THE TOILERS OF THE FIELD

BY

RICHARD JEFFERIES

AUTHOR OF "THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME, " ETC. ETC. 

[Illustration: THE SILVER LIBRARY]

_NEW IMPRESSION_

LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDONNEW YORK AND BOMBAY1898

_All rights reserved_

[Illustration: RICHARD JEFFERIES. 

_From the bust by Miss Margaret Thomas, in Salisbury Cathedral. _

_Photographed by Mr. Owen, Salisbury. _]

_BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE. _

_First Edition, October 1892. __Reprinted, November 1892 and January 1893. __Issued in Silver Library, November 1893. __Reprinted, June 1898. _

PREFACE. 

The first and larger part of this volume, from which it takes its name, consists of papers which will be new to the large majority of readers ofRichard Jefferies' works. The five entitled, "The Farmer at Home, " "TheLabourer's Daily Life, " "Field-faring Women, " "An English Homestead, "and "John Smith's Shanty, " appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_ in 1874, longbefore Jefferies had gained any portion of that fame which was so longin coming, and came in full measure too late. Of the three letters tothe _Times_, written in 1872, one was republished, with the permissionof Mrs. Jefferies, in an appendix to Mr. Walter Besant's "Eulogy ofRichard Jefferies. " It finds its natural place in this volume with theother papers, which give so clear a picture of the life of all classesof the cultivators of the soil in the early seventies. The "True Tale ofthe Wiltshire Labourer" has never previously been published, and isincluded in this volume by the kind permission of Mr. G. H. Harmer ofthe _Wilts and Gloucestershire Standard_, for which paper it was writtenwhen Jefferies was on its staff, but for some reason was never used. 

All the papers in Part II. Have appeared in _Longman's Magazine_, sinceJefferies' death, and though they are with one exception very slight, yet they are all characteristic specimens of his work. From internalevidence it appears certain that the longest of them, entitled "TheComing of Summer, " was written on June 1, 1881, and the subsequent days. It contains one or two points of resemblance with the famous "Pageant ofSummer, " which appeared in _Longman's Magazine_ for June 1883. It wasperhaps the first study of which that paper is the finished picture. 

The frontispiece is reproduced by kind permission of Mr. J. Owen ofSalisbury, from a photograph taken by him of Miss Thomas' bust ofJefferies in Salisbury Cathedral. 

C. J. LONGMAN. 

CONTENTS. 

_PART I. _

 PAGE

THE FARMER AT HOME 3

THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE 60

FIELD-FARING WOMEN 111

AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD 151

JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY 175

WILTSHIRE LABOURERS (LETTERS TO THE "TIMES") 211

A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER 259

_PART II. _

THE COMING OF SUMMER 289

THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN 313

AN EXTINCT RACE 315

ORCHIS MASCULA 319

THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE 321

PART I. 

_THE FARMER AT HOME. _

The new towns, or suburbs which spring up every year in theneighbourhood of London, are all built upon much the same plan. Wholestreets of houses present exact duplicates of each other, even to thenumber of steps up to the front door and the position of the scraper. Inthe country, where a new farmhouse is erected about once in twentyyears, the styles of architecture are as varied and as irregular as intown they are prim and uniform. The great mass of farmhouses are old, and some are very picturesque. There was a farmhouse I knew which wasalmost entitled to be taken as the type of an English rural homestead. It was built at a spot where the open wild down suddenly fell away intorich meadow land. Here there was a narrow steep-sided valley, or"combe"--and at the mouth of this, well sheltered on three sides fromthe north, the east, and north-eastern winds, stood the homestead. Aspring arose some way behind, and close to the house widened into a poolwhich was still further enlarged by means of a dam, forming a small lakeof the clearest water. This lake fed a mill-race lower down. Thefarmyard and rick-barton were a little way up the narrow valley, on oneside of which there was a rookery. The house itself was built in thepure Elizabethan style; with mullioned windows, and innumerable gablesroofed with tiles. Nor was it wanting in the traditions of the oldentime. This fine old place was the homestead of a large farm comprisingsome of the best land of the district, both down and meadow. Anotherfarmhouse, still used for that purpose, stands upon the wildest part ofthe down, and is built of flint and concrete. It was erected nearlythree hundred years ago, and is of unusual size. The woodwork is allsolid black oak, good enough for an earl's mansion. 

These are specimens of the highest class of farmhouse. Immediatelybeneath them come the houses built in the early part of the presentcentury. They vary in almost every architectural detail, and thematerials differ in each county; but the general arrangement is thesame. They consist as it were of two distinct houses under one roof. Thefront is the dwelling-house proper, usually containing a kitchen, sitting-room, and parlour. The back contains the wood-house (coal-housenow), the brewhouse--where the beer was brewed, which frequently alsohad an oven--and, most important of all, the dairy. All this part of theplace is paved with stone flags, and the dairy is usually furnished withlattice-work in front of the windows, so that they can be left open toadmit the cool air and not thieves. Coolness is the great requisite in adairy, and some gentlemen who make farming a science go to the length ofhaving a fountain of water constantly playing in it. These houses, however, were built before scientific agriculture was thought of. Thewood-house contained the wood used for cooking and domestic purposes;for at that date wood was universally used in the country, and coalrarely seen. The wood was of course grown on the farm, for which purposethose wide double mound hedges, now rapidly disappearing, were made. Itwas considered a good arrangement to devote half-an-acre in someoutlying portion of the farm entirely to wood, not only for the fire, but for poles, to make posts and rails, gates, ladders, &c. The coalcould not in those days be conveyed so cheaply as it now is by railways. Such as was used had to be brought by the slow barges on the canals, orelse was fetched by the farmers' waggons direct from the pit-mouth. Theteams were not unfrequently absent two days and a night on the journey. In the outlying districts this difficulty in obtaining coal practicallyrestricted the available fuel to wood. Now the wood-house is used asmuch for coal as wood. Of course the great stacks of wood--the piles offaggots and logs--were kept outside, generally in the same enclosure asthe ricks, only a sufficient number for immediate use being kept undercover. The brewhouse was an important feature when all farmers brewedtheir own beer and baked their own bread. At present the great majoritypurchase their beer from the brewers, although some still brew largequantities for the labourers' drinking in harvest time. At a period whencomparatively little ready money passed between employer and employed, and the payment for work was made in kind, beer was a matter whichrequired a great deal of the attention of the farmer, and absorbed nolittle of his time. At this day it is a disputed matter which ischeapest, to buy or to brew beer: at that time there was no questionabout it. It was indisputably economical to brew. The brewhouse was notnecessarily confined to that use; when no brewing was in progress it wasoften made a kind of second dairy. Over these offices was thecheese-room. This was and still is a long, large, and lofty room inwhich the cheese after being made is taken to dry and harden. It isfurnished with a number of shelves upon which the cheeses are arranged, and as no two can be placed one on the other in the early stage of theirmaturing, much space is required. It is the duty of the dairymaid andher assistant to turn these cheeses every morning--a work requiring somestrength. In this part of the house are the servants' rooms. In front ofthe dairy and brewhouse is a paved court enclosed with a wall, and inthis court it was not uncommon to find a well, or hog-tub, for therefuse of the dairy. Sometimes, but not often now, the pig-stye is justoutside the wall which surrounds the court. In this court, too, thebutter is generally churned, under a "skilling" which covers half of it. Here also the buckets are washed, and other similar duties performed. The labourers come here to receive their daily allowance of beer. 

Most farmhouses in large arable farms were originally built so as tohave a small dairy at the back; though there was a time when the arablefarmer never thought of keeping a cow, and butter and cheese wereunknown, except as luxuries, in his establishment. This was during thecontinuance of the Corn Laws, when everything was sacrificed to the onegreat object of growing wheat. It was not impossible in those days tofind a whole parish (I know of one myself) in which there was not asingle cow. Now the great object is meat, then it was corn. But at thetime when most of the farmhouses were erected, the system of agriculturepursued was a judicious mixture of the dairy and the cornfield, so thatvery few old farmhouses exist which have not some form of dairyattached. In the corn-growing times, most of the verdant meadows nowemployed to graze cattle, or for producing hay, were ploughed up. Thismay be seen by the regular furrows, unmistakable evidences of theplough. When corn declined in price through the influx of foreignproduce, the land was again laid down in grass, and most of it continuesso till this hour. It might be roughly estimated that England nowcontains a third more meadow land than in the early part of the presentcentury, notwithstanding the attempt to plough up the downs. 

We now come to the third class of farmsteads--low thatched buildings, little better than large cottages, and indeed frequently converted intodwellings for labourers. These are generally found on small farms, andin districts where there are a number of small landed proprietors. Thesefreeholders built houses according to their means. In process of timethey were bought up by the great landowners, and the farms throwntogether, when the houses were used for other purposes. Some may stillbe found, especially in dairy districts. In these the principal part ofthe house is usually the dairy, which absorbs at least half of theground floor, and opens on the kitchen, in which the family sit, and inwhich their food is often cooked. The eaves of the house are low, andthere are scarcely any appliances for comfort. The yeomen who originallylived in these places in all respects resembled the labourers with whomthey ate and drank and held the most familiar intercourse. Theirlabourers even slept in the same bedrooms as the family. But these men, though they mingled so freely with the labourer, were his worst enemy. The little profit they made was entirely accumulated by careful economy. They were avaricious and penurious to the last degree, and grudged everyhalfpenny to the labouring man. They were, and the remnant of them stillare, the determined opponent of all progress. The interior of some ofthese cottage-farmsteads, which still exist, is almost Dutch-like insimplicity and homeliness. The fireplace is of a vast size, fitted withantique iron dogs for burning wood, and on it swing the irons to sustainthe great pot. On each side, right under the chimney, are seats, theingle-nook of olden times. The chimney itself is very large, beingspecially built for the purpose of curing sides of bacon by smoking. Thechimneypiece is ornamented with a few odd figures in crockery-ware, half-a-dozen old brass candlesticks, and perhaps a snuff-box or tobaccodish. The floor is composed of stone flags--apt to get slimy and dampwhen the weather is about to change--and the wide chinks between themare filled with hardened dirt. In the centre there is a piece of carpeton which the table stands, but the rest of the room is bare ofcarpeting, except the hearth-rug. The low window has a seat let into thewall under it. The furniture of the apartment is utilitarian in thestrictest sense. There is nothing there for ornament or luxury, or evenfor ease; only what is absolutely necessary. Generally there is adresser, above which, on shelves, the dishes and plates are arranged. Atall upright eight-day clock, with a brazen face, and an inscriptionwhich tells that it was manufactured in a neighbouring village, standsin one corner, and solemnly ticks in its coffin-like panelled case. Oneach side of the fireplace there is an arm-chair, often cushioned witha fox or badger skin, and a great brazen warming-pan hangs near thedoor. There is no ceiling properly so called. These old houses werealways built with a huge beam, and you can see the boards of the floorabove, which are merely whitewashed. A fowling-piece, once a flint-lock, now converted to the percussion cap system, hangs against the beam, andsometimes dried herbs may be seen there too. The use of herbs is, however, going out of date. In the evening when the great logs of woodsmoulder upon the enormous hearth and cast flickering shadows on thewalls, revealing the cat slumbering in the ingle-nook, and the dogblinking on the rug--when the farmer slowly smokes his long clay pipewith his jug of ale beside him, such an interior might furnish a goodsubject for a painter. Let the artist who wishes to secure such a scenefrom oblivion set to work speedily, for these things are fast fadingaway. 

All these three classes of farmhouse are usually well supplied withvegetables from the garden attached. The garden in fact was, and stillis, an object of considerable importance to the farmer, quite as muchas the allotment to the labourer. He reckons to receive from it hiswhole supply of potatoes, cabbages, beans, peas, and other varieties oftable vegetables, and salads. These constitute an important item whenthere is a large family. I do not speak now of the great farmers, although even these set some store by such produce, but the middleclass. It is usual in these gardens to grow immense quantities ofcabbage of a coarse kind, and also of lettuce, onions, and radishes, allof which are freely given to the men and women working on the placeduring the harvest. They are, in fact, grown especially for them. At thedinner-hour one or more men of the number, deputed by the rest, come upto the house. One carries the wooden bottles, or small barrels of ale, which are handed out from the dairy. The other repairs to the garden, and pulls up a reasonable quantity of lettuce, onions, or radishes, asthe case may be, from the patches indicated to him by the employer. These are then washed in the court by the dairy, where there is almostalways a pump, and are then taken out to the men and shared amongstthem. These salads make an agreeable addition to the dry bread andcheese, or bacon. The custom is an old one, and much to be commended. Itcosts the employer next to nothing, and is an element in that goodwillwhich should exist between him and the labourer. 

On some farms large quantities of fruit are grown--such as gooseberries, currants, plums, and damsons. Most have enough for their own use; somesell a considerable amount. Outside the garden is the orchard. Some ofthese orchards are very extensive, even in districts where cider is notthe ordinary beverage, and in a good apple year the sale of the applesforms an important item in the peculiar emoluments of the farmer's wife. There are, of course, many districts in which the soil is not adapted tothe apple, but as a rule the orchard is an adjunct of the garden. Someof the real old English farmsteads possess the crowning delight of afilbert walk, but these are rare now. In fact the introduction ofmachinery and steam, and the general revolution which has been going onin agriculture, has gone far to sweep away these more pleasant andhome-like features of the farm. It becomes daily more and more like amere official residence, so to speak. The peculiar home-like aspect of afarmhouse is gradually disappearing. 

The daily life of the middle-class dairy farmer begins at five in themorning. Rising about that hour, his first duty is to see that the menhave all appeared, and that they are engaged in milking the cows. Hebreakfasts at six, or half-past, and the whole family have finishedbreakfast before seven. By this time the day-labourers have come (themilkers are usually hired by the year), and the master has to go out andput them on to their jobs. Meantime the dairy is a scene of work andbustle; cheesemaking being in full swing. This is at leastsuperintended, if not partly performed, by the mistress of the house. Atlarger farms it is the bailiff who rises early and sees that thelabourers are properly employed; and the cheesemaking is entrusted to adairymaid hired at high wages, who often combines with that duty theoffice of general housekeeper. It was once the practice to rise evenearlier than five, but there are not many farmers who do so now. On thearable farm, which is generally much larger, the master has almostalways got a bailiff, or head-carter, whom he can trust to see the menset to work. The master is therefore not obliged to come down so soon, except at important seasons. But the ordinary dairy-farm is not largeenough to support a bailiff, and the master has to rise himself. Thefresh morning air and the exercise give the farmer a tremendous appetitefor breakfast. The usual staple food consists of thick rashers of bacononly just "done, " so as to retain most of the fat, the surplus of whichis carefully caught on slices of bread. The town rasher is crisp, curled, and brown, without a symptom of fat or grease. The farmer'searly rasher is to a town eye but half-done, bubbling with grease, andlaid on thick slices of bread, also saturated with the gravy. Sometimescold bacon is preferred, but it is almost always very fat. With this hedrinks a pint or so of fairly strong beer, and afterwards has a hunch ofbread and butter and a cup or two of tea. He is then well fortified forthe labour of the morning. This is the common breakfast of theworking-farmer, who is as much a labouring man as any cottager on hisfarm, and requires a quantity of solid food. Some, however, who arepretty well off, and have a better idea of the luxuries of the table, regale themselves on collared head, or rolled beef, or ham at breakfast. These hams are usually preserved after a family receipt, and some ofthem are exquisite. After breakfast the farmer walks round the place, watches the men at work for a few minutes, and gives them instructions, and then settles himself down to some job that requires his immediatesuperintendence. If it is hay-time he takes a rake and works about thefield, knowing full well all the difference that his presence makes. 

The agricultural labourers, both men and women, are a slow set, never ina hurry; there is none of that bustle characteristic of the town people, even of the lowest class. They take every opportunity of leaning uponthe prong-handle, or standing in the shade--they seem to have no idea oftime. Women are a sore trial to the patience of the agriculturist in abusy time. If you want to understand why, go and ensconce yourselfbehind a hedge, out of sight but in view of a field in which ten ortwelve women are hoeing. By and by a pedlar or a van comes slowly alongthe turnpike road which runs past the field. At the first sound offootsteps or wheels all the bent backs are straight in an instant, andall the work is at a standstill. They stand staring at the van or trampfor five or six minutes, till the object of attention has passed out ofsight. Then there is a little hoeing for three or four consecutiveminutes. By that time one of them has remembered some little bit ofgossip, and stops to tell her nearest fellow-workwoman, and the rest atonce pause to listen. After a while they go on again. Now anothervehicle passes along the road, and the same process of staring has to begone through once more. If a lady or gentleman pass, the staring issomething terrific, and it takes quite ten minutes to discuss all theprobabilities as to who they were, and where they were going. This sortof thing goes on all day, so that, in point of fact, they only do half aday's work. The men are not so bad as this; but they never let slip anopportunity for pausing in their work, and even when at work they do itin a slow, dawdling, lack-energy way that is positively irritating towatch. The agriculturist has in consequence plenty to do to keep hiseye on them, and in the course of the day he walks over his farmhalf-a-dozen times at least. Very few ordinary working farmers walk muchless than ten miles a day on the average, backwards and forwards overthe fields. 

Half-past eleven used to be luncheon time, but now it is about twelve, except in harvest, when, as work begins earlier, it is at eleven. Thisluncheon hour is another source of constant irritation to theagriculturist. He does not wish to bind his men down to an exact minute, and if a man has some distance to walk to his cottage, will readily makeall allowance. He does not stint the beer carried out either then or inthe field. But do what he likes, be as considerate as he will, and letthe season be never so pressing, it is impossible to get the labourersout to their work when the hour is up. Most of them go to sleep, andhave to be waked up, after which they are as stupid as owls for aquarter of an hour. One or two, it will be found, have strolled down tothe adjacent ale-house, and are missing. These will come on the fieldabout an hour later. Then one man has a rake too heavy for him, andanother a prong too light. There is always some difficulty in startingto work; the agriculturist must therefore be himself present if hewishes to get the labourers out to the field in anything like a moderatetime. 

The nuisance of mowers must be gone through to be appreciated. They comeand work very well for the first week. They slash down acre after acre, and stick to it almost day and night. In consequence the farmer puts onevery man who applies for work, everything goes on first-rate, and thereis a prospect of getting the crop in speedily. At the end of the weekthe mowers draw their money, quite a lump for them, and away they go tothe ale-house. Saturday night sees them as drunk as men can be. They lieabout the fields under the hedges all day Sunday, drinking when thepublic-house is open. Monday morning they go on to work forhalf-an-hour, but the fever engendered by so much liquor, and thedisordered state of the stomach, cause a burning thirst. They fling thescythes down, and go off to the barrel. During all this week perhapsbetween them they manage to cut half an acre. What is the result? Thehaymakers have made all the grass that was cut the first week into hay, and are standing about idle, unable to proceed, but still drawing theirwages from the unfortunate agriculturist. The hot sun is burningon--better weather for haymaking could not be--but there is not a roodof grass cut for them to work on. After a while the mowers come back, thoroughly tired and exhausted with their debauch, and go on feebly towork. There is hope again. But our climate is notoriously changeable. Afortnight of warm, close heat is pretty sure to breed a thunderstorm. Accordingly, just as the scythes begin to lay the tall grass prostrateagain, there is a growl in the sky, and down comes the rain. Athunderstorm unsettles the weather, and here is perhaps another weeklost. The farmer dares not discharge his haymakers, because he does notknow but that he may require them any day. They are put to turndung-heaps, clean out the yards, pick up the weeds in the garden, andsuch like little jobs, over which they can dawdle as much as they like. All the while they are on full pay. Now, what manufacturer could enduresuch conduct as this? Is it not enough to drive a saint out of hispatience? Of course the larger farmers who can afford it have theresource of the mowing-machine, but there are hundreds and thousands offarms upon which its sharp rattle has not yet been heard. There is stilla great divergence of opinion as to its merits, many maintaining that itdoes not cut so close to the ground, and therefore wastes a largepercentage of the crop, and others that the action of the scissor-likeknives bruises the grass, and prevents it growing up into a goodafter-math. Therefore many farmers who could afford it will not admitthe mowing-machine into their fields, and the mowers may still be seenat work over miles and miles of meadow, and are still the plague of theagriculturist. The arable farmer has just the same difficulty to keephis labourers at their work, and unless he is constantly on the watchvaluable time is lost daily. In the harvest, however, he has anadvantage. The corn is reaped by piece-work, and the labourers thereforestrain every nerve to do as much as they can. But then he must be on thelookout to see that they do not "scamp" it. 

The traditional bacon and greens dinner is passing away, though stillthe usual fare in the small farmhouses. Most of the fairly well-to-dofarmers have a joint twice or three times a week, well supported withevery kind of vegetable. There is no attempt at refinement in cooking, but there is plenty of good substantial food. 

The hill farmer, whose staple is sheep and wool, has generally a greatdeal of walking or riding to get over in the day. The down farms aresometimes very large, running perhaps in long narrow strips of land fortwo or three miles. Although he employs a head-shepherd, and even abailiff, he finds it necessary, if he would succeed in making a profit, to be pretty well ubiquitous. They all want looking after sharply. Notthat there is much actual dishonesty; but would any manufacturer endureto have his men sitting doing nothing on their benches for fifteenminutes out of every hour of the working day, just because his back wasturned? The hill farmer has, perhaps, a preferable life in some respectsto the agriculturist in the vale. He has not so much actual manuallabour to get through. On the other hand, he is at a great distancefrom any town, or even large village; he sees no one during the day, andhe has to run great risks. Wool may fall, so may the price of mutton, either of which would derange his calculations; or the fly may destroyhis turnips, or the season may be exceptionally dry and unfavourable. His house is lonely, perched on the side of a hill, and exposed to thebitter blasts of winter which sweep over the downs with resistless fury, and which no doors nor windows can exclude. If there should be snow, itis sure to fall in greater quantities on the hills, and, driving beforethe wind, fills up the hollows, till the roads are impassable for weeks. 

Taking all the year round, the work of the agriculturist begins and endswith the rising and setting of the sun. There is an exception, becausethe cows must be milked and foddered nearly as early in the winter, whenthe sun rises very late, as at other seasons; but then, to make up forthat, work ends earlier in the afternoon. In the spring, as the eveningsdraw out, there is almost always something to be done even after thelabourers have left. In harvest time, the superintendence of workcontinues till late, and in the autumn labour is not unfrequentlyprolonged into the moonlight, in order to carry the corn. It is a life, on the whole, of hard work. 

In all this I speak of the ordinary middle-class farmer. The life of thehigher class of agriculturists, who possess large capital, and employbailiffs and all kinds of machinery, is of course not by any means soonerous. It is in general character pretty much that of an independentgentleman, with the addition of the sporting element, and a certainfreedom from drawing-room trammels. 

To get at the physique of the agriculturists, the best plan is to pay avisit to the market-town. Here almost every farmer in the neighbourhood, no matter of what class--highest, middle, or lowest--is nearly sure tobe seen on market-days. The upper class come in in their smartwaggonettes, or dog-carts, drawn by thoroughly good and stylish horses, which are little, if at all, inferior to those of the gentry. Some ofthese keep their groom and coachman, who dress in livery of a quiet andsubdued kind, but still unmistakably a livery. The middle-class come inin traps, or old-fashioned four-wheelers, generally bringing their wivesand daughters, to do the shopping of the week. The market-day is, infact, the event of the week, and the streets of the market-town are theRotten Row of the neighbourhood. The wives and daughters come in theirbest dresses, and promenade up and down, and many a flirtation goes onwith the young bucks of the district. The lower class of farmers jog inon their mares, rough as cart-horses, and the rider generally so managesto seat himself as to show three or four inches of stocking between histrousers and boots. After the market is over, and the dealing done, thefarmers resort to the various inns, and dine at the market ordinary. Avery good dinner is usually provided at a low charge on these days. Soupis not usual, the dinner generally beginning with fish, followed byjoints, and fowl of various kinds. Wine "whips" are formed, and thesherry circulates freely. There is a regular chairman, always a man ofproperty and influence, and an old frequenter of the place. Afterdinner they sit an hour or two discussing, not only the price of sheepand wool or mutton, but the political and other events of the day. TheChambers of Agriculture are generally so arranged as to meet onmarket-days, about an hour after the ordinary finishes, and notunfrequently in the same room. The market-towns derive great benefitfrom this habit of congregating on the market-day. It is the day, too, for paying visits by the ladies. Gay costumes pass through the streets, and bright eyes look out of the windows of the hotels upon the crowd offarmers. The yards of the various hostelries are made almost impassableby the innumerable variety of vehicles. The young farmers take theopportunity of playing a game at billiards, which they rarely do onother days. The news of the whole countryside is exchanged, and spreadsfrom mouth to mouth, and is carried home and sent farther on its way. One great characteristic is the general good-humour that prevails. Thelaugh and the joke are frequently heard--it is a kind of moderategala-day. The fishmonger's shop is emptied, and the contents carriedhome, this being the only day in the week when fish is bought by themajority of agriculturists. Some towns have only what is called a"gin-and-water" market: that is, the "deal" is begun and concluded fromsmall samples carried in the pocket and examined at an inn over a glassof spirits and water. But in the great market-towns there is now almostalways a large room, or hall, set aside for this special purpose. Themarket begins and concludes at a fixed time, indicated by the ringing ofa bell. In this hall the dealers have stands, furnished with desks, atwhich they may always be found, and here sacks of samples are pitched. There is a clerk of the market, and the current prices are posted up, and afterwards sent to all the local newspapers. The cattle-market usedto be carried on entirely in the streets, each farmer selling his ownbeasts or sheep by private treaty with the dealers. The streets werethen often filled with cattle from one end to the other, and were almostimpassable for vehicles, and at times not a little dangerous forfoot-passengers. Now the practice of selling by auction has become verygeneral, and the cattle are either put into the auctioneer's privateyard, or in an enclosure provided by the town authorities. Thecorn-dealers are a most energetic class of men, well educated, and oftenemploying large capital in their business. They are perpetuallytravelling, and often attend two markets a day. Having struck a bargain, the farmer and the purchaser adjourn to the hotel, and have a glass ofspirits, without which no transaction seems complete. The use of beerhas very much declined among the fairly well-to-do agriculturists. Theydrink it at dinner and lunch, but whenever a glass is taken with afriend, or in calling at an inn, it is almost invariably spirits. Whiskyhas been most extensively drunk of late years. 

No other class of men employing so much capital and so many labourersare so simple in their habits as the agriculturists. In dress theyadhere to the plainest colours and shapes; there is no attempt to keeppace with the fashion. The materials of the coat and vest are good, andeven expensive, but the cut is old and out of date, and the whole effectquite plain. There is no shirt front, no studs, no rings, no kid gloves. The boots are strong and thick, substantial, but not ornamental. A manwith his ten or fifteen thousand perhaps will walk down the streetbuttoned up in an ungainly greatcoat and an old hat, not half so smartlydressed as a well-paid mechanic, and far behind the drapers' assistantsin style. There is a species of contempt among them for the meretriciousand showy; they believe in the solid. This very fact makes them goodfriends to shopkeepers, who have no better customers. They carry thisleading idea too far, for they admire an article in precisely acorresponding ratio to the money it costs, totally oblivious of allconsiderations of art or ornament. The first question invariably is, ifthey are asked to admire anything, "What did it cost?" This results in aheavy and cumbrous style of furniture even in the best farmsteads. Everything must be massive, costly, and strong. Artistic tendencies theyhave none. They want something durable, and they get it. But on thewhole they make marvellously little show for their money. Hundreds ofthe most substantial agriculturists, whose cheques would be honoured forthousands of pounds, seem absolutely to make no show at all. At thesame time it is quite true that some of the rising generation, who havevery little to do it on, make a great display with hunters and platedharness, and so forth. But they are not the rule. The generality go justthe other way, and live below their income, and take a lower station insociety than they might reasonably claim. 

Farmers are decidedly a marrying class of men. The farm is a business inwhich a wife is of material service, and can really be a helpmate. Thelower class of farmers usually marry quite as much or more for thatreason than any others. The higher classes of agriculturists feel thatthey have a right to marry because they too can show a home in which tokeep a wife. Though they may not have any large amount of capital, stillthey possess a good house and sufficient provision. They are, therefore, a marrying class of men, but do not commonly contract matrimonialalliances very early in life. The great object of an agriculturist whohas sons is to get them settled in farms, and it is astonishing to whatan extent this is carried by men who do not seem to have much capital tostart their children with. Instances are common in which a man hasthree or four sons all in farms, and doing fairly well. One of thegreatest difficulties he has to contend against is the necessity ofproviding education. Where is a farmer, living perhaps two or threemiles, often enough four and six miles, from a town, to send his boys toschool? The upper class of agriculturists can, of course, afford to havea proper governess at home till they are old enough, and then send themto one of the so-called middle-class schools. The lower class, on theother hand, who do not aspire very high, and whose ideas are little moreambitious than those of their labourers, are contented with the schoolin the neighbouring village. Till recently these village schools werevery poor affairs, something a little better than the old dame school, but not much. But since the new Education Act the lower class of farmersare in a better position with respect to education than those whopossess much higher claims to social distinction. Where there is not aschool board, the clergyman and the landowners have combined, and builtfirst-rate schools, up to all the requirements of the Act, and attendedby properly certified teachers. The lower class farmer, who is troubledwith no scruples about the association of his boys with the labourers'children, can send them to this school at a very low charge indeed, andthey will there receive a good foundation. But the middle-classfarmer--the man who is neither an independent gentleman, nor obliged tolive on bacon and greens--is unprovided for, and yet this class is themost numerous. They have better views for their sons than to confinethose early impressions upon which so much depends to the narrow andrude, if not coarse manners of the labourers' children. They look higherthan that, and they are fully justified in doing so. They do not, therefore, at all relish the idea of sending their boys to the nationalschool of the parish, let it be never so well supplied with teachers. There is another objection to it. It has a faint suspicion of thepauper. Now if there is anything a downright English yeoman abominatesmore than all the rest it is any approach to the "parish. " This is a"parish" school. It is not a paupers' school--that is admitted--but itis a "parish" school, to which the children of men who have oftenreceived relief are sent. The yeoman's instinct revolts at it. Attemptshave been made to get over this niceness of feeling by erecting aspecial class-room for farmers' sons, and patriotic baronets have evengone so far as to send their own boys so as to set the example. But itis in vain. The middle-class farmer is above all men exclusive in hisideas. He detests the slightest flavour of communism. He likes to becompletely and fully independent. He will not patronise the "parish"school. What then is he to do? At this present moment most farmers' sonsare sent into the neighbouring towns to the middle-class schools whichare to be found there. If the farmer is within two or three miles theboys walk or ride on ponies every morning. If it is farther than thatthey go as weekly boarders, and return home every Saturday. The fault inthis system is simply and solely in the character of the school. Toooften it is a school in name only, where the boys learn next to nothingat all, except mischief. Very few schools exist in these small countrytowns which afford a good education at a moderate price. It is almostimpossible that they should exist without an endowment, as the scholarscan never be numerous enough to make the profits exceed the expenditure. The result is that the middle-class farmer cannot give his boys a goodeducation unless he sends them to what is called a middle-class schoolin some town at a great distance, and this he cannot afford. The sumdemanded by these so-called middle-class schools is beyond his reach. Hemay, perhaps, if he has only one son, indulge in the expensive luxury ofa sound and thorough education for him. But if there are several thething is out of the question. With the girls it is even worse--where canhe send them? They cannot very well walk or ride to and fro like theboys to the school in the nearest town, and if they are boarded at suchschools, the education given is paltry and meagre in the extreme. A goodgirls' school is one of the rarest things in the country. The result isthat a governess is kept while the girls are young. This governess isunderpaid, and has consequently herself been only partially educated. Then as the girls grow older they are sent for a year or two, to"finish" them, to some young ladies' academy, and the ultimate productis a smattering of French and music, and crude ideas of fashion andrefinement, which make them dissatisfied with their home and unfit foran agricultural life as the wife of a farmer. 

The nonsense talked and published of farmers having pianos, and theirdaughters strumming all day long instead of attending to the dairy, isperfectly absurd. It is quite true that in hundreds of farmhouses, justat the time when the dairy is in full work in the morning, a piano maybe heard going. This is the governess instructing the girls when thefarmer is not sufficiently rich to send them to a school. But when oncethese girls are grown up, and have finished their education, poor as itis, and return home to take a part in the household duties, then thepiano is never heard in the morning when work is about. The farmer'swife sees to that sharp enough. In the evening it may be heard--and whynot? If the agricultural labourer is to be polished up and refined, whyon earth should not his employer take a step in advance? It must beremembered that there is very little society in the country; scarcelyany one even passing along the road. There are none of those cheapsights and amusements so readily accessible to the poorest in a greatcity. The wives and daughters of the mechanics and workmen in London canonce a week at least afford to enjoy themselves at some theatre or placeof amusement. They are far better off in this respect than the daughtersof agriculturists who may be worth thousands. These have nothingwhatever to amuse themselves with during the long evenings; they cannoteven take a stroll out and look at the shop windows. They are surelyentitled to the simple and inexpensive amusement of a piano. It is infact their only resource. There was a statement in the newspapers offarmers taking their daughters to Paris. It is possible that some of theupper class of farmers, who are in fact independent gentlemen, may havedone so; but as for the ordinary middle-class farmers, such a thing isutterly unheard of. It is very few of them who even take their wives toLondon or the seaside for a week. But even if they did, it is nothingmore than they are entitled to do. Half the tradesmen who do such thingsdo not possess anything like the income of the farmers. The fact is, that the agriculturists are a singularly stay-at-home race of men. Thegreat majority never leave their farms to go farther than themarket-town from one year's end to the other. Above all classes they areattached to their homes, and slow to go away even temporarily. To such alength is this feeling carried that men have been known to go partiallyinsane for a while at the prospect of having to quit a farm through alandlord's decease, even though no appreciable pecuniary loss wasinvolved. 

The agriculturists are a remarkably observant race, and as a rulepeculiarly well-informed. This is contrary to the popular belief, whichrepresents the farmer as rude and ignorant, a pot-bellied beer-drinker, and nothing more. But the popular belief is a delusion. I do not saythat they are literary or scientific in their tastes and privatepursuits. There are no great names among them in geology, or astronomy, or anthropology, or any other science. They are not artists in anysense. But they are singularly well-informed. They possess more generalknowledge than any other class, and can converse on subjects with whichtownsmen seem unacquainted. Many of them have very fair libraries, notextensive, but containing books of sterling excellence. Farming isnecessarily an isolated business--there is little society. Except onmarket-days, there is scarcely any interchange of conversation. Thereis, too, at certain seasons of the year a good deal of leisure. Whatbooks they own, therefore, are well read, and the contents reflectedupon. It is that habit of thinking over what is read that makes all thedifference. It is impossible to avoid being struck with the immenseamount of general information possessed by some agriculturists, and thewide field over which their knowledge ranges. Yet with all thisknowledge and power of reflection they still remain attached to theold-world system of politics, religion, and social relations. 

The habits of intemperance which were at one time a just and standingreproach against the agriculturist have almost entirely disappeared. Adrunken farmer is now unknown. They are as fond as ever of offeringhospitality to a friend, and as ready to take a social glass--no totalabstainers amongst them; but the steady hard-drinking sot has passedaway. The old dodge of filling the bottle with gin instead of water, and so pouring out pure spirit, instead of spirit and water, when theguests were partially intoxicated, in order to complete the process, isno more known. They do not drink more than the inhabitants of towns. 

