in the distance. Only the landscape is disfigured by unsightly mine
machinery, and the trees are all a-blur with the smoky haze that lies
around them.
The country around the village of Birtley is also very pretty. A mile
beyond from the hilltop the view is grand, and well worth all this
tiring day's drag to look upon.
Everywhere on the roadside are groups of miners out of work, lying on
the grass asleep or talking.
The dust is trying to the nerves to-day; such a black dust it is, too.
We stop at Birtley. I trust I shall never stop there again.
"No, there is no stabling here;" thus spoke a slattern whom I addressed.
"Water t' hosses. Dost think I'd give thee water? Go and look for t'
well."
Some drunken miners crowded round.
"For two pins," one said, "I'd kick the horses. Smartly I would."
He thought better of it, however.
We pushed on in hopes of getting stabling and perhaps a little civility.
We pushed on right through Gateshead and Newcastle, and three miles
farther to the pleasant village of Gosforth, before we found either.
Gosforth is a village of villas, and here we have found all the comfort
a gipsy's heart could desire.
We are encamped on a breezy common in sight of the Cheviot Hills, and
here we will lie till Tuesday morning for the sake of our horses if not
ourselves.
I shall never forget the kindly welcome I received here from the Spanish
Consul.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_July 14th_.--Down tumbled the mercury yesterday morning, and down came
the rain in torrents, the rattling, rushing noise it made on the roof of
the Wanderer being every now and then drowned in the pealing of the
thunder. But this morning the air is delightfully cool, the sky is
bright, the atmosphere clear, and a gentle breeze is blowing.
Left Gosforth early. The country at first was somewhat flat, sparsely
treed, well cultivated and clean.
The first village we passed through is called, I think, Three Mile
Bridge. It is quite a mining place, far from wholesome, but the
children looked healthy, a fact which is due, doubtless, to the bracing,
pure air they breathe. All are bare-legged and shoeless, from the lad
or lass of fifteen down to the month-old kicking baby.
Came to a splendid park and lodge-gates, the latter surmounted by two
bulls couchant; I do not care to know to whom the domain belongs.
I find it is best not to be told who lives in the beautiful mansions I
am passing every day in my journey due north. I can people them all in
imagination. A name might banish every morsel of romance from the
finest castle that peeps through the greenery of trees in some glen, or
stands boldly out in the sunshine of some steep hill or braeland.
By eleven o'clock we had done ten miles and entered Morpeth.
Now, O ye health-seekers or intending honeymoon enjoyers! why not go for
a month to Morpeth? It lies on the banks of the winding Wansbeck, it is
but four miles from the ocean; it is quaint, quiet, curious, hills
everywhere, wood and water everywhere; it has the remains of a grand old
castle on the hill top, and a gaol that looks like one. Accommodation?
did you say. What a sublunary thought, but Morpeth has capital
lodging-houses and good inns, so there!
We caught our first glimpse of the sea to-day away on our right.
We had hoped to stay at Felton, a romantic little village on the river.
Partly in a deep dell it lies, partly on a hill; rocks and wooded knolls
with shady walks by the streamlet-side make it well suited for a summer
resort, but it is hardly known. Not to Londoners, certainly.
Stabling we could have here, but so hilly is the place that a flat
meadow was looked for in vain. After spending a whole hour searching
for accommodation I returned to the glen where I had left the Wanderer,
and our poor tired horses had to go on again.
Hills, hills, hills, that seemed as if they never would end; hills that
take the heart, and life, and spirit out of the horses and make my heart
bleed for them. The beauty of the scenery cannot comfort me now, nor
the glory of the wild flowers, nor the blue sea itself. We but lag
along, hoping, praying, that a hostelry of some sort may soon heave in
sight.
I am riding on in front, having often to dismount and push my cycle
before me.
All at once on a hilltop, with a beautiful green valley stretching away
and away towards the sea, I come upon the cosiest wee Northumbrian inn
ever I wish to see. I signal back the joyful tidings to the weary
Wanderer.
Yee, there is stabling, and hay, and straw, and everything that can be
desired.
"Hurrah! Come on, Bob, I feel as happy now as a gipsy king."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_July 15th_.--The drag began this morning in earnest. We were among the
banks of Northumbria. [Bank--a stiff hill.] With a light carriage they
are bad enough, but with a two-ton waggon, small in wheel and long
'twixt draughts, the labour, not to say danger, reaches a maximum. The
country here is what a cockney would term a mountainous one, and in some
parts of it even a Scotchman would feel inclined to agree with him. At
one time we would be down at the bottom of some gloomy defile, where the
road crossed over a Gothic bridge, and a wimpling stream went laughing
over its rocky bed till lost to sight among overhanging trees.
