Chapter IV: Part 4

If occasion demands it, each Commune throughout the country is empowered to send its chief and such officers as he may select to meet together in conference in any one of the chief cities of Britain. This extreme measure would probably only apply in times of a national crisis, such as possible war or unruly conduct as strikes or other disorder imperilling the well-being of a peaceful and industrious majority. Everything that works for unanimity, but without weakness, seems to be becoming natural. The artificial conditions, most disastrous in their effect, of tyrannical Trades Unions, have given way under a return to Guilds. The painters, craftsmen of all descriptions, and the best class of tradesmen are under certain elastic laws appertaining to their profession or business. There are no such mischievous people as Strike Leaders; long ago they proved failures, and the workmen became aware of the damage they had done to their reputation and threw them over. They did so directly it was brought home to them that their leaders were really tyrants. The Guilds _encourage good work_, as the Trades Union leaders of the past encouraged bad; indeed, they have it in their powers to impose a fine on bad work, if continued to be issued after warning has been given or a fine paid. The guilds can expel an idle delinquent as an unworthy citizen. As far as one could learn, that punishment, so far, has had to be carried into effect very rarely, because workmen and craftsmen of all kinds now recognise the wisdom of being honest in their own interest, _i.e._, for good pay to give good work.

§ 9

Being better educated or, shall we say, more widely informed and more wisely led, craftsmen in every branch of industry are better citizens, regarding their work as a contribution valuable to the Commune and to the country at large. By degrees it is becoming a habit of mind to regard all labour as noble, if executed honourably. Every man, whatever his calling may be, takes a pride in doing it well. Indeed, as my spirit wandered from place to place watching and listening, I gathered that _idleness_ and _slackness_, encouraged as they were by the Trades Unions, are now _despised_. For idle workmen of any sort or in any sphere of life, in trade, profession or craftsmanship, is not only a useless but mischievous item in the social system. The pride engendered by honest labour is the cause of healthy competition. Emulation is a quality which has grown to be a habit; emulation, not envy or jealousy, which are mean. When men grow wise they discard smallness. They do not begin every sentence with the first person singular, but with the second or first person plural; therefore, being inside and a part of the community, the co-worker is an essential link in the chain which binds an entire system and renders it strong.

This is the reverse of Radical tenet, which proclaiming the creed of the Jew Fagin, in his discourse with Noah Claypole, “Look after number one, my dear”--an admirable doctrine for thieves, but the reverse for the welfare of an honest community.

§ 10

Dreams are queer things, very illogical, and not restrained by formulæ. In dreams, Q.E.D. does not come in at all. The charm of a dream is that it is suggestive, not conclusive. It is like a kind of Inspiration: gaps have to be filled up; sequences are indefinite. All manner of odd situations jostle one another. An instant of time is as a thousand years. The ancients, in their wisdom, in their contemplative abstraction, may not have been far off the mark when they regarded dreams as omens, having the nucleus of some abstract truth. Swifter than any train or aeroplane can travel, as swiftly as a ray of light reaches the earth from the sun, the spirit, free of the body, moves in a dream. It can inhabit Mars awhile and be back in Piccadilly in less than a fraction of a minute divided into sixty pulsations. The spirit has to take no ticket to travel, to pay no price for a long journey. It has no aims, it only obeys impulse. There being no method in a dream removes it from actualities, which it only pictures. These being the chief characteristics of Dreamland, in the relation of a dream, which is automatic impression, a certain irregularity in the position of subjects to which it relates is not only permissible, but necessary to the picture it may be destined to paint. Having so far preserved a kind of sequence of ideas suggested as the teller of my dream, I obey the volatile journeys into all manner of crannies. No brain is so closely locked up that it can prevent the great inquisitor from entering. While they are free, dreams are tyrants over reason, to which they bear no relationship. The interpretation of a dream must be left to the listener of the tale it tells who can form whatever conclusion he pleases. The rationalist will probably only see folly; the mathematician, chaos; the unimaginative, nonsense. Probably the dreamer dreams in close relationship to his habit of mind. He may be an optimist at one moment a pessimist at another. He accentuates his likes and dislikes, hence through the relation of his dream he exposes himself, and gives himself over to every kind of criticism. To some he appears the reverse of veracious, to others a lunatic, but to a few he may appear in the nature of a prophet.

Having apologised to my readers, I propose now to allow my dream to lead me, as it most certainly will do, how and where it likes, to obey its impulses even though they are disconnected. To do otherwise would tend to muddle up dreams with realities, or such realities we see in waking hours. And now, feeling free, I can continue with the story in all its oddities of arrangement, because this is not a philosophical treatise, although it might be construed into one. It is not my business as a dream teller to reason, but to leave that to my readers.