It is a singular fact that with so many streams and ponds scatteredabout the country within easy reach, the farmers do not care forfishing. A farmer engaged in fishing is a rarity indeed. They areeagerly fond of fox-hunting, coursing, and shooting, but fishing is adead letter. A party will sometimes go out and net a pond, but as forfishing proper, with rod and line, it is almost unknown. Every chance ofshooting is eagerly snatched at. In May the young rooks are shot, afterwhich the gun is put aside for a while. At the end of July some of theyoung rabbits are ready, and are occasionally knocked over. Very fewtenant farmers shoot game even when they could do so, leaving that forsome neighbouring gentleman with whom they are friendly, and this toowithout any remuneration, the fact being that winged game does littledamage. But they wage unceasing war on the rabbits, with dog and gunand ferret. All the winter long they are hunted in every possible way. This is, of course, on farms where the tenant has permission to kill therabbits. Whist and post and pair are the staple indoor amusements. 

Of all businesses that of agriculture is peculiarly adapted to descendfrom father to son. In point of fact, farms so frequently pass from thefather to the son as to be looked upon almost as a certain inheritance. In agriculture, then, it must be expected that the effects of inheritedinstincts and ideas should be very plainly shown. From this cause arisesthe persistent and unreasoning Conservatism of the mass ofagriculturists. Out of a list of one hundred farmers, I find that oneresides upon a farm which has been in the occupation of members of thesame family for three hundred years. He possessed a series of documents, receipts, special agreements, and so on, proving that descent beyond allcavil; but with the usual want of proper appreciation for antiquities, most of these papers have been committed to the flames; still there isno question of the fact, which can still be shown from the landlord'sfamily archives. Nominally that farm has been in the occupation of onefamily for ten generations, reckoning by the ordinary calculation ofthirty years to each. But this average is not fairly applicable to theagricultural life, which is generally long, and occasionally extendsinto extreme old age. There were probably about eight successors if theline was unbroken; if not, there may of course have been treble thatnumber. A man may be excused some amount of pride when he thinks of sucha continuance as this in one spot, for it means not only an exceptionalvitality of race, but an exceptional perseverance in the paths ofhonesty and straightforwardness. But with this pride it also engenders astubborn unchangeableness, a dislike and hatred of all things new andunfamiliar, a nervous dread of reform. Faithful to the logic of theirclass, such men as these may in resisting innovations go to lengthswhich may appear foolish and wrong to others who live in a widelydifferent social atmosphere. To some extent the bitter opposition tochange in the position of the labourer, which is thrown in the teeth ofthe tenant farmer, is the outcome of these very centuries of steadyadherence to all that they believed upright and manly. 

Another name on my list has been known at one spot for fully two hundredyears. These men attained a position beyond that of yeoman, but theynever sank beneath it. The rise of many of the great county familiesreally dates from the success of some ancestor, or the collectivesuccess of a series of ancestors, in agriculture. They perhaps claimsome knight or nobleman as the founder of the race, although he may havereally done nothing for the practical advantage of the family; the truefounders being merely proprietors of land, dignified as J. P. 's, andsometimes sheriffs, throwing off branches into the clerical and legalprofessions. The real ancestor was the sturdy yeoman who accumulated themoney to purchase the farm he tilled, and whose successors had the goodsense to go on adding acre to acre till they finally expanded into thewide domains of the modern squire. Not the knight whose effigy in brasspaves the aisle of the parish church laid the corner-stone of the wealthand power of to-day, but the shrewd and close-fisted producer and dealerin wool and corn. Their true claim to aristocratic privileges andimportance is the sense of centuries of independence. These others ofwhom we have spoken, the yeoman who never aspired beyond the yeoman'sposition, are as ancient and as "worshipful"--to use an old and disusedterm--as they. I do not instance these descents of three and two hundredyears as extraordinary, because I believe that they could be paralleledand even extended by inquiry, but because they came under my ownobservation. There are others on the list ranging from one hundred andsixty down to sixty and eighty years of continued occupation. But not togo into details, I reckon on an average that thirty names out of ahundred have been the occupiers for three generations; forty for twogenerations; twenty for one hundred and fifty years; and ten are newcomers. But a still more curious and instructive fact is the permanenceof certain names over a wide section of country; so much so that inplaces it is a common saying that one has only to be an A, or a B, or aT, to be certain of getting a farm. Whole parishes seem related, and notvery distantly related either; and yet there is not the remotestclass-feeling or _esprit de corps_. The isolation and independence of afarm life are powerful agents in preventing anything like cohesion. Anyone who will take the trouble to look down the parish register in astrictly agricultural district will be forcibly struck with thepermanence of certain names. Page after page contains nothing butrecords of the marriages, intermarriages, burials, baptisms, and so onof two or three generic names. The population appears to have beenstationary for scores upon scores of years. Say what you will, ridiculeit as you like, there is a charm clinging round that which time hashallowed; and even the man of the hour, the successful speculator, yields to this. It is his most eager desire to become a landedproprietor, and if possible he buys a place where he can exercisemanorial rights. 

Taking these things into consideration, it is only reasonable to admitthat agriculture is a profession in which a man may, above all others, be excused if he manifests a certain amount of irritability at theprospect of change. The slow round of uneventful years, the longcontinuance of manual labour, the perpetual iteration of a few ideas, intime produce in the mind of the most powerfully intellectual men aspecies of unconscious creed; and this creed is religiously handed downfrom generation to generation. Setting aside those who have gone intoagriculture as a science, and adapt everything to commercialprinciples--and they are as yet not very numerous--the great mass offarmers believe nearly the same now as they did two centuries ago. Looking through a farmer's calendar published in the first few years ofthis century, and containing a complete _résumé_ of the system ofagriculture practised then, I was struck by the remarkable fact that inall main features it was the same as that in use now. We have heard somuch of the rapid progress of agriculture, of the important changesintroduced, and of the complete revolution which has taken place, thatthis statement may appear incredible. It is nevertheless the fact thatthat book might be put with advantage into the hands of any young manabout to enter upon a farm. With the exception of those operations whichare now performed by steam, and making an allowance for the alteredconditions introduced by the abolition of the Corn Laws, theinstructions given there are useful down to this very day. Here is theknowledge of the peculiarities and requirements of stock slowlyaccumulated during ages of agriculture, and at last written down andprinted for easy reference. However much the aspect of politics maychange, or however much the means of locomotion and communication may befacilitated by the introduction of steam, Nature still remainsunaltered. The cows and sheep retain their instincts and their internaleconomy; their modes of feeding, times of rest, and seasons of increase, never vary. The earth too has not changed. The corn is sown at the sametime; Nature goes on her way as before, heedless of the railway rattle. So it is that the details of management in this book are as useful nowas then, more than two generations since. It is the same with theunwritten faith of the men who labour and live among these things. Goout among them, and collect from the majority their views andsentiments, and in this age of progress they will be found to correspondalmost exactly with those of their forefathers, as recorded by history. They know that such is the fact themselves; they know too that it wouldsubject them to sharp criticism and reproof if they published their realopinions. Therefore they remain silent, and it is only among themselvesthat these ideas are earnestly insisted on. 

In the earliest days of agriculture, when Abraham drove his flocks andherds to and fro under the Syrian sun, the father of the family was atonce the procreator, the law-giver, the judge, the leader in battle, thepriest, and the king. He was absolute master under Heaven of all thingsvisible around him. The Pope claims to be infallible now, and to be thevicegerent of Heaven, but the patriarch of old actually possessed thosepowers upon his own domain. His sons were under his complete control--hecould sacrifice them alive to his God if he chose, or banish them fromtheir native land. His daughters were still more completely in his hand, to be done with as he thought fit. His servants, his slaves, were asmuch his as the wooden pole of his tent, or the very sandals he walkedin. They were as dust before him. There was no coming of age in thosedays; no escape after the twenty-first year. The tie lasted till hisdeath. At forty his sons and daughters were as much his own as they wereat ten years old. They tell us that this system, to some extent, stillsurvives in China. In all fundamental points such is the creed of theagricultural race of our own day. Circumstances have, no doubt, hadsomething to do with the production and elaboration of such a faith. Inno other profession do the sons and the daughters remain so long, and sonaturally, under the parental roof. The growth of half-a-dozen strongsons was a matter of self-congratulation, for each as he came to man'sestate took the place of a labourer, and so reduced themoney-expenditure. The daughters worked in the dairy, and did nothesitate to milk occasionally, or, at least, to labour in the hayfield. They spun, too, the home-made stuffs in which all the family wereclothed. A man's children were his servants. They could not stir a stepwithout his permission. Obedience and reverence to the parent was thefirst and greatest of all virtues. Its influence was to extend throughlife, and through the whole social system. They were to choose the wifeor the husband approved of at home. At thirty, perhaps, the morefortunate of the sons were placed on farms of their own nominally, butstill really under the father's control. They dared not plough or sowexcept in the way that he approved. Their expenditure was strictlyregulated by his orders. This lasted till his death, which might nottake place for another twenty years. At the present moment I could pointout ten or twelve such cases, where men of thirty or forty are in farms, and to all appearance perfectly free and independent, and yet ascompletely under the parental thumb as they were at ten years old. Whydo they not throw off the burden? Because they have imbibed the samecreed, and intend to carry it out in their own persons. These men, ifthey think thus of their own offspring, cannot be expected to be moretender towards the lower class around them. They did at one time, andsome still wish to, extend the same system to the labouring population. As there was in those days little or no work for a man but upon a farm, and as the cottages were chiefly in the hands of the farmers, there wasplenty of opportunity for carrying out these ideas. The old method ofpoor relief gave another handle. They did not want only to indulge intyranny; what they did was to rule the labouring poor in the same way asthey did their own children--nothing more nor less. These labouring men, like his own children, must do as the farmer thought best. They mustlive here or there, marry so and so, or forfeit favour--in short, obeythe parental head. Each farmer was king in his own domain; the unitedfarmers of a parish were kings of the whole place. They did not use thepower circumstances gave them harshly; but they paid very little regardto the liberty of the subject. To this very day something of the samesort goes on. It is wonderful with what eager zeal many of the old-stylefarmers enter into the details of a labourer's life, and carefullyascertain his birth, his parentage, his marriage, his wife's parentage, and the very minutest matters. These facts thus accumulated are talkedover in the boardroom when an applicant comes to the union for relief. Very often such special knowledge possessed by a guardian of theantecedents of the applicant is most useful and beneficial in enablingthe Board to extend assistance to a deserving man. What I wish to showis the all-permeating influence of the parental system in the mind ofthe typical agriculturist. 

In religion it is, or lately was, the same. It was not a matter with thefarmer of the Athanasian creed, or the doctrine of salvation by faith, or any other theological dogma. To him the parish church was the centreof the social system of the parish. It was the keystone of that parentalplan of government that he believed in. The very first doctrine preachedfrom the pulpit was that of obedience. "Honour thy father and mother"was inculcated there every seventh day. His father went to church, hewent to church himself, and everybody else ought to go. It was as much asocial gathering as the dinner at the market ordinary, or the annualaudit dinner of their common landlord. The dissenter, who declined topay church-rates, was an unsocial person. He had left the circle. It wasnot the theology that they cared about, it was the social nonconformity. In a spiritual sense, too, the clergyman was the father of the parish, the shepherd of the flock--it was a part of the great system. To go astep farther, in political affairs the one leading idea still threadeditself through all. The proper parliamentary representative--the naturallaw-giver--was the landlord of the district. He was born amongst them, walked about amongst them, had been in their houses many a time. He knewtheir wants, their ideas, their views. His own interest was identicalwith theirs. Therefore he was the man. The logic is indisputable. Whatis more, they acted up to it. In agricultural districts it is notuncommon even now to find men of diametrically opposite political viewsto the candidate at an election voting for and supporting him, simplyand solely because he is the local man. It is natural and right that heshould represent them. That one word "right" is the key to the wholeethical system of the agriculturists. They cherish and maintain theirbelief in right, and in their "rights"--by which they understand muchthe same thing--even when unaccompanied by any gain or advantage. Inbrief outline, such is the creed of the agriculturists as a body. It isneither written nor spoken, but it is a living faith which influencesevery hour of their lives. 

This faith must ever be borne in mind by those who wish to understandthe movements of the agricultural world. Without making a properallowance for it, the farmers will be easily misjudged. 

The labouring class are imbued to a great extent with the very sameideas. They stick to their rights. They will not give up an old pathwaythat their fathers used, not if one twice as convenient be offered inlieu of it. They have a right to go that way, and go that way they will. They are brutally tyrannical over their children. I use those wordsdeliberately. He who spares the rod spoils the child, is the practicalrule of their conduct. They seem to look upon their offspring as merelyslaves. They are fond of them in their way, no doubt, but the law ofimplicit obedience is maintained by dint of blows and stripes. Thechildren are kicked, punched, and thrashed perpetually. A goodground-ash stick is the gospel of the labouring man. They carry the sameplan into their work. How many carters have been severely fined andimprisoned for whipping, and sometimes even maiming, the boys undertheir commands? And yet the old practice still continues, only a littlechecked by wholesome terror of the law. 

Despite of all the teaching of the Radical papers, all the whispers ofthe Methodist itinerant preachers, despite the hatred which theLabourers' Union agents endeavour to sow between the labourer and thefarmer, still the great mass of labourers at the last election, [1]wherever they had a vote, supported the local candidate--the man whorepresented the soil--and declined to do more than listen to thebrilliant promises held out by the party of change. So strong above allthings is the force of tradition and custom. 

The agriculturists are firmly and earnestly wedded to that unwrittencreed which has grown up among them out of the past. Why, then, shouldthey be so hardly dealt with, more than others, for adhering to thisfaith? Argue with them, educate them up to your standard if youlike--but is it fair, is it just, is it in accordance with that spiritof liberalism and tolerance which their opponents profess, to taunt, abuse, and bully to the full length that words will permit? They are notfacile at expression, these same men of the soil. The flow of languageseems denied to them. They are naturally a silent race--preferring deedsto speech. They live much with inarticulate nature. It may be, afterall, they have learnt some useful and abiding lessons from thatintercourse. The old shepherds on the plains of Chaldea, under thestarry skies of the East, watched the motions of those shining bodiestill they slowly built up a religion, which, mixed with much dross, nevertheless contained some truths which educated men profess to thishour. These English farmers also observe the changes of the seasons, andwatch the face of heaven. Their deepest convictions are not to belightly set aside. There are men amongst them of great powers ofthought. I remember one at this moment whose grand old head would havebeen a study for an artist. A large head he had, well-balanced, broadand high at the forehead, deep-set eyes, straight nose, and firmchin--every outward sign of the giant brain within. But the man wasdumb. The thoughts that came to him he could communicate roughly to hisfriends, but the pen failed him. The horny hand which results frommanual labour is too stiff to wield the swiftly-gliding quill. But thereis another species of handwriting which is called Work--a handwritingwhich will endure when the scribblings of the hour are utterlyforgotten. This writing he laboured at earnestly and eagerly, not forhis own good either, for it absorbed his own fortune, no small one, inthe attempt to realise his conception of machinery which would doublethe yield of food. It has been done since his time, other men steppingover the bridge of experience which he had built. Now this man, who, onthe principles of the opponents of the agriculturists, was a benefactorto his species, and a pioneer of true progress, was, nevertheless, oneof the firmest, staunchest, most uncompromising supporters of that creedwhich they are endeavouring to destroy, and which may be stated thus: "Ibelieve in the Sovereign, the Church, and the Land: the Sovereign beingthe father of the people in a temporal sense; the Church in a spiritualsense; and the Land being the only substantial and enduring means ofsubsistence. Cotton, coal, and iron cannot be eaten, but the land givesus corn and beef; therefore, the land stands first and foremost, and theagriculturist, as the tiller of land, possesses an inalienable rightwhich it is his duty to maintain, and in so doing he is acting for thegood of the community. I believe that the son and the daughter shouldobey their parents, and show regard to their wishes even when legallyindependent. Also that the servant should obey his employer. Theconnection between employer and employed does not cease with the paymentof wages. It is the duty of the servant to show consideration for theadvice of the master; and the master is not free from responsibility asto the education and the comfort of the man. The master is bound by alllaws, human and divine, to pay a fair amount of wages for a day's work. If he does not do so he robs the workman as much as if he stole themoney from his pocket. The workman is equally bound to do his workproperly, and in neglecting to do so he robs his employer. To demandmore wages than has been earned is an attempt at robbery. Both masterand man should respect authority, and abide by its decisions. "

Such is a slight outline of the home-life and the faith of the farmer. 

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Feb. 1874. 

_THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. _

Many labourers can trace their descent from farmers or well-to-dopeople, and it is not uncommon to find here and there a man who believesthat he is entitled to a large property in Chancery, or elsewhere, asthe heir. They are very fond of talking of these things, and naturallytake a pride in feeling themselves a little superior in point ofancestry to the mass of labourers. 

How this descent from a farmer to a labourer is managed there are atthis moment living examples going about the country. I knew a man whofor years made it the business of his life to go round from farm to farmsoliciting charity, and telling a pitiful tale of how he had once been afarmer himself. This tale was quite true, and as no class likes to seetheir order degraded, he got a great deal of relief from theagriculturists where he was known. He was said to have been wild in hisyouth, and now in his old age was become a living representative of thefarmer reduced to a labourer. 

This reduction is, however, usually a slow process, and takes twogenerations to effect--not two generations of thirty years each, but atleast two successors in a farm. 

Perhaps the decline of a farming family began in an accession ofunwonted prosperity. The wheat or the wool went up to a high price, andthe farmer happened to be fortunate and possessed a large quantity ofthose materials. Or he had a legacy left him, or in some way or othermade money by good fortune rather than hard work. This elated his heart, and thinking to rise still higher in life, he took another, or perhapstwo more large farms. But to stock these required more money than hecould produce, and he had to borrow a thousand or so. Then thedifficulty of attending to so large an acreage, much of it distant fromhis home, made it impossible to farm in the best and most profitablemanner. By degrees the interest on the loan ate up all the profit on thenew farms. Then he attempted to restore the balance by violent highfarming. He bought manures to an unprecedented extent, invested incostly machinery--anything to produce a double crop. All this would havebeen very well if he had had time to wait till the grass grew; butmeantime the steed starved. He had to relinquish the additional farms, and confine himself to the original one with a considerable loss both ofmoney and prestige. He had no energy to rise again; he relapsed intoslow, dawdling ways, perpetually regretting and dwelling on the past, yet making no effort to retrieve it. 

This is a singular and strongly marked characteristic of theagricultural class, taken generally. They work and live and have theirbeing in grooves. So long as they can continue in that groove, and gosteadily forward, without much thought or trouble beyond that ofpatience and perseverance, all goes well; but if any sudden jolt shouldthrow them out of this rut, they seem incapable of regaining it. Theysay, "I have lost my way; I shall never get it again. " They sit down andregret the past, granting all their errors with the greatest candour;but the efforts they make to regain their position are feeble in theextreme. 

So our typical unfortunate farmer folds his hands, and in point of factslumbers away the rest of his existence, content with the fireside and aroof over his head, and a jug of beer to drink. He does not know French, he has never heard of Metternich, but he puts the famous maxim inpractice, and, satisfied with to-day, says in his heart, _Après nous leDéluge_. No one disturbs him; his landlord has a certain respect andpity for him--respect, perhaps, for an old family that has tilled hisland for a century, but which he now sees is slowly but irretrievablypassing away. So the decayed farmer dozes out his existence. 

Meantime his sons are coming on, and it too often happens that the briefperiod of sunshine and prosperity has done its evil work with them too. They have imbibed ideas of gentility and desire for excitement utterlyforeign to the quiet, peaceful life of an agriculturist. They havegambled on the turf and become involved. Notwithstanding the fall oftheir father from his good position, they still retain the belief thatin the end they shall find enough money to put all to rights; but whenthe end comes there is a deficiency. Among them there is perhaps onemore plodding than the rest. He takes the farm, and keeps a house forthe younger children. In ten years he becomes a bankrupt, and the familyare scattered abroad upon the face of the earth. The plodding onebecomes a bailiff, and lives respectably all his life; but his sons arenever educated, and he saves no money; there is nothing for them but togo out to work as farm labourers. 

Such is something like the usual way in which the decline and fall of afarming family takes place, though it may of course arise fromunforeseen circumstances, quite out of the control of the agriculturist. In any case the children graduate downwards till they become labourers. Nowadays many of them emigrate, but in the long time that has gonebefore, when emigration was not so easy, many hundreds of families havethus become reduced to the level of the labourers they once employed. Soit is that many of the labourers of to-day bear names which less thantwo generations ago were well known and highly respected over a widetract of country. It is natural for them to look back with a certaindegree of pleasure upon that past, and some may even have been incitedto attempt a return to the old position. 

But the great majority, the mass, of the agricultural labourers havebeen labourers time out of mind. Their fathers were labourers, theirgrandfathers and their great-grandfathers have all worked upon thefarms, and very often almost continuously during that long period oftime upon the farms in one parish. All their relations have been, andstill are, labourers, varied by one here who has become a tinker, or onethere who keeps a small roadside beerhouse. When this is the case, whena man and all his ancestors for generations have been hewers of wood anddrawers of water, it naturally follows that the present representativeof the family holds strongly to the traditions, the instincts, acquiredduring the slow process of time. What those instincts are will be bettergathered from a faithful picture of his daily life. 

Most of the agricultural labourers are born in a thatched cottage by theroadside, or in some narrow lane. This cottage is usually anencroachment. In the olden time, when land was cheap, and thecompetition for it dull, there were many strips and scraps which werenever taken any notice of, and of which at this hour no record existseither in the parochial papers or the Imperial archives. Probably thisarose from the character of the country in the past, when the greaterpart was open, or, as it was called, champaign land, without hedge, orditch, or landmark. Near towns a certain portion was enclosed generallyby the great landowners, or for the use of the tradesmen. There was alsoa large enclosure called the common land, on which all burgesses orcitizens had a right to feed so many cattle, sheep, or horses. As a rulethe common land was not enclosed by hedges in fields, though instancesdo occur in which it was. There were very few towns in the reign ofCharles II. That had not got their commons attached to them; but outsideand beyond these patches of cultivation round the towns the country wasopen, unenclosed, and the boundaries ill-defined. The king's highway ranfrom one point to another, but its course was very wide. Roads were notthen macadamised and strictly confined to one line. The want ofmetalling, and the consequent fearful ruts and sloughs, drove vehiclesand travellers further and further from what was the original line, till they formed a track perhaps a score or two of yards wide. Whenfields became more generally enclosed it was still only in patches, andthese strips and spaces of green sward were left utterly uncared for andunnoticed. These were encamped upon by the gipsies and travelling folk, and their unmolested occupation no doubt suggested to the agriculturallabourer that he might raise a cottage upon such places, or cultivate itfor his garden. 

I know of one spot at this present moment which was enclosed by anagricultural labourer fully sixty years ago. It is an oval piece ofground of considerable size, situated almost exactly in the centre of avery valuable estate. He and his descendants continued to crop thisgarden of theirs entirely unmolested for the whole of that time, payingno rent whatever. It soon, however, became necessary to enlarge the sizeof the fields, which were small, in order to meet the requirements ofthe modern style of agriculture. This oval piece was surrounded byhedges of enormous growth, and the cultivator was requested to remove toanother piece more out of the way. He refused to do so, and when theproprietors of the surrounding estate came to inquire into thecircumstances they found that they could do nothing. He had enjoyedundisturbed possession for sixty years; he had paid no rent--no quitrent or manor dues of any kind. But still further, when they came toexamine the maps and old documents, no mention whatever appeared of thisparticular patch of ground. It was utterly unnoticed; it was notrecorded as any man's property. The labourer therefore retainedpossession. This was an extraordinary case, because the encroachmenttook place in the middle of a cultivated estate, where one would havethought the tenants would have seen to it. 

Commonly the squatters pitched on a piece of land--a long unusedstrip--running parallel to the highway or lane. This was no one'sproperty; it was the property of the nation, which had no immediaterepresentative to look after its interests. The surrounding farmers didnot care to interfere; it was no business of theirs. The highway board, unless the instance was very glaring, and some actual obstruction of theroad was caused, winked at the trespass. Most of them were farmers, anddid not wish to interfere with a poor man, who they knew had no otherway of getting a house of his own. By-and-by, when the cottage wasbuilt, the labourer was summoned to the court-leet of the manor, and wasassessed in quit rent, a mere nominal sum, perhaps fourpence or ashilling a year. He had no objection to this, because it gave him atitle. As long as the quit rent was duly paid, and he could produce thereceipt, he was safe in the occupation of his cottage, and no one couldturn him out. To be assessed by the court-leet in fact established histitle. Some of these court-leets or manor courts are only held atintervals of three years, or even more, and are generally composed offarmers, presided over by the legal agent of the lord of the manor. Thetenants of the manor attend to pay their quit rent for the precedingyears, and it often happens that if the cottager has been ill, or isweak and infirm, the farmers composing the court subscribe and pay thequit rent for him. 

The first step when a labourer intends to become a squatter is toenclose the strip of land which he has chosen. This he does by raising alow bank of earth round it, on which he plants elder bushes, as thatshrub grows quickest, and in the course of two seasons will form arespectable fence. Then he makes a small sparred gate which he canfasten with a padlock, and the garden is complete. To build the cottageis quite another matter. That is an affair of the greatest importance, requiring some months of thought and preparation. The first thing is toget the materials. If it is a clay country, of course bricks must bechosen; but in stone countries there are often quarries on the farm onwhich he works. His employer will let him have a considerable quantityof stone for nothing, and the rest at a nominal charge, and will lendhim a horse and cart at a leisure season; so that in a very short timehe can transport enough stone for his purpose. If he has no such friend, there is almost sure to be in every parish a labouring man who keeps awretched horse or two, fed on the grass by the roadside, and gains hisliving by hauling. Our architect engages this man at a low price to haulhis materials for him. The lime to make mortar he must buy. In theparish there is nearly sure to be at least one native mason, who worksfor the farmers, putting up pig-styes, mending walls, and doing smalljobs of that kind. This is the builder who engages to come on Saturdayafternoons or in the evenings, while the would-be householder himself isthe hod-bearer and mixes the mortar. Nine times out of ten the site forthe cottage is chosen so as to have a ditch at the back. This ditch actsat once as the cesspool and the sewer, and, unless it happens to have agood fall, speedily becomes a nuisance to the neighbourhood. A certainquantity of wood is of course required in building even this humbleedifice. This is either given by the farmers or is purchased at anominal rate. 

The ground plan is extremely simple. It consists of two rooms, oblong, and generally of the same size--one to live in, the other to sleepin--for the great majority of the squatters' hovels have no upstairrooms. At one end there is a small shed for odds and ends. This shedused to be built with an oven, but now scarcely any labourers bake theirown bread, but buy of the baker. The walls of the cottage having beencarried up some six feet, or six feet six--just a little higher than aman's head--the next process is to construct the roof, which is a verysimple process. The roof is then thatched, sometimes with flags cut fromthe brooks, but more usually with straw, and practically the cottage isnow built, for there are no indoor fittings to speak of. The chimney isplaced at the end of the room set apart for day use. There is noceiling, nothing between the floor and the thatch and rafters, exceptperhaps at one end, where there is a kind of loft. The floor consistssimply of the earth itself rammed down hard, or sometimes of roughpitching-stones, with large interstices between them. The furniture ofthis room is of the simplest description. A few chairs, a deal table, three or four shelves, and a cupboard, with a box or two in the corners, constitute the whole. The domestic utensils are equally few, andstrictly utilitarian. A great pot, a kettle, a saucepan, a few plates, dishes and knives, half-a-dozen spoons, and that is about all. But onthe mantelpiece there is nearly sure to be a few ornaments in crockery, bought from some itinerant trader. The walls are whitewashed. Thebedroom is plainly and rudely furnished. Some cottages do not evenattain to this degree of comfort. They consist of four posts set in theground which support the cross-beam and the roof, and the walls are madeof wattle and daub, _i. E. _, of small split willow sticks, put uprightand daubed over with coarse plaster. The roofs of these cottages areoften half hidden with rank grass, moss, and sillgreen, a vegetationperhaps encouraged by the drippings from a tree overhanging the roof;and the situation of the cottage is itself in many cases low and damp. 

But there is a class of squatters, who possess habitations more fit forhuman beings. These were originally built by men who had saved a littlemoney, had showed, perhaps, a certain talent for hedge carpentering orthatching, become tinkers, or even blacksmiths. In such capacities a manmay save a little money--not much, perhaps £30 or £40 at furthest. Withthe aid of this he manages to build a very tidy cottage, in the face ofthe statement made by architects and builders that a good cottage cannotbe erected under £120. Their dwellings do not, indeed, compete with theneat, prim, and business-like work of the professional builder; butstill they are roomy and substantial cottages. The secret of cheapnesslies in the fact that they work themselves at the erection, and do notentrust some one else with a contract. Moreover, they make shifts andput up with drawbacks as no business-man could possibly do. Thematerials they purchase are cheap and of second-class condition, butgood enough to hold together and to last some time. Their rude beams andrafters would not satisfy the eye of a landed proprietor, but they holdup the roof-tree equally well. Every pound they spend goes its fulllength, and not a penny is wasted. After a while a substantial-lookingcottage rises up, whitewashed and thatched. It has an upper storey withtwo rooms, and two, at least, downstairs, with the inevitable lean-to orshed, without which no labourer's cottage is complete. This is more likea house, the residence of a man, than that of the poorer squatter. Thefloor is composed of flag-stones, in this case always carefully washedand holystoned. There are the same chairs and deal table as in thepoorer cottage, but there are many more domestic utensils, and thechimney-piece is ornamented with more crockery figures. A few coarseprints hang against the walls. Some of these old prints are greatcuriosities in their way--hardly valuable enough for a collection, butvery amusing. A favourite set of prints is the ride of Dick Turpin toYork on Black Bess, representing every scene in that famous gallop. Theupstair rooms are better furnished, and the beds often really good. 

Some of these cottages in summer-time really approach something of thatArcadian beauty which is supposed to prevail in the country. Everything, of course, depends upon the character of the inmates. The dull tint ofthe thatch is relieved here and there by great patches of sillgreen, which is religiously preserved as a good herb, though the exact ailmentsfor which it is "good" are often forgotten. One end of the cottage isoften completely hidden with ivy, and woodbine grows in thickestprofusion over the porch. Near the door there are almost always a fewcabbage-rose trees, and under the windows grow wall-flowers andhollyhocks, sweet peas, columbine, and sometimes the graceful lilies ofthe valley. The garden stretches in a long strip from the door, onemass of green. It is enclosed by thick hedges, over which the dog-rosegrows, and the wild convolvulus will blossom in the autumn. Trees fillup every available space and corner--apple trees, pear trees, damsons, plums, bullaces--all varieties. The cottagers seem to like to have atleast one tree of every sort. These trees look very nice in the springwhen the apple blossom is out, and again in the autumn when the fruit isripe. Under the trees are gooseberry bushes, raspberries, and numbers ofcurrants. The patches are divided into strips producing potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, onions, radishes, parsnips; in this kitchen produce, as with the fruit, they like to possess a few of all kinds. There isgenerally a great bunch of rhubarb. In odd corners there are sure to bea few specimens of southernwood, mugwort, and other herbs; not for use, but from adherence to the old customs. The "old people" thought much ofthese "yherbs, " so they must have some too, as well as a little mint andsimilar potherbs. In the windows you may see two or three geraniums, andover the porch a wicker cage, in which the "ousel cock, withorange-tawny bill, " pours out his rich melodious notes. There is hardlya cottage without its captive bird, or tame rabbit, or mongrel cur, which seems as much attached to his master as more high-bred dogs totheir owners. 

These better cottages are extremely pleasing to look upon. There is anold English, homely look about them. I know a man now whose cottage isornamented much in the way I have described, a man of sixty, who canneither read nor write, and is rude and uncouth in speech, yeteverything about him seems pleasant and happy. To my eye the thatch andgables, and picturesque irregularity of this class of cottages, are morepleasing than the modern glaring red brick and prim slate of dwellingsbuilt to order, where everything is cut with a precise uniformity. If aman can be encouraged to build his own house, depend upon it it isbetter for him and his neighbours than that he should live in one whichis not his own. The sense of ownership engenders a pride in the place, and all his better feelings are called into play. Some of thesecottagers, living in such houses as these, are the very best labourersto be had. They stay on one farm a lifetime, and never leave it--aninvaluable aid to a farmer. They frequently possess some little specialknowledge of carpentering or blacksmith's work, which renders themextremely useful, and at the same time increases their earnings. Thesemen are the real true peasantry, quiet and peaceful, yet strong andcourageous. These are the class that should be encouraged by everypossible means; a man who keeps his little habitation in the state Ihave described, who ornaments it within, and fills his garden with fruitand flowers, though he may be totally unable to read or to speakcorrectly, is nevertheless a good and useful citizen, and an addition tothe stability of the State. 

Though these cottages are worth the smallest sums comparatively, it isinteresting to note with what pride and satisfaction the possessorscontemplate leaving them to their children. Of course this very feeling, where there are quarrelsome relations, often leads to bickerings andstrife. It is astonishing with what tenacity a man who thinks he has aclaim to a part of such a small estate will cling to his cause, and willnot hesitate to spend to maintain his claim all his little earnings onthe third-class lawyers whom the agricultural poor mostly patronise. Even after every shadow of legal chance is gone, he still loudlydeclares his right; and there is more squabbling about the inheritanceof these places than over the succession to great domains. 

Another class of labourers' cottages is found chiefly in the villages. These were not originally erected for the purpose to which they are nowapplied; they were farmhouses in the days when small farms were therule, or they were built for tradesmen who have long since departed. These buildings are divided into two, three, or more habitations, eachwith its family; and many makeshifts have to be resorted to to renderthem decent and comfortable. This class of cottage is to be avoided ifpossible, because the close and forced intercourse which must take placebetween the families generally leads to quarrels. Perhaps there is onepump for the entire building, and one wants to use it just at the momentthat another requires water; or there is only one gateway to the court, and the passage is obstructed by the wheelbarrow of the other party. Itis from these places that the greater part of the malcontents go up tothe magistrates in petty sessions. It is rare, indeed, that the cottagerliving more or less isolated by the side of the road appears in a courtof law. Of course, in these villages there are cottages which have beenbuilt expressly for the use of labouring men, and these, like those inthe open country, may be divided into three classes--the hovel, thecottage proper, and the model modern cottage. 

In the villages there is almost sure to be one or more cottages whichcarries one's idea of Lilliputian dwellings to the extreme. These aregenerally sheds or outhouses which have been converted into cottages. Ientered one not long since which consisted of two rooms, one above andone below, and each of these rooms could not have measured, at a guess, more than six feet six across. I had heard of this place, and expectedto find it a perfect den of misery and wretchedness. No such thing. Tomy surprise the woman who opened the door was neatly clad, clean, andbright. The floor of the cottage was of ordinary flag-stones, but therewas a ceiling whitewashed and clean. A good fire was burning in thegrate--it was the middle of winter--and the room felt warm andcomfortable. The walls were completely covered with engravings from the_Illustrated London News_. The furniture was equal to the furniture ofthe best cottages, and everything was extremely clean. The woman saidthey were quite comfortable; and although they could have had a largercottage many times since, they never wished to change, as they had nochildren. That of course made a great difference. I never should havethought it possible for two human beings to have existed, much less beencomfortable, in such a diminutive place. Another cottage I know containsbut one room altogether, which is about eight feet square; it isinhabited by a solitary old woman, and looks like a toy-house. One ortwo such places as these may be found in most villages, but it does notby any means follow that because they are small the inhabitants arebadly off. The condition they are found in depends entirely upon thedisposition of the inmates. If they are slatternly and dirty, thelargest cottages would not improve them. 

