Chapter VI: Introduction (5)

Information about Darwin, concerning whose work the catalogue was silent, was finally volunteered by one of a little group who pronounced him to be ‘the Monkey Man’; and another knew no more about Gladstone than that ‘he was the chap that followed Lord Beaconsfield.’

‘Lesbia,’ by Mr. J. Bertrand, explained as ‘A Roman girl musing over the loss of her pet bird,’ was commented on by, ‘Sorrow for her bird, is it? I was thinking it was drink that was in her’--a grim indication of the opinion of the working classes of their ‘betters’; though another remark on the same picture, ‘Well, I hope she will never have a worse trouble,’ showed a kindlier spirit and perhaps a sadder experience.

But the catalogue once studied, it was clung to with almost comical persistency. A picture by Jacob Maris, lent by Mr. J. S. Forbes, of a ‘Street in Amsterdam,’ was next in the catalogue, though not in the room, to one of Mr. F. F. Dicksee’s of ‘Christ walking on the Water.’ The Amsterdam picture was one in Maris’s best style--a row of quaint, irregular houses, boats by the wharf, still cold water from the midst of which a post protruded, catching the light. ‘No doubt a fine picture,’ commented a spectator, ‘but it requires a deal of imagination.’ ‘Why? I don’t see that; it’s plain enough: there are the ships, houses, wharf,’ explained a friendly neighbour. ‘Yes, I see all them; but it’s the rest of it that wants the imagination.’ Further pause, and then, ‘Oh! I see; I’ve got the wrong number; I thought it was “Christ walking on the Water”--that’s what I was looking for.’

The historical or domestic pictures, such as J. B. Burgess’s ‘Presentation,’ the English ladies visiting the house of a Moor who is presenting his children to them; or Edwin Long’s ‘Question of Propriety,’ the priests watching the dancing-girl to decide if the dance was proper or not, perhaps attracted the most immediate attention, just in proportion as they told their own tale; but, aided by catalogue or talk, the pictures embodying the highest spiritual truths became the most popular.

The sentiment pervading J. F. Millet’s ‘Angelus’ which makes prayer--the communion with the ‘Besetting God’--at evening time, ‘Earth’s natural vesper hour,’ seem right and fitting was an unspoken sermon beyond their comprehension as art critics, but within their reach as men and women capable of communion with the highest. And, at present, when ordinary religious influences appear to make so sadly little impression, shall we not use such pictures also as stepping-stones towards the truer life?

Some amount of fine art is now lost to the world because the construction of most modern houses puts narrow limits to the size of pictures. ‘We are often unable to express our best ideas for want of room,’ I was told by a living artist whom this or any age would, I think, call great; and another painter has had what he considers his finest picture left on his hands because it is too big for any drawing-room and most galleries.

Is there not a double work here for the rich to do? Might they not, by buying such pictures, encourage the artists to paint their best thoughts, whatever size they require, thus making the world richer by enabling it to possess a little more of the knowledge gained by those who ‘hang on to the sunskirts of the Most High’? Might they not put them as gifts or loans on the walls of churches or hospitals, making bare walls speak great truths, not the less audible because of the murmur of the people’s thanks, real, if unheard by the donors?

Pictures will not do everything. They will not save souls, for ‘it takes a life to save a life’; but shall such works be kept only for the amusement or passing interest of the rich? Shall not we, who care that the people should have life and fuller life, press them into the service of teaching? Words, mere words, fall flat on the ears of those whose imaginations are withered and dead; but art, in itself beautiful, in ideas rich, they cannot choose but understand, if it be brought within their reach.

Art may do much to keep alive a nation’s fading higher life when other influences fail adequately to nourish it; and how shall we neglect it in these hard times of spiritual starvation? In Mrs. Browning’s words

‘The artist keeps up open roads between the seen and the unseen.
Art is the witness of what _is_ behind the show.’

HENRIETTA O. BARNETT.

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VIII.

_THE YOUNG WOMEN IN OUR WORKHOUSES._[1]

[1] Reprinted, by permission, from _Macmillan’s Magazine_, August 1879.

Those of us who have ever entered a workhouse will not easily forget some of the sad impressions then made upon the mind. We remember the large, dreary wards--

The walls so blank,
That my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there--

the cleanliness which is oppressive, the order which tells of control in every detail. But, gloomy as these things are, they are but the necessary surroundings of many of the people who come to end their days amid them. On their faces is written failure; having been proved useless to the world, they are cast away out of sight, and too often out of mind, on to this sad rubbish-heap of humanity.

A closer inspection of this rubbish-heap, however, shows that it is not all worthless. Besides the many whom dissolute, improvident, or vicious courses bring to the workhouse, there are some who are more sinned against than sinful; some who are merely unfortunate, and who by a little wise help, wisely given, may become useful members of society.

