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 A Scotch Poet 
 
 Mr. John Davidson, one of the poets of the Bodley Head, 
 seems to be findi-ng favor in a wider circle than that which walks 
 under Mr. John Lane's sign-board. Like so many of the present 
 favorites in English literature, he is a Scotchman. At the age of
 
 OP A TE/^' 
 
 Ui" 
 
 Mr. 
 
 John Davidson's Early Years. 
 
 The posti" .*" _ 
 le Commodore C ^ 
 0J-; Leonard Tice > 
 ost, of MiUvllle; ^ 
 rook; Gen. Wlllian, 
 
 J, the year were 
 
 - -"^' 4t, of South Am- 
 
 not MUlville; Union 
 
 ..veil Post, of Bound 
 
 of Gloucester; Philip 
 
 an llenssalaer, of Burlington; Col. P. J. 
 arisen, of South Amboy, and the John Kor- 
 an Post of Cape May Court House. 
 To-morrow otHcera will be elected. Tlie fight 
 )r Department Commander is between Henry 
 . White, of Red Banlr, and Capt. E. C. 
 tahl, of Trenton, with the chances slightly 
 ivorable to the former. 
 
 CUT TO PIECES BY .MRAIN. 
 
 rSPECIAr, TO THE PUBLIC LEDGER, i 
 
 New Beunswick, Feb. 7. —While walking 
 n ihe Pennsylvania RallroaB late last night 
 eterBeggs, aged 26, residing on Drift street, 
 i«ar Suydam, was strucli and Instantly 
 illed by an east-bound express in Boss's 
 ut, on the outskirts of this city. His body 
 •as terribly mutilated by the cars, the re- 
 lains belusr strewn along the track. Cor- 
 ner McDede took charge of the case. 
 
 FIRE AT THE STATE CAPITOL. 
 
 rSPECIA'L TO THE PUBLIC LKDefiR. 1 
 
 Tkenxon, Feb. 7.— A Are occurred thii 
 loruing at the capitol, but the damage was 
 eryslightand the fire was extinguished by 
 ne Slate House employes without the aid of 
 He city fire d«parlment. The fire broke out 
 2 the conference room of the Supreme Court, 
 jst over the Executive chamber, and, be- 
 ides a hole in the floor about 15 feet long and 
 
 feet wide and the heavy charred beams, 
 everal valuable rugs in the Governor's 
 hamberw^ere slightly damaged. The origin 
 f the fire cannot be ascertained, but ills 
 bought ta liave caught from the old-fish- 
 oned wood fireplace in the room, and in 
 .Thlch the Sergeont-at- Arms of the Court had 
 i blazing fire yesterday, alltiough thatofllclal 
 nslsiB that he extinguished the log flre at 5 
 >• clock yesterday afternoon, 
 
 TROLLEY FRANCHISES AT HADDONFIELD. 
 
 ISFECIAL TO THE PUBLIC LEDaBB.1 
 
 HADDONFIELD, Feb. 7. —At a meetiner of 
 .h« Borough Commissioners last night, Vice 
 ^resident Aldricb, ol the West Jersey Trao- 
 iloo CompaQy, presented tUelr j^tltl^a fot^. 
 
 S'"^pe«i^p■ 
 
 Mr. 
 
 i
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 A RANDOM ITINERARY
 
 ^*^ This edition is limited to Six Hundred copies.
 
 A RANDOM 
 ITINERARY 
 
 Bj^ JOHN 
 DAVIDSON- 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS 
 
 AND JOHN LANE 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 COPELAND * DAY 1894
 
 
 t 
 
 C « £
 
 V 
 
 rA 
 
 CO 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 Perhaps some notes and impressions of the 
 remarkable spring and summer of 1893 may 
 save these papers, temporarily at least, from 
 the charge of irrelevancy, lately levelled at 
 all books. J- D. 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Thirty-Eighth op March . . . i 
 
 In Expectation of Rain — 
 
 i. woodgreen common ... 29 
 
 II. BLACKHEATH and GREENWICH PARK 3 1 
 
 iii. bpping forest ... . '35 
 
 iv. in buckinghamshire • • • 39 
 
 Parks and Squares — 
 
 i. spring in london .... 57 
 
 ii. hampton court park ... 68 
 
 III. ST James's park .... 75
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 A Suburban Tour — page 
 
 i. by the lea 83 
 
 ii. from the isle of dogs to sydenham loo 
 iii. from sydenham to barnes . .1x6 
 
 iv. from the thames to the moselle . i 26 
 
 Among the Chilterns — 
 
 i. from tring station to wendover . 1 43 
 
 ii. from wendover to high wycombe . 1 62 
 
 By Way of Epilogue .... 187
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 
 
 By the calendar, April was a week old ; by the 
 weather, it was still March — the extraordinaiy 
 March of 1893. A little unsteady weather at the 
 beginning, a half-hearted attempt to be the old 
 conventional month, the tempestuous character 
 of the play ; and then March refused to act any 
 longer. At the very lowest figure, according 
 to the computation of orthodox chronologists, 
 Time, lessee of the earth and actor-manager, 
 presented in 1893 his great spectacular drama 
 'The Seasons,' for the 5897th year; and during 
 that long run March had never given him any 
 real difficulty before. How Time must have
 
 4 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 fumed behind the scenes, tearing his forelock 
 and menacing with his scythe at the sight of 
 this bluff old month suddenly flinging off his 
 robe of storms to flaunt it as a jeune premier 
 with a sky-blue cloak and a reckless expendi- 
 ture of sunshine. 
 
 ' There will be nothing left for June and July,' 
 thought Time, ' if this madman wastes the 
 properties at such a rate.' 
 
 April waited to come on, bewildered and de- 
 moralised. His cue was 'goes out like a lamb ' ; 
 but March, shaking his golden fleece, began to 
 go out like a lamb as soon as he faced the 
 footlights, and prolonged his exit indefinitely 
 before an entranced audience. 
 
 In the morning his cloak was pearl - grey, 
 thin and luminous, the finest stuff, and most 
 delicate texture of which clouds are spun. Be- 
 hind it were the sunbeams and the blue sky ; 
 but March, no lightning - change artist like
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 5 
 
 April chafing in the flies, seldom doffed till 
 nearly noon his rich but sober dressing-gown to 
 appear the gilded youth he was. A strong, 
 fresh east wind blew a shrill fife all day 
 before him ; keen, sweet, with mellow notes 
 when the sun got up. 
 
 On the thirty-eighth of March it behoved an 
 itinerant to visit Epping Forest. He came to 
 Ohingford, and left behind the many-gabled 
 Royal Forest Hotel, the golf course with its 
 red flags and early golfers, the donkeys browsing 
 on the thorn bushes, and went right into the 
 wood that beckons every voyager to come and 
 know its secret. He had soon to turn aside 
 from the impenetrable under-growth of hawthorn, 
 gay with big green leaves already, and black- 
 thorn drenched and dripping with snow-white 
 blossom. 
 
 He took one of the green rides which intersect 
 the forest and quickened his pacej the singing
 
 6 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 east was chill, but another song delayed him. 
 Behind, out of Chingford Plain, a solitary lark 
 scaled the skies. Some days before the itinerant 
 had heard a lark on a London common ; but this 
 was another afiair. Compared with the Ching- 
 ford lark, the London bird was as a street-singer 
 to a heaven-born tenor. There was no fog in the 
 forest bird's throat; smoke never tarnished the 
 dew he sipped ; his wings were sinewy ; he 
 seemed to soar out of sight of the London bird's 
 highest reach, and his robust and powerful music, 
 unlike the echoless cockney song, reverberated 
 from the ceiling of heaven in cascades of dying 
 sound. Then came the sudden headlong descent 
 in which the lark repeats over and over with 
 breathless haste and without transitions, the 
 various motifs of his song, as if he were refreshing 
 his memory before attending to his earthly cares; 
 and the itinerant was again free to pursue the 
 woodland path.
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH ^ 
 
 All along the way the blackthorn blossom, as 
 fresh as paint, gleamed against the brownish 
 purple of the budded but still leafless trees. As 
 fresh as paint! The itinerant could think of 
 nothing else that might hint in words the dead, 
 shining whiteness of the blossom. Seen by the 
 veiled light — no beam had yet pierced the pearl- 
 grey sky — sometimes a straggling bush, with not 
 a speck of green, and with the little white flowers 
 sticking close to the branches, embossing them 
 and seeming to run together, looked like a plant 
 that had been dipped in whitewash and set up to 
 dry. Every now and again a glade or bottom 
 opened out ; strung on the green ride like the 
 greater beads on a rosary. In these the 
 commoners' cattle grazed, young cows and rough- 
 coated ponies surfeiting on the grass that began 
 to be succulent. One glade was girdled almost 
 entirely with the flake -white blossom, a dead 
 white, of a bluish tinge like wet paint ; where the
 
 8 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 branches clustered thickly, drenched and heavy 
 with flowers ; cold-looking, non-luminous in the 
 grey light and against the dull purple of the 
 leafless forest trees ; masses, bunches, and strokes 
 of chilly white on a dark ground ; the itinerant 
 knew they were blossoms, but his eyes did not 
 tell him so. 
 
 It was in this glade that March began to put 
 off his pearl-grey robe and throw about his sun- 
 shine. Wherever a beam fell on a blackthorn 
 bush the dead colour turned to living flowers ; the 
 cold shining gleam of wet paint gave place to a 
 dusky warm gloss, and the masses, bunches, and 
 strokes of Chinese white changed into bouquets, 
 nosegays, and garlands of creamy, fragrant 
 blossom. 
 
 There were hollies everywhere, with all a 
 month's dust on their hardy leaves. Now that 
 the sun had come out a ground-bee crept from her 
 nest, and flew singing into the thicket. Peering
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 9 
 
 above the tawny carpet of dried leaves one or two 
 wood-violets showed their light delicate hue and 
 breathed their faint subtlest of odours. Stooping 
 to pick one, the itinerant saw that it was being 
 visited by a dapper little spider ; and he 
 wondered if insects have an aesthetic sense of 
 smell, if, like himself, the gallant spider wished 
 to scent the fragrance of the violet. Do bees and 
 butterflies enjoy the odours of the flowers they 
 frequent % It must be so : they watch the blush- 
 ing of the wild rose, and gather the sweetness of 
 the violet. 
 
 A blackbird hopped out of a clump of pollard 
 hornbeam, and flew deeper into the wood with a 
 thick guttural cry, ' Tut-tut- tut-tut,' as much as to 
 say, ' Here's another wretched cockney, and I 
 thought the Easter holidays were over ! ' 
 
 A robin with his olive back and red gills 
 loitered about a mole - hill waiting till the 
 itinerant should be near enough to witness his
 
 10 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 heroism. He had found a long red worm ; and as 
 soon as he felt certain that his proceedings were 
 observed, he pulled it out of the ground with a 
 fierce tug, flourished it round his head, thrashed 
 the ground with it, stamped on it, slung it over 
 his shoulder, and flew to covert, his victim 
 streaming in the wind of his flight like a tattered 
 pennon. A Don Quixote of a robin ! He 
 evidently felt himself an eagle conquering a 
 serpent. 
 
 The path the itinerant followed would have led 
 him to Highbeach had he known it ; thither he 
 wished to go, but he missed the proper turning 
 and came out on a made road at the fringe of the 
 forest. Here a man in a smock-frock was paring 
 the sward that bordered the way ; a cheerful- 
 looking man, somewhat round - shouldered, but 
 tall, with cane -coloured beard and hair, and a 
 fresh complexion, hardly tanned as yet. The 
 itinerant inquired the way of this agreeable
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH li 
 
 ditcher, and having been directed how to recover 
 the green ride he had lost, he started a conversa- 
 tion about the forest. 
 
 Itinerant. Have you no names for these forest- 
 paths 1 [The itinerant had read in romances of 
 names given to woodland ways.) 
 
 Ditcher. They are mostly called green rides. 
 Some of them have names. If you be from 
 Chingford you came by the Bury Path and along 
 the Woodman's Glade. This here is Motts 
 Street, the road you're in just now. It takes you 
 to Highbeach if you like. The other way there 
 through the forest is just a green ride. 
 
 Itinerant. I suppose things are well forward 
 this season. 
 
 Ditcher. Yes, they be. I see a nine-killer th' 
 other day. 
 
 Itinerant. A nine-killer ? 
 
 Ditcher. What you call a shrike. The bird 
 that likes hung meat.
 
 12 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. But why do you call it a nine- 
 killer 1. 
 
 Ditcher. 'Cause he always catches nine beetles, 
 or whatever he's after, and sticks 'em on thorns in 
 his larder before he begins to eat. 
 
 Itinerant. Then he's a better counter than the 
 crow which can't go beyond three. 
 
 Ditcher. Ay, sir. 
 >• Itinerant. And does the nine-killer not usually 
 appear so soon % 
 
 Ditcher. No; he don't hardly ever come till 
 end of April. 
 
 Itinerant. I suppose there are a great many 
 kinds of birds and beasts in the forest. 
 
 Ditcher. There be ; all kinds. Every creature 
 has a chance here. They keeps it wild, you know, 
 sir, now. A bit o' nature. 
 
 Itinerant. Deer, foxes, stoats, badgers, weasels, 
 otters — eh ? 
 
 Ditcher. Yes, and wolves.
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 13 
 
 Itinerant. What % wolves ! Wolves within 
 twelve miles of London. I thought there had 
 been no wolves in the British Isles for many 
 years. 
 
 Ditcher. They have 'em here. I never seen 
 'em ; but I hear 'em howl at night. 
 
 The itinerant is easily imposed on ; but in this 
 matter he thought he could take a heavy handicap 
 and beat the hedger. 
 
 Itinerant. Well ; I had no idea you had 
 wolves too. I saw a den of lions in the Wood- 
 man's Glade, and a boa-constrictor dangling in a 
 spear-oak. These I expected of course. They are 
 provided by the County Council for the children 
 to play with on holidays; but it's news to me 
 about the wolves. 
 
 Ditcher (indifferently). Ay, sir. 
 
 Itinerant. Many wolves \ 
 
 Ditcher. I don't know. Prairie wolves they 
 call 'em.
 
 14 A /RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. If I follow die green ride then, it 
 will take me to Highbeach. 
 
 Ditcher. It will, sir. Through Fairmead 
 Bottom and by the Hill Wood. 
 
 Itinerant. Thank you^ very much. Good- 
 day. 
 
 Ditcher. Good-day, sir. 
 
 The itinerant was not satisfied about the wolves, 
 and had more light on the subject before he left 
 the forest. 
 
 The blackthorn blossom had ceased along the 
 ride. Besides the hollies, almost the only green 
 visible was that of the common hawthorn. Pollard 
 hornbeams, spear-oaks, beeches, and crab-apple trees 
 crowded their buds together, with here a maple in 
 a marshy place, and there a willow in a sheltered 
 hollow. Many of the oaks wore much of their 
 last year's dress, crinkled leaves of rusty gold that 
 pattered against each other in the wind. The 
 pinkish shade of the unburst buds made with the
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 1$ 
 
 dark branches and trunks the purple hue already 
 mentioned. 
 
 Towards Highbeach, the gorse began, fine old 
 whins bursting into bloom, yellower than butter- 
 cups. Highbeach is a hamlet with cottages, 
 houses with walled gardens, and a steepled church 
 clustered midway on the verge of the forest. 
 Here the ground rises to a height of about three 
 hundred and fifty feet, and the itinerant looked 
 out across a wide undulating plain, with red tiles 
 and blue slates in the foreground, a long trail of 
 steam from a train in the middle distance, and a 
 succession of ridges beyond away across Hertford- 
 shire to Kensworth Hill, on the borders of Bed- 
 ford — a wide hazy prospect, blown over by a 
 strong east wind, under a blue sky, flecked with 
 white. While he surveyed the broad English 
 landscape, the mellow bell of Highbeach Chui'ch 
 rang twelve. Before the peal was ended Waltham 
 Abbey, a mile and a half away, took up the ringing,
 
 1 6 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 and another iron tongue, more distant still — at 
 Cheshunt perhaps or Epping — chimed faintly in ; 
 and the tale of noon was told in a three-voiced 
 glee. 
 
 The itinerant was hungry. In Dick Turpin's 
 Cave, a homely inn on the brink of the bank, he 
 purchased for the customary fourpence a pint of 
 bitter beer. 
 
 ' 1 wish to take it outside, ' he said, and tendered 
 a shilling. 
 
 ' Very well, sir ; I'll keep the shilling till you 
 come back : that's eightpence on the pot,' said 
 the damsel of the inn. 
 
 It was dismaying not to be trusted, but the 
 itinerant wore a fore-and-aft cap, and a faded light 
 tweed suit, and looked, doubtless, very insolvent. 
 ' Eightpence on the pot ! ' He had become for 
 the time being a sort of pawnbroker, and had 
 lent a young woman eightpence on a pewter 
 pot.
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 17 
 
 In a hollow half full of whins and sheltered 
 
 from the wind, he sat down and undid the satchel 
 
 he carried over his shoulder. It contained a piece 
 
 of pie, some bread and butter, and three books — 
 
 Shakespeare's ' Sonnets,' TVither's ' Mistress of 
 
 Philarete,' and Oarlyle's ' Past and Present.' He 
 
 handled the books one after the other as he took 
 
 his lunch. The sun had grown strong, and small 
 
 bees, looking only half-grown, with big yellow 
 
 thighs — much too big for their bodies — buzzed 
 
 among the gorse. He heard them loud in a bush 
 
 behind him, and turned to look. They moved 
 
 from yellow flower to flower with great rapidity ; 
 
 it was surely by miracle that they escaped impaling 
 
 themselves on the close-ranked spines of the whins. 
 
 Above through a blossomless thorn the wind sang 
 
 shrilly. On one side the tops of a cluster of dark 
 
 Scotch firs appeared, and through a dent in the 
 
 ridge of the hollow he caught a glimpse of the 
 
 haze that lay on Essex and Hertford, rolling 
 
 B
 
 1 8 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 thinly over woody ridge and fallow field. A great 
 ground-bee went twanging past, its rich bourdon 
 rising and falling on the wind. 
 
 The itinerant thought what an admirable insti- 
 tution eating aud drinking is, and slipped his 
 books back into his satchel. He meditated on the 
 noble part eating and drinking plays in literature. 
 Dickens is full of it ; unromantic guzzling, and 
 bourgeois stufiing and gormandising, always in the 
 highest of spirits. Scott has delightful feeding ; the 
 breakfast at Tillietudlem, and the midnight supper 
 of the Black Knight and the Holy Friar of Cop- 
 manhurst ; and Shakespeare's feasts and banquets 
 from ' The Merry Wives of Windsor ' to ' Macbeth ' 
 and ' The Tempest ' ; Sancho Panza's many meals 
 made on the homeliest fare, or on the rich scum- 
 ming of the pot at Camacho's marriage ; and the 
 heroic entertainments of Pantagruel. 
 
 A bird perched on a whin and said, as the itine- 
 rant had heard it often say in Methven Wood,
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 19 
 
 ' Where have you been since this time last year % ' 
 It fluttered to another bush, repeated the same 
 rapid sentence, and flew away. Again a ground- 
 bee twanged past like a harp-string struck in the 
 air. A finch in a thorn behind chafied him with 
 its ' chap-chap-chap-chap-chap,' ending in a pro- 
 longed and suddenly closed 'pewee,' which had 
 exactly the efiect of an impudent wink. 
 
 The damsel in Dick Turpin's Cave redeemed 
 the pewter pot ; and the itinerant took the road 
 again. For a little way he followed a made path, 
 thick with white dust and rough with big pebbles. 
 A large red fly, which looked as if it were semi- 
 transparent, flitted about among the dust like a 
 winged ruby. He reached a region of heather 
 and bracken where the trees were scanty, and left 
 the made road for a cattle path. It was tiresome, 
 however, walking in the treacherous ground, and 
 he resumed the dusty way. 
 
 March had now donned his blue mantle, and
 
 20 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 was busy spending all the sunshine he had. The 
 piping wind kept down the heat, and lifted the 
 dust only in whiffs. 
 
 At the Wake Arms, an inn near the north- 
 western extremity of the forest, the itinerant saw 
 a fruit-tree laden with blossom, passionate with 
 fragrance, and resonant with bees. Here he 
 turned about and took the London road straight 
 through the forest, a made road, inch thick in 
 white dust seamed with pebbles. Hitherto he 
 had walked mostly on grass, through gorse and 
 ling, and tawny bracken, over rusty heather or 
 dead leaves, and the long white way undulating 
 right on into the misty horizon and danced over 
 by phantom puffs of dust, had its fascination. The 
 road was higher than the general level of the 
 forest, but there were frequent acclivities on either 
 side, and birch-trees appeared upon the slopes. 
 Young and lady-like, they had hurried on their 
 leaves sooner than their companions. Against the
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 21 
 
 purple background they quivered and flashed and 
 shot up, drooping their slim branches like fountains 
 of green spray lit from within. Suddenly on the 
 right, the forest opened an eye and looked at the 
 itinerant — Wake Valley Pond glittering in the 
 sun. He saw that a landscape without water is 
 like the face of a blind man; and he tarried by the 
 pond where the withered sedges rustled until the 
 last diamond that sparkled among the ripples died 
 out as the sun went west. 
 
 Soon he came to a green ride on the left and 
 followed it. Here he met a man studying a guide- 
 book with maps. 
 
 ' Is there,' he said, surprising the other itinerant 
 by the suddenness of his address, 'anything in your 
 book about wolves % ' 
 
 'About wolves,' echoed the other man, who was 
 very cool. ' Yes, there is something about wolves 
 in my book,' with a reproving emphasis on the 
 possessive.
 
 22 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. I should be much obliged to you if 
 you would tell me what it is. 
 
 The Other Itinerant. Certainly ; here it is. 
 ' An animal was purchased as a cub by a gentle- 
 man living in Leytonstone, from a hay-carter, who 
 said that he had caught it with two others in the 
 forest, and described them as fox-cubs.' Then it 
 says when this cub grew up it turned out to be a 
 prairie wolf. The conjecture is that its parents 
 must have been wolves enlarged by mistake for 
 Spanish foxes. 
 
 Itinerant. And is that a reliable book ? 
 
 The Other Itinerant. Rather, It's by the 
 verderer, Mr Edward North Buxton. 
 
 Itinerant {convinced at once and much im- 
 pressed hy the old name^ and also fully persuaded 
 that the ditcher had been reading the verderer's 
 book). Oh ! the verderer ! Can you tell me 
 where this green ride will lead me ?
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 23 
 
 Thk Other Itinerant. Yes; it will lead you 
 past the Roman remains to Loughton. 
 
 Itinerant. Thank you very much. 
 
 The Other Itinerant. The verderer's book 
 costs only a shilling 3 you can get it at any rail- 
 way station in the neighbourhood, and it's very 
 useful. 
 
 It was a little impudent of the other itinerant 
 to say that, but of course he couldn't know that 
 the itinerant never buys guide-books ; besides, the 
 itinerant had blurted out his question too in- 
 formally to begin with. 
 
 He never saw the Roman remains ; he must 
 have passed by them or even through them ; but 
 he was dreaming of other things, and found him- 
 self at Loughton before he knew where he was. 
 By Warren Park and over Warren Hill, along 
 the Ranger's Road and past Connaught Water, 
 he came to Chingford Plain, whence he had 
 started in the morning shortly before eleven. It
 
 24 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 was now past four, and the red-coated golfers 
 were scattered over the course. Little groups of 
 excursionists hung about the Royal Forest Hotel, 
 with brakes, landaus, victorias, bicycles, and 
 tricycles. All round the horizon the haze 
 gathered thickly — March twitching his pearl-grey 
 mantle about him again ; but the blue dome of 
 the sky was still clear overhead. 
 
 At a cloud-high altitude two crows flew up 
 from Walthamstow making for the forest. Above 
 the border where the blackthorn began, one of 
 them turned towards the west ; the other hesi- 
 tated, hung on its wing a second, and then 
 followed. They seemed to dash into the sun, but 
 that was a mistake. Wheeling right round they 
 hastened back to Walthamstow ; perhaps they 
 had been eloping and had thought better of it. 
 Another crow passing under them in an opposite 
 direction considered them attentively, and looked 
 back with an odd turn of his head ; but he
 
 THE THIRTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH 25 
 
 cannot have been the forsaken husband, for he 
 pursued his onward course. A lark with a voice 
 like a bugle shattered its radiant song against 
 the sky, and a ground-bee sounded across the plain 
 — an ^olian harp of a single string humming 
 in the wind.
 
 IN EXPECTATION OF RAIN
 
 IN EXPECTATION OF RAIN 
 
 I — WOODGREEN COMMON 
 
 Thinking that a change was surely due, the 
 itinerant resolved to see the earth slake its long- 
 continued thirst. A scanty shower had fallen the 
 night before, and the dusty scent of the roads 
 and commons still lingered on the morning air. 
 But the day was most fantastic. The rags of a 
 thin fog, like wisps of dew-drenched gossamer, 
 trailed over the gardens and hung about the 
 poplars ; a westerly wind blew with a moist smell, 
 and the soft grey sky, welling with rain, seemed 
 about to overflow. By half -past nine a strong 
 sunbeam had bored through the clouds, and the
 
 30 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 wisps of fog flew up and vanished. Before the 
 bell of the parish church rang ten, through the 
 hole made by the first beam the light had 
 streamed, flooding the sky and changing it from 
 grey to a milky porcelain, and in another minute 
 or two the porcelain had melted away, like a 
 wasted iceboard in the water, and the blue firma- 
 ment spread from horizon to horizon. ' No rain 
 to-day,' he thought. 
 
