VTHE FUTURE
THE first part of this little book described rural England as it existed in its unsullied perfection, the second part the regrettable changes due mainly to the use of coal and petrol, and now we have to consider what prospect there is of saving the best of the old and making the best of the new. If “Rusticus” desires to preserve the remainder of his heritage, he must adopt some bolder policy than that of gazing at the flowing stream. Nor will the tactics of Canute serve his purpose: the tide of “civilisation” will not stop for him. There is every indication that it will flow with undiminished velocity in the coming years.
Our efforts must therefore be directed to two objects: the preservation of such relicsof the past as are of recognised worth, and the regulation of all tendencies that are harmful to the beauty of the countryside. It is heartening to see, in the recent formation of the Council for the Preservation of Rural England, some public expression of interest in this vital matter. Without presuming to offer suggestions to so august a body, it is my purpose to set down in order the chief factors in the situation, present and future.
In a previous passage it has been remarked that ruin as such is a matter for regret, not for admiration. One might go a step further and say that old buildings are not necessarily good buildings. Strictly speaking, that is true, but is also dangerous doctrine. Nearly all old buildingsaregood buildings, and when we find one that we are disposed to reckon as bad, we must not forget that the canons of architectural taste have always been fickle. In the eighteenth century Gothic buildings were ridiculed, and were treated accordingly. In the nineteenth, taste was completely reversed. On the other hand, certain architects of the Gothic Revival wereso enamoured of a special variety of Gothic that they endeavoured to remould all old churches of any differing period nearer to their hearts’ desire. Hence the formation in 1877 of that body which is familiarly and even affectionately known as the “Anti-Scrape,” more precisely as the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings. It was founded by architects and others to protest against excessive zeal in “restoration” by architects and others, and has done a noble work. It is still maintained partly by architects, whose disinterested efforts in preserving old buildings are worthy of note because architects naturally depend for their living mainly onnewbuildings. As its headquarters are in London, its work in other centres is most effectively done through the medium of a local committee. The essential qualifications for such a committee are taste and disinterestedness. Suppose that an old cottage or barn on a village street in Blankshire is threatened with demolition. If the matter is brought to the notice of the Blankshire local committee by any self-appointed (even anonymous) “informer,”that committee will offer an opinion, backed by the expert advice of the S.P.A.B., who may be able to suggest some alternative to demolition. Their knowledge of the technical details of restoration is unrivalled, especially as regards building materials suitable for use in an old structure. If the cottage is older thanA.D.1714 and of sufficient merit, the aid of the Ancient Monuments Commission may be invoked. Once such a building is scheduled as an “ancient monument,” the owner is deprived of his right to demolish or alter it, and its existence is safeguarded by the Government. Another means of frustrating base designs on an old building is to appeal to the National Trust for Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty, who may be induced to launch an appeal through the Press for funds to purchase it. At present they maintain over twenty buildings, including some which are of literary interest (e.g., Coleridge’s cottage) rather than of great antiquity. A third alternative is to enlist the sympathies of a local authority or a local philanthropist. In any case the delay in demolition causedby creating an outcry will serve a useful purpose, for a thoughtless owner may be led to reconsider his original intentions, and by so doing may find that the building may be preserved after all. The restoration of old buildings is much more practicable than any yet discovered use of monkey-gland is to old people. But of course there are cases,—and sentimentalists are apt to overlook this fact,—where an old building has no architectural merit, and simply must give way before the march of progress. It is difficult, too, to see how a man can be compelled to maintain a disused windmill. It may be added that bridges are among the “buildings” scheduled as “Ancient Monuments.”
