaking races, thus firmlyplanted over the whole globe, is a more important question. If a manhad the voice of the silver-mouthed Father, if a man had theinspiration of a prophet, it would be a small thing for that man toconsecrate and expend all his life, all his strength, all his soul, inthe creation of a great federation of English-speaking peoples. Thereshould be no war of tariffs between them; there should be nopossibility of dispute between them; there should be as many nationsseparate and distinct as might please to call themselves nations; itshould make no difference whether Canada was the separate dominion ofCanada, or a part of the United States; it should make no differencewhether Great Britain and Ireland were a monarchy or a republic. Theone thing of importance would be an indestructible alliance foroffence and defence among the people who have inherited the best partof the whole world. This alliance can best be forwarded by a promotionof friendship between private persons; by a constant advocacy in thepress of all the countries concerned; and by the feeling, to becultivated everywhere, that such a confederation would present to theworld the greatest, strongest, wealthiest, most highly cultivatedconfederacy of nations that ever existed. It would be permanent, because here would be no war of aggression in tariffs, or of personalquarrel; no territorial ambitions; no conflict of kings. 

Naturally, I was not called upon to speak at the Harvard dinner. Had Ispoken, I should like to have said: 'Men of Harvard, grandsons of thatbenignant mother--still young--who sits crowned with laurels, everfresh, on the sedgy bank of Granta, think of the country from whichyour fathers have sprung. Go out into the world--your world ofyouthful endeavour and success; do your best to bring the hearts ofthe people whom you will have to lead back to their kin across theseas to east and west--over the Atlantic and over the Pacific. Do yourbest to bring about the Indestructible fraternity of the wholeEnglish-speaking races. Do this in the sacred name of that freedom ofwhich you have this day heard so much, and of that Christianity towhich by the very stamp and seal of your college you are the avowedand sworn servants. Rah!'

[1893. ]

ART AND THE PEOPLE. [Paper read at the Birmingham Meeting of theSocial Science Congress. ]

There is a passage in one of the letters of Edward Denison whichexactly interprets the dejection and oppression certain to fall uponone who seriously considers and personally investigates, howeversuperficially, the condition of the poor in great cities. He writesfrom Philpott Street, Commercial Road, East London, and he says: 'Mywits are getting blunted by the monotony and ugliness of the place. Ican almost imagine the awful effect upon a human mind of never seeinganything but the meanest and vilest of men and man's work, and ofcomplete exclusion from the sight of God's works. ' The veryexaggeration of these words shows the profound dejection of thewriter, at a moment when his resolution to continue living in a placewhere there was neither nature nor art, nor beauty anywhere, weighedupon him like a penal sentence, so that the vileness of thesurroundings entered into his soul and made him feel as if the men andwomen in the place, as well as their works, were all alike, mean, vile, and sordid. Edward Denison wrote these words seventeen yearsago. The place in which he lived is still ugly and monotonous, a smallcross-street leading from the back of the London Hospital into theCommercial Road, about as far from green fields and parks or gardensas can be found anywhere in London; there are still a good many of thevilest of man's works carried on in the neighbourhood, especially themaking of clothes for Government contractors, and the making of shirtsfor private sweaters. But something has been attempted since Denisoncame here--the pioneer of a great invasion. Many others have followedhis example, and are now, like him, living among the people. Clubshave been established, concerts and readings have been given, andexcursions into the country, convalescent homes and a thousanddifferent things have grown up for the amelioration of the poor. Better than all, there are now thousands of educated and cultivatedmen and women who are perpetually considering how existing evils maybe remedied and new evils prevented. With philanthropic efforts, withthe social questions connected with them, I have now nothing to do. Weare at present only concerned with a question of Art: we are toinquire how the love and desire for Art may be introduced anddeveloped, and to ask what has already been attempted In thisdirection. 

I would first desire to explain that I know absolutely nothing aboutthe state of things in any other great city of Great Britain than one. What I say is based upon such small knowledge that I may have gainedconcerning London, and especially East London. As regards Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, Glasgow, and any other place where there is agreat industrial population, I know nothing. If, therefore, exceptionbe taken to any expressions of mine as applied to some other city, Ibeg it to be remembered that East London alone is in my mind. Evenconcerning East London exception may be taken to anything I mayadvance. That is because it is impossible to make any generalproposition whatever of humanity considered in the mass except theelementary ones, such as that all must eat and sleep, to whichobjection may not be raised. Thus, I know that it is true, and I amprepared to maintain the assertion, that the lower classes in Londoncare nothing about Art, and know nothing about Art, and have only anelementary appreciation of things beautiful. It is equally true, onthe other hand, that there are everywhere some whose hearts areyearning and whose hands are stretched out in prayer for greaterbeauty and fulness of life. It is also, as a general statement, truethat there are no amusements in East London, which contains two and ahalf millions of people, has no municipality, and is the biggest, ugliest, and meanest city in the whole world. Yet it is equally truethat there are in it institutes for education and science, art, andliterature, mutual improvement societies, clubs at which there areevenings for singing, dancing, and private theatricals, and rowing, swimming, and cricket clubs. It is again, as a general rule, true thatthe lower classes are ignorant of science, yet there are everywherescattered among the working men single cases of earnest devotion toscience. And it is painfully true that they do not seem to feel theugliness of their own streets and houses; yet no one who has beenamong the holiday folks in the country on a Bank Holiday or a fineSunday in the summer can deny their profound appreciation of field andforest, flowers and green leaves, sunshine and shade. It is, lastly, perfectly true that their lives, compared with those of the morecultivated classes, do seem horribly dull, monotonous, and poor. Yetthe dulness is more apparent than real: ugly houses and mean streetsdo not necessarily imply mean and ugly lives. Their days may beenlivened in a thousand ways which to the outsider are invisible. Among these are some which directly or indirectly make for theappreciation of Art. 

It seems safe, however, to advance one proposition. There is a classin and below which it is impossible that there can exist a feeling forArt of ally kind, or, indeed, for religion, for virtue, for knowledgeof any kind, or for anything beyond the necessity of providing for thenext day's food and shelter. Those miserable women who work from earlymorning to late night, condemned to a slavery worse than any we haveabolished; those hungry men who besiege the dock-gates for a day'swork, and have nothing in the whole world but a pair of hands; thatvast class which is separated from starvation by a single day--whatthought, interest, or care can they have for anything in the world butthe procuring of food? When the physical condition of English men andwomen is worse, as Professor Huxley has declared it to be, than thecondition of naked savages in the Southern Seas, how can we look forthe virtues and the aspirations which belong essentially to the levelof comparative ease? Until we have mastered the problem of findingsteady work for all, with adequate wages and decent homes, we need notlook for Art in these lowest ranks. We have to do, therefore, not withthe very poor at all, but with the respectable poor--the families ofskilled mechanics, _employés_ in regular work, workmen in breweries, ship-yards, and factories independent handicraftsmen, clerks, cashiers, accountants, writers, small shopkeepers, and all that greathost which is perpetually occupied in increasing the wealth of thecountry by labour which, at least, permits them to live in comfort. All these people have leisure; most of them, except the shopassistants, have no work in the evening; they are all possessed ofsome education. There is no reason at all why they should not, if theycould be only got to desire it, become students in some of thebranches of Art. 

Let us, then, always with reference to this one city and this oneclass of its inhabitants, ascertain what has been done already tocreate a love of Art. The most important thing as yet attempted is theBethnal Green Museum. It is, for our purposes, also the mostinstructive, because it has hitherto been, I consider, a complete andignominious failure. That is to say, it was established and ismaintained as an educational museum, it was especially designed tocreate and develop a knowledge of Art and it has not done so. It wasopened in 1872 with, among other things, the magnificent collection ofpictures lent by Sir Richard Wallace; during the twelve years of itsexistence it has exhibited other collections of considerable interest:but the education, the free library, and the classrooms promised atthe outset have never been forthcoming. It is, in fact, a dumb andsilent gallery. One may compare it to a Board School newly built, provided with all the latest appliances for education--with books, desks, seats, blackboards, and everything, including crowds of pupils, but left without a teaching staff, the pupils being expected to teachthemselves. Why not? There are the books and there are the desks, Sowith this museum. You cannot learn anything of Art without the studyof artistic work. Here is the artistic work. Why do not the peoplestudy it? They certainly come to the place; they come in largenumbers; on free days when it is open until ten at night they averageover two thousand a day all the year round. And if you take thetrouble to watch them, to follow them about, and to listen to theirconversation, you will presently discover with how much intelligencethey are studying the artistic work before them. 

The failure of Bethnal Green should teach us what to avoid. Let ustherefore walk round the halls and galleries of this museum. In thecentral hall there is placed, each object with a ticket containing abrief description of it, a really noble collection of cabinets, carvedand painted; with these are rare and costly vases, of English, Russian, Danish, and German workmanship; there are a few statuettes, some paintings on china, things in glazed earthenware, and glass casescontaining Syrian and Albanian necklaces and jewellery. In the lowerside galleries there is, first, a collection of food products, showingspecimens of wheat, rice, starch, salt, and so forth, with models ofvegetables and fruit executed in wax; and next, a collection ofwoollen stuff and fabrics of all kinds, with feathers, stags' heads, antlers, and so forth. In the upper galleries there is a collection ofpaintings and engravings. Here and there are suspended tablets whichare inscribed with bits of information, chiefly statistical. On mylast visit to the place I could not observe that anyone was studyingthese tablets. This is, roughly speaking, all that the Bethnal GreenMuseum contains. The directors of this institution, opened with somuch promise, which was going to educate the people and endow themwith a sense of Art and a love of beauty, think they have done allthey promised when they show a collection of cabinets and vases, a fewbottles containing rice and wheat, a few turnips in wax, a few caseswith pretty fabrics, and collection of pictures. There is no music;there is no sculpture; none of the small arts are represented at all;there is not the slightest attempt made to educate anybody. If youwant any other information or help besides that given by the tabletsyou will not get it, because there is nobody to give it. A policemanmounts guard over the cases, a woman sells the publications of theSouth Kensington Department, and you can rend on a board the number ofvisitors for every day in the year. But there is no one to go roundwith you and talk about the things on exhibition. There are nolectures nor any classes, there are no handbooks to teach the historyof the Fine Arts and to illustrate the collection in the museum. Thereis not, incredible to say, even a catalogue. _There is no catalogue_. Imagine an exhibition without even an official guide to its contents. Here, says the Department, is the Bethnal Green Museum with its doorswide open: let the people walk in and inspect the contents. 