It is of the young, single women that I would specially speak. Those whom one finds in the workhouse are usually there for one of three reasons. First, in order to seek shelter when about to become mothers; secondly, because they are driven thither by the evil results of profligacy; thirdly, because having failed in life they choose to enter there rather than to sin or to starve. It is of the first and third classes that I now write, for the second class is being dealt with, if not efficiently, at least earnestly, by many societies founded for that purpose.

From June 1877 to June 1878 in the seven unions of East London alone there have been no less than 253 young girl-mothers who have entered the infirmaries.

Some enter a few months before their confinement, driven to that inhospitable shelter from the sense of the value of their remaining character. And here a word is required as to the neglect of any proper method of classification. There should be in all our workhouses accommodation which would allow of the separation of characters among classes; and power and encouragement should be given to the master and matron to carry this plan into effectual working. The more respectable of the young women might be placed under the supervision of one of the staff, so that the time which necessarily elapses before they can be again sent out should be to them a time of instruction in what is good and desirable, instead of, as it now too often is, a time when they are corrupted by the evil influence of others worse than themselves.

But these 253--what becomes of them? On their recovery they cannot remain in the infirmary, and must be sent to the able-bodied house, there to live on prison fare and to associate with the criminal and wilfully idle. Rather than do this many a young woman prefers to go out, taking her three-weeks-old babe with her, resolved to ‘get on’ as best she can. That ‘best’ is often the ‘worst.’ With her character gone, with two mouths to feed instead of one, and with the loss of self-respect rapidly following the loss of the respect of others, the unfortunate mother too often falls into hopeless vice; or, perhaps, the giant temptation presents itself of sacrificing the little wailing life which stands between her and respectability. Unhelped, unencouraged as they are, who can wonder that such mothers, so sorely tried, sometimes fall, and that the crime of infanticide is horribly rife?

But, frequent as such results are, the end is not always thus tragic; the ruined girl often returns to her father’s house and to the same conditions of life as before she fell. But this course, though not so apparently bad, is yet often very harmful. Her presence familiarises the younger members with vice, an unadvisable familiarity; for vice, while it gains much attractive power, gains also more deterrent force by its mystery in the minds of the young.

Sometimes the unwedded mother, on leaving the workhouse, honestly tries to get work at sack-making, factory-work, anything which will enable her to keep her little one near her; but it is a hard, an almost impossible task. The care of the child impedes the work, and thus it has to be put out to daily nurse. The ignorance, if not the apathy, of its badly paid nurse and the unsuitability of its food too often combine to extinguish the little flame which was burning to guide its mother back to virtue by the paths of love and self-control.

These, briefly, are some of the present evils which beset the lives of the young women who become mothers in our workhouses.

It was to cure some of such evils that a few ladies associated themselves together in the spring of 1876. We bound ourselves by no rules or bye-laws, for the work is one which is entirely of an individual nature. Strong personal influence has to be brought to bear on each applicant, with a distinct and definite object in view, suggested by the character of the woman and the circumstances of the case. There have been, unfortunately, changes in our workers, but we have continued to visit, with fair regularity, both the infirmary and able-bodied house of our Union. When work is necessarily left so largely to individual initiative, depending on the character of the worker, each lady must, naturally, adopt her own method of doing it. Some feel that they can do more _for_ the girls by changing the circumstances of their lives, while others can do more _with_ them by arousing their dormant moral natures and filling them with enthusiasm for good. But all ways of doing the work are needed, the more diverse the means the larger the number of women likely to be reached. The very diversity of the means makes it difficult, however, to write about the work as it is done by all the co-operators. It is, therefore, well that I should speak only of my own plan and experiences.

I visit about once a week, and see alone in a room, which the matron kindly lends for the purpose, each girl who has expressed a wish to lead a good life. After talking to her and learning of her antecedents, her statements are sent to the Charity Organisation Society to be verified. I try to learn something of her character, of the ideal she has of her own life, of the plans she has made for the future, of the kind and manner of good which appears to her most attractive and desirable. On receipt of the Report of the Charity Organisation Society each girl is dealt with in accordance with her past life; she who has suffered from the allurements and excitements of the town is sent into the country, being placed where the monotony and peace will protect her from herself; she who has for long lived a lawless and undisciplined life is induced to enter a Home or Refuge, where order and control will teach her the unlearnt lessons; while sometimes it is possible to get for her for whom drink has been too strong a situation with a teetotal family, who will help her by example as well as principle. For the woman whose maternal feeling wants frequent contact with her child to invigorate it a place is got where the mistress, knowing all the facts, will allow her servant often to see the little one; while the mother, whose sense of shame is stronger than her love for the child, is sent to a place far removed from the caretaker of her baby, trusting that the money which she weekly sends for it will keep in remembrance the sin of which she has been guilty and the innocent result of it.