In the pursuit of largeness of Vision, breadth of Faith, development of Charity, and strengthening of Hope, the new world formed in my dream _recognises all religions_, or rather their creeds, with their differences of approach towards a great mystery, and places them upon an equality of ministration. Church and State are separated. The Hebrew, Roman, Anglican, and Presbyterian Churches are, if not numerically equal, equally respected. The grand mystical tenets of the Hebrews, the loneliness of the Divine Spirit worshipped, its nearness as well as its aloofness from what it has created, its complete unchangeable supremacy associated with its antiquity, are respected and admired as sincere emotions of one prominent part in the mind of man. The grave simplicity of the Hebrew ritual is accepted as an expression of mysterious faith. Having travelled so far into man’s mind, it was arrested before any explanation of mysteries arrived to drag the incomprehensible into the region of logic. No longer despised, the Hebrew faith is as the Father of many children. Differing from it in detail, the Moslem faith is the elder child of pure Deism. Mahommed is to his followers what Moses is to the Hebrews and Jesus Christ to Christians. We, who have to govern so large a portion of the Moslem world, belong to a nation which of necessity must come into constant contact with a Faith which (having its defects, according to Western thought) is to the people who follow it the fountain of Wisdom and the well of Truth; a Faith, indeed, from which the most ardent Christian can learn many lessons of sobriety and reverence. God the all powerful is the unapproachable Spirit; only by prayer, praise and entire trust are we brought spiritually near to Him.

The Roman Catholic community of thought is, in a sense, nearer to Western life and ideals than the Hebrew or Moslem, but the element from which it sprang is the same. The One Supreme God, the Father of His creation, and the mystical spirit which contains _all_. Differences are only matters of words, they are additions which in no wise touch the root of the matter. God Almighty is still the root from which springs the Tree of Life and all its branches. Deus and Zeus are the same word. All the pagan gods emanate from the Divine centre, be it Olympus, Rome, or Jerusalem. The Roman Church saw fit to construe pagan mythology in a new vernacular. Its saints and holy men became the lesser gods, but no less or more were they, or are they, absolutely dependent upon the all powerful Deity, the final author of all, the dispenser of all, the father of all.

The Anglican Church is the child of the Roman and grandchild of pagan mythology, the great grandchild of the Hebrew Faith. The metal of which the chain is formed is gold forged by the Divine Spirit. Probably the break between the Anglican and Roman Church was a political, more than a religious, _evolution_. The English never liked submission to Rome. England has always been a friend to liberty, an enemy to tyranny, and long may it so remain, be it either religious or political.

Nonconformity, especially that branch we call “Presbyterian,” came from an attempt to simplify ritual, as far as possible, to reconstruct allegiance with primitive worshippers. The root of belief the reformers did not touch. The Deity remained pre-eminent. The new world, that of my dream, while admitting differences, recognises essential similarities. Hence all denominations are held equal--equal as regards the respect due to them, and equal in the intention which dominates differences of detail. Was it not Augustine who said: “There is no religion which has not something of the Spirit of God in it”? Sectarianism takes no part in the new world. I saw in my dream that the cathedrals and churches of England are open to all religions. To the Hebrews the altars there are as the ark presided over by the shining cherubims. To the Moslem as a symbol of the nearness of the Divine Being; to the Catholics as the symbol of self sacrifice; to the Presbyters as symbols of Divine Hope and assistance. In them the ancient Psalms of David are sung by Hebrews, whose incense carries prayers of the faithful up to their roofs and far above them again. Jesus Christ worshipped in the Synagogue--why should not the Hebrews worship in His Temples? I saw in my dream that the Roman Mass, in all its splendour of detail, its imagery, its exuberance of symbolism, is celebrated in the cathedrals and churches once reserved as Temples of Protestantism. The simpler ritual of the Anglicans is also reverently administered, and the almost entirely bald ritual of Presbyters finds its place within the historic walls of the churches of Liberal England.

The breadth of sympathy thus shown to all religious denominations my spirit saw had nothing but a good result. It is a form of departure which is catching; it engenders peace; it breaks up animosity; it extends mental outlook from small to great things. Without temporising differences it permits them, it places them as small matters by the side of big essentials, hence the charity to which a broad view of religion has given rise is spreading and seems to enter into the spirit of a new and larger life. Hence religion appears to me to coalesce with a spirit of fraternity which, obviously, is growing, not sentimentally, but as a social and indispensable fact.

The cathedrals and churches are adorned with pictures, not necessarily sectarian or of what are called religious subjects. Prominent features of the History of the World are presented, but I do not remember to have seen any pictures in which war is figured. The new world abominates war, and while it is in a measure prepared for such a foolish experiment as war is, it is not considered worthy of handing down by the Arts of Peace, which are and must be _constructive_.

It is recognised that while mankind is selfish, grasping and cruel, wars will occur. The ideal is, of course, general disarmament, but that is unlikely. Still, it is thought that the more widely and constantly the Arts of Peace are sown, and the greater interest taken in life, not as a dissipation, but as concentration of energy used on things that matter, the less likely war will intervene and shatter, for perhaps a century, all peaceful intellectual progress.