So, if we invited the people to inspect a collection of cuneiforminscriptions, we might just as well expect them to carry away aknowledge of Assyrian history; or by exhibiting an electrical machinewe might as well expect them to understand the appliances ofelectricity. It is not enough, in fact, to exhibit pictures: they mustbe explained. It is with paintings and drawings as with everythingelse, those who come to see them having no knowledge carry none awaywith them. The visitors to a museum are like travellers in a foreigncountry, of whom Emerson truly says that when they leave it they takenothing away but what they brought with them. The finest wood carving, the most beautiful vase, the richest classic painting, produces on theuncultivated eye no more valuable or lasting impression than the sightof a sailing ship for the first time produces on the mind of a savage. That is to say, the impression at the best is of wonder, not ofdelight or curiosity at all. In the picture galleries, it is true, thedull eyes are lifted and the weary faces brighten, because here, ifyou plea, we touch upon that art which every human being all over theworld can appreciate. It is the art of story-telling. The visitors gofrom picture to picture and they read the stories. As for landscapes, figures, portraits, or slabs, they pass them by. What they love is apicture of life in action, a picture that tells a story and quickentheir pulses. You may observe this in every picture gallery--even atthe Grosvenor and the Royal Academy--even among the classes who aresupposed to know something of Art: for one who studies a portrait byMillsis, or a head by Leighton, there are crowds who stand before apicture which tells a story. At the Royal Academy the story isgenerally, but not always, read in silence; at Bethnal Green it isread aloud. You will perhaps observe the importance of thisdifference. It is because at the Royal Academy everybody has thefeeling that he is present in the character of a critic, and musttherefore affect, at least, to be considering the workmanship, andpassing a judgment on the artist. But at Bethnal Green the visitorsfeel that they have been invited to be pleased, to wonder, and toadmire the beautiful stories represented on the canvas by clever menwho have learnt this trade. As for how a story may be told on canvas, the way in which the conception of the artist has been executed, thetruth of the drawing, the fidelity of colouring--on these points noquestions are asked and no curiosity is expressed. Why should they?Painting they regard as one of the arts which may be learned for atrade, like matchmaking or shoemaking. Remember that it never occursto people to learn the mysteries of any trade beside their own. On mylast visit to this museum, for instance, I chanced upon two women whowere standing before a vase. It was a large and very beautiful vase, of admirable form and proportions, and it was decorated on the top bya group representing three captives chained to the rock. Their commenton this work of art was as follows: 'Look, ' said one, 'look at thosepoor men chained to the rock. ' 'Yes, ' replied the other, 'poorfellows! ain't it shocking?'

To their eyes the only thing to be looked at was the group of figures, and the only suggestion made to their minds by the vase related to thestory, thus half told, of the captives. As for the vase itself, it wasnothing; the workmanship and painting were nothing; the sculpturing ofthe figures was nothing. 

It is constantly argued that the mere contemplation of thingsbeautiful creates this artistic sense--the sense of beauty. This isundoubtedly true if one were to dwell entirely among beautiful things. But how if for one thing which is beautiful you are made tocontemplate a hundred which are not? Suppose you offer a girl ofuntrained eye a choice of costumes, of which one is artistic and therest are all hideous, how can you expect her to know the one--the onlyone--which she sought to choose? Or, again, if you allow a boy to readand learn as much bad poetry as good, what can you expect of hisstandard of taste? In other words, when the surroundings of life arewholly without Art, an occasional visit to a collection of paintingscannot create an intelligent appreciation of Art. 

Again, there are many branches and diverse forms or Art. For Instance, there is music, there is singing there is acting, there is sculpture, poetry, fiction; and besides these there are working in metals, engraving in wood and copper, leather work, brass work, fret work, anddecoration. None of these arts are illustrated and recognised in theBethnal Green Museum, Yet, when we speak of the spreading of Art amongthe poor, surely we do not mean only drawing, design, and painting. 

The popularity of this museum has been argued as a proof of itsefficiency. It attracts, as I have stated already, over 2, 000 on everyfree day all the year round. On the one day in the week when anentrance fee of sixpence is required it attracts from twenty to forty. This means that out of two millions of people in East London there isso little enthusiasm for Art that only forty can be found each week topay sixpence in order to enjoy quiet galleries and undisturbed study. Remember that East London is not altogether a poor place; there arewhole districts which are full of villa residences as good as any inthe southern suburb; there are many people who are wealthy; but allthe wealth and all the Art enthusiasm of the place will not bring morethan forty every week to pay their sixpence. As for copying thepictures, I do not know if any facilities are afforded for thepurpose, but I have never seen anyone in the place copying at all. 

The throng of visitors on free days may partly be explained on othergrounds than the love of Art. It is a place where one can pleasantlylounge, or sit down to rest, or lazily look at pleasant things, ortalk with one's friends, or take refuge from bad weather. This is asit should be; the place is regarded as a pleasant place. Yet thenumber of visitors has fallen off. In the first year of its existencenearly a million entered the gates; four years later an equal numberwas registered; for the last three years the number has fallen to lessthan half a million. Its popularity, therefore, is on the decline. 

It is, again, a great place for children. They are sent here just asthey are sent to the British Museum and the South Kensington Museum, in order to be out of the way. You will always see children in theseplaces, strolling listlessly among the rooms and corridors. Once, forinstance, on a certain Easter Monday, I encountered, in the SouthKensington Museum, a miserable little pair, who were crying in acorner by themselves. Beside the cases full of splendid embroideriesand golden lace, among which they had strayed, they looked curiouslyincongruous, and somewhat like the unfortunate pair led to theirdestruction by the wicked uncle. They had, in fact, been sent to themuseum by their mother, with a piece of bread-and-butter for theirdinner, and told to stay there all day long. By this time thebread-and-butter had long since been eaten up, and they were hungryagain, and there was a long afternoon before them. What to thesehungry children would have been a whole Field of the Cloth of Gold? Wemust, therefore, make very large deductions indeed when we considerthe popularity of Bethnal Green. Doubtless it is pleasant to read thestories of the pictures; but the light, the warmth, the society of theplace are also pleasant. And as for Art education, why, as none isgiven, so none is desired. 

I have dwelt upon Bethnal Green Museum at some length, not because Iwished to attack the place, but because it seems to me an example ofwhat ought not to be done, and because it illustrates most admirablytwo propositions which I have to offer. These are--(1) That the lowerclasses have no instinctive desire for Art; (2) that they will notteach themselves. 

We may also learn from considering what this museum is what aneducational and popular museum ought to be; and to this I willimmediately return. Meantime, let us go on to consider a few minoragencies at work in the East of London, directly or indirectly workingin favour of Art. And, first, I should like to call attention to theannual exhibition of pictures which the indefatigable Vicar of St. Jude's, Whitechapel--the Rev. Samuel Barnett--gets together everyEaster for his people. The point is not so much that he holds thisexhibition as that he engages the services of volunteer lecturers, whogo round the show with the visitors and explain the pictures, so thatthey may learn what it is they should admire and something of whatthey should look for in a drawing or painting. In other words, Mr. Barnett's visitors are instructed in the first elements of Artcriticism. There are, next, certain institutes, educational andsocial, such as the Bow and Bromley and the Beaumont, which might beused to advantage for Art purposes. Then there are the Churchorganizations, with their services, their clubs, their social, gatherings, and their schools; there are the chapels, each with itsown set of similar institutions; there are the working men's clubs, which might also lend themselves and their rooms for the developmentof Art; there are such societies as the Kyrle Society, which give freeconcerts of good music, and are therefore already working for us;lastly, there are the schools of Art--there are five in East London, working under the South Kensington Department. All these are agencieswhich either are already working in the interests of Art, or could beeasily induced to do so. 

