News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest<br />Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance, William Morris [best big ereader TXT] 📗

“Yes,” he said, “and I will point out to you a token of all the benefits which we have gained by our freedom.  What did you think of the looks of the people whom you have come across to-day?”

Said I: “I could hardly have believed that there could be so many good-looking people in any civilised country.”

He crowed a little, like the old bird he was.  “What! are we still civilised?” said he.  “Well, as to our looks, the English and Jutish blood, which on the whole is predominant here, used not to produce much beauty.  But I think we have improved it.  I know a man who has a large collection of portraits printed from photographs of the nineteenth century, and going over those and comparing them with the everyday faces in these times, puts the improvement in our good looks beyond a doubt.  Now, there are some people who think it not too fantastic to connect this increase of beauty directly with our freedom and good sense in the matters we have been speaking of: they believe that a child born from the natural and healthy love between a man and a woman, even if that be transient, is likely to turn out better in all ways, and especially in bodily beauty, than the birth of the respectable commercial marriage bed, or of the dull despair of the drudge of that system.  They say, Pleasure begets pleasure.  What do you think?”

“I am much of that mind,” said I.

“Well,” said the old man, shifting in his chair, “you must get on with your questions, Guest; I have been some time answering this first one.”

Said I: “I want an extra word or two about your ideas of education; although I gathered from Dick that you let your children run wild and didn’t teach them anything; and in short, that you have so refined your education, that now you have none.”

“Then you gathered left-handed,” quoth he.  “But of course I understand your point of view about education, which is that of times past, when ‘the struggle for life,’ as men used to phrase it (i.e., the struggle for a slave’s rations on one side, and for a bouncing share of the slave-holders’ privilege on the other), pinched ‘education’ for most people into a niggardly dole of not very accurate information; something to be swallowed by the beginner in the art of living whether he liked it or not, and was hungry for it or not: and which had been chewed and digested over and over again by people who didn’t care about it in order to serve it out to other people who didn’t care about it.”

I stopped the old man’s rising wrath by a laugh, and said: “Well, you were not taught that way, at any rate, so you may let your anger run off you a little.”

“True, true,” said he, smiling.  “I thank you for correcting my ill-temper: I always fancy myself as living in any period of which we may be speaking.  But, however, to put it in a cooler way: you expected to see children thrust into schools when they had reached an age conventionally supposed to be the due age, whatever their varying faculties and dispositions might be, and when there, with like disregard to facts to be subjected to a certain conventional course of ‘learning.’  My friend, can’t you see that such a proceeding means ignoring the fact of growth, bodily and mental?  No one could come out of such a mill uninjured; and those only would avoid being crushed by it who would have the spirit of rebellion strong in them.  Fortunately most children have had that at all times, or I do not know that we should ever have reached our present position.  Now you see what it all comes to.  In the old times all this was the result of poverty.  In the nineteenth century, society was so miserably poor, owing to the systematised robbery on which it was founded, that real education was impossible for anybody.  The whole theory of their so-called education was that it was necessary to shove a little information into a child, even if it were by means of torture, and accompanied by twaddle which it was well known was of no use, or else he would lack information lifelong: the hurry of poverty forbade anything else.  All that is past; we are no longer hurried, and the information lies ready to each one’s hand when his own inclinations impel him to seek it.  In this as in other matters we have become wealthy: we can afford to give ourselves time to grow.”

“Yes,” said I, “but suppose the child, youth, man, never wants the information, never grows in the direction you might hope him to do: suppose, for instance, he objects to learning arithmetic or mathematics; you can’t force him when he is grown; can’t you force him while he is growing, and oughtn’t you to do so?”

“Well,” said he, “were you forced to learn arithmetic and mathematics?”

“A little,” said I.

“And how old are you now?”

“Say fifty-six,” said I.

“And how much arithmetic and mathematics do you know now?” quoth the old man, smiling rather mockingly.

Said I: “None whatever, I am sorry to say.”

Hammond laughed quietly, but made no other comment on my admission, and I dropped the subject of education, perceiving him to be hopeless on that side.

I thought a little, and said: “You were speaking just now of households: that sounded to me a little like the customs of past times; I should have thought you would have lived more in public.”

“Phalangsteries, eh?” said he.  “Well, we live as we like, and we like to live as a rule with certain house-mates that we have got used to.  Remember, again, that poverty is extinct, and that the Fourierist phalangsteries and all their kind, as was but natural at the time, implied nothing but a refuge from mere destitution.  Such a way of life as that, could only have been conceived of by people surrounded by the worst form of poverty.  But you must understand therewith, that though separate households are the rule amongst us, and though they differ in their habits more or less, yet no door is shut to any good-tempered person who is content to live as the other house-mates do: only of course it would be unreasonable for one man to drop into a household and bid the folk of it to alter their habits to please him, since he can go elsewhere and live as he pleases.  However, I need not say much about all this, as you are going up the river with Dick, and will find out for yourself by experience how these matters are managed.”

