CHAPTER XXI

FOR THE PEOPLE’s WOODS AND STREAMS

Saving the Forests—‘The monstrous Nation’—Walking with Lord Morley—The Boat Race—Safeguarding the Rivers.

[Sidenote: The shearing of a Statesman.]

Fawcett had the knack of saving time and getting the most out of it. One spring day when he was going to pay a promised visit, absent-mindedly he put his hand to his hair, which he found rather long. Discovering that he had five minutes to spare, he shouted in his cheerful loud voice to the cabby through the opening in the roof of the hansom: ‘stop at the first hairdresser’s shop.’ Arrived there he sprang out quickly and rushed in to the barber, exclaiming as he whizzed past him: ‘Cut off as much of my hair as you can in five minutes.’ Literally following these directions with zealous enthusiasm, the man quickly left his victim absolutely shorn to the skull, so that when Fawcett put on his hat it was far too large for him. A few minutes later he was shown into the drawing-room at the very minute of his appointment. He felt extremely embarrassed and sheepish coming in his despoiled condition, but his hostess, rising to meet him, exclaimed with as much tact as concealed surprise: ‘O Mr. Fawcett, what an improvement! I have never before been able to see the beautiful shape of your head.’ So the hostess tempered the wind to the shorn statesman. There was sufficient truth for art in her flattery, as Fawcett’s head was really of an unusually fine shape, massive, rugged—even beautiful.

[Sidenote: He loved to be read to.]

He loved to be read to, and he kept a separate book for each friend who entertained him in this fashion. One day _The Rhyme of the Duchess May_ was being read to him. In each stanza of the poem recurs the phrase ‘Toll slowly.’ The whole thing was admirably read—with pathetic emphasis on the refrain. One of the audience says: ‘We all thought that Fawcett was asleep, but to our amusement, when the reader had finished, he said enthusiastically, with his generous voice, “Thank you very much; beautifully read, but don’t you think that you might have left out that ‘told slowly’?”

[Sidenote: Salisbury Close.]

He continued a frequent visitor at Salisbury, and always fitted in with the home ways. His parents had come to pass their closing year in a house in the Cathedral Close. Opposite the house there was a stretch of old wall, where before breakfast Fawcett used to walk quite by himself, enjoying a seclusion and peace such as was his in the court of his old Cambridge College. The gates of the close are shut at eleven o’clock every night. Miss Fawcett tells the following: ‘As Henry liked to walk the last thing at night before going to bed, and as it was not always convenient for one of us to accompany him, we arranged for him to go with the gate closer on his rounds. So regularly, when Harry was at home, the gate closer’s voice would be heard at half-past ten, “I’ve come for Mr. Harry,” and together they would sally forth and lock the ancient gates about the close.’ The scheme worked admirably to the entire satisfaction of Fawcett, and to the delight of the watchman, who, like the rest of the world, found Fawcett a stimulating and cheering companion. He awakened the seeing man’s interest in the beauty of the cathedral which they passed in their nightly patrol, and often asked if a different planet had yet appeared on the horizon, if the moon could be seen over the church tower, or if the clouds were obscuring the stars.

[Sidenote: The New Forest in peril.]

Though he had passed his childhood on the edge of the New Forest, it is doubtful if Fawcett ever saw its beauties excepting with his mind’s eye and by the help of his friends’ description.

In the seventies he was fond of going there and combining the comfort and joy that he always found in his walk by the great trees with a fishing expedition at Ibbesley. Here he liked to stay with his fisher friend Tizard and his good wife, sharing their homely meals and chat; the place abounded in birds whose singing delighted him. It was here that he caught the huge salmon that graced the table at his father’s and mother’s golden wedding feast.

On these fishing expeditions he heard of the mania for money-making that threatened to rout the ancient spirit of romance which for centuries had lived in the seclusion of the great oaks and beeches. One enterprising surveyor said that the old wood should be cleared ’smack smooth.’ The patrician ancient trees were being replaced by symmetrical lines of Scotch firs planted for sacrifice by fire or for building purposes. Fawcett in answer to inquiry was informed that the woods would not be cleared till the House of Commons had come to a division on the treatment of open spaces. Not content with this rather vague answer, he moved that ‘no ornamental timber should be felled, and no timber whatever should be cut except for necessary purposes, whilst legislation was pending.’ This resolution came none too soon and ’stood between the forest and the axe’ for six years. The official point of view was that the term ‘public’ was misused; it really meant taxpayers, not tourists, nor even the neighbouring residents. The official duty consisted in making an income for the nation and making the most of the property of the Heir Apparent, so that he might make a better bargain on the next settlement of the Civil List. No resolution of the House of Commons could prevent the commissioner in charge of the New Forest from performing his duties, which were similar to those of a trustee of a settled estate.

[Sidenote: The Forest—Health and Art.]