To sum up, at the exhibition of the Bethnal Green Museum the peoplewalk round the pictures, are pleased to read their stories, and goaway; at the concerts they listen, are satisfied, and go away; at thereadings and recitations they applaud, and go away. They are not, infact, stimulated by these exhibitions and performances in theslightest degree to draw, paint, carve, play an instrument, sing, recite, or act for themselves. But observe that directly they formclubs of their own, although they may develop many reprehensibletendencies, and especially that of gambling, they do at once begin toact, sing, recite, and dance for themselves. What we want them to do, then, is to begin for themselves, or to fall in willingly with thosewho begin for them, the pursuit of Art in its more difficult andhigher branches. What we desire is that they should realize what weknow, that to teach a lad or a girl one of these Fine Arts is toconfer upon him an inestimable boon; that no life can be whollyunhappy which is cheered by the power of playing an instrument, dancing, painting, carving, modelling, singing, making fiction, orwriting poetry, that it is not necessary to do these things so well asto be able to live by them; but that every man who practises one ofthese arts is, during his work, drawn out of himself and away from thebad conditions of his life. If, I say, the people can be got tounderstand something of this, the rest will be easy. A few examples intheir midst would be enough to show them that it wants little to be anartist, that the practice of Art is a lifelong delight, and that inthe exercise and improvement of the faculties of observation, comparison, and selection, in the daily consideration of beauty in itsvarious forms, the years roll by easily and are spent in a continualdream of happiness. You know that it has been observed especially ofactors, that they never grow old. The thing is true with artists ofevery kind--they never grow old. Their hair may become gray and mayfall off, they may be afflicted with the same weaknesses as other men, but their hearts remain always young to the very end. But this is notan inducement, I am afraid, that we can put forth in an appeal to thepeople to follow Art. I am sure, moreover, that it is the desire ofall to include the encouragement of every kind of Art, not that ofdrawing and painting only. We wish that every boy and every girl shalllearn something--and it matters little whether we make him draw, design, paint, decorate, carve, work in brass or leather, whether wemake him a musician, a painter, a sculptor, a poet, or a novelist, provided he be instructed in the true principles of Art. Imagine, ifyou can, a time when in every family of boys and girls one shall be amusician, and another a carver of wood, and a third a painter; whenevery home shall be full of artistic and beautiful things, and thePresent ugliness be only remembered as a kind of bad dream. This mayappear to some impossible, but it is, on the other hand, very possibleand sure to come in the immediate future. It is true that, as anation, we are not artistic, but we might change our character in asingle generation. It has taken less than a single generation todevelop the enormous increase of Art which we now see around us in theupper classes. Think of such a thing as house decoration andfurniture. We have to extend this development into regions where it isas yet unfelt, and among a class which have, as yet, shown nowillingness or desire for such extension. 

All this has been said by way of apology for the practical schemewhich I venture now to lay before you. You have already heard from Mr. Leland's own lips what has been for five years his work inPhiladelphia, you have heard how he has brought the small arts intohundreds of homes, and has given purpose and brightness to hundreds oflives. I have followed this work of his from the beginning with thegreatest interest. Before he began it, he told me what he was going totry, and how he meant to try. But I think that, courageous andself-reliant as he is, he did not and could not, at tho outset, anticipate such a magnificent success as he has obtained. You havealso heard something of the society called the Cottage ArtsAssociation, founded by Mrs. Jebb, by which the villagers are taughtsome of the minor arts. 

This Association is, I am convinced, going to do a great work, and Iam very glad to be able to read you Mrs. Jebb's own testimony, thefruit of her long experience. She says, 'We must give thepeople--children of course included--opportunities of unofficialintercourse with those who already love Art, and who can help them tosee and to discriminate. We must teach them to use their own hands andeyes in doing actual Art work; even if the work done does not countfor much, it will develop their observation and quicken theirappreciation in a way which I believe nothing else will do--no merelooking or explaining. They must be helped to make their own homes andthe things they use beautiful. They must not be helped only to learnto do Art work, but also given ideas as to its application, shown howand where to get materials, etc. Further, it has been resolved thatprizes shall be given to the pupils for the best copies drawn, modelled, carved, or repoussé of the casts and designs circulatedamong the various classes. '

I propose, therefore, that, with such modifications as suit our ownway of working, we should initiate on a more extended scale theexample set us by Mrs. Jebb and Mr. Leland. I think that it would notbe difficult, while retaining the machinery and the help afforded bythe South Kensington Department in painting and drawing, to establishlocal clubs, classes, and societies, or, which I think much better, acentral society with local branches, either for the whole of Englandor for each county or for each great city, for the purpose ofteaching, encouraging, and advancing all the Fine Arts, both small andgreat. We do the whole of our collective work in this country by meansof societies: it is an Englishman's instinct, if he ardently desiresto bring about a thing, to recognise that, though he cannot get whathe wants by his own effort, he may get it by associating other peoplewith him and forming a society. Everything is done by societies. Oneneed not, therefore, make any apology for desiring to see anothersociety established. That of which I dream would be, to begin with, independent of all politics, controversies, or theories whatever; itwould not be a society requiring an immense income--in fact, with avery small income indeed very large results might be obtained, as youwill immediately see. The work of the society would consist almostentirely of evening classes; it would not have to build schools or tobuy houses at first, but it would use, or rent, whatever rooms mightbe found available-perhaps those of the day-schools. All the artswould be taught in these schools, except those already taught by theSouth Kensington Department, but especially the minor arts, for thisvery important and practical reason, that these would be found almostimmediately to have a money value, and would therefore serve theuseful purpose of attracting pupils. At the outset there must be nofees, but everybody must be invited to come in and learn. After thevalue of the school has been established in the popular mind therewould be no difficulty in exacting a small fee towards the expenses ofmaintenance. But, from the very first, there must be established asystem of prizes, public exhibitions of work done by the students, concerts at which the musicians would play and the choirs would sing, and theatricals at which the actors would perform. Partly by thesepublic honours, and partly by showing an actual market value for thework, we may confidently look forward to creating and afterwardsfostering a genuine enthusiasm for Art. 

How are the funds to be provided for all this work? The money requiredfor a commencement will be in reality very little. There are thenecessary tools and materials to be found, a certain amount of houseservice to be done and paid for, gas and firing, and perhaps rent. Observe, however, that the materials for Art students of all kinds arenot expensive, that house service costs very little, light and firingnot a great deal; and even the rent would not be heavy, since all ourschools would be situated in the poor neighbourhoods. There onlyremain the teachers, and here comes in the really important part ofthe scheme. _The teachers will cost nothing at all. _ They will all bemembers of our new society, and they will give, in addition to or inlieu of an annual subscription, their personal services as gratuitousteachers. This part of the scheme is sure to command your sympathies, the more so if you consider the current of contemporary thought. Moreand more we are getting volunteer labour in almost every department. Everywhere, in every town and in every parish, along with theprofessional workers, are those who work for nothing. As for the womenwho work for nothing, the sisters of religious orders, the women whocollect rents, the women who live among the poor, those who read aloudto patients in hospitals, those who go about in the poorest places, their name is legion. And as for the men, we have no cause to beashamed of the part which they take in this great voluntary movement, which is the noblest thing the world has ever seen, and which Ibelieve to be only just beginning. All our great religious societies, all our hospitals, all our philanthropic societies, are worked byunpaid committees. All our School wards over the whole country, not tospeak of the House of Commons, are unpaid. At this very moment thereare springing up here and there in East London actualmonasteries--only without monastic vows--in which live young men whodevote themselves, either wholly or in part, to work among the poor, often to evening and night work after their own day's labours. It isno longer a visionary thing; it is a great and solid fact, that thereare hundreds of men willing, without vows, orders, or any rule, andwithout hope of reward, not even gratitude, to live for their brothermen. They give, not their money or their influence, or theirexhortations, but they give--_themselves_. Greater love hath no man. As for us, we shall not ask our teachers to give their whole time, unless they offer it. One or two evenings out of the week willsuffice. I am convinced--you are all, I am sure, convinced--that therewill be no difficulty at all in getting teachers, but that the onlydifficulty will be in selecting those who can add discretion to zeal, capability to enthusiasm, skill and tact in teaching, as well as aknowledge of an art to be taught. Think of the Working Men's Collegein Great Ormond Street--perhaps you don't know of this institution. Itis a great school for working men; it teaches all subjects, and it hasbeen running for nearly thirty years. During the whole of that time, Ibelieve I am right in saying that the professors and teachers havebeen all unpaid--they are volunteers. Can we fear that in Art, inwhich there are so many enthusiasts, we shall not get as muchvolunteer assistance as in Letters and Science?

This, then, is my proposal for creating and developing an enthusiasmfor Art. There are to be schools everywhere, controlled by localcommittees, under a central society; there are to be volunteerteachers, willing to subject themselves to rule and order; there areto be public exhibitions and prize-givings; all the arts, not oneonly, are to be taught; great prominence is to be given to the minorarts; at first there will be no fees; above all and before all, thegreat College of ours is not to be made a Government department, to betied and bound by the hard-and-fast rules and red tape which are thecurse of every department, nor is it to be under the direction of anySchool Board, but, like most things in this country that are of anyuse, it is to be governed by its own council. 

One thing more. I am firmly convinced that the only institutions inany country which endure are those which take a firm hold of thepopular mind and are supported by the people themselves. In order tomake the College of Art permanent, it must belong absolutely to thepeople. This can only be effected by the gradual retirement of thewealthy class, who will start it, from the management, and thesubstitution of actual working men in their place--working men, Imean, who have themselves been through some course of study in theCollege, and have, perhaps, become teachers. And as working men willcertainly do nothing without pay--in London, whatever may be the caseelsewhere, their strongest feeling is that their only possessions aretheir time and their hands--we shall have to provide that the teachersof the schools, the directors of the college, and the clerks in thesecretariat, shall never be paid at a higher rate than the currentrate of wage for manual work. The people themselves will in the endsupply council, executive officers, and teaching staff. The time isripe; we are ready to begin the work; I do not fear for a moment thatthe working man will not, if we begin with prudence, presentlyrespond, and, through him, the boys and girls. 

We must, however, have a museum, although on this subject I cannotdwell. I should like to take the Bethnal Green institution entirelyout of South Kensington hands; they have had it for fourteen years, and you have heard what they have made of it. I think they should handit over, if not to our new College of Art, then to a local committee, who would at least try to show what an educational museum should be. Our educational museum will be a branch of the College of Art; it willbe in all respects the exact opposite of the Bethnal Green Museum; itwill have everything which is there wanting; it will have a libraryand reading-room; it will have lecturers and teachers, it will haveclass-rooms; the exhibits will be changed continually; there will bean organ and concerts; there will be a theatre, there will be in itevery appliance which will teach our pupils the exquisite joy, thetrue and real delight, of expressing noble thought in beautiful andprecious work. 

