Chapter II: Letter XXXVIII: Herne Hill, December, 1873

The laws of Florence in the fourteenth century, for us in the nineteenth!

Even so, good reader. You have, perhaps, long imagined that the judges of Israel, and heroes of Greece, the consuls of Rome, and the dukes of Venice, the powers of Florence, and the kings of England, were all merely the dim foreshadowings and obscure prophecyings of the advent of the Jones and Robinson of the future: demi-gods revealed in your own day, whose demi-divine votes, if luckily coincident upon any subject, become totally divine, and establish the ordinances thereof, for ever.

You will find it entirely otherwise, gentlemen, whether of the suburb, or centre. Laws small and great, for ever unchangeable;—irresistible by all the force of Robinson, and unimprovable by finest jurisprudence of Jones, have long since been known, and, by wise nations, obeyed. Out of the statute books of one of these I begin with an apparently unimportant order, but the sway of it cuts deep.

“No person whatsoever shall buy fish, to sell it again, either in the market of Florence, or in any markets in the state of Florence.”

It is one of many such laws, entirely abolishing the profession of middleman, or costermonger of perishable articles of food, in the city of the Lily.

“Entirely abolishing!—nonsense!” thinks your modern commercial worship. “Who was to prevent private contract?”

Nobody, my good sir;—there is, as you very justly feel, no power in law whatever to prevent private contract. No quantity of laws, penalties, or constitutions, can be of the slightest use to a public inherently licentious and deceitful. There is no legislation for liars and traitors. They cannot be prevented from the pit; the earth finally swallows them. They find their level against all embankment—soak their way down, irrestrainably, to the gutter grating;—happiest the nation that most rapidly so gets rid of their stench. There is no law, I repeat, for these, but gravitation. Organic laws can only be serviceable to, and in general will only be written by, a public of honourable citizens, loyal to their state, and faithful to each other.

The profession of middleman was then, by civic consent, and formal law, rendered impossible in Florence with respect to fish. What advantage the modern blessed possibility of such mediatorial function brings to our hungry multitudes; and how the miraculous draught of fishes, which living St. Peter discerns, and often dextrously catches—“the shoals of them like shining continents,” (said Carlyle to me, only yesterday,)—are by such apostolic succession miraculously diminished, instead of multiplied; and, instead of baskets full of fragments taken up from the ground, baskets full of whole fish laid down on it, lest perchance any hungry person should cheaply eat of the same,—here is a pleasant little account for you, by my good and simple clergyman’s wife. It would have been better still, if I had not been forced to warn her that I wanted it for Fors, which of course took the sparkle out of her directly. Here is one little naughty bit of private preface, which really must go with the rest. “I have written my little letter about the fish trade, and L. says it is all right. I am afraid you won’t think there is anything in it worth putting in Fors, as I really know very little about it, and absolutely nothing that every one else does not know, except ladies, who generally never trouble about anything, but scold their cooks, and abuse the fishmongers—when they cannot pay the weekly bills easily.” (After this we are quite proper.)

“The poor fishermen who toil all through these bitter nights, and the retail dealer who carries heavy baskets, or drags a truck so many weary miles along the roads, get but a poor living out of their labour; but what are called ‘fish salesmen,’ who by reason of their command of capital keep entire command of the London markets are making enormous fortunes.

“When you ask the fishermen why they do not manage better for themselves at the present demand for fish, they explain how helpless they are in the hands of what they call ‘the big men.’ Some fishermen at Aldborough, who have a boat of their own, told my brother that one season, when the sea seemed full of herrings, they saw in the newspapers how dear they were in London, and resolved to make a venture on their own account; so they spent all their available money in the purchase of a quantity of the right sort of baskets, and, going out to sea, filled them all,—putting the usual five hundred lovely fresh fish in each,—sent them straight up to London by train, to the charge of a salesman they knew of, begging him to send them into the market and do the best he could for them. But he was very angry with the fishermen; and wrote them word that the market was quite sufficiently stocked; that if more fish were sent in, the prices would go down; that he should not allow their fish to be sold at all; and, if they made a fuss about it, he would not send their baskets back, and would make them pay the carriage. As it was, he returned them, after a time; but the poor men never received one farthing for their thousands of nice fish, and only got a scolding for having dared to try and do without the agents, who buy the fish from the boats at whatever price they choose to settle amongst themselves.

