CHAPTER XII

THE SCHOOLS OF THE POOR

Need of Non-Sectarian Education—Charity and Pauperism—Friendship with Working Men—The Voice that linked.

[Sidenote: Need of Non-Sectarian Education.]

But co-operation without intelligence and education in all classes was impossible. Fawcett felt keenly the need of non-sectarian national education, especially for the rural population. Schools would enlighten the workman so that he could learn how to make his work more profitable to himself and others, and how to make the best of his free hours, and so work out his independence.

[Sidenote: Charity and Pauperism.]

To the argument that compulsory school attendance, when the schooling was not gratuitous, would impose additional burdens upon the poor, he replied that the wages of labourers were determined not by open competition, but by what was absolutely necessary to keep soul and body together. The payment for schools would therefore not come out of their pockets, but be made up in their wages. The employer would be reimbursed either by a reduction of his rent or, it might be confidently hoped, by the increased efficiency of labour. A man considers himself repaid for keeping his horses in good condition, whilst he leaves his labourers in a state of semi-starvation. Fawcett held that whatever would give and stimulate the best in men was good, but he abhorred all that tended to restrict the independence and freedom of action of the poor. This latter principle made him a strong opponent of any form of State regulation of the lives and labour of the adult poor. It seemed to him that charity unsafeguarded which inevitably increases pauperism. He realised that tyranny always tries to justify itself; his interest in America made him familiar with the doctrine that slavery is best for the slave. ‘Interference may be tyranny in disguise even when it is really based on the best motives.’ He wrote sternly against State socialism and the nationalisation of the land. These plans, he said, regarded the State as a kind of supernatural milch cow, a body capable of making something out of nothing, of directly commanding supplies of manna from the heavens and water from the rocks; whereas, in point of fact, these were simply schemes for taking money from the prudent and handing it over to the idle.

In his search for practical solutions to these questions he put himself in close touch with the individual workman and his conditions, as well as with Trade Union officials. When at Bradford, during a strike against the introduction of new labour-saving machinery, the blind man went fearlessly among the excited workmen and cautioned the men against driving away their trade by their methods. He strongly denounced violence, and arguing calmly to these under-fed, discontented men, he compelled their interest; they listened, and were largely convinced by his logic and good-will. Many working men regarded him as their hero and champion.

Recently a London locksmith told the writer that he was a member of the Henry Fawcett Club for Workmen, and that one of their proudest memories was that Fawcett had at one time addressed the club and taught it great principles of life and work.

[Sidenote: Friendships with Working Men.]

The working men and women appreciated what his friendship meant, and felt that there was no one who could better speak for them.

[Sidenote: Odger.]

[Sidenote: Frank Fairness.]

George Odger, a shoemaker, the first workman to stand for Parliament, was a great friend of Fawcett’s. He used to tell this tale of his candidature. It was before the ballot, and it was the custom to publish the state of the poll from time to time throughout the day. There were two Conservatives and two Liberals standing for two seats, and Odger standing as an independent working-class candidate. As the day went on it became clear that one of the Liberals would be returned, but that if the second Liberal and Odger held on a Conservative would win the second seat. Fawcett and some other Liberal politicians went more than once to the Liberal Whip’s headquarters, and implored him as the chief of the Liberal party organisation to allow the second Liberal candidate to withdraw from the contest, and thus both save a seat for the Liberal party and allow a workman to get in. Out of dislike to a working-class candidate, the party leader refused. The result was that both Odger and the second Liberal were defeated and a Conservative got in; and also a lasting bitterness on the part of Odger and his sympathisers towards the wire-pullers of the Liberal party, and apparently an enduring affection for Fawcett. At one of his political meetings, years after, Odger appeared to make a speech in defence of his friend, about whom he said, that if he or any other working-class leader went to see the professor in the House of Commons or elsewhere to ask him for his support for some Bill or proposal in which they were interested, Fawcett would not keep them standing in the lobby as some members would, but would receive them in the most friendly and unassuming manner. If he didn’t agree with their proposal he would tell them so in the clearest and most direct terms, so that they always knew where they stood with him; if he agreed with them and thought them right he would back them through thick and thin, and if he thought their views unsound he would with equal candour tell them so and oppose them.

Odger had shown the same liking for plain speaking when he was present at the extraordinary meeting held during Mill’s election for Westminster. In an essay in which he compared the working classes in different countries, Mill had said that in England the working classes were generally liars. At this meeting Mill was publicly asked if he had made the statement. Mill replied, ‘I did.’ His courage was received with a great burst of applause, and Odger, who spoke next, said that the working classes wanted friends not flatterers, and were truly obliged to any one who could treat them so straightforwardly.

[Sidenote: Friendship till Death.]