As regards natural features, it must be generally known that the National Trust, already mentioned, has been very active during recent years in acquiring and preserving all manner of beauty-spots in England, including such various sites as the mountains of the Lake District, strategical points on the North and South Downs, river banks, hill-tops and cliff-tops all over the country. Unfortunately the era of enclosingcommons is not yet over, and another organisation—the Commons and Footpaths Preservation Society—was founded in 1865 to further the excellent objects indicated by its title. It saved Epping Forest, Hampstead Heath, Wimbledon Common and many other familiar places for us, and continues to watch over the interests of all lovers of the country. But, like the other societies mentioned here, its activities are limited by its funds. However, we must remember that any district which has adopted a town-planning scheme can now invoke the majesty of the law to save its open spaces and natural features, for the first Schedule of the Town-Planning Act of 1925 includes a reference to “the preservation of objects of historical interest or natural beauty.”
There have been many recent agitations—notably in regard to Ken Wood, the Seven Sisters, the Devil’s Dyke, and the Darenth Valley—which have shown that, in the last extremity, the public will sometimes rise to the occasion when a beauty-spot is threatened.
Considering the narrowness of the averagevillage High Street, and the concentration of its historical relics in its centre, there is much to be said for the construction of a “by-pass” road to carry through traffic round the village. Otherwise the village green, the pond, the stocks, the inns, and nearly all the old landmarks would have to go. Traders object in the case of the larger towns, but vested interests always turn up somewhere, and it seems fairly certain that the “by-pass” road meets the needs of the greater number besides preserving the old village intact. Eventually there will have to be a ring-road round all old cities, like Oxford, which stand at the intersection of important highways, or the concentration of traffic at the centre will become unmanageable.
We have hardly grown accustomed yet to the great new arterial roads, though several are already in use. They seem to me to represent one of our highest achievements in civil engineering as they sweep majestically through cuttings and over embankments with an uninterrupted width of a hundred feet or more. In some ways they are the biggest thing we have in England, out ofscale with our doll’s-house villages and landscapes, and out of character with our little winding lanes. It will be years before the trees that line them turn them into magnificent avenues, but by that time we shall have learned to accept them and even to admire them. Presumably we shall see an end of telegraph-poles soon, and that will be all to the good. But there are other things that engineers might bear in mind. The great road that runs south-west from Birmingham to the Lickey Hills, a noble highway in width, is disfigured by tramway poles and wires. Is that necessary in 1927? Surely the petrol-engine, which has done much to spoil the country, can atone for some of its crimes here by taking the place of electrically driven vehicles?
In Birmingham, as in the narrow streets of Ipswich, and—still worse—in the beautiful Wharfedale valley, is to be seen a more frightful abortion, the “trackless tram.” There has been a proposal to extend this hideous system in Wharfedale on a broad highway cutting across some fine country. Surely motor-buses could serve every purposethat the lumbering trackless tram fulfils.
The new arterial roads start with a clean sheet: it is to be hoped that it will remain clean. Recently the Minister of Transport addressed a circular to local authorities, reminding them that, under the powers conferred on them by the Advertisement Regulation Act of 1907, they could take action in respect of unsightly advertisements along the great new arteries, and urging them to do so. One distinct advantage of modern road-construction is that the dust nuisance has practically ceased to exist. Another innovation that has recently appeared is a small black and white “lighthouse” at every important crossing. The Ministry of Transport might institute a competition for designs for these useful but not always beautiful accessories.
The question of road-development is inextricably bound up with the larger question of town-planning, on which I have touched already in another connection. Before approaching the vital matter of controlling the design of individual buildings, we must consider this wider aspect. Thefact is that town-planning enthusiasts are disappointed with the progress made since the passing of the 1909 Act. We had hoped for more far-reaching results. The nation as a whole has failed to realise the importance of this question or the great responsibility that legislation has put upon all local authorities. Whether from the point of view of appearance, of health, or of mere business, town-planning is the only national method of providing for the future.
