IV.
Peasant Life in Dorset.
(Golden Hours, 1872.)
It is, I suppose, an undisputed fact that the Dorset labourer has worked for generations at a lower money wage than any other member of the agricultural community. I suppose, too, it is an undisputed fact that the cottage in which he has been compelled to live has long been a byword and a reproach. I know that the question of wages in Dorsetshire is embarrassed by a number of so-called privileges, and by opportunities of extra earnings; nevertheless, there can be little doubt that the labourer in Dorset has been, and still is, notwithstanding the rise in wages which has taken place in some districts, worse off than in any other part of the land.
So wretched indeed has been his lot, that Sir Charles Trevelyan is probably within the truth when he says, "The state of our southern peasantry is worse than the present state of the peasantry in the greater part of Ireland."
Many people no doubt console themselves with the belief that such a condition of things is not so hard as it seems, considering what dull, coarse-minded clodhoppers the people are who have to endure it. As a matter of fact, however, natures of the gentlest mould may be met with perhaps as frequently among "dull clodhoppers" as among the classes above them in the social scale.
The peculiarity in Dorset is that such natures are not so much the exception as the rule. The Dorset peasantry are gentlefolk by birth. It is not that veneer which the most thorough scoundrel can easily assume, but that native inbred refinement, that perception of beauty and fitness, which is almost, if not quite, a divine gift.
If any one would see for himself how truly this is the character of the Dorset peasant, let him study the works of their poet, William Barnes. Born in the Vale of Blackmore, of an old yeoman family, farming for two centuries their own land, his immediate ancestors suffered the fate which is gradually bringing to an end this fine class of Englishmen. No doubt he describes the revolution he witnessed in his own native vale when he says—
"Then ten good dearies were a-ved
Along that water's winden bed,
An' in the lewth o' hills an' wood
A half a score farmhousen stood:
But now,—count all o'm how you would,
So many less do hold the land,—
You'd vind but vive that still do stand
A-comèn doun vrom gramfer's"
To Dorset, its people; their language and customs; to the delineation of the joys and sorrows which go to make up their daily life, he has devoted all his genius. As a pastor he has laboured for their highest interests. When I saw him moving amongst them, I could think of no picture which so aptly represented him as the one Longfellow draws of the parish priest in the Arcadian village of Grandprè.
"Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose matrons and maidens,
Hailing his slow approach with words of affectionate welcome."
Dorsetshire may be divided into three districts. There is the highland, running through the centre of the county, and forming its back-bone.
"The zwellen downs, wi' chalky tracts
A-climmen up their sunny backs;"
the vale of Blackmore to the north, mainly laid down in grass land, and occupied by dairy farmers; while to the south of the chalk hills stretches for many a mile vast tracts of heath, much of which is uncultivated, and upon which are to be found most of those wretched cottages for which, as I have said, Dorsetshire has earned such an unenviable notoriety.
However, some of the worst cottages in the county are in the neighbourhood of Dorchester itself. Nothing can well exceed the description of those in the village of Fordington, as given in the Government report of 1867, and I saw enough as I passed through the village last autumn to enable me to testify against the place.
The villages in Dorset have a very grave, sombre appearance, and the cottages are built in rows, and mostly formed of stone or "cob," with no front gardens; and if it were not for the cosy-looking thatched roofs and the two dormer windows peeping out underneath them, these Dorset villages would look as stern and as bleak as those in the north country. But the thatch covers the whole village,—at least, all those portions that are contiguous, like some beneficent natural growth, spreading its protecting arms over everything. No form, however unexpected, or ugly, or unusual, is left out of its embrace; it undulates gently over them all, and brings cottages big and little, outhouses, barns, pigsties, all into one harmonious whole, and may be regarded as emblematic of the unity of the society dwelling beneath it.
