Part 1 (1/2)
A Canterbury Pilgrimage.
by Joseph Pennell and Elizabeth Robins Pennell.
It was towards the end of August, when a hot sun was softening the asphalt in the dusty streets of London, and ripening the hops in the pleasant land of Kent, that we went on pilgrimage to Canterbury. Ours was no ordinary journey by rail, which is the way latter-day pilgrims mostly travel. No.
What we wanted was in all reverence to follow, as far as it was possible, the road taken by the famous company of bygone days, setting out from the hostelrie where these lordings lay one night and held counsel, making stations by the way at the few places they mention by name, and ending it, as they did, at the shrine of the 'holy, blissful martyr,' in the Canterbury Cathedral. How better could this be done than by riding over the ground made sacred by them on our tricycle?
[Ill.u.s.tration: _Our only Race._]
And so it came to pa.s.s that one close, foggy morning, we strapped our bags to our machine and wheeled out of Russell Square before any one was stirring but the policeman, making his last rounds and trying door after door. Down Holborn and past Staples' Inn, very grey and venerable in the pale light, and where the facetious driver of a donkey-cart tried to race us; past the now silent and deserted cloisters of Christ's Hospital, and under Bow Bells in Cheapside; past the Monument of the famous fire, and over London Bridge, where the mist was heavy on the river and the barges showed spectre-like through it, and where hucksters greeted us after their fas.h.i.+on, one crying, 'Go in, hind one! I bet on you. You'll catch up if you try hard enough!' and another, 'How are you there, up in the second story?' A short way up the Borough High Street, from which we had a glimpse of the old red roof and bal.u.s.traded galleries of the 'White Hart;'
and then we were at the corner where the 'Tabard' ought to be. This was to have been our starting-point; but how, it suddenly occurred to us for the first time, could we start from nothing? If ours had no beginning, would it be a genuine pilgrimage? This was a serious difficulty at the very outset. But our enthusiasm was fresh. We looked up at the old sign of '_Ye Old Tabard_,' hanging from the third story of the tall brick building which has replaced Chaucer's Inn. Here, at least, was something substantial. And we rode on with what good cheer we could.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Then we went for some distance over the Old Kent Road, which is laid with Belgian paving--invented, I think, for the confusion of cyclers, and where in one place a Hansom cab blocked the way. In endeavouring to pa.s.s around it our big wheel ran into the groove of the track, and we had to dismount and lift it out. The driver sat scowling as he looked on. If he had his way, he said, he would burn all _them things_. We came to Deptford, or West Greenwich, at half-past seven, the very hour when mine host and his fellows pa.s.sed. So, in remembrance of them, we stopped a few minutes opposite a little street full of old two-storied houses, with tiled roofs and cl.u.s.tered chimney-pots and cas.e.m.e.nt windows, overtopped by a distant church steeple, its outline softened in the silvery mist, for the fog was growing less as we journeyed onwards. At the corner was an Inn called the 'Fountain,' and as a man who talked with us while we rested there said that an old fountain had stood in the open s.p.a.ce near by, it pleased us to think that here had been one of the Waterings of Saint Thomas where pilgrims to the shrine made short halts, and that perhaps it was at this very spot that Davy Copperfield, a modern pilgrim who travelled the same road, had come to a stop in his flight from the young man with a donkey-cart. A little way out of Deptford we came to Blackheath, where sheep were peacefully grazing, rooks cawing overhead, and two or three bicyclers racing, and where a woman stopped us to say that 'That's the 'ouse of Prince Harthur yander, and onst the Princess Sophia stayed in it on her way to Woolwich,' and she pointed to the handsome brick house to our left.
[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pilgrims are Chased by Dogs.]
After Blackheath the mist vanished, and the sun, gladdened by the sweet air, shone on the fields and woods, and the ugly barracks and pretty cottages by which we wheeled. Red-coated soldiers turned to look and dogs ran out to bark at us. In the meadows men and women leaned on their hoes and rakes to stare. From tiny gardens, overflowing with roses and sunflowers, children waved their delight. London was many miles behind when, at a few minutes before nine, we drew up on the bridge at Crayford.
It seemed at first a sleepy little village. The only signs of life were on the bridge. Here about a dozen men were smoking their morning pipes, and as many boys were leaning over the wall, lazily staring into the river below, or at the cool stretches of woodland and shady orchards on the hillside beyond. But presently, as we waited, the village clock struck nine, and at once the loud bell in the factory on the other side of the little river Cray began to ring. One by one the older loungers knocked the ashes from their pipes and pa.s.sed through the gate. The boys lingered. But their evil genius, in the shape of an old man in a tall white cap, came out, and at his bidding they left the suns.h.i.+ne and the river and hurried to work. A man with a cart full of s.h.i.+ning onions went by, and we followed him up a hilly street, where the gabled and timbered cottages seemed to be trying to climb one over the other to reach a terrace of s.h.i.+ning white houses at the top. The first of these was but one-storied, and its tall chimney-pot threw a soft blue shadow on the higher wall of the house next to it. On a short strip of ground which stretched along the terrace patches of cabbages alternated with luxuriant crops of weeds. In one place there were stalks of pink hollyhock and poles covered with vines, and in the windows above were scarlet geraniums. About them all there was a feeling of warmth and light, more like Italy than England. J. took out his sketch-book. Several women, startled by the novelty of strangers pa.s.sing by, had come out and were standing in their small gardens. When they saw the sketch-book they posed as if for a photographer--all except one old woman, who hobbled down the street, talking glibly. Perhaps it was as well we did not hear what she said, for I think she was cursing us. When she was close at our side and turned, waving her hands to the other women, she looked like a great bird of ill-omen. 'Go in! go in!' she croaked: 'he's takin' of yere likenesses. That's wot he's arter!' Her wrath still fell upon us as we wheeled out of Crayford.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Crayford, August 84]
There were many pilgrims on the road; a few, like us, were on machines, but the greater number were on foot. As in Chaucer's day, both rich and poor go upon pilgrimage through Kent; but, whereas in his time there were monasteries and hospitals by the way where the latter were taken in at night, now they must find shelter under hedges or in dingles. Their lot, however, did not seem hard. It is sweet to lie beneath the sky now as it was when Daphnis sang. And the pilgrims whom we saw looked as if soft turf was luxury compared to the beds they had just left, for they belonged to the large army of hop-pickers who, every autumn, come from London to make the Kentish roads unsafe after dark and the householder doubly watchful.