War may bring out fine qualities, but experience has told us, in a minority. War is brutalising to those engaged in it, even to the atmosphere near and far from its centre. War, when the lust for it has entered, degrades a people. Bloodshedding is a form of madness. When the spark is kindled, a flame soon grows, which is fanned by lunatics, and one fears, sometimes by adroit commercial schemers who see in devastation a chance to enrich their pockets. When once greed takes the place of contented energy, avarice, dishonesty and self-seeking enter and shatter national progress. Indeed, there is no end to the mischief war may encourage. The seeds of avarice are sown early in life. Victims to it become unconscious of the rapidity of its growth, its poison spreads indefinitely, and what is in reality vice is excused by the plausible word “business,” which, if laid bare to its root, means tripping up the neighbour, and, if possible, without being found out. It is because tradesmen behaved so ill during the period of their country’s danger that, the eyes of the people are now opened, they are watched, hedged in by honest men, that they shall have no opportunity in the new Commune to rob their fellow citizens of food again. In my dream, by listening and observing, I saw that all classes were bent upon the same conclusion, to attain much for all! This has led to a great reform in the education of the young in their tender and malleable years.

§ 11

The public schools are not only in name public; they are open to all without distinction of class. The peer’s son will sit on a school bench beside the peasant’s. The only difference being that the richer pay higher fees. All classes pay something for education; what is got for nothing no one values, but the education given is identical. Upon the whole it is desirable that all students live in their homes. Day scholars are encouraged more than boarders; and, as we shall presently see that home life is in every respect more refined than it was. Under the old system, “squalor” was more the rule than the exception; it is so no longer. Home life, if properly conducted, is dignified. Every home should be a miniature State, and it is becoming so here. Wealth is not necessary to make a worthy home; it is the atmosphere of industry, amity, and union there which constitute the best school in which to rear a good citizen. The enormous and unprecedented rise in wages, largely caused by the rapacity of tradesmen as well as Government waste of public money, has indirectly promoted industry (not industrialism). Even the better off folk do not send out work which can be done at home. Tradesmen have defeated themselves in a large measure. The best provided citizens are craftsmen, who can use their hands for any manual work, rough or fine. If a chair is broken, no “gentleman” will send it to be mended, he mends it himself.

Experience is fast teaching everybody that a day is long, not short, and that _unlimited_ specialisation is neither good for soul or body, rich or poor. The close student of art or letters needs recreation. He finds it in the new order in manual work, in craftsmanship which detaches the mind from pursuits necessarily sedentary, and which, if continued for too many hours a day, are detrimental to health and vigour. In my wanderings I noticed that one of the chief changes in or differences from the old life is that every man, woman and child _is at work_, rich or poor. Hence games and sports of all kinds, while they take a rational place in life, are not now its main object. In the public schools every student has to learn some handicraft. I see the peasant boy sawing away at one end of a log, while the peer’s son is sawing at the other. It is recognised, of course, that equality of power is out of the question. Few are born to rule, but all can serve their country. Endowments are different in quantity and quality. There are fingers so made as to be bad instruments for performing delicate tasks, as there are minds incapable to lead men. A skilled craftsman--skilled, I mean, in the delicate handling of material--is one thing, the doing rougher work (quite as useful) is another, and more easily obtained. Young fellows soon find out what, and what not, they can accomplish. The outcome of this is energy extended, and if the professional tradesman or craftsman find himself boycotted, he has only to thank his greed and his overweening selfishness during hard times for now being hit with the same weapon he employed on his fellows. Not overmuch attention is given to BOOKS. The first principle initiated is “good citizenship,” honest dealing, and the carrying out of the ancient saying, “Whatsoever thou findest to do, do with thy might.”

§ 12

Business on shifty lines or vicious principles may bring a temporary fortune, but honest dealing will make good and useful members of society, who will last out the former, who, in all higher walks of life, are not seldom mental bankrupts. Music, especially concerted and vocal, forms a part of general education, and in like manner, drawing, but music takes a prior place. Like physical drill, music is useful in training concerted action. Obedience to a leader is a necessary discipline. Some silly people used to think the study of music enervating; the wise know it is otherwise.

But more on that subject when my spirit has travelled further and become more intimate with the great changes that are taking place in this young and wonderful new world. So far as I have travelled, watched and listened, I am certain that _concerted_ action, mental and physical, is good--even necessary! Boys teach one another. The peer’s son can teach the peasant, the peasant the peer’s son. Mixing together of the classes in work as well as play makes for unity, cohesion and strength.

§ 13

A bird’s-eye view of the new world has been indicated. By this time who read what my dream relates so far will know that the principles which guide the new worlds are _socialistic_, that the establishment of Fraternity is the first object. _Inequality is recognised. Equality is impossible. Liberty is subject to obedience. Tyranny under licence is certain, under good fellowship is impossible. The most dangerous of all tyranny is that which is disguised under the cloak of Freedom. Before any class can rule efficiently it must have learnt to obey. Bad leaders are worse than none at all._

My dream had hardly taken any shape when the eyes of my spirit were first awakened. There is a moment between sleep and waking that is neither one thing or another. At its start, my dream revealed an indefinite sketch. I must travel back and hover again over the new city, to see it in detail and work my silent invisible way among the new things being slowly revealed as my spiritual sense acquires power. I am in the new city again, and am full of keen watching.

