THE 
 
 TOILERS OF THE FIELD.
 
 RICHARD JEFFERIES. 
 From the bust by Miss Margaret Thomas, in Salisbury Cathedral. 
 
 Photographed />jr Mr. Owen, Salisbury.
 
 THE 
 
 TOILERS OF THE FIELD. 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD JEFFER1ES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE GAMEKEEPER AT HOME," ETC. ETC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK : 15 EAST 16* STREET. 
 1892. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 HD
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE first and larger part of this volume, from 
 which it takes its name, consists of papers 
 which will be new to the large majority of 
 readers of Richard Jefferies' works. The 
 five entitled, "The Farmer at Home," "The 
 Labourer's Daily Life," "Field-faring Women," 
 "An English Homestead," and " John Smith's 
 Shanty," appeared in Fraser's Magazine in 
 1874, long before Jefferies had gained any 
 portion of that fame which was so long in 
 coming, and came in full measure too late. Of 
 the three letters to the Times, written in 1872, 
 one was republished, with the permission of 
 Mrs. Jefferies, in an appendix to Mr. Walter 
 Besant's "Eulogy of Richard Jefferies." It 
 finds its natural place in this volume with the 
 other papers, which give so clear a picture of 
 the life of all classes of the cultivators of the 
 soil in the early seventies. The " True Tale of 
 the Wiltshire Labourer" has never previously
 
 vi PREFA CE. 
 
 been published, and is included in this volume 
 by the kind permission of Mr. G. H. Harmer 
 of the Wilts and Gloucestershire Standard, 
 for which paper it was written when Jefferies 
 was on its staff, but for some reason was 
 never used. 
 
 All the papers in Part II. have appeared 
 in Longman's Magazine, since Jefferies' death, 
 and though they are with one exception very 
 slight, yet they are all characteristic speci- 
 mens of his work. From internal evidence 
 it appears certain that the longest of them, 
 entitled " The Coming of Summer," was 
 written on June i, 1881, and the subsequent 
 days. It contains one or two points of resem- 
 blance with the famous "Pageant of Summer," 
 which appeared in Longmans Magazine for 
 June 1883. It was perhaps the first study of 
 which that paper is the finished picture. 
 
 The frontispiece is reproduced by kind 
 permission of Mr. J. Owen of Salisbury, from 
 a photograph taken by him of Miss Thomas' 
 bust of Jefferies in Salisbury Cathedral. 
 
 C. J. LONGMAN.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME 3 
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE 60 
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN Ill 
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD . . . . . . 151 
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY ... . . 175 
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS (LETTERS TO THE "TIMES") 211 
 
 A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER . . 2 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER . "'.,''... . . 289 
 
 THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN 313 
 
 AN EXTINCT RACE . . ... . . . 315 
 
 ORCHIS MASCULA 319 
 
 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE ' . . .321
 
 
 PART I.
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 THE new towns, or suburbs which spring up 
 every year in the neighbourhood of London, 
 are all built upon much the same plan. 
 Whole streets of houses present exact dupli- 
 cates of each other, even to the number of 
 steps up to the front door and the position of 
 the scraper. In the country, where a new 
 farmhouse is erected about once in twenty 
 years, the styles of architecture are as varied 
 and as irregular as in town they are prim and 
 uniform. The great mass of farmhouses are 
 old, and some are very picturesque. There 
 was a farmhouse I knew which was almost 
 entitled to be taken as the type of an Eng- 
 lish rural homestead. It was built at a spot 
 where the open wild down suddenly fell away 
 into rich meadow land. Here there was a 
 narrow steep-sided valley, or " combe " and 
 at the mouth of this, well sheltered on three 
 sides from the north, the east, and north- 
 eastern winds, stood the homestead. A
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 spring arose some way behind, and close to 
 the house widened into a pool which was 
 still further enlarged by means of a dam, 
 forming a small lake of the clearest water. 
 This lake fed a mill-race lower down. The 
 farmyard and rick-barton were a little way 
 up the narrow valley, on one side of which 
 there was a rookery. The house itself was 
 built in the pure Elizabethan style ; with 
 mullioned windows, and innumerable gables 
 roofed with tiles. Nor was it wanting in the 
 traditions of the olden time. This fine old 
 place was the homestead of a large farm 
 comprising some of the best land of the 
 district, both down and meadow. Another 
 farmhouse, still used for that purpose, stands 
 upon the wildest part of the down, and is 
 built of flint and concrete. It was erected 
 nearly three hundred years ago, and is of un- 
 usual size. The woodwork is all solid black 
 oak, good enough for an earl's mansion. 
 
 These are specimens of the highest class 
 of farmhouse. Immediately beneath them 
 come the houses built in the early part of 
 the present century. They vary in almost 
 every architectural detail, and the materials 
 differ in each county ; but the general
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 arrangement is the same. They consist as 
 it were of two distinct houses under one 
 roof. The front is the dwelling-house pro- 
 per, usually containing a kitchen, sitting- 
 room, and parlour. The back contains the 
 wood-house (coal-house now), the brewhouse 
 where the beer was brewed, which fre- 
 quently also had an oven and, most im- 
 portant of all, the dairy. All this part of 
 the place is paved with stone flags, and 
 the dairy is usually furnished with lattice- 
 work in front of the windows, so that they 
 can be left open to admit the cool air and 
 not thieves. Coolness is the great requisite 
 in a dairy, and some gentlemen who make 
 farming a science go to the length of hav- 
 ing a fountain of water constantly playing 
 in it. These houses, however, were built 
 before scientific agriculture was thought 
 of. The wood -house contained the wood 
 used for cooking and domestic purposes ; 
 for at that date wood was universally used 
 in the country, and coal rarely seen. The 
 wood was of course grown on the farm, 
 for which purpose those wide double mound 
 hedges, now rapidly disappearing, were 
 made. It was considered a good arrange-
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 ment to devote half-an-acre in some out- 
 lying portion of the farm entirely to wood, 
 not only for the fire, but for poles, to make 
 posts and rails, gates, ladders, &c. The 
 coal could not in those days be conveyed 
 so cheaply as it now is by railways. Such 
 as was used had to be brought by the 
 slow barges on the canals, or else was 
 fetched by the farmers' waggons direct from 
 the pit-mouth. The teams were not un- 
 frequently absent two days and a night on 
 the journey. In the outlying districts this 
 difficulty in obtaining coal practically re- 
 stricted the available fuel to wood. Now 
 the wood-house is used as much for coal 
 as wood. Of course the great stacks of 
 wood the piles of faggots and logs were 
 kept outside, generally in the same en- 
 closure as the ricks, only a sufficient num- 
 ber for immediate use being kept under 
 cover. The brewhouse was an important 
 feature when all farmers brewed their own 
 beer and baked their own bread. At present 
 the great majority purchase their beer from 
 the brewers, although some still brew large 
 quantities for the labourers' drinking in 
 harvest time. At a period when compara-
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 tively little ready money passed between 
 employer and employed, and the payment 
 for work was made in kind, beer was a 
 matter which required a great deal of the 
 attention of the farmer, and absorbed no 
 little of his time. At this day it is a dis- 
 puted matter which is cheapest, to buy or 
 to brew beer : at that time there was no 
 question about it. It was indisputably eco- 
 nomical to brew. The brewhouse was not 
 necessarily confined to that use ; when no 
 brewing was in progress it was often made 
 a kind of second dairy. Over these offices 
 was the cheese-room. This was and still 
 is a long, large, and lofty room in which 
 the cheese after being made is taken to 
 dry and harden. It is furnished with a 
 number of shelves upon which the cheeses 
 are arranged, and as no two can be placed 
 one on the other in the early stage of 
 their maturing, much space is required. It 
 is the duty of the dairymaid and her assistant 
 to turn these cheeses every morning a work 
 requiring some strength. In this part of 
 the house are the servants' rooms. In front 
 of the dairy and brewhouse is a paved court 
 enclosed with a wall, and in this court it
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 was not uncommon to find a well, or hog- 
 tub, for the refuse of the dairy. Sometimes, 
 but not often now, the pig -stye is just 
 outside the wall which surrounds the court. 
 In this court, too, the butter is generally 
 churned, under a "skilling" which covers 
 half of it. Here also the buckets are 
 washed, and other similar duties performed. 
 The labourers come here to receive their 
 daily allowance of beer. 
 
 Most farmhouses in large arable farms were 
 originally built so as to have a small dairy at 
 the back ; though there was a time when the 
 arable farmer never thought of keeping a 
 cow, and butter and cheese were unknown, 
 except as luxuries, in his establishment. 
 This was during the continuance of the Corn 
 Laws, when everything was sacrificed to the 
 one great object of growing wheat. It was 
 not impossible in those days to find a whole 
 parish (I know of one myself) in which there 
 was not a single cow. Now the great ob- 
 ject is meat, then it was corn. But at the 
 time when most of the farmhouses were 
 erected, the system of agriculture pursued 
 was a judicious mixture of the dairy and the 
 cornfield, so that very few old farmhouses
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 exist which have not some form of dairy 
 attached. In the corn-growing times, most 
 of the verdant meadows now employed to 
 graze cattle, or for producing hay, were 
 ploughed up. This may be seen by the 
 regular furrows, unmistakable evidences of 
 the plough. When corn declined in price 
 through the influx of foreign produce, the 
 land was again laid down in grass, and most 
 of it continues so till this hour. It might be 
 roughly estimated that England now contains 
 a third more meadow land than in the early 
 part of the present century, notwithstanding 
 the attempt to plough up the downs. 
 
 We now come to the third class of farm- 
 steads low thatched buildings, little better 
 than large cottages, and indeed frequently 
 converted into dwellings for labourers. These 
 are generally found on small farms, and in 
 districts where there are a number of small 
 landed proprietors. These freeholders built 
 houses according to their means. In process 
 of time they were bought up by the great 
 landowners, and the farms thrown together, 
 when the houses were used for other pur- 
 poses. Some may still be found, especially 
 in dairy districts. In these the principal
 
 io THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 part of the house is usually the dairy, which 
 absorbs at least half of the ground floor, and 
 opens on the kitchen, in which the family 
 sit, and in which their food is often cooked. 
 The eaves of the house are low, and there 
 are scarcely any appliances for comfort. The 
 yeomen who originally lived in these places 
 in all respects resembled the labourers with 
 whom they ate and drank and held the most 
 familiar intercourse. Their labourers even 
 slept in the same bedrooms as the family. 
 But these men, though they mingled so 
 freely with the labourer, were his worst 
 enemy. The little profit they made was 
 entirely accumulated by careful economy. 
 They were avaricious and penurious to the 
 last degree, and grudged every halfpenny to 
 the labouring man. They were, and the 
 remnant of them still are, the determined 
 opponent of all progress. The interior of 
 some of these cottage-farmsteads, which still 
 exist, is almost Dutch-like in simplicity and 
 homeliness. The fireplace is of a vast size, 
 fitted with antique iron dogs for burning 
 wood, and on it swing the irons to sustain 
 the great pot. On each side, right under 
 the chimney, are seats, the ingle-nook of
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. u 
 
 olden times. The chimney itself is very 
 large, being specially built for the purpose 
 of curing sides of bacon by smoking. The 
 chimneypiece is ornamented with a few odd 
 figures in crockery-ware, half-a-dozen old 
 brass candlesticks, and perhaps a snuff-box 
 or tobacco dish. The floor is composed of 
 stone flags apt to get slimy and 'damp when 
 the weather is about to change and the 
 wide chinks between them are filled with 
 hardened dirt. In the centre there is a piece 
 of carpet on which the table stands, but the 
 rest of the room is bare of carpeting, except 
 the hearth-rug. The low window has a seat 
 let into the wall under it. The furniture 
 of the apartment is utilitarian in the strictest 
 sense. There is nothing there for ornament 
 or luxury, or even for ease ; only what is 
 absolutely necessary. Generally there is a 
 dresser, above which, on shelves, the dishes 
 and plates are arranged. A tall upright 
 eight-day clock, with a brazen face, and an 
 inscription which tells that it was manu- 
 factured in a neighbouring village, stands in 
 one corner, and solemnly ticks in its coffin- 
 like panelled case. On each side of the 
 fireplace there is an arm-chair, often cushioned
 
 12 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 with a fox or badger skin, and a great brazen 
 warming-pan hangs near the door. There 
 is no ceiling properly so called. These old 
 houses were always built with a huge beam, 
 and you can see the boards of the floor above, 
 which are merely white-washed. A fowling- 
 piece, once a flint-lock, now converted to the 
 percussion 'cap system, hangs against the 
 beam, and sometimes dried herbs may be 
 seen there too. The use of herbs is, how- 
 ever, going out of date. In the evening 
 when the great logs of wood smoulder upon 
 the enormous hearth and cast flickering 
 shadows on the walls, revealing the cat 
 slumbering in the ingle-nook, and the dog 
 blinking on the rug when the farmer slowly 
 smokes his long clay pipe with his jug of 
 ale beside him, such an interior might furnish 
 a good subject for a painter. Let the artist 
 who wishes to secure such a scene from 
 oblivion set to work speedily, for these things 
 are fast fading away. 
 
 All these three classes of farmhouse are 
 usually well supplied with vegetables from 
 the garden attached. The garden in fact 
 was, and still is, an object of considerable 
 importance to the fanner, quite as much as
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 13 
 
 the allotment to the labourer. He reckons 
 to receive from it his whole supply of 
 potatoes, cabbages, beans, peas, and other 
 varieties of table vegetables, and salads. 
 These constitute an important item when 
 there is a large family. I do not speak now 
 of the great farmers, although even these 
 set some store by such produce, but the 
 middle class. It is usual in these gardens 
 to grow immense quantities of cabbage of a 
 coarse kind, and also of lettuce, onions, and 
 radishes, all of which are freely given to the 
 men and women working on the place dur- 
 ing the harvest. They are, in fact, grown 
 especially for them. At the dinner-hour 
 one or more men of the number, deputed by 
 the rest, come up to the house. One carries 
 the wooden bottles, or small barrels of ale, 
 which are handed out from the dairy. The 
 other repairs to the garden, and pulls up a 
 reasonable quantity of lettuce, onions, or rad- 
 ishes, as the case may be, from the patches 
 indicated to him by the employer. These 
 are then washed in the court by the dairy, 
 where there is almost always a pump, and 
 are then taken out to the men and shared 
 amongst them. These salads make an agree-
 
 I 4 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 able addition to the dry bread and cheese, or 
 bacon. The custom is an old one, and much 
 to be commended. It costs the employer 
 next to nothing, and is an element in that 
 goodwill which should exist between him 
 and the labourer. 
 
 On some farms large quantities of fruit are 
 grown such as gooseberries, currants, plums, 
 and damsons. Most have enough for their 
 own use ; some sell a considerable amount. 
 Outside the garden is the orchard. Some 
 of these orchards are very extensive, even in 
 districts where cider is not the ordinary 
 beverage, and in a good apple year the sale 
 of the apples forms an important item in the 
 peculiar emoluments of the farmer's wife. 
 There are, of course, many districts in which 
 the soil is not adapted to the apple, but as a 
 rule the orchard is an adjunct of the garden. 
 Some of the real old English farmsteads 
 possess the crowning delight of a filbert 
 walk, but these are rare now. In fact the 
 introduction of machinery and steam, and the 
 general revolution which has been going on 
 in agriculture, has gone far to sweep away 
 these more pleasant and home-like features 
 of the farm. It becomes daily more and
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 15 
 
 more like a mere official residence, so to 
 speak. The peculiar home-like aspect of a 
 farmhouse is gradually disappearing. 
 
 The daily life of the middle-class dairy 
 farmer begins at five in the morning. Rising 
 about that hour, his first duty is to see that 
 the men have all appeared, and that they are 
 engaged in milking the cows. He breakfasts 
 at six, or half-past, and the whole family have 
 finished breakfast before seven. By this time 
 the day-labourers have come (the milkers are 
 usually hired by the year), and the master has 
 to go out and put them on to their jobs. 
 Meantime the dairy is a scene of work and 
 bustle ; cheesemaking being in full swing. 
 This is at least superintended, if not partly 
 performed, by the mistress of the house. At 
 larger farms it is the bailiff who rises early 
 and sees that the labourers are properly em- 
 ployed ; and the cheesemaking is entrusted 
 to a dairymaid hired at high wages, who 
 often combines with that duty the office 
 of general housekeeper. It was once the 
 practice to rise even earlier than five, but 
 there are not many farmers who do so now. 
 On the arable farm, which is generally much 
 larger, the master has almost always got a
 
 16 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 bailiff, or head-carter, whom he can trust to 
 see the men set to work. The master is 
 therefore not obliged to come down so soon, 
 except at important seasons. But the ordi- 
 nary dairy-farm is not large enough to 
 support a bailiff, and the master has to rise 
 himself. The fresh morning air and the 
 exercise give the farmer a tremendous appe- 
 tite for breakfast. The usual staple food 
 consists of thick rashers of bacon only just 
 "done," so as to retain most of the fat, the 
 surplus of which is carefully caught on sHces 
 of bread. The town rasher is crisp, curled, 
 and brown, without a symptom of fat or 
 grease. The fanner's early rasher is to a 
 town eye but half-done, bubbling with grease, 
 and laid on thick slices of bread, also satu- 
 rated with the gravy. Sometimes cold bacon 
 is preferred, but it is almost always very fat. 
 With this he drinks a pint or so of fairly 
 strong beer, and afterwards has a hunch of 
 bread and butter and a cup or two of tea. 
 He is then well fortified for the labour of 
 the morning. This is the common breakfast 
 of the working-farmer, who is as much a 
 labouring man as any cottager on his farm, 
 and requires a quantity of solid food. Some,
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 17 
 
 however, who are pretty well off, and have a 
 better idea of the luxuries of the table, regale 
 themselves on collared head, or rolled beef, 
 or ham at breakfast, These hams are usually 
 preserved after a family receipt, and some 
 of them are exquisite. After breakfast the 
 farmer walks round the place, watches the 
 men at work for a few minutes, and gives 
 them instructions, and then settles himself 
 down to some job that requires hig imme- 
 diate superintendence. If it is hay-time he 
 takes a rake and works about the field, know- 
 ing full well all the difference that his pre- 
 sence makes. 
 
 The agricultural labourers, both men and 
 women, are a slow set, never in a hurry ; there 
 is none of that bustle characteristic of the 
 town people, even of the lowest class. They 
 take every opportunity of leaning upon the 
 prong-handle, or standing in the shade they 
 seem to have no idea of time. Women are a 
 sore trial to the patience of the agriculturist 
 in a busy time. If you want to understand 
 why, go and ensconce yourself behind a 
 hedge, out of sight but in view of a field in 
 which ten or twelve women are hoeing. By 
 and by a pedlar or a van comes slowly along
 
 1 8 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 the turnpike road which runs past the field. 
 At the first sound of footsteps or wheels all 
 the bent backs are straight in an instant, 
 and all the work is at a standstill. They 
 stand staring at the van or tramp for five or 
 six minutes, till the object of attention has 
 passed out of sight. Then there is a little 
 hoeing for three or four consecutive minutes. 
 By that time one of them has remembered 
 some little bit of gossip, and stops to tell 
 her nearest fellow-workwoman, and the rest 
 at once pause to listen. After a while they 
 go on again. Now another vehicle passes 
 along the road, and the same process of star- 
 ing has to be gone through once more. If a 
 lady or gentleman pass, the staring is some- 
 thing terrific, and it takes quite ten minutes 
 to discuss all the probabilities as to who they 
 were, and where they were going. This sort 
 of thing goes on all day, so that, in point of 
 fact, they only do half a day's work. The 
 men are not so bad as this ; but they never 
 let slip an opportunity for pausing in their 
 work, and even when at work they do it in 
 a slow, dawdling, lack- energy way that is 
 positively irritating to watch. The agricul- 
 turist Las in consequence plenty to do to
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 19 
 
 keep his eye on them, and in the course of 
 the day he walks over his farm half- a dozen 
 times at least. Very few ordinary working 
 farmers walk much less than ten miles a 
 day on the average, backwards and forwards 
 over the fields. 
 
 Half-past eleven used to be luncheon 
 time, but now it is about twelve, except in 
 harvest, when, as work begins earlier, it is 
 at eleven. This luncheon hour is another 
 source of constant irritation to the agricul- 
 turist. He does not wish to bind his men 
 down to an exact minute, and if a man has 
 some distance to walk to his cottage, will 
 readily make all allowance. He does not 
 stint the beer carried out either then or in 
 the field. But do what he likes, be as con- 
 siderate as he will, and let the season be 
 never so pressing, it is impossible to get the 
 labourers out to their work when the hour 
 is up. Most of them go to sleep, and have 
 to be waked up, after which they are as 
 stupid as owls for a quarter of an hour. One 
 or two, it will be found, have strolled down 
 to the adjacent ale-house, and are missing. 
 These will come on the field about an hour 
 later. Then one man has a rake too heavy
 
 20 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 for him, and another a prong too light. 
 There is always some difficulty in starting 
 to work ; the agriculturist must therefore be 
 himself present if he wishes to get the 
 labourers out to the field in anything like a 
 moderate time. 
 
 The nuisance of mowers must be gone 
 through to be appreciated. They come and 
 work very well for the first week. They 
 slash down acre after acre, and stick to it 
 almost day and night. In consequence the 
 farmer puts on every man who applies for 
 work, everything goes on first-rate, and there 
 is a prospect of getting the crop in speedily. 
 At the end of the week the mowers draw 
 their money, quite a lump for them, and 
 away they go to the ale-house. Saturday 
 night sees them as drunk as men can be. 
 They lie about the fields under the hedges 
 all day Sunday, drinking when the public- 
 house is open. Monday morning they go 
 on to work for half-an-hour, but the fever 
 engendered by so much liquor, and the dis- 
 ordered state of the stomach, cause a burning 
 thirst. They fling the scythes down, and go 
 off to the barrel. During all this week per- 
 haps between them they manage to cut half
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 an acre. What is the result? The hay- 
 makers have made all the grass that was cut 
 the first week into hay, and are standing 
 about idle, unable to proceed, but still draw- 
 ing their wages from the unfortunate agricul- 
 turist. The hot sun is burning on better 
 weather for haymaking could not be but 
 there is not a rood of grass cut for them to 
 work on. After a while the mowers come back, 
 thoroughly tired and exhausted with their 
 debauch, and go on feebly to work. There 
 is hope again. But our climate is notoriously 
 changeable. A fortnight of warm, close heat 
 is pretty sure to breed a thunderstorm. Ac- 
 cordingly, just as the scythes begin to lay the 
 tall grass prostrate again, there is a growl 
 in the sky, and down comes the rain. A 
 thunderstorm unsettles the weather, and here 
 is perhaps another week lost. The farmer 
 dares not discharge his haymakers, because 
 he does not know but that he may require 
 them any day. They are put to turn dung- 
 heaps, clean out the yards, pick up the weeds 
 in the garden, and such like little jobs, over 
 which they can dawdle as much as they like. 
 All the while they are on full pay. Now, 
 what manufacturer could endure such con-
 
 22 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 duct as this ? Is it not enough to drive a saint 
 out of his patience ? Of course the larger 
 farmers who can afford it have the resource 
 of the mowing-machine, but there are hun- 
 dreds and thousands of farms upon which 
 its sharp rattle has not yet been heard. There 
 is still a great divergence of opinion as to its 
 merits, many maintaining that it does not 
 cut so close to the ground, and therefore 
 wastes a large percentage of the crop, and 
 others that the action of the scissor-like 
 knives bruises the grass, and prevents it 
 growing up into a good after-math. There- 
 fore many farmers who could afford it will 
 not admit the mowing-machine into their 
 fields, and the mowers may still be seen at 
 work over miles and miles of meadow, and 
 are still the plague of the agriculturist. The 
 arable farmer has just the same difficulty to 
 keep his labourers at their work, and unless 
 he is constantly on the watch valuable time 
 is lost daily. In the harvest, however, he 
 has an advantage. The corn is reaped by 
 piece-work, and the labourers therefore strain 
 every nerve to do as much as they can. But 
 then he must be on the lookout to see that 
 they do not " scamp " it.
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 23 
 
 The traditional bacon and greens dinner 
 is passing away, though still the usual fare 
 in the small farmhouses. Most of the 
 fairly well-to-do farmers have a joint twice 
 or three times a week, well supported with 
 every kind of vegetable. There is no at- 
 tempt at refinement in cooking, but there 
 is plenty of good substantial food. 
 
 The hill farmer, whose staple is sheep and 
 wool, has generally a great deal of walk- 
 ing or riding to get over in the day. The 
 down farms are sometimes very large, run- 
 ning perhaps in long narrow strips of land 
 for two or three miles. Although he em- 
 ploys a head-shepherd, and even a bailiff, 
 he finds it necessary, if he would succeed 
 in making a profit, to be pretty well ubiqui- 
 tous. They all want looking after sharply. 
 Not that there is much actual dishonesty ; 
 but would any manufacturer endure to have 
 his men sitting doing nothing on their 
 benches for fifteen minutes out of every 
 hour of the working day, just because his 
 back was turned ? The hill farmer has, 
 perhaps, a preferable life in some respects 
 to the agriculturist in the vale. He has 
 not so much actual manual labour to get
 
 24 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 through. On the other hand, he is at a 
 great distance from any town, or even large 
 village; he sees no one during the day, 
 and he has to run great risks. Wool may 
 fall, so may the price of mutton, either of 
 which would derange his calculations ; or 
 the fly may destroy his turnips, or the season 
 may be exceptionally dry and unfavourable. 
 His house is lonely, perched on the side 
 of a hill, and exposed to the bitter blasts 
 of winter which sweep over the downs with 
 resistless fury, and which no doors nor 
 windows can exclude. If there should be 
 snow, it is sure to fall in greater quantities 
 on the hills, and, driving before the wind, 
 fills up the hollows, till the roads are im- 
 passable for weeks. 
 
 Taking all the year round, the work of 
 the agriculturist begins and ends with the 
 rising and setting of the sun. There is 
 an exception, because the cows must be 
 milked and foddered nearly as early in 
 the winter, when the sun rises very late, 
 as at other seasons ; but then, to make up 
 for that, work ends earlier in the afternoon. 
 In the spring, as the evenings draw out, there 
 is almost always something to be done even
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 after the labourers have left. In harvest 
 time, the superintendence of work continues 
 till late, and in the autumn labour is not 
 unfrequently prolonged into the moonlight, 
 in order to carry the corn. It is a life, on 
 the whole, of hard work. 
 
 In all this I speak of the ordinary middle- 
 class farmer. The life of the higher class 
 of agriculturists, who possess large capital, 
 and employ bailiffs and all kinds of 
 machinery, is of course not by any means 
 so onerous. It is in general character pretty 
 much that of an independent gentleman, 
 with the addition of the sporting element, 
 and a certain freedom from drawing-room 
 trammels. 
 
 To get at the physique of the agriculturists, 
 the best plan is to pay a visit to the market- 
 town. Here almost every farmer in the 
 neighbourhood, no matter of what class 
 highest, middle, or lowest is nearly sure 
 to be seen on market-days. The upper 
 class come in in their smart waggonettes, 
 or dog-carts, drawn by thoroughly good and 
 stylish horses, which are little, if at all, 
 inferior to those of the gentry. Some of 
 these keep their groom and coachman, who
 
 26 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 dress in livery of a quiet and subdued kind, 
 but still unmistakably a livery. The middle- 
 class come in in traps, or old-fashioned four- 
 wheelers, generally bringing their wives and 
 daughters, to do the shopping of the week. 
 The market-day is, in fact, the event of 
 the week, and the streets of the market- 
 town are the Rotten Row of the neighbour- 
 hood. The wives and daughters come in 
 their best dresses, and promenade up and 
 down, and many a flirtation goes on with 
 the young bucks of the district. The lower 
 class of farmers jog in on their mares, rough 
 as cart-horses, and the rider generally so 
 manages to seat himself as to show three 
 or four inches of stocking between his 
 trousers and boots. After the market is 
 over, and the dealing done, the farmers 
 resort to the various inns, and dine at the 
 market ordinary. A very good dinner is 
 usually provided at a low charge on these 
 days. Soup is not usual, the dinner gener- 
 ally beginning with fish, followed by joints, 
 and fowl of various kinds. Wine " whips " 
 are formed, and the sherry circulates freely. 
 There is a regular chairman, always a man of 
 property and influence, and an old frequenter
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 27 
 
 of the place. After dinner they sit an hour 
 or two discussing, not only the price of 
 sheep and wool or mutton, but the political 
 and other events of the day. The Chambers 
 of Agriculture are generally so arranged as 
 to meet on market-days, about an hour after 
 the ordinary finishes, and not unfrequently 
 in the same room. The market-towns derive 
 great benefit from this habit of congregating 
 on the market-day. It is the day, too, for 
 paying visits by the ladies. Gay costumes 
 pass through the streets, and bright eyes 
 look out of the windows of the hotels upon 
 the crowd of farmers. The yards of the 
 various hostelries are made almost impass- 
 able by the innumerable variety of vehicles. 
 The young farmers take the opportunity of 
 playing a game at billiards, which they rarely 
 do on other days. The news of the whole 
 countryside is exchanged, and spreads from 
 mouth to mouth, and is carried home and 
 sent farther on its way. One great charac- 
 teristic is the general good - humour that 
 prevails. The laugh and the joke are fre- 
 quently heard it is a kind of moderate 
 gala-day. The fishmonger's shop is emptied, 
 and the contents carried home, this being
 
 28 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 the only day in the week when fish is 
 bought by the majority of agriculturists. 
 Some towns have only what is called a " gin- 
 and-water " market: that is, the "deal" is 
 begun and concluded from small samples 
 carried in the pocket and examined at an 
 inn over a glass of spirits and water. But 
 in the great market-towns there is now 
 almost always a large room, or hall, set aside 
 for this special purpose. The market begins 
 and concludes at a fixed time, indicated by 
 the ringing of a bell. In this hall the 
 dealers have stands, furnished with desks, 
 at which they may always be found, and here 
 sacks of samples are pitched. There is a 
 clerk of the market, and the current prices 
 are posted up, and afterwards sent to all the 
 local newspapers. The cattle-market used 
 to be carried on entirely in the streets, each 
 farmer selling his own beasts or sheep by 
 private treaty with the dealers. The streets 
 were then often filled with cattle from one 
 end to the other, and were almost impassable 
 for vehicles, and at times not a little danger- 
 ous for foot-passengers. Now the practice of 
 selling by auction has become very general, 
 and the cattle are either put into the auc-
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 29 
 
 tioneer's private yard, or in an enclosure pro- 
 vided by the town authorities. The corn- 
 dealers are a most energetic class of men, 
 well educated, and often employing large 
 capital in their business. They are per- 
 petually travelling, and often attend two 
 markets a day. Having struck a bargain, 
 the farmer and the purchaser adjourn to the 
 hotel, and have a glass of spirits, without 
 which no transaction seems complete. The 
 use of beer has very much declined among 
 the fairly well-to-do agriculturists. They 
 drink it at dinner and lunch, but whenever 
 a glass is taken with a friend, or in calling 
 at an inn, it is almost invariably spirits. 
 Whisky has been most extensively drunk of 
 late years. 
 
 No other class of men employing so much 
 capital and so many labourers are so simple 
 in their habits as the agriculturists. In dress 
 they adhere to the plainest colours and 
 shapes ; there is no attempt to keep pace 
 with the fashion. The materials of the coat 
 and vest are good, and even expensive, but 
 the cut is old and out of date, and the whole 
 effect quite plain. There is no shirt front, 
 no studs, no rings, no kid gloves. The boots
 
 30 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 are strong and thick, substantial, but not 
 ornamental. A man with his ten or fifteen 
 thousand perhaps will walk down the street 
 buttoned up in an ungainly greatcoat and 
 an old hat, not half so smartly dressed as 
 a well-paid mechanic, and far behind the 
 drapers' assistants in style. There is a species 
 of contempt among them for the meretricious 
 and showy ; they believe in the solid. This 
 very fact makes them good friends to shop- 
 keepers, who have no better customers. They 
 cam" this leading idea too far, for they 
 admire an article in precisely a correspond- 
 ing ratio to the money it costs, totally obli- 
 vious of all considerations of art or ornament. 
 The first question invariably is, if they are 
 asked to admire anything, " What did it cost?" 
 This results in a heavy and cumbrous style 
 of furniture even in the best farmsteads. 
 Everything must be massive, costly, and 
 strong Artistic tendencies they have none. 
 They want something durable, and they get 
 it. But on the whole they make marvellously 
 little show for their money. Hundreds of 
 the most substantial agriculturists, whose 
 cheques would be honoured for thousands 
 of pounds, seem absolutely to make no show
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 31 
 
 at all. At the same time it is quite true 
 that some of the rising generation, who have 
 very little to do it on, make a great display 
 with hunters and plated harness, and so 
 forth. But they are not the rule. The gene- 
 rality go just the other way, and live below 
 their income, and take a lower station in 
 society than they might reasonably claim. 
 
 Farmers are decidedly a marrying class of 
 men. The farm is a business in which a 
 wife is of material service, and can really be 
 a helpmate. The lower class of farmers 
 usually marry quite as much or more for that 
 reason than any others. The higher classes 
 of agriculturists feel that they have a right 
 to marry because they too can show a home 
 in which to keep a wife. Though they may 
 not have any large amount of capital, still 
 they possess a good house and sufficient 
 provision. They are, therefore, a marrying 
 class of men, but do not commonly contract 
 matrimonial alliances very early in life. The 
 great object of an agriculturist who has sons 
 is to get them settled in farms, and it is as- 
 tonishing to what an extent this is carried by 
 men who do not seem to have much capital 
 to start their children with. Instances are
 
 32 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 common in which a man has three or four 
 sons all in farms, and doing fairly well. One 
 of the greatest difficulties he has to contend 
 against is the necessity of providing educa- 
 tion. Where is a farmer, living perhaps two 
 or three miles, often enough four and six 
 miles, from a town, to send his boys to 
 school? The upper class of agriculturists 
 can, of course, afford to have a proper gover- 
 ness at home till they are old enough, and 
 then send them to one of the so-called 
 middle-class schools. The lower class, on 
 the other hand, who do not aspire very high, 
 and whose ideas are little more ambitious 
 than those of their labourers, are contented 
 with the school in the neighbouring village. 
 Till recently these village schools were very 
 poor affairs, something a little better than 
 the old dame school, but not much. But 
 since the new Education Act the lower class 
 of farmers are in a better position with re- 
 spect to education than those who possess 
 much higher claims to social distinction. 
 Where there is not a school board, the clergy- 
 man and the landowners have combined, and 
 built first-rate schools, up to all the require- 
 ments of the Act, and attended by properly
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 33 
 
 certified teachers. The lower class farmer, 
 who is troubled with no scruples about the 
 association of his boys with the labourers' 
 children, can send them to this school at a 
 very low charge indeed, and they will there 
 receive a good foundation. But the middle- 
 class farmer the man who is neither an in- 
 dependent gentleman, nor obliged to live on 
 bacon and greens is unprovided for, and yet 
 this class is the most numerous. They have 
 better views for their sons than to confine 
 those early impressions upon which so much 
 depends to the narrow and rude, if not coarse 
 manners of the labourers' children. They look 
 higher than that, and they are fully justified 
 in doing so. They do not, therefore, at all 
 relish the idea of sending their boys to the 
 national school of the parish, let it be never 
 so well supplied with teachers. There is 
 another objection to it. It has a faint sus- 
 picion of the pauper. Now if there is any- 
 thing a downright English yeoman abominates 
 more than all the rest it is any approach 
 to the "parish." This is a "parish" school. 
 It is not a paupers' school that is admitted 
 but it is a " parish " school, to which the 
 
 children of men who have often received 
 
 o
 
 34 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 relief are sent. The yeoman's instinct revolts 
 at it. Attempts have been made to get over 
 this niceness of feeling by erecting a special 
 class-room for farmers' sous, and patriotic 
 baronets have even gone so far as to send 
 their own boys so as to set the example. 
 But it is in vain. The middle-class farmer 
 is above all men exclusive in his ideas. He 
 detests the slightest flavour of communism. 
 He likes to be completely and fully inde- 
 pendent. He will not patronise the " parish " 
 school. What then is he to do ? At this 
 present moment most farmers' sons are sent 
 into the neighbouring towns to the middle- 
 class schools which are to be found there. 
 If the farmer is within two or three miles the 
 boys walk or ride on ponies every morning. 
 If it is farther than that they go as weekly 
 boarders, and return home every Saturday. 
 The fault in this system is simply and solely 
 in the character of the school. Too often it 
 is a school in name only, where the boys 
 learn next to nothing at all, except mischief. 
 Very few schools exist in these small country 
 towns which afford a good education at a 
 moderate price. It is almost impossible that 
 they should exist without an endowment, as
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 35 
 
 the scholars can never be numerous enough 
 to make the profits exceed the expenditure. 
 The result is that the middle- class farmer 
 cannot give his boys a good education unless 
 he sends them to what is called a middle- 
 class school in some town at a great distance, 
 and this he cannot afford. The sum de- 
 manded by these so-called middle -class 
 schools is beyond his reach. He may, per- 
 haps, if he has only one son, indulge in the 
 expensive luxury of a sound and thorough 
 education for him. But if there are several 
 the thing is out of the question. With the 
 girls it is even worse where can he send 
 them? They cannot very well walk or ride 
 to and fro like the boys to the school in the 
 nearest town, and if they are boarded at such 
 schools, the education given is paltry and 
 meagre in the extreme. A good girls' school 
 is one of the rarest things in the country. 
 The result is that a governess is kept while 
 the girls are young. This governess is under- 
 paid, and has consequently herself been only 
 partially educated. Then as the girls grow 
 older they are sent for a year or two, to 
 " finish " them, to some young ladies' aca- 
 demy, and the ultimate product is a smatter-
 
 36 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 ing of French and music, and crude ideas of 
 fashion and refinement, which make them 
 dissatisfied with their home and unfit for an 
 agricultural life as the wife of a farmer. 
 
 The nonsense talked and published of 
 farmers having pianos, and their daughters 
 strumming all day long instead of attending 
 to the dairy, is perfectly absurd. It is quite 
 true that in hundreds of farmhouses, just at 
 the time when the dairy is in full work in 
 the morning, a piano may be heard going. 
 This is the governess instructing the girls 
 when the farmer is not sufficiently rich to 
 send them to a school. But when once 
 these girls are grown up, and have finished 
 their education, poor as it is, and return 
 home to take a part in the household duties, 
 then the piano is never heard in the morning 
 when work is about. The farmer's wife sees 
 to that sharp enough. In the evening it may 
 be heard and why not ? If the agricultural 
 labourer is to be polished up and refined, 
 why on earth should not his employer take a 
 step in advance? It must be remembered 
 that there is very little society in the country ; 
 scarcely any one even passing along the road. 
 There are none of those cheap sights and
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 37 
 
 amusements so readily accessible to the 
 poorest in a great city. The wives and 
 daughters of the mechanics and workmen in 
 London can once a week at least afford to 
 enjoy themselves at some theatre or place of 
 amusement. They are far better off in this 
 respect than the daughters of agriculturists 
 who may be worth thousands. These have 
 nothing whatever to amuse themselves with 
 during the long evenings ; they cannot even 
 take a stroll out and look at the shop 
 windows. They are surely entitled to the 
 simple and inexpensive amusement of a piano. 
 It is in fact their only resource. There was 
 a statement in the newspapers of farmers 
 taking their daughters to Paris. It is pos- 
 sible that some of the upper class of farmers, 
 who are in fact independent gentlemen, may 
 have done so ; but as for the ordinary 
 middle-class farmers, such a thing is utterly 
 unheard of. It is very few of them who even 
 take their wives to London or the seaside for 
 a week. But even if they did, it is nothing 
 more than they are entitled to do. Half the 
 tradesmen who do such things do not possess 
 anything like the income of the farmers. 
 The fact is, that the agriculturists are a
 
 38 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 singularly stay-at-home race of men. The 
 great majority never leave their farms to go 
 farther than the market- town from one year's 
 end to the other. Above all classes they are 
 attached to their homes, and slow to go away 
 even temporarily. To such a length is this 
 feeling carried that men have been known to 
 go partially insane for a while at the prospect 
 of having to quit a farm through a land- 
 lord's decease, even though no appreciable 
 pecuniary loss was involved. 
 
 The agriculturists are a remarkably ob- 
 servant race, and as a rule peculiarly well- 
 informed. This is contrary to the popular 
 belief, which represents the farmer as rude 
 and ignorant, a pot-bellied beer-drinker, and 
 nothing more. But the popular belief is a 
 delusion. I do not say that they are literary 
 or scientific in their tastes and private pur- 
 suits. There are no great names among 
 them in geology, or astronomy, or anthro- 
 pology, or any other science. They are not 
 artists in any sense. But they are singularly 
 well-informed. They possess more general 
 knowledge than any other class, and can 
 converse on subjects with which townsmen 
 seem unacquainted. Many of them have
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 39 
 
 very fair libraries, not extensive, but contain- 
 ing books of sterling excellence. Farming is 
 necessarily an isolated business there is 
 little society. Except on market-days, there 
 is scarcely any interchange of conversation. 
 There is, too, at certain seasons of the year a 
 good deal of leisure. What books they own, 
 therefore, are well read, and the contents 
 reflected upon. It is that habit of thinking 
 over what is read that makes all the differ- 
 ence. It is impossible to avoid being struck 
 with the immense amount of general in- 
 formation possessed by some agriculturists, 
 and the wide field over which their know- 
 ledge ranges. Yet with all this knowledge 
 and power of reflection they still remain 
 attached to the old-world system of politics, 
 religion, and social relations. 
 
 The habits of intemperance which were at 
 one time a just and standing reproach against 
 the agriculturist have almost entirely dis- 
 appeared. A. drunken farmer is now un- 
 known. They are as fond as ever of offering 
 hospitality to a friend, and as ready to take 
 a social glass no total abstainers amongst 
 them ; but the steady hard-drinking sot has 
 passed away. The old dodge of filling the
 
 40 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 bottle with gin instead of water, and so 
 pouring out pure spirit, instead of spirit and 
 water, when the guests were partially in- 
 toxicated, in order to complete the process, is 
 no more known. They do not drink more 
 than the inhabitants of towns. 
 
 It is a singular fact that with so many 
 streams and ponds scattered about the 
 country within easy reach, the farmers do 
 not care for fishing. A farmer engaged in 
 fishing is a rarity indeed. They are eagerly 
 fond of fox-hunting, coursing, and shooting, 
 but fishing is a dead letter. A party will 
 sometimes go out and net a pond, but as for 
 fishing proper, with rod and line, it is al- 
 most unknown. Every chance of shooting 
 is eagerly snatched at. In May the young 
 rooks are shot, after which the gun is put 
 aside for a while. At the end of July some 
 
 j 
 
 of the young rabbits are ready, and are 
 occasionally knocked over. Very few tenant 
 farmers shoot game even when they could do 
 so, leaving that for some neighbouring gentle- 
 man with whom they are friendly, and this 
 too without any remuneration, the fact being 
 that winged game does little damage. But 
 they wage unceasing war on the rabbits, with
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 41 
 
 dog and gun and ferret. All the winter long 
 they are hunted in every possible way.. This 
 is, of course, on farms where the tenant has 
 permission to kill the rabbits. Whist and 
 post and pair aTe the staple indoor amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 Of all businesses that of agriculture is 
 peculiarly adapted to descend from father to 
 son. In point of fact, farms so frequently 
 pass from the father to the son as to be 
 looked upon almost as a certain inheritance. 
 In agriculture, then, it must be expected that 
 the effects of inherited instincts and ideas 
 should be very plainly shown. From this 
 cause arises the persistent and unreasoning 
 Conservatism of the mass of agriculturists. 
 Out of a list of one hundred farmers, I find 
 that one resides upon a farm which has been 
 in the occupation of members of the same 
 family for three hundred years. He pos- 
 sessed a series of documents, receipts, special 
 agreements, and so on, proving that descent 
 beyond all cavil ; but with the usual want of 
 proper appreciation for antiquities, most of 
 these papers have been committed to the 
 flames ; still there is no question of the fact, 
 which can still be shown from the landlord's
 
 42 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 family archives. Nominally that farm has 
 been in the occupation of one family for ten 
 generations, reckoning by the ordinary cal- 
 culation of thirty years to each. But this 
 average is not fairly applicable to the agri- 
 cultural life, which is generally long, and 
 occasionally extends into extreme old age. 
 There were probably about eight successors 
 if the line was unbroken; if not, there may 
 of course have been treble that number. A 
 man may be excused some amount of pride 
 when he thinks of such a continuance as this 
 in one spot, for it means not only an excep- 
 tional vitality of race, but an exceptional 
 perseverance in the paths of honesty and 
 straightforwardness. But with this pride it 
 also engenders a stubborn unchangeableness, 
 a dislike and hatred of all things new and 
 unfamiliar, a nervous dread of reform. Faith- 
 ful to the logic of their class, such men as 
 these may in resisting innovations go to 
 lengths which may appear foolish and wrong 
 to others who live in a widely different social 
 atmosphere. To some extent the bitter op- 
 position to change in the position of the 
 labourer, which is thrown in the teeth of the 
 tenant farmer, is the outcome of these very
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 43 
 
 centuries of steady adherence to all that they 
 believed upright and manly. 
 
 Another name on my list has been known 
 at one spot for fully two hundred years. 
 These men attained a position beyond that 
 of yeoman, but they never sank beneath it. 
 The rise of many of the great county families 
 really dates from the success of some an- 
 cestor, or the collective success of a series 
 of ancestors, in agriculture. They perhaps 
 claim some knight or nobleman as the founder 
 of the race, although he may have really 
 done nothing for the practical advantage of 
 the family ; the true founders being merely 
 proprietors of land, dignified as J.P.'s, and 
 sometimes sheriffs, throwing off branches 
 into the clerical and legal professions. The 
 real ancestor was the sturdy yeoman who 
 accumulated the money to purchase the farm 
 he tilled, and whose successors had the good 
 sense to go on adding acre to acre till they 
 finally expanded into the wide domains of 
 the modern squire. Not the knight whose 
 effigy in brass paves the aisle of the parish 
 church laid the corner-stone of the wealth 
 and power of to-day, but the shrewd and 
 close-fisted producer and dealer in wool and
 
 44 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 corn. Their true claim to aristocratic privi- 
 leges and importance is the sense of cen- 
 turies of independence. These others of 
 whom we have spoken, the yeoman who 
 never aspired beyond the yeoman's position, 
 are as ancient and as " worshipful " to use 
 an old and disused term as they. I do not 
 instance these descents of three and two 
 hundred years as extraordinary, because I 
 believe that they could be paralleled and 
 even extended by inquiry, but because they 
 came under my own observation. There are 
 others on the list ranging from one hundred 
 and sixty down to sixty and eighty years of 
 continued occupation. But not to go into 
 details, I reckon on an average that thirty 
 names out of a hundred have been the 
 occupiers for three generations ; forty for 
 two generations ; twenty for one hundred 
 and fifty years ; and ten are new comers. 
 But a still more curious and instructive fact 
 is the permanence of certain names over a 
 wide section of country ; so much so that in 
 places it is a common saying that one has 
 only to be an A, or a B, or a T, to be 
 certain of getting a farm. Whole parishes 
 seem related, and not very distantly related
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 45 
 
 either ; and yet there is not the remotest 
 class-feeling or esprit de corps. The isola- 
 tion and independence of a farm life are 
 powerful agents in preventing anything like 
 cohesion. Any one who will take the trouble 
 to look down the parish register in a strictly 
 agricultural district will be forcibly struck 
 with the permanence of certain names. Page 
 after page contains nothing but records of the 
 marriages, intermarriages, burials, baptisms, 
 and so on of two or three generic names. The 
 population appears to have been stationary 
 for scores upon scores of years. Say what 
 you will, ridicule it as you like, there is 
 a charm clinging round that which time 
 has hallowed ; and even the man of the 
 hour, the successful speculator, yields to 
 this. It is his most eager desire to become 
 a landed proprietor, and if possible he buys 
 a place where he can exercise manorial 
 rights. 
 
 Taking these things into consideration, it 
 is only reasonable to admit that agriculture 
 is a profession in which a man may, above 
 all others, be excused if he manifests a cer- 
 tain amount of irritability at the prospect of 
 change. The slow round of uneventful years,
 
 46 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 the long continuance of manual labour, the 
 perpetual iteration of a few ideas, in time 
 produce in the mind of the most powerfully 
 intellectual men a species of unconscious 
 creed ; and this creed is religiously handed 
 down from generation to generation. Setting 
 aside those who have gone into agriculture 
 as a science, and adapt everything to com- 
 mercial principles and they are as yet not 
 very numerous the great mass of farmers 
 believe nearly the same now as they did two 
 centuries ago. Looking through a farmer's 
 calendar published in the first few years of 
 this century, and containing a complete 
 resume of the system of agriculture practised 
 then, I was struck by the remarkable fact 
 that in all main features it was the same as 
 that in use now. We have heard so much 
 of the rapid progress of agriculture, of the 
 important changes introduced, and of the 
 complete revolution which has taken place, 
 that this statement may appear incredible. 
 It is nevertheless the fact that that book 
 might be put with advantage into the hands 
 of any young man about to enter upon a 
 farm. With the exception of those opera- 
 tions which are now performed by steam, and
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 47 
 
 making an allowance for the altered condi- 
 tions introduced by the abolition of the Corn 
 Laws, the instructions given there are useful 
 down to this very day. Here is the know- 
 ledge of the peculiarities and requirements 
 of stock slowly accumulated during ages of 
 agriculture, and at last written down and 
 printed for easy reference. However much 
 the aspect of politics may change, or however 
 much the means of locomotion and com- 
 munication may be facilitated by the introduc- 
 tion of steam, Nature still remains unaltered. 
 The cows and sheep retain their instincts and 
 their internal economy; their modes of feeding, 
 times of rest, and seasons of increase, never 
 vary. The earth too has not changed. The 
 corn is sown at the same time ; Nature goes 
 on her way as before, heedless of the railway 
 rattle. So it is that the details of manage- 
 ment in this book are as useful now as then, 
 more than two generations since. It is the 
 same with the unwritten faith of the men 
 who labour and live among these things. 
 Go out among them, and collect from the 
 majority their views and sentiments, and in 
 this age of progress they will be found to 
 correspond almost exactly with those of their
 
 48 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 forefathers, as recorded by history. They 
 know that such is the fact themselves ; 
 they know too that it would subject them 
 to sharp criticism and reproof if they pub- 
 lished their real opinions. Therefore they 
 remain silent, and it is only among them- 
 selves that these ideas are earnestly in- 
 sisted on. 
 
