Lest such a view should seem unduly theoretical, let us hasten to add that it is one which is endorsed by the authority of contemporaries. When subsidies are being debated in the House of Commons members complain that, while the wealthy are under-assessed, the small men pay more than their share.[609] Political writers from Fortescue[610] to Bacon[611] emphasise the fact that the ability of the country to bear taxation depends on the maintenance of a high level of prosperity among the yeomanry. The yeoman is a man who “makes a whole line in the subsidy book.”[612] “The weight thereof,” says a pamphleteer in 1647, “falls heavily ... especially upon the yeomanry.”[613] The occasional glimpses which we get of harassed collectors trying in vain to screw taxes out of small farmers, whom a rise in rents or a bad season has plunged in distress, show the truth of their accounts. In the reign of Edward VI. subsidies cannot be collected on the northern border owing to the oppression to which some of the tenants have been subjected.[614] From Norfolk in 1628 comes a still more melancholy tale. “The ffarmors and such as use Husbandrye and tilth,” write the Commissioners of the subsidy to the Government, “from whom in times past was accustomed to be drawne the greatest part of ye money leviable by way of subsidye, present unto us their pitiful estates, growen into decay through the base price and noe vent in these later years for their corne ... that some of them doo owe unto their landlordes two yeares rent, many of them one years.... All which considered we much feare that the collectors shall not gather in the monye soe speedily as they would or we desire.”[615] The truth is that so much of the wealth of the country had been in the hands of the more prosperous among the small cultivators that any decline in their position was likely to place the Governments of our period in financial straits. They regard it with the self-interested apprehension which modern statesmen feel lest capital should be “driven abroad.” Hence there was a strong fiscal motive for protecting the rural classes. Rebels who pointed out that “A man can have no more of a cat but the skin; that is the King can have no more of us than we have, which in a manner he has already,”[616] or tenants who urged the Crown to protect them on the ground that “they paie your Majesty subsidies, fifteens, and loans,”[617] were using language which the impecunious Government of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries could understand much better than appeals to humanitarian sentiment. The military, financial, and political importance of the yeomanry was, in fact, great enough to make them one of the classes with whom the defence and order of the country were identified, and therefore sufficient to make them an object of solicitude to statesmen who were concerned with national interests.
Economic policies are not to be explained in terms of economics alone. When an old and strong society is challenged by a new phenomenon, its response is torn from a living body of assumptions as to the right conduct of human affairs, which feels that more than material interests are menaced, and which braces itself anxiously against the shock. The swift agrarian changes of the sixteenth century differ from the swifter changes of the eighteenth, in that enlightened opinion is, on the whole, against them, and that even the technical experts feel misgivings. If the attitude of statesmen is to be explained by the practical reasons which have already been given, the opposition of men like More, Latimer, Crowley, Starkey, and Hales seemed to themselves a plain matter of morals. In Germany Luther denounced the revolting peasants. In England those who in ecclesiastical matters were poles apart united in a plea for economic conservatism. Leading reformers preach and write against enclosing; and terrified landlords complain that “none ever spake so vilely as these so-called commonwealths.”[618] Their understanding of the technique of the agrarian changes is often deficient. Like the Carlyles and Ruskins of a later age, they make Philistia merry with their sad blunders over economic details. But it would be a mistake to regard their views of the social effects of enclosing as abnormal or sentimental. They are the last great literary expression of the appeal to the average conscience which had been made by the old agrarian order, the cry of a spirit which is departing, and which, in its agony, utters words that are a shining light for all periods of change.