Fawcett received signed petitions protesting against the devastation of the forest. In 1875 the Government, this time a Conservative Government, appointed a select committee on the condition of the New Forest. Fawcett gave evidence and spoke forcibly. ‘The forest should be preserved as a national park. Any money which could be made by its enclosure was not worth considering in comparison with the effects upon the health, happiness, and morality of the people. Even arguing the matter from a purely economical point of view, the influence of the forest on the health and artistic faculties of the people had a far greater money value than that of the mere timber.’ His comment of the effect of the beauty of the forest on the ‘artistic faculties of the people’ must have been peculiarly impressive; that a blind man could see so true, plead so wisely and far-seeingly for the best influence that his fellows could get from the right of those historic glades. Fawcett suggested that these honest, if penny-wise, stewards could ease their consciences by accepting the liberal compensation which the nation would be glad to pay. It was a mere superstition to feel that though neither the Crown nor the nation wished it, there was need to treat the forest as it would be treated by a timber merchant. He wisely pointed out that the Secretary of the Treasury had four years before used the same arguments to good purpose on behalf of the Thames Embankment Gardens. The committee speedily reported, and an Act was passed to preserve the ancient woods, and stop destructive enclosures, and the Verderer’s Court was reconstituted, so as to represent the commoners more effectually.

[Sidenote: Fawcett _versus_ Ruskin.]

It is when dwelling on this fight of Fawcett’s for beauty versus money that it is amusing to realise that he was once challenged by Ruskin to a public debate—Fawcett to defend the political economy of his day against Ruskin’s charge that it was radically opposed to Christianity. Fawcett wisely realised that they would have no common meeting-ground and refused to enter the lists.

[Sidenote: ‘The monstrous Notion.’]

The general questions of enclosures had still to be settled. The old method had been stopped for all time in Fawcett’s Battle of Wisley Common, but no new machinery had been substituted. Bills were brought in two or three times, but failed to win sufficient support to be carried. In 1876 Lord Cross, the Home Secretary, brought in a Bill which showed a distinct advance in public opinion. Nevertheless, it did not satisfy the Commons Preservation Society. Next, the chairman of the society, Mr. Shaw Lefevre, now Lord Eversley, moved a resolution embodying the enactment of provisions and safeguards. The Bill was supported by a speaker who at the same time attacked what he chose to call ‘the monstrous notion,’ _i.e._ that the inhabitants of large towns had a right to wander over distant commons as they pleased. Fawcett, who also supported the Bill in a vigorous speech, swooped down, seized this ‘monstrous notion’ and held it aloft for admiration and support, and contended that the commons were a great and valuable possession for the people of the entire country.’ He had again to insist that the bill did not adequately protect the labourers nor provide sufficient security against a ruthless enclosure of commons. He pointed out that ‘under the old Enclosure Commission, 5,500,000 acres had been added to the estates of great proprietors, whilst villagers by the hundred had lost their rights of pasture, and now found it difficult to provide milk for their children. Yet the commission which had used this procedure was still to be trusted.’ ‘The worst and most mischievous of all economies,’ he declared, ‘was that which aggrandised a few, and made a paltry addition to the sum-total of wealth by shutting out the poor from fresh air and lovely scenery.’ The bill passed through the committee, doggedly, though not very successfully, opposed by Fawcett and his friends.

Lord Eversley and Fawcett succeeded later in amending the procedure to be followed by the Enclosure Commissioners. The Commissioners were instructed that they must have proof that any proposed enclosure should be of real benefit to the neighbourhood as well as to private interests. Furthermore, every enclosure scheme had to be submitted to a standing committee of the House of Commons of which Fawcett was one of the first members.

[Sidenote: Charm of Home.]

The unfailing charm of Fawcett’s home life was a constant delight and rest to him. Mrs. Fawcett’s share in his career was of the greatest possible moment. Their only child Philippa began to be a source of great pleasure, and she enjoyed being with her father on his country expeditions as much as he delighted in having her with him.

Declaring firmly that he believed in at least eleven hours’ skating, this serious statesman would often ponder deeply, as he thoughtfully rubbed his blue glasses and replaced them on his nose, how with ingenuity it would be possible to contrive to fit in another hour on the ice. He not only skated by himself, depending only on the voice of his companion to steer him, but he insisted that his wife, daughter, secretary, and two maids should all turn out to have a good time with him. Only the cook, on the uncontrovertible score of old age, was excused.

Little Philippa greatly enjoyed accompanying her father, and whistling in order to guide him. When she was about nine years old she had returned from a wonderful skate, when she had steered him in the customary fashion. She told her mother all about it and what fun they had had, on a particularly difficult route, her father depending solely on her piping to guide him. ‘And what did you whistle?’ asked the mother. ‘Oh, just “Gentle Jesus,”’ came the prompt reply.

[Sidenote: Hymns.]