"Cob" is mud covered with a thin coating of plaster. Cottages built of this material are very snug and warm in winter, and cool in summer. The old cottages are mainly built of it, and are often very large and roomy. I went into one, in an old tumbledown row, in Stowborough. The cottage itself was perhaps twenty feet wide. Its sole inhabitant was a good dame, the old schoolmistress of the village. The floor was sanded and furnished with tall chairs and an ancient escritoire, which had come from Corfe, some thought from the castle. On the old hearth were a couple of fire-dogs. In another part of the house was a stack of 3000 peats, her winter's supply. Every poor cottager about this part burns peat, so that there is a turfy smell pervading the air. They can get 1000 peats for about three shillings, but to those who have to employ others to do the cutting, carting, and unloading, it costs ten times the money. The good old dame's school had been one of the ordinary stamp, but she had conducted it for forty years; and when she gave up, the parents and scholars had presented her with a large illustrated Bible, as a testimony of their gratitude and respect. The greatest trouble she had was that her landlord wanted to pull down the old house, the home of her fathers, and build a new one. And this touches a chord which is very common amongst the rural poor. For the old house is full of sweet memories, and if you destroy it, you destroy the only joy left in life for the old—to dwell in the thought of the past. Moreover, it sometimes happens that a new house is no real advantage to the labourer, as Mr Barnes has said—
"A new house! yes indeed! a small
Straight upstart thing, that, after all,
Do teäke in only half the groun'
The wold woone did avore 'twer down;
Wi' little windows straïght an' flat,
Not big enough to zun a cat,
An' dealen door a-meäde so thin,
A puff o' wind would blow en in.
No, no; I would'en gie thee thanks
Vor fine white walls and vloors o' planks.
Nor doors a-painted up so fine,
If I'd a wold grey house o' mine."
In these old houses were chimneys indeed; chimney corners in which the whole family could nestle.
"An' when I zot among 'em, I
Could zee all up ageän the sky,
Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch
The zalt-box an' the beäcon vlitch."
Mr Barnes, with a laudable desire to maintain the ideal of "home" in Dorset cottages, has shown how, notwithstanding all their miseries, a labouring man's cottage may still remain for him the most joyful spot on earth.
"My children an' my vier-place,
Where Molly wi' her cheerful feäce.
When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road
Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode,
Wi' nimble hands, at evènen, blest
Wi' vire and wood my hard-won rest';
The while the little woones did clim',
So sleek-skinned up from lim' to lim',
Till strugglèn hard an' clingen tight,
They reach'd at last my feäcè's height,
All tryèn which could soonest hold
My mind wi' little teäles they twold."
Just now we had a description of a chimney corner of a Dorset cottage in the old time, and the flitches of bacon suggested good fare; we have all heard how different it is in the present day. Here is an account of how the family [of an ordinary Dorset labourer lives, given by the good wife, and reported by the Commissioner, Mr Stanhope:—
"We have brought up ten children and have never had sixpence from the parish. My husband has 8s. and his cottage and garden. We mayn't keep a pig, but instead of this master gives us 6d. a week for the wash. Sometimes, if anything happens"—ominous expression, suggesting how infinitely less considerate are the bonds which unite modern Christian society to those which Moses imposed on the Hebrews 3000 years ago—"master's glad to sell us some of the meat. In the last three years we have got perhaps seven or eight bits in this way. We have bought a bit at Christmas, when the children are here. We buy a little pig-meat; we use it with the potatoes. At harvest we have some cheese, but not at any other time. We don't often get potatoes. When we had ten at home, we could not live on the bread we could buy. We'd get a little rice if the potatoes wasn't good. My children never used to drink much tea. I'd mix them a little broth (bread, hot water, pepper, and salt). At harvest and hay time we get money to buy cider."
Another woman, the wife of a shepherd, who had lived at Blandford twenty-seven or twenty-eight years, stated that she had had twelve children, seven of whom were living at home with them then. They lived on potatoes, bread, and pig-meat, but often sat down to dry bread. They never had a bit of milk. They had learned to drink cocoa at harvest, which is doubtless a great improvement on cider. The husband had 10s. a week, and a house to live in, because he worked on Sundays. They had a piece of potato ground near the house, but, as she pathetically observed, "'taters, 'taters, every year they don't turn out very much." They bought their own firewood, but had to draw it themselves. Sometimes their wood will cost them £2 for the winter. At one time they only had two bedrooms, and when all the family were young, thirteen or fourteen persons would be sleeping in them.