THE AMUSEMENTS OF THE PEOPLE

'And do your workmen, ' asked a London visitor of a Lancashiremill-owner--'do your workmen really live in those hovels?'

'Certainly not, ' replied the master. 'They only sleep there. They livein my mill. '

This was forty years ago. Neither question nor answer would now bepossible. For the hovels are improved into cottages; the factory handsno longer live only in the mill; and the opinion, which was then heldby all employers of labour, as a kind of Fortieth Article, that it iswicked for poor people to expect or hope for anything but regular workand sufficient food, has undergone considerable modification. Why, indeed, they thought, should the poor man look to be merry when hisbetters were content to be dull? We must remember how very little playwent on even among the comfortable and opulent classes in those days. Dulness and a serious view of life seemed inseparable; recreations ofall kinds were so many traps and engines set for the destruction ofthe soul; and to desire or seek for pleasure, reprehensible in therich, was for the poor a mere accusation of Providence and an openingof the arms to welcome the devil. So that our mill-owner, after all, may have been a very kind-hearted and humane creature, in spite of hishovels and his views of life, and anxious to promote the highestinterests of his employés. 

A hundred years ago, however, before the country became serious, thepeople, especially in London, really had a great many amusements, sports, and pastimes. For instance, they could go baiting of bulls andbears, and nothing is more historically certain than the fact that themore infuriated the animals became, the more delighted were thespectators; they 'drew' badgers, and rejoiced in the tenacity and thecourage of their dogs; they enjoyed the noble sport of the cock-pit;they fought dogs and killed rats; they 'squalled' fowls--that is tosay, they tied them to stakes and hurled cudgels at them, but onlyonce a year, and on Shrove Tuesday, for a treat; they boxed andfought, and were continually privileged to witness the most stubbornand spirited prize-fights; every day in the streets there was thechance for everybody of getting a fight with a light-porter, or acarter, or a passenger--this prospect must have greatly enhanced thepleasures of a walk abroad; there were wrestling, cudgelling, andquarter-staff; there were frequent matches made up and wagers laidover all kinds of things: there were bonfires, with the hurling ofsquibs at passers-by; there were public hangings at regular intervalsand on a generous scale; there were open-air floggings for the joy ofthe people; there were the stocks and the pillory, also free andopen-air exhibitions; there were the great fairs of Bartholomew, Charlton, Fairlop Oak, and Barnet; there were also lotteries. Besidesthese amusements, which were all for the lower orders as well as forthe rich, they had their mug-houses, whither the men resorted to drinkbeer, spruce, and purl; and for music there was the streetballad-singer, to say nothing of the bear-warden's fiddle and the bandof marrow-bones and cleavers. Lastly, for those of more elevatedtastes, there was the ringing of the church bells. Now, with theexception of the last named, we have suppressed every single one ofthese amusements. What have we put in their place? Since the workingclasses are no longer permitted to amuse themselves after the oldfashions--which, to do them justice, they certainly do not seem toregret--how do they amuse themselves?

Everybody knows, in general terms, how the English working classes doamuse themselves. Let us, however, set down the exact facts, so far aswe can get at them, and consider them. First, it must be remembered asa gain--so many other things having been lost--that the workman of thepresent day possesses an accomplishment, one weapon, which was deniedto his fathers--_he can read_. That possession ought to open aboundless field; but it has not yet done so, for the simple reasonthat we have entirely forgotten to give the working man anything toread. This, if any, is a case in which the supply should have precededand created the demand. Books are dear; besides, if a man wants to buybooks, there is no one to guide him or tell him what he should get. Suppose, for instance, a studious working man anxious to teach himselfnatural history, how is he to know the best, latest, and mosttrustworthy books? And so for every branch of learning. Secondly, there are no free libraries to speak of; I find, in London, one forCamden Town, one for Bethnal Green, one for South London, one forNotting Hill, one for Westminster, and one for the City; and thisseems to exhaust the list. It would be interesting to know the dailyaverage of evening visitors at these libraries. There are threemillions of the working classes in London: there is, therefore, onefree library for every half-million, or, leaving out a wholethree-fourths in order to allow for the children and the old peopleand those who are wanted at home, there is one library for every125, 000 people. The accommodation does not seem liberal, but one hasas yet heard no complaints of overcrowding. It may be said, however, that the workman reads his paper regularly. That is quite true. Thepaper which he most loves is red-hot on politics; and its readers areassumed to be politicians of the type which consider the Millenniumonly delayed by the existence of the Church, the House of Lords, and afew other institutions. Yet our English working man is not afirebrand, and though he listens to an immense quantity of fieryoratory, and reads endless fiery articles, he has the good sense toperceive that none of the destructive measures recommended by hisfriends are likely to improve his own wages or reduce the price offood. It is unfortunate that the favourite and popular papers, whichmight instruct the people in so many important matters--such as thegrowth, extent, and nature of the trades by which they live, themeaning of the word Constitution, the history of the British Empire, the rise and development of our liberties, and so forth--teach littleor nothing on these or any other points. 

If the workman does not read, however, he talks. At present he talksfor the most part on the pavement and in public-houses, but there isevery indication that we shall see before long a rapid growth ofworkmen's clubs--not the tea-and-coffee make-believes set up by thewell-meaning, but honest, independent clubs, in every respect such asthose in Pall Mall, managed by the workmen themselves, who are not, and never will become, total abstainers, but have shown themselves, upto the present moment, strangely tolerant of those weaker brethren whocan only keep themselves sober by putting on the blue ribbon. Meantime, there is the public house for a club, and perhaps theworkmen spends, night after night, more than he should upon beer. Letus remember, if he needs excuse, that his employers have found him nobetter place and no better amusement than to sit in a tavern, drinkbeer (generally in moderation), and talk and smoke tobacco. Why not? Arespectable tavern is a very harmless place; the circle which meetsthere is the society of the workman: it is his life: without it hemight as well have been a factory hand of the good old time--such ashands were forty years ago; and then he would have made but twojourneys a day--one from bed to mill, and the other from mill to bed. 

Another magnificent gift he has obtained of late years--the excursiontrain and the cheap steamboat. For a small sum he can get far awayfrom the close and smoky town, to the seaside perhaps, but certainlyto the fields and country air; he can make of every fine Sunday in thesummer a holiday indeed. Is not the cheap excursion an immense gain?Again, for those who cannot afford the country excursion, there is nowa Park accessible from almost every quarter. And I seriously recommendto all those who are inclined to take a gloomy view concerning theirfellow-creatures, and the mischievous and dangerous tendencies of thelower classes, to pay a visit to Battersea Park on any Sunday eveningin the summer. 

As regards the working man's theatrical tastes, they lean, so far asthey go, to the melodrama; but as a matter of fact there are greatmasses of working people who never go to the theatre at all. If youthink of it, there are so few theatres accessible that they cannot gooften. For instance, there are for the accommodation of the West-endand the visitors to London some thirty theatres, and these are nearlyalways kept running; but for the densely populous districts ofIslington, Somers Town, Pentonville, and Clerkenwell, combined, thereare only two; for Hoxton and Haggerston, there is only one; for thevast region of Marylebone and Paddington, only one; for Whitechapel, 'and her daughters, ' two; for Shoreditch and Bethnal Green, one; forSouthwark and Blackfriars, one; for the towns of Hampstead, Highgate, Camden Town, Kentish Town, Stratford, Bow, Bromley, Bermondsey, Camberwell, Kensington, or Deptford, not one. And yet each one ofthese places, taken separately, is a good large town. Stratford, forinstance, has 60, 000 inhabitants, and Deptford 80, 000. Only half adozen theatres for three millions of people! It is quite clear, therefore, that there is not yet a craving for dramatic art among ourworking classes. Music-halls there are, certainly, and these provideshows more or less dramatic, and, though they are not so numerous asmight have been expected, they form a considerable part of theamusements of the people; it is therefore a thousand pities that amongthe 'topical' songs, the break-downs, and the comic songs, room hasnever been found for part-songs or for music of a quiet and somewhatbetter kind. The proprietors doubtless know their audience, butwherever the Kyrle Society have given concerts to working people, theyhave succeeded in interesting them by music and songs of a kind towhich they are not accustomed in their music-halls. 

The theatre, the music-hall, the public-house, the Sunday excursion, the parks--these seem almost to exhaust the list of amusements. Thereare, also, however, the suburban gardens, such as North Woolwich andRosherville, where there are entertainments of all kinds and dancing;there are the tea-gardens all round London; there are such places ofresort as Kew and Hampton Court, Bushey, Burnham Beeches, Epping, Hainault and Rye House. There are also the harmonic meetings, thefree-and-easy evenings, and the friendly leads at the public-houses. Until last year there was one place, in the middle of a very poordistrict, where dancing went on all the year round. And there are thevarious clubs, debating societies, and local parliaments which havebeen lately springing up all over London. One may add the pleasure oflistening to the stump orator, whether he exhorts to repentance, totemperance, to republicanism, to atheism, or to the return of SirRoger. He is everywhere on Sunday in the streets, in the countryroads, and in the parks. The people listen, but with apathy; they areaccustomed to the white-heat of oratory; they hear the same thingevery Sunday: their pulses would beat no faster if Peter the Hermithimself or Bernard were to exhort them to assume the Cross. It iscomic, indeed, only to think of the blank stare with which a Britishworkman would receive an invitation to take up arms in order to driveout the accursed Moslem. 