Several paths of argument lead to their position. There is the traditional importance of tillage. It is a “foundation industry,” an industry from which four-fifths of the people directly or indirectly get their living. English Governments have always shown it special favour. Its maintenance is almost part of the common law[619] of the land. And it is right that it should be so. For the partition which separates men from starvation is thin, and if tillage fails how shall the people be fed? The Government insists on a certain minimum area being under the plough for exactly the same reason that the city of Coventry, when it is in the grip of a bad harvest, decides to break up part of its common pastures for wheat. All men are agreed that the price of food ought to be fixed by authority, and one cannot control prices unless one can control supplies. There is the argument from social functions. The State is a community of classes. Between classes there must be inequality, for each has a different function, fighting, or merchandise, or handicraft, or husbandry. Unless there is inequality between classes no class can perform its duties or (strange thought) enjoy its rights. But one class must not encroach upon the livelihood of another. If we will not have villein blood on the Council, neither will we let gentlemen take into their hands the holdings of their tenants. For this means that one limb of the body politic drains nourishment from another limb, and that men drop into a superfluous residuum from which the State gets no profit. And within a class there should be substantial equality. When one man has the livelihoods of two must not another man go without any living at all? There is the argument from economic morality. In every bargain there is the possibility of oppression. The unscrupulous man makes the most of this. He regards only his own profit. He is “a great taker of advantages.”[620] This is the sin of the usurer, the bodger, and the tyrannous landlord, and of this bad trinity the last is the worst. To oppress men by rack-renting land is particularly detestable. For though in all contracts there is certainly (if only it can be found!) an objective standard of value, yet a man may with reason be in doubt as to what is fair price to charge for an article the value of which has not been fixed by authority. But he can hardly be in doubt as to what is a fair rent. The fair rent is the usual rent; equity is custom. There is the argument from the very nature of the bond between tenant and landlord. Tenure is no longer as sacred a thing as once it was, and, even if it were, men who are legally the descendants of right-less villeins could not easily appeal to its sanctity. But opinion feels that there is something despicably sordid in using this particular relation as a financial engine. Though surveyors' economics are as notorious as lawyers' justice,[621] even one of that detested class can preface his business-like account of western manors with words idealising the conditions which have “knit such a knot of colaterall amytie between the Lords and the tenants that the lord tendered his tenants as his childe, and the tenants again loved the lord as naturally as the childe his father.”[622] The bond between landlord and tenant is perhaps, indeed, the only economic relationship which has ever yet stirred the affection of large masses of men. It has done so because it has been in the past so much more than economic. The pitiful cry of that nameless old man to whose care Shakespeare commits the blinded Gloucester, “O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant, these fourscore years,” is the voice of an attachment which once was real. In the sixteenth century the tie of tenure is still the symbol of greater things, and the wrench which is given it by the partial commercialising of agriculture seems to portend more ruinous innovations. Most men make the State in the image of their own village, or city, or business. It is perhaps not an unfair description of one side of the social philosophy of our period to say that a manor is still a “little commonwealth,”[623] the kingdom still the greatest of manors. If the lord holds from the King, does not the tenant hold from his lord by as good a right? If the tenant who encroaches on his neighbour’s strips is checked by the manorial court, should not the lord who depopulates half a village be checked by the King in his High Court of Parliament? If gentlemen oppress yeomen, how can they “live together as they be joined in one body politic under the King?”[624]