 In the earliest days of agriculture, when 
 Abraham drove his flocks and herds to and 
 fro under the Syrian sun, the father of the 
 family was at once the procreator, the law- 
 giver, the judge, the leader in battle, the 
 priest, and the king. He was absolute 
 master under Heaven of all things visible 
 around him. The Pope claims to be infallible 
 now, and to be the vicegerent of Heaven, but 
 the patriarch of old actually possessed those 
 powers upon his own domain. His sons 
 were under his complete control he could 
 sacrifice them alive to his God if he chose, 
 or banish them from their native land. His 
 daughters were still more completely in his 
 hand, to be done with as he thought fit. His 
 servants, his slaves, were as much his as the 
 wooden pole of his tent, or the very sandals 
 he walked in. They were as dust before
 
 THE FA RMER A T HOME. 49 
 
 him. There was no coming of age in those 
 days; no escape after the twenty-first year. 
 The tie lasted till his death. At forty his 
 sons and daughters were as much his own as 
 they were at ten years old. They tell us 
 that this system, to some extent, still survives 
 in China. In all fundamental points such 
 is the creed of the agricultural race of our 
 own day. Circumstances have, no doubt, had 
 something to do with the production and 
 elaboration of such a faith. In no other pro- 
 fession do the sons and the daughters remain 
 so long, and so naturally, under the parental 
 roof. The growth of half-a-dozen strong 
 sons was a matter of self-congratulation, for 
 each as he came to man's estate took the 
 place of a labourer, and so reduced the 
 money-expenditure. The daughters worked 
 in the dairy, and did not hesitate to milk 
 occasionally, or, at least, to labour in the 
 hayfield. They spun, too, the home-made 
 stuffs in which all the family were clothed. 
 A man's children were his servants. They 
 could not stir a step without his permission. 
 Obedience and reverence to the parent was 
 the first and greatest of all virtues. Its 
 influence was to extend through life, and
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 through the whole social system. They were 
 to choose the wife or the husband approved 
 of at home. At thirty, perhaps, the more 
 fortunate of the sons were placed on farms 
 of their own nominally, but still really under 
 the father's control. They dared not plough 
 or sow except in the way that he approved. 
 Their expenditure was strictly regulated by 
 his orders. This lasted till his death, which 
 might not take place for another twenty 
 years. At the present moment I could point 
 out ten or twelve such cases, where men of 
 thirty or forty are in farms, and to all appear- 
 ance perfectly free and independent, and yet 
 as completely under the parental thumb as 
 they were at ten years old. Why do they 
 not throw off the burden? Because they 
 have imbibed the same creed, and intend to 
 carry 7 it out in their own persons. These 
 men, if they think thus of their own off- 
 spring, cannot be expected to be more tender 
 towards the lower class around them. They 
 did at one time, and some still wish to, 
 extend the same system to the labouring 
 population. As there was in those days little 
 or no work for a man but upon a farm, and 
 as the cottages were chiefly in the hands of
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 51 
 
 the farmers, there was plenty of opportunity 
 for carrying out these ideas. The old method 
 of poor relief gave another handle. They 
 did not want only to indulge in tyranny ; 
 what they did was to rule the labouring poor 
 in the same way as they did their own 
 children nothing more nor less. These 
 labouring men, like his own children, must 
 do as the farmer thought best. They must 
 live here or there, marry so and so, or forfeit 
 favour in short, obey the parental head. 
 Each farmer was king in his own domain ; 
 the united farmers of a parish were kings 
 of the whole place. They did not use the 
 power circumstances gave them harshly ; but 
 they paid very little regard to the liberty of 
 the subject. To this very day something of 
 the same sort goes on. It is wonderful 
 with what eager zeal many of the old-style 
 farmers enter into the details of a labourer's 
 life, and carefully ascertain his birth, his par- 
 entage, his marriage, his wife's parentage, and 
 the very minutest matters. These facts thus 
 accumulated are talked over in the board- 
 room when an applicant comes to the union 
 for relief. Yery often such special know- 
 ledge possessed by a guardian of the ante-
 
 52 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 cedents of the applicant is most useful and 
 beneficial in enabling the Board to extend 
 assistance to a deserving man. What I wish 
 to show is the all-permeating influence of 
 the parental system in the mind of the typical 
 agriculturist. 
 
 In religion it is, or lately was, the same. 
 It was not a matter with the farmer of the 
 Athanasian creed, or the doctrine of salvation 
 by faith, or any other theological dogma. 
 To him the parish church was the centre of 
 the social system of the parish. It was the 
 keystone of that parental plan of govern- 
 ment that he believed in. The very first 
 doctrine preached from the pulpit was that 
 of obedience. " Honour thy father and 
 mother" was inculcated there every seventh 
 day. His father went to church, he went to 
 church himself, and everybody else ought to 
 go. It was as much a social gathering as 
 the dinner at the market ordinary, or the 
 annual audit dinner of their common land- 
 lord. The dissenter, who declined to pay 
 church-rates, was an unsocial person. He 
 had left the circle. It was not the theology 
 that they cared about, it was the social non- 
 conformity. In a spiritual sense, too, the
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 53 
 
 clergyman was the father of the parish, the 
 shepherd of the flock it was a part of the 
 great system. To go a step farther, in 
 political affairs the one leading idea still 
 threaded itself through all. The proper par- 
 liamentary representative the natural law- 
 giver was the landlord of the district. He 
 was born amongst them, walked about 
 amongst them, had been in their houses 
 many a time. He knew their wants, their 
 ideas, their views. His own interest was 
 identical with theirs. Therefore he was the 
 man. The logic is indisputable. What is 
 more, they acted up to it. In agricultural 
 districts it is not uncommon even now to 
 find men of diametrically opposite political 
 views to the candidate at* an election voting 
 for and supporting him, simply and solely 
 because he is the local man. It is natural 
 and right that he should represent them. 
 That one word "right" is the key to the 
 whole ethical system of the agriculturists. 
 They cherish and maintain their belief in 
 right, and in their " rights " by which 
 they understand much the same thing 
 even when unaccompanied by any gain or 
 advantage. In brief outline, such is the
 
 54 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 creed of the agriculturists as a body. It is 
 neither written nor spoken, but it is a living 
 faith which influences every hour of their 
 lives. 
 
 This faith must ever be borne in mind by 
 those who wish to understand the movements 
 of the agricultural world. Without making 
 a proper allowance for it, the farmers will be 
 easily misjudged. 
 
 The labouring class are imbued to a great 
 extent with the very same ideas. They stick 
 to their rights. They will not give up an old 
 pathway that their fathers used, not if one 
 twice as convenient be offered in lieu of it. 
 They have a right to go that way, and go 
 that way they will. They are brutally tyran- 
 nical over their children. I use those words 
 deliberately. He who spares the rod spoils 
 the child, is the practical rule of their 
 conduct. They seem to look upon their off- 
 spring as merely slaves. They are fond of 
 them in their way, no doubt, but the law of 
 implicit obedience is maintained by dint of 
 blows and stripes. The children are kicked, 
 punched, and thrashed perpetually. A good 
 ground-ash stick is the gospel of the labour- 
 ing man. They carry the same plan into
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 55 
 
 their work. How many carters have been 
 severely fined and imprisoned for whipping, 
 and sometimes even maiming, the boys under 
 their commands? And yet the old practice 
 still continues, only a little checked by whole- 
 some terror of the law. 
 
 Despite of all the teaching of the Radical 
 papers, all the whispers of the Methodist 
 itinerant preachers, despite the hatred which 
 the Labourers' Union agents endeavour to 
 sow between the labourer and the farmer, 
 still the great mass of labourers at the last 
 election,* wherever they had a vote, supported 
 the local candidate the man who repre- 
 sented the soil and declined to do more 
 than listen to the brilliant promises held out 
 by the party of change. So strong above all 
 things is the force of tradition and custom. 
 
 The agriculturists are firmly and earnestly 
 wedded to that unwritten creed which has 
 grown up among them out of the past. 
 Why, then, should they be so hardly dealt 
 with, more than others, for adhering to this 
 faith 1 Argue with them, educate them up 
 to your standard if you like but is it fair, 
 is it just, is it in accordance with that spirit 
 
 * Feb. 1 3; 4.
 
 5 6 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 of liberalism and tolerance which their op- 
 ponents profess, to taunt, abuse, and bully 
 to the full length that words will permit? 
 They are not facile at expression, these same 
 men of the soil. The flow of language seems 
 denied to them. They are naturally a silent 
 race preferring deeds to speech. They live 
 much with inarticulate nature. It may be, 
 after all, they have learnt some useful and 
 abiding lessons from that intercourse. The 
 old shepherds on the plains of Chaldea, 
 under the starry skies of the East, watched 
 the motions of those shining bodies till they 
 slowly built up a religion, which, mixed with 
 much dross, nevertheless contained some 
 truths which educated men profess to this 
 hour. These English farmers also observe 
 the changes of the seasons, and watch the 
 face of heaven. Their deepest convictions 
 are not to be lightly set aside. There are 
 men amongst them of great powers of 
 thought. I remember one at this moment 
 whose grand old head would have been a 
 study for an artist. A large head he had, 
 well-balanced, broad and high at the fore- 
 head, deep-set eyes, straight nose, and firm 
 rhiu every outward sign of the giant brain
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 57 
 
 within. But the man was dumb. The 
 thoughts that came lo him he could com- 
 municate roughly to his friends, but the pen. 
 failed him. The horny hand which results 
 from manual labour is too stiff to wield the 
 swiftly-gliding quill. But there is another 
 species of handwriting which is called Work 
 a handwriting which will endure when 
 the scribblings of the hour are utterly for- 
 gotten. This writing he laboured at earnestly 
 and eagerly, not for his own good either, for 
 it absorbed his own fortune, no small one, 
 in the attempt to realise his conception of 
 machinery which would double the yield of 
 food. It has been done since his time, other 
 men stepping over the bridge of experience 
 which he had built. Now this man, who, 
 on the principles of the opponents of the 
 agriculturists, was a benefactor to his species, 
 and a pioneer of true progress, was, never- 
 theless, one of the firmest, staunchest, most 
 uncompromising supporters of that creed 
 which they are endeavouring to destroy, and 
 which may be stated thus: "I believe in the 
 Sovereign, the Church, and the Land : the 
 Sovereign being the father of the people in 
 a temporal sense ; the Church in a spiritual
 
 5 8 THE FARMER AT HOME. 
 
 sense ; and the Land being the only sub- 
 stantial and enduring means of subsistence. 
 Cotton, coal, and iron cannot be eaten, but 
 the land gives us corn and beef; therefore, 
 the land stands first and foremost, and the 
 agriculturist, as the tiller of land, possesses 
 an inalienable right which it is his duty to 
 maintain, and in so doing he is acting for 
 the good of the community. I believe that 
 the son and the daughter should obey their 
 parents, and show regard to their wishes 
 even when legally independent. Also that 
 the servant should obey his employer. The 
 connection between employer and employed 
 does not cease with the payment of wages. 
 It is the duty of the servant to show con- 
 sideration for the advice of the master; and 
 the master is not free from responsibility as 
 to the education and the comfort of the man. 
 The master is bound by all laws, human and 
 divine, to pay a fair amount of wages for a 
 day's work. If he does not do so he robs 
 the workman as much as if he stole the 
 money from his pocket. The workman is 
 equally bound to do his work properly, and 
 in neglecting to do so he robs his employer. 
 To demand more wages than has been earned
 
 THE FARMER AT HOME. 59 
 
 is an attempt at robbery. Both master and 
 man should respect authority, and abide by 
 its decisions." 
 
 Such is a slight outline of the home-life 
 and the faith of the farmer.
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 MANY labourers can trace their descent from 
 farmers or well-to-do people, and it is not 
 uncommon to find here and there a man who 
 believes that he is entitled to a large property 
 in Chancery, or elsewhere, as the heir. They 
 are very fond of talking of these things, and 
 naturally take a pride in feeling themselves 
 a little superior in point of ancestry to the 
 mass of labourers. 
 
 How this descent from a farmer to a 
 labourer is managed there are at this moment 
 living examples going about the country. I 
 knew a man who for years made it the busi- 
 ness of his life to go round from farm to farm 
 soliciting charity, and telling a pitiful tale of 
 how he had once been a farmer himself. This 
 tale was quite true, and as no class likes to 
 see their order degraded, he got a great deal 
 of relief from the agriculturists where he was 
 known. He was said to have been wild in
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 61 
 
 his youth, and now in his old age was become 
 a living representative of the farmer reduced 
 to a labourer. 
 
 This reduction is, however, usually a slow 
 process, and takes two generations to effect 
 not two generations of thirty years each, 
 but at least two successors in a farm. 
 
 Perhaps the decline of a farming family 
 began in an accession of unwonted prosperity. 
 The wheat or the wool went up to a high 
 price, and the farmer happened to be fortu- 
 nate and possessed a large quantity of those 
 materials. Or he had a legacy left him, or 
 in some way or other made money by good 
 fortune rather than hard work. This elated 
 his heart, and thinking to rise still higher in 
 life, he took another, or perhaps two more 
 large farms. But to stock these required 
 more money than he could produce, and he 
 had to borrow a thousand or so. Then the 
 difficulty of attending to so large an acreage, 
 much of it distant from his home, made it 
 impossible to farm in the best and most profit- 
 able manner. By degrees the interest on the 
 loan ate up all the profit on the new farms. 
 Then he attempted to restore the balance by 
 violent high farming. He bought manures
 
 62 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 to an unprecedented extent, invested in costly 
 machinery anything to produce a double 
 crop. All this would have been very well if 
 he had had time to wait till the grass grew ; 
 but meantime the steed starved. He had to 
 relinquish the additional farms, and confine 
 himself to the original one with a consider- 
 able loss both of money and prestige. He 
 had no energy to rise again ; he relapsed into 
 slow, dawdling ways, perpetually regretting 
 and dwelling on the past, yet making no 
 effort to retrieve it. 
 
 This is a singular and strongly marked 
 characteristic of the agricultural class, taken 
 generally. They work and live and have their 
 being in grooves. So long as they can con- 
 tinue in that groove, and go steadily forward, 
 without much thought or trouble beyond that 
 of patience and perseverance, all goes well ; 
 but if any sudden jolt should throw them out 
 of this rut, they seem incapable of regaining 
 it. They say, " I have lost my way ; I shall 
 never get it again." They sit down and 
 regret the past, granting all their errors with 
 the greatest candour; but the efforts they 
 make to regain their position are feeble in 
 the extreme.
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 63 
 
 So our typical unfortunate farmer folds his 
 hands, and in point of fact slumbers away 
 the rest of his existence, content with the 
 fireside and a roof over his head, and a jug of 
 beer to drink. He does not know French, 
 he has never heard of Metternich, but he 
 puts the famous maxim in practice, and, satis- 
 fied with to-day, says in his heart, Apres nous 
 le Deluge. No one disturbs him ; his land- 
 lord has a certain respect and pity for him 
 respect, perhaps, for an old family that has 
 tilled his land for a century, but which he 
 now sees is slowly but irretrievably passing 
 away. So the decayed farmer dozes out his 
 existence. 
 
 Meantime his sons are coming on, and it 
 too often happens that the brief period of 
 sunshine and prosperity has done its evil 
 work with them too. They have imbibed 
 ideas of gentility and desire for excitement 
 utterly foreign to the quiet, peaceful life of 
 an agriculturist. They have gambled on the 
 turf and become involved. Notwithstanding 
 the fall of their father from his good position, 
 they still retain the belief that in the end 
 they shall find enough money to put all to 
 rights ; but when the end comes there is a
 
 64 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 deficiency. Among them there is perhaps 
 one more plodding than the rest. He takes 
 the farm, and keeps a house for the younger 
 children. In ten years he becomes a bank- 
 rupt, and the family are scattered abroad upon 
 the face of the earth. The plodding one be- 
 comes a bailiff, and lives respectably all his 
 life ; but his sons are never educated, and he 
 saves no money ; there is nothing for them 
 but to go out to work as farm labourers. 
 
 Such is something like the usual way in 
 which the decline and fall of a farming family 
 takes place, though it may of course arise 
 from unforeseen circumstances, quite out of 
 the control of the agriculturist. In any case 
 the children graduate downwards till they 
 become labourers. Nowadays many of them 
 emigrate, but in the long time that has gone 
 before, when emigration was not so easy, 
 many hundreds of families have thus become 
 reduced to the level of the labourers they 
 once employed. So it is that many of the 
 labourers of to-day bear names which less 
 than two generations ago were well known 
 and highly respected over a wide tract of 
 country. It is natural for them to look back 
 with a certain degree of pleasure upon that
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 65 
 
 past, and some may even have been incited 
 to attempt a return to the old position. 
 
 But the great majority, the mass, of the 
 agricultural labourers have been labourers time 
 out of mind. Their fathers were labourers, 
 their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers 
 have all worked upon the farms, and very 
 often almost continuously during that long 
 period of time upon the farms in one parish. 
 All their relations have been, and still are, 
 labourers, varied by one here who has become 
 a tinker, or one there who keeps a small 
 roadside beerhouse. When this is the case, 
 when a man and all his ancestors for genera- 
 tions have been hewers of wood and drawers 
 of -water, it naturally follows that the present 
 representative of the family holds strongly to 
 the traditions, the instincts, acquired during 
 the slow process of time. What those in- 
 stincts are will be better gathered from a 
 faithful picture of his daily life. 
 
 Most of the agricultural labourers are born 
 in a thatched cottage by the roadside, or in 
 some narrow lane. This cottage is usually 
 an encroachment. In the olden time, when 
 land was cheap, and the competition for it 
 dull, there were many strips and scraps which
 
 66 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 were never taken any notice of, and of which 
 at this hour no record exists either in the 
 parochial papers or the Imperial archives. 
 Probably this arose from the character of the 
 country in the past, when the greater part 
 was open, or, as it was called, champaign 
 land, without hedge, or ditch, or landmark. 
 Near towns a certain portion was enclosed 
 generally by the great landowners, or for 
 the use of the tradesmen. There was also a 
 large enclosure called the common land, on 
 which all burgesses or citizens had a right to 
 feed so many cattle, sheep, or horses. As a 
 rule the common land was not enclosed by 
 hedges in fields, though instances do occur 
 in which it was. There were very few towns 
 in the reign of Charles II. that had not got 
 their commons attached to them ; but outside 
 and beyond these patches of cultivation round 
 the towns the country was open, unenclosed, 
 and the boundaries ill-defined. The king's 
 highway ran from one point to another, but 
 its course was very wide. Roads were not 
 then macadamised and strictly confined to 
 one line. The want of metalling, and the 
 consequent fearful ruts and sloughs, drove 
 vehicles and travellers further and further
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 67 
 
 from what was the original line, till they 
 formed a track perhaps a score or two of 
 yards wide. When fields became more gene- 
 rally enclosed it was still only in patches, and 
 these strips and spaces of green sward were 
 left utterly uncared for and unnoticed. These 
 were encamped upon by the gipsies and 
 travelling folk, and their unmolested occupa- 
 tion no doubt suggested to the agricultural 
 labourer that he might raise a cottage upon 
 such places, or cultivate it for his garden. 
 
 I know of one spot at this present moment 
 which was enclosed by an agricultural labourer 
 fully sixty years ago. It is an oval piece of 
 ground of considerable size, situated almost 
 exactly in the centre of a very valuable estate. 
 He and his descendants continued to crop 
 this garden of theirs entirely unmolested for 
 the whole of that time, paying no rent what- 
 ever. It soon, however, became necessary to 
 enlarge the size of the fields, which were 
 small, in order to meet the requirements of 
 the modern style of agriculture. This oval 
 piece was surrounded by hedges of enormous 
 growth, and the cultivator was requested to 
 remove to another piece more out of the way. 
 He refused to do so, and when the proprietors
 
 68 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 of the surrounding estate came to inquire 
 into the circumstances they found that they 
 could do nothing. He had enjoyed undis- 
 turbed possession for sixty years ; he had paid 
 no rent no quit rent or manor dues of any 
 kind. But still further, when they came to 
 examine the maps and old documents, no 
 mention whatever appeared of this particular 
 patch of ground. It was utterly unnoticed ; 
 it was not recorded as any man's property. 
 The labourer therefore retained possession. 
 This was an extraordinary case, because the 
 encroachment took place in the middle of a 
 cultivated estate, where one would have 
 thought the tenants would have seen to it. 
 
 Commonly the squatters pitched on a piece 
 of land a long unused strip running par- 
 allel to the highway or lane. This was no 
 one's property ; it was the property of the 
 nation, which had no immediate representative 
 to look after its interests. The surrounding 
 farmers did not care to interfere; it was no 
 business of theirs. The highway board, un- 
 less the instance was very glaring, and some 
 actual obstruction of the road was caused, 
 winked at the trespass. Most of them were 
 farmers, and did not wish to interfere with a
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 09 
 
 poor man, who they knew had no other way 
 of getting a house of his own. By-and-by, 
 when the cottage was built, the labourer was 
 summoned to the court-leet of the manor, 
 and was assessed in quit rent, a mere nominal 
 sum, perhaps fourpence or a shilling a year. 
 He had no objection to this, because it gave 
 him a title. As long as the quit rent was 
 duly paid, and he could produce the receipt, 
 he was safe in the occupation of his cottage, 
 and no one could turn him out. To be 
 assessed by the court-leet in fact established 
 his title. Some of these court-leets or manor 
 courts are only held at intervals of three years, 
 or even more, and are generally composed of 
 farmers, presided over by the legal agent of 
 the lord of the manor. The tenants of the 
 manor attend to pay their quit rent for the 
 preceding years, and it often happens that if 
 the cottager has been ill, or is weak and in- 
 firm, the farmers composing the court sub- 
 scribe and pay the quit rent for him. 
 
 The first step when a labourer intends to 
 become a squatter is to enclose the strip of 
 land which he has chosen. This he does by 
 raising a low bank of earth round it, on 
 which he plants elder bushes, as that shrub
 
 70 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 grows quickest, and in the course of two 
 seasons will form a respectable fence. Then 
 he makes a small sparred gate which he 
 can fasten with a padlock, and the garden 
 is complete. To build the cottage is quite 
 another matter. That is an affair of the 
 greatest importance, requiring some months 
 of thought and preparation. The first thing 
 is to get the materials. If it is a clay 
 country, of course bricks must be chosen ; 
 but in stone countries there are often quarries 
 on the farm on which he works. His 
 employer will let him have a considerable 
 quantity of stone for nothing, and the rest 
 at a nominal charge, and will lend him a 
 horse and cart at a leisure season ; so that 
 in a very short time he can transport enough 
 stone for his purpose. If he has no such 
 friend, there is almost sure to be in every 
 parish a labouring man who keeps a wretched 
 horse or two, fed on the grass by the road- 
 side, and gains his living by hauling. Our 
 architect engages this man at a low price to 
 haul his materials for him. The lime to 
 make mortar he must buy. In the parish 
 there is nearly sure to be at least one native 
 mason, who works for the farmers, putting
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 71 
 
 up pig-styes, mending walls, and doing small 
 jobs of that kind. This is the builder who 
 engages to come on Saturday afternoons or 
 in the evenings, while the would-be house- 
 holder himself is the hod-bearer and mixes 
 the mortar. Nine times out of ten the site 
 for the cottage is chosen so as to have a 
 ditch at the back. This ditch acts at once 
 as the cesspool and the sewer, and, unless it 
 happens to have a good fall, speedily becomes 
 a nuisance to the neighbourhood. A certain 
 quantity of wood is of course required in 
 building even this humble edifice. This is 
 either given by the farmers or is purchased 
 at a nominal rate. 
 
 The ground plan is extremely simple. It 
 consists of two rooms, oblong, and generally 
 of the same size one to live in, the other 
 to sleep in for the great majority of the 
 squatters' hovels have no upstair rooms. At 
 one end there is a small shed for odds and 
 ends. This shed used to be built with an 
 oven, but now scarcely any labourers bake 
 their own bread, but buy of the baker. The 
 walls of the cottage having been carried up 
 some six feet, or six feet six just a little 
 higher than a man's head the next process
 
 72 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 is to construct the roof, which is a very 
 simple process. The roof is then thatched, 
 sometimes with flags cut from the brooks, 
 but more usually with straw, and practically 
 the cottage is now built, for there are no 
 indoor fittings to speak of. The chimney is 
 placed at the end of the room set apart for 
 day use. There is no ceiling, nothing be- 
 tween the floor and the thatch and rafters, 
 except perhaps at one end, where there is 
 a kind of loft. The floor consists simply of 
 the earth itself rammed down hard, or some- 
 times of rough pitching- stones, with large 
 interstices between them. The furniture of 
 this room is of the simplest description. 
 A few chairs, a deal table, three or four 
 shelves, and a cupboard, with a box or two 
 in the corners, constitute the whole. The 
 domestic utensils are equally few, and strictly 
 utilitarian. A great pot, a kettle, a sauce- 
 pan, a few plates, dishes and knives, half-a- 
 dozen spoons, and that is about all. But on 
 the mantelpiece there is nearly sure to bo 
 a few ornaments in crockery, bought from 
 some itinerant trader. The walls are white- 
 washed. The bedroom is plainly and rudely 
 furnished. Some cottages do not even attain
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 73 
 
 to this degree of comfort. They consist of 
 four posts set in the ground which support 
 the cross-beam and the roof, and the walls 
 are made of wattle and daub, i.e., of small 
 split willow sticks, put upright and daubed 
 over with coarse pi-aster. The roofs of these 
 cottages are often half hidden with rank 
 grass, moss, and sillgreen, a vegetation per- 
 haps encouraged by the drippings from a tree 
 overhanging the roof; and the situation of 
 the cottage is itself in many cases low and 
 damp. 
 
 But there is a class of squatters, who 
 possess habitations more fit for human beings. 
 These were originally built by men who had 
 saved a little money, had showed, perhaps, 
 a certain talent for hedge carpentering or 
 thatching, become tinkers, or even black- 
 smiths. In such capacities a man may save 
 a little money not much, perhaps ^30 or 
 ^"40 at furthest. With the aid of this he 
 manages to build a very tidy cottage, in the 
 face of the statement made by architects and 
 builders that a good cottage cannot be erected 
 under ,120. Their dwellings do not, in- 
 deed, compete with the neat, prim, and busi- 
 ness-like work of the professional builder;
 
 74 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 but still they are roomy and substantial cot- 
 tages. The secret of cheapness lies in the 
 fact that they work themselves at the erection, 
 and do not entrust some one else with a con- 
 tract. Moreover, they make shifts and put 
 up with drawbacks as no business-man could 
 possibly do. The materials they purchase 
 are cheap and of second-class condition, but 
 good enough to hold together and to last 
 some time. Their rude beams and rafters 
 would not satisfy the eye of a landed pro- 
 prietor, but they hold up the roof-tree equally 
 well. Every pound they spend goes its full 
 length, and not a penny is wasted. After a 
 while a substantial-looking cottage rises up, 
 whitewashed and thatched. It has an upper 
 storey with two rooms, and two, at least, 
 downstairs, with the inevitable lean-to or 
 shed, without which no labourer's cottage is 
 complete. This is more like a house, the 
 residence of a man, than that of the poorer 
 squatter. The floor is composed of flag- 
 stones, in this case always carefully washed 
 and holystoned. There are the same chairs 
 and deal table as in the poorer cottage, but 
 there are many more domestic utensils, and 
 the chimney-piece is ornamented with more
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 75 
 
 crockery figures. A few coarse prints hang 
 against the walls. Some of these old prints 
 are great curiosities in their way hardly 
 valuable enough for a collection, but very 
 amusing. A favourite set of prints is the 
 ride of Dick Turpin to York on Black Bess, 
 representing every scene in that famous 
 gallop. The upstair rooms are better fur- 
 nished, and the beds often really good. 
 
 Some of these cottages in summer-time 
 really approach something of that Arcadian 
 beauty which is supposed to prevail in the 
 country. Everything, of course, depends 
 upon the character of the inmates. The dull 
 tint of the thatch is relieved here and there 
 by great patches of sillgreen, which is reli- 
 giously preserved as a good herb, though the 
 exact ailments for which it is "good" are 
 often forgotten. One end of the cottage is 
 often completely hidden with ivy, and wood- 
 bine grows in thickest profusion over the 
 porch. Near the door there are almost 
 always a few cabbage-rose trees, and under 
 the windows grow wall-flowers and holly- 
 hocks, sweet peas, columbine, and sometimes 
 the graceful lilies of the valley. The garden 
 stretches in a long strip from the door, one
 
 76 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 mass of green. It is enclosed by thick 
 hedges, over which the dog-rose grows, and 
 the wild convolvulus will blossom in the 
 autumn. Trees fill up every available space 
 and corner apple trees, pear trees, damsons, 
 plums, bullaces all varieties. The cottagers 
 seem to like to have at least one tree of every 
 sort. These trees look very nice in the 
 spring when the apple blossom is out, and 
 again in the autumn when the fruit is ripe. 
 Under the trees are gooseberry bushes, rasp- 
 berries, and numbers of currants. The 
 patches are divided into strips producing 
 potatoes, cabbage, lettuce, onions, radishes, 
 parsnips ; in this kitchen produce, as with 
 the fruit, they like to possess a few of all 
 kinds. There is generally a great bunch of 
 rhubarb. In odd corners there are sure to 
 be a few specimens of southernwood, mug- 
 wort, and other herbs ; not for use, but from 
 adherence to the old customs. The " old 
 people " thought much of these " yherbs," so 
 they must have some too, as well as a little 
 mint and similar potherbs. In the windows 
 you may see two or three geraniums, and 
 over the porch a wicker cage, in which the 
 " ousel cock, with orange-tawny bill," pours
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 77 
 
 out his rich, melodious notes. There is 
 hardly a cottage without its captive bird, or 
 tame rabbit, or mongrel cur, which seems as 
 much attached to his master as more high- 
 bred dogs to their owners. 
 
 These better cottages are extremely pleas- 
 ing to look upon. There is an old English, 
 homely look about them. I know a man 
 now whose cottage is ornamented much in 
 the way I have described, a man of sixty, 
 who can neither read nor write, and is rude 
 and uncouth in speech, yet everything about 
 him seems pleasant and happy. To my eye 
 the thatch and gables, and picturesque irre- 
 gularity of this class of cottages, are more 
 pleasing than the modern glaring red brick 
 and prim slate of dwellings built to order, 
 where everything is cut with a precise uni- 
 formity. If a man can be encouraged to 
 build his own house, depend upon it it is 
 better for him and his neighbours than that 
 he should live in one which is not his own. 
 The sense of ownership engenders a pride in 
 the place, and all his better feelings are called 
 into play. Some of these cottagers, living 
 in such houses as these, are the very best 
 labourers to be had. They stay on one farm
 
 78 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 a lifetime, and never leave it an invaluable 
 aid to a farmer. They frequently possess 
 some little special knowledge of carpentering 
 or blacksmith's work, which renders them 
 extremely useful, and at the same time 
 increases their earnings. These men are the 
 real true peasantry, quiet and peaceful, yet 
 strong and courageous. These are the class 
 that should be encouraged by every possible 
 means ; a man who keeps his little habita- 
 tion in the state I have described, who 
 ornaments it within, and fills his garden with 
 fruit and flowers, though he may be totally 
 unable to read or to speak correctly, is never- 
 theless a good and useful citizen, and an 
 addition to the stability of the State. 
 
 Though these cottages are worth the 
 smallest sums comparatively, it is interesting 
 to note with what pride and satisfaction the 
 possessors contemplate leaving them to their 
 children. Of course this very feeling, where 
 there are quarrelsome relations, often leads 
 to bickerings and strife. It is astonishing 
 with what tenacity a man who thinks he has 
 a claim to a part of such a small estate will 
 cling to his cause, and will not hesitate to 
 spend to maintain his claim all his little
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 79 
 
 earnings on the third-class lawyers whom the 
 agricultural poor mostly patronise. Even 
 after every shadow of legal chance is gone, 
 he still loudly declares his right ; and there 
 is more squabbling about the inheritance of 
 these places than over the succession to 
 great domains. 
 
 Another class of labourers' cottages is 
 found chiefly in the villages. These were 
 not originally erected for the purpose to 
 which they are now applied ; they were farm- 
 houses in the days when small farms were 
 the rule, or they were built for tradesmen 
 who have long since departed. These build- 
 ings are divided into two, three, or more 
 habitations, each with its family ; and many 
 makeshifts have to be resorted to to render 
 them decent and comfortable. This class of 
 cottage is to be avoided if possible, because 
 the close and forced intercourse which must 
 take place between the families generally 
 leads to quarrels. Perhaps there is one 
 pump for the entire building, and one wants 
 to use it just at the moment that another 
 requires water ; or there is only one gateway 
 to the court, and the passage is obstructed by 
 the wheelbarrow of the other party. It is
 
 8o THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 from these places that the greater part of the 
 malcontents go up to the magistrates in 
 petty sessions. It is rare, indeed, that the 
 cottager living more or less isolated by the 
 side of the road appears in a court of law. 
 Of course, in these villages there are cottages 
 which have been built expressly for the use 
 of labouring men, and these, like those in 
 the open country, may be divided into three 
 classes the hovel, the cottage proper, and 
 the model modern cottage. 
 
 In the villages there is almost sure to be 
 one or more cottages which carries one's 
 idea of Lilliputian dwellings to the extreme. 
 These are generally sheds or outhouses which 
 have been converted into cottages. I entered 
 one not long since which consisted of two 
 rooms, one above and one below, and each 
 of these rooms could not have measured, 
 at a guess, more than six feet six across. I 
 had heard of this place, and expected to find 
 it a perfect den of misery and wretchedness. 
 No such thing. To my surprise the woman 
 who opened the door was neatly clad, clean, 
 and bright. The floor of the cottage was of 
 ordinary flag-stones, but there was a ceiling 
 whitewashed and clean. A good fire was
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 81 
 
 burning in the grate it was the middle of 
 winter and the room felt warm and com- 
 fortable. The walls were completely covered 
 with engravings from the Illustrated London 
 News. The furniture was equal to the fur- 
 niture of the best cottages, and everything 
 was extremely clean. The woman said they 
 were quite comfortable ; and although they 
 could have had a larger cottage many times 
 since, they never wished to change, as they 
 had no children. That of course made 
 a great difference. I never should have 
 thought it possible for two human beings to 
 have existed, much less been comfortable, in 
 such a diminutive place. Another cottage 
 I know contains but one room altogether, 
 which is about eight feet square ; it is in- 
 habited by a solitary old woman, and looks 
 like a toy-house. One or two such places 
 as these may be found in most villages, but 
 it does not by any means follow that because 
 they are small the inhabitants are badly off. 
 The condition they are found in depends 
 entirely upon the disposition of the inmates. 
 If they are slatternly and dirty, the largest 
 cottages would not improve them. 
 
 In some rural villages a great many
 
 82 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 cottages may be observed sadly out of repair 
 the thatch coming off and in holes, the 
 windows broken, and other signs of dilapida- 
 tion. This is usually set down to the land- 
 lord's fault, but if the circumstances are 
 inquired into, it will often be found that 
 the fault lies with the inmates themselves. 
 These cottages are let to labourers at a 
 merely nominal rent, and with them a large 
 piece of allotment ground. But although 
 they thus get a house and garden almost free, 
 they refuse to do the slightest or simplest 
 repairs. If the window gets broken " Oh, 
 let it stop ; the landlord can do that." If 
 a piece of thatch comes off " Oh, 'tisn't my 
 house ; let the landlord do it up." So it 
 goes on till the cottage is ready to tumble 
 to pieces. What is the landlord to do? In 
 his heart he would like to raze the whole 
 village to the ground and rebuild it afresh. 
 But there are not many who can afford such 
 an expense. Then, if it were done, the old 
 women and old men, and infirm persons who 
 find a home in these places, would be driven 
 forth. If the landlord puts up two hundred 
 new cottages, he finds it absolutely necessary 
 to get some kind of return for the capital
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 83 
 
 invested. He does not want more than two 
 and a half per cent. ; but to ask that means 
 a rise of perhaps a shilling a week. That is 
 enough ; the labourer seeks another tumble- 
 down place where he can live for tenpence a 
 week, and the poor and infirm have to go to 
 the workhouse. So, rather than be annoyed 
 with the endless complaints and troubles, 
 to say nothing of the inevitable loss of 
 money, the landlord allows things to go on 
 as they are. 
 
 Among our English cottages in out-of-the- 
 way places may be found curious materials 
 for the study of character in humble life. 
 In one cottage you may find an upright, 
 stern-featured man, a great student of the 
 Bible, and fond of using its language when- 
 ever opportunity offers, who is the repre- 
 sentative of the old Puritan, though the 
 denomination to which he may belong is 
 technically known as the Methodist. He is 
 stern, hard, uncompromising one who sets 
 duty above affection. His children are not 
 spoiled because the rod is spared. He stands 
 aloof from his fellows, and is never seen at 
 the cottage alehouse, or lingering in groups 
 at the cross-roads. He is certain to be at
 
 84 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 the "anniversary," i.e., the commemoration 
 of the foundation of the Methodist chapel 
 of the parish. The very next cottage may 
 contain the antithesis of this man. This is 
 a genius in his way. He has some idea of 
 art, as you may gather from the fanciful 
 patches into which his garden is divided. 
 He has a considerable talent for construction, 
 and though he has never been an apprentice 
 he can do something towards mending a cart 
 or a door. He makes stands with wires to 
 put flowers in for the farmers' parlours, and 
 strings the dry oak-apples on wire, which he 
 twists into baskets, to hold knicknackeries. 
 He is witty, and has his jest for everybody. 
 He can do something, of everything turn 
 his hand any way a perfect treasure on the 
 farm. In the old days there was another 
 character in most villages ; this was the 
 rhymer. He was commonly the fiddler too, 
 and sang his own verses to tunes played by 
 himself. Since the printing-press has come 
 in, and flooded the country with cheap litera- 
 ture, this character has disappeared, though 
 many of the verses these men made still 
 linger in the countryside. 
 
 The ordinary adult farm labourer commonly
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 85 
 
 rises at from four to five o'clock ; if he is a 
 milker, and has to walk some little distance 
 to his work, even as early as half-past three. 
 Four was the general rule, but of late years 
 the hour has grown later. He milks till five 
 or half-past, carries the yokes to the dairy, 
 and draws water for the dairymaid, or per- 
 haps chops up some wood for her fire to 
 scald the milk. At six he goes to breakfast, 
 which consists of a hunch of bread and 
 cheese as the rule, with now and then a 
 piece of bacon, and as a milker he receives his 
 quart of beer. At breakfast there is no hurry 
 for half-an-hour or so ; but some time before 
 seven he is on at the ordinary work of the day. 
 If a milker and very early riser, he is not 
 usually put at the heavy jobs, but allowances 
 are made for the work he has already done. 
 The other men on the farm arrive at six. At 
 eleven, or half-past, comes luncheon, which 
 lasts a full hour, often an hour and a quarter. 
 About three o'clock the task of milking again 
 commences ; the buckets are got out with a 
 good deal of rattling and noise, the yokes 
 fitted to the shoulders, and away he goes for 
 an hour or hour and a half of milking. That 
 done, he has to clean up the court and help
 
 86 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 the dairymaid put the heavier articles in 
 place ; then another quart of beer, and away 
 home. The time of leaving off work varies 
 from half -past five to half -past six. At 
 ordinary seasons the other men leave at six, 
 but in haymaking or harvest time they are 
 expected to remain till the job in hand that 
 day is finished, often till eight or half-past. 
 This is compensated for by a hearty supper 
 and almost unlimited beer. The women 
 employed in field labour generally leave at 
 four, and hasten home to prepare the evening 
 meal. The evening meal is the great event 
 of the day. Like the independent gentleman 
 in this one thing, the labourer dines late 
 in the day. His midday meal, which is 
 the farmer's dinner, is his luncheon. The 
 labourer's dinner is taken at half-past six 
 to seven in the evening, after he has got 
 home, unlaced his heavy and cumbrous boots, 
 combed his hair, and washed himself. His 
 table is always well supplied with vegetables, 
 potatoes, and particularly greens, of which 
 he is peculiarly fond. The staple dish is, of 
 course, a piece of bacon, and large quantities 
 of bread are eaten. It is a common thing 
 
 o 
 
 now, once or twice in the week, for a
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 87 
 
 labourer to have a small joint of mutton, not 
 a prime joint, of course, but still good and 
 wholesome meat. Many of them live in a 
 style, so far as eating and drinking is con- 
 cerned, quite equal to the small farmers, and 
 far superior to what these small farmers were 
 used to. Instead of beer, the agricultural 
 labourer frequently drinks tea with his dinner 
 weak tea in large quantities. After the 
 more solid parts comes a salad of onions or 
 lettuce. These men eat quantities which 
 would half kill many townspeople. After 
 dinner, if it is the season of the year, they 
 go out to the allotment and do a little 
 work for themselves, and then, unless the 
 alehouse offers irresistible attractions, to 
 bed. The genuine agricultural labourer goes 
 early to bed. It is necessary for him, after 
 the long toil of the day, on account of 
 the hour at which he has to rise in the 
 morning. 
 
 Men employed on arable farms, as carters, 
 for instance, have to rise even earlier than 
 dairymen. They often begin to bait their 
 horses at half-past three, or rather they used 
 to. This operation of baiting is a most 
 serious and important one to the carter. On
 
 88 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 it depends the appearance of his team with 
 him a matter of honest and laudable ambi- 
 tion. If he wishes his horses to look fat 
 and well, with smooth shiny coats, he must 
 take the greatest care with their food, not to 
 give them too much or too little, and to vary 
 it properly. He must begin feeding a long 
 time before his horses start to plough. It is, 
 therefore, an object with him to get to rest 
 early. In the winter time especially the 
 labouring poor go to bed very soon, to save 
 the expense of candles. 
 
 By the bye, the cottagers have a curious 
 habit, which deserves to be recorded even for 
 its singularity. When the good woman of 
 the cottage goes out for half-an-hour to fetch 
 a pail, of water, or to gossip with a neigh- 
 bour, she always leaves the door-key in the 
 keyhole outside. The house is, in fact, at 
 the mercy of any one who chooses to turn 
 the key and enter. This practice of locking 
 the door and leaving the key in it is very 
 prevalent. The presence of the key is to 
 intimate that the inmate has gone out, but 
 will shortly return ; and it is so understood 
 by the neighbours. If a cottager goes out 
 for the day, he or she locks the door, and
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 89 
 
 takes the key with them ; but if the key is 
 left in the door, it is a sign that the cottager 
 will be back in ten minutes or so. 
 
 The alehouse is the terrible bane of the 
 labourer. If he can keep clear of that, he is 
 clean, tidy, and respectable ; but if he once 
 falls into drinking habits, good-bye to all 
 hopes of his rising in his occupation. Where 
 he is born there will he remain, and his 
 children after him. 
 
 Some of the cottagers who show a little 
 talent for music combine under the leader- 
 ship of the parish clerk and the patronage of 
 the clergyman, and form a small brass band 
 which parades the village at the head of the 
 Oddfellows or other benefit club once a 
 year. In the early summer, before the 
 earnest work of harvest begins, and while 
 the evenings begin to grow long, it is not 
 unusual to see a number of the younger 
 men at play at cricket in the meadow 
 with the more active of the farmers. Most 
 populous villages have their cricket club, 
 which even the richest farmers do not dis- 
 dain to join, and their sons stand at the 
 wicket. 
 
 The summer is the labourer's good season.
 
 90 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 Then he can make money and enjoy himself. 
 In the summer three or four men will often 
 join together and leave their native parish 
 for a ramble. They walk off perhaps some 
 forty or fifty miles, take a job of mowing or 
 harvesting, and after a change of scenery and 
 associates, return in the later part of the 
 autumn, full of the things they have seen, 
 and eager to relate them to the groups at 
 the cross-roads or the alehouse. The winter 
 is under the best circumstances a hard time 
 for the labourer. It is not altogether that 
 coals are dear and firewood growing scarcer 
 year by year, but every condition of his daily 
 life has a harshness about it. In the summer 
 the warm sunshine cast a glamour over the 
 rude walls, the decaying thatch, and the ivy- 
 covered window. The blue smoke rose up 
 curling beside the tall elm-tree. The hedge 
 parting his garden from the road was green 
 and thick, the garden itself full of trees, 
 and flowers of more or less beauty. Mud 
 floors are not so bad in the summer; holes 
 in the thatch do not matter so much ; an ill- 
 fitting window-sash gives no concern. But 
 with the cold blasts and ceaseless rain of 
 winter all this is changed. The hedge next
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 91 
 
 the road is usually only elder, and this, once 
 the leaves are off, is the thinnest, most miser- 
 able of shelters. The rain comes through 
 the hole in the thatch (we are speaking of 
 the large class of poor cottages), the mud 
 floor is damp, and perhaps sticky. If the 
 floor is of uneven stones, these grow damp 
 and slimy. The cold wind comes through 
 the ill-fitting sash, and drives with terrible 
 force under the door. Very often the floor 
 is one step lower than the ground outside, 
 and consequently there is a constant tendency 
 in rainy weather for the water to run or soak 
 in. The elm-tree overhead, that appeared so 
 picturesque in summer, is now a curse, for 
 the great drops fall perpetually from it upon 
 the thatch and on the pathway in front of 
 the door. In great storms of wind it sways 
 to and fro, causing no little alarm, and- 
 boughs are sometimes blown off it, and fall 
 upon the roof- tree. The thatch of the 
 cottage is saturated ; the plants and grasses 
 that almost always grow on it, and the moss, 
 are vividly, rankly green ; till all dripping, 
 soaked, overgrown with weeds, the wretched 
 place looks not unlike a dunghill. Inside, 
 the draught is only one degree better than
 
 92 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 the smoke. These low chimneys, over- 
 shadowed with trees, smoke incessantly, and 
 fill the room with smother. To avoid the 
 draught, many of the cottages are fitted with 
 wooden screens, which divide the room, small 
 enough before, into two parts, the outer of 
 which, towards the door, is a howling wilder- 
 ness of draught and wet from under the door; 
 and the inner part close, stuffy, and dim with 
 smoke driven down the chimney by the shift- 
 ing wind. Here the family are all huddled 
 up together close over the embers. Here the 
 cooking is done, such as it is. Here they sit 
 in the dark, or in such light as is supplied by 
 the carefully hoarded stock of fuel, till it is 
 time to go to bed, and that is generally early 
 enough. So rigid is the economy practised 
 in many of these cottages that a candle is 
 rarely if ever used. The light of the fire 
 suffices, and they find their beds in the dark. 
 Even when a labourer has risen in the scale, 
 and has some small property, the enforced 
 habits of early life cling to him ; and I have 
 frequently found men who were really worth 
 some little money sitting at eight o'clock on 
 a dark winter's night without a candle or 
 lamp, their feet close to a few dying embers.
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 93 
 
 The older people especially go to bed early. 
 Going to some cottages once for a parish paper 
 that had been circulated for signature, I 
 rapped at the closed door. This was at half- 
 past seven one evening in November. Again 
 and again I hammered at the door ; at last an 
 old woman put her head out of window, and 
 the following colloquy ensued : 
 
 "What do 'ee want?" 
 
 " The paper ; have you signed it ? " 
 
 "Lor, I doan't know. He's on the table 
 a bin ther ever since a come. Thee's can lift 
 th' latch an' take 'un. We bin gone to bed 
 this two hours." 
 
 They must have gone upstairs at half-past 
 five. To rise at five of a summer's morning, 
 and see the azure of the sky and the glorious 
 sun, may be, perhaps, no great hardship, 
 although there are few persons who could 
 long remain poetical on bread and cheese. 
 But to rise at five on a dark winter's morning 
 is a very different affair. To put on coarse 
 nailed boots, weighing fully seven pounds, 
 gaiters up above the knee, a short greatcoat 
 of some heavy material, and to step out 
 into the driving rain and trudge wearily 
 over field after field of wet grass, with the
 
 94 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 furrows full of water ; then to sit on a three- 
 legged stool, with mud and manure half-way 
 up the ankles, and milk cows with one's 
 head leaning against their damp, smoking 
 hides for two hours, with the rain coming 
 steadily drip, drip, drip this is a very dif- 
 ferent affair. 
 
 The "fogger" on a snowy morning in the 
 winter has to encounter about the most un- 
 pleasant circumstances imaginable. Icicles 
 hang from the eaves of the rick, and its 
 thatch is covered with snow. Up the 
 slippery ladder in the dark morning, one 
 knee out upon the snow-covered thatch, he 
 plunges the broad hay-knife in and cuts away 
 an enormous truss then a great prong is 
 stuck into this, a prong made on purpose, 
 with extra thick and powerful handle, and 
 the truss, well bound round with a horse-hair 
 rope, is hoisted on the head and shoulders. 
 This heavy weight the fogger has to carry 
 perhaps half-a-mile through the snow ; the 
 furrows in the field are frozen over, but his 
 weight crashes through the ice, slush into 
 the chilly water. Rain, snow, or bitter frost, 
 or still more bitter east winds "harsh 
 winds," as he most truly calls them the
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 95 
 
 fogger must take no heed of either, for the 
 cows must be fed. 
 
