THE TRAVELLER.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1747, 30 August 1905, Page 23

THE TRAVELLER.

ON THE TRAMP IN BRITAIN.

BY STAULEY BOWJIAR.

(Specially written for the “Mail.”) "What is known as the London “season” includes the months May, June, and July. Luring these three months the great city is at its best from a visitor’s point of view. The concert halls and theatres vie with one another in presenting attractions; conferences of every description are held; great meetings are conducted by the Nonconformist Churches; in fact, so many attractions confront the bewildered tourist that he knows not which way to- turn. In the way of theatres, I decided to take agvantage of the great Shakespearian revival. At most of the principal theatres some of Shakespeare’s plays were staged. Sir Henry Irvine was the attraction at Drury Lane as Shy lock in the “Merchant of Venice.” Is it possible, I wonder, for any one to forget Sir Henry’s representations of the stonyhearted old Jew? Obviously Sir Henry does not belong.to that school of critics who are inclined to argue that, in portraying the character of Shylock, Shakespeare intended to raise in thq minds of his audience sympathy for the downtrodden Jews. These critics hold that in stripping him of all his possessions, and especially in farcing him to change his faith, the Christians were too hard on Shylock. It is true Irvine brought great pathos into the last act in which he appeared, where Shylock leaves the stage crashed and broken-hearted. But the impression left on one’s mind was that he was a veritable fiend. Miss Matthison, the American actress, was a delightful Portia. Mr H. B. Irvine Sir Henry’s talented son, was quite as great a success at the Adelphi as his father was at Drury Lane. At the.Adelphi “Hamlet” ran for fifty nights. Irvine, of course, was the Prince of Denmark. I was charmed with his acting. In the interview with the Queen he excelled himself. “I must be cruel only to be kind.” For days these words haunted me. Now, whenever mention is made of the mad Prince, Hamlet, there 00-mes to my mind the name of H. B. Irvine. The other evening I strolled into the Tcng-ey-Alexander - Mission Hall in the Strand. Th is hall, which is said to be built on the most expensive mission site in the world, was erected especially for the mission a.l a cost of some £30,000, and has accommodation for 5000 persons. The rib-squeezing process which it was necessary to go through to gain admittance in New Zealand is not part of the preliminary proceedings here. Londoners, in spite of the fact that the meetings, are well advertised, do not appear to allow their feelings .to he “carried away”—not by missions, anyhow. The Brixton and Albert Hall Missions were fa*lures from a financial point of view, the deficit which the London Evangelical Council, under whose auspices the Evangelists are working, has to make good, amounting tcT something like £4500. Any one who has heard Dr Torrey hold forth can well imagine that for their, apathy he rates the Londoners in no uncertain tones. The even : ng I was there the hall was comfortably filled. Fresh from a highflown afternoon concert, at which my unappreciating ears had teen treated to latin or Chinese songs (I was not quite clear which) it was refreshing to hear the mission choir of a thousand voices Bing “Nearer my God to Thee.” Think what one may of Dr Torrey’s theology, caU it old-fashioned, obsolete, or anything you choose, he who cannot enjoy hearing this magnificent choir sing the well known hymns, is to be pitied. Choir singing! Yes, this reminds one to mention Madame Patti’s annual concert at Albert Hall. I do not think it was any bias for” an Austral ian that made me give the honours of the afternoon to Ada Crossley, who, along with Ben Davis, was assisting. Altogether the concert was extremely enjoyable, but Miss Croesley’s rendering of “There is a Green Hill Far Away” was the most successful. Madame Patti is nofed for choosing popular songs, and this afternoon, to the disgust of some of the critics, she gave us as encores “Cornin’ thro’ the Rye” and “Home, Sweet Home.” As the accompanist struck the first notes of Payne’s masterpiece the vast audience gave a round of applause: but, before the singer bad finished the first verse, hundreds wore sobbing, such infinite expression did she put into it. No visitor* to London should miss visiting Dr Rarnardos Homes. Even if his time be too limited to go through them all (there are three: the head office. Stepney; the Babies’ Horne, Hawkhurst, Kent: and the Girls’ Homes, he should make a point of go>ing tothe Stepney Causeway Institution, which from the Bank is only a feu minutes'* run by train or ’bus. Nothing but a few hours spent in the Homes can bring one to realise the vastness of the work. To any one who is not a crack longdistance walker, train and ’bus fares make considerable inroads in*o one’s purse. For to see anything of a city so large as London, one must necessarilv cover a lot of ground, either on trams

and ’buses or in the trains, underground or overhead. In the centre of the city, of course, the traffic is too great for trams. As to the fares, they are practically the same oin the trams and ’buses as in Wellington.