It is true that it is just these ideas which in our period are on their trial, and that if one were to seek the watershed where the mediæval theory of land tenure, as something contingent on the fulfilment of obligations, parts company from modern conceptions of ownership, as conferring an unlimited right to unconditional disposal by the owner, one would find it in the century and a half between 1500 and the final abolition of feudal tenures in 1660. The combination of forces both economic and political making for a change of attitude is unmistakable; on the one hand the severance of the personal relationship of tenure through the development of the great leasehold farm, the breaking up of the customary routine of cultivation through the increasing dependence of agriculture on the market, the general revision of contracts brought about through the fall in the value of money; on the other hand the enormous redistribution of landed property through the confiscation of monastic and gild endowments, the consequent creation of a new aristocracy ready to apply commercial ideas to land tenure, the desire of proprietors to escape from the obnoxious feudal incidents and of the Crown to find some more lucrative substitute for them. But the decay of the older conceptions goes on very slowly. The Government is on the whole on the conservative side; for naturally it has to work on the material to hand, and the best hope of maintaining order lies in the preservation of fixed customary relationships between the different classes in society. Its instinct is therefore still to treat the control and disposition of land as to a special degree a question of public policy, in regard to which landlords are bound “rather to consider what is agreeable ... to the use of the state and for the good of the commonwealth, than to seeke the utmost profit which a landlord for his particular advantage may take among his tenants.”[625]
(b) Legislation and Administration[ToC]
This was its instinct. But can we say more than this? Can we say that the presumption in favour of protecting the small landholder was translated into any definite policy, and that such a policy was carried out in practice? The answer to these questions is by no means easily given. There is the difficulty of making any generalisation which will cover the century and a half during which, from time to time, the agrarian problem claimed public attention. True, this difficulty is not so serious as might at first sight appear, or as it would be in an age of swiftly changing ideas. The political historian may treat the Tudors as one period and the first two Stuarts as another. But the economist finds much the same views on economic matters obtaining under Charles I. as under Henry VIII., and much the same administrative system to carry them out. There is in our period no marked change in responsible opinion upon the enclosing movement. The Commission which deals with the subject in 1607 shows the same attitude as the Commission of 1517. Enclosers are fined in 1637 as they have been fined in the reign of James I. But the opinion which counts is not always responsible opinion. During the six years which intervene between the death of Henry VIII. and the accession of Philip and Mary the Government is in the hands of the great landlords,—landlords who have built up their fortunes out of the spoils of the monasteries, and whom no authority is strong enough to check. By a curious chance the first head of the Government is a man who is an agrarian reformer by conviction. But, when he falls, his colleagues throw over his policy, and turn savagely to the work of crushing out the very possibility of organised protest among the peasantry. These years, the so-called reign of Edward VI., will be an exception to whatever conclusions may be reached as to the policy of the State under the Tudors and the first two Stuarts. Again, there is the difficulty, the great difficulty, of saying how far the interference of Governments is successful even when they honestly desire it to have effect. The modern assumption, which is sometimes all too sanguine, is that a Law is being carried out unless it is proved that it is not. For the sixteenth century there are those who would say that we must assume that a Law is not being administered unless it is proved that it is, and, though scepticism is sometimes pushed to absurd lengths, one certainly cannot build much on the letter of Acts of Parliament. But how exacting are our tests of effective administration to be? All will agree that in our period the mere enacting of a Statute causes and cures very little, unless special efforts are applied to making it work. But is a peremptory order from the Council to the Justices of the Peace, or to the Council of the North, to redress this or that grievance among tenants, a proof that the grievance will be redressed? Or must we be content with nothing less than a record of cases actually handled? If we decline to believe in the efficacy of any economic legislation about which we have not a full list of decisions, we shall have little left to rely on. The famous Statute of Artificers will look shaky, and so will the legislation with regard to prices and quality. Perhaps a reasonable view would be to look askance at mere Acts of Parliament, but to accept action, or orders to take action, on the part of the executive authorities, as a proof that the law is being applied in practice.
