When for thirty shillings men were hung,
And the thirst for blood grew stronger,
Men's lives were valued then at a sheep's -
Thank God that lasts no longer.
So strong is custom and tradition, and the habit of thought it weaves
about us, that I have heard ancient and grave farmers, when the fact was
mentioned with horror, hum, and ah! and handle their beards, and mutter
that 'they didn't know as 'twas altogether such a bad thing as they was
hung for sheep-stealing.' There were parsons then, as now, in every rural
parish preaching and teaching something they called the Gospel. Why did
they not rise as one man and denounce this ghastly iniquity, and demand
its abolition? They did nothing of the sort; they enjoyed their pipes and
grog very comfortably.
The gallows at the cross-roads is gone, but the workhouse stands, and
custom, cruel custom, that tyrant of the mind, has inured us (to use an
old word) to its existence in our midst. Apart from any physical
suffering, let us only consider the slow agony of the poor old reaper
when he feels his lusty arm wither, and of the grey bowed wife as they
feel themselves drifting like a ship ashore to that stony waiting-room.
For it is a waiting-room till the grave receives them. Economically, too,
the workhouse is a heavy loss and drag.
Could we, then, see the tithe barn filled again with golden wheat for
this purpose of help to humanity, it might be a great and wonderful good.
With this tenth to feed the starving and clothe the naked; with the tenth
to give the little children a midday meal at the school - that would be
natural and true.
