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    The Poor Man and His Beer

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    Chapter 1
    My friend Philosewers and I, contemplating a farm-labourer the other
    day, who was drinking his mug of beer on a settle at a roadside ale-
    house door, we fell to humming the fag-end of an old ditty, of which
    the poor man and his beer, and the sin of parting them, form the
    doleful burden. Philosewers then mentioned to me that a friend of
    his in an agricultural county--say a Hertfordshire friend--had, for
    two years last past, endeavoured to reconcile the poor man and his
    beer to public morality, by making it a point of honour between
    himself and the poor man that the latter should use his beer and not
    abuse it. Interested in an effort of so unobtrusive and
    unspeechifying a nature, "O Philosewers," said I, after the manner
    of the dreary sages in Eastern apologues, "Show me, I pray, the man
    who deems that temperance can be attained without a medal, an
    oration, a banner, and a denunciation of half the world, and who has
    at once the head and heart to set about it!"

    Philosewers expressing, in reply, his willingness to gratify the
    dreary sage, an appointment was made for the purpose. And on the
    day fixed, I, the Dreary one, accompanied by Philosewers, went down
    Nor'-West per railway, in search of temperate temperance. It was a
    thunderous day; and the clouds were so immoderately watery, and so
    very much disposed to sour all the beer in Hertfordshire, that they
    seemed to have taken the pledge.

    But, the sun burst forth gaily in the afternoon, and gilded the old
    gables, and old mullioned windows, and old weathercock and old
    clock-face, of the quaint old house which is the dwelling of the man
    we sought. How shall I describe him? As one of the most famous
    practical chemists of the age? That designation will do as well as
    another--better, perhaps, than most others. And his name? Friar
    Bacon.

    "Though, take notice, Philosewers," said I, behind my hand, "that
    the first Friar Bacon had not that handsome lady-wife beside him.
    Wherein, O Philosewers, he was a chemist, wretched and forlorn,
    compared with his successor. Young Romeo bade the holy father
    Lawrence hang up philosophy, unless philosophy could make a Juliet.
    Chemistry would infallibly be hanged if its life were staked on
    making anything half so pleasant as this Juliet." The gentle
    Philosewers smiled assent.

    The foregoing whisper from myself, the Dreary one, tickled the ear
    of Philosewers, as we walked on the trim garden terrace before
    dinner, among the early leaves and blossoms; two peacocks,
    apparently in very tight new boots, occasionally crossing the gravel
    at a distance. The sun, shining through the old house-windows, now
    and then flashed out some brilliant piece of colour from bright
    hangings within, or upon the old oak panelling; similarly, Friar
    Bacon, as we paced to and fro, revealed little glimpses of his good
    work.

    "It is not much," said he. "It is no wonderful thing. There used
    to be a great deal of drunkenness here, and I wanted to make it
    better if I could. The people are very ignorant, and have been much
    neglected, and I wanted to make THAT better, if I could. My utmost
    object was, to help them to a little self-government and a little
    homely pleasure. I only show the way to better things, and advise
    them. I never act for them; I never interfere; above all, I never
    patronise."

    I had said to Philosewers as we came along Nor'-West that patronage
    was one of the curses of England; I appeared to rise in the
    estimation of Philosewers when thus confirmed.

    "And so," said Friar Bacon, "I established my Allotment-club, and my
    pig-clubs, and those little Concerts by the ladies of my own family,
    of which we have the last of the season this evening. They are a
    great success, for the people here are amazingly fond of music. But
    there is the early dinner-bell, and I have no need to talk of my
    endeavours when you will soon see them in their working dress".

    Dinner done, behold the Friar, Philosewers, and myself the Dreary
    one, walking, at six o'clock, across the fields, to the "Club-
    house."

    As we swung open the last field-gate and entered the Allotment-
    grounds, many members were already on their way to the Club, which
    stands in the midst of the allotments. Who could help thinking of
    the wonderful contrast between these club-men and the club-men of
    St. James's Street, or Pall Mall, in London! Look at yonder
    prematurely old man, doubled up with work, and leaning on a rude
    stick more crooked than himself, slowly trudging to the club-house,
    in a shapeless hat like an Italian harlequin's, or an old brown-
    paper bag, leathern leggings, and dull green smock-frock, looking as
    though duck-weed had accumulated on it--the result of its stagnant
    life--or as if it were a vegetable production, originally meant to
    blow into something better, but stopped somehow. Compare him with
    Old Cousin Feenix, ambling along St. James's Street, got up in the
    style of a couple of generations ago, and with a head of hair, a
    complexion, and a set of teeth, profoundly impossible to be believed
    in by the widest stretch of human credulity. Can they both be men
    and brothers? Verily they are. And although Cousin Feenix has
    lived so fast that he will die at Baden-Baden, and although this
    club-man in the frock has lived, ever since he came to man's estate,
    on nine shillings a week, and is sure to die in the Union if he die
    in bed, yet he brought as much into the world as Cousin Feenix, and
    will take as much out--more, for more of him is real.