Of the Statutes prohibiting the conversion of arable to pasture we need not, then, say much. The long series of Acts[626] which were passed between 1489 and 1597 show little originality. They were at bottom simply a series of great manorial customaries framed to apply to the whole country, or to all parts of the country which were not expressly excepted from their operation, an attempt to maintain the status quo obtaining at any time by laying down for the whole country a common rule of cultivation of much the same kind as had been in the past maintained by local customs. They did not prohibit enclosure as such, but they proceeded on the assumption that a fixed proportion of the land, usually the average of a certain number of years preceding the Act, ought to be under the plough, and that the small cultivator’s farm accommodation should be maintained or renewed at the expense of the landlord. They differed only in the methods used to achieve this end. The Statutes before 1550 usually insisted merely on the reconversion of pasture land to tillage,[627] the re-edification of decayed houses of husbandry,[628] and the limitation to 2000 of the sheep to be kept by any one farmer.[629] They relied on most unpromising machinery. Like the ancient Statute of Mortmain, they tried to make the feudal contract the means for enforcing the law, by empowering superior lords to take half the profits of mesne lords and tenants who infringed it. The Statutes after 1550 were somewhat bolder in their experiments. The most important departure was the provision, first introduced into the Statutes of 1552[630] and 1555,[631] for the creation of permanent bodies of Commissioners to do the work which, when most landlords were anxious to enclose, no landlord would undertake. Under the Statute of 1555, subsequently declared “too mild and gentle,” but on the face of it a drastic measure, the Commissioners were empowered both to bind over offenders to rebuild decayed houses, to plough up pasture land, and to fix the judicial rents which had been demanded by the peasantry and suggested by certain reformers. It was repealed (together with the Statutes of 1536 and 1552) in 1563, the Act[632] of that year confirming the earlier Acts passed in the reign of Henry VIII., and requiring all land which had been under the plough for four successive years since 1529 to be kept in tillage, on pain of a fine of 10s. per acre for all land converted to pasture contrary to the Act. In 1589[633] a Statute was passed for the protection of cottagers, prohibiting the letting of cottages to agricultural labourers with less than four acres of land attached. In 1593[634] it was thought that sufficient land was in tillage to make the maintenance of legislation on the subject unnecessary, and the clause in the Act of 1563, which forbade conversion to pasture, was repealed. But the result seems to have been a recrudescence of the movement for converting arable land to pasture, with the result that in 1597[635] two more Acts were passed, both of which adopted the expedient of setting up a special authority, apart from the ordinary machinery of local government, to enforce the Act, by empowering the Lord Chancellor to nominate bodies of Commissioners. The first enacted that all houses of husbandry decayed within seven years preceding the Act, and half of those decayed within seven years before that, were to be rebuilt and let, the former with not less than 40 acres, and the latter with not less than 20 acres, of land. It also took the significant step of expressly sanctioning the consolidation of intermixed holdings by way of exchange between lord and tenants, or between one tenant and another. The second applied only to twenty-five counties, where, presumably, enclosing had proceeded furthest or was most disastrous in its effects. It enacted that all land converted from tillage to pasture since 1558 should be reconverted within three years, if it had been under the plough for twelve years immediately preceding conversion, and that land which had been in tillage for twelve years preceding the Act should remain in tillage, the penalty for disobedience being a fine of 20s. per acre. These two Acts escaped the general repeal of the laws against depopulation which took place in 1624, and remained on the Statute Book till the Statute Law Revision Act of 1863.
The Statutes are evidence of a state of opinion. To judge how far that opinion wrote itself on the world of affairs we must look elsewhere. Nor are they in themselves very interesting. The genius of sixteenth century statesmanship lay in administration not in legislation. It dwelt not in Parliament but in the Council, and in those administrative courts, the Court of Star Chamber, the Court of Requests, the Council of the North, the Council of Wales, which were the Privy Council’s organs. In studying economic questions in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, one is met at every turn by the apparatus of special administrative jurisdictions, which was built up by the Tudors, and which fell to pieces with the final rupture between the Crown and Parliament. On the one hand, they supply the control and stimulus in matters of detailed administration, without which all legislation designed to regulate shifting economic relationships, or running counter to the prejudices of a powerful class, is doomed to be ineffective. Are the Justices of the Peace lax in carrying out the Statutes for the relief of the poor and punishment of vagrants? The Council will remonstrate. Have they omitted to assess wages and fix prices? The Council will let them know that their neglect has been noted at headquarters and that it must be corrected. Are capitalists in the clothing counties dismissing workmen in times of trade depression? The Council will direct the justices to read them a lesson on the duty of employers to their operatives and to the State, and threaten them with a summons to Whitehall unless they mend their ways. A stream of correspondence pours into London from the Government’s agents in the counties—returns as to the supplies of wheat available for consumption, applications for permission to license the export of food-stuffs, statistics as to prices, information as to unemployment, information as to vagrancy based on a “day-count" of vagabonds. The Council digests it, and sends out its mandates to continue this and alter that, to raise wages or reduce prices, to inspect granaries, punish middlemen, whip sturdy rogues, relieve the poor. Bad means of communication, scanty and inaccurate intelligence, incompetent local officials, prevent administration from running smoothly; and as the Civil War approaches incompetence becomes recalcitrance. Nevertheless the engine is a powerful one, and up to a year or two before the meeting of the Long Parliament its throb is felt throughout the country.
