The effect of education has been, and seems likely to be, to supply a certain unity of thought, if not of action, among these people.  The solid common sense—­the law-abiding character of the majority—­is sufficient security against any violent movement.  But how important it becomes that that common sense should be strengthened against the assaults of an insidious Socialism!  A man’s education does not come to an end when he leaves school.  He then just begins to form his opinions, and in nine cases out of ten thinks what he hears and what he reads.  Here, in the agricultural labourer class, are many hundred thousand young men exactly in this stage, educating themselves in moral, social, and political opinion.

In short, the future literature of the labourer becomes a serious question.  He will think what he reads; and what he reads at the present moment is of anything but an elevating character.  He will think, too, what he hears; and he hears much of an enticing but subversive political creed, and little of any other.  There are busy tongues earnestly teaching him to despise property and social order, to suggest the overthrow of existing institutions; there is scarcely any one to instruct him in the true lesson of history.  Who calls together an audience of agricultural labourers to explain to and interest them in the story of their own country?  There are many who are only too anxious to use the agricultural labourer as the means to effect ends which he scarcely understands.  But there are few, indeed, who are anxious to instruct him in science or literature for his own sake.

CHAPTER XXVI

A WHEAT COUNTRY

The aspect of a corn-growing district in the colder months is perhaps more dreary than that of any other country scene.  It is winter made visible.  The very houses at the edge of the village stand out harsh and angular, especially if modern and slated, for the old thatched cottages are not without a curve in the line of the eaves.  No trees or bushes shelter them from the bitter wind that rushes across the plain, and, because of the absence of trees round the outskirts, the village may be seen from a great distance.

The wayfarer, as he approaches along the interminable road, that now rises over a hill and now descends into a valley, observes it from afar, his view uninterrupted by wood, but the vastness of the plain seems to shorten his step, so that he barely gains on the receding roofs.  The hedges by the road are cropped—­cut down mercilessly—­and do not afford the slightest protection against wind, or rain, or sleet.  If he would pause awhile to rest his weary limbs no friendly bush keeps off the chilling blast.  Yonder, half a mile in front, a waggon creeps up the hill, always just so much ahead, never overtaken, or seeming to alter its position, whether he walks slow or fast.  The only apparent inhabitants of the solitude are the