It is a common idea that the only way of helping women sunk so low as these is to send them to Homes. This idea I would like to modify. Homes are very valuable in giving girls the opportunities of re-earning a character when, as they themselves say, they have ‘no one to speak for them.’ Still, in all these cases where the fault which brought them to the workhouse (serious as it may be) has not undermined the whole character, it is, perhaps, better to send them at once to service. In their mistresses’ houses they are, unconsciously, guarded from the grosser temptations which lone girls have to meet, being guided by influence rather than rule. The regular, if at times too hard, work of service demanded by the varying interests and needs of a family is the greatest help to a healthy tone of mind. In a good home they see family life in all its beauty, they see the commonplace virtues in a beautiful and attractive setting, and the kindliness which is engendered between the served and the server helps the poor stumbling soul along the path of duty over many a rough and difficult place. ‘Oh! ma’am,’ a girl said the other day, ‘the missus’s baby is such a dear; he do make me forget such a lot;’ a forgetfulness which was in her case the first necessary step towards a fairer future.

It is a good rule to tell every circumstance, however trivial, to the mistress, so that she can become in her turn the guardian of her servant against the besetting sin; and all honour be to those many ladies who have so generously come forward to take these girls into their own homes, sometimes giving them more wages than their services warranted, often helping them with clothes both for themselves and their children, and giving them too that priceless sympathy which outweighs every other gift. Such help saves more pain and makes more righteousness than big, barren subscriptions to far-off institutions; for

The gift without the giver is bare.

If the girl has been a servant before, she can obtain 15_l._ or 16_l._ a year; out of this she can pay 4_s._ or 4_s._ 6_d._ a week, and her lady friend can assist her by paying 1_s._ or 6_d._ a week towards her baby’s support. If the girl has never been a servant, it is necessary that she should enter service at a much lower wage. She must then get more money assistance, the sum being decided by the rough estimate that she should pay two-thirds of her money, whatever it is.

The small payment has many advantages; it enables the mother to disassociate herself from her past corrupting association; it assists her lady friend to keep up constant communication with her, whereby she is enabled to advise about her future, her change of place, her friends; and it also enables a watchful eye to be kept on the little one. Its nurse coming weekly to receive the money can tell of its progress, the lady can see if it is well cared for, and can by her interest encourage the nurse to do her best. As a rule the caretakers become very fond of their little charges. In one instance the mother having, alas! again returned to evil ways, the nurse continued to keep the baby without payment, jealously guarding him against his mother, ‘who might harm him when in drink.’ Another woman came to ask for a nurse-child because, she said, she had had fourteen children of her own, and now that they were all out in the world, ‘her old man said it was so lonesome-like.’ It is important, too, to choose the nurse carefully, for she has frequently a great influence on the mother, who will naturally be more inclined to listen to the wise words of one who is ‘good to her baby’ than to any mere well-wisher. The mother by this means gains a respectable friend of her own class, in many cases the first she has ever known. In one instance the nurse did what others had failed to do. The mother was one of those people to whom pleasure is as necessary as food and air. Among happier surroundings her sense of fun and capacity for enjoyment would have been a source of brightness, and rendered her a general favourite. For those in her sphere of life joy is an element considered unnecessary, and thus is a dangerous luxury. She had no desire to do wrong nor to offend, but pleasure she must have, and not being able to obtain it innocently, she took it lawlessly. Such conduct mistresses rightly would not allow, and she reached the workhouse when her boy was about three years old. There seemed to be no trace of affection for the child, nor any feeling beyond a sense of irritation at its helplessness and a desire to get it ‘into a home,’ and to be rid of the attendant responsibility. This last idea it was impossible to entertain, for responsibility might become her schoolmaster, and lead her up ‘the difficult blue heights.’

She was a thorough general servant; hence there was little difficulty in getting her into a place. A home for the boy was found, with a most demonstrative and affectionate nurse, who rarely spoke of him except as a ‘pretty lamb,’ and who loudly and frequently called on all to admire him. Little by little this influenced the young mother, who began to be interested in the much-talked-of and cared-for baby. The deducted wages were more cheerfully rendered for its support, and as love obtained admittance to her heart, and all the many cares which accompanied a child brought interest into her life, there became less need for the outside pleasures. The craving for enjoyment found satisfaction in giving joys to the baby boy.

It would be easy to give many instances of the success of this work, but one or two will suffice. Jane, a motherless girl of sixteen, brought up in a rough, low-class home, and sent to earn her bread before she could well distinguish good from evil--what wonder that she came into the only asylum open to her, harmed by the first man who had ever shown her a kindness? She appeared indifferent to her fate, but she showed such passionate and self-giving devotion to the child that it seemed possible that the mother’s character would be awakened by her feelings. They were accordingly placed in a house where they could be together; the child soon died, and Jane having greatly improved, she was sent to a situation, where she is doing well, and has got again some of the brightness of youth.