It is futile to write letters toThe Timesabout lost opportunities: common-sense would have saved the situation in nearly every case, for town-planning is idealised common-sense. People who have bought a house in a half-developed suburb wake up one morning to find a shop rising on the opposite side of their road. They pack up their furniture and flit to another half-built district a mile further out; and then it happens again. So they keep on moving, at considerable expense to themselves. They lose all interest in local affairs, indeed they never stay long enough to acquire such an interest, and nobody gains by their journeysexcept the removal contractor. But in a town-planned district an area is set apart for dwelling-houses, another for shops, another for factories. The position of each area is determined by local conditions, by the “lie of the land,” by the prevailing wind, and by the situation of railways and roads. There is a place for everything, and everything is in its place. This branch of town-planning is called “zoning.” Sites are reserved for municipal buildings, for schools, churches, cinemas and all the other requirements of our complex life. Roads are planned wide where heavy traffic is anticipated, narrow elsewhere. Thus in a properly planned area there is no need for large sums to be paid out of the rates for compensation when a road has to be made or widened, because the land for the road has been earmarked in advance. A man who erects a shop in a new street runs no risk of having made an error of judgment in selecting his site: he knows that this will be the main shopping street and no other. Thus town-planning is good business, but like many other movements for reform its inception was due to far-sighteddreamers. However, it has not yet caught hold of the popular imagination, and, in the recent case of the East Kent coalfield, where, if ever, there was a crying need for its adoption, the imaginative enterprise of some leading Men of Kent seems to have started the movement which made it possible. This last example shows admirably how town-planning may be utilised to save the countryside. In one sense East Kent could not be saved: coal had been found there, and was too valuable to be neglected, for, after all, we cannot afford to throw away any of our natural resources at the present time. Yet it was unthinkable that this lovely district, the cradle of our race and the playground of half London, should be allowed to become a second Black Country. So everything that can be done will be done to preserve Canterbury and Sandwich and other priceless relics of antiquity, to save trees, to prevent the blackening of the fields by smoke and the disfigurement of the landscape by tall chimneys, above all to avoid any repetition of those squalid black villages that have driven miners to desperation in other collierydistricts. This is one of the ways in which town-planning can serve the nation.
The development of a modern town is inevitably centrifugal; it spreads and sprawls outwards along the main roads into the country unless that tendency be checked. Every mile that it grows outwards means a few minutes’ extra time for travelling to and from work, congestion increases at the centre, and the country—as a place for recreation—is driven further and further away. A feeling that this system is essentially wrong has resulted in some well-meant efforts to create “Satellite Towns,” of which Letchworth and Welwyn are examples. They are satellites to London in the sense that London is within hail for emergencies: thus Harley Street is a useful resort in some cases, while the sanctuary of the British Museum Reading Room satisfies bookworms, and Oxford Street contents the other sex. But the main object of the promoters was to remove industries and workers bodily into the country, so that labour might be carried on in pleasant surroundings, never more than a few minutes’ walk from green fields. Theintention is to limit the ultimate population of these towns to 30,000-50,000. When that figure is reached, another centre will be started. So far, neither town has grown very rapidly, and industry has been slow to move out, in spite of the heavy cost of carrying on business in London. But the “Satellite Town,” a praiseworthy attempt to secure the amenities of the old country town for modern workers, is a factor to be reckoned with in the future. The new L.C.C. town at Becontree in Essex is being properly laid out on rational town-planning lines, but is to be purely residential, for people working in London, so does not constitute a “Satellite Town.” A remarkably successful scheme for providing something better than the ordinary haphazard suburb, which normally deteriorates with the certainty of clockwork, is to be seen in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. This will never deteriorate appreciably, because its residents are guaranteed against any interference with their amenities. It is laid out scientifically, not merely exploited on short-sighted commercial methods.
But though so much can be done by meansof town-planning, that new power has not yet been utilised to any appreciable extent in regard to controlling the actual design of buildings. The high level of design achieved at Hampstead and Welwyn is due to private control exercised by a Company, but Ruislip, Bath, and—quite recently—Edinburgh, have adopted the clause in the Town-Planning Act which allows an authority to prescribe the “character” of buildings, and thus to veto any design which, in their opinion, is likely to conflict with the amenities of the place.