    A pretty, simple building, the club-house, with a rustic colonnade
    outside, under which the members can sit on wet evenings, looking at
    the patches of ground they cultivate for themselves; within, a well-
    ventilated room, large and lofty, cheerful pavement of coloured
    tiles, a bar for serving out the beer, good supply of forms and
    chairs, and a brave big chimney-corner, where the fire burns
    cheerfully. Adjoining this room, another:

    "Built for a reading-room," said Friar Bacon; "but not much used--
    yet."

    The dreary sage, looking in through the window, perceiving a fixed
    reading-desk within, and inquiring its use:

    "I have Service there," said Friar Bacon. "They never went anywhere
    to hear prayers, and of course it would be hopeless to help them to
    be happier and better, if they had no religious feeling at all."

    "The whole place is very pretty." Thus the sage.

    "I am glad you think so. I built it for the holders of the
    Allotment-grounds, and gave it them: only requiring them to manage
    it by a committee of their own appointing, and never to get drunk
    there. They never have got drunk there."

    "Yet they have their beer freely?"

    "O yes. As much as they choose to buy. The club gets its beer
    direct from the brewer, by the barrel. So they get it good; at once
    much cheaper, and much better, than at the public-house. The
    members take it in turns to be steward, and serve out the beer: if
    a man should decline to serve when his turn came, he would pay a
    fine of twopence. The steward lasts, as long as the barrel lasts.
    When there is a new barrel, there is a new steward."

    "What a noble fire is roaring up that chimney!"

    "Yes, a capital fire. Every member pays a halfpenny a week."

    "Every member must be the holder of an Allotment-garden?"

    "Yes; for which he pays five shillings a year. The Allotments you
    see about us, occupy some sixteen or eighteen acres, and each garden
    is as large as experience shows one man to be able to manage. You
    see how admirably they are tilled, and how much they get off them.
    They are always working in them in their spare hours; and when a man
    wants a mug of beer, instead of going off to the village and the
    public-house, he puts down his spade or his hoe, comes to the club-
    house and gets it, and goes back to his work. When he has done
    work, he likes to have his beer at the club, still, and to sit and
    look at his little crops as they thrive."

    "They seem to manage the club very well."

    "Perfectly well. Here are their own rules. They made them. I
    never interfere with them, except to advise them when they ask me."

    RULES AND REGULATIONS
    MADE BY THE COMMITTEE
    From the 21st September, 1857

    One half-penny per week to be paid to the club by each member

    1.--Each member to draw the beer in order, according to the number
    of his allotment; on failing, a forfeit of twopence to be paid to
    the club.

    2.--The member that draws the beer to pay for the same, and bring
    his ticket up receipted when the subscriptions are paid; on failing
    to do so, a penalty of sixpence to be forfeited and paid to the
    club.

    3.--The subscriptions and forfeits to be paid at the club-room on
    the last Saturday night of each month.

    4.--The subscriptions and forfeits to be cleared up every quarter;
    if not, a penalty of sixpence to be paid to the club.

    5.--The member that draws the beer to be at the club-room by six
    o'clock every evening, and stay till ten; but in the event of no
    member being there, he may leave at nine; on failing so to attend, a
    penalty of sixpence to be paid to the club.

    6.--Any member giving beer to a stranger in this club-room,
    excepting to his wife or family, shall be liable to the penalty of
    one shilling.

    7.--Any member lifting his hand to strike another in this club-room
    shall be liable to the penalty of sixpence.

    8.--Any member swearing in this club-room shall be liable to a
    penalty of twopence each time.

    9.--Any member selling beer shall be expelled from the club.

    10.--Any member wishing to give up his allotment, may apply to the
    committee, and they shall value the crop and the condition of the
    ground. The amount of the valuation shall be paid by the succeeding
    tenant, who shall be allowed to enter on any part of the allotment
    which is uncropped at the time of notice of the leaving tenant.

    11.--Any member not keeping his allotment-garden clear from seed-
    weeds, or otherwise injuring his neighbours, may be turned out of
    his garden by the votes of two-thirds of the committee, one month's
    notice being given to him.