 A quart of threepenny ale for breakfast, 
 with a hunch of bread and cheese, then out 
 to work again in the weather, let it be what 
 it may. The cowyards have to be cleaned 
 out if not done before breakfast the manure 
 thrown up into heaps, and the heaps wheeled 
 outside. Or, perhaps, the master has given 
 him a job of piece-work to fill up the middle 
 of the day with a hedge to cut and ditch. 
 This means more slush, wet, cold, and dis- 
 comfort. About six or half-past he reaches 
 home, thoroughly saturated, worn-out, cross, 
 and " dummel." I don't know how to spell 
 that word, nor what its etymology may be, 
 but it well expresses the dumb, sullen chur- 
 lishness which such a life as this engenders. 
 For all the conditions and circumstances of 
 such a life tend to one end only the blunt- 
 ing of all the finer feelings, the total erasure 
 of sensitiveness. The coarse, half- cooked 
 cabbage, the small bit of fat and rafty bacon, 
 the dry bread and pint of weak tea, makes 
 no very hearty supper after such a day as 
 this. The man grows insensible to the 
 weather, so cold and damp ; his bodily frame
 
 96 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 becomes crusted over, case-hardened ; and 
 with this indifference there rises up at the 
 same time a corresponding dulness as regards 
 all moral and social matters. 
 
 Generally the best conditions of cottage 
 life are to be found wherever there are, say, 
 three or four great, tall, strong, unmarried sons 
 lodging in the house with their aged parents. 
 Each of these pays a small sum weekly 
 for his lodging, and often an additional 
 sum for the bare necessaries of life. In the 
 aggregate this mounts up to a considerable 
 sum, and whatever is bought is equally shared 
 by the parents. They live exceedingly well. 
 Such young men as these earn good wages, 
 and now and then make extra time, and 
 come home with a pocketful of money. Even 
 after the inevitable alehouse has claimed its 
 share, there still remains enough to purchase 
 fresh meat for supper ; and it is not at all 
 unusual in such cottages to find the whole 
 family supping at seven (it is, in fact, dining) 
 on a fairly good joint of mutton, with every 
 species of common vegetables. In one case 
 that was brought under my notice three 
 brothers lived with their aged mother. They 
 were all strong, hard-working men, and toler-
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 97 
 
 ably steady. In that cottage there were no 
 less than four separate barrels of beer, and 
 all on tap. Four barrels in one cottage seems 
 an extraordinary thing, yet it resolved itself 
 very simply. The cottage was the mother's ; 
 they gave her so much for lodging, and she 
 had her own barrel of beer, so that there 
 should be no dispute. The three brothers 
 were mowers mowers drink enormous quan- 
 tities of liquor and with the same view to 
 prevent dispute each had his own especial 
 barrel. Families like this live fairly well, and 
 have many little comforts. Still, at the best, 
 in winter it is a rough and uncomfortable 
 existence. 
 
 In the life of the English agricultural 
 labourers there is absolutely no poetry, no 
 colour. Even their marriages times when 
 if ever in life poetry will manifest itself are 
 sober, dull, tame, clumsy, and colourless. I 
 say sober in the sense of tint, for to get drunk 
 appears to be the one social pleasure of the 
 marriage-day. They, of course, walk to 
 church ; but then that walk usually leads 
 across fields full of all the beauties of the 
 spring or the summer. There is nothing in 
 the walk itself to flatten down the occasion.
 
 98 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 But the procession is so dull so utterly un- 
 genial a stranger might pass it without 
 guessing that a wedding was toward. Ex- 
 cept a few rude jests ; except that there is 
 an attempt to walk arm-in-arm (it is only an 
 attempt, for they forget to allow for each other's 
 motions) ; except the Sunday dresses, utterly 
 devoid of taste, what is there to distinguish 
 this day from the rest? There is the drunken 
 carousal, it is true, all the afternoon and 
 evening. There are no f^te days in the 
 foreign sense in the English labourer's life. 
 There are the fairs and feasts, and a fair is 
 the most melancholy of sights. Showmen's 
 vans, with pictures outside of unknown 
 monsters; merry-go-rounds, nut stalls, ginger- 
 bread stalls, cheap Jacks, and latterly photo- 
 graphic " studios " ; behind all these the ale- 
 house ; the beating of drums and the squall- 
 ing of pigs, the blowing of horns, and the 
 neighing of horses trotted out for show, the 
 roar of a rude crowd these constitute a 
 country fair. There is no colour nothing 
 flowery or poetical about this festival of the 
 labourer. 
 
 The village feasts are still less interesting. 
 Here and there the clergyman of the parish
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE 99 
 
 has succeeded in turning what was a rude 
 saturnalia into a decorous " fete," with tea 
 in a tent. But generally the feasts are fall- 
 ing into rapid disuse, and would perhaps 
 have died away altogether had not the benefit 
 societies often chosen that day for their 
 annual club-dinner. A village feast consists 
 of two or three gipsies located on the green- 
 sward by the side of the road, and displaying 
 ginger-beer, nuts, and toys for sale ; an Aunt 
 Sally ; and, if the village is a large one, the 
 day may be honoured by the presence of what 
 is called a rifle-gallery ; the " feast " really 
 and truly does not exist. Some two or three 
 of the old-fashioned farmers have the tradi- 
 tional roast^beef and plum-pudding on that 
 day, and invite a few friends ; but this cus- 
 tom is passing away. In what the agricul- 
 tural labourer's feast nowadays consists no 
 one can tell. It is an excuse for an extra 
 quart or two of beer, that is all. 
 
 This dulness is not, perhaps, the fault of 
 the labourer. It may be that it is the fault of 
 the national character, shown more broadly in 
 the lower class of the population. Speaking 
 nationally, we have no f&te days there is 
 no colour in our mode of life. These English
 
 ioo THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 agricultural labourers have no passion plays, 
 no peasant plays, no rustic stage and drama, 
 few songs, very little music. The club dinner 
 is the real fe'te of the labourer; he gets 
 plenty to eat and drink for that day. It is 
 this lack of poetical feeling that makes the 
 English peasantry so uninteresting a study. 
 They have no appreciation of beauty. Many 
 of them, it is true, grow quantities of flowers ; 
 but barely one in a thousand could arrange 
 those flowers in a bouquet. 
 
 The alehouse forms no inconsiderable part 
 of the labourer's life. It is at once his stock 
 exchange, his reading-room, his club, and 
 his assembly rooms. It is here that his bene- 
 fit society holds its annual dinner. The club 
 meetings take place weekly or monthly in 
 the great room upstairs. Here he learns the 
 news of the day ; the local papers are always 
 to be found at the public-house, and if he 
 cannot read himself he hears the news from 
 those who can. In the winter he finds heat 
 and light, too often lacking at home ; at 
 all times he finds amusement ; and who can 
 blame him for seizing what little pleasure 
 lies in his way ? As a rule the beerhouse 
 is the only place of amusement to which
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 101 
 
 he can resort : it is his theatre, his music-hall, 
 picture-gallery, and Crystal Palace. The re- 
 cent enactments bearing upon the licensed 
 victuallers have been rather hard upon the 
 agricultural labourer. No doubt they are 
 very excellent enactments, especially those 
 relating to early closing ; but in the villages 
 and outlying rural districts, where life is re- 
 duced to its most rude and simple form, many 
 of the restrictions are unjust, and deprive the 
 labourer of what he feels to be his legitimate 
 right. Playing at nine-pins, for instance, is 
 practically forbidden, so also dominoes. Now, 
 it was a great thing to put down skittle-sharp- 
 ing and cheating at gambling generally a 
 good thing to discourage gambling in every 
 form but in these thinly-populated outlying 
 agricultural parishes, where money is scarce 
 and wages low, there never existed any temp- 
 tation to allure skittle- sharpers and similar 
 cheaters to the spot. The game at skittles 
 was a legitimate game a fair and honest 
 struggle of skill and strength. Nine times 
 out of ten it was played only for a quart of 
 ale, to be drunk by the loser as well as the 
 winner in good fellowship. Why deprive the 
 man who labours all day in wet and storm of
 
 102 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 so simple a pleasure in the evening ? The 
 conditions are very different to those existing 
 in large manufacturing towns, and some modi- 
 fication of the law ought to be made. The 
 agricultural labourer has no cheap theatre at 
 which he can spend an hour, no music-hall, 
 no reading-room ; his only resource is the 
 public-house. Now that he is practically de- 
 prived of his skittles and such games, he has 
 no amusement left except to drink, or play 
 at pitch and toss on the quiet, a far worse 
 pastime than skittles. Skittles, of course, 
 are allowed provided the players play for love 
 only ; but what public-house keeper cares to 
 put up the necessary arrangements on such 
 terms ? The labourer will have his quart in 
 the evening, and, despite of all " cry " to the 
 contrary, I believe it to be his right to have 
 that quart ; and it is better, if he must have 
 it, that his whole thoifghts should not be con- 
 centrated on the liquor that he should earn 
 it by skill and strength. There is an oppro- 
 brium about the public-house, and let us grant 
 that it is at least partially deserved but 
 where else is the labourer to go ? He cannot 
 for ever work all day and sit in his narrow 
 cabin in the evening. He cannot always read,
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 103 
 
 and those of his class who do read do so im- 
 perfectly. A reading-room has been tried, 
 but as a rule it fails to attract the purely 
 agricultural labourer. The shoemaker, the 
 tailor, the village post-master, grocer, and 
 such people may use it ; also a few of the 
 better-educated of the young labourers, the 
 rising generation ; but not the full-grown 
 labourer with a wife and family and cottage. 
 It does good undoubtedly ; in the future, as 
 education extends, it will become a place of 
 resort. But at present it fails to reach the 
 adult genuine agricultural labourer. For a 
 short period in the dead of the winter the 
 farmers and gentry get up penny readings in 
 many places, but these are confined to at 
 most one evening a week. What, then, is 
 the labourer to do ? Let any one put himself 
 in his place, try to realise his feelings and 
 circumstances. At present, till education ex- 
 tends, he must go to the public-house. Is 
 he to be punished and deprived of his game 
 of skill because in large towns it bears evil 
 fruit? Surely the law could be somewhat 
 modified, and playing permitted under some 
 restrictions. 
 
 The early closing has been an unalloyed
 
 104 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 good in these rural districts. The labourer 
 is a steady drinker. He does not toss down 
 glasses of stiff brandy and whisky. His 
 beer requires time to produce an effect. The 
 last hour does the mischief. Since the earlier 
 closing the village streets have been compara- 
 tively free from drunken men. In any case, 
 the agricultural labourer is the most lamb- 
 like of drunkards. He interferes with no one. 
 He unhinges no gates, smashes no windows, 
 does no injury. He either staggers home 
 or quietly lies on the grass till the liquor 
 passes off. He is not a quarrelsome man. 
 He does not fight with knuckle-dusters or 
 kick with his heavy boots. His fights, when 
 he does fight, are very harmless affairs. No 
 doubt his drunkenness is an offence ; but it 
 is comparatively innocuous to the general 
 public. 
 
 Religious feeling does not run high among 
 the labourers. A large proportion of them 
 are Nonconformists principally Methodists. 
 But this is not out of any very decided notion 
 as to the difference of ceremony or theological 
 dogma ; it arises out of a class feeling. They 
 say, or rather they feel, that this is their 
 church. The parish church is the church of
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 105 
 
 the farmers and the gentry. There is no 
 hostility to the clergyman of the parish, no 
 bitter warfare of sect against sect, or of 
 Methodist against Churchman. But you see 
 very few of the farmers go to chapel. The 
 labourer goes there, and finds his own friends 
 his cousins and uncleshis wife's relations. 
 He is among his own class. There is no feel- 
 ing of inferiority. The religion taught, the 
 service, the hymns, the preacher, all are his. 
 He has a sense of proprietorship in them. 
 He helps to pay for them. The French 
 peasant replied to the English tourist, who 
 expressed surprise at the fanatic love of the 
 populace for the first Napoleon '' he was as 
 much a tyrant as King Louis was." " Ah, 
 but Napoleon was our king." So the labourers 
 feel that this is their religion. Therefore it 
 is that so many of them gather together 
 (where there are no chapels) in the cottage 
 of some man who takes the lead, and sit, 
 with doors and windows shut, crammed to- 
 gether to pray and listen to others pray. Any 
 of them who wishes can, as it were, ascend 
 the pulpit here. This is why in so many 
 parishes the pews of the parish church are 
 comparatively empty so far as agricultural
 
 106 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 labourers are concerned. The best of clergy- 
 men must fail to fill them under such dis- 
 advantages. 
 
 It is very difficult not only for the clergy- 
 man, but for others who wish to improve the 
 condition of the labourer, to reach him. 
 Better cottages are,- of course, a most effec- 
 tual way, but it is not in the power of every 
 one to confer so substantial a benefit. Per- 
 haps one of the best means devised has been 
 that of cottage flower-shows. These are, of 
 course, not confined to flowers ; in fact, the 
 principal part of such shows consists of table 
 vegetables and fruit. By rigidly excluding 
 all gardeners, and all persons not strictly 
 cottage people, the very best results have 
 often been arrived at in this way. For if 
 there is one thing in which the labourer 
 takes an interest it is his garden and his 
 allotment. To offer him prizes for the 
 finest productions of his garden touches 
 the most sensitive part of his moral organi- 
 sation. It is wonderful what an amount 
 of emulation these prizes excite emulation 
 not so much for the value of the prize 
 as for the distinction. These competitions 
 tend besides to provide him with a better
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 107 
 
 class of food, for he depends largely upon 
 vegetables. 
 
 There is nothing connected with the con- 
 dition of the agricultural poor that is better 
 worth the attention of improvers than the 
 style of cookery pursued in these cottages. 
 A more wretched cookery probably does not 
 exist on the face of the earth. The soddened 
 cabbage is typical of the whole thing. Since 
 higher wages have come in it has become 
 possible for the labourer in many cases to 
 provide himself with better food, such as 
 mutton the cheap parts more bacon, pork, 
 and so on ; but the women do not know how 
 to make the most of it. It is very difficult to 
 lay down a way in which this defect may be 
 remedied ; for there is nothing a man, let 
 him be never so poor, so deeply resents as an 
 inspection of the contents of his pot. He 
 would sooner eat half-raw bacon than have 
 the teaching forced on him how to make 
 savoury meals of the simple provisions within 
 his reach ; nor can he be blamed for this 
 sturdy independent feeling. Possibly the 
 establishment of schools of cookery in villages 
 might do much good. They might be attached 
 to the new schools now building throughout
 
 io8 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 the country. The labourer, from so long 
 living upon coarse, ill-cooked food, acquires 
 an artificial taste. Some men eat their 
 bacon raw ; others will drink large quan- 
 tities of vinegar, and well they may need 
 it to correct by its acidity the effects of 
 strong unwholesome cabbage. The cottage 
 cook has no idea of those nutritious and 
 pleasant soups which can be made to form 
 so important a feature in the economy of 
 daily life. 
 
 The labourer is in a lower degree of the 
 same class as the third-rate working farmer 
 of the past. He is the old small dairy farmer 
 in a coarser shape. With a little less educa- 
 tion, ruder manners, with the instincts of 
 eating, drinking, and avarice more promi- 
 nently displayed, he presents in his actual 
 condition at this day a striking analogy to 
 the agriculturist of a bygone time. In fact, 
 those farmers of twenty or thirty acres, living 
 in cottage-like homesteads, were barely dis- 
 tinguishable as far as personnel went from 
 the labourers among whom they lived. This 
 being the case, it is not surprising to find 
 that the labourer of this day presents in 
 general characteristics a marked affinity in
 
 THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 109 
 
 ideas and sentiments to those entertained by 
 the old farmer. He has the same paternal 
 creed in a more primeval form. He considers 
 his children as his absolute property. He 
 rules them with a rod of iron, or rather of 
 ground-ash. In fact, the ground-ash stick is 
 his social religion. The agricultural labour- 
 ing poor are very rough and even brutal to- 
 wards their children. Not that they are 
 without affection towards them, but they are 
 used to thrash them into obedience instead 
 of leading them into it by the gentle means 
 of moral persuasion. 
 
 Bystanders would call the agricultural 
 labourer cruel. Carters, for instance, had till 
 lately a habit of knocking the boys under 
 their control about in a brutal manner. But 
 I do not think that in the mass of cases it 
 arose from deliberate cruelty, but from a 
 species of stolid indifference or insensibility 
 to suffering. Somehow they do not seem to 
 understand that others suffer, whether this 
 arises from the rough life they lead, the end- 
 less battle with the weather, the hard fare 
 whether it has grown up out of the circum- 
 stances surrounding them. The same unfeel- 
 ing brutality often extends to the cattle
 
 no THE LABOURER'S DAILY LIFE. 
 
 under their care. In this there has been a 
 decided improvement of late years ; but it is 
 not yet extinct. 
 
 These are some of the lights and shades 
 of the labourer's daily life impartially pre- 
 sented.
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 IF a thoughtful English peasant-woman re- 
 joiced that in her house a son was born, it 
 would be, not because " she had gotten a 
 man from the Lord," but a thanksgiving 
 that it was not a girl. That most natural 
 thanksgiving of the Hebrew woman is too 
 rarely heard in the rural cottage, situated 
 though it may be in the midst of meadows 
 and fields abounding with the fat of the 
 earth. The fact that a fresh being has 
 entered upon life, with all its glorious possi- 
 bilities, is not a subject for joy. 
 
 " Well, John," the farmer says to his man, 
 "your wife has been confined, hasn't she? 
 How's the young one ? " 
 
 "Aw, sir, a' be main weak and picked, an' 
 like to go back thank God ! " replies the 
 labourer with intense satisfaction, especially 
 if he has two or three children already. 
 "Picked" means thin, sharp-featured, wasted,
 
 U2 FIELD-PARING WOMEN. 
 
 emaciated. "To go back" is to die. The 
 man does not like to say " die," therefore he 
 puts it " to go back " i.e., whence it came ; 
 from the unknown. Yet, with all this hard 
 indifference, the labourer is as fond of his 
 children as any one else. The " ego " that 
 utters those apparently heartless words is 
 not the real man, it is the " ego " produced 
 by long experience of the hardships of 
 poverty; of coarse fare, rude labour, ex- 
 posure. After all, it is in a spirit of tender- 
 ness towards the infant that the parent half 
 desires it to die. The real " ego," the true 
 man, delights as all humanity does in watch- 
 ing the growth of the tiny limbs, the expan- 
 sion of the instincts into mind, and the first 
 employment of that mind. He feels as 
 Marguerite in Faust felt, tending the babe 
 "the holiest of all joys." But life is very, 
 very hard, and circumstances push him out 
 of himself. Still more do these hardships 
 tell upon his wife ; and so it is, knowing 
 what her sex have to go through, that she 
 welcomes a boy more than a girl. An aged 
 agricultural woman said she would sooner 
 have seven boys than one girl ; for the former, 
 when they became lads, went out and earned
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 113 
 
 their own living, but the girls you never 
 knew when they were got rid of they were 
 always coming back. This expressed the 
 practical view of the matter. But supposing 
 that the child should prove a girl; it must 
 not be imagined that it receives any ruder 
 treatment in mere infancy than a boy would 
 have had. In early infancy children have 
 no sex. But the poor mother has her trials. 
 Though in the midst of a country teeming 
 with milk, it is often with the utmost diffi- 
 culty that she can obtain any for her babe, 
 if Nature shall have rendered her dependent 
 upon artificial supply. This has become 
 especially the case of late years, now that 
 so much milk is sent to London, instead of 
 being retained in the dairy for the manu- 
 facture of butter and cheese. So that it 
 actually happens that the poor mother in the 
 courts of the metropolis can obtain milk easier 
 than her far-away sister in those fabulous 
 fields which the city woman has never seen, 
 and, perhaps, never will. Often in arable dis- 
 tricts there are scarcely any cows kept. No 
 one cares to retail a pennyworth of milk. It 
 is only by favour, through the interest taken 
 by some farmer's wife, that it can be got.
 
 114 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 Very few agricultural women have a medi- 
 cal man present at their confinement ; they 
 usually entrust themselves to the care of some 
 village nurse, who has a reputation for skill 
 in such' matters, but no scientifically acquired 
 knowledge who proceeds by rule of thumb. 
 The doctor almost always the parish doctor, 
 though sometimes the club officer is not 
 called in till after the delivery. The poor 
 woman will frequently come downstairs on 
 the fourth day ; and it is to this disregard 
 of proper precautions that the distortions of 
 figure and many of the illnesses of poor agri- 
 cultural women are attributable. Nothing 
 but the severe training they have gone through 
 from childhood upwards the exposure to all 
 kinds of weather the life in the open air, 
 the physical strength induced by labour, can 
 enable them to support the strain upon the 
 frame caused by so quickly endeavouring to 
 resume their household duties. It is pro- 
 bably this reserve of strength which enables 
 them to recover from so serious a matter so 
 quickly. Certain it is that very few die from 
 confinement ; and yet, from the point of view 
 of the middle class of society, almost every 
 precaution and every luxury by them deemed
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 115 
 
 necessary is omitted. Of course, in some 
 instances, agricultural women whose husbands 
 have, perhaps, worked for one master from 
 boyhood, receive much more attention than 
 here indicated wines, jellies, meat, and so 
 on but the majority have to rely upon the 
 tender mercies of the parish. It has been 
 often remarked that the labourer, let him be 
 in receipt of what wages he will, makes no 
 provision for this, the most serious and 
 interesting of all domestic events. Though 
 it can be foreseen for months, he does not save 
 a single sovereign. He does not consider it 
 in the least shameful to receive parish relief 
 on these occasions ; he leaves his partner 
 entirely to the mercy of strangers, and were 
 it not for the clergyman's wife, she would 
 frequently be without sympathy. There are 
 no matters in which so much practical good 
 is accomplished by the wives of the rural 
 clergy as in these confinements of the poor 
 women in their parishes. It is a matter 
 peculiarly within their sphere, and, to their 
 honour be it spoken, one which they carry 
 out to the utmost of their ability. 
 
 A cottage is at best a wretched place to be 
 ill in. It is a marvel how many poor women
 
 Ii6 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 escape at all, from the close atmosphere of 
 the low-pitched holes in which they are con- 
 fined. It is a wonder that, among the many 
 schemes of philanthropy which have attracted 
 attention of late years, something has not 
 been done for these poor creatures. Why 
 should not every large village or cluster 
 of villages there are often three or four 
 within a mile or two have their lying-in 
 hospitals, on the cottage hospital system ? 
 Scarcely any parish but has its so-called 
 charities money left by misguided but bene- 
 volent persons, for the purpose of annual 
 distribution in small doles of groats, or 
 loaves, or blankets. Often there is a piece 
 of land called " Poor's Mead," or some similar 
 name, which has been devised like this, the 
 annual rent from it to be applied for the poor. 
 As it is, the benefit from these charities is 
 problematical. If they were combined, and 
 the aggregate funds applied to maintain a 
 lying-in hospital for the district, a real and 
 efficient good would be arrived at. But of 
 all places, villages are neglected. Let it be 
 drainage, water supply, allotments anything 
 and everything the villages go on as they 
 may, the fault being the absence of local
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 117 
 
 authority. There are plenty of gentlemen 
 ready and willing to take part in and advance 
 such schemes, but there is no combination. 
 Spontaneous combination is uncertain in its 
 operation. If there were some system of 
 village self-government, these wants would 
 be soon supplied. It is true that there is the 
 Union Workhouse. A poor woman can go 
 to the workhouse ; but is it right, is it 
 desirable from any point of view, that decent 
 women should be driven to the workhouse 
 at such times ? As a matter of fact, it is 
 only the unfortunates who have illegitimate 
 children that use the workhouse lying-in 
 wards. Such an institution as has been 
 suggested would be gladly welcomed by the 
 agricultural poor. Most cottages have but 
 two bedrooms, some only one ; a better class 
 of cottage is now being gradually erected 
 with three, but even in these the third is 
 very small. Now, take the case of a 
 labouring man with seven or eight children, 
 and living in a cottage with two bedrooms, 
 and whose wife is confined ; and let it be 
 remembered that large families are common 
 amongst this class. The wife must certainly 
 have one room to herself and her attendant.
 
 n8 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 The father, then, and his children must crowd 
 into the other, or sleep as they can on the 
 ground-floor. In the case of nearly grown-up 
 children the overcrowding is a serious matter. 
 The relief afforded by a lying-in hospital 
 would be immense ; and the poor woman 
 herself would be restored to her family 
 with her health firmly re-established, whereas 
 now she often lingers in a sickly state for 
 months. 
 
 In the soft, warm summer-time, when the 
 midsummer hum of the myriads of insects in 
 the air sheds a drowsy harmony over the tree- 
 tops, the field-faring woman goes out to hay- 
 making, and leaves her baby in the shade by 
 the hedge-side. A wooden sheepcage, turned 
 upside down and filled with new-made hay, 
 forms not at all a despicable cradle ; and here 
 the little thing lies on its back and inhales 
 the fresh pure air, and feels the warmth of 
 the genial sun, cheered from time to time 
 by visits from its busy mother. Perhaps this 
 is the only true poetry of the hayfield, so much 
 talked of and praised. The mother works 
 with her rake, or with a shorter, smaller 
 prong ; and if it is a large farm, the women 
 are kept as much as possible together, for
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 119 
 
 their strength and skill will not allow them 
 to work at the same pace as the men, and if 
 they work in company the one hinders the 
 other. A man can do the work of two 
 women, and do it better in every way, besides 
 being capable of the heavier tasks of pitching, 
 cock-making, &c., which the women cannot 
 manage. Before the haymaking machines 
 and horse-rakes came into vogue, it was not 
 uncommon to see as many as twenty women 
 following each other in echelon, turning a 
 " wallow," or shaking up the green swathes 
 left by the mowers. Farmers were obliged 
 to employ them, but were never satisfied with 
 their work, which was the dearest they paid 
 for. Somehow, there was no finish to it. 
 Large numbers of women still work in the 
 hayfield, but they are not used in gangs so 
 much as formerly, but distributed about to 
 do light jobs for which a man cannot be 
 spared, and in these they are useful. The pay 
 used to be tenpence a day ; now it is one 
 shilling and a pint of beer per day, and in 
 some places fifteenpence. The Arcadian inno- 
 cence of the hayfield, sung by the poets, is 
 the most barefaced fiction ; for those times 
 are the rural saturnalia, and the broadest and
 
 120 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 coarsest of jokes and insinuations are freely 
 circulated ; nor does it always stop at language 
 only, provided the master be out of sight. 
 Matrons and young girls alike come in for an 
 equal share of this rude treatment, and are 
 quite a match for the men in the force of 
 compliment. The women leave work an hour 
 or so before the men, except when there is a 
 press, and the farmer is anxious to get in the 
 hay before a storm comes. It is not that 
 the hayfield itself originates this coarseness, 
 but this is almost the only time of the year 
 when the labouring classes work together in 
 large numbers. A great deal of farm-work is 
 comparatively solitary ; in harvest droves of 
 people are collected together, and the inherent 
 vulgarity comes out more strongly. At the 
 wheat-harvest the women go reaping, and 
 exceedingly hard they work at it. There is 
 no harder work done under the sun than 
 reaping, if it is well followed up. From 
 earliest dawn to latest night they swing the 
 sickles, staying with their husbands, and 
 brothers, and friends, till the moon silvers the 
 yellow corn. The reason is because reaping 
 is piece-work, and not paid by the day, so 
 that the longer and the harder they work the
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 121 
 
 more money is earned. In this a man's 
 whole family can assist. His wife, his 
 grown-up sons and daughters cut the corn, 
 the younger ones can carry it and aid in 
 various ways. 
 
 It is wonderful how the men stand the 
 excessive and continuous labour; it is still 
 more wonderful how the women endure it, 
 trying as it is to the back. It is the hottest 
 season of the year the early autumn ; the 
 sun burns and scorches, and the warm wind 
 gives no relief; even the evenings are close 
 and sultry. The heated earth reflects the 
 rays, and the straw is dry and warm to the 
 touch. The standing corn, nearly as high as 
 the reaper, keeps off the breeze, if there is 
 any, from her brow. Grasping the straw 
 continuously cuts and wounds the hand, and 
 even gloves will hardly give perfect pro- 
 tection. The woman's bare neck is turned 
 to the colour of tan ; her thin muscular arms 
 bronze right up to the shoulder. Short time 
 is allowed for refreshment ; right through the 
 hottest part of the day they labour. It is 
 remarkable that none, or very few, cases of 
 sunstroke occur. Cases of vertigo and vomit- 
 ing are frequent, but pass off in a few hours.
 
 122 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 Large quantities of liquor are taken to sus- 
 tain the frame weakened by perspiration. 
 
 When night does arrive, even then the 
 task is not over, for they have to carry home 
 on their heads the bundle of wheat gleaned 
 by the smaller children, and perhaps walk 
 two miles to the cottage. This is indeed 
 work for a woman still suckling her child. 
 It is not easy to calculate what a woman 
 earns at such seasons, because they rarely 
 work on their own account : either the father 
 or the husband receives the wages in a lump 
 with his own ; but it cannot be much less 
 than that earned by a man ; for at these 
 times they work with a will, and they do not 
 at the haymaking. While reaping the baby 
 is nestled down on a heap of coats or shawls 
 under the shelter of the shocks of corn, 
 which form a little hut for it, and, as in the 
 hayfield, is watched by one of the children. 
 Often three or four women will place their 
 babies close together, and leave one great 
 girl in charge of the whole, which is an 
 economy, releasing other children for work ; 
 for the hayfield and the corn-harvest are 
 the labourer's gold-mine. There is not so 
 much rough joking in the corn-field ; they
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 123 
 
 do not work so close together, and the hus- 
 band or father is near at hand ; neither is 
 there time nor inclination in the midst of 
 such severe labour, to which haymaking is 
 play. 
 
 Harvest-homes are going out of fashion. 
 After one of these feasts there was often 
 much that was objectionable ; and, wherever 
 possible, farmers have abolished them, giving 
 a small sum of money instead ; but in places 
 the labourers grumble greatly at the change, 
 preferring the bacon and the beer, and the 
 unrestrained license. It is noticeable how 
 the women must have their tea. If it is far 
 from home, the children collect sticks, and a 
 fire is made in a corner of the field, and the 
 kettle boiled ; and about four o'clock they 
 take a cup in company always weak tea, 
 with a little brown sugar and no milk, and 
 usually small pieces of bread sopped in it, 
 especially by the elder women. Tea is 
 largely used by the agricultural labourers, 
 though it does not by any means prevent 
 them from indulging in beer. SnuflP is not 
 taken by the women half so much as formerly, 
 though some of the old ones are very fond 
 of it.
 
 124 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 As soon as ever the child is old enough to 
 crawl about, it is sure to get out into the 
 road and roll in the dust. It is a curious 
 fact that the agricultural children, with every 
 advantage of green fields and wide open 
 downs, always choose the dusty hard road to 
 play in. They are free to wander as they 
 list over mead and leaze, and pluck the 
 flowers out of the hedges, and idle by the 
 brooks, all the year round, the latter part of 
 the spring, when the grass is nearly fit for 
 mowing, only excepted. Yet, excepting a few 
 of the elder boys birdnesting, it is the rarest 
 thing to meet a troop of children in the 
 fields ; but there they are in the road, the 
 younger ones sprawling in the dust, their 
 naked limbs kicking it up in clouds, and 
 the bigger boys clambering about in the 
 hedge-mound bounding the road, making 
 gaps, splashing in the dirty water of the 
 ditches. Hardy young dogs one and all. 
 Their food is of the rudest and scantiest, 
 chiefly weak tea, without milk, sweetened 
 with moist sugar, and hunches of dry bread, 
 sometimes with a little lard, or, for a treat, 
 with treacle. Butter is scarcely ever used in 
 the agricultural labourer's cottage. It is too
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 125 
 
 dear by far, and if he does buy fats, he 
 believes in the fats expressed from meats, and 
 prefers lard or dripping. Children are fre- 
 quently fed with bread and cheap sugar spread 
 on it. This is much cheaper than butter. 
 Sometimes they get a bit of cheese or bacon, 
 but not often, and a good deal of strong 
 cabbage, soddened with pot-liquor. The elder 
 boys get a little beer ; the young girls none, 
 save perhaps a sip from their mother's pint, in 
 summer. This is what they have to build up 
 a frame on capable of sustaining heat and 
 cold, exposure, and a life of endless labour. 
 The boys it seems to suit, for they are gene- 
 rally tolerably plump, though always very 
 short for their age. Frequently teams of 
 powerful horses drawing immense loads of 
 hay or straw may be seen on the highway, in 
 the charge of a boy who does not look ten 
 years old judged by the town standard, but 
 who is really fifteen. These short, broad, 
 stout lads, look able to stand anything, and 
 in point of fact do stand it, from the. kick of 
 a carter's heavy boot to the long and bitter 
 winter. If it is wished to breed up a race of 
 men literally " hard as nails," no better process 
 could be devised ; but, looked at from a
 
 126 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 mental and moral point of view, there may 
 be a difference of opinion. 
 
 The girls do not appear to thrive so well 
 upon this dietary. They are as tall as the 
 boys, taller if anything considering the ages, 
 but thin and skinny, angular and bony. At 
 seven or eight years old the girl's labour 
 begins. Before that she has been set to 
 mind the baby, or watch the pot, and to 
 scour about the hedges for sticks for the fire. 
 Now she has not only to mind the baby, but 
 to nurse it ; she carries it about with her in 
 her arms ; and really the infant looks almost 
 as large as herself, and its weight compels 
 her to lean backwards. She is left at home 
 all day in charge of the baby, the younger 
 children, and the cottage. Perhaps a little 
 bread is left for them to eat, but they get 
 nothing more till the mother returns about 
 half-past four, when, woe be to the girl if the 
 fire is not lit, and the kettle on. The girl 
 has to fetch the water often a hard and 
 tedious task, for many villages have a most 
 imperfect supply, and you may see the ditches 
 by the roadside dammed up to yield a little 
 dirty water. She may have to walk half-a- 
 mile to the brook, and then carry the bucket
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 127 
 
 home as best she may, and repeat the opera- 
 tion till sufficient has been acquired ; and 
 when her mother is washing, or, still worse, 
 is a washerwoman by profession, this is 
 her weary trudge all day. Of course 
 there are villages where water is at hand, 
 and sometimes too much of it. I know 
 a large village where the brook runs beside 
 the highway, and you have to pass over a 
 " drock," or small bridge, to get to each of the 
 cottages ; but such instances are rare. The 
 girl has also to walk into the adjacent town 
 and bring back the bread, particularly if 
 her mother happens to be receiving parish 
 pay. A little older at ten or eleven, 
 or twelve still more skinny and bony 
 now as a rule, she follows her mother to 
 the fields, and learns to pick up stones 
 from the young mowing grass, and place 
 them in heaps to be carted away to mend 
 drinking places for cattle. She learns to 
 beat clots and spread them with a small 
 prong; she works in the hayfield, and 
 gleans at the corn-harvest. Gleaning poeti- 
 cal gleaning is the most unpleasant and 
 uncomfortable of labour, tedious, slow, back- 
 aching work ; picking up ear by ear the
 
 128 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 dropped wheat, searching among the prickly 
 stubble. 
 
 Notwithstanding all her labour, and the 
 hardship she has to endure coarse fare, and 
 churlish treatment at the hands of those who 
 should love her most the little agricultural 
 girl still retains some of that natural inclina- 
 tion towards the pretty and romantic inherent 
 in the sex. In the spring she makes daisy 
 chains, and winds them round the baby's 
 neck ; or with the stalks of the dandelion 
 makes a chain several feet in length. She 
 plucks great bunches of the beautiful blue- 
 bell, and of the purple orchis of the meadow ; 
 gathers heaps of the cowslip, and after play- 
 ing with them a little while, they are left to 
 wither in the dust by the roadside, while she 
 is sent two or three miles with her father's 
 dinner. She chants snatches of rural songs, 
 and sometimes three or four together, joining 
 hands, dance slowly round and round, singing 
 slowly rude rhymes describing marriage 
 and not over decent some of these rhymes 
 are. She has no toys not one in twenty 
 such girls ever have a doll ; or, if they do, 
 it is but some stick dressed in a rag. Poor 
 things ! they need no artificial dolls ; so soon
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 129 
 
 as ever they can lift it, they are trusted with 
 the real baby. Her parents probably do not 
 mean to be unkind, and use makes this treat- 
 ment bearable, but to an outsider it seems 
 unnecessarily rough, and even brutal. Her 
 mother shouts at her in a shrill treble per- 
 petually ; her father enforces his orders with 
 a harsh oath and a slap. 
 
 The pressure of hard circumstances, the 
 endless battle with poverty, render men and 
 women both callous to others' feelings, and 
 particularly strict to those over whom they 
 possess unlimited authority. But the labourer 
 must not be judged too harshly : there is a 
 scale in these matters ; a proportion as in 
 everything else ; an oath from him, and even 
 a slap on the ear, is really the counterpart of 
 the frown and emphasised words of a father 
 in a more fortunate class of life ; and the 
 children do not feel it, or think it exception- 
 ally cruel, as the children of a richer man 
 would. Undoubtedly, however, it does lessen 
 the bond between child and parent. There 
 is little filial affection among these cottagers 
 how should there be ? The boy is driven 
 away from home as early as possible ; the 
 girl is made day by day to feel her fault in
 
 130 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 being a girl ; to neither can the poor man 
 give any small present, or any occasional 
 treat. What love there is lasts longest be- 
 tween the mother and her daughter. The 
 only way in which a labourer exhibits his 
 affection is when another labourer in autho- 
 rity, as a carter, ill-treats his boy a too 
 common case and then he speaks loudly, 
 and very properly. But even in most serious 
 matters there is a strange callousness. I have 
 known instances in which a father, aware that 
 a criminal assault has been attempted by 
 another labourer upon a tender child of 
 twelve, has refused to prosecute, and the 
 brutal offender would have escaped without 
 the slightest punishment had not the clergy- 
 man heard of the story. 
 
 The slow years roll by they are indeed 
 slow in an agricultural village and the girl, 
 now fifteen, has to go regularly to work in 
 the fields ; that is, if the family be not mean- 
 time largely increased. She has in this latter 
 case plenty of work at home to assist her 
 mother. Cottagers are not over-clean, but 
 they are not wilfully dirty in their houses ; 
 and with a large family there is much wash- 
 ing and other domestic matters to attend to,
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 131 
 
 which the mother, now fast growing feeble, 
 cannot get through herself. In harvest the 
 women get up at four or earlier, and do their 
 household work before starting for the fields. 
 But, perhaps, by this time another girl has 
 grown up sufficiently to nurse baby, mind the 
 young ones, and do slave's work generally. 
 Then the elder daughter goes to the fields 
 daily when there is work to be had. In 
 arable districts the women do much work, 
 picking couch grass a tedious operation 
 and hoeing. They never or rarely milk now. 
 In the dead of winter there is nothing for 
 women to do. At this age fifteen or six- 
 teen the girl perhaps goes out to service at 
 some farmhouse. If she is fortunate enough 
 to enter the house of one of the modern class 
 of farmers, it is a lucky day for her when she 
 begins indoor labour. It is to be feared that 
 the life of a girl of this kind in the old time, 
 and not so long ago, in the houses of the 
 poorer order of farmers, was a rough one 
 indeed. But much of that is past, never to 
 return, and our business is with the present. 
 Where they have a dairy she has to clean the 
 buckets and milk-cans and other utensils, to 
 help turn the cheeses, and assist the dairy-
 
 132 FIELD-FAKING WOMEN. 
 
 maid (a most important personage this last) 
 in all kinds of ways. The work is coarse and 
 rude, but it only lasts a portion of the day, 
 and she has regular and ample meals. The 
 bacon and cheese soon begin to tell upon her. 
 The angular bones disappear, the skinny arms 
 grow round, and presently enormously fat- 
 not much the prettier, perhaps, but far more 
 pleasant to look at. Her face loses the 
 pinched expression ; her cheeks become full, 
 and round, and rosy ; in every way her physi- 
 cal frame improves. It is wonderful what 
 a difference a few months in a good farm- 
 house makes to a girl of this kind. She soon 
 begins to dress better, not from her wages, 
 for these are small enough, and may com- 
 mence as low as ^4 ; but her mistress gives 
 her many things, and, if she is a good girl, 
 buys her a dress now and then ; and with 
 the shilling or two she asks in advance, she 
 purchases cheap ornaments of the pedlar at 
 the door. Her life is low enougli socially 
 it is almost an annual round of working, eat- 
 ing, and sleeping (no one sleeps like a farm- 
 wench) ; but it is an infinite improvement 
 upon the struggle for existence at the cottage. 
 She has no trouble, no thought, no care now.
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 133 
 
 Her mistress may snap occasionally, her 
 master may grumble, and the dairymaid may 
 snarl ; but there are no slaps on the ear, 
 no kicks, no going to bed supperless. In 
 summer she goes out in the afternoon hay- 
 making as an extra hand, but only works a 
 few hours, and it is really only a relaxation. 
 She picks up some knowledge of cooking, 
 learns how to make herself useful in the 
 house, and in the course of a year or two, 
 if moderately sharp, is capable of rising a 
 degree, and obtaining a better salary as a 
 maid-servant, having nothing to do with a 
 dairy. The four or five pounds with which 
 she commences may seem a very low sum, 
 but the state of her domestic education at 
 the time must be taken into consideration. 
 She has to learn everything. All the years 
 spent in working in the cottage at home have 
 to be unlearnt all the old habits replaced by 
 new ones. After the first year or so her value 
 rises considerably ; she may continue in the 
 house at a higher salary, or go into the town 
 as maid-servant in a tradesman's family. A 
 large proportion of servant-girls thus find 
 their way from the country into the town. 
 With these we have nothing further to do
 
 134 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 they are no longer field-fa vers. A few after 
 several years learn the art and mystery of 
 butter and cheese, and become dairymaids ; 
 and then, if they are clever, earn good wages 
 indeed, fabulous prices are asked by them. 
 There are not, however, so many dairymaids 
 as formerly, for the small dairies are getting 
 amalgamated and made into larger ones, and 
 then the farmer, if he makes butter and 
 cheese, employs a dairyman in preference. 
 This rise to be maid-servant, or to be dairy- 
 maid, is the bright side of the girl's career. 
 There are darker shades which must be 
 mentioned. 
 
 The overcrowding in cottages leads to what 
 may be called an indifference to decency. It 
 is not that in families decency is wantonly 
 and of a set purpose disregarded, but stern 
 necessity leads to a coarseness and indelicacy 
 which hardens the mind and deadens the 
 natural modesty even of the best girls. Then 
 the low scandals of the village talked over 
 from cottage to cottage, the rude jokes of the 
 hayfield, the general looseness and indiffer- 
 ence which prevail as to morality, all prepare 
 the girl for the too common fall. If she 
 remains at home and works in the fields after
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 13$ 
 
 the age of fifteen, unless uncommonly strong- 
 minded, it is an open question whether she 
 will or will not succumb. If she goes into a 
 farmhouse as servant, the chances are in 
 favour of her escaping temptation. But in 
 farmhouses she may also sometimes run into 
 the very jaws of danger. It is not uncommon 
 in some districts for young labourers to sleep 
 in the house, one or two who milk and have 
 to be on the spot early. These take their 
 supper in the kitchen or the brewhouse, and, 
 despite the strictest precautions on the part 
 of the mistress, enjoy plenty of opportunities 
 for flirting with the girl. Young, full of 
 animal spirits, giddy and ignorant, she thinks 
 no harm of a romp, and finally falls, and has 
 to leave her service. If a little may be said 
 in favour of the poor girls, not a word can be 
 said in favour of the agricultural men, who 
 are immoral almost without exception, and 
 will remain so until a better-educated genera- 
 tion with more self-respect arises. The number 
 of poor girls, from fifteen to five-and-twenty, 
 in agricultural parishes who have illegitimate 
 offspring is extremely large, and is illustrated 
 by the fact that, out of the marriages that 
 take place and agricultural poor are a
 
 136 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 marrying class scarcely any occur until the 
 condition of the girl is too manifest' to be 
 any longer concealed. Instances could be 
 mentioned where the clergyman's wife, with 
 a view to check the immorality around her, 
 has offered a reward of a piece of furniture to 
 the first married woman who does not bear 
 a child till nine months after marriage; the 
 custom being within three months. The 
 frequency of the appeals to the petty sessions 
 in rural districts for orders of contribution, by 
 young unmarried girls, also illustrates the 
 prevalent immorality. Of late the magistrates 
 have taken the line of ordering contribu- 
 tions on a higher scale, on the grounds that 
 the labourer earns larger wages, and that 
 the cost of living has risen, and also as a 
 check upon the men. This well-intentioned 
 step has had the precisely opposite effect 
 to what was wished. The labourer with 
 higher wages feels the demand upon his 
 pocket but very little more. The cost of 
 living in rural outlying districts has risen 
 only to a very trifling degree barely per- 
 ceptibly, in fact. Bread is cheap that is 
 the staple rents are the same, and there are 
 more allotments than ever, making vege-
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 137 
 
 tables more easy to obtain. The result, 
 therefore, is this, that the girl feels she 
 can sin with comparative immunity. She is 
 almost sure to get her order (very few such 
 appeals are refused) ; let this be supple- 
 mented with some aid from the parish, and 
 she is none the worse off than before, for 
 there is no prejudice against employing her 
 in the fields. Should her fall take place 
 with some young farmer's son from whom she 
 may get a larger contribution in private, or 
 by order of the magistrates, she is really and 
 truly in a pecuniary sense better off than she 
 was before, for she has a certain fixed in- 
 come. The evil is aggravated by the new 
 law, which enables the order to be extended 
 over a longer term of years than formerly, so 
 that for fifteen years is a common thing. If 
 it is decided to recognise immorality, and 
 to provide against the woman being unduly 
 injured by it, then these orders are certainly 
 the correct procedure ; but if it is desired 
 to suppress it, then they are a total failure. 
 The girl who has had an illegitimate child 
 is thought very little the worse of by her 
 friends and her own class, especially if 
 her seducer is a man who can afford to
 
 I 3 8 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 pay for it that is the grand point. If she 
 is fool enough to yield to a man who is 
 badly off, she may be jeered at as a fool, 
 but rarely reprimanded as a sinner, not even 
 by her own mother. Such things are not 
 looked upon by the rural poor as sins, but 
 as accidents of their condition. 
 
 It is easy to be hard upon the poor girls, 
 but consider their training. Many of them 
 cannot read or write ; how many even can 
 sew well? The cottage girl is always a 
 poor hand at her needle, and has to be 
 taught by the elder servants when she first 
 goes into her place. Accustomed from 
 childhood to what would be considered 
 abominable indecency in a higher class of 
 life ; constantly hearing phrases which it is 
 impossible to allude to ; running wild about 
 the lanes and fields with stalwart young men 
 coarser and ruder than those at home ; seeing 
 other girls none the worse off, and commi- 
 serated with rather than condemned, what 
 wonder is it if the natural result takes place ? 
 The fairs have been credited with much of 
 the mischief, and undoubtedly they are pro- 
 ductive of evil ; but if they were abolished, 
 the average would in all probability remain
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 139 
 
 about the same. The evil is inherent, and 
 does not depend upon circumstances. It is 
 the outcome of a long series of generations ; 
 it cannot be overcome in a decade. Educa- 
 tion will do much, but not all. Youth is 
 always led by the tone of the elder people. 
 Until the tone of the parent is improved, the 
 conduct of the young will remain much the 
 same. The more distant a parish from a 
 town, the more outlying and strictly agricul- 
 tural, and therefore stagnant, the greater 
 the immorality. It is the one blot upon the 
 chara cter of the agricultural poor. They are 
 not thieves, they are not drunkards ; if they 
 do drink they are harmless, and it evapo- 
 rates in shouting and slang. They are 
 not riotous ; but the immorality cannot be 
 gainsaid. No specific cure for this state of 
 things can be devised : it must slowly work 
 itself out under the gradual pressure of an 
 advancing social state. It will be slow ; for, 
 up to the present, the woman has had but a 
 small share of the benefit that has befallen 
 the labourer through higher wages. If 
 higher wages mainly go for drink, the wife 
 at home is not much the better. The 
 women say themselves they are no better off.
 
 140 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 If the girl at eighteen or twenty in most 
 agricultural marriages the girls are very young 
 is fortunate enough to have placed her faith 
 in a man who redeems his word, then comes 
 the difficulty of the cottage and the furniture 
 to fill it. Cottages are often difficult to find, 
 especially anywhere near a man's work, which 
 is the great object. The furniture required 
 is not much, but there must be some. The 
 labourer does not deal much with the town 
 furniture-dealer. A great deal of the furni- 
 ture in cottages has been picked up at the 
 sales of farmers on quitting their tenancies. 
 Such are the old chairs, the formal sideboards 
 and eight-day clocks standing in tall, square 
 oaken cases by the staircase in the cottage. 
 Such, too, are the great wooden bedsteads of 
 oak or maple upstairs ; and from the same 
 source come the really good feather-beds and 
 blankets. The women especially the elder 
 women go to great trouble, and pinch them- 
 selves, to find a way of purchasing a good 
 bed, and set no small pride upon it. These 
 old oaken bedsteads, and sideboards, and 
 chairs have perhaps been in the farmhouse 
 for three or four generations, and are at last 
 sold because the final representative of the
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 141 
 
 family is imbued with modern ideas, and quits 
 farming for trade. The cottagers always 
 attend sales like this, and occasionally get 
 hold of good bargains, and so it is that really 
 good substantial furniture may often be found 
 in the possession of the better class of 
 labourers. The old people accumulate these 
 things, and when their sons or daughters 
 marry, can generally spare a few chairs, a 
 bedstead and bed, and with a little crockery 
 from other relations, and a few utensils bought 
 in the adjacent town, the cottage is furnished 
 sufficiently well for a couple whose habits are 
 necessarily simple. After marriage the hard 
 work of the woman's life really begins work 
 compared with which her early experience at 
 home is nothing ; and many, if they have left 
 situations in farmhouses, deeply regret the 
 change. The labourer can hardly be expected 
 to feel the more exalted sentiments ; and if 
 in the upper classes even it is said that 
 romance ends with marriage, it is doubly, 
 literally true of the agricultural poor. In 
 addition to her household work, she has to 
 labour in the fields, or to wash perhaps 
 worse than the former alternative ; and after 
 a while her husband, too commonly wearying
 
 I 4 2 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 of his home, in which he finds nothing but a 
 tired woman and troublesome children, leaves 
 her for the public-house, and consumes two- 
 thirds of their slender income in beer. The 
 attachment of the woman for her husband 
 lasts longer than that of the man for the 
 woman. Even when he has become a con- 
 firmed drunkard, and her life with incessant 
 labour has become a burden to her, she will 
 struggle on, striving to get bread for the 
 children and the rent for the landlord. She 
 knows that as evening comes on, instead of 
 sitting down to rest, her duty will be to go 
 down to the public-house and wait till it 
 pleases her lord and master to try to stagger 
 home, and then to guide his clumsy steps to 
 the threshold. Of course there are wives 
 who become as bad as their husbands, who 
 drink, or do worse, and neglect their homes, 
 but they are the exception. As a rule, the 
 woman, once married, does her best to keep 
 her home together. 
 