I am assured, however, that remarkable care may often be noticed among them to avoid the ill effects of overcrowding, such as sending out the young men at nights to lodge with neighbours; and that in some cases, where too many have occupied one room, it would be difficult to trace the slightest symptoms of want of modesty. But this, as my informant tells me, depends almost entirely on the character of the parents. However the fact may be, that it should be possible at all under the circumstances speaks well for the innate delicacy of the Dorset peasant.
In the neighbourhood of Dorchester the cottagers kill a pig now and then, but they too commonly, if not mainly, live on bread and cheese and potatoes. Thus in a little poem on the father's return at eventime, Mr Barnes makes the wife say—
"Your supper's nearly ready. I've a-got
Some teäties here a-doèn in the pot;
I wish wi' all my heart I had some meat.
I got a little ceake, too, here a-beaken on
Upon the vier. 'Tis done by this time, though;
He's nice and moist; vor when I were a-meäkèn o'n,
I stuck some bits ov apple in the dough."
But what better fare can be hoped for with wages such as the Dorset peasant gets—wages too of which the greater part is sometimes paid in kind? Many farmers keep a running account with their men. There is the grist-corn, that is the barley or second wheat, which they sell their labourers at the market rate. There is skim-milk, wash for the pig, the occasional bits of dead meat; and in the Vale of Blackmore a quantity of beer and cider; so that when the time comes for the settlement of accounts the labourer finds he has very little cash to receive.
It is a miserable system, liable to great abuse, only working well under masters who are both prosperous and generous. As to prosperity, the modern farmer is driven by high rents and heavy taxes to closer dealings with his men than was the case with his predecessors; he cannot afford to be so generous as they were. In those days there was a community of feeling between the farmer and his men which made such a system work satisfactorily for both parties. The patriarchal idea still held sway in rural life.
Nevertheless the Dorset peasant speaks well of his employers, is amenable to his parson, and has a good word for the squire. He is neither sad nor suspicious. He makes the most of his joys, and bears his sorrows as best he may.
Thus in 1847, after the potato famine, when the people were suffering much more than usual, so that they were thankful to buy undressed flour and pea-meal, the children were as bright and merry, and the people as cheerful as under ordinary circumstances.
Like all simple, true-hearted natures, they are very susceptible to love and friendship. Walking down the road in twilight, or meetings in the woody hollow, are institutions as faithfully observed by the young men and maidens here as elsewhere.
Most frequently the fair is the place where the attraction is first felt. Then the young labourer, arrayed in his holiday costume, is emboldened to try his fortune, and overcome the shamefacedness so natural to him.
"Last Easter Jim put on his blue
Frock cwoat the vu'st time—vier new;
Wi' yollow buttons all o' brass,
That glittered in the zun lik' glass.
An' pok'd 'ithin the button-hole
A tutty he'd a-begg'd or stole.
A span new wes'co't, too, he wore,
Wi' yollow stripes all down avore;
An' tied his breeches' lags below
The knee, wi' ribbon in a bow;
An' drow'd his kitty-boots azide,
An' put his laggéns on, an' tied
His shoes wi' strings two vinkers wide,
Because 'twer Easter Zunday."
It is perhaps in dress and behaviour one sees more than in anything else the gentle breeding of the Dorset peasant. On Sunday the men mostly wear tidy coats of black or blue, with tall beavers, while the women are simply but neatly attired. What can be more charming or fit than the dress of a Dorset maiden as described by Mr Barnes?—
"Her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an' plain
An' clean as a blossom undimmed by a stain.
Her bonnet ha' got but two ribbons, a-tied
Up under her chin, or let down at the zide."