In some rural villages a great many cottages may be observed sadly outof repair--the thatch coming off and in holes, the windows broken, andother signs of dilapidation. This is usually set down to the landlord'sfault, but if the circumstances are inquired into, it will often befound that the fault lies with the inmates themselves. These cottagesare let to labourers at a merely nominal rent, and with them a largepiece of allotment ground. But although they thus get a house and gardenalmost free, they refuse to do the slightest or simplest repairs. If thewindow gets broken--"Oh, let it stop; the landlord can do that. " If apiece of thatch comes off--"Oh, 'tisn't my house; let the landlord do itup. " So it goes on till the cottage is ready to tumble to pieces. Whatis the landlord to do? In his heart he would like to raze the wholevillage to the ground and rebuild it afresh. But there are not many whocan afford such an expense. Then, if it were done, the old women and oldmen, and infirm persons who find a home in these places, would be drivenforth. If the landlord puts up two hundred new cottages, he finds itabsolutely necessary to get some kind of return for the capitalinvested. He does not want more than two and a half per cent. ; but toask that means a rise of perhaps a shilling a week. That is enough; thelabourer seeks another tumbledown place where he can live for tenpence aweek, and the poor and infirm have to go to the workhouse. So, ratherthan be annoyed with the endless complaints and troubles, to say nothingof the inevitable loss of money, the landlord allows things to go on asthey are. 

Among our English cottages in out-of-the-way places may be found curiousmaterials for the study of character in humble life. In one cottage youmay find an upright, stern-featured man, a great student of the Bible, and fond of using its language whenever opportunity offers, who is therepresentative of the old Puritan, though the denomination to which hemay belong is technically known as the Methodist. He is stern, hard, uncompromising--one who sets duty above affection. His children are notspoiled because the rod is spared. He stands aloof from his fellows, andis never seen at the cottage alehouse, or lingering in groups at thecross-roads. He is certain to be at the "anniversary, " _i. E. _, thecommemoration of the foundation of the Methodist chapel of the parish. The very next cottage may contain the antithesis of this man. This is agenius in his way. He has some idea of art, as you may gather from thefanciful patches into which his garden is divided. He has a considerabletalent for construction, and though he has never been an apprentice hecan do something towards mending a cart or a door. He makes stands withwires to put flowers in for the farmers' parlours, and strings the dryoak-apples on wire, which he twists into baskets, to holdknicknackeries. He is witty, and has his jest for everybody. He can dosomething of everything--turn his hand any way--a perfect treasure onthe farm. In the old days there was another character in most villages;this was the rhymer. He was commonly the fiddler too, and sang his ownverses to tunes played by himself. Since the printing-press has come in, and flooded the country with cheap literature, this character hasdisappeared, though many of the verses these men made still linger inthe countryside. 

The ordinary adult farm labourer commonly rises at from four to fiveo'clock; if he is a milker, and has to walk some little distance to hiswork, even as early as half-past three. Four was the general rule, butof late years the hour has grown later. He milks till five or half-past, carries the yokes to the dairy, and draws water for the dairymaid, orperhaps chops up some wood for her fire to scald the milk. At six hegoes to breakfast, which consists of a hunch of bread and cheese as therule, with now and then a piece of bacon, and as a milker he receiveshis quart of beer. At breakfast there is no hurry for half-an-hour orso; but some time before seven he is on at the ordinary work of the day. If a milker and very early riser, he is not usually put at the heavyjobs, but allowances are made for the work he has already done. Theother men on the farm arrive at six. At eleven, or half-past, comesluncheon, which lasts a full hour, often an hour and a quarter. Aboutthree o'clock the task of milking again commences; the buckets are gotout with a good deal of rattling and noise, the yokes fitted to theshoulders, and away he goes for an hour or hour and a half of milking. That done, he has to clean up the court and help the dairymaid put theheavier articles in place; then another quart of beer, and away home. The time of leaving off work varies from half-past five to half-pastsix. At ordinary seasons the other men leave at six, but in haymaking orharvest time they are expected to remain till the job in hand that dayis finished, often till eight or half-past. This is compensated for by ahearty supper and almost unlimited beer. The women employed in fieldlabour generally leave at four, and hasten home to prepare the eveningmeal. The evening meal is the great event of the day. Like theindependent gentleman in this one thing, the labourer dines late in theday. His midday meal, which is the farmer's dinner, is his luncheon. Thelabourer's dinner is taken at half-past six to seven in the evening, after he has got home, unlaced his heavy and cumbrous boots, combed hishair, and washed himself. His table is always well supplied withvegetables, potatoes, and particularly greens, of which he is peculiarlyfond. The staple dish is, of course, a piece of bacon, and largequantities of bread are eaten. It is a common thing now, once or twicein the week, for a labourer to have a small joint of mutton, not aprime joint, of course, but still good and wholesome meat. Many of themlive in a style, so far as eating and drinking is concerned, quite equalto the small farmers, and far superior to what these small farmers wereused to. Instead of beer, the agricultural labourer frequently drinkstea with his dinner--weak tea in large quantities. After the more solidparts comes a salad of onions or lettuce. These men eat quantities whichwould half kill many townspeople. After dinner, if it is the season ofthe year, they go out to the allotment and do a little work forthemselves, and then, unless the alehouse offers irresistibleattractions, to bed. The genuine agricultural labourer goes early tobed. It is necessary for him, after the long toil of the day, on accountof the hour at which he has to rise in the morning. 

Men employed on arable farms, as carters, for instance, have to riseeven earlier than dairymen. They often begin to bait their horses athalf-past three, or rather they used to. This operation of baiting is amost serious and important one to the carter. On it depends theappearance of his team--with him a matter of honest and laudableambition. If he wishes his horses to look fat and well, with smoothshiny coats, he must take the greatest care with their food, not to givethem too much or too little, and to vary it properly. He must beginfeeding a long time before his horses start to plough. It is, therefore, an object with him to get to rest early. In the winter time especiallythe labouring poor go to bed very soon, to save the expense of candles. 

By the bye, the cottagers have a curious habit, which deserves to berecorded even for its singularity. When the good woman of the cottagegoes out for half-an-hour to fetch a pail of water, or to gossip with aneighbour, she always leaves the door-key in the keyhole _outside_. Thehouse is, in fact, at the mercy of any one who chooses to turn the keyand enter. This practice of locking the door and leaving the key in itis very prevalent. The presence of the key is to intimate that theinmate has gone out, but will shortly return; and it is so understood bythe neighbours. If a cottager goes out for the day, he or she locks thedoor, and takes the key with them; but if the key is left in the door, it is a sign that the cottager will be back in ten minutes or so. 

The alehouse is the terrible bane of the labourer. If he can keep clearof that, he is clean, tidy, and respectable; but if he once falls intodrinking habits, good-bye to all hopes of his rising in his occupation. Where he is born there will he remain, and his children after him. 

Some of the cottagers who show a little talent for music combine underthe leadership of the parish clerk and the patronage of the clergyman, and form a small brass band which parades the village at the head of theOddfellows or other benefit club once a year. In the early summer, before the earnest work of harvest begins, and while the evenings beginto grow long, it is not unusual to see a number of the younger men atplay at cricket in the meadow with the more active of the farmers. Mostpopulous villages have their cricket club, which even the richestfarmers do not disdain to join, and their sons stand at the wicket. 

The summer is the labourer's good season. Then he can make money andenjoy himself. In the summer three or four men will often join togetherand leave their native parish for a ramble. They walk off perhaps someforty or fifty miles, take a job of mowing or harvesting, and after achange of scenery and associates, return in the later part of theautumn, full of the things they have seen, and eager to relate them tothe groups at the cross-roads or the alehouse. The winter is under thebest circumstances a hard time for the labourer. It is not altogetherthat coals are dear and firewood growing scarcer year by year, but everycondition of his daily life has a harshness about it. In the summer thewarm sunshine cast a glamour over the rude walls, the decaying thatch, and the ivy-covered window. The blue smoke rose up curling beside thetall elm-tree. The hedge parting his garden from the road was green andthick, the garden itself full of trees, and flowers of more or lessbeauty. Mud floors are not so bad in the summer; holes in the thatch donot matter so much; an ill-fitting window-sash gives no concern. Butwith the cold blasts and ceaseless rain of winter all this is changed. The hedge next the road is usually only elder, and this, once theleaves are off, is the thinnest, most miserable of shelters. The raincomes through the hole in the thatch (we are speaking of the large classof poor cottages), the mud floor is damp, and perhaps sticky. If thefloor is of uneven stones, these grow damp and slimy. The cold windcomes through the ill-fitting sash, and drives with terrible force underthe door. Very often the floor is one step lower than the groundoutside, and consequently there is a constant tendency in rainy weatherfor the water to run or soak in. The elm-tree overhead, that appeared sopicturesque in summer, is now a curse, for the great drops fallperpetually from it upon the thatch and on the pathway in front of thedoor. In great storms of wind it sways to and fro, causing no littlealarm, and boughs are sometimes blown off it, and fall upon theroof-tree. The thatch of the cottage is saturated; the plants andgrasses that almost always grow on it, and the moss, are vividly, ranklygreen; till all dripping, soaked, overgrown with weeds, the wretchedplace looks not unlike a dunghill. Inside, the draught is only onedegree better than the smoke. These low chimneys, overshadowed withtrees, smoke incessantly, and fill the room with smother. To avoid thedraught, many of the cottages are fitted with wooden screens, whichdivide the room, small enough before, into two parts, the outer ofwhich, towards the door, is a howling wilderness of draught and wet fromunder the door; and the inner part close, stuffy, and dim with smokedriven down the chimney by the shifting wind. Here the family are allhuddled up together close over the embers. Here the cooking is done, such as it is. Here they sit in the dark, or in such light as issupplied by the carefully hoarded stock of fuel, till it is time to goto bed, and that is generally early enough. So rigid is the economypractised in many of these cottages that a candle is rarely if everused. The light of the fire suffices, and they find their beds in thedark. Even when a labourer has risen in the scale, and has some smallproperty, the enforced habits of early life cling to him; and I havefrequently found men who were really worth some little money sitting ateight o'clock on a dark winter's night without a candle or lamp, theirfeet close to a few dying embers. The older people especially go to bedearly. Going to some cottages once for a parish paper that had beencirculated for signature, I rapped at the closed door. This was athalf-past seven one evening in November. Again and again I hammered atthe door; at last an old woman put her head out of window, and thefollowing colloquy ensued:--

"What do 'ee want?"

"The paper; have you signed it?"

"Lor, I doan't know. He's on the table--a bin ther ever since a come. Thee's can lift th' latch an' take 'un. _We bin gone to bed this twohours. _"

They must have gone upstairs at half-past five. To rise at five of asummer's morning, and see the azure of the sky and the glorious sun, maybe, perhaps, no great hardship, although there are few persons who couldlong remain poetical on bread and cheese. But to rise at five on a darkwinter's morning is a very different affair. To put on coarse nailedboots, weighing fully seven pounds, gaiters up above the knee, a shortgreatcoat of some heavy material, and to step out into the driving rainand trudge wearily over field after field of wet grass, with thefurrows full of water; then to sit on a three-legged stool, with mud andmanure half-way up the ankles, and milk cows with one's head leaningagainst their damp, smoking hides for two hours, with the rain comingsteadily drip, drip, drip--this is a very different affair. 

The "fogger" on a snowy morning in the winter has to encounter about themost unpleasant circumstances imaginable. Icicles hang from the eaves ofthe rick, and its thatch is covered with snow. Up the slippery ladder inthe dark morning, one knee out upon the snow-covered thatch, he plungesthe broad hay-knife in and cuts away an enormous truss--then a greatprong is stuck into this, a prong made on purpose, with extra thick andpowerful handle, and the truss, well bound round with a horse-hair rope, is hoisted on the head and shoulders. This heavy weight the fogger hasto carry perhaps half-a-mile through the snow; the furrows in the fieldare frozen over, but his weight crashes through the ice, slush into thechilly water. Rain, snow, or bitter frost, or still more bitter eastwinds--"harsh winds, " as he most truly calls them--the fogger must takeno heed of either, for the cows must be fed. 

A quart of threepenny ale for breakfast, with a hunch of bread andcheese, then out to work again in the weather, let it be what it may. The cowyards have to be cleaned out--if not done before breakfast--themanure thrown up into heaps, and the heaps wheeled outside. Or, perhaps, the master has given him a job of piece-work to fill up the middle ofthe day with--a hedge to cut and ditch. This means more slush, wet, cold, and discomfort. About six or half-past he reaches home, thoroughlysaturated, worn-out, cross, and "dummel. " I don't know how to spell thatword, nor what its etymology may be, but it well expresses the dumb, sullen churlishness which such a life as this engenders. For all theconditions and circumstances of such a life tend to one end only--theblunting of all the finer feelings, the total erasure of sensitiveness. The coarse, half-cooked cabbage, the small bit of fat and rafty bacon, the dry bread and pint of weak tea, makes no very hearty supper aftersuch a day as this. The man grows insensible to the weather, so cold anddamp; his bodily frame becomes crusted over, case-hardened; and withthis indifference there rises up at the same time a correspondingdulness as regards all moral and social matters. 

Generally the best conditions of cottage life are to be found whereverthere are, say, three or four great, tall, strong, unmarried sonslodging in the house with their aged parents. Each of these pays a smallsum weekly for his lodging, and often an additional sum for the barenecessaries of life. In the aggregate this mounts up to a considerablesum, and whatever is bought is equally shared by the parents. They liveexceedingly well. Such young men as these earn good wages, and now andthen make extra time, and come home with a pocketful of money. Evenafter the inevitable alehouse has claimed its share, there still remainsenough to purchase fresh meat for supper; and it is not at all unusualin such cottages to find the whole family supping at seven (it is, infact, dining) on a fairly good joint of mutton, with every species ofcommon vegetables. In one case that was brought under my notice threebrothers lived with their aged mother. They were all strong, hard-working men, and tolerably steady. In that cottage there were noless than four separate barrels of beer, and all on tap. Four barrels inone cottage seems an extraordinary thing, yet it resolved itself verysimply. The cottage was the mother's; they gave her so much for lodging, and she had her own barrel of beer, so that there should be no dispute. The three brothers were mowers--mowers drink enormous quantities ofliquor--and with the same view to prevent dispute each had his ownespecial barrel. Families like this live fairly well, and have manylittle comforts. Still, at the best, in winter it is a rough anduncomfortable existence. 

In the life of the English agricultural labourers there is absolutely nopoetry, no colour. Even their marriages--times when if ever in lifepoetry will manifest itself--are sober, dull, tame, clumsy, andcolourless. I say sober in the sense of tint, for to get drunk appearsto be the one social pleasure of the marriage-day. They, of course, walkto church; but then that walk usually leads across fields full of allthe beauties of the spring or the summer. There is nothing in the walkitself to flatten down the occasion. But the procession is so dull--soutterly ungenial--a stranger might pass it without guessing that awedding was toward. Except a few rude jests; except that there is anattempt to walk arm-in-arm (it is only an attempt, for they forget toallow for each other's motions); except the Sunday dresses, utterlydevoid of taste, what is there to distinguish this day from the rest?There is the drunken carousal, it is true, all the afternoon andevening. There are no fête days in the foreign sense in the Englishlabourer's life. There are the fairs and feasts, and a fair is the mostmelancholy of sights. Showmen's vans, with pictures outside of unknownmonsters; merry-go-rounds, nut stalls, gingerbread stalls, cheap Jacks, and latterly photographic "studios"; behind all these the alehouse; thebeating of drums and the squalling of pigs, the blowing of horns, andthe neighing of horses trotted out for show, the roar of a rudecrowd--these constitute a country fair. There is no colour--nothingflowery or poetical about this festival of the labourer. 

The village feasts are still less interesting. Here and there theclergyman of the parish has succeeded in turning what was a rudesaturnalia into a decorous "fête, " with tea in a tent. But generally thefeasts are falling into rapid disuse, and would perhaps have died awayaltogether had not the benefit societies often chosen that day for theirannual club-dinner. A village feast consists of two or three gipsieslocated on the greensward by the side of the road, and displayingginger-beer, nuts, and toys for sale; an Aunt Sally; and, if the villageis a large one, the day may be honoured by the presence of what iscalled a rifle-gallery; the "feast" really and truly does not exist. Some two or three of the old-fashioned farmers have the traditionalroast beef and plum-pudding on that day, and invite a few friends; butthis custom is passing away. In what the agricultural labourer's feastnowadays consists no one can tell. It is an excuse for an extra quart ortwo of beer, that is all. 

This dulness is not, perhaps, the fault of the labourer. It may be thatit is the fault of the national character, shown more broadly in thelower class of the population. Speaking nationally, we have no fêtedays--there is no colour in our mode of life. These Englishagricultural labourers have no passion plays, no peasant plays, norustic stage and drama, few songs, very little music. The club dinner isthe real fête of the labourer; he gets plenty to eat and drink for thatday. It is this lack of poetical feeling that makes the Englishpeasantry so uninteresting a study. They have no appreciation of beauty. Many of them, it is true, grow quantities of flowers; but barely one ina thousand could arrange those flowers in a bouquet. 

The alehouse forms no inconsiderable part of the labourer's life. It isat once his stock exchange, his reading-room, his club, and his assemblyrooms. It is here that his benefit society holds its annual dinner. Theclub meetings take place weekly or monthly in the great room upstairs. Here he learns the news of the day; the local papers are always to befound at the public-house, and if he cannot read himself he hears thenews from those who can. In the winter he finds heat and light, toooften lacking at home; at all times he finds amusement; and who canblame him for seizing what little pleasure lies in his way? As a rulethe beerhouse is the only place of amusement to which he can resort: itis his theatre, his music-hall, picture-gallery, and Crystal Palace. Therecent enactments bearing upon the licensed victuallers have been ratherhard upon the agricultural labourer. No doubt they are very excellentenactments, especially those relating to early closing; but in thevillages and outlying rural districts, where life is reduced to its mostrude and simple form, many of the restrictions are unjust, and deprivethe labourer of what he feels to be his legitimate right. Playing atnine-pins, for instance, is practically forbidden, so also dominoes. Now, it was a great thing to put down skittle-sharping and cheating atgambling generally--a good thing to discourage gambling in everyform--but in these thinly-populated outlying agricultural parishes, where money is scarce and wages low, there never existed any temptationto allure skittle-sharpers and similar cheaters to the spot. The game atskittles was a legitimate game--a fair and honest struggle of skill andstrength. Nine times out of ten it was played only for a quart of ale, to be drunk by the loser as well as the winner in good fellowship. Whydeprive the man who labours all day in wet and storm of so simple apleasure in the evening? The conditions are very different to thoseexisting in large manufacturing towns, and some modification of the lawought to be made. The agricultural labourer has no cheap theatre atwhich he can spend an hour, no music-hall, no reading-room; his onlyresource is the public-house. Now that he is practically deprived of hisskittles and such games, he has no amusement left except to drink, orplay at pitch and toss on the quiet, a far worse pastime than skittles. Skittles, of course, are allowed provided the players play for loveonly; but what public-house keeper cares to put up the necessaryarrangements on such terms? The labourer will have his quart in theevening, and, despite of all "cry" to the contrary, I believe it to behis right to have that quart; and it is better, if he must have it, thathis whole thoughts should not be concentrated on the liquor--that heshould earn it by skill and strength. There is an opprobrium about thepublic-house, and let us grant that it is at least partiallydeserved--but where else is the labourer to go? He cannot for ever workall day and sit in his narrow cabin in the evening. He cannot alwaysread, and those of his class who do read do so imperfectly. Areading-room has been tried, but as a rule it fails to attract the_purely agricultural labourer_. The shoemaker, the tailor, the villagepost-master, grocer, and such people may use it; also a few of thebetter-educated of the young labourers, the rising generation; but notthe full-grown labourer with a wife and family and cottage. It does goodundoubtedly; in the future, as education extends, it will become a placeof resort. But at present it fails to reach the adult genuineagricultural labourer. For a short period in the dead of the winter thefarmers and gentry get up penny readings in many places, but these areconfined to at most one evening a week. What, then, is the labourer todo? Let any one put himself in his place, try to realise his feelingsand circumstances. At present, till education extends, he must go to thepublic-house. Is he to be punished and deprived of his game of skillbecause in large towns it bears evil fruit? Surely the law could besomewhat modified, and playing permitted under some restrictions. 

The early closing has been an unalloyed good in these rural districts. The labourer is a steady drinker. He does not toss down glasses of stiffbrandy and whisky. His beer requires time to produce an effect. The lasthour does the mischief. Since the earlier closing the village streetshave been comparatively free from drunken men. In any case, theagricultural labourer is the most lamb-like of drunkards. He interfereswith no one. He unhinges no gates, smashes no windows, does no injury. He either staggers home or quietly lies on the grass till the liquorpasses off. He is not a quarrelsome man. He does not fight withknuckle-dusters or kick with his heavy boots. His fights, when he doesfight, are very harmless affairs. No doubt his drunkenness is anoffence; but it is comparatively innocuous to the general public. 

Religious feeling does not run high among the labourers. A largeproportion of them are Nonconformists--principally Methodists. But thisis not out of any very decided notion as to the difference of ceremonyor theological dogma; it arises out of a class feeling. They say, orrather they feel, that this is _their_ church. The parish church is thechurch of the farmers and the gentry. There is no hostility to theclergyman of the parish, no bitter warfare of sect against sect, or ofMethodist against Churchman. But you see very few of the farmers go tochapel. The labourer goes there, and finds his own friends--his cousinsand uncles--his wife's relations. He is among his own class. There is nofeeling of inferiority. The religion taught, the service, the hymns, thepreacher, all are his. He has a sense of proprietorship in them. Hehelps to pay for them. The French peasant replied to the Englishtourist, who expressed surprise at the fanatic love of the populace forthe first Napoleon--"he was as much a tyrant as King Louis was. " "Ah, but Napoleon was _our_ king. " So the labourers feel that this is theirreligion. Therefore it is that so many of them gather together (wherethere are no chapels) in the cottage of some man who takes the lead, andsit, with doors and windows shut, crammed together to pray and listen toothers pray. Any of them who wishes can, as it were, ascend the pulpithere. This is why in so many parishes the pews of the parish church arecomparatively empty so far as agricultural labourers are concerned. Thebest of clergymen must fail to fill them under such disadvantages. 

It is very difficult not only for the clergyman, but for others who wishto improve the condition of the labourer, to reach him. Better cottagesare, of course, a most effectual way, but it is not in the power ofevery one to confer so substantial a benefit. Perhaps one of the bestmeans devised has been that of cottage flower-shows. These are, ofcourse, not confined to flowers; in fact, the principal part of suchshows consists of table vegetables and fruit. By rigidly excluding allgardeners, and all persons not strictly cottage people, the very bestresults have often been arrived at in this way. For if there is onething in which the labourer takes an interest it is his garden and hisallotment. To offer him prizes for the finest productions of his gardentouches the most sensitive part of his moral organisation. It iswonderful what an amount of emulation these prizes excite--emulation notso much for the value of the prize as for the distinction. Thesecompetitions tend besides to provide him with a better class of food, for he depends largely upon vegetables. 

There is nothing connected with the condition of the agricultural poorthat is better worth the attention of improvers than the style ofcookery pursued in these cottages. A more wretched cookery probably doesnot exist on the face of the earth. The soddened cabbage is typical ofthe whole thing. Since higher wages have come in it has become possiblefor the labourer in many cases to provide himself with better food, suchas mutton--the cheap parts--more bacon, pork, and so on; but the womendo not know how to make the most of it. It is very difficult to lay downa way in which this defect may be remedied; for there is nothing a man, let him be never so poor, so deeply resents as an inspection of thecontents of his pot. He would sooner eat half-raw bacon than have theteaching forced on him--how to make savoury meals of the simpleprovisions within his reach; nor can he be blamed for this sturdyindependent feeling. Possibly the establishment of schools of cookery invillages might do much good. They might be attached to the new schoolsnow building throughout the country. The labourer, from so long livingupon coarse, ill-cooked food, acquires an artificial taste. Some men eattheir bacon raw; others will drink large quantities of vinegar, and wellthey may need it to correct by its acidity the effects of strongunwholesome cabbage. The cottage cook has no idea of those nutritiousand pleasant soups which can be made to form so important a feature inthe economy of daily life. 

The labourer is in a lower degree of the same class as the third-rateworking farmer of the past. He is the old small dairy farmer in acoarser shape. With a little less education, ruder manners, with theinstincts of eating, drinking, and avarice more prominently displayed, he presents in his actual condition at this day a striking analogy tothe agriculturist of a bygone time. In fact, those farmers of twenty orthirty acres, living in cottage-like homesteads, were barelydistinguishable as far as _personnel_ went from the labourers among whomthey lived. This being the case, it is not surprising to find that thelabourer of this day presents in general characteristics a markedaffinity in ideas and sentiments to those entertained by the oldfarmer. He has the same paternal creed in a more primeval form. Heconsiders his children as his absolute property. He rules them with arod of iron, or rather of ground-ash. In fact, the ground-ash stick ishis social religion. The agricultural labouring poor are very rough andeven brutal towards their children. Not that they are without affectiontowards them, but they are used to thrash them into obedience instead ofleading them into it by the gentle means of moral persuasion. 

Bystanders would call the agricultural labourer cruel. Carters, forinstance, had till lately a habit of knocking the boys under theircontrol about in a brutal manner. But I do not think that in the mass ofcases it arose from deliberate cruelty, but from a species of stolidindifference or insensibility to suffering. Somehow they do not seem tounderstand that others suffer, whether this arises from the rough lifethey lead, the endless battle with the weather, the hard fare--whetherit has grown up out of the circumstances surrounding them. The sameunfeeling brutality often extends to the cattle under their care. Inthis there has been a decided improvement of late years; but it is notyet extinct. 

These are some of the lights and shades of the labourer's daily lifeimpartially presented. 

_FIELD-FARING WOMEN. _

If a thoughtful English peasant-woman rejoiced that in her house a sonwas born, it would be, not because "she had gotten a man from the Lord, "but a thanksgiving that it was not a girl. That most naturalthanksgiving of the Hebrew woman is too rarely heard in the ruralcottage, situated though it may be in the midst of meadows and fieldsabounding with the fat of the earth. The fact that a fresh being hasentered upon life, with all its glorious possibilities, is not a subjectfor joy. 

"Well, John, " the farmer says to his man, "your wife has been confined, hasn't she? How's the young one?"

"Aw, sir, a' be main weak and pickèd, an' like _to go back_--thank God!"replies the labourer with intense satisfaction, especially if he has twoor three children already. "Pickèd" means thin, sharp-featured, wasted, emaciated. "To go back" is to die. The man does not like to say "die, "therefore he puts it "to go back"--_i. E. _, whence it came; from theunknown. Yet, with all this hard indifference, the labourer is as fondof his children as any one else. The "ego" that utters those apparentlyheartless words is not the real man, it is the "ego" produced by longexperience of the hardships of poverty; of coarse fare, rude labour, exposure. After all, it is in a spirit of tenderness towards the infantthat the parent half desires it to die. The real "ego, " the true man, delights as all humanity does in watching the growth of the tiny limbs, the expansion of the instincts into mind, and the first employment ofthat mind. He feels as Marguerite in _Faust_ felt, tending thebabe--"the holiest of all joys. " But life is very, very hard, andcircumstances push him out of himself. Still more do these hardshipstell upon his wife; and so it is, knowing what her sex have to gothrough, that she welcomes a boy more than a girl. An aged agriculturalwoman said she would sooner have seven boys than one girl; for theformer, when they became lads, went out and earned their own living, but the girls you never knew when they were got rid of--they were alwayscoming back. This expressed the practical view of the matter. Butsupposing that the child should prove a girl; it must not be imaginedthat it receives any ruder treatment in mere infancy than a boy wouldhave had. In early infancy children have no sex. But the poor mother hasher trials. Though in the midst of a country teeming with milk, it isoften with the utmost difficulty that she can obtain any for her babe, if Nature shall have rendered her dependent upon artificial supply. Thishas become especially the case of late years, now that so much milk issent to London, instead of being retained in the dairy for themanufacture of butter and cheese. So that it actually happens that thepoor mother in the courts of the metropolis can obtain milk easier thanher far-away sister in those fabulous fields which the city woman hasnever seen, and, perhaps, never will. Often in arable districts thereare scarcely any cows kept. No one cares to retail a pennyworth of milk. It is only by favour, through the interest taken by some farmer's wife, that it can be got. 

Very few agricultural women have a medical man present at theirconfinement; they usually entrust themselves to the care of some villagenurse, who has a reputation for skill in such matters, but noscientifically acquired knowledge--who proceeds by rule of thumb. Thedoctor--almost always the parish doctor, though sometimes the clubofficer--is not called in till after the delivery. The poor woman willfrequently come downstairs on the fourth day; and it is to thisdisregard of proper precautions that the distortions of figure and manyof the illnesses of poor agricultural women are attributable. Nothingbut the severe training they have gone through from childhoodupwards--the exposure to all kinds of weather--the life in the open air, the physical strength induced by labour, can enable them to support thestrain upon the frame caused by so quickly endeavouring to resume theirhousehold duties. It is probably this reserve of strength which enablesthem to recover from so serious a matter so quickly. Certain it is thatvery few die from confinement; and yet, from the point of view of themiddle class of society, almost every precaution and every luxury bythem deemed necessary is omitted. Of course, in some instances, agricultural women whose husbands have, perhaps, worked for one masterfrom boyhood, receive much more attention than here indicated--wines, jellies, meat, and so on--but the majority have to rely upon the tendermercies of the parish. It has been often remarked that the labourer, lethim be in receipt of what wages he will, makes no provision for this, the most serious and interesting of all domestic events. Though it canbe foreseen for months, he does not save a single sovereign. He does notconsider it in the least shameful to receive parish relief on theseoccasions; he leaves his partner entirely to the mercy of strangers, andwere it not for the clergyman's wife, she would frequently be withoutsympathy. There are no matters in which so much practical good isaccomplished by the wives of the rural clergy as in these confinementsof the poor women in their parishes. It is a matter peculiarly withintheir sphere, and, to their honour be it spoken, one which they carryout to the utmost of their ability. 

A cottage is at best a wretched place to be ill in. It is a marvel howmany poor women escape at all, from the close atmosphere of thelow-pitched holes in which they are confined. It is a wonder that, amongthe many schemes of philanthropy which have attracted attention of lateyears, something has not been done for these poor creatures. Why shouldnot every large village or cluster of villages--there are often three orfour within a mile or two--have their lying-in hospitals, on the cottagehospital system? Scarcely any parish but has its so-calledcharities--money left by misguided but benevolent persons, for thepurpose of annual distribution in small doles of groats, or loaves, orblankets. Often there is a piece of land called "Poor's Mead, " or somesimilar name, which has been devised like this, the annual rent from itto be applied for the poor. As it is, the benefit from these charitiesis problematical. If they were combined, and the aggregate funds appliedto maintain a lying-in hospital for the district, a real and efficientgood would be arrived at. But of all places, villages are neglected. Letit be drainage, water supply, allotments--anything and everything--thevillages go on as they may, the fault being the absence of localauthority. There are plenty of gentlemen ready and willing to take partin and advance such schemes, but there is no combination. Spontaneouscombination is uncertain in its operation. If there were some system ofvillage self-government, these wants would be soon supplied. It is truethat there is the Union Workhouse. A poor woman can go to the workhouse;but is it right, is it desirable from any point of view, that decentwomen should be driven to the workhouse at such times? As a matter offact, it is only the unfortunates who have illegitimate children thatuse the workhouse lying-in wards. Such an institution as has beensuggested would be gladly welcomed by the agricultural poor. Mostcottages have but two bedrooms, some only one; a better class of cottageis now being gradually erected with three, but even in these the thirdis very small. Now, take the case of a labouring man with seven or eightchildren, and living in a cottage with two bedrooms, and whose wife isconfined; and let it be remembered that large families are commonamongst this class. The wife must certainly have one room to herself andher attendant. The father, then, and his children must crowd into theother, or sleep as they can on the ground-floor. In the case of nearlygrown-up children the overcrowding is a serious matter. The reliefafforded by a lying-in hospital would be immense; and the poor womanherself would be restored to her family with her health firmlyre-established, whereas now she often lingers in a sickly state formonths. 

In the soft, warm summer-time, when the midsummer hum of the myriads ofinsects in the air sheds a drowsy harmony over the tree-tops, thefield-faring woman goes out to haymaking, and leaves her baby in theshade by the hedge-side. A wooden sheepcage, turned upside down andfilled with new-made hay, forms not at all a despicable cradle; and herethe little thing lies on its back and inhales the fresh pure air, andfeels the warmth of the genial sun, cheered from time to time by visitsfrom its busy mother. Perhaps this is the only true poetry of thehayfield, so much talked of and praised. The mother works with her rake, or with a shorter, smaller prong; and if it is a large farm, the womenare kept as much as possible together, for their strength and skillwill not allow them to work at the same pace as the men, and if theywork in company the one hinders the other. A man can do the work of twowomen, and do it better in every way, besides being capable of theheavier tasks of pitching, cock-making, &c. , which the women cannotmanage. Before the haymaking machines and horse-rakes came into vogue, it was not uncommon to see as many as twenty women following each otherin _échelon_, turning a "wallow, " or shaking up the green swathes leftby the mowers. Farmers were obliged to employ them, but were neversatisfied with their work, which was the dearest they paid for. Somehow, there was no finish to it. Large numbers of women still work in thehayfield, but they are not used in gangs so much as formerly, butdistributed about to do light jobs for which a man cannot be spared, andin these they are useful. The pay used to be tenpence a day; now it isone shilling and a pint of beer per day, and in some placesfifteenpence. The Arcadian innocence of the hayfield, sung by the poets, is the most barefaced fiction; for those times are the rural saturnalia, and the broadest and coarsest of jokes and insinuations are freelycirculated; nor does it always stop at language only, provided themaster be out of sight. Matrons and young girls alike come in for anequal share of this rude treatment, and are quite a match for the men inthe force of compliment. The women leave work an hour or so before themen, except when there is a press, and the farmer is anxious to get inthe hay before a storm comes. It is not that the hayfield itselforiginates this coarseness but this is almost the only time of the yearwhen the labouring classes work together in large numbers. A great dealof farm-work is comparatively solitary; in harvest droves of people arecollected together, and the inherent vulgarity comes out more strongly. At the wheat-harvest the women go reaping, and exceedingly hard theywork at it. There is no harder work done under the sun than reaping, ifit is well followed up. From earliest dawn to latest night they swingthe sickles, staying with their husbands, and brothers, and friends, till the moon silvers the yellow corn. The reason is because reaping ispiece-work, and not paid by the day, so that the longer and the harderthey work the more money is earned. In this a man's whole family canassist. His wife, his grown-up sons and daughters cut the corn, theyounger ones can carry it and aid in various ways. 