 The wife of the labourer does not get her 
 shins smashed with heavy kicks from hob- 
 nailed boots, such as the Lancashire ruffians 
 administer ; but, although serious wife-beating 
 cases are infrequent, there are few women
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 143 
 
 who escape an occasional blow from their 
 husbands. Most of them get a moderate 
 amount of thrashing in the course of their 
 lives, and take it much as they take the hard- 
 ships and poverty of their condition, as a 
 necessity not to be escaped. The labourer is 
 not downright brutal to his wife, but he cer- 
 tainly thinks he has a right to chastise her 
 when she displeases him. Once in authority, 
 the labourer is stern, hard, and inconsiderate 
 of the feelings of others, and he is in autho- 
 rity in his own cottage. The wife has been 
 accustomed to such treatment more or less 
 from her childhood ; she has been slapped 
 and banged about at home, and therefore 
 thinks comparatively little of a blow from her 
 husband's hand. The man does not mean it 
 so brutally as it appears to outsiders. This 
 semi-wife-beating is only too prevalent. 
 
 Does the incessant labour undergone by 
 an agricultural woman result in ill effects to 
 her physical frame ? The day-work in the 
 fields, the haymaking, and such labour as is 
 paid for by the day and not by the piece, 
 cannot do any injury, for it is light, and the 
 hours are short. In some districts the women 
 do not come before half-past eight, and leave
 
 144 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 a little after four, and they have a long hour 
 out for dinner. It is the piece-work of the 
 corn-harvest that tries the frame, when work 
 begins at sunrise or shortly after, and lasts 
 till the latest twilight, and when it is work, 
 real muscular strain. This cannot but leave 
 its mark. Otherwise the field is not injurious 
 to the woman so far as the labour is con- 
 cerned, and the exposure is not so great 
 as has been supposed, because women are 
 scarcely ever expected to work in wet weather. 
 The worst of the exposure is probably endured 
 upon the arable fields in the bitter winds of 
 spring ; but this does not last very long. In 
 what way field-labour is degrading to the 
 women it is difficult to understand. The 
 only work of a disgusting nature now per- 
 formed by women is the beating of clots on 
 pasture-land, and that is quickly over. After 
 all, there is nothing so very dreadful in it. 
 Stone-picking, couch-clearing, hoeing, hay- 
 making, reaping, certainly none of these are 
 in any way disgusting operations. Women 
 do not attend to cattle now. As to the im- 
 morality, undoubtedly a great deal of what 
 is coarse and rude does pass upon the hay- 
 field, but the hayfield does not originate it ;
 
 FIELD FARING WOMEN. 145 
 
 if the same men and women met elsewhere, 
 the same jokes would be uttered and conduct 
 indulged in. The position of agricultural 
 women is a painful one to contemplate, and 
 their lives full of hardships ; but field-labour 
 cannot be fairly accused as the cause of the 
 evils they endure. Their strength is over- 
 strained in the cornfield ; but what can you 
 do? It is their gold-mine their one grand 
 opportunity of getting a little money. It 
 would be cruel kindness to deny it to them ; 
 and, in point of fact, except by interfering 
 with the liberty of the subject, it would be 
 impossible to prevent them. Farm-labour is 
 certainly to be preferred to much of the work 
 that women do in manufacturing districts. 
 At least there is no overcrowding ; there is 
 plenty of fresh air, and the woman who works 
 in the field looks quite as robust and healthy 
 as her sister sitting all day in a confined 
 factory. 
 
 It used to be common to see women 
 dressed in a kind of smock-frock ; this was 
 in the days when they milked, and it is still 
 occasionally worn. Now they generally wear 
 linsey dresses in the winter, and cotton in 
 the summer, at prices from 4^d. to 6d. per
 
 146 FIELD-1-AR1NG WOMEN. 
 
 yard. They wear boots nailed and tipped 
 much like the men, but not so heavy, and in 
 rough weather corduroy gaiters. Their cook- 
 ing is rude and detestable to any one else's 
 ideas ; but it appears exactly suited to the 
 coarse tastes and hearty appetite of their 
 husbands. Being uneducated, and a large 
 proportion unable to read, their chief in- 
 tellectual amusement consists in tittle-tattle 
 and gossip. They are generally inclined to 
 be religious after a fashion, and frequent the 
 chapel or the cottage in which the itiner- 
 ant preacher holds forth. In summer this 
 preacher will mount upon a waggon placed 
 in a field by the roadside, and draw a large 
 audience, chiefly women, who loudly respond 
 and groan and mutter after the most approved 
 manner. Now and then an elderly woman 
 may be found who is considered to have a 
 gift of preaching, and holds forth at great 
 length, quoting Scripture right and left. 
 The exhibitions of emotion on the part of 
 the women at such meetings and in the 
 services in their cottages are not pleasant to 
 listen to, but the impression left on the mind 
 is that they are in earnest. 
 
 They are a charitable race, and eager to
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 147 
 
 help each other. They will watch by the 
 bedsides of their sick neighbours, divide the 
 loaf of bread, look after the children, and 
 trudge weary miles to the town for medicine. 
 On the other hand, they are almost childlike 
 in imbibing jealousies and hatreds, and un- 
 sparing in abuse and imputation towards a 
 supposed enemy. They are bolder in speech 
 than their husbands to those who occupy 
 higher places in the social scale. It cannot 
 be said that agricultural women are hand- 
 
 O 
 
 some. In childhood they are too often thin 
 and stunted ; later they shoot up and grow 
 taller, but remain thin and bony till from 
 eighteen to twenty, when they get plumper, 
 and then is their period of prettiness, if at all. 
 Bright eyes, clear complexions, and glossy 
 hair form their attractions, for their features 
 are scarcely ever good. The brief beauty of 
 the prime of youth speedily fades, and at 
 five-and-twenty the agricultural woman, espe- 
 cially if married, is pale or else burnt by the 
 sun to a brown, with flat chest and rounded 
 shoulders. It is rare indeed to see a woman < 
 with any pretensions to what is called a 
 figure. It would be wonderful if there were, 
 for much of the labour induces a stooping
 
 i 4 8 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 position, ad they are never taught when 
 young to sit upright. 
 
 Growing plainer and plainer as years go 
 by, the elder women are wrinkled and worn- 
 looking, and have contracted a perpetual 
 stoop. Many live to a great age. In small 
 parishes it is common to find a large number 
 of women of seventy and eighty, and there 
 are few cottages which do not contain an old 
 woman. This is hardly a result in accord- 
 ance with the labour they have undergone. 
 The explanation probably is that, continued 
 through a series of generations, it has pro- 
 duced a strength and stamina which can 
 survive almost anything. Certain it is that 
 young couples about to marry often experi- 
 ence much difficulty in finding cottages, 
 because they are occupied by extremely aged 
 pairs ; and landlords, anxious to tear down 
 and remove old cottages tumbling to pieces, 
 are restrained from doing so out of regard 
 for the aged tenants, who cling with a 
 species of superstitious tenderness to the 
 crumbling walls and decayed thatch. At 
 this age, at seventy-five or even eighty, the 
 agricultural woman retains a strength of 
 body astonishing to a town-bred woman.
 
 FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 149 
 
 She will walk eight or ten miles, without 
 apparent fatigue, to and from the nearest 
 town for her provisions. She will almost 
 to the last carry her prong out into the hay- 
 field, and do a little work in some corner, 
 and bear her part in the gleaning after the 
 harvest. She lives almost entirely upon 
 weak tea and bread sops. Her mental 
 powers continue nearly unimpaired, and her 
 eyes are still good, though her teeth have 
 long gone. She will laugh over memories 
 of practical jokes played at harvest-homes 
 half-a-century ago ; and slowly spells over 
 the service in a prayer-book which asks 
 blessings upon a king instead of a queen. 
 She often keeps the village "confectioner's" 
 shop i.e., a few bottles of sweets and 
 jumbles in the window, side by side with 
 " twists "of whipcord for the ploughboys and 
 carters, and perhaps has a license for tobacco 
 and snuff. 
 
 But long before this age they have in most 
 cases been kept by the parish. The farmers 
 who form the guardians know well the 
 history of the poor of their parishes, and 
 remembering the long years of hard work, 
 always allow as liberal a relief as they can to
 
 ISO FIELD-FARING WOMEN. 
 
 these women. Out of all their many children 
 and grandchildren, it may happen that one 
 has got on fairly well in life, has a business 
 as a blacksmith, or tinker, or carpenter, and 
 gives her a shilling or so a week ; and a 
 shilling goes a long way with a woman who 
 lives upon tea and sops. In their latter days 
 these women resemble the pollard oaks, 
 which linger on year after year, and finally 
 fall from sheer decay.
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 IT is easy to pass along a country road with- 
 out observing half of the farmhouses, so many 
 being situated at a distance from the high- 
 way, and others hidden by the thick hedges 
 and the foliage of the trees. This is especially 
 the case in districts chiefly occupied in pasture 
 farming, meadow land being usually found 
 along the banks of rivers, on broad level 
 plains, or in slightly undulating prairie-like 
 country. A splendid belt of meadows -often 
 runs at the base of the chalk hills, where the 
 springs break out; and it is here that some 
 of the most beautiful pastoral scenery is to 
 be found. 
 
 By the side of the highway there are gates 
 at intervals in the close-cropped hedge kept 
 close-cropped by the strict orders of the road 
 surveyors giving access to the green fields 
 through which runs a waggon-track, appa- 
 rently losing itself in the grass. This track
 
 152 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 will take the explorer to a farmhouse. It is 
 not altogether pleasant to drive over in a 
 spring trap, as the wheels jolt in the hard ruts, 
 and the springs are shaken in the deep furrows, 
 the vehicle going up and down like a boat 
 upon the waves. Why there should be such 
 furrows in a meadow is a question that 
 naturally arises in the mind. Whether it be 
 mown with the scythe or the mowing-machine, 
 it is of advantage to have the surface of the 
 field as nearly as possible level; and it is 
 therefore most probable that these deep 
 furrows had their origin at a period when 
 a different state of things prevailed, when the 
 farmer strove to grow as much wheat as 
 possible, and devoted, every acre that he dared 
 break up to the plough. Many of these fields 
 were ill adapted for the growth of corn, the 
 soil unsuitable and liable to be partially 
 flooded ; consequently as soon as the market 
 was opened, and the price of wheat declined, 
 so that rapid fortunes could no longer be 
 made by it, the fields were allowed to return to 
 their natural condition. No trouble was taken 
 to relevel the land, and the furrows remain 
 silent witnesses to the past. They are useful 
 as drains it is true ; but, being so broad, the
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 153 
 
 water only passes off slowly and encourages 
 the rough grass and " bull-polls " to spring 
 up, which are as uneatable by cattle as the 
 Australian spinifex. 
 
 The waggon-track is not altogether credit- 
 able to the farmer, who would, one would have 
 thought, have had a good road up to his house 
 at all events. It is very wide, and in damp 
 weather every one who drives along it goes 
 further and further out into the grass to find a 
 firm spot, till as much space is rendered barren 
 as by one of the great hedges, now so abomi- 
 nated. The expense of laying down stone is 
 considerable in some localities where the 
 geological formation does not afford quarries ; 
 yet even then there is a plan, simple in itself, 
 but rarely resorted to, by which a great saving 
 in outlay may be effected. Any one who will 
 look at a cart-track will see that there are three 
 parallel marks left by the passage of the cart 
 upon the ground. The two outside ruts are 
 caused by the wheels, and between these is a 
 third beaten in by the hoofs of the horse. 
 The plan consists in placing stone, broken up 
 small, not across the whole width of the track, 
 but in these three ruts only ; for it is in these 
 ruts alone that the wear takes place, and, if
 
 154 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 the ground were firm there, no necessity 
 would exist to go farther into the field. To 
 be thoroughly successful, a trench, say six or 
 eight inches wide, and about as deep, should 
 be cut in the place of each rut, and these 
 trenches macadamised. Grass grows freely 
 in the narrow green strips between the ruts, 
 and the track has something of the appearance 
 of a railroad. It is astonishing how long 
 these metals, as it were, will last, when once 
 well put down ; and the track has a neat, 
 effective look. The foot-passenger is as much 
 benefited as the tenant of the field. In wet 
 weather he walks upon the macadamised strip 
 dryshod, and in summer upon either of the 
 grass strips, easily and comfortably, without 
 going out into the mowing-grass to have the 
 pleasure of turf under his feet. 
 
 These deep furrows are also awkward to 
 cross with heavy loads of hay or straw, and 
 it requires much skill to build a load able to 
 withstand the severe jolting and lurching. 
 Some of the worst are often filled up with a 
 couple of large faggots in the harvest season. 
 These tracks run by the side of the hedge, 
 and the ditches are crossed by bridges or 
 "drocks." The last gate opens into a small
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 155 
 
 field surrounded with a high thick hawthorn 
 hedge, itself a thing of beauty in May and 
 June, first with the May blossom and after- 
 wards with the delicate-tinted dog or wild 
 roses. A spreading ash-tree stands on either 
 side of the gateway, from which on King 
 Charles's day the ploughboys carefully select 
 small branches, those with the leaves evenly 
 arranged, instead of odd numbers, to place 
 in their hats. Tall elm-trees grow close 
 together in the hedge and upon the " shore " 
 of the ditch, enclosing the place in a high 
 wall of foliage. In the branches are the 
 rooks' nests, built of small twigs apparently 
 thrown together, and yet so firmly intertwined 
 as to stand the swaying of the tree-tops in the 
 rough blasts of winter. In the spring the 
 rook builds a second nest on the floor of 
 the old one, and this continues till five or six 
 successive layers may be traced ; and when 
 at last some ruder tempest strews the grass 
 with its ruin, there is enough wood to fill a 
 bushel basket. 
 
 The dovecot is fixed in the fork of one of 
 the larger elms, where the trunk divides into 
 huge boughs, each the size of a tree ; and in 
 the long rank grass near the hedge the backs
 
 156 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 of a black Berkshire pig or two may be seen 
 like porpoises rolling in the green sea. Here 
 and there an ancient apple-tree, bent down 
 and bowed to the ground with age, offers a 
 mossy, shady seat upon one of its branches 
 which has returned to the earth from which 
 it sprung. Some wooden posts grown green 
 and lichen-covered, standing at regular inter- 
 vals, show where the housewife dries her 
 linen. Right before the very door a great 
 horse-chestnut tree rears itself in all the 
 beauty of its thousands of blossoms, hiding 
 half the house. A small patch of ground 
 in front is railed in with wooden palings 
 to keep out the pigs, and poultry, and dogs 
 for almost every visitor brings with him one 
 or more dogs and in this narrow garden 
 grow velvety wall -flowers, cloves, pinks, 
 shrubs of lavender, and a few herbs which 
 are useful for seasoning. The house is built 
 of brick ; but the colour is toned down by 
 age, and against the wall a pear-tree is trained 
 upon one side, and upon the other a cherry- 
 tree, so that at certain seasons one may rise 
 in the morning and gather the fresh fruits 
 from the window. The lower windows 
 were once latticed ; but the old frames have
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 157 
 
 been replaced with the sash, which, if not 
 so picturesque, affords more light, and most 
 old farmhouses are deficient in the supply of 
 light. The upper windows remain latticed 
 still. The red tiles of the roof are dull 
 with lichen and the beating of the weather ; 
 and the chimney, if looked at closely, is full 
 of tiny holes it is where the leaden pellets 
 from guns fired at the mischievous starlings 
 have struck the bricks. A pair of doves 
 perched upon the roof-tree coo amorously to 
 each other, and a thin streak of blue smoke 
 rises into the still air. 
 
 The door is ajar, or wide open. There is 
 no fear here of thieves, or street-boys throw- 
 ing stones into the hall. Excepting in rain 
 or rough wind, and at night, that front door 
 will be open almost all the summer long. 
 When shut at night it is fastened with a 
 wooden bar passing across the whole width 
 of the door, and fitting into iron staples on 
 each post a simple contrivance, but very 
 strong and not easily tampered with. Many 
 of the interior doors still open with the old 
 thumb-latch ; but the piece of shoe-string to 
 pull and lift it is now relegated to the cot- 
 tages, and fast disappearing even there before
 
 158 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 brass-handled locks. This house is not old 
 enough to possess the nail-studded door of 
 solid oak and broad stone-built porch of some 
 farmhouses still occasionally to be found, and 
 which date from the sixteenth century. The 
 porch here simply projects about two feet, 
 and is supported by trellis-work, up which 
 the honeysuckle has been trained. A path 
 of stone slabs leads from the palings up to 
 the threshold, and the hall within is paved 
 with similar flags. The staircase is opposite 
 the doorway, narrow, and guiltless of oilcloth 
 or. carpeting ; and with reason, for the tips 
 and nails of the heavy boots which tramp up 
 and down it would speedily wear carpets into 
 rags. There is a door at the bottom of the 
 staircase closed at night. By the side of the 
 staircase is a doorway which leads into the 
 dairy two steps lower than the front of the 
 house. 
 
 The sitting-room is on the left of the hall, 
 and the floor is of the same cold stone flags, 
 which in damp weather become wet and 
 slimy. These flags, in fact, act as a baro- 
 meter, and foretell rain with great accuracy, 
 as it were perspiring with latent moisture at 
 its approach. The chimney was originally
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 159 
 
 constructed for a wood fire upon the hearth, 
 and of enormous size, so that several sides of 
 bacon could be hung up inside to be smoke- 
 dried. The fireplace was very broad, so that 
 huge logs could be thrown at once upon the 
 fire with very little trouble of sawing them 
 short. Since coal has come into general use, 
 and wood grown scarce, the fireplace has been 
 partly built up and an iron grate inserted, 
 which looks out of place in so large a cavity. 
 The curious fire-dogs, upon which the wood 
 was thrown, may still, perhaps, be found 
 upstairs in some corner of the lumber-room. 
 On the mantelpiece are still preserved, well 
 polished and bright, the several pieces of the 
 "jack" or cooking apparatus; and a pair of 
 great brazen candlesticks ornament it at each 
 end. A leaden or latten tobacco-bowl, a 
 brazen pestle and mortar, and half-a-dozen 
 odd figures in china, are also scattered upon 
 it, surmounted by a narrow looking-glass. 
 In one corner stands an old eight-day clock 
 with a single hour hand minute hands being 
 a modern improvement ; but it is silent, and 
 its duties are performed by an American time- 
 piece supported upon a bracket against the 
 wall. Upstairs, however, upon the landing,
 
 160 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 a similar ancient piece of clockmaking still 
 ticks solemn and slow with a ponderous 
 melancholy. The centre of the room is occu- 
 pied with an oaken table, solid and enduring, 
 but inconvenient to sit at ; and upon each 
 side of the fireplace is a stiff-backed arm-chair. 
 A ledge under the window forms a pleasant 
 seat in summer. Before the fireplace is a 
 rug, the favourite resort of the spaniels and 
 cats. The rest of the floor used to be bare ; 
 but of late years a square of cocoanut mat- 
 ting has been laid down. A cumbrous piece 
 of furniture takes up almost half of one side 
 not known in modern manufactories. It 
 is of oak, rudely polished, and inlaid with 
 brass. At the bottom are great deep drawers, 
 pulled open with brass rings ornamented with 
 dogs' heads. In these drawers are kept cow- 
 drenches bottles of oils for the wounds which 
 cattle sometimes get from nails or kicks ; 
 dog-whips and priming-knives ; a shot-belt 
 and powder-flask; an old horse-pistol; a dozen 
 odd stones or fossils picked up upon the 
 farm and kept as curiosities ; twenty or thirty 
 old almanacs, and a file of the county paper 
 for forty years ; and a hundred similar odds 
 and ends. Above the drawers comes a desk
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 161 
 
 with a few pigeon-holes ; a desk little used, 
 for the farmer is less of a literary turn than 
 almost any other class. The pigeon-holes 
 are stuffed full of old papers, fecipes for cattle 
 medicines, and, perhaps, a book of divinity 
 or sermons printed in the days of Charles II., 
 leather-covered and worm-eaten. Still higher 
 are a pair of cupboards where china, the tea- 
 set, and the sugar and groceries in immediate 
 use are kept. On the top, which is three or 
 four inches under the ceiling, are two or three 
 small brown-paper parcels of grass seeds, and 
 a variety of nondescript articles. Opposite, 
 on the other wall, and close above the chim- 
 neypiece, so as to be kept dry, is the gun- 
 rack with two double-barrels, a long single- 
 barrel duck gun, and a cavalry sabre, worn 
 once a year by a son of the house who goes 
 out to training in the yeomanry. 
 
 There are a few pictures, not of a high 
 class three or four prints depicting Dick 
 Turpin's ride to York, and a coloured sketch 
 of some steeplechase winner, or a copy of a 
 well-known engraving representing a feat 
 accomplished many years ago at a farm. A 
 flock of sheep were shorn, the wool carded 
 and spun, and a coat made of it, and worn
 
 1 62 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 by the flockowner, and all in one day. From 
 this room a door opens into the cellar and 
 pantry, partly underground, and reached by 
 three or four stps. 
 
 On the other side of the hall is the parlour, 
 which was originally floored, like the sitting- 
 room, with stone flags, since taken up and 
 replaced by boards. This is carpeted, and 
 contains a comfortable old-fashioned sofa, 
 horse-hair chairs, and upon the side tables 
 may, perhaps, be found a few specimens of 
 valuable old china, made to do duty as flower- 
 vases, and filled with roses. The room has a 
 fresh, sweet smell from the open window and 
 the flowers. It tempts almost irresistibly to 
 repose in the noontide heat of a summer's 
 day. 
 
 Upstairs there are two fair-sized bedrooms, 
 furnished with four-post wooden bedsteads. 
 The second flight of stairs, going up to the 
 attic, has also a door at the foot. This house 
 is built upon a simple but effective design, 
 well calculated for the purposes to be served. 
 It resembles two houses placed not end to 
 end, as in a block, but side by side, and each 
 part has a separate roof. Under the front 
 roof, which is somewhat higher than the
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 163 
 
 other, are the living-rooms of the family: 
 sitting-room, parlour, bedroom, and attics, or 
 servants' bedrooms. Under the lower roof 
 are the offices, the cheese-loft, dairy, kitchen, 
 cellar, and wood-house. Numerous doors 
 give easy communication on each floor, so 
 that the house consists of two distinct por- 
 tions, and the business is kept quite apart 
 from the living rooms, and yet close to them. 
 This is, perhaps, the most convenient manner 
 in which a dairy farmhouse can be built ; and 
 the plan was undoubtedly the result of ex- 
 perience. Of course, in dairy-farming upon 
 a very extended scale, or as a gentlemanly 
 amusement, it would be preferable to have 
 the offices entirely apart, and at some distance 
 from the dwelling-house. These remarks 
 apply to an ordinary farm of moderate size. 
 
 Leaving the hall by the door at the side 
 of the staircase, two steps descend into the 
 dairy, which is almost invariably floored with 
 stone flags, even in localities where brick is 
 used for the flooring of the sitting-room. 
 The great object aimed at in the construction 
 of the dairy was coolness, and freedom from 
 dust as much as possible. The stone flags 
 ensure a cool floor ; and the windows always
 
 1 64 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 open to the north, so that neither the summer 
 sunshine nor the warm southern winds can 
 injuriously affect the produce. It is a long 
 open room, whitewashed, in the centre of 
 which stands the cheese-tub, until lately in- 
 variably made of wood, but now frequently of 
 tin, this material taking much less trouble to 
 keep clean. The cheese-tub is large enough 
 for a Roman lady's bath of milk. Against 
 one wall are the whey-leads shallow, long, 
 and broad vessels of wood, lined with lead, 
 supported two or three feet above the floor, 
 so that buckets can be placed underneath. 
 In these " leads " the whey is kept, and drawn 
 off by pulling up a wooden plug. Under the 
 " leads " as out of the way are some of the 
 great milk-pans into which the milk is poured. 
 Pussy sometimes dips her nose into these, 
 and whitens her whiskers with cream. At 
 one end of the room is the cheese-press. The 
 ancient press, with its complicated arrange- 
 ment of long iron levers weighted at the end 
 something like a steelyard, and drawn up by 
 cords and pulleys, has been taken down and 
 lies discarded in the lumber-room. The 
 pressure in the more modern machine is 
 obtained from a screw. The rennet- vat is
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 165 
 
 perhaps hidden behind the press, and there 
 are piles of the cheese-moulds or vats beside 
 it, into which the curd is placed when fit to 
 be compressed into the proper shape and con- 
 sistency. All the utensils here are polished, 
 and clean to the last degree ; without extreme 
 cleanliness success in cheese or butter making 
 cannot be achieved. The windows are devoid 
 of glass ; they are really wind doors, closed 
 when necessary, with a shutter on hinges like 
 a cupboard door. Cats and birds are pre- 
 vented from entering by means of wire screens 
 like a coarse netting of wire and an up- 
 right iron bar keeps out more dangerous 
 thieves. There is a copper for scalding milk. 
 When in good order there is scarcely any 
 odour in a dairy, notwithstanding the 
 decidedly strong smell of some of the 
 materials employed : free egress of air and 
 perfect cleanliness takes off all but the 
 faintest astringent flavour. In summer it 
 is often the custom of dairymaids to leave 
 buckets full of water standing under the 
 " leads " or elsewhere out of the way, or a 
 milk-pan is left with water in it, to purify the 
 atmosphere. Water, it is well known, has a 
 remarkable power of preventing the air from
 
 1 66 /I AT ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 going "dead" as it were. A model dairy 
 should have a small fountain in some con- 
 venient position, with a jet constantly playing. 
 The state of the atmosphere has the most 
 powerful effect upon the contents of the dairy, 
 especially during times of electrical tension. 
 
 To the right of the dairy is the brewhouse, 
 now rarely used for the purpose implied in 
 its name, though the tubs, and coolers, and 
 other " plant " necessary for the process are 
 still preserved. Here there is a large copper 
 also ; and the oven often opens on to the 
 brewhouse. In this place the men have their 
 meals. Next to it is the wood-house, used 
 for the storage of the wood which is required 
 for immediate use, and must therefore be dry ; 
 and beyond that the kitchen, where the fire 
 is still upon the hearth, though coal is mixed 
 with the logs and faggots. Along the whole 
 length of this side of the house there is a 
 paved or pitched courtyard enclosed by a low 
 brick wall, with one or two gates opening 
 upon the paths which lead to the rickyards 
 and the stalls. The buttermilk and refuse 
 from the dairy inns by a channel cut in 
 the stone across the court into a vault or 
 well sunk in the ground, from whence it
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 167 
 
 is dipped for the pigs. The vault is 
 closed at the mouth by a heavy wooden 
 lid. There is a well and pump for water 
 here ; sometimes with a windlass, when the 
 well is deep. If the water be low or out 
 of condition, it is fetched in yokes from the 
 nearest running stream. The acid or " eating " 
 power of the buttermilk, &c., may be noted in 
 the stones, which in many places are scooped 
 or hollowed out. A portion of the court is 
 roofed in, and is called the " skilling." It 
 is merely covered in without walls, the roof 
 supported upon oaken posts. Under this the 
 buckets are placed to dry after being cleaned, 
 and here the churn may often be seen. A 
 separate staircase, rising from the dairy, gives 
 access to the cheese-loft. It is an immense 
 apartment, reaching from one end of the 
 house to the other, and as lofty as the roof 
 will permit, for it is not ceiled. The windows 
 are like those of the dairy. Down the centre 
 are long double shelves sustained upon strong 
 upright beams, tier upon tier from the floor 
 as high as the arms can conveniently reach. 
 Upon these shelves the cheese is stored, each 
 lying upon its side ; and, as no two cheeses 
 are placed one upon the other until quite
 
 168 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 ready for eating, a ton or two occupies a con- 
 siderable space while in process of drying. 
 They are also placed in rows upon the floor, 
 which is made exceptionally strong, and 
 supported upon great beams to bear the 
 weight. The scales used to be hung from a 
 beam overhead, and consisted of an iron bar, 
 at each end of which a square board was 
 slung with ropes one board to pile up the 
 cheese on, and the other for the counterpoise 
 of weights. These rude and primitive scales 
 are now generally superseded by modern 
 and more accurate instruments, weighing to 
 a much smaller fraction. Stone half-hundred- 
 weights and stone quarters were in common 
 use not long since. A cheese-loft, when full, 
 is a noble sight of its kind, and represents no 
 little labour and skill. When sold, the cheese 
 is carefully packed in the cart with straw to 
 prevent its being injured. The oil or grease 
 from the cheese gradually works its way into 
 the shelves and floor, and even into the stair- 
 case, till the woodwork seems saturated with 
 it. Hats and mice are the pests of the loft ; 
 and so great is their passion for cheese that 
 neither cats, traps, nor poison can wholly 
 repress these invaders, against whom unceas-
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 169 
 
 ing war is waged. The starlings who, if 
 the roof be of thatch, as it is in many farm- 
 houses, make their nests in it occasionally 
 carry their holes right through, and are un- 
 mercifully exterminated when they venture 
 within reach, or they would quickly let the 
 rain and the daylight in. 
 
 As the dairy and offices face the north, so 
 the front of the house the portion used for 
 domestic purposes has a southern aspect, 
 which experience has proved to be healthy. 
 But at the same time, despite its compact- 
 ness and general convenience, there are many 
 defects in the building defects chiefly of 
 a sanitary character. It is very doubtful if 
 there are any drains at all. Even though 
 the soil be naturally dry, the ground floor is 
 almost always cold and damp. The stone 
 flags are themselves cold enough, and are 
 often placed upon the bare earth. The 
 threshold is on a level with the ground out- 
 side, and sometimes a step lower, and in wet 
 weather the water penetrates to the hall. 
 There is another disadvantage. If the door 
 be left open, which it usually is, frogs, toads, 
 and creeping things generally, sometimes 
 make their way in, though ruthlessly swept
 
 170 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 out again ; and an occasional snake from 
 the long grass at the very door is an un- 
 pleasant, though perfectly harmless visitor. 
 The floor should be raised a foot or so above 
 the level of the earth, and some provision 
 made against the damp by a layer of concrete 
 or something of the kind. If not, even if 
 boards be substituted for the flags, they will 
 soon decay. It often happens that farm- 
 houses upon meadow land are situated on 
 low ground, which in winter is saturated 
 with water which stands in the furrows, and 
 makes the footpaths leading to the house 
 impassable except to water-tight boots. This 
 must, and undoubtedly does affect the health 
 of the inmates, and hence probably the preva- 
 lence of rheumatism. The site upon which 
 the house stands should be so drained as to 
 carry off the water. Some soils contract to 
 an appreciable extent in a continuance of 
 drought, and expand in an equal degree with 
 wet a fact apparent to any one who walks 
 across a field where the soil is clay, in a dry 
 time, when the deep, wide cracks cannot be 
 overlooked. Alternate swelling and con- 
 traction of the earth under the foundations 
 of a house produce a partial dislocation of
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 171 
 
 the brickwork, and hence it is common 
 enough to see cracks running up the walls. 
 Had the site been properly drained, and the 
 earth consequently always dry, this would 
 not have happened ; and it is a matter of 
 consideration for the landlord, who in time 
 may find it necessary to shore up a wall 
 with a buttress. The great difference in the 
 temperature of a drained soil and an un- 
 drained one has often been observed, amount- 
 ing sometimes to as much as twenty degrees 
 a serious matter where health is concerned. 
 A foolish custom was observed in the build- 
 ing of many old farmhouses, i.e., of carrying 
 beams of wood across the chimney a prac- 
 tice that has led to disastrous fires. The 
 soot accumulates. These huge cavernous 
 chimneys are rarely swept, and at last catch 
 alight and smoulder for many days : presently 
 fire breaks out in the middle of a room under 
 which the beam passes. 
 
 Houses erected in blocks or in towns do 
 not encounter the full force of the storms of 
 winter to the same degree as a solitary farm- 
 house, standing a quarter or half-a-mile from 
 any other dwelling. This is the reason why 
 the old farmers planted elm-trees and en-
 
 172 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 couraged the growth of thick hawthorn hedges 
 close to the homestead. The north-east and 
 the south-west are the quarters from whence 
 most is to be dreaded : the north-east for the 
 bitter wind which sweeps along and grows 
 colder from the damp, wet meadows it passes 
 over ; and the south-west for the driving rain, 
 lasting sometimes for days and weeks together. 
 Trees and hedges break the force of the gales, 
 and in summer shelter from the glaring sun. 
 
 The architectural arrangement of the farm- 
 house just described gives almost perfect 
 privacy. Except visitors, no one comes to 
 the front door or passes unpleasantly close to 
 the windows. Labourers and others all go 
 to the courtyard at the back. The other 
 plans upon which farmsteads are built are 
 far from affording similar privacy. There are 
 some which, in fact, are nothing but an en- 
 larged and somewhat elongated cottage, with 
 the dwelling-rooms at one end and the daily 
 and offices at the other, and the bedrooms over 
 both. Everybody and everything brought to 
 or taken from the place has to pass before the 
 dwelling-room windows a most unpleasant 
 arrangement. Another style is square, with 
 low stone walls whitewashed, and thatched
 
 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 173 
 
 roof of immense height. Against it is a lean- 
 to, the eaves of the roof of which are hardly 
 three feet from the ground. So high-pitched 
 a roof necessitates the employment of a great 
 amount of woodwork, and the upper rooms 
 have sloping ceilings. They may look pictur- 
 esque from a distance, but are inconvenient 
 and uncouth within, and admirably calculated 
 for burning. A somewhat superior descrip- 
 tion is built in the shape of a carpenter's 
 " square." The dwelling-rooms form, as it 
 were, one house, and the offices, dairy and 
 cheese-loft are added on at one end at right 
 angles. The courtyard is in the triangular 
 space between. For some things this is a 
 convenient arrangement ; but there still re- 
 mains the disagreeableuess of the noise, and, 
 at times, strong odours from the courtyard 
 under the windows of the dwelling-house. 
 Nearly all farmsteads have awkwardly low 
 ceilings, which in a town would cause a close 
 atmosphere, but are not so injurious in the 
 open country, with doors constantly ajar. In 
 erecting a modern house this defect would, 
 of course, be avoided. The great thickness 
 of the walls is sometimes a deception ; for in 
 pulling down old buildings it is occasionally
 
 174 AN ENGLISH HOMESTEAD. 
 
 found that the interior of the wall is nothing 
 but loose broken stones and bricks enclosed 
 or rammed in between two walls. The stair- 
 cases are generally one of the worst features 
 of the old houses, being between a wall and 
 a partition narrow, dark, steep, and awk- 
 wardly placed, and without windows or hand- 
 rails. These houses were obviously built for 
 a people living much out of doors.
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 HE was standing in the ditch leaning heavily 
 upon the long handle of his axe. It was a 
 straight stick of ash, roughly shaved down to 
 some sort of semblance of smoothness, such 
 as would have worked up an unpractised 
 hand into a mass of blisters in ten minutes' 
 usage, but which glided easily through those 
 horny palms, leaving no mark of friction. 
 The continuous outdoor labour, the beating 
 of innumerable storms, and the hard, coarse 
 fare, had dried up all the original moisture 
 of the hand, till it was rough, firm, and 
 cracked or chapped like a piece of wood 
 exposed to the sun and weather. The natural 
 oil of the skin, which gives to the hand its 
 beautiful suppleness and delicate sense of 
 touch, was gone like the sap in the tree he 
 was felling, for it was early in the winter. 
 However the brow might perspire, there was 
 no dampness on the hand, and the helve of
 
 176 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 the axe was scarcely harder and drier. In 
 order, therefore, that the grasp might be 
 firm, it was necessary to artificially wet the 
 palms, and hence that custom which so often 
 disgusts lookers-on, of spitting on the hands 
 before commencing work. This apparently 
 gratuitous piece of dirtiness is in reality 
 absolutely necessary. Men with hands in 
 this state have hardly any feeling in them ; 
 they find it difficult to pick up anything 
 small, as a pin the fingers fumble over it; 
 and as for a pen, they hold it like a hammer: 
 His chest was open to the north wind, which 
 whistled through the bare branches of the 
 tall elm overhead as if they were the cordage 
 of a ship, and came in sudden blasts through 
 the gaps in the hedge, blowing his shirt 
 back, and exposing the immense breadth of 
 bone, and rough dark skin tanned to a 
 brown-red by the summer sun while mowing. 
 The neck rose from it short and thick like 
 that of a bull, and the head was round, and 
 covered with a crop of short grizzled hair not 
 yet quite grey, but fast losing its original 
 chestnut colour. The features were fairly 
 regular, but coarse, and the nose flattened. 
 An almost worn-out old hat thrown back on
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 177 
 
 the head showed a low, broad, wrinkled fore- 
 head. The eyes were small and bleared, set 
 deep under shaggy eyebrows. The corduroy 
 trousers, yellow with clay and sand, were 
 shortened below the knee by leather straps 
 like garters, so as to exhibit the whole of the 
 clumsy boots, with soles like planks, and 
 shod with iron at heel and tip. These boots 
 weigh seven pounds the pair ; and in wet 
 weather, with clay and dirt clinging to them, 
 must reach nearly double that. 
 
 In spite of all the magnificent muscular 
 development which this man possessed, there 
 was nothing of the Hercules about him. 
 The grace of strength was wanting, the 
 curved lines were lacking; all was gaunt, 
 angular, and square. The chest was broad 
 enough, but flat, a framework of bones 
 hidden by a rough hairy skin ; the breasts 
 did not swell up like the rounded promi- 
 nences of the antique statue. The neck, 
 strong enough as it was to bear the weight 
 of a sack of corn with ease, was too short, 
 and too much a part, as it were, of the 
 shoulders. It did not rise up like a tower, 
 distinct in itself; and the muscles on it, as 
 they moved, produced hollow cavities dis- 
 
 M
 
 i;8 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 tressing to the eye. It was strength without 
 beauty ; a mechanical kind of power, like 
 that of an -engine, working through straight 
 lines and sharp angles. There was too 
 much of the machine, and too little of the 
 animal ; the lithe, easy motion of the lion or 
 the tiger was not there. The impression 
 conveyed was, that such strength had been 
 gained through a course of incessant exer- 
 tion of the rudest kind, unassisted by 
 generous food and checked by unnatural 
 exposure. 
 
 John Smith heaved up his axe and struck 
 at the great bulging roots of the elm, from 
 which he had cleared away the earth with 
 his spade. A heavy chip flew out with a 
 dull thud on the sward. The straight 
 handle of the axe increased the labour of 
 the work, for in this curiously conservative 
 country the American improvement of the 
 double curved handle has not yet been 
 adopted. Chip after chip fell in the ditch, 
 or went spinning out into the field. The 
 axe rose and fell with a slow, monotonous 
 motion. Though there was immense strength 
 in every blow, there was no vigour in it. 
 Suddenly, while it was swinging in the air
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 179 
 
 overhead, there came the faint, low echo of 
 a distant railway whistle, and the axe was 
 dropped at once, without even completing 
 the blow. " That's the express," he muttered, 
 and began cleaning the dirt from his shoes. 
 The daily whistle of the express was the 
 signal for luncheon. Hastily throwing on a 
 slop hung on the bushes, and over that a 
 coat, he picked up a small bag, and walked 
 slowly oif down the side of the hedge to 
 where the highway road went by. Here he 
 sat down, somewhat sheltered by a hawthorn 
 bush, in the ditch, facing the road, and drew 
 out his bread and cheese. 
 
 About a quarter of a loaf of bread, or 
 nearly, and one slice of cheese was this full- 
 grown and powerful man's dinner that cold, 
 raw winter's day. His drink was a pint of 
 cold weak tea, kept in a tin can, for these 
 men are moderate enough with liquor at 
 their meals, whatever they may be at other 
 times. He held the bread in his left hand 
 and the cheese was placed on it, and kept 
 in its place by the thumb, the grimy dirt on 
 which was shielded by a small piece of bread 
 beneath it from the precious cheese. His 
 plate and dish was his broad palm, his only
 
 i8o JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 implement a great jack-knife with a buck- 
 horn handle. He ate slowly, thoughtfully, 
 deliberately ; weighing each mouthful, chew- 
 ing the cud as it were. All the man's 
 motions were heavy and slow, deadened as 
 if clogged with a great load. There was no 
 "life" in him. What little animation there 
 was left had taken him to eat his dinner by 
 the roadside the instinct of sociality that 
 if possible he might exchange a word with 
 some one passing. In factories men work in 
 gangs, and hundreds are often within call of 
 each other ; a rough joke or an occasional 
 question can be put and answered ; there is 
 a certain amount of sympathy, a sensation 
 of company and companionship. But alone 
 in the fields, the human instinct of friend- 
 ship is checked, the man is driven back 
 upon himself and his own narrow range of 
 thought, till the mind and heart grow dull, 
 and there only remains such a vague ill- 
 defined want as carried John Smith to the 
 roadside that day. 
 
 He had finished his cheese and lit a short 
 clay pipe, and thrust his hands deep in his 
 pockets, when there was a rustling noise 
 in the hedge a little farther down, and a
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 181 
 
 short man jumped out into the road even 
 jumping with his hands in his pockets, 
 tie saw Smith directly and came towards 
 him, and sat himself on a heap of flints 
 used for mending the road. 
 
 "What's thee at to-day?" asked John, 
 after a pause. 
 
 "Ditching," said the other laconically, 
 pushing out one foot by way of illustrating 
 the fact. It was covered with black mud far 
 above the ankle, and there were splashes of 
 mud up to his waist his hands, as he pro- 
 ceeded to light his pipe, were black, too, from 
 the same cause. 
 
 " Thee's bin in main deep," said John, after 
 a slow survey of the other's appearance. 
 
 The fellow stamped his boot on the ground, 
 and the slime and slush oozed out of it and 
 formed a puddle. " That's pretty stuff to 
 stand in for a man of sixty-four, yent it, 
 John ? " With a volubility and energy of 
 speech little to be expected from his wizened 
 appearance, the hedger and ditcher entered 
 into details of his job. He began work at 
 six that morning with stiff legs and swollen 
 feet, and as he stood in the mingled mire and 
 water, the rheumatism came gradually on,
 
 182 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 rising higher up his limbs from the ankles, 
 and growing sharper with every twinge, while 
 the cold and bitter wind cut through his thin 
 slop on his chest, which was not so strong as 
 it used to be. His arms got stiff with the 
 labour of lifting up shovelful after shovelful 
 of heavy mud to plaster the side of the ditch, 
 his feet turned cold as " flints," and the sickly 
 smell of the slime upset his stomach so that 
 when he tried to eat his bread and cheese he 
 could not. Through this speech John smoked 
 steadily on, till the other stopped and looked 
 at him for sympathy. 
 
 " Well, Jim, anyhow," said Smith, " thee 
 hasn't got far to walk to the job ; " and he 
 pointed with the stem of his pipe to the low 
 roof of a cottage just visible a few hundred 
 yards distant. 
 
 " Ay, and a place it be to live in, that," 
 said Jim. There were only two rooms, he 
 explained, and both downstairs no upstairs 
 at all and the first of these was so small he 
 could reach across it, and the thatch had 
 got so thin in one place that the rain came 
 through. The floor was only hard mud, and 
 the garden not big enough to grow a sack 
 of potatoes, while one wall of the house,
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 183 
 
 which was only " wattle and daub " (i.e., 
 lath and plaster), rose up from the very edge 
 of a great stagnant pond. Overhead there 
 was an elm, from the branches of which in 
 wet weather there was a perpetual drip, drip 
 on the thatch, till the moss and grass grew 
 on the roof in profusion. All the sewage 
 and drainage from the cottage ran into the 
 pond, over which at night there was almost 
 always a thick damp mist, which crept in 
 through the crevices of the rotten walls, and 
 froze the blood in the sleepers' veins. Some- 
 times a flood came down, and the pond rose 
 and washed away the cabbages from the 
 garden, leaving a deposit of gritty sand 
 which killed all vegetation, and they could 
 only keep the water from coming indoors by 
 making a small dam of clay across the door- 
 way. There was only a low hedge of elder 
 between the cottage and a dirty lane ; and 
 in the night, especially if there happened 
 to be a light burning, it was common enough 
 for a stone to come through the window, 
 flung by some half-drunken ploughboy. A 
 pretty place for a human being to live in : 
 and again he looked up into Smith's face 
 for comment.
 
 184 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 "Thee built 'un thee-self, didn't 'ee ? " 
 said John, in his slow way. 
 
 " Ay, that I did," continued Jim, not see- 
 ing the drift of the remark. He not only 
 built it, but he brought up nineteen children 
 in it, and fourteen of them lived to grow up, 
 all the offspring of one wife. And a time 
 she had of it, too. None of them ever fell 
 in that pond, though he often wished they 
 would ; and they were all pretty healthy, 
 which was a bad thing, because it made them 
 hungry, and if they had been ill the parish 
 would have kept them. All that he had done 
 on i2s. a week, and he minded the time 
 when it was only 93., ay, and even when it 
 was 6s., and 'twas better then than it was 
 now with 153. That was before the Unions 
 came about, in the time of the old work- 
 houses in every parish. Then the farmers 
 used to find everybody a job. Every morning 
 they had to go round from one farmer to the 
 other, and if there was no work theii they 
 went to the workhouse, or sometimes to the 
 vestry-room in the church, where every man 
 had a loaf of bread for every head there was 
 in his family, so that the more children he 
 had the more loaves of bread, which was a
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 185 
 
 capital thing when the children were small. 
 He had known a man in those times sent 
 seven miles with a wheelbarrow to fetch a 
 barrow load of coal from the canal wharf, 
 and then have to wheel it back seven miles, 
 and get one shilling for his day's work. 
 Still they were better times than these, 
 because the farmers for their own sake were 
 forced to find the fellows something to do ; 
 but now they did not care, and it was a hard 
 thing to find work, especially when a man 
 grew old, and stiff about the joints. Now 
 the Boards of Guardians would not give any 
 relief unless the applicants were ill, or not 
 able-bodied, and even then they were often 
 required to break stones, and he was very 
 much inclined to throw his spade in that old 
 pond and go to the Union with the " missis " 
 and all the lot for good. He had the rheu- 
 matism bad enough. It would serve them 
 right. He had worked "nigh handy" sixty 
 years ; and all he had got by it he could put 
 in his eye. They ought to keep him now. 
 It was not half so good as the old times for 
 all the talk ; then the children could bring 
 home a bit of wood out of the hedges to boil 
 the pot with, but now they must not touch
 
 186 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 a stick, or there was the law on them in a 
 minute. And then coal at the price it was. 
 Why didn't his sons keep him ? Where 
 were they ? One was a soldier, and another 
 had gone to America, and the third was 
 married and had a hard job to keep himself, 
 and the fourth was gone nobody knew where. 
 As for the wenches, they were no good in 
 that way. So he and his " missis " muddled 
 on at home with three of the youngest. And 
 they could not let them alone even in that. 
 He did go into the Union workhouse for a 
 bit, a while ago, when the rheumatism was 
 extraordinary bad, but some of the guardians 
 smelt out that he had a cottage of his own, 
 and it was against the law to relieve anybody 
 that had property ; so he must pay back the 
 relief as a loan or sell the cottage. He was 
 ottered ^25 for the place and garden, and 
 he meant to have taken it, but when they 
 came to look into the writings it was not 
 clear that he could sell it. It was quit-rent 
 land, and although the landlord had not 
 taken the rent for twenty years, yet he had 
 entered it in his book as paid (out of good 
 nature), and the lawyers said it could not 
 be done. But as they would not let him
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 187 
 
 sell it, he would not turn out, not he. There 
 he would stop just to spite them. He knew 
 that nook of his was wanted for cattle stalls 
 on the new principle, and very handy it 
 would be with all that water close at hand, 
 but he had worked for sixty years, and had 
 had nineteen children there, and he would 
 not turn out. Not he. The parson's " missis " 
 and the squire's " missis " came the other 
 day about that youngest boy of his. They 
 wanted to get him into some school up in 
 London somewhere, but he remembered how 
 the squire had served him just for picking 
 up a dead rabbit that laid in his path one 
 hard snow time. Six weeks in gaol because 
 he could not pay the fine. And the parson 
 turned him out of his allotment because he 
 saw him stagger a little in the road one 
 night with the rheumatism. It was a lie 
 that he was drunk. And suppose he was ? 
 The parson had his wine, he reckoned. They 
 should not have his boy. He rather hoped 
 he would grow up a bad one, and bother 
 them well. He minded when that sharp 
 
 old Miss was always coming round with 
 
 tracts and blankets, like taking some straw 
 to a lot of pigs, and lecturing his " missis "
 
 1 88 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 about economy. What a fuss she made, 
 and scolded his wife as if she was a thief 
 for having that fifteenth boy ! His " missis " 
 turned on her at last, and said, " Lor, miss, 
 that's all the pleasure me an' my old man 
 got." As for this talk about the labourers' 
 Unions, it was all very well for the young 
 men ; but it made it worse still for the old 
 ones. The farmers, if they had to give such 
 a price, would have young men in full 
 strength : there was no chance at all for an 
 old fellow of sixty-four with rheumatism. 
 Some of them, too, were terribly offended 
 some of the old sort and turned off the few 
 pensioners they had kept on at odd jobs for 
 years. However, he supposed he must get 
 back to that ditch again. 
 
 This long oration was delivered not with- 
 out a certain degree of power and effect, 
 showing that the man, whatever his faults, 
 might with training have become rather a 
 clever fellow. The very way in which he 
 contradicted himself, and announced his in- 
 tention of never doing that which a moment 
 before he was determined on, was not with- 
 out an amount of oratorical art, since the 
 turn in his view of the subject was led up to
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 189 
 
 by a variety of reasons which were supposed 
 to convince himself and his hearer at the 
 same time. His remarks were all the more 
 effective because there was an evident sub- 
 stratum of stern truth beneath them. But 
 they failed to make much impression on 
 Smith, who saw his companion depart with- 
 out a word. 
 