§ 14

There is one railway station, but, unlike those the other world made, it is clean, orderly, dustless and smokeless. Electric power drives the trains, which in some subtle way are provided with noiseless wheels, which run as smoothly as on ice. When, in my dream, I first saw the railway station, I was sorry. My spirit had been hoping that the world would be content to travel slower. But when it gave no evidence of squalor in its neighbourhood or smoke in its vicinity, my spirit was quieted. Nevertheless, it has not been drawn thither again. When the new city was laid out, a boundary was fixed, and no extension is permitted within prescribed limits. One of the great curses of the old world was the inordinate size of cities. Impossible to govern well, certain to create squalor and be refuges for the idle and dissolute, they were intractable. First comes the open country, freely cultivated, then the city, then a highly cultivated garden of fruit and flowers on the gradual slope of the Acropolis, upon which stand the factories, simply and grandly designed, with no pretence of architecture. What look like broad chimney stacks, reminding one of the towers of some Italian city, are storehouses as well as shafts in which fans are constantly working to take pure air into the factories and workshops. No one but caretakers and watchmen lives on the Acropolis.

As we have seen, the City is surrounded by a wall. There are four entrance gates, which are closed at night, when no work is permitted by the Commune.

More and more interested my spirit became as it made its unseen journey. The houses of the city are erected upon the flat land, and entirely surround the Acropolis. They begin in something over a mile from the Acropolis walls. The circumference of the gardens is two to three miles. They provide a considerable portion of the fruit and vegetables for the city inhabitants. They are tended not only by special gardeners, but any capable citizen is welcome to work in them in spare time under certain restrictions. A beautiful walk indeed it is from the city up to the Acropolis, shaded in summer by luxury of growth (for there is sun now that the smoke fiend has been slain). It was midday, a bell rings, reminding me by its majestic tone of the “Vacca,” in Florence. No ear-distracting hooters are permitted or hellish shrieks of discordant whistles, which in the old factory towns were so nerve-racking. As the sound of the bell filled the air, out of the city came its crowd of workers to make their dinners in their homes. They are a healthy, happy-looking crew. Life shines her best light upon them. They are cared for; they are good citizens, content, honest, and industrious. If the climate is not the best, what is good of it is no longer spoiled. What has become of “strike leaders” and suchlike misleading and “out for themselves folk,” I did not hear for certain. But I did hear one man say to another, “We are well rid of them,” and upon another occasion, pointing to a pond, a man said, “That’s where we ducked him, he wasn’t straight.”

How solid and compact the city appeared, how sensible its houses, how clean and orderly. What a change from the old dreary rows of boxes called houses, slate roofed, almost windowless, more fit for pigs than human habitations. These being novel in construction, and with no pretence to be “architecture,” are quite interesting. It appears that the original soil has been dug out, probably a foot and a half of it, a solid mass of concrete run in, framed by four courses of damp-proof bricks; thus is the floor made and a foundation for walls established. Piers of concrete are erected, from which the roof springs. The ends of timbers are imbedded in these piers, which are thereby strengthened. The intervals between the timbers are filled with strong laths, well bedded in tenacious plaster. Upright posts are placed between the horizontal timbers, which prevent the longer ones from sagging and firmly bind together the intervals of lath and plaster. The roofs are timber covered with red tiles. The colour effect is very pleasing. The ground plan is oblong, formed of two cubes. To avoid monotony, the houses are grouped in four, six and two. Each house measures 40 feet in length and 20 feet in depth. What would be called the ground floor is open to the height of 7 feet. Here are kept household implements. The space serves also as a play-place for children, and in winter can be used by members of the household for skittles, bowls, and other pleasant games. Rising from the centre of the ground plan is a shaft showing at regular intervals pigeon-holes. These shafts contain heat generated in the neighbourhood by electricity. Instead of wasting energy upon the discovery of poison gas to slaughter fellow-beings, science has found means to collect and generate electricity as an agent not only for movement but for heating, and without the expenditure of coal. At intervals stand towers, which have a fine effect among the houses. Within them are the electrical generators.

The houses are composed of two floors, one forming the upward boundary of the ground floor, the other eight feet above that, forming the ceiling of the first floor and the floor of the upper chambers, which are immediately under the roof. To save space, the stairway to the upper chambers is in the form of a ladder with hand rails. The largest room is that occupied by the women, where are their looms and all other implements belonging to their home trades, which are several. The kitchen is a walled off space within the foundation level; from it, the upper floor is reached by a ladder and handrail. The entrance to the first floor is by a stairway parallel with the elevation.