Down in that defile we would eye with anxious hearts the terrible climb
before us.
"Can we do it?" That is the question.
"We must try." That is the answer.
The roller is fastened carefully behind a back wheel, and "Hip!" away we
go, the horses tearing, tottering, scraping, almost falling.
And now we are up, and pause to look thankfully, fearfully back while
the horses stand panting, the sweat running in streamlets over their
hoofs.
The short banks are more easily rushed. It is a long steep hill that
puts us in danger.
There is hardly probably a worse hill or a more dangerous hollow than
that just past the castle gate of Alnwick.
It needed a stout heart to try the descent. Easy indeed that descent
would have been had a horse fallen, for neither the brake, which I now
had sole charge of, nor the skid, could have prevented the great van
from launching downwards.
But the ascent was still more fraught with danger. It was like climbing
a roof top. Could the horses do it this time?
Impossible. They stagger half way up, they stagger and claw the awful
hill, and _stop_.
No, not stop, for see, the caravan has taken charge and is moving
backwards, dragging the horses down.
The roller and a huge stone beneath the wheels prevented an ugly
accident and the complete wreck of the Wanderer. Twelve sturdy
Northumbrians went on behind and helped us up. The road ascends higher
and higher after we pass Alnwick, until at last we find ourselves on the
brow of a lofty hill. There is an eminence to the right covered with
young firs; near it is a square tower of great strength, but only a
ruin. The traveller who does not see the country from this knoll misses
one of the grandest sights in England. From the lone Cheviot mountains
on the left to the sea itself on the far-off right round and round it is
all beautiful.
I had stayed long enough in Alnwick to see the town and "sights;" the
latter is a hateful word, but I have no better ready.
I was greatly impressed by the massive grandeur of the noble old castle,
the ancient home of the Percys. The figures of armed men on the
ramparts, some holding immense stones above the head, as if about to
hurl them on an assailant, others in mail jackets with hatchet and pike,
are very telling. I could not help thinking as I passed through the
gloomy gateways and barbican of the many prisoners whose feet had
brushed these very stones in "the brave days of old."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
THE CREW OF THE "WANDERER," ALL TOLD.
"His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs."
Burns.
While perusing these memoirs of my gipsy life, I should be more than
delighted if my readers could to some extent think as I thought, and
feel as I felt.
In an early chapter I gave a sketch of the Wanderer herself; let me now
give a brief account of its occupants by day. Why I say by day is this:
my coachman does not sleep in the caravan, but takes his ease at his inn
wherever the horses are stabled. Doubtless, however, when we are far
away in the wilder regions of the Scottish Highlands, if it ever be our
good fortune to get there safely, John G, my honest Jehu, will have
sometimes to wrap himself in his horse rugs and sleep upon the _coupe_.
And we have so many awnings and so much spare canvas that it will be
easy enough to make him a covering to defend him from the falling dew.
Having mentioned John G, then, it is perhaps but right that I should
give him the preference even to Hurricane Bob, and say a word about him
first.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
My Jehu John.
When I advertised for a coachman in the _Reading Mercury_ I had no lack
of replies. Among these was one from a certain Major B, recommending
John. He gave him an excellent character for quietness, steadiness, and
sobriety, adding that when I had done with him he would be happy to take
him back into his employment.
This was virtually offering me John on loan, and having a soft side for
the Queen's service, I at once sent for John G.
When John returned that forenoon to Mapledurham he was engaged. If John
could speak Latin, he might have said,--
"Veni, vidi, vici."
But, with all his other good qualities, John cannot talk Latin.
I was naturally most concerned to know whether my coachman was temperate
or not, and I asked him. "I likes my drop o' beer," was John's reply,
"but I know when I've enough."
John and myself are about ages, ie, we were both born in her Majesty's
reign. John, like myself, is a married man with young bairnies, of whom
he is both proud and fond.
John and I have something else in common. We are both country folks,
and therefore both love nature. I do not think there is a shrub or tree
anywhere about that is not an old friend, or a bird or wild creature in
meadow or moorland or wood that we do not know the name and habits of.
If we see anything odd about a tree or come to one that seems somewhat
strange to us, we stop horses at once, and do not go on again until we
have read the arboreal riddle.
