BOOKS.

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A, TRAMP.

IF only the author of this book, whose previous works entitle him to be regarded as the Scottish Jefferies, had had a little of the English Borrow in him, his achievement would have been perfect of its kind. But as things are, it is very notable. If it lacks in fisticuff vigour, which in a tramp's life would not have been out of place, it is not lacking in sincerity. Mr. Crawford dedicates it to "a family of tramps met with in a wild place from whom I received more unselfish kindness than I have known before or since." This experience has perhaps led Mr. Crawford to idealise the tramps whom he draws, to the extent at least of being more than a little blind to their faults as well as very kind to their virtues ; and it is more than probable that in his desire to secure a favourable reception for his friends he has unduly purified their conver- sation of solecisms, slang, and even brutal obscenity. At the same time, as there are comparatively good as well as thoroughly bad tramps, it is but fair that the better as well as the baser sort should have justice done them. There is a genuine but gentle Rousseauism in Mr. Crawford,—a very real belief in the often ecstatic delights of the vagrant's free, unfettered life. The better class tramp holds with Mr. Herbert Spencer that "a picnic is a return to a state of Nature," and strives in spite of wind and rain, cold and poverty, to make his life one long picnic. Mr. Crawford's book reveals the wonderful amount of success that may be attained if the tramp is kind-hearted, has a dim appreciation of the golden rule, and allows himself to become thoroughly domesticated.

Mr. Crawford does not commit the mistake, too common in essentially fanciful autobiographies, of crowding his story with characters. He has to all intents and purposes only four,—Dick the tramp, whose story is told in instalments, his mother, his father (also Dick), and Kelpie, the girl whom he marries—apparently in an irregular though honest fashion— at the end of the story. He is able, in consequence, to repre- sent tramp life as it is actually lived within necessarily limited conditions. The intensity of the love of the mother for her child is quite conceivable; it is, indeed, the only com- pensation she has for persistent ill-health due to cold, hunger, and all but nakedness. This intensity of affection makes the family of three live so much for and to themselves that it is not till the end of the book, when we get to know something of booths, theatricals, and the Punch-and-Judy "business," that we learn much of the life of tramps in general, and see that they are the modern equivalents of Crabbe's strolling players-

" Whom justice pitying chides from place to place, A wandering, careless, wretched, merry race."

It must not be supposed, however, that the three, even when they are engaged in the business of making and selling baskets, lead a quite millennial and Arcadian life. In one of the chapters the boy's mother interferes with her husband, who is wild with drink, at a roadside inn, to prevent him from giving liquor to the child, and is struck down. But the father, though lazily selfish, is not often either violent or drunk, and the mother, who treats him as a sort of deity, makes the sensible confession to the boy, "It's a bit my fault, Dick. Men ne'er like women to interfere, and there's some sense in it." Altogether, one feels after reading this book that if what Mr. Bright in the great oration—in some respects his greatest— in which he first proclaimed the social problem to be the question of the future, termed "the hand of Christian love and. kindliness" were extended to the tramp—at least, to the tramp who is not a mere embodiment of mendicity and men- dacity—something might be made of him.

• The Autobiography 0/a Tramp. By J. H. Crawford. London: Longman' and Co. [as]

Mr. Crawford's tramp family moves about slowly from place to place till it is broken up by the death of the mother, and his story moves slowly with it. In consequence, the book is rather a series of scenes loosely connected than anything else. Some of these are full of pathetic interest. Mother and son find themselves in a church. The result is a marvellous reve- lation of love and ignorance :-

"It [the sermon] was all about a woman and her lad. The woman's name was Hagar, and she was on the tramp in foreign parts, and was down in the mouth about the lad. The man thought it was all square and some'un who had turned 'em out was in the right of it. The lad's name was a bit hard to get ahold on, only he was to grow up into a wild man. His hand was to be against every man and every man's hand was against nim. There was some'at in that I thought. But mother qqueezed hard and I could tell what she was bothering about. Chat's Dick, she was thinking. She was shaking again worse rhan ever. Some one in front looked round fierce-like. May

be they thought we were Hagar and the lad. 'There's

more Baugh where we're going,' said mother. I say, Dick, thoult not be a wild man like lsh—.'—' Don't worry o'er the rest, mother.'—' But how did they call thy father Abraham ? ['hat's ne'er his name.'—' It's not father,' said I.= Do'st thou think so, Dick ? I an glad. What's that ? ' said mother, look- ing up wise-like.—' The house of the wanderer and him that is out of the way,' I said slow-like, for it was queen What a scholar thou art, Dick,' said mother. What does it mean ? ' --‘ I'm blessed if I know,' said I. They were none so taken

with H'sh, Dick,' said mother."

The death of the mother leads to a separation, though not of an unfriendly character, between father and son. The father becomes a gamekeeper, and marries again; the son dis- covers a fairy tramp named Kelpie, and ultimately marries her, although at first he has a rival. The two meet again under greatly changed conditions :— "Father had grown twice as big a whisker. 'Look thee here, Dick.' He knocked over two rabbits, and was ne'er a bit scared at the noise of the gun. I could kill a score, Dick,' said he, mighty proud-like. Father came to the end where Kelpie was leaning against the fence, nicer than ever, and saw naught 'cept a tramp, and that I was a gone one for taking up with her. Thou should ha' been a mole, 'cause thou'rt blind,' said I, sharp-like.—"It's my dooty to see no one camps on the ground, and dooty's dooty' —father had learned that off--' but if thoult go over there, next governor ain't so strict.'—' We're bound for the North,' said I, and dooty's dooty.' So we left father to his dooty. Not that he was such a bad one; there's a sight worse. I've a soft place for father."

Dick and Kelpie are represented in the end as true to them- selves, to each other, and to the memory of the "old one," and the line of life that suits them. They are the very Ulysses and Penelope of trampdom, and one is certain that though they may have adventures and misfortunes, they will, like Byron, that aristocrat of tramps, have "a heart for every fate." One of their adventures is worth reproducing, if only to show the simple power of Mr. Crawford's style. A half-mad girl belonging to the order of booth-players is found by Kelpie and Dick to have acted her favourite part of Ophelia but too

well :—

"'The red flowers are at the fairies' pool,' said Kelpie. And when we got to the pool, my inside just stopped like the water. It looked so blessed black under the banks. Them things should ha' been naught to me, seeing I was used to 'em Kelpie shivered. Art thou cold ? "Then Kelpie lifted her arm and pointed under the willow. The leaves as kept turning gave a queer kind of light ; but there was some'at as didn't need it seeing it was shining. The young one was there. She's been playing Phelie,' said I. There's some'at about tumbling in the water.' Some folk had to see her as wanted to know how she came to be drowned. They said she was mad, and then they went out again. I had seen 'em at the show when the clock was striking nine. The gipsies were blessed good to her. 1'11 say that ; she might ha' been a lady, same as Phalle. They put the red flowers all about her, 'sides what she had in her hand, then they gave her a corner in a bit of ground of theirs, where the white stars would shine, and scattered the rest of 'ern flowers careless, like she done 'em herself."

If Mr. Crawford cultivates his undoubted art, his deep sympathy with, and his obvious knowledge of, our rural nomads, he will produce a better and—with great ease—a more coherent book than even this. Meanwhile we ought to be grateful to him for a delightful ramble in the green lanes and over the dreary moors of our country, and for having taught us to "gently scan our brother man, still gentler sister woman," of the Bedouin order, that are to be found at the roadside. The realism of this book is intensified by the excellence of the illustrations, which, without being " loud " or garish, have all the " actuality " of photographs.