§ 15

The furniture is of simple construction, home made, for, as we have seen, the householders take pleasure in craftsmanship. In the long winter evenings neighbours drop in, giving a helping hand to one another. It has been found to be far cheaper to make at home than to buy of profiteering tradesmen; it only means a little more industry, a good deal less drink, and a pleasure in making and creating innate in all creation, but which so-called civilisation has done much to crush. Since the prices demanded by labour became impossible, profiteering labour has been to a large extent boycotted. Now that economy has to be practised, working men as well as women have grown to be industrious. Each house is a little centre of industry, and great pleasure is evidently derived from following an instinct definite and surviving, that of creating and making all household implements at home. Since shops are rarer than they were, the home is a creating centre, a very home of industry. Hence the look of the people is content, it has something of proudness in its freedom of aspect. They have come into their rights by Industry, by Fraternity. Agitators who would renew disturbances are treated with contempt. The happiness created by productive labour has concentrated the people, given them health and manly independence, besides adding to their incomes. The unmanly vice of drunkenness is rare. When it is in evidence it is punished as an insult to the dignity of the citizen and a crime against the Commune. From its earliest years the child is taught that to be a good citizen is a virtue, and to live by labour a necessity. To give good work for good wage is held to be a virtue which, if proceeded with through life, makes a good man and woman. I was so interested in what my dream was revealing that I made more intimate observation. Upon the partition walls of the houses I noticed pleasant and quaint designs, childlike and barbaric, if you like, but gay, and evidently done by someone who wanted to express a pleasure in making nice shapes and bright colour.

§ 16

The sound of the loom working was music accompanied by singing as the women and maidens plied their home trades. Evidently the garments of these are home made--they look too “good” to be bought at high prices of profiteers. Kaleidoscopic coloured quilts such as I remember in my childhood made the beds look warm and snug, and curtains of bright tints gave a generous feeling of warmth where doors are not needed. By the way, heating is provided by the Commune at a nominal rate, not subject to variation. As far as I could see, gas is of the past; hence houses are cleaner than heretofore, and the air is not vitiated by the fumes of that abominable product. Factory labour is limited to seven hours. In summer it starts at 5 a.m., in winter at 7 a.m. In summer it is all over by 12 p.m., in winter by 2 p.m. The remainder of the days are free, to be enjoyed in garden cultivation or home labour, other pleasures, and games.

Now that workers are really leading lives in which they take a personal interest, and are regarded and regard themselves, not as slaves, but as kings over their own lives, gambling is rare, and distasteful sports such as dog fighting and prize fights and other depressing so-called sports are not in vogue. In their leisure the people are Artists, taking a pride in their homes and competing whose shall be the most attractive. As yet I had not travelled about sufficiently to know whence came the wood so much used in the new Commune, but presently I shall know. Extensive use of lime is accounted for--it is a local product. To avoid unnecessary expense and to encourage local labour, the neighbourhood provides material, for as little foreign material as possible is imported. Water is plentiful, a good river meanders in the valley not far from the city, there are pleasant meadows of fine grass that feeds a goodly number of cattle, whose milk is pure. Adulteration of _milk_ is treated as a _crime_! Bad people who for profiteering purposes adulterate milk or bread are put to prison at once on conviction as criminals.

§ 17

Pollution of rivers, lakes or ponds is _absolutely_ forbidden; hence there is a constant supply of fresh water fish, which forms an important feature in the food of the city. Rivers, lakes and ponds are stocked with fish and fry every year, and close times are respected. The sale of fresh water fish is the outcome of a recognised trade which is conducted by experts, and woe betide the poacher, or still more the factory owner, who steals or poisons them. Preserves for the private pleasure of fishermen or other sportsmen are not forbidden, but are out of fashion: _Fraternity_ has overcome _Egoism_ to a large extent. Inasmuch as honesty is regarded as a virtue and dishonesty a vice (not the case under Trades Unions) it has spread from large to smaller issues. A factory owner who polluted a river, besides being punished by the Commune for so doing, would be regarded a CAD by the public at large, and would find rough handling unpleasant. For a moment my attention is again called to education, for my spirit has been listening. _Truthfulness_, _absolute_ and _pure_, is inculcated from tenderest years at home and at school. It is involved in the duty to the neighbour as to God, it is the foundation of Wisdom, Justice and Fraternity. Faith in the good faith of the neighbour has become a habit. To override, cheat or deceive a neighbour is an _unmanly_ act. The Communes seek to make _men_, men who are responsible, not only to their own dignity, but to the Commune, and this is the first clause of the creed in which there are but two commands--Duty to the neighbour and to God, the one includes the other. Fringes to this simple creed there are no doubt, but those two clauses are essentials on which all addenda hangs. Besides teaching a craft, scholars are initiated into the works of the great English poets. Young people are taught to recite passages from Shakespeare, Milton and other great poets, and they are encouraged to act the part they recite, because, as we shall presently see, the Drama takes a prominent place in the mental development of the new Communes.

§ 18

Caligraphy is taught as an Art. It is pleasant to look over the pages of children’s writing, so different to the scrawls which were called writing a while ago. Drawing comes under the section of caligraphy, to which it belongs. Making nicely shaped lettering means _drawing letters_. A child who has learned to draw letters well will soon learn to copy other forms.

Dancing (not romping) but the good old English dancing, so graceful and dignified, is part of the curriculum of education. It engenders good manners, elegant deportment, and self-control, besides being an extremely beneficial exercise. There is no folk music more lovely than the old English, and it is being revived, that one knows, for familiar old songs are heard in the fields now almost as constantly as Italian folk songs are heard in Italy. The people have lost the stiff, morose manner they had; while they work they sing. Their health is better now that they are more in the open air, and being engaged in open air pursuits their spirits have gained in elasticity and freedom of expression. The invention of new tunes is encouraged; hence there is quite a little school of modern and simple folk song growing which is pleasant, uncomplicated, and melodious.