Emma, a woman of twenty-six, had for some years lived abroad with a man who promised her ‘English marriage,’ but who, on reaching England, basely deserted her. Characterless and unknown as she was, she tried in vain to get work to support herself and child; and at last, half dead with privation, she entered the ‘House.’ She had not a reference to give, nor a friend to apply to, but she did so thoroughly and well the work which the Matron gave her, and so earnestly pleaded to have a trial, that, trusting in my opinion of her sincerity, a good woman in the country took her as servant, who now, after two years of trial, writes to ask that other servants may be sent to her ‘as good as Emma.’ Her boy is placed in a village a few miles off, and all the holidays, most of the money, and many of the spare moments are given to him, in whom is treasured the one bright memory of her dreary past.

But of each girl that is helped such pleasant stories cannot be told. There are many failures: women whose resolution deserts them before the old temptations, whose promises are as lightly broken as they were earnestly made; girls whose ill companions offer them bright if lawless lives, and who leave the new hard ways for the well-known aimless, careless life.

But, in spite of many failures, the work is hopefully continued in the belief, founded on experience, that the idle can be induced to work and learn through daily labour the gospel which work teaches; that the coarse-minded can yet see the beauty of holiness if it is shown greatly and plainly; that the ignorant can yet be taught if patience be given; that the careless may yet be circumspect if cared for. Failures and disappointments are inevitable when the aim is not to make a temporary improvement, but to raise the ideas and radically change the habits of a class, to help whom there has hitherto been so little effort made.

But there is yet the third class of girls who have been cast by the wave of misfortune into the workhouse. These are not touched by the societies for befriending young servants, for many have never been servants, and some have started on their career before the societies were formed. Some come in because their parents break up their homes and altogether ‘enter the House.’ In such a plight was poor Martha, a sickly girl of eighteen, too crippled to be fit for manual work. Her father was dead; her mother was so drunken that the workhouse was for her the only resort; and thither she came bringing her children with her, and among them the poor weak Martha. The other children were sent to the district schools, but the cripple was too old to go there. There was nothing for her but to drag on a loveless, cheerless life and make her home in that unhomely place. She was a bright willing lassie, but her labour, such as it was, was not needed there, where she was but one of the many useless ones who help to give trouble and swell the rates. She was deft with her fingers and capable, if not of entirely supporting herself, still of adding wealth to the world by her work. A home was soon found for her where she could be taught straw-basket work, and on drawing the attention of the Guardians to her case, they at once consented to pay for the training. We occasionally see her. She has been taught to read and write, and to make bonnets and baskets quickly and well. She is very happy, and, though sighing when speaking of the workhouse, she adds in the same breath, ‘The Matron was real good to me there.’

Some seek the workhouse because, having lost their places and being alone in the world, they know not where else to go. Some having drifted there more than once arouse the contempt and antagonism of the officers; and these, unloving and indifferent because unloved, lose all hope and interest, and grow stubborn and hard. To these girls the lady must show herself their friend, and awaken their interest in life. One girl was sent to me, not yet twenty-one, who had passed through innumerable situations, who had been for six years in and out of the House continually, and who had once been sent to prison for a breach of the necessary discipline. She was pronounced ‘incorrigible’ by the authorities. I confess to having felt powerless to work her reformation when I saw her. Her stubborn set face, her downcast dull eyes, her stolid refusal to speak in reply to whatever was said, her apathy on all subjects made me feel that I had not a chance of touching her. I tried all ways, but at last aroused her by asking her to do something for me. The God-born sense of helpfulness in her awoke her sleeping soul. She felt she cared for the one person in all the world whom she had ever helped, and that affection has been her ‘saving grace.’ She is now earning 12_l._ a year, more, as she says, than she had ‘earned in two years afore,’ and her face, manners, and character are rapidly improving. She comes to me to help her to choose her new clothes, and I could not but be satisfactorily amused when the ‘incorrigible’ pauper insisted on having a ‘high art’ coloured dress, declaring that none of the others suggested were ‘half so pretty.’ Many such stories could be told, many beginning brightly and ending sadly, some turning out better than their commencement would have justified us in hoping. One poor child, motherless and worse than fatherless, after a short training in a Home, is now in service, and paying towards the support of her younger sister; another has a conscience so awakened as to make her hesitate for long as to her right to be confirmed because of the sin ignorantly committed which brought her to the rates, while tales could be told of women, rough and untutored, who have joyfully taken the hard, self-restraining path which leads to righteousness, and who, having once been given great ideals, receive them as new truths, and patiently (pathetically so among their rude surroundings) endeavour to live up to them.