Whitechapel and other low quarters are nearly emptied at this season. It is pleasant to know that at least once a-year these people escape from their smoky, squalid streets, into green places where they can breathe pure air, but their coming is not welcomed in the country. Many poor, honest women in towns and villages thereabouts will rather lose a few s.h.i.+llings than let their children go to the hop-fields during the picking season, lest they should come away but too much wiser than they went. As we rode further the number of tramps increased; all the morning we pa.s.sed and overtook them. There were grey-haired, decrepit men and women, who hobbled painfully along, and could scarcely keep pace with their more stalwart sons and daughters; there were children by the score, some of whom ran gaily on, forgetting fatigue for joy of the suns.h.i.+ne; others lagged behind, whimpering and weary; and still others were borne in their mothers' arms. Almost all these people were laden with their household goods and G.o.ds. They carried heavy bags thrown over their shoulders, or else baskets and bundles slung on their arms, and pots and kettles and all manner of household furniture. One man, more enterprising than the others, had brought a push-cart; when we saw it, two babies, almost hidden in a confused ma.s.s of clothing and pots and pans, were sleeping in it, and one clasped a kitten in her arms. Now, with a sharp bend in the road, we came suddenly upon a man sitting under a tree, who, though we rang our bell right in his ear, never raised his eyes from a hole in an old silk handkerchief he was holding; and now we came to a man and woman resting on a pile of stones by the roadside, who sat upright at the tinkling of our bell. I shall never forget the red and swarthy face of the woman as she turned and looked at us, her black hair, coa.r.s.e and straight as an Indian's, hanging about her shoulders and over her eyes: she was unmistakably young in years but old in vice, and ignorant of all save evil--compared to hers an idiot's face would have been intelligent, a brute's refined. I could now understand why honest countrywomen kept their children from the hop-fields. As a rule, the tramps were as careless and jolly as Beranger's Bohemians, and laughed and made merry as if the world and its hards.h.i.+ps were but jests. We, as figures in the farce, came in for a share of their mirth. 'That's right! ladies fust!'
one old tattered and torn man called after us, gaily; 'that's the principle on which I allus hacts!' Which, I suppose, is a rough way of saying '_Place aux dames_.' A very little joke went a great way with them.
'Clear the path!' another man cried to the women walking with him, as we coasted down the hill outside of Dartford: 'ere's a lady and gen'leman on a happaratus a-runnin' over us!' 'They're only a 'enjoyin' of 'emselves,'
an old hag of the party added; 'so let luck go wi' 'em!' Then she laughed loud and long, and the others joined with her, and the sound of their laughter still reached our ears as we came into the village.
[Ill.u.s.tration: _An Enterprising Pilgrim._]
[Ill.u.s.tration: _An Indifferent Pilgrim._]
[Ill.u.s.tration: _Unwelcome Pilgrims._]
Dartford, from a cycler's point of view, is a long narrow street between two hills, one of which is good to coast, the other hard to climb. The place, as we saw it, was full of hucksters and waggons, and footmen and carriages, and we pa.s.sed on without stopping, save by the river that runs near a church, with a tower and an unconventional clock looking out from one side instead of from the centre, which is the proper place for clocks.
From Dartford to Gravesend the road became more pleasant every minute.
Here and there were brown fields, where men were ploughing, or perhaps burning heaps of stubble, and sending pale grey clouds of smoke heavenwards; here and there were golden meadows where gleaners were busy, and then, perhaps, a row of tall, dark poplars, or a patch of brilliant cabbages. To the south, broad plains, where lazy, ease-loving cattle were grazing, stretched as far as the eye could see. To the north, every now and then, as the road turned, we saw the river, where s.h.i.+ps were at anchor, and steamers were steaming up to London, and black barges, with dark-red sails, were floating down with the tide. The water was blue as the sky, and the hills in the distance seemed to melt into a soft purple mist hanging over them. By the road and by the river were many deep deserted quarries, whose white chalk cliffs could be seen from afar, while they brought out in strong contrast the red roofs of the cottages built at their feet. We came to one or two small villages and another church, with its tower and a clock awry, so that we wondered whether this was a fas.h.i.+on in Kent. And all along the hedges were white and pink with open morning-glories, and the trees threw soft shadows over the white road, and everywhere the air was sweet with the scent of clematis.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
[Ill.u.s.tration: _Burning Stubble near Gravesend._]
Gravesend is not a very striking place as you enter it from the road. It was to us remarkable chiefly for the Rosherville Gardens, which hitherto we had known only in our d.i.c.kens. But we found a pleasant 'ale-stake' by the river, where we rested to 'both drinke and biten on a cake;' or, rather, on substantial beefsteak and vegetables. There was no one else in the coffee-room, but one or two dogs strayed in from the private bar, and seeing we were at dinner became very sociable. The maid who waited on us was friendly too, and while J. was busy putting away the tricycle she was even moved to confide in me. She was the only maid in the house, she said.