CORRESPONDENCE.
A TRAMP'S DIARY.
[To THE EDITOR OF THE " SPECTATOR:] SIR,—May and June had been blessed with weather against which no complaint could be urged. We had enjoyed our.- selves to the full, and now that pleasant time was ended. Dances and feasts, the evenings spent at ease on the river, the gay revelry in many a hospitable room,----all had gone into the past, to become vague longings or unspeakable regrets. The pace during those two intoxicating months had been fast and furious, our dalliance in Capua had been over-long, and it was time to seek a newer and simpler life. To lead a simple life at this end of the century is not easy, one is too muoh beset.
with the thrall of civilisation. Perhaps the easiest way is to become a vagabond and go a-wayfaring along the Open Road without a thought where you will lodge, or whither you are -going. Inns are superfluous, you must sleep in the softest ditch you can find.
So with this aim before me I took the road on a Friday afternoon at the end of June, in old and ragged clothes that would not suffer from the weather. My luggage was -carried in the pockets of a Norfolk jacket, and consisted of a road-map, two pipes, tobacco, and a Postgate's "Catalina." The shortest road to London would undoubtedly have been -through Prince's Risborough and Uxbridge, but I wished to 'keep near the river, BO struck out for Dorchester. The sky was black and threatening,—the fine weather had at last broken up. Passing Sandford it began to rain in eaanest, and as I walked into Dorchester in the fading light I was wet through. The great abbey spread itself to view across the meads, and I determined to make a halt for the night. Dor- chester is a charming little town, and I was delighted with the old inns and houses that compose its one curved street. After due refreshment, it was necessary to seek a lodging for the night. I loitered along the road, over the bridge, in search of an outhouse or barn whose open door should invite me to enter. Nor was my search long. An outhouse stand- ing back from the road, overlooked by no prying eyes. -contained a number of carts, one of them filled to the brim with hay,—here, certainly, was my goaL It was still early ; -so I wandered about the town, looked at the abbey, and listened to some curious local politics at a huckster's shop. By 10 o'clock the rain had quite ceased. I reached my hostelry, burrowed into the hay, and was soon fast asleep. When I awoke at a little after 3 o'clock, the rain was falling steadily. Hardly was I well roused before I felt a misgiving ; I had put all my money overnight into my trouser-pocket, -and I ought to have felt a weight against my leg, but to my horror it had gone, slipped into the hay. I lit a match, careless of what might happen. Of course my hand fell on the copper and silver almost at once; but the scant gold that was to be a reserve, where was it ? Fearful of jogging it deeper into the hay, I crawled off the cart and sat on the ground, railing against fortune and my own folly. Though up among the rafters it had been too dark to see -clearly, below it was light enough to read ; so I lit a pipe, and fell to on my Catullas. Lesbia proved very dull, I fear, and after all, no one cares for the beauties of Sirmio -when all his money is gone. Moreover, the morning was grey -and the drizzle continued,—altogether, a cheerful beginning to the day's march. At last, as it got light, I could bear it no longer, and crawled up gingerly on to the cart. Towards my sleeping-place at the further end I crawled slowly, and behold, the precious metal was there ! My hand in the previous search must have passed within an inch, and might well have pushed it into the hay never to be recovered ; but that is too grue- some to contemplate. All was well and the world smiled again, spite of the increasing rain. I could have snapped my tfingers at any fate. Some of the formal precisian, of the civilised man, lurked in me yet. I was not sufficiently bar- barous to view the loss of my money without a frown. I -secured it safely under an iron bar, went back to the hay, and slept till I was wakened by the abbey bells calling all good people to matins.
After bread and cheese and fresh watercress, I took the road again. The road trends away from the river ; the flat water-meadows are soon passed ; you begin to climb and get on to the chalk. Through the cold, sour uplands the road winds in and out; ere long the highest point is reached. Behind lie Dorchester, and wooded Newnham, with Shotover bounding the view. Here, then, ends the old world. I turn and cry " Auf Wiedersehen " to that familiar hill ; before me lies the great unknown. Even when we grow older. we do not quite lose the childish sense of the mystery that hangs -over the country just beyond our ken.