“When we were at Yarmouth this autumn, the enormous abundance of herrings on the fish quay was perfectly wonderful; it must be, (I should think,) two hundred yards long, and is capable of accommodating the unloading of a perfect fleet of boats. The ‘swills,’ as they call the baskets, each containing five hundred fish, were side by side, touching each other, all over this immense space, and men were shovelling salt about, with spades, over heaps of fish, previous to packing at once in boxes. I said, ‘How surprised our poor people would be to see such a sight, after constantly being obliged to pay three-halfpence for every herring they buy.’ An old fisherman answered me, saying, ‘No one need pay that, ma’am, if we could get the fish to them; we could have plenty more boats, and plenty more fish, if we could have them taken where the poor people could get them.’ We brought home a hundred dried herrings, for which we paid ten shillings; when we asked if we might buy some lovely mackerel on the Fish Quay, they said, (the fishermen,) that they were not allowed to sell them there, except all at once. Since then, I have read an account of a Royal Commission having been investigating the subject of the fishery for some time past, and the result of its inquiries seems to prove that it is inexhaustible, and that in the North Sea it is always harvest-time. [4]

“When I told our fishmonger all about it, he said I was quite right about the ‘big men’ in London, and added, ‘They will not let us have the fish under their own prices; and if it is so plentiful that they cannot sell it all at that, they have it thrown away, or carted off for manure; sometimes sunk in the river. If we could only get it here, my trade would be twice what it is, for, except sprats, the poor can seldom buy fish now.’

“I asked him if the new Columbia Market was of no use in making things easier, but he said, ‘No;’ that these salesmen had got that into their hands also; and were so rich that they would keep any number of markets in their own hands. A few hundred pounds sacrificed any day to keep up the prices they think well worth their while.”

What do you think of that, by way of Free-trade?—my British-never-never-never-will-be-slaves,—hey? Free-trade; and the Divine Law of Supply and Demand; and the Sacred Necessity of Competition, and what not;—and here’s a meek little English housewife who can’t get leave, on her bended knees, from Sultan Costermonger, to eat a fresh herring at Yarmouth! and must pay three-halfpence apiece, for his leave to eat them anywhere;—and you, you simpletons—Fishermen, indeed!—Cod’s heads and shoulders, say rather,—meekly receiving back your empty baskets; your miracle of loaves and fishes executed for you by the Costermongering Father of the Faithful, in that thimblerig manner!

“But haven’t you yourself been hard against competition, till now? and haven’t you always wanted to regulate prices?”

Yes, my good SS. Peter and Andrew!—very certainly I want to regulate prices; and very certainly I will, as to such things as I sell, or have the selling of. I should like to hear of anybody’s getting this letter for less than tenpence!—and if you will send me some fish to sell for you, perhaps I may even resolve that they shall be sold at twopence each, or else made manure of,—like these very costermongers; but the twopence shall go into your pockets—not mine; which you will find a very pleasant and complete difference in principle between his Grace the Costermonger and me; and, secondly, if I raise the price of a herring to twopence, it will be because I know that people have been in some way misusing them, or wasting them; and need to get fewer for a time; or will eat twopenny herrings at fashionable tables, (when they wouldn’t touch halfpenny ones,) and so give the servants no reason to turn up their noses at them. [5] I may have twenty such good reasons for fixing the price of your fish; but not one of them will be his Grace the Costermonger’s. All that I want you to see is, not only the possibility of regulating prices, but the fact that they are now regulated, and regulated by rascals, while all the world is bleating out its folly about Supply and Demand.

“Still, even in your way, you would be breaking the laws of Florence, anyhow, and buying to sell again?” Pardon me: I should no more buy your fish than a butcher’s boy buys his master’s mutton. I should simply carry your fish for you where I knew it was wanted; being as utterly your servant in the matter as if I were one of your own lads sent dripping up to the town with basket on back. And I should be paid, as your servant, so much wages; (not commission, observe,) making bargains far away for you, and many another Saunders Mucklebackit, just as your wife makes them, up the hill at Monkbarns; and no more buying the fish, to sell again, than she.