It is wonderful how the men stand the excessive and continuous labour;it is still more wonderful how the women endure it, trying as it is tothe back. It is the hottest season of the year--the early autumn; thesun burns and scorches, and the warm wind gives no relief; even theevenings are close and sultry. The heated earth reflects the rays, andthe straw is dry and warm to the touch. The standing corn, nearly ashigh as the reaper, keeps off the breeze, if there is any, from herbrow. Grasping the straw continuously cuts and wounds the hand, and evengloves will hardly give perfect protection. The woman's bare neck isturned to the colour of tan; her thin muscular arms bronze right up tothe shoulder. Short time is allowed for refreshment; right through thehottest part of the day they labour. It is remarkable that none, or veryfew, cases of sunstroke occur. Cases of vertigo and vomiting arefrequent, but pass off in a few hours. Large quantities of liquor aretaken to sustain the frame weakened by perspiration. 

When night does arrive, even then the task is not over, for they have tocarry home on their heads the bundle of wheat gleaned by the smallerchildren, and perhaps walk two miles to the cottage. This is indeed workfor a woman still suckling her child. It is not easy to calculate what awoman earns at such seasons, because they rarely work on their ownaccount: either the father or the husband receives the wages in a lumpwith his own; but it cannot be much less than that earned by a man; forat these times they work with a will, and they do not at the haymaking. While reaping the baby is nestled down on a heap of coats or shawlsunder the shelter of the shocks of corn, which form a little hut for it, and, as in the hayfield, is watched by one of the children. Often threeor four women will place their babies close together, and leave onegreat girl in charge of the whole, which is an economy, releasing otherchildren for work; for the hayfield and the corn-harvest are thelabourer's gold-mine. There is not so much rough joking in thecorn-field; they do not work so close together, and the husband orfather is near at hand; neither is there time nor inclination in themidst of such severe labour, to which haymaking is play. 

Harvest-homes are going out of fashion. After one of these feasts therewas often much that was objectionable; and, wherever possible, farmershave abolished them, giving a small sum of money instead; but in placesthe labourers grumble greatly at the change, preferring the bacon andthe beer, and the unrestrained license. It is noticeable how the womenmust have their tea. If it is far from home, the children collectsticks, and a fire is made in a corner of the field, and the kettleboiled; and about four o'clock they take a cup in company--always weaktea, with a little brown sugar and no milk, and usually small pieces ofbread sopped in it, especially by the elder women. Tea is largely usedby the agricultural labourers, though it does not by any means preventthem from indulging in beer. Snuff is not taken by the women half somuch as formerly, though some of the old ones are very fond of it. 

As soon as ever the child is old enough to crawl about, it is sure toget out into the road and roll in the dust. It is a curious fact thatthe agricultural children, with every advantage of green fields and wideopen downs, always choose the dusty hard road to play in. They are freeto wander as they list over mead and leaze, and pluck the flowers out ofthe hedges, and idle by the brooks, all the year round, the latter partof the spring, when the grass is nearly fit for mowing, only excepted. Yet, excepting a few of the elder boys birdnesting, it is the rarestthing to meet a troop of children in the fields; but there they are inthe road, the younger ones sprawling in the dust, their naked limbskicking it up in clouds, and the bigger boys clambering about in thehedge-mound bounding the road, making gaps, splashing in the dirty waterof the ditches. Hardy young dogs one and all. Their food is of therudest and scantiest, chiefly weak tea, without milk, sweetened withmoist sugar, and hunches of dry bread, sometimes with a little lard, or, for a treat, with treacle. Butter is scarcely ever used in theagricultural labourer's cottage. It is too dear by far, and if he doesbuy fats, he believes in the fats expressed from meats, and prefers lardor dripping. Children are frequently fed with bread and cheap sugarspread on it. This is much cheaper than butter. Sometimes they get a bitof cheese or bacon, but not often, and a good deal of strong cabbage, soddened with pot-liquor. The elder boys get a little beer; the younggirls none, save perhaps a sip from their mother's pint, in summer. Thisis what they have to build up a frame on capable of sustaining heat andcold, exposure, and a life of endless labour. The boys it seems to suit, for they are generally tolerably plump, though always very short fortheir age. Frequently teams of powerful horses drawing immense loads ofhay or straw may be seen on the highway, in the charge of a boy who doesnot look ten years old judged by the town standard, but who is reallyfifteen. These short, broad, stout lads, look able to stand anything, and in point of fact do stand it, from the kick of a carter's heavy bootto the long and bitter winter. If it is wished to breed up a race of menliterally "hard as nails, " no better process could be devised; but, looked at from a mental and moral point of view, there may be adifference of opinion. 

The girls do not appear to thrive so well upon this dietary. They are astall as the boys, taller if anything considering the ages, but thin andskinny, angular and bony. At seven or eight years old the girl's labourbegins. Before that she has been set to mind the baby, or watch the pot, and to scour about the hedges for sticks for the fire. Now she has notonly to mind the baby, but to nurse it; she carries it about with her inher arms; and really the infant looks almost as large as herself, andits weight compels her to lean backwards. She is left at home all day incharge of the baby, the younger children, and the cottage. Perhaps alittle bread is left for them to eat, but they get nothing more till themother returns about half-past four, when, woe be to the girl if thefire is not lit, and the kettle on. The girl has to fetch thewater--often a hard and tedious task, for many villages have a mostimperfect supply, and you may see the ditches by the roadside dammed upto yield a little dirty water. She may have to walk half-a-mile to thebrook, and then carry the bucket home as best she may, and repeat theoperation till sufficient has been acquired; and when her mother iswashing, or, still worse, is a washerwoman by profession, this is herweary trudge all day. Of course there are villages where water is athand, and sometimes too much of it. I know a large village where thebrook runs beside the highway, and you have to pass over a "drock, " orsmall bridge, to get to each of the cottages; but such instances arerare. The girl has also to walk into the adjacent town and bring backthe bread, particularly if her mother happens to be receiving parishpay. A little older--at ten or eleven, or twelve--still more skinny andbony now as a rule, she follows her mother to the fields, and learns topick up stones from the young mowing grass, and place them in heaps tobe carted away to mend drinking places for cattle. She learns to beatclots and spread them with a small prong; she works in the hayfield, andgleans at the corn-harvest. Gleaning--poetical gleaning--is the mostunpleasant and uncomfortable of labour, tedious, slow, back-aching work;picking up ear by ear the dropped wheat, searching among the pricklystubble. 

Notwithstanding all her labour, and the hardship she has toendure--coarse fare, and churlish treatment at the hands of those whoshould love her most--the little agricultural girl still retains some ofthat natural inclination towards the pretty and romantic inherent in thesex. In the spring she makes daisy chains, and winds them round thebaby's neck; or with the stalks of the dandelion makes a chain severalfeet in length. She plucks great bunches of the beautiful bluebell, andof the purple orchis of the meadow; gathers heaps of the cowslip, andafter playing with them a little while, they are left to wither in thedust by the roadside, while she is sent two or three miles with herfather's dinner. She chants snatches of rural songs, and sometimes threeor four together, joining hands, dance slowly round and round, singingslowly rude rhymes describing marriage--and not over decent some ofthese rhymes are. She has no toys--not one in twenty such girls everhave a doll; or, if they do, it is but some stick dressed in a rag. Poorthings! they need no artificial dolls; so soon as ever they can liftit, they are trusted with the real baby. Her parents probably do notmean to be unkind, and use makes this treatment bearable, but to anoutsider it seems unnecessarily rough, and even brutal. Her mothershouts at her in a shrill treble perpetually; her father enforces hisorders with a harsh oath and a slap. 

The pressure of hard circumstances, the endless battle with poverty, render men and women both callous to others' feelings, and particularlystrict to those over whom they possess unlimited authority. But thelabourer must not be judged too harshly: there is a scale in thesematters; a proportion as in everything else; an oath from him, and evena slap on the ear, is really the counterpart of the frown and emphasisedwords of a father in a more fortunate class of life; and the children donot feel it, or think it exceptionally cruel, as the children of aricher man would. Undoubtedly, however, it does lessen the bond betweenchild and parent. There is little filial affection among thesecottagers--how should there be? The boy is driven away from home asearly as possible; the girl is made day by day to feel her fault inbeing a girl; to neither can the poor man give any small present, or anyoccasional treat. What love there is lasts longest between the motherand her daughter. The only way in which a labourer exhibits hisaffection is when another labourer in authority, as a carter, ill-treatshis boy--a too common case--and then he speaks loudly, and veryproperly. But even in most serious matters there is a strangecallousness. I have known instances in which a father, aware that acriminal assault has been attempted by another labourer upon a tenderchild of twelve, has refused to prosecute, and the brutal offender wouldhave escaped without the slightest punishment had not the clergymanheard of the story. 

The slow years roll by--they are indeed slow in an agriculturalvillage--and the girl, now fifteen, has to go regularly to work in thefields; that is, if the family be not meantime largely increased. Shehas in this latter case plenty of work at home to assist her mother. Cottagers are not over-clean, but they are not wilfully dirty in theirhouses; and with a large family there is much washing and other domesticmatters to attend to, which the mother, now fast growing feeble, cannotget through herself. In harvest the women get up at four or earlier, anddo their household work before starting for the fields. But, perhaps, bythis time another girl has grown up sufficiently to nurse baby, mind theyoung ones, and do slave's work generally. Then the elder daughter goesto the fields daily when there is work to be had. In arable districtsthe women do much work, picking couch grass--a tedious operation--andhoeing. They never or rarely milk now. In the dead of winter there isnothing for women to do. At this age--fifteen or sixteen--the girlperhaps goes out to service at some farmhouse. If she is fortunateenough to enter the house of one of the modern class of farmers, it is alucky day for her when she begins indoor labour. It is to be feared thatthe life of a girl of this kind in the old time, and not so long ago, inthe houses of the poorer order of farmers, was a rough one indeed. Butmuch of that is past, never to return, and our business is with thepresent. Where they have a dairy she has to clean the buckets andmilk-cans and other utensils, to help turn the cheeses, and assist thedairymaid (a most important personage this last) in all kinds of ways. The work is coarse and rude, but it only lasts a portion of the day, andshe has regular and ample meals. The bacon and cheese soon begin to tellupon her. The angular bones disappear, the skinny arms grow round, andpresently enormously fat--not much the prettier, perhaps, but far morepleasant to look at. Her face loses the pinched expression; her cheeksbecome full, and round, and rosy; in every way her physical frameimproves. It is wonderful what a difference a few months in a goodfarmhouse makes to a girl of this kind. She soon begins to dress better, not from her wages, for these are small enough, and may commence as lowas £4; but her mistress gives her many things, and, if she is a goodgirl, buys her a dress now and then; and with the shilling or two sheasks in advance, she purchases cheap ornaments of the pedlar at thedoor. Her life is low enough socially--it is almost an annual round ofworking, eating, and sleeping (no one sleeps like a farm-wench); but itis an infinite improvement upon the struggle for existence at thecottage. She has no trouble, no thought, no care now. Her mistress maysnap occasionally, her master may grumble, and the dairymaid may snarl;but there are no slaps on the ear, no kicks, no going to bed supperless. In summer she goes out in the afternoon haymaking as an extra hand, butonly works a few hours, and it is really only a relaxation. She picks upsome knowledge of cooking, learns how to make herself useful in thehouse, and in the course of a year or two, if moderately sharp, iscapable of rising a degree, and obtaining a better salary as amaid-servant, having nothing to do with a dairy. The four or five poundswith which she commences may seem a very low sum, but the state of herdomestic education at the time must be taken into consideration. She hasto learn everything. All the years spent in working in the cottage athome have to be unlearnt--all the old habits replaced by new ones. Afterthe first year or so her value rises considerably; she may continue inthe house at a higher salary, or go into the town as maid-servant in atradesman's family. A large proportion of servant-girls thus find theirway from the country into the town. With these we have nothing furtherto do--they are no longer field-farers. A few after several years learnthe art and mystery of butter and cheese, and become dairymaids; andthen, if they are clever, earn good wages--indeed, fabulous prices areasked by them. There are not, however, so many dairymaids as formerly, for the small dairies are getting amalgamated and made into larger ones, and then the farmer, if he makes butter and cheese, employs a dairymanin preference. This rise to be maid-servant, or to be dairymaid, is thebright side of the girl's career. There are darker shades which must bementioned. 

The overcrowding in cottages leads to what may be called an indifferenceto decency. It is not that in families decency is wantonly and of a setpurpose disregarded, but stern necessity leads to a coarseness andindelicacy which hardens the mind and deadens the natural modesty evenof the best girls. Then the low scandals of the village talked over fromcottage to cottage, the rude jokes of the hayfield, the generallooseness and indifference which prevail as to morality, all prepare thegirl for the too common fall. If she remains at home and works in thefields after the age of fifteen, unless uncommonly strong-minded, it isan open question whether she will or will not succumb. If she goes intoa farmhouse as servant, the chances are in favour of her escapingtemptation. But in farmhouses she may also sometimes run into the veryjaws of danger. It is not uncommon in some districts for young labourersto sleep in the house, one or two who milk and have to be on the spotearly. These take their supper in the kitchen or the brewhouse, and, despite the strictest precautions on the part of the mistress, enjoyplenty of opportunities for flirting with the girl. Young, full ofanimal spirits, giddy and ignorant, she thinks no harm of a romp, andfinally falls, and has to leave her service. If a little may be said infavour of the poor girls, not a word can be said in favour of theagricultural men, who are immoral almost without exception, and willremain so until a better-educated generation with more self-respectarises. The number of poor girls, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, inagricultural parishes who have illegitimate offspring is extremelylarge, and is illustrated by the fact that, out of the marriages thattake place--and agricultural poor are a marrying class--scarcely anyoccur until the condition of the girl is too manifest to be any longerconcealed. Instances could be mentioned where the clergyman's wife, witha view to check the immorality around her, has offered a reward of apiece of furniture to the first married woman who does not bear a childtill nine months after marriage; the custom being within three months. The frequency of the appeals to the petty sessions in rural districtsfor orders of contribution, by young unmarried girls, also illustratesthe prevalent immorality. Of late the magistrates have taken the line ofordering contributions on a higher scale, on the grounds that thelabourer earns larger wages, and that the cost of living has risen, andalso as a check upon the men. This well-intentioned step has had theprecisely opposite effect to what was wished. The labourer with higherwages feels the demand upon his pocket but very little more. The cost ofliving in rural outlying districts has risen only to a very triflingdegree--barely perceptibly, in fact. Bread is cheap--that is thestaple--rents are the same, and there are more allotments than ever, making vegetables more easy to obtain. The result, therefore, is this, that the girl feels she can sin with comparative immunity. She is almostsure to get her order (very few such appeals are refused); let this besupplemented with some aid from the parish, and she is none the worseoff than before, for there is no prejudice against employing her in thefields. Should her fall take place with some young farmer's son fromwhom she may get a larger contribution in private, or by order of themagistrates, she is really and truly in a pecuniary sense better offthan she was before, for she has a certain fixed income. The evil isaggravated by the new law, which enables the order to be extended over alonger term of years than formerly, so that for fifteen years is acommon thing. If it is decided to recognise immorality, and to provideagainst the woman being unduly injured by it, then these orders arecertainly the correct procedure; but if it is desired to suppress it, then they are a total failure. The girl who has had an illegitimatechild is thought very little the worse of by her friends and her ownclass, especially if her seducer is a man who can afford to pay forit--that is the grand point. If she is fool enough to yield to a man whois badly off, she may be jeered at as a fool, but rarely reprimanded asa sinner, not even by her own mother. Such things are not looked upon bythe rural poor as sins, but as accidents of their condition. 

It is easy to be hard upon the poor girls, but consider their training. Many of them cannot read or write; how many even can sew well? Thecottage girl is always a poor hand at her needle, and has to be taughtby the elder servants when she first goes into her place. Accustomedfrom childhood to what would be considered abominable indecency in ahigher class of life; constantly hearing phrases which it is impossibleto allude to; running wild about the lanes and fields with stalwartyoung men coarser and ruder than those at home; seeing other girls nonethe worse off, and commiserated with rather than condemned, what wonderis it if the natural result takes place? The fairs have been creditedwith much of the mischief, and undoubtedly they are productive of evil;but if they were abolished, the average would in all probability remainabout the same. The evil is inherent, and does not depend uponcircumstances. It is the outcome of a long series of generations; itcannot be overcome in a decade. Education will do much, but not all. Youth is always led by the tone of the elder people. Until the tone ofthe parent is improved, the conduct of the young will remain much thesame. The more distant a parish from a town, the more outlying andstrictly agricultural, and therefore stagnant, the greater theimmorality. It is the one blot upon the character of the agriculturalpoor. They are not thieves, they are not drunkards; if they do drinkthey are harmless, and it evaporates in shouting and slang. They are notriotous; but the immorality cannot be gainsaid. No specific cure forthis state of things can be devised: it must slowly work itself outunder the gradual pressure of an advancing social state. It will beslow; for, up to the present, the woman has had but a small share of thebenefit that has befallen the labourer through higher wages. If higherwages mainly go for drink, the wife at home is not much the better. Thewomen say themselves they are no better off. 

If the girl at eighteen or twenty--in most agricultural marriages thegirls are very young--is fortunate enough to have placed her faith in aman who redeems his word, then comes the difficulty of the cottage andthe furniture to fill it. Cottages are often difficult to find, especially anywhere near a man's work, which is the great object. Thefurniture required is not much, but there must be some. The labourerdoes not deal much with the town furniture-dealer. A great deal of thefurniture in cottages has been picked up at the sales of farmers onquitting their tenancies. Such are the old chairs, the formal sideboardsand eight-day clocks standing in tall, square oaken cases by thestaircase in the cottage. Such, too, are the great wooden bedsteads ofoak or maple upstairs; and from the same source come the really goodfeather-beds and blankets. The women--especially the elder women--go togreat trouble, and pinch themselves, to find a way of purchasing a goodbed, and set no small pride upon it. These old oaken bedsteads, andsideboards, and chairs have perhaps been in the farmhouse for three orfour generations, and are at last sold because the final representativeof the family is imbued with modern ideas, and quits farming for trade. The cottagers always attend sales like this, and occasionally get holdof good bargains, and so it is that really good substantial furnituremay often be found in the possession of the better class of labourers. The old people accumulate these things, and when their sons or daughtersmarry, can generally spare a few chairs, a bedstead and bed, and with alittle crockery from other relations, and a few utensils bought in theadjacent town, the cottage is furnished sufficiently well for a couplewhose habits are necessarily simple. After marriage the hard work of thewoman's life really begins--work compared with which her earlyexperience at home is nothing; and many, if they have left situations infarmhouses, deeply regret the change. The labourer can hardly beexpected to feel the more exalted sentiments; and if in the upperclasses even it is said that romance ends with marriage, it is doubly, literally true of the agricultural poor. In addition to her householdwork, she has to labour in the fields, or to wash--perhaps worse thanthe former alternative; and after a while her husband, too commonlywearying of his home, in which he finds nothing but a tired woman andtroublesome children, leaves her for the public-house, and consumestwo-thirds of their slender income in beer. The attachment of the womanfor her husband lasts longer than that of the man for the woman. Evenwhen he has become a confirmed drunkard, and her life with incessantlabour has become a burden to her, she will struggle on, striving to getbread for the children and the rent for the landlord. She knows that asevening comes on, instead of sitting down to rest, her duty will be togo down to the public-house and wait till it pleases her lord and masterto try to stagger home, and then to guide his clumsy steps to thethreshold. Of course there are wives who become as bad as theirhusbands, who drink, or do worse, and neglect their homes, but they arethe exception. As a rule, the woman, once married, does her best to keepher home together. 

The wife of the labourer does not get her shins smashed with heavy kicksfrom hobnailed boots, such as the Lancashire ruffians administer; but, although serious wife-beating cases are infrequent, there are few womenwho escape an occasional blow from their husbands. Most of them get amoderate amount of thrashing in the course of their lives, and take itmuch as they take the hardships and poverty of their condition, as anecessity not to be escaped. The labourer is not downright brutal to hiswife, but he certainly thinks he has a right to chastise her when shedispleases him. Once in authority, the labourer is stern, hard, andinconsiderate of the feelings of others, and he is in authority in hisown cottage. The wife has been accustomed to such treatment more or lessfrom her childhood; she has been slapped and banged about at home, andtherefore thinks comparatively little of a blow from her husband's hand. The man does not mean it so brutally as it appears to outsiders. Thissemi-wife-beating is only too prevalent. 

Does the incessant labour undergone by an agricultural woman result inill effects to her physical frame? The day-work in the fields, thehaymaking, and such labour as is paid for by the day and not by thepiece, cannot do any injury, for it is light, and the hours are short. In some districts the women do not come before half-past eight, andleave a little after four, and they have a long hour out for dinner. Itis the piece-work of the corn-harvest that tries the frame, when workbegins at sunrise or shortly after, and lasts till the latest twilight, and when it is work, real muscular strain. This cannot but leave itsmark. Otherwise the field is not injurious to the woman so far as thelabour is concerned, and the exposure is not so great as has beensupposed, because women are scarcely ever expected to work in wetweather. The worst of the exposure is probably endured upon the arablefields in the bitter winds of spring; but this does not last very long. In what way field-labour is degrading to the women it is difficult tounderstand. The only work of a disgusting nature now performed by womenis the beating of clots on pasture-land, and that is quickly over. Afterall, there is nothing so very dreadful in it. Stone-picking, couch-clearing, hoeing, haymaking, reaping, certainly none of these arein any way disgusting operations. Women do not attend to cattle now. Asto the immorality, undoubtedly a great deal of what is coarse and rudedoes pass upon the hayfield, but the hayfield does not originate it; ifthe same men and women met elsewhere, the same jokes would be utteredand conduct indulged in. The position of agricultural women is a painfulone to contemplate, and their lives full of hardships; but field-labourcannot be fairly accused as the cause of the evils they endure. Theirstrength is overstrained in the cornfield; but what can you do? It istheir gold-mine--their one grand opportunity of getting a little money. It would be cruel kindness to deny it to them; and, in point of fact, except by interfering with the liberty of the subject, it would beimpossible to prevent them. Farm-labour is certainly to be preferred tomuch of the work that women do in manufacturing districts. At leastthere is no overcrowding; there is plenty of fresh air, and the womanwho works in the field looks quite as robust and healthy as her sistersitting all day in a confined factory. 

It used to be common to see women dressed in a kind of smock-frock; thiswas in the days when they milked, and it is still occasionally worn. Nowthey generally wear linsey dresses in the winter, and cotton in thesummer, at prices from 4½d. To 6d. Per yard. They wear boots nailed andtipped much like the men, but not so heavy, and in rough weathercorduroy gaiters. Their cooking is rude and detestable to any one else'sideas; but it appears exactly suited to the coarse tastes and heartyappetite of their husbands. Being uneducated, and a large proportionunable to read, their chief intellectual amusement consists intittle-tattle and gossip. They are generally inclined to be religiousafter a fashion, and frequent the chapel or the cottage in which theitinerant preacher holds forth. In summer this preacher will mount upona waggon placed in a field by the roadside, and draw a large audience, chiefly women, who loudly respond and groan and mutter after the mostapproved manner. Now and then an elderly woman may be found who isconsidered to have a gift of preaching, and holds forth at great length, quoting Scripture right and left. The exhibitions of emotion on the partof the women at such meetings and in the services in their cottages arenot pleasant to listen to, but the impression left on the mind is thatthey are in earnest. 

They are a charitable race, and eager to help each other. They willwatch by the bedsides of their sick neighbours, divide the loaf ofbread, look after the children and trudge weary miles to the town formedicine. On the other hand, they are almost childlike in imbibingjealousies and hatreds, and unsparing in abuse and imputation towards asupposed enemy. They are bolder in speech than their husbands to thosewho occupy higher places in the social scale. It cannot be said thatagricultural women are handsome. In childhood they are too often thinand stunted; later they shoot up and grow taller, but remain thin andbony till from eighteen to twenty, when they get plumper, and then istheir period of prettiness, if at all. Bright eyes, clear complexions, and glossy hair form their attractions, for their features are scarcelyever good. The brief beauty of the prime of youth speedily fades, and atfive-and-twenty the agricultural woman, especially if married, is paleor else burnt by the sun to a brown, with flat chest and roundedshoulders. It is rare indeed to see a woman with any pretensions to whatis called a figure. It would be wonderful if there were, for much of thelabour induces a stooping position, and they are never taught whenyoung to sit upright. 

Growing plainer and plainer as years go by, the elder women are wrinkledand worn-looking, and have contracted a perpetual stoop. Many live to agreat age. In small parishes it is common to find a large number ofwomen of seventy and eighty, and there are few cottages which do notcontain an old woman. This is hardly a result in accordance with thelabour they have undergone. The explanation probably is that, continuedthrough a series of generations, it has produced a strength and staminawhich can survive almost anything. Certain it is that young couplesabout to marry often experience much difficulty in finding cottages, because they are occupied by extremely aged pairs; and landlords, anxious to tear down and remove old cottages tumbling to pieces, arerestrained from doing so out of regard for the aged tenants, who clingwith a species of superstitious tenderness to the crumbling walls anddecayed thatch. At this age, at seventy-five or even eighty, theagricultural woman retains a strength of body astonishing to a town-bredwoman. She will walk eight or ten miles, without apparent fatigue, toand from the nearest town for her provisions. She will almost to thelast carry her prong out into the hayfield, and do a little work in somecorner, and bear her part in the gleaning after the harvest. She livesalmost entirely upon weak tea and bread sops. Her mental powers continuenearly unimpaired, and her eyes are still good, though her teeth havelong gone. She will laugh over memories of practical jokes played atharvest-homes half-a-century ago; and slowly spells over the service ina prayer-book which asks blessings upon a king instead of a queen. Sheoften keeps the village "confectioner's" shop--_i. E. _, a few bottles ofsweets and jumbles in the window, side by side with "twists" of whipcordfor the ploughboys and carters, and perhaps has a license for tobaccoand snuff. 

But long before this age they have in most cases been kept by theparish. The farmers who form the guardians know well the history of thepoor of their parishes, and remembering the long years of hard work, always allow as liberal a relief as they can to these women. Out of alltheir many children and grandchildren, it may happen that one has got onfairly well in life, has a business as a blacksmith, or tinker, orcarpenter, and gives her a shilling or so a week; and a shilling goes along way with a woman who lives upon tea and sops. In their latter daysthese women resemble the pollard oaks, which linger on year after year, and finally fall from sheer decay. 

_AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. _

It is easy to pass along a country road without observing half of thefarmhouses, so many being situated at a distance from the highway, andothers hidden by the thick hedges and the foliage of the trees. This isespecially the case in districts chiefly occupied in pasture farming, meadow land being usually found along the banks of rivers, on broadlevel plains, or in slightly undulating prairie-like country. A splendidbelt of meadows often runs at the base of the chalk hills, where thesprings break out; and it is here that some of the most beautifulpastoral scenery is to be found. 

By the side of the highway there are gates at intervals in theclose-cropped hedge--kept close-cropped by the strict orders of the roadsurveyors--giving access to the green fields through which runs awaggon-track, apparently losing itself in the grass. This track willtake the explorer to a farmhouse. It is not altogether pleasant to driveover in a spring trap, as the wheels jolt in the hard ruts, and thesprings are shaken in the deep furrows, the vehicle going up and downlike a boat upon the waves. Why there should be such furrows in a meadowis a question that naturally arises in the mind. Whether it be mown withthe scythe or the mowing-machine, it is of advantage to have the surfaceof the field as nearly as possible level; and it is therefore mostprobable that these deep furrows had their origin at a period when adifferent state of things prevailed, when the farmer strove to grow asmuch wheat as possible, and devoted every acre that he dared break up tothe plough. Many of these fields were ill adapted for the growth ofcorn, the soil unsuitable and liable to be partially flooded;consequently as soon as the market was opened, and the price of wheatdeclined, so that rapid fortunes could no longer be made by it, thefields were allowed to return to their natural condition. No trouble wastaken to relevel the land, and the furrows remain silent witnesses tothe past. They are useful as drains it is true; but, being so broad, the water only passes off slowly and encourages the rough grass and"bull-polls" to spring up, which are as uneatable by cattle as theAustralian spinifex. 

The waggon-track is not altogether creditable to the farmer, who would, one would have thought, have had a good road up to his house at allevents. It is very wide, and in damp weather every one who drives alongit goes further and further out into the grass to find a firm spot, tillas much space is rendered barren as by one of the great hedges, now soabominated. The expense of laying down stone is considerable in somelocalities where the geological formation does not afford quarries; yeteven then there is a plan, simple in itself, but rarely resorted to, bywhich a great saving in outlay may be effected. Any one who will look ata cart-track will see that there are three parallel marks left by thepassage of the cart upon the ground. The two outside ruts are caused bythe wheels, and between these is a third beaten in by the hoofs of thehorse. The plan consists in placing stone, broken up small, not acrossthe whole width of the track, but in these three ruts only; for it is inthese ruts alone that the wear takes place, and, if the ground werefirm there, no necessity would exist to go farther into the field. To bethoroughly successful, a trench, say six or eight inches wide, and aboutas deep, should be cut in the place of each rut, and these trenchesmacadamised. Grass grows freely in the narrow green strips between theruts, and the track has something of the appearance of a railroad. It isastonishing how long these metals, as it were, will last, when once wellput down; and the track has a neat, effective look. The foot-passengeris as much benefited as the tenant of the field. In wet weather he walksupon the macadamised strip dryshod, and in summer upon either of thegrass strips, easily and comfortably, without going out into themowing-grass to have the pleasure of turf under his feet. 

These deep furrows are also awkward to cross with heavy loads of hay orstraw, and it requires much skill to build a load able to withstand thesevere jolting and lurching. Some of the worst are often filled up witha couple of large faggots in the harvest season. These tracks run by theside of the hedge, and the ditches are crossed by bridges or "drocks. "The last gate opens into a small field surrounded with a high thickhawthorn hedge, itself a thing of beauty in May and June, first with theMay blossom and afterwards with the delicate-tinted dog or wild roses. Aspreading ash-tree stands on either side of the gateway, from which onKing Charles's day the ploughboys carefully select small branches, thosewith the leaves evenly arranged, instead of odd numbers, to place intheir hats. Tall elm-trees grow close together in the hedge and upon the"shore" of the ditch, enclosing the place in a high wall of foliage. Inthe branches are the rooks' nests, built of small twigs apparentlythrown together, and yet so firmly intertwined as to stand the swayingof the tree-tops in the rough blasts of winter. In the spring the rookbuilds a second nest on the floor of the old one, and this continuestill five or six successive layers may be traced; and when at last someruder tempest strews the grass with its ruin, there is enough wood tofill a bushel basket. 

The dovecot is fixed in the fork of one of the larger elms, where thetrunk divides into huge boughs, each the size of a tree; and in the longrank grass near the hedge the backs of a black Berkshire pig or two maybe seen like porpoises rolling in the green sea. Here and there anancient apple-tree, bent down and bowed to the ground with age, offers amossy, shady seat upon one of its branches which has returned to theearth from which it sprung. Some wooden posts grown green andlichen-covered, standing at regular intervals, show where the housewifedries her linen. Right before the very door a great horse-chestnut treerears itself in all the beauty of its thousands of blossoms, hiding halfthe house. A small patch of ground in front is railed in with woodenpalings to keep out the pigs, and poultry, and dogs--for almost everyvisitor brings with him one or more dogs--and in this narrow garden growvelvety wall-flowers, cloves, pinks, shrubs of lavender, and a few herbswhich are useful for seasoning. The house is built of brick; but thecolour is toned down by age, and against the wall a pear-tree is trainedupon one side, and upon the other a cherry-tree, so that at certainseasons one may rise in the morning and gather the fresh fruits from thewindow. The lower windows were once latticed; but the old frames havebeen replaced with the sash, which if not so picturesque, affords morelight, and most old farmhouses are deficient in the supply of light. Theupper windows remain latticed still. The red tiles of the roof are dullwith lichen and the beating of the weather; and the chimney, if lookedat closely, is full of tiny holes--it is where the leaden pellets fromguns fired at the mischievous starlings have struck the bricks. A pairof doves perched upon the roof-tree coo amorously to each other, and athin streak of blue smoke rises into the still air. 

The door is ajar, or wide open. There is no fear here of thieves, orstreet-boys throwing stones into the hall. Excepting in rain or roughwind, and at night, that front door will be open almost all the summerlong. When shut at night it is fastened with a wooden bar passing acrossthe whole width of the door, and fitting into iron staples on eachpost--a simple contrivance, but very strong and not easily tamperedwith. Many of the interior doors still open with the old thumb-latch;but the piece of shoe-string to pull and lift it is now relegated to thecottages, and fast disappearing even there before brass-handled locks. This house is not old enough to possess the nail-studded door of solidoak and broad stone-built porch of some farmhouses still occasionally tobe found, and which date from the sixteenth century. The porch heresimply projects about two feet, and is supported by trellis-work, upwhich the honeysuckle has been trained. A path of stone slabs leads fromthe palings up to the threshold, and the hall within is paved withsimilar flags. The staircase is opposite the doorway, narrow, andguiltless of oilcloth or carpeting; and with reason, for the tips andnails of the heavy boots which tramp up and down it would speedily wearcarpets into rags. There is a door at the bottom of the staircase closedat night. By the side of the staircase is a doorway which leads into thedairy--two steps lower than the front of the house. 

The sitting-room is on the left of the hall, and the floor is of thesame cold stone flags, which in damp weather become wet and slimy. Theseflags, in fact, act as a barometer, and foretell rain with greataccuracy, as it were perspiring with latent moisture at its approach. The chimney was originally constructed for a wood fire upon the hearth, and of enormous size, so that several sides of bacon could be hung upinside to be smoke-dried. The fireplace was very broad, so that hugelogs could be thrown at once upon the fire with very little trouble ofsawing them short. Since coal has come into general use, and wood grownscarce, the fireplace has been partly built up and an iron grateinserted, which looks out of place in so large a cavity. The curiousfire-dogs, upon which the wood was thrown, may still, perhaps, be foundupstairs in some corner of the lumber-room. On the mantelpiece are stillpreserved, well polished and bright, the several pieces of the "jack" orcooking apparatus; and a pair of great brazen candlesticks ornament itat each end. A leaden or latten tobacco-bowl, a brazen pestle andmortar, and half-a-dozen odd figures in china, are also scattered uponit, surmounted by a narrow looking-glass. In one corner stands an oldeight-day clock with a single hour hand--minute hands being a modernimprovement; but it is silent, and its duties are performed by anAmerican timepiece supported upon a bracket against the wall. Upstairs, however, upon the landing, a similar ancient piece of clockmaking stillticks solemn and slow with a ponderous melancholy. The centre of theroom is occupied with an oaken table, solid and enduring, butinconvenient to sit at; and upon each side of the fireplace is astiff-backed arm-chair. A ledge under the window forms a pleasant seatin summer. Before the fireplace is a rug, the favourite resort of thespaniels and cats. The rest of the floor used to be bare; but of lateyears a square of cocoanut matting has been laid down. A cumbrous pieceof furniture takes up almost half of one side--not known in modernmanufactories. It is of oak, rudely polished, and inlaid with brass. Atthe bottom are great deep drawers, pulled open with brass ringsornamented with dogs' heads. In these drawers are keptcow-drenches--bottles of oils for the wounds which cattle sometimes getfrom nails or kicks; dog-whips and pruning-knives; a shot-belt andpowder-flask; an old horse-pistol; a dozen odd stones or fossils pickedup upon the farm and kept as curiosities; twenty or thirty old almanacs, and a file of the county paper for forty years; and a hundred similarodds and ends. Above the drawers comes a desk with a few pigeon-holes;a desk little used, for the farmer is less of a literary turn thanalmost any other class. The pigeon-holes are stuffed full of old papers, recipes for cattle medicines, and, perhaps, a book of divinity orsermons printed in the days of Charles II. , leather-covered andworm-eaten. Still higher are a pair of cupboards where china, thetea-set, and the sugar and groceries in immediate use are kept. On thetop, which is three or four inches under the ceiling, are two or threesmall brown-paper parcels of grass seeds, and a variety of nondescriptarticles. Opposite, on the other wall, and close above the chimneypiece, so as to be kept dry, is the gun-rack with two double-barrels, a longsingle-barrel duck gun, and a cavalry sabre, worn once a year by a sonof the house who goes out to training in the yeomanry. 