Six miles out of Dorchester—it is fourteen to Henley, my next halt—I was thoroughly drenched, and could have wished the rain quite abolished. Wet or shine I am determined to accept with an equal mind. Why, then, need every labourer I meet strive to mar my placidity with the never-changing catch-phrase, "Nice rain"? Nice rain, indeed !—the country needs it, they told me at Dorchester. / don't need it, I am certain. And there are many other things that have no use for rain,—Henley, to wit, and cricket-matches. This con- stant iteration is almost disheartening. Up hill and down, past sleepy villages and quiet churches, the wooded hills to left and right, with, far below, glimpses of the river valley curving in and out. At last the road takes a sharp descent, down, down, at a steep angle, and the milestones tell me that I am nearing Henley. No self-respecting tramp carries a watch, of course, but the appearance of the heavens suggested that it was a little after noon,—a certain craving within appeals eloquently for beer and bread and cheese. There is nothing very noticeable about the little town of Henley, but somehow just at this time it seems Oxford and Cambridge and Putney rolled into one. Every third man you meet is known to you by sight, the familiar accents, the same topics fall on your ear by snatches, and a pervading flavour of up-river boating slang is over it all. Yes, there are the Leander and they of Lady Margaret and of the London Rowing Club ; Rudolf Lehmann strolls down the street as if it belonged to him, and the two Nickalls are just getting afloat in their pair. But the afternoon is waning, and I must leave the little town, much as one would like to stay and watch the crews at practice.
Once again the road lies upwards, for I must across the hills to Maidenhead, where I purpose, the fates and farmers willing, to spend the night. As if to make amends for earlier incivility, the sun comes forth and makes my path a thing of glory. The leaves turn golden, the river smiles below, and the hills above Medmenham catch and send back the sun- shine. Pan is abroad this afternoon, his spirit makes the blood tingle and the pulses beat to his own lusty music. Maidenhead was a sad change,—a sudden return to the un- speakably prosaic. The streets that climb the hill back from the river would do credit to Clapham ; moreover, it is sur- rounded by slums and dirty meadows, and the stream-beds are full of every kind of refuse. However, it is getting dark, and a halt must be made for the night. A hayrick is, on the whole, preferable to trespassing on a steam launch, especially as the tarpaulin over the unfinished rick is stretched well out and tied to the surrounding fence of wattle. This will do. Goodly handfuls of hay make a covering. Sweet is the sleep earned by a twenty-seven miles' tramp.
And now, as I set forth on the Sunday, it is evident that two nights in the open have not passed without leaving their effects. Half a mile outside Maidenhead I come across two villainous loafers sitting by the roadside ; they loudly demand a copper as if it were a thing of right, and as I pass without response, assail me with covert abuse. As I present a back view, I hear one of them cry, "Blimy, if the bloke 'aven't been sleeping the night out." This was no doubt fairly patent. for hay-seeds stick to a coat like burrs. So one could now feel a tramp in real earnest,—one had been recognised by the profession. Through Boveney my road leads to Eton—the youths of that place of learning greeting me with a genteel stare—and so to Windsor. After a good square breakfast, I desire to renew my acquaintance with St. George's Chapel. Service had begun, but I managed to slip in and stole down the South aisle so as to escape notice. And the first thing I saw was my friend A— and his brother, both im- maculately got up. He looked astonished—as well he might— and his face opened like a dying fish. He made room for me, and under cover of the Anthem, demanded what in Heaven's name brought me to Windsor in such questionable state. And when he learnt the truth he had much ado to refrain from laughter. Little he seemed to care, for after service the three of us walked solemnly through the town down to the river. I remembered then that Windsor was his abiding place, and expressed fears, not wholly groundless, that his character would be gone for ever. But that he put on one side; and the folk stared at the sight of a tramp in familiar discourse with two well-dressed gentlemen. He proposed a bathe, and, accordingly, we did bathe, below the weir. Now that bathing-place, belonging to the Eton masters, is renowned, and well it may be. Never did I enjoy a dive and swim so much as that morning. The running-board shot you yards clear, and the water is ten feet deep under the bank. The heat and toil and stains of one's trimardage disappeared, and I revelled in the cool, clear, bubbling stream, rolling about and tossing the water from me, as if I had not bathed for months. What the self-possessed bathing-man thought of it all, I do not know, but he looked volumes. Even here my good com- panion did not desert me. He escorted me through the town
and into the Home Park, ere we said adieu. It was touching civilisation again after separation therefrom,—a momentary return to the ways of my kind, after so much barbarism.
