BRITAIN’S NEW INTELLIGENTSIA

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 51, 23 November 1928, Page 10

BRITAIN’S NEW INTELLIGENTSIA

—_—« — FIRES OF NEW THOUGHT (By a Visitor.) In a remote Welsh village I went to the local tailor to try on my new coat and skirt. Up a crazy staircase in a little sparsely-furnished attic sat this tailor, on the bare boards, with a Beatrice stove and a hot iron beside him; at his job, in spite of his simple surroundings, he was an undoubted expert, patronised not only by the local squire and his wife, but also by the local doctor, the vicar, and farmers from twenty or thirty miles around. A cat purred in the sunlight. "Good morning, miss,” he said; ‘indeed to goodness the skirt looks fine now.” He laid the garment on one side and smiled. Whilst immersed in the trying-on process I happened to glance at his table. In addition to the usual tools of the trade—chalk, enormous scissors, and reels of thread strong enough to moor a liner—l noticed a book expensively bound—Fenton’s “Pembrokeshire,” a rather rare copy, to be found, of course, in the library of the local squire who was an ardent book-lover.

“I see you are fond of reading,” I said. “Yes, yes,” he replied. “I have several good books,” and he led me to a cupboard full of books on shelves. “The Rise and Fall of Rome,” “The Voyage of the Nona,” and the “Outline of History,” by Wells, were amongst them; it was obvious they had been well thumbed. “And here indeed to goodness is the manuscript of the book my son wrote.” “Your son,” I exclaimed. “Yes, indeed, he is going down from Cambridge now; he is a great reader.” And the old man tenderly replaced the manuscript.

Surely, I thought to myself afterwards, the old order changes in a subtle manner, for I knew that the squire’s son definitely was not going to Cambridge on account of expense. Yet, when I thought it over, I realised that this was not an isolated case. I remembered that several months ago a young fellow in the New Forest had been introduced to me. , He was the son of the village grocer, but his name was well known in the QUtside world for his intimate knowledge of Pure Science and I thought of Rutherford, I thought of Sir Oliver Lodge, whose first job was beside the potter’s wheel. Besides, was not the son of the village shopkeeper, just down the road, studying for the Church? As I bought matches and tapioca from him I could not help wondering—wondering . Surely there must be little isolated tires of extraordinarily new thought smouldering not only in Britain but throughout the Empire. At present disconnected, disjointed, unknown even to those who live even close by. These little fires, smouldering patches hidden away in Wales, in Scotland, in our Dominions, in New Zealand, will they unite one day into one huge conflagration, a sort of second Renaissance?

For many years all eyes have turned in fascination to the large towns of the world. Yet. perhajis the little villages with their own country, with their cows, their trees, their little stores, perhaps they are peculiarly suited for the nurture of new views, new angles—a new Intelligentsia.