 The fact was, that Smith was too well 
 acquainted with the private life of the orator. 
 In his dull, dim way, he half recognised that 
 the unfortunate old fellow's evils had been 
 in great part of his own creating. He knew 
 that he was far from faultless. That poaching 
 business a very venial offence in a labourer's 
 eyes he knew had been a serious one, a 
 matter of some two-score pheasants and a 
 desperate fight with a gang. Looking at it 
 as property, the squire had been merciful, 
 pleading with the magistrates for a mitigated 
 penalty. The drunkenness was habitual. 
 In short, they were a bad lot there was 
 a name attached to the whole family for 
 thieving, poaching, drinking, and even worse. 
 Yet still there were two points that did 
 sink deep into Smith's mind, and made 
 him pause several times that afternoon in
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 his work. The first was that long family 
 of nineteen mouths, with the father and 
 mother making twenty-one. What a number 
 of sins, in the rude logic of the struggle 
 for existence, that terrible fact glossed over ! 
 Who could blame what labourer at least 
 could blame the ragged, ill-clothed chil- 
 dren for taking the dead wood from the 
 hedges to warm their naked limbs? What 
 labourer could blame the father for taking 
 the hares and rabbits running across his 
 very path to fill that wretched hovel with 
 savoury steam from the pot? And further, 
 what labourer could blame the miserable 
 old man for drowning his feelings, and his 
 sensation of cold and hunger, in liquor ? 
 
 The great evil of these things is that a 
 fellow-feeling will arise with the wrong- 
 doer, till the original distinction between 
 right and wrong is lost sight of entirely. 
 John Smith had a family too. The other 
 point was the sixty years of labour and their 
 fruit. After two generations of hardest toil 
 and rudest exposure, still dependent upon the 
 seasons even to permit him to work, when 
 that work could be obtained. No rest, no 
 cosy fireside nook : still the bitter wind,
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 191 
 
 and the half-frozen slime and slush rising 
 above the ankle. In an undefined way 
 Smith had been proud of his broad, enor- 
 mous strength, and rocklike hardihood. He 
 had felt a certain rude pleasure in opening 
 his broad chest to the winter wind. But 
 now he involuntarily closed his shirt and 
 buttoned it. He did not feel so confident 
 in his own power of meeting all the con- 
 tingencies of the future. 
 
 Thought without method and without 
 logical sequence is apt to press heavily 
 upon the uneducated mind. It was thus 
 that these reflections left a sensation of 
 weight and discomfort upon Smith, and it 
 was in a worse humour than was common 
 to his usually well - balanced organisation 
 that he hid away his tools under the 
 bushes as the evening grew too dark for 
 work, and slowly paced homewards. He 
 had some two miles to walk, and he had 
 long since begun to feel hungry. Plodding 
 along in a heavy, uneven gait, there over- 
 took him a tall, raw young lad of eighteen or 
 twenty, slouching forward with vast strides 
 and whistling merrily. The lad slackened 
 his steps and joined company !
 
 192 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 " Where bist thee working now, then ? " 
 asked Smith. 
 
 He replied, evidently in high spirits, that 
 he had that day got a job at the new rail- 
 way that was making. The wages were i8s. 
 a week 35. a day and he had heard that 
 as soon as the men grew to understand 
 their work and to be a little skilful, they 
 could get 245. easily, up by London. The 
 only drawback was the long walk to the 
 work. Lodgings close at hand were very 
 dear, as also was food, so dear as to lower 
 the actual receipts to an equality, if not 
 below that of the agricultural labourer. Four 
 miles every morning and every night was 
 the price he paid for i8s. a week. 
 
 Smith began in his slow, dull way to 
 reckon up his wages aloud against this. 
 First he had 135. a week for his daily work. 
 Then he had is. extra for milking on 
 Sundays, and two good meals with beer on 
 that day. Every week-day he had a pint 
 of beer on finishing work. The young 
 navvy had to find his own liquor. His 
 cottage, it was true, was his own (that is, 
 he only paid a low quit-rent of is. a year 
 for it), so that that could not be reckoned in
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 193 
 
 as part of his earnings, as it could with 
 many other men. But the navvy's wages 
 were the same all the year round, while 
 his in summer were often nearly double. As 
 a stalwart mower he could earn 255. a week 
 and more, as a haymaker i8s., and at 
 harvesting perhaps 303. If the season was 
 good, and there was a press for hands, he 
 would get more. But, looking forward, there 
 was no prospect of rising higher in his 
 trade, of getting higher wages for more 
 skilful work. He could not be more skilful 
 than he was in ordinary farm work ; and as 
 yet the call for clever men to attend to 
 machinery, &c., was very limited ; nor were 
 such a class of workmen usually drawn from 
 the resident population where improvements 
 were introduced. The only hope of higher 
 wages that was held out to him was from 
 the gradual rise of everything, or the forced 
 rise consequent upon agitation. But, said 
 he, the navvy must follow his work from 
 place to place, and lodgings are dear in the 
 towns, and the farmers in country places 
 will not let their cottages except to their 
 own labourers how was the navvy even 
 with higher wages to keep a wife? The
 
 194 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 aspiring young fellow beside him replied 
 at once sharply and decisively, that he did 
 not mean to have a wife, leastways not till 
 he had got his regular 305. a week, which 
 he might in time. Then John Smith made 
 a noise in his chest like a grunt. 
 
 They parted after this. Smith went into 
 the farmhouse, and got his pint of beer, drink- 
 ing it in one long slow draught, and then 
 made his way through the scattered village 
 to his cottage. There was a frown on his 
 forehead as he lifted the latch of the long 
 low thatched building which was his home. 
 
 The flickering light of the fire on the 
 hearth, throwing great shadows as it blazed 
 up and fell, dazed his eyes as he stepped in, 
 and he did not notice a line stretched right 
 across the room on which small articles of 
 clothing were hanging to dry in a row. A 
 damp worsted stocking flapped against his 
 face, and his foot stumbled on the uneven flag 
 stones which formed the floor. He sat down 
 silently upon a three-legged stool an old 
 milking-stool and, putting his hands on his 
 knees, stared into the fire. It was formed 
 of a few sticks with just one knob of coal 
 balanced on the top of them, evident care
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 195 
 
 having been taken that not a jot of its 
 precious heat should be lost. A great black 
 pot with open lid swung over it, from which 
 rose a slight steam and a bubbling noise ; 
 and this huge, gaunt, bareboned, hungry 
 man, looking into it, saw a large raw swede, 
 just as from the field, with only the greens 
 cut off, simmering for his supper. That root 
 in its day of life had been fed well with 
 superphosphate, and flourished exceedingly, 
 till now its globe could hardly go into the 
 pot. Down the low chimney there came 
 the monotonous growl of the bitter winter 
 wind, and a few spots of rain fell hissing on 
 the embers. 
 
 " Is this all thee has got?" he asked, turn- 
 ing to a woman who was busied with some 
 more damp clothes in a basket. 
 
 She faced round quickly a short, narrow, 
 meagre creature, flat-chested and square- 
 shouldered, whose face was the hue of 
 light-coloured clay, an almost corpse-like 
 complexion. Her thin lips hissed out, 
 "Ay, if thee takes thee money to the pot- 
 house thee won't get bacon for supper." 
 
 Smith said nothing in reply, but stared 
 again into the fire.
 
 196 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 The children's voices, which had lowered 
 the moment there seemed a coming quarrel 
 between their parents, rose again. There 
 were three of them the youngest four, the 
 eldest seven playing on the stone flags of 
 the floor, between whose rough edges there 
 were wide crevices of hardened mud. With 
 a few short sticks and a broken piece of 
 earthenware for toys, they were happy in 
 their way. Whatever their food might have 
 been, they showed no traces of hard usage. 
 Their red " puddy " fists were fat, and their 
 naked legs round and plump enough. Their 
 faces were full and rosy, and their voices 
 clear and anything but querulous. The 
 eager passions of childhood come out fierce 
 and unrestrained, and blows were freely 
 interchanged, without, however, either cries 
 or apparent hatred. Their naked knees were 
 on the stone-flags, and the wind, creeping 
 in a draught under the ill-fitting door, blew 
 their ragged clothes about. 
 
 " Thee med well look at 'em, John," said 
 the woman, seeing Smith cast a sideway 
 glance at the children ; and rapidly manipu- 
 lating the clothing, her thin nervous lips 
 poured forth a torrent of words upon the
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 197 
 
 silent man. They had had nothing but 
 bread that day, and nothing but bread and 
 lard the day before, and now the lard was 
 gone, and the baker would not trust any 
 more. There were no potatoes because the 
 disease had destroyed them, and the cabbages 
 were sold for that bit of coal ; and as for 
 
 the swede, she took it out of Mr. 's field, 
 
 and he was a cross-grained man, and who 
 knew but what they might have the constable 
 on them before morning? Jane W. and 
 Sarah Y. went to prison for seven days for 
 stealing swedes. All along of that cursed 
 drink. If she were the squire she'd shut 
 up all the pothouses in the county. The 
 men went there, and drank the very shirts 
 off their backs, and the clothes off their 
 children, ay, and the shoes off their feet ; 
 and what was the use of their having 
 more money when it only went into the 
 publican's pocket? There they sat, and 
 drank the bread out of the babies' mouths. 
 As for the women, the most of them, poor 
 things, never tasted beer from one year's end 
 to another. Old Carter handed her a pint 
 that day, and when she tasted it she did not 
 know what it was. He might smile, but it
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 was true though : no more did Jane W. and 
 Sally Y. : they did not know what it tasted 
 like. And yet they had to be out in the 
 fields at work at eight o'clock, and their 
 washing to do before that, and perhaps a 
 baby in their arms, and the tea as weak as 
 water, and no sugar. Milk, they could not 
 get milk for money he knew that very well ; 
 all the milk went to London. A precious lot 
 of good the higher wages had done them. The 
 farmers would not let them have a drop of 
 milk or a scrap of victuals, and talked about 
 rising the price of the allotment grounds. 
 Allotment, did she say? and how did he lose 
 his allotment ? didn't he drink, drink, drink, 
 till he had to hand over his allotment to the 
 landlord of the pothouse, and did not they 
 take it away from both as soon as they heard 
 of it ? Served him right. They had not got 
 a pound of potatoes, and the children did 
 use to lick up the potato-pot liquor as if they 
 liked it. 
 
 Smith asked where Polly was, but that 
 was only a signal for a fresh outburst. Polly, 
 if he'd a looked after her she would have 
 been all right. (Smith turned a sharp glance 
 at her in some alarm at this.) Letting a great
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 199 
 
 girl like that go about at night by herself 
 while he was a drink, drink, drinking, and 
 there she was now, the bad hussy, gone 
 to the workhouse to lie in. (Smith winced.) 
 She never disgraced herself like that ; and if 
 he had sent the wench to service, or stopped 
 her going down to that pothouse with the 
 fellows, this would not have happened. She 
 always told him how it would end. He was 
 a good-for-nothing, drunken brute of a man, 
 and had brought her to all this misery ; and 
 she began sobbing. 
 
 After twelve long hours of toil, including 
 the walk to and fro, exposed to the bitter 
 cold, with but a slice of cheese to support the 
 strength of that brawny chest, this welcome 
 to his supper was more than the sturdy, silent 
 man could bear. With a dull remembrance 
 of the happy sunlit summer, twenty years ago, 
 when Martha was a plump, laughing girl, of 
 sloe-black eyes and nut-brown complexion 
 with a glimpse of that merry courting time 
 passing across his mind, Smith got up and 
 walked out into the dark rainy night. " Ay, 
 thee bist agoing to the liquor again," were 
 the last words he heard as he shut the door. 
 It was too true. But what labourer, let us
 
 200 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 ask, with a full conception of the circum- 
 stances, would blame him ? Here there was 
 nothing but hard and scanty fare, no heat, no 
 light, nothing to cheer the heart, nothing to 
 cause it to forget the toil of the day and the 
 thought of the morrow, no generous liquor 
 sung by poets to warm the physical man. 
 But only a few yards farther down the road 
 there was a great house, with its shutters 
 cosily closed, ablaze with heat and light, 
 echoing with merry laughter and song. 
 There was an array of good fellows ready to 
 welcome him, to tell him the news, to listen 
 eagerly to what he could tell them, to ask 
 him to drink, and to drink from his cup in 
 boon companionship. There was a social 
 circle in which his heart and intellect could 
 expand, at least for a while, till the strong 
 liquor mounted up and overcame his brain ; 
 and then, even then, there was the forge t- 
 fulness, the deep slumber of intoxication, 
 utterly oblivious of all things perhaps the 
 greatest pleasure of all. Smith went there, 
 and who of his own class would blame him ? 
 And if his own class did not, of what use 
 is it for other and higher classes to preach 
 morality to him ? It is a man's own com-
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 rades, his own class, whose opinions he 
 dreads and conforms to. If they condemned 
 him for going there, he would avoid the 
 public-house. But they would have called 
 him a fool if he avoided it. In their logic 
 who could say they were wrong? A man 
 who is happy is a long while getting drunk, 
 he talks as much as he drinks ; but Smith was 
 dull and silent, and drank steadily. It was 
 not late, but when the house closed he could 
 but just keep his feet. In the thick darkness 
 and the driving rain he staggered on, uncon- 
 scious of the road he was taking, but bearing 
 roughly towards home. The cold air rather 
 more stupefied him than brought him to him- 
 self. Insensibly he wandered with uncertain 
 steps down a lane which led by a gentle slope 
 out into the fields, the fall of the ground guid- 
 ing his footsteps, and then stumbling over the 
 root of an ash-tree, fell heavily on the wet 
 grass. His eyes, half-shut before, closed as 
 if by clockwork, and in a moment he was 
 firm asleep. His hat had fallen from his 
 brow, and the grizzled hair was blown about 
 by the wind as it came in gusts through the 
 hedge. His body was a little sheltered by 
 the tree, but his chest was open and bare
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 half-way down his waistcoat ; and the heavy 
 drops fell from the boughs of the ash on his 
 stalwart neck, gradually saturating his shirt. 
 It may have been that the cold numbed him 
 and rendered him more insensible than he 
 otherwise would have been. No star shone 
 out that night ; all was darkness, clouds, and 
 rain till the dawn broke. 
 
 Soon after dawn, the young navvy, going 
 to his work by a short cut, found Smith still 
 asleep, and shook him till he got up. He 
 was stupid beyond all power of words to 
 express ; but at last came to a dim idea that 
 he must get home. Then the young navvy 
 left him, anxious about being late at his 
 employment, and John Smith slowly felt his 
 way to his own door. His wife, already up, 
 opened it. " Thee varmint ! thee never gi'ed 
 I that shilling last night for the baker." 
 Smith felt hopelessly in his pocket, and then 
 looked at her vacantly. " Thee drunken, 
 
 nasty old ," said the infuriated woman, 
 
 almost unconsciously lifting her hand. Per- 
 haps it was that action of hers which sug- 
 gested the same to his mind, which was 
 in a mechanical state. Perhaps the stinging 
 words of last night had at last sunk deep
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 203 
 
 enough to scarify his self-esteem. Perhaps 
 he did not at that moment fully remember 
 the strength of his own mighty arm. But he 
 struck her, and she fell. Her forehead came 
 in contact with the cradle, in which the 
 youngest boy was sleeping, and woke him 
 with a cry. She lay quite still. Smith sat 
 stupidly down on the old milking-stool, with 
 his elbows on his knees. The shrill voice of 
 his wife, as she met him at the door, had 
 brought more than one female neighbour 
 to the window ; they saw what happened, 
 and they were there in a minute. Martha 
 was only insensible, and they soon brought 
 her to, but the mark on the temple re- 
 mained. 
 
 Five days afterwards John Smith, agricul- 
 tural labourer, aged forty-five, stood in the 
 dock to answer a charge of assaulting his 
 wife. There were five magistrates on the 
 Bench -two large landowners, a baronet in 
 the chair, and two clergymen. Martha 
 Smith hung her head as they placed 
 her in the witness-box, and tried to evade 
 kissing the Book, but the police saw that 
 that formality was complied with. The 
 Clerk asked her what she had to complain
 
 204 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 of. No answer. " Come, tell us all about 
 it," said the eldest of the magistrates in a 
 fatherly tone of voice. Still silence. " Well, 
 how did you get that mark on your forehead ? " 
 asked the Clerk. No answer. " Speak up ! " 
 cried a shrill voice in the body of the 
 court. It was one of Martha's cronies, who 
 was immediately silenced by the police ; but 
 the train had been fired. Martha would not 
 fail before another woman. But she did not 
 commence about the assault. It was the 
 drink she spoke of, nothing but the drink ; 
 and as she talked of that she warmed with 
 her subject and her grievances, and forgot 
 the old love for her husband, and her former 
 hesitation, and placed that vice in all its 
 naked deformity and hideous results in plain 
 but burning words before the Bench. Had 
 she been the cleverest advocate she could 
 not have prepared the ground for her case 
 better. This tale of drink predisposed their 
 minds against the defendant. Only the 
 Clerk, wedded to legal forms, fidgeted under 
 this eloquence, and seized the first pause : 
 "But now, how about the assault? Come 
 to that," he said sharply. " I'm coming, 
 sir," said Martha ; and she described Smith
 
 JOHN SMITHS SHANTY. 205 
 
 coming home, stupid and ferocious, after 
 staying out all night, and felling her to the 
 ground because she asked him for a shilling 
 to buy the children's daily bread. Then 
 she pointed to the bruise on her forehead, 
 and a suppressed murmur of indignation 
 ran through the Court, and angry looks 
 were directed at the defendant. Did she 
 do or say anything to provoke the blow ? 
 asked the Chairman. No more than to 
 ask for the shilling. Did she not abuse 
 him ? Well, yes, she did ; she owned she 
 did call him a drunken brute afterwards ; 
 she could not help it. These women, with 
 their rapid tongues, have a terrible advantage 
 over the slower- witted men. 
 
 Had the defendant any questions to ask 
 his wife? Smith began to say that he was 
 very sorry, sir, but the Clerk snapped him up 
 short. " That's your defence. Have you 
 any questions ? No ; well, call your wit- 
 nesses." Martha called her witnesses, the 
 women living next door. . They did not 
 do her case much good ; they were too evi- 
 dently eager to obtain the defendant's con- 
 demnation. But. on the other hand, they 
 did not do it any harm, for in the main it
 
 206 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 was easy- to see that they really corroborated 
 her statements. Smith asked them no ques- 
 tions ; the labouring class rarely understand 
 the object of cross-questioning. If asked to 
 do so they almost invariably begin to tell 
 their own tale. 
 
 "Now, then," said the Clerk, " what have 
 you got to say for yourself what's your de- 
 fence?" Smith looked down and stammered 
 something. He was confused ; they checked 
 him from telling his story when his mouth 
 was full of language, now it would not come. 
 He did not know but that if he began he 
 might be checked again. The eldest magis- 
 trate on the Bench saw his embarrassment, 
 and, willing to assist him, spoke as kindly as 
 he could under the circumstances. " Speak 
 up, John ; tell us all about it. I am sorry to 
 see you there." " He's the finest, most stal- 
 wart man in my parish," he continued, turn- 
 ing to the Chairman. Thus encouraged, 
 John got out a word or two. He was very 
 sorry; he did not mean to hurt her; he 
 knew he was tipsy, and 'twas his own fault ; 
 she had been a good wife to him ; she asked 
 him for money. Then all of a sudden John 
 drew up his form to his full height, and his
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 207 
 
 chest swelled out, and he spoke in his own 
 strong voice clearly now that he had got a 
 topic apart from his disgrace. These were 
 his words, a little softened into more civilised 
 pronunciation to make them intelligible : 
 
 " She asked I for money, she did, and 
 what was I to gi'e her? I hadn't a got a 
 shilling nor a sixpence, and she knew it, 
 and knowed that I couldn't get one either 
 till Saturday night. I gets thirteen shillings 
 a week from Master H., and a shilling on 
 Sundays, and I hev got five children and a 
 wife to keep out of that that's two shillings 
 a week for each on us, that's just threepence 
 halfpenny a day, look 'ee, sir. And what 
 victuals be I to buy wi' that, let alone beer ? 
 and a man can't do no work wi'out a quart 
 a day, and that's fourpence, and there's my 
 share, look 'ee, gone at onst. Wur be I to 
 get any victuals, and wur be I to get any 
 clothes an' boots, I should like for to know ? 
 And Jack he gets big and wants a main lot, 
 and so did Polly, but her's gone to the 
 work' us', wuss luck. And parson wants I 
 to send the young 'uns to school, and pay a 
 penny a week for 'em, and missis she wants 
 a bit o' bacon in the house and a loaf, and
 
 208 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 what good is that of, among all we ? I gets 
 a slice of bacon twice a week, and sometimes 
 narn. And beer I knows I drinks beer, 
 and more as I ought, but what's a chap to 
 do when he's a'most shrammed wi' cold, r>nd 
 nar a bit o' nothin' in the pot but an old 
 yeller swede as hard as wood? And my 
 teeth bean't as good as 'em used to be. I 
 knows I drinks beer, and so would anybody 
 in my place it makes me kinder stupid, as 
 I don't feel nothing then. Wot's the good 
 I've worked this thirty year or more, since 
 I wur big enough to go with the plough, 
 and I've a knowed they as have worked for 
 nigh handy sixty, and wot do 'em get for it ? 
 All he'd a got wur the rheumatiz. Yer med 
 as well drink while 'ee can. I never meaned 
 to hurt her, and her knows it ; and if it 
 wurn't for a parcel of women a- shoving on 
 her on, her would never a come here agen 
 me. I knows I drinks, and what else be I 
 to do ? I can't work allus." 
 
 " But what are you going to say in your 
 defence do you say she provoked you or 
 anything ? " asked the Clerk. 
 
 " No, I don't know as she provoked I. I 
 wur provoked, though, I wur. I don't bear
 
 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 209 
 
 no malice agen she. I ain't a got nothin' 
 more for to say." 
 
 The magistrates retired, and the Chairman, 
 on returning, said that this was a most brutal 
 and unprovoked assault, made all the worse 
 by the previous drinking habits of the 
 defendant. If it had not been for the good 
 character he bore generally speaking (here 
 he looked towards the elder magistrate, who 
 had evidently said a word in Smith's behalf), 
 he would have had a month's imprisonment, 
 or more. As it was, he was committed for 
 a fortnight, and to pay the costs, or seven 
 additional days ; and he hoped this would 
 be a warning to him. 
 
 The elder magistrate looked at John Smith, 
 and saw his jaw set firmly, and his brow 
 contract, and his heart was moved towards 
 him. 
 
 " Cannot you get better wages than that, 
 John ? " he said. " At the railway they 
 would give you eighteen or twenty." 
 
 "It's so far to walk, sir, and my legs 
 bean't as lissom as they used to be." 
 
 " But take the missis and live there." 
 
 " Lodgings is too dear, sir." 
 
 " Ah, exactly. Still I don't see how the
 
 210 JOHN SMITH'S SHANTY. 
 
 farmers could pay you more. I'll see what 
 can be done for you." 
 
 Smith was led from the dock to the cell. 
 The expenses were paid by an unknown 
 hand ; but he underwent his fortnight's im- 
 prisonment. His wife and children, with an 
 empty larder, were obliged to go to the 
 workhouse, where also his daughter was at 
 the same time confined of an illegitimate 
 child. This is no fiction, but an uncompro- 
 mising picture of things as they are. Who 
 is to blame for them ?
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 LETTER I. 
 
 (To the Editor of the " Times."} 
 
 SIR, The Wiltshire agricultural labourer is 
 not so highly paid as those of Northumber- 
 land, nor so low as those of Dorset ; but in 
 the amount of his wages, as in intelligence 
 and general position, he may fairly be taken 
 as an average specimen of his class through- 
 out a large portion of the kingdom. 
 
 As a man, he is usually strongly built, 
 broad-shouldered, and massive in frame, but 
 his appearance is spoilt by the clumsiness of 
 his walk and the want of grace in his move- 
 ments. Though quite as large in muscle, it 
 is very doubtful if he possesses the strength 
 of the seamen who may be seen lounging 
 about the ports. There is a want of firm- 
 ness, a certain disjointed style, about his
 
 212 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 limbs, and the muscles themselves have not 
 the hardness and tension of the sailor's. The 
 labourer's muscle is that of a cart-horse, his 
 motions lumbering and slow. His style of 
 walk is caused by following the plough in 
 early childhood, when the weak limbs find 
 it a hard labour to pull the heavy nailed 
 boots from the thick clay soil. Ever after- 
 wards he walks as if it were an exertion to 
 lift his legs. His food may, perhaps, have 
 something to do with the deadened slow- 
 ness which seems to pervade everything he 
 does there seems a lack of vitality about 
 him. It consists chiefly of bread and cheese, 
 with bacon twice or thrice a week, varied 
 with onions, and if he be a milker (on some 
 farms) with a good " tuck-out " at his 
 employer's expense on Sundays. On ordi- 
 nary days he dines at the fashionable hour 
 of six or seven in the evening that is, 
 about that time his cottage scents the road 
 with a powerful odour of boiled cabbage, 
 of which he eats an immense quantity. 
 Vegetables are his luxuries, and a large 
 garden, therefore, is the greatest blessing 
 he can have. He eats huge onions raw ; 
 he has no idea of flavouring his food with
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 213 
 
 them, nor of making those savoury and in- 
 viting messes or vegetable soups at which 
 the French peasantry are so clever. In 
 Picardy I have often dined in a peasant's 
 cottage, and thoroughly enjoyed the excellent 
 soup he puts upon the table for his ordi- 
 nary meal. To dine in an English labourer's 
 cottage would be impossible. His bread 
 is generally good, certainly ; but his bacon 
 is the cheapest he can buy at small second- 
 class shops oily, soft, wretched stuff; his 
 vegetables are cooked in detestable style, 
 and eaten saturated with the pot liquor. 
 Pot liquor is a favourite soup. I have 
 known cottagers actually apply at farmers' 
 kitchens not only for the pot liquor in 
 which meat has been soddened, but for the 
 water in which potatoes have been boiled 
 potato liquor and sup it up with avidity. 
 And this not in times of dearth or scarcity, 
 but rather as a relish. They never buy 
 anything but bacon ; never butchers' meat. 
 Philanthropic ladies, to my knowledge, have 
 demonstrated over and over again even to 
 their limited capacities that certain parts 
 of butchers' meat can be bought just as 
 cheap, and will make more savoury and
 
 214 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 nutritive food ; and even now, with the 
 present high price of meat, a certain pro- 
 portion would be advantageous. In vain ; 
 the labourers obstinately adhere to the pig, 
 and the pig only. When, however, an 
 opportunity does occur the amount of food 
 they will eat is something astonishing. 
 Once a year, at the village club dinner, 
 they gormandise to repletion. In one in- 
 stance I knew of a man eating a plate of 
 roast beef (and the slices are cut enormously 
 thick at these dinners), a plate of boiled 
 beef, then another of boiled mutton, and 
 then a fourth of roast mutton, and a fifth of 
 ham. He said he could not do much to 
 the bread and cheese ; but didn't he go into 
 the pudding ! I have even heard of men 
 stuffing to the fullest extent of their powers, 
 and then retiring from the table to take an 
 emetic of mustard and return to a second 
 gorging. There is scarcely any limit to their 
 power of absorbing beer. 1 have known 
 reapers and mowers make it their boast that 
 they could lie on their backs and never 
 take the wooden bottle (in the shape of a 
 small barrel) from their lips till they had 
 drunk a gallon, and from the feats I have
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 215 
 
 seen I verily believe it a fact. The beer 
 they get is usually poor and thin, though 
 sometimes in harvest the farmers bring out 
 a taste of strong liquor, but not till the 
 work is nearly over ; for from this very 
 practice of drinking enormous quantities of 
 small beer the labourer cannot drink more 
 than a very limited amount of good liquor 
 without getting tipsy. This is why he so 
 speedily gets inebriated at the alehouse. 
 While mowing and reaping many of them 
 lay in a small cask. 
 
 They are much better clothed now than 
 formerly. Corduroy trousers and slops are 
 the usual style. Smock-frocks are going 
 out of use, except for milkers and faggers. 
 Almost every labourer has his Sunday suit, 
 very often really good clothes, sometimes 
 glossy black, with the regulation " chimney- 
 pot." His unfortunate walk betrays him, 
 dress how he will. Since labour has become 
 so expensive it has become a common remark 
 among the farmers that the labourer will 
 go to church in broadcloth and the masters 
 in smock-frocks. The labourer never wears 
 gloves that has to come with the march 
 of the times ; but he is particularly choice
 
 2i6 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 over his necktie. The women must dress 
 in the fashion. A very respectable draper 
 in an agricultural district was complaining 
 to me the other day that the poorest class 
 of women would have everything in the 
 fashionable style, let it change as often as 
 it would. In former times, if he laid in a 
 stock of goods suited to tradesmen, and 
 farmers' wives and daughters, if the fashion 
 changed, or they got out of date, he could 
 dispose of them easily to the servants. Now 
 no such thing. The quality did not matter 
 so much, but the style must be the style 
 of the day no sale for remnants. The 
 poorest girl, who had not got two yards 
 of flannel on her back, must have the same 
 style of dress as the squire's daughter 
 Dolly Vardens, chignons, and parasols for 
 ladies who can work all day reaping in the 
 broiling sun of August ! Gloves, kid, for 
 hands that milk the cows ! 
 
 The cottages now are infinitely better than 
 they were. There is scarcely room for 
 further improvement in the cottages now 
 erected upon estates. They have three bed- 
 rooms, and every appliance and comfort 
 compatible with their necessarily small size.
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. . 217 
 
 It is only the cottages erected by the 
 labourers themselves on waste plots of 
 ground which are open to objection. Those 
 he builds himself are, indeed, as a rule, 
 miserable huts, disgraceful to a Christian 
 country. I have an instance before me at 
 this moment where a man built a cottage 
 with two rooms and no staircase or upper 
 apartments, and in those two rooms eight 
 persons lived and slept himself and wife, 
 grown-up daughters, and children. There 
 was not a scrap of garden attached, not 
 enough to grow half-a-dozen onions. The 
 refuse and sewage was flung into the road, 
 or filtered down a ditch into the brook 
 which supplied that part of the village with 
 water. In another case at one time there 
 was a cottage in which twelve persons lived. 
 This had upper apartments, but so low was 
 the ceiling that a tall man could stand on 
 the floor, with his head right through the 
 opening for the staircase, and see along the 
 upper floor under the beds ! These squatters 
 are the curse of the community. It is 
 among them that fever and kindred infectious 
 diseases break out ; it is among them that 
 wretched couples are seen bent double with
 
 2i8 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 rheumatism and affections of the joints caused 
 by damp. They have often been known 
 to remain so long, generation after genera- 
 tion, in these wretched hovels, that at last 
 the lord of the manor, having neglected to 
 claim quit-rent, they can defy him, and 
 claim them as their own property, and there 
 they stick, eyesores and blots, the fungi of 
 the land. The cottages erected by farmers 
 or by landlords are now, one and all, tit and 
 proper habitations for human beings ; and 
 I verily believe it would be impossible 
 throughout the length and breadth of Wilt- 
 shire to find a single bad cottage on any 
 large estate, so well and so thoroughly 
 have the landed proprietors done their 
 work. On all farms gardens are attached 
 to the cottages, in many instances very 
 large, and always sufficient to produce 
 enough vegetables for the resident. In 
 villages the allotment system has been 
 greatly extended of late years, and has been 
 found most beneficial, both to owners and 
 tenants. As a rule the allotments are let 
 at a rate which may be taken as 4 per 
 annum a sum which pays the landlord 
 very well, and enables the labourer to
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 219 
 
 remunerate himself. In one village which 
 came under my observation the clergyman 
 of the parish has turned a portion of his 
 glebe land into allotments a most excellent 
 and noble example, which cannot be too 
 widely followed or too much extolled. He 
 is thus enabled to benefit almost every one 
 of his poor parishioners, and yet without 
 destroying that sense of independence which 
 is the great characteristic of a true English- 
 man. He has issued a book of rules and 
 conditions under which these allotments are 
 held, and he thus places a strong check 
 upon drunkenness and dissolute habits, in- 
 dulgence in which is a sure way to lose 
 the portions of ground. There is scarcely an 
 end to the benefits of the allotment system. 
 In villages there cannot be extensive gardens, 
 and the allotments supply their place. The 
 extra produce above that which supplies the 
 table and pays the rent is easily disposed 
 of in the next town, and places many 
 additional comforts in the labourer's reach. 
 The refuse goes to help support and fatten 
 the labourer's pig, which brings him in 
 profit enough to pay the rent of his cottage, 
 and the pig, in turn, manures the allotment.
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 Some towns have large common lands, held 
 under certain conditions ; such are Malmes- 
 bury, with 500 acres, and Tetbury (the 
 common land of which extends two miles), 
 both these being arable, &c. These are not 
 exactly in the use of labourers, but they are 
 in the hands of a class to which the labourer 
 often rises. Many labourers have fruit-trees 
 in their gardens, which, in some seasons, 
 prove very profitable. In the present year, 
 to my knowledge, a labourer sold \ worth 
 of apples; and another made ^3, los. off 
 the produce of one pear-tree, pears being 
 scarce. 
 
 To come at last to the difficult question 
 of wages. In Wiltshire there has been no 
 extended strike, and very few meetings upon 
 the subject, for the simple reason that the 
 agitators can gain no hold upon a county 
 where, as a mass, the labourers are well 
 paid. The common day-labourer receives 
 ios., us., and 12s. a week, according to 
 the state of supply and demand for labour 
 in various districts; and, if he milks, is. 
 more, making 135. a week, now common 
 wages. These figures are rather below the 
 mark ; I could give instances of much higher
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 pay. To give a good idea of the wages paid 
 I will take the case of a hill farmer (arable, 
 Marlborongh Downs), who paid this last 
 summer during harvest i8s. per week per 
 man. His reapers often earned IDS. a day- 
 enough to pay their year's rent in a week. 
 These men lived in cottages on the farm, 
 with three bedrooms each, and some larger, 
 with every modern appliance, each having a 
 garden of a quarter of an acre attached and 
 close at hand, for which cottage and garden 
 they paid is. per week rent. The whole of 
 these cottages were insured by the farmer 
 himself, their furniture, &c., in one lump, 
 and the insurance policy cost him, as nearly 
 as possible, is. 3d. per cottage per year. 
 For this he deducted is. per year each from 
 their wages. None of the men would have 
 insured unless he had insisted upon doing it 
 for them. These men had from six to eight 
 quarts of beer per man (over and above their 
 1 8s. a week) during harvest every day. In 
 spring and autumn their wages are much 
 increased by piece-work, hoeing, &c. In 
 winter the farmer draws their coal for them 
 in his waggons, a distance of eight miles 
 from the nearest wharf, enabling them to
 
 222 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 get it at cost price. This is no slight ad- 
 vantage, for, at the present high price of 
 coal, it is sold, delivered in the villages, at 
 2s. per cwt. Many who cannot afford it in 
 the week buy a quarter of a cwt. on Saturday 
 night, to cook their Sunday's dinner with, 
 for 6d. This is at the rate of 2 per ton. 
 Another gentleman, a large steam cultivator 
 in the Vale, whose name is often before the 
 public, informs me that his books show that 
 he paid ^100 in one year in cash to one 
 cottage for labour, showing the advantage 
 the labourer possesses over the mechanic, 
 since his wife and child can add to his 
 income. Many farmers pay ^50 and ^60 
 a year for beer drunk by their labourers a 
 serious addition to their wages. The railway 
 companies and others who employ mechanics 
 do not allow them any beer. The allowance 
 of a good cottage and a quarter of an acre 
 of garden for is. per week is not singular. 
 Many who were at the Autumn Manoeuvres 
 of the present year may remember having 
 a handsome row of houses, rather than 
 cottages, pointed out to them as inhabited 
 by labourers at is. per week. In the im- 
 mediate neighbourhood of large manufac-
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 223 
 
 turing towns is. 6d. a week is sometimes 
 paid ; but then these cottages would in 
 such positions readily let to mechanics for 
 35., 48., and even 53. per week. There was 
 a great outcry when the Duke of Marl- 
 borough issued an order that the cottages 
 on his estate should in future only be let 
 -to such men as worked upon the farms 
 where those cottages were situated. In 
 reality this was the very greatest blessing 
 the Duke could have conferred upon the 
 agricultural labourer ; for it ensured him a 
 good cottage at a nearly nominal rent and 
 close to his work ; whereas in many in- 
 stances previously the cottages on the farms 
 had been let at a high rate to the mechanics, 
 and the labourer had to walk miles before 
 he got to his labour. Cottages are not 
 erected by landowners or by farmers as 
 paying speculations. It is well known that 
 the condition of things prevents the agri- 
 cultural labourer from being able to pay a 
 sufficient rent to be a fair percentage upon 
 the sum expended. In one instance a land- 
 lord has built some cottages for his tenant, 
 the tenant paying a certain amount of 
 interest on the sum invested by the land-
 
 224 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 lord. Now, although this is a matter of 
 arrangement, and not of speculation that 
 is, although the interest paid by the tenant 
 is a low percentage upon the money laid 
 out, yet the rent paid by the labourers in- 
 habiting these cottages to the tenant does 
 not reimburse him what he pays his landlord 
 as interest not by a considerable margin. 
 But then he has the advantage of his 
 labourers close to his work, always ready 
 at hand. 
 
 Over and above the actual cash wages of 
 the labourer, which are now very good, must 
 be reckoned his cottage and garden, and 
 often a small orchard, at a nominal rent, his 
 beer at his master's expense, piece-work, 
 gleaning after harvest, &c., which alter his 
 real position very materially. In Glouces- 
 tershire, on the Cotswolds, the best-paid 
 labourers are the shepherds, for in that great 
 sheep-country much trust is reposed in them. 
 At the annual auctions of shearlings which 
 are held upon the large farms a purse is 
 made for the shepherd of the flock, into 
 which every one who attends is expected to 
 drop a shilling, often producing ^5. The 
 shepherds on the Wiltshire downs are also
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 225 
 
 well paid, especially in lambing-time, when the 
 greatest watchfulness and care are required. 
 It has been stated that the labourer has no 
 chance of rising from his position. This is 
 sheer cant. He has very good opportunities 
 of rising, and often does rise, to my know- 
 ledge. At this present moment I could 
 mention a person who has risen from a posi- 
 tion scarcely equal to that of a labourer, not 
 only to have a farm himself, but to place his 
 sons in farms. Another has just entered on 
 a farm ; and several more are on the high- 
 road to that desirable consummation. If a 
 labourer possesses any amount of intelligence 
 he becomes head-carter or head-fagger, as 
 the case may be ; and from that to be assis- 
 tant or under-bailiff, and finally bailiff. As 
 a bailiff he has every opportunity to learn 
 the working of a farm, and is often placed 
 in entire charge of a farm at a distance from 
 his employer's residence. In time he estab- 
 lishes a reputation as a practical man, and 
 being in receipt of good wages, with very 
 little expenditure, saves some money. He 
 has now little difficulty in obtaining the 
 promise of a farm, and with this can readily 
 take up money. With average care he is
 
 226 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 a made man. Others rise from petty trad- 
 ing, petty dealing in pigs and calves, till 
 they save sufficient to rent a small farm, and 
 make ihat the basis of larger dealing opera- 
 tions. I question very much whether a clerk 
 in a firm would not find it much more dif- 
 ficult, as requiring larger capital, to raise 
 himself to a level with his employer than an 
 agricultural labourer does to the level of a 
 farmer. 
 
 Many labourers now wander far and wide 
 as navvies, &c., and perhaps when these 
 return home, as most of them do, to agricul- 
 tural labour, they are the most useful and 
 intelligent of their class, from a readiness 
 they possess to turn their hand to anything. 
 I know one at this moment who makes a 
 large addition to his ordinary wages by brew- 
 ing for the small inns, and very good liquor 
 he brews, too. They pick up a large amount 
 of practical knowledge. 
 
 The agricultural women are certainly not 
 handsome ; I know no peasantry so entirely- 
 uninviting. Occasionally there is a girl 
 whose nut-brown complexion and sloe-black 
 eyes are pretty, but their features are very 
 rarely good, and they get plain quickly, so
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 227 
 
 soon as the first flush of youth is past. 
 Many have really good hair in abundance, 
 glossy and rich, perhaps from its exposure 
 to the fresh air. But on Sundays they 
 plaster it with strong-smelling pomade and 
 hair-oil, which scents the air for yards most 
 unpleasantly. As a rule, it may safely be 
 laid down that the agricultural women are 
 moral, far more so than those of the town. 
 Rough and rude jokes and language are, 
 indeed, too common ; but that is all. No 
 evil comes of it. The fairs are the chief 
 cause of immorality. Many an honest, hard- 
 working servant-girl owes her ruin to these 
 fatal mops and faiys, when liquor to which 
 she is unaccustomed overcomes her. Yet 
 it seems cruel to take from them the one 
 day or two of the year on which they can 
 enjoy themselves fairly in their own fashion. 
 The spread of friendly societies, patronised 
 by the gentry and clergy, with their annual 
 festivities, is a remedy which is gradually 
 supplying them with safer, and yet congenial, 
 amusement. In what may be termed lesser 
 morals I cannot accord either them or the 
 men the same praise. They are too ungrate- 
 ful for the many great benefits which are
 
 228 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 bountifully supplied them the brandy, the 
 soup, and fresh meat readily extended with- 
 out stint from the farmer's home in sickness 
 to the cottage are too quickly forgotten. 
 They who were most benefited are often 
 the first to most loudly complain and to 
 backbite. Never once in all my observation 
 have I heard a labouring man or woman 
 make a grateful remark ; and yet I can con- 
 fidently say that there is no class of persons 
 in England who receive so many attentions 
 and benefits from their superiors as the 
 agricultural labourers. Stories are rife of 
 their even refusing to work at disastrous 
 fires because beer was not immediately forth- 
 coming. I trust this is not true ; but it is 
 too much in character. No term is too 
 strong in condemnation for those persons 
 who endeavour to arouse an agitation among 
 a class of people so short-sighted and so 
 ready to turn against their own benefactors 
 and their own interest. I am credibly 
 informed that one of these agitators, im- 
 mediately after the Bishop of Gloucester's 
 unfortunate but harmlessly intended speech 
 at the Gloucester Agricultural Society's 
 dinner one of these agitators mounted a
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 229 
 
 platform at a village meeting and in plain 
 language incited and advised the labourers 
 to duck the farmers ! The agricultural 
 women either go out to field-work or become 
 indoor servants. In harvest they hay-make 
 chiefly light work, as raking and reap, 
 which is much harder labour ; but then, while 
 reaping they work their own time, as it is 
 done by the piece. Significantly enough, 
 they make longer hours while reaping. 
 They are notoriously late to arrive, and 
 eager to return home, on the hay-field. The 
 children help both in haymaking and reap- 
 ing. In spring and autumn they hoe and 
 do other piece-work. On pasture farms they 
 beat clots or pick up stones out of the way 
 of the mowers' scythes. Occasionally, but 
 rarely now, they milk. In winter they wear 
 gaiters, which give the ankles a most un- 
 gainly appearance. Those who go out to 
 service get very low wages at first from their 
 extreme awkwardness, but generally quickly 
 rise. As dairymaids they get very good 
 wages indeed. Dairymaids are scarce and 
 valuable. A dairymaid who can be trusted 
 to take charge of a dairy will sometimes 
 get 20 besides her board (liberal) and
 
 230 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 sundry perquisites. These often save money, 
 marry bailiffs, and help their husbands to 
 start a farm. 
 
 In the education provided for children 
 Wiltshire compares favourably with other 
 counties. Long before the passing of the 
 recent Act in reference to education the 
 clergy had established schools in almost 
 every parish, and their exertions have enabled 
 the greater number of places to come up to 
 the standard required by the Act, without 
 the assistance of a School Board. The great 
 difficulty is the distance children have to 
 walk to school, from the sparseness of popu- 
 lation and the number of outlying hamlets. 
 This difficulty is felt equally by the farmers, 
 who, in the majority of cases, find themselves 
 situated far from a good school. In only one 
 place has anything like a cry for education 
 arisen, and that is on the extreme northern 
 edge of the county. The Vice-Chairman of 
 the Swindon Chamber of Agriculture recently 
 stated that only one-half of the entire popu- 
 lation of Inglesham could read and write, 
 It subsequently appeared that the parish of 
 Inglesham was very sparsely populated, and 
 that a variety of circumstances had prevented
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 231 
 
 vigorous efforts being made. The children, 
 however, could attend schools in adjoining 
 parishes, not farther than two miles, a dis- 
 tance which they frequently walk in other 
 parts of the country. 
 
 Those who are so ready to cast every blame 
 upon the farmer, and to represent him as 
 eating up the earnings of his men and en- 
 riching himself with their ill-paid labour, 
 should remember that farming, as a rule, is 
 carried on with a large amount of borrowed 
 capital. In these days, when 6 an acre has 
 been expended in growing roots for sheep, 
 when the slightest derangement of calculation 
 in the price of wool, meat, or corn, or the 
 loss of a crop, seriously interferes with a fair 
 return for capital invested, the farmer has to 
 sail extremely close to the wind, and only a 
 little more would find his canvas shaking. 
 It was only recently that the cashier of the 
 principal bank of an agricultural county, 
 after an unprosperous year, declared that 
 such another season would make almost 
 every farmer insolvent. Under these circum- 
 stances it is really to be wondered at that 
 they have done as much as they have for 
 the labourer in the last few years, finding
 
 232 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 him with better cottages, better wages, better 
 education, and affording him better oppor- 
 tunities of rising in the social scale. I am, 
 Sir, faithfully yours, 
 
 RICHAED JEFFERIES. 
 
 COATK FARM, SWINDOK, Nov. 12, 1872. 
 
 Lord Shaftesbury, in the Times, Dec. 6th, 
 says : 
 
 " It is our duty and our interest to elevate 
 the present condition of the labourer, and 
 to enable him to assert and enjoy every one 
 of his rights. But I must agree with Mr. 
 Jefferies that, even under the actual system 
 of things, numerous instances have occurred 
 of a rise in the social scale as the result 
 of temperance, good conduct, and economy. 
 He has furnished some examples. I will 
 give only one from my own estate : ' T. M. 
 was for many years shepherd to Farmer 
 P- ; he bought with his savings a small 
 
 leasehold property at for ^170, and 
 
 he had accumulated ^100 besides. He 
 had brought up a son and three daughters,
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 233 
 
 and his son now occupies the leasehold.' 
 This is the statement as given to me in 
 writing." 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 (To the Editor of the " Times?} 
 
 SIR, I did not intend to make any reply to 
 the numerous attacks made upon my letter 
 published in the Times of the I4th inst., 
 but the statements made by "The Son of 
 a Wiltshire Labourer " are such as I feel 
 bound to resent on the part of the farmers 
 of this county. 
 
 He says he wishes the landed proprietors 
 would take as much care to provide cottages 
 for their labourers as I represent them as 
 doing. I repeat what I said, that the cot- 
 tages on large estates are now, one and 
 all, fit habitations for human beings. The 
 Duke of Marlborough is a large proprietor 
 of cottages in this neighbourhood, and his 
 plan has been, whenever a cottage did not 
 appear sufficiently commodious, to throw two 
 into one. The owner of the largest estate
 
 234 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 near Swindon has been engaged for many 
 years past in removing the old thatched mud 
 hovels, and replacing them with substantial, 
 roomy, and slate-roofed buildings. Farmers 
 are invariably anxious to have good cottages. 
 There is a reluctance to destroy the exist- 
 ing ones, both from the inconvenience and 
 the uncertainty sometimes of others being 
 erected. Often, too, the poor have the 
 strongest attachment to the cabin in which 
 they were born and bred, and would strongly 
 resent its destruction, though obviously for 
 their good. Farmers never build bad cot- 
 tages now. When a tenement falls in, either 
 from decay or the death of the tenant, the 
 cottage which is erected on its site is invari- 
 ably a good one. A row of splendid cottages 
 has recently been erected at Wanborough. 
 They are very large, with extensive gardens 
 attached. Some even begin to complain 
 that the cottages now erected are in a sense 
 " too good " for the purpose. The system 
 of three bedrooms is undoubtedly the best 
 from a sanitary point of view, but it is a 
 question whether the widespread belief in 
 that system, and that system alone, has not 
 actually retarded the erection of reasonably
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 235 
 
 good buildings. It is that third bedroom 
 which just prevents the investment of build- 
 ing a cottage from paying a remunerative 
 percentage on the capital expended. Two 
 bedrooms are easily made the third puzzles 
 the builder where to put it with due regard 
 to economy. Nor is a third bedroom always 
 required. Out of ten families perhaps only 
 two require a third bedroom ; in this way 
 there is a large waste in erecting a row. It 
 has been suggested that a row should con- 
 sist of so many cottages with two bedrooms 
 only for families who do not want more, and 
 at each end a building with three bedrooms 
 for larger families. In one instance two 
 cottages were ordered to be erected on an 
 estate, the estimate for which was ^640 ; 
 these when completed might have let for 
 ;io per annum, or i| per cent, on the 
 capital invested ! The plans for these cot- 
 tages had so many dormer windows, porches, 
 intricacies of design in variegated tiles, &c., 
 that the contractor gave it up as a bad job. 
 I mention this to show that the tendency 
 to build good cottages has gone even beyond 
 what was really required, and ornamentation 
 is added to utility.
 