There was, as we all know, a great development of municipal housing after the War. It was encouraged, subsidised, and even controlled to some extent by the State, which still continues its work in that direction, though in a greatly modified form. The houses erected under these auspices have been subjected to a great deal of criticism, much of it both ignorant and ill-natured. Let us recall the circumstances. A vast number of dwellings had to be provided in a great hurry for men who had every claim on the nation’s gratitude. Through no fault oftheir own they were homeless. For a variety of reasons these houses were very expensive, even allowing for the general rise in prices. There was a wave of idealism in the air, and the authorities had taken opinions from every reliable source as to the type of house required: these were to be “homes for heroes,” with a bath h. and c. A book of designs was prepared in Whitehall for the guidance of local authorities and their architects. These designs met with general approval among competent critics, but with some derision from the general public, who greeted the “homes for heroes” as “rabbit-hutches” or “boxes.” That was because they were devoid of trimmings and built in small groups instead of in long rows. There are housing-schemes good and bad, but most people who understand architecture and who are prepared to wait a few years, till hedges and trees have given these simple buildings their proper setting, consider that the new houses generally represent an advance on anything done hitherto. Simplicity in building is, within limits, a virtue, especially in the country.
The design of these houses was entrusted to architects to an extent never approached previously; sometimes they were the work of private practitioners, sometimes of young architects employed under the direction of the local surveyor, sometimes by the local surveyor or engineer himself. The degree of ability in design possessed by these several functionaries is naturally reflected in their products. In that queer bookAntic Hay, Mr. Aldous Huxley makes an eccentric architect, “Gumbril Senior,” voice his views on the design of artisan houses: “I’m in luck to have got the job, of course, but really, that a civilised man should have to do jobs like that. It’s too much. In the old days these creatures built their own hovels, and very nice and suitable they were too. The architects busied themselves with architecture—which is the expression of human dignity and greatness, which is man’s protest, not his miserable acquiescence.” But Gumbril Senior was a visionary, and most architects feel that they can do much to save England in her present plight. The trouble is that they are allowed to do so little.
It is equally possible to expect a reasonably high standard of design in the other buildings erected under a local authority: its schools, libraries, and so on. Nor ought one to find unworthy architecture produced by any Government Department, whether it be a post-office, a telephone-exchange, a military barracks, or a coastguard station on a lonely cliff. There was a time when every post-office and police-station bore the marks of red-tape, but of late there has been a noteworthy change for the better. Again and again one sees with pleasure a village post-office or telephone-exchange which harmonises perfectly with the old village street. No longer are the designs stereotyped; local tradition and local colouring are considered. As time passes we may hope to witness the disappearance of the hideous sheds and huts that survive to remind us of the War, now so long ended.
Apart from national and municipal architecture, the design of which must be assumed to be in competent hands, there is a great deal of building carried out by large corporate bodies who have it in their power to insiston good design, and above all on design which accords with local surroundings. Among these are railway companies, banks, “multiple” shops, and brewery companies. Among many of these various undertakings there seems to be positively an architectural renaissance at work, and real imagination is being displayed at last. The Underground Railways in and round London are employing clever artists to design their stations and notices and posters, some of the other railways are providing really attractive houses for their employees, and both public-houses and banks in the country-towns are slowly beginning to take on the colour of their environment. There are two other types of commercial undertaking which might well follow this excellent example: the cinema companies and the garage proprietors. Between them they continue to furnish us with a plentiful stock of eyesores all over the country, mainly because they are striving to attract notice and because they always forget to take their hats off to the village street. If the Council for the Preservation of Rural England can do anything to teachthem better manners they will effect a real service to England. Occasionally one sees an attractive petrol-station: a few pounds spent in prizes would produce a crop of good designs from architects. One hesitates to offer any advice to the builders of churches of any kind, but here again one asks no more than decent respect for the spirit of old England.