 Scarcely an hour had passed when the clouds 
 began to climb on all sides. Rising stealthily on 
 each other's shoulders, they peered over the 
 world, stood up, stretched themselves, and then 
 settled down in their places, each new-comer 
 smothering the one beneath him. Shortly the 
 whole sky was sombre again; the wind 
 strengthened and grew clammy; and the itin- 
 erant went out to the common, confident that at 
 last the rain had come. 
 
 Chapped and seamed all over, the common
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RAIN 31 
 
 gaped for water. Brown and burned, the patches 
 of parched green fewer than the bare places, it 
 looked as if a troop of lazy flames had lounged 
 over it, licking at random. The itinerant lifted 
 from among the cracks pieces of soil a foot square 
 and three or four inches thick, loosened and 
 baked by the long drought ; but while he stooped 
 over the withered ground the sun came out and 
 smote him between the shoulders. He looked up, 
 and saw the last of the clouds slipping down over 
 the horizon like guilty things. ' No rain to-day.' 
 
 n — BLACKHEATH AND GREENWICH PARK 
 
 In the afternoon, however, the clouds made a 
 third attempt. They massed themselves in 
 battalions, and crowded and thronged, towering 
 and stooping over the earth, eager, but still with- 
 held. The itinerant felt convinced now that the 
 rain would come before sundown \ and remember- 
 ing how important an event the first real shower
 
 32 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 of the season would be, he thought it might be 
 more becoming to witness it on some historic 
 ground than on an unknown suburban common. 
 He selected Blackheath, and arrived there about 
 four. From the top of the 'bus that took him 
 from Liverpool Street to London Bridge he 
 noticed the watery shine of the sky reflected on 
 the smooth asphalt of the streets, and was still 
 hopeful : the westerly wind also felt cool and 
 moist. But long before he came to Blackheath 
 the air seemed to blow out of a furnace, the 
 clouds hung on their arms, standing at ease round 
 the verge of the world ; and the itinerant said to 
 himself for the third time, ' No rain to-day.' 
 
 The itinerant had never seen Blackheath 
 before, and was somewhat disappointed at first, 
 but soon came to like it, an immense sheet of 
 brown linoleum spread on a rugged surface, 
 crumpled here and there, worn into holes, dirty, 
 and stained with grass -green paint. Fine old
 
 IN EXPECTA TION OF RAIN 33 
 
 houses bordered it on the south and east ; on 
 either hand hung the wooded height of Black- 
 heath Hill, and the terraced slopes of Lee ; on 
 the north, Greenwich Park filled up a long, broad, 
 uninterrupted line of foliage. The clouds were 
 again rising stealthily, shouldering each other up, 
 and crowding each other down ; thunderous 
 clouds, they rolled and tumbled about the horizon, 
 stood a moment and scanned the earth, and then 
 lay all along once more, confused and incom- 
 moded by their number and hugeness, mere 
 vapouring giants unable to fling out a single 
 shower. 
 
 There were no cracks in the heath, it is only 
 in clay that these gaping wounds appear. Boys 
 and men were dotted over it, playing cricket and 
 golf. A stray carriage, an accustomed 'bus rolled 
 along the highways that cross it, and it was 
 watered by one solitary watering cart. The 
 itinerant failed to notice immediately what a piece
 
 34 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 of irony this was ; but soon he perceived it to be 
 one of those unconscious practical jokes the 
 perpetration of which may ultimately prove to be 
 the final cause of all ofiicialdom. One watering-cart 
 to Blackheath ! Sedulously the waterman led 
 his stooping horse : the water burst from the 
 pierced pipe with as much confidence as if it had 
 been a second deluge pouring from the windows 
 of heaven ; and in a little while a tiny spot of the 
 brown, worn, and green-stained linoleum was 
 wet and glistening : in like manner a canary 
 sprinkles from its glass an infinitesimal shower on 
 a parlour floor. 
 
 And now at last the itinerant understood the 
 clouds. It was this watering-cart they thronged 
 to see ; they pushed and rose upon each other to 
 catch a glimpse of it ; nudged and dug each other 
 in the ribs, and then fell down dissolved in silent 
 laughter. Certainly as long as they were in that 
 mood there would be no rain.
 
 IN EXPECTA TION OF RAIN 35 
 
 The itinerant lingered in Greenwich Park till 
 after twilight. Again and again he wondered at 
 the natural lattice-work on the trunks of the old 
 Spanish chestnuts. As he lounged among the trees 
 they seemed to keep up a stately antique dance ; 
 trunk glided noiselessly past trunk ; clusters that 
 looked like one great tree shed off couples to right 
 and left ; in figures and chains they flitted about, 
 their robes of green brocade hanging stifl^y round 
 them, and blackbirds piped the golden notes to 
 which the park moved in its grave minuet. In 
 the hollows the mist gathered, and as darkness 
 fell, shy creatures stole from tree to tree — the 
 fallow deer, come fi'om their enclosure to snatch a 
 supper of the crusts and crumbs left by the human 
 visitors. 
 
 Ill — EPPIXG FOREST 
 
 Next day was equally fantastic, but the itinerant 
 was not to be misled until towards evening a 
 moist odour came up on the wind. He was still
 
 36 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 in the mood to behold the earth assuage its pro- 
 longed thirst, and this time he went to Epping 
 Forest. 
 
 Chingford Plain was a network of cracks, every 
 one pleading dumbly to the tantalising skies. The 
 clouds that had promised so bounteously slunk 
 away, and the red sun went west in a saffron mist. 
 The emerald of the young oak-leaves, and the wan 
 blossom of the hawthorn seemed fainting for rain ; 
 but the green smell of the forest, and the spicy 
 smell of the dry earth, were as refreshing as a 
 salad. A cuckoo went off close beside the itinerant, 
 beating its golden gong ; and he heard an odd thing 
 the like of which he has not seen recorded. The 
 bird called nine times, and a half. At the fifth 
 call it said only ' cuck,' and stopped as if something 
 had stuck in its throat ; a rest stood for the 'coo,' 
 and it kept time with the sixth call complete. 
 Was it an accident, or a daring bird trying to be 
 original 1
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RAIN 37 
 
 The forest was full of cuckoos calling to each 
 other. Most of their voices were of extraordinary 
 richness and volume, but not two alike in tone. 
 In the "Woodman's Glade it seemed as if they 
 were shouting through speaking-trumpets, so near 
 and loud and full were their mellow notes. Faint 
 and sweet the answers came on all sides, and 
 from far within the forest, the furthest heard 
 reply being a shadowy, echo-like ' coo.' The first 
 half of the cuckoo's call becomes inaudible at a 
 comparatively short distance, but the second may 
 be heard miles away. 
 
 The itinerant had to keep to the glades and 
 green rides ; for as soon as he went beneath a tree 
 he was covered with caterpillars. The leaves of 
 the pollard hornbeams and of many of the oaks 
 were eaten away to mere skeletons ; and the sound 
 of the myriads of caterpillars dropping from leaf to 
 leaf, was like the patter of rain. They hung in 
 strings when they had eaten their way down
 
 38 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 through a tree. The itinerant counted sixteen 
 caterpillars on one thread about a yard long : 
 three of them were fighting — actually contending 
 for a special half-inch of the filament to which 
 they clung. 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock, but the larks were 
 still singing high overhead like violins cresting 
 the swell of a symphony ; for finches, sparrows, 
 blackbirds, wrens, and nightingales were loud in 
 every tree, and the cuckoos droned melodiously 
 over the entire forest. Gradually the performance 
 grew less orchestral ; musician after musician fell 
 out, and the last lark dropped breathless from the 
 sky at half-past seven by the bell of Highbeach 
 Church. A haze swept along the plain, and soon 
 enveloped the forest ; yet, shrouded so, the night- 
 ingales still sang on, uninterpretable — showers of 
 diamonds and rubies, showers of stars ; and the 
 cuckoos pealed out their deep chest-notes calling to 
 each other.
 
 IN EXPECTA TION OF RAIN 39 
 
 IV IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE 
 
 On the last day of the first half of the 
 great drought of 1893, the itinerant, still in ex- 
 pectation of rain, went to Amershara. It is a 
 question if there was any exquisite reason, or even 
 reason sufficient, for his doing so, but to Amersham 
 he went. He knew it to be an ancient Bucking- 
 hamshire borough, that its uncorrupted name is 
 Acrmondesham, and that as the new extension line 
 to Aylesbury passes it, it is easily accessible from 
 London. 
 
 Amersham station is quarter-a-mile from the 
 town. Between them a spur of the Chilterns 
 shuts out all signs of inhabitation, and when the 
 itinerant came out from the offensively new 
 booking-office into the offensively new road, that, 
 turning an abrupt corner, seemed to lead to no- 
 where, he felt something very much akin to fear. 
 Round about were low, knuckly chalk hills with
 
 40 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 withered-looking fields, like an old profligate 
 country in the last stage of gout ; a hot south-west 
 wind blew across it, and the sky was sultry. The 
 raw and glaring station, the white railway track 
 with the grey shining lines, would vanish shortly 
 as the train had done, and he would be left to 
 wander about in this doleful, dying region for 
 ever and ever. He thought he had taken a train 
 from Baker Street to Amersham, but it was all a 
 snare of the Evil One; he was dead and in a 
 circle of Hades unexplored by Dante, being un- 
 known in his day, the leprous land appointed for 
 the punishment of descriptive writers. Happily 
 some good people appeared in the road ; the 
 train then had not been a delusion, for they must 
 have come in it also, although he had not seen 
 them leaving the station ; one man, three women, 
 and a girl — none of them literary people. They 
 were evidently quite at home in the strange land, 
 so the itinerant followed them.
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RAIN 41 
 
 By a by-path they climbed into a beech-wood, 
 where the wind rustled and sighed in the most 
 earthly manner imaginable, and the pale light 
 taking an emerald tinge, filtered through the 
 downy masses of delicate green foliage, the kindly 
 light that has been on sea and land since the sun 
 began to shine. The itinerant felt that he wanted 
 never again to have anything at all to do with that 
 * light which never was on sea or land.' He 
 thought it a stupid idea of Wordsworth's, and 
 was in the mood to declare that the lights of sun, 
 moon, and stars are quite sufficient for any poet \ 
 these, with that of ladies' eyes, and some whole- 
 some midnight oil, if he likes. In the case of 
 Wordsworth, himself, he roundly asserted to an 
 imaginary disputant that his 'inspiration' and his 
 ' dream ' are always finest when he keeps closest 
 to earth and its lights. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' rejoined the imaginary disputant quite 
 audibly, and the itinerant began to wonder if he
 
 42 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 were not in a phantasmal region after all, ' there's 
 a magic in Wordsworth at his best that's not of 
 this world.' 
 
 * What nonsense ! ' exclaimed the itinerant. 
 ' What paltry, unintelligent criticism ! Why will 
 you echo such commonplaces 1 
 
 "Oh, who will tell me what she sings? 
 Perhaps the f)laintive numbers flow 
 For old unhappy far-off things, 
 And battles long ago." 
 
 There is no more magical verse in Wordsworth 
 than that, and it is all made out of the world — a 
 Highland reaper, a Gaelic song, and memories of 
 ancient times. There may have been once a kind 
 of meaning in the "light that never was on sea or 
 land " ; but it is emptied of it now, and has 
 become cant — a fate which has overtaken greater 
 expressions.' 
 
 These vehement remarks silenced the itinerant's 
 opponent, and he withdrew into the inane : there
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RA IN 4 3 
 
 is no one more easily overcome in argument than 
 an imaginary disputant. 
 
 The footpath led down into Amersham, past a 
 walled churchyard with sombre yews, and cypresses 
 more sombre still. It was after twelve, but there 
 were few people in the streets. Broad and clean, 
 the main thoroughfare came short of being 
 picturesque through want of height in the buildings. 
 No two houses seemed of the same pattern. 
 Shops, inns, residences, were of all ages, from the 
 wood and plaster and projecting front of the 
 Tudors to the red brick and immoral stone-facings 
 of the Guelphs. With many differences in height 
 and shape, conformity in one matter marked most 
 of the buildings, even the newest and shoddiest. 
 The windows had more breadth than length, and 
 were set low in the wall, and those of the upper 
 storey were crowded up under the eaves. This old 
 fashion is not perhaps in itself highly aesthetic, but 
 by contrast with the monotonous regularity of
 
 44 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 most modern glazing it is quite beautiful. Thatch, 
 slate, red tile, the last predominating, were no 
 small part of the effect of variety which the town 
 presented. Amersham is compact and airy though 
 lying in a valley ; a very pleasant, old-fashioned 
 little town, quite unchanged as yet by the railway. 
 It was worth seeing ; above all, it was worth while 
 to come suddenly on it out of the beech- wood. 
 The itinerant came into and walked through it, 
 before he quite realised that there was a town 
 there. 
 
 One of the great delights of an itinerant is the 
 half-hour in the inn when it is time to eat and 
 drink. It may be that for a whole day the only 
 opportunity of human converse he has is with the 
 innkeeper or the taproom-maid — always excepting 
 imaginary disputants — and, if he be a practised 
 itinerant, he selects his inn carefully, supposing he 
 has a choice ; stalks it, so to speak, and enters it 
 with some excitement and expectation. The
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RAIN 45 
 
 choicest inn in Amersham had indeed an enticing, 
 antique air, and the sign was of the quaintest ; so 
 was the old innkeeper, a surly, indignant-looking 
 person. The itinerant asked him whose whisky 
 he kept. 
 
 Innkeeper. My own. 
 
 Itinerant, Oh yes, of course ! But whose 1 
 
 Innkeeper. My own. 
 
 Itinerant. Are you a distiller then 1 
 
 Innkeeper. No ; but you asked me whose 
 whisky I kept, and I said my own. It belongs to 
 me. 
 
 The innkeeper began to look very savage; this 
 was evidently a standard joke of his, and it 
 seemed as if it weren't going to come off this 
 time. A judicious laugh, however, set matters 
 right; and the innkeeper without much change in 
 his surly and indignant expression, developed 
 a communicative and reminiscential mood ; he 
 had a very odd appearance talking pleasantly,
 
 46 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 with his fixed look of exasperation. Asked if he 
 had been in Amersham all his days, he replied, No, 
 he had lived in London for a dozen years, but 
 had been born and brought up in Amersham. 
 
 Itinerant. And has Amersham changed much 
 in your day ^ 
 
 Innkeeper. Not much ; the streets grow a 
 little longer by a house or two every half-dozen 
 years, that's all. I remember, although I was 
 only a boy at the time, when the Reform Bill of 
 '32 was passed. People used to say then that 
 Amersham would turn into a great place ; they 
 seemed to think that the Reform Bill was a sort 
 of promise to pay, and they would all get money 
 and be butchers and innkeepers and manu- 
 facturers ; and Amersham would grow bigger than 
 Aylesbury. Long after the bill was passed they 
 came and stood about the Market Hall in the 
 evening, waiting, you would have said, for the 
 money to fall from the skies.
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RA IN 47 
 
 Itinerant. Was that the Market Hall I passed 
 a little way down the street — a curious-looking 
 building, standing on cloisters, like a house on a 
 bridge % 
 
 Innkeeper. Yes ; that's the Market Hall. I 
 remember seeing an election before the Reform 
 Bill, when the town returned two members. 
 After it was over the members stood up on stones 
 in front of the hall, like duxes in a school, and 
 recited little speeches, and then drove about the 
 town in carriages with four horses apiece. 
 After that came the funniest thing ; it was a 
 custom here, and I saw it myself, for my father 
 kept this inn before me. Into all the inns the 
 women came, high and low, rich and poor, 
 married and single ; and the two members went 
 about from inn to inn and kissed 'em every one. 
 
 Itinerant. The election, I suppose, wouldn't 
 have been valid unless they had done so. 
 
 Innkeeper. Perhaps not. Anyway I saw the
 
 48 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 members do it in the public-room of this inn. 
 Very solemn and regular they were about it — a 
 piece of business. And as soon as they had gone 
 over them all, the young fellows in the town 
 came after them, and there was such a kissing 
 match as you never heard. I was only a boy then, 
 and before I was old enough it was changed 
 times. 
 
 Itinerant. Old enough 1 
 
 ' To take my share of the kissing,' replied 
 the innkeeper, looking more irate than ever. 
 
 The itinerant began to perceive that mechanical 
 indignation was the only expression of which 
 the innkeeper's face was capable, and that his 
 softer moods and pleasanter dispositions, as well 
 as his dissatisfaction and annoyance, were alike 
 rendered facially by an intensification of his 
 habitual choleric look. 
 
 After some desultory remarks, the itinerant 
 expressed a wish to walk about a little, and asked
 
 IN EXPECTA TION OF RAIN 49 
 
 the innkeeper to recommend a road. ' Go to 
 Chesham,' said the innkeeper. ' Is it a pleasant 
 road?' 'A good road.' 'And what is thereat 
 Chesham % ' ' Woodware. They make chairs, and 
 bats, and tennis-racquets and toy spades ; brushes, 
 too, and boots ; and there's a cress ditch.' 
 
 Having never seen a cress ditch, the itinerant 
 felt that Chesham was the place to go to. He 
 hesitated for a moment when he learned that it 
 was only three miles away ; but although it was 
 in the hopes of seeing rain he had come out, the 
 sky had grown so dark, and a thunder-plump 
 seemed so imminent that he speedily felt recon- 
 ciled to the shortness of the walk. 
 
 On passing through the graveyard — he had to 
 retrace his steps as far as Amersham station — a 
 feature in the majority of the inscriptions struck 
 him. They all read, ' In memory of Mr, or Mrs, or 
 Miss So-and-So.' He had seen this curious for- 
 mality in English graveyards before, but never 
 
 D
 
 50 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 to such an extent. Probably the most egregious 
 example of it is to be found in the churchyard 
 of St Mary's, Stoke Newington, where a well-sized 
 tomb is inscribed, ' Sacred to Miss Ellen Soames, 
 who died on the 13th of September, 1823, aged 
 one year and two months.' 
 
 The cloud grew blacker, and a hot clammy south- 
 west wind blew it up from the Thames Valley. 
 
 ' How soon will the rain come % ' the itinerant 
 asked of a countryman. 
 
 'Not a drop to-day,' he replied, as confidently 
 as if he had been speaking of a thing within his 
 own control — as if the earth had been a drunkard 
 whom he had undertaken to keep sober. 
 
 ' Leastways,' he added, ' not hereabouts.' 
 
 There being apparently neither hope nor fear of 
 rain, the itinerant sauntered out the three miles 
 between Amersham and Chesham to the tune of 
 an hour and a half. It was a noble road over the 
 roof of the land. On either side the view was
 
 IN EXPECT A TION OF RAIN 51 
 
 limited by an abrupt declivity ; but the itinerant 
 felt on the very top of the world. There was no 
 higher ground in sight ; you had only to walk 
 half-a-mile to the left or to the right to reach the 
 end of the earth and drop off into space. The 
 black cloud behind grew always the heavier, and 
 dipped and rose again. Ragged lumps of it hanging 
 by a hair seemed about to fall out ; a dull rumble 
 of thunder announced their downcome, but yet they 
 were withheld. A second peal, nearer, but more 
 reticent, indicated some kind of joke on the part 
 of the sky. The idea seemed to be to come as near 
 as possible to a downpour without letting a single 
 drop fall. A third peal, louder, but still more 
 restrained — concerned even, as if there had been a 
 wager pending — was all the sky dared risk. Pro- 
 bably one drop did fall. On the whole, however, 
 it was successful, although not fun of a very high 
 order : like the Edinburgh editor, the laconic sky 
 joked with difficulty.
 
 52 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Half-way between Amersham and Chesham, 
 there lies a furze common. It was all in bloom, 
 and the sober hue of the skies gave the gold of 
 the whins a deeper tone. A shepherd's boy tended 
 some goats and sheep that fed among the bushes ; 
 from more than one neighbouring smithy the 
 anvils rang ; and the cuckoos sounded in a beech- 
 wood. Here were some delightful acres of old 
 England, a little island between two railways only 
 a mile off on either hand. 
 
 It was to see a cress ditch that the itinerant 
 went to Chesham ; but he found the town more 
 interesting and picturesque than Amersham. 
 The High Street contained higher buildings than 
 the main thoroughfare of the latter town, with as 
 much variety in style. It was not nearly so wide 
 either; and narrowness in a street has great 
 aesthetic value when the buildings are not im- 
 posing. As for the cress ditch, he had some
 
 - IN EXPECTA TION OF RAIN 53 
 
 difficulty in finding it. Those people he asked 
 were profuse in their directions, and seemed quite 
 proud of their ditch. He began to look upon 
 cresses as the staple of Ohesham, and was some- 
 what dismayed when told that he had just walked 
 past the ditch without observing it. Retracing 
 his steps, he found, instead of the great moat he 
 had expected, a small stream of water on one side 
 of the road, containing forty-four baskets face 
 downwards and tightly packed for Coven t 
 Garden \ and on the other a small artificial marsh 
 where the plant grew, occupying a portion of 
 ground that could have been easily covered by a 
 good-sized carpet. Doubtless it was a capital 
 cress ditch, but the itinerant did not share the 
 enthusiasm of the Cheshamites. He preferred 
 their fine old church from whose tower curfew 
 rings every night. The graveyard he found too 
 trim and modern ; but in the * windy, tall elm
 
 54 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 trees ' beside it, crows, well up in years, and of 
 antique lineage, uttered their husky voices re- 
 gardless of the ways of men. 
 
 The itinerant had gone to the wrong county. 
 While he walked about Buckinghamshire, rain 
 was falling heavily in Herts ; for four hours it 
 poured at Barnet that day, and for several days 
 after the rain was general, hardening the drought, 
 as it happened.
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 
 
 I — SPRING IN LONDON 
 
 In the end of April the itinerant tracked the 
 Spring through London for a whole day, be- 
 ginning at Waterlow Park, Highgate. 
 
 Purple irises, forests of wallflower of blood- 
 streaked yellow or deep velvet brown, and borders 
 of forget-me-nots, bluer than anything except the 
 eyes of little children, filled the spaces about the 
 lower High Street entrance. Two ill-dressed 
 women chattering and walking quickly passed in 
 along with the itinerant ; but both paused invol- 
 untarily in their speech and gait as they plunged 
 without warning into the invisible cloud of scent.
 
 58 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 One of them had on some ragged finery ; the 
 clothes of the other were plainer; both, care- 
 worn, hard-wrought women. The younger smiled 
 in a wan way, and the tears came into the eyes of 
 the elder. Perhaps no scent in the world is so 
 loaded with early memories as that of the wall- 
 flower. 
 
 It was nine in the morning, the east wind 
 chilly, but the sky clear overhead, with smoke 
 and haze lying towards London. Near Lauder- 
 dale House stood a dusty laurustinus, its white 
 bloom half over ; a fig-tree with the fruit already 
 formed and sticking close to the branches ; and a 
 small orchard in which the trees began to shed 
 their blossom. 
 
 Waterlow Park contains a deeper hollow than 
 any other open space in London. The pond in 
 this miniature valley is surrounded by willows 
 drooping their green manes ; by thorns that have 
 taken some of the slope of a waterside plant and
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 59 
 
 sent out overhanging boughs; other trees have 
 not been so accommodating. Ducks and swans 
 sailed abcut and preened themselves, enjoying the 
 cool of the morning. One little drake of a 
 burnished black purple like iridescent ink made a 
 great show in the presence of several admiring 
 ducks, untU a big white fellow with nothing at- 
 tractive in his appearance chased him all across 
 the pond to ignominious safety on land. Doubt- 
 less the defeated bird consoled himself with the 
 trite reflection that the artistic temperament has 
 always the worst of it in a combat with dull- 
 ness. 
 
 Here and there were chestnut-trees, all their 
 candles lit in their broad-leaved sconces ; and in a 
 shrubbery burned the intenser flame of a solitary 
 laburnum. At the higher gate an exiled cedar of 
 Lebanon threw a magnificent shade. Under all 
 his broad shelving boughs of sombre green, dead 
 branches were hidden and huddled together in
 
 6o A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 fantastic shapes of claws and skeletons — a gloomy- 
 secret tree that no wind stirs, moping silently. 
 
 At the higher entrance the itinerant spoke to a 
 policeman. 
 
 Itinerant. I suppose, like the, rest of us, you 
 never remember a spring at all like this. 
 
 Policeman. No, sir. I've never seen anything 
 like it. I've been in the way of watching trees 
 off and on for a lot of years, and I never re- 
 member seeing the chestnuts out till the Queen's 
 birthday. 
 
 Itinerant. Then things are fully a month in 
 advance. 
 
 Policeman. All that. Look at that laburnum. 
 I don't think I ever saw one so far forward till 
 the end of May or the beginning of -June. 
 
 Itinerant. It's most astonishing weather. 
 
 Policeman. It is. People don't know what to 
 think ; but they say we'll hear about it in June 
 and July.
 
 PA RKS A ND SQUARES 6 1 
 
 The itinerant went up past the old Gatehouse 
 Tavern, and along Southwood Lane under its 
 pollard elms, old and rugged, but crowned with 
 green garlands. He thought of Highgate's fam- 
 ous days, and how Byron remembered in Boeotian 
 Thebes that men and maids were sworn there 
 upon the solemn horn, the oath being : — Never to 
 drink small beer when strong was to be had unless 
 you liked it better; never, except by preference, 
 to eat brown bread when you could have white, or 
 water-gruel when turtle-soup was on the board ; 
 never to make love to the maid when the mistress 
 was more attractive, etc. And it seemed to him 
 that these were rarer times than ours. People 
 then had a more genial mood in their merry- 
 making, possibly because they had more leisure : 
 the haste and horror of a bank-holiday were 
 unknown. 
 