“Well, but where could we get anybody to do this?”

Have you no sons then?—or, among them, none whom you can take from the mercy of the sea, and teach to serve you mercifully on the land?

It is not that way, however, that the thing will be done. It must be done for you by gentlemen. They may stagger on perhaps a year or two more in their vain ways; but the day must come when your poor little honest puppy, whom his people have been wanting to dress up in a surplice, and call, “The to be Feared,” that he might have pay enough, by tithe or tax, to marry a pretty girl, and live in a parsonage,—some poor little honest wretch of a puppy, I say, will eventually get it into his glossy head that he would be incomparably more reverend to mortals, and acceptable to St. Peter and all Saints, as a true monger of sweet fish, than a false fisher for rotten souls; and that his wife would be incomparably more ‘lady-like’—not to say Madonna-like—marching beside him in purple stockings and sabots—or even frankly barefoot—with her creel full of caller herring on her back, than in administering any quantity of Ecclesiastical scholarship to her Sunday-schools.

“How dreadful—how atrocious!”—thinks the tender clerical lover. “My wife walk with a fish-basket on her back!”

Yes, you young scamp, your’s. You were going to lie to the Holy Ghost, then, were you, only that she might wear satin slippers and be called a ‘lady’? Suppose, instead of fish, I were to ask her and you to carry coals. Have you ever read your Bible carefully enough to wonder where Christ got them from, to make His fire, (when he was so particular about St. Peter’s dinner, and St. John’s)? Or if I asked you to be hewers of wood, and drawers of water;—would that also seem intolerable to you? My poor clerical friends, God was never more in the burning bush of Sinai than He would be in every crackling faggot (cut with your own hands) that you warmed a poor hearth with: nor did that woman of Samaria ever give Him to drink more surely than you may, from every stream and well in this your land, that you can keep pure.

20th Dec.—To hew wood—to draw water;—you think these base businesses, do you? and that you are noble, as well as sanctified, in binding faggot-burdens on poor men’s backs, which you will not touch with your own fingers;—and in preaching the efficacy of baptism inside the church, by yonder stream (under the first bridge of the Seven Bridge Road here at Oxford,) while the sweet waters of it are choked with dust and dung, within ten fathoms from your font;—and in giving benediction with two fingers and your thumb, of a superfine quality, to the Marquis of B.? Honester benediction, and more efficacious, can be had cheaper, gentlemen, in the existing market. Under my own system of regulating prices, I gave an Irishwoman twopence yesterday for two oranges, of which fruit—under pressure of competition—she was ready to supply me with three for a penny. “The Lord Almighty take you to eternal glory!” said she.

You lawyers, also,—distributors, by your own account, of the quite supreme blessing of Justice,—you are not so busily eloquent in her cause but that some of your sweet voices might be spared to Billingsgate, though the river air might take the curl out of your wigs, and so diminish that æsthetic claim which, as aforesaid, you still hold on existence. But you will bring yourselves to an end soon,—wigs and all,—unless you think better of it.

I will dismiss at once, in this letter, the question of regulation of prices, and return to it no more, except in setting down detailed law.

Any rational group of persons, large or small, living in war or peace, will have its commissariat;—its officers for provision of food. Famine in a fleet, or an army, may sometimes be inevitable; but in the event of national famine, the officers of the commissariat should be starved the first. God has given to man corn, wine, cheese, and honey, all preservable for a number of years;—filled His seas with inexhaustible salt, and incalculable fish; filled the woods with beasts, the winds with birds, and the fields with fruit. Under these circumstances, the stupid human brute stands talking metaphysics, and expects to be fed by the law of Supply and Demand. I do not say that I shall always succeed in regulating prices, or quantities, absolutely to my mind; but in the event of any scarcity of provision, rich tables shall be served like the poorest, and—we will see.

The price of every other article will be founded on the price of food. The price of what it takes a day to produce, will be a day’s maintenance; of what it takes a week to produce, a week’s maintenance,—such maintenance being calculated according to the requirements of the occupation, and always with a proportional surplus for saving.