    12.--Any member carelessly breaking a mug, is to pay the cost of
    replacing the same.

    I was soliciting the attention of Philosewers to some old old
    bonnets hanging in the Allotment-gardens to frighten the birds, and
    the fashion of which I should think would terrify a French bird to
    death at any distance, when Philosewers solicited my attention to
    the scrapers at the club-house door. The amount of the soil of
    England which every member brought there on his feet, was indeed
    surprising; and even I, who am professedly a salad-eater, could have
    grown a salad for my dinner, in the earth on any member's frock or
    hat.

    "Now," said Friar Bacon, looking at his watch, "for the Pig-clubs!"

    The dreary Sage entreated explanation.

    "Why, a pig is so very valuable to a poor labouring man, and it is
    so very difficult for him at this time of the year to get money
    enough to buy one, that I lend him a pound for the purpose. But, I
    do it in this way. I leave such of the club members as choose it
    and desire it, to form themselves into parties of five. To every
    man in each company of five, I lend a pound, to buy a pig. But,
    each man of the five becomes bound for every other man, as to the
    repayment of his money. Consequently, they look after one another,
    and pick out their partners with care; selecting men in whom they
    have confidence."

    "They repay the money, I suppose, when the pig is fattened, killed,
    and sold?"

    "Yes. Then they repay the money. And they do repay it. I had one
    man, last year, who was a little tardy (he was in the habit of going
    to the public-house); but even he did pay. It is an immense
    Advantage to one of these poor fellows to have a pig. The pig
    consumes the refuse from the man's cottage and allotment-garden, and
    the pig's refuse enriches the man's garden besides. The pig is the
    poor man's friend. Come into the club-house again."

    The poor man's friend. Yes. I have often wondered who really was
    the poor man's friend among a great number of competitors, and I now
    clearly perceive him to be the pig. HE never makes any flourishes
    about the poor man. HE never gammons the poor man--except to his
    manifest advantage in the article of bacon. HE never comes down to
    this house, or goes down to his constituents. He openly declares to
    the poor man, "I want my sty because I am a Pig. I desire to have
    as much to eat as you can by any means stuff me with, because I am a
    Pig." HE never gives the poor man a sovereign for bringing up a
    family. HE never grunts the poor man's name in vain. And when he
    dies in the odour of Porkity, he cuts up, a highly useful creature
    and a blessing to the poor man, from the ring in his snout to the
    curl in his tail. Which of the poor man's other friends can say as
    much? Where is the M.P. who means Mere Pork?

    The dreary Sage had glided into these reflections, when he found
    himself sitting by the club-house fire, surrounded by green smock-
    frocks and shapeless hats: with Friar Bacon lively, busy, and
    expert, at a little table near him.

    "Now, then, come. The first five!" said Friar Bacon. "Where are
    you?"

    "Order!" cried a merry-faced little man, who had brought his young
    daughter with him to see life, and who always modestly hid his face
    in his beer-mug after he had thus assisted the business.

    "John Nightingale, William Thrush, Joseph Blackbird, Cecil Robin,
    and Thomas Linnet!" cried Friar Bacon.

    "Here, sir!" and "Here, sir!" And Linnet, Robin, Blackbird, Thrush,
    and Nightingale, stood confessed.

    We, the undersigned, declare, in effect, by this written paper, that
    each of us is responsible for the repayment of this pig-money by
    each of the other. "Sure you understand, Nightingale?"

    "Ees, sur."

    "Can you write your name, Nightingale?"

    "Na, sur."

    Nightingale's eye upon his name, as Friar Bacon wrote it, was a
    sight to consider in after years. Rather incredulous was
    Nightingale, with a hand at the corner of his mouth, and his head on
    one side, as to those drawings really meaning him. Doubtful was
    Nightingale whether any virtue had gone out of him in that committal
    to paper. Meditative was Nightingale as to what would come of young
    Nightingale's growing up to the acquisition of that art. Suspended
    was the interest of Nightingale, when his name was done--as if he
    thought the letters were only sown, to come up presently in some
    other form. Prodigious, and wrong-handed was the cross made by
    Nightingale on much encouragement--the strokes directed from him
    instead of towards him; and most patient and sweet-humoured was the
    smile of Nightingale as he stepped back into a general laugh.

    "Order!" cried the little man. Immediately disappearing into his
    mug.

    "Ralph Mangel, Roger Wurzel, Edward Vetches, Matthew Carrot, and
    Charles Taters!" said Friar Bacon.