Not that there is less gaiety or mirth in Dorset than in any other part of England, but, as far as I could learn, it was wholesome mirth.
Indeed, the love of joking, play of wit, and sharp but kindly repartee, the ready appreciation of irony and of principles conveyed or hinted in a playful manner, is quite a striking feature in Dorset character. In these poems the women are often depicted as playing off practical jokes on the good-natured but duller-witted sex; sometimes tacking up the sleeves and collars of Tom Dumpy's smock and filling it with stones, or sometimes giving him a sly push and sending him head over ears into a ditch. The men, too, have their fun, but mainly amuse themselves with such games as quoits, jumping, ringing bells, and playing quoits. Feast-day is an institution vigorously supported by bell-ringing, fifes playing, horns roaring, drums beating, and boughs over every door, while from the country all around the people come flocking in.
Club-day, too, is an important anniversary, when the members, bearing their great flags, walk in procession to the church, where Mr Goodman, the rector, preaches them a sermon, and wisely gives them warning—
"'To spend their evenen lik' their mornèn.'"
However, the church is no match for the public-house, and dinner and drink soon make too many of the members heedless of the exhortation, and so, "stark mad with pweison stuff," the evening of a club-day presents a sad scene in many a cottage home, for drink is the fiend that misleads men in Dorsetshire as everywhere else. Unhappily, custom favours its temptation, labourers receiving in some cases cider as part of their wages. No doubt both masters and men are under the belief that it helps them to work better.
Mr Bailey Denton gives a striking instance of the prevalence of this opinion in Dorset, and how signally it was refuted. Ii 1852 he was employing Dorset labourers on some large drainage works in the county, at the rate of wages which were then given—7s. and 9s. a week. Convinced that labour so poorly paid was hardly worth having, he induced some north countrymen to migrate south, promising them a minimum wage of 18s. a week. When the Dorset men learnt what the north countrymen were getting, they were filled with a spirit of emulation, and commenced drinking a greater quantity of beer, that they might be able to work as hard. But they soon saw their error, when they found that their competitors were living on good bread and meat, while they were half starved on bread, tobacco, and bad beer or worse cider. After a time they became convinced that a little butcher's meat was worth all the beer in the world, and under this diet became so efficient that Mr Denton was enabled to reverse the experiment, and take the Dorset men to do work for him in Yorkshire.
With all their poverty, and the absolute necessity that every child in the house should do its utmost to add to the family purse, Mr Stanhope,' the Government Commissioner, says, "I noticed with pleasure the great desire for instruction among the labouring poor in this county, one proof of which may be found in the fact that the proportion of parishes with night schools is unusually large. In Dorset there are forty-four night schools in 100 ecclesiastical districts; while in Kent, where the labourer is so well off in a money point of view, there are only twenty-six in an equal number."
But night schools can do but little when a boy goes to work at eight years of age, or frequently earlier, getting up with his father at four or five o'clock in the morning, and stumping about over the fields from six until two with no cessation excepting little halts for meals. Not only is his mind deadened, but his poor little body is permanently injured.
Compare the shapely forms of the young farmers with those of the stunted young labourer, and the injury inflicted by compelling an immature body to such labour as agricultural work will be seen at a glance. Compare the stalwart, jovial forms of the elderly farmers with that of the rheumatic, mishapen forms of the old labourers, and the evil result, not only of over-early work, but of a lifetime of poor and insufficient food and bad lodging, will be manifest Add to all this that they suffer from a want unknown to the northern labourer—a good fire. At Milton Abbas the vicar says, "Fuel is so scarce that the families as a rule never have a fire at meal-times except in the winter."
All these things combine to depress a naturally sensitive people, and to render them the victims of oppression both earthly and spiritual.
Education helps them to throw off the yoke, and every clever lad naturally thinks of emigration as the only possible cure for the terrible hardships he must endure if he stays at home. As a poor mother said, "They like to be good scholars, because it helps them to get away."