By the way, a visitor here finds it extremely convenient to have his portmanteau, et cetera, collected and delivered at his address at the other end by the railway company. No extra charge is made for this; within a certain radius your luggage is qo-llected and delivered at your destination for the same charge as would be levied for conveying it from parcels office to parcels office.

There is another thing in which we are behind hand in New Zealand. We have the penny post. But Here are penny posts and penny posts. Within the United Kingdom you can send a 4oz letter for a penny. But as for getting about in England for any one making a protracted stay, the better plan is to purchase a bicycle. Bicycles fitted with everything up-to-date, range from £4 10s upwards. The machine I am riding, a Harris “special,” made in Coventry, costs £8 Bs, carriage paid, anywhere in the United Kingdom. The same firm make, as nearly all the manufacturing firms here do, three grades at £6 6s, £8 Bs, and £lO 10s. There are many delightful rims within 30 miles of London, such as to Bietch ingley (Surrey), Epsom Downs, Windsor, Albany. The trains whisk along at such a rate that it Is almost impossible to gain anything like a fair idea of the nature of the country passed through—of anything, in fact, bar the Pill hoardings, which disfigure so many of the daised fields near London. Whereas on a cycle one can pedal gently along, stopping where you please, here to chat with a farmer busy amongst Ins mangels, there to a roadman, who is always quite willing to sit down and have a chat—and a “spell.” In this way one gains a better idea of the English country life than it would be possible to do- in several years of gazing out of the window of a railway carriage, and, besides, your purse is ofttimes grateful fo>r the change in the mode of transportation. Everywhere the roads arp in splendid condition, and once a mile or two out of London the traffic is not troublesome. The very weeds are beautiful cm the roadride. Poor crops are not common, but wherever you do see one, especially if it be of oats, you will generally notice a glorious lot of wild poppies. Bletchingly, Surrej, wnen I first visit ed it in May, was a perfect garden of wild flowers. Here, too, if you linger late enough in the evening, you may listen to the nightingale and in the spring days to the “wandering voice” of the cuckoo. Nighingales are very plentiful in the little woods, which dotted about in the valleys and on the hills, help to make this district- so infinitely beautiful.

It is near this district where Mr Astor. the American millionaire, has his English home, Hever Castle. In characteristic American style he is constructing an artificial lake, which will cover an area of about, forty acres. For the last eight months over 1000 men have been at work on it, and fortune will require to favour the work if it is to be completed by the end of next summer. Though this great number of men are employed, most of the clay-shifting is being done by cranes and locomotives. The day I was there six locomotives, drawing trucks were puffing about. Cranes which-work on a principle very similar to that of the harbour dreoges in Wellington, fill the trucks, and the earth is deposited wherever embankments are reeded. As requirements dictate the rails are shifted. Two traction engines are constantly on the roads, bringing from the railway station near by coal for the locomotives and other materials. The work is a colossal one, but the lake, situated as it will be in a valley, must add much to the beauty of the estate. The farmers near Hever go in largely for hop-growing. Root crops, too, were looking well. To watch the average English farmer at work is absolutely irritating. He is so abominably old-fashioned. There he goes with a single-furrowed thing I decline to call a plough. More than likely' he will have a boy leading or driving the two or three horses. Perhaps if he be venturesome, he may try to manage the animals* himself, but, if they go one hair-breadth off the straight, what tribulation there will be ! Nothing would grow in a crooked furrow. Better have twenty men in the field than one furrow by which you could not test a ruler. The field he works in is about four or five acres in extent, and he’ll poke about in it for as many days, ten or eleven, perhaps twelve hours a day. ,r Why don’t you root up half the hedges and have a' decent sized field?” I ventured to ask one former. “That wouldn’t do,” he replied, “small fields are handy when we want to grow a little of this and a little of something else.” “Have yon ever used temporary fences P” ** “No. they’d he too expensive.” I don’t think he had ever heard of a temporary fence before, and thought that a man would put up a chain a day, if he worked very hard. “Have you ever tried a two-furrow plough P” I went on to query.

“Some folks have, but they don’t do. If they work with you, your ground must be different. No, we’re used to these, and they serve us well.” They are “used to” them I That’s where the rub oomes in. In vain I tried to oonvinoe him that we had all sorts and conditions of land, from the light, sandy soil on which wheat usually grows well, to the stiff, sticky and sod clayey land, suitable for little but dandelion and “red” tussock. It was of no avail; great grandfather Johnston used the single-fur rowed sowing plough, therefore great grandson Johnston must use nothing else. But there are some up-to-date farmers, a very smalL minority. One sees weil managed dairy farms with tip-top herds.