 Along Muswell Hill Road you skirt Highgate 
 Wood on the left ; on the right you have a broad
 
 62 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 view of the north of London and across Middlesex 
 into Essex. Road-making and pipe-laying were 
 going on ; the steam-roller panted, crunched, and 
 jangled, spreading out a heavy dressing of pebbles, 
 kneaded up with sand and water, as a housewife 
 would roll a covering for a pie-dish. The oppos- 
 ing ridge of Crouch End and Hornsey Rise 
 limited the view from Muswell Hill towards the 
 south, and on the north trees closed it up entirely, 
 gardens and the wooding of Alexandra Park. 
 
 In the little orchard of the Priory the stems 
 and boughs of the fruit-trees were painted white, 
 against some insect doubtless ; in their shrouds of 
 blossom with their white limbs they looked like 
 the spirits of dead trees haunting their earthly 
 resort ; but the rosy apple-bloom dispelled the 
 illusion — no ghost was ever known to blush. The 
 Priory Road leads into Hornsey High Street, 
 with its wooden houses, its old graveyard and 
 ivied tower ; and then across the New River and
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 63 
 
 under the Great Northern Railway you come 
 to the lonof road called Green Lanes. After a 
 mile of Green Lanes, all shorn of its trees at 
 this part, raw and comfortless, with new buildings 
 and new streets laid out, you reach the river 
 gate of Finsbury Park. Cut grass floated down 
 the New River, and small fish, olive green and 
 silver, fed against the stream, mistaking little 
 odds and ends for flies, and often missing the 
 small moths that barely touched the clear green 
 water. 
 
 In the close shrubberies of Finsbury Park, lilac 
 of all shades grew, white like downy ostrich 
 plumes, mauve, or lavender, or heliotrope, like 
 ostrich plumes dyed. In the pond on the top of 
 the hill boys rowed lazily in hired boats ; and on 
 the seats mothers and elder sisters with babies in 
 long frocks basked in the sun. No cloud now in 
 the sky ; only the sun, and the moon glistening 
 faintly — a broken filmy disc, as if Puck had caught
 
 64 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 the sun's reflection on a magic mirror and flashed 
 it back on the blue ceiling of heaven. From the 
 gate at Finsbury Park Station to the Manor 
 House the avenue of black poplars was like a way 
 with hedges forty feet high on either side ; but 
 the half-withered-looking leaves, yellow with a 
 blackish tinge, suggested a double stripe of 
 October — twin weals laid on by the sharp thong of 
 an autumn frost. 
 
 Clissold Park, quarter-a-mile from Finsbury 
 Park, on the road to Moorgate Street, is one of 
 the finest in London. It is small, but the trees 
 are lofty and well distributed. The New River 
 flows through it in an irregular course, and there 
 are two islanded ponds with waterfowl. The 
 itinerant looked for the cormorant — a bird sadly 
 out of place in artificial surroundings — which he 
 had often watched flapping his maimed wings and 
 fiercely refusing to look pathetic; but he was not 
 visible. He went by Queen Elizabeth's Walk to
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 65 
 
 the old church of St Mary's, Stoke Newingtoii, 
 
 standing in the midst of its little dark graveyard. 
 
 There is buried a woman with the stranse name 
 
 of Justina Kippist, and there the ringdoves in the 
 
 maples brood and coo softly over the old-fashioned 
 
 stones. 
 
 Back into Clissold Park again, he saw beside 
 
 the mansion-house two laburnums, perhaps the 
 
 largest about London. Although every flower 
 
 had burst its sheath, there seemed to be a 
 
 greenish tinge in the yellow drops, as if the sap 
 
 still strove to mingle with the molten gold. In 
 
 front of the house a one-sided chestnut-tree rose 
 
 like a dome or a firmament studded with stars ; 
 
 the blossoms were stuck over it so closely that 
 
 they had lost their candle - like appearance. 
 
 Were the north side of this tree as shapely as the 
 
 south, it would be one of the most beautiful 
 
 chestnuts in England. 
 
 From Finsbury Park the itinerant went by 
 
 E
 
 66 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 train to King's Cross. And now he began to 
 hurry ; he observed less carefully and imagined 
 more. Is not that the effect of close streets and 
 seething throngs % 
 
 In Brunswick Square, the lilac tossed all its 
 lavender plumes, dusty a little, but striving to be 
 gallant. The trees looked blighted compared with 
 the fresher green of the northern parks, and the 
 sky was different. No cloud or smoke was visible ; 
 only, the whole heavens seemed coated with size, 
 through which the blue shone faint and milky. 
 Queen Square was ragged and hunted-like. A 
 perplexed hawthorn did its best to blossom in the 
 once-respectable Guildford Street. Russell Square 
 looked like a small forest. Old plane-trees, tall, 
 with their leaves not fully formed, rose over the 
 hollies and limes, and the dense foliage was shot 
 through with the gold and lavender of laburnum 
 and lilac. Woburn Square, Torrington Square, 
 Gordon Square, Euston Square, ragged and
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 67 
 
 beggarly some of them, seemed all to throng to- 
 gether like a forlorn hope, in one desperate on- 
 slaught against brick and mortar — Nature, with 
 the spring in her cap, elbowing a way through the 
 streets of London. 
 
 The lindens in the Mall had put on all their 
 leaves, and the plane-trees were shedding their 
 bark. In St James's Park beds of flowers glowed 
 beside the shining water ; chestnuts lit up gloomy 
 spots with their dazzling candelabra ; laburnums 
 tried in vain to hide their golden lights in the 
 shadow of the old elms ; and the lilacs shook their 
 gay plumes of heliotrope and mauve and lavender. 
 
 Over the Green Park the itinerant went to 
 Rotten Row. It was an unfashionable hour. 
 There were only a few carriages, and these mostly 
 stationary, occupied by old ladies sunning them- 
 selves under parasols. The riders, though more 
 numerous, were not more interesting. 
 
 Magnificent trees border the Serpentine — domes
 
 68 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 and cones and mosques of green. In Kensington 
 Gardens, among the finest wooding in London, 
 the Serpentine narrows to a point, and five 
 fountains rush and gurgle and sparkle in a liquid 
 chorus beside two large nymphs holding vases 
 and seated on small swans. As the itinerant 
 walked along slowly, with nobody about, and the 
 water popping, crackling, and splashing, through 
 the nearer music of the fountains came the deep 
 sound of London, and there danced before his eyes 
 a vision of the wonderful spring of 1893, marching 
 through the city in green robes, with nodding 
 plumes of lilac, and a great retinue of laburnums 
 bearing lanterns, and chestnuts swinging tapers in 
 their hundred arms. 
 
 II — HAMPTON COURT PARK 
 
 Hampton Court Park is a pleasance of avenues. 
 The affectation which lurks in this definition is 
 wholly suitable, for the park is itself an affectation.
 
 PA RKS A ND SQ UA RES 69 
 
 Nature's gait has here been ordered by a prim 
 law, and her features brought into a fixed smile. 
 When these rows of trees were first planted, they 
 must have looked very ridiculous — like a free- 
 limbed hoyden suddenly borne up by a posture- 
 master. But age and custom have withered away 
 the acquired stiffness of their youth, and made 
 stale with an infinite variety of individual bulk 
 and outline their linear disposition. There seems 
 to be no wilfulness of man which Nature is unable 
 to adopt — great-hearted, artistic, non-moral, noth- 
 ing to her is illegitimate ; of the academic 
 affectation of Hampton Court Park she has made 
 with time and leisure, a bland and gracious don 
 who is also a man of the world. Or the affectation 
 has become so extravagant as to be sublime. 
 Scratch a Russian, and you find a Calmuck ; but 
 you would require to cut down these lofty elms, 
 leaving only rows of stumps, before their mathe- 
 matical arrangement would offend.
 
 70 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 On Whit-Monday, 1893, the first day of the 
 freedom of Hampton Court Home Park, the public 
 seemed but little interested in their new pleasure- 
 ground. Comparatively few visitors entered by 
 the little gate at Hampton "Wick, while the palace 
 entrance was thronged all day. Until well on in 
 the afternoon, more than a dozen people were 
 seldom visible at a time in the avenues and spaces 
 of the park proper, and most of these were walking 
 through at a business-like pace to the gardens and 
 pictures of the palace. One or two lounged and 
 watched, contented with the ease and breadth of 
 the green turf and the green trees, and entertained 
 by the brilliant manoeuvres of the summer sunshine 
 which moved about the park in deep squares 
 and silent regiments, detaching troops in single 
 files to explore the elm-tree shades, or to lie in 
 careless ambush gleaming among the oaks and 
 chestnuts. White clouds inlaid the blue sky ; the 
 sun shone as if through a burning-glass ; and a
 
 pji rks a nd sq ua res 7 1 
 
 south-west wind blew fitfully. Outside, marching 
 along the highway to Hampton, a secular band 
 passed, playing ' The Rose of Annandale ' — very 
 charming to those who remember it from the time 
 they were children : pearls can be made out of 
 dust and ashes, and memory on a holiday can adorn 
 the paltriest tune. 
 
 The north avenue, three-quarters of a mile long, 
 leads from Hampton Wick to the palace, and this 
 was the favourite approach for those visitors who 
 left the train at Kingston. On the pathway, the 
 light was spilt in splashes and pools, in drops and 
 showers. Sometimes it reached only the upper 
 branches of the trees ; sometimes the overarching 
 boughs were so interwoven that no light came 
 through, except a dusky glow tinged with the 
 green of the filtering leaves : a lofty aisle, six 
 furlongs in length, full of light and shade, sighing 
 and echoing to the warm south-west. 
 
 Through the palace gardens and through the
 
 72 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 palace the people came and went in thousands, 
 the ground before the east front being the 
 favourite promenade and lounge. They formed 
 little eddying groups about a sandstone Samson 
 or Hercules tearing asunder the jaws of a sand- 
 stone lion; they stood three deep round the pond 
 watching the shifting rainbow on the wind-blown 
 fountain, and the lazy gold-fish of aldermanic 
 bulk ; they rested in companies and families and 
 pairs, under the dense shade of the yews, dark old 
 trees that, like the cedar of Highgate, rustle to no 
 wind, hugging strange secrets in their close arms ; 
 or they admired the crescent plots and diamond- 
 beds of flowers, geraniums and forget-me-nots, 
 like damasks and brocades spread on the lawns to 
 take the sun and wind. Some haunted the banks 
 of the long canal-like stretch of water, watching 
 the white cups of the lilies open slowly among 
 their broad leaves, and catching glimpses of the 
 azure dragon-flies that glanced athwart and along
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 73 
 
 like elfin shuttles weaving of the sunbeams and 
 the air an invisible fabric, an enchanted coverlet 
 for the water in its mossy bed. 
 
 In the palace a perpetual stream of people 
 rolled and murmured through the wilderness of 
 pictures. Babbling, chattering, laughing, men, 
 women, and children, with hurried glances, pushed 
 along the rooms and corridors, or sat on the 
 broad window-sills, commenting on each other. 
 Stfange amid this tramp and hubbub to speculate 
 on the dubious Da Vincis and Titians — the ' Flora ' 
 with moonflowers and sunlight in her copper- 
 coloured hair, with a smiling secret in her eyes, 
 but too much laughter and promise in her mouth ; 
 the ' Lucrece ' with hidden face, sheathing ' in her 
 harmless breast, a harmful knife,' an exquisite but 
 almost melodramatic figure. As the itinerant 
 walked through the courtyards and round the 
 palace, the buzz and murmur issuing from every 
 wide open window seemed to him like that of a
 
 74 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 gigantic public school : the house which the des- 
 potic king took from the despotic cardinal has 
 passed to the democracy growing despotic. 
 
 Without the palace gates, a fine vulgar bustle 
 and hurly-burly roared and rumbled. Hampton 
 Green was turned into a skipping-rope rink, with 
 troops of giggling, screaming girls ; and a compact 
 fair bordered it. An endless succession of vehicles 
 bowled past to Kempton Park races ; throngs 
 jostled across the bridge in clouds of dust ; boiys 
 and men and women bell owed through toy trumpets, 
 and those who were without trumpets screeched the 
 chorus of a popular song ; cries and laughter came 
 from the river ; high above the riot larks with 
 sinewy wings soared out of sight, showering their 
 diamond notes ; the sun went west in a golden 
 haze, and near the zenith the moon glistened 
 faintly, as if the Thames had caught the sun's 
 reflection and flashed it on the sky.
 
 PA RKS AND SQUARES 75 
 
 III — ST James's paek 
 
 In June a water-weed clogged the preserved 
 portion of the lake in St James's Park. It grew 
 up from the bottom, stringy, slimy, lumpy, and its 
 spongy crests swayed in thousands on the top of 
 the lake, like green snow carted and cast in to 
 melt. The long drought and heat had produced 
 this weed — a fever in the thin and wholesome 
 water. Plenty of rain dissolves it ; but it had 
 assumed such dimensions that it had to be lifted 
 out. At the foot of a bent and limb-lopped black 
 poplar, the itinerant saw a heap of it lying like 
 wet bundles of green crape. 
 
 In a part of the park bordering the Mall, a 
 hundred loafers were stretched at their length 
 under the sultry sky, mostly face down, as if 
 ashamed — human lumber, self-constituted, or, in 
 rare cases, by other circumstances than self. The 
 itinerant felt inclined to cry out to them, ' Awake !
 
 76 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 arise ! or be for ever lumber ! Know that each 
 one of you is the main circumstance in his own 
 life ; that every man who is overcome is self- 
 defeated, let him blame whom or what he may. 
 Get up ! Do something — if it were only to 
 fight among yourselves, and find out who is the 
 strongest.' But the visible faces were not 
 intelligent. 
 
 No great percentage of these loafers, as far as 
 the itinerant could see, were vicious-looking; none 
 of them seemed over thirty ; strong and healthy, 
 they would have made capital ploughmen, labourers, 
 or soldiers. On the other side of the park, in 
 Wellington Barracks, recruits were being drilled ; 
 and the itinerant, in fear and trembling, lest a 
 bird of the air should carry it to some economist 
 or other well-informed person, whispered to him- 
 self, ' A press-gang would be the best plan for a 
 large proportion of the unemployed. Surely, as a 
 beginning of reform in the matter, and as a
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 77 
 
 temporary measure which would tend always to 
 make itself unnecessary, no one could object to the 
 compulsory enlistment of every able-bodied man 
 who cannot find work : "Wellington Barracks is 
 cheerier than a Union,' He would have pursued 
 the question much further, but his terror of 
 doctrinaires and people with fixed ideas is so great, 
 that he banished the subject from his mind ; not, 
 however, before he had seen an analogy between 
 the water-weeded lake, and society with the 
 unemployed curding its blood. 
 
 ' If,' he said to himself, rashly taking up the 
 subject again, after having abandoned it, 'if society 
 grows stagnant with the unemployed, and no great 
 deluge of commercial prosperity comes to wash away 
 the disease, then you must, with some pitch-fork or 
 other, clear out your lake that it may not fester. 
 You see — ' But at that moment a Member of 
 Parliament who passed divined clearly what the 
 itinerant was thinking, and cast the first stone at
 
 78 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 him with his eye ; and the itinerant pulled himself 
 together and began to study the ducks. 
 
 The lake was shrill with the piping of newly- 
 hatched ducklings, no bigger than sparrows. 
 Callow, with bills as soft as flesh, and the hearts 
 of vultures, they darted about the water at a 
 surprising speed, and in the highest of spirits. 
 Providence, in the shape of children and nurse- 
 maids, was busy doling out crumbs ; but that 
 seemed stale food to many of the fluffy little 
 brutes. More tempting game allured them — live 
 game, and on the wing. The intense absorption 
 in the pursuit of moths and flies displayed by some 
 of these week-old creatures was wonderful. And 
 not only their devotion to sport at that early age 
 excited the itinerant's admiration, but also the 
 skill and finesse they displayed in pursuit of their 
 prey. They turned right round in full career, shot 
 off at right-angles, leapt bodily out of the water, 
 flapping their lamb-chop wings, turned in the air,
 
 PARKS AND SQUARES 79 
 
 twisted their bills round, and snapped up flies 
 behind their own backs. Their heavy-bodied 
 fathers and mothers, quite unable to perform such 
 feats, looked on in amazement, much as human 
 parents might if a year-old infant were to don a 
 pair of skates, and proceed at once to cut spread- 
 eagles and figure-eights, and score its own name, 
 hardly dry yet in the registrar's book. 
 
 Sparrows, tamer than pigeons, hopped among 
 the children's feet ; three gloomy cormorants, one 
 on a clog and two on a rail, a triangular moping 
 party, sat in their appointed place with their heads 
 on one side and their beaks pointing with the 
 wind ; a pair of black storks went scavenging 
 about on their artificial-looking legs ; and two or 
 three water-fowl rose now and again and circled 
 the pond with harsh cries. 
 
 Yellow irises shone among the flags. "Winding 
 over the shrub-crowned undulations of the park 
 were long borders of purple and white lupins, wall-
 
 8o A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 flower, streaked and pied, crimson and puik 
 geraniums — ribbons and scarfs of many colours 
 setting off the masses of green. The broad-leaved 
 plane-trees shedding their bark, the limes and the 
 lofty elms, swelled into cushions and mounds, and 
 rose into mosques and domes and peaks of foliage, 
 or looked in the still, brooding air like green clouds 
 waiting for a wind to bear them away. 
 
 An opal upper sky was visible through the holes 
 and meshes of the lower stretch of lace-like texture 
 — antique lace, torn and faded, of a delicate 
 saffron here and there, trailed and dipped in the 
 wine-cups of many a forgotten sunset. 
 
 Steadily the itinerant kept his gaze on the sky 
 as he left the park : he would not think of the 
 fever in the lake, of the human lumber on one 
 side, and of the "Wellington Barracks on the other.
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 
 
 F
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 
 
 I BY THE LEA 
 
 At the foot of Turnpike Lane, which runs 
 between Hornsey High Street and Green Lanes, a 
 path leads over Mount Pleasant to Tottenham. 
 In the whole circuit of London, within the six- 
 mile radius, there is no broader and freer view to 
 be had than that from the Tottenham Mount 
 Pleasant. Green Lanes exhibits the suburbanity 
 of the London suburb in all its stages : raw fields, 
 trenched, and littered with bricks ; raw terraces, 
 red and yellow, newly tenanted ; rawer terraces, 
 red and yellow, waiting for tenants ; one or two
 
 84 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 forlorn old houses ; groups of trees, fragments of 
 hedges, stray coffee-stalls, and a car line. In three 
 minutes, the itinerant had left it all, and stood on 
 the top of Mount Pleasant, among high elms that 
 caught the wind, looking across fields of cattle, 
 fields of buttercups, and miles of wooded country, 
 new spires and old church-towers aglow in the 
 veiled sunlight. The sky, a dome, ceiled in mosaic 
 of blue, grey, and smoked porcelain, hung near the 
 earth. Rain threatened all forenoon, but the 
 north-east wind toiling along slowly, lifted the 
 clouds up and away over London : very slowly, not 
 till the early afternoon did the sky-porter manage 
 to lug his voluminous burden of vapour over St 
 Paul's and Westminster towards Surrey and the 
 sea. 
 
 In Tottenham, the itinerant asked the way to 
 the Lea, and started a man on a bitter complaint 
 about the Tottenham water-supply. 
 
 ' The pressure's only 1 lb., and the New River
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 85 
 
 has 5 lb. pressure. And it's rauddy ; they don't 
 cheat us ; it's Lea water, with plenty of body. 
 There's only one old lift-pump down in the Lea 
 there. Sometimes for days there's no supply in 
 the houses at all ; men come round with carts and 
 hand out the water in jugs ; fact. Oh, you've no 
 idea — none 3 you might as well be camping in the 
 desert.' 
 
 This highly-indignant person's directions to find 
 the Lea were not very luminous, and the itinerant 
 made no attempt to follow them, being in no hurry 
 to leave Tottenham. High old dwelling-houses; 
 hoary old almshouses ; the Duchess of Somerset's 
 grammar-school ; and the High Cross, somewhat 
 too carefully renovated lately, but beloved of 
 Isaak Walton, make Tottenham a pleasant place 
 to loiter in. 
 
 At last the itinerant met a schoolboy whom he 
 judged to be playing truant, from his aspect of 
 mingled enterprise and conspiracy.
 
 86 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 ' Hulloa ! ' he cried. ' Which is the shortest way 
 to the Lea 1 ' 
 
 ' I'll show you,' replied the schoolboy, reproving 
 by his glance and whispered accents the itinerant's 
 boisterous tone. Looking round heedfully, like an 
 Indian scout, he pointed to a fence and said, ' Go 
 over there and follow the railway till you come to 
 the river,' 
 
 Before the itinerant had time to thank him, the 
 schoolboy was off down a lane at the top of his 
 speed. Perhaps he had seen his father or his 
 elder sister. Probably he was not playing truant, 
 but only in a hurry. The hey-day of truant-playing 
 has long been past, they say. Quarter-a-century 
 ago boys used to be able to ' plug ' or ' trunch ' 
 (Strathclyde words) the school for weeks at a time, 
 but the school-board officer has made such long 
 spells of fearful joy impossible. What interest 
 can life have for hardy boys if they are unable to 
 play truant ?
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 87 
 
 ' Sir,' I'eplied the imaginary disputant, 'for once 
 I agree with you. The tendency to treat children 
 like captives who must be watched and herded is 
 bad. If the tree of the knowledge of good and 
 evil had been kept in an iron cage, our first 
 parents, being without files, couldn't have fallen, 
 and having nothing to worry about, would have 
 remained in their original state of stupidity. So 
 if schools are made prisons, from which escape is 
 impossible, boys having no choice, their will-power 
 is atrophied, and you can never have a Olive or a 
 Warren Hastings again.' There was some glimmer 
 of sense in the imaginary disputant's remarks, 
 but the itinerant questioned in silence if it was 
 more worry that schoolboys needed. 
 
 The boy's direction was as right as it could be, 
 and the itinerant came out on the west bank of 
 the Lea at South Tottenham. A muddy enough 
 stream it looked : free from sewage, however ; 
 bordered by sedges, and rowed on by pleasure
 
 88 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 boats. Spectral poplars stood up in the distance : 
 nearer, some pollard willows, like rude and savage 
 wood-nymphs with their hair on end, stared and 
 nodded their heads at the young man rowing his 
 sweetheart, and the athlete skimming along in his 
 frail shell of splinters. The itinerant followed the 
 towing-path towards London ; passed an eyot with 
 swans ; and crossed by a bridge to the east bank 
 and Leyton Marsh. 
 
 Leyton Marsh is a fine inch with no traces of 
 wet-land ; the portion of it nearest the river, tree- 
 less and crossed by a railway ; yet its broad 
 pastoral look was undeniable. Opposite, another 
 Mount Pleasant, with trees and old houses, sloped 
 to the river. 
 
 A little further on is Lea Bridge, a riverside 
 village, huddled together on the east bank in a 
 quaint, indifferent way. At Lea Bridge wharf 
 sweltered a great riparian caudle of things : an 
 accumulation of bricks, gravel, carts, wheel tyres,
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 89 
 
 heaps of manure, dilapidated sheds, a barge being 
 overhauled, with much steaming of tar, in a dry 
 dock, and another barge from Llandudno dis- 
 charjrinsr bricks. The whole simmered in a 
 pungent atmosphere of smoke and stale water ; 
 resounded with the traffic that rolled over the 
 bridge ; and for a moment grew plaintive with the 
 bleating of a flock of sheep which passed across to 
 feed in the marsh. 
 
 At Lea Bridge are two taverns, 'The Ship 
 Aground,' kept by H. J. Marvell, and ' The Jolly 
 Anglers,' kept by Posh Price. The itinerant chose 
 'The Jolly Anglers,' and the first thing he saw on 
 entering was a prize- belt hanging on a shelf, with 
 a card beneath, announcing that it had been 
 presented to Posh Price, an undefeated middle- 
 weight. Mr Price, unfortunately, was not at 
 home, but the itinerant liked his inn very much. 
 It was a picture-gallery of the ring. Photographs 
 and engravings of prize-fighters, backers, bottle-
 
 90 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 holders, referees, and coloured prints of prize-fights 
 covered the walls of every compartment. Captain 
 Baker, Heenan, and Pierce Egan were among the 
 photographs, and many another sporting gentleman 
 as large as life in very tall chimney-pot hats and 
 roll collars. Notable among the engravings, was 
 one inscribed : ' The great contest between Sayers 
 and Heenan. The fight, for £200 a-side and the 
 championship, lasted two hours and six minutes, 
 and resulted in a draw. Eought near Farnborough 
 on the 17th April, I860.' Here was a date the 
 itinerant had never known before, if nothing else ! 
 There was also a picture of the ' great contest ' 
 between Jim Mace and Tom King. Outside, at 
 green tables, sat two or three close-cropped 
 worthies drinking beer and eating lunches out of 
 newspapers. In front was the river with boats to 
 hire, the wharf to the right, and to the left a dense 
 grove of poplars, black and white, growing on a 
 peninsula, shrinking together as if they had no
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR gr 
 
 business to be there, and rustling apologetically in 
 the wind. 
 