 236 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 Then it is further stated that the labourer 
 cannot build cottages. I could name a lane 
 at this moment the cottages in which were 
 one and all built by labourers ; and there 
 are half-a-dozen in this village which were 
 erected by regular farm labourers. The 
 majority of these are, as I said before, 
 wretched hovels, but there are two or three 
 which demonstrate that the labourer, if he 
 is a thrifty man, earns quite sufficient to 
 enable him to erect a reasonably good build- 
 ing. The worst hovel I ever saw (it was 
 mentioned in my letter of the I4th) was 
 built by a man who is notorious for his 
 drinking habits. Some forty years ago, when 
 wages were much lower than they are now, 
 two labourers, to my knowledge, took pos- 
 session of a strip of waste land by the road- 
 side, and built themselves cottages. One 
 of these was a very fair building ; the other 
 would certainly be condemned now-a-days. 
 The lord of the manor claimed these; 
 and the difficulty was thus adjusted : The 
 builders were to receive the value of their 
 tenements from the lord of the manor, and 
 were to remain permanent tenants for life 
 on payment of a small percentage, interest
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 237 
 
 upon the purchase-money, as quit-rent. On 
 their deaths the cottages were to become 
 the property of the lord of the manor. One 
 man received ^40 for his cottage, the other 
 20, which sums forty years ago represented 
 relatively a far higher value than now, and 
 demonstrate conclusively that the labourer, 
 if he is a steady, hard-working man, can 
 build a cottage. Another cottage I know 
 of, built by a farm labourer, is really a very 
 creditable building good walls, floors, stair- 
 case, sashes, doors ; it stands high, and ap- 
 pears very comfortable, and even pleasant, 
 in summer, for they are a thrifty family, and 
 can even display flower-pots in the window. 
 Other cottages have been built or largely 
 added to in my memory by labourers. On 
 these occasions they readily obtain help from 
 the farmers. One lends his team and wag- 
 gons to draw the stones ; another supplies 
 wood for nothing ; but of late I must admit 
 there has been some reluctance to assist in 
 this way (unless for repairs) because it was so 
 often found that the buildings thus erected 
 were not fit habitations. The Boards of 
 Guardians often find a difficulty from the 
 limited ownership of some of the labourers,
 
 238 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 who apply for relief, of their cottages. Per- 
 haps they have not paid quit-rent for a year 
 or two ; but still they cannot sell, and yet 
 it seems unjust to the ratepayers to assist 
 a man who has a tenement which he at 
 least calls his own, and from which he can- 
 not be ejected. I know a labourer at this 
 moment living in a cottage originally built 
 by his father, and added to by himself by 
 the assistance of the neighbouring farmers. 
 This man has been greatly assisted by one 
 farmer in particular, who advanced him 
 money by which he purchased a horse and 
 cart, and was enabled to do a quantity of 
 hauling, flint-carting for the waywardens, 
 and occasionally to earn money by assisting 
 to carry a farmer's harvest. He rents a 
 large piece of arable land, and ought to be 
 comparatively well off. 
 
 " The Son of a Wiltshire Labourer " com- 
 plains that the farmers or proprietors do not 
 make sufficient efforts to supply the cottages 
 with water. The lord of the manor and the 
 tenant of the largest farms in this immediate 
 neighbourhood have but just sunk a well for 
 their cottages ; previously they had got their 
 supply from a pump in an adjacent farmyard
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 239 
 
 thrown open by the proprietor to all the 
 village. 
 
 It is the labourer himself who will not rise. 
 In a village with which I am acquainted 
 great efforts have been made by a farmer and 
 a gentleman living near to provide proper 
 school instruction for the children. One 
 labourer was asked why he did not send his 
 children to school. He replied, " Because 
 he could not afford it." "But," said the 
 farmer, "it is only threepence altogether." 
 "Oh, no; he could not afford it." The 
 farmer explained to him that the object was 
 to avoid a School Board, which, in other 
 places, had the power to fine for not sending 
 children to school. " No, he could not afford 
 it." The farmer's books show that this 
 labourer, his wife, and two children received 
 28s. 6d. per week, his cottage rent free, and 
 a very large garden at a low rent. Yet he 
 could not afford the 3d. a week which would 
 enable his children ultimately to take a better 
 position in the world ! The same farmer, 
 who is a liberal and large-minded man, has 
 endeavoured, without success, to introduce 
 the practice of paying in cash instead of beer, 
 and also the system of payment for overtime.
 
 240 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 The men say no, they would rather not. " In 
 wet weather," they say, "we do no work, 
 but you pay us ; and if we work a little later 
 in harvest, it only makes it fair." They 
 would not take money instead of beer. In 
 another case which came under my personal 
 observation in the middle of last summer, a 
 farmer announced his intention of paying in 
 cash instead of allowing beer. In the very 
 press of the haymaking, with acres upon 
 acres of grass spoiling, his men, one and all, 
 struck work because he would not give them 
 beer, and went over to a neighbour's field 
 adjacent and worked for him for nothing but 
 their share in the beer. If labourers work 
 longer hours in harvest (corn), it is because 
 it is piece-work, and they thereby make more 
 money. I contend that the payment in kind, 
 the beer, the gleanings, the piece-work, the 
 low and nominal cottage rent, the allotment 
 ground and produce, and the pig (not re- 
 stricted to one pig in a year), may fairly be 
 taken as an addition to their wages. I am 
 informed that in one parish the cottage rents 
 vary from lod. to is. 2d. per week ; nearly all 
 have gardens, and all may have allotments up 
 to a quarter of an acre each at sd. per lug, or
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 241 
 
 4OS. per acre. I am also informed of a labourer 
 renting a cottage and garden at is. per week, 
 the fruit-trees in whose garden produced this 
 year three sacks of damsons, which he sold at 
 is. 6d. per gallon, or ^"6, i8s. I know of a 
 case in which a labourer an earnest, intel- 
 ligent, hard-working man makes 2 a week 
 on an average all the year round. But then 
 he works only at piece-work, going from farm 
 to farm, and this is, of course, an exceptional 
 case. The old men, worn out with age and 
 infirmity, are kept on year after year by many 
 farmers out of charity, rather than let them go 
 to the workhouse, though totally useless and 
 a dead loss, especially as occupying valuable 
 cottage-room. There is a society, the annual 
 meetings of which are held at Chippenham, 
 and which is supported by the clergy, gentry, 
 and farmers generally of North Wilts, for 
 the object of promoting steady habits among 
 the labourers and rewarding cases of long 
 and deserving services. There is also a 
 friendly society on the best and most reli- 
 able basis, supported by the gentry, and 
 introduced as far as possible into villages. 
 The labourers on the Great Western Railway 
 
 works at Swindon earn from 155. a week 
 
 Q
 
 242 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 upwards, according as they approach to 
 skilled workmen. Attracted by these wages, 
 most of the young men of the neighbour- 
 hood try the factory, but, usually, after a 
 short period return to farm-work, the result 
 of their experience being that they are better 
 off as agricultural labourers. Lodgings in 
 the town close to the factory are very expen- 
 sive, and food in proportion ; consequently 
 they have to walk long distances to their 
 labour some from Wanborough, five miles ; 
 Wroughton, three and a half miles ; Purton, 
 four miles ; and even Wootton Bassett, six 
 miles, which twice a day is a day's work in 
 itself. Add to this the temptations to spend 
 money in towns, and the severe labour, and 
 the man finds himself better off with his 
 quiet cottage and garden on a farm at 123. 
 a week, and is. for milking, with beer, and 
 a meal on Sundays. The skilled mechanics, 
 who earn 363. to 2 per week, rent houses 
 in the town at 6s. to 8s. ; and in one case 
 I knew of 12s. per week paid by a lodger 
 for two rooms. These prices cannot be paid 
 out of the mechanic's wage ; consequently 
 he sub-lets, or takes lodgers, and sometimes 
 these sub-let, and the result is an over-
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 243 
 
 crowding worse than that of the agricul- 
 tural cottages, around which there is at 
 least fresh air and plenty of light (nearly 
 as important), which are denied in a town. 
 The factory labourer and the mechanic are 
 liable to instant dismissal. The agricultural 
 labourers (half of them at least) are hired 
 by the year or half-year, and cannot be 
 summarily sent along unless for misconduct. 
 Wages have recently been increased by 
 the farmers of Wiltshire voluntarily and 
 without pressure from threatened strikes. 
 It is often those who receive the highest 
 wages who are the first to come to the 
 parish for relief. It is not uncommon for 
 mechanics and others to go for relief where 
 it is discovered that they are in receipt of 
 sick pay from the yard club, and sometimes 
 from two friendly societies, making i8s. a 
 week. A manufacturing gentleman informed 
 me that the very men whom he had been 
 paying % a week to were the first to apply 
 for relief when distress came and the mills 
 stopped. It is not low wages, then, which 
 causes improvident habits. The only result of 
 deporting agricultural labourers to different 
 counties is to equalise the wages paid all
 
 244 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 over England. This union-assisted emigra- 
 tion affords the improvident labourer a good 
 opportunity of transporting himself to a 
 distant county, and leaving deeply in debt 
 with the tradesmen with whom he has long 
 dealt. I am informed that this is commonly 
 the case with emigrating labourers. A sig- 
 nificant fact is noted in the leader of the 
 Labour News of the i6th of November; the 
 return of certain emigrants from America 
 is announced as " indicative that higher 
 quotations are not always representative of 
 greater positive advantages." The agricul- 
 tural labourer found that out when he 
 returned from the factory at 155. per 
 week to farm labour at I2S. I am posi- 
 tive that the morality of the country com- 
 pares favourably with that of the town. 
 I was particularly struck with this fact 
 on a visit to the Black Country. One 
 of the worst parishes for immorality in 
 Wiltshire is one where glovemaking is 
 carried on ; singularly enough, manufac- 
 tures and immorality seem to go together. 
 " The Son of a Labourer " says that all 
 the advantages the labourer does possess 
 are owing to the exertions of the clergy ;
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 245 
 
 pray who support the clergy but the 
 farmers ? 
 
 I think that the facts I have mentioned 
 sufficiently demonstrate that the farmers and 
 the landlords of Wiltshire have done their 
 duty, and more than their mere duty, towards 
 the labourers ; and only a little investiga- 
 tion will show that at present it is out of 
 their power to do more. Take the case of 
 a farmer entering a dairy-farm of, say, 250 
 acres, and calculate his immediate out- 
 goings say fifty cows at ^20, ^1,000 ; 
 two horses at ^25, ,50; waggons, carts, 
 implements, ^100; labour, three men at 
 I2s. per week, ^94; harvest labour, ^20; 
 dairymaid 10 ; tithe, taxes, rates, &c., 
 ;ioo; rent, 2 per acre, ^500. Total, 
 ^1874. In other words (exclusive of the 
 capital invested in stock), the outgoings 
 amount to ^"724 per annum; against which 
 put fifty cows' milk, &c., at 10 per 
 head, ^500; fifty calves, ^100; fifty tons 
 of hay at ^3, ios., ^"175. Total income, 
 ^775; balance in hand, ^51. Then comes 
 the village school subscription ; sometimes 
 a church rate (legally voluntary, but morally 
 binding), &c.
 
 246 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 So that, in hard figures (all these are below 
 the mark, if anything), there is positively 
 nothing left for the farmer but a house and 
 garden free. How, then, is money made ? 
 By good judgment in crops, in stock, by 
 lucky accidents. On a dairy-farm the re- 
 turns begin immediately ; on an arable one 
 there is half a year at least to wait. The 
 care, the judgment, required to be exercised 
 is something astonishing, and a farmer is 
 said to be all his life learning his trade. If 
 sheep are dear and pay well, the farmer 
 plants roots ; then, perhaps, after a heavy 
 expenditure for manure, for labour, and 
 seed, there comes the fly, or a drought, 
 and his capital is sunk. On the other 
 hand, if the season be good, roots are cheap 
 and over-plentiful, and where is his profit 
 then ? He works like a labourer himself 
 in all weathers and at all times ; he has 
 the responsibility and the loss, yet he is 
 expected to find the labourer, not only good 
 cottages, allotments, schooling, good wages, 
 but Heaven knows what besides. Supposing 
 the ^1874 (on the dairy-farm) be borrowed 
 capital for which he must pay at least 4 
 per cent. and few, indeed, are there who
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 247 
 
 get money at that price it is obvious how 
 hard he must personally work, how hard, 
 too, he must live, to make both ends meet. 
 And it speaks well for his energy and thrift 
 that I heard a bank director not long since 
 remark that he had noticed, after all, with 
 every drawback, the tenant farmers had 
 made as a rule more money in proportion 
 than their landlords. A harder-working 
 class of men does not exist than the Wilt- 
 shire farmers. 
 
 Only a few days ago I saw in your 
 valuable paper a list, nearly a column long, 
 of the millionaires who had died in the last 
 ten years. It would be interesting to know 
 how much they had spent for the benefit 
 of the agricultural labourer. Yet no one 
 attacks them. They pay no poor-rates, no 
 local taxation, or nothing in proportion. 
 The farmer pays the poor-rate which sup- 
 ports the labourer in disease, accident, and 
 old age ; the highway rates on which the 
 millionaire's carriage rolls ; and very soon the 
 turnpike trusts will fall in, and the farmers 
 i.e., the land will have to support the 
 imperial roads also. With all these heavy 
 burdens on his back, having to compete
 
 248 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 against the world, he has yet no right to 
 compensation for his invested capital if he 
 is ordered to quit. Without some equalisa- 
 tion of local taxation as I have shown, the 
 local taxes often make another rent almost 
 without a recognised tenant-right, not 
 revolutionary, but for unexhausted improve- 
 ments, better security, so that he can freely 
 invest capital, the farmer cannot I reiterate 
 it, he cannot do more than he has done for 
 the labourer. He would then employ more 
 skilled labour, and wages would be better. 
 And, after all that he does for them, he 
 dares not find fault, or he may find his ricks 
 blazing away thanks to the teaching of the 
 agitators that the farmers are tyrants, and, 
 by inference, that to injure them is meri- 
 torious. There is a poster in Swindon now 
 offering 20 reward for the discovery of 
 the person who maliciously set fire to a 
 rick of hay in Lord Bolingbroke's park at 
 Lydiard. 
 
 If any farmers are hard upon their men, it 
 is those who have themselves been labourers 
 and have risen to be employers of labour. 
 These very often thoroughly understand the 
 art of getting the value of a man's wage out
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 249 
 
 of him. I deliberately affirm that the true 
 farmers, one and all, are in favour of that 
 maxim of a well-known and respected agri- 
 culturist of our county " A fair day's wage 
 for a fair day's work." 
 
 I fear the farmers of Wiltshire would be 
 only too happy to ride thorough-breds to 
 the hunt, and see their daughters driving 
 phaetons, as they are accused of doing ; but 
 I also fear that very, very few enjoy that 
 privilege. Most farmers, it is true, do keep 
 some kind of vehicle ; it is necessary when 
 their great distance from a town is con- 
 sidered, and the keep of a horse or two 
 comes to nothing on a large farm. It is 
 customary for them to drive their wives or 
 daughters once a week on market-days into 
 the nearest town. If here and there an 
 energetic man succeeds in making money, 
 and is able to send his son to a university, 
 all honour to him. I hope the farmers will 
 send their sons to universities ; the spread 
 of education in their class will be of as much 
 advantage to the community as among the 
 labouring population, for it will lead to the 
 more general application of science to the 
 land and a higher amount of production. If
 
 250 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 the labourer attempted to rise he would be 
 praised ; why not the farmer ? 
 
 It is simply an unjustifiable libel on the 
 entire class to accuse them of wilful extra- 
 vagance. I deliberately affirm that the 
 majority of farmers in Wiltshire are exactly 
 the reverse ; that, while they practise a 
 generous hospitality to a friend or a stranger, 
 they are decidedly saving and frugal rather 
 than extravagant, and they are compelled to 
 be so by the condition of their finances. 
 To prove that their efforts are for the good 
 of the community I need only allude to 
 the work of the late Mr. Stratton, so crowned 
 with success in improving the breed of cattle 
 a work in the sister county of Gloucester 
 so ably carried on at this present moment by 
 Mr. Edward Bowly, and by Mr. Lane and 
 Mr. Game in the noted Cotswold sheep. 
 The breeds produced by these gentlemen 
 have in a manner impregnated the whole 
 world, imported as they have been to 
 America and Australia. It was once ably 
 said that the readings of the English Bible 
 Sunday after Sunday in our churches had 
 preserved our language pure for centuries ; 
 and, in the same way, I do verily believe
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 251 
 
 that the English (not the Wiltshire only, 
 but the English) farmer as an institution, 
 with his upright, untainted ideas of honour, 
 honesty, and morality, has preserved the tone 
 of society from that corruption which has 
 so miserably degraded France so much so 
 that Dumas recently scientifically predicted 
 that France was en route a prostitution 
 generate. Just in the same way his splendid 
 constitution as a man recruits the exhausted, 
 pale, nervous race who dwell in cities, and 
 prevents the Englishman from physically 
 degenerating. I am, Sir, faithfully yours, 
 
 RICHARD JEFFERIES. 
 
 COATE FARM, SWINDON, November 25, 1872.
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 THE ALLOTMENT SYSTEM. 
 (To the Editor of the " Times?) 
 
 SIR, Many gentlemen having written to me 
 for further information upon the system of 
 glebe allotments for labourers mentioned in 
 my letter to the Times of November 14, 
 it has occurred to me that the following 
 facts may be interesting : 
 
 The glebe alluded to was that of Lydding- 
 ton, .near Swindon, and the plan was origi- 
 nated by the late incumbent, Mr. May, but 
 carried out into a complete system by the 
 present much-respected rector, the Kev. H. 
 Munn. The land itself is situated not more 
 than 300 yards from the village of Lydding- 
 ton, by the side of a good turnpike-road, 
 and is traversed by two roads giving easy 
 access to every allotment. Each plot of 
 ground is divided from the next by a narrow 
 green path : no hedges or mounds are per- 
 mitted, and the field itself is enclosed 
 without a hedge to harbour birds. The soil
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 253 
 
 is a rich dark loam, yielding good crops, with 
 very little manure, and the surface is level. 
 There are sixty-three tenants occupying plots 
 varying in size, according to circumstances, 
 from 48 "lug" downwards 25, 30, 16, &c. 
 A "Ing" is a provincialism for perch. The 
 rent is 5d. per "lug" or perch, and each 
 occupier on becoming a tenant receives a 
 card on which the following rules are 
 printed in large type : 
 
 "LYDDINGTON GARDEN ALLOTiUENTS. 
 "RULES AND KEGULATIONS. 
 
 " i. The land shall be cultivated by the 
 spade only, and proper attention shall be 
 paid to its cultivation. 
 
 " 2. No allotment, or any part thereof, 
 shall be under-let or exchanged. 
 
 "3. The rent shall be due on the ist of 
 September in each year, and shall be paid 
 before the crop is taken off the ground. 
 
 " 4. All tenants shall maintain a character 
 for morality and sobriety, and shall not 
 frequent a public-house on the Sabbath- 
 day. 
 
 " 5. If any tenant fail to pay his rent or
 
 254 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 to perform any of the foregoing conditions 
 he shall immediately forfeit his allotment, 
 with his crop upon the same, and the land- 
 lord or his agent shall take possession and 
 enforce payment of the rent due by sale of 
 the crop or otherwise, as in arrears of rent. 
 
 " All the tenants are earnestly requested to 
 attend regularly at the House of God dur- 
 ing the times of Divine Service, with their 
 families, to the best of their abilities." 
 
 The object of Rule 2 is to enable the 
 landlord to retain a certain amount of 
 influence over the tenant, to bring him in 
 immediate contact with the tenant, and to 
 keep the land itself under his control. 
 Many occupiers endeavour to under-let their 
 allotments, which, if permitted, would en- 
 tirely defeat the main object of the landlord, 
 besides complicating the already great labour 
 of collecting the rents, &c. 
 
 llule 3 prevents the produce of the allot- 
 ment going to pay the public-house score ; 
 while the date on which the rent falls due 
 is so adjusted as to enable the occupier to 
 receive his money for harvest-work before 
 paying it.
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 255 
 
 Rule 4 places a great restraint upon 
 drunkenness and dissolute habits. Last 
 year the Rev. H. Munn addressed a private 
 circular to his tenants, in which he says : 
 
 " Sad reports have been brought to me 
 lately of the conduct of some in the parish, 
 and among them, I am sorry to say, are 
 tenants of the Allotment Gardens. Such 
 conduct is contrary to the rules on which 
 the allotments are held, and also contrary 
 to the intentions of my predecessor in letting 
 them out to the parishioners. They are 
 intended to improve the condition of the 
 labourers and their families, giving them 
 employment in the summer evenings, in- 
 creasing their supply of food, and withdraw- 
 ing them from the influence of the public- 
 house. But when drinking habits are 
 indulged all these benefits are lost, and the 
 allotments, which were intended to do the 
 labourer good, only increase his means of 
 obtaining intoxicating drinks." 
 
 The landlord can, of course, exercise his 
 discretion in enforcing Rule 5 can allow 
 time for payment, and in certain cases of 
 misfortune, such as the failure of the potato 
 crop, remit it entirely. But this power must
 
 256 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 be sparingly used, otherwise every one would 
 endeavour to find excuses for non-fulfilment 
 of the contract. 
 
 The extent of the allotment is written on 
 the back of the card of rules, with the name 
 of the tenant, thus: "D. Hancock. Lot i, 
 Lug 1 5 ; rent 6s. 3d. ; " and each payment 
 is receipted underneath, with the date and 
 initials of the landlord. 
 
 The present landlord has in no case dis- 
 turbed or removed the tenants received by 
 his predecessor, but where land has fallen 
 in he has endeavoured to arrange the extent 
 of the new allotments made to suit the 
 requirements of families, and to allow of a 
 sufficient crop of potatoes being grown for 
 one season on one half of the allotment, 
 while the other half bears different vege- 
 tables, and vice versd for the next season, 
 being the same thing as a rotation of 
 crops. 
 
 The field has recently been drained at 
 the joint cost of landlord and tenant. The 
 Rev. H. Munn provided the drain-pipes, 
 and the occupiers paid for the labour, which 
 latter came to ^8, the amount being pro- 
 portioned according to the size of each
 
 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 257 
 
 allotment. The highest amount paid by 
 any one tenant was, I believe, i (for 48 
 "lug"), others going down to is. 
 
 The rent at 5d. per "lug" or perch comes 
 to ^"3, 6s. 8d. per acre, an amount which 
 bears a proper relation to the rent of arable 
 farming land, when the labour of collecting 
 so many small sums and other circumstances 
 are taken into consideration. The moral 
 effect of the arrangement has been incalcul- 
 able as one old woman pertinently re- 
 marked, " We needn't steal now, sir." In 
 the olden times the farmers' gardens were 
 constantly subject to depredations. The 
 ordinary rate at which gardens are let in 
 the neighbourhood is 6d. per "lug." At 
 Swindon, the nearest town (12,000 inhabi- 
 tants), there are large allotment fields let 
 at is. 6d. per "lug," or 12 per acre, and 
 eagerly caught up at that price. These 
 allotments are rented by every class, from 
 labourers and mechanics to well-to-do trades- 
 men. 
 
 The very first desire of every agricultural 
 labourer's heart is a garden, and so strong 
 is the feeling that I have known men apply 
 for permission to cultivate the vacant space
 
 258 WILTSHIRE LABOURERS. 
 
 between the large double mounds of the 
 hedges on some pasture farms, and work 
 hard at it despite the roots of the bushes 
 and the thefts of the rooks. 
 
 The facts mentioned above only add one 
 more to the numberless ways in which the 
 noble clergy of the Church of England have 
 been silently labouring for the good of the 
 people committed to their care for years 
 before the agitators bestowed one thought 
 on the agricultural poor. I am, Sir, faith- 
 fully yours, RICHARD JEFFERIES. 
 
 Co ATE FARM, SWINDON. 
 
 (Published in th " Times," Nov. 25, 1872.)
 
 A TRUE TALE OF THE WILTSHIRE 
 LABOURER. 
 
 "Now then hold fast there mind the 
 furrow, Tim." The man who was loading 
 prepared himself for the shock, and the 
 waggon safely jolted over the furrow, and 
 on between the wakes of light-brown hay, 
 crackling to the touch as if it would catch 
 fire in the brilliant sunshine. The pitchers, 
 one on each side, stuck their prongs into 
 the wakes and sent up great "pitches," 
 clearing the ground rapidly, through emu- 
 lation, for it was a point of honour to keep 
 pace with each other. Tim, the old man 
 who had led the horses, resumed his rake 
 in the rear among the women, who instantly 
 began teasing the poor wretch. 
 
 "Tim, she's allus in the way," said one, 
 purposely hitching her rake in his. " Thur 
 -get away." 
 
 "I shan't," said Tim, surly as crabbed 
 
 259
 
 2 6o A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 age and incessant banter under a hot sun 
 could make him. "Now mind, thee's 
 break th' rake." 
 
 They both pulled as hard as they dared 
 each expecting the other to give way, for 
 the master was in sight, on horseback, by 
 the rick, and a rake broken wantonly would 
 bring a sharp reprimand. 
 
 " Go it, Sal ! " cried the loader on the 
 waggon hoarsely, half (hoked with hay 
 dust. " Pull away ! " 
 
 " Pull, Tim ! " cried one of the pitchers. 
 
 "Ha! ha!" laughed two or three more 
 women, closing round as the girl gave a tug 
 which nearly upset Tim and broke half-a- 
 dozen teeth out of his rake. 
 
 " Darn thee ! " growled the old fellow. 
 The youngest of the girls at the same 
 moment gave him a push under the arm 
 with the end of her rake-handle. It was 
 the last straw which broke the back of 
 Tim's temper. Swearing, he dropped the 
 rake and seized a prong, and hobbled after 
 the girl, who danced away half in delight 
 and half in terror. 
 
 " I'll job this into thee darn thee if 
 I can come near thee, thee hussy ! "
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 261 
 
 The "hussy" let him come near, and 
 danced away again gracefully. She was 
 at once the most handsome and most 
 impudent of his tormentors. There's no 
 saying whether the old man, roused as he 
 was and incensed beyond control, might 
 not really have "jobbed," i.e., stabbed, his 
 prong at her, had not one of the pitchers 
 left his wake and rushed on him. 
 
 " My eye ! " shouted the loader, " Ab- 
 salom's at 'un ! " 
 
 Absalom took Tim by the shoulders and 
 hurled him on the ground pretty heavily. 
 Flinging the prong twenty yards away, he 
 threatened to knock his head off if he. 
 didn't let Madge alone. Old Tim slowly 
 got up and went off after his tool, growl- 
 ing to himself, while Madge clung hold of 
 Absalom's arm, who, turning round, kissed 
 her. The other women looked jealously on 
 as she followed him back to his wake, and 
 kept close to him at his work. 
 
 Madge was tall and slenderly made. Her 
 limbs were more delicately proportioned 
 than is usual among women accustomed 
 to manual labour from childhood. The 
 rosy glow of health lit up her brown but
 
 262 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 clear cheek, free from freckles and sun- 
 spots. Her eyes, black as sloes, were fringed 
 with long dark eyelashes which gave their 
 glances an espiegle expression. They were 
 very wicked-looking eyes, full of fun and 
 mischief. Her dress, open at the throat, 
 displayed a faultless neck, but slightly 
 sun-browned. Her curly dark-brown hair 
 escaped in ringlets down her back. A 
 lovely nut-brown maid ! 
 
 Soft glances passed rapidly between Madge 
 and Absalom, as she raked behind him. 
 They did not escape the jealous notice of 
 the other women. It was the last day of 
 the hay-harvest it was " hay home " that 
 night. 
 
 Harvest is a time of freedom, but the 
 last day resembles the ancient Saturnalia, 
 or rather perhaps the vine season in Italy, 
 when the grape- gatherers indulged their 
 rude wit on every one who came near. 
 Eaillery and banter poured incessantly on 
 Madge and Absalom, who replied with equal 
 freedom. 
 
 " Grin away," shouted Absalom at last, 
 half pleased, half irritated, as he stuck his 
 prong in the ground, and seizing Madge.
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 263 
 
 kissed her before them all. " Thur I bean't 
 ashamed on her ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! Hoorah!" shouted the 
 men. Madge slipped away towards the 
 rear, blushing scarlet. So absorbed had 
 they been as not to notice the approach of 
 another waggon coming in the opposite 
 direction, which was now alongside. Seeing 
 the kiss and hearing the laugh, one of the 
 men, following it, shouted in a stentorian 
 voice, for which he was renowned 
 
 "Darn my buttons if I won't have one 
 of they!" 
 
 In an instant he was over the wake and 
 caught Madge in his arms. But she 
 struggled and cried. Absalom was there 
 in a moment. 
 
 "Go it, Eoaring Billy!" shouted the 
 followers of the other waggon. But Ab- 
 salom shook him free, and the girl darted 
 away. The two men stood fronting each 
 other. Absalom was angry. Billy had 
 had a trifle too much beer. A quarrel 
 was imminent, and fists were doubled, 
 when the pitchers rushed up and separated 
 them. 
 
 The last pitch was now flung up, and
 
 264 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 the women began to decorate the horses 
 and the waggons with green boughs. 
 
 "Come on, Madge," said Absalom, "we'll 
 ride whoam ; " and despite of much femi- 
 nine shyness and many objections, and 
 after much trouble and blushing and rude 
 jokes about legs, Madge was hoisted up, 
 and Absalom followed her. To the rick- 
 yard they rode in triumph among green 
 boughs, and to the rude chorus of a song. 
 
 At seven that evening the whole gang 
 were collected in the farmer's great kitchen. 
 A huge room it was, paved with stone 
 flags, the walls whitewashed, and the 
 ceiling being the roof itself, whose black 
 beams were festooned with cobwebs. Three 
 or four tables had been arranged in a row, 
 and there was a strong smell of "dinner" 
 from smoking joints. Absalom came in 
 last. He had spent some time in adorning 
 himself in a white clean slop and new 
 corduroys, with a gay necktie and his grand- 
 father's watch. His face shone from a 
 recent wash. It was an open countenance, 
 which unconsciously prepossessed one in 
 his favour. Light-blue or grey eyes, which 
 looked you straight in the face, were over-
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 265 
 
 shadowed with rather thick eyebrows. His 
 forehead was well proportioned, and crowned 
 with a mass of curling yellow hair. A pro- 
 fusion of whiskers hid his chin, which per- 
 haps in its shape indicated a character too 
 easy and yielding. His shoulders were 
 broad ; his appearance one of great strength. 
 But his mouth had a sensual look. Ab- 
 salom pushed in and out by Madge. 
 
 " What didst thee have to eat ? " asked 
 a crony of his afterwards. 
 
 "Aw," said Absalom, fetching a sigh at 
 the remembrance of the good things. " Fust 
 I had a plate of rus beef, then a plate of 
 boiled beef; then I had one of boiled 
 mutton, and next one of roast mutton ; last, 
 bacon. I found I couldn't git on at all 
 wi' th' pudding, but when the cheese and 
 th' salad came, didn't I pitch into that ! " 
 
 Absalom's love did not spoil his appetite. 
 
 Soon as the dishes were removed pipes 
 were brought out and tankards sent on 
 their rounds. By this time poor old Tim's 
 weak brains were muddled, and he was 
 discovered leaning back against the wall 
 and mumbling out the tag-end of an old 
 song :
 
 266 A TRUE TALE OP 
 
 " On' Humphry wi' his flail, 
 But Kitty she wur the charming ma-aid 
 To carry ih" milking pa-ail !" 
 
 This set them on singing, and Roaring 
 Billy insisted on bawling out at the top of 
 his stentorian lungs the doleful ditty of 
 "Lord Bateman and his Daughters," which 
 ran to thirty verses, and lasted half-an-hour. 
 Hardly were the last words out of his 
 mouth, when an impatient wight struck up 
 the " Leathern Bottel," and heartily did they 
 all join in the chorus, down to where the 
 ballad describes the married man wanting 
 to beat his wife, and using a glass bottle 
 for the purpose, which broke and let all the 
 wine about : 
 
 " Whereas it had been the Leathern Bottel, 
 The stopper been in he might banged away well," 
 
 without danger of creating an unanswerable 
 argument in favour of leathern bottles. 
 
 By this time they were pretty well 
 "boozed." A thick cloud of tobacco- 
 smoke filled the kitchen. Heads were 
 rolling about from side to side and arms 
 stretched over the tables among the debris 
 of broken pipes and in pools of spilt
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 267 
 
 beer and froth. Despite these rude, mi- 
 romantic surroundings, Absalom and Madge 
 were leaning close against each other, 
 hand - in - hand, almost silent, but look- 
 ing in each other's eyes. What account 
 takes passion of pipes or beer, smoke 
 or drunken men, of snores and hoarse 
 voices ? None : they were oblivious of these 
 things. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A MONTH after the " hay home " a gaily 
 dressed party passed through the fields 
 towards the village church. Absalom and 
 Madge went first, arm-in-arm ; followed by 
 Roaring Billy, who was to give the bride 
 away, with his lady beside him. Behind 
 these came two or three more couples, and 
 last of all, toiling along by herself, an old 
 woman, bent nearly double ; it was Madge's 
 mother. With laugh and light jest they 
 pushed on merrily over the stiles and 
 through the brown autumn grass, covered 
 with a lacework of cobwebs. The ceremony
 
 268 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 passed off well enough, except that Billy, 
 as best-man, made the old arches of the 
 church echo again with his response. 
 
 Absalom had taken a cottage of Farmer 
 Humphreys. " I'd 'ave sooner had 'un of 
 anybody else," said he, "but thur war nur 
 anuther to be had, and it bean't such a 
 bad 'un nither, only Measter Humphreys 
 be hardish in the mouth." By the which 
 he meant that Humphreys had the reputa- 
 tion of being rather harsh in his dealings 
 with his workpeople. The cottage itself, 
 however, was pleasant enough to look 
 upon, half thatched and half slated, with 
 a narrow strip of flower-garden in front 
 full of hollyhocks, sun-flowers, and wall- 
 flowers, enclosed in a high elder-hedge. 
 Besides which, the occupier had a prescrip- 
 tive right, by custom, to a patch of potato 
 ground in the allotments about a mile up 
 the road. And half-a-dozen damson-trees 
 overshadowed the back of the cottage, their 
 branches coquetting with the roof when 
 the wind blew. 
 
 Here the bridal party made a hearty 
 dinner, and grew jolly and genial after- 
 wards over several gallons of beer ordered
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 269 
 
 from the " Good Woman " inn : a sign 
 which represented a woman minus a head, 
 and therefore silent. It was the end of 
 the harvest, and Absalom had plenty of 
 money in his pocket : a week's holiday 
 was therefore indispensable. The imbibing 
 so much beer left a taste in the mouth 
 next morning : this must be washed away 
 by a visit to the barrel. Then there was 
 a stroll to the top of a high hill in the 
 neighbourhood, and as it was very hot, the 
 party was obliged to "wet their whistles" 
 and "wash the dust out of their throats" 
 at every sign on the road, there and back ; 
 always backed up with a second glass for 
 the " good of the house." The week wore 
 on, and by Saturday Absalom had thoroughly 
 emancipated himself from the traces of con- 
 trol. Saturday evening brought a company 
 together at the " Good Woman," whom it 
 behoved him to treat. Gallon after gallon 
 was disposed of; Absalom, as the hero of 
 the evening, rising higher and higher in 
 his own estimation with every glass. At 
 length a rude jest led to a blow. Absalom 
 had his coat off in an instant, and felled 
 Roaring Billy like an ox. A row began.
 
 270 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 The landlord, jealous of his license, turned 
 them all out into the road, when one or 
 two, overcome by the fresh air on top of so 
 much liquor, quietly laid down in the dust. 
 Absalom, mad with drink and vanity, hit 
 out right and left, and piled up three half- 
 stupefied fellows on top of each other, 
 then, shouting 
 
 " I'm the king of the castfe ! " 
 
 stood up in the middle of the road, 
 and brandishing his arms, challenged all 
 comers. 
 
 At that moment a pair of ponies dashed 
 round the corner and suddenly stopped 
 obstructed by half-a-dozen men lying in the 
 way. A tall gentleman, with a very broad 
 forehead, a very small nose, and a profusion 
 of grey beard, sprang out, and went up to 
 the landlord, who stood at the door. 
 
 "Johnson," said he sharply, "this is dis- 
 graceful. What's that fellow's name ? " point- 
 ing to Absalom. 
 
 The landlord of course didn't know was 
 very sorry. 
 
 " I can tell 'ee, zur," said a voice, almost
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 271 
 
 a childish treble, and old Tim crept out 
 from whence he had been sipping up the 
 forsaken goblets. "It be Absalom White- 
 it be." 
 
 " Very good," said the Reverend J. Horton, 
 and resuming his seat, drove on ; while Ab- 
 salom, shouting and staggering, marched 
 down the road, imagining he had carried all 
 before him. 
 
 The Reverend J. Horton was the owner 
 of the allotment grounds, which he had 
 broken up from the glebe land with the 
 idea of benefiting the poor. Every tenant 
 received a circular of rules which were to 
 be observed. Foremost amongst these was 
 a rule against fighting and drinking. Ab- 
 salom next week received an intimation that 
 he must give up his allotment. He swore, 
 and said it didn't matter a " cuss," it was 
 autumn, and the crop was up, and he'd 
 warrant he'd get another piece before spring 
 somewhere. But Madge cried, for her 
 mother had prophesied evil from this offend- 
 ing of the " gentle-folk." Absalom kissed 
 her and went to his work. 
 
 Madge, despite these things, was happy 
 enough. Her education had not taught her
 
 272 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 to expect great things. She went forth to 
 her work in the morning with a light heart. 
 Merry as a cricket, she forgot in the sun- 
 shine all the ominous forebodings of her 
 feeble old mother. It so chanced, however, 
 that Absalom's master could not find her 
 employment at that season, and she there- 
 fore worked on a farm at a little distance. 
 Madge saw little of Absalom, except at 
 night, and then he was tired and went 
 early to bed. Her restless spirit could not 
 be satisfied with so little companionship. 
 Naturally fond of admiration, she thought 
 no harm of talking and joking with the 
 men, and her gossips encouraged her in 
 it. The very same " gossips " reported her 
 freedom to Absalom very much exaggerated. 
 Absalom said nothing. He was slow to 
 understand any new idea. On her road 
 home from her work Madge had to come 
 down a lane with but one solitary cottage 
 in it. It belonged to an itinerant tinker, his 
 own property, only paying quit-rent of a 
 shilling a year. He was a bachelor, a gipsy 
 sort of fellow, full of fun and rollicksome 
 mirth, better educated than the labourers, 
 and with a store of original ideas which
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 273 
 
 he had acquired in travelling about. This 
 fellow " Bellows," as he was called ad- 
 mired Madge exceedingly, and had tried to 
 win her for himself, but failed. Still, what 
 pretty woman was ever displeased with 
 the attentions of a smart young fellow ? 
 After her marriage " Bellows " courted her 
 more and more. It became a " talk," as 
 the country people call it. Madge, think- 
 ing her title as wife exonerated her from 
 all remarks, perhaps allowed him to go fur- 
 ther than she ought, but, in strict earnest- 
 ness, meant no harm. These things came 
 to Absalom's ears. He grew fonder and 
 fonder of the public-house. Still, at home 
 he said nothing. 
 
 It grew to be winter. One cold, frosty, 
 but beautiful moonlight night Absalom came 
 home late from his work. He had been sent 
 up on the hills with some sheep, and did not 
 return till two hours after his usual time. 
 Weary and hungry, and not in the best of 
 tempers, he walked in. The door was ajar, 
 and there were some embers on the hearth, 
 but Madge was neither in sight nor call. 
 Eager for his supper, Absalom went out, 
 and soon learned that she had gone up to
 
 274 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 the " Good Woman." Madge indeed, finding 
 he did not come home, had gone up there 
 to look for him. " Bellows " was there, and 
 the landlord and he had been drinking 
 pretty freely. No sooner did Madge come 
 in than the landlord blew out the candle, 
 slipped out, and locked the door with a 
 loud guffaw, leaving the pair alone in the 
 dark. Unable to escape, Madge sat down, 
 and they chatted away gaily enough. 
 
 It was thus that Absalom found them. 
 He said nothing when he learnt where 
 Madge was, but left the house and walked 
 back to the cottage. Alarmed at his sullen 
 demeanour, the landlord unlocked the door. 
 Madge flew back to the cottage. 
 
 " Ab," said she, rushing in with an armful 
 of sticks to make a blaze, " you'll want your 
 supper." 
 
 The reply was a blow which doubled her 
 up in a corner senseless. 
 
 Absalom sat for a while sullenly glowering 
 over the embers, and then went to bed, 
 leaving Madge sobbing on the bare, hard 
 earthen floor. It was midnight before she 
 crept to his side. 
 
 Early in the morning Absalom got up and
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 275 
 
 dressed. Madge was sleeping soundly, a 
 dark circle under each eye ; she had cried 
 herself to sleep. He went out and left 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Six weeks passed, and Absalom did not 
 return. Madge went over to her mother. 
 " He bean't come," she said, beginning to 
 cry. 
 
 " I knowed a wassn't," said the old 
 woman, rocking herself to and fro in her 
 low rush-bottomed chair, with her feet on the 
 hearth, almost among the ashes. " Thee's 
 soon have to look out for theeself.' 5 
 
 "How, mother?" 
 
 " Cos I'm going to die." 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 "I be goin' to die," repeated the old 
 woman in the same calm, hard tone. A 
 life of incessant labour had crushed all 
 sentiment out of her except superstition 
 and she faced the hard facts of existence 
 without emotion.
 
 276 A TRUE TALE OP 
 
 Madge began to weep. 
 
 " Thee go and shut up the cottage, wench, 
 and come and bide wi' I." 
 
 Madge did so. In a few days the old 
 woman took to her bed. She had it dragged 
 out of the next room there was but one 
 floor and placed near the fire, which was 
 constantly kept up. Madge waited on her 
 assiduously when she was not out of doors 
 at field-work. Work was growing scarcer 
 and scarcer as the winter advanced. The 
 old woman slowly grew weaker and weaker, 
 till Madge could leave her no longer. So 
 she stayed at home, and so lost the little 
 employment she had. One evening, when 
 the firelight was growing low and dark 
 shadows were flickering over the ceiling, 
 the old woman seemed to recover a little 
 strength, and sat up in bed. 
 
 "Madge!" 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 "Thee must promise I one thing." 
 
 "What be it, mother?" 
 
 "As thee won't have I buried by the 
 parish." 
 
 Madge began to cry. 
 
 "Dost thee hear?"
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 277 
 
 " I won't." 
 
 A long silence. 
 
 "Madge!" 
 
 "Yes, mother." 
 
 "Thee go to the fire. Dost thee see that 
 brick in the chimbley as sticks out a little 
 way?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Pull it out." 
 
 Madge caught hold, and after a few tugs 
 pulled the brick out. 
 
 " Put thee hand in ! " 
 
 Madge thrust hand and arm into the 
 cavity, and brought out a dirty stocking. 
 
 " Has thee got th' stocking 1 " 
 
 " Yes, mother." 
 
 "Bury I wi' wots in thur, and take care 
 o' the rest on't. Thee's want it bad enough 
 afore th' spring comes." 
 
 Madge replaced the stocking without exa- 
 mining it. She was heavy at heart. 
 
 Before morning her mother was dead. 
 
 Madge went back to her own cottage, 
 carrying with her just a sovereign in six- 
 pences and fourpenny-bits. She sat down 
 and wept. No one came near her. Her 
 former gossips, always jealous of her beauty,
 
 278 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 left her alone with her sorrow. But she 
 knew that she could not remain idle. Some- 
 thing must be done. So she went out to 
 rick-work, but there was none to be had. 
 From farm to farm Madge wearily toiled 
 along, meeting the same answer everywhere 
 " Had got more on now than they could 
 find work for." Madge felt exceedingly ill 
 as she slowly wended her way homewards. 
 Then for the first time she remembered that 
 she must shortly become a mother. 
 
 In her weak state Madge caught cold. 
 She shivered incessantly. The poor child 
 could not rise from her bed in the morning, 
 her limbs were so stiff and her head so bad. 
 She lay there all day, crying to herself. 
 Hunger at last, towards evening, compelled 
 her to get up and seek food. There was 
 only a piece of crust in the cupboard and 
 a little lard. She was trying to masticate 
 these when there came a tap at the 
 door. " Come in," said Madge. Farmer 
 Humphreys now appeared in the doorway. 
 He was a short, thick man, with a shock- 
 head of yellow hair, small grey eyes, and 
 lips almost blue. 
 
 "There be ten weeks' rent a-owing," said
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 279 
 
 he, sitting down; "and we don't mean to 
 wait no longer. And there's a half-side o' 
 bacon an' a load of faggots." 
 
 "How much is it altogether?" 
 
 " Seventeen-and-six." 
 
 " I ain't a-got but a pound, and Absalom 
 bean't come whoam." 
 
 " The vagabond cuss 'im ! " 
 
 "A bean't no vagabond," cried Madge, 
 firing up in defence of her husband. 
 
 " Bist thee a-goin' to pay or bisn't ? " 
 said the fellow, beginning to bully. 
 
 Madge counted him out the money, and 
 he left, casting an ugly leer on her as he 
 went. 
 
 Half-a-crown remained. On that half- 
 crown Madge lived for one whole month. 
 The cold clung to her and grew worse. 
 Her tongue burned and her limbs shook ; it 
 was fever as well as cold that low aguish 
 fever, the curse of the poor. Bread and lard 
 day by day, bread and lard, and a little weak 
 tea. And at the month's end the half-crown 
 was gone : sixpence went for her last half- 
 dozen faggots. Madge crawled upstairs and 
 wrapped herself up in a blanket, sitting on 
 the side of the bed. It was her miserable
 
 iSo A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 loneliness which troubled the poor child most. 
 Her cough, and the cold, and want of food 
 and firing, might have been borne had there 
 been some one to talk to. But alone they 
 did their work. Her form was dreadfully 
 shrunken, her hands as thin and bony as 
 those her old mother last stretched over 
 the fire. The ale-house which had absorbed 
 her husband's earnings sent her no aid in 
 this time of distress, and he had offended 
 the clergyman who would otherwise have 
 found her out. It grew dusky, as the poor 
 creature sat on the edge of the bed. Sud- 
 denly there was a hand on the latch of 
 the door downstairs. Madge trembled with 
 eagerness as a heavy step sounded on the 
 floor could it be Absalom ? Her black eyes, 
 looking larger from the paleness of her 
 sunken cheeks, began to blaze with a new 
 light. The steps came to the foot of the 
 stairs and began ascending. She listened 
 eagerly. A head of yellow hair came up 
 through the trap-door, and the small grey 
 eyes of young Humphreys leered on her. 
 Disappointed and amazed, Madge remained 
 silent. Humphreys came up and sat on the 
 bed beside her.
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 281 
 
 "Thee's got thin," he said, with a sort 
 of chuckle. " Like some grub, wouldn't 
 ye?" 
 
 No answer. He put his hand on her 
 shoulder and muttered something in her 
 ear. Madge seemed scarcely to understand 
 him, but sat staring wildly. 
 
 " I'll give thee sixpence," said Humphreys, 
 showing one. 
 
 Then a full sense of his dishonourable 
 intentions, mingled with shame and disgust at 
 his unutterable meanness, came over Madge, 
 and rising with a flush on her cheek, she 
 struck him with all her might. It was a 
 feeble blow, but he was unprepared : it over- 
 balanced him ; he staggered backwards, and 
 fell heavily down the stairs. Madge, her 
 heart beating painfully fast, leaned back on 
 the bed and listened. There was not a 
 sound. A dreadful thought that he might 
 be killed flashed across her mind. Her 
 impulse was to go down and see, but her 
 strength failed, and she sat down again and 
 waited. It seemed hours before she heard 
 him stir and, after a noise like a great dog 
 shaking himself, with mingled curses and 
 threats, leave the house. Then a great
 
 282 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 pain came over her. She felt as if she 
 should die, but the greatest dread was the 
 dread of loneliness. She staggered to the 
 window and looked out. A boy was pass- 
 ing, and she told him to go to Mrs. Green's 
 and send her down. Then she fell on the 
 bed in a faint, with the window open and the 
 cold, bitter, biting east wind blowing in. 
 
 It was half a mile to Mrs. Green's one of 
 Madge's old gossips. The boy got there in 
 two hours. Mrs. Green was putting her baby 
 to bed, but instantly transferred that duty 
 to her eldest girl, and went off eager for 
 news. 
 
 At nine that night the " Good Woman " 
 inn resounded with talk of Madge. Not a 
 bit nor a drop was there in the house, 
 according to Mrs. Green. The- landlord 
 said Absalom owed him two shillings un- 
 paid score : he could forgive her the debt, 
 but he couldn't give nothing. Mrs. Green 
 went home for her supper, and returning, 
 found Madge conscious. She would not 
 have the parish doctor. 
 
 " Bellows," the tinker, had during these 
 late months been out on an itinerant journey. 
 He came home that night, and at the " Good
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 283 
 
 Woman " heard the news. His quick wit. 
 put him up to a plan to serve the poor girl. 
 Early in the morning he took his pack and 
 went through the village up to the Rev. Mr. 
 Horton's. There, under pretence of asking 
 for kettles to mend, he told the most dismal 
 tale to the housemaid. At breakfast-time 
 this was reported to Mrs. Horton. Distress 
 at such a time was sufficient to engage any 
 lady's attention. Mrs. Horton was a frail, 
 tender woman, but earnest in works of 
 charity. The ponies were ordered, and down 
 they drove. The tale was not overdrawn. 
 " Not a crust in the cupboard not a stick 
 to light a fire : the poor creature starved, 
 and and you know, coming," said the 
 good lady afterwards, describing the scene. 
 "John drove after the doctor instantly, and 
 I stayed. Poor girl ! It was still-born ; and 
 she, poor thing ! we saw, could not live 
 long." 
 
 Madge, indeed, died the same night, 
 totally worn out at nineteen. 
 
 And Absalom? He had gone to work 
 on a distant railway as a navvy, and, earn- 
 ing good wages and able to enjoy him-
 
 284 A TRUE TALE OF 
 
 .self nightly at the taverns, forgot poor 
 Madge. Months went on. News travels 
 slowly among the poor, but at last intel- 
 ligence did reach him that his mother was 
 dead and Madge starving. To do him 
 justice, he had never thought of that, and 
 he started at once for home, travelling on 
 foot. But passing through a village with 
 his bundle on his shoulders, he was arrested 
 by a policeman who observed some blood 
 on it. It was on the slop he had worn in 
 the fight at the " Good Woman," and came 
 only from the nose. But there had been a 
 brutal murder in the neighbourhood, the 
 public mind was excited, and Absalom was 
 remanded for inquiries. It took a fortnight 
 to prove his identity, and by then Madge 
 was dead. 
 