Throughout the country through which I cycled to get here—l am writing these notes in Edinbrugh—hay harvest is in full swing. The weather has been exceptionally good, too dty in fact, and the farmers are Literally making hay while the sun shines. Owing.to the dry season the crops are somewhat lighter than usual. As one pedals along the roads in the early morning, the clatter of the reapers is heard on ail sides, and as the sun becomes stronger and chases away the dew in the fields—they never speak of “paddocks” herethat have been cut some days, gangs start turning the hay. When passing through Leicester I had the opportunity to gather the opinions of some of the local people as to the 450 unemployed men who marched to London some weeks ago. Every one agreed that they were the scum of the out-of-works. Certainly, they looked very poor specimens, when I saw them in Trafalgar square. Under normal circumstances, no one would have employed more than fifty out of the four hundred odd. If their march, however, achieved no definite result, it did good, no doubt, in drawing public attention to the unemployed question in Leicester,which is a very pressing one. Hundreds of the boot factory hands have been thrown out of work. Some advocate the starting of an experimental farm, which would give the deserving an opportunity to eki out a livelihood for the time being. But there are many difficulties in the way. For one thing, where can land be procured at a reasonable figure? This land problem is a mighty one here. Thousands upon thousands of acres lie idle—shooting grounds for the men with money. Between C'hatsworth Hall, the magnificent country seat of the Duke of Devonshire, and Sheffield, one cycles through large tracts of uncultivated. unstocked moorland, sufficient to give employment to all the deserving unemployed in London. But what of that? The Duke of Rutland, who owns the hills on the Left, and the Duke of Devonshire, who has the land on the right, must have their grouse to shoot at. If they cultivated the land themselves, or allowed others to cultivate it, their shooting grounds would be practically spoilt, or, anyhow, not nearly so good. If sheep were pastured on it. just to secure what wealth the land produces in its rough state —well, that would hardly do, for the shepherds’ dogs would disturb the game in the breeding season. What does it matter to these crack shots, who, when the shooting season is not on, talk with infinite gusto for or against the fiscal policy, that thousands pine and hudddle together, in Eiast London, wasting because it is impossible to secure a square inch of land. The fresh breezes that blow on these moorlands would frighten the consumptive germs out of half the sallow-faced East Londoners, but, then, the new order of things which would cure the consumptives would also frighten the grouse! And if the Dukes -had no game to shoot at the Empire would soon fall to pieces. But I have anticipated matters. Like the roads in the vicinity of London, the route I took to Leicester, via Rugby, was perfect for cycling. In fact, the same may be said of it right on through Matlock to Chatsworth Park. Matlock is a charming spot; deservedly popular amongst the tourists. The Derwent here is unpoluted, and for loveliness its wooded banks and its clear, sluggish waters combine to make a picture that it would be difficult to surpass. In some respects it reminded me of the bush scenery in the heavily timbered nooks around Patterson’s Inlet, Stewart Island. It may be worth while mentioning that at Matlock Bath stands the mill originally owned by Sfir Richard Arkwright, inventor of the spinning-jenny. Leaving Chatsworth Hall to the right the'road becomes very hilly through the moors, which I have already mentioned, to Sheffield. But, as usual, the fine view to be obtained from the top of the hill, is ample compensation for aching limbs. Sheffield lay in the hollow, shrouded in smoke. Beyond were the Penniston hills, to be climbed a few hours later. Like the rest of the manufacturing towns, this place where they make our pen knives and cutlery generally is a dirty looking place, quite uninteresting after London. Like Leicester, Huddersfield, Bradford, Brighouse, . and even Edinburgh, all the streets are stone paved. Here in Edinburgh there are 79 miles of stone-paved Streets —causewayed they call it. Apparently the Town Councillors are not cyclists. In London all the nrincipal

streets are macadamised, possibly to minimise the noise of the traffic.