Before learning foreign tongues our own is better taught now. Dialects are not discouraged; indeed, the reverse, the dialect of a county is encouraged as an indisputable characteristic of the people. There is only one dialect that is hateful (Cockney), and every effort is being made to eradicate that. Our own splendid language is great in poetry, from Chaucer to Wordsworth; to teach it through the works of the poets is to get it at its best. In Italy, where the craftsman class is far more cultivated than it has been in England, her great poets are common property; one hears Dante quoted constantly, as well as Tasso and minor poets. Under the new order in England there is reason to hope that ignorance of our great poets will give place to a general acquaintance with them. An individual who can speak and write his own language decently is not ill educated. If he has acquired facility in the language of his birthplace, diligence will soon give him some in foreign tongues. Those young people who show an aptitude for languages have the opportunity of qualifying in them, but the general run of labour and craftsmanship has no need of them. To fill the mind and memory with too many subjects at once is to dilute all. A sound knowledge of craftsmanship is what is wanted, and that is evidently being supplied by practice, a thousand times better system than by theory. Constant _occupation_, not _excitements_, create content. Excitements produce reaction. Occupation, varied in kind, steadies the character. It is with a view to that that the Communes do not overwork their workers. Energy is left to them after their hours of labour for which they are well paid, and to use it either physically or mentally, out of doors working in gardens or fields, or in their homes upon all such things which tend to make the home a happy and profitable little city in itself. A grumbler is voted a nuisance, an agitator an obstruction. Loiterers and loafers who would live on the earnings of honest citizens are held to be mean unproductive weeds for which the Communes have no use. For agitators there is no room now, the democratic howler at street corners or on common land finds no listeners; he is treated as a windbag since it has become known to the community at large that in the past he was a well-paid mischief-maker, who did far more harm than good to a cause which he pretended to advance.

§ 19

Dreams are vagarious, they are not restricted to times or seasons. Night appears during midday hours. The paradox is lively, often very humorous, but by no means ill fitting. From summer to winter is like the winking of an eyelid. In my dream the shades of a winter evening arrived. Factory working hours were over. My spirit was transported within the walls of one of the houses recently described. Well placed electric lights made the home as bright as day. A pleasant warm air gently circulated in the rooms from the pigeon-holes in the heating shafts. What we used to call England’s sun, the open fire, with all the smoke and dirt it made, its extravagance of fuel and insufficient warmth it provided, is no more. Since the abolition of the use of coal as a speed and warmth producer, sunshine in England is more than doubled and there is much less rain and mist; so, even in winter, the air is warmer, while it is clear and clear of particles which robbed us of light and rendered a clean house almost an impossibility in the barbarous past.

A family is busy. The head of it, a fine type of workman, clean and appropriately dressed as a workman should be, is occupied in making a table. His wife is busy at her loom. Two daughters are sewing together strips of strong woollen stuff which are to form by no means inelegant frocks. The stuff is dyed a pleasant blue. They are not using sewing machines, but ply the needle with patient hands; a strong thread well waxed is inevitable. Hand sewing being more durable than machine is, in the long run, more economical. Two sons are helping their father. In the corner of this bright sitting and working room, a table is laid for supper, covered by a spotless cloth. Pewter plates and jugs glisten with their bright polish. Large loaves of wholemeal look fat and desirable, while a big cheese fresh from a dairy is appetising and tempting. Hard by is a barrel of ale, real ale, made of hops and malt, wholesome and invigorating. No shams enter into its making; no poisonous chemicals destroy its purity. One or two neighbours have dropped in, and pleasant talk is in progress. When supper is finished work is suspended, some simple glees echo pleasantly from the walls, or a story is read aloud and commented upon. How thrifty it all looks, how homeful, how quietly gay is the atmosphere of this modestly provided household; what a contrast it presents to the old squalor, absence of order and often low dissipation of past times, and not so far off, which were called civilised and free, but were indeed barbarous and tyrannical.

The streets are quiet, most of the inhabitants are occupied in a manner similar in motive, if different in the matter of it. At an early hour, before midnight, the big bells of the Commune ring, when it is expected that the people will go to rest. Soon after the whole city is asleep, resting after a day of rich labour.