The toughest nut to crack in all this matter of design is, however, the question of the shop and the dwelling-house, under which head I include, as a matter of courtesy, the bungalow. An Englishman’s house is his castle, and he resents any interference with the rights of the subject. Is it reasonable to impose on him any restriction as to the outward appearance of his home, in regard to its design, its colour, or the materials of which it is composed? It is true that he has to submit to local building by-laws which prescribe the thicknesses of walls, size of timbers, precautions to be taken against fire, and many matters concerned with health. Often he has to place his house a specified distance back from the road,behind what is called a “building-line.” But the local authority is not empowered to interfere in any matter of æsthetics, unless it adopts the Town-Planning Act and enforces the clause, already mentioned, relating to the “character” of buildings.
But such “interference” is not unknown in the case of leasehold property. Many owners of large estates insert clauses in leases prescribing the materials to be used in building, the size of house to be erected, perhaps the tints to be used in painting, and almost always insist that painting is to be done every so many years. They may also require that no garages, sheds, or other excrescences are to be added to the building without the permission of their surveyor. It is quite reasonable to suggest that these restrictions might be increased to achieve the purpose we have in mind. Thus the frequent instances that we see of a row of stucco dwellings being distempered different colours, and thereby destroying the effect of a balanced architectural scheme, might be avoided. The present ruling autocrat in Italy has recently introduced a measure todeal with this very point, and tenants of houses in a street have to distemper their external walls the same colour at the same time. Much of the “restless” appearance of modern streets and terraces is due to a neglect of this obvious procedure. A concerted appeal to large owners of property to safeguard the amenities of their estates by further action on various lines might lead to great improvement, and something might even be done in the same direction by restrictive covenants in conveyances of freehold land.
Much has been said lately about the necessity for the control of the speculative builder who continues to provide most of the smaller houses and bungalows and shops in this country, and this is the most difficult problem of all. Such control must obviously have the sanction of the law to be effective, and therefore must be ultimately vested in the local authorities, for it is impossible to imagine that Whitehall is to be held responsible for the approval of every plan in the country. As I have already pointed out, the rural districts present the most urgent casefor our attention, and here control is most difficult of all. In a great city like Manchester or Leeds a local Fine Art Committee might be formed of people competent enough and disinterested enough to exercise this very delicate function in a statesmanlike way, without fear or favour. Edinburgh, Bath and Oxford have already led the way: towns like Cambridge, Coventry, and Canterbury would be well advised to follow suit. Birmingham has an Advisory Art Committee without statutory powers.
But imagine the Rural District Council of Nether Footlesby dealing with a design by Sir Felix Lutfield,R.A., for a large country-house in their area, for it must be remembered that control of design would apply to houses great and small, designed by architects great and small as well as by people who were not architects. These worthy men might reject his plans because they disliked the appearance of the chimneys; or Councillor Trapp, a plumber by calling, might have a grievance against Sir Felix owing to an unfortunate difference of opinion arising from a previous association in building. It is evident thatsuch a position is unthinkable. Nor would the situation be materially improved if the two auctioneer-architects practising in Nether Footlesby, the retired art-mistress living in the village, and the Vicar of the parish, were entrusted with this responsible task. It needs little imagination to realise that a small advisory committee of this calibre would be nearly as dangerous and quite as futile as the Rural District Council itself. Even if control were administered on a county basis, there are small counties in England where it would be difficult to enlist a committee of men whose decisions would be readily accepted by the bigwigs of the architectural profession. It seems to me that a very carefully drafted scheme of control might be organised for most of the large cities and perhaps half the counties of England, though even then the situation would bristle with difficulties, but for the more scattered districts—where at least an equal number of mistakes is being made—the problem seems insoluble. The London Society and the Birmingham Civic Society are the sort of bodies that might be trustedto frame a scheme, but even they would experience many setbacks before they obtained statutory powers. Much good work in the direction of controlling unwise development in France has been done by the localSyndicats d’initiative, bodies which exist to preserve the amenities of each town or district. A study of the methods used in France, and of measures adopted recently in Italy, would doubtless be helpful in our own case.