 Hackney Marsh is an island surrounded by the 
 Lea proper, or Back River as it is called, and by 
 a canal called the New River, which runs for two 
 miles between Lea Bridge and Oldford. The 
 marsh lies low, but no portion of it the itinerant 
 saw could be called marsh-land. A Yankee in a 
 straw hat assured him, however, that ten years 
 ago it was flooded 3 and people in Clapham and 
 Homerton, over the river there, took their break- 
 fasts in boats one morning; 'plenty of water, but 
 no tea.' What this Yankee meant by loafing on the 
 banks of the Back River and emitting information 
 about London, with the ease and certainty of a 
 gazetteer, was not made plain. The itinerant 
 mentioned that it was his intention to go round 
 London, keeping about the six-mile radius. The 
 Yankee hoped he would like it ; for his part, he 
 preferred to walk in the country. That was his
 
 92 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 sole response to the itinerant's frankness. He 
 then talked of what was to be done with the 
 Marsh now that it had become public property ; 
 referred to disputed rights-of-way, and mentioned 
 his great-grandfather, who had lived in Kent. 
 But of what he did there, airing his Yankee drawl 
 on Hackney Marsh, he gave no hint. 
 
 Cows, horses, ponies, fed and galloped over the 
 wide plain ; a single house, old, white-washed, 
 rambling, licensed, stood among trees ; larks sang 
 over the land. Hackney Marsh has an unreclaimed 
 free look about it greatly attractive to the wander- 
 ing instinct. 
 
 The itinerant followed the canal, and noted a 
 drake and three ducks ascending it in Indian file. 
 The wind was against them as well as the stream, 
 and they made but slow progress hugging the 
 shore. At last the drake with a flirt of his wings 
 gave it up and landed ; but the ducks paddled 
 about. They were all pure white as to their
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 93 
 
 feathers, but no two of them had bills of the same 
 hue ; the four bills made a gamut of yellow, 
 ascending from the deepest orange to the lightest 
 lemon-colour. 
 
 In an outlet, which ran for some distance 
 parallel with the artificial channel, some boys were 
 fishing with a handkerchief. They sat on a low 
 wall, their feet resting on the bed of the channel, 
 until a fish appeared. Then a pair of them 
 stretched the handkerchief slackly under the 
 water, and tried to lift the fish out as it passed 
 up. As patient and silent as herons, these boys 
 deserved better success than they seemed to be 
 having. 
 
 Sheds, wharfs, and manufactories began to be 
 continuous on the opposite shore. The itinerant 
 was now in Oldford, and there he saw the only 
 barge actually navigating the Lea that day. It 
 was towed by a carriage-horse fallen on evil days, 
 and contained a cargo of shot rubbish. The
 
 94 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 crew consisted of a man at the bow and another at 
 the helm. The itinerant hailed the steersman, 
 
 ' Where away V • 
 
 'Ponder'sEnd.' 
 
 ' To fill up : road-making % ' 
 
 ' No ; manure.' 
 
 Old baskets, tin corners, paper, and other 
 matter, which the earth is supposed to find some- 
 what indigestible, were conspicuous ingredients in 
 this load of manure. But the itinerant, being a 
 Scotchman, thought to himself, 'This is London; 
 and surely in a place where people eat turnip-tops 
 and eels, the soil may manage to make something 
 of a meal of old baskets and paper, garnished with 
 tin corners.' 
 
 At Oldford was the only actual piece of marsh- 
 land. It lay lower than the Lea, and the stream 
 that drained into it was crossed by a very small 
 ruined bridge of brick. A gusset of slime, guarded 
 on one side by relays of jangling trains, on another
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 95 
 
 by the river embankment, and on the third by tall 
 chimney-stalks belching smoke, it had a most woe- 
 begone and horrible aspect — a piece of nature, 
 imprisoned for years, diseased, and almost irre- 
 cosnisable with filth and foul air. 
 
 Near Oldford station is a lock, and there the old 
 and the new rivers join. Intent on reaching the 
 mouth of the Lea, the itinerant asked a water- 
 man about the way. The waterman had much 
 natural eloquence, and made quite a speech about 
 the matter. He had evidently the clearest con- 
 ception of how the itinerant ought to go, with 
 equally clear conceptions of the many ways he 
 ought not to go : all these conceptions struggled 
 to get uttered at one and the same time, and, in 
 the end, after a great expenditure of words and 
 gesture, the waterman declared there was no use 
 attempting to explain it, because the itinerant 
 couldn't possibly understand it. In his flow of 
 ideas and language he misused and niispro-
 
 96 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 nounced words frequently. All that the itinerant 
 had to do was never to mind ' all these tribities 
 and outlets which there are a mess of 'em here- 
 about ; but you keep straight on the road you're 
 going until you can go no further, and that's a 
 bridge which takes you into Bow. Then you 
 keep along to the left and take the — one, two, 
 three — take the fourth on the risrht, and o;o on 
 till you come to Canning Town. Then you go 
 across the Iroia Bridge and down by the East 
 India Dock into Orchard Place, and there you'll 
 find the extermination of the Lea. Now, will 
 you remind that % ' The itinerant said he was 
 certain to, and escaped with difficulty, while the 
 waterman sent his eloquence after him in the 
 most cheerful manner as long as he was within 
 hearing. 
 
 A barge discharging tar, a barge discharging 
 mud, and a soap-work were the most impressive 
 objects for the next part of the way. Every
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 97 
 
 separate pore of the air seemed to be impregnated 
 with a distinct and astonishingly offensive odour, 
 and reaches of the river were enamelled from side 
 to side with a gleaming coat of many colours in 
 which gold was dominant. The insane artist had 
 used mud as his medium, swept up his whole 
 palette, and dashed it on without purpose or 
 pattern — having had indeed no time to paint a 
 picture, as his moving canvas slipped past. The 
 itinerant went rapidly through that dreadful 
 region. Arriving at the waterman's bi^idge, he 
 left the river and found himself in the High 
 Street of Stratford-atte-Bowe, 
 
 Stratford is the most disorganised part of Lon- 
 don. Here and there the Lea appears with foul 
 wharfs and coal barges ; raw places, old unhealed 
 abrasions open up with sheep like maggots starv- 
 ing in them ; gasometers are visible at the foot of 
 every street on one side of the highway, and there 
 
 is a smell of misery in the wind. The itinerant 
 
 G
 
 98 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 derived much comfort from an advertisement on 
 a yard. It ran : ' 1,000,000 old bricks for sale.' 
 He thought of the time when this ugly Stratford- 
 atte-Bowe would come to an end, when the New 
 Zealander would stick up such another advertise- 
 ment at the Tidal Basin, opposite Bugsby's Reach, 
 which may be called the gate of London. How 
 many millions of millions of bricks there must 
 have gone to build up London ! Man is your 
 only true ant and coral insect. What a pot of 
 money that New Zealand broker will make who 
 buys up London — takes it off somebody's hands at 
 his own price, and sells it in lots as old bricks ! 
 
 The itinerant fled by train from Stratford to 
 Canning Town, and picked up the Lea again at 
 the Iron Bridge. Here small groups were in- 
 terested in the operations of pile-drivers beginning 
 a new viaduct across the Lea for the gas-mains ; 
 and here the itinerant beheld a sight more inter- 
 esting than any other he saw that day. It was
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 99 
 
 a glass hearse returning from a burial. The end 
 was open, and on the floor where the coffin had 
 lain within the hour three comrades of the dead 
 man were stretched at their ease smoking. 
 Crowds passed to and fro on the bridge, yet no 
 one save the itinerant took special notice of the 
 hearse. The mourners were quite unconscious of 
 anything unseemly in their conduct, and so was 
 the driver, who, by the way, wore top-boots. 
 The men had on clean jackets and caps of tweed 
 or blue cloth ; their faces and hands were also 
 clean ; but they retained their working trousers 
 and boots. Poor Tom or Ned had died ; they had 
 followed his body to the grave, seen it decently 
 interred, and then got into the hearse themselves 
 as the quickest way back to their work. Gravely 
 they smoked, lying where the coffin had lain, with 
 their own thoughts doubtless. There was no 
 bravado about it, and it was evidently nothing 
 unusual down Blackwall way.
 
 100 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Through the closed gate of the Lea-mouth 
 Entrance Wharf the itinerant caught a glimpse 
 of the Lea ending its chequered career in the 
 Thames. The neighbourhood was deserted, but a 
 postman spoke to him of his own accord — a 
 travelled postman, who had fallen down a dock 
 in Adelaide, and more recently into the Lea at 
 Bow. He mentioned these facts as if they had 
 been traits of character, and pointed out, among 
 the high walls of the docks, an isolated block of 
 dwelling-houses round which a drunk man once 
 trudged all night supposing himself to be going 
 straight home : the postman evidently thought 
 that for this, this chiefly, if not this alone, the 
 London Docks are celebrated. 
 
 II — PROM THE ISLE OF DOGS TO SYDENHAM 
 
 Leaving the station at Canning Town in the 
 early afternoon, the itinerant turned from the 
 direct route to the Isle of Dogs, lured by a market-
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR loi 
 
 like bustle in the Victoria Dock Road. If one is 
 abroad for the purpose of looking about it is 
 difficult to resist mingling in any concourse of 
 people that has the appearance of a fair ; and if 
 one is at all subject to the influence of crowds, it 
 is equally difficult to avoid buying where every- 
 body who is not taking money is spending it. All 
 along the north side of the Victoria Dock Road a 
 close rank of stalls, set up at the edge of the 
 pavement, fronts the shops daily. Many of them 
 are simply extensions of the shops ; some are 
 rivals. The passage along the pavement is slow, 
 for the throng is great, and moves both up and 
 down ; and trade is brisk. Shell fish, dry fish, 
 wet fish, much stale fish ; meat, sweet stufi", green 
 stuflF; slops, underclothing, cloth of all kinds; 
 tools, gear, tackle of every description, find 
 purchasers in ragged children, bare-headed women, 
 unshaved men — sailors, dockers, loafers. 
 
 Something the itinerant was bound to buy too.
 
 102 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 He stopped at a crossing, where a man was selling 
 books out of a bag — a man, whose nose, thrust 
 aside in the battle of life, made fruitless efforts to 
 sneeze some admonition into his left ear. When 
 the itinerant, being on the whole the most respect- 
 able-looking person there, joined his audience the 
 walking bookseller put away whatever he was 
 trying to sell, and diving into his sack produced 
 a book bound in faded velvet. 
 
 ' Is it lit'ratoor you want % ' he said ; ' good 
 lit'ratoor 1 If there's anybody here as holds that 
 good lit'ratoor isn't worth its price, I'd like him 
 to prove it by refusing me four-and-six for this 
 volum' of po'try — Tennyson, bound in purple 
 velvet.' 
 
 He opened the book and held it up open : it 
 was clearly 7iot Tennyson. 
 
 ' Four-and-six for the late Lowreate's works in 
 purple velvet. No 1 Well, I'll tell you wot I'll do, 
 as I want to encourage the sale of genooin'
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 103 
 
 lit'ratoor. I'll take a shilling ; I'll take sixpence ; 
 I'll take twopence.' 
 
 The itinerant gave him the coppers. 
 
 ' Sold again ! I like a man wot knows a good 
 book when he sees it, an's willing to give a fair 
 price for a fair article.' 
 
 The velvet-covered book was lined inside with 
 wlite, watered silk. The fly-leaf bore this inscrip- 
 tioa in faded ink : ' Rebecca King, presented by 
 Mrs Chandler as token [sic) of respect. Septem- 
 ber, 11th, I860.' And this was the title-page : 'A 
 Rover's Tale. By an Officer of the British 
 Army. Paris : printed by J. Smith, 1843.' The 
 following couplet in very small type appeared in 
 the middle of the page : 
 
 ' Come forth, ye visions of my heated brain, 
 Blaze on the world, nor rest in smothered pain ! ' 
 
 The poem, of two cantos, with arguments and 
 notes, was in rhyming pentameters, arranged in 
 nine-lined but non-Spenserian stanzas. Opening
 
 104 ^ RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 it at the end the itinerant read the penultimate 
 verse : 
 
 ' And now the Rover ceases his rude chants. 
 
 May you unwearied ponder o'er his scenes I 
 What charm has poetry which kindly grants 
 
 Remission from all labour, supervenes 
 The need of travel : such should be the aim 
 
 Of bards who fain would make their poesies sweet ; 
 Our Rover strives to gain a modest fame, 
 
 Trusting his rhymes some useful end may meet, 
 But till he learns result conceals his name.' 
 
 Olearly, an acquisition : a brother itinerant who 
 
 had recorded his journeyings in remarkable rhymes 
 
 exactly fifty years ago ; a velvet-bound, silk-lir.ed 
 
 book, sold for twopence as the works of Tennyson in 
 
 the Victoria Dock Road by a squint-nosed walking 
 
 bookseller who probably couldn't read. It would 
 
 furnish some entertainment if the way grew tedious; 
 
 and the itinerant pocketed it with satisfaction. 
 
 From the Victoria Dock Road he passed into 
 
 the East India Dock Road. Much traffic rolled 
 
 along, vehicular and passenger — the latter confined 
 
 almost entirely to the residential side of the street.
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 105 
 
 The itinerant took the dock side, and about the 
 only living thing he met until he came to Robin 
 Hood Lane, was a Highland beetle, leisurely- 
 stepping across the pavement — taking a constitu- 
 tional the itinerant judged from the freedom and 
 carelessness of his gait. The itinerant perceived 
 him to be a Highland beetle because while his 
 head and thorax were clad in dark mail, he wore 
 upon the hind part of his body, which was more 
 than half-an-inch long, a tight-fitting dress of 
 shepherd tartan. He was in all likelihood a rove- 
 beetle, but the itinerant had too great a respect 
 for his pei'son, he was such an independent little 
 fellow, to tickle him up in order to see him stand 
 at bay with his jaws agape and his tail on end. 
 
 By Robin Hood Lane, the Causeway, and 
 Poplar High Street he came to the West India 
 Docks. These bound the Isle of Dogs on the 
 north, Blackwall Reach on the east, Greenwich 
 Reach on the south, and Limehouse Reach on the
 
 I06 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 west. The shore is occupied by wharfs, yards, 
 and manufactories of many kinds — bridge-build- 
 ing, ship-building, chemical works, etc. Within 
 these again, a second zone, is the highway, which 
 under the names of Preston's E-oad, Manchester 
 Road, West Ferry Road, and Millwall Ferry 
 Road, sweeps round from Poplar High Street on 
 the east to join it again on the west. 
 
 The general impression left on the itinerant by 
 the Isle of Dogs is that of a Scotch town on Sun- 
 day. In the neighbourhood of the West India 
 Docks there are a number of tumble-down houses 
 and an aspect of decay and dirt, and towards the 
 south a noise of manufacturing usurps the air ; 
 but about Millwall Dock, which occupies the 
 centre of the isle, the streets, for the most part 
 new, are clean, comparatively wide, and, when the 
 itinerant was there, almost deserted. The only 
 vehicle he saw for fully a quarter of a mile was 
 a watering-cart ; and the only people who seemed
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 107 
 
 to be abroad were the rent-collectors — an unfor- 
 tunate race doomed to carry black bags and to 
 wrangle from door to door. Masts and bowsprits 
 appeared at the ends of cross-streets in an un- 
 accountable way ; here was a little boulevard, 
 there a market-garden : two handsome churches 
 and two gigantic board-schools occupied conspicu- 
 ous sites ; the hot air shimmered on the roasting 
 flags and on the brick walls of silent yards and 
 houses, that dozed and blinked at the cool shadow 
 on the opposite side of the street. Overhead all 
 was clear except for a few scattered cloudlets of 
 snowy whiteness, as if the Crab, in whose power 
 the sun would shortly be, had splashed a little 
 foam about the sky. 
 
 Suddenly the Sabbath stillness of the streets 
 was broken by the sound of a barrel-organ — one 
 of the old-fashioned hurdy-gurdies of which so few 
 are to be heard now. The blind organ-man was 
 grinding out the Old Hundredth. There was an-
 
 io8 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 other in the street besides the itinerant whose 
 childhood was recalled by the sound. A faded 
 young woman, much of a slattern, with a child at 
 her knee and another in her arms, trailed round 
 a corner and rested against a wall. It was plain 
 from her expression that the tune had an old 
 meaning for her. To the itinerant it recalled 
 summer holidays at Rothesay in 1867. During 
 July of that year the Port-Bannatyne Road was 
 haunted by an organ-grinder with a long white 
 beard and an antique beaver hat of lofty build. 
 His instrument, worn and shrill, but not wheezy 
 — they made these things, like many others, 
 better long ago — had its full complement of 
 tunes; but he kept the Old Hundredth stop on 
 all evening often. The hurdy-gurdy had become 
 a part of himself. He had taught it to express 
 his own mood ; no one before or since could con- 
 vey so much meaning in the turning of a crank. 
 Consider how slight the connection between the
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 109 
 
 pipes he sounded and his own mind ! Yet by- 
 some sorcery he sent his fancy and feeling into 
 every note of the Old Hundredth. When you 
 went rock-cod fishing, as the sun set in purple 
 and izold, and a late steamer struck magical 
 founts of silver out of the dusky crimson water, 
 the slow tune escaping from the crowd and hum 
 of the road, took heart and swelled and shook 
 over the bay, a triumphant dirge for the departing 
 sun. Wandering through the wood in search of 
 rasps — that wood, where in July those happiest of 
 modern pagans, the Glasgow Fair folk, sleep in 
 hundreds at the sign of the evening star — you 
 could hear the tune stealing through the trees, 
 loaded with memories of church bells and of Sab- 
 bath mornings when the organ-man was young, and 
 sang ' All people that on earth do dwell ' from the 
 same book with his sweetheart. Or it soared into 
 the air and reached the listener on the brow of 
 the Castle Hill — great, simple music, a fit mate
 
 no A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 for the mountains of Argyleshire and the broad 
 firth. Sometimes the old man played quickly, 
 haunted by remorse, the Old Hundredth then 
 sounding like a devil's mass ; sometimes he put 
 such a depth of reconciliation into it that it be- 
 came the ' best comforter to an unsettled fancy,' 
 and Bute a new isle of Prospero. 
 
 In the Isle of Dogs, the least enchanted of all 
 the British Isles, this tune which throbs in the 
 blood of every Scotchman, conjured up these 
 memories and more. The other listener, the faded 
 girl-mother with the two children, grew paler and 
 more desperate-looking ; but when the Old Hun- 
 dredth which had recalled her childhood ceased 
 and ' A che la morte ' began, she wept behind her 
 baby. Perhaps she had heard ' II Trovatore ' in 
 the town-hall of her native place with her husband 
 when he was courting her and their hopes were 
 high, before the world went against them, and the 
 docks were their only refuge.
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR in 
 
 The itinerant found that the building of the 
 Great Eastern was still a great tradition in the 
 Isle of Dogs. The Scott- Eussell yard was pointed 
 out with pride, and so was the Great Eastern 
 Tavern. A casual cicerone seemed, indeed, hardly 
 certain that the Great Eastern Railway was not a 
 namesake of the famous vessel. 
 
 Within the last twenty years the character 
 of the interior of the Isle of Dogs has changed 
 entirely. Formerly it consisted of market-gardens, 
 and the worst slums within the metropolitan area ; 
 now the market-gardens are nearly all built on, 
 and the streets are as already described. 
 
 Nothing passed either up or down — a rare 
 thins on the Thames — when the itinerant crossed 
 at Greenwich Ferry. During the brief three 
 minutes' passage he noticed and thought only of 
 the breeze, and vowed to vist the Thames often if 
 the semi-tropical weather lasted : it seems to be 
 the only highway the wind frequents in London
 
 112 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 summers, Greenwich was dull with negro- 
 minstrels, bird-exhibitors, and shrimp-sellers in 
 numbers out of all proportion to the few visitors, 
 Greenwich Palace, four square piles of building, 
 a commodious design, had, in the strong sunshine, 
 a double share of that washed-out look which 
 characterises old stone buildings in London and its 
 environs. Along the wood wharf there was 
 scarcely any trafl&c ; some barges were discharging 
 straw and deals, but as indolently as if the cattle 
 and people who were to use them were not yet 
 born. The itinerant tried to reach the mouth of 
 the Ravensbourne which falls into the Thames at 
 Greenwich, but found it impossible without taking 
 boat. On the bridge which crosses the top of 
 Deptford Creek — the portion of the Ravensbourne 
 affected by the tide — enough of it was visible 
 to satisfy the greatest devotee of watercourses. 
 The tide was out, and a dirty, ropy puddle trickled 
 through a broad winding moat tilled with mud.
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 113 
 
 Deep in this viscous iridescent slime big barges 
 stuck engulfed to the rudder's shoulder as if they 
 grew there like gigantic odd-shaped mushrooms. 
 The itinerant asked a workman if these three- 
 quarter buried hulks would float with the tide. 
 He assured him they would — he saw it daily, 
 indeed ; but it was hard to believe. 
 
 The banks of the Ravensbourne were inaccessible 
 between Greenwich and Lewisham, and, as much 
 of the way lay along narrow paths between high 
 walls and fences, the itinerant glanced at his 
 velvet-bound book. Anything read attentively 
 while one is walking acquires a peculiar vividness 
 and importance, and the itinerant soon became 
 persuaded that ' The Rover's Tale ' was the ab- 
 surdest and most amusing poem ever written ; 
 but the passages marked do not now seem so 
 irresistibly funny as they did on the road to 
 Sydenham. The first verse, devoutly intended as 
 
 an heroic introduction, is typical of the whole. 
 
 H
 
 114 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 ' Not in that frozen climate of the North 
 (AVhere blood runs cold as ice-encumbered stream) 
 Did this our Rover on drear earth come forth. 
 No — he was born where Eastern jackals scream, 
 "Where Hindoos worship gods of wood and stone, 
 WTiere Moslem conquerors conquered cease to rule. 
 Where mountains seem to pierce high heaven's throne — 
 There was his birthplace, in such Eastern school 
 Some years he passed, then left his mother own.' 
 
 To this stanza there are three notes, one of 
 
 them pointing out that ' in India are some of the 
 
 highest mountains in the world.' The Rover's 
 
 notes are a great feature ; they average one for 
 
 every stanza. Vanity and ineptitude can go no 
 
 further than in the annotation to the following 
 
 lines. Speaking of Creole dames the ' Rover ' 
 
 says — 
 
 ' They are right beauteous ; sadly does one think 
 That such a beauty like a rose doth pass, 
 When gathered left in sun, its bloom will sink. 
 Changing to faded sweetness.' 
 
 Upon the last clause the egregious comment 
 is — ' The author acknowledges to have stolen this 
 imasre from "Orlando Furioso.'" No verse is
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR iiS 
 
 without its ridiculous turn ; no note without its 
 platitude. In sincerity, naivete, unconscious 
 humour, and unflagging good-will, although not 
 in literary merit, ' The Rover's Tale ' recalls ' The 
 Adventures of John Buncle,' Amory's extra- 
 ordinary book, the memory of which is kept alive 
 by Hazlitt's essay. 
 
 In the car from Lewisham to Catford, and as 
 he walked over Perry Hill and up Sydenham 
 Road to the station, the itinerant neglected the 
 scenery he had come out to see, and followed the 
 Rover on his aimless wanderings in India and 
 Europe — for he managed to obtain leave of ab- 
 sence after all. 
 
 ' Kind Nature helped him, though the Board refused ; 
 Malignant illness brought the Rover low, 
 And he had died had they not then infused 
 Fresh life into him ; they no more veto ; 
 They saw he must die, unless dear home could 
 Restore unto his cheek a healthful bloom. 
 The Hygeian goddess oft in vain is wooed ; 
 But he was young, Fate had not oped his tomb, 
 And fav'ring Fortune was in happy mood.'
 
 Il6 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 That is an exquisite turn, worthy of im- 
 mortality, 'though the Board refused.' 'The 
 Rover's Tale ' is not the most amusing poem the 
 itinerant ever read, but he really thinks it is 
 the most absurd. 
 
 Ill — FROM SYDENHAM TO BARNES 
 
 The scanty showers that fell towards the end of 
 May only sprinkled the earth, dedicating it to a 
 fiercer trial. By midsummer London and its 
 suburbs baked for weeks in the dry beams of the 
 solstice - nearing sun, were supersaturated with 
 heat, which, reverberating from brick and clay, 
 from streets, wooden or asphalted, from dusty 
 highways and parched commons, shimmered to the 
 sky. 
 
 On the morning of one of the last days of the 
 great drought, as the itinerant, resuming his jour- 
 ney round London, walked over "West Hill and 
 past the Crystal Palace, the sun, fire-new, heart-
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 117 
 
 less and unhuman, burst out of a jungle of clouds. 
 The brilliant beauty and strength and perfect per- 
 formance of all its functions of a tiger in its prime 
 are most admirable ; but there is no earthly 
 creature so handsome, so instinctive, so indifferent, 
 so fated, as the ' gaudy, blabbing, and remorseless ' 
 sun. The itinerant marked him climb the ' steep 
 up heavenly hill,' and thought how it depended on 
 the accident of a little rain whether the autumn 
 world would be a blister or a harvest ; and as he 
 watched the swift effortless ascent towards the 
 zenith, and remembered that a thin veil of vapour 
 was all that ever lay between us and famine, he 
 marvelled that the race of men should have en- 
 dured so long. 
 