After a pause, I said: “Your big towns, now; how about them?  London, which—which I have read about as the modern Babylon of civilization, seems to have disappeared.”

“Well, well,” said old Hammond, “perhaps after all it is more like ancient Babylon now than the ‘modern Babylon’ of the nineteenth century was.  But let that pass.  After all, there is a good deal of population in places between here and Hammersmith; nor have you seen the most populous part of the town yet.”

“Tell me, then,” said I, “how is it towards the east?”

Said he: “Time was when if you mounted a good horse and rode straight away from my door here at a round trot for an hour and a half; you would still be in the thick of London, and the greater part of that would be ‘slums,’ as they were called; that is to say, places of torture for innocent men and women; or worse, stews for rearing and breeding men and women in such degradation that that torture should seem to them mere ordinary and natural life.”

“I know, I know,” I said, rather impatiently.  “That was what was; tell me something of what is.  Is any of that left?”

“Not an inch,” said he; “but some memory of it abides with us, and I am glad of it.  Once a year, on May-day, we hold a solemn feast in those easterly communes of London to commemorate The Clearing of Misery, as it is called.  On that day we have music and dancing, and merry games and happy feasting on the site of some of the worst of the old slums, the traditional memory of which we have kept.  On that occasion the custom is for the prettiest girls to sing some of the old revolutionary songs, and those which were the groans of the discontent, once so hopeless, on the very spots where those terrible crimes of class-murder were committed day by day for so many years.  To a man like me, who have studied the past so diligently, it is a curious and touching sight to see some beautiful girl, daintily clad, and crowned with flowers from the neighbouring meadows, standing amongst the happy people, on some mound where of old time stood the wretched apology for a house, a den in which men and women lived packed amongst the filth like pilchards in a cask; lived in such a way that they could only have endured it, as I said just now, by being degraded out of humanity—to hear the terrible words of threatening and lamentation coming from her sweet and beautiful lips, and she unconscious of their real meaning: to hear her, for instance, singing Hood’s Song of the Shirt, and to think that all the time she does not understand what it is all about—a tragedy grown inconceivable to her and her listeners.  Think of that, if you can, and of how glorious life is grown!”

“Indeed,” said I, “it is difficult for me to think of it.”

And I sat watching how his eyes glittered, and how the fresh life seemed to glow in his face, and I wondered how at his age he should think of the happiness of the world, or indeed anything but his coming dinner.

“Tell me in detail,” said I, “what lies east of Bloomsbury now?”

Said he: “There are but few houses between this and the outer part of the old city; but in the city we have a thickly-dwelling population.  Our forefathers, in the first clearing of the slums, were not in a hurry to pull down the houses in what was called at the end of the nineteenth century the business quarter of the town, and what later got to be known as the Swindling Kens.  You see, these houses, though they stood hideously thick on the ground, were roomy and fairly solid in building, and clean, because they were not used for living in, but as mere gambling booths; so the poor people from the cleared slums took them for lodgings and dwelt there, till the folk of those days had time to think of something better for them; so the buildings were pulled down so gradually that people got used to living thicker on the ground there than in most places; therefore it remains the most populous part of London, or perhaps of all these islands.  But it is very pleasant there, partly because of the splendour of the architecture, which goes further than what you will see elsewhere.  However, this crowding, if it may be called so, does not go further than a street called Aldgate, a name which perhaps you may have heard of.  Beyond that the houses are scattered wide about the meadows there, which are very beautiful, especially when you get on to the lovely river Lea (where old Isaak Walton used to fish, you know) about the places called Stratford and Old Ford, names which of course you will not have heard of, though the Romans were busy there once upon a time.”

Not heard of them! thought I to myself.  How strange! that I who had seen the very last remnant of the pleasantness of the meadows by the Lea destroyed, should have heard them spoken of with pleasantness come back to them in full measure.

Hammond went on: “When you get down to the Thames side you come on the Docks, which are works of the nineteenth century, and are still in use, although not so thronged as they once were, since we discourage centralisation all we can, and we have long ago dropped the pretension to be the market of the world.  About these Docks are a good few houses, which, however, are not inhabited by many people permanently; I mean, those who use them come and go a good deal, the place being too low and marshy for pleasant dwelling.  Past the Docks eastward and landward it is all flat pasture, once marsh, except for a few gardens, and there are very few permanent dwellings there: scarcely anything but a few sheds, and cots for the men who come to look after the great herds of cattle pasturing there.  But however, what with the beasts and the men, and the scattered red-tiled roofs and the big hayricks, it does not make a bad holiday to get