As regards the women, I declare that I have never been able to findout anything at all concerning their amusements. Certainly one can seea few of them any Sunday walking about in the lanes and in the fieldsof northern London, with their lovers; in the evening they may also beobserved having tea in the tea-gardens. These, however, are the bettersort of girls; they are well dressed, and generally quiet in theirbehaviour. The domestic servants, for the most part, spend their'evening out' in taking tea with other servants, whose evening is in. On the same principle, an actor when he has a holiday goes to anothertheatre; and no doubt it must be interesting for a cook to observe the_differentiæ_, the finer shades of difference, in the conduct of akitchen. When women are married and the cares of maternity set in, onedoes not see how they can get any holiday or recreation at all; but Ibelieve a good deal is done for their amusement by the mothers'meetings and other clerical agencies. There is, however, below theshop girls, the dressmakers, the servants, and the working girls whomthe world, so to speak, knows, a very large class of women whom theworld does not know, and is not anxious to know. They are the factoryhands of London; you can see them, if you wish, trooping out of thefactories and places where they work on any Saturday afternoon, andthus get them, so to speak, in the lump. Their amusement seems toconsist of nothing but walking about the streets, two and threeabreast, and they laugh and shout as they go so noisily that they mustneeds be extraordinarily happy. These girls are, I am told, for themost part so ignorant and helpless, that many of them do not know evenhow to use a needle; they cannot read, or, if they can, they never do;they carry the virtue of independence as far as they are able, andinsist on living by themselves, two sharing a single room; nor willthey brook the least interference with their freedom, even from thosewho try to help them. Who are their friends, what becomes of them inthe end, why they all seem to be about eighteen years of age, at whatperiod of life they begin to get tired of walking up and down thestreets, who their sweethearts are, what are their thoughts, what aretheir hopes--these are questions which no man can answer, because noman could make them communicate their experiences and opinions. Perhaps only a Bible-woman or two know the history, and could tell it, of the London factory girl. Their pay is said to be wretched, whateverwork they do; their food, I am told, is insufficient for young andhearty girls, consisting generally of tea and bread orbread-and-butter for breakfast and supper, and for dinner a lump offried fish and a piece of bread. What can be done? The proprietors ofthe factory will give no better wage, the girls cannot combine, andthere is no one to help them. One would not willingly add another tothe 'rights' of man or woman; but surely, if there is such a thing atall as a 'right, ' it is that a day's labour shall earn enough to payfor sufficient food, for shelter, and for clothes. As for theamusements of these girls, it is a thing which may be considered whensomething has been done for their material condition. The possibilityof amusement only begins when we have reached the level of the wellfed. Great Gaster will let no one enjoy play who is hungry. Would itbe possible, one asks in curiosity, to stop the noisy and mirthlesslaughter of these girls with a hot supper of chops fresh from thegrill? Would they, if they were first well fed, incline their heartsto rest, reflection, instruction, and a little music? The cheapexcursions, the school feasts, the concerts given for the people, theincreased brightness of religious services, the Bank holidays, theSaturday half-holiday, all point to the gradual recognition of thegreat natural law that men and women, as well as boys and girls, musthave play. At the present moment we have just arrived at the stage ofacknowledging this law; the next step will be that of respecting it, and preparing to obey it, just now we are willing and anxious that allshould play; and it grieves us to see that in their leisure hours thepeople do not play because they do not know how. 

Compare, for instance, the young workman with the young gentleman--thepublic schoolman, one of the kind who makes his life as 'all round' ashe can, and learns and practises whatever his hand findeth to do. Or, if you please, compare him with one of the better sort of young Cityclerks; or, again, compare him with one of the lads who belong to theclasses now held in the building of the old Polytechnic; or with thelads who are found every evening at the classes of the Birkbeck. Firstof all, the young workman cannot play any game at all, neithercricket, football, tennis, racquets, fives, or any of the other gameswhich the young fellows in the class above him love so passionately:there are, in fact, no places for him where these games can be played;for though the boys may play cricket in Victoria Park, I do notunderstand that the carpenters, shoemakers, or painters have got clubsand play there too. There is no gymnasium for them, and so they neverlearn the use of their limbs; they cannot row, though they have asplendid river to row upon; they cannot fence, box, wrestle, playsingle-stick, or shoot with the rifle; they do not, as a rule, jointhe Volunteer corps; they do not run, leap, or practise athletics ofany kind; they cannot swim; they cannot sing in parts, unless, whichis naturally rare, they belong to a church choir; they cannot play anykind of instrument--to be sure the public schoolboy is generallygrovelling in the same shameful ignorance of music; they cannot dance;in the whole of this vast city there is not a single place where acouple, so minded, can go for an evening's dancing, unless they areprepared to journey as far as North Woolwich. Not one. Ought it not tobe felt and resented as an intolerable grievance that grandmotherlylegislation actually forbids the people to dance? That the working menthemselves do not seem to feel and resent it is really a mournfulthing. Then, they cannot paint, draw, model, or carve. They cannotact, and seemingly do not care greatly about seeing others act; and, as already stated, they never read books. Think what it must be to beshut out entirely from the world of history, philosophy, poetry, fiction, essays, and travels! Yet our working classes are thuspractically excluded. Partly they have done this for themselves, because they have never felt the desire to read books; partly, as Isaid above, we have done it for them, because we have never taken anysteps to create the demand. Now, as regards these arts andaccomplishments, the public schoolman and the better class City clerkhave the chance of learning some of them at least, and of practisingthem, both before and after they have left school. What a poorcreature would that young man seem who could do none of these things!Yet the working man has no chance of learning any. There are noteachers for him; the schools for the small arts, the accomplishments, and the graces of life are not open to him; one never hears, forinstance, of a working man learning to waltz or dance, unless it is inimitation of a music-hall performer. In other words, the publicschoolman has gone through a mill of discipline out of school as wellas in. Law reigns in his sports as in his studies. Whether he sitsover his books or plays in the fields, he learns to be obedient tolaw, order, and rule: he obeys, and expects to be obeyed; it is nothimself whom he must study to please: it is the whole body of hisfellows. And this discipline of self, much more useful than thediscipline of books, the young workman knows not. Worse than this, andworst of all, not only is he unable to do any of these things, but heis even ignorant of their uses and their pleasures, and has no desireto learn any of them, and does not suspect at all that the possessionof these accomplishments would multiply the joys of life. He iscontent to go on without them. Now contentment is the most mischievousof all the virtues; if anything is to be done, and any improvement isto be effected, the wickedness of discontent must first be explainedaway. 

Let us, if you please, brighten this gloomy picture by recognising theexistence of the artisan who pursues knowledge for its own sake. Thereare many of this kind. You may come across some of them botanizing, collecting insects, moths and butterflies in the fields on Sundays;others you will find reading works on astronomy, geometry, physics, orelectricity: they have not gone through the early training, and sothey often make blunders; but yet they are real students. One of themI knew once who had taught himself Hebrew; another, who read so muchabout co-operation, that he lifted himself clean out of theco-operative ranks, and is now a master; another and yet another andanother, who read perpetually, and meditate upon, books of politicaland social economy; and there are thousands whose lives are madedignified for them, and sacred, by the continual meditation onreligious things. Let us make every kind of allowance for thesestudents of the working class; and let us not forget, as well, theoccasional appearance of those heaven-born artists who are fain toplay music or die, and presently get into orchestras of one kind oranother, and so leave the ranks of daily labour and join the greatclan or caste of musicians, who are a race or family apart, and carryon their mystery from father to son. 

But, as regards any place or institution where the people may learn orpractise or be taught the beauty and desirability of any of thecommoner amusements, arts, and accomplishments, there is not one, anywhere in London. The Bethnal Green Museum certainly proposed untoitself, at first, to 'do something, ' in a vague and uncertain way, forthe people. Nobody dared to say that it would be first of allnecessary to make the people discontented, because this would havebeen considered as flying in the face of Providence; and there was, besides, a sort of nebulous hope, not strong enough for a theory, thatby dint of long gazing upon vases and tapestry everybody would in timeacquire a true feeling for art, and begin to crave for culture. Manyvery beautiful things have, from time to time, been sentthere--pictures, collections, priceless vases; and I am sure thatthose visitors who brought with them the sense of beauty and feelingfor artistic work which comes of culture, have carried away memoriesand lessons which will last them for a lifetime. On the other hand, tothose who visit the Museum chiefly in order to see the people, it haslong been painfully evident that the folk who do not bring that sensewith them go away carrying nothing of it home with them. Nothing atall. Those glass cases, those pictures, those big jugs, say no more tothe crowd than a cuneiform or a Hittite inscription. They have now, orhad quite recently, on exhibition a collection of turnips and carrotsbeautifully modelled in wax: it is perhaps hoped that thecontemplation of these precious but homely things may carry the peoplea step farther in the direction of culture than Sir Richard Wallace'spictures could effect. In fact, the Bethnal Green Museum does no moreto educate the people than the British Museum. It is to them simply acollection of curious things which is sometimes changed. It is coldand dumb. It is merely a dull and unintelligent branch of adepartment; and it will remain so, because whatever the collectionsmay be, a Museum can teach nothing, unless there is someone to expoundthe meaning of the things. Why, even that wonderful Museum of theHouse Beautiful could teach the pilgrims no lessons at all until theSisters explained to them what were the rare and curious thingspreserved in their glass cases. 