“How am I to know exactly what a day’s maintenance is?” I don’t want to know exactly. I don’t know exactly how much dinner I ought to eat; but, on the whole, I eat enough, and not too much. And I shall not know ‘exactly’ how much a painter ought to have for a picture. It may be a pound or two under the mark—a pound or two over. On the average it will be right,—that is to say, his decent keep [6] during the number of days’ work that are properly accounted for in the production.

“How am I to hinder people from giving more if they like?”

People whom I catch doing as they like will generally have to leave the estate.

“But how is it to be decided to which of two purchasers, each willing to give its price, and more, anything is to belong?”

In various ways, according to the nature of the thing sold, and circumstances of sale. Sometimes by priority; sometimes by privilege; sometimes by lot; and sometimes by auction, at which whatever excess of price, above its recorded value, the article brings, shall go to the national treasury. So that nobody will ever buy anything to make a profit on it.

11th January, 1874.—Thinking I should be the better of a look at the sea, I have come down to an old watering-place, where one used to be able to get into a decent little inn, and possess one’s self of a parlour with a bow window looking out on the beach, a pretty carpet, and a print or two of revenue cutters, and the Battle of the Nile. One could have a chop and some good cheese for dinner; fresh cream and cresses for breakfast, and a plate of shrimps.

I find myself in the Umfraville Hotel, a quarter of a mile long by a furlong deep; in a ghastly room, five-and-twenty feet square, and eighteen high,—that is to say, just four times as big as I want, and which I can no more light with my candles in the evening than I could the Peak cavern. A gas apparatus in the middle of it serves me to knock my head against, but I take good care not to light it, or I should soon be stopped from my evening’s work by a headache, and be unfit for my morning’s business besides. The carpet is threadbare, and has the look of having been spat upon all over. There is only one window, of four huge panes of glass, through which one commands a view of a plaster balcony, some ornamental iron railings, an esplanade,—and,—well, I suppose,—in the distance, that is really the sea, where it used to be. I am ashamed to ask for shrimps,—not that I suppose I could get any if I did. There’s no cream, “because, except in the season, we could only take so small a quanity, sir.” The bread’s stale, because it’s Sunday; and the cheese, last night, was of the cheapest tallow sort. The bill will be at least three times my old bill;—I shall get no thanks from anybody for paying it;—and this is what the modern British public thinks is “living in style.” But the most comic part of all the improved arrangements is that I can only have codlings for dinner, because all the cod goes to London, and none of the large fishing-boats dare sell a fish, here.

And now but a word or two more, final, as to the fixed price of this book.

A sensible and worthy tradesman writes to me in very earnest terms of expostulation, blaming me for putting the said book out of the reach of most of the persons it is meant for, and asking me how I can except, for instance, the working men round him (in Lancashire),—who have been in the habit of strictly ascertaining that they have value for their money,—to buy, for tenpence, what they know might be given them for twopence-halfpenny.

Answer first:

My book is meant for no one who cannot reach it. If a man with all the ingenuity of Lancashire in his brains, and breed of Lancashire in his body; with all the steam and coal power in Lancashire to back his ingenuity and muscle; all the press of literary England vomiting the most valuable information at his feet; with all the tenderness of charitable England aiding him in his efforts, and ministering to his needs; with all the liberality of republican Europe rejoicing in his dignities as a man and a brother; and with all the science of enlightened Europe directing his opinions on the subject of the materials of the Sun, and the origin of his species; if, I say, a man so circumstanced, assisted, and informed, living besides in the richest country of the globe, and, from his youth upwards, having been in the habit of ‘seeing that he had value for his money,’ cannot, as the upshot and net result of all, now afford to pay me tenpence a month—or an annual half-sovereign, for my literary labour,—in Heaven’s name, let him buy the best reading he can for twopence-halfpenny. For that sum, I clearly perceive he can at once provide himself with two penny illustrated newspapers and one halfpenny one,—full of art, sentiment, and the Tichborne trial. He can buy a quarter of the dramatic works of Shakspeare, or a whole novel of Sir Walter Scott’s. Good value for his money, he thinks!—reads one of them through, and in all probability loses some five years of the eyesight of his old age; which he does not, with all his Lancashire ingenuity, reckon as part of the price of his cheap book. But how has he read? There is an act of Midsummer Night’s Dream printed in a page. Steadily and dutifully, as a student should, he reads his page. The lines slip past his eyes, and mind, like sand in an hour-glass; he has some dim idea at the end of the act that he has been reading about Fairies, and Flowers, and Asses. Does he know what a Fairy is? Certainly not. Does he know what a flower is? He has perhaps never seen one wild, or happy, in his life. Does he even know—quite distinctly, inside and out—what an Ass is?

