AN ALL-NIGHT RIDE

Evening Star, Issue 19616, 23 July 1927, Page 19

AN ALL-NIGHT RIDE

FOLLOWING THE PICKWICKIAN ROAD “THE MANOR FARM” The pleasures and adventures of cycling in England are now but peasant memories. Indeed the time is not far distant when it will bo necessary to describe to the younger generation the past gentle art of auto-propulsion on wheels with ss much explanatory detail as is necessary in describing the stereopticon and the horse trams. The Saturday afternoons and the summer evenings, when on wheel we whirred our way through English lanes to soma Kentish garden or Surrey hills, returning home tired but supremely happy, as we boasted “ We did 40 miles fo-day I” brought with them a satisfaction to which the modern-day motorist, who skims off a hundred or two hundred miles in a few effortless hours, is a complete stranger. Among the proud custodians of cycling achievements ere « select few who can recall also the fascination of all-night riding along still, deserted country roads, past silent farms and lordly mansions, until the faint glow in the eastern sky, and farmers’ teams driven by sleepy farmers on their way to Covent Garden, warn one of the approaching day. When we throe “ eyeleteers ” suddenly decided that at 8 o’clock on a certain June evening we would indulge in the rare pleasure of an all-night ride, following as nearly as possible the road travelled by the Pickwickians when they started on their memorable tour, how the impatient hours dragged in our offices during that day! In the gathering twilight of the warm night, with machines well oiled and lamps trimmed, we rode to Trafalgar square. Dickens tells us in ‘ Pickwick Papers ’ that the party began its journey from the Golden Cross, which was situated in what is now known as Trafalgar square. From the square wc rode down Whitehall, reminding each other that 'it was here, on top of the stagecoach “ Commodore,” that the Pickwickians became interested in and impressed by one of their fellow-pas-sengers, Alfred Jingle by name. Little did they realise at the time the adventures into which this loquacious party was to lead them.

As we passed Whitehall Palace —or what is left of it—one of our party, q lawyer and a Dickons authority, whom wc dubbed “ Pcrker ” for the evening, recalled that it was at this point that Mr Pickwick had ruminated “on the strange mutability of human affairs,” whereupon the ever-ready and loosctongued Jingle commented this: “Ah! I see—in at the palace door one day, out of the window the next!”

From Whitehall to tho Borough via Westminster bridge is a sadden passing from the majestic to tho mediocre, from dignity to-drabness, but when one is following the same route as the Pickwick pilgrims, fancy must bo unleashed; the jolts are due not to bad roads, but to cobbled streets, every omnibus Is a post-chaise, the gas jets are fitful oil lamps swinging from iron brackets fastened to houses, and every jolly gentleman encountered is in knee breeches and wears a snuff-colored coat.

Such, an imaginative metamorphosis was not at all difficult a quarter of a century ago; a royal mail coach still ran every knight from London to Chatham, and a four-in-hand tooting Ims passed us at a gallop. The automobile was still something to jeer at— in the borough.

The road to Rochester is not particularly attractive during the day, but at night, when one rides with Mr Pickwick, Winkle, Tupman, Snodgrass—and Jingle, there is enchantment in tho darkness, and the vague shadows and misty outlines are sufficiently unreal to conjure up any geographical landmark that fancy may suggest. _ Dickens says: “Wo do not find from a careful perusal of Mr Pickwick’s notes of tho four towns Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have gone over the same ground.” Neither can we add anything to what has already been said. “The streets present a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by tho conviviality of the military,” observed Mr Pickwick. Probably the same impression would be made to-day, but it was nearly midnight when wo were there, and the streets wore deserted.

The approach to Rochester is hy way of a bridge; it was on this same bridge that Mr Pickwick contemplated the antiquity of the town—though not at midnight; ho was far too respectable. a citizen _to wander the streets of a garrison town at that time of night. Like a giant silhouette, the old Norman keep rose before us dark and sinister, its turrets edged with silver moonlight. This is the last link of the eastlo built hy the Conqueror, but outwardly at least, it shows bub slight sign of decay. A little beyond is the cathedral; the original edifice was destroyed by the Danes, but oven the present building dates from the twelfth century—such was the purport of our low conversation as we rested on the bridge at midnight. ‘‘What a sigh for an antiquarian! exclaimed Perkor. Was ho conscious, i wonder, that ho was quoting exactly the words which fell from the lips of Mr Pickwick as he and his companions rode into Rochester and saw the magnificent pile ? Our objective now was Dinglcy Dell and Muggleton. We were quite aware that the maps were silent on the location of these towns, that Dickensian authorities were hopelessly at variance as to the geographical spots which the author had in thought, but which, for some reason lie desired to hide beneath fictitious names. But we argued that surely in a. neighborhood so rich in Dickens’s lore, there would be people who would at least claim for some existing town or village, the honor of Dingley Dell or Muggleton. Fifteen miles out of Rochester we rested on a low stone wall that bounded what might have been a country estate. Presently the sound of an approaching wagon arrested our attention, and wo wondered .who might he driving on this quite Kentish road at 1 o’clock in the morning. It was n farmer on his way to London. He looked at us very suspiciously until Perker said: “Excuse me, but can you direct us to Dinglcy Dell? ” “Never heerd on it. There ain’t no such place in these parts.” “That’s strange,” replied Perker; “Dickens said it was only fifteen miles out of Rochester!”

“Who’o ’e?” laconically asked the Kentishman. “Do you know- Muggleton?” I asked, with sudden inspiration. “ Ar’ you boys havin’ a game wi’ me? ” demanded the worthy.

Then the third eyeleteer, not to be outdone, said: “My dear Kir—by no means—peeking information. Perhaps you know party named Wavdle —hearty fellow—most hospitable—Manor Farm —roaring fires—lots to eat. Two pretty daughters—fine girls—sentimental aunt—funny old girl—fat boy —blows—like a grampus ” “ Gee up, Ned! ” The farmer didn’t wait to hear more. . We continued to sit on the wall, somewhat disconsolate. Everything had been as it should be—up to Rochester. Porker suddenly jumped over the wall, and we lost him for several minutes. When he returned he was full of .suppressed excitement. “I’ve found it!’’ ho said. ‘-'Found what?,- yv« inquired*

“ Tho Manor Farm, Wardle’s place!” Wo followed him carefully and silently, through a garden prodigal with English flowers, which though wo could not see, filled the'night air with wonderful fragrance—a silent testimony to ike fact that Kent is indeed “the garden of England.” Suddenly we came into full view of an old English farm, its gables and chimney pots thrown into strong relief by the searching moonbeams. So perfect a model was this of the Manor Farm of our imagination, that: we were almost prepared to accept it as tho literal homestead fhafc Dickens had in thought. Our reverie was rudely interrupted by a low grunting near by, and other sounds which seemed to indicate the approach of a ponderous body. We gazed at one another for an instant, then with one accord, chorused; “The fat hoy!” “The young grampus! ” I added. “No,” observed Perker, a second later, “only this!” A small pig darted between us; probably ho had escaned from his sty, and we trembled to think of what was happening in the garden 1 The return journey found us, three, more or less, silent and serious eyeleteers. The glamor of the outward journey had left us, hut wc knew that our next reading of ‘ Pickwick Papers ’ would hold for us added' interest because of this experience. As wo parted in the early morning Perker said: “‘lt is the fate of all authors or chroniclers, to create imaginary friends and loose them in the course of art,’ but let us bo grateful to Dickons that he has enabled ns to recognise so vividly his types. How, otherwise, should wo have recognised the Manor Farm?” —“A.J.P.,” in ‘ Christian Science Monitor.’-