Education, too, frees their minds from still darker evils which oppress them—belief in omens, witchcraft, ghosts, etc.
"The Church an' Happy Zunday" would doubtless be very popular if it were written in ordinary English. It teaches the labouring man that—
"The best vor body an' vor soul
'S the church an' happy Zunday.
Vor then our loosened souls do rise
Wi' holy thoughts beyond the skies,
As we do think o' Him that shed
His blood vor us, an' still do spread
His love upon the live an' dead;
An' how He gi'ed a time an' pleäce
To gather us, and gi'e us greäce—
The church an' happy Zunday."
Sunday gives the poor toiler an opportunity of cultivating those human affections without which life would become bestial. It is—
"The day that's all his own to spend
Wi' God an' wi' a buzzom friend;"
the only day when families and friends can meet. Thus one of the poems describes a truly rural custom, that of bringing one another home on Sunday evening:—
"Zoo if you'd stir my heart-blood now,
Tell how we used to play, an' how
You brought us gwain on Zundays."
"But there's a worold still to bless
The good, where zickness never rose;
An' there's a year that's winterless,
Where glassy waters never vroze ;
An' there, if true but e'thly love
Do seem noo sin to God above,
'S a smilèn still my harmless dove.
So feäir as when she bloomed vor me!"
Nevertheless poverty and a sensitive heart are no protection against the snares of Satan; on the contrary, it is just because he has a sensitive heart that the Dorset peasant is all the more easily crushed and rendered reckless by adversity. Periods of semi-starvation and wretched cottages drive such natures into vice and practical atheism. At whose door lies the sin?
Is this the practical result of modern social economy? If so it is a system by which the poor get poorer, and the rich richer; a system, the evil effects of which are more manifest in the country than in the town, since it is evident that the small landed proprietor, the small farmer, are everyday losing ground, while the great landed proprietor and the large farmer are every day adding to their domains and increasing the acreage of their farms.
These poems give many proofs of the decay of a class of men of more value to the country than the gr£at noble, or the large scientific farmer. The first, at best, is only the capital of the column, the ornament and exemplar of society; the second useful as he increases the aggregate wealth of the country; but the class which is being extinguished in their favour made men, made families, with as real a family pride and a far deeper attachment to the old roof-tree than can ever be the case with those who are wealthy enough to have several residences. Nothing can be worse for any country than the severing of the people from the soil, and turning all but a very few into mere tenants at will. To destroy a race of men who are at once free yet contented—a race of men whose spirit has been so well expressed by our poet in the following lines:—
I'm landlord o' my little farm,
I'm king 'ithin my little pleäce;
I don't break laws an' do no harm,
An' bent a-feär'd o' noo man's feäce.
An' I be happy wi' my spot
O' freehold ground an' mossy cot,
An' shoulden get a better lot
If I had all my will,"
is to turn the natural supporters of things as they are into discontented serfs, who will gladly see them overturned. But it is too late. In the early part of this paper we gave a quotation showing how thoroughly this revolution has been effected in Dorsetshire. Others we could find even more telling, of the gradual destruction of homesteads and houses which once nourished happy souls—
"Now scattered vur an' wide,
An zome o'm be a-wantèn bread,
Zome, better off, ha' died."
For what is the result?—
"An' many that wer little farmers then
Be no a-come all adown to leabren men;
An' many leäbrèn men wi' empty hands,
Do live lik' drones upon the workers' lands."
Thus the poor are made poorer, while, still worse, the very lands of the poor—the common land—is taken from them—enclosed; for whose benefit? The large proprietors again. They get the lion's share, while the poor man gets nothing at all. Not possessing any freehold land of his own, the privilege he has enjoyed for ages of pasturing his cow, or feeding his geese or ducks, goes for nothing. As our poet makes one poor labourer say to another in one of his eclogues—
"Ah, Robert ! times be badish vor the poor.
An' worse will come, I be a-feared, if Moore
In thease year's almanick do tell us right."
To which Robert replies—
"Why then we sartianly must starve. Good-night!"