Failing control of this kind, it has been suggested that the builder must be “brought to his senses,” in the diplomatic words of a writer inThe Timesof January 7th, 1927. But, so long as the builder continues to sell his houses without any difficulty and at a considerable profit, he may not see any reason for admitting that he is deficient in sense. Who, for instance, is to be empowered to stop him decorating his gables with a ludicrous parody of half-timbering, made of inch boards which warp in the sun? The small builder obtains many of his designs from printed books or from weekly journals, and the following authentic extract from arecent publication shows how it is done:
“Having a plot of land 80-ft. frontage by 120-ft., I should be pleased if some reader would submit a plan and elevation-sketch of a detached house, something attractive, dainty, andvery arresting.”
“Having a plot of land 80-ft. frontage by 120-ft., I should be pleased if some reader would submit a plan and elevation-sketch of a detached house, something attractive, dainty, andvery arresting.”
The words I have italicised explain some of our present troubles. The desire of the builder and of his client, for the “very arresting” house causes many of the incongruous additions to our landscape. Something might be done, as the President of the R.I.B.A. has suggested, to supply the builder with stock designs of good character, adapted to the needs of each locality; for, as I have noted before, the use of copybooks in the eighteenth century produced houses which if sometimes dull were at least dignified and often charming. But a process of very slow conversion will be necessary before we can hope to rid the public of this desire for “very arresting” buildings.
In the control of design would have to be included restrictions on colour and materialso far as is reasonable, but it is quite impracticable nowadays to insist that a manbuilding a house in a Yorkshire dale must employ the traditional stone walls and stone slates: it is doubtful if anybody will ever legally prevent him using the pink asbestos-cement tiles that clash so violently with the dull tones of the landscape. Similarly, it is idle to expect that a modern factory building should be erected to harmonise perfectly with rural surroundings: one can only ask that its designer may bear in mind the spirit of the place, and treat it as tenderly as circumstances permit. But we may reasonably press for further action in the abatement of factory smoke and domestic smoke, for that nuisance spreads forty or fifty miles away from industrial areas, and cities like Leicester—where smoke is hardly visible—are few and far between. The Coal Smoke Abatement Society has long worked towards this end, and its arguments are familiar to most people. Its supporters are convinced that smoky chimneys are wasteful as well as unhealthy and unpleasant. But it seems certain that we can eliminate a large part of our coal-smoke by utilising electric power far more extensively than we now do, byharnessing our rivers and by utilising all the waste water-power that is running from reservoirs to towns in aqueducts and pipes.
It has been suggested lately that much of the ugliness of colliery districts might be mitigated by judicious planting of trees on pit-banks. But smoke is one factor that prevents this, for it blackens and stunts all vegetation. Then the recent coal-strike showed that in any such emergency gleaners would soon be at work on the banks, grubbing for coal among the tree-roots. Lastly, even if trees did grow in such inhospitable soil, there is some doubt whether they would be tenderly treated by those for whose benefit they were planted.
It has been pointed out, earlier in this chapter, that Acts of Parliament have already empowered local authorities to remove unsightly hoardings and advertisements of all kinds, so that it only remains now for public opinion to press them to proceed in this admirable work. The author ofNuntius, in this series of essays, prophesies that advertising will not become more aggressive, adding that a sign which spoils a beautifullandscape is a very ineffective advertisement and hence that the “few existing” (sic) will soon disappear. Let us hope so. But one hesitates to accept his earlier statement that, if there were no hoardings on empty sites, these would become rubbish dumps. At all events, the recent action of the petrol combines in removing their hideous advertisements nearly all over the countryside represents a great victory for public opinion. On the whole, advertising is becoming more artistic, possibly more restrained. But house-agents continue to be terrible sinners in this respect. Close to my home is an avenue, still miraculously preserving its beauty, though surely doomed. But at the end of it is a group of seven enormous hoardings erected cheek-by-jowl by rival agents and completely spoiling a fine vista. I cannot see that any hardships would be inflicted on those Philistine touts if all agents’ boards were restricted to a maximum size of 2 square feet. Those who wished could still read them, others need not. There are many little details of design in village streets—the inn-signs, the lettering of street-names, thelamp-standards—capable of improvement on simple lines. In this connection one may mention the work of the Rural Industries Bureau which, among its other activities in encouraging the rustic craftsman, has endeavoured to find employment for the village blacksmith on simple wrought-iron accessories in common use and has prepared a selection of designs for his guidance.