§ 20

It is midsummer again; my dream is again vagarious! I find my way to the Market Place. In its centre stands the Town Hall. Now that the smoke fiend is slain and outdoor life in cities is pleasant, markets, which fell into disuse owing to grasping profiteering tradesmen, who put what price they pleased upon indifferent goods, robbed honest folk right and left, did not like the restraint which markets put upon unreasonable profits. A weekly market is a wholesome and sensible institution. It fosters an influx of fresh goods, it tends to economy and providence, in that the people reckon up their weekly requirements and purchase them at a price which, if not absolutely uniform, varies little compared with the chaotic licence permitted in the less well regulated communities of the past. On every Monday the market opens early and continues through hours of daylight. Pretty well any useful article is found there, from reels of cotton, pots and pans, good woven stuffs, boots and shoes, groceries also, which under old conditions were the means of elaborate swindling, are to be bought in all their varieties. Market days bring into contact town and country folk; their existence is one of the chief causes of the departure of that expensive nuisance, the middleman. Markets discourage fluctuation in prices and encourage the sale of fresh, in place of stale goods. The weekly held market lessens weekly expenditure by something like half of what it was when tradesmen charged what they pleased for even stale goods. The middleman was a rascal, he was the “Muck Rake” in the Pilgrim’s Progress, he grabbed money earned by his betters, he was a kind of cuckoo laying eggs in other birds’ nests, he was sharp, not clever, and as unprincipled as constructively idle. As a social pest the middleman is now being dealt with by wiser economic measures. Probably the lessening in the numbers of small tradesmen has tended to speed agriculture. Unable to build up small fortunes by dishonest trade proceedings, the class which was pre-eminent in that respect is tending toward _land labour_, which, under the new conditions of life, is numerically larger than it was.

On market day all the classes meet. Owing to the high price demanded by domestic servants in the past, ladies of high rank are their own housekeepers. The most wealthy keep few servants; hence the young ladies of noble families are converted into economic housewives, and setting themselves to their task, do it well; being better educated now, whatever they set out to do they do with forethought. Thus they make good wives, daughters, and mothers, and are spending far less time than formerly upon idle amusements.

The foregoing is a sketch of what the weekly open market is doing for the community by bracing it up and giving it backbone, eradicating spineless self-indulgence and a mischievous system of profiteering.

The Town Hall is the most ample building outside the factories. It is the centre of INTELLECTUAL as well as COMMERCIAL life. While it belongs to the people it represents also a kind of University. No pedantic teaching goes on there, but lectures upon all branches of knowledge are delivered by chosen experts, to which the public are admitted free. These lectures are delivered voluntarily by good and cultivated citizens, whose pride it is to give their knowledge _without fees_. Chiefly these are delivered in the winter months, because most of the people’s spare time in summer is spent, not within, but outdoors. Socrates found wisdom in the Agora, and wise men of to-day search in the market for the same. Hence there is constant touch of intellectual as well as commercial interests between class and class. This is leading to a surprising unity of conception and practice. Within the walls of the Town Hall is the large concert room, where the best music is given, and as far as possible by local talent, which does not mean only of the cities, but coming out of the population of the county _inclusive_. This concentration gives a chance to local success which importation in the days of centralisation never achieved, when native talent was overlooked.

§ 21

There is also a picture gallery conducted under an analogous scheme. Italy has owed (in the past) everything great in its Art to Decentralisation. The variety, hence the interest, of the great schools of painting in Italy is due to the independent expression of emotion as the property of the race. In Italy, the art of Venice, of Rome, Florence, and Siena, to mention only many of the great schools of painting that flourished there, identified itself with the idiosyncracy of each community. Why should not the same apply to England? The man of Devonshire is as different in mental construction to the man of Yorkshire as the Florentine is from the Roman. Why then should not each express himself in the vernacular of his locality? Time will show that there is far more artistic talent in England than has been supposed. Give it a chance of having its say, and an admirable result is certain. Let us become something higher in the intellectual scale than a race of shopkeepers!

Town Councils, being here composed of a much more cultivated class than before, Commerce and Art are no longer antagonistic. On the contrary, they appear to be becoming indispensable to each other. The tradesmen no longer having matters all their own way, and being checked by the stronger minds encircling them, are taking their place, not as tyrannical class rulers, but as useful items in communal interests and progress. In my dream, I noticed that the walls of the public rooms in the Town Hall are not bare, or that the only so-called decoration on them has been restricted to whole-length portraits of weird Mayors, with an occasional bad picture of the reigning monarch. There is in progress a scheme of History pictures. The subjects for them are chosen by a committee of painters and literary men. So far as this scheme has developed, I saw the products of it; varied in merit they are, which goes without saying, but a certain sincerity of aim and approach seemed to distinguish them from the tiresome and commonplace; anyway, they express a good intention. There certainly is an absence of “academic prescription”; they are hopeful efforts. A variety is maintained, the reverse of monotonous, showing individuality of approach, which may in time lead to greater things.

A really intellectual life seems to be growing here, but not of hot-house breed only accessible to a few, but one which is slowly permeating the people, which I hold to be due to the commingling of all the classes produced by an increased desire to do more than fill pockets (too often by ill-gotten gold), but by a growing elevation of the plane of thought brought about by unity of purpose and rejection of class prejudice. Given that home life is ambitious of industry, municipal life is certain to follow suit. A great change must come from the bottom. It is no use to clear the surface of a pond of slime unless the base of it is clean and fresh. It is no use to cut the heads from weeds if the roots are left in the ground, or to achieve good fruit from a tree whose roots are unpruned. And surely the root of a great nation is represented by the industrious attitude taken by the people at large. That is the essential to a Democracy that is workable. A Democracy which is only one in name is an anomaly, and is quite certain to be ephemeral.