 ' But what belated thoughts are these % ' whis- 
 pered the imaginary disputant. ' Shall we never 
 be done with this Pre-Copernicanism ? Allow me 
 to assure you once more that the sun is a stationary 
 sleeping top — humming, too, doubtless, if we could
 
 Il8 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 hear it. What absurd notions are these of tigers 
 scaling zeniths, bears climbing poles, and bull- 
 baiting within the cirque of the zodiac ! Do you 
 remember what time of day it is % Why, not to 
 mention the hero of " Locksley Hall," Pope could 
 tell you a century-and-a-half ago to " correct old 
 Time, and regulate the sun." I perceive what it is, 
 my good itinerant ; you are a plagiarist, and have 
 gone ploughing to little purpose, I think, with a 
 heifer of Alexander Smith's, " Summer had leapt 
 on Edinburgh like a tiger." Do you remember 
 that % ' 
 
 ' Yes, I do, now that you recall it to me, and 
 perhaps it was in my head. But, mind you, I 
 think it an inferior sentence.' 
 
 ' Very well, then ; amend your ways, and get on 
 with your tour.' 
 
 The sunshine streamed down Sydenham Road, 
 down the valleys that make Sydenham so pictur- 
 esque and up again among thickets and crested
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 119 
 
 knolls, deep in June's fleece of leaves. It bathed 
 the red villas nestling among the trees until they 
 looked like enchanted dwellings. It rolled along 
 the Parade and deluged the Crystal Palace with 
 ceaseless showers that broke and sparkled in 
 myriad foam flakes on that house of windows. 
 Far over West Wood Common, far over the Nor 
 Wood, the heaven-high billowy sunshine bore down 
 on park and village, town and tower, over- 
 flowed London and flooded the world. 
 
 The itinerant went with the sunshine along 
 Westow Hill, a quite modern street of shops that 
 the summer light made romantic, and down the 
 steep of Woodland Road to Gipsy Hill. Here, 
 missing the way, he strayed so long among new 
 villas that he be£:an to feel suburban — the most 
 terrible sensation it is possible to have within the 
 six-mile radius. Slowly, then rapidly one goes 
 mad, and at last sees Mr Podsnap's name on every 
 letter the postman delivers, and beholds in every
 
 120 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 house an installation of ' getting up at eight, shav- 
 ing close at a quarter-past, breakfasting at nine, 
 going to the city at ten, coming home at half-past 
 five, and dining at seven.' Literature, painting, 
 sculpture, music — all of them embodiments of 
 ' getting up at eight, shaving close at a quarter- 
 past — ' No : not all — not all the music. Through 
 an open window came a fresh young voice singing 
 a love song. It was a dawning voice — more 
 wonder, more wistfulness than passion in it, but 
 emptied of everything suburban. Miss Podsnap 
 never sang like that. The girl, seventeen, her hair 
 loose on her shoulders, was listening to the music 
 she sang, and the simple tune, the wondering voice, 
 shattered the whole phantasmal structure of 
 Podsnappery, discovering among the ruins a bower 
 of roses, and a radiant figure in a saffron robe 
 bearing a lighted torch. 
 
 Over Central Hill through the remnant of the 
 Nor Wood the itinerant went with the sunshine
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 121 
 
 until they parted company in the shadow of the 
 Convent wall. Through an open gateway little 
 girls looked out with rosy faces ; in a glade well 
 sheltered from the sun by old elms the Convent 
 cows strayed, sedately ruminant ; and the itinerant 
 marvelled at the times. In Westminster, Gladstone 
 at eighty-four is leading a forlorn hope with the 
 courage of twenty-five, and Chamberlain with his 
 pale Disraelian complexion has in three months 
 made himself a questionable new reputation. In 
 the Strand they are playing Ibsen's 'Enemy of 
 the People ' ; on the Thames a thousand printing- 
 presses clash and roll ; Podsnap and Yeneering 
 build their villas everywhere ; the drum of the 
 Salvation Army booms throughout the land ; and 
 the Crystal Palace flares above the nunnery. Yet 
 here, pale women sing masses for the dead, and 
 a matin bell tinkles clearly out of many old 
 centuries. 
 
 By Crown Hill, a rustic village, he came to
 
 122 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Streatham Common, burnt to a cinder, edged with 
 furze and high old trees, overlooking Surrey to the 
 south and west. Towards Streatham village the 
 common slopes like a bald brow gracefully receding, 
 a fine old gentlemanly baldness. Looking back 
 from the street in which the common ends abruptly, 
 it was seen to be rather a crown than a brow — a 
 friar's crown, with trees marking the tonsure. 
 How his head steamed and frizzled — dry steam, 
 so to speak, shimmering to the sky ! 
 
 The itinerant entered the graveyard of Streat- 
 ham Parish Church and rested on a tombstone 
 opposite the tower — old, eight hundred years old, 
 and built of Kent flint. The inscription on the 
 spire seemed amusing. Here it is : ' The late 
 spire of this church was destroyed by lightning on 
 the morning of the 3rd January, 1841, and the 
 present spire was erected during the same year.' 
 This must have been the composition of the sexton. 
 The phrasing of it, and the tone of respect — 'the
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 123 
 
 late spire' — indicate an author well- versed in 
 mortuary writings. Doubtless he wrote at first 
 the 'late lamented spire,' and was aggrieved when 
 the churchwardens at the meeting held to approve 
 of an inscription rejected the word ' lamented ' 
 by a majority of two. 
 
 Tootinsf Bee Common which lies between Streat- 
 ham and Tooting, is reached by Tooting Bee Road. 
 Although the Balham and Croydon Railway flows 
 through this common, and although red brick 
 begins to encroach on its outskirts, it retains a 
 natural appearance. Across it stretch clumps of 
 furze and groups of shadowy old trees, which the 
 itinerant saw emerging like green shoals and 
 green islands from the high tide of the sunshine. 
 
 He passed through Tooting and Upper Tooting 
 — desolate suburbs smelling of new paint, hacked 
 and chopped into unfinished streets and drain 
 trenches. On a gable he noticed *Tupper, Family 
 Butcher,' and remembered that a Shelley shaves
 
 124 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 easily in Tottenham, and a Shakespeare keeps a 
 green grocery opposite the northern entrance to 
 Clissold Park. He crossed the Wandle at a mill, 
 and taking a wrong turning wandered down 
 through Mitcham — all tedious new suburb, tropical 
 sunshine, and roads so hot they seemed paved 
 with good intentions. Podsnap's and Yeneering's 
 wives and families, and the wives and families of 
 Podsnap's and Veneering's clerks and shopmen, 
 aglow with the consciousness of the elegance and 
 nobility of ' getting up at eight, shaving close at a 
 quarter-past, breakfasting at nine, going to the 
 city at ten, coming home at half-past five, and 
 dining at seven,' moved cheerfully about their 
 broiling labyrinth. The itinerant thought he was 
 never to get out of it. At last he arrived at 
 "Wimbledon station, still a good mile wide of the 
 six-mile radius, and being fordone with the heat 
 and dismayed beyond utterance by the unwilling
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 125 
 
 contemplation of miles of new suburb, he booked 
 to Barnes. 
 
 Barnes station stands in Barnes Common ; and 
 when you leave the train you are charmed to find 
 that you have stepped back fifty years and more. 
 Cows are browsing among the whins, and where 
 the houses begin you look in vain for signs of 
 the dreadful domestic architecture of the later 
 Victorian era. In the irregular streets, mellow 
 with age, every house looks like a home that has 
 been occupied by the same family from generation 
 to generation ; the drowsy shops seem as indifiei-ent 
 to custom as if business competition were still in 
 embryo; and the homely people, wondering in 
 an ignorant old-world mood, stare at the visitor. 
 Barnes Green is even more antique and restful 
 than Barnes itself. A semi-circle of old houses, 
 each with a name and an individuality of its own, 
 stands round a large pond bordered by trees. It 
 is difficult to realise that Hammersmith, London,
 
 126 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 and the end of the nineteenth century are next 
 door. 
 
 IV FROM THE THAMES TO THE MOSELLE 
 
 It was nearly blood-heat in the shade. Out of 
 the south-west, slow, lambent blasts streaked the 
 glowing air and shook the scent from the limes in 
 the Duke's Avenue leading to Chiswick House. 
 Ohiswick Parish Church was as hot as a kiln. 
 In Chiswick Mall the old houses, sunburned and 
 blistered through their veils of jasmine and clema- 
 tis, opened all their windows for a breath of air. 
 Chiswick eyot, bristling with osiers like a gigantic 
 green clothes-brush, sighed — if a brush may be 
 supposed to sigh — stifled with scalding dust. The 
 tepid Thames slid down its greasy channel, twist- 
 ing and untwisting in surface eddies interlinked 
 athwart and along, a dark ravelled skein, cut by 
 thousands of keels and tangled by innumerable 
 propellers, paddles, oars, and dredgers; and the
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 127 
 
 muddy banks, smooth and glossy, seemed melting 
 away like butter — brown butter, churned out of 
 the water by steamers, barges, and rowing-boats. 
 The sun flamed in a sky of molten turquoise. 
 
 The charming name of a riverside village 
 tempted the itinerant aside. He crossed the 
 Chiswick peninsula, and came out at the east 
 end of Strand-on-the-Green, a row of irregular 
 old houses on the river bank, not so attractive 
 as its name. Half-a-dozen launches and some 
 barges were anchored in front of it. An eyot 
 rose in the midst of the river, surrounded by 
 ruined house-boats ; a rusty dredger stood higher 
 up ; on the shore old barges had sunk into the 
 mud, and grass and weeds grew up through their 
 warped bottoms. The S.S. ' Wedding Ring ' had 
 just left Kew Pier, and was endeavouring for 
 some reason to navigate the river broadside on • 
 at the eyot it assumed the normal position. 
 
 The itinerant crossed the Thames to visit the
 
 128 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 orchid-house in Kew Gardens. Orchids have a 
 great fascination for him, as for most people. 
 Mysterious creatures, living mostly on dew, they 
 are the artists of the botanic world ; their moods 
 are many and various ; their temperaments mas- 
 ter them. Tranquil, chaotic, like the great poet 
 Carlyle saw sitting among his dead dogs, they 
 never know what they are going to do until 
 their flowers come forth. As Bottom would fain 
 have been everybody, so the orchid aims at being 
 all flowers. It is a mere temperament without 
 intellect, and sometimes endeavours to reproduce 
 shapes and hues with which it has no native 
 sympathy. The most conspicuous failures in 
 Kew Gardens were certain unintelligent attempts 
 to be freemasons' aprons ; the likeness was suffi- 
 ciently close to be ridiculous ; but it was the 
 orchid in a very inferior mood. Beside the 
 abortive freemasons' aprons grew a most success- 
 ful embodiment, a long spike imitative of the
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 129 
 
 flowering saugh — a cottage plant, called in Scot- 
 land ' the ranting widow ' : it is always easy for 
 the artist to succeed when he keeps close to the 
 hearth. Another triumphant success was a large 
 waxen buttercup ; here the orchid had improved 
 on the original, adding to the golden hue and 
 exquisite shape a seductive odour like that of 
 the meadowsweet, but richer, as if intoxicated 
 with the sunshine of the tropics. Pen-nibs of 
 silver with points dipped in purple ink were a 
 succes d'estime, and so were the barley ears 
 with coloured crests. The comic orchids were no 
 more than clever. Out of a mass of pulpy green 
 leaves would be protruded now a piece of gas- 
 pipe, now a twist of tobacco. Some from a nest 
 of dried grass let down long sappy rushes. Some 
 hung out faded fringes; others, long grey beards. 
 Crowds of little magenta crabs crawled about on 
 sprays of grey coral ; gaping jaws cut off from 
 heads, and disconsolate sporrans were among the
 
 130 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 oddities, and things woven of worsted like bits of 
 stocking. These were all inferior, though suc- 
 cessful. Among the more melancholy failures 
 were branches co^■ered with little green flowers 
 that had intended to develop colour and fra- 
 grance : pale green and envious they looked, 
 evidently criticising the beauty and bloom about 
 them. The endeavour to become heather on the 
 part of several orchids was also melancholy — the 
 most definite attempt at the impossible in the 
 orchid-house. The reproduction of some waxen 
 gummy heath would have been legitimate enough ; 
 but it was madness for these wild tropical bloods 
 to ape the hardiness and delicacy of the temperate 
 mountain plant. Of flowers above criticism be- 
 cause perfectly pleasing, the itinerant noticed one 
 which united in itself the forms and hues of the 
 narcissus and the snap-dragon, white splashed 
 with gold and blood. Another combined the 
 beauties of the columbine and the foxglove.
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 131 
 
 There were heliotrope - coloured lilies ; mytho- 
 logical shells of Cy thera, silver veined with emerald ; 
 and a spike of flowers of terra-cotta silk, more 
 fanciful than imaginative, half vulgar half artistic, 
 but wholly charming. Some ingenuous plants 
 merely turned an ordinary leaf blood-red and 
 called it a flower ; others less simply twisted a 
 leaf into a scroll. The claret-jugs were interesting, 
 but one admired them with a grudge. An enor- 
 mous and monstrous blossom, like a lump of flesh 
 with skewers sticking out of it, showed to what a 
 depth of stupidity and nastiness uncontrolled 
 temperament can descend. But the pansies and 
 the primroses which grew beside this abominable 
 malformation were as lovely as if they had come 
 from an English glade. 
 
 The terrible temperaments of these tropical 
 flowers began to exercise a spell on the itinerant, 
 and he was glad to escape from their sorcery, and 
 the moist enervating air they breathed. Outside
 
 132 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 the danger was only one of roasting, an operation 
 which does not necessarily destroy the shape ; in 
 the orchid-house he felt as if he were about to be 
 stewed out of all consistence, and transformed into 
 a pulpy plant growing on a board. But he was 
 too hot to walk immediately, so he took train to 
 Acton. There he found himself once more in 
 a dreadful suburban region that seemed to be 
 limitless, except towards the east. 
 
 By Horn Lane and past Old Oak Common he 
 came to Willesden Junction. Glimpses of Middle- 
 sex, wooded and undulating, appeared on the left, 
 stretching out to the horizon and sweltering under 
 the heat and the haze. On the skirts of the 
 common a farmer had almost completed a great 
 hay -stack — sixty feet high, he said. 
 
 ' Is there so much hay in the world this season?' 
 asked the itinerant. 
 
 ' You may well say it,' he replied. * If you 
 want to speculate, buy hay. Already it's double
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 133 
 
 the usual price, and next spring it will be selling 
 for its weight in gold.' 
 
 ' Was this stack all grown in the neighbour- 
 hood ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, in these half-dozen fields.' 
 
 They were well within the six-mile radius — 
 Wormwood Scrubs barely half-a-mile away; and 
 the itinerant saw, or thought he saw, nearer 
 London towards the north-east, the white monu- 
 ments of Kensal Green. 
 
 ' Is suburban hay good ? ' he asked. 
 
 'Smell it,' said the farmer, giving him a 
 handful. 
 
 It had, indeed, a delightful smell, like that of 
 new milk with the faintest aroma of spice. 
 
 'That,' continued the farmer, 'is the best hay 
 I ever reaped. The dryer the season the 
 finer the hay; but that's no compensation for 
 quantity. Last year I had more than three 
 times as much hay from the same fields. I re-
 
 134 ^ RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 quired more than half of it myself, so I'll have to 
 buy fodder this year.' 
 
 The prospect seemed to dismay him little, how- 
 ever. He wished the itinerant a cheei'y good-day, 
 and told him to be sure to come and draw his 
 stack and the old farmhouse when the former was 
 finished. The itinerant was pleased to be mis- 
 taken for a painter. 
 
 In spite of the heat he continued walking, and 
 came by devious ways to Dudding Hill. Poplars 
 in the fields, hollyhocks in the gardens, purple 
 clouds of clematis on the cottage walls, a smartly 
 dressed plumber with a cigarette in his mouth 
 fitting a joint in a gaspipe in Harlesden Lane, 
 distant wooded knolls appearing over the shoul- 
 ders of nearer grassy knolls, a very small yellow- 
 brick chapel opposite a huge red-brick public- 
 house called inconceivably 'The Case is Altered,' 
 flashed out of the glare and heat without rhyme 
 or reason ; for it was impossible either instinc-
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 135 
 
 lively or of malice aforethouglit to observe and 
 select with the thermometer over 100 degrees. 
 
 At Dudding Hill station, waiting for a train to 
 Hendon, the itinerant fell into a great discussion 
 with the imaginary disputant. For the hundredth 
 time the itinerant attacked the London suburb — 
 the new order of slums that is fast girdling 
 London. 
 
 Disputant. What would you have? The 
 London suburb is a great personality. It will 
 flourish and grow strong, have its decadence, die, 
 and be buried by an Lnprovement Trust. Like 
 everything else that is born into the world — people, 
 plagues, fashions — it must run its course. Give 
 over grumbling about it. Study it, understand it. 
 
 Itinerant {feeling that the Disimtant is right^ 
 and wishing to change the subject). What do 
 you mean by a personality 1 Formerly people 
 talked of having personality ; now, I observe, 
 they talk of being a personality.
 
 136 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Disputant. By personality I mean a man — 
 except of course, when I use it metaphorically of 
 suburbs — a man whose presence is power. 
 
 Itinerant. Oh ! you wouldn't use it of women 
 then? 
 
 Disputant. I don't think I have ever seen it 
 used of women. 
 
 Itinerant. I suppose it is pretty much the 
 same thing as individuality, character. 
 
 Disputant. Oh dear no ! It is not by any 
 means synonymous with individuality, still less 
 with character. Remember, we talk of having 
 individuality, not of being an individuality. A 
 very dry ineffective person may have strong in- 
 dividuality — that is to say, an original attitude 
 to the universe, and the power of insisting on self. 
 
 Itinerant. And character? Hasn't character 
 undergone the same change as personality 1 
 
 Disputant. Oh no ! You see, when we say 
 ' he is a character,' we do not mean the same
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR i37 
 
 thing as when we say ' he lias character ' ; 
 and as yet there is no mocking sense in the 
 expression ' he is a personality,' although the 
 title is being dealt about so promiscuously, and 
 so many are helping themselves to it, that it may 
 very soon become a term of derision. 
 
 Itinerant. Then a personality may be with- 
 out individuality, without character ? 
 
 Disputant. Certainly : indeed, the less of 
 character, the greater the personality. 
 
 Itinerant. Howl 
 
 Disputant. A personality, as I have told you 
 already, is a man whose presence is power. His 
 intellect may be deficient; his conduct may 
 stand no test at all, but he carries about with 
 him a detached molecule of spirit, soul — what 
 you like, with which, as with ozone, he electrifies 
 the air : you hate him, or like him ; you are 
 impudent, or deferential, but you cannot be 
 indifi'erent to him.
 
 138 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. Then, a personality may be a 
 nonentity, for without individuality, and char- 
 acter — 
 
 But at that moment the train drew up, and the 
 imaginary disputant vanished. 
 
 At Hendon the itinerant sat by the Welsh 
 Harp under a tree, and watched an old man 
 fishing. He baited with paste, and soon drew out 
 a broad big-scaled fish, shining with grey-metallic 
 lustre like nickel. It looked like a bream, and 
 the itinerant remarked that it was one. 
 
 ' No,' said the old fisher. ' It's a cross between 
 a bream and a roach.' 
 
 ' And do fish cross that way 1 ' 
 
 « Oh, yes ! ' 
 
 Mongrels in the rivers and lakes ! Mongrels in 
 the sea ! It was a new idea to the itinerant who 
 had hitherto believed in the chastity and high- 
 breeding of the whole finny race. Before he could 
 question the fisher more on the subject, a slight
 
 A SUBURBAN TOUR 139 
 
 breeze brought down a certain odour on the wind, 
 and he fled. Not far from where the fisher sat an 
 open drain ran into the water. The Welsh Harp 
 is the only lake near London. Does anybody 
 know why it should be spoiled with sewage^ 
 
 Through Hendon, but little touched by the 
 jerry -builder, along Brent Street, by field-paths, 
 he went to Finchley; and by Finchley over 
 Muswell Hill, and through Hornsey he came to 
 Green Lanes, red-hot houses, green-flaming trees, 
 and scalding roads all the way. The wide un- 
 dulating country shivered under the heat; the 
 turquoise sky flickered with blue flame ; and the 
 relentless sun burned into the core of the 
 world. 
 
 In Green Lanes the itinerant's journey ended 
 at the Great Eastern station. There the Moselle, 
 a brook which rises near Highgate, flov/s under 
 the road. Whence its name is derived, and 
 whether it empties its tribute of diluted mud into
 
 140 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 the Lea, or gets lost in a drain, the itinerant has 
 never been able to discover. 
 
 Should another think of travelling round London 
 let him try the eighth radius : at eight miles from 
 Charing Cross you begin to be free of the dreadful 
 suburb which, between the fourth and seventh 
 radii, seems to propagate itself by fission before 
 your very eyes.
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 
 
 I — PROM TRING STATION TO WENDOVER 
 
 There is little hope for anyone who does a thing 
 right the fii'st time ; the chances are that he will 
 never be able to do the thing better than right. 
 This applies to visiting the Chiltern Hills as well 
 as to other branches of art. The artist has often 
 more interest and pleasure in the rough sketch, 
 wherein his eye perceives among the hundreds of 
 tentative strokes the true figure of his imagination, 
 than in the finished picture, which is a fulfilment 
 without further promise ; and the itinerant thinks 
 that his mistaken wanderings over the Chilterns 
 were more to his mind than a well-ordered journey 
 would have been.
 
 144 A /RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 In the map he found that a horn of Hertford- 
 shire stuck into Buckinghamshire about the middle 
 of the range, and that at the base of this horn 
 there was a town called Tring. About ten miles 
 from Tring he noted another town, Prince's 
 E/isborough, in the very midst of the Bucks 
 Chilterns. His plan was to walk across the hills 
 from Tring to Bisborough. But on his first visit 
 he saw neither Risborough nor Tring, although he 
 took a train for Tring from Euston, and came out 
 at Tring station. 
 
 The railway porter being unable to direct the 
 itinerant to the Bisborough Boad, he applied at 
 the Boyal Hotel, the only building in sight besides 
 the station. The landlady very graciously brought 
 him a map, but seemed rather nonplussed when 
 he told her that he wanted to walk over the hills 
 from Tring to Bisborough. 
 
 'That would be rather a roundabout,' she said. 
 
 The itinerant was indifierent so long as he kept
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 145 
 
 off the highway. Still the landlady looked non- 
 plussed. Whereupon the itinerant pointed out 
 Tring and Risborough on the map, and showed 
 her that there were hills all the way between 
 them, so that there would be no roundabout in 
 going over them. 
 
 ' Oh ! I see,' said the landlady, smiling with 
 sudden apprehension of the difficulty. ' But 
 you're not at Tring ; this is only Tring station. 
 We're in Aldbury, here. Tring's two miles away. 
 See.' 
 
 The itinerant looked and saw from the railway 
 route on the map that it was so. 
 
 ' Tring's altogether off your way,' the landlady 
 said. ' You could go best by Wigginton.' 
 
 ' And can I go over the hills that way 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, there's a footpath all the way. It's about 
 two miles from here.' 
 
 ' And what is my next point after Wigginton 
 on the road to Risborough 1 '
 
 146 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 'Wendover,' said the landlady. With great 
 clearness she described the course of the upland 
 footpath as far as Wigginton. Arrived there, the 
 itinerant was to inquire his further way. 
 
 He crossed the canal, found the gate the land- 
 lady had spoken of, and a field-path leading past 
 a mansion and over a low hill. There was 
 nothing in the sky but the sun, the moon in her 
 first quarter, soft and filmy, reserved and secret- 
 like, but silver-shining although it was high noon, 
 and a chorus of tireless larks. High up they sang 
 at the pitch of their voices ; the volume, persist- 
 ence, and breathless rapture of their singing as 
 great and wonderful as the human listener has 
 found it in all ages. They are the bravest of 
 birds, with the bravery of ignorance, and scandal- 
 ously optimistic. In Leadenhall Market their 
 brothers are to be had in strings at a shilling the 
 dozen, and here were they singing over the 
 Chilterns as if there could by no possibility be
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 147 
 
 anything else in the world than nesting-times and 
 sunshine. ' Are not two sparrows sold for one 
 farthing % and not one of them is forgotten before 
 God.' Surely, thought the itinerant, these larks 
 ' are of more value than many sparrows.' But 
 remembering the London restaurants, was it not 
 a mockery to cry, ' God save you, Chiltern larks ' 1 
 When will man perceive that he and he alone is 
 responsible for all the good and ill in the world % 
 What sinners, what sluggards and ignoramuses we 
 are ! With a free hand for thousands of years, 
 we have not yet managed to control our harvests, 
 or to prevent the birth of idiots. 
 
 As the landlady had predicted, the itinerant 
 came shortly to a highway, across which he found 
 another gate on the latch. He had been ascending 
 all the time, and had now come to the brow of the 
 hill, among larches and birches hanging with soft 
 green. Higher up he reached a grove of beeches. 
 The old trees had fluted stems, knobs and bosses
 
 148 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 where the sap had boiled over, and long intertwin- 
 ing branches, as if they stood embraced and ready 
 for the dance — listening for the word or note to 
 dissolve the spell that held them root-bound. In 
 the case of the younger ones, tall and graceful, 
 their branches hanging easily about them, the 
 spell had evidently been already dissolved; but 
 they, too, were waiting — perhaps to choose part- 
 ners, or for the old ones to lead off, or on account 
 of some whim ; but the charm will be wrought 
 again before they can make up their minds to trip 
 off down the hill and see the world ; and the axe 
 may be their sole disenchanter, at a time, too, 
 when it would content them just to be conscious of 
 the sap rising in the spring, to be assured that 
 they are only not dead. 
 