There are a few pictures, not of a high class--three or four printsdepicting Dick Turpin's ride to York, and a coloured sketch of somesteeplechase winner, or a copy of a well-known engraving representing afeat accomplished many years ago at a farm. A flock of sheep were shorn, the wool carded and spun, and a coat made of it, and worn by theflockowner, and all in one day. From this room a door opens into thecellar and pantry, partly underground, and reached by three or foursteps. 

On the other side of the hall is the parlour, which was originallyfloored, like the sitting-room, with stone flags, since taken up andreplaced by boards. This is carpeted, and contains a comfortableold-fashioned sofa, horse-hair chairs, and upon the side tables may, perhaps, be found a few specimens of valuable old china, made to do dutyas flower-vases, and filled with roses. The room has a fresh, sweetsmell from the open window and the flowers. It tempts almostirresistibly to repose in the noontide heat of a summer's day. 

Upstairs there are two fair-sized bedrooms, furnished with four-postwooden bedsteads. The second flight of stairs, going up to the attic, has also a door at the foot. This house is built upon a simple buteffective design, well calculated for the purposes to be served. Itresembles two houses placed not end to end, as in a block, but side byside, and each part has a separate roof. Under the front roof, which issomewhat higher than the other, are the living-rooms of the family:sitting-room, parlour, bedroom, and attics, or servants' bedrooms. Underthe lower roof are the offices, the cheese-loft, dairy, kitchen, cellar, and wood-house. Numerous doors give easy communication on each floor, sothat the house consists of two distinct portions, and the business iskept quite apart from the living rooms, and yet close to them. This is, perhaps, the most convenient manner in which a dairy farmhouse can bebuilt; and the plan was undoubtedly the result of experience. Of course, in dairy-farming upon a very extended scale, or as a gentlemanlyamusement, it would be preferable to have the offices entirely apart, and at some distance from the dwelling-house. These remarks apply to anordinary farm of moderate size. 

Leaving the hall by the door at the side of the staircase, two stepsdescend into the dairy, which is almost invariably floored with stoneflags, even in localities where brick is used for the flooring of thesitting-room. The great object aimed at in the construction of the dairywas coolness, and freedom from dust as much as possible. The stone flagsensure a cool floor; and the windows always open to the north, so thatneither the summer sunshine nor the warm southern winds can injuriouslyaffect the produce. It is a long open room, whitewashed, in the centreof which stands the cheese-tub, until lately invariably made of wood, but now frequently of tin, this material taking much less trouble tokeep clean. The cheese-tub is large enough for a Roman lady's bath ofmilk. Against one wall are the whey-leads--shallow, long, and broadvessels of wood, lined with lead, supported two or three feet above thefloor, so that buckets can be placed underneath. In these "leads" thewhey is kept, and drawn off by pulling up a wooden plug. Under the"leads"--as out of the way--are some of the great milk-pans into whichthe milk is poured. Pussy sometimes dips her nose into these, andwhitens her whiskers with cream. At one end of the room is thecheese-press. The ancient press, with its complicated arrangement oflong iron levers weighted at the end something like a steelyard, anddrawn up by cords and pulleys, has been taken down and lies discarded inthe lumber-room. The pressure in the more modern machine is obtainedfrom a screw. The rennet-vat is perhaps hidden behind the press, andthere are piles of the cheese-moulds or vats beside it, into which thecurd is placed when fit to be compressed into the proper shape andconsistency. All the utensils here are polished, and clean to the lastdegree; without extreme cleanliness success in cheese or butter makingcannot be achieved. The windows are devoid of glass; they are reallywind doors, closed when necessary, with a shutter on hinges like acupboard door. Cats and birds are prevented from entering by means ofwire screens--like a coarse netting of wire--and an upright iron barkeeps out more dangerous thieves. There is a copper for scalding milk. When in good order there is scarcely any odour in a dairy, notwithstanding the decidedly strong smell of some of the materialsemployed: free egress of air and perfect cleanliness takes off all butthe faintest _astringent_ flavour. In summer it is often the custom ofdairymaids to leave buckets full of water standing under the "leads" orelsewhere out of the way, or a milk-pan is left with water in it, topurify the atmosphere. Water, it is well known, has a remarkable powerof preventing the air from going "dead" as it were. A model dairyshould have a small fountain in some convenient position, with a jetconstantly playing. The state of the atmosphere has the most powerfuleffect upon the contents of the dairy, especially during times ofelectrical tension. 

To the right of the dairy is the brewhouse, now rarely used for thepurpose implied in its name, though the tubs, and coolers, and other"plant" necessary for the process are still preserved. Here there is alarge copper also; and the oven often opens on to the brewhouse. In thisplace the men have their meals. Next to it is the wood-house, used forthe storage of the wood which is required for immediate use, and musttherefore be dry; and beyond that the kitchen, where the fire is stillupon the hearth, though coal is mixed with the logs and faggots. Alongthe whole length of this side of the house there is a paved or pitchedcourtyard enclosed by a low brick wall, with one or two gates openingupon the paths which lead to the rickyards and the stalls. Thebuttermilk and refuse from the dairy runs by a channel cut in the stoneacross the court into a vault or well sunk in the ground, from whenceit is dipped for the pigs. The vault is closed at the mouth by a heavywooden lid. There is a well and pump for water here; sometimes with awindlass, when the well is deep. If the water be low or out ofcondition, it is fetched in yokes from the nearest running stream. Theacid or "eating" power of the buttermilk, &c. , may be noted in thestones, which in many places are scooped or hollowed out. A portion ofthe court is roofed in, and is called the "skilling. " It is merelycovered in without walls, the roof supported upon oaken posts. Underthis the buckets are placed to dry after being cleaned, and here thechurn may often be seen. A separate staircase, rising from the dairy, gives access to the cheese-loft. It is an immense apartment, reachingfrom one end of the house to the other, and as lofty as the roof willpermit, for it is not ceiled. The windows are like those of the dairy. Down the centre are long double shelves sustained upon strong uprightbeams, tier upon tier from the floor as high as the arms canconveniently reach. Upon these shelves the cheese is stored, each lyingupon its side; and, as no two cheeses are placed one upon the otheruntil quite ready for eating, a ton or two occupies a considerablespace while in process of drying. They are also placed in rows upon thefloor, which is made exceptionally strong, and supported upon greatbeams to bear the weight. The scales used to be hung from a beamoverhead, and consisted of an iron bar, at each end of which a squareboard was slung with ropes--one board to pile up the cheese on, and theother for the counterpoise of weights. These rude and primitive scalesare now generally superseded by modern and more accurate instruments, weighing to a much smaller fraction. Stone half-hundredweights and stonequarters were in common use not long since. A cheese-loft, when full, isa noble sight of its kind, and represents no little labour and skill. When sold, the cheese is carefully packed in the cart with straw toprevent its being injured. The oil or grease from the cheese graduallyworks its way into the shelves and floor, and even into the staircase, till the woodwork seems saturated with it. Rats and mice are the pestsof the loft; and so great is their passion for cheese that neither cats, traps, nor poison can wholly repress these invaders, against whomunceasing war is waged. The starlings--who, if the roof be of thatch, as it is in many farmhouses, make their nests in it--occasionally carrytheir holes right through, and are unmercifully exterminated when theyventure within reach, or they would quickly let the rain and thedaylight in. 

As the dairy and offices face the north, so the front of the house--theportion used for domestic purposes--has a southern aspect, whichexperience has proved to be healthy. But at the same time, despite itscompactness and general convenience, there are many defects in thebuilding--defects chiefly of a sanitary character. It is very doubtfulif there are any drains at all. Even though the soil be naturally dry, the ground floor is almost always cold and damp. The stone flags arethemselves cold enough, and are often placed upon the bare earth. Thethreshold is on a level with the ground outside, and sometimes a steplower, and in wet weather the water penetrates to the hall. There isanother disadvantage. If the door be left open, which it usually is, frogs, toads, and creeping things generally, sometimes make their wayin, though ruthlessly swept out again; and an occasional snake from thelong grass at the very door is an unpleasant, though perfectly harmlessvisitor. The floor should be raised a foot or so above the level of theearth, and some provision made against the damp by a layer of concreteor something of the kind. If not, even if boards be substituted for theflags, they will soon decay. It often happens that farmhouses uponmeadow land are situated on low ground, which in winter is saturatedwith water which stands in the furrows, and makes the footpaths leadingto the house impassable except to water-tight boots. This must, andundoubtedly does affect the health of the inmates, and hence probablythe prevalence of rheumatism. The site upon which the house standsshould be so drained as to carry off the water. Some soils contract toan appreciable extent in a continuance of drought, and expand in anequal degree with wet--a fact apparent to any one who walks across afield where the soil is clay, in a dry time, when the deep, wide crackscannot be overlooked. Alternate swelling and contraction of the earthunder the foundations of a house produce a partial dislocation of thebrickwork, and hence it is common enough to see cracks running up thewalls. Had the site been properly drained, and the earth consequentlyalways dry, this would not have happened; and it is a matter ofconsideration for the landlord, who in time may find it necessary toshore up a wall with a buttress. The great difference in the temperatureof a drained soil and an undrained one has often been observed, amounting sometimes to as much as twenty degrees--a serious matter wherehealth is concerned. A foolish custom was observed in the building ofmany old farmhouses, _i. E. _, of carrying beams of wood across thechimney--a practice that has led to disastrous fires. The sootaccumulates. These huge cavernous chimneys are rarely swept, and at lastcatch alight and smoulder for many days: presently fire breaks out inthe middle of a room under which the beam passes. 

Houses erected in blocks or in towns do not encounter the full force ofthe storms of winter to the same degree as a solitary farmhouse, standing a quarter or half-a-mile from any other dwelling. This is thereason why the old farmers planted elm-trees and encouraged the growthof thick hawthorn hedges close to the homestead. The north-east and thesouth-west are the quarters from whence most is to be dreaded: thenorth-east for the bitter wind which sweeps along and grows colder fromthe damp, wet meadows it passes over; and the south-west for the drivingrain, lasting sometimes for days and weeks together. Trees and hedgesbreak the force of the gales, and in summer shelter from the glaringsun. 

The architectural arrangement of the farmhouse just described givesalmost perfect privacy. Except visitors, no one comes to the front dooror passes unpleasantly close to the windows. Labourers and others all goto the courtyard at the back. The other plans upon which farmsteads arebuilt are far from affording similar privacy. There are some which, infact, are nothing but an enlarged and somewhat elongated cottage, withthe dwelling-rooms at one end and the dairy and offices at the other, and the bedrooms over both. Everybody and everything brought to or takenfrom the place has to pass before the dwelling-room windows--a mostunpleasant arrangement. Another style is square, with low stone wallswhitewashed, and thatched roof of immense height. Against it is alean-to, the eaves of the roof of which are hardly three feet from theground. So high-pitched a roof necessitates the employment of a greatamount of woodwork, and the upper rooms have sloping ceilings. They maylook picturesque from a distance, but are inconvenient and uncouthwithin, and admirably calculated for burning. A somewhat superiordescription is built in the shape of a carpenter's "square. " Thedwelling-rooms form, as it were, one house, and the offices, dairy andcheese-loft are added on at one end at right angles. The courtyard is inthe triangular space between. For some things this is a convenientarrangement; but there still remains the disagreeableness of the noise, and, at times, strong odours from the courtyard under the windows of thedwelling-house. Nearly all farmsteads have awkwardly low ceilings, whichin a town would cause a close atmosphere, but are not so injurious inthe open country, with doors constantly ajar. In erecting a modern housethis defect would, of course, be avoided. The great thickness of thewalls is sometimes a deception; for in pulling down old buildings it isoccasionally found that the interior of the wall is nothing but loosebroken stones and bricks enclosed or rammed in between two walls. Thestaircases are generally one of the worst features of the old houses, being between a wall and a partition--narrow, dark, steep, and awkwardlyplaced, and without windows or handrails. These houses were obviouslybuilt for a people living much out of doors. 

_JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. _

He was standing in the ditch leaning heavily upon the long handle of hisaxe. It was a straight stick of ash, roughly shaved down to some sort ofsemblance of smoothness, such as would have worked up an unpractisedhand into a mass of blisters in ten minutes' usage, but which glidedeasily through those horny palms, leaving no mark of friction. Thecontinuous outdoor labour, the beating of innumerable storms, and thehard, coarse fare, had dried up all the original moisture of the hand, till it was rough, firm, and cracked or chapped like a piece of woodexposed to the sun and weather. The natural oil of the skin, which givesto the hand its beautiful suppleness and delicate sense of touch, wasgone like the sap in the tree he was felling, for it was early in thewinter. However the brow might perspire, there was no dampness on thehand, and the helve of the axe was scarcely harder and drier. In order, therefore, that the grasp might be firm, it was necessary toartificially wet the palms, and hence that custom which so oftendisgusts lookers-on, of spitting on the hands before commencing work. This apparently gratuitous piece of dirtiness is in reality absolutelynecessary. Men with hands in this state have hardly any feeling in them;they find it difficult to pick up anything small, as a pin--the fingersfumble over it; and as for a pen, they hold it like a hammer. His chestwas open to the north wind, which whistled through the bare branches ofthe tall elm overhead as if they were the cordage of a ship, and came insudden blasts through the gaps in the hedge, blowing his shirt back, andexposing the immense breadth of bone, and rough dark skin tanned to abrown-red by the summer sun while mowing. The neck rose from it shortand thick like that of a bull, and the head was round, and covered witha crop of short grizzled hair not yet quite grey, but fast losing itsoriginal chestnut colour. The features were fairly regular, but coarse, and the nose flattened. An almost worn-out old hat thrown back on thehead showed a low, broad, wrinkled forehead. The eyes were small andbleared, set deep under shaggy eyebrows. The corduroy trousers, yellowwith clay and sand, were shortened below the knee by leather straps likegarters, so as to exhibit the whole of the clumsy boots, with soles likeplanks, and shod with iron at heel and tip. These boots weigh sevenpounds the pair; and in wet weather, with clay and dirt clinging tothem, must reach nearly double that. 

In spite of all the magnificent muscular development which this manpossessed, there was nothing of the Hercules about him. The grace ofstrength was wanting, the curved lines were lacking; all was gaunt, angular, and square. The chest was broad enough, but flat, a frameworkof bones hidden by a rough hairy skin; the breasts did not swell up likethe rounded prominences of the antique statue. The neck, strong enoughas it was to bear the weight of a sack of corn with ease, was too short, and too much a part, as it were, of the shoulders. It did not rise uplike a tower, distinct in itself; and the muscles on it, as they moved, produced hollow cavities distressing to the eye. It was strengthwithout beauty; a mechanical kind of power, like that of an engine, working through straight lines and sharp angles. There was too much ofthe machine, and too little of the animal; the lithe, easy motion of thelion or the tiger was not there. The impression conveyed was, that suchstrength had been gained through a course of incessant exertion of therudest kind, unassisted by generous food and checked by unnaturalexposure. 

John Smith heaved up his axe and struck at the great bulging roots ofthe elm, from which he had cleared away the earth with his spade. Aheavy chip flew out with a dull thud on the sward. The straight handleof the axe increased the labour of the work, for in this curiouslyconservative country the American improvement of the double curvedhandle has not yet been adopted. Chip after chip fell in the ditch, orwent spinning out into the field. The axe rose and fell with a slow, monotonous motion. Though there was immense strength in every blow, there was no vigour in it. Suddenly, while it was swinging in the airoverhead, there came the faint, low echo of a distant railway whistle, and the axe was dropped at once, without even completing the blow. "That's the express, " he muttered, and began cleaning the dirt from hisshoes. The daily whistle of the express was the signal for luncheon. Hastily throwing on a slop hung on the bushes, and over that a coat, hepicked up a small bag, and walked slowly off down the side of the hedgeto where the highway road went by. Here he sat down, somewhat shelteredby a hawthorn bush, in the ditch, facing the road, and drew out hisbread and cheese. 

About a quarter of a loaf of bread, or nearly, and one slice of cheesewas this full-grown and powerful man's dinner that cold, raw winter'sday. His drink was a pint of cold weak tea, kept in a tin can, for thesemen are moderate enough with liquor at their meals, whatever they may beat other times. He held the bread in his left hand and the cheese wasplaced on it, and kept in its place by the thumb, the grimy dirt onwhich was shielded by a small piece of bread beneath it from theprecious cheese. His plate and dish was his broad palm, his onlyimplement a great jack-knife with a buck-horn handle. He ate slowly, thoughtfully, deliberately; weighing each mouthful, chewing the cud asit were. All the man's motions were heavy and slow, deadened as ifclogged with a great load. There was no "life" in him. What littleanimation there was left had taken him to eat his dinner by theroadside--the instinct of sociality--that if possible he might exchangea word with some one passing. In factories men work in gangs, andhundreds are often within call of each other; a rough joke or anoccasional question can be put and answered; there is a certain amountof sympathy, a sensation of company and companionship. But alone in thefields, the human instinct of friendship is checked, the man is drivenback upon himself and his own narrow range of thought, till the mind andheart grow dull, and there only remains such a vague ill-defined want ascarried John Smith to the roadside that day. 

He had finished his cheese and lit a short clay pipe, and thrust hishands deep in his pockets, when there was a rustling noise in the hedgea little farther down, and a short man jumped out into the road--evenjumping with his hands in his pockets. He saw Smith directly and cametowards him, and sat himself on a heap of flints used for mending theroad. 

"What's thee at to-day?" asked John, after a pause. 

"Ditching, " said the other laconically, pushing out one foot by way ofillustrating the fact. It was covered with black mud far above theankle, and there were splashes of mud up to his waist--his hands, as heproceeded to light his pipe, were black, too, from the same cause. 

"Thee's bin in main deep, " said John, after a slow survey of the other'sappearance. 

The fellow stamped his boot on the ground, and the slime and slush oozedout of it and formed a puddle. "That's pretty stuff to stand in for aman of sixty-four, yent it, John?" With a volubility and energy ofspeech little to be expected from his wizened appearance, the hedger andditcher entered into details of his job. He began work at six thatmorning with stiff legs and swollen feet, and as he stood in the mingledmire and water, the rheumatism came gradually on, rising higher up hislimbs from the ankles, and growing sharper with every twinge, while thecold and bitter wind cut through his thin slop on his chest, which wasnot so strong as it used to be. His arms got stiff with the labour oflifting up shovelful after shovelful of heavy mud to plaster the side ofthe ditch, his feet turned cold as "flints, " and the sickly smell of theslime upset his stomach so that when he tried to eat his bread andcheese he could not. Through this speech John smoked steadily on, tillthe other stopped and looked at him for sympathy. 

"Well, Jim, anyhow, " said Smith, "thee hasn't got far to walk to thejob;" and he pointed with the stem of his pipe to the low roof of acottage just visible a few hundred yards distant. 

"Ay, and a place it be to live in, that, " said Jim. There were only tworooms, he explained, and both downstairs--no upstairs at all--and thefirst of these was so small he could reach across it, and the thatch hadgot so thin in one place that the rain came through. The floor was onlyhard mud, and the garden not big enough to grow a sack of potatoes, while one wall of the house, which was only "wattle and daub" (_i. E. _, lath and plaster), rose up from the very edge of a great stagnant pond. Overhead there was an elm, from the branches of which in wet weatherthere was a perpetual drip, drip on the thatch, till the moss and grassgrew on the roof in profusion. All the sewage and drainage from thecottage ran into the pond, over which at night there was almost always athick damp mist, which crept in through the crevices of the rottenwalls, and froze the blood in the sleepers' veins. Sometimes a floodcame down, and the pond rose and washed away the cabbages from thegarden, leaving a deposit of gritty sand which killed all vegetation, and they could only keep the water from coming indoors by making a smalldam of clay across the doorway. There was only a low hedge of elderbetween the cottage and a dirty lane; and in the night, especially ifthere happened to be a light burning, it was common enough for a stoneto come through the window, flung by some half-drunken ploughboy. Apretty place for a human being to live in: and again he looked up intoSmith's face for comment. 

"Thee built 'un thee-self, didn't 'ee?" said John, in his slow way. 

"Ay, that I did, " continued Jim, not seeing the drift of the remark. Henot only built it, but he brought up nineteen children in it, andfourteen of them lived to grow up, all the offspring of one wife. And atime she had of it, too. None of them ever fell in that pond, though heoften wished they would; and they were all pretty healthy, which was abad thing, because it made them hungry, and if they had been ill theparish would have kept them. All that he had done on 12s. A week, and heminded the time when it was only 9s. , ay, and even when it was 6s. , and'twas better then than it was now with 15s. That was before the Unionscame about, in the time of the old workhouses in every parish. Then thefarmers used to find everybody a job. Every morning they had to go roundfrom one farmer to the other, and if there was no work then they went tothe workhouse, or sometimes to the vestry-room in the church, whereevery man had a loaf of bread for every head there was in his family, sothat the more children he had the more loaves of bread, which was acapital thing when the children were small. He had known a man in thosetimes sent seven miles with a wheelbarrow to fetch a barrow load of coalfrom the canal wharf, and then have to wheel it back seven miles, andget one shilling for his day's work. Still they were better times thanthese, because the farmers for their own sake were forced to find thefellows something to do; but now they did not care, and it was a hardthing to find work, especially when a man grew old, and stiff about thejoints. Now the Boards of Guardians would not give any relief unless theapplicants were ill, or not able-bodied, and even then they were oftenrequired to break stones, and he was very much inclined to throw hisspade in that old pond and go to the Union with the "missis" and all thelot for good. He had the rheumatism bad enough. It would serve themright. He had worked "nigh handy" sixty years; and all he had got by ithe could put in his eye. They ought to keep him now. It was not half sogood as the old times for all the talk; then the children could bringhome a bit of wood out of the hedges to boil the pot with, but now theymust not touch a stick, or there was the law on them in a minute. Andthen coal at the price it was. Why didn't his sons keep him? Where werethey? One was a soldier, and another had gone to America, and the thirdwas married and had a hard job to keep himself, and the fourth was gonenobody knew where. As for the wenches, they were no good in that way. Sohe and his "missis" muddled on at home with three of the youngest. Andthey could not let them alone even in that. He did go into the Unionworkhouse for a bit, a while ago, when the rheumatism was extraordinarybad, but some of the guardians smelt out that he had a cottage of hisown, and it was against the law to relieve anybody that had property; sohe must pay back the relief as a loan or sell the cottage. He wasoffered £25 for the place and garden, and he meant to have taken it, butwhen they came to look into the writings it was not clear that he couldsell it. It was quit-rent land, and although the landlord had not takenthe rent for twenty years, yet he had entered it in his book as paid(out of good nature), and the lawyers said it could not be done. But asthey would not let him sell it, he would not turn out, not he. There hewould stop--just to spite them. He knew that nook of his was wanted forcattle stalls on the new principle, and very handy it would be with allthat water close at hand, but he had worked for sixty years, and had hadnineteen children there, and he would not turn out. Not he. The parson's"missis" and the squire's "missis" came the other day about thatyoungest boy of his. They wanted to get him into some school up inLondon somewhere, but he remembered how the squire had served him justfor picking up a dead rabbit that laid in his path one hard snow time. Six weeks in gaol because he could not pay the fine. And the parsonturned him out of his allotment because he saw him stagger a little inthe road one night with the rheumatism. It was a lie that he was drunk. And suppose he was? The parson had his wine, he reckoned. They shouldnot have his boy. He rather hoped he would grow up a bad one, and botherthem well. He minded when that sharp old Miss ---- was always cominground with tracts and blankets, like taking some straw to a lot of pigs, and lecturing his "missis" about economy. What a fuss she made, andscolded his wife as if she was a thief for having that fifteenth boy!His "missis" turned on her at last, and said, "Lor, miss, that's all thepleasure me an' my old man got. " As for this talk about the labourers'Unions, it was all very well for the young men; but it made it worsestill for the old ones. The farmers, if they had to give such a price, would have young men in full strength: there was no chance at all for anold fellow of sixty-four with rheumatism. Some of them, too, wereterribly offended--some of the old sort--and turned off the fewpensioners they had kept on at odd jobs for years. However, he supposedhe must get back to that ditch again. 

This long oration was delivered not without a certain degree of powerand effect, showing that the man, whatever his faults, might withtraining have become rather a clever fellow. The very way in which hecontradicted himself, and announced his intention of never doing thatwhich a moment before he was determined on, was not without an amount oforatorical art, since the turn in his view of the subject was led up toby a variety of reasons which were supposed to convince himself and hishearer at the same time. His remarks were all the more effective becausethere was an evident substratum of stern truth beneath them. But theyfailed to make much impression on Smith, who saw his companion departwithout a word. 

The fact was, that Smith was too well acquainted with the private lifeof the orator. In his dull, dim way, he half recognised that theunfortunate old fellow's evils had been in great part of his owncreating. He knew that he was far from faultless. That poachingbusiness--a very venial offence in a labourer's eyes--he knew had been aserious one, a matter of some two-score pheasants and a desperate fightwith a gang. Looking at it as property, the squire had been merciful, pleading with the magistrates for a mitigated penalty. The drunkennesswas habitual. In short, they were a bad lot--there was a name attachedto the whole family for thieving, poaching, drinking, and even worse. Yet still there were two points that did sink deep into Smith's mind, and made him pause several times that afternoon in his work. The firstwas that long family of nineteen mouths, with the father and mothermaking twenty-one. What a number of sins, in the rude logic of thestruggle for existence, that terrible fact glossed over! Who couldblame--what labourer at least could blame--the ragged, ill-clothedchildren for taking the dead wood from the hedges to warm their nakedlimbs? What labourer could blame the father for taking the hares andrabbits running across his very path to fill that wretched hovel withsavoury steam from the pot? And further, what labourer could blame themiserable old man for drowning his feelings, and his sensation of coldand hunger, in liquor?

The great evil of these things is that a fellow-feeling will arise withthe wrong-doer, till the original distinction between right and wrong islost sight of entirely. John Smith had a family too. The other point wasthe sixty years of labour and their fruit. After two generations ofhardest toil and rudest exposure, still dependent upon the seasons evento permit him to work, when that work could be obtained. No rest, nocosy fireside nook: still the bitter wind, and the half-frozen slimeand slush rising above the ankle. In an undefined way Smith had beenproud of his broad, enormous strength, and rocklike hardihood. He hadfelt a certain rude pleasure in opening his broad chest to the winterwind. But now he involuntarily closed his shirt and buttoned it. He didnot feel so confident in his own power of meeting all the contingenciesof the future. 

Thought without method and without logical sequence is apt to pressheavily upon the uneducated mind. It was thus that these reflectionsleft a sensation of weight and discomfort upon Smith, and it was in aworse humour than was common to his usually well-balanced organisationthat he hid away his tools under the bushes as the evening grew too darkfor work, and slowly paced homewards. He had some two miles to walk, andhe had long since begun to feel hungry. Plodding along in a heavy, uneven gait, there overtook him a tall, raw young lad of eighteen ortwenty, slouching forward with vast strides and whistling merrily. Thelad slackened his steps and joined company!

"Where bist thee working now, then?" asked Smith. 

He replied, evidently in high spirits, that he had that day got a job atthe new railway that was making. The wages were 18s. A week--3s. Aday--and he had heard that as soon as the men grew to understand theirwork and to be a little skilful, they could get 24s. Easily, up byLondon. The only drawback was the long walk to the work. Lodgings closeat hand were very dear, as also was food, so dear as to lower the actualreceipts to an equality, if not below that of the agricultural labourer. Four miles every morning and every night was the price he paid for 18s. A week. 

Smith began in his slow, dull way to reckon up his wages aloud againstthis. First he had 13s. A week for his daily work. Then he had 1s. Extrafor milking on Sundays, and two good meals with beer on that day. Everyweek-day he had a pint of beer on finishing work. The young navvy had tofind his own liquor. His cottage, it was true, was his own (that is, heonly paid a low quit-rent of 1s. A year for it), so that that could notbe reckoned in as part of his earnings, as it could with many othermen. But the navvy's wages were the same all the year round, while hisin summer were often nearly double. As a stalwart mower he could earn25s. A week and more, as a haymaker 18s. , and at harvesting perhaps 30s. If the season was good, and there was a press for hands, he would getmore. But, looking forward, there was no prospect of rising higher inhis trade, of getting higher wages for more skilful work. He could notbe more skilful than he was in ordinary farm work; and as yet the callfor clever men to attend to machinery, &c. , was very limited; nor weresuch a class of workmen usually drawn from the resident population whereimprovements were introduced. The only hope of higher wages that washeld out to him was from the gradual rise of everything, or the forcedrise consequent upon agitation. But, said he, the navvy must follow hiswork from place to place, and lodgings are dear in the towns, and thefarmers in country places will not let their cottages except to theirown labourers--how was the navvy even with higher wages to keep a wife?The aspiring young fellow beside him replied at once sharply anddecisively, that he did not mean to have a wife, leastways not till hehad got his regular 30s. A week, which he might in time. Then John Smithmade a noise in his chest like a grunt. 

They parted after this. Smith went into the farmhouse, and got his pintof beer, drinking it in one long slow draught, and then made his waythrough the scattered village to his cottage. There was a frown on hisforehead as he lifted the latch of the long low thatched building whichwas his home. 

The flickering light of the fire on the hearth, throwing great shadowsas it blazed up and fell, dazed his eyes as he stepped in, and he didnot notice a line stretched right across the room on which smallarticles of clothing were hanging to dry in a row. A damp worstedstocking flapped against his face, and his foot stumbled on the unevenflag stones which formed the floor. He sat down silently upon athree-legged stool--an old milking-stool--and, putting his hands on hisknees, stared into the fire. It was formed of a few sticks with just oneknob of coal balanced on the top of them, evident care having beentaken that not a jot of its precious heat should be lost. A great blackpot with open lid swung over it, from which rose a slight steam and abubbling noise; and this huge, gaunt, bareboned, hungry man, lookinginto it, saw a large raw swede, just as from the field, with only thegreens cut off, simmering for his supper. That root in its day of lifehad been fed well with superphosphate, and flourished exceedingly, tillnow its globe could hardly go into the pot. Down the low chimney therecame the monotonous growl of the bitter winter wind, and a few spots ofrain fell hissing on the embers. 

"Is this all thee has got?" he asked, turning to a woman who was busiedwith some more damp clothes in a basket. 

She faced round quickly--a short, narrow, meagre creature, flat-chestedand square-shouldered, whose face was the hue of light-coloured clay, analmost corpse-like complexion. Her thin lips hissed out, "Ay, if theetakes thee money to the pothouse thee won't get bacon for supper. "

Smith said nothing in reply, but stared again into the fire. 

The children's voices, which had lowered the moment there seemed acoming quarrel between their parents, rose again. There were three ofthem--the youngest four, the eldest seven--playing on the stone flags ofthe floor, between whose rough edges there were wide crevices ofhardened mud. With a few short sticks and a broken piece of earthenwarefor toys, they were happy in their way. Whatever their food might havebeen, they showed no traces of hard usage. Their red "puddy" fists werefat, and their naked legs round and plump enough. Their faces were fulland rosy, and their voices clear and anything but querulous. The eagerpassions of childhood come out fierce and unrestrained, and blows werefreely interchanged, without, however, either cries or apparent hatred. Their naked knees were on the stone-flags, and the wind, creeping in adraught under the ill-fitting door, blew their ragged clothes about. 

"Thee med well look at 'em, John, " said the woman, seeing Smith cast asideway glance at the children; and rapidly manipulating the clothing, her thin nervous lips poured forth a torrent of words upon the silentman. They had had nothing but bread that day, and nothing but bread andlard the day before, and now the lard was gone, and the baker would nottrust any more. There were no potatoes because the disease had destroyedthem, and the cabbages were sold for that bit of coal; and as for theswede, she took it out of Mr. ----'s field, and he was a cross-grainedman, and who knew but what they might have the constable on them beforemorning? Jane W. And Sarah Y. Went to prison for seven days for stealingswedes. All along of that cursed drink. If she were the squire she'dshut up all the pothouses in the county. The men went there, and drankthe very shirts off their backs, and the clothes off their children, ay, and the shoes off their feet; and what was the use of their having moremoney when it only went into the publican's pocket? There they sat, anddrank the bread out of the babies' mouths. As for the women, the most ofthem, poor things, never tasted beer from one year's end to another. OldCarter handed her a pint that day, and when she tasted it she did notknow what it was. He might smile, but it was true though: no more didJane W. And Sally Y. : they did not know what it tasted like. And yetthey had to be out in the fields at work at eight o'clock, and theirwashing to do before that, and perhaps a baby in their arms, and the teaas weak as water, and no sugar. Milk, they could not get milk formoney--he knew that very well; all the milk went to London. A preciouslot of good the higher wages had done them. The farmers would not letthem have a drop of milk or a scrap of victuals, and talked about risingthe price of the allotment grounds. Allotment, did she say? and how didhe lose his allotment?--didn't he drink, drink, drink, till he had tohand over his allotment to the landlord of the pothouse, and did notthey take it away from both as soon as they heard of it? Served himright. They had not got a pound of potatoes, and the children did use tolick up the potato-pot liquor as if they liked it. 

Smith asked where Polly was, but that was only a signal for a freshoutburst. Polly, if he'd a looked after her she would have been allright. (Smith turned a sharp glance at her in some alarm at this. )Letting a great girl like that go about at night by herself while hewas a drink, drink, drinking, and there she was now, the bad hussy, goneto the workhouse to lie in. (Smith winced. ) _She_ never disgracedherself like that; and if he had sent the wench to service, or stoppedher going down to that pothouse with the fellows, this would not havehappened. She always told him how it would end. He was agood-for-nothing, drunken brute of a man, and had brought her to allthis misery; and she began sobbing. 

After twelve long hours of toil, including the walk to and fro, exposedto the bitter cold, with but a slice of cheese to support the strengthof that brawny chest, this welcome to his supper was more than thesturdy, silent man could bear. With a dull remembrance of the happysunlit summer, twenty years ago, when Martha was a plump, laughing girl, of sloe-black eyes and nut-brown complexion--with a glimpse of thatmerry courting time passing across his mind, Smith got up and walked outinto the dark rainy night. "Ay, thee bist agoing to the liquor again, "were the last words he heard as he shut the door. 