§ 22

In my dream I had heard talk that once, not far from the river, was a Benedictine Monastery, and attached to it an Abbey. Save for a few remains of its cloisters, its kitchen, and a portion of its great dining hall, the monastery is gone. But the Abbey remains, as we have seen. Although vulgarised to a certain extent by barbarians of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it retains much of the simplicity and grandeur of the work of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Its nave now belongs to the people. It is there that the Hebrews and Moslems conduct their religious services. The chancel, its sanctuary and aisles are retained for Christian worship. In the nave, old mystery plays are reverently acted, and such noble old dramas as “Every Man” are produced. At Christmas, the incidents in the birth of Jesus Christ are acted, and many a primitive song of the shepherds is heard. These presentations keep that beautiful story vivid by bringing before the eyes of the people the mysterious events of 2,000 years ago. They form a tangible and visible link between those old days and these more complicated and less simple times.

A form of monasticism disconnected from hard and fast dogma is growing. Not ascetic, it is educational; in which it resembles the earlier forms of the old Benedictine orders. But as yet my spirit has only heard of this; presently it will be given access to its principles and working.

§ 23

It has been previously intimated that the Drama takes a prominent place in the intellectual and emotional substance of the people’s training, plus its delights. An open air theatre was proposed, but the conclusion arrived at was that the climate (although much bettered by the death of the smoke fiend) is too unstable to ensure success.

The chief theatre of the city is large, capable of holding a thousand people. It is not conducted on private enterprise, but by a council of the best local minds, which, while occupied in supplying the best, are wise enough not to dismiss pleasurable and light comedies so long as they are “clean.” Declamation, the first essential of the actor’s craft, is taught in every school. Dancing, which we have seen to be part of a liberal education, provides an elasticity of deportment and freedom of manner but not undisciplined, which goes far towards the creation of a good player. The plays of Shakespeare are prominent, but to their list are added many of the fine Elizabethan plays, Marlow’s and others. Modern drama, so long as it is wholesome, is readily admitted, while the old and so entirely English Pantomime and Extravaganza of other days have been revived, and very jolly they are and entirely in place at certain merrymaking seasons of the year. There is no priggishness in the management, only care is taken that no play is produced which is undesirable for the young to witness.

§ 24

Within the walls of the Town Hall is the School of Music, where instrumental and vocal music are taught, and where the elements of opera training can be learnt. The Town Hall is at once the seat of government, not only commercial but artistic. A great proportion of work done in it is voluntary, being conducted by men and women who have time and energy to spare, and is leading more and more to what has been called, the upper class taking part in general progress. Time gone by, and not so long, that class was idle as regards local affairs. Thus they got into the hands of ill-equipped tradesmen, who were out for their own advantages, and misconducted local affairs to a deplorable extent. I reiterate, that, being held in check, the more or less ignorant and selfish class no longer rides roughshod, but is held in a leash by better equipped citizens; and so there is hope for them to mend their manners, and in time to become useful members of Home Rule.

The theatre is not open all the year round, but only at times of festival, hence the pleasure and instruction it provides is always fresh.

§ 25

In my dream I became aware that the cinema, which had become an abuse and a positive mischief, is under strict regulations. It catered to the lowest taste and became a very dangerous implement. Now, being under strict control of the same committee which manages the Communal theatre, it has become free of vice, and is not only a pleasant but instructive institution, and a picture palace is by no means an undignified place in which to pass an hour. There is plenty of fun there, but clean fun, and plenty of exciting situations are presented, but, while humour and wit are present, whatever might tend to decadence is absent. Individualists, who regard with suspicion any form of legislation which in pompous terms they call “interference with the liberty of the subject,” will be up in arms at the restrictions applied by a wise Government, forgetting, or perhaps never having read, in Plato’s “Republic” that the wise philosopher would protect the community from degradation created by exploiters out for themselves at the expense of a moral tone essential to stability and real progress. These will call the care of the people, implied by restrictions, “grandfatherly government,” forgetting that an ignorant crowd has to be guided to abstention from any poison in their midst, which may in time kill the soul of a nation.

§ 26

It is the aim of the Commune to ally, as far as possible, agricultural and industrial pursuits. With a view to that, every house has a garden which the householder is expected to cultivate. Waste land is nowhere permitted within the city or its environs. I find as my spirit travels hither and thither that the “entirely leisured gentleman” hardly exists. If a man of means is not using his leisure, and, in some instances, all his time, for the public good, he is using it to be his own servant. I saw a man, called rich, putting in a pane of glass, adroitly manipulating the putty with the skill of an expert. Another I observed sawing up blocks of wood, another cutting down trees in his garden, another pruning fruit and rose trees, and in the country, not far distant from the city, another cultivated scholar ploughing a furrow on his estate. The great war taught these admirable habits, which profiteers now regret, because “the gentleman” prefers to mend his own belongings to paying a king’s ransom to a fellow who did it ill in obedience to his iniquitous leaders. Shortly, he prefers to do honest work for himself than to pay for dishonest.