Enough may have been said to induce other ladies to adopt the work. Taking the figures of the last two years’ work at one workhouse, we have seen 141 women. Of these we have sent out, to service or to work, ninety-five; and out of these only five have again returned to the workhouse. Of many we have lost sight, which is not to be wondered at when the ignorance of the women of this class is considered. A letter is to them a thing to be much pondered, but rarely attempted. Some, after long silences, reappear to ask advice in some temporary difficulty or to tell of progress made. Many remain close friends, coming to call on every holiday or writing long and affectionate letters. One wrote the other day a stilted letter of thanks ‘for having altered her position in the world for one of more sterling worth.’ Her future did look gloomy when first we became acquainted. She was the daughter of a seaside lodging-house keeper, brought up in a cheap (and nasty!) boarding-school, and sent to London, with many false ideas about work, and some true ones about wickedness, to earn her living in any ‘genteel’ employment. Her superficial education did not help her, and she came down lower and lower, till at last, finding herself in a lodging-house of doubtful reputation, she rightly chose the workhouse in preference to remaining there. Her widowed mother, unable to keep her, and fearful that her frivolities would influence badly her younger sisters, refused to receive her home. Her fine-ladyism and ignorance of any sort of household work were an effectual barrier to her taking service, while her sorry education prevented her even trying to teach. Service seemed to be the best opening for her, and the life best calculated to keep her straight. With some difficulty she was persuaded to look at it in this light, and then induced to enter a servants’ training home. She has earned good testimonials there, and is now a happy and useful servant.

The work is in itself simple, and yet has issues important, not only to the individuals helped, but to the community at large, for it tends to lessen pauperism, prostitution, and infanticide. It would be well if every lady of England were to consider how she can take part in it. If she is not herself able to visit the workhouse, she can, perhaps, open her house and heart to one of these girls who so sadly need such protection and care. Or, if that be impossible, she might undertake to befriend one of them.

Around every workhouse a committee of ladies might be formed. The meetings need not, perhaps, be formal nor frequent, but merely friendly gatherings to compare experience and to discuss reports of the work done. The visiting of the workhouse is, perhaps, for reasons which will be appreciated by those who are familiar with official establishment, better left to two or three of the members who, after seeing the girls and learning their histories, should pass one or more to each member of the committee to provide for. Every lady might be a member of such a committee. Every woman can befriend another, and perhaps may be the more moved to do so when she who needs the help is a girl no older than her own daughter in the schoolroom. There are few who cannot help the work of such committees by contributing 1_s._ a week for the helping of one little baby. Every one can spare a little of that loving care, can give a little of that all-saving friendship which so lavishly surrounds the life of most of us.

The work, too, is one which married ladies with homes, families, and social duties can easily take up. Women in this position are debarred from much work for the poor, because their natural and more sacred duties forbid them to run risks of infection or to take up work which would necessitate the devoting of a regular fixed day. But from both these disadvantages the work now under consideration is quite free. In the workhouse the visitor is safe from infection; the visits can be made at any time, for the women are always there, and there is always somebody waiting to be helped whenever one can go. It is, of course, better to fix a regular day for visiting if possible, so that those girls who have been seen once should be able to anticipate the second visit; but this is not at all essential, and frequently the duties of a mother or mistress do not permit of long absences from home. This work, excepting the periodical visit to the workhouse, can be done almost entirely from the writing-table in one’s own house. It necessitates a good deal of correspondence in order to insure obtaining suitable situations and respectable nurses; but it requires comparatively little absence from home, for when the girl is once placed, the friendly connection can best be established and kept up in the lady’s own house. There she can receive her otherwise friendless visitor; there she can strengthen the gentle bonds already begun in the House; there she can show to the homeless one some of the possibilities of home, and by such simple natural acts sow seed which will bring forth much good and happiness.

It is entirely a homely and personal work done in the home and in the interests of the individual and of the family; one full of elements of difficulty and frequently of disappointment and failure. It requires no costly machinery: wherever there is one woman who cares for other women; wherever there is a home full of the joys of family life; wherever two or three can meet together in common work, there is all the force that is required. If in every union and all its parishes, or even in many unions and some of their parishes, those who think that the work which has been done by a few working together is a useful one will take up their part of the burden as it lies near their door, the work may grow. If it grow naturally and by no enforced development, its results may be larger than can yet be foreseen. New thought may develop new plans, wider interest may bring wider change. Our workhouses may become the means of restoring to joy and self-respect many who now leave their walls sad and degraded. Society may be strengthened by the new link between the envied rich and the unknown pauper, a link of unassailable strength being formed of love and service. And if none of these things come to pass, the effort must still be good which rouses into action a part of that family life which in its rest is so beautiful.

HENRIETTA O. BARNETT.

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IX.

_A PEOPLE’S CHURCH._[1]

[1] Reprinted, by permission, from the _Contemporary Review_ of
November 1884.

‘The object of the British Constitution is to get twelve honest men into a jury box,’ is an old-fashioned saying, which puts shortly enough the far-off end of our laws and institutions. The jury box may not itself survive, but whatever takes its place must in the same way depend on an honest public opinion. The object of the British Constitution is to secure freedom for thought and honesty among men. When its laws are enforced by the service of the citizens, and when the citizens are honest, politicians may cease to think of the need of a reform.