 Behind the beeches lay a field on whose 
 dimpled slopes, covered v/ith the downy green of 
 the springing corn, the brown earth was visible 
 like the cheek of a young man through an un-
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 149 
 
 razored beard. Towards Aldbury there was 
 ploughed land on the hill-sides, which the itinerant 
 surveyed with much curiosity, as he had never 
 been on a chalk escarpment before.* Some of 
 the fields were as white as a leper, some 
 only buff-coloured, and in some again the brown 
 earth was streaked and pied with stripes and 
 blotches of white soil — very curious and artificial 
 looking when seen for the first time. To the 
 north-west the view was uninterrupted far across 
 Buckinghamshire, a rolling plain, rich with Eng- 
 land's best. In Wendover a mill stood up forlorn, 
 its arms shivering idly in the wind ; it seemed to 
 look out across the fields tinged with the green 
 of the coming harvest — not so forlornly, either ; 
 hopefully rather, if with a little anxiety : there 
 will surely be work for the wind and it yet. But 
 the mill must have sighed to itself, for there was 
 such a magnificent steady east blowing, like the 
 * The visit to Amersham, p. 39, was a montli later.
 
 ISO A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Strong flight of a flock of birds, and knowing no 
 lull in the plain. On the hill it rose and fell, and 
 sighed and roared among the beeches with the 
 sound of November in its voice, but summer in 
 its breath, drunk with weeks of level sunshine. 
 On the surges of its deafening chant, like crests 
 of foam on the waves, or lightning glancing on a 
 soaring cloud, the lofty notes of the tireless larks 
 sparkled and shone, tongues of flame in the storm 
 of sound. 
 
 Again a road, fulfilling the landlady's prophecy, 
 and across it an open gate. There were no locks 
 or bars anywhere in the whole of the itinerant's 
 journey, and no notice of prosecution visible in the 
 length and breadth of the land. Here a ditch ran 
 along the footpath inlaid with blue flowers and 
 white, yellow blossoms and red; there on the hill-face 
 at the foot of the straggling trees, a purple carpet 
 of hyacinths spread, diapered with primrose and 
 pale anemone. Through the furrow of a ploughed
 
 AMONG THE C MIL TERNS 151 
 
 field, foul with flints, the itinerant came to the 
 landlady's third road, and this he had to follow 
 for a little way into Wigginton. 
 
 A small straggling village, Wigginton seemed 
 uninhabited. Not a soul was visible ; the windows 
 were closed and the blinds down against the heat 
 and the dusty wind. Somebody must be found of 
 whom to inquire the way. The doors of the 
 alehouses also were shut ; but the itinerant 
 entered one of them and inquired of the comely 
 black-eyed girl behind the bar how he was to get to 
 Wendover. She couldn't say, but would ask her 
 mother. The mother was equally ignorant, but 
 would ask the grandmother — and Wendover 
 barely four miles off as the crow flies ! The grand- 
 mother, deaf and invisible, cried from within, 
 * Go 'cross hill to 'Astoe.' Then the youngest of 
 the three, understanding the bearings, told him 
 to turn up past the inn, and the footpath would 
 bring him to Hastoe. She asked him also if
 
 152 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 he would not sit down and rest. He did so for 
 five minutes, while the country barmaid, in a 
 blue wrapper and bare-armed, but with a very 
 comely face and soft black eyes, talked cheerfully 
 about nothinw, glad of a stranger. 
 
 The road to Hastoe led past a farm, where 
 a black long-snouted sow assumed a defiant atti- 
 tude snorting among her farrow, eight little shining 
 nigger pigs. One of them, a burly youngster, 
 moving his nostrils at a prodigious rate, ran away 
 from his mother into a horse-pond inhabited by 
 two grey geese. Speechless with indignation, 
 the geese rose up from where they floated, stood 
 in the mud on their tiptoes, stretched out their 
 necks, and flapped their wings. The adventurous 
 pigling, undismayed, nuzzled about in the water 
 at the brink of the pond, until one of the geese, 
 unable to contain herself any longer, struck at 
 him with her bill. At that he turned his curly 
 tail and fled to his mother, squealing for syra-
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 153 
 
 pathy ; but she refused to pet him, and he retired 
 to a corner to sulk. Cows lay basking in the sun 
 in a paddock at hand, under the apparent super- 
 intendence of a meditative donkey; and a little 
 farther on, a cornfield, marked profusely with 
 sacks of soot, sloped up the hill. Here the 
 itinerant met a tall man of between fifty and 
 sixty years old, in his shirt sleeves, and wearing a 
 straw hat ; he limped a little and carried a stick 
 in one hand, and a basket of eggs in the other. 
 
 'Good morning. That's soot in these sacks, 
 isn't it % ' said the itinerant. 
 
 'Yes,' replied the other. 'I pay two-and-six 
 for each of these sacks, measter, and three- 
 ha'pence for sowing them ; besides beer to the 
 men.' 
 
 It was the farmer himself, good-natured, shrewd, 
 with a cast of countenance indicating originality 
 of character. The itinerant thought how unlike 
 a Scotchman he was, for he had volunteered all
 
 154 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 that information about the soot in reply to the 
 itinerant's assertive question as to its being soot 
 or not. 
 
 'I suppose soot's good for corn,' said the 
 itinerant, 
 
 ' A power o' good,' replied the farmer. 
 
 ' What does it do to the corn ? ' 
 
 Farmer. It's good for it ; it's a manure, you 
 know — a kind of artificial manure. I think sut's 
 a splendid manure — the best artificial manure. 
 Ten sacks an acre is a very good dressing ; eight 
 sacks a fair dressing ; I give about nine. 
 
 Itinerant. How does the weather please you ? 
 
 Farmer. Well, I think we'd be the better of rain. 
 
 But the itinerant was not to have all the 
 questions. 
 
 Farmer, Have you seen the papers this morn- 
 ing? [It was the twenty -second of April.) 
 
 Itinerant, Yes. 
 
 Farmer. I see they've passed the second
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 1 55 
 
 reading of that damned Home Rule Bill. The 
 country '11 be ruined when it becomes law. 
 
 Itinerant. Oh, but it will never become law. 
 
 Farmer. "Well, if you'll convince me of that 
 it'll be a load off my mind. 
 
 The itinerant is no politician ; he had made 
 his declaration about the Home Rule Bill simply 
 to soothe the farmer, and without anticipating 
 the necessity of supporting it. Indeed, he sees 
 no reason why it, or anything, should not become 
 law. As his interlocutor seemed really concerned, 
 and with an open mind for the opinion of a 
 stranger, the itinerant raked up such answers 
 as he had heard. 
 
 Farmer. That's terew. But I wish Gladstone 
 was dead. It's a sinful wish, but they tell me 
 he's a — not a mesmeriser — a — what is it 1 — a 
 hyptoniser. He hyptonises people, and makes 
 them think as he thinks, everywhere. 
 
 Itinerant. I daresay there's something in that.
 
 156 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Last summer I saw Gladstone shortly after the 
 election walking in Bond Street about six in 
 the evening. Nobody was within three hundred 
 yards of us. He came along slowly, his legs 
 somewhat wide apart, as an old man walks, but 
 erect, with his head thrown back. There was 
 something stealthy in his motion, as of an old 
 lion walking in an unaccustomed place. His 
 eyes — immense orbs they are now, much larger 
 than in his younger days — were full of a dream 
 away far in front of him, but ready to flash. 
 It was Saturday, and all the shops were shut. 
 There was no sound in the street but Gladstone's 
 light tread, for I stood aside till he should pass. 
 As he turned into Burlington Gardens, eighty- 
 three years on his head, and every ideal strong 
 within him still, I thought I had seen the most 
 wonderful sight London had yet offered me. 
 Black broadcloth, ordinary silk hat — it was yet 
 to me as if a vision had passed.
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 157 
 
 The farmer thought the itinerant a very poor 
 creature, and smiled sardonically. 
 
 Farmer. He hyptonised you. Now, he never 
 hyptonised me. I've seen him often in the very 
 path we're now in. He used to stay over the hill 
 there with — But you're not from these parts. 
 
 Itinerant. No ; I'm a Scotchman. Have you 
 any Scotchmen about here % 
 
 Farmer. Not about here. But towards Luton 
 way some Scotch farmers came twenty years 
 ago; and they've managed to stop, which we 
 English farmers can't do. 
 
 Itinerant. Oh! How is thati Superior 
 thrift % 
 
 Farmer. Well, no; we're thrifty enough. 
 But we stick to our old ways, and they've gone 
 into milk, and that pays best beside a railway. 
 
 He was a pleasant, odd, shrewd farmer, with 
 only a slight accent and no dialect, but a Yankee- 
 like inflection at the end of his sentences.
 
 158 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 The itinerant reached Hastoe before he knew 
 it. Asking a rustic the way thither he was 
 told he was there — all that he saw being three 
 roads and two houses. The rustic failed to under- 
 stand the itinerant's desire to go over hill : the 
 road was cut up and bad, he said ; and it was 
 only by dragging it out of him that the itinerant 
 learned how to follow the field-path to Wendover. 
 
 Past a cottage where a holly, full of scarlet 
 berries, rubbed branches with an apple-tree, all 
 one faint blush of blossom, through a pleasant 
 wood of larches and young beeches where no 
 wind blew, he came to a cherry-tree waving 
 its branches like censers, and scattering on the 
 air its bitter-sweet incense. Further on a copper, 
 tended by an old man, boiled and bubbled in 
 an outhouse above a roaring fire of brushwood. 
 And still no cloud in the sky ; only the brilliant 
 sun, the tireless larks, the gorgeous weather. 
 
 It was now past two, and the itinerant had
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 159 
 
 eaten nothing since eight o'clock. Instead of 
 going on through the wood, as soon as he reached 
 a highway he looked about him for an inn. He 
 found a hedge-tavern, on which a ticket announced 
 that the tenant was ' licensed to sell beer by 
 retail to be consumed on or off the premises.' The 
 premises consisted of a but - and - ben : in the 
 kitchen he found a seat, and made a sixth with 
 the company already assembled. The ale-wife, old 
 and bent, but smiling pleasantly, was at her own 
 meal of coflfee and bread-and-butter. An old man, 
 two lads, and a schoolboy were eating bread and 
 cheese, or smoking and drinking ale. Attacking 
 the contents of his satchel, and with a pint from 
 the goodwife's barrel, the itinerant started a con- 
 versation about the weather. Much of what was 
 said in reply to his remarks he failed to make out. 
 The rustics seemed very reluctant to use their 
 jaws for any purpose except eating ; when they 
 spoke, they simply left their mouths ajar, and
 
 i6o A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 allowed their tongues to wag the maimed words of 
 an unknown dialect. 
 
 A young man in velveteens entered, sat a little 
 while, made some civil remarks in a recognisable 
 speech, and went away with a greybeard full of 
 beer. * What does he do ? ' asked the itinerant 
 when he had gone. 
 
 ' He's an underkeeper,' said the frankest of the 
 rustics. ' He's my brother,' he added. 
 
 The itinerant then asked them to take beer 
 with him, which they did. They all talked better 
 after it. One of them had been in London, and 
 never wanted to go back. Byford Hill and Aston 
 Hill were the names of two of the Chilterns ; and 
 Byford was ' the highest hill in England ' — Eng- 
 land consisting of this hedge-tavern, a church, a 
 parsonage, a school-house, together called St 
 Leonard's, and the neighbouring hundred. But 
 this was the very information the itinerant 
 wanted, and having been instructed how to reach
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 16 1 
 
 •the highest hill in England,' he resumed the 
 way. 
 
 He had found it unnecessary to go to Tring ; he 
 had given up all hopes of reaching Risborough ; 
 and by taking a wrong turning he came out on 
 the top not of Byford but of Aston Hill. A 
 second and older man in velveteens told him 
 where he was, and pointed out Halton Towers, 
 Mentmore, and Waddesdon. Wendover was still 
 a mile -and -a- half away, and the footpath lay 
 through the grounds of Halton Towers, a charm- 
 ing walk all down hill. He was tired, but he still 
 watched the sky and the land — the moon clearer 
 and keener as the sun left it behind, Buckinsham- 
 shire and the hoi-n of Hertford spread out before 
 him. He saw that in the shade the young green 
 of the corn gave the chalky soil a mauve colour ; 
 he startled two thrushes busy nest-building in a low 
 hedge : and he arrived at Wendover in time to 
 catch a train for Baker Street.
 
 l62 A /RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 II — FROM WENDOVER TO HIGH WYCOMBE 
 
 It was the middle of July before the itinerant 
 returned to the Ohilterns. Shortly after noon he 
 arrived at Wendover, and picked up the way 
 where he had left it. But first he sauntered 
 about Wendover, an ancient, sunny village on a 
 hill slope. Every third house seemed to be an 
 inn. The Rising Sun, with tiled panels of the 
 four seasons on one of its gables, The Rose and 
 Crown, The Pack Horse, The Nag's Head, were 
 all equally inviting ; but, for a change, he lunched 
 in the Coffee-House, an antique, high -shouldered, 
 steep-roofed building beside the church. An 
 old Illustrated London News with pictures of 
 Hughenden lay on the table ; through the open 
 window came the shouts of children on their 
 way back to school after dinner ; the high-pitched 
 school-bell tinkled in a scolding voice, but not 
 unmelodiously ; and the coffee - house keeper
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 163 
 
 served on lavender - scented linen his homely 
 nectar and ambrosia. 
 
 'Why have you spoiled your roomT asked the 
 itinerant. 
 
 ' How do you mean, sir ? ' replied the coffee- 
 house keeper. 
 
 ' The fire-place.' 
 
 The itinerant meant that a new grate, quite 
 ample certainly, and two large presses, now filled 
 up the buxom old ingle, looking very much out of 
 keeping with the low roof, and the cross-beam in 
 high relief. 
 
 'We were pressed for room,' said the coffee- 
 house keeper, innocent of any intention to pun. 
 
 'This house must be a hundred or two years 
 old,' said the itinerant. 
 
 'Nearer three hundred,' said the coffee-house 
 keeper. 'When we lifted the floor of the room 
 above this some years ago we found old silver 
 coins of James I's time, one as early as 1609.'
 
 1 64 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Any history of the house, however, its occupant 
 was unable to give. 
 
 A few old men, sunning themselves about the 
 church, and one or two women going errands, 
 looked curiously at the itinerant as he passed 
 through the village to the hill. Thatch, tile, and 
 slate were on the roofs ; white and pink wash on 
 the fronts ; low, square windows, girding the 
 houses, and high, short, broad ones, gleaming and 
 frowning under the heavy eaves, caught the sun 
 on one side of the street and its reflection on the 
 other. 
 
 The way lay past the glaring new station, and 
 over the railway bridge. One side of the chalk 
 cutting was sprinkled with red poppies, like blood- 
 stains on snow. In the ditches wild thyme grew 
 rank, and the bees sighed and sang among its 
 searching odour. Haws were beginning to redden 
 in the hedges ; and bramble blossoms blushed 
 here and there.
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 165 
 
 A green and white path wound up the hill ; 
 coltsfoot shone among the turf, little nuggets of 
 pure gold ; three ladies sat on a knoll in red and 
 black with parasols ; and a free fair wind blew 
 across the plain. In Wendover the windmill 
 which the itinerant had seen idling in the spring 
 faced the north-west, conjuring the powers of the 
 air with the strong slow motion of its wide arms. 
 Through the dappled sky the sun shone in spells 
 and spurts. Black vapour hung about the Thames 
 valley ; but from the western to the northern 
 horizon, between the earth and a semi-circle of 
 grey cloud, a white zone stretched, cracked and 
 ragged-edged, like a shard of an immense porcelain 
 globe. At the foot of the hill white fields, green 
 fields, yellow and bronze fields carpeted the rich 
 vale of Aylesbury ; the red roofs and walls of 
 Aylesbury town glowed and smoked like dying 
 brands as the sunshine came and went ; wood and 
 forest, ridge and slope stretched away, crowding
 
 l66 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 together in herds and clusters over Whaddon 
 Chase, to Salcey Forest and Yardly Oak, to the 
 borders of Northamptonshire and the blue dis- 
 tance. A far-off train clanked musically; the 
 wind sang over the hill with bees in its bosom ; 
 and the sunshine shifted about the landscape. 
 
 More than a week of hissing, singing rains, 
 sometimes by night, sometimes by day, had re- 
 stored England to itself. The white, parched 
 roads of April, May, and June had grown 
 brown and elastic; the woods sent up a mist, 
 and the pale hills were all a green blush once 
 more. 
 
 The hill behind Wendover is perhaps the 
 nakedest of the richly wooded Chilterns. A 
 piece of tall hedge climbs over it, the remnant 
 of some old division ; and brakes of furze and 
 bramble — a wilderness indeed, overspreads its 
 broad top. On the bushes the berries were 
 formed in copper clusters, large and beginning
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 167 
 
 to blacken; and many broad blossoms, deeply 
 tinged for bramble bloom, blushed like foolish 
 virgins thinking how late they were. The tinkle 
 of a bell floated down the wind, and rounding 
 a knoll the itinerant saw a flock of sheep, newly 
 shorn, newly washed, of a creamy whiteness, 
 feeding near the shepherd and his dog. The 
 bell-wether kept up a constant ringing as he 
 cropped the close grass ; the Chiltern shepherd 
 far down the hill lay under a hawthorn, restful 
 and vacant-minded. 
 
 Have not the imperial Romes, pagan and 
 Christian, gunpowder, the press, the French 
 Revolution, steam, electricity, left the shepherd's 
 lot unaltered 1 Changed methods, changed eco- 
 nomy, for tillers and harvesters, for masons, miners, 
 carpenters, ironworkers ; but the shepherd still 
 pursues his simple calling, as he did on the 
 plains of Chaldea before the first temple was 
 built, unchanged and unchangeable in manner
 
 i68 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 and form. And the blacksmith — he also, at his 
 forge, has changed but little. 
 
 ' What ! ' cried the imaginary disputant. ' Are 
 horse-shoes not yet made by machinery ? ' 
 
 'I hardly know,' replied the itinerant. 'I 
 should think not — certainly not to any extent.' 
 
 ' Let us ask the shepherd,' said the disputant. 
 
 ' Useless,' rejoined the itinerant. ' The shep- 
 herd cannot possibly know anything about it.' 
 
 ' I warrant he does,' cried the disputant. 
 
 ' Impossible ! ' maintained the itinerant. 
 
 ' Put it to the test.' 
 
 'No,' cried the itinerant, suddenly overcome 
 with fear. 'I have idealised that shepherd, 
 and dare not approach him lest I should find 
 him with a copy of the Commonweal in his 
 pocket.' 
 
 ' Or a French grammar, or Pitman's shorthand,' 
 said the disputant vanishing. 
 
 After the brambly wilderness came a stretch
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 169 
 
 of heather and rasps. The rasps were abundant, 
 but not so large nor so well-flavoured as those 
 of Cumbrae and Bute. The itinerant was certain 
 of that ; but the imaginary disputant reappeared 
 for a second, pointed out to him that at thirty- 
 five, after fifteen years of tobacco and alcohol, 
 the palate becomes blunt. 
 
 'True,' said the itinerant; 'but not on a day 
 like this : a hill-side and a wandering wind 
 can make even an old man's senses as acute 
 as a boy's.' 
 
 Then came a withered heath ; and out of it, 
 almost from between the itinerant's feet, a lark 
 with hissing wings shot up like a rocket. Right 
 underneath it he watched its ascent ; he had 
 never had such an opportunity before. It wedged 
 its way up spirally ; and as distance gradually hid 
 the corkscrew motion, it seemed to be climbing 
 a stair, moving from side to side with each 
 step like a skater. At a certain height the
 
 170 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 direct ascent changed to an oblique one ; the 
 lark had ceased drilling a passage through the 
 air, and impelled by the momentum acquired in 
 its long involved race up the skies, it slid without 
 effort high into the blue. The descent was a con- 
 tinuation of the ascending slide, its "wings remain- 
 ing motionless, until, near the earth, they were 
 employed as breaks to avoid destruction. And all 
 the while the powerful song went on, firing the 
 air. 
 
 The itinerant left the hill at Ellesborough and 
 rested there in the Rose-and-Crown, a wayside 
 inn with a thatched roof. The sofa in the low- 
 ceiled parlour, and the country ale were good. 
 The cheerful alewife, uncertain of the way, sent in 
 a jolly young countryman who told him how to go. 
 Outside on an eminence opposite the inn stood a 
 lofty-minded goose contemptuously surveying the 
 universe. It made no remark ; but stretched its 
 long neck, thrust up its bill, and thought to itself,
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 171 
 
 ' I may be intoed, and my voice may be harsh, but 
 I am the biggest, and therefore the most important 
 fowl on the face of the earth.' Clearly, a most 
 local goose, and one that had never seen a swan, 
 nor heard of an ostrich, and thought 
 
 ' The rustic cackle of its bourg 
 The murmur of the world.' 
 
 Past Ellesborough Church, standing on a hill, a 
 footpath led through the Chequers. The Ohilterns 
 are famous for their beeches ; none are finer than 
 those that grow in this estate. High up on knolls 
 they stand, letting the light hide among their fluted 
 stems. In glades, boxwood, with its dark-green 
 glossy leaf, muffles their smooth trunks. In a bay 
 that runs deep into the hill they throng together on 
 either side, masses and clouds of foliage — a green 
 sea cleft asunder by some enchanter's rod. Tower- 
 ing in rounded waves, whose flanks the breeze 
 ripples, whose crests stream in the wind, the high 
 green banks seem always about to lapse into their
 
 172 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 channel, but are always withheld. Far back in 
 the hill the opposing sides meet as under a 
 bastion ; and where they join, the trees climb 
 up against each other, and pressing close burst 
 aloft into a fountain that showers in emerald 
 spray. The light slumbers and wakes on the 
 hanging billows, and the shadows sleep in their 
 bosoms. 
 
 Through fields, populous with ant hills, the 
 itinerant came to the highway, to Little Kimble 
 and Great Kimble, reposeful upland hamlets. At 
 Great Kimble he enjoyed for the first time in his 
 life a wash at a pump. It is impossible, in words, 
 to convey an impression of the delights, after a 
 long walk, of being pumped to and on, of yellow 
 soap, and a huckaback towel. 
 
 ' A bathe in the sea % ' queries the imaginary 
 disputant. 
 
 ' Yes, that is free and noble ; and yet brutal 
 withal. It is the limitation of a pump compared
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 17 2 
 
 with the sea, and its freedom compared with a 
 basin that make it so seductive.' 
 
 Between Great Kimble and Monks' Risborough, 
 under the eave of a hill, is the village of White- 
 leaf. Old thatched houses among trees, sitting 
 above the world, overlooking the highway from a 
 distance, steeped in memories, good friends with 
 Time ; a place to live in : exquisite, under the eave 
 of the hill ; a place to die in. 
 
 Prince's Risborough is called after the Black 
 Prince, who built a castle there, hoping to re- 
 tire from the world. The name of the place 
 and two Black Prince inns are the only mem- 
 orials of him left. Larger and more modernised 
 than Wendover, Prince's Risborough is a pleas- 
 ant market town. Prosperous old vines grow 
 against gables in the open street. It is a 
 well-sheltered place, with a thriving look about 
 it. 
 
 In the graveyard on one side of a decaying
 
 174 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 wooden memorial, in shape like the end of a 
 French bedstead, is the following couplet : — 
 
 * Seize upon truth wherever it is found, 
 Whether on heathen or on Christian ground.' 
 
 This early agnostic rhyme is in memory of 
 'Sophia, daughter of James and Sarah West, 
 who died June 23, 1852, aged 20 years.' 
 
 The first train for London was not due for 
 an hour-and-a-half ; so the itinerant, having re- 
 freshed himself with tea, determined to walk 
 to West Wycombe and pick up the train there. 
 The sky had grown grey, and a cool wind blew — 
 a September evening in July. Countless larks 
 climbed up and down the air. Singing since 
 March, all day and every day, strong-throated, 
 strong-winged, they laced the grey evening with 
 living gold. But the itinerant had ceased to 
 observe ; he could endure no more impressions 
 for the time being, so he summoned the imaginary 
 disputant.
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS 175 
 
 Disputant. What do you want % 
 
 Itinerant. Say something. 
 
 Disputant. It is always melancholy to reflect 
 how often effort and ambition have failed to 
 attain their object, and how many poor souls, 
 dying in the firm belief that their friends would 
 do them justice, are buried more effectually than 
 in their graves, in the memories of those who 
 knew them only to slight them. 
 
 Itinerant. Why do you say that % 
 
 Disputant. I thought it would suit your even- 
 ing mood. 
 
 Itinerant. No. Try again. 
 
 Disputant. Do you assent to the hypothesis 
 that Dr Johnson may now at the end of a series of 
 incarnations and possibly in vegetations, be found 
 embodied in Mark Twain % 
 
 Itinerant. The whirligig of time might easily 
 bring in a less good-natured revenge. But you do 
 not hit my mood.
 
 176 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Disputant. Self-control is the whole secret of 
 life. 
 
 Itinerant. Imprudence is the whole secret of 
 life. Anything is the whole secret of life. 
 