After passing Old Windsor, you rejoin the river near Runny- mede, where the stream is alive with honest holiday-makers but most indifferent oarsmen, and are not long in reaching Staines, where the hardearned qualification of bond-fide traveller is put to the proof. Here one must leave the river and take the straight and dusty high-road that leads to Hounslow and London. Bedfont, with its curious nondescript church, is passed, and I turn off before reaching Isleworth, for Richmond is to be ray halting-place for the night. The road is very long this dusty Sunday afternoon, and the presence of the suburbs is ever more and more marked. But at last I am through Teddington, down the well-known road that seems one line of public-houses, and across Richmond Bridge. It has not changed in the last twelve months ; as of old on summer nights, weekday and Sunday alike, there is high carnival. The taverns are full to repletion, and up the steep and stony street and along the terrace are crowds of chattering men and of gaily, gaudily dressed women. There is a certain devil-may-care feeling about Richmond that is not unpleasing. Every one is out to enjoy life, and makes no pretence to the contrary. People at Richmond laugh louder and comport themselves more freely than is the case elsewhere,—it is like a gay town of France. After due consideration, no hotel seems so suitable as the open glades of the forest. The rain bolds off, and the side-gate—as I know from of old—is open all night. I found a quiet spot back from the road, and under a pile of bracken, beneath the wide trees, soon fell asleep. But shortly after midnight I was wide awake again. Strange dreams had risen to perplex me, and the forest breathed an air of wonder and mystery. Small animals scuttled about close by, and a field-mouse ran in and out of my pillow quite fearlessly. Shortly after 1 o'clock I rose and paced the dewy lawns and glades. At last came the first faint beginnings of the dawn, and the white forms of the deer stole to and fro between the branches. In the grey light of a cloudy morning, I left the forest and started on the last stage. The streets are all silent now, and deserted ; the busy little Vanity Fair of last night has quite vanished. So triste is the whole town, that a passing policeman gives me the time of day with a strange heartiness, as if glad of some one on the same road at that hour. The dirty river swirls below Kew Bridge, and the mud-banks look singularly wretched this chill day. I strike out at a steady pace, and am not long in reaching Hammersmith. And now, as if the fates had reserved some especial sensation for the last, I am suddenly struck with the strangeness of an absolutely empty London. The roadway is deserted ; I can walk in the middle without fear of being ran over. Late at night this would seem natural, but it is now broad daylight. It seems almost uncanny that no one should be about. The day, the time for work, has come, yet London is one vast city of the dead, and I have it all to myself; and I have to stop and have a big laugh, the better to enjoy it all. What would be thought of me were the hour 10, and not 5, of the clock ? My "Norfolk," originally threadbare, had become ragged during the march ; my flannels had gone a dingy nondescript ; and the blue canvas-shirt had turned literally brown wherever exposed to view. No one save an early carter or two is about, and I can brazen it out. But a few hours hence, and one's appearance would create a mild sensation and the gamins would jeer. But it does not matter, and one can bless the lazy habits of the race that lose the early morning and its delights,—any way, they have left their noble city to me, and the loafer has the best of things.
At last I am once more in the welcome Strand; St. Clement's greets me with its chimes ; and the Courts clash out six as I turn under Middle Temple gateway. In a moment I have mounted to my snug chambers, and sleep the sleep of the just and weary till the laundress wakes me at nine to tell
Previous page