But, answer second. Whether my Lancashire friends need any aid to their discernment of what is good or bad in literature, I do not know;—but I mean to give them the best help I can; and, therefore, not to allow them to have for twopence what I know to be worth tenpence. For here is another law of Florence, still concerning fish, which is transferable at once to literature.

“Eel of the lake shall be sold for three soldi a pound; and eel of the common sort for a soldo and a half.”

And eel of a bad sort was not allowed to be sold at all.

“Eel of the lake,” I presume, was that of the Lake of Bolsena; Pope Martin IV. died of eating too many, in spite of their high price. You observe I do not reckon my Fors Eel to be of Bolsena; I put it at the modest price of a soldo a pound, or English tenpence. One cannot be precise in such estimates;—one can only obtain rude approximations. Suppose, for instance, you read the Times newspaper for a week, from end to end; your aggregate of resultant useful information will certainly not be more than you may get out of a single number of Fors. But your Times for the week will cost you eighteenpence.

You borrow the Times? Borrow this then; till the days come when English people cease to think they can live by lending, or learn by borrowing.

I finish with copy of a bit of a private letter to the editor of an honestly managed country newspaper, who asked me to send him Fors.

“I find it—on examining the subject for these last three years very closely—necessary to defy the entire principle of advertisement; and to make no concession of any kind whatsoever to the public press—even in the minutest particular. And this year I cease sending Fors to any paper whatsoever. It must be bought by every one who has it, editor or private person.

“If there are ten people in —— willing to subscribe a penny each for it, you can see it in turn; by no other means can I let it be seen. From friend to friend, or foe to foe, It must make its own way, or stand still, abiding its time.”

NOTES AND CORRESPONDENCE.

The following bit of a private letter to a good girl belonging to the upper classes may be generally useful; so I asked her to copy it for Fors.

“January, 1874.

“Now mind you dress always charmingly; it is the first duty of a
girl to be charming, and she cannot be charming if she is not
charmingly dressed.

“And it is quite the first of firsts in the duties of girls in high
position, nowadays, to set an example of beautiful dress without
extravagance,—that is to say, without waste, or unnecessary
splendour.

“On great occasions they may be a blaze of jewels, if they like,
and can; but only when they are part of a great show or ceremony.
In their daily life, and ordinary social relations, they ought at
present to dress with marked simplicity, to put down the curses of
luxury and waste which are consuming England.

“Women usually apologize to themselves for their pride and vanity,
by saying, ‘It is good for trade.’

“Now you may soon convince yourself, and everybody about you, of
the monstrous folly of this, by a very simple piece of definite
action.

“Wear, yourself, becoming, pleasantly varied, but simple dress, of
the best possible material.

“What you think necessary to buy (beyond this) ‘for the good of
trade,’ buy, and immediately burn.

“Even your dullest friends will see the folly of that proceeding.
You can then explain to them that by wearing what they don’t want
(instead of burning it) for the good of trade, they are merely
adding insolence and vulgarity to absurdity.”

I am very grateful to the writer of the following letters for his permission to print the portions of them bearing on our work. The first was written several years ago.

“Now, my dear friend, I don’t know why I should intrude what I now
want to say about my little farm, which you disloyally dare to call
a kingdom, but that I know you do feel an interest in such things;
whereas I find not one in a hundred does care a jot for the moral
influence and responsibilities of landowners, or for those who live
out of it, and by the sweat of the brow for them and their own
luxuries which pamper them, whilst too often their tenants starve,
and the children die of want and fever.

“One of the most awful things I almost ever heard was from the lips
of a clergyman, near B——, when asked what became of the children,
by day, of those mothers employed in mills. He said, ‘Oh, I take
care of them; they are brought to me, and I lay them in the
churchyard.’ Poor lambs! What a flock!

“But now for my little kingdom,—the royalties of which, by the way,
still go to the Duke of Devonshire, as lord of the minerals under
the earth.

