A POET'S PILGRIMAGE.*
MR. DAVIES'S pilgrimage, almost entirely on foot, began in Car- marthenshire, extended through South Wales, and was continued in England at Chippenham, whence he walked to Maidenhead. It was carried out in the month of May " some time ago "—apparently, from one or two incidental references, since the beginning of the war; but, if our surmise be correct, war troubles Mr. Davies no more than it did Jane Austen in her novels. His recital is a description of his impressions and experiences on the road, and is largely made • di Poet's Pilgrimage. By W. H. Davies. London : A. Meltwe. 101, net.) up of conversations with tramps and fellow-guests at inns and lodging-houses. These are recounted with a gusto and humour that are often infectious, and also with a detachment that is often disconcerting. In his method of narration and choice of material he often -reminds one of Borrow, though them is no specific mention of gypsies amongst his travelling companions. And he is void of the vehement partisanship and prejudice which charge Borrow's pages with high explosive. Mr. Davieies chief source of indignation is traceable to the overcharges of innkeepers. In spite of his " indifference to money," he grieves, every-time he thinks of it, of being made to pay 74d. for some bread and 'cheese and beer at an inn between Carmarthen and Llanelly, and' he was " stupefied " 1 at being charged Mid. for two fried eggs, some bread, and a pot 'of tea at Swansea. This incident -makes one think that the pil- grimage must have been undertaken in pre-war years. At the same time, he rarely met a tramp or a child without standing treat either in small silver, pennies, or beer. He' evidently holds with the poet that " the heart that grief hath eankered Hath one unfailing remedy 'the tankard," though he distinguishes between laughing beer and melancholy beer. Personally he avoids excess, but he has something like a contempt for abstainers—witness his comment on the man who could only point to a rickety bicycle as the result Of thirteen years' total abstinence. The maudlin affection of two old men with white beards inspired him with some confusion, but no repulsion ; and the sight of a boy of seventeen drunk for the first time and vowing vengeance against his father only prompts the remark that he hoped the mother was at home to protect -her son, if he should meet his father. Mr. Davies describes himself :as a -free man who did not.care whose company he had. He was 'amused at everything. When on the road to Newbury a woman 'tramp sat -far more than 'twenty minutes at his side, "using worse 'language than I had ever heard from a woman's lips, the novelty of my position was too much for me, and I laughed myself into pain. . . . I felt so happy after hearing this womart's :strong 'language that I sat on the bankside 'Without a move, to let my 'happiness soak-in. It was not so much the language that pleased 'me as the idea that I was•free to hear it." But helms no liking for stories that are' simply ugly. And the defilement of the country- side by industrialism, factories, and -mean houses never -fails to arouse his regret. He 'is keenly :alive •to 'the beauties of 'Native. 'For the rest, his outlook rather reminds us of one of the tharrieters in a novel by Trollope, of whom we read that " all.people were nearly alike to him. He was above, or rather• below, all prejudices. He had about him a natural good manner'which seemed to qualify hirn for the highest circles, and yet heeraa never out-of place in the lowest." Mr.'Davies never--poses 'as a hero, frankly avowing his nervous ness in the `train in'the43evern Tunnel, and in the nocturnal episode of theimaginary burglar,and recalling thatets, ahoy hehad-shaved his forehead inerder to dook intellectual. This readiness' to enjoy a joke at hisewn expense is certainly an engaging feature, though it may -not -be consistent with an austere sense of self-respect.
Mr. Daviee's.detnehmentes nowhere more markedly shown than in his impressions'ef Wales and' the Welsh. 'Himself 'a Welshman, though he does.not speak the-language, he was now returning to the haunts of his !youth after-many years,end found. himself for the most part treated- as, a,stranger by the Welsh,and-asasttcngcr"it.is difficult to breakthrough-their suspicion and:distrest." He freely acknowledges their hospitality and-good-nature, but has many hard things to say of their racial and local peculiarities and sectional jealousies. He found the friendliest greeting in the non-Welsh- speaking-districts, and adds that'when women greet a strange Mark the district must have a friendly spirit that is exceptional. The hardest criticism -is- put into the mouth of an English-speaking Welshman from Monmouth settled in business at Neath,who told Mr. Davies that he "could never do any clean, fair, and open business with real Welsh people unless prepared to use their own language : who, as soon as they are forced to speak English, become suspicious and -think they- are -robbed." Ultimately-he decided to price his articles not so much according to their worth as by the kind of man or woman he was dealing with. " If a customer spoke English in a natural way, and with apparent pleasure, my friendwould not make allowance forreducing the price of an article. But if he judged his customer to belong to that class who are sus- picious when trading in English, he would deal with that customer as he would with a Jew." Mr. Davies was much puzzled 'by the disparity between the high wages—often £6 or £7 a week—and the mean houses of the 'tinplate 'workers ; but his conversations convinced him that far too much money went in food and drink, wasteful and extravagant habits. " No wonder these common workers in Wales, who pay so little rent and nothing to educate their children, cannot save anything out of two or three hundred a year." The chief interests of the poorer classes in Wales he asserts to be singing, football, and fighting. For their singing he has unstinted admiration : " There is one thing that must always be said to the credit of the Welsh, and that is no matter what they do, whether they drink, burn, or riot, they never forget to sing hymns, and sing-them, too, with splendid feeling." This is rather a-left- handed compliment, and their interest in pugilism is sheen *of' ts glamour by the :tragic picture of the blind boxer idolized in his prime and bullied and harried in his poverty and affliction. The football season was over when Mr. Davies was in Wales, but his indiscretion in starting the subject of prize--fighting -nearly landed him in a personal encounter.
The chief charm of the book resides in the conversations with tramps and others on the road, whether it be the conceited concer- tina-player, the idiot Hercules, the fisherman on the Wye who regaled him with tales, thrasonic and grueaome,of his craft, or the discontented rag-and-bone man on 'the road to Chepstow, who attributed the decline ofhis " prosperity " to the unfair competition of a fish-hawker who instituted a system of barter. Another amusing episode is that of the man who challenged him to make good his avowal that he was a poet, with results which can better be imagined than described when Mr. Davies's poem came to be read. His Welsh walking tour ended at Cardiff. Thence he took train to Bristol, where he had opportunities of studying the jealousies of commercial travellers, and resumed his journey on foot at Chippenham. In this latter part 'of his pilgrimage tramps again predominate. The lace-seller with his theory of wasted time is a sympathetic study of self-protective mendicity, not to say mendacity; but Mr. Davies's forbearance towards the verminous tramp is rather inconsistent with his fastidiousness in regard to the odour of onions. More agreeable is the encounter with the 'boy who was reading a story of Indians and nearly jumped out of his skin with delight when he heard that Mr. Davies had seen real live Indians. So by Caine and Marlborough and Savernake, Hungerford •and Newbury, he made his way to Reading, and theneehy Twyford to Meidenhead, where his pilgrimage ended. Among the personal reminiseences, perhaps the best are those of his old grandfather, a sea captain to whom he traces the roving strain in his blood; whilethe story of the famous Welsh runner, Gutto the Wind, might have come• straight out °Morrow. The versesinterspersed in the narrative or serving as headings 'to the chapters are ouriously-unequal in quality-and temper, some rising little above the level of vigorous doggerel, others showing a real poetic impulse. And there are fine touches of description in the narrative, as -when =he speaks of the Wye as " shining.like a silver blade in a green handle." To- sum up, Mr. Davies is an enter- taining companion, whether we agree with him or not. What Welshm en-will think of his book is another-matter.
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