Is it possible that, by any persuasion, attraction, or teaching, thewalking men of this country can be induced to aim at those organized, highly skilled, and disciplined forms of recreation which make up thebetter pleasure of life? Will they consent, without hope of gain, togive the labour, patience, and practice required of every man whowould become master of any art or accomplishment, or even any game?There are men, one is happy to find, who think that it is not onlypossible, but even easy, to effect this, and the thing is about to betransferred from the region or theory to that of practice, by thecreation of the People's Palace. 

The general scheme is already well known. Because the Mile End Roadruns through the most extensive portion of the most dismal city in theworld, the city which has been suffered to exist without recreation, it has been chosen as the fitting site of the Palace. As regardssimple absence of joy, Hoxton, Haggerston, Pentonville, Clerkenwell, or Kentish Town, might contend, and have a fair chance of success, with any portion whatever of the East-end proper. But, then, aroundMile End lie Stepney, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, the Cambridge Road, the Commercial Road, Bow, Stratford, Shadwell, Limehouse, Wapping, andSt. George's-in-the-East. Without doubt the real centre, the [Greek:omphalos] of dreariness, is situated somewhere in the Mile End Road, and it is to be hoped that the Palace may be placed upon the verycentre itself. 

Let me say a few words as to what this Palace may and may not do. Inthe first place, it can do nothing, absolutely nothing, to relieve thegreat starvation and misery which lies all about London, but moreespecially at the East-end. People who are out of work and starving donot want amusement, not even of the highest kind; still less do theywant University extension. Therefore, as regards the Palace, let usforget for a while the miserable condition of the very poor who livein East London; we are concerned only with the well fed, those who arein steady work, the respectable artisans and _petits commis_, theartists in the hundred little industries which are carried on in theEast-end; those, in fact, who have already acquired some power ofenjoyment because they are separated by a sensible distance from theirhand-to-mouth brothers and sisters, and are pretty certain to-day thatthey will have enough to eat to-morrow. It is for these, and such asthese, that the Palace will be established. It is to contain: (1)class-rooms, where all kinds of study can be carried on; (2) concertrooms; (3) conversation-rooms; (4) a gymnasium; (5) a library; andlastly, a winter garden. In other words, it is to be an institutionwhich will recognise the fact, that for some of those who have to workall day at, perhaps, uncongenial and tedious labour, the best form ofrecreation may be study and intellectual effort; while forothers--that is to say, for the great majority--music, reading, tobacco, and rest will be desired. Let us be under no illusions as tothe supposed thirst for knowledge. Those who desire to learn are evenin youth always a minority. How many men do we know, among our ownfriends, who have ever set themselves to learn anything since theyleft school? It is a great mistake to suppose that the working man, any more than the merchant-man or the clerk-man, or the tradesman, isardently desirous of learning. But there will always be n few; andespecially there are the young who would fain, if they could, make aladder of learning, and so, as has ever been the goodly and godlycustom in this realm of England, mount unto higher things. The Palaceof the People would be incomplete indeed if it gave no assistance toambitious youths. Next to the classes in literature and science comethose in music and painting. There is no reason whatever why thePalace should not include an academy of music, an academy of arts, andan academy of acting, in a few months after its establishment itshould have its own choir, its own orchestra, its own concerts, itsown opera, and its own theatre, with a company formed of its own_alumni_. And in a year or two it should have its own exhibition ofpaintings, drawings, and sculpture. As regards the simpler amusements, there must be rooms where the men can smoke, and others where thegirls and women can work, read, and talk; there must be a debatingsociety for questions, social and political, but especially theformer; there must be a dancing school, and a ball once every week, all the year round; it should be possible to convert the great hallinto either theatre, concert-room, or ball-room; there must be a barfor beer as well as for coffee, and at a price calculated so as to payjust the bare expenses; there must be a library and writing-room, andthe winter garden must be a place where the women and children cancome in the daytime while the men are at work. One thing must be keptout of the place: there must not be allowed to grow up in the mindseven of the most suspicious the least jealousy that religiousinfluences are at work; more than this, the institution must becarefully watched to prevent the rise of such a suspicion; religiouscontroversy must be kept out of the debating-room, and even in theconversation-rooms there ought to be power to exclude a man who makeshimself offensive by the exhibition and parade of his religious orirreligious opinions. 

As for the teaching of the classes, we must look for voluntary workrather than to a great endowment. The history of the College in GreatOrmond Street shows how much may be done by unpaid labour, and I donot think it too much to expect that the Palace of the People may bestarted by unpaid teachers in every branch of science and art:moreover, as regards science, history and language, the UniversityExtension Society will probably find the staff. There must be, however, volunteers, women as well as men, to teach singing, music, dancing, sewing, acting, speaking, drawing, painting, carving, modelling, and many other things. This kind of help should only bewanted at the outset, because, before long, all the art departmentsought to be conducted by ex-students who have become in their turnteachers, they should be paid, but not on the West-end scale, fromfees--so that the schools may support themselves. Let us not _give_more than is necessary; for every class and every course there shouldbe some kind of fee, though a liberal system of small scholarshipsshould encourage the students, and there should be the power ofremitting fees in certain cases. As for the difficulty of starting theclasses, I think that the assistance of Board School masters, foremenof works, Sunday schools, the political clubs, and debating societiesshould be invited; and that besides small scholarships, substantialprizes of musical and mathematical instruments, books, artists'materials, and so forth, should be offered, with the glory of publicexhibition and public performances. After the first year there shouldbe nothing exhibited in the Palace except work done in the classes, and no performances of music or of plays should be given but by thestudents themselves. 

There has been going on in Philadelphia for the last two years anexperiment, conducted by Mr. Charles Leland, whose sagacious andactive mind is as pleased to be engaged upon things practical as uponthe construction of humorous poems. He has founded, and now conductspersonally, an academy for the teaching of the minor arts; he getsshop girls, work girls, factory girls, boys and young men of allclasses together, and teaches them how to make things, pretty things, artistic things. 'Nothing, ' he writes to me, 'can describe the joywhich fills a poor girl's mind when she finds that she, too, possessesand can exercise a real accomplishment. ' He takes them as ignorant, perhaps--but I have no means of comparing--as the London factory girl, the girl of freedom, the girl with the fringe--and he shows them howto do crewel-work, fretwork, brass work; how to carve in wood; how todesign; how to draw--he maintains that it is possible to teach nearlyevery one to draw; how to make and ornament leather work, boxes, rolls, and all kinds of pretty things in leather. What has been donein Philadelphia amounts, in fact, to this: that one man who loves hisbrother man is bringing purpose, brightness, and hope into thousandsof lives previously made dismal by hard and monotonous work; he hasput new and higher thoughts into their heads; he has introduced thediscipline of methodical training; he has awakened in them the senseof beauty. Such a man is nothing less than a benefactor to humanity. Let us follow his example in the Palace of the People. 

I venture, further, to express my strong conviction that the successof the Palace will depend entirely upon its being governed, withinlimits at first, but these limits constantly broadening, by the peoplethemselves. If they think the Palace is a trap to catch them, and makethem sober, good, religious and temperate, there will be an end. Inthe first place, therefore, there must be a real element of theworking man upon the council; there must be real working men on everysub-committee or branch; the students must be wholly recruited fromthe working classes; and gradually the council must be elected by thepeople who use the Palace. Fortunately, there would be no difficultyat the outset in introducing this element, because the great factoriesand breweries in the neighbourhood might be asked each to elect one ormore representatives to sit upon the council of the new University. It'goes without saying' that the police work, the maintenance of order, the out-kicking of offenders, must be also entirely managed by avoluntary corps of efficient working men. Rows there will undoubtedlybe, since we are all of us, even the working man, human; but thereneed be no scandals. 

I must not go on, though there is so much to be said. I see before usin the immediate future a vast University whose home is in the MileEnd Road; but it has affiliated colleges in all the suburbs, so thateven poor, dismal, uncared-for Hoxton shall no longer be neglected;the graduates of this University are the men and women whose lives, now unlovely and dismal, shall be made beautiful for them by theirstudies, and their heavy eyes uplifted to meet the sunlight; thesubjects or examination shall be, first, the arts of every kind: sothat unless a man have neither eyes to see nor hand to work with, hemay here find something or other which he may learn to do; and next, the games, sports, and amusements with which we cheat the weariness ofleisure and court the joy of exercising brain and wit and strength. From the crowded class-rooms I hear already the busy hum of those wholearn and those who teach. Outside, in the street, are those--a vastmultitude to be sure--who are too lazy and too sluggish of brain tolearn anything: but these, too, will flock into the Palace presentlyto sit, talk, and argue in the smoking-rooms; to read in the library;to see the students' pictures upon the walls; to listen to thestudents' orchestra, discoursing such music as they have never dreamedof before; to look on while His Majesty's Servants of the People'sPalace perform a play, and to hear the bright-eyed girls singmadrigals. 

[1884. ]

THE ASSOCIATED LIFE. [The substance of this paper was delivered as thepresidential speech at the opening of the Hoxton Library andInstitute. ]

It has seemed to me--for reasons which I hope to make clear toyou--that the present occasion, the opening of our newly-acquiredPlace of Gathering, is one on which something may be said upon thesubject of the Associated Life--that is to say, on the union, orcombination of men, or of men and women, in order to effect bycollective action objects--objects worthy of effort--impossible forthe individual to attempt. 

It would seem at first sight that combination should be the verysimplest thing in the world. It is self-evident that those who wantanything have a much better chance of getting it if they join togetherin order to demand it, or to work for it. Like one or two other simplelaws of human nature, this, though the simplest, is the hardest to getpeople to understand and to accept. Nothing is so difficult as topersuade people to trust each other, even to the extent of standingtogether and sticking together and working together in order to getwhat they want. 