“It had for many years been a growing dream and desire of mine
(whether right or wrong I do not say) to possess a piece of God’s
earth, be it only a rock or a few acres of land, with a few people
to live out of and upon it. Well, my good father had an estate
about four miles across, embracing the whole upper streams and head
of ——dale, some twelve hundred feet above the sea, and lifted thus
far away above the din and smoke of men, surrounded by higher
hills, the grassy slopes of Ingleborough and Carn Fell. It was a
waste moorland, with a few sheep farms on it, undivided, held in
common,—a few small enclosures of grass and flowers, taken off at
the time of the Danes, retaining Danish names and farm usages,—a
few tenements, built by that great and noble Lady Anne Clifford,
two hundred years ago; in which dwelt honest, sturdy, great-hearted
English men and women, as I think this land knows.

“Well, this land my father made over by deed of gift to me,
reserving to himself the rents for life, but granting to me full
liberty to ‘improve’ and lay out what I pleased; charged also with
the maintenance of a schoolmaster for the little school-house I
built in memory of my late wife, who loved the place and people.
With this arrangement I was well pleased, and at once began to
enclose and drain, and, on Adam Smith principle, make two blades of
grass grow where one grew before. This has gone on for some years,
affording labour to the few folks there, and some of their
neighbours. Of the prejudices of the old farmers, the less said the
better; and as to the prospective increased value of rental, I may
look, at least, for my five per cent., may I not? I am well repaid,
at present, by the delight gained to me in wandering over this
little Arcady, where I fancy at times I still hear the strains of
the pipe of the shepherd Lord Clifford of Cumberland, blending with
the crow of the moor-fowl, the song of the lark, and cry of the
curlew, the bleating of sheep, and heaving and dying fall of the
many waters. To think of all this, and yet men prefer the din of
war or commercial strife! It is so pleasant a thing to know all the
inhabitants, and all their little joys and woes,—like one of your
bishops; and to be able to apportion them their work. Labour,
there, is not accounted degrading work; even stone-breaking for the
roads is not pauper’s work, and a test of starvation, but taken
gladly by tenant farmers to occupy spare time; for I at once set to
work to make roads, rude bridges, plantations of fir-trees, and of
oak and birch, which once flourished there, as the name signifies.

“I am now laying out some thousands of pounds in draining and
liming, and killing out the Alpine flowers, which you tell me [7]
is not wrong to do, as God has reserved other gardens for them,
though I must say not one dies without a pang to me; yet I see
there springs up the fresh grass, the daisy, the primrose—the life
of growing men and women, the source of labour and of happiness;
God be thanked if one does even a little to attain that for one’s
fellows, either for this world or the next!

“How I wish you could see them on our one day’s feast and holiday,
when all—as many as will come from all the country round—are
regaled with a hearty Yorkshire tea at the Hall, as they will call
a rough mullioned-windowed house I built upon a rock rising from
the river’s edge. The children have their games, and then all join
in a missionary meeting, to hear something of their
fellow-creatures who live in other lands; the little ones gather
their pennies to support and educate a little Indian school child;
[8] this not only for sentiment, but to teach a care for others
near home and far off.

“The place is five miles from church, and, happily, as far from a
public-house, though still, I grieve to say, drink is the one
failing of these good people, mostly arising from the want of full
occupation.

“You speak of mining as servile work: why so? Hugh Miller was a
quarryman, and I know an old man who has wrought coal for me in a
narrow seam, lying on his side to work, who has told me that in
winter time he had rather work thus than sit over his fireside; [9]
he is quiet and undisturbed, earns his bread, and is a man not
without reflection. Then there is the smith, an artist in his way,
and loves his work too; and as to the quarrymen and masons, they
are some of the merriest fellows I know: they come five or six
miles to work, knitting stockings as they walk along.

“I must just allude to one social feature which is pleasant,—that
is, the free intercourse, without familiarity, or loss of respect
for master and man. The farmer or small landowner sits at the same
table at meals with the servants, yet the class position of yeoman
or labourer is fully maintained, and due respect shown to the
superior, and almost royal worship to the lord of the soil, if he
is in anywise a good landlord. Now, is England quite beyond all
hope, when such things exist here, in this nineteenth century of
machine-made life? I know not why, I say again, I should inflict
all this about self upon you, except that I have a hobby, and I
love it, and so fancy others must do so too.