 Absalom went back to the railway and 
 drank harder than ever. It was observed 
 that he drank now by himself and for 
 drinking's sake, whereas before he had only 
 been fond of liquor with company. After a 
 year he found his way back home. Madge 
 was forgotten, and he easily got work. 
 Likely young men are not so common on 
 farms : strict inquiries are rarely made.
 
 THE WILTSHIRE LABOURER. 285 
 
 The last that was heard of him appeared 
 in the local newspaper : 
 
 " DRUNK AND DISORDERLY. Absalom White 
 was brought up in custody, charged with 
 obstructing the road while in a state of in- 
 toxication. Fined five shillings and seven- 
 and-six costs."
 
 PART II.
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER, 
 
 THE June sky is of the deepest blue when 
 seen above the fresh foliage of the oaks 
 in the morning before the sun has filled 
 the heavens with his meridian light. To 
 see the blue at its best it needs something 
 to form a screen so that the azure may 
 strike the eye with its fulness undiminished 
 by its own beauty ; for if you look at the 
 open sky such a breadth of the same hue 
 tones itself down. But let the eye rise 
 upwards along a wall of oak spray, then at 
 the rim the rich blue is thick, quite thick, 
 opaque, and steeped in luscious colour. 
 Unless, indeed, upon the high downs, 
 there the June sky is too deep even for 
 the brilliance of the light, and requires no 
 more screen than the hand put up to shade 
 the eyes. These level plains by the Thames 
 are different, and here I like to see the sky 
 behind and over an oak. 
 
 About Surbiton the oaks come out into
 
 290 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 leaf earlier than in many places ; this spring * 
 there were oak-leaves appearing on April 24, 
 yet so backward are some of them that, while 
 all the rest were green, there were two in 
 the hedge of a field by the Ewell road still 
 dark within ten days of June. They looked 
 dark because their trunks and boughs were 
 leafless against a background of hawthorn, 
 elm, and other trees in full foliage, the 
 clover flowering under them, and May bloom 
 on the hedge. They were black as winter, 
 and even now, on the ist of June, the 
 leaves are not fully formed. The trees 
 flowered in great perfection this spring; 
 many oaks were covered with their green 
 pendants, and they hung from the syca- 
 mores. Except the chestnuts, whose bloom 
 can hardly be overlooked, the flowering of 
 the trees is but little noticed ; the elm is 
 one of the earliest, and becomes ruddy it 
 is as early as the catkins on the hazel ; 
 willow, aspen, oak, sycamore, ash, all have 
 flower or catkin even the pine, whose 
 fructification is very interesting. The pines 
 or Scotch firs by the Long Ditton road hang 
 their sweeping branches to the verge of the 
 * 1881.
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 291 
 
 footpath, and the new cones, the sulphur 
 farina, and the fresh shoots are easily seen. 
 The very earliest oak to put forth its flowers 
 is in a garden on Oak Hill ; it is green with 
 them, while yet the bitter winds have left 
 a sense of winter in the air. 
 
 There is a broad streak of bright-yellow 
 charlock in the open arable field beyond 
 the Common. It lights up the level land- 
 scape ; the glance falls on it immediately. 
 Field beans are in flower, and their scent 
 comes sweet even through the dust of the 
 Derby Day. Eed heads of trifolium dot the 
 ground ; the vetches have long since been 
 out, and are so still ; along the hedges 
 parsley forms a white fringe. The charlock 
 seems late this year ; it is generally up well 
 before June the first flowers by the road- 
 side or rickyard, in a waste dry corner. 
 Such dry waste places send up plants to 
 flower, such as charlock and poppy, quicker 
 than happens in better soil, but they do not 
 reach nearly the height or size. The field 
 beans are short from lack of rain ; there are 
 some reeds in the ditch by them, and these 
 too are short; they have not half shot up 
 yet, for the same reason. On the sward by
 
 292 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 the Long Ditton road the goafs-beard is up ; 
 it grows to some size there every season, 
 but is not very common elsewhere. It is 
 said to close its sepals at noon, and was 
 therefore called " Jack-go-to -bed-at-noon," 
 but in fact it shuts much earlier, and pften 
 does not open at all, and you may pass 
 twenty times and not see it open. Its head 
 is like that of the dandelion, and children 
 blow it to see what's o'clock in the same 
 way. It forms a large ball, and browner; 
 dandelion seed-balls are white. The grass 
 is dotted with them now ; they give a glossy, 
 silky appearance to the meadows. Tiny 
 pink geranium flowers show on bunches of 
 dusty grass ; silver weed lays its yellow 
 buttercup-like flower on the ground, plac- 
 ing it in the angle of the road and the 
 sward, where the sward makes a ridge. 
 Cockspur grass three claws and a spur 
 like a cock's foot is already whitened 
 with pollen ; already in comparison, for 
 the grasses are late to lift their heads this 
 summer. As the petals of the May fall the 
 young leaves appeal*, small and green, to 
 gradually enlarge through the hay-time. 
 A slight movement of the leaves on a
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 293 
 
 branch of birch shows that something living 
 is there, and presently the little head and 
 neck of a whitethroat peers over them, and 
 then under, looking above and beneath each 
 leaf, and then with a noiseless motion pass- 
 ing on to the next. Another whitethroat 
 follows immediately, and there is not a 
 leaf forgotten nor a creeping thing that can 
 hide from them. Every tree and every bush 
 is visited by these birds, and others of the 
 insect-feeders ; the whole summer's day they 
 are searching, and the caterpillar, as it 
 comes down on a thread, slipping from the 
 upper branches, only drops into their beaks. 
 Birds, too, that at other periods feed on 
 grain and seed, now live themselves, and 
 bring up their young, upon insects. 
 
 I went to look over a gate to see how 
 the corn was rising it is so short, now in 
 June, that it will not hide a hare and on 
 coming near there was a cock chaffinch 
 perched on the top, a fine bird in full 
 colour. He did not move though I was 
 now within three yards, nor till I could 
 have almost touched him did he fly ; he 
 had a large caterpillar in his beak, and no 
 doubt his nest or the young from it were
 
 294 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 in the hedge. In feeding the young birds 
 the old ones always perch first at a short 
 distance, and after waiting a minute pro- 
 ceed to their fledgelings. Should a black- 
 bird come at full speed across the meadow 
 and stay on a hedge-top, and then go down 
 into the mound, it is certain that his nest 
 is there. If a thrush frequents a tree, flying 
 up into the branches for a minute and then 
 descending into the underwood, most likely 
 the young thrushes are there. 
 
 Little indeed do the birds care for appro- 
 priate surroundings ; anything does for them, 
 they do not aim at effect. I heard a tit- 
 lark singing his loudest, and found him 
 perched on the edge of a tub, formed of a 
 ban-el sawn in two, placed in the field for 
 the horses to drink from, as there was no 
 pond. Some swallows are very fond of a 
 notice-board fastened to a pole beside the 
 Hogsmill bank. Upon its upper edge they 
 perch and twitter sweetly. There is a 
 muddy pond by Tolworth Farm, near the 
 road ; it is muddy because a herd of cows 
 drink from and stand in it, stirring up the 
 bottom. An elm overhangs it, and the 
 lower boughs are dead and leafless. On
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 295 
 
 these there are always swallows twittering 
 over the water. Grey and yellow wagtails 
 run along the verge. In the morning the 
 flock of goslings who began to swim in 
 the pond, now grown large and grey, arrange 
 themselves in a double row, some twenty or 
 thirty of them, in loose order, tuck their 
 bills under their wings and sleep. Two 
 old birds stand in the rear as if in com- 
 mand of the detachment. A sow, plastered 
 with mud like the rhinoceri in the African 
 lakes, lies on the edge of the brown water, 
 so nearly the hue of the water and the 
 mire, and so exactly at their juncture, as to 
 be easily overlooked. But the sweet summer 
 swallows sing on the branches ; they do not 
 see the wallowing animal, they see only the 
 sunshine and the summer, golden butter- 
 cups and blue sky. 
 
 In the hollow at Long Ditton I had the 
 delight, a day or two since, to see a king- 
 fisher. There is a quiet lane, and . at the 
 bottom, in a valley, two ponds, one in 
 enclosed grounds, the other in a meadow 
 opposite. Standing there a minute to see 
 if there was a martin among the birds with 
 which the pond in the grounds is thickly
 
 296 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 covered, something came shooting straight 
 towards me, and swerving only a yard or 
 two to pass me, a kingfisher went by. His 
 blue wings, his ruddy front, the white 
 streak beside his neck, and long bill, were 
 all visible for a moment ; then he was away 
 straight over the meadow, the directness of 
 his course enabling it to be followed for 
 some time till he cleared the distant hedge, 
 probably going to visit his nest. King- 
 fishers, though living by the stream, often 
 build a good way from water. The months 
 have lengthened into years since I saw one 
 here before, sitting on the trunk of a willow 
 which bends over the pond in the mead. 
 The tree rises out of the water and is 
 partly in it ; it is hung with moss, and 
 the kingfisher was on the trunk within a 
 foot or so of the surface. After that there 
 came severe winters, and till now I did 
 not see another here. So that the bird 
 came upon me unexpectedly out from the 
 shadow of the trees that overhang the water, 
 past me, and on into the sunshine over the 
 buttercups and sorrel of the field. 
 
 This hollow at Long Ditton is the very 
 place of singing birds ; never was such a
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 297 
 
 place for singing the valley is full of 
 music. In the oaks blackbirds whistle. You 
 do not often see them ; they are concealed 
 by the thick foliage up on high, for they 
 seek the top branches, which are more leafy ; 
 but once now and then they quietly flutter 
 across to another perch. The blackbird's 
 whistle is very human, like a human being 
 playing the flute ; an uncertain player, now 
 drawing forth a bar of a beautiful melody 
 and then losing it again. He does not 
 know what quiver or what turn his note 
 will take before it ends ; the note leads 
 him and completes itself. It is a song 
 which strives to express the singer's keen 
 delight, the singer's exquisite appreciation 
 of the loveliness of the days ; the golden 
 glory of the meadow, the light, the luxuri- 
 ous shadows, the indolent clouds reclining 
 on their azure couch. Such thoughts can 
 only be expressed in fragments, like a 
 sculptor's chips thrown off" as the inspiration 
 seizes him, not mechanically sawn to a set 
 line. Now and again the blackbird feels 
 the beauty of the time, the large white 
 daisy stars, the grass with yellow-dusted 
 tips, the air which comes so softly unper-
 
 298 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 ceived by any precedent rustle of the hedge, 
 the water which runs slower, held awhile 
 by rootlet, flag, and forget-me-not. He feels 
 the beauty of the time and he must say it. 
 His notes come like wild flowers, not sown 
 in order. The sunshine opens and shuts 
 the stops of his instrument. There is not 
 an oak without a blackbird, and there are 
 others afar off in the hedges. The thrushes 
 sing louder here than anywhere ; they really 
 seem to have louder notes ; they are all 
 round. Thrushes appear to vary their songs 
 with the period of the year ; they sing 
 loudly now, but more plaintively and deli- 
 cately in the autumn. Warblers and willow 
 wrens sing out of sight among the trees ; 
 they are easily hidden by a leaf; ivy-leaves 
 are so smooth, with an enamelled surface, 
 that high up, as the wind moves them, they 
 reflect the sunlight and scintillate. Green- 
 finches in the elms never cease love-making, 
 and love-making needs much soft talking. 
 There is a nightingale in a bush by the 
 lane which sings so loud the hawthorn 
 seems to shake with the vigour of his 
 song ; too loud, though a nightingale, if 
 you stand at the verge of the boughs, as
 
 THE. COMING OF SUMMER. 299 
 
 he would let you without alarm ; farther 
 away it becomes sweet and softer. Yellow- 
 hammers call from the trees up towards the 
 arable fields. There are but a few of them : 
 it is the place of singing birds. 
 
 The doves in the copse are nearer the 
 house this year ; I see them more often in 
 the field at the end of the garden. As the 
 dove rises the white fringe on the tip of the 
 tail becomes visible, especially when flying 
 up into a tree. One afternoon one flew up 
 into a hornbeam close to the garden, beside 
 it in fact, and perched there full in view, 
 not twenty yards at farthest. At first he 
 sat upright, raising his neck and watch- 
 ing us in the garden ; then, in a minute or 
 so, turned and fluttered down to his nest. 
 The wood-pigeons are more quiet now ; their 
 whoo-hoo-ing is not so frequently heard. 
 By the sounds up in the elms at the top of 
 the Brighton road (at the end of Langley 
 Lane) the young rooks have not yet all 
 flown, though it is the end of the first week 
 in June. There is a little pond near the 
 rookeries, and by it a row of elms. From 
 one of these a heavy bough has just fallen 
 without the least apparent cause. There is
 
 300 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 no sign of lightning, nor does it even look 
 decayed ; the wood has fractured short off; 
 it came down with such force that the ends 
 of the lesser branches are broken and turned 
 up, though, as it was the lowest limb, it had 
 not far to fall, showing the weight of the 
 timber. There has been no hurricane of 
 wind, nothing at all to cause it, yet this 
 thick bough snapped. No other tree is 
 subject to these dangerous falls of immense 
 limbs, without warning or apparent cause, 
 so that it is not safe to rest under elms. 
 An accident might not occur once in ten 
 years ; nevertheless the risk is there. Elms 
 topple over before gales which scarcely 
 affect other trees, or only tear off a few 
 twigs. Two have thus been thrown recently 
 within eighteen months in the fields 
 opposite Tolworth Farm. The elm drags 
 up its own roots, which are often only a 
 fringe round its butt, and leaves a hollow 
 in the earth, as if it had been simply stood 
 on end and held by these guy-ropes. Other 
 trees do, indeed, fall in course of time, but 
 not till they are obviously on the point of 
 tottering, but the elm goes down in full 
 pride of foliage. By this pond there is a
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 301 
 
 rough old oak, which is the peculiar home 
 of some titmice ; they were there every day, 
 far back on the frost and snow, and their 
 sharp notes sounded like some one chipping 
 the ice on the horse-pond with an iron in- 
 strument. Probably, before now, they have 
 had a nest in a crevice. 
 
 The tallest grass yet to be seen is in a 
 little orchard on the right-hand side of the 
 Long Ditton road. This little orchard is a 
 favourite spot of mine, meaning, of course, 
 to look at : it is a natural orchard and left 
 to itself. The palings by the road are 
 falling, and held up chiefly by the brambles 
 and the ivy that has climbed up them. 
 There are trees on the left and trees on 
 the right ; a fine spruce fir at the back. 
 The apple-trees are not set in straight 
 lines ; they were at first, but some have 
 died away and left an irregularity. The 
 trees themselves lean this way and that ; 
 they are scarred and marked, as it were, with 
 lichen and moss. It is the home of birds. 
 A blackbird had a nest this spring in the 
 bushes on the left side, a nightingale in the 
 bushes on the right side, and there he sang 
 and sang for hours every morning. A sharp,
 
 302 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 relentless shrike lives in one of the trees 
 close by, and is perpetually darting across 
 the road upon insects on the sward among 
 the fern there. There are several thrushes 
 who reside in this orchard besides the lesser 
 birds. Swallows sometimes twitter from the 
 tops of the apple-trees. As the grass is 
 so safe from intrusion, one of the earliest 
 buttercups flowers here. The apple-bloom 
 appears rosy on the bare boughs only lately 
 scourged by the east wind. After a time 
 the trees are in full bloom, set about into the 
 green of the hedges and bushes and the dark 
 spruce behind. Bennets, the flower of the 
 grass, come up. The first bennet is to green 
 things what a swallow is to the breathing 
 creatures of summer. White horse-chestnut 
 blooms stand up in their stately way, lighting 
 the path, which is strewn with fallen oak- 
 flower. May appears on the hawthorn : there 
 is an early bush of it. Now the grass is so 
 high the flowers are lost under it ; even the 
 buttercups are overtopped ; and soon as the 
 young apples take form and shape white 
 bramble-bloom will cover the bushes by the 
 palings. Acorns will show on the oaks : the 
 berries will ripen from red to black beneath.
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 303 
 
 Along the edge of the path, where the dan- 
 delions and plantains are thick with seed, 
 the greenfinches will come down and select 
 those they like best : this they often do by 
 the footpath beside the road. Lastly, the 
 apples become red ; the beech in the corner 
 has an orange spray, and cones hang long 
 and brown upon the spruce. The thrushes 
 after silence sing again, and autumn ap-, 
 proaches. But, pass when you may, this 
 little orchard has always something, because 
 it is left to itself I had written neglected. 
 I struck the word out, for this is not neglect, 
 this is true attention, to leave it to itself, so 
 that the young trees trail over the bushes 
 and stay till the berries fall of their own 
 over-ripeness, if perchance spared by the 
 birds ; so that the dead brown leaves lie and 
 are not swept away unless the wind pleases ; 
 so that all things follow their own course 
 and bent, Almost opposite, by autumn, 
 when the reapers are busy with the sheaves, 
 the hedge is white with the large trumpet- 
 flowers of the greater convolvulus. The 
 hedgerow seems made of convolvulus then, 
 nothing but convolvulus ; nowhere else does 
 the flower flourish so strongly, and the bines
 
 304 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 remain till the following spring. This little 
 orchard, without a path through it, without 
 a border, or a parterre, or a terrace, is a place 
 to sit down and dream in, notwithstanding 
 that it touches the road, for thus left to itself 
 it has acquired an atmosphere of peace and 
 stillness such as belongs to and grows up in 
 woods and far-away coombs of the hills. A 
 -stray passer-by would go on without even 
 noticing it, it is so commonplace and unpre- 
 tentious, merely a corner of meadow irregu- 
 larly dotted with apple-trees ; a place that 
 needs frequent glances and a dreamy mood 
 to understand as the birds understand it. 
 They are always here, even in the winter, 
 starlings and blackbirds particularly, who 
 resort to a kind of furrow there, which, even 
 in frost, seems to afford them some food. 
 In the spring thrushes move along, rustling 
 the fallen leaves as they search behind the 
 arum-sheaths unrolling beside the palings, 
 or under the shelter of the group of trees 
 where arum-roots are plentiful. There are 
 nooks and corners from which shy creatures 
 can steal out from the shadow and be 
 happy. The dew falls softly, more noise- 
 less than snow, and a star shines to the
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 305 
 
 north over the spruce fir. By day there is 
 a loving streak of sunshine somewhere 
 among the tree-trunks ; by night a star 
 above. The trees are nothing to speak of 
 in size or height, but they seem always 
 to bloom well and to be fruitful ; tree- 
 climbers run up these and then go off to 
 the elms. 
 
 Beside the Long Ditton road, up the 
 gentle incline on the left side, the broad 
 sward is broken by thickets and brake like 
 those of a forest. If a forest were cleared, 
 as those in America are swept away before 
 the axe, but a line of underwood left beside 
 the highway, the result would be much the 
 same as may be seen here when the bushes 
 and fern are in perfection. Thick hawthorn 
 bushes stand at unequal distances surrounded 
 with brake ; one with a young oak in the 
 centre. Fern extends from one thicket to 
 the other, and brambles fence the thorns, 
 which are themselves well around. From 
 such coverts the boar was started in old 
 English days, the fawns hide behind and 
 about them even now in many a fair park, 
 and where there are no deer they are fre- 
 quented by hares. So near the dust which
 
 306 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 settles on them as the wheels raise it, of 
 course, every dog that passes runs through, 
 and no game could stay an hour, but they 
 are the exact kind of cover game like. 
 One morning this spring, indeed, I noticed 
 a cock-pheasant calmly walking along the 
 ridge of a furrow in the ploughed field, 
 parted from these bushes by the hedge. 
 He was so near the highway that I could 
 see the ring about his neck. I have seen 
 peewits or green plovers in the same field, 
 which is now about to be built on. But 
 though no game could -stay an hour in 
 such places, lesser birds love them, white- 
 throats build there, gold-crests come down 
 from the dark pines opposite they seem 
 fond of pines yellow-hammers sit and sing 
 on them, and they are visited all day long 
 by one or other. The little yellow flowers 
 of tormentil are common in the grass as 
 autumn approaches, and grasshoppers, which 
 do not seem plentiful here, sing there. 
 Some betony flowers are opposite on the 
 other sward. There is a marshy spot by 
 one of the bushes where among the rushes 
 various semi-aquatic grasses grow. Black- 
 berries are thick in favourable seasons like
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 307 
 
 all fruit, they are an uncertain crop ; and 
 hawkweeds are there everywhere on the 
 sward towards the edge. The peculiar green 
 of fern, which is more of a relief to the eye 
 than any other shrub with which I am 
 acquainted, so much so that I wonder it is 
 not more imitated, is remarkable here when 
 the burning July sun shines on the white 
 dust thus fringed. By then trees are gone 
 off in colour, the hedges are tired with 
 heat, but the fern is a soft green which 
 holds the glance. This varies much with 
 various seasons ; this year the fern is par- 
 ticularly late from a lack of moisture, but 
 sometimes it is really beautiful between 
 these bushes. It is cut down in its full 
 growth by those who have charge of the 
 road, and the scene is entirely destroyed for 
 the remainder of the season ; it is not often 
 that such bushes and such fern are found 
 beside the highway, and, if not any annoy- 
 ance to the residents, are quite as worthy of 
 preservation (not "preservation" by beadle) 
 as open spaces like commons. Children, 
 and many of larger growth, revel about 
 them, gathering the flowers in spring and 
 summer, the grasses and the blackberries
 
 308 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 in autumn. It is but a strip of sward, 
 but it is as wild as if in the midst of a 
 forest. A pleasure to every one therefore 
 destroy it. 
 
 In the evening from the rise of the road 
 here I sometimes hear the cry of a barn 
 owl skirting the hedge of Southborough 
 Park, and disappearing under the shadow 
 of the elms that stand there. The stars 
 appear and the whole dome of the summer 
 night is visible, for in a level plain like this 
 a slight elevation brings the horizon into 
 view. Without moon the June nights are 
 white ; a faint white light shows through 
 the trees of Southborough Park northwards ; 
 the west has not lost all its tint over the 
 Ditton hollow ; white flowers stand in the 
 grass ; white road, white flint-heaps even, 
 white clouds, and the stars, too, light with- 
 out colour. 
 
 By day the breeze comes south and west, 
 free over fields, over corn and grass and 
 hedgerow ; so slight a mound as this mere 
 rise in the river-side plain lifts you up into 
 the current of the air. Where the wind 
 co .es the sunlight is purer. 
 
 The sorrel is now high and ripening in
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 309 
 
 the little meadows beside the road just 
 beyond the orchard. As it ripens the 
 meadow becomes red, for the stalks rise 
 above the grass. This is the beginning of 
 the feast of seeds. The sorrel ripens just 
 as the fledgelings are leaving the nest ; if 
 you watch the meadow a minute you will 
 see the birds go out to it, now flying up a 
 moment and then settling again. After a 
 while comes the feast of grain ; then another 
 feast of seeds among the stubble, and the 
 ample fields, and the furze of the hills ; then 
 berries, and then winter, and the last seed. 
 
 A June rose. Something caught my eye on 
 the top of the high hawthorn hedge beside 
 the Brighton road one evening as it was 
 growing dusk, and on looking again there 
 was a spray of briar in flower, two roses in 
 full bloom and out of reach, and one spray 
 of three growing buds. So it is ever with 
 the June rose. It is found unexpectedly, 
 and when you are not looking for it. It is 
 a gift, not a discovery, or anything earned 
 a gift like love and happiness. With 
 ripening grasses the rose comes, and the 
 rose is summer : till then it is spring. On 
 the green banks waste places beside the
 
 310 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 "New Road" (Kingsdown Road formerly) 
 the streaked pink convolvulus is in flower ; 
 a sign that the spring forces have spent them- 
 selves, that the sun is near his fulness. 
 The flower itself is shapely, yet it is not 
 quite welcome ; it says too plainly that we 
 are near the meridian. There are months 
 of warmth to follow brilliant sunshine and 
 new beauties ; but the freshness, the joyous 
 looking forward of spring is gone. Upon 
 these banks the first coltsfoot flowers in 
 March, the first convolvulus in summer, 
 and almost the last hawkweed in autumn. 
 A yellow vetchling, too, is now opening its 
 yellow petals beside the Long Ditton road : 
 another summer flower, which comes in as 
 the blue veronica is leaving the sward. 
 
 As tall as the young corn the mayweed 
 fringes the arable fields with its white rays 
 and yellow centre, somewhat as the broad 
 moon-daisies stand in the grass. By this 
 time generally the corn is high above the 
 mayweed, but this year the flower is level 
 with its shelter. The pale corn buttercup 
 is in flower by the New Road, not in the 
 least overshadowed by the crops at the edge 
 of which it grows. By the stream through
 
 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 311 
 
 Tolworth Common spotted persicaria is rising 
 thickly, but even this strong-growing plant 
 is backward and checked on the verge of 
 the shrunken stream. The showers that 
 have since fallen have not made up for 
 the lack of the April rains, which in the 
 most literal sense cause the flowers of May 
 and June. Without those early spring rains 
 the wild flowers cannot push their roots and 
 develop their stalks in time for the summer 
 sun. The sunshine and heat finds them 
 unprepared. In the ditches the square- 
 stemmed figwort is conspicuous by its dark 
 green. It is very plentiful about Surbiton. 
 Just outside the garden in a waste corner 
 the yellow flowers of celandine are over- 
 hung by wild hops and white bryony, two 
 strong plants of which have climbed up 
 the copse hedge, twining in and out each 
 other. Both have vine-like leaves ; but the 
 hops are wrinkled, those of the bryony hairy 
 or rough to the touch. The hops seem to 
 be the most powerful, and hold the bryony in 
 the background. The young spruce firs which 
 the wood-pigeon visited in the spring with an 
 idea of building there look larger and thicker 
 now the fresh green needles have appeared.
 
 312 THE COMING OF SUMMER. 
 
 In the woodland lane to Claygate the 
 great elder-bushes are coming into flower, 
 each petal a creamy-white. The dogwood, 
 too, is opening, and the wild guelder-roses 
 there are in full bloom. There is a stile 
 from which a path leads across the fields 
 thence to Hook. The field by the stile 
 was fed off in spring, and now is yellow 
 with birdsfoot lotus, which tints it because 
 the grass is so short. From the grass at 
 every footstep a crowd of little "hoppers" 
 leap in every direction, scattering them- 
 selves hastily abroad. The little mead by 
 the copse here is more open to the view 
 this year, as the dry winter has checked the 
 growth of ferns and rushes. There is a 
 flock of missel-thrushes in it : the old birds 
 feed the young, who can fly well in the 
 centre of the field. Lesser birds come over 
 from the hedges to the bunches of rushes. 
 Slowly wandering along the lane and look- 
 ing over the mound on the right hand (cow- 
 wheat with yellow lip is in flower on the 
 mound), there are glimpses between the 
 bushes and the Spanish chestnut-trees of 
 far-away blue hills blue under the summer 
 sky.
 
 THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN. 
 
 THIS lovely little bird is so small and light 
 that it can cling suspended on the end 
 of a single narrow leaf, or needle of pine, 
 and it does not depress the least branch 
 on which it may alight. The gold-crest 
 frequents the loneliest heath, the deepest 
 pine wood, and the immediate neighbour- 
 hood of dwellings indifferently. A Scotch 
 fir or pine grew so near a house in which 
 I once lived that the boughs almost 
 brushed the window, and when confined 
 to my room by illness, it gave me much 
 pleasure to watch a pair of these wrens 
 who frequently visited the tree. They 
 ' are also fond of thick thorn hedges, and, 
 ' like all birds, have their favourite localities, 
 \ so that if you see them once or twice 
 in one place you should mark the tree 
 or bush, for there they are almost certain 
 to return. It would be quite possible for
 
 314 THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN. 
 
 a person to pass several years in the 
 country and never see one of these birds. 
 There is a trick in finding birds' nests, 
 and a trick in seeing birds. The first I 
 noticed was in an orchard ; soon after, I 
 found a second in a yew-tree (close to a 
 window), and after that constantly came 
 upon them as they crept through brambles 
 or in hedgerows, or a mere speck up in 
 a fir-tree. So soon as I had seen one I 
 saw plenty.
 
 AN EXTINCT RACE. 
 
 THERE is something very mournful in a 
 deserted house, and the feeling is still 
 further intensified if it happens to have 
 once been a school, where a minor world 
 played out its little drama, and left its 
 history written on the walls. For a great 
 boys' school is like a kingdom with its 
 monarchs, its ministers, and executioners, 
 and even its changes of dynasty. Such a 
 house stood no long while since on the 
 northern border-land of Wilts and Berks, a 
 mansion in its origin back in the days of 
 Charles II., and not utterly unconnected with 
 the great events of those times, but which, for 
 hard on a hundred years from the middle 
 of the eighteenth to the middle of the 
 nineteenth century was used as a superior 
 grammar-school, or college, as it would 
 now be called. Gradually falling in re- 
 putation, and supplanted by modern rivals 
 
 315
 
 316 AN EXTINCT RACE. 
 
 for fifteen or twenty years, the huge hollow 
 halls and endless dormitories were silent, 
 and the storms that sway with savage 
 force down from the hills wreaked their 
 will upon the windows and the rotting 
 roof. Inside the refectory the windows 
 being blown in and over the antique- 
 carved mantelpiece, two swallows' nests 
 had been built to the ceiling or cornice. 
 The whitewashed walls were yellow and 
 green with damp, and covered with patches 
 of saltpetre efflorescence. But they still 
 bore, legible and plain, the hasty inscrip- 
 tions scrawled on them, years and years 
 before, by hands then young, but by 
 now returned to dust. The history of 
 this little kingdom, the hopes and joys, 
 the fears and hatreds of the subjects, still 
 remained, and might be gathered from 
 these writings on the walls, just as are 
 the history of Egypt and of Assyria now 
 deciphered from the palaces and tombs. 
 Here were the names of the kings the 
 head-masters generally with some rough 
 doggerel verse, not often very flattering, 
 and illustrated with outline portraits. Here 
 were caricatures of the ushers and tutors,
 
 AN EXTINCT RACE. 317 
 
 hidden in some corner of the dormitories 
 once, no doubt, concealed by the furniture, 
 coupled with the very freest personalities, 
 mostly in pencil, but often done with a 
 burnt stick. Dates were scattered every- 
 where not often the year, but the day 
 of the month, doubtless memorable from 
 some expedition or lark played off half 
 a century since. Now and then there 
 was a quotation from the classics one 
 describing the groaning and shouting of 
 the dying Hercules, till the rocks and 
 the sad hills resounded, which irresistibly 
 suggested the idea of a thorough caning. 
 Other inscriptions were a mixture of Latin 
 and any English words that happened to 
 rhyme, together producing the most extra- 
 ordinary jumble. Where now are the 
 merry hearts that traced these lines upon 
 the plaster in an idle mood ? Attached to 
 the mansion was a great garden, or rather 
 wilderness, with yew hedges ten feet high 
 and almost as thick, a splendid filbert 
 walk, an orchard, with a sun-dial. It 
 is all mansion and garden, noble yew- 
 tree hedges and filbert walk, sun-dial and 
 all swept away now. The very plaster
 
 318 AN EXTINCT RACE. 
 
 upon which generation after generation of 
 boys recorded their histoiy has been torn 
 down, and has crumbled into dust. Greater 
 kingdoms than this have disappeared since 
 the world began, leaving not a sign even 
 of their former existence.
 
 ORCHIS MASCULA. 
 
 THE Orchis mascula grew in the brook 
 corner, and in early spring sent up a tall 
 spike of purple flowers. This plant stood 
 
 alone in an an^le of the brook and a 
 
 I 
 
 hedge, within sound of water ceaselessly 
 falling over a dam. In those days it had 
 an aspect of enchantment to me ; not 
 only on account of its singular appearance, 
 so different from other flowers, but because 
 in old folios I had read that it could 
 call up the passion of love. There was 
 something in the root beneath the sward 
 which could make a heart beat faster. 
 The common modern books 1 call them 
 common of malice prepense were silent 
 on these things. Their dry and formal 
 knowledge was without interest, mere lists 
 of petals and pistils, a dried herbarium 
 of plants that fell to pieces at the touch 
 of the fingers. Only by chipping away at 
 
 319
 
 320 ORCHIS MASCULA. 
 
 hard old Latin, contracted and dogged in 
 more senses than one, and by gathering to- 
 gether scattered passages in classic authors, 
 could anything be learned. Then there 
 arose another difficulty, how to identify 
 the magic plants ? The same description 
 will very nearly fit several flowers, especi- 
 ally when not actually in flower ; how 
 determine which really was the true roof? 
 The uncertainty and speculation kept up 
 the pleasure, till at last I should not have 
 cared to have had the original question 
 answered. With my gun under my arm 
 I used to look at the orchis from time 
 to time, so long as the spotted leaves were 
 visible, till the grass grew too long.
 
 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 
 
 THE lions in Trafalgar Square are to me the 
 centre of London. By those lions began my 
 London work ; from them, as spokes from 
 the middle of a wheel, radiate my London 
 thoughts. Standing by them and looking 
 south you have in front the Houses of 
 Parliament, where resides the mastership of 
 England ; at your back is the National 
 Gallery that is art ; and farther back the 
 British Museum books. To the right lies 
 the wealth and luxury of the West End ; to 
 the left the roar and labour, the craft and 
 gold, of the City. For themselves, they are 
 the only monument in this vast capital 
 worthy of a second visit as a monument. 
 Over the entire area covered by the metro- 
 polis there does not exist another work of 
 art in the open air. There are many struc- 
 tures and things, no other art. The outlines 
 of the great animals, the bold curves and 
 
 321 X
 
 322 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 
 
 firm touches of the master hand, the deep 
 indents, as it were, of his thumb on the 
 plastic metal, all the technique and grasp 
 written there, is legible at a glance. Then 
 comes the pose and expression of the whole, 
 the calm strength in repose, the indifference 
 to little things, the resolute view of great 
 ones. Lastly, the soul of the maker, the 
 spirit which was taken from nature, abides 
 in the massive bronze. These lions are finer 
 than those that crouch in the cages at the 
 Zoological Gardens ; these are truer and 
 more real, and, besides, these are lions to 
 whom has been added the heart of a man. 
 Nothing disfigures them ; smoke and, what 
 is much worse, black rain rain which 
 washes the atmosphere of the suspended mud 
 does not affect them in the least. If the 
 choke-damp of fog obscures them, it leaves 
 no stain on the design ; if the surfaces be 
 stained, the idea made tangible in metal is 
 not. They are no more touched than Time 
 itself by the alternations of the seasons. The 
 only noble open-air work of native art in 
 the four-million city, they rest there supreme 
 and are the centre. Did such a work exist 
 now in Venice, what immense folios would
 
 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 323 
 
 be issued about it ! All the language of the 
 studios would be huddled together in piled- 
 up and running-over laudation, and curses 
 on our insular swine-eyes that could not see 
 it. I have not been to Venice, therefore I 
 do not pretend to a knowledge of that 
 mediaeval potsherd ; this I do know, that in 
 all the endless pictures on the walls of the 
 galleries in London, year after year exposed 
 and disappearing like snow somewhere un- 
 seen, never has there appeared one with such 
 a subject as this. Weak, feeble, mosaic, 
 gimcrack, coloured tiles, and far-fetched 
 compound monsters, artificial as the graining 
 on a deal front door, they cannot be com- 
 pared ; it is the gingerbread gilt on a circus 
 car to the column of a Greek temple. This 
 is pure open air, grand as Nature herself, 
 because it is Nature with, as I say, the 
 heart of a man added. 
 
 But if any one desire the meretricious 
 painting of warm light and cool yet not hard 
 shade, the effect of colour, with the twitch- 
 ing of triangles, the spangles glittering, and 
 all the arrangement contrived to take the 
 eye, then he can have it here as well as 
 noble sculpture. Ascend the steps to the
 
 324 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 
 
 National Gallery, and stand looking over the 
 balustrade down across the square in summer 
 hours. Let the sun have sloped enough 
 to throw a slant of shadow outward ; let 
 the fountains splash whose bubbles restless 
 speak of rest and leisure, idle and dreamy ; 
 let the blue-tinted pigeons nod their heads 
 walking, and anon crowd through the air 
 to the roof-tops. Shadow upon the one 
 side, bright light upon the other, azure above 
 and swallows. Ever rolling the human 
 stream flows, mostly on the south side 
 yonder, near enough to be audible, but toned 
 to bearableness. A stream of human hearts, 
 every atom a living mind filled with what 
 thoughts? a stream that ran through Rome 
 once, but has altered its course and wears 
 away the banks here now and triturates its 
 own atoms, the hearts, to dust in the 
 process. Yellow omnibuses and red cabs, 
 dark shining carriages, chestnut horses, all 
 rushing, and by their motion mixing their 
 colours so that the commonness of it dis- 
 appears and the hues remain, a streak drawn 
 in the groove of the street dashed hastily 
 with thick camel's hair. In the midst the 
 calm lions, dusky, unmoved, full always of
 
 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 325 
 
 the one grand idea that was infused into 
 them. So full of it that the golden sun and 
 the bright wall of the eastern houses, the 
 shade that is slipping towards them, the 
 sweet swallows and the azure sky, all the 
 human stream holds of wealth and power 
 and coroneted panels nature, man, and 
 city pass as naught. Mind is stronger 
 than matter. The soul alone stands when 
 the sun sinks, when the shade is universal 
 night, when the van's wheels are silent and 
 the dust rises no more. 
 
 At summer noontide, when the day sur- 
 rounds us and it is bright light even in the 
 shadow, I like to stand by one of the lions 
 and yield to the old feeling. The sunshine 
 glows on the dusky creature, as it seems, 
 not on the surface, but under the skin, as 
 if it came up from out of the limb. The 
 roar of the rolling wheels sinks and becomes 
 distant as the sound of a waterfall when 
 dreams are coming. All the abundant human 
 life is smoothed and levelled, the abruptness 
 of the individuals lost in the flowing current, 
 like separate flowers drawn along in a border, 
 like music heard so far off that the notes are 
 molten and the theme only remains. The
 
 326 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 
 
 abyss of the sky over and the ancient sun 
 are near. They only are close at hand, they 
 and immortal thought. When the yellow 
 Syrian lions stood in old time of Egypt, then, 
 too, the sunlight gleamed on the eyes of 
 men, as now this hour on mine. The same 
 consciousness of light, the same sun, but the 
 eyes that saw it and mine, how far apart ! 
 The immense lion here beside me expresses 
 larger nature cosmos the ever-existent 
 thought which sustains the world. Massive- 
 ness exalts the mind till the vast roads of 
 space which the sun tramples are as an 
 arm's-length. Such a moment cannot endure 
 long ; gradually the roar deepens, the current 
 resolves into individuals, the houses return- 
 it is only a square. 
 
 But a square potent. For London is the 
 only real place in the world. The cities 
 turn towards London as young partridges 
 run to their mother. The cities know that 
 they are not real. They are only houses and 
 wharves, and bricks and stucco ; only outside. 
 The minds of all men in them, merchants, 
 artists, thinkers, are bent on London. Thither 
 they go as soon as they can. San Francisco 
 thinks London; so does St. Petersburg.
 
 THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. 3:7 
 
 Men amuse themselves ' in Paris ; they 
 work in London. Gold is made abroad, 
 but London has a hook and line on every 
 napoleon and dollar, pulling the round discs 
 hither. A house is not a dwelling if a man's 
 heart be elsewhere. Now, the heart of the 
 world is in London, and the cities with 
 the simulacrum of man in them are empty. 
 They are moving images only ; stand here 
 and you are real. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Edinburgh and London
 
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 HEATHCOTE, E. O. PLEYDELL-BOUVERIE, and A. C. AINGER. With 79 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. IQS. 6d. 
 
 RIDING AND POLO. By Captain ROBERT WEIR. Riding-Master, R.H.G., 
 J. MORAY BROWN, &c. With 59 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 SKATING, CURLING, TOBOGGANING, &c. By J. M. HEATHCOTE. C. 
 G. TEBBUTT, T. MAXWELL WITHAM, the Rev. JOHN KERR, ORMOND 
 HAKE, and Colonel BUCK. With 284 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. ior. 6d. 
 
 MOUNTAINEERING. By C. T. DENT. Sir F. POLLOCK, Bart., W. M. CON- 
 WAY, DOUGLAS FRESHFIELD, C. E. MATHEWS, C. PILKINGTON, and other 
 Writers. With Illustrations by H. G. WlLLlNK. 
 
 BAGEHOT (Walter). BIOGRAPHICAL STUDIES. 8vo. izs. 
 
 ECONOMIC STUDIES. 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 LITERARY STUDIES. 2 vols. 8vo. 285. 
 
 THE POSTULATES OF ENGLISH POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 BAGWELL (Richard). IRELAND UNDER THE TUDORS. (3 vols.) 
 Vols. I. and II. From the first invasion of the Northmen to the year 1578. 
 8vo. 325. Vol. III. 1578-1603. 8vo. i8j. 
 
 BAIN (Alex.). MENTAL AND MORAL SCIENCE. Crown 8vo. IDS. 6d. 
 
 SENSES AND THE INTELLECT. 8vo. iy. 
 
 EMOTIONS AND THE WILL. 8vo. 155. 
 
 LOGIC, DEDUCTIVE AND INDUCTIVE. Part I., Deduction, 
 
 41. Part II., Induction, 6s. 6d, 
 
 PRACTICAL ESSAYS. Crown 8vo. as. 
 
 BAKER (Sir S. W.). EIGHT YEARS IN CEYLON. With 6 Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 THE RIFLE AND THE HOUND IN CEYLON. With 6 Illustra- 
 tions. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 BALL (The Rt. Hon. T. J.). THE REFORMED CHURCH OF IRE- 
 LAND (1537-1880). 8vo. 7*. 6d. 
 
 HISTORICAL REVIEW OF THE LEGISLATIVE SYSTEMS 
 
 OPERATIVE IN IRELAND (1172-1800). 8vo. 6s. 
 
 BARING-GOULD (Rev. S.). CURIOUS MYTHS OF THE MIDDLE 
 AGES. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF. 2 
 
 vols. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d. each. 
 
 BEACONSFIELD (The Earl of). NOVELS AND TALES. The 
 Hughenden Edition. With 2 Portraits and n Vignettes, n vols. Crown 
 8vo. 42J. 
 
 Endymion. 
 
 Lothatr. 
 
 Coningsby. 
 
 Venetia. 
 
 Henrietta Temple. 
 Contarinl Fleming, &c. 
 
 Alroy, Ixion. &c. 
 The Young Duke, &c. 
 Vivian Grey. 
 
 Tancred. Sybil. 
 
 NOVELS AND TALES. Cheap Edition, n vols. Crewn 8vo. is. each, 
 boards; is. 6d. each, cloth.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 5 
 
 BECKER (Professor). CALLUS; or, Roman Scenes in the Time of Augus- 
 tus. Illustrated. Post 8vo. ^s. 6d. 
 
 CHARICLES; or, Illustrations of the Private Life of the Ancient Greeks. 
 
 Illustrated. Post 8vo. 7.?. 6d. 
 
 BELL (Mrs. Hugh). CHAMBER COMEDIES. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 NURSERY COMEDIES. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 BENT ( J. Theodore). THE RUINED CITIES OF MASHONALAND : 
 being a Record of Excavations and Explorations, 1891-2. With numerous 
 Illustrations and Maps. 8vo. 
 
 BLAKE (J.). TA.BLES FOR THE CONVERSION OF 5 PER CENT. IN- 
 TEREST FROM ^ TO 7 PER CENT. 8vo. i2s. 6d. 
 
 BOOK (THE) OF WEDDING DAYS. Arranged on the Plan of a Birthday Book. 
 With 96 Illustrated Borders, Frontispiece, and Title-page by Walter Crane ; 
 and Quotations for each Day. Compiled and Arranged by K. E. J. REID, 
 MAY Ross, and MABEL BAMFIELD. 410. 21.1. 
 
 BRASSEY (Lady). A VOYAGE IN THE 'SUNBEAM,' OUR HOME 
 ON THE OCEAN FOR ELEVEN MONTHS. 
 
 Library Edition. With 8 Maps and Charts, and 118 Illustrations, 8vo. 2is. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. With Map and 66 Illustrations, Crown 8vo. 71. 6d. 
 
 'Silver Library' Edition. With 66 Illustrations, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 School Edition. With 37 Illustrations, P"cp. 2s. cloth, or 3^. white parchment. 
 
 Popular Edition. With 60 Illustrations, 410. 6d. sewed, is. cloth. 
 SUNSHINE AND STORM IN THE EAST. 
 
 Library Edition. With 2 Maps and 114 Illustrations, 8vo. 2is. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. With 2 Maps and 114 Illustrations, Crown 8vo. 7.$. 6d. 
 
 Popular Edition. With 103 Illustrations, 410. 6d. sewed, is. cloth. 
 
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 FORTIES'. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. With Map and 220 Illustrations, Crown 8vo. 7$. 6d. 
 Popular Edition. With 183 Illustrations, 410. 6d. sewed, is. cloth. 
 
 - THE LAST VOYAGE TO INDIA AND AUSTRALIA IN THE 
 'SUNBEAM'. With Charts and Maps, and 40 Illustrations in Monotone 
 (20 full-page), and nearly 200 Illustrations in the Text. 8vo. 2is. 
 
 THREE VOYAGES IN THE 'SUNBEAM'. Popular Edition. With 
 
 346 Illustrations, 410. 2s. 6d. 
 
 BRAY (Charles). THE PHILOSOPHY OF NECESSITY ; or, Law in 
 Mind as in Matter. Crown 8vo. 55. 
 
 " BRENDA." WITHOUT A REFERENCE. A Story for Children. Crown 
 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 OLD ENGLAND'S STORY. In little Words for little Children. With 
 
 29 Illustrations by SIDNEY P. HALL, &c. Imperial i6mo. y. 6d. 
 
 BRIGHT (Rev. J. Franck). A HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 4 vols. Cr. 8vo. 
 
 Period I. Mediaeval Monarchy: The Departure of the Romans to Richard III. 
 
 From A.D. 449 to 1485. 45. 6d. 
 
 Period II. Personal Monarchy : Henry VII. to James II. From 1485 to 1688. $s. 
 Period III. Constitutional Monarchy : William and Mary to William IV. 
 
 From 1689 to 1837. 75. 6d. 
 Period IV. The Growth of Democracy : Victoria. From 1837 to 1880. 6s. 
 
 BRYDEN" (H. A.). KLOOF AND KARROO : Sport, Legend, and Natural 
 History in Cape Colony. With 17 Illustrations. 8vo. los. 6d.
 
 6 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 BUCKLE (Henry Thomas). HISTORY OF CIVILISATION IN ENG- 
 LAND AND FRANCE, SPAIN AND SCOTLAND. 3 vols. Cr. 8vo. 245. 
 
 BULL (Thomas). HINTS TO MOTHERS ON THE MANAGEMENT 
 OF THEIR HEALTH during the Period of Pregnancy. Fcp. 8vo. u. f>d. 
 
 THE MATERNAL MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN IN HEALTH 
 
 AND DISEASE. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 BUTLER (Samuel). EREWHON. Crown 8vo. 5*. 
 
 THE FAIR HAVEN. A Work in Defence of the Miraculous Element 
 
 in our Lord's Ministry. Crown 8vo. -}s. 6d. 
 
 LIFE AND HABIT. An Essay after a Completer View of Evolution. 
 
 Cr. 8vo. -js. 6d. 
 
 EVOLUTION, OLD AND NEW. Crown 8vo. IQJ. 6d. 
 
 UNCONSCIOUS MEMORY. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 ALPS AND SANCTUARIES OF PIEDMONT AND THE 
 
 CANTON TICINO. Illustrated. Pott 410. icw. 6d. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM WORKS. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 LUCK, OR CUNNING, AS THE MAIN MEANS OF ORGANIC 
 
 MODIFICATION ? Crown 8vo. 7 s. 6d. 
 
 EX VOTO. An Account of the Sacro Monte or New Jerusalem at 
 
 Varallo-Sesia. Crown 8vo. IQT. 6d. 
 HOLBEIN'S 'LA DANSE 
 
 CARLYLE (Thomas). THOMAS CARLYLE: a History of his Life. By 
 J. A. FROUDE. 1795-1835, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. js. 1834-1881, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. 7$. 
 LAST WORDS OF THOMAS CARLYLE Wotton Reinfred Excursion (Fu- 
 tile enough) to Paris Letters to Varnhagen von Ense, &c. Cr. 8vc. 6s. 6d. net. 
 
 CHETWYWD (Sir George). RACING REMINISCENCES AND EX- 
 PERIENCES OF THE TURF. 2 vols. 8vo. 2is. x 
 
 CHETWYND-STAPYLTON (H. E.). CHETWYNDS OF INGES- 
 TRE (THE) : being a History of that Family from a very early Date. With 
 numerous Portraits and Illustrations. 8vo. 14-*. 
 
 CHILD (Gilbert W.). CHURCH AND STATE UNDER THE 
 TUDORS. 8vo. 15*. 
 
 CHILTOJiT (E.). THE HISTORY OF A FAILURE, and other Tales. 
 Fcp. 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 CHISHOLM (G. G.). HANDBOOK OF COMMERCIAL GEOGRAPHY. 
 New Edition. With 29 Maps. 8vo. los. net. 
 
 CLERKE (Agnes M.). FAMILIAR STUDIES IN HOMER. Crown 
 8vo. 7-r. 6d. 
 
 CLODD (Edward). THE STORY OF CREATION : a Plain Account of 
 Evolution. With 77 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 CLUTTERBUCK (W. J.). ABOUT CEYLON AND BORNEO : being 
 an Account of Two Visits to Ceylon, one to Borneo, and How we Fell Out on 
 our Homeward Journey. With 47 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. JOT. 6d. 
 
 COLENSO (J. W.). THE PENTATEUCH AND BOOK OF JOSHUA 
 CRITICALLY EXAMINED. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 COMYN (L. N.). ATHERSTONE PRIORY : a Tale. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 CONINGTON" (John). THE ^ENEID OF VIRGIL. Translated into 
 
 English Verse. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 THE POEMS OF VIRGIL. Translated into English Prose. Cr.8vo.df.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, &> CO. 
 