 Disputant. Why do you talk nonsense 1 
 
 Itinerant. It is not nonsense. But why do 
 you quote Goethe % 
 
 Disputant. Burns says it also. 
 
 Itinerant. Burns ? I have forgotten. 
 
 Disputant. Forgotten ^ Burns's own epitaph ! 
 
 Itinerant. Probably I know it by heart ; but 
 my memory is a most felonious traitor. 
 
 The itinerant saw that the disputant, hitherto 
 a shadowy figure, had now taken the appearance 
 of an old friend. 
 
 Disputant, 
 
 ' The poor inhabitant below 
 "Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow 
 
 And softer flame ; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low 
 
 And stained his name.
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS i77 
 
 ' Reader, attend : — whether thy soul 
 Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 
 
 In low pursuit ; 
 Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
 
 Is wisdom's root.' 
 
 Itinerant. But who wants to be wise? Who 
 would not rather have been Burns than Dugald 
 Stewart, Mirabeau than Talleyrand, Byron than 
 Wordsworth 1 
 
 Disputant. Burns than Goethe 1 
 
 Itinerant. [Says nothing.) 
 
 Disputant. Self-control, as I understand it, 
 is the keystone of genius : without it, you may 
 have wonderful ruins, but no lofty bridge tri- 
 umphantly spanning life. The terrible gifts of 
 brain and blood slay the Titans — Mirabeau, 
 Burns, Byron ; the Gods, Shakespeare and 
 Goethe, chain their intellects and temperaments. 
 
 Itinerant. But that is Carlyle. 
 
 Disputant. But ! But me no buts. It is 
 
 as if you said ' but that is truth.' 
 
 M
 
 178 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. Nay, then, I see you have the 
 receipt of the absolute, and walk unassailable. 
 
 Disputant. Absolute and unassailable, I stand 
 upon a rock. 
 
 Itinerant. But I would sooner float upon 
 the sea, driven by every wind, tossed from wave 
 to wave, to lie at last drowned in the deepest 
 vale the ocean hides. 
 
 'Obscurest night involved the sky, 
 
 The Atlantic billows roared, 
 When such a destined wretch as I, 
 
 Wash'd headlong from on board ; 
 Of friends, of hope, of aU bereft, 
 His floating home for ever left. 
 
 ' No voice divine the storm allayed, 
 
 No light propitious shone ; 
 When snatch'd from all effectual aid, 
 
 We perish'd, each alone : 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.' 
 
 I would sooner be a castaway than not sail at all.
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 179 
 
 Disputant. On shore or at anchor, one — 
 But no ; so would I. 
 
 ' " O whatna mountain's yon," she said, 
 " Sae drear wi' frost and snow ? " 
 " O yon's the mountain o' Hell," he cried, 
 " Where you an' me must go ! " 
 
 * An' aye when she turn'd her round about. 
 
 The taller he seemed to be ; 
 Until the tops o' the gallant ship 
 Nae taller were than he ! 
 
 'He strak the mainmast wi' his haun', 
 
 The foremast wi' his knee ; 
 The gallant ship was broke in twain, 
 And sunk into the sea.' 
 
 The larks had fallen silent ; foreshadowings 
 of night crept up the sky ; the wind blew chill ; 
 in front, the dark woods of "West Wycombe were 
 veiled by a shower of rain that fluttered in 
 the wind like a netted curtain of film. Soon 
 the itinerant was wrapped in its thin clammy 
 folds ; but the station was near, and the train — 
 too near : it clanked past, before he came within
 
 i8o A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 hail of the booking-oiEce ; and he found him- 
 self a land castaway. To be drowned in the 
 deepest pit of the sea had seemed noble ; 
 now he grumbled at a shower. There were no 
 more trains from West Wycombe ; but at High 
 Wycombe, two-and-a-half miles away, one left for 
 Paddington at ten minutes past nine : he could 
 catch it easily as it was not yet eight. In an inn 
 parlour, where the landlady's daughters plied their 
 seams, and the landlady entertained him with the 
 gossip of the place, he rested for ten minutes. 
 Then he took the road again. Thin sheets of 
 rain shrouded him at intervals ; in the dry spaces 
 between, pale shafts of light struck the hedgerows, 
 barely bringing out their dark green hue. The 
 tumbling clouds drifted across the sky, an aimless, 
 endless tumult. Horses appeared, wheels rolled, 
 out of the mist — low laughing voices, and the 
 flushed, wet face of a girl. Houses like shadows, 
 the gleam of a river flowing through a street,
 
 AMONG THE CHILTERNS i8i 
 
 ghostly people, a high market-place — High Wy- 
 combe, all fantastic, built on hills ; lastly, the 
 station, and a while to wait. 
 
 The itinerant summoned the imaginary disput- 
 ant. He came — this time unknown, unfriendly ; 
 but he still talked of Burns. (If anyone is afraid 
 of his own night thoughts, let him stop here. 
 What follows is, in reality, not thought ; only a 
 mood — as all thought is. There is no such thing 
 as thought — only mood.) 
 
 Disputant. Burns was a gross creature — a gross, 
 faithless creature. 
 
 Itinerant. No ; Burns was a great lover — a 
 man * full of desires,' like the prophet Daniel ; 
 strong bodies and splendid temperaments ; so well 
 attuned that the one on pulse and water grew 
 fairer and fatter than all the youths that did eat 
 of the king's meat, and the other on porridge and 
 whisky supported during seventeen years a passion 
 for all the women in the countryside.
 
 i82 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Disputant. A gross lover ! a most foolish and 
 gross lover, wasting those treasures of his blood 
 that should have nourished his genius. 
 
 Itinerant. What else could he do, in his place, 
 with his temperament ? 
 
 Disputant. Continence is the mother of art : 
 you'll find it so, notwithstanding Raphael and 
 Heine. 
 
 Itinerant. But Burns was no artist. 
 
 Disputant. He was too incontinent. 
 
 Itinerant. Ah ! he was a great lover. 
 
 Disputant. A gross lover. And in friendship 
 as gross as in love : he admired men to their faces ; 
 he wrote them rhyming epistles. 
 
 Itinerant. There is no need to lug in his 
 friendships. What from another would have 
 been flattery was from him simply the glowing 
 recognition of his fiery heart. You slander him. 
 Disembodied phantom, what can you know of 
 such gifts of blood and brain as Burns's werel
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 183 
 
 Disputant, He might have been more refined. 
 The delicacy of love was unknown to him. 
 
 Itinerant. The delicacy of love ! I understand 
 you now, decadent disputant. You would have 
 women trained as they are said to be in Turkey. 
 You would take the bandage from Cupid's eyes, 
 and turn the ' ruddy offices of love ' to unblushing 
 lasciviousness. The delicacy of love 1 The dilet- 
 tantism of love ! I have heard men of twenty-five 
 complaining how innocent in love women are. 
 What right has a man to invade the secrets of his 
 mistress's mood; to search the depths of her desire, 
 doling out his passion, nursing and herding hers ? 
 How ghastly ! Better a million times cry out 
 with Burns, 
 
 'My dearest blood to do them good, 
 They're welcome till't, for a' that ' ; 
 
 with Marlow, 
 
 'But, by the chaps of Hell, to do thee good, 
 I'll freely spend my thrice decocted blood ! *
 
 1 84 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Disputant. Ahem ! Well, it is dark, and 
 there's nobody else in the station. But these are 
 remarkable parallel passages. It is quite unlikely 
 that Burns ever saw the latter. Are you sure it 
 is Marlow 1. 
 
 Itinerant. It is generally considered to be by 
 Marlow. But Adam said it — Adam, who was 
 God's model : not the other way, as stated in 
 Genesis : and yet that remark about making man 
 in God's image comes nearer the truth, being the 
 reverse of it, than anything else about God in the 
 Old Testament. 
 
 Disputant. You might say there was recip- 
 rocity: anthropomorphism on man's part; theomor- 
 phism, on God's, 
 
 Itinerant. Admirable ! The Greeks and Romans 
 said it ; all great lovers said it, and will say it. It 
 was breathed into God with the breath of man ; it is 
 the word of God. Your decadence, your factitious 
 decadence — for I deny that it exists, except in the
 
 AMONG THE CHIL TERNS 185 
 
 fancies of a few — is happily helping us to one 
 thing : to freedom of speech, the lack of which has 
 cramped the literature of England for a century. 
 They walked in Cyprus and danced after Hymen 
 in patent leather pumps with corns on their toes ; 
 but now the time of sandals is coming in. 
 
 Disputant, No decadence, you say ; no decad- 
 ence? 
 
 Itikerant. No ; no more than there has been 
 for these nineteen hundred years. The Christian 
 Era is the decadence — the centuries of the tyran- 
 nous God, and the pathetic mediator, when man 
 lay under the dominion of the future. ' Now ! 
 now ! ' they clamoured — ' now is the accepted 
 time; now is the day of salvation !' But the rich 
 and powerful dashed the cup of life from the lips 
 of the people, and told them heaven would make 
 amends. The whole world groans and travails 
 with a new God. Wordsworth hints it ; Tennyson 
 and Carlyle hoped not ; Swinburne sings it ;
 
 i86 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Ibsen, that great Scotchman, says it. A new 
 Heaven ; a new Earth. 
 
 Disputant. My good itinerant, you must be a 
 very young man. 
 
 Itinerant. Young? No; old, Master Shallow, 
 old; eighteen hundred and ninety -three years old. 
 The heirs of all the ages, we are all eighteen hun- 
 dred and ninety-three years old at least.
 
 BY WAY OF EPILOGUE
 
 BY WAY OF EPILOGUE 
 
 Disputant. I have been reading the proofs of 
 the ' Random Itinerary,' and I don't like some 
 things in it. 
 
 Itinerant. Neither do I ; neither does the 
 author. A book which entirely pleased'^its author 
 would be unreadable : the faults and weaknesses 
 of men and authors are alone interesting. But 
 what do you object to? Have you not received 
 justice 1 
 
 Disputant. That is not the matter. He seems 
 not to have made as much of it as he might. 
 
 Itinerant. But there was no making or 
 marring about it ; he had simply to put down 
 ■what I told him.
 
 igo A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Disputant. Well, he hasn't worked it up suffi- 
 ciently. He lays too little stress, for example, on 
 the extraordinariness of the weather — and that 
 after drawing attention to the point in his intro- 
 ductory note. 
 
 Itinerant. Ah ! That note is the only sentence 
 in the book which the author inserted without con- 
 sultins: me. But I rather like it. I didn't notice 
 the possible importance of the fact that my journeys 
 took place in the spring and summer of 1893, until 
 the author's note showed me the adventitious in- 
 terest my itinerary may have. It is a good catch- 
 penny note. 
 
 Disputant. Then he repeats images about trees 
 and blossoms, the sun and the moon. 
 
 Itinerant. But that is not his fault ; he de- 
 scribes what I saw, and in the way I saw it. If 
 the blackthorn blossom appeared to me for a whole 
 forenoon like splashes of white paint on the brown 
 woods, why shouldn't he say it as often as I noted
 
 BY WAY OF EPILOGUE 191 
 
 it"? A mere ' derangement of epitaphs ' is a very 
 paltry trick. This repetition you object to is 
 artistic, and of the same order as ' catchword ' in a 
 pantomime or in the writings of Carlyle and 
 Matthew Arnold, of the same order as the chorus 
 in a song, as parallelism in the old Hebrew writ- 
 ings, or as the burden in a ballad ; and I don't 
 think the author has overdone it. 
 
 Disputant. Thirdly, the true spirit of the rambler 
 seems to me to be lacking. 
 
 Itinerant. The true spirit of the rambler ! First 
 of all, who has authority to define the ' true 
 spirit of the rambler ' '? You talk like an inquisitor, 
 or a country reviewer. It is my spirit which is 
 present. 
 
 Disputant. Well then, you don't seem to have 
 loitered enough. 
 
 Itinerant. I never loitered when I wanted to 
 hurry, or hurried when I felt the disposition to 
 loiter. The things that interested me I bade the
 
 192 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 author write of. When he questioned me concern- 
 ing villages and towns which I had passed through 
 unobservantly, I told him of green trees and tur- 
 quoise skies, or of a foolish book, or of a wash at 
 a pump, or of my talks with you. It is my mood 
 which he has recorded, and it is a genuine record. 
 When he wished to insert his own reflections, when 
 he asked me for afterthoughts, ' No,' I said. ' Here 
 are the thoughts, the half-thoughts, the moods that 
 came to me on the way, and here are my discours- 
 ings with my familiar, the Imaginary Disputant. 
 These only you must use of reflective matter.' The 
 author consulted me for every sentence. His book 
 is a faithful account of my impressions. 
 
 Disputant. But it seems to me to come so far 
 short of the truth. For example, you must have 
 seen, or heard, thousands — tens of thousands of 
 sparrows. The author doesn't once mention the 
 little rogues. 
 
 Itinerant. Sparrows ! You are wrong. I saw
 
 BY WA Y OF EPILOGUE 193 
 
 them in St James's Park, and you'll find the author 
 refers to the fact. But that was the only time I 
 saw or heard sparrows during my journeys. 
 
 Disputant. How absurd ! 
 
 Itinerant. Oh no ! Consider : did you ever 
 see a sparrow 1 You have heard and read about 
 sparrows. The streets are full of them ; you 
 know they exist. But you could not describe 
 one, or say what like its note is. You have 
 never seen a sparrow any more than you have 
 seen the thousand and one men and women you 
 passed in Fleet Street the last time you walked 
 through it. Did you ever see a sparrow ? 
 
 Disputant. You are too finical. Did you see 
 the caterpillars falling through the leaves in 
 Epping Forest? How does the author's remark 
 go % ' The sound of the myriads of caterpillars 
 dropping from leaf to leaf was like the patter of 
 rain.' How about that ? 
 
 Itinerant. I am not a naturalist. But if 
 
 N
 
 194 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 that is incorrect the blame is really the author's. 
 I told him of the extraordinary number of cater- 
 pillars I saw in Epping Forest, and of the patter- 
 ing sound on the leaves which had puzzled me. 
 He at once decided that it must have been the 
 caterpillars tumbling about among the trees. 
 I thought it rather an odd suggestion, but he con- 
 sulted Gilbert White, and assured me that as 
 there was nothing against the explanation in the 
 ' Natural History of Selborne,' it must be correct. 
 
 Disputant. My good Itinerant, the author has 
 been quizzing you. 
 
 Itinerant. Do you think sol Is his opinion 
 not as good as Gilbert White's concerning a 
 matter on which the latter has nothing to say 1 
 
 Disputant. Is your author a naturalist? 
 
 Itinerant. I am afraid not. But that's of no 
 consequence since Gilbert White's book is the 
 only authority on Natural History in the world. 
 
 Disputant. The only one !
 
 BY WAY OF EPILOGUE 195 
 
 Itinerant. The author said so. He showed 
 me the book too, and it was the only one on the 
 subject he had. 
 
 Disputant. Either he is inconceivably ignorant, 
 or he has imposed on you. There are many ad- 
 mirable books of Natural History between Gilbert 
 White and W. H. Hudson. 
 
 Itinerant. Are there % I shall have to talk to 
 my author. The treacherous villain ! Now I 
 hope you are done ; for I have no desire to dis- 
 cuss any more. 
 
 Disputant. How's that % 
 
 Itinerant. Well, I happen to have been over- 
 emotional of late, and as a penance I wish to fast 
 from expression. 
 
 Disputant. Over-emotionall Can one have 
 too many, too powerful emotions % Why not say 
 to the whole universe, ' Come and impress me ; 
 let me be shattered if I cannot bear the impres- 
 sion of it all.'
 
 196 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Itinerant. Rather, the aim should be to com- 
 prehend the universe intellectually — to know it, 
 not feel it. All emotion is developed at the ex- 
 pense of what is higher; all laughter, all tears 
 are retrograde : out of a chaos of passion the 
 world has gradually evolved intellect. Not to 
 feel, not to imagine, not to think, but to know is 
 the final cause of man. 
 
 Disputant. And what shall we do with the 
 pictures, the sculpture, the music, the poetry % 
 
 Itinerant. That Science which has destroyed 
 Faith will not hesitate to put an end to Art : all 
 Art is sinful. 
 
 Disputant. Yes, of course : so is Science ; so is 
 anything if you make a religion of something else. 
 
 Itinerant. Quite so. Anything more % 
 
 Disputant. Yes. I quite forgot to ask you why 
 you stopped your journeys with July % There was 
 a recurrence of the tropical weather in August. 
 
 Itinerant. Because I lost my caprice for walk-
 
 A BALLAD 197 
 
 ing about after my second visit to the Chilterns. 
 You, now, would have made a calendar of it, and 
 gathered doggedly a report of every month. I 
 think it is best to be inconstant : the moment 
 you begin to think of the beauty of constancy 
 love is dead. Besides the author wouldn't have 
 written any more of it ; he has taken to making 
 ballads. 
 
 Disputant. Has he ? What kind of ballads % 
 
 Itinerant. He sent me a copy of the last 
 one. Shall I read it, and you can judge for 
 yourself % 
 
 Disputant. Do. 
 
 Itinerant. He calls it ' A Ballad of a 
 Musician.' 
 
 He wrought at one great work for years ; 
 
 The world passed by with lofty look : 
 Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears ; 
 
 Sometimes his lips with laughter shook.
 
 1 98 A RANDOM ITINERA R Y 
 
 His wife and child went clothed in rags, 
 And in a windy garret starved : 
 
 He trod his measures on the flags, 
 
 And high on heaven his music carved. 
 
 Wistful he grew, but never feared ; 
 
 For always on the midnight skies 
 His rich orchestral score appeared 
 
 In stars and zones and galaxies. 
 
 He thought to copy down his score : 
 The moonlight was his lamp : he said, 
 ' Listen, my love ; ' but on the floor 
 His wife and child were lying dead. 
 
 Her hollow eyes were open wide ; 
 
 He deemed she heard with special zest 
 Her death's-head infant coldly eyed 
 
 The desert of her shrunken breast.
 
 A BALLAD I99 
 
 ' Listen, my love : my work is done ; 
 I tremble as I touch the page 
 To sisn the sentence of the sun 
 And crown the great eternal age. 
 
 ' The slow adagio begins : 
 
 The winding-sheets are ravelled out 
 That swathe the minds of men, the sins 
 That wrap their rotting souls about. 
 
 ' The dead are heralded along : 
 
 With silver trumps and golden drums, 
 And flutes and oboes, keen and strong, 
 My brave andante singing comes, 
 
 * Then like a python's sumptuous dress 
 The frame of things is cast away, 
 And out of Time's obscure distress 
 The thundering scherzo crashes Day.
 
 200 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 ' For three great orchestras I hope 
 
 My mighty music shall be scored : 
 On three high hills they shall have scope 
 With heaven's vault for a sounding-board. 
 
 ' Sleep well, love ; let your eyelids fall, 
 
 Cover the child ; good-night, and if . . . 
 What*? Speak . . . The traitorous end of all ! 
 Both . . . cold and hungry . . . cold and stiff ! 
 
 ' But no ; God means us well, I trust : 
 Dear ones, be happy, hope is nigh : 
 We are too young to fall to dust, 
 And too unsatisfied to die.' 
 
 He lifted up against his breast 
 
 The woman's body stark and wan ; 
 
 And to her withered bosom pressed 
 The little skin-clad skeleton.
 
 A BALLAD 201 
 
 •You see you are alive,' he cried. 
 
 He rocked them gently to and fro. 
 ' No, no, my love, you have not died ; 
 
 Nor you, my little fellow ; no.' 
 
 Long in his arms he strained his dead 
 And crooned an antique lullaby ; 
 
 Then laid them on the lowly bed. 
 And broke down with a doleful cry. 
 
 ' The love, the hope, the blood, the brain 
 Of her and me, the budding life, 
 And my great music — all in vain ! 
 
 My unscored work, my child, my wife ! 
 
 * "We drop into oblivion, 
 
 And nourish some suburban sod : 
 My work, this woman, this my son 
 Are now no more : there is no God.
 
 202 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 ' The world's a dustbin ; we are due, 
 
 And death's cart waits : be Life accurst I ' 
 He stumbled down beside the two, 
 
 And clasping them, his great heart burst. 
 
 Straightway he stood at heaven's gate, 
 Abashed and trembling for his sin : 
 
 I trow he had not long to wait, 
 For God came out and led him in. 
 
 And then there ran a radiant pair 
 Ruddy with haste and eager-eyed 
 
 To meet him first upon the stair — 
 His wife and child beatified. 
 
 They clad him in a robe of light, 
 
 And gave him heavenly food to eat ; 
 
 Great seraphs praised him to the height, 
 Archangels sat about his feet.
 
 A BALLAD 203 
 
 God, smiling, took him by the hand, 
 And led him to the brink of heaven : 
 
 He saw where systems whirling stand, 
 Where galaxies like snow are driven. 
 
 Dead silence reigned ; a shudder ran 
 
 Through space ; Time furled his wearied wings ; 
 
 A slow adagio then began 
 
 Sweetly resolving troubled things. 
 
 The dead were heralded along : 
 
 As if with drums and trumps of flame, 
 
 And flutes and oboes keen and strong, 
 A brave andante singing came. 
 
 Then like a python's sumptuous dress 
 The frame of things was cast away, 
 
 And out of Time's obscure distress 
 
 The conquering scherzo thundered Day.
 
 204 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 He doubted ; but God said, ' Even so ; 
 
 Nothing is lost that's wrought with tears ; 
 The music that you made below 
 
 Is now the music of the spheres.' 
 
 Disputant. Hurrah ! 
 
 THE END
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 FLEET STREET ECLOGUES. Second Edition, 
 Fcap. 8vo, buclcram, 5s. net. 
 
 PLAYS : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic 
 Farce ; Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a 
 Tragic Farce ; Scaramouch in Naxos, a Panto- 
 mime : by John Davidson. With a Frontispiece, 
 Title-page, and Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. 
 The Edition will be limited to 500 copies. Sm. 410, 
 7s. 6d net. [/« Preparation. 
 
 SOME PRESS OPIKIONS OF ' FLEET STREET ECLOGUES ' 
 
 'Mr Davidson's "Fleet Street Eclogues" have much brightness of 
 invention. . . . The interchange of sentiments throughout these clever 
 poems is admirably true to the 1 oetic style of the eclogue, while each of 
 the interlocutors is presented in perfect accord with the age, and is faithful 
 to the type represented.'— .•ij/«rt/«j' l\cvieu'. 
 
 'Mr Davi:li:on has mucli intellectual cleverness — a quality Fom»-what 
 loo dominant in his poctij production— he has independent thought and 
 manner, a rhythmic faculty, thara.teristic verve when he employs his 
 muse on topics of social practice, and, as shown by these " Fleet Street 
 Eclogues," feeling and {s.c\Vay .' — A t li ena ii vi . 
 
 ' The great charm of the book consists in the happy rural note which is 
 struck on almost e\ery page. ... An odour of vi jlcts, a gleam of prim- 
 roses, a breath of the hills and trees greet us in these pages. And as
 
 [-] 
 
 though this were not enough, Mr Davidson lavishly throws in, at the end 
 of the volume, a tragic ballad of singular power and beauty. In its kind, 
 indeed, this is perhaps the most memorable volume of the year.' — 
 Atademy. 
 
 ' The very title has a smack of delicious quaintness and inconsequence, 
 and the skill with which the modernity of the age-end journalist's life and 
 work is wrought into the grace and spaciousness of the verse is admirable.' 
 Vanity Fair. 
 
 His style is instinct with the magic of eclectic inevitable words, and 
 yet there is no straining after effect, no eccentric archaisms, no barbarous 
 neologisms. His English is as natural and direct as that of the Eliza- 
 bethans or the Cavaliers.' — Speaker. 
 
 'In his new book Mr Davidson has hit on a conception all his own, and 
 he controls his gifts with an art which doubles their effectiveness. His 
 treatment of the Elizabethan eclogue, his infusing it with a modern in- 
 tensity of note, while retaining its old lyric sweetness, his dramatic vitalis- 
 ation and his merely metrical development of it, is a notable artistic 
 triumph. None of our j'ounger poets has published a book so full of 
 creative energy, of fancy and imagination so compact, of poetic glamour 
 so irresistible, so marked from end to end by the careless fecundity of 
 power.' — Daily Chrmiicle. 
 
 ' Mr Davidson's journalists sing as simply and sweetly of nature as any 
 Mantuan swain, though they mix their pipings with passionate criticism 
 of life. . . . Everything Mr Davidson does bears the hall-mark of origin- 
 ality. . . . He is more than a minor poet — he does not even sing much in 
 the minor key. He is a type of the younger generation which is knocking 
 at the door, and will assuredly vivify us with the breath of its new life and 
 the ardour of its new song." — Mr Zangwill in The Pall Ulall Magazine. 
 
 Mk Andrew Lang in T/ie Illustrated Lo?!do7i Nettis.rekrringxolhc 
 article in The Edinburgh Review on 'Contemporary Poet-;,' says: — 
 ' Where so many new poets were considered, Mr John Davidson's 
 "Fleet Street Eclogues" deserved a word, and a notably gnoi word. 
 Sometimes, after "a torrent of applause," you hear one lonely belated 
 pair of hands clapping. Such a demonstration is this of mine, as Mr 
 Davidson's remarkable book came out in spring, and I have only made its 
 acquaintance lately. One never met journalists like those in Mr 
 David-cn s eclogues, indeed — men pining in Fleet Street for the country 
 — but one heartily sympathises with them, on the whole ; and, as for the 
 versification, it is admirable and original, and often beautiful.'
 