John is very quiet and polite, and thoroughly knows his place.
Finally, he is fond of his horses, most careful to groom them well and
to see to their feet and pasterns, and if ever the saddle hurts in the
least on any particular spot, he is not content until he has eased the
pressure.
Next on the list of our crew all told comes--
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alfred Foley.
Foley has reached the mature age of twenty, and I have known him for
eight years. To put it in broad but expressive Scotch, Foley is just "a
neebour laddie." He has done many odd jobs for me at home as my
librarian, clerk, and gardener, and having expressed a wish to follow my
fortunes in this long gipsy tour of mine, I have taken him.
Both John and he have regularly signed articles, shipshape and sailor
fashion, for the whole cruise; and I mean to be a good captain to both
of them.
As Foley at home is in fairly good circumstances of life, and has a kind
and religious mother, it is needless to say much about his character. I
could trust him with untold gold--if I had it. But here is a greater
proof of my trust in his integrity--I can trust him with Hurricane Bob,
and Hurricane Bob is more to me than much fine gold.
On board the Wanderer, Foley fills the position of my first lieutenant
and secretary; with this he combines the duties of valet and cook, I
myself sometimes assisting in the latter capacity. He is also my
outrider--on a tricycle--and often my agent in advance.
On the whole he is a good lad. I do not believe he ever flirts with the
maids at the bars of the village inns when we buy our modest drop of
beer or secure our ginger-ale. And I am certain he reads the Book, and
says his prayers every night of his life.
So much for the crew of the Wanderer. Now for the live stock, my
companions.
I have already said a word about my horses, Corn-flower and
Pear-blossom. We know more about their individual characters now.
Nothing then in the world would annoy or put Corn-flower out of temper.
Come hills or come valleys, on rough road and on smooth, walking or at
the trot, he goes on with his head in the air, straight fore and aft,
heeding nothing, simply doing his duty.
There is far more of the grace and poetry of motion about Pea-blossom.
She bobs and tosses her head, and flicks her tail, looking altogether as
proud as a hen with one chicken.
If touched with the whip, she immediately nibbles round at Corn-flower's
head, as much as to say, "Come on, can't you, you lazy stick? There am
I getting touched up with the whip all owing to you. You're not doing
your share of the work, and you know it."
But Corn-flower never makes the slightest reply. Pea-blossom is a
thorough type of the sex to which she belongs. She is jealous of
Corn-flower, pretends not to like him. She would often kick him if she
could, but if he is taken out of the stable, and she left, she will
almost neigh the house down.
If in a field with Corn-flower, she is constantly imagining that he is
getting all the best patches of grass and clover, and keeps nagging at
him and chasing him from place to place.
But the contented Corn-flower does not retaliate. For Corn-flower's
motto is "Never mind."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Polly--The Cockatoo.
I want my friends--the readers--to know and appreciate my little
feathered friend, so far as anyone can to whom she does not grant a
private interview. I want them to know her, and yet I feel how
difficult it is to describe her--or rather _him_, though I shall
continue to say _her_--without writing in a goody-goody or old-maidish
style. "Never mind," as Corn-flower says, I'll do my best.
_Polly's Birth and Parentage_.--The bird came about five years ago from
the wilds of West Australia, though she has been in my possession but
little more than a year. She belongs to the great natural family
Psattacidae, and to the soft-billed species of non-crested cockatoos.
As regards the softness of her bill, however, it is more imaginary than
real, for though she cannot crack a cocoa-nut, she could slit one's nose
or lay a finger open to the bone.
I daresay Polly was born in some old log of wood in the bosh, and
suffered, as all parrots do coming to this country, from vile food,
close confinement, and want of water.
_Polly's Personal Appearance_.--Having no crest--except when excited--
she looks to the ordinary eye a parrot and nothing else. Pure white is
she all over except for a garland of crimson across her breast, a blue
patch round her wondrous eyes, and the red of the gorcock over the beak.
This latter is a curious apparatus; so long and bent is it that the
dealers usually call this species of cockatoo "Nosey," which is more
expressive than polite.
_Polly's Tricks and Manners_.--These are altogether very remarkable and
quite out of the common run.
No cockatoo that ever I saw would beat a well-trained red-tail grey
parrot at talking, but in motion-making and in tricks the latter is
nowhere with Nosey.