 COX (Rav. Sir G. W.). A HISTORY OF GREECE, from the Earliest 
 Period to the Death of Alexander the Great. With n Maps. Cr. 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 GRAKE (Rev. A. D.). HISTORICAL TALES. Cr. 8vo. 5 vols. vs. 6d. each. 
 
 Tbe House of Walderne. A Tale 01 
 
 the Cloister and the Forest in the 
 
 Days of the Barons' Wars. 
 Brain Fitz-Count. A Story of Wal- 
 
 lingford Castle and Dorchester 
 
 Abbey. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE CHURCH UNDER THE ROMAN EMPIRE, 
 
 Edwy the Fair; or, The First Chronicle 
 
 of ^Escendune. 
 Alfgar the Dane; or, The Second 
 
 Chronicle of yEscendune. 
 The Rival Heirs : being the Third and 
 
 Last Chronicle of jEscendune. 
 
 A.D. 30-476. Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 CREIGHTON (Mandell, D.D.) HISTORY OF THE PAPACY DUR- 
 ING THE REFORMATION. 8vo. Vols. I. and II., 1378-1464, 325. ; Vols. 
 III. and IV., 1464-1518, 245. 
 
 CRUMP (A.). A SHORT ENQUIRY INTO THE FORMATION OF 
 POLITICAL OPINION, from the Reign of the Great Families to the Advent 
 of Democracy. 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 AN INVESTIGATION INTO THE CAUSES OF THE GREAT 
 
 FALL IN PRICES which took place coincidently with the Demonetisation 
 of Silver by Germany. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 CURZON" (George W., M.P.). PERSIA AND THE PERSIAN QUES- 
 TION. With 9 Maps, 96 Illustrations, Appendices, and an Index. 2 vols. 
 8vo. 425. 
 
 DANTE. LA COMMEDIA DI DANTE. A New Text, carefully Revised 
 with the aid of the most recent Editions and Collations. Small 8vo. 6s. 
 
 DE LA SAUSSAYE (Prof. Chantepie). A MANUAL OF THE 
 SCIENCE OF RELIGION. Translated by Mrs. COLYER FERGUSSON (nie 
 MAX MULLER). Crown 8vo. las. 6d. 
 
 DEAD SHOT (THE); or, Sportman's Complete Guide. Being a Treatise on 
 the Use of the Gun, with Rudimentary and Finishing Lessons on the Art of 
 Shooting Game of all kinds, also Game Driving, Wild-Fowl and Pigeon 
 Shooting, Dog Breaking, &c. By MARKSMAN. Crown 8vo. IOT. 6d. 
 
 DE SALIS (Mrs.). Works by : 
 Cakes and Confections a la Mode. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Dressed Game and Poultry a la Mode. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Dressed Vegetables a la Mode. Fcp. 
 
 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Drinks a la Mode. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Entries a la Mode. Fcp. is. 8vo. 6d. 
 Floral Decorations. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Oysters a la Mode. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 Puddings and Pastry a la Mode. Fcp. 
 
 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Savouries a la Mode. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Soups and Dressed Fish a la Mode. 
 Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Sweets and Supper Dishes a la Mode. 
 Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Tempting Dishes for Small Incomes. 
 Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 Wrinkles and Notions for every House- 
 hold. Crown 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 New-Laid Eggs: Hints for Amateur 
 Poultry Rearers. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 DE TOCQTJEVUjLE (Alexis). DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA Trans- 
 lated by HEIIRY REEVE, C.B. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. i6s. 
 
 DOROTHY WALLIS : an Autobiography. With Preface by WALTER BESANT. 
 Crown 8vo. 6s.
 
 8 A CATALOGUE OF BOOK'S IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 DOUG-ALL (L.). BEGGARS ALL ; a Novel. Crown 8vo. 3*. 6d. 
 
 DOWELL (Stephen). A HISTORY OF TAXATION AND TAXES IN 
 ENGLAND. 4 vols. 8vo. Vols. I and II., The History of Taxation, au. 
 Vols. III. and IV., The History of Taxes, ais. 
 
 DOYLE (A. Conan). MICAH CLARKE : a Tale of Monmouth's Rebellion. 
 With Frontispiece and Vignette. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 THECAPTAINOFTHEPOLESTAR; and other Tales. Cr. 8vo.3J.6<f. 
 
 DRAJNTE (Augusta T.). THE HISTORY OF ST. DOMINIC, FOUNDER 
 OF THE FRIAR PREACHERS. With 32 Illustrations. 8vo. ly. 
 
 EWALD (Heinrich). THE ANTIQUITIES OF ISRAEL. 8vo. izs. 6d. 
 THE HISTORY OF ISRAEL. 8vo. Vols. I. and II. 24*. Vols. III. 
 
 and IV. ais. Vol. V. i&r. Vol. VI. 165. Vol. VII. zis. Vol. VIII. i8s. 
 
 FALKENER (Edward). GAMES, ANCIENT AND ORIENTAL, 
 AND HOW TO PLAY THEM. Being the Games of the Ancient Egyp- 
 tians, the Hiera Gramme of the Greeks, the Ludus Latrunculorum of the 
 Romans, and the Oriental Games of Chess, Draughts, Backgammon, and 
 Magic Squares. With numerous Photographs, Diagrams, &c. 8vo. ais. 
 
 FARNELL (O. S.).-GREEK LYRIC POETRY. 8vo. i6s. 
 FARRAR (F. W.). LANGUAGE AND LANGUAGES. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 DARKNESS AND DAWN ; or, Scenes in the Days of Nero. An 
 
 Historic Tale. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 FITZPATRICK (W. J.). SECRET SERVICE UNDER PITT. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 FITZWYQRAM (Major-General Sir F.). HORSES AND STABLES. 
 With 19 pages of Illustrations. 8vo. y. 
 
 FORD (Horace). THE THEORY AND PRACTICE .OF ARCHERY. 
 New Edition, thoroughly Revised and ke-written by W. BUTT. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 FOUARD (Abbs' Constant). THE CHRIST THE SON OF GOD. With 
 Introduction by Cardinal Manning. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 14*. 
 
 FOX (C. J.). THE EARLY HISTORY OF CHARLES JAMES FOX. By 
 
 the Right Hon. Sir. G. O. TREVELYAN, Bart. 
 Library Edition. 8vo. i8s. \ Cabinet Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 FRANCIS (Francis). A BOOK ON ANGLING : including full Illustrated 
 Lists of Salmon Flies. Post 8vo. i$s. 
 
 FREEMAN (E. A.). THE HISTORICAL GEOGRAPHY OF EUROPE. 
 With 65 Maps. 2 vols. 8vo. $is. 6d. 
 
 FROUDE (James A.). THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND, from the Fall ot 
 Wolsey to the Defeat of the Spanish Armada. 12 vols. Crown 8vo. 2 2j. 
 
 THE DIVORCE OF CATHERINE OF ARAGON : The Story as told 
 by the Imperial Ambassadors resident at the Court of Henry VIII. In Usum 
 Laicorum. 8vo. 161. 
 
 THE ENGLISH IN IRELAND IN THE EIGHTEENTH CEN- 
 
 TURY. 3 vols. Crown 8vo. i&s. 
 
 SHORT STUDIES ON GREAT SUBJECTS. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. 4 vols. Cr. 8vo. 245. | Cheap Edit. 4 vols. Cr. 8vo. 3*. 6d. ea. 
 - THE SPANISH STORY OF THE ARMADA, and other Essays, 
 Historical and Descriptive. Crown 8vo. 6s. [Continued.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 
 
 FROTJDE (James A.)-^{Continued). 
 
 a Sketch. Crown 8vo. . 6d. 
 
 OCEANA ; OR, ENGLAND AND HER COLONIES. With 9 Illus- 
 trations. Crown 8vo. 2s. boards, zs. 6d. cloth. 
 
 THE ENGLISH IN THE WEST INDIES; or, the Bow of Ulysses. 
 
 With 9 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 2s. boards, 2s. 6d. cloth. 
 
 THE TWO CHIEFS OF DUNBOY; an Irish Romance of the Last 
 
 Century. Grown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE, a History of his Life. 1795 to 1835. 2 vols. 
 
 Crown 8vo. js. 1834 to 1881. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. js. 
 
 GALL WEY (Sir Ralph Payne-). LETTERS TO YOUNGSHOOTERS. 
 (First Series.) On the Choice and Use of a Gun. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. (Second 
 Series.) On the Production &c. , of Game. Crown 8vo. I2s. 6d. 
 
 GARDINER (Samuel Rawson). HISTORY OF ENGLAND, 1603- 
 1642. 10 vols. Crown 8vo. price 6s. each. 
 
 A HISTORY OF THE GREAT CIVIL WAR, 1642-1649. (3 vols.) 
 
 Vol. I. 1642-1644. With 24 Maps. 8vo. (out of print). Vol. II. 1644-1647. 
 With 21 Maps. 8vo. 245. Vol. III. 1647-1649. With 8 Maps. 28^. 
 
 THE STUDENT'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. Vol. I. B.C. 55-A.D. 
 
 1509, with 173 Illustrations, Crown 8vo. 4?. Vol. II. 1509-1689, with 96 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 45. Vol. III. 1689-1885, with 109 Illustrations. 
 Crown 8vo. 45. Complete in i vol. With 378 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. izs. 
 
 A SCHOOL ATLAS OF ENGLISH HISTORY. A Companion Atlas 
 
 to ' Student's History of England '. 66 Maps and 22 Plans. Fcap. 410. 
 
 GOETHE. FAUST. A New Translation chiefly in Blank Verse ; with Intro- 
 duction and Notes. By JAMES ABEY BIRDS. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 FAUST. The Second Part. A New Translation in Verse. By JAMES 
 
 ADEY BIRDS. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 GREEN (T. H.) THE WORKS OF THOMAS HILL GREEN. (3 Vols. ) 
 
 Vols. I. and II. 8vo. i6s. each. Vol. III. 8vo. 2iJ. 
 THE WITNESS OF GOD AND FAITH : Two Lay Sermons. Fcp. 
 
 8VO. 25. 
 
 GREVILLE (C. C. P.). A JOURNAL OF THE REIGNS OF KING 
 GEORGE IV. , KING WILLIAM IV. , AND QUEEN VICTORIA. Edited 
 by H. REEVE. 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 65. each. 
 
 GWILT (Joseph). AN ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF ARCHITECTURE. 
 With more than 1700 Engravings on Wood. 8vo. 52^. 6d. 
 
 HAGGARD (H. Rider). SHE. With 32 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. y>. &f. 
 
 ALLAN QUATERMAIN. With 31 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 . MAIWA'S REVENGE. Crown 8vo. is. boards, is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. Crown 8vo. 31. 6d. 
 
 CLEOPATRA : With 29 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 BEATRICE. Crown 8vo. 3.*'. 6if. 
 
 ERIC BRIGHTEYES. With 51 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 NADA THE LILY. With 23 Illustrations by C. H. M. KERR. Cr. 
 
 8vo. 65.
 
 io A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 HAGGARD (H. Rider) and LANG (Andrew). THE WORLD'S 
 DESIRE. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 HALIiIWELL-PHILLIPPS (J. O.) A CALENDAR OF THE HALLI- 
 WELL-PHILLIPPS COLLECTION OF SHAKESPEAREAN RARITIES. 
 Second Edition. Enlarged by Ernest E. Baker. 8vo. IOT. 6d. 
 
 OUTLINES OF THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. With numerous 
 
 Illustrations and Facsimiles. 2 vols. Royal 8vo. 2is. 
 
 HARRISON (Jane E.). MYTHS OF THE ODYSSEY IN ART AND 
 LITERATURE. Illustrated with Outline Drawings. 8vo. i8j. 
 
 HARRISON (Mary). COOKERY FOR BUSY LIVES AND SMALL 
 INCOMES. Fcp. 8vo. u. 
 
 HARTE (Bret). IN THE CARQUINEZ WOODS. Fcp. 8vo. is. bds., 
 is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 BY SHORE AND SEDGE. i6mo. u. 
 
 ' ON THE FRONTIER. i6mo. u. 
 
 HARTWIO- (Dr.). THE SEA AND ITS LIVING WONDERS. With 12 
 Plates and 303 Woodcuts. 8vo. -js. net. 
 
 THE TROPICAL WORLD. With 8 Plates and 172 Woodcuts. 8vo. 7 s. net. 
 THE POLAR WORLD. With 3 Maps, 8 Plates and 85 Woodcuts. 8vo. 75. net. 
 THE SUBTERRANEAN WORLD. With 3 Maps and 80 Woodcuts. 8vo.7s.net. 
 THE AERIAL WORLD. With Map, 8 Plates and 60 Woodcuts. 8vo. 75. net. 
 
 HA VELOCK. MEMOIRS OF SIR HENRY HAVELOCK, K.C.B. By 
 JOHN CLARK MARSHMAN. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 HEART! (W. Edward). THE GOVERNMENT OF ENGLAND: its 
 Structure and its Development. 8vo. i6s. 
 
 THE ARYAN HOUSEHOLD : its Structure and ts Development. 
 
 An Introduction to Comparative Jurisprudence. 8vo. 16.?. 
 
 HISTORIC TOWNS. Edited by E. A. FREEMAN and Rev. WILLIAM HUNT. 
 
 With Maps and Plans. Crown 8vo y. 6d. each. 
 
 Bristol. By Rev. W. Hunt. Oxford. By Rev. C. W. Boase. 
 
 Carlisle. By Dr. Mandell Creighton. j Winchester. By Rev. G. W. Kitchin. 
 Cinque Ports. . By Montagu Burrows. Hew York. By Theodore Roosevelt. 
 
 Colchester. By Rev. E. L. Cults. 
 Exeter. By E. A. Freeman. 
 London. By Rev. W. J. Loftie. 
 
 Boston (U.S.). By Henry Cabot 
 
 Lodge. 
 York. By Rev. James Raine. 
 
 HODGSON (Shad worth H.). TIME AND SPACE: a Metaphysical 
 Essay. 8vo. i6s. 
 
 - THE THEORY OF PRACTICE : an Ethical Enquiry. 2 vols. 8vo. 245. 
 
 - THE PHILOSOPHY OF REFLECTION, a vols. 8vo. 2u. 
 
 OUTCAST ESSAYS AND VERSE TRANSLATIONS. Crown 8vo. 
 
 8s. (xi. 
 
 HOOPER (George). ABRAHAM FABERT: Governor of Sedan, Marshall 
 of France. His Life and Times, 1599-1662. With a Portrait. 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 HOWITT (William). VISITS TO REMARKABLE PLACES. 80 Illus- 
 trations. Crown 8vo. y. 6d.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, &> CO. 11 
 
 HULLAH (John). COURSE OF LECTURES ON THE HISTORY OF 
 MODERN MUSIC. 8vo. 85. 6d. 
 
 COURSE OF LECTURES ON THE TRANSITION PERIOD OF 
 
 MUSICAL HISTORY. 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 HUME. THE PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS OF DAVID HUME. Edited 
 by T. H. GREEN and T. H. GROSE. 4 vols. 8vo. 56.?. 
 
 HUTCHINSON (Horace). FAMOUS GOLF LINKS. By HORACE 
 G. HUTCHINSON, ANDREW LANG, H. S. C. EVKRARD, T. RUTHERFORD 
 CLARK, &c. With numerous Illustrations by F. P. Hopkins, T. Hodges, 
 H. S. King, &c. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 HTJTH (Alfred H.). THE MARRIAGE OF NEAR KIN, considered with 
 respect to the Law of Nations, the Result of Experience, and the Teachings 
 of Biology. Royal 8vo. 2u. 
 
 HYNE (C. J.) THE NEW EDEN : a Story. With Frontispiece and Vignette. 
 Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 INGELOW (Jean). POETICAL WORKS. Vols. I. and II. Fcp. 8vo. 
 I2s. Vol. III. Fcp. 8vo. $s. 
 
 LYRICAL AND OTHER POEMS. Selected from the Writings of 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. cloth plain, y. cloth gilt. 
 
 VERY YOUNG and QUITE ANOTHER STORY: Two Stories. 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 INGRAM (T. Dunbar). ENGLAND AND ROME : a History of the 
 Relations between the Papacy and the English State and Church from the 
 Norman Conquest to the Revolution of 1688. 8vo. iqs. 
 
 JAMESON" (Mrs.). SACRED AND LEGENDARY ART. With 19 Etch- 
 ings and 187 Woodcuts. 2 vols. 8vo. zos. net. 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE MADONNA, the Virgin Mary as represented in 
 
 Sacred and Legendary Art. With 27 Etchings and 165 Woodcuts. 8vo. IDS. net. 
 
 LEGENDS OF THE MONASTIC ORDERS. With n Etchings and 
 
 88 Woodcuts. 8vo. IDS. net. 
 
 HISTORY OF OUR LORD. His Types and Precursors. Completed by 
 
 LADY EASTLAKE. With 31 Etchings and 281 Woodcuts. 2 vols. 8vo. 20^. net. 
 
 JEFFERIES (Richard). FIELD AND HEDGEROW. Last Essays. 
 Crown 8vo. 3.?. 6d. 
 
 THE STORY OF MY HEART : My Autobiography. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 RED DEER. With 17 Illustrations by J. CHARLTON and H. TUNALY. 
 
 Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 THE TOILERS OF THE FIELD. With autotype reproduction of 
 
 bust of Richard Jefferies. Crown 8vo. 
 
 JENNINGS (Rev. A. C.).- ECCLESIA ANGLICANA. A History of the 
 Church of Christ in England. Crown 8vo. 75. 6d. 
 
 JEWSBTTRY. A SELECTION FROM THE LETTERS OF GERALDINE 
 JEWSBURY TO JANE WELSH CARLYLE. Edited by Mrs. ALEXANDER 
 IRELAND, and Prefaced by a Monograph on Miss Jewsbury by the Editor. 8vo. 
 
 JOHNSON (J. & J. H.). THE PATENTEE'S MANUAL; a Treatise on 
 the Law and Practice of Letters Patent. 8vo. IDS. 6d.
 
 is A CATALOGUE OP BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 JORD AN (William Leighton). THE STANDARD OF VALUE. Svo.&r. 
 
 JUSTINIAN. THE INSTITUTES OF JUSTINIAN ; Latin Text, with 
 English Introduction, &c. By THOMAS C. SANDARS. 8vo. i8.r. 
 
 KALISCH (M. M.). BIBLE STUDIES. Part I. The Prophecies ot 
 Balaam. 8vo. los. 6d. Part II. The Book of Jonah. 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 KALISCH (M. M.). COMMENTARY ON THE OLD TESTAMENT; with 
 a New Translation. Vol. I. Genesis, 8vo. i8s. , or adapted for the General 
 Reader, izs. Vol. II. Exodus, 15^., or adapted for the General Reader, izs. 
 Vol. III. Leviticus, Part I. iy., or adapted for the General Reader, 8s. 
 Vol. IV. Leviticus, Part II. 151., or adapted for the General Reader, 8^. 
 
 KANT (Immanuel). CRITIQUE OF PRACTICAL REASON. AND 
 OTHER WORKS ON THE THEORY OF ETHICS. 8vo. izs. 6d. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO LOGIC. Translated by T. K. Abbott. Notes 
 
 by S. T. Coleridge. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 KILLICK (Rev. A. H.). HANDBOOK TO MILL'S SYSTEM OF 
 LOGIC. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 KNIGHT (K F.). THE CRUISE OF THE ' ALERTE' ; the Narrative of 
 a Search for Treasure on the Desert Island of Trinidad. With 2 Maps and 
 23 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 SAVE ME FROM MY FRIENDS : a Novel. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 LADD (George T.). ELEMENTS OF PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHO- 
 LOGY. 8VO. 2IJ. 
 
 OUTLINES OF PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY. A Text-Book 
 
 of Mental Science for Academies and Colleges. 8vo. izs. 
 
 LANG (Andrew). CUSTOM AND MYTH : Studies of Early Usage and 
 Belief. With 15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 BOOKS AND BOOKMEN. With 2 Coloured Plates and 17 Illustra- 
 tions. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. net. 
 
 LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. net. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. net. 
 
 LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. net. 
 
 GRASS OF PARNASSUS. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. net. 
 
 BALLADS OF BOOKS. Edited by ANDREW LANG. Fcp. 8vo. 65. 
 
 THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With 8 
 
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 THE RED FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With 4 Plates 
 
 and 96 Illustrations in the Text. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. With 12 Plates and 88 Illustrations in 
 
 the Text. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. School Edition, without Illustrations. 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. Edited by ANDREW LANG. With 
 
 13 Plates and 88 Illustrations in the Text by H. J. Ford. Crown 8vo. dr. 
 ANGLING SKETCHES. With Illustrations by W. G. BURN- 
 MURDOCH. Crown 8vo. -js. 6d. 
 
 liAVISSE (Ernest). GENERAL VIEW OF THE POLITICAL HIS- 
 TORY OF EUROPE. Crown 8vo. y. 
 
 LA YARD (Nina P.). POEMS. Crown 8vo. 6s.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 13 
 
 LECKY (W. E. H.). HISTORY OF ENGLAND IN THE EIGHTEENTH 
 CENTURY. Library Edition, 8vo. Vols. I. and II. 1700-1760. 361. 
 Vols. III. and IV. 1760-1784. 36^. Vols. V. and VI. 1784-1793. 36^. 
 Vols. VII. and VIII. 1793-1800. 365. Cabinet Edition, 12 vols. Crown 
 8vo. 6s. each. [In course of Publication in Monthly Volumes. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF EUROPEAN MORALS FROM AUGUSTUS 
 
 TO CHARLEMAGNE. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. i6s. 
 
 HISTORY OF THE RISE AND INFLUENCE OF THE SPIRIT 
 
 OF RATIONALISM IN EUROPE. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. i6.r. 
 POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 LEES (J. A.) and CLTJTTERBUCK (W. J.). B.C. 1887, A RAMBLE 
 IN BRITISH COLUMBIA. With Map and 75 Illusts. Cr. 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 LEWES (George Henry). THE HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY, from 
 Thales to Comte. 2 vo s. 8vo. 325. 
 
 LIDDELL (Colonel R. T.). MEMOIRS OF THE TENTH ROYAL 
 HUSSARS. With Numerous Illustrations. 2 vols. Imperial 8vo. 635. 
 
 LLOYD (F. J.). THE SCIENCE OF AGRICULTURE. 8vo. izs. 
 
 LONGMAN" (Frederick "W".). CHESS OPENINGS. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 - FREDERICK THE GREAT AND THE SEVEN YEARS' WAR. 
 Fcp. 8vo. 2s. (id. 
 
 LONGMORE (Sir T.). RICHARD WISEMAN, Surgeon and Sergeant- 
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 LOTTDON (J. C.). ENCYCLOPEDIA OF GARDENING. With 1000 
 Woodcuts. 8vo. 2is. 
 
 ENCYCLOPAEDIA OF AGRICULTURE ; the Laying-out, Improve- 
 ment, and Management of Landed Property. With noo Woodcuts. 8vo. 21 s. 
 ENCYCLOPEDIA OF PLANTS ; the Specific Character, &c., of all 
 
 Plants found in Great Britain. With 12,000 Woodcuts. 8\o. 
 
 LUBBOCK (Sir J.). THE ORIGIN OF CIVILISATION and the Primitive 
 
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 LYALL (Edna). THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER. Fcp. 8vo. 
 
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 Presentation Edition, with 20 Illustrations by L. SPEED. Crown 8vo. 55. 
 LYDEKKER (R., B.A.). PHASES OF ANIMAL LIFE, PAST AND 
 
 PRESENT. With 82 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6.r. 
 LYDE (Lionel "W.). AN INTRODUCTION TO ANCIENT HISTORY. 
 
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 LYONS (Rev. Daniel). CHRISTIANITY AND INFALLIBILITY 
 
 Both or Neither. Crown 8vo. 5^. 
 LYTTON (Earl of). MARAH. By OWEN MEREDITH (the late Earl of 
 
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 KING POPPY; a Fantasia. Fcp. 8vo. 
 
 MACATTLAY (Lord). COMPLETE WORKS OF LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 Library Edition, 8 vols. 8vo. .5 5*. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, 16 vols. post 8vo. 
 
 HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE ACCESSION OF JAMES 
 
 THE SECOND. 
 
 Popular Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. Si. 
 Student's Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 125. 
 
 People's Edition, 4vols. Crown 8vo. i6s. 
 Cabinet Edition, 8 vols. Post 8vo. 48*. 
 
 Library Edition, 5 vols. 8vo. 
 
 \Continued.
 
 14 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 MACAULAY (Lord) (Continued). 
 
 CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS, WITH LAYS OF 
 
 ANCIENT ROME, in i volume. 
 Popular Edition, Crown 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 Authorised Edition, Crown 8vo. zs. 
 
 6d., or y. 6d. gilt edges. 
 
 ' Silver Library ' Edition. With Por- 
 trait and Illustrations to the ' Lays '. 
 Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS. 
 
 Student's Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 People's Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 8s. 
 
 Trevelyan Edition, 2 vols. Crown Svo.gs. 
 Cabinet Edition, 4 vols. Post 8vo. 24*. 
 
 Library Edition, 3 vols. 8vo. 361. 
 ESSAYS which may be had separately, price 6d. each sewed. is. each cloth . 
 
 Addison and W&Ipole. 
 Frederic the Great. 
 Croker's Boswell's Johnson. 
 Hallam's Constitutional History. 
 Warren Hastings (3^. sewed, 6d. cloth). 
 The Earl of Chatham (Two Essays). 
 
 Ranke and Gladstone. 
 Hilton and Machiavelll. 
 Lord Bacon. 
 Lord Clive. 
 
 Lord Byron, and the Comic Drama- 
 tists of the Restoration. 
 
 The Essay on Warren Hastings, anno- I The Essay on Lord dive, annotated by 
 tated by S. Hales. Fcp. 8vo. is. 6d. \ H.CourthopeBowen. Fcp.8vo.2s.6tf. 
 
 SPEECHES. People's Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME, &c. Illustrated by G. Scharf. Library 
 
 Edition. Fcp. 410. ioj. 6d. 
 
 Bijou Edition, i8mo. as. 6d. gilt top. I Popular Edition, Fcp. 410. 6d sewed, 
 
 | is. cloth. 
 Illustrated by J. R. Weguelin. Crown 
 
 8vo. y. 6d. gilt edges. 
 
 Annotated Edition, Fcp.Svo. if. sewed, 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Post 8vo. 3*. 6d. \ is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 
 
 People's Edition. Crown 8vo. 4*. 6d. \ Library Edition, a vols. 8vo. 2is. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS AND SPEECHES. 
 
 Popular Edition. Crown 8vo. as. 6d. I Cabinet Edition, Post 8vo. 241. 
 Student's Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF LORD MACAULAY. 
 
 Edited, with Notes, by the Right Hon. Sir G. O. TREVELYAN. Crown 8vo. 6j. 
 
 THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LORD MACAULAY. By the Right 
 
 Hon. Sir G. O. TREVELYAN. 
 
 Popular Edition. Crown. 8vo. as. 6d. I Cabinet Edition, 2 vols. Post 8vo. I2j. 
 Student's Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. \ Library Edition, 2 vols. 8vo. 361. 
 
 MACDONALD (George). UNSPOKEN SERMONS. Three Series. 
 Crown 8vo. y. 6d. each. 
 
 THE MIRACLES OF OUR LORD. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 A BOOK OF STRIFE, IN THE FORM OF THE DIARY OF AN 
 
 OLD SOUL : Poems. 12010. 6s. 
 
 MACFARREN" (Sir GK A.). LECTURES ON HARMONY. 8vo. 12*. 
 
 MACKAIL (J. W.). SELECT EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK AN- 
 THOLOGY. With a Revised Txt, Introduction, Translation, &c. 8vo. i6s.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 15 
 
 MACLEOD (Henry D.). THE ELEMENTS OF BANKING Crown 
 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF BANKING. Vol. I. 8vo. 
 
 Vol. II. 145. 
 
 - THE THEORY OF CREDIT. 8vo. Vol. I. [New Edition in the Press-} 
 Vol. II. Part I. 45. 6<t. ; Vol. II. Part II. los. 6d. 
 
 MACVINE (John). SIXTY-THREE YEARS' ANGLING, from the Moun- 
 tain Streamlet to the Mighty Tay. Crown 8vo. 10.$. bd. 
 
 MANNERING (G. E.). WITH AXE AND ROPE IN THE NEW 
 ZEALAND ALPS. Illustrated. 8vo. i2s. 6d. 
 
 MANUALS OP CATHOLIC PHILOSOPHY (Stonyhurst Series). 
 
 Logic. By Richard F. Clarke. Crown 
 
 8vo. 5.?. 
 First Principles of Knowledge. By 
 
 John Rickaby. Crown 8vo. 55. 
 Moral Philosophy (Ethics and Natural 
 
 Law). By Joseph Rickaby. Crown 
 
 8vo. 55. 
 
 General Metaphysics. By John Ricka- 
 by. Crown 8vo. 5^. 
 
 Psychology. By Michael Maher. 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
 Natural Theology. By Bernard 
 Boedder. Crown 8vo. 65. 6d. 
 
 A Manual of Political Economy. By C. 
 
 S. Devas. 6s. 6d. 
 
 MARBOT (Baron de). THE MEMOIRS OF. Translated from the 
 French. 2 vols. 8vo. 321. 
 
 MARTITfEATJ (James). HOURS OF THOUGHT ON SACRED 
 
 THINGS. Two Volumes of Sermons. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. -js. 6d. each. 
 
 - ENDEAVOURS AFTER THE CHRISTIAN LIFE. Discourses. 
 Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 HOME PRAYERS. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
 THE SEAT OF AUTHORITY IN RELIGION. 8vo. 14*. 
 
 - ESSAYS, REVIEWS, AND ADDRESSES. 4 vols. Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 each. 
 
 I. Personal : Political. I III. Theological : Philosophical. 
 
 II. Ecclesiastical : Historical. | IV. Academical : Religious. 
 
 MATTHEWS (Brander). A FAMILY TREE, and other Stories. Crown 
 8vo. 65. 
 
 - PEN AND INK Selected Papers. Crown 8vo. 55. 
 
 WITH MY FRIENDS : Tales told in Partnership. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 MAUNDER'S TREASURIES. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. each volume 
 
 Biographical Treasury. 
 
 Treasury of Natural History. With 
 
 900 Woodcuts. 
 Treasury of Geography. With 7 Maps 
 
 and 1 6 Plates. 
 
 Scientific and Literary Treasury. 
 Historical Treasury. 
 Treasury of Knowledge. 
 
 The Treasury of Bible Knowledge. By 
 
 the Rev. J. AYRK. With 5 Maps, 
 15 Plates, and 300 Woodcuts. Fcp. 
 8vo. 6s. 
 
 The Treasury of Botany. Edited by 
 J. LINDLEY and T. MOORE. With 
 274 Woodcuts and 20 Steel Plates. 
 2 vols. 
 
 MAX MULLER (P.). SELECTED ESSAYS ON LANGUAGE, 
 MYTHOLOGY, AND RELIGION. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 16^. 
 
 - THREE LECTURES ON THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE. Cr. 
 8vo. 35. 
 
 THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE, founded on Lectures delivered at 
 
 the Royal Institution in 1861 and 1863. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 2is. 
 
 [Continued.
 
 16 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 MAX MULLER (P.). HIBBERT LECTURES ON THE ORIGIN AND 
 GROWTH OF RELIGION, as illustrated by the Religions of India. Crown 
 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 - INTRpDUCTION TO THE SCIENCE OF RELIGION ; Four 
 Lectures delivered at the Royal Institution. Crown 8vo. -js. 6d. 
 
 NATURAL RELIGION. The Gifford Lectures, delivered before the 
 University of Glasgow in 1888. Crown 8vo. IQS. 6d. 
 
 - PHYSICAL RELIGION. The Gifford Lectures, delivered before the 
 University of Glasgow in 1890. Crown 8vo. los. 6d. 
 
 ANTHROPOLOGICAL RELIGION : The Gifford Lectures delivered 
 
 before the University of Glasgow in 1891. Crown 8vo. IQS. 6d. 
 - THE SCIENCE OF THOUGHT. 8vo. zis. 
 
 THREE INTRODUCTORY LECTURES ON THE SCIENCE OF 
 
 THOUGHT. 8vo. or. 6d. 
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF WORDS, AND THE HOME OF THE ARYAS. 
 
 Crown 8vo. js. 6d. 
 
 - INDIA, WHAT CAN IT TEACH US? Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 A SANSKRIT GRAMMAR FOR BEGINNERS. New and Abridged 
 
 Edition. By A. A. MAcDoNELL. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 MAY (Sir Thomas Erskine). THE CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY 
 OF ENGLAND since the Accession of George III. 3 vols. Crown 8vo. i8s. 
 
 MEADE (L. T.). DADDY'S BOY. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 - DEB AND THE DUCHESS. Illust. by M. E. Edwards. Cr. 8vo. y. 6</. 
 THE BERESFORD PRIZE. Illustrated by M. E. Edwards. Cr. 8vo. y. 
 
 MEATH (The Earl of). SOCIAL ARROWS: Reprinted Articles on 
 
 various Social Subjects. Crown 8vo. y. 
 PROSPERITY OR PAUPERISM ? Physical, Industrial, and Technical 
 
 Training. Edited by the EARL OF MEATH. 8vo. 5^. 
 
 MELVILLE (GK J. Whyte). Novels by. Crown 8vo. is. each, boards ; 
 is. 6d. each, cloth. 
 
 The Gladiators. 
 The Interpreter. 
 Good for Nothing. 
 
 The Queen's Maries. 
 Holmby House. 
 Kate Coventry. 
 
 Digby Grand. 
 General Bounce. 
 
 MENDELSSOHN. THE LETTERS OF FELIX MENDELSSOHN. 
 Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. los. 
 
 MERIVALE (Rev. Chas.). -HISTORY OF THE ROMANS UNDER 
 
 THE EMPIRE. Cabinet Edition, 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 48*. Popular Edition. 
 
 8 vols. Crown 8vo. 3.1. (xt. each. 
 THE FALL OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC : a Short History of the 
 
 Last Century of the Commonwealth. I2mo. ^s. 6d. 
 
 - GENERAL HISTORY OF ROME FROM B.C. 753 TO A.D. 476. 
 
 Cr. 8vo. 75 . 6d. 
 THE ROMAN TRIUMVIRATES. With Maps. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 
 MILES ( W. A.). THE CORRESPONDENCE OF WILLIAM AUGUSTUS 
 MILES ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, 1789-1817. 2 vols. 8vo. 32?. 
 
 MILL (James). ANALYSIS OF THE PHENOMENA OF THE HUMAN 
 MIND. 2 vols. 8vo. 28s.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 17 
 
 MILL (John Stuart). PRINCIPLES OF POLITICAL ECONOMY. 
 Library Edition, 2 vols. 8vo. 30f. | People's Edition, i vol. Crown 8vo. y 6d 
 
 A SYSTEM OF LOGIC. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 ON LIBERTY. Crown 8vo. is. $d. 
 
 ON REPRESENTATIVE GOVERNMENT. Crown 8vo. zr. 
 
 UTILITARIANISM. 8vo. y. 
 
 - EXAMINATION OF SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON'S PHILO- 
 SOPHY. 8vo. i6s. 
 
 NATURE, THE UTILITY OF RELIGION AND THEISM. Three 
 
 Essays, 8vo. y. 
 
 MOLESWORTH (Mrs.). SILVERTHORNS. With Illustrations by F. 
 Noel Paton. Cr. 8vo. y. 
 
 THE PALACE IN THE GARDEN. With Illustrations. Cr. 8vo. y. 
 
 THE THIRD MISS ST. QUENTIN. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 NEIGHBOURS. With Illustrations by M. Ellen Edwards. Cr. 8vo. 6*. 
 
 THE STORY OF A SPRING MORNING. With Illustrations. Cr.Svo.s^. 
 
 STORIES OF THE SAINTS FOR CHILDREN : the Black Letter 
 
 Saints. With Illustrations. Royal i6mo. y. 
 
 MOORE (Edward). DANTE AND HIS EARLY BIOGRAPHERS. 
 Crown 8vo. 41. 6d. 
 
 MULHALL (Michael G.). HISTORY OF PRICES SINCE THE YEAR 
 1850. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 NANSEN (Dr. Fridtjof ). THE FIRST CROSSING OF GREENLAND. 
 With 5 Maps, 12 Plates, and 150 Illustrations in the Text. 2 vols. 8vo. 365. 
 Cheaper Edition, abridged. With numerous Illustrations and a Map. In i 
 vol. crown 8vo. -js. 6d. 
 
 NAPIER. THE LIFE OF SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART., EX-LORD 
 CHANCELLOR OF IRELAND. By ALEX. CHARLES EWALD. 8vo. i$s. 
 
 THE LECTURES, ESSAYS, AND LETTERS OF THE RIGHT 
 
 HON. SIR JOSEPH NAPIER, BART. 8vo. izs. 6d. 
 
 NESBIT (E.). LEAVES OF LIFE : Verses. Crown 8vo. y. 
 
 - LAYS AND LEGENDS. FIRST Series. Crown 8vo. 3.1. 6d. SECOND 
 Series. With Portrait. Crown 8vo. y. 
 
 NEWMAN. THE LETTERS AND CORRESPONDENCE OF JOHN 
 HENRY NEWMAN during his Life in the English Church. With a brief 
 Autobiographical Memoir. Edited by Anne Mozley. With Portraits, 2 vols. 
 8vo. 3OJ. net. 
 
 NEWMAN (Cardinal). Works by : 
 
 Discourses to Mixed Congregations. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 Cheap Edition, 3^. 6d. 
 
 Sermons on Various Occasions. Ca- 
 binet Edition, Cr. 8vo. 6s. Cheap 
 Edition, y. 6d. 
 
 The Idea of a University defined and 
 illustrated. Cabinet Edition, Cr. 8vo. 
 ?s. Cheap Edition, Cr. 8vo. y. 6d, 
 
 Historical Sketches. Cabinet Edition, 
 3 vols. Crown 8vo. 6s. each. Cheap 
 Edition, 3 vols. Cr. 8vo. y. 6d. each. 
 
 The Arians of the Fourth Century. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 Select Treatises of St. Athanasius in 
 
 Controversy with the Arians. Freely 
 
 Translated. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 iy. 
 Discussions and Arguments on Various 
 
 Subjects. Cabinet Edition, Crown 
 
 8vo. 6s. Cheap Edition, Crown 
 
 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 [Continued.
 
 i8 A CA TALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITER A TURE 
 
 NEWMAN (Cardinal). Works by : -(continued). 
 
 Tracts, i. Dissertatiunculae. 2. On 
 the Text of the Seven Epistles of St. 
 Ignatius. 3. Doctrinal Causes of 
 Arianism. 4. Apollinarianism. 5. 
 St. Cyril's Formula. 6. Ordo de 
 Tempore. 7. Douay Version of 
 Scripture. Crown 8vo. 8.J. 
 
 An Essay in Aid of a Grammar of 
 Assent. Cabinet Edition, Crown 
 8vo. 7-r. 6d. Cheap Edition, Crown 
 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Calllsta : a Tale of the Third Century. 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6*. 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Loss and Gain: a Tale. Cabinet 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 The Dream of Gerontius. 161110. 6d. 
 sewed, is. cloth. 
 
 Verses on Various Occasions. Cabinet^ 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap' 
 Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Apologia Pro Vita Sua. Cabinet Ed. , 
 
 Crown 8vo. 6s. Cheap Ed. 3*. 6d. 
 Development of Christian Doctrine. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 65. 
 
 Cheap Edition, Cr. 8vo. y. 6d. 
 Certain Difficulties felt by Anglicans 
 
 In Catholic Teaching Considered. 
 
 Cabinet Edition. Vol. I. Crown 8vo. 
 
 js. 6d. ; Vol. II. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 3^. 6d. each. 
 The Via Media of the Anglican Church, 
 
 Illustrated in Lectures, &c. Cabinet 
 
 Edition, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. 
 
 y. 6d. each. 
 
 Essays, Critical and Historical. Cabi- 
 net Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. izi. 
 
 Cheap Edition, 2 vols. Cr. 8vo. js. 
 Biblical and Ecclesiastical Miracles. 
 
 Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 Present Position of Catholics in Eng- 
 land. Cabinet Edition, Crown 8vo. 
 
 75. 6d. Cheap Edition, Crown 8vo. 
 
 y.6d. 
 
 *,* For Cardinal Newman's other Works see Messrs. Longmans & Co.'s 
 Catalogue of Theological Works. 
 
 NORTON (Charles L.). A HANDBOOK OF FLORIDA. 49 Maps and 
 Plans. Fcp. 8vo. y. 
 
 NORTHCOTE (W. H.). LATHES AND TURNING, Simple, Me- 
 chanical, and Ornamental. With 338 Illustrations. 8vo. i8j. 
 
 O'BRIEN (William). WHEN WE WERE BOYS: A Novel. Cr. 8vo. 
 zs. 6d. 
 
 OLIPHANT (Mrs.). MADAM. Crown 8vo. is. boards ; is. 60'. cloth. 
 IN TRUST. Crown 8vo. u. boards ; is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 OMAN (C. W. C.). A HISTORY OF GREECE FROM THE EARLIEST 
 TIMESTOTHEMACEDONIAN CONQUEST. WithMaps. Cr. 8vo. 4*. 6d. 
 
 PARKES (Sir Henry). FIFTY YEARS IN THE MAKING OF 
 AUSTRALIAN HISTORY. With Portraits. 2 vols. 8vo. 32*. 
 
 PAUL (Hermann). PRINCIPLES OF THE HISTORY OF LANGUAGE. 
 Translated by H. A. Strong. 8vo. IOT. 6d. 
 
 PAYN (James). THE LUCK OF THE DARRELLS. Cr. 8vo. is. bds. ; 
 
 is. 6d. cl. 
 THICKER THAN WATER. Crown 8vo. is. boards ; is. 6d. cloth. 
 
 PERRING (Sir Philip). HARD KNOTS IN SHAKESPEARE. 8vo.7J.6n'. 
 THE ' WORKS AND DAYS ' OF MOSES. Crown 8vo. y. 6d.
 
 PUBLISHED BY MESSRS. LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. 
 
 PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY (C.). SNAP : a Legend of the Lone Mountain 
 With 13 Illustrations by H. G. Willink. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 POLE (W.). THE THEORY OF THE MODERN SCIENTIFIC GAME 
 OF WHIST. Fcp. 8vo. zs. 6d. 
 
 POOLE (W. H. and Mrs.). COOKERY FOR THE DIABETIC. Fcp. 
 
 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 PRAEGER (F.). WAGNER AS I KNEW HIM. Crown 8vo. 7 s. 6d. 
 
 PRATT (A. E., F.R.G.S.). TO THE SNOWS OF TIBET THROUGH 
 CHINA. With 33 Illustrations and a Map. 8vo. i8s. 
 
 PRENDERGAST (JohnP.). IRELAND, FROM THE RESTORATION 
 TO THE REVOLUTION, 1660-1690. 8vo. y. 
 
 PROCTOR (R.A.). Works by : 
 
 Old and Hew Astronomy. 12 Parts, 
 
 zs. 6d. each. Supplementary Sec- 
 tion, is. Complete in i vol. 410. 365. 
 \Jn course of publication. 
 The Orbs Around Us. Crown 8vo. 55. 
 Other Worlds than Ours. With 14 
 
 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. y. 
 The Moon. Crown 8vo. y. 
 Universe of Stars. 8vo. los. 6d. 
 Larger Star Atlas for the Library, in 
 
 12 Circular Maps, with Introduction 
 
 and 2 Index Pages. Folio, 15.5. or 
 
 Maps only, i2s. 6d. 
 The Student's Atlas. In 12 Circular 
 
 Maps. Svo. 5.5-. 
 New Star Atlas. In 12 Circular Maps. 
 
 Crown Svo. y. 
 Light Science for Leisure Hours. 
 
 3 vols. Crown Svo. 5.!-. each. 
 Chance and Luck. Crown Svo. zs. 
 
 boards ; zs. 6d. cloth. 
 Pleasant Ways in Science. Cr. 8vo. y. 
 How to Play Whist : with the Laws and 
 
 Etiquette of Whist. Crown Svo. y.6d. 
 Home Whist : an Easy Guide to 
 
 Correct Play. i6mo. is. 
 
 PRYCE (John). THE ANCIENT BRITISH CHURCH : an Historical 
 Essay. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 RANSOME (Cyril). THE RISE OF CONSTITUTIONAL GOVERN- 
 MENT IN ENGLAND : being a Series of Twenty Lectures. Crown Svo. 65. 
 
 RAWLINSOW (Canon O-.). THE HISTORY OF PHCENICIA. Svo. 245. 
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 RIBOT (Th.). THE PSYCHOLOGY OF ATTENTION. Crown Svo. y. 
 
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 RICHARDSON (Dr. B. W.).-NATIONAL HEALTH. A Review of 
 
 the Works of Sir Edwin Chadwick, K.C.B. Crown 4^. 6d. 
 
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 20 A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS IN GENERAL LITERATURE 
 
 RIVERS (T. and T. P.). THE MINIATURE FRUIT GARDEN ; or, 
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 RIVERS (T.). THE ROSE AMATEUR'S GUIDE. Fcp. 8vo. 4^. 6d. 
 
 ROBERTSON (A.). THE KIDNAPPED SQUATTER, and other Aus- 
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 ROQET (John Lewis). A HISTORY OF THE 'OLD WATER 
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 ROCKET (Peter M.). THESAURUS OF ENGLISH WORDS AND 
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 ROMANES (George John, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S.).-DARWIN. AND 
 AFTER DARWIN: an Exposition of the Darwinian Theory and a Discus- 
 sion of Post-Darwinian Questions. Part I. The Darwinian Theory. With a 
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 RONALDS (Alfred). THE FLY-FISHER'S ETYMOLOGY. With 20 
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 ROSSETTI (Maria Franceses,). A SHADOW OF DANTE : being an 
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 ROUND (J. H., M.A.). GEOFFREY DE MANDEVILLE: a Study of 
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 RUSSELL. A LIFE OF LORD JOHN RUSSELL. By SPENCER WALPOLE. 
 2 vols. 8vo. 36*. Cabinet Edition, 2 vols. Crown 8vo. izr. 
 
 SEEBOHM (Frederick). THE OXFORD REFORMERS JOHN 
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 lations to the Manorial and Tribal Systems, &c. 13 Maps and Plates. 8vo. idr. 
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 SEWELL (Elizabeth M.). STORIES AND TALES. Crown 8vo. is. 6d. 
 each, cloth plain ; as. 6d. each, cloth extra, gilt edges : 
 
 Amy Herbert. 
 The Earl's Daughter. 
 The Experience of Life. 
 A Glimpse of the World. 
 
 Katharine Ashton. 
 Margaret Perclval. 
 Laneton Parsonage. 
 Ursula. 
 
 Gertrude. 
 Ivors. 
 Home Life. 
 After Life. 
 
 Cleve Hall. 
 
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 SILVER LIBRARY, The. Crown 8vo. price 3*. 6d. each volume. 
 
 BAKER'S (Sir S. W.) Eight Years in 
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 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon. 
 
 BARING-GOULD'S (8.) Carious Myths 
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 DOYLE'S (A. Conan) The Captain o 
 
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 PROUDE'S (J. A.) Short Studies 
 
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 Thomas Carlyle : a Histor 
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 [Continued.
 
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 STEPHEN" (Sir James). ESSAYS IN ECCLESIASTICAL BIO- 
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 STEPHEN'S (H. Morse). A HISTORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLU- 
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 STEVENSON (Robt. Louis).-A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VEk 
 
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 STEVENSON (Robert Louis) and OSBOURNE (Lloyd). THE 
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 STRONG (Herbert A.), LOGEMAN ( Willem S.) and WHEELER 
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 STUTPIELD (H.). THE BRETHREN OF MOUNT ATLAS being the 
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 SUPERNATURAL RELIGION; an Inquiry into the Reality of Divine Revela- 
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 SYMES (J. E.). PRELUDE TO MODERN HISTORY: a Brief Sketch of 
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 TAYLOR (Colonel Meadows). A STUDENT'S MANUAL OF THE 
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 THOMPSON (D. Greenleaf). THE PROBLEM OF EVIL: an Intro- 
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 TOYNBEE (Arnold). LECTURES ON THE INDUSTRIAL REVO- 
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 TREVELYAN (Sir G. O., Bart.). THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
 
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 VILLE (G-.). THE PERPLEXED FARMER: How is he to meet Alien 
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 VIRGIL. PUBLI VERGILI MARONIS BUCOLICA, GEORGICA, 
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 WALFORD (Mrs. L. B.). THE MISCHIEF OF MONICA. Cr. 8vo. 6s. 
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 WALKER (A. Campbell-). THE CORRECT CARD ; or, How to Play 
 
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 WALPOLE (Spencer). HISTORY OF ENGLAND FROM THE CON- 
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 "WELLINGTON". LIFE OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. By the 
 Rev. G. R. GLEIG. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 WENDT (Ernest Emil). PAPERS ON MARITIME LEGISLATION, 
 with a Translation of the German Mercantile Laws relating to Maritime Com- 
 merce. Royal 8vo. ji us. 6d. 
 
 WEST (B. B.). HALF-HOURS WITH THE MILLIONAIRES: Showing 
 how much harder it is to spend a million than to make it. Edited by B. B. 
 WEST. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 
 WEYMAN (Stanley J.). THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF : a Romance. 
 Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 WHATELY (E. Jane). LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE OF ARCH- 
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 WHATELY (Archbishop). ELEMENTS OF LOGIC. Cr. 8vo. <p. 6d. 
 
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 BACON'S ESSAYS, with Annotations. 8vo. los. 6d.
 
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 WILLICH (Charles M.). POPULAR TABLES for giving Information 
 for ascertaining the value of Lifehold, Leasehold, and Church Property, ihe 
 Public Funds, &c. Edited by H. BENCE JONES. Crown 8vo. ids. 6d. 
 
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 MYTHS OF HELLAS; or, Greek Tales. Crown 8vo. 35. 6d. 
 
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