Some day a genius may show us how to make wireless masts less unsightly, or perhaps we may be able to discard them altogether as science advances. But this innovation has not greatly spoiled our villages, nor does it seem probable that air travel will much affect the appearance of the countryside: a few more aerodromes perhaps, and on them, it is to be hoped, a more attractive type of building. The air lighthouse or beacon will spring up here and there; another subject for the ambitious young architect in competition.
But though it is now evident that a very great deal may be done for the preservation of rural England by the exercise of legislative powers which local authorities alreadypossess, and by pressure on corporate bodies and private landowners of the best type, the ultimate success of the new crusade will depend on its ability to influence public opinion. Two kinds of opinion are involved, that of the country dwellers themselves, and that of the urban invaders of the countryside. Probably most young people now employed in remote villages and on farms would give their skin to get away from what they regard as the monotony of rural life, and one must sympathise with that view. The introduction of wireless and cinemas will make their existence less irksome, and the phenomenal increase of motor-bus facilities allows them to travel cheaply and frequently to the nearest town, with its shops and bright streets. But none of these things will teach them to prize the country, rather the reverse, for many of the films they see show them uglification at its worst—in the ricketty shacks of Western America. It might be possible to teach them to admire their own heritage by occasional lectures at the village institutes on town-planning and architecture; not the architecture of great cathedrals andof foreign buildings like the Parthenon, but the simple homely architecture of the village church, the village barn, and the village cottage. A competent lecturer accustomed to such an audience, avoiding like the plague all sentimental talk about the glory of country life, might explain the beauty of old bridges and mills, the simple skill of old craftsmen, in such a way that his hearers would be less anxious to substitute suburban vulgarities for everything that their rude forefathers of the hamlet had made. Recently there was organised, in my own village, an exhibition of drawings, engravings, maps, old documents, etc., illustrating the history and development of the district. It was visited by a large number of people, including many children, and undoubtedly it aroused much interest in things that had hitherto passed unnoticed.
The urban motorist, whether he travels in a Rolls-Royce or a charabanc, often provides an equally difficult problem. He may be a superior person of great wealth, who avoids the hackneyed resorts of trippers because he objects to the sight of beer-bottlesand paper bags on the heather, but, as a humorous artist recently reminded us, he probably goes to a more secluded common and instructs his chauffeur to leave the champagne bottles and disembowelled lobsters under a gorse-bush there, for he has the soul and breeding of the tripper, and litter does not offend him. The beach X—— in Romney Marsh, already mentioned, was littered from end to end with newspapers, cigarette packets, and confectioners’ debris, when last I saw it.
Untidiness, ugliness, lack of respect for history and beauty, an insane craze for speed in getting from one futile pursuit to another, blatant advertisement, sordid commercialism—these are some of the things we have borrowed from American life to vulgarise our own. But when Americans come over to England, the thing that impresses them most—far more than anything we can do in our towns—is the harmony and peace of the English village and the English countryside. They feel in their bones that there we “have them beat.”
It is simply heart-breaking, to those of uswho know how future uglification may be avoided and how much of the blundering of the past may be remedied, to see the process of deterioration steadily continuing. With more of brains and less of greed, more of public spirit and less of vested interests, rural England may yet be saved.