    "All here, sir."

    "You understand it, Mangel?"

    "Iss, sir, I unnerstaans it."

    "Can you write your name, Mangel?"

    "Iss, sir."

    Breathless interest. A dense background of smock-frocks accumulated
    behind Mangel, and many eyes in it looked doubtfully at Friar Bacon,
    as who should say, "Can he really though?" Mangel put down his hat,
    retired a little to get a good look at the paper, wetted his right
    hand thoroughly by drawing it slowly across his mouth, approached
    the paper with great determination, flattened it, sat down at it,
    and got well to his work. Circuitous and sea-serpent-like, were the
    movements of the tongue of Mangel while he formed the letters;
    elevated were the eyebrows of Mangel and sidelong the eyes, as, with
    his left whisker reposing on his left arm, they followed his
    performance; many were the misgivings of Mangel, and slow was his
    retrospective meditation touching the junction of the letter p with
    h; something too active was the big forefinger of Mangel in its
    propensity to rub out without proved cause. At last, long and deep
    was the breath drawn by Mangel when he laid down the pen; long and
    deep the wondering breath drawn by the background--as if they had
    watched his walking across the rapids of Niagara, on stilts, and now
    cried, "He has done it!"

    But, Mangel was an honest man, if ever honest man lived. "T'owt to
    be a hell, sir," said he, contemplating his work, "and I ha' made a
    t on 't."

    The over-fraught bosoms of the background found relief in a roar of
    laughter.

    "OR-DER!" cried the little man. "CHEER!" And after that second
    word, came forth from his mug no more.

    Several other clubs signed, and received their money. Very few
    could write their names; all who could not, pleaded that they could
    not, more or less sorrowfully, and always with a shake of the head,
    and in a lower voice than their natural speaking voice. Crosses
    could be made standing; signatures must be sat down to. There was
    no exception to this rule. Meantime, the various club-members
    smoked, drank their beer, and talked together quite unrestrained.
    They all wore their hats, except when they went up to Friar Bacon's
    table. The merry-faced little man offered his beer, with a natural
    good-fellowship, both to the Dreary one and Philosewers. Both
    partook of it with thanks.

    "Seven o'clock!" said Friar Bacon. "And now we better get across to
    the concert, men, for the music will be beginning."

    The concert was in Friar Bacon's laboratory; a large building near
    at hand, in an open field. The bettermost people of the village and
    neighbourhood were in a gallery on one side, and, in a gallery
    opposite the orchestra. The whole space below was filled with the
    labouring people and their families, to the number of five or six
    hundred. We had been obliged to turn away two hundred to-night,
    Friar Bacon said, for want of room--and that, not counting the boys,
    of whom we had taken in only a few picked ones, by reason of the
    boys, as a class, being given to too fervent a custom of applauding
    with their boot-heels.

    The performers were the ladies of Friar Bacon's family, and two
    gentlemen; one of them, who presided, a Doctor of Music. A piano
    was the only instrument. Among the vocal pieces, we had a negro
    melody (rapturously encored), the Indian Drum, and the Village
    Blacksmith; neither did we want for fashionable Italian, having Ah!
    non giunge, and Mi manca la voce. Our success was splendid; our
    good-humoured, unaffected, and modest bearing, a pattern. As to the
    audience, they were far more polite and far more pleased than at the
    Opera; they were faultless. Thus for barely an hour the concert
    lasted, with thousands of great bottles looking on from the walls,
    containing the results of Friar Bacon's Million and one experiments
    in agricultural chemistry; and containing too, no doubt, a variety
    of materials with which the Friar could have blown us all through
    the roof at five minutes' notice.

    God save the Queen being done, the good Friar stepped forward and
    said a few words, more particularly concerning two points; firstly,
    that Saturday half-holiday, which it would be kind in farmers to
    grant; secondly, the additional Allotment-grounds we were going to
    establish, in consequence of the happy success of the system, but
    which we could not guarantee should entitle the holders to be
    members of the club, because the present members must consider and
    settle that question for themselves: a bargain between man and man
    being always a bargain, and we having made over the club to them as
    the original Allotment-men. This was loudly applauded, and so, with
    contented and affectionate cheering, it was all over.

    As Philosewers, and I the Dreary, posted back to London, looking up
    at the moon and discussing it as a world preparing for the
    habitation of responsible creatures, we expatiated on the honour due
    to men in this world of ours who try to prepare it for a higher
    course, and to leave the race who live and die upon it better than
    they found them.
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