The first association of men was forced upon them for protection, Iwonder how many ages--hundreds of thousands of years--it took to teachmen to join together in order to protect themselves againststarvation, wild beasts, and each other. The necessity ofself-preservation first made men associate, and changed hunters intosoldiers, and turned the whole world into a camp. It was war, whichbrought men together; it was war which taught men the necessity oforder, discipline, and obedience; without the necessity for fighting, without the military spirit, no association at all would now bepossible. A vast number of men practically use modern safety at thisday for the purpose of being fighters, every man against hisneighbour. Just as no one would, even now, do any work but for thenecessity of finding food for himself and his family, so no one wouldever have begun to stand side by side with his neighbour but for theabsolute certainty that he would be killed if he did not. 

Let us, however, consider a more advanced kind of association, that ofmen united for purposes of trade and profit. The craftsman of thetown, who made things and sold them, found out by the experience ofsome generations that his only chance, if he would not become a slave, was to combine with others who made the same things for the samepurposes. He therefore formed--here in London, as early as the Saxontimes an association for the protection of his craft--arough-and-ready association at first, a religious guild or fraternity, something which should persuade men to come together as friends, notrivals, what we should now call a benefit society, graduallydeveloping into an association of officers, a constitution, and rules;growing by slow degrees into a powerful and wealthy body, having itsperiod of birth, development, vigour, and decay. In illustration ofsuch an association, I will sketch out for you the history of acertain London Company--what was called a Craft Company; a society ofworking-men who were engaged upon the same craft; who all made thesame thing: as the Company of Bowyers who made bows, or of Fletcherswho made arrows. The society began first of all with a Guild of theCraft, such as I have just mentioned; that is to say, all those whobelonged to the Craft--according to the custom of the time, they alllived in the same quarter and were well known to each other--werepersuaded or compelled to belong to the Guild. Here religion steppedin, for every Guild had its own patron saint, and if a craftsman stoodaloof, he lost the protection and incurred the displeasure of thatsaint, so that, apart from considerations of the common weal, terrorof how the offended saint might punish the blackleg forced men tojoin. Thus, St. George protected the armourers; St. Mary and St. Thomas the Martyr, the bowyers; St. Catharine the Virgin, thehaberdashers; St. Martin, the sadlers; the Virgin Mary, thecloth-workers, and so on. On the saint's day they marched inprocession to the parish church and heard Mass; every year each manpaid his fees of membership; the Guild looked after the sick andmaintained the aged of the Craft. The next step, which was not takenuntil after many years, and was not at first contemplated, was toobtain for the Guild--_i. E. _, for the Craft--a Royal Charter. Thisfavour of the Sovereign conferred certain powers of regulating theirtrade; and, this once obtained, we hear no more of the Guild--itbecame absorbed into the Company. The religious observances remained, but they were no longer put forward as the chief 'articles' ofassociation. The powers granted by Royal Charter were very strong. TheCompany was empowered to prohibit anyone from working at that tradewithin the jurisdiction of the City who was not a member of theCompany; it could prevent markets from being held within a certaindistance of the City; it could oblige all the youth of the City to beapprenticed to some Company; it could regulate wages and hours ofwork; it could examine the work before it could be sold; and it couldlimit the number of the workmen. The Company, in fact, ruled its owntrade with an authority from which there was no appeal. On the otherhand, the Company exercised a paternal care over its members. Whenthey were sick, the Company provided for them; when they became old, the Company maintained them; if any became dishonest, the Companyturned them out of the City. You, who think yourselves strong withyour Trades Unions (things as yet undeveloped and with all theirhistory before them), have never yet succeeded in getting a tenth partof the power and authority over your own men that was excercised by aCity Company in the time of Richard II. Over its Livery. 

Then, in order to maintain the dignity of the Craft, a livery waschosen, the colours of which were worn by every member. On theirsaint's day, as in the old days of the Guild, the Company marched ingreat magnificence, with music and flags and new liveries, with theirwardens, officers, schoolboys, almsmen, and priests, to church. Afterchurch they banqueted together in the Company's Hall, a splendidbuilding, where a great feast was served, and where the day washonoured by the presence of guests--great nobles, city worthies, eventhe Lord Mayor, perhaps, or some of the Aldermen, or the Bishop, orone of the Abbots of the City Religious Houses. Every man was biddento bring his wife to the feast of the Company's grand day--if not hiswife, then his sweetheart, for all were to feast together. Duringdinner the musicians in their gallery made sweet music. After dinner, actors and tumblers came in, and they had pageants and shows, andmarvellous feats of skill and legerdemain. 

Ask yourselves, at this point, whether it is possible to conceive ofan institution more purely democratic than such a company asoriginally designed. All the craftsmen of every craft combiningtogether, not one allowed to stand out, electing their own officers, obeying rules for the general good, building halls, holding banquets, and creating a spirit of pride in their craft. What more could bedesired? Why do we not imitate this excellent example?

Yet, when we look at the City Companies, what do we find? The oldCraft Companies, it is true, still exist; they have an income of manythousands a year, and a livery, or list of members, in number varyingfrom twenty to four hundred, and not one single craftsman left amongthem. What has become, then, or the Association? Well, that remains, the shadow remains, but the substance has long since gone. Even thecraft itself, in many cases, has disappeared. There are no longer inexistence, for instance, Armourers, Bowyers, Fletchers, or Poulterers. 

What has happened, then? Why did this essentially democraticCompany--in which all were subject to rules for the general good, andnone should undersell his brother, and the rate of wages and the hoursof labour were regulated--so completely fail?

For many reasons, some of which concern ourselves: it failed, becausethe members themselves forgot the original reason of theircombination, and neglected to look after their own interests; itfailed, because the members were too ignorant to remember, or to know, that the Company was founded for the interests of the Craft itself, and not for those of the masters alone or the men alone. Now everyAssociation must needs, of course, have wardens or masters; it mustneeds elect to those posts of dignity and responsibility such men ascould understand law and maintain their privileges if necessary beforethe dread Sovereign, his Highness the King. The men they necessarilyelected were therefore those who had received some education, master-workmen--their own employers--not their fellows. It speedilycame about, therefore, that the masters, not the men, ruled the hoursof work, the wages of work, the quantity and quality of work: themasters, not the craftsmen, admitted members and limited their number. Do you now understand? The officers ruled the Company of the Craftsmenfor the benefit of the masters and not the men. Nay, they did more. Since in some trades the men showed a disposition, on dimly perceivingthe reality, to form a union within a union, the masters were strongenough to put down all combinations for the raising of wages asillegal; to attempt such combinations was ruled to be conspiracy. Andconspiracy all unions of working men have remained down to the presentday, as the founders of the first Trades Unions in this countrydiscovered to their cost. So the men were gagged; they were silenced;they were enslaved by the very institution that they had founded forthe insurance of their own freedom. The thing was inevitable becausethey were ignorant, and because, if you put into any man's hands thepower of robbing his neighbour with impunity, that man will inevitablysooner or later rob his neighbour. I fear that we must acknowledge thesorrowful fact that not a single man in the whole world, whatever hisposition, can be trusted with irresponsible and absolute power--withthe power of robbery coupled with the certainty of immunity. 

Well, in this way came about the first enslavement of the working man. It lasted for three hundred years. Then followed a time of comparativefreedom, when, the wealth and population of the city increasing, thecraftsmen found themselves pushed out beyond the walls, and taking uptheir quarters beyond the power of the Companies. But it was a freedomwithout knowledge, without order, without forethought. It was thefreedom of the savage who lives only for himself. For they were nowunable to combine. In the long course of centuries they had lost thevery idea of combination; they had forgotten that in an age we callrude and rough they possessed the power and perceived the importanceof combination. The great-grandchildren of the men who had formed thisunion of the trade had entirely forgotten the meaning, the reason, thepossibility, of the old combination. In this way, then, the Companiesgradually lost their craftsmen, but retained their property. 

One very remarkable result may be noticed. Formerly, the Lord Mayor ofLondon was elected by the whole of the commonalty. All the citizensassembled at Paul's Cross, and there, sometimes with tumult andsometimes with fighting, they elected their mayor for the next year. But since every man in the City was compelled to belong to his ownCompany, to speak of the commonalty meant to speak of the Companies. Every man who voted for the election of Lord Mayor was therefore boundto be a liveryman--_i. E_. , a member of a Company. This restriction isstill in force; that is to say, the City of London, the richest andthe greatest city in the world, now allows eight thousand liverymen, or members of the Companies, to elect their chief magistrate. 

Why do I tell over again this old threadbare tale? Perhaps, however, it is not old or threadbare to you: perhaps there are some here wholearn for the first time that association, trade union, combination, is a thousand years old in this ancient city. I have told it chiefly, however, because the history should be a warning to you of London;because it shows that association itself may be made the very weaponwith which to destroy its own objects; in other words, because youmust find in this history an illustration or the great truth that theforms of liberty require the most unceasing vigilance to prevent themfrom becoming the means of destroying liberty. The Companies failedbecause they could be, and were, used to destroy the freedom of thevery men for whose benefit they were founded. At present, as you know, some of them are very poor indeed: those which are rich are probablydoing far more good with their wealth in promoting all kinds of usefulwork than ever they did in all their past history. 

There followed, I said, a long period in which association amongworking men was absolutely unknown. The history of this period, from acraftsman's point of view, has never been written. It is, indeed, amost terrible chapter in the history of industry. 

