News from Nowhere; Or, An Epoch of Rest / Being Some Chapters from a Utopian Romance

, "you must get on with your questions, Guest;

thered from Dick that you let your children run wild and didn't teach them anythi

ns 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 a

said: "Well, you were not taught that way, at any r

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 an

tion you might hope him to do: suppose, for instance, he objects to learning arithmetic or mathematics;

you forced to learn ari

tle,"

old are

ty-six,"

matics do you know now?" quoth the

whatever, I am

on my admission, and I dropped the subject of edu

seholds: that sounded to me a little like the customs of past ti

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

them? London, which-which I have read about as the mode

n Babylon' of the nineteenth century was. But let that pass. After all, there is a good deal of popula

aid I, "how is it

e 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 w

ently. "That was what was; tell me some

roans 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 pilchar

it is difficult for

ed to glow in his face, and I wondered how at his age he should think

said I, "what lies ea

ot 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 fur

ry last remnant of the pleasantness of the meadows by the Lea destroyed, should

nd 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 a quiet pony and ride about there on a sunny

not explain why to him. So I said: "An

runs up high, and there is an agreeable and well-built town called Hampstead, which fitly ends

e London," said I. "Now tell me abo

ld probably have taken place, even if we had not changed our habits so much: but they being such as they were, no sacrifice would have seemed too great a price to pay for getting rid of the 'manufacturing districts,' as they used to be called. For the rest, whatever coal or mineral we need is brought to grass and sent whither it is needed with as little as possible of dirt, confusion, and the distressing of quiet people's lives. One is tempted to believe from what o

lorifications of the age he lived in. Said I: "How about the

had any, have melted away into the general country, and space and elbow-room has been got in their centres: but there are the towns still with their streets and squares and mar

, for instan

t has the great interest of still preserving a great mass of pre-commercial building, and is

ay I ask if it is stil

less interesting sister Cambridge became definitely commercial. They (and especially Oxford) were the breeding places of a peculiar class of parasites, who called themselves cultivated people; they were indeed cynical enough, as the so-called educated classes of the day generally were; but they affected an exaggeration of cynicism in order that they might be thought knowing and wor

ere as bad as that. But I must admit that they were mostly prigs, and that they were commercial. I said a

"but their preten

y?" said

urn. "Let me say at least that they were a poor sequence to

t will do

have been saying of them is

d the manufacturing districts and the

trees were cut down for the sake of the few shillings which the poor sticks would fetch; the building became inexpressibly mean and hideous. Labour was scarce; but wages fell nevertheless. All the small country arts of life which once added to the little pleasures of country people were lost. The co

it was so," said I

occupations in which they must needs fail. The town invaded the country; but the invaders, like the warlike invaders of early days, yielded to the influence of their surroundings, and became country people; and in their turn, as they became more numerous than the townsmen, influenced them also; so that the difference between town and country grew less and less; and it was indeed this world of the country vivified by the thought and briskness of town-bred folk which has produced that happy and leisurely but eager life of which you have had a first taste. Again I say, many blunders were made, but we have had time to set them right. Much was left for the men of my earlier life to de

ng for words with which to exp

uler gambling-dens, surrounded by an ill-kept, poverty-stricken farm, pillaged by the masters of the workshops. It is now a garden, where nothing is wasted and nothing is spoilt, with the necessary dwellings, sheds, and workshops scattered up and down the country, all trim and neat

r. But though I shall soon see some of these villages, tell

cture of these villages as they were before the e

veral of such p

sque; which, to tell you the truth, the artist usually availed himself of to veil his incapacity for drawing architecture. Such things do not please us, even when they indicate no misery. Like the medi?vals, we like everything trim an

are there any scattered

olleges than ordinary houses as they used to be. That is done for the sake of society, for a good many people can dwell in such houses, as the country dwellers are not necessarily husbandmen; though they almost all help in such work at times. The life that

this, for it seems to me that after all

d of the nineteenth century; we have spread it, that is all. Of course, also, we

u have spoken of wastes and forests, and I myself have seen the beginning of your Middlesex an

ns once; and though I might not like the artificial ones, I assure you that some of the natural rockeries of our garden are worth seeing. Go north this summer and look at the Cumberland and Westmoreland ones,-where, by the way, you will see some sheep-feeding, so that they are not so wasteful as you think; not so wasteful

to go ther

ke much tryi