Reforms in the Constitution are now urged because they will make possibilities for greater honesty and greater devotion, but if the possibilities are not used the reforms will make little change for the better. A man who has a vote may be put within reach of a higher virtue, but if he gives his vote dishonestly the reform which enfranchised him will not tend to progress. A tenant who is secured from eviction, and the landlord out of whose hands the power to evict has been taken, may thank the land-law reformers, who have made honesty more easy; but if the tenant uses his power to make slaves of his labourers or his children, and the landlord his freedom from responsibility to do what he likes, the last state will be little better than the first. A population which is educated, through the efforts of the educational reformers, may have new capacities for virtue; but if they who are educated use their powers only to take care of themselves, there may at last be a difficulty in getting any to serve as jurymen.

The self-devotion which makes men willingly leave business to do some public duty, and the honesty which makes them subject interest to justice, are essential to the greatness and happiness of the people.

No Constitution can, therefore, neglect the means which are to develop these qualities. Neglect of duty is punished by fines, performance of duty is rewarded by the honours of title; dishonesty is prevented by a system of checks, which is ever being elaborated by new laws. All such means fail, and it has become a proverb that virtue cannot be made by Act of Parliament.

The Church is a part of the British Constitution, and is the means by which in old days honesty was promoted; and if in these modern days the Church fails, its failure, at any rate, has given no ground for a corresponding proverb, that virtue cannot be made by a religious agency. The majority still believe that if men were spiritually-minded they would care for things that are honest, and give themselves to duty in the spirit of the saints and puritans. There may be a morality which is independent of religion; but there is still confidence in the power of the Spirit to carry men over the rough road of duty. There is still a willingness to trust in spiritual agencies to promote morality.

Stated widely, the Church exists to spiritualise life. The ritual and the doctrine, which are often regarded as ends, are the means to this further end. A National Church exists to connect the life of individuals and the life of the nation with the life of God, in Whom all fulness is, to fill men with grace and truth, to make them to respond to high emotions and settle them on eternal calm. Its object is to make men friends, to unite all classes in common aims, to give them open minds, willing to learn, and to introduce them to whatever is honest and of good report. The Church aims to develop the sense of duty through the sense of God.

That the Church of England should fail to reach this object is not surprising. In an age of free trade, as a ‘protected’ society, it starts at a disadvantage. In an age of self-government, as a system which is not under popular control, it is suspected. In a democratic age, as an aristocratic organisation, it is not understood.

Chivalry worked well in its own day. The times changed, and there was no room in the new age for knights errant. Many were sorry to see it pass away, with its swift remedies for wrong, its attractive dress, and its power for good. They tried to revive its force, and ‘Don Quixote’ is a satire on the effort. The good man, with all his devotion, was out of place; the knight of the old age was the butt of the new age. Such a satire might be made on a Church which tries by old forms and through an old constitution to spiritualise life. A few followers may be attracted by sentiment, clinging to memories of good old times, and by striking forms of devotion; but the many will be bound to feel that the effort with all its beauty is out of place, that the realities of the old age have become the pictures of the new age.

The Church of England is not therefore effective to spiritualise the life of the nation and to develop honesty of living. Its present position is indeed indefensible. As a ‘Reformed’ Church, it offers the example of the greatest abuses. As a ‘Catholic’ Church, it promotes the principle of schism. As a ‘National’ Church, it is out of touch with the nation.

There is no other department in the State which can match the abuses connected with the sale of livings, with the common talk about ‘preferment’ and ‘promotion,’ with the irremovability of indolent, incapable, and unworthy incumbents, with the restriction of worship to words which expressed the wants of another age, and with the use of tests to exclude from the ranks of ministers those called by God to teach in fresh forms the newest revelations to mankind. There are no greater supporters of the schism from which they pray to be delivered than the bishops and clergymen who talk of ‘the Church’ as if it were a sect to promote ‘Church of England’ societies, and strive to cut off from the body of the people a section of its members. There is nothing national which so little concerns the nation as its Church. By the vast majority of those who are the coming rulers, namely, by the working class, the Church and its services are unused. The parson may here and there be popular as a man; he may even be regarded as of some use to take the chair at meetings to get up charitable societies and promote the education or the amusement of the people. He is not, though, looked to for the help he can give to life, and it is not through him that the people hope to get vice put down, virtue promoted, and life spiritualised.

The place of the Church in the Constitution is forgotten; so when there is a complaint that impurity is sapping the strength of the nation, or that cheating is ruining trade, or that selfishness is making men scamp work, it is not the clergy who are called on to do their duty and make a cure, but a new society is formed or a new law is demanded, and the clergy are not even rebuked for neglect. No one seems to expect that a Church, nominally co-extensive with the nation, which is established to spiritualise life, should do its work. The position is indefensible. Those politicians who are moved only by agitation may say, ‘The condition of the Church is not one of practical politics,’ and pass on. The greater number realising that the ultimate conflict is between those who would govern with God and those who would govern without God, and anxious that the Church should be effective for its purpose, are quietly making up their minds to one of two solutions--Disestablishment or Reform.