Perhaps it is not amiss to indicate here the complete control that this small person exercised over her giant father. At this period of her life she had been imbued by her nurse with an intense devoutness. One Sunday morning he was singing to himself: it is only proper to say that the word singing is not an exact term, as all his friends and family are agreed that he was incapable of producing melody or sweet noises. His tiny daughter popped her head in at the crack of the door, saying solemnly: ‘You mustn’t sing, it’s Sunday!’ ‘Are you sure?’ asked Fawcett. ‘Wait,’ was the answer; closing the door his mentor disappeared, doubtless to consult with the nurse who had filled her with so much theological technique. Again the child appeared at the crack in the door, saying briefly: ‘If it’s hymns you may, if it isn’t you mayn’t,’ and the singing ceased abruptly!

[Sidenote: The sanctity of Open Spaces.]

Open spaces, especially those near the big towns, had in the railway companies another and most powerful enemy. It was so much easier to take a railway across a common than through the neighbouring enclosed land, that there arose a serious risk that the commons though at last secured for the people, would still be despoiled of their freshness and beauty. Fawcett was quick to perceive this, and to try to save the open spaces from such invasions of their sanctity. He was characteristically amused once by the suggestion of some more prudent members of the Commons Preservation Society that he might weaken their position by failure. It was not by fear of defeat that he so often succeeded in turning defeat into victory. He never hesitated in his attack. Even when Postmaster-General he voted against his colleague, Mr. Chamberlain, the President of the Board of Trade, on a question of railway encroachment on Wimbledon Common.

It is a beautiful thing for all of us who have the privilege of enjoying the glory of the commons and forests of England to appreciate that that pleasure has been kept for us, and for countless others for all time, largely by the valiant fight and generous labours of a man who, though he loved them as he loved light, freedom and justice, and gave part of his life to save them, could only see them through the eyes of others.

[Sidenote: Lord Morley takes Fawcett [on] a walk.]

Lord Morley tells of Fawcett on these lands which he saved for the poor. Fawcett had been walking on Lord Morley’s arm over the Wimbledon Commons, with that vigour and enjoyment in the exercise which he invariably found. They paused on a hill. Lord Morley, impressed with the unusual loveliness of the sunset and its ineffable melancholy, was startled to hear Fawcett beside him ask wistfully: ‘Morley, is the sunset very beautiful?’ ‘Yes,’ was the answer. ‘Ah, I thought so,’ came the comment before a long silence, in which the blind man seemed to be taking in the exquisite scene spread before his unseeing eyes.

We know how Fawcett’s deep love of nature and beauty was a strong factor of his very being. He loved the forest and the hills, the fields and the skies, and above all the rivers.

[Sidenote: Following the Boat Race.]

Until nearly the end of his life, Fawcett rarely missed the Oxford and Cambridge rowing contests. It was a matter of course to see him ‘looking over’ the crew of the college ‘eight’ and expressing his opinion frankly about its fitness, or eagerly ‘watching’ a race. He followed the University boat race on one occasion in a launch, and in the keenest excitement continually asked his friend, ‘How are they going now, Morgan? How near are they now?’

The race gained much zest for Fawcett from the motion of the tug from which he watched it, from the noise of the water lapping against the side of the boat, the splash of the oars, the occasional spray dashed in his face as the little ship darted to hasten its course by benefiting in an opening in the crowd of craft. The cheers of the spectators, the calling of the coxswains to the straining crews, and even the occasional tooting of an unmannerly tug, all gave colour to the picture for the blind man. The river’s fascination perhaps even increased for him after he could not see it.

[Sidenote: Safeguarding the Rivers.]

When the Thames needed a protector to safeguard its loveliness, it was the blind man who eagerly urged that an organisation, similar to the Commons Preservation Society, should be formed to protect the river, and it was through his advice that a Select Committee with this object was later appointed. He also took occasion to support Lord Bryce in his efforts to abolish the system which hampered the public in their enjoyment of the beauties of the Scottish Highlands.

Stephen speaks of his readiness to refuse prominence if he thought that others could serve better than he, of his eagerness ‘to meet the strength of the opposite case,’ to see his opponent’s point of view and to judge it generously; he dwells on the great interest he took in private life in considering impartially and thoughtfully his friends’ problems, so that his advice to them was of unusual value. The whole chapter of this fight for the rights of those who were least able to fight for themselves, sustained and led by a man who could not see or enjoy, saving vicariously, what he was fighting for, is as heroic as any in history. He faced the danger of losing his hard-won position, and often alone made the decision to act against the advice of his friends and his own interests and to stand for the right. In his simple direct plea for justice he never rested until he got what was the people’s due, and what must remain for all time a living monument to his singleness of purpose and chivalrous bravery.

THE MEMBER FOR INDIA

‘Let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.’ Shakespeare.

‘Not from without us only, from Within can come upon us light.’