Such a system of centralised supervision, which can meet emergencies with promptitude, and can adjust regulations to the varying needs of different years and different localities, is a necessity in any society where economic relationships are made the object of authoritative control. Under the Tudors and first two Stuarts the Council does much that is done to-day by several State departments—the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries, the Board of Education, the Local Government Board, the Home Office, as well as much that is left to Private Bill legislation. But the Council is, of course, much more than an executive organ. It is also a court of law. It does not only make rules, it punishes people for breaking them. Sometimes it exercises jurisdiction itself. More often, at any rate in the cases arising out of the economic questions with which we are chiefly concerned, it issues an order, and leaves the punishment of breaches of it to the Court of Star Chamber and the Court of Requests. Into the controversy as to the constitutional position of these courts we need not enter; we need only point out their extreme importance as buttresses of the Government’s control over economic affairs. Both in personnel and procedure they were admirably qualified to be the instruments of a thorough system of State intervention in matters of industry and agriculture. Both of them were committees of the Council, and in both the governmental predominated over the judicial element, the two judges who attended the Court of Star Chamber, and the Masters of Requests who sat in the Court of Requests, being in the position rather of legal advisers or assessors than of judicial authorities. In theory the former court dealt with criminal, the latter with civil cases. But in an age when the majority of the populace were armed, a dispute was extremely likely to terminate in a riot, and in practice there were subjects on which complaints came before either court indifferently. They dispensed with a jury. They took account of equitable considerations which had no place in the common law courts. They were guided by reasons of State, not by the letter of the law, and would punish behaviour as contrary to public policy. For the execution of their rulings they used not only the ordinary officers of the law, the Justices of the Peace, but also special bodies of Commissioners.
Whatever may have been the abuses of this system of administrative jurisdictions, one can easily understand that it was well fitted to deal with the agrarian problem. It is seen at its worst in ecclesiastical matters. It is seen at its best in protecting the poorer classes against economic tyranny; and we shall fail to understand the popularity of the Tudor Governments unless we lay as much emphasis on the good side as on the bad. The Court of Requests in particular is a popular court, a court which punishes the rich, a court which brings, in the words of the aristocratic chronicler, “many an honest man to trouble and vexacion,” a court to which the poor “compleyned without number.”[636] The notorious difficulty of getting a verdict from a jury of tenants who are liable to eviction means that a landlord can break the law with impunity. Here are courts before which the intimidator can be intimidated; courts which will handle him “on that sort, that what courage soever he hath, his heart will fall to the grounde.”[637] The enormous importance of manorial custom in determining the fate of all classes of peasants, except the freeholders, makes it certain that grave injustice will be done to vested interests by any court which confines itself to the strict letter of the law. The Council will direct that “such order be taken in the matter as in justyce and equitie shall appertayn.”[638] The mere fact that its ruling is not simply the verdict of a court but the command of the Government, increases the probability that it will receive due attention from those whose duty it is to enforce it. The landlord who has enclosed may be the very man who hears the peasant's complaint. The Council will interfere to insist on the local authorities taking “a more indifferent course.”[639]