It was too true. But what labourer, let us ask, with a full conceptionof the circumstances, would blame him? Here there was nothing but hardand scanty fare, no heat, no light, nothing to cheer the heart, nothingto cause it to forget the toil of the day and the thought of the morrow, no generous liquor sung by poets to warm the physical man. But only afew yards farther down the road there was a great house, with itsshutters cosily closed, ablaze with heat and light, echoing with merrylaughter and song. There was an array of good fellows ready to welcomehim, to tell him the news, to listen eagerly to what he could tell them, to ask him to drink, and to drink from his cup in boon companionship. There was a social circle in which his heart and intellect could expand, at least for a while, till the strong liquor mounted up and overcame hisbrain; and then, even then, there was the forgetfulness, the deepslumber of intoxication, utterly oblivious of all things--perhaps thegreatest pleasure of all. Smith went there, and who of his own classwould blame him? And if his own class did not, of what use is it forother and higher classes to preach morality to him? It is a man's owncomrades, his own class, whose opinions he dreads and conforms to. Ifthey condemned him for going there, he would avoid the public-house. Butthey would have called him a fool if he avoided it. In their logic whocould say they were wrong? A man who is happy is a long while gettingdrunk, he talks as much as he drinks; but Smith was dull and silent, anddrank steadily. It was not late, but when the house closed he could butjust keep his feet. In the thick darkness and the driving rain hestaggered on, unconscious of the road he was taking, but bearing roughlytowards home. The cold air rather more stupefied him than brought him tohimself. Insensibly he wandered with uncertain steps down a lane whichled by a gentle slope out into the fields, the fall of the groundguiding his footsteps, and then stumbling over the root of an ash-tree, fell heavily on the wet grass. His eyes, half-shut before, closed as ifby clockwork, and in a moment he was firm asleep. His hat had fallenfrom his brow, and the grizzled hair was blown about by the wind as itcame in gusts through the hedge. His body was a little sheltered by thetree, but his chest was open and bare half-way down his waistcoat; andthe heavy drops fell from the boughs of the ash on his stalwart neck, gradually saturating his shirt. It may have been that the cold numbedhim and rendered him more insensible than he otherwise would have been. No star shone out that night; all was darkness, clouds, and rain tillthe dawn broke. 

Soon after dawn, the young navvy, going to his work by a short cut, found Smith still asleep, and shook him till he got up. He was stupidbeyond all power of words to express; but at last came to a dim ideathat he must get home. Then the young navvy left him, anxious aboutbeing late at his employment, and John Smith slowly _felt_ his way tohis own door. His wife, already up, opened it. "Thee varmint! thee nevergi'ed I that shilling last night for the baker. " Smith felt hopelesslyin his pocket, and then looked at her vacantly. "Thee drunken, nastyold----, " said the infuriated woman, almost unconsciously lifting herhand. Perhaps it was that action of hers which suggested the same to hismind, which was in a mechanical state. Perhaps the stinging words oflast night had at last sunk deep enough to scarify his self-esteem. Perhaps he did not at that moment fully remember the strength of his ownmighty arm. But he struck her, and she fell. Her forehead came incontact with the cradle, in which the youngest boy was sleeping, andwoke him with a cry. She lay quite still. Smith sat stupidly down on theold milking-stool, with his elbows on his knees. The shrill voice of hiswife, as she met him at the door, had brought more than one femaleneighbour to the window; they saw what happened, and they were there ina minute. Martha was only insensible, and they soon brought her to, butthe mark on the temple remained. 

Five days afterwards John Smith, agricultural labourer, aged forty-five, stood in the dock to answer a charge of assaulting his wife. There werefive magistrates on the Bench--two large landowners, a baronet in thechair, and two clergymen. Martha Smith hung her head as they placed herin the witness-box, and tried to evade kissing the Book, but the policesaw that that formality was complied with. The Clerk asked her what shehad to complain of. No answer. "Come, tell us all about it, " said theeldest of the magistrates in a fatherly tone of voice. Still silence. "Well, how did you get that mark on your forehead?" asked the Clerk. Noanswer. "Speak up!" cried a shrill voice in the body of the court. Itwas one of Martha's cronies, who was immediately silenced by the police;but the train had been fired. Martha would not fail before anotherwoman. But she did not commence about the assault. It was the drink shespoke of, nothing but the drink; and as she talked of that she warmedwith her subject and her grievances, and forgot the old love for herhusband, and her former hesitation, and placed that vice in all itsnaked deformity and hideous results in plain but burning words beforethe Bench. Had she been the cleverest advocate she could not haveprepared the ground for her case better. This tale of drink predisposedtheir minds against the defendant. Only the Clerk, wedded to legalforms, fidgeted under this eloquence, and seized the first pause: "Butnow, how about the assault? Come to that, " he said sharply. "I'm coming, sir, " said Martha; and she described Smith coming home, stupid andferocious, after staying out all night, and felling her to the groundbecause she asked him for a shilling to buy the children's daily bread. Then she pointed to the bruise on her forehead, and a suppressed murmurof indignation ran through the Court, and angry looks were directed atthe defendant. Did she do or say anything to provoke the blow? asked theChairman. No more than to ask for the shilling. Did she not abuse him?Well, yes, she did; she owned she did call him a drunken bruteafterwards; she could not help it. These women, with their rapidtongues, have a terrible advantage over the slower-witted men. 

Had the defendant any questions to ask his wife? Smith began to say thathe was very sorry, sir, but the Clerk snapped him up short. "That's yourdefence. Have you any questions? No; well, call your witnesses. " Marthacalled her witnesses, the women living next door. They did not do hercase much good; they were too evidently eager to obtain the defendant'scondemnation. But, on the other hand, they did not do it any harm, forin the main it was easy to see that they really corroborated herstatements. Smith asked them no questions; the labouring class rarelyunderstand the object of cross-questioning. If asked to do so theyalmost invariably begin to tell their own tale. 

"Now, then, " said the Clerk, "what have you got to say foryourself--what's your defence?" Smith looked down and stammeredsomething. He was confused; they checked him from telling his story whenhis mouth was full of language, now it would not come. He did not knowbut that if he began he might be checked again. The eldest magistrate onthe Bench saw his embarrassment, and, willing to assist him, spoke askindly as he could under the circumstances. "Speak up, John; tell us allabout it. I am sorry to see you there. " "He's the finest, most stalwartman in my parish, " he continued, turning to the Chairman. Thusencouraged, John got out a word or two. He was very sorry; he did notmean to hurt her; he knew he was tipsy, and 'twas his own fault; she hadbeen a good wife to him; she asked him for money. Then all of a suddenJohn drew up his form to his full height, and his chest swelled out, and he spoke in his own strong voice clearly now that he had got a topicapart from his disgrace. These were his words, a little softened intomore civilised pronunciation to make them intelligible:--

"She asked I for money, she did, and what was I to gi'e her? I hadn't agot a shilling nor a sixpence, and she knew it, and knowed that Icouldn't get one either till Saturday night. I gets thirteen shillings aweek from Master H. , and a shilling on Sundays, and I hev got fivechildren and a wife to keep out of that--that's two shillings a week foreach on us, that's just threepence halfpenny a day, look 'ee, sir. Andwhat victuals be I to buy wi' that, let alone beer? and a man can't dono work wi'out a quart a day, and that's fourpence, and there's myshare, look 'ee, gone at onst. Wur be I to get any victuals, and wur beI to get any clothes an' boots, I should like for to know? And Jack hegets big and wants a main lot, and so did Polly, but her's gone to thework'us', wuss luck. And parson wants I to send the young 'uns toschool, and pay a penny a week for 'em, and missis she wants a bit o'bacon in the house and a loaf, and what good is that of, among all we?I gets a slice of bacon twice a week, and sometimes narn. And beer--Iknows I drinks beer, and more as I ought, but what's a chap to do whenhe's a'most shrammed wi' cold, and nar a bit o' nothin' in the pot butan old yeller swede as hard as wood? And my teeth bean't as good as 'emused to be. I knows I drinks beer, and so would anybody in my place--itmakes me kinder stupid, as I don't feel nothing then. Wot's thegood--I've worked this thirty year or more, since I wur big enough to gowith the plough, and I've a knowed they as have worked for nigh handysixty, and wot do 'em get for it? All he'd a got wur the rheumatiz. Yermed as well drink while 'ee can. I never meaned to hurt her, and herknows it; and if it wurn't for a parcel of women a-shoving on her on, her would never a come here agen me. I knows I drinks, and what else beI to do? I can't work allus. "

"But what are you going to say in your defence--do you say she provokedyou or anything?" asked the Clerk. 

"No, I don't know as she provoked I. I wur provoked, though, I wur. Idon't bear no malice agen she. I ain't a got nothin' more for to say. "

The magistrates retired, and the Chairman, on returning, said that thiswas a most brutal and unprovoked assault, made all the worse by theprevious drinking habits of the defendant. If it had not been for thegood character he bore generally speaking (here he looked towards theelder magistrate, who had evidently said a word in Smith's behalf), hewould have had a month's imprisonment, or more. As it was, he wascommitted for a fortnight, and to pay the costs, or seven additionaldays; and he hoped this would be a warning to him. 

The elder magistrate looked at John Smith, and saw his jaw set firmly, and his brow contract, and his heart was moved towards him. 

"Cannot you get better wages than that, John?" he said. "At the railwaythey would give you eighteen or twenty. "

"It's so far to walk, sir, and my legs bean't as lissom as they used tobe. "

"But take the missis and live there. "

"Lodgings is too dear, sir. "

"Ah, exactly. Still I don't see how the farmers could pay you more. I'll see what can be done for you. "

Smith was led from the dock to the cell. The expenses were paid by anunknown hand; but he underwent his fortnight's imprisonment. His wifeand children, with an empty larder, were obliged to go to the workhouse, where also his daughter was at the same time confined of an illegitimatechild. This is no fiction, but an uncompromising picture of things asthey are. Who is to blame for them?

_WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. _

LETTER I. 

(_To the Editor of the "Times. "_)

SIR, --The Wiltshire agricultural labourer is not so highly paid as thoseof Northumberland, nor so low as those of Dorset; but in the amount ofhis wages, as in intelligence and general position, he may fairly betaken as an average specimen of his class throughout a large portion ofthe kingdom. 

As a man, he is usually strongly built, broad-shouldered, and massive inframe, but his appearance is spoilt by the clumsiness of his walk andthe want of grace in his movements. Though quite as large in muscle, itis very doubtful if he possesses the strength of the seamen who may beseen lounging about the ports. There is a want of firmness, a certaindisjointed style, about his limbs, and the muscles themselves have notthe hardness and tension of the sailor's. The labourer's muscle is thatof a cart-horse, his motions lumbering and slow. His style of walk iscaused by following the plough in early childhood, when the weak limbsfind it a hard labour to pull the heavy nailed boots from the thick claysoil. Ever afterwards he walks as if it were an exertion to lift hislegs. His food may, perhaps, have something to do with the deadenedslowness which seems to pervade everything he does--there seems a lackof vitality about him. It consists chiefly of bread and cheese, withbacon twice or thrice a week, varied with onions, and if he be a milker(on some farms) with a good "tuck-out" at his employer's expense onSundays. On ordinary days he dines at the fashionable hour of six orseven in the evening--that is, about that time his cottage scents theroad with a powerful odour of boiled cabbage, of which he eats animmense quantity. Vegetables are his luxuries, and a large garden, therefore, is the greatest blessing he can have. He eats huge onionsraw; he has no idea of flavouring his food with them, nor of makingthose savoury and inviting messes or vegetable soups at which the Frenchpeasantry are so clever. In Picardy I have often dined in a peasant'scottage, and thoroughly enjoyed the excellent soup he puts upon thetable for his ordinary meal. To dine in an English labourer's cottagewould be impossible. His bread is generally good, certainly; but hisbacon is the cheapest he can buy at small second-class shops--oily, soft, wretched stuff; his vegetables are cooked in detestable style, andeaten saturated with the pot liquor. Pot liquor is a favourite soup. Ihave known cottagers actually apply at farmers' kitchens not only forthe pot liquor in which meat has been soddened, but for the water inwhich potatoes have been boiled--potato liquor--and sup it up withavidity. And this not in times of dearth or scarcity, but rather as arelish. They never buy anything but bacon; never butchers' meat. Philanthropic ladies, to my knowledge, have demonstrated over and overagain even to their limited capacities that certain parts of butchers'meat can be bought just as cheap, and will make more savoury andnutritive food; and even now, with the present high price of meat, acertain proportion would be advantageous. In vain; the labourersobstinately adhere to the pig, and the pig only. When, however, anopportunity does occur the amount of food they will eat is somethingastonishing. Once a year, at the village club dinner, they gormandise torepletion. In one instance I knew of a man eating a plate of roast beef(and the slices are cut enormously thick at these dinners), a plate ofboiled beef, then another of boiled mutton, and then a fourth of roastmutton, and a fifth of ham. He said he could not do much to the breadand cheese; but didn't he go into the pudding! I have even heard of menstuffing to the fullest extent of their powers, and then retiring fromthe table to take an emetic of mustard and return to a second gorging. There is scarcely any limit to their power of absorbing beer. I haveknown reapers and mowers make it their boast that they could lie ontheir backs and never take the wooden bottle (in the shape of a smallbarrel) from their lips till they had drunk a gallon, and from the featsI have seen I verily believe it a fact. The beer they get is usuallypoor and thin, though sometimes in harvest the farmers bring out a tasteof strong liquor, but not till the work is nearly over; for from thisvery practice of drinking enormous quantities of small beer the labourercannot drink more than a very limited amount of good liquor withoutgetting tipsy. This is why he so speedily gets inebriated at thealehouse. While mowing and reaping many of them lay in a small cask. 

They are much better clothed now than formerly. Corduroy trousers andslops are the usual style. Smock-frocks are going out of use, except formilkers and faggers. Almost every labourer has his Sunday suit, veryoften really good clothes, sometimes glossy black, with the regulation"chimneypot. " His unfortunate walk betrays him, dress how he will. Sincelabour has become so expensive it has become a common remark among thefarmers that the labourer will go to church in broadcloth and themasters in smock-frocks. The labourer never wears gloves--that has tocome with the march of the times; but he is particularly choice overhis necktie. The women must dress in the fashion. A very respectabledraper in an agricultural district was complaining to me the other daythat the poorest class of women would have everything in the fashionablestyle, let it change as often as it would. In former times, if he laidin a stock of goods suited to tradesmen, and farmers' wives anddaughters, if the fashion changed, or they got out of date, he coulddispose of them easily to the servants. Now no such thing. The qualitydid not matter so much, but the style must be the style of the day--nosale for remnants. The poorest girl, who had not got two yards offlannel on her back, must have the same style of dress as the squire'sdaughter--Dolly Vardens, chignons, and parasols for ladies who can workall day reaping in the broiling sun of August! Gloves, kid, for handsthat milk the cows!

The cottages now are infinitely better than they were. There is scarcelyroom for further improvement in the cottages now erected upon estates. They have three bedrooms, and every appliance and comfort compatiblewith their necessarily small size. It is only the cottages erected bythe labourers themselves on waste plots of ground which are open toobjection. Those he builds himself are, indeed, as a rule, miserablehuts, disgraceful to a Christian country. I have an instance before meat this moment where a man built a cottage with two rooms and nostaircase or upper apartments, and in those two rooms eight personslived and slept--himself and wife, grown-up daughters, and children. There was not a scrap of garden attached, not enough to growhalf-a-dozen onions. The refuse and sewage was flung into the road, orfiltered down a ditch into the brook which supplied that part of thevillage with water. In another case at one time there was a cottage inwhich twelve persons lived. This had upper apartments, but so low wasthe ceiling that a tall man could stand on the floor, with his headright through the opening for the staircase, and see along the upperfloor under the beds! These squatters are the curse of the community. Itis among them that fever and kindred infectious diseases break out; itis among them that wretched couples are seen bent double withrheumatism and affections of the joints caused by damp. They have oftenbeen known to remain so long, generation after generation, in thesewretched hovels, that at last the lord of the manor, having neglected toclaim quit-rent, they can defy him, and claim them as their ownproperty, and there they stick, eyesores and blots, the fungi of theland. The cottages erected by farmers or by landlords are now, one andall, fit and proper habitations for human beings; and I verily believeit would be impossible throughout the length and breadth of Wiltshire tofind a single bad cottage on any large estate, so well and so thoroughlyhave the landed proprietors done their work. On all farms gardens areattached to the cottages, in many instances very large, and alwayssufficient to produce enough vegetables for the resident. In villagesthe allotment system has been greatly extended of late years, and hasbeen found most beneficial, both to owners and tenants. As a rule theallotments are let at a rate which may be taken as £4 per annum--a sumwhich pays the landlord very well, and enables the labourer toremunerate himself. In one village which came under my observation theclergyman of the parish has turned a portion of his glebe land intoallotments--a most excellent and noble example, which cannot be toowidely followed or too much extolled. He is thus enabled to benefitalmost every one of his poor parishioners, and yet without destroyingthat sense of independence which is the great characteristic of a trueEnglishman. He has issued a book of rules and conditions under whichthese allotments are held, and he thus places a strong check upondrunkenness and dissolute habits, indulgence in which is a sure way tolose the portions of ground. There is scarcely an end to the benefits ofthe allotment system. In villages there cannot be extensive gardens, andthe allotments supply their place. The extra produce above that whichsupplies the table and pays the rent is easily disposed of in the nexttown, and places many additional comforts in the labourer's reach. Therefuse goes to help support and fatten the labourer's pig, which bringshim in profit enough to pay the rent of his cottage, and the pig, inturn, manures the allotment. Some towns have large common lands, heldunder certain conditions; such are Malmesbury, with 500 acres, andTetbury (the common land of which extends two miles), both these beingarable, &c. These are not exactly in the use of labourers, but they arein the hands of a class to which the labourer often rises. Manylabourers have fruit-trees in their gardens, which, in some seasons, prove very profitable. In the present year, to my knowledge, a labourersold £4 worth of apples; and another made £3, 10s. Off the produce ofone pear-tree, pears being scarce. 

To come at last to the difficult question of wages. In Wiltshire therehas been no extended strike, and very few meetings upon the subject, forthe simple reason that the agitators can gain no hold upon a countywhere, as a mass, the labourers are well paid. The common day-labourerreceives 10s. , 11s. , and 12s. A week, according to the state of supplyand demand for labour in various districts; and, if he milks, 1s. More, making 13s. A week, now common wages. These figures are rather below themark; I could give instances of much higher pay. To give a good idea ofthe wages paid I will take the case of a hill farmer (arable, Marlborough Downs), who paid this last summer during harvest 18s. Perweek per man. His reapers often earned 10s. A day--enough to pay theiryear's rent in a week. These men lived in cottages on the farm, withthree bedrooms each, and some larger, with every modern appliance, eachhaving a garden of a quarter of an acre attached and close at hand, forwhich cottage and garden they paid 1s. Per week rent. The whole of thesecottages were insured by the farmer himself, their furniture, &c. , inone lump, and the insurance policy cost him, as nearly as possible, 1s. 3d. Per cottage per year. For this he deducted 1s. Per year each fromtheir wages. None of the men would have insured unless he had insistedupon doing it for them. These men had from six to eight quarts of beerper man (over and above their 18s. A week) during harvest every day. Inspring and autumn their wages are much increased by piece-work, hoeing, &c. In winter the farmer draws their coal for them in his waggons, adistance of eight miles from the nearest wharf, enabling them to get itat cost price. This is no slight advantage, for, at the present highprice of coal, it is sold, delivered in the villages, at 2s. Per cwt. Many who cannot afford it in the week buy a quarter of a cwt. OnSaturday night, to cook their Sunday's dinner with, for 6d. This is atthe rate of £2 per ton. Another gentleman, a large steam cultivator inthe Vale, whose name is often before the public, informs me that hisbooks show that he paid £100 in one year in cash to one cottage forlabour, showing the advantage the labourer possesses over the mechanic, since his wife and child can add to his income. Many farmers pay £50 and£60 a year for beer drunk by their labourers--a serious addition totheir wages. The railway companies and others who employ mechanics, donot allow them any beer. The allowance of a good cottage and a quarterof an acre of garden for 1s. Per week is not singular. Many who were atthe Autumn Manoeuvres of the present year may remember having ahandsome row of houses, rather than cottages, pointed out to them asinhabited by labourers at 1s. Per week. In the immediate neighbourhoodof large manufacturing towns 1s. 6d. A week is sometimes paid; but thenthese cottages would in such positions readily let to mechanics for 3s. , 4s. , and even 5s. Per week. There was a great outcry when the Duke ofMarlborough issued an order that the cottages on his estate should infuture only be let to such men as worked upon the farms where thosecottages were situated. In reality this was the very greatest blessingthe Duke could have conferred upon the agricultural labourer; for itensured him a good cottage at a nearly nominal rent and close to hiswork; whereas in many instances previously the cottages on the farms hadbeen let at a high rate to the mechanics, and the labourer had to walkmiles before he got to his labour. Cottages are not erected bylandowners or by farmers as paying speculations. It is well known thatthe condition of things prevents the agricultural labourer from beingable to pay a sufficient rent to be a fair percentage upon the sumexpended. In one instance a landlord has built some cottages for histenant, the tenant paying a certain amount of interest on the suminvested by the landlord. Now, although this is a matter ofarrangement, and not of speculation--that is, although the interest paidby the tenant is a low percentage upon the money laid out, yet the rentpaid by the labourers inhabiting these cottages to the tenant does notreimburse him what he pays his landlord as interest--not by aconsiderable margin. But then he has the advantage of his labourersclose to his work, always ready at hand. 

Over and above the actual cash wages of the labourer, which are now verygood, must be reckoned his cottage and garden, and often a smallorchard, at a nominal rent, his beer at his master's expense, piece-work, gleaning after harvest, &c. , which alter his real positionvery materially. In Gloucestershire, on the Cotswolds, the best-paidlabourers are the shepherds, for in that great sheep-country much trustis reposed in them. At the annual auctions of shearlings which are heldupon the large farms a purse is made for the shepherd of the flock, intowhich every one who attends is expected to drop a shilling, oftenproducing £5. The shepherds on the Wiltshire downs are also well paid, especially in lambing-time, when the greatest watchfulness and care arerequired. It has been stated that the labourer has no chance of risingfrom his position. This is sheer cant. He has very good opportunities ofrising, and often does rise, to my knowledge. At this present moment Icould mention a person who has risen from a position scarcely equal tothat of a labourer, not only to have a farm himself, but to place hissons in farms. Another has just entered on a farm; and several more areon the highroad to that desirable consummation. If a labourer possessesany amount of intelligence he becomes head-carter or head-fagger, as thecase may be; and from that to be assistant or under-bailiff, and finallybailiff. As a bailiff he has every opportunity to learn the working of afarm, and is often placed in entire charge of a farm at a distance fromhis employer's residence. In time he establishes a reputation as apractical man, and being in receipt of good wages, with very littleexpenditure, saves some money. He has now little difficulty in obtainingthe promise of a farm, and with this can readily take up money. Withaverage care he is a made man. Others rise from petty trading, pettydealing in pigs and calves, till they save sufficient to rent a smallfarm, and make that the basis of larger dealing operations. I questionvery much whether a clerk in a firm would not find it much moredifficult, as requiring larger capital, to raise himself to a level withhis employer than an agricultural labourer does to the level of afarmer. 

Many labourers now wander far and wide as navvies, &c. , and perhaps whenthese return home, as most of them do, to agricultural labour, they arethe most useful and intelligent of their class, from a readiness theypossess to turn their hand to anything. I know one at this moment whomakes a large addition to his ordinary wages by brewing for the smallinns, and very good liquor he brews, too. They pick up a large amount ofpractical knowledge. 

The agricultural women are certainly not handsome; I know no peasantryso entirely uninviting. Occasionally there is a girl whose nut-browncomplexion and sloe-black eyes are pretty, but their features are veryrarely good, and they get plain quickly, so soon as the first flush ofyouth is past. Many have really good hair in abundance, glossy and rich, perhaps from its exposure to the fresh air. But on Sundays they plasterit with strong-smelling pomade and hair-oil, which scents the air foryards most unpleasantly. As a rule, it may safely be laid down that theagricultural women are moral, far more so than those of the town. Roughand rude jokes and language are, indeed, too common; but that is all. Noevil comes of it. The fairs are the chief cause of immorality. Many anhonest, hard-working servant-girl owes her ruin to these fatal mops andfairs, when liquor to which she is unaccustomed overcomes her. Yet itseems cruel to take from them the one day or two of the year on whichthey can enjoy themselves fairly in their own fashion. The spread offriendly societies, patronised by the gentry and clergy, with theirannual festivities, is a remedy which is gradually supplying them withsafer, and yet congenial, amusement. In what may be termed lesser moralsI cannot accord either them or the men the same praise. They are tooungrateful for the many great benefits which are bountifully suppliedthem--the brandy, the soup, and fresh meat readily extended withoutstint from the farmer's home in sickness to the cottage are too quicklyforgotten. They who were most benefited are often the first to mostloudly complain and to backbite. Never once in all my observation have Iheard a labouring man or woman make a grateful remark; and yet I canconfidently say that there is no class of persons in England who receiveso many attentions and benefits from their superiors as the agriculturallabourers. Stories are rife of their even refusing to work at disastrousfires because beer was not immediately forthcoming. I trust this is nottrue; but it is too much in character. No term is too strong incondemnation for those persons who endeavour to arouse an agitationamong a class of people so short-sighted and so ready to turn againsttheir own benefactors and their own interest. I am credibly informedthat one of these agitators, immediately after the Bishop ofGloucester's unfortunate but harmlessly intended speech at theGloucester Agricultural Society's dinner--one of these agitators mounteda platform at a village meeting and in plain language incited andadvised the labourers to duck the farmers! The agricultural women eithergo out to field-work or become indoor servants. In harvest theyhay-make--chiefly light work, as raking--and reap, which is much harderlabour; but then, while reaping they work their own time, as it is doneby the piece. Significantly enough, they make longer hours whilereaping. They are notoriously late to arrive, and eager to return home, on the hay-field. The children help both in haymaking and reaping. Inspring and autumn they hoe and do other piece-work. On pasture farmsthey beat clots or pick up stones out of the way of the mowers' scythes. Occasionally, but rarely now, they milk. In winter they wear gaiters, which give the ankles a most ungainly appearance. Those who go out toservice get very low wages at first from their extreme awkwardness, butgenerally quickly rise. As dairymaids they get very good wages indeed. Dairymaids are scarce and valuable. A dairymaid who can be trusted totake charge of a dairy will sometimes get £20 besides her board(liberal) and sundry perquisites. These often save money, marrybailiffs, and help their husbands to start a farm. 

In the education provided for children Wiltshire compares favourablywith other counties. Long before the passing of the recent Act inreference to education the clergy had established schools in almostevery parish, and their exertions have enabled the greater number ofplaces to come up to the standard required by the Act, without theassistance of a School Board. The great difficulty is the distancechildren have to walk to school, from the sparseness of population andthe number of outlying hamlets. This difficulty is felt equally by thefarmers, who, in the majority of cases, find themselves situated farfrom a good school. In only one place has anything like a cry foreducation arisen, and that is on the extreme northern edge of thecounty. The Vice-Chairman of the Swindon Chamber of Agriculture recentlystated that only one-half of the entire population of Inglesham couldread and write. It subsequently appeared that the parish of Ingleshamwas very sparsely populated, and that a variety of circumstances hadprevented vigorous efforts being made. The children, however, couldattend schools in adjoining parishes, not farther than two miles, adistance which they frequently walk in other parts of the country. 

Those who are so ready to cast every blame upon the farmer, and torepresent him as eating up the earnings of his men and enriching himselfwith their ill-paid labour, should remember that farming, as a rule, iscarried on with a large amount of borrowed capital. In these days, when£6 an acre has been expended in growing roots for sheep, when theslightest derangement of calculation in the price of wool, meat, orcorn, or the loss of a crop, seriously interferes with a fair return forcapital invested, the farmer has to sail extremely close to the wind, and only a little more would find his canvas shaking. It was onlyrecently that the cashier of the principal bank of an agriculturalcounty, after an unprosperous year, declared that such another seasonwould make almost every farmer insolvent. Under these circumstances itis really to be wondered at that they have done as much as they have forthe labourer in the last few years, finding him with better cottages, better wages, better education, and affording him better opportunitiesof rising in the social scale. --I am, Sir, faithfully yours, RICHARD JEFFERIES. 

COATE FARM, SWINDON, _Nov. 12, 1872. _

Lord Shaftesbury, in the _Times_, Dec. 6th, says:--

"It is our duty and our interest to elevate the present condition of thelabourer, and to enable him to assert and enjoy every one of his rights. But I must agree with Mr. Jefferies that, even under the actual systemof things, numerous instances have occurred of a rise in the socialscale as the result of temperance, good conduct, and economy. He hasfurnished some examples. I will give only one from my own estate:--'T. M. Was for many years shepherd to Farmer P----; he bought with hissavings a small leasehold property at ---- for £170, and he hadaccumulated £100 besides. He had brought up a son and three daughters, and his son now occupies the leasehold. ' This is the statement as givento me in writing. "

LETTER II. 

(_To the Editor of the "Times. "_)

SIR, --I did not intend to make any reply to the numerous attacks madeupon my letter published in the _Times_ of the 14th inst. , but thestatements made by "The Son of a Wiltshire Labourer" are such as I feelbound to resent on the part of the farmers of this county. 

He says he wishes the landed proprietors would take as much care toprovide cottages for their labourers as I represent them as doing. Irepeat what I said, that the cottages on large estates are now, one andall, fit habitations for human beings. The Duke of Marlborough is alarge proprietor of cottages in this neighbourhood, and his plan hasbeen, whenever a cottage did not appear sufficiently commodious, tothrow two into one. The owner of the largest estate near Swindon hasbeen engaged for many years past in removing the old thatched mudhovels, and replacing them with substantial, roomy, and slate-roofedbuildings. Farmers are invariably anxious to have good cottages. Thereis a reluctance to destroy the existing ones, both from theinconvenience and the uncertainty sometimes of others being erected. Often, too, the poor have the strongest attachment to the cabin in whichthey were born and bred, and would strongly resent its destruction, though obviously for their good. Farmers never build bad cottages now. When a tenement falls in, either from decay or the death of the tenant, the cottage which is erected on its site is invariably a good one. A rowof splendid cottages has recently been erected at Wanborough. They arevery large, with extensive gardens attached. Some even begin to complainthat the cottages now erected are in a sense "too good" for the purpose. The system of three bedrooms is undoubtedly the best from a sanitarypoint of view, but it is a question whether the widespread belief inthat system, and that system alone, has not actually retarded theerection of reasonably good buildings. It is that third bedroom whichjust prevents the investment of building a cottage from paying aremunerative percentage on the capital expended. Two bedrooms are easilymade--the third puzzles the builder where to put it with due regard toeconomy. Nor is a third bedroom always required. Out of ten familiesperhaps only two require a third bedroom; in this way there is a largewaste in erecting a row. It has been suggested that a row should consistof so many cottages with two bedrooms only for families who do not wantmore, and at each end a building with three bedrooms for largerfamilies. In one instance two cottages were ordered to be erected on anestate, the estimate for which was £640; these when completed might havelet for £10 per annum, or 1¾ per cent, on the capital invested! Theplans for these cottages had so many dormer windows, porches, intricacies of design in variegated tiles, &c. , that the contractor gaveit up as a bad job. I mention this to show that the tendency to buildgood cottages has gone even beyond what was really required, andornamentation is added to utility. 

Then it is further stated that the labourer cannot build cottages. Icould name a lane at this moment the cottages in which were one and allbuilt by labourers; and there are half-a-dozen in this village whichwere erected by regular farm labourers. The majority of these are, as Isaid before, wretched hovels, but there are two or three whichdemonstrate that the labourer, if he is a thrifty man, earns quitesufficient to enable him to erect a reasonably good building. The worsthovel I ever saw (it was mentioned in my letter of the 14th) was builtby a man who is notorious for his drinking habits. Some forty years ago, when wages were much lower than they are now, two labourers, to myknowledge, took possession of a strip of waste land by the roadside, andbuilt themselves cottages. One of these was a very fair building; theother would certainly be condemned now-a-days. The lord of the manorclaimed these; and the difficulty was thus adjusted:--The builders wereto receive the value of their tenements from the lord of the manor, andwere to remain permanent tenants for life on payment of a smallpercentage, interest upon the purchase-money, as quit-rent. On theirdeaths the cottages were to become the property of the lord of themanor. One man received £40 for his cottage, the other £20, which sumsforty years ago represented relatively a far higher value than now, anddemonstrate conclusively that the labourer, if he is a steady, hard-working man, can build a cottage. Another cottage I know of, builtby a farm labourer, is really a very creditable building--good walls, floors, staircase, sashes, doors; it stands high, and appears verycomfortable, and even pleasant, in summer, for they are a thriftyfamily, and can even display flower-pots in the window. Other cottageshave been built or largely added to in my memory by labourers. On theseoccasions they readily obtain help from the farmers. One lends his teamand waggons to draw the stones; another supplies wood for nothing; butof late I must admit there has been some reluctance to assist in thisway (unless for repairs) because it was so often found that thebuildings thus erected were not fit habitations. The Boards of Guardiansoften find a difficulty from the limited ownership of some of thelabourers, who apply for relief, of their cottages. Perhaps they havenot paid quit-rent for a year or two; but still they cannot sell, andyet it seems unjust to the ratepayers to assist a man who has a tenementwhich he at least calls his own, and from which he cannot be ejected, Iknow a labourer at this moment living in a cottage originally built byhis father, and added to by himself by the assistance of theneighbouring farmers. This man has been greatly assisted by one farmerin particular, who advanced him money by which he purchased a horse andcart, and was enabled to do a quantity of hauling, flint-carting for thewaywardens, and occasionally to earn money by assisting to carry afarmer's harvest. He rents a large piece of arable land, and ought to becomparatively well off. 

"The Son of a Wiltshire Labourer" complains that the farmers orproprietors do not make sufficient efforts to supply the cottages withwater. The lord of the manor and the tenant of the largest farms in thisimmediate neighbourhood have but just sunk a well for their cottages;previously they had got their supply from a pump in an adjacentfarmyard thrown open by the proprietor to all the village. 