 List of Books 
 
 in 
 
 gelles Jettres 
 
 1S93 
 
 /^m4v 
 
 mirmaifitwf 
 s^3dfin/Fani: 
 
 andDmdonf 
 CfL0LCt4.^arc 
 futons in 
 
 ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE 
 ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES 
 
 Telegraphic Address — 
 ' Bodleian, London '
 
 ' A WORD must be said for the manner in which the publishers 
 -^"^ have produced the volume (i.e. "The Earth Fiend"), a 
 sumptuous folio, printed by Constable, the etchings on Japanese 
 paper by Mr. Goulding. The volume should add not only to 
 Mr. Strang's fame but to that of Messrs. Elkin Mathews and 
 John Lane, who are rapidly gaining distinction for their beautiftol 
 editions of belles-lettres.' — Daily Chronicle, Sept. 24, 1892. 
 
 Referring to Mr. Le Gallienne's ' English Poems ' and 
 ' Silhouettes ' by Mr. Arthur Symons : — ' We only refer to them 
 now to note a fact which they illustrate, and which we have been 
 observing of late, namely, the recovery to a certain extent of good 
 taste in the matter of printing and binding books. These two 
 books, which are turned out by Messrs. Elkin Mathews and 
 John Lane, are models of artistic publishing, and yet they are 
 simplicity itself. The books with their excellent printing and their 
 very simplicity make a harmony which is satisfying to the artistic 
 sense.' — Sunday Sun, Oct. 2, 1892. 
 
 ' Mr. Le Gallienne is a fortunate young gentleman. I don't 
 know by what legerdemain he and his publishers work, but here, 
 in an age as stony to poetry as the ages of Chatterton and Richard 
 Savage, we find the full edition of his book sold before publication. 
 How is it done, Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane? 
 for, without depreciating Mr. Le Gallienne's sweetness and 
 charm, I doubt that the marvel would have been wrought under 
 another publisher. These publishers, ndeed, produce books so de- 
 lightfully that it must give an added pleasure to the hoarding of first 
 editions.'— Katharine Tynan in TAe Irish Daily Independent. 
 
 To Messrs. Elkin Mathews and John Lane almost more 
 than to any other, we take it, are the thanks of the grateful singer 
 especially due; for it is they who have managed, by means of 
 limited editions and charming workmanship, to impress book- 
 buyers with the belief that a volume may have an aesthetic and 
 commercial value. They have made it possible to specvilate in the 
 latest discovered poet, as in a new company— with the difference 
 that an operation in the former can be done with three half-crowns.' 
 
 St James's Gazette.
 
 September 1893. 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETT RES 
 
 {Including some Transfers) 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 Elkin Mathews and John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 A^. B. — The A uthors and Publishers reserve the right of reprinting 
 any book in this list if a second edition is called for, except in cases 
 ■where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of pri7iting 
 a separate edition of a7iy of the books for America irrespective of the 
 numbers to which the English editions are litnited. The members 
 mentioned do not include the copies sent for review or to the pziblic 
 libraries. 
 
 ADDLESHAW (PERCY). 
 
 Poems. lamo. 5s. net. \In preparation. 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 The Lower Slopes : A Volume of Verse. 600 copies. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. [Immediately 
 
 ANTiEUS. 
 
 The Backslider and other Poems. 100 only 
 Small 4to. "js. 6d. net. [ Very few remain.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 BEECHING (H. C), J. W. MACKAIL, & 
 J. B. B. NICHOLS. 
 Love in Idleness. With Vignette by W. B. Scott. 
 Fcap. 8vo, half vellum. I2s.net. [Very few remain. 
 Transferred by the Authors to the present Publishers. 
 
 BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). 
 
 Poems. 550 copies. i2mo. 5s. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 BENSON (EUGENE). 
 
 From the Asolan Hills : A Poem. 300 copies. Imp. 
 i6mo. 5s.net. [Very few remain. 
 
 BINYON (LAWRENCE). 
 
 Poems. lamo. 5s. net. [In preparation. 
 
 BOURDILLON (F, W.). 
 
 A Lost God: A Poem. Withlllustrationsby H. J. Ford. 
 500 copies. 8vo. 6s. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 BOURDILLON (F. W.). 
 
 AlLES d'Alouette. Poems printed at the private press 
 of Rev. H. Daniel, Oxford. 100 only. i6mo. 
 ;^I, IDS. net. [Very few remain. 
 
 COLERIDGE (HON. STEPHEN). 
 
 The Sanctity of Confession : A Romance. Second 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. net. [A few remain. 
 
 CRANE (WALTER). 
 
 Renascence : A Book of Verse. Frontispiece and 38 
 designs by the Author. Imp. l6mo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 Also a few fcap. 410. £,1, is. net. And a few fcap. 410, Japanese 
 vellum. £1, 15s. net. 
 
 CROSSING (WM.). 
 
 The Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor. With ii plates. 
 Svo, cloth. 4s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain.
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS &' JOHN LANE 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis- 
 piece, Title-page, and Cover Design by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. 500 copies. Small 410. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Fleet Street Eclogues. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 
 buckram. 5s. net. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 A Random Itinerary: Prose Sketches. With a Ballad. 
 Fcap. 8vo. Uniform with 'Fleet Street Eclogues.' 5s. net. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 The North Wall. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 The few remaining copies transferred by the AutJu/r 
 to the present Publishers. 
 
 DE GRUCHY (AUGUSTA). 
 
 Under the Hawthorn, and other Verses. Frontis- 
 piece by Walter Crane. 300 copies. Crown 8vo. 
 Ss. net, [ Very few remain. 
 
 Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. 15s. net. 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. By John Leicester 
 Warren (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover 
 Design by C. S. RiCKETTS. Second Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 DIAL (THE). 
 
 No. I of the Second Series. Illustrations by Ricketts, 
 Shannon, Pissarro. 200 only. 4to. £1, is. net. 
 
 [ Very few retnain. 
 The present series will be continued at irregular intervals.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 Keynotes : Short Stories. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 FIELD (MICHAEL). 
 
 Sight and Song. (Poems on Pictures.) 400 copies. 
 i2mo. 5s.net. [Very few remain. 
 
 FIELD (MICHAEL). 
 
 Stephania : A Trialogue in Three Acts. 250 copies. 
 Pott 4to. 6s. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 GALE (NORMAN). 
 
 Orchard Songs. Fcap. 8vo. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Will Rothenstein. 5s. net. 
 
 Also a Special Edition limited in number on small paper (Whatman) 
 bound in English vellum. £,\, is. net. 
 
 GARNETT (RICHARD). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. 350 copies. Crown 8vo. With 
 Title-page designed by J. Illing worth Kay. 5s. net. 
 
 \lm7nediately. 
 
 GOSSE (EDMUND). 
 
 The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Now 
 first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [Immediately. 
 
 GRAHAME (KENNETH). 
 
 Pagan Papers : A Volume of Essays. Fcap. 8vo. 
 5s. net. [Ready. 
 
 GREENE (G. A.). 
 
 Italian Lyrists of To-day. Translations in the 
 original metres from about thirty-five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net.
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS &= JOHN LANE 
 
 HAKE (DR. T. GORDON). 
 
 A Selection from his Poems. Edited by Mrs. 
 Meyneli,. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. {Immediately. 
 
 HALLAM (ARTHUR HENRY). 
 
 The Poems, together with his essay 'On Some of the 
 Characteristics of Modern Poetry and on the Lyrical 
 Poems of Alfred Tennyson.' Edited, with an 
 Introduction, by Richard Le Gallienne. 550 
 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 HAMILTON (COL. IAN). 
 
 The Ballad of Hadji and other Poems. Etched 
 Frontispiece by Wm. Strang. 550 copies. i2mo. 
 3s. net. 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers. 
 
 HAYES (ALFRED). 
 
 The Vale of Arden and Other Poems. With Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Laurence Housman. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. \_In preparation. 
 
 HICKEY (EMILY H.). 
 
 Verse Tales, Lyrics and Translations. 300 copies. 
 Imp. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 
 HORNE (HERBERT P.). 
 
 DiVERSi Colores : Poems. With ornaments by the 
 Author. 250 copies. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 
 IMAGE (SELWYN). 
 
 Carols and Poems. With decorations by H. P. Horne. 
 250 copies. 5s. net. \_In preparation. 
 
 JAMES (W. p.). 
 
 Romantic Professions : A Vokime of Essays. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. {Immediately. 
 
 JOHNSON (EFFIE). 
 
 In the Fire and Other Fancies. Frontispiece by 
 Walter Crane. 500 copies. Imp. i6mo. 3s. 6d. 
 net.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 The Art of Thomas Hardy : Six Essays. With 
 
 Etched Portrait by Wm. Strang, and Bibliography 
 
 by John Lane. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £i, is. 
 net. {Ve?y shortly. 
 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. i2mo. 5s.net. \_In preparation. 
 
 KEATS (JOHN). 
 
 Three Essays, now issued in book form for the first time. 
 Edited by H. Buxton Forman. With Life-mask 
 by Haydon. Fcap. 4to. ids. 6d. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 
 LEATHER (R. K.). 
 
 Verses. 250 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. net. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publisliers. 
 
 LEATHER (R. K.), & RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 
 The Student and the Body-Snatcher and Other 
 Trifles. 250 copies. Royal i8mo. 3s. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 7s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 Prose Fancies. With Cover Design and Title-page by 
 Will Rothenstein. 5s. net. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition. 12s.6d.net. [In preparation. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 The Book Bills of Narcissus. An Account rendered 
 by Richard le Gallienne. Second Edition. 
 Crown 8vo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net.
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS A' JOHN LANE 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 English Poems. Second Edition, i2mo. Ss. net. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 George Meredith: Some Characteristics. With a Biblio- 
 graphy (much enlarged) by John Lane, portrait, etc. 
 Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 The Religion of a Literary Man. Fcap. 8vo. 
 3$. 6d. net. 
 
 Also a special edition on hand-made paper. los. 6d. net. 
 
 [fmmedtateiy. 
 
 LETTERS TO LIVING ARTISTS. 
 
 500 copies. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. [ Very few retnain. 
 
 MARSTON (PHILIP BOURKE). 
 
 A Last Harvest : Lyrics and Sonnets from the 
 
 Book of Life. Edited by Louise Chandler 
 
 MouLTON. 500 copies. Post Svo. 55. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies on large paper, hand-made. los. 6d. net. 
 
 [ Very few retnain. 
 
 MARTIN (W. WILSEY). 
 
 Quatrains, Life's Mystery and other Poems, i6mo. 
 2s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 MARZIALS (THEO.). 
 
 The Gallery of Pigeons and Other Poems. Post Svo. 
 4s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers. 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON). 
 
 Poems. Second Edition. Fcap. Svo. 3s. 6d. net. _A 
 few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain, 
 I2S. 6d. net.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.). 
 
 The Rhythm of Life, and other Essays. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 
 large paper copies (First Edition) remain. 12s. 6d. net. 
 MURRAY (ALMA). 
 
 Portrait as Beatrice Cenci. With critical notice 
 containing four letters from Robert Browning. 
 8vo, wrapper. 2s. net. 
 NETTLESHIP (J. T.). 
 
 Robert Browning : Essays and Thoughts. Third 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. Haifa dozen of 
 the Whatman large paper copies (First Edition) 
 remain, /^i, is. net. 
 NOBLE (JAS. ASHCROFT). 
 
 The Sonnet in England and Other Essays. Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Austin Young. 600 
 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Also so copies large paper. 12s. 6d. net. 
 NOEL (HON. RODEN). 
 
 Poor People's Christmas. 250 copies. i6mo. is. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 OXFORD CHARACTERS. 
 
 A series of lithographed portraits by Will Rothenstein, 
 with text by F. York Powell and others. To be 
 issued monthly in term. Each number will contain 
 two portraits. Part L contains portraits of SiR Henry 
 Acland, K.C.B., F.R.S., M.D., and of Mr. W. A. 
 L. Fletcher, of Christchurch, President of th 
 University Boat Club, Part IL Mr. Robinson K. 
 Ellis, and Lord St. Cyres. 350 copies only, folio, 
 wrapper, 5s. net per part ; 50 special copies containing 
 proof impressions of the portraits signed by the artist 
 IDS. 6d. net per part. 
 PINKERTON (PERCY). 
 
 Galeazzo : A Venetian Episode and other Poems. 
 Etched Frontispiece. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 
 [ Very few remain. 
 Transferred by the Author to the present Publishers.
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS <5r' JOHN LANE 
 
 RADFORD (DOLLIE). 
 
 Songs. A New Volume of Verse. \In preparation. 
 
 RADFORD (ERNEST). 
 
 Chambers Twain. Frontispiece by Walter Crane. 
 250 copies. Imp. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 Also 50 copies large paper. los. 6d. net. \yeryfe%u remain. 
 
 RHYMERS' CLUB, THE BOOK OF THE. 
 A second series is in preparation. 
 
 SCHAFF (DR. P.). 
 
 Literature and Poetry : Papers on Dante, etc. 
 Portrait and Plates, loo copies only. 8vo. los. net. 
 
 SCOTT (WM. BELL). 
 
 A Poet's Harvest Home : with an Aftermath. 
 
 300 copies. i2mo. 5s.net. \_Very few remain. 
 *^* Will not be reprinted. 
 
 STODDARD (R. H.). 
 
 The Lion's Cub ; with other Verse. Portrait. 
 100 copies only, bovmd in an illuminated Persian 
 design. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 SYMONDS (JOHN ADDINGTON). 
 
 In the Key of Blue, and other Prose Essays. 
 Cover designed by C. S. Ricketts. Second Edition. 
 Thick Crown 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. 
 
 THOMPSON (FRANCIS). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. With Frontispiece, Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Laurence Housman. 500 Copies. 
 Pott 4to. 5s. net. \^Ready. 
 
 TODHUNTER (JOHN). 
 
 A Sicilian Idyll. Frontispiece by Walter Crane. 
 250 copies. Imp. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies large paper, fcap. 4to. los. 6d. net. 
 
 [Very Jew remain.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 TOMSON (GRAHAM R.). 
 
 After Sunset. A Volume of Poems. With Title-page and 
 
 Cover Design by R. Anning Bell. i2mo. 5s. net. 
 
 Also a limited large paper edition. 12s.6d.net. {In preparation. 
 
 TREE (H. BEERBOHM). 
 
 The Imaginative Faculty : A Lecture delivered at the 
 Royal Institution. With portrait of Mr. Tree from 
 an unpublished drawing by the Marchioness of Granby. 
 Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2S. 6d. net. 
 
 TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). 
 
 Cuckoo Songs. With Title-page and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. 500 copies. 5s. net. 
 
 \_In preparation. 
 
 VAN DYKE (HENRY). 
 
 The Poetry of Tennyson. Third Edition, enlarged. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. 
 The late Laureate himself gave valuable aid in correcting 
 
 various details. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 The Eloping Angels : A Caprice. Second Edition. 
 Square i6mo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 Excursions in Criticism : being some Prose Recrea- 
 tions of a Rhymer. Second Edition. i2mo. 5s.net. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 The Prince's Quest, and other Poems. With a 
 Bibliographical Note added. Second Edition. lamo. 
 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 WEDMORE (FREDERICK). 
 
 Pastorals of France— Renunciations. A volume of 
 Stories. Title-page by John Fulleylove, R.I. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 A few of the large paper copies of Renunciations {First Edition) 
 remain. \os. 6d. net. 
 
 I
 
 ELKIN MATHEWS &- JOHN LANE 13 
 
 WICKSTEED (P. H.). 
 
 Dante. Six Sermons. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 2s. net. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 The Sphinx. A poem decorated throughout in line and 
 colour, and bound in a design by Charles Ricketts. 
 250 copies. £2, 2s. net. 25 copies large paper. 
 ;^5, 5s. net. [hi preparation. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. H., 
 being the true secret of Shakespear's sonnets now for 
 the tirst time here fully set forth, with initial letters 
 and cover design by Charles Ricketts. 500 copies. 
 lOs. 6d. net. 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 21s.net. [In preparaiiott. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 Dramatic Works, now printed for the first time with a 
 
 specially designed Title-page and binding to each 
 
 volume, by Charles Shannon. 500 copies. 7s. 6d. 
 
 net per vol. [Ready. 
 
 Also so copies large paper. 15s. net per vol. 
 
 Vol. I. Lady Windermere's Fan : A Comedy in 
 
 Four Acts. 
 Vol. 11. A Woman of No Importance : A Comedy 
 
 in Four Acts. 
 Vol. III. The Duchess of Padua : A Blank Verse 
 
 Tragedy in Five Acts. [In preparation. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 Salome : A Tragedy in one Act, done into English. 
 With II Illustrations, title-page, and Cover Design 
 by Aubrey Beardsley. 500 copies. 15s. net. 
 
 Also 100 copies, large paper. 30s. net. [In preparation. 
 
 WYNNE (FRANCES). 
 
 Whisper. A Volume of Verse. With a Memoir by 
 Katharine Tynan and a Portrait added. Fcap. 8vo, 
 buckram. 2s. 6d. net. 
 Trans/erred by the Author to the present Publishers.
 
 14 PUBLICATIONS OF ELKIN MATHEWS 6^ JOHN LANE 
 
 The Hobby Horse 
 
 A new series of this illustrated magazine will be published 
 quarterly by subscription, under the Editorship of Herbert 
 P. Home. Subscription £i per annum, pest free, for the 
 four numbers. Quarto, printed on hand-made paper, and 
 issued in a limited edition to subscribers only. The 
 Magazine will contain articles upon Literature, Music, 
 Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, and the Decorative Arts ; 
 Poems ; Essays ; Fiction; original Designs; with reproduc- 
 tions of pictures and drawings by the old masters and 
 contemporary artists. There will be a new title- 
 page and ornaments designed by the Editor. 
 Among the contributors to the 
 Hobby Horse are : 
 
 The late Matthew Arnold. 
 Lawrence Binyon. 
 Wilfrid Blunt. 
 Ford Madox Brown. 
 The late Arthur Burgess. 
 E. BURNE-JONES, A.R.A. 
 
 Austin Dobson. 
 
 Richard Garnett, LL.D. 
 
 A. J. HiPKiNs, F.S.A. 
 
 Sel\vyn Image. 
 
 Lionel Johnson. 
 
 Richard Le Gallienne. 
 
 Sir F. Leighton, Bart., /'.R.A. 
 
 T. Hope McLachlan. 
 
 May Morris. 
 
 C. Hubert H. Parry, Mus. Doc. 
 
 A. W. Pollard. 
 
 F. York Powell. 
 Christina G. Rossetti. 
 W. M. Rossetti. 
 
 John Ruskin, D.C.L., LL.D. 
 
 Frederick Sandys. 
 
 The late W. Bell Scott. 
 
 Frederick J. Shields. 
 
 J. H. Shorthouse. 
 
 James Smetham. 
 
 Simeon Solomon. 
 
 A. Somervell. 
 
 The late J. Addington Symonds. 
 
 Katharine Tynan. 
 
 G. F. Watts, R.A. 
 Frederick Wedmore. 
 Oscar Wilde. 
 
 Etc Etc 
 
 Prospectuses on Application. 
 
 THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO STREET, LONDON, W.
 
 ' Nearly every book put out by Messrs. Elkin Mathews & 
 John Lane, at the Sign of the Bodley Head, is a satisfaction to 
 the special senses of the modern bookman for bindings, shapes, 
 types, and papers. They have surpassed themselves, and 
 registered a real achievement in English bookmaking by the 
 volume of '* Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical," of Lord De Tabley. ' 
 
 Newcastle Daily CInonich. 
 
 ' A ray of hopefulness is stealing again into English poetry 
 after the twilight greys of Clough and Arnold and Tennyson. 
 Even unbelief wears braver colours. Despite the jeremiads, 
 which are the dirges of the elder gods, England is still a nest 
 of singing-birds (teste the Catalogue of Elkin Mathews and John 
 Lane).'— Mr. Zangw^ill in Pall Mall Magazine.
 
 This booK is DUE on the last 
 date stamped below 
 
 APR 101' 
 
 5^ 
 
 IOot-4 '28
 
 4525 Davidson - 
 
 _DZQr A.-randQi 
 
 itinerary. 
 
 
 ■Sw?. 
 
 AT 
 
 ion AlA(mijES 
 
 T.TBRABY
 
 A captivating little book of English 
 
 A Summer . .^ , j 'i. 
 
 cni-of-doors origin, that seems as one reads it 
 
 ■in England. ^^ exhale the odors and reflect the 
 
 hues of the fields and hedgerows, parks and gar- 
 -dens, through which its author leads us, is John 
 Davidson's " A Summer Itinerary " (Boston : Cope- 
 land ^- Day)- ^" '^^ ^^^- Davidson presents, with 
 "iiiUcn felicity of phrase and fancy, " some notes and 
 impressions of the remarkable spring and summer 
 -of 1893." The " Itinerary " embraces Blackheath, 
 Greenwich, Epping Forest, the parks and rural en- 
 virons of London in general, the banks of the Lea, 
 Kew Gardens, the Chilterns, etc.; and the volume 
 ^closes with " A Ballad of a Musician," a production 
 ■which, like the prose, has a savor quite its own. 
 Mr. Davidson's writing bears throughout the hall- 
 anark of originality, and it has a charm, born partly 
 of thought and partly of diction, that is hard to de- 
 fine. There is, perhaps, at times a hint of self- 
 ■consciousness, of phrasing that is the fruit of rep- 
 •etition and experiment ; but we need not quarrel 
 with that. Even Ik. Walton, the type of literary 
 innocency, has been caught, once at least, hammer- 
 ing out his " artless " phrases with all the fore- 
 thought and deliberation of a Donne. A fair sam- 
 ple of our author's directer descriptions is his pic- 
 ture of a lark — not so poetical, certainly, as Jeremy 
 Taylor's or Walton's, but graphic enough : " Then 
 •came a withered heath ; and out of it, almost from 
 between the itinerant's feet, a lark with hissing 
 ■wings shot up like a rocket. Right underneath it 
 lie watched its ascent ; he had never had such an 
 opportunity before. It wedged its way up spirally ; 
 and as distance gradually hid the corkscrew motion, 
 it seemed to be climbing a stair, moving from side 
 to side like a skater. At a certain height the di- 
 ' rect ascent changed to an oblique one ; the lark 
 had ceased drilling a passage through the air, and, 
 I impelled by the momentum acquired in its long 
 involved race up the skies, it slid without effort 
 high into the blue. The descent was a continua- 
 tion of the ascending slide, its wings remaining mo- 
 tionless, until, near the earth, they were employed 
 as brakes to avoid destruction. And all the while 
 the powerful song went on, filling the air." The |
 
 April 11, 1894 • /t' • 
 
 . -^ ^ ^- 
 
 To the " Random Itinerary " of John Davidson I owe much of my 
 enjoyment of a suburban spring. Before reading his book, I had the 
 expensive habit of rambling in seareh of spring as far as Lyndhurst, on 
 the borders of the New Forest, or to Dorchester, on the Thame, some twenty 
 miles below Oxford. Never until I had placed at least a hundred miles 
 between myself and the Metropolis did I deem it possible to enjoy the 
 early year, to fully appreciate the time 
 
 When the fields catch flower 
 
 And the underwood i.-i green, 
 And i'l'om bower unto boWer 
 
 The songs of the birds begin. 
 
 This spring, however, I have remained near London, and admired 
 ^Nature round Dulwich, Kew, and Highgate. Pi'obably at no period of 
 ithe year are these suburbs more charming, and among them Dulwich can 
 claim pride of place. One is absolutely staggered to find on leaving the 
 old village, M-ith its quaint hostelry and delightful picture-gallery, a sign- 
 post with the legend, '* Six miles from the Royal Exchange." Yet so it 
 is, and, despite its dangerous proximity to the London end of Camberwell 
 aid the Borough, the ever-pleasant village is at present the cpieen of 
 metropolitan suburbs. Nowhere nearer town can you find such perfect 
 rest, such a scent of the coimtry, such flowers, trees, and birds. The 
 pen of the brilliant author of " A Random Itinerary " could not be better 
 employed than in painting its many beauties. 
 
 Brightly the sun shone, blithely the birds sang, heavily the 'buses 
 :ravelled, lightly the carriages, as I strolled Hyde-Park-wards on 
 I Sunday morning. Scarcely pausing to regard those who walked on 
 •liurch parade, or the flowers that bloom in the spring, I hied me to the 
 )lace of the s])outers, where seedy men talk nonsense for hours together, 
 ii'iring of the shoddy eloquence of the man on duty, I turned to another 
 nowd which listened to a preacher, who was, if possible, a trifle more 
 lull than the Socialistic gentleman. I left him tearing a passion to 
 atters, and on the evening of the following day, musing over what he 
 lad been saying, sang as follows — 
 
 I fain •would fancy a better land, 
 
 Whieh is far away from the busy Strand, 
 
 AVhere printing is cheap and there 's heaps of news, 
 
 AVHiere novelists write their own reviews, 
 
 Wliero gaps in tlieir humour they stop with slang, 
 
 And they fear not the scalpel of Andrew Lung. 
 
 Is it where the woodeny nutmegs grow, 
 And mountains cover their heatls witli snow, 
 Where tlic Yankees read the Detroit Free Press, 
 And "calkihite" that they "reckon" and "guess," 
 Where Wall Street raises its liead on high, 
 And proud Porkopolis fronts the sky Y