“Forgive me this, and believe me always,

“Yours affectionately.”

“5th January, 1874.

“My dear Mr. Ruskin,—I have just come from an old Tudor house in
Leicestershire, which tells of happier days in some ways than our
own. It was once the Grange of St. Mary’s Abbey; where rent and
service were paid and done in kind. When there, I wished I could
have gone a few miles with you to St. Bernard’s Monastery in
Charnwood Forest; there you would see what somewhat resembles your
St. George’s land, only without the family and domestic
features—certainly most essential to the happiness of a people.
[10] But there you may see rich well-kept fields and gardens, where
thirty years ago was nothing but wild moorland and granite tors on
the hill ridges.

“The Cross of Calvary rises now on the highest rock; below are
gardens and fields, all under the care and labour (happy labour it
seems) of the Silent Brothers, [11] and a reformatory for boys.
There is still much waste land adjoining. The spot is central,
healthy, and as yet unoccupied: it really seems to offer itself to
you. There, too, is space, pure air and water, and quarries of
slate and granite, etc., for the less skilled labour.

“Well, you ask if the dalesmen of Yorkshire rise to a vivid state
of contented life and love of the pretty things of heaven and
earth. They have a rough outside, at times hard to penetrate; but
when you do, there is a warm heart, but not much culture, although
a keen value of manly education, and their duty to God and man.
Apart from the vanities of the so-called ‘higher education,’ their
calling is mostly out of doors, in company with sheep and cattle;
the philosophy of their minds often worthy of the Shepherd
Lord,—not much sight for the beauties of Nature beyond its uses. I
CAN say their tastes are not low nor degraded by literature of the
daily press, etc. I have known them for twenty years, have stood
for hours beside them at work, building or draining, and I never
heard one foul or coarse word. In sickness, both man and woman are
devoted. They have, too, a reverence for social order and ‘Divine
Law,’—familiar without familiarity. This even pervades their own
class or sub-classes;—for instance, although farmers and their
families, and workpeople and servants, all sit at the same table,
it is a rare thing for a labourer to presume to ask in marriage a
farmer’s daughter. Their respect to landlords is equally shown. As
a specimen of their politics, I may instance this;—to a man at the
county election they voted for Stuart Wortley, ‘because he bore a
well-known Yorkshire name, and had the blood of a gentleman.’

“As to hardships, I see none beyond those incident to their
calling, in snow-storms, etc. You never see a child unshod or
ill-clad. Very rarely do they allow a relative to receive aid from
the parish.

“I tried a reading club for winter evenings, but found they liked
their own fireside better. Happily, there is, in my part, no
public-house within six miles; still I must say drink is the vice
of some. In winter they have much leisure time, in which there is a
good deal of card-playing. Still some like reading; and we have
among them now a fair lot of books, mostly from the Pure Literature
Society. They are proud and independent, and, as you say, must be
dealt with cautiously. Everywhere I see much might be done. Yet on
the whole, when compared with the town life of men, one sees little
to amend. There is a pleasant and curious combination of work.
Mostly all workmen,—builders (i.e. wallers), carpenters, smiths,
etc.,—work a little farm as well as follow their own craft; this
gives wholesome occupation as well as independence, and almost
realizes Sir T. More’s Utopian plan. There is contented life of
men, women, and children,—happy in their work and joyful in
prospect: what could one desire further, if each be full according
to his capacity and refinement?

“You ask what I purpose to do further, or leave untouched. I desire
to leave untouched some 3,000 acres of moor-land needed for their
sheep, serviceable for peat fuel, freedom of air and mind and body,
and the growth of all the lovely things of moss and heather.
Wherever land is capable of improvement, I hold it is a grave
responsibility until it is done. You must come and look for
yourself some day.

“I enclose a cheque for ten guineas for St. George’s Fund, with my
best wishes for this new year.

“Ever yours affectionately.”

I have questioned one or two minor points in my friend’s letters; but on the whole, they simply describe a piece of St. George’s old England, still mercifully left,—and such as I hope to make even a few pieces more, again; conquering them out of the Devil’s new England.

FORS CLAVIGERA.