It is the labourer himself who will not rise. In a village with which Iam acquainted great efforts have been made by a farmer and a gentlemanliving near to provide proper school instruction for the children. Onelabourer was asked why he did not send his children to school. Hereplied, "Because he could not afford it. " "But, " said the farmer, "itis only threepence altogether. " "Oh, no; he could not afford it. " Thefarmer explained to him that the object was to avoid a School Board, which, in other places, had the power to fine for not sending childrento school. "No, he could not afford it. " The farmer's books show thatthis labourer, his wife, and two children received 28s. 6d. Per week, his cottage rent free, and a very large garden at a low rent. Yet hecould not afford the 3d. A week which would enable his childrenultimately to take a better position in the world! The same farmer, whois a liberal and large-minded man, has endeavoured, without success, tointroduce the practice of paying in cash instead of beer, and also thesystem of payment for overtime. The men say no, they would rather not. "In wet weather, " they say, "we do no work, but you pay us; and if wework a little later in harvest, it only makes it fair. " They would nottake money instead of beer. In another case which came under my personalobservation in the middle of last summer, a farmer announced hisintention of paying in cash instead of allowing beer. In the very pressof the haymaking, with acres upon acres of grass spoiling, his men, oneand all, struck work because he would not give them beer, and went overto a neighbour's field adjacent and worked for him for nothing but theirshare in the beer. If labourers work longer hours in harvest (corn), itis because it is piece-work, and they thereby make more money. I contendthat the payment in kind, the beer, the gleanings, the piece-work, thelow and nominal cottage rent, the allotment ground and produce, and thepig (not restricted to one pig in a year), may fairly be taken as anaddition to their wages. I am informed that in one parish the cottagerents vary from 10d. To 1s. 2d. Per week; nearly all have gardens, andall may have allotments up to a quarter of an acre each at 3d. Per lug, or 40s. Per acre. I am also informed of a labourer renting a cottageand garden at 1s. Per week, the fruit-trees in whose garden producedthis year three sacks of damsons, which he sold at 1s. 6d. Per gallon, or £6, 18s. I know of a case in which a labourer--an earnest, intelligent, hard-working man--makes £2 a week on an average all theyear round. But then he works only at piece-work, going from farm tofarm, and this is, of course, an exceptional case. The old men, worn outwith age and infirmity, are kept on year after year by many farmers outof charity, rather than let them go to the workhouse, though totallyuseless and a dead loss, especially as occupying valuable cottage-room. There is a society, the annual meetings of which are held at Chippenham, and which is supported by the clergy, gentry, and farmers generally ofNorth Wilts, for the object of promoting steady habits among thelabourers and rewarding cases of long and deserving services. There isalso a friendly society on the best and most reliable basis, supportedby the gentry, and introduced as far as possible into villages. Thelabourers on the Great Western Railway works at Swindon earn from 15s. Aweek upwards, according as they approach to skilled workmen. Attractedby these wages, most of the young men of the neighbourhood try thefactory, but, usually, after a short period return to farm-work, theresult of their experience being that they are better off asagricultural labourers. Lodgings in the town close to the factory arevery expensive, and food in proportion; consequently they have to walklong distances to their labour--some from Wanborough, five miles;Wroughton, three and a half miles; Purton, four miles; and even WoottonBassett, six miles, which twice a day is a day's work in itself. Add tothis the temptations to spend money in towns, and the severe labour, andthe man finds himself better off with his quiet cottage and garden on afarm at 12s. A week, and 1s. For milking, with beer, and a meal onSundays. The skilled mechanics, who earn 36s. To £2 per week, renthouses in the town at 6s. To 8s. ; and in one case I knew of 12s. Perweek paid by a lodger for two rooms. These prices cannot be paid out ofthe mechanic's wage; consequently he sub-lets, or takes lodgers, andsometimes these sub-let, and the result is an overcrowding worse thanthat of the agricultural cottages, around which there is at least freshair and plenty of light (nearly as important), which are denied in atown. The factory labourer and the mechanic are liable to instantdismissal. The agricultural labourers (half of them at least) are hiredby the year or half-year, and cannot be summarily sent along unless formisconduct. Wages have recently been increased by the farmers ofWiltshire voluntarily and without pressure from threatened strikes. Itis often those who receive the highest wages who are the first to cometo the parish for relief. It is not uncommon for mechanics and others togo for relief where it is discovered that they are in receipt of sickpay from the yard club, and sometimes from two friendly societies, making 18s. A week. A manufacturing gentleman informed me that the verymen whom he had been paying £8 a week to were the first to apply forrelief when distress came and the mills stopped. It is not low wages, then, which causes improvident habits. The only result of deportingagricultural labourers to different counties is to equalise the wagespaid all over England. This union-assisted emigration affords theimprovident labourer a good opportunity of transporting himself to adistant county, and leaving deeply in debt with the tradesmen with whomhe has long dealt. I am informed that this is commonly the case withemigrating labourers. A significant fact is noted in the leader of the_Labour News_ of the 16th of November; the return of certain emigrantsfrom America is announced as "indicative that higher quotations are notalways representative of greater positive advantages. " The agriculturallabourer found that out when he returned from the factory at 15s. Perweek to farm labour at 12s. I am positive that the morality of thecountry compares favourably with that of the town. I was particularlystruck with this fact on a visit to the Black Country. One of the worstparishes for immorality in Wiltshire is one where glovemaking is carriedon; singularly enough, manufactures and immorality seem to go together. "The Son of a Labourer" says that all the advantages the labourer doespossess are owing to the exertions of the clergy; pray who support theclergy but the farmers?

I think that the facts I have mentioned sufficiently demonstrate thatthe farmers and the landlords of Wiltshire have done their duty, andmore than their mere duty, towards the labourers; and only a littleinvestigation will show that at present it is out of their power to domore. Take the case of a farmer entering a dairy-farm of, say, 250acres, and calculate his immediate outgoings--say fifty cows at £20, £1, 000; two horses at £25, £50; waggons, carts, implements, £100;labour, three men at 12s. Per week, £94; harvest labour, £20; dairymaid£10; tithe, taxes, rates, &c. , £100; rent, £2 per acre, £500. Total, £1874. In other words (exclusive of the capital invested in stock), theoutgoings amount to £724 per annum; against which put--fifty cows' milk, &c. , at £10 per head, £500; fifty calves, £100; fifty tons of hay at £3, 10s. , £175. Total income, £775; balance in hand, £51. Then comes thevillage school subscription; sometimes a church rate (legally voluntary, but morally binding), &c. 

So that, in hard figures (all these are below the mark, if anything), there is positively nothing left for the farmer but a house and gardenfree. How, then, is money made? By good judgment in crops, in stock, bylucky accidents. On a dairy-farm the returns begin immediately; on anarable one there is half a year at least to wait. The care, thejudgment, required to be exercised is something astonishing, and afarmer is said to be all his life learning his trade. If sheep are dearand pay well, the farmer plants roots; then, perhaps, after a heavyexpenditure for manure, for labour, and seed, there comes the fly, or adrought, and his capital is sunk. On the other hand, if the season begood, roots are cheap and over-plentiful, and where is his profit then?He works like a labourer himself in all weathers and at all times; hehas the responsibility and the loss, yet he is expected to find thelabourer, not only good cottages, allotments, schooling, good wages, butHeaven knows what besides. Supposing the £1874 (on the dairy-farm) beborrowed capital for which he must pay at least 4 per cent. --and few, indeed, are there who get money at that price--it is obvious how hardhe must personally work, how hard, too, he must live, to make both endsmeet. And it speaks well for his energy and thrift that I heard a bankdirector not long since remark that he had noticed, after all, withevery drawback, the tenant farmers had made as a rule more money inproportion than their landlords. A harder-working class of men does notexist than the Wiltshire farmers. 

Only a few days ago I saw in your valuable paper a list, nearly a columnlong, of the millionaires who had died in the last ten years. It wouldbe interesting to know how much they had spent for the benefit of theagricultural labourer. Yet no one attacks them. They pay no poor-rates, no local taxation, or nothing in proportion. The farmer pays thepoor-rate which supports the labourer in disease, accident, and old age;the highway rates on which the millionaire's carriage rolls; and verysoon the turnpike trusts will fall in, and the farmers--_i. E. _, theland--will have to support the imperial roads also. With all these heavyburdens on his back, having to compete against the world, he has yet noright to compensation for his invested capital if he is ordered to quit. Without some equalisation of local taxation--as I have shown, the localtaxes often make another rent almost--without a recognised tenant-right, not revolutionary, but for unexhausted improvements, better security, sothat he can freely invest capital, the farmer cannot--I reiterate it, hecannot--do more than he has done for the labourer. He would then employmore skilled labour, and wages would be better. And, after all that hedoes for them, he dares not find fault, or he may find his ricks blazingaway--thanks to the teaching of the agitators that the farmers aretyrants, and, by inference, that to injure them is meritorious. There isa poster in Swindon now offering £20 reward for the discovery of theperson who maliciously set fire to a rick of hay in Lord Bolingbroke'spark at Lydiard. 

If any farmers are hard upon their men, it is those who have themselvesbeen labourers and have risen to be employers of labour. These veryoften thoroughly understand the art of getting the value of a man's wageout of him. I deliberately affirm that the true farmers, one and all, are in favour of that maxim of a well-known and respected agriculturistof our county--"A fair day's wage for a fair day's work. "

I fear the farmers of Wiltshire would be only too happy to ridethorough-breds to the hunt, and see their daughters driving phaetons, asthey are accused of doing; but I also fear that very, very few enjoythat privilege. Most farmers, it is true, do keep some kind of vehicle;it is necessary when their great distance from a town is considered, andthe keep of a horse or two comes to nothing on a large farm. It iscustomary for them to drive their wives or daughters once a week onmarket-days into the nearest town. If here and there an energetic mansucceeds in making money, and is able to send his son to a university, all honour to him. I hope the farmers will send their sons touniversities; the spread of education in their class will be of as muchadvantage to the community as among the labouring population, for itwill lead to the more general application of science to the land and ahigher amount of production. If the labourer attempted to rise he wouldbe praised; why not the farmer?

It is simply an unjustifiable libel on the entire class to accuse themof wilful extravagance. I deliberately affirm that the majority offarmers in Wiltshire are exactly the reverse; that, while they practisea generous hospitality to a friend or a stranger, they are decidedlysaving and frugal rather than extravagant, and they are compelled to beso by the condition of their finances. To prove that their efforts arefor the good of the community I need only allude to the work of the lateMr. Stratton, so crowned with success in improving the breed ofcattle--a work in the sister county of Gloucester so ably carried on atthis present moment by Mr. Edward Bowly, and by Mr. Lane and Mr. Garnein the noted Cotswold sheep. The breeds produced by these gentlemen havein a manner impregnated the whole world, imported as they have been toAmerica and Australia. It was once ably said that the readings of theEnglish Bible Sunday after Sunday in our churches had preserved ourlanguage pure for centuries; and, in the same way, I do verily believethat the English (not the Wiltshire only, but the English) farmer as aninstitution, with his upright, untainted ideas of honour, honesty, andmorality, has preserved the tone of society from that corruption whichhas so miserably degraded France--so much so that Dumas recentlyscientifically predicted that France was _en route à prostitutiongénérale_. Just in the same way his splendid constitution as a manrecruits the exhausted, pale, nervous race who dwell in cities, andprevents the Englishman from physically degenerating. --I am, Sir, faithfully yours, RICHARD JEFFERIES. 

COATE FARM, SWINDON, _November 25, 1872_. 

_THE ALLOTMENT SYSTEM. _

(_To the Editor of the "Times. "_)

SIR, --Many gentlemen having written to me for further information uponthe system of glebe allotments for labourers mentioned in my letter tothe _Times_ of November 14, it has occurred to me that the followingfacts may be interesting:--

The glebe alluded to was that of Lyddington, near Swindon, and the planwas originated by the late incumbent, Mr. May, but carried out into acomplete system by the present much-respected rector, the Rev. H. Munn. The land itself is situated not more than 300 yards from the village ofLyddington, by the side of a good turnpike-road, and is traversed by tworoads giving easy access to every allotment. Each plot of ground isdivided from the next by a narrow green path: no hedges or mounds arepermitted, and the field itself is enclosed without a hedge to harbourbirds. The soil is a rich dark loam, yielding good crops, with verylittle manure, and the surface is level. There are sixty-three tenantsoccupying plots varying in size, according to circumstances, from 48"lug" downwards--25, 30, 16, &c. A "lug" is a provincialism for perch. The rent is 5d. Per "lug" or perch, and each occupier on becoming atenant receives a card on which the following rules are printed in largetype:--

 "LYDDINGTON GARDEN ALLOTMENTS. 

 "RULES AND REGULATIONS. 

 "1. The land shall be cultivated by the spade only, and proper attention shall be paid to its cultivation. 

 "2. No allotment, or any part thereof, shall be under-let or exchanged. 

 "3. The rent shall be due on the 1st of September in each year, and shall be paid before the crop is taken off the ground. 

 "4. All tenants shall maintain a character for morality and sobriety, and shall not frequent a public-house on the Sabbath-day. 

 "5. If any tenant fail to pay his rent or to perform any of the foregoing conditions he shall immediately forfeit his allotment, with his crop upon the same, and the landlord or his agent shall take possession and enforce payment of the rent due by sale of the crop or otherwise, as in arrears of rent. 

 "All the tenants are earnestly requested to attend regularly at the House of God during the times of Divine Service, with their families, to the best of their abilities. "

The object of Rule 2 is to enable the landlord to retain a certainamount of influence over the tenant, to bring him in immediate contactwith the tenant, and to keep the land itself under his control. Manyoccupiers endeavour to under-let their allotments, which, if permitted, would entirely defeat the main object of the landlord, besidescomplicating the already great labour of collecting the rents, &c. 

Rule 3 prevents the produce of the allotment going to pay thepublic-house score; while the date on which the rent falls due is soadjusted as to enable the occupier to receive his money for harvest-workbefore paying it. 

Rule 4 places a great restraint upon drunkenness and dissolute habits. Last year the Rev. H. Munn addressed a private circular to his tenants, in which he says:--

"Sad reports have been brought to me lately of the conduct of some inthe parish, and among them, I am sorry to say, are tenants of theAllotment Gardens. Such conduct is contrary to the rules on which theallotments are held, and also contrary to the intentions of mypredecessor in letting them out to the parishioners. They are intendedto improve the condition of the labourers and their families, givingthem employment in the summer evenings, increasing their supply of food, and withdrawing them from the influence of the public-house. But whendrinking habits are indulged all these benefits are lost, and theallotments, which were intended to do the labourer good, only increasehis means of obtaining intoxicating drinks. "

The landlord can, of course, exercise his discretion in enforcing Rule5--can allow time for payment, and in certain cases of misfortune, suchas the failure of the potato crop, remit it entirely. But this powermust be sparingly used, otherwise every one would endeavour to findexcuses for non-fulfilment of the contract. 

The extent of the allotment is written on the back of the card of rules, with the name of the tenant, thus:--"D. Hancock. --Lot 1, Lug 15; rent6s. 3d. ;" and each payment is receipted underneath, with the date andinitials of the landlord. 

The present landlord has in no case disturbed or removed the tenantsreceived by his predecessor, but where land has fallen in he hasendeavoured to arrange the extent of the new allotments made to suit therequirements of families, and to allow of a sufficient crop of potatoesbeing grown for one season on one half of the allotment, while the otherhalf bears different vegetables, and _vice versâ_ for the next season, being the same thing as a rotation of crops. 

The field has recently been drained at the joint cost of landlord andtenant. The Rev. H. Munn provided the drain-pipes, and the occupierspaid for the labour, which latter came to £8, the amount beingproportioned according to the size of each allotment. The highestamount paid by any one tenant was, I believe, £1 (for 48 "lug"), othersgoing down to 1s. 

The rent at 5d. Per "lug" or perch comes to £3, 6s. 8d. Per acre, anamount which bears a proper relation to the rent of arable farming land, when the labour of collecting so many small sums and other circumstancesare taken into consideration. The moral effect of the arrangement hasbeen incalculable--as one old woman pertinently remarked, "We needn'tsteal now, sir. " In the olden times the farmers' gardens were constantlysubject to depredations. The ordinary rate at which gardens are let inthe neighbourhood is 6d. Per "lug. " At Swindon, the nearest town (12, 000inhabitants), there are large allotment fields let at 1s. 6d. Per "lug, "or £12 per acre, and eagerly caught up at that price. These allotmentsare rented by every class, from labourers and mechanics to well-to-dotradesmen. 

The very first desire of every agricultural labourer's heart is agarden, and so strong is the feeling that I have known men apply forpermission to cultivate the vacant space between the large doublemounds of the hedges on some pasture farms, and work hard at it despitethe roots of the bushes and the thefts of the rooks. 

The facts mentioned above only add one more to the numberless ways inwhich the noble clergy of the Church of England have been silentlylabouring for the good of the people committed to their care for yearsbefore the agitators bestowed one thought on the agricultural poor. --Iam, Sir, faithfully yours, RICHARD JEFFERIES. 

COATE FARM, SWINDON. 

(_Published in the "Times, " Nov. 23, 1872. _)

_A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. _

"Now then--hold fast there--mind the furrow, Tim. " The man who wasloading prepared himself for the shock, and the waggon safely joltedover the furrow, and on between the wakes of light-brown hay, cracklingto the touch as if it would catch fire in the brilliant sunshine. Thepitchers, one on each side, stuck their prongs into the wakes and sentup great "pitches, " clearing the ground rapidly, through emulation, forit was a point of honour to keep pace with each other. Tim, the old manwho had led the horses, resumed his rake in the rear among the women, who instantly began teasing the poor wretch. 

"Tim, she's allus in the way, " said one, purposely hitching her rake inhis. "Thur--get away. "

"I shan't, " said Tim, surly as crabbed age and incessant banter under ahot sun could make him. "Now--mind, thee's break th' rake. "

They both pulled as hard as they dared--each expecting the other to giveway, for the master was in sight, on horseback, by the rick, and a rakebroken wantonly would bring a sharp reprimand. 

"Go it, Sal!" cried the loader on the waggon hoarsely, half choked withhay dust. "Pull away!"

"Pull, Tim!" cried one of the pitchers. 

"Ha! ha!" laughed two or three more women, closing round as the girlgave a tug which nearly upset Tim and broke half-a-dozen teeth out ofhis rake. 

"Darn thee!" growled the old fellow. The youngest of the girls at thesame moment gave him a push under the arm with the end of herrake-handle. It was the last straw which broke the back of Tim's temper. Swearing, he dropped the rake and seized a prong, and hobbled after thegirl, who danced away half in delight and half in terror. 

"I'll job this into thee--darn thee--if I can come near thee, theehussy!"

The "hussy" let him come near, and danced away again gracefully. Shewas at once the most handsome and most impudent of his tormentors. There's no saying whether the old man, roused as he was and incensedbeyond control, might not really have "jobbed, " _i. E. _, stabbed, hisprong at her, had not one of the pitchers left his wake and rushed onhim. 

"My eye!" shouted the loader, "Absalom's at 'un!"

Absalom took Tim by the shoulders and hurled him on the ground prettyheavily. Flinging the prong twenty yards away, he threatened to knockhis head off if he didn't let Madge alone. Old Tim slowly got up andwent off after his tool, growling to himself, while Madge clung hold ofAbsalom's arm, who, turning round, kissed her. The other women lookedjealously on as she followed him back to his wake, and kept close to himat his work. 

Madge was tall and slenderly made. Her limbs were more delicatelyproportioned than is usual among women accustomed to manual labour fromchildhood. The rosy glow of health lit up her brown but clear cheek, free from freckles and sun-spots. Her eyes, black as sloes, were fringedwith long dark eyelashes which gave their glances an _espiègle_expression. They were very wicked-looking eyes, full of fun andmischief. Her dress, open at the throat, displayed a faultless neck, butslightly sun-browned. Her curly dark-brown hair escaped in ringlets downher back. A lovely nut-brown maid!

Soft glances passed rapidly between Madge and Absalom, as she rakedbehind him. They did not escape the jealous notice of the other women. It was the last day of the hay-harvest--it was "hay home" that night. 

Harvest is a time of freedom, but the last day resembles the ancientSaturnalia, or rather perhaps the vine season in Italy, when thegrape-gatherers indulged their rude wit on every one who came near. Raillery and banter poured incessantly on Madge and Absalom, who repliedwith equal freedom. 

"Grin away, " shouted Absalom at last, half pleased, half irritated, ashe stuck his prong in the ground, and seizing Madge, kissed her beforethem all. "Thur--I bean't ashamed on her!"

"Ha! ha! ha! Hoorah!" shouted the men. Madge slipped away towards therear, blushing scarlet. So absorbed had they been as not to notice theapproach of another waggon coming in the opposite direction, which wasnow alongside. Seeing the kiss and hearing the laugh, one of the men, following it, shouted in a stentorian voice, for which he was renowned--

"Darn my buttons if I won't have one of they!"

In an instant he was over the wake and caught Madge in his arms. But shestruggled and cried. Absalom was there in a moment. 

"Go it, Roaring Billy!" shouted the followers of the other waggon. ButAbsalom shook him free, and the girl darted away. The two men stoodfronting each other. Absalom was angry. Billy had had a trifle too muchbeer. A quarrel was imminent, and fists were doubled, when the pitchersrushed up and separated them. 

The last pitch was now flung up, and the women began to decorate thehorses and the waggons with green boughs. 

"Come on, Madge, " said Absalom, "we'll ride whoam;" and despite of muchfeminine shyness and many objections, and after much trouble andblushing and rude jokes about legs, Madge was hoisted up, and Absalomfollowed her. To the rickyard they rode in triumph among green boughs, and to the rude chorus of a song. 

At seven that evening the whole gang were collected in the farmer'sgreat kitchen. A huge room it was, paved with stone flags, the wallswhitewashed, and the ceiling being the roof itself, whose black beamswere festooned with cobwebs. Three or four tables had been arranged in arow, and there was a strong smell of "dinner" from smoking joints. Absalom came in last. He had spent some time in adorning himself in awhite clean slop and new corduroys, with a gay necktie and hisgrandfather's watch. His face shone from a recent wash. It was an opencountenance, which unconsciously prepossessed one in his favour. Light-blue or grey eyes, which looked you straight in the face, wereovershadowed with rather thick eyebrows. His forehead was wellproportioned, and crowned with a mass of curling yellow hair. Aprofusion of whiskers hid his chin, which perhaps in its shape indicateda character too easy and yielding. His shoulders were broad; hisappearance one of great strength. But his mouth had a sensual look. Absalom pushed in and out by Madge. 

"What didst thee have to eat?" asked a crony of his afterwards. 

"Aw, " said Absalom, fetching a sigh at the remembrance of the goodthings. "Fust I had a plate of rus beef, then a plate of boiled beef;then I had one of boiled mutton, and next one of roast mutton; last, bacon. I found I couldn't git on at all wi' th' pudding, but when thecheese and th' salad came, didn't I pitch into that!"

Absalom's love did not spoil his appetite. 

Soon as the dishes were removed, pipes were brought out and tankardssent on their rounds. By this time poor old Tim's weak brains weremuddled, and he was discovered leaning back against the wall andmumbling out the tag-end of an old song:--

 "On' Humphry wi' his flail, But Kitty she wur the charming ma-aid To carry th' milking pa-ail!"

This set them on singing, and Roaring Billy insisted on bawling out atthe top of his stentorian lungs the doleful ditty of "Lord Bateman andhis Daughters, " which ran to thirty verses, and lasted half-an-hour. Hardly were the last words out of his mouth, when an impatient wightstruck up the "Leathern Bottel, " and heartily did they all join in thechorus, down to where the ballad describes the married man wanting tobeat his wife, and using a glass bottle for the purpose, which broke andlet all the wine about:--

 "Whereas it had been the Leathern Bottel, The stopper been in he might banged away well, "

without danger of creating an unanswerable argument in favour ofleathern bottles. 

By this time they were pretty well "boozed. " A thick cloud oftobacco-smoke filled the kitchen. Heads were rolling about from side toside and arms stretched over the tables among the _débris_ of brokenpipes and in pools of spilt beer and froth. Despite these rude, unromantic surroundings, Absalom and Madge were leaning close againsteach other, hand-in-hand, almost silent, but looking in each other'seyes. What account takes passion of pipes or beer, smoke or drunken men, of snores and hoarse voices? None: they were oblivious of these things. 

CHAPTER II. 

A month after the "hay home" a gaily dressed party passed through thefields towards the village church. Absalom and Madge went first, arm-in-arm; followed by Roaring Billy, who was to give the bride away, with his lady beside him. Behind these came two or three more couples, and last of all, toiling along by herself, an old woman, bent nearlydouble; it was Madge's mother. With laugh and light jest they pushed onmerrily over the stiles and through the brown autumn grass, covered witha lacework of cobwebs. The ceremony passed off well enough, except thatBilly, as best-man, made the old arches of the church echo again withhis response. 

Absalom had taken a cottage of Farmer Humphreys. "I'd 'ave sooner had'un of anybody else, " said he, "but thur war nur anuther to be had, andit bean't such a bad 'un nither, only Measter Humphreys be hardish inthe mouth. " By the which he meant that Humphreys had the reputation ofbeing rather harsh in his dealings with his workpeople. The cottageitself, however, was pleasant enough to look upon, half thatched andhalf slated, with a narrow strip of flower-garden in front full ofhollyhocks, sun-flowers, and wall-flowers, enclosed in a highelder-hedge. Besides which, the occupier had a prescriptive right, bycustom, to a patch of potato ground in the allotments about a mile upthe road. And half-a-dozen damson-trees overshadowed the back of thecottage, their branches coquetting with the roof when the wind blew. 

Here the bridal party made a hearty dinner, and grew jolly and genialafterwards over several gallons of beer ordered from the "Good Woman"inn: a sign which represented a woman minus a head, and thereforesilent. It was the end of the harvest, and Absalom had plenty of moneyin his pocket: a week's holiday was therefore indispensable. Theimbibing so much beer left a taste in the mouth next morning: this mustbe washed away by a visit to the barrel. Then there was a stroll to thetop of a high hill in the neighbourhood, and as it was very hot, theparty was obliged to "wet their whistles" and "wash the dust out oftheir throats" at every sign on the road, there and back; always backedup with a second glass for the "good of the house. " The week wore on, and by Saturday Absalom had thoroughly emancipated himself from thetraces of control. Saturday evening brought a company together at the"Good Woman, " whom it behoved him to treat. Gallon after gallon wasdisposed of; Absalom, as the hero of the evening, rising higher andhigher in his own estimation with every glass. At length a rude jest ledto a blow. Absalom had his coat off in an instant, and felled RoaringBilly like an ox. A row began. The landlord, jealous of his license, turned them all out into the road, when one or two, overcome by thefresh air on top of so much liquor, quietly laid down in the dust. Absalom, mad with drink and vanity, hit out right and left, and piled upthree half-stupefied fellows on top of each other, then, shouting--

 "I'm the king of the castle!"

stood up in the middle of the road, and brandishing his arms, challengedall comers. 

At that moment a pair of ponies dashed round the corner and suddenlystopped--obstructed by half-a-dozen men lying in the way. A tallgentleman, with a very broad forehead, a very small nose, and aprofusion of grey beard, sprang out, and went up to the landlord, whostood at the door. 

"Johnson, " said he sharply, "this is disgraceful. What's that fellow'sname?" pointing to Absalom. 

The landlord of course didn't know--was very sorry. 

"I can tell 'ee, zur, " said a voice, almost a childish treble, and oldTim crept out from whence he had been sipping up the forsaken goblets. "It be Absalom White--it be. "

"Very good, " said the Reverend J. Horton, and resuming his seat, droveon; while Absalom, shouting and staggering, marched down the road, imagining he had carried all before him. 

The Reverend J. Horton was the owner of the allotment grounds, which hehad broken up from the glebe land with the idea of benefiting the poor. Every tenant received a circular of rules which were to be observed. Foremost amongst these was a rule against fighting and drinking. Absalomnext week received an intimation that he must give up his allotment. Heswore, and said it didn't matter a "cuss, " it was autumn, and the cropwas up, and he'd warrant he'd get another piece before spring somewhere. But Madge cried, for her mother had prophesied evil from this offendingof the "gentle-folk. " Absalom kissed her and went to his work. 

Madge, despite these things, was happy enough. Her education had nottaught her to expect great things. She went forth to her work in themorning with a light heart. Merry as a cricket, she forgot in thesunshine all the ominous forebodings of her feeble old mother. It sochanced, however, that Absalom's master could not find her employment atthat season, and she therefore worked on a farm at a little distance. Madge saw little of Absalom, except at night, and then he was tired andwent early to bed. Her restless spirit could not be satisfied with solittle companionship. Naturally fond of admiration, she thought no harmof talking and joking with the men, and her gossips encouraged her init. The very same "gossips" reported her freedom to Absalom--very muchexaggerated. Absalom said nothing. He was slow to understand any newidea. On her road home from her work Madge had to come down a lane withbut one solitary cottage in it. It belonged to an itinerant tinker, hisown property, only paying quit-rent of a shilling a year. He was abachelor, a gipsy sort of fellow, full of fun and rollicksome mirth, better educated than the labourers, and with a store of original ideaswhich he had acquired in travelling about. This fellow--"Bellows, " ashe was called--admired Madge exceedingly, and had tried to win her forhimself, but failed. Still, what pretty woman was ever displeased withthe attentions of a smart young fellow? After her marriage "Bellows"courted her more and more. It became a "talk, " as the country peoplecall it. Madge, thinking her title as wife exonerated her from allremarks, perhaps allowed him to go further than she ought, but, instrict earnestness, meant no harm. These things came to Absalom's ears. He grew fonder and fonder of the public-house. Still, at home he saidnothing. 

It grew to be winter. One cold, frosty, but beautiful moonlight nightAbsalom came home late from his work. He had been sent up on the hillswith some sheep, and did not return till two hours after his usual time. Weary and hungry, and not in the best of tempers, he walked in. The doorwas ajar, and there were some embers on the hearth, but Madge wasneither in sight nor call. Eager for his supper, Absalom went out, andsoon learned that she had gone up to the "Good Woman. " Madge indeed, finding he did not come home, had gone up there to look for him. "Bellows" was there, and the landlord and he had been drinking prettyfreely. No sooner did Madge come in than the landlord blew out thecandle, slipped out, and locked the door with a loud guffaw, leaving thepair alone in the dark. Unable to escape, Madge sat down, and theychatted away gaily enough. 

It was thus that Absalom found them. He said nothing when he learntwhere Madge was, but left the house and walked back to the cottage. Alarmed at his sullen demeanour, the landlord unlocked the door. Madgeflew back to the cottage. 

"Ab, " said she, rushing in with an armful of sticks to make a blaze, "you'll want your supper. "

The reply was a blow which doubled her up in a corner senseless. 

Absalom sat for a while sullenly glowering over the embers, and thenwent to bed, leaving Madge sobbing on the bare, hard earthen floor. Itwas midnight before she crept to his side. 

Early in the morning Absalom got up and dressed. Madge was sleepingsoundly, a dark circle under each eye; she had cried herself to sleep. He went out and left her. 

CHAPTER III. 

Six weeks passed, and Absalom did not return. Madge went over to hermother. "He bean't come, " she said, beginning to cry. 

"I knowed a wassn't, " said the old woman, rocking herself to and fro inher low rush-bottomed chair, with her feet on the hearth, almost amongthe ashes. "Thee's soon have to look out for theeself. "

"How, mother?"

"Cos I'm going to die. "

"Mother!"

"I be goin' to die, " repeated the old woman in the same calm, hard tone. A life of incessant labour had crushed all sentiment out of her--exceptsuperstition--and she faced the hard facts of existence without emotion. 

Madge began to weep. 

"Thee go and shut up the cottage, wench, and come and bide wi' I. "

Madge did so. In a few days the old woman took to her bed. She had itdragged out of the next room--there was but one floor--and placed nearthe fire, which was constantly kept up. Madge waited on her assiduouslywhen she was not out of doors at field-work. Work was growing scarcerand scarcer as the winter advanced. The old woman slowly grew weaker andweaker, till Madge could leave her no longer. So she stayed at home, andso lost the little employment she had. One evening, when the firelightwas growing low and dark shadows were flickering over the ceiling, theold woman seemed to recover a little strength, and sat up in bed. 

"Madge!"

"Yes, mother. "

"Thee must promise I one thing. "

"What be it, mother?"

"As thee won't have I buried by the parish. "

Madge began to cry. 

"Dost thee hear?"

"I won't. "

A long silence. 

"Madge!"

"Yes, mother. "

"Thee go to the fire. Dost thee see that brick in the chimbley as sticksout a little way?"

"Yes. "

"Pull it out. "

Madge caught hold, and after a few tugs pulled the brick out. 

"Put thee hand in!"

Madge thrust hand and arm into the cavity, and brought out a dirtystocking. 

"Has thee got th' stocking?"

"Yes, mother. "

"Bury I wi' wots in thur, and take care o' the rest on't. Thee's want itbad enough afore th' spring comes. "

Madge replaced the stocking without examining it. She was heavy atheart. 

Before morning her mother was dead. 

Madge went back to her own cottage, carrying with her just a sovereignin sixpences and fourpenny-bits. She sat down and wept. No one came nearher. Her former gossips, always jealous of her beauty, left her alonewith her sorrow. But she knew that she could not remain idle. Somethingmust be done. So she went out to rick-work, but there was none to behad. From farm to farm Madge wearily toiled along, meeting the sameanswer everywhere--"Had got more on now than they could find work for. "Madge felt exceedingly ill as she slowly wended her way homewards. Thenfor the first time she remembered that she must shortly become a mother. 

In her weak state Madge caught cold. She shivered incessantly. The poorchild could not rise from her bed in the morning, her limbs were sostiff and her head so bad. She lay there all day, crying to herself. Hunger at last, towards evening, compelled her to get up and seek food. There was only a piece of crust in the cupboard and a little lard. Shewas trying to masticate these when there came a tap at the door. "Comein, " said Madge. Farmer Humphreys now appeared in the doorway. He was ashort, thick man, with a shock-head of yellow hair, small grey eyes, andlips almost blue. 

"There be ten weeks' rent a-owing, " said he, sitting down; "and wedon't mean to wait no longer. And there's a half-side o' bacon an' aload of faggots. "

"How much is it altogether?"

"Seventeen-and-six. "

"I ain't a-got but a pound, and Absalom bean't come whoam. "

"The vagabond--cuss 'im!"

"A bean't no vagabond, " cried Madge, firing up in defence of herhusband. 

"Bist thee a-goin' to pay--or bisn't?" said the fellow, beginning tobully. 

Madge counted him out the money, and he left, casting an ugly leer onher as he went. 

Half-a-crown remained. On that half-crown Madge lived for one wholemonth. The cold clung to her and grew worse. Her tongue burned and herlimbs shook; it was fever as well as cold--that low aguish fever, thecurse of the poor. Bread and lard day by day, bread and lard, and alittle weak tea. And at the month's end the half-crown was gone:sixpence went for her last half-dozen faggots. Madge crawled upstairsand wrapped herself up in a blanket, sitting on the side of the bed. Itwas her miserable loneliness which troubled the poor child most. Hercough, and the cold, and want of food and firing, might have been bornehad there been some one to talk to. But alone they did their work. Herform was dreadfully shrunken, her hands as thin and bony as those herold mother last stretched over the fire. The ale-house which hadabsorbed her husband's earnings sent her no aid in this time ofdistress, and he had offended the clergyman who would otherwise havefound her out. It grew dusky, as the poor creature sat on the edge ofthe bed. Suddenly there was a hand on the latch of the door downstairs. Madge trembled with eagerness as a heavy step sounded on thefloor--could it be Absalom? Her black eyes, looking larger from thepaleness of her sunken cheeks, began to blaze with a new light. Thesteps came to the foot of the stairs and began ascending. She listenedeagerly. A head of yellow hair came up through the trap-door, and thesmall grey eyes of young Humphreys leered on her. Disappointed andamazed, Madge remained silent. Humphreys came up and sat on the bedbeside her. 

"Thee's got thin, " he said, with a sort of chuckle. "Like some grub, wouldn't ye?"

No answer. He put his hand on her shoulder and muttered something in herear. Madge seemed scarcely to understand him, but sat staring wildly. 

"I'll give thee sixpence, " said Humphreys, showing one. 