The present means for making the people virtuous or honest fail. ‘Disestablish,’ urge the Liberationists. ‘Let the clergy of the Church be stirred by competition and roused by interest, and we shall have better results.’ ‘Let the connection with the State continue,’ say the Reformers; ‘let the abuses be eradicated, but leave the teachers of the nation to be moved by duty and not by bigotry or sectarian rivalry.’ These two solutions for making effective the means of developing honesty offer themselves for examination. It is worthy of remark that the common arguments for Disestablishment, except those urged by the opponents of all religion, hardly touch the principle of Establishment. Secularists urge that religion being useless and spirituality a fancy, it is no business of the State to do anything to spiritualise the life of its members as a means to increase virtue. Their position is unassailable, and the day on which the nation decides that God has no relation to life, the Church as a spiritualising agency must be disestablished, its buildings turned into lecture-halls, and its endowments devoted to the reduction of the national debt or to the teaching of art and science.

The position of the Secularists is occupied by few. The ordinary advocate of Disestablishment is anxious that the life of the nation may be spiritualised, but he sees that the Church is ineffective, he marks its abuses, its rivalry with the sects, and its assumption of superiority. He argues that its ineffectiveness and its assumption are due to its connection with the State, and urges that Disestablishment alone will sweep out the abuses. He condemns abuses but he cannot condemn a principle which affirms the duty of the State to teach the higher life, because he himself has probably approved the principle as a supporter of Education Acts, liquor laws, and other legislation of a like aim.

It is allowed by the majority of the people that the State should teach the life of prudence, and schools are established under local School Boards to teach every child, so that he may earn his living. Further, it is allowed that the State should control the forces which, for good or evil, may rouse the people, and thus licensing boards are established to limit the sale of strong drink.

The same principle is involved in an Established Church. If the State educates the citizens, and admits its responsibility for the formation of their characters, a line can hardly be drawn at a point which would exclude it from giving the people the means which are the best security for happiness and for morality.

The principle of Establishment does not--as its opponents often think--assert that a sect has truth; it asserts that the nation has truth, or is seeking it. The truth abides in the best thought of the whole nation, and the Church is established to express that truth. The clergy have no special rights, they are servants appointed to do the will of the nation. Truth abides not in ‘the Church’ of the bishops and clergy nor in a book, it abides in the people. Once when it was proposed in the House of Commons to refer a matter of doctrine to the bishops, ‘No, by the faith I bear to God,’ said Mr. Wentworth, with the approval of the House, ‘we will pass nothing before we understand what it is, for that were to make you Popes.’ It is the people, therefore, which by its Parliament has settled, and may again settle, the limits of teaching and ritual. The clergy are its servants paid out of funds set apart for this special purpose. Lord Palmerston put it shortly when he said, ‘The property of the Church belongs to the State.’

The nation, in old language, is holy. The body of people called English is set apart for a special service, its laws are laws of God, its work is worship, and every one of its members owes a duty to God. The memory of such a fact was kept alive in Israel where every town’s meeting was a congregation, every parliament a solemn assembly, every law the Word of God, and every workman was inspired by the Spirit of God. The Jewish nation has been preserved in the Jewish Church. That the English nation is holy must also be kept alive. The nation, that is, must be a Church and its citizens organised for worship. ‘The spirit of nationality,’ says Burke, ‘is at once the bond and the safeguard of nations; it is something above laws and beyond thrones, the impalpable element, the inner life of states.’ In his own language Burke asserts the holiness of nations, and it is to protect this impalpable element that it becomes so important for nations to identify their secular and religious aspects, to be at once nations and churches with duties to men and to God.

Disestablishment denies this holiness, and so lets escape the strongest element in nationality. Disestablishment is, moreover, a short-sighted policy, because, however great be the measure of Disendowment, it would make the Church of England the strongest of the sects. In a short time one of the parties now held in union within the Establishment would obtain the supremacy, and that party would inherit all the power and prestige of the position. This party--being only a section of the religious body--would pose as the representative of religion, and its clergy would identify their interests with the interest of God. Again, there would be some Becket to oppose the will of Parliament, and to call some law affecting his order ‘irreligious,’ and a clericalism would be let loose to assume, and perhaps make hateful, the name of religion. ‘Clericalism is the enemy of men,’ is a saying which has much truth in it. The pity is if clericalism and religion are enabled to seem to be the same thing.

Disestablishment, finally, would intensify the competition of sects. To make one proselyte, the supporters of various forms would compass sea and land. The standard of morality would be lowered and the flags of doctrine, invented out of will-worship, would be waved to bring in rich adherents, and get the use of their money. Even, as it is, there is no need to go far to find work, which would fall to pieces if the preacher spoke the truth to the subscribers about their private life or their tempers. It is urged that the congregations in American non-established Churches are large; it is not urged that the people in America are above bribery in politics or above cheating in trade. It is not urged that American social life is spiritualised, and that is the only fact which would be evidence of the good of the system.