When, years later, Odger lay dying in the slums of St. Giles, Fawcett went to his bedside, giving what comfort he could, and an unfailing sympathy. When the old man died, Fawcett went to his funeral in Brompton Cemetery. His secretary, who accompanied him, gives this description, it was ‘a long walk in a procession of many thousands, with trade bands playing funeral marches, alternating with the Marseillaise, and the banners of working-class organisations flying. We joined the procession in Knightsbridge and walked all the way to Brompton, and the throng at the cemetery was immense. Mr. Fawcett and I were dragged through the crowd to the grave, where the leader who had arranged the procession insisted on his making a short speech in eulogy of their dead comrade.’

A characteristic glimpse of Fawcett and his surroundings at this time is given to us by one of his sympathisers, who says:

‘The first time I saw Mr. Fawcett was at a meeting summoned, as I understood, by himself, for the purpose of hearing an address from him on some subject connected with political economy and the interests of the working class. I was introduced to Mr. Fawcett after the lecture. Neither he nor anybody else had ever heard of my name at that time, but he was as frank and friendly as if we had met before and had known each other. He told me he was determined to try for a seat in the House of Commons, and he added cheerily, “I know I shall get a seat there some time.”

‘I did not meet him again for more than a year, it may have been two years, after. I happened to sit next to him at a small meeting of politicians and philanthropists. Mr. Mill was at the same meeting. We had the Reform question to interest us, the question between the Northern and Southern States of America, the question of legislation affecting the position of working men, the Irish question. Radicalism was then at once curiously robust and “viewy,” a combination of qualities which politicians of a more recent birth find it perhaps a little difficult to understand. Mr. Mill belonged to some of our fraternities. Mr. Herbert Spencer was at one of them, at least. Mr. Huxley rather later came into one or two.

[Sidenote: The Voice that linked.]

‘Some speaker got up who spoke well, and whom I did not know, and I asked Mr. Fawcett who it was. He told me promptly, and then to my surprise addressed me by name, and reminded me of the fact that we had talked together after his speech in St. Martin’s Hall. His power of recognising men by the sound of their voices was something wonderful. Seventeen or eighteen years afterwards, I happened to sit two rows of benches behind him in the House of Commons. The House was nearly empty. Fawcett had spoken a few words on some subject of interest in India. When he sat down I uttered one quiet “Hear, hear.” In a moment he turned towards me, and addressing me by my name, asked me whether I had seen a friend of his, the late Sir David Wedderburn, anywhere in the House that evening.’

[Sidenote: The Call of the Outside.]

However great his absorption in political affairs, Fawcett never forgot to satisfy his craving for fresh air and exercise. His sanity of outlook on serious things was largely due to his power of throwing them aside to enjoy a long tramp, a ride or a wintry skate. His nerve never failed him. One frosty day he walked across the frozen fens from Cambridge to Newmarket. The country is intersected with dikes and at any moment it was possible to plunge beyond one’s depth into a half-frozen ditch. To Fawcett this was part of the fun, but his companion was far more anxious, and said that the Victoria Cross had been won by deeds requiring no greater courage and strength than this feat required of a blind man. Fawcett had learnt his lesson that for him life without courage was no life, and he habituated himself to hourly risks.

In company with a seeing confederate, he would have made a good scout. His knowledge of the country, of the mysteries of the woods and fields, intensified as he grew older. In the Wilderness, many an Indian path-finder would have lost the crackling of the branches under the swift hoof of a distant hurrying deer, or the soft call of the partridge to her young which Fawcett always heard. The distinctive smells and sounds of the seasons were clearly marked for him. The swish of the rollicking crisp leaves dancing before the wind along the roadways, and the thud of the falling apples on the hard ground in the orchard, made him laugh as it brought autumn to his senses. Winter, with its clear-cut noises, cracklings of ice and snow under foot, lost none of its sternness because he could not see its long white robes. He loved the smells of spring, and seemed to feel the pushing and striving in the dank earth and to divine the fragrance soon to burst forth. Like a giant lizard he revelled and basked in the heat of the summer sun, and rejoiced in the contrast of the cool shadow beneath the heavy-laden trees, the smell of the hot grass and of fully opened fragrant flowers, and the sedate ‘brum’ of the bourgeois bumble-bee.

[Sidenote: Increasing Interests.]

Though by his professorship attached for life to Cambridge, Fawcett’s interests were deep in the world of politics, in which he had already made his début as the member of Parliament for Brighton. To simplify our story we will take up the history of his early political efforts in a new chapter.

The new M.P. was extremely popular; his friends were among the greatest men of the day—three of them at least, Darwin, Mill, Thackeray, gave new life to widely different callings.