Then a full sense of his dishonourable intentions, mingled with shameand disgust at his unutterable meanness, came over Madge, and risingwith a flush on her cheek, she struck him with all her might. It was afeeble blow, but he was unprepared: it over-balanced him; he staggeredbackwards, and fell heavily down the stairs. Madge, her heart beatingpainfully fast, leaned back on the bed and listened. There was not asound. A dreadful thought that he might be killed flashed across hermind. Her impulse was to go down and see, but her strength failed, andshe sat down again and waited. It seemed hours before she heard him stirand, after a noise like a great dog shaking himself, with mingled cursesand threats, leave the house. Then a great pain came over her. She feltas if she should die, but the greatest dread was the dread ofloneliness. She staggered to the window and looked out. A boy waspassing, and she told him to go to Mrs. Green's and send her down. Thenshe fell on the bed in a faint, with the window open and the cold, bitter, biting east wind blowing in. 

It was half a mile to Mrs. Green's--one of Madge's old gossips. The boygot there in two hours. Mrs. Green was putting her baby to bed, butinstantly transferred that duty to her eldest girl, and went off eagerfor news. 

At nine that night the "Good Woman" inn resounded with talk of Madge. Not a bit nor a drop was there in the house, according to Mrs. Green. The landlord said Absalom owed him two shillings unpaid score: he couldforgive her the debt, but he couldn't give nothing. Mrs. Green went homefor her supper, and returning, found Madge conscious. She would not havethe parish doctor. 

"Bellows, " the tinker, had during these late months been out on anitinerant journey. He came home that night, and at the "Good Woman"heard the news. His quick wit put him up to a plan to serve the poorgirl. Early in the morning he took his pack and went through the villageup to the Rev. Mr. Horton's. There, under pretence of asking for kettlesto mend, he told the most dismal tale to the housemaid. Atbreakfast-time this was reported to Mrs. Horton. Distress at such a timewas sufficient to engage any lady's attention. Mrs. Horton was a frail, tender woman, but earnest in works of charity. The ponies were ordered, and down they drove. The tale was not overdrawn. "Not a crust in thecupboard--not a stick to light a fire: the poor creature starved, and--and--you know, coming, " said the good lady afterwards, describingthe scene. "John drove after the doctor instantly, and I stayed. Poorgirl! It was still-born; and she, poor thing! we saw, could not livelong. "

Madge, indeed, died the same night, totally worn out at nineteen. 

And Absalom? He had gone to work on a distant railway as a navvy, and, earning good wages and able to enjoy himself nightly at the taverns, forgot poor Madge. Months went on. News travels slowly among the poor, but at last intelligence did reach him that his mother was dead andMadge starving. To do him justice, he had never thought of that, and hestarted at once for home, travelling on foot. But passing through avillage with his bundle on his shoulders, he was arrested by a policemanwho observed some blood on it. It was on the slop he had worn in thefight at the "Good Woman, " and came only from the nose. But there hadbeen a brutal murder in the neighbourhood, the public mind was excited, and Absalom was remanded for inquiries. It took a fortnight to prove hisidentity, and by then Madge was dead. 

Absalom went back to the railway and drank harder than ever. It wasobserved that he drank now by himself and for drinking's sake, whereasbefore he had only been fond of liquor with company. After a year hefound his way back home. Madge was forgotten, and he easily got work. Likely young men are not so common on farms: strict inquiries are rarelymade. 

The last that was heard of him appeared in the local newspaper:--

"DRUNK AND DISORDERLY. --Absalom White was brought up in custody, chargedwith obstructing the road while in a state of intoxication. Fined fiveshillings and seven-and-six costs. "

PART II. 

_THE COMING OF SUMMER. _

The June sky is of the deepest blue when seen above the fresh foliage ofthe oaks in the morning before the sun has filled the heavens with hismeridian light. To see the blue at its best it needs something to form ascreen so that the azure may strike the eye with its fulnessundiminished by its own beauty; for if you look at the open sky such abreadth of the same hue tones itself down. But let the eye rise upwardsalong a wall of oak spray, then at the rim the rich blue is thick, quitethick, opaque, and steeped in luscious colour. Unless, indeed, upon thehigh downs, --there the June sky is too deep even for the brilliance ofthe light, and requires no more screen than the hand put up to shade theeyes. These level plains by the Thames are different, and here I like tosee the sky behind and over an oak. 

About Surbiton the oaks come out into leaf earlier than in many places;this spring[2] there were oak-leaves appearing on April 24, yet sobackward are some of them that, while all the rest were green, therewere two in the hedge of a field by the Ewell road still dark within tendays of June. They looked dark because their trunks and boughs wereleafless against a background of hawthorn, elm, and other trees in fullfoliage, the clover flowering under them, and May bloom on the hedge. They were black as winter, and even now, on the 1st of June, the leavesare not fully formed. The trees flowered in great perfection thisspring; many oaks were covered with their green pendants, and they hungfrom the sycamores. Except the chestnuts, whose bloom can hardly beoverlooked, the flowering of the trees is but little noticed; the elm isone of the earliest, and becomes ruddy--it is as early as the catkins onthe hazel; willow, aspen, oak, sycamore, ash, all have flower orcatkin--even the pine, whose fructification is very interesting. Thepines or Scotch firs by the Long Ditton road hang their sweepingbranches to the verge of the footpath, and the new cones, the sulphurfarina, and the fresh shoots are easily seen. The very earliest oak toput forth its flowers is in a garden on Oak Hill; it is green with them, while yet the bitter winds have left a sense of winter in the air. 

There is a broad streak of bright-yellow charlock--in the open arablefield beyond the Common. It lights up the level landscape; the glancefalls on it immediately. Field beans are in flower, and their scentcomes sweet even through the dust of the Derby Day. Red heads oftrifolium dot the ground; the vetches have long since been out, and areso still; along the hedges parsley forms a white fringe. The charlockseems late this year; it is generally up well before June--the firstflowers by the roadside or rickyard, in a waste dry corner. Such drywaste places send up plants to flower, such as charlock and poppy, quicker than happens in better soil, but they do not reach nearly theheight or size. The field beans are short from lack of rain; there aresome reeds in the ditch by them, and these too are short; they have nothalf shot up yet, for the same reason. On the sward by the Long Dittonroad the goat's-beard is up; it grows to some size there every season, but is not very common elsewhere. It is said to close its sepals atnoon, and was therefore called "Jack-go-to-bed-at-noon, " but in fact itshuts much earlier, and often does not open at all, and you may passtwenty times and not see it open. Its head is like that of thedandelion, and children blow it to see what's o'clock in the same way. It forms a large ball, and browner; dandelion seed-balls are white. Thegrass is dotted with them now; they give a glossy, silky appearance tothe meadows. Tiny pink geranium flowers show on bunches of dusty grass;silver weed lays its yellow buttercup-like flower on the ground, placingit in the angle of the road and the sward, where the sward makes aridge. Cockspur grass--three claws and a spur like a cock's foot--isalready whitened with pollen; already in comparison, for the grasses arelate to lift their heads this summer. As the petals of the May fall theyoung leaves appear, small and green, to gradually enlarge through thehay-time. 

A slight movement of the leaves on a branch of birch shows thatsomething living is there, and presently the little head and neck of awhitethroat peers over them, and then under, looking above and beneatheach leaf, and then with a noiseless motion passing on to the next. Another whitethroat follows immediately, and there is not a leafforgotten nor a creeping thing that can hide from them. Every tree andevery bush is visited by these birds, and others of the insect-feeders;the whole summer's day they are searching, and the caterpillar, as itcomes down on a thread, slipping from the upper branches, only dropsinto their beaks. Birds, too, that at other periods feed on grain andseed, now live themselves, and bring up their young, upon insects. 

I went to look over a gate to see how the corn was rising--it is soshort, now in June, that it will not hide a hare--and on coming nearthere was a cock chaffinch perched on the top, a fine bird in fullcolour. He did not move though I was now within three yards, nor till Icould have almost touched him did he fly; he had a large caterpillar inhis beak, and no doubt his nest or the young from it were in the hedge. In feeding the young birds the old ones always perch first at a shortdistance, and after waiting a minute proceed to their fledgelings. Should a blackbird come at full speed across the meadow and stay on ahedge-top, and then go down into the mound, it is certain that his nestis there. If a thrush frequents a tree, flying up into the branches fora minute and then descending into the underwood, most likely the youngthrushes are there. 

Little indeed do the birds care for appropriate surroundings; anythingdoes for them, they do not aim at effect. I heard a tit-lark singing hisloudest, and found him perched on the edge of a tub, formed of a barrelsawn in two, placed in the field for the horses to drink from, as therewas no pond. Some swallows are very fond of a notice-board fastened to apole beside the Hogsmill bank. Upon its upper edge they perch andtwitter sweetly. There is a muddy pond by Tolworth Farm, near the road;it is muddy because a herd of cows drink from and stand in it, stirringup the bottom. An elm overhangs it, and the lower boughs are dead andleafless. On these there are always swallows twittering over the water. Grey and yellow wagtails run along the verge. In the morning the flockof goslings who began to swim in the pond, now grown large and grey, arrange themselves in a double row, some twenty or thirty of them, inloose order, tuck their bills under their wings and sleep. Two old birdsstand in the rear as if in command of the detachment. A sow, plasteredwith mud like the rhinoceri in the African lakes, lies on the edge ofthe brown water, so nearly the hue of the water and the mire, and soexactly at their juncture, as to be easily overlooked. But the sweetsummer swallows sing on the branches; they do not see the wallowinganimal, they see only the sunshine and the summer, golden buttercups andblue sky. 

In the hollow at Long Ditton I had the delight, a day or two since, tosee a kingfisher. There is a quiet lane, and at the bottom, in a valley, two ponds, one in enclosed grounds, the other in a meadow opposite. Standing there a minute to see if there was a martin among the birdswith which the pond in the grounds is thickly covered, something cameshooting straight towards me, and swerving only a yard or two to passme, a kingfisher went by. His blue wings, his ruddy front, the whitestreak beside his neck, and long bill, were all visible for a moment;then he was away straight over the meadow, the directness of his courseenabling it to be followed for some time till he cleared the distanthedge, probably going to visit his nest. Kingfishers, though living bythe stream, often build a good way from water. The months havelengthened into years since I saw one here before, sitting on the trunkof a willow which bends over the pond in the mead. The tree rises out ofthe water and is partly in it; it is hung with moss, and the kingfisherwas on the trunk within a foot or so of the surface. After that therecame severe winters, and till now I did not see another here. So thatthe bird came upon me unexpectedly out from the shadow of the trees thatoverhang the water, past me, and on into the sunshine over thebuttercups and sorrel of the field. 

This hollow at Long Ditton is the very place of singing birds; never wassuch a place for singing--the valley is full of music. In the oaksblackbirds whistle. You do not often see them; they are concealed by thethick foliage up on high, for they seek the top branches, which are moreleafy; but once now and then they quietly flutter across to anotherperch. The blackbird's whistle is very human, like a human being playingthe flute; an uncertain player, now drawing forth a bar of a beautifulmelody and then losing it again. He does not know what quiver or whatturn his note will take before it ends; the note leads him and completesitself. It is a song which strives to express the singer's keen delight, the singer's exquisite appreciation of the loveliness of the days; thegolden glory of the meadow, the light, the luxurious shadows, theindolent clouds reclining on their azure couch. Such thoughts can onlybe expressed in fragments, like a sculptor's chips thrown off as theinspiration seizes him, not mechanically sawn to a set line. Now andagain the blackbird feels the beauty of the time, the large white daisystars, the grass with yellow-dusted tips, the air which comes so softlyunperceived by any precedent rustle of the hedge, the water which runsslower, held awhile by rootlet, flag, and forget-me-not. He feels thebeauty of the time and he must say it. His notes come like wild flowers, not sown in order. The sunshine opens and shuts the stops of hisinstrument. There is not an oak without a blackbird, and there areothers afar off in the hedges. The thrushes sing louder here thananywhere; they really seem to have louder notes; they are all round. Thrushes appear to vary their songs with the period of the year; theysing loudly now, but more plaintively and delicately in the autumn. Warblers and willow wrens sing out of sight among the trees; they areeasily hidden by a leaf; ivy-leaves are so smooth, with an enamelledsurface, that high up, as the wind moves them, they reflect the sunlightand scintillate. Greenfinches in the elms never cease love-making, andlove-making needs much soft talking. There is a nightingale in a bush bythe lane which sings so loud the hawthorn seems to shake with the vigourof his song; too loud, though a nightingale, if you stand at the vergeof the boughs, as he would let you without alarm; farther away itbecomes sweet and softer. Yellowhammers call from the trees up towardsthe arable fields. There are but a few of them: it is the place ofsinging birds. 

The doves in the copse are nearer the house this year; I see them moreoften in the field at the end of the garden. As the dove rises the whitefringe on the tip of the tail becomes visible, especially when flying upinto a tree. One afternoon one flew up into a hornbeam close to thegarden, beside it in fact, and perched there full in view, not twentyyards at farthest. At first he sat upright, raising his neck andwatching us in the garden; then, in a minute or so, turned and fluttereddown to his nest. The wood-pigeons are more quiet now; theirwhoo-hoo-ing is not so frequently heard. By the sounds up in the elms atthe top of the Brighton road (at the end of Langley Lane) the youngrooks have not yet all flown, though it is the end of the first week inJune. There is a little pond near the rookeries, and by it a row ofelms. From one of these a heavy bough has just fallen without the leastapparent cause. There is no sign of lightning, nor does it even lookdecayed; the wood has fractured short off; it came down with such forcethat the ends of the lesser branches are broken and turned up, though, as it was the lowest limb, it had not far to fall, showing the weight ofthe timber. There has been no hurricane of wind, nothing at all to causeit, yet this thick bough snapped. No other tree is subject to thesedangerous falls of immense limbs, without warning or apparent cause, sothat it is not safe to rest under elms. An accident might not occur oncein ten years; nevertheless the risk is there. Elms topple over beforegales which scarcely affect other trees, or only tear off a few twigs. Two have thus been thrown recently--within eighteen months--in thefields opposite Tolworth Farm. The elm drags up its own roots, which areoften only a fringe round its butt, and leaves a hollow in the earth, asif it had been simply stood on end and held by these guy-ropes. Othertrees do, indeed, fall in course of time, but not till they areobviously on the point of tottering, but the elm goes down in full prideof foliage. By this pond there is a rough old oak, which is thepeculiar home of some titmice; they were there every day, far back onthe frost and snow, and their sharp notes sounded like some one chippingthe ice on the horse-pond with an iron instrument. Probably, before now, they have had a nest in a crevice. 

The tallest grass yet to be seen is in a little orchard on theright-hand side of the Long Ditton road. This little orchard is afavourite spot of mine, meaning, of course, to look at: it is a naturalorchard and left to itself. The palings by the road are falling, andheld up chiefly by the brambles and the ivy that has climbed up them. There are trees on the left and trees on the right; a fine spruce fir atthe back. The apple-trees are not set in straight lines; they were atfirst, but some have died away and left an irregularity. The treesthemselves lean this way and that; they are scarred and marked, as itwere, with lichen and moss. It is the home of birds. A blackbird had anest this spring in the bushes on the left side, a nightingale in thebushes on the right side, and there he sang and sang for hours everymorning. A sharp, relentless shrike lives in one of the trees close by, and is perpetually darting across the road upon insects on the swardamong the fern there. There are several thrushes who reside in thisorchard besides the lesser birds. Swallows sometimes twitter from thetops of the apple-trees. As the grass is so safe from intrusion, one ofthe earliest buttercups flowers here. The apple-bloom appears rosy onthe bare boughs only lately scourged by the east wind. After a time thetrees are in full bloom, set about into the green of the hedges andbushes and the dark spruce behind. Bennets, the flower of the grass, come up. The first bennet is to green things what a swallow is to thebreathing creatures of summer. White horse-chestnut blooms stand up intheir stately way, lighting the path, which is strewn with fallenoak-flower. May appears on the hawthorn: there is an early bush of it. Now the grass is so high the flowers are lost under it; even thebuttercups are overtopped; and soon as the young apples take form andshape white bramble-bloom will cover the bushes by the palings. Acornswill show on the oaks: the berries will ripen from red to blackbeneath. Along the edge of the path, where the dandelions and plantainsare thick with seed, the greenfinches will come down and select thosethey like best: this they often do by the footpath beside the road. Lastly, the apples become red; the beech in the corner has an orangespray, and cones hang long and brown upon the spruce. The thrushes aftersilence sing again, and autumn approaches. But, pass when you may, thislittle orchard has always something, because it is left to itself--I hadwritten neglected. I struck the word out, for this is not neglect, thisis true attention, to leave it to itself, so that the young trees trailover the bushes and stay till the berries fall of their ownover-ripeness, if perchance spared by the birds; so that the dead brownleaves lie and are not swept away unless the wind pleases; so that allthings follow their own course and bent. Almost opposite, by autumn, when the reapers are busy with the sheaves, the hedge is white with thelarge trumpet-flowers of the greater convolvulus. The hedgerow seemsmade of convolvulus then, nothing but convolvulus; nowhere else does theflower flourish so strongly, and the bines remain till the followingspring. This little orchard, without a path through it, without aborder, or a parterre, or a terrace, is a place to sit down and dreamin, notwithstanding that it touches the road, for thus left to itself ithas acquired an atmosphere of peace and stillness such as belongs to andgrows up in woods and far-away coombs of the hills. A stray passer-bywould go on without even noticing it, it is so commonplace andunpretentious, merely a corner of meadow irregularly dotted withapple-trees; a place that needs frequent glances and a dreamy mood tounderstand as the birds understand it. They are always here, even in thewinter, starlings and blackbirds particularly, who resort to a kind offurrow there, which, even in frost, seems to afford them some food. Inthe spring thrushes move along, rustling the fallen leaves as theysearch behind the arum-sheaths unrolling beside the palings, or underthe shelter of the group of trees where arum-roots are plentiful. Thereare nooks and corners from which shy creatures can steal out from theshadow and be happy. The dew falls softly, more noiseless than snow, anda star shines to the north over the spruce fir. By day there is aloving streak of sunshine somewhere among the tree-trunks; by night astar above. The trees are nothing to speak of in size or height, butthey seem always to bloom well and to be fruitful; tree-climbers run upthese and then go off to the elms. 

Beside the Long Ditton road, up the gentle incline on the left side, thebroad sward is broken by thickets and brake like those of a forest. If aforest were cleared, as those in America are swept away before the axe, but a line of underwood left beside the highway, the result would bemuch the same as may be seen here when the bushes and fern are inperfection. Thick hawthorn bushes stand at unequal distances surroundedwith brake; one with a young oak in the centre. Fern extends from onethicket to the other, and brambles fence the thorns, which arethemselves well around. From such coverts the boar was started in oldEnglish days, the fawns hide behind and about them even now in many afair park, and where there are no deer they are frequented by hares. Sonear the dust which settles on them as the wheels raise it, of course, every dog that passes runs through, and no game could stay an hour, butthey are the exact kind of cover game like. One morning this spring, indeed, I noticed a cock-pheasant calmly walking along the ridge of afurrow in the ploughed field, parted from these bushes by the hedge. Hewas so near the highway that I could see the ring about his neck. I haveseen peewits or green plovers in the same field, which is now about tobe built on. But though no game could stay an hour in such places, lesser birds love them, white-throats build there, gold-crests come downfrom the dark pines opposite--they seem fond of pines--yellow-hammerssit and sing on them, and they are visited all day long by one or other. The little yellow flowers of tormentil are common in the grass as autumnapproaches, and grasshoppers, which do not seem plentiful here, singthere. Some betony flowers are opposite on the other sward. There is amarshy spot by one of the bushes where among the rushes varioussemi-aquatic grasses grow. Blackberries are thick in favourableseasons--like all fruit, they are an uncertain crop; and hawkweeds arethere everywhere on the sward towards the edge. The peculiar green offern, which is more of a relief to the eye than any other shrub withwhich I am acquainted, so much so that I wonder it is not more imitated, is remarkable here when the burning July sun shines on the white dustthus fringed. By then trees are gone off in colour, the hedges are tiredwith heat, but the fern is a soft green which holds the glance. Thisvaries much with various seasons; this year the fern is particularlylate from a lack of moisture, but sometimes it is really beautifulbetween these bushes. It is cut down in its full growth by those whohave charge of the road, and the scene is entirely destroyed for theremainder of the season; it is not often that such bushes and such fernare found beside the highway, and, if not any annoyance to theresidents, are quite as worthy of preservation (not "preservation" bybeadle) as open spaces like commons. Children, and many of largergrowth, revel about them, gathering the flowers in spring and summer, the grasses and the blackberries in autumn. It is but a strip of sward, but it is as wild as if in the midst of a forest. A pleasure to everyone--therefore destroy it. 

In the evening from the rise of the road here I sometimes hear the cryof a barn owl skirting the hedge of Southborough Park, and disappearingunder the shadow of the elms that stand there. The stars appear and thewhole dome of the summer night is visible, for in a level plain likethis a slight elevation brings the horizon into view. Without moon theJune nights are white; a faint white light shows through the trees ofSouthborough Park northwards; the west has not lost all its tint overthe Ditton hollow; white flowers stand in the grass; white road, whiteflint-heaps even, white clouds, and the stars, too, light withoutcolour. 

By day the breeze comes south and west, free over fields, over corn andgrass and hedgerow; so slight a mound as this mere rise in theriver-side plain lifts you up into the current of the air. Where thewind comes the sunlight is purer. 

The sorrel is now high and ripening in the little meadows beside theroad just beyond the orchard. As it ripens the meadow becomes red, forthe stalks rise above the grass. This is the beginning of the feast ofseeds. The sorrel ripens just as the fledgelings are leaving the nest;if you watch the meadow a minute you will see the birds go out to it, now flying up a moment and then settling again. After a while comes thefeast of grain; then another feast of seeds among the stubble, and theample fields, and the furze of the hills; then berries, and then winter, and the last seed. 

A June rose. Something caught my eye on the top of the high hawthornhedge beside the Brighton road one evening as it was growing dusk, andon looking again there was a spray of briar in flower, two roses in fullbloom and out of reach, and one spray of three growing buds. So it isever with the June rose. It is found unexpectedly, and when you are notlooking for it. It is a gift, not a discovery, or anything earned--agift like love and happiness. With ripening grasses the rose comes, andthe rose is summer: till then it is spring. On the green banks--wasteplaces--beside the "New Road" (Kingsdown Road formerly) the streakedpink convolvulus is in flower; a sign that the spring forces have spentthemselves, that the sun is near his fulness. The flower itself isshapely, yet it is not quite welcome; it says too plainly that we arenear the meridian. There are months of warmth to follow--brilliantsunshine and new beauties; but the freshness, the joyous looking forwardof spring is gone. Upon these banks the first coltsfoot flowers inMarch, the first convolvulus in summer, and almost the last hawkweed inautumn. A yellow vetchling, too, is now opening its yellow petals besidethe Long Ditton road: another summer flower, which comes in as the blueveronica is leaving the sward. 

As tall as the young corn the mayweed fringes the arable fields with itswhite rays and yellow centre, somewhat as the broad moon-daisies standin the grass. By this time generally the corn is high above the mayweed, but this year the flower is level with its shelter. The pale cornbuttercup is in flower by the New Road, not in the least overshadowed bythe crops at the edge of which it grows. By the stream through TolworthCommon spotted persicaria is rising thickly, but even thisstrong-growing plant is backward and checked on the verge of theshrunken stream. The showers that have since fallen have not made up forthe lack of the April rains, which in the most literal sense cause theflowers of May and June. Without those early spring rains the wildflowers cannot push their roots and develop their stalks in time for thesummer sun. The sunshine and heat finds them unprepared. In the ditchesthe square-stemmed figwort is conspicuous by its dark green. It is veryplentiful about Surbiton. Just outside the garden in a waste corner theyellow flowers of celandine are overhung by wild hops and white bryony, two strong plants of which have climbed up the copse hedge, twining inand out each other. Both have vine-like leaves; but the hops arewrinkled, those of the bryony hairy or rough to the touch. The hops seemto be the most powerful, and hold the bryony in the background. Theyoung spruce firs which the wood-pigeon visited in the spring with anidea of building there look larger and thicker now the fresh greenneedles have appeared. 

In the woodland lane to Claygate the great elder-bushes are coming intoflower, each petal a creamy-white. The dogwood, too, is opening, and thewild guelder-roses there are in full bloom. There is a stile from whicha path leads across the fields thence to Hook. The field by the stilewas fed off in spring, and now is yellow with birdsfoot lotus, whichtints it because the grass is so short. From the grass at every footstepa crowd of little "hoppers" leap in every direction, scatteringthemselves hastily abroad. The little mead by the copse here is moreopen to the view this year, as the dry winter has checked the growth offerns and rushes. There is a flock of missel-thrushes in it: the oldbirds feed the young, who can fly well in the centre of the field. Lesser birds come over from the hedges to the bunches of rushes. Slowlywandering along the lane and looking over the mound on the right hand(cow-wheat with yellow lip is in flower on the mound), there areglimpses between the bushes and the Spanish chestnut-trees of far-awayblue hills--blue under the summer sky. 

FOOTNOTE:

[2] 1881. 

_THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN. _

This lovely little bird is so small and light that it can clingsuspended on the end of a single narrow leaf, or needle of pine, and itdoes not depress the least branch on which it may alight. The gold-crestfrequents the loneliest heath, the deepest pine wood, and the immediateneighbourhood of dwellings indifferently. A Scotch fir or pine grew sonear a house in which I once lived that the boughs almost brushed thewindow, and when confined to my room by illness, it gave me muchpleasure to watch a pair of these wrens who frequently visited the tree. They are also fond of thick thorn hedges, and, like all birds, havetheir favourite localities, so that if you see them once or twice in oneplace you should mark the tree or bush, for there they are almostcertain to return. It would be quite possible for a person to passseveral years in the country and never see one of these birds. There isa trick in finding birds' nests, and a trick in seeing birds. The firstI noticed was in an orchard; soon after, I found a second in a yew-tree(close to a window), and after that constantly came upon them as theycrept through brambles or in hedgerows, or a mere speck up in afir-tree. So soon as I had seen one I saw plenty. 

_AN EXTINCT RACE. _

There is something very mournful in a deserted house, and the feeling isstill further intensified if it happens to have once been a school, where a minor world played out its little drama, and left its historywritten on the walls. For a great boys' school is like a kingdom withits monarchs, its ministers, and executioners, and even its changes ofdynasty. Such a house stood no long while since on the northernborder-land of Wilts and Berks, a mansion in its origin back in the daysof Charles II. , and not utterly unconnected with the great events ofthose times, but which, for hard on a hundred years--from the middle ofthe eighteenth to the middle of the nineteenth century--was used as asuperior grammar-school, or college, as it would now be called. Gradually falling in reputation, and supplanted by modern rivals forfifteen or twenty years, the huge hollow halls and endless dormitorieswere silent, and the storms that sway with savage force down from thehills wreaked their will upon the windows and the rotting roof. Insidethe refectory--the windows being blown in--and over the antique-carvedmantelpiece, two swallows' nests had been built to the ceiling orcornice. The whitewashed walls were yellow and green with damp, andcovered with patches of saltpetre efflorescence. But they still bore, legible and plain, the hasty inscriptions scrawled on them, years andyears before, by hands then young, but by now returned to dust. Thehistory of this little kingdom, the hopes and joys, the fears andhatreds of the subjects, still remained, and might be gathered fromthese writings on the walls, just as are the history of Egypt and ofAssyria now deciphered from the palaces and tombs. Here were the namesof the kings--the head-masters--generally with some rough doggerelverse, not often very flattering, and illustrated with outlineportraits. Here were caricatures of the ushers and tutors, hidden insome corner of the dormitories once, no doubt, concealed by thefurniture, coupled with the very freest personalities, mostly in pencil, but often done with a burnt stick. Dates were scattered everywhere--notoften the year, but the day of the month, doubtless memorable from someexpedition or lark played off half a century since. Now and then therewas a quotation from the classics--one describing the groaning andshouting of the dying Hercules, till the rocks and the sad hillsresounded, which irresistibly suggested the idea of a thorough caning. Other inscriptions were a mixture of Latin and any English words thathappened to rhyme, together producing the most extraordinary jumble. Where now are the merry hearts that traced these lines upon the plasterin an idle mood? Attached to the mansion was a great garden, or ratherwilderness, with yew hedges ten feet high and almost as thick, asplendid filbert walk, an orchard, with a sun-dial. It is all--mansionand garden, noble yew-tree hedges and filbert walk, sun-dial andall--swept away now. The very plaster upon which generation aftergeneration of boys recorded their history has been torn down, and hascrumbled into dust. Greater kingdoms than this have disappeared sincethe world began, leaving not a sign even of their former existence. 

_ORCHIS MASCULA. _

The _Orchis mascula_ grew in the brook corner, and in early spring sentup a tall spike of purple flowers. This plant stood alone in an angle ofthe brook and a hedge, within sound of water ceaselessly falling over adam. In those days it had an aspect of enchantment to me; not only onaccount of its singular appearance, so different from other flowers, butbecause in old folios I had read that it could call up the passion oflove. There was something in the root beneath the sward which could makea heart beat faster. The common modern books--I call them common of_malice prepense_--were silent on these things. Their dry and formalknowledge was without interest, mere lists of petals and pistils, adried herbarium of plants that fell to pieces at the touch of thefingers. Only by chipping away at hard old Latin, contracted and doggedin more senses than one, and by gathering together scattered passages inclassic authors, could anything be learned. Then there arose anotherdifficulty, how to identify the magic plants? The same description willvery nearly fit several flowers, especially when not actually in flower;how determine which really was the true root? The uncertainty andspeculation kept up the pleasure, till at last I should not have caredto have had the original question answered. With my gun under my arm Iused to look at the orchis from time to time, so long as the spottedleaves were visible, till the grass grew too long. 

_THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. _

The lions in Trafalgar Square are to me the centre of London. By thoselions began my London work; from them, as spokes from the middle of awheel, radiate my London thoughts. Standing by them and looking southyou have in front the Houses of Parliament, where resides the mastershipof England; at your back is the National Gallery--that is art; andfarther back the British Museum--books. To the right lies the wealth andluxury of the West End; to the left the roar and labour, the craft andgold, of the City. For themselves, they are the only monument in thisvast capital worthy of a second visit as a monument. Over the entirearea covered by the metropolis there does not exist another work of artin the open air. There are many structures and things, no other art. Theoutlines of the great animals, the bold curves and firm touches of themaster hand, the deep indents, as it were, of his thumb on the plasticmetal, all the _technique_ and grasp written there, is legible at aglance. Then comes the _pose_ and expression of the whole, the calmstrength in repose, the indifference to little things, the resolute viewof great ones. Lastly, the soul of the maker, the spirit which was takenfrom nature, abides in the massive bronze. These lions are finer thanthose that crouch in the cages at the Zoological Gardens; these aretruer and more real, and, besides, these are lions to whom has beenadded the heart of a man. Nothing disfigures them; smoke and, what ismuch worse, black rain--rain which washes the atmosphere of thesuspended mud--does not affect them in the least. If the choke-damp offog obscures them, it leaves no stain on the design; if the surfaces bestained, the idea made tangible in metal is not. They are no moretouched than Time itself by the alternations of the seasons. The onlynoble open-air work of native art in the four-million city, they restthere supreme and are the centre. Did such a work exist now in Venice, what immense folios would be issued about it! All the language of thestudios would be huddled together in piled-up and running-overlaudation, and curses on our insular swine-eyes that could not see it. Ihave not been to Venice, therefore I do not pretend to a knowledge ofthat mediæval potsherd; this I do know, that in all the endless pictureson the walls of the galleries in London, year after year exposed anddisappearing like snow somewhere unseen, never has there appeared onewith such a subject as this. Weak, feeble, mosaic, gimcrack, colouredtiles, and far-fetched compound monsters, artificial as the graining ona deal front door, they cannot be compared; it is the gingerbread gilton a circus car to the column of a Greek temple. This is pure open air, grand as Nature herself, because it _is_ Nature with, as I say, theheart of a man added. 

But if any one desire the meretricious painting of warm light and coolyet not hard shade, the effect of colour, with the twitching oftriangles, the spangles glittering, and all the arrangement contrived totake the eye, then he can have it here as well as noble sculpture. Ascend the steps to the National Gallery, and stand looking over thebalustrade down across the square in summer hours. Let the sun havesloped enough to throw a slant of shadow outward; let the fountainssplash whose bubbles restless speak of rest and leisure, idle anddreamy; let the blue-tinted pigeons nod their heads walking, and anoncrowd through the air to the roof-tops. Shadow upon the one side, brightlight upon the other, azure above and swallows. Ever rolling the humanstream flows, mostly on the south side yonder, near enough to beaudible, but toned to bearableness. A stream of human hearts, every atoma living mind filled with what thoughts?--a stream that ran through Romeonce, but has altered its course and wears away the banks here now andtriturates its own atoms, the hearts, to dust in the process. Yellowomnibuses and red cabs, dark shining carriages, chestnut horses, allrushing, and by their motion mixing their colours so that the commonnessof it disappears and the hues remain, a streak drawn in the groove ofthe street--dashed hastily with thick camel's hair. In the midst thecalm lions, dusky, unmoved, full always of the one grand idea that wasinfused into them. So full of it that the golden sun and the bright wallof the eastern houses, the shade that is slipping towards them, thesweet swallows and the azure sky, all the human stream holds of wealthand power and coroneted panels--nature, man, and city--pass as naught. Mind is stronger than matter. The soul alone stands when the sun sinks, when the shade is universal night, when the van's wheels are silent andthe dust rises no more. 

At summer noontide, when the day surrounds us and it is bright lighteven in the shadow, I like to stand by one of the lions and yield to theold feeling. The sunshine glows on the dusky creature, as it seems, noton the surface, but under the skin, as if it came up from out of thelimb. The roar of the rolling wheels sinks and becomes distant as thesound of a waterfall when dreams are coming. All the abundant human lifeis smoothed and levelled, the abruptness of the individuals lost in theflowing current, like separate flowers drawn along in a border, likemusic heard so far off that the notes are molten and the theme onlyremains. The abyss of the sky over and the ancient sun are near. Theyonly are close at hand, they and immortal thought. When the yellowSyrian lions stood in old time of Egypt, then too, the sunlight gleamedon the eyes of men, as now this hour on mine. The same consciousness oflight, the same sun, but the eyes that saw it and mine, how far apart!The immense lion here beside me expresses larger nature--cosmos--theever-existent thought which sustains the world. Massiveness exalts themind till the vast roads of space which the sun tramples are as anarm's-length. Such a moment cannot endure long; gradually the roardeepens, the current resolves into individuals, the houses return--it isonly a square. 

But a square potent. For London is the only _real_ place in the world. The cities turn towards London as young partridges run to their mother. The cities know that they are not real. They are only houses andwharves, and bricks and stucco; only outside. The minds of all men inthem, merchants, artists, thinkers, are bent on London. Thither they goas soon as they can. San Francisco thinks London; so does St. Petersburg. 

Men amuse themselves in Paris; they work in London. Gold is madeabroad, but London has a hook and line on every napoleon and dollar, pulling the round discs hither. A house is not a dwelling if a man'sheart be elsewhere. Now, the heart of the world is in London, and thecities with the simulacrum of man in them are empty. They are movingimages only; stand here and you are real. 

THE END. 

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