Imagine, if you can, crowded districts in which there were no schools, or but one school for a very few, no churches, no newspapers or books, a place in which no one could read; a place in which every man, womanand child regarded the Government of the country, in which they hadnot the least share, as their natural enemy and oppressor. Among themlurked the housebreaker, the highway robber, and the pickpocket. Alongthe riverside, where many thousands of working men lived--at St. Katherine's, Wapping, Shadwell, and Ratcliff--all the people together, high and low, were in league with the men who loaded and unloaded theships in the river and robbed them all day long. What could beexpected of people left thus absolutely to themselves, without anypower of action, without the least thought that amendment was possibleor desirable? Can we wonder if the people sank lower and lower, until, by the middle of the last century, the working men of London hadreached a depth of degradation that terrified everyone who knew whatthings meant? Listen to the following words, written in the year 1772:

'To paint the manners of the lower rank of the inhabitants of Londonis to draw a most disagreeable caricature, since the blackest vicesand the most perpetual scenes of villainy and wickedness areconstantly to be met with there. The most thorough contempt for allorder, morality, and decency is almost universal among the poorer sortof people, whose manners I cannot but regard as the worst in the wholeworld. The open street for ever presents the spectator with the mostloathsome scenes of beastliness, cruelty, and all manner of vice. In aword, if you would take a view of man in his debased state, go neitherto the savages nor the Hottentots; they are decent, cleanly, andelegant, compared with the poor people of London. '

This is very strongly put. If you will look at some of Hogarth'spictures you will admit that the words are not too strong. 

Union had long since been forbidden; union was called conspiracy;conspiracy was punishable by imprisonment. If men cannot combine theysink into their natural condition and become savages again. All theseevils fell upon our unfortunate working men as a natural result ofneglect first, and of enforced isolation. Union was forbidden. Duringall these years every man worked for himself, stood by himself; therewas no association. Therefore, there followed savagery. There was noeducation. Had there been either, association or rebellion must havefollowed. The awakening of associated effort took place at thebeginning of the French Revolution. It was caused, or stimulated, bythat prodigious movement; and the first combinations of working menwere formed for political purposes. Since then, what have we seen?Associations for political purposes formed, prohibited, persecuted, formed again in spite of ancient laws. Associations victorious; wehave seen Trades Unions formed, prohibited, formed again, and nowflourishing, though not quite victorious. And the spirit ofassociation, I cannot but believe, grows stronger every day. In thismost glorious century--the noblest century for the advancement ofmankind that the world has ever seen, yet only the beginning of thethings that are to follow--we have gained an immense number of things:the suffrage, vote by ballot, the Factory Acts, abolition of flogging, the freedom of the press, the right of public meeting, the right ofcombination, and a system of free education by which the nationalcharacter, the national modes of thought; the national customs, willbe changed in ways we cannot forecast; but since the nationalcharacter will always remain British we need have no fear of thatchange. All these things--remember, all these things; every one ofthese things--is the result, direct or indirect, of association. Think, for instance, of one difference in custom between now and ahundred years ago. Formerly, when a wrong thing had to be denounced, or an iniquity attacked, the man who saw the thing wrote a pamphlet ora book, which never probably reached the class for whom it wasintended at all. He now writes to the papers, which are read bymillions. He thus, to begin with, creates a certain amount of publicopinion; he then forms a society composed of those who think likehimself; then, for his companions, he spreads his doctrines in alldirections. That is our modern method; not to stand up alone like aprophet, and to preach and cry aloud while the world, unheeding, passes by, but to march in the ranks with brother soldiers, exhortingand calling on our comrades to take up the word, and pass it on--andwhen the soldiers in the ranks are firm and fixed to carry that cause. 

We are now witnessing one of the most remarkable, one of the mostsuggestive, signs of the time--a time which is, I verily believe, teeming with social mange--a time, as I have said above, of the moststupendous importance in the history of mankind. We read constantly, in the paper and everywhere, fears, prophecies, bogies of approachingrevolution. Approaching! Fears of approaching revolution! Why, we arein the midst of this revolution, we are actually in the midst of themost wonderful social revolution! People don't perceive it, simplybecause the revolutionaries are not chopping off heads, as they did inFrance. But it has begun, all the same, and it is going on around ussilently, swiftly, irresistibly. We are actually in the midst ofrevolution. Everywhere the old order of things is slipping away;everywhere things new and unexpected are asserting themselves. Let meonly point out a few things. We have become within the last twentyyears a nation of readers--we all read; most of us, it is true, readonly newspapers. But what newspapers? Why, exactly the same papers asare read by the people of the highest position in the land. Perhapsyou have not thought of the significance, the extreme significance, ofthis fact. Certainly those who continually talk of the ignorance ofthe people have never thought of it! What does it mean? Why, thatevery reasoning man in the country, whatever his social position, reads the same news, the same debates, the same arguments as thestatesman, the scholar, the philosopher, the preacher, or the man ofscience. He bases his opinions on the same reasoning and on the sameinformation as the Leader of the House of Commons, as my LordChancellor, as my Lord Archbishop himself. Formerly the working manread nothing, and he knew nothing, and he had no power. He has now, not only his vote, but he has as much personal influence among his ownfriends as depends upon his knowledge and his force of character, andhe can acquire as much political knowledge as any noble lord notactually in official circles, if he only chooses to reach out his handand take what is offered him! Is not that a revolution which has somuch raised the working man? Again, he was, formerly, the absoluteslave of his employer; he was obliged to take with a semblance ofgratitude whatever wages were offered him. What is he now? A man ofbusiness, who negotiates for his skill. Is not that a revolution?Formerly he lived where he could. Look, now, at the efforts madeeverywhere to house him properly. For, understand, association on oneside, which shows power, commands recognition and respect on theother. None of these fine things would have been done for the workingmen had they not shown that they could combine. Consider, again, thequestion of education. Here, indeed, is a mighty revolution going onaround us: the Board Schools teaching things never before presented tothe children of the people; technical schools teaching work of allkinds; and--a most remarkable sign of the times--thousands uponthousands of working lads, after a hard day's work, going off to aPolytechnic for a hard evening's work of another kind. And of whatkind? It is exactly the same kind as is found in the colleges of therich. The same sciences, the same languages, the same arts, the sameintellectual culture, are learned by these working lads in theirevenings as are learned by their richer brothers in the mornings. Inmany cases the teachers are men of the same standing at the Universityas those who teach at the public schools. There are, I believe, ahundred thousand of these ambitious boys scattered over London, andthe number increases daily. If this is not revolution, I should liketo know what is. That the working classes should study in the highestschools; that they should enjoy an equal chance with the richest andnoblest of acquiring knowledge of the highest kind; that they shouldbe found capable actually of foregoing the pleasures of youth--therest, the society, the amusements of the evenings--in order to acquireknowledge--what is this if it is not a revolution and an upsetting? Asfor what is coming out of all these things, I have formed, for myself, very strong views indeed, and I think that I could, if this were afitting time, prophesy unto you. But, for the present, let us becontent with simply marking what has been done, and especially withthe recognition that everything--every single thing--that has beengained has been either achieved by association, or has naturally grownand developed out of association. 

Through association the way to the higher education is open to you;through association political power has been acquired for you; throughassociation you have made yourselves free to combine for tradepurposes; through association you have made yourselves strong, andeven, in the eyes of some, terrible; it remains in these respects onlythat you should make, as one believes you will make, a fit and properuse of advantages and weapons which have never before been placed inthe hands of any nation, not even Germany; certainly not the UnitedStates. 

But what about the other side of life--the social side, the side ofrecreation, the side which has been so persistently ignored andneglected up to the present day? Now, when we look round us andconsider that side of life we observe the plainest and the mostsignificant proof possible of the great social revolution which isamong us; plainer, more significant, than the success of the TradesUnions. For we see sprung up, already a vigorous plant, the associatedlife applied to purposes above the mere material interests. You havemade them safe, as far as possible, by your unions. The social andrecreative side of life you have now taken over into your keeping, youorder recreation which shall be as music or as poetry in yourassociated lives, harmonious, melodious, rhythmic, metrical. All thatI have said to-night leads up to this, that the Associated Life isnecessary for the enjoyment and the attainment of the best and thehighest things that the world can give, as the Guild and the Companyformerly, and the Trade Union is now, for the safeguarding of thecraft. In entering upon this new association, men and women together, learn the lessons of the past. Be jealous of your democratic lines. Let every step be a step for the general interest. Let the individualperish. Let the wishes and intentions of your founders be never lostto sight. Be not carried away by religion, by politics, by any newthing; never lose the principles of your association. 

And now, I ask, when, before this day, has it been recorded in thehistory of any city that men and women should unite in order toprocure for themselves those social advantages which up to the presenthave been enjoyed only by the richer class, and not always by them?When, before this time, has it been reported that men and women havebanded themselves together resolved that whatever good things richpeople could procure for themselves, they would also make forthemselves? Since the magistrates refused to allow dancing, one of themost innocent and delightful amusements, they would arrange their owndancing for themselves without troubling the magistrates forpermission. Since going to concerts cost money, they would have theirown musicians and their own singers. Since selection of companions isthe first essence of social enjoyment, they would have their own roomsfor themselves, where they would meet none but those who, likethemselves, desired education, culture, and orderly recreation. In oneword, when, in the history of any city, has there been found such acombination, so resolute for culture, as the combination of men andwomen which has raised this temple, this sacred Temple of Humanity?You are, indeed, I plainly perceive, revolutionaries of the mostdangerous kind. As revolutionaries you are engaged in the cultivationof all those arts and accomplishments which have hitherto belonged tothe West-end; as revolutionaries you claim the right to meet, read, sing, dance, act, play, debate, with as much freedom as if you livedin Berkeley Square. Where will these things stop?

[1893. ]

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