To sum up the case against those who offer Disestablishment of the Church as an answer to the question, ‘How is the nation to be brought into union with the spirit of goodness?’ it may be urged that--

1. Disestablishment is a destructive and wasteful method of getting rid of abuses, and would destroy the power of the State to teach what the State holds to be truth.

2. Disestablishment would establish clericalism, a force which more than once in history has made religion hateful, and roused for its repression the God-fearing men of the nation.

3. Disestablishment, trusting to competition, would leave poor neighbourhoods unhelped. A poor congregation could not hope for a church in which worship should be stirred by the beauty of sight and sound. An ignorant population would not exert itself to get either a church or a teacher. The most needy would thus be the most neglected. It is only the State which can give with equal hand to all its members, and which thus can either educate or spiritualise the masses.

The solution offered by those who say, ‘Reform the Church,’ remains for examination.

These, like the religious liberationists, are anxious that the instrument for spiritualising life should be effective. The Reformers, though, recognise that this, the highest object of any organisation is also the object of the State, and can only be attained by means of the Constitution. Individuals may be left to provide for the wants they have recognised. The State must provide for the wants of the higher life and send out teachers to tell individuals of things beyond their ken. The Church reformers urge, therefore, that the principle of Establishment should be retained, but that abuses should be eradicated and old-fashioned methods reformed.

The practical difficulties of reform are doubtless many, but they are not insuperable. Inasmuch as Burke has said, ‘What is taught by a State Church must be decided by the State, and not by the clergy,’ it is possible to conceive that the nation, and not a sect, might determine how truth should be sought and taught. Inasmuch as now it is the people who directly or indirectly appoint their rulers, it is easy to conceive how the people, and not a patron, might have a voice in the choice of the parson, and how the parishioners, and not the parson, might govern the Church and the parish. There need be no ill-paid, no over-paid, no unworthy incumbent. There need be no neglected parish, and a State Church might be as effective an organisation for promoting spirituality as the State Post-office is for promoting intercourse.

Institutions have survived a greater reform than that which is required in the Church, and those who have seen the changes which the law-making department of the State has endured may without fear submit the right-making department to like changes.

It is no new principle to reform the Reformed Church. By a law of Henry VIII. the king has authority to ‘reform, correct all errors, heresies and abuses,’ and the people’s Parliament now takes the place of the king. ‘The particular form of Divine worship,’ says the preface to Edward VI.’s second Prayer Book, ‘and the rites and ceremonies appointed to be used therein, being in their own nature indifferent and _alterable_, and so acknowledged, it is but reasonable, &c. &c.’ The Long Parliament changed the whole Constitution and Ritual of the Church. The Restoration Parliament undid that work. Throughout the seventeenth century the Teaching, the Ritual, and the Organisation were discussed as open questions, and the present system is the result purely of a Parliamentary decision.

Three hundred years ago, to suit the new age, the new birth of learning, the Church was reformed. The present times are marked by changes as great as those of the Renaissance, and the Church remains unchanged. As was the Church of the sixteenth century, so is the Church of the nineteenth century.

The government of England has become popular, and the people elect the Parliament which makes the laws; the Church of England is still exclusive, and the clergy in ‘their’ churches and ‘their’ parishes are still supreme.

Freedom has destroyed monopolies; and, according to a rough scale, justice is equally administered. In the Church, monopolies still exist, justice is defied in arrangements which are for the benefit of the strong, and the clergy are a ‘protected’ class.

The language and the fashion of Englishmen have changed, but the Church still addresses men with the language and the ritual of the Middle Ages.

The Church, once reformed to suit new needs, the rites of which are ‘alterable,’ has not been made to suit the needs of modern times. The Church must be again reformed. If details be asked as to the Constitution of the Church of the future, if questions rise to men’s lips, ‘What will be done about Bishops?’ ‘Who will fix the limits of doctrine?’ ‘How will the rights of minorities be considered?’ the simple answer is that all can be settled by the people. The Reformers of 1832 did not map out the details of the new government of England; they simply gave the power to the people, and the people rooted out abuses and reformed the administration of law. It will be sufficient to-day if the people are admitted to that place in Church government which is now usurped by the clergy or their nominees. The State is democratic, the Church must also be democratic. As the State is governed by the people for the people, the Church must be governed by the people for the people.

It is waste of time to make a paper constitution, which often binds the hopes of its makers to one plan. Church boards, a popular veto on patronage, or a general synod, may be the best means of introducing the people’s power, but it is not wise to proceed as if the means were ends. Church reformers need not advocate any means as essential, the one thing essential is to give the people power to form their own Church; to see, in a word, that the Church is the people’s Church.