I left Sheffield at 4 o’clock, and being favoured, once over the Penniston Hills, with, good roads covered the 31 miles to Brighouse, my next stopping-place, in three and a half hours. Twenty-three thousand people, Living and working in houses and shops and. mills, all stone or red brick, and built for use not ornament, and all smoke begrimed—this is Brighouse. However, I had a very pleasant week here with my friends. When one has been practically amongst strangers for three months, it is a welcome change to come across a spot where you are at home from home. Next day we went through one of the cotton mills, for which Yorkshire and Lancashire are so faffious. The striking feature of it was the few men and women required to look after the machines. In the first room we entered there were only six girls working the same number of machines each. They were doubling the fibre and the attendants had to watch for any threads that might break in the process. In the next room machines were twisting the doubled threads, while in the third all th© frayed edges were burned off the cotton, which had already gone through th© two other processes. To burn off th© frayed edges the threads are run at a great speed through st tiny gas flame. It is the speed at which it travels that prevents the thread itself from burning. If by some mistake the engines sto<p before the lights are turned off the result is disastrous, and hundreds of threads are burned in the twentieth part of a second. Thus through various stages the cotton is prepared from th© raw material; until you see the skein* being packed away ready for export. The heat and the impurity of th© atmosphere in the factory rooms are very trying to the “hands.” The gentleman who was with me could not stay in a room for more than five minutes. But the factory girls have to endure it from six in the morning to six at night. Early every morning you hear the clang, clang of the clogs on the hard pavement —the factory hands are going to work to “put in” another twelve hours of drudgery. At first I could not understand why so many of the Brighous© women and girls wore shawls over their heads in the evenings; but this day the solution of the problem dawned on me—after the heat of the work-rooms, a hat did not afford sufficient protection. A trip to Liverpool was the programme for the next day. As it happened, it was .the first day of the new holiday time-table on the Yorkshire-Lanca-shire railway line. As the result, our tram, or rather our Last train - (for we had changed about half a dozen times) was an hour and l a half late. Trains in England usually are very punctual, 60 I did not miss the opportunity to twit my friends on their mile-a-minute trains from Brighouse to Liverpool. Steady rain kept us indoors most of the afternoon, but we made a point of going down to Brompton avenue to see Dr John Watson’s (lan MoLaren’s) Church. We had lunched next door to where the doctor lives. The Brompton avenue congregation are very enthusiastic over their pastor, and are mourning over the fact that he is to leave them at the end of the year. Their Church, a very fine one. will sustain a great loss, but literature, it is to be hoped, will reap benefit from the change.

The next stage, Oorbridge to Jedburgh, 46 miles, though hilly, was a comparatively short day’s work for the morrow. Few steep grades occurred, however, until passing Tone Pitt Inn, a lonely little hostelry on the wind-swept hill. As English scenery goes, the country now became wild; for some miles there are no trees or hedges—the frost, I was told, is too severe in the winter. All th© fences are of stone. Pointing to a hill a few hundred feet high, a roadman asked if we had “anything in New Zealand as rough at that.” This is a fair sample of how much or* little the average Britisher knows of our colony. . Londoners are quite a* ignorant as the country folk. To tell them that many of our mountains are snow-capped all the year round, that we have rivers of ice in mid-summer, is to gain for yourself rather an unenviable reputation.

Along the road in the valley where out friend the roadman was working, you pass the reservoir recently constructetd to supply water for Newcastle. 40 miles further down. The Border line between England and Scotland is five miles further up marked by a plain five-wire fence. It is right on the summit of the Cheviot Hills, from which, on the Scotland side, one has a very fine view. In a valley immediately below me, a shepherd was watching a flock of newly shorn sheep, for it is shearing time. Further on the winding road lead one’s eve to an agricultural valley beyond th© Tweed.

Ten miles free-wheeling, and I was in Jedburgh, T was actual!v “on the other side” of the Tweed. Jedburgh, like Melrose, has a picturesque old abbey, which after standing the sliooks of many a Border war, is now giving way before the hand of time. In these old historical buildings . there is a silence and a sens* of asee that overpower you. Melrose Abbev. founded by David I for Cistercian Monks as long ago as 1126. even in its ruins, is the finest specimen of Gothic architecture that Scotland nan

boast. Readers of the “Lay of the last MajLStrel” will remember that Scott pictures the abbey (Canto H.) in the “pal© moonlight.” . , From Melrose I went to Abbotsford., •where Sir Walter Scott lived for many years and where he died. It is a delightful old place, furnished with odds and ends round each of which there hangs a history—a mantelpiece from Melrose, oak work from Holy rood, a door from Old Tolhooth, gongs from Thrave Castle, the Douglas stronghold in Galloway. In the study is the novelist’s writing table, made of wood taken from the Spanish Armada. From the visitors' Dook I gather that more than half of the total number of visitors to Abbotsford are Americans. Last Friday -morning there had been thirteen visitors before me, and nine of them signed themselves as hailing from “TJ.S.A.” Previous days told the same tale. Back to the main road—Abbotsford, on the Tweed, is two miles off the track —and there are 84 miles of good run- * ding to picturesque old Edinburgh. *Edina! Scotia’s darling seat! Ail hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch’s feet Sat legislation’s sovereign powers I”