I place no value on Polly's ordinary tricks, for any cockatoo will shake
hands when told, will kiss one or ask to be kissed or scratched, or even
dance. This last, however, if with a musical accompaniment, is a very
graceful action. Polly also, like other cockatoos, stands on her head,
swings by head or feet, etc, etc. But it is her extreme love for music
that makes this bird of mine so winning.
When she first came to me she was fierce, vindictive, and sulky. It was
the guitar that brought her round. And now when I play either guitar or
violin she listens most attentively or beats time with her bill on the
bars of the cage.
This she does when I am playing quadrille or waltz, but the following I
think very remarkable: Polly cannot stand a Scotch strathspey, and
often, when I begin to play one, she commences to imitate a dog and cat
fighting, which she does to perfection. Again, if I play a slow or
melancholy air on the violin, Polly seems entranced, and sits on her
perch with downcast head, with one foot in the air, slowly opening and
shutting her fist in time to the music.
Polly plays the guitar with her beak when I hold it close to her cage,
ie, she touches the strings while I do the fingering.
I am teaching her to turn a little organ, and soon she will be perfect.
Heigho! who knows that when, after a lapse of years, my pen and my
gigantic intellect fail me, Polly may not be the prop of my declining
years--Polly and the fiddle?
Another of Polly's strange motions is moving her neck as if using a
whip. This she always does when she sees boys, so I daresay she knows
what boys need.
Her words and sayings are too numerous to mention. She calls for
breakfast, for food, for sugar, for supper, etc. She calls Bob and the
cat, and imitates both. She calls hens, imitates their being killed,
puts them up to auction, and sells them for half-a-crown. She laughs
and she sings, _words_ and _music_ both being her own composition.
She drinks from cup, or bottle, or spoon, milk, coffee, or tea, but no
beer or ginger-ale.
Her water is merely used to float and steep her seeds or crusts in.
When frozen one day last winter, I found her throwing the seeds on top
of the ice, and saying, "Poor dear Polly?" in a most mournful tone of
voice.
In conclusion, Polly is most affectionate and loving to _me_, and--
"If to her lot some human errors fall,
Look in her face, and you'll forget them all."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hurricane Bob.
He is the caravan dog, a noble fellow, straight in coat, and
jetty-black, without one curly hair. He is the admired of all
beholders.
He has gained prizes enough to entitle him to be dubbed champion
according to the older rules. His real or bench name is Theodore Nero
the Second. In his day his father was known all over the world.
As to pedigree, Bob's father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and
great-great-grandfather were all champions, and he is himself the father
of a champion, Mr Farquharson's, MP, celebrated Gunville.
[Vide "Aileen Aroon," by the same author. Published by Messrs.
Partridge and Co, 9 Paternoster Row, EC.]
In character, Bob--NB: We call him Robert on the Sabbath Day and on
bank-holidays--is most gentle and amiable. And though, like all pure
Newfoundlands, he is fond of fighting, he will never touch a small dog.
Wherever Bob is seen he is admired, and neither children nor babies are
ever afraid of him, while--
"His locked and lettered braw brass collar
Shows him the gentleman and scholar."
The words of North and the Shepherd, in the "Noctes Ambrosianae," come
into my head as I write:--
"A dog barks. _Shepherd_. Heavens! I could hae thocht that was
Bronte.
"_North_. No bark like his, James, now belongs to the world of sound.
"_Shepherd_. Purple black was he all over, as the raven's wing.
Strength and sagacity emboldened his bounding beauty, but a fierceness
lay deep down within the quiet lustre o' his een that tauld ye, had he
been enraged, he could hae torn in pieces a lion.
"_North_. Not a child of three years old and upwards in the
neighbourhood that had not hung by his mane, and played with his paws,
and been affectionately worried by him on the flowery greensward."
Such was Bronte.
Such is Hurricane Bob, only more so.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
LETTERS HOME, AFTER BEING MONTHS ON THE ROAD.
"Come listen to my humble friends.
Nor scorn to read their letters,
The faithfulness of horse and dog
Oft-times makes us their debtors.
Yet selfish man leads folly's van,
The thought is food for laughter.
He admits all virtues in his `beast,'
But--denies him a hereafter."
I.
_Letter from Polly Pea-Blossom to a Lady-Friend_.
NOW fulfil my promise of writing to you, my dear, which you remember I
made long ago, saying I should do so at the earliest opportunity. By
the way, poor Corn-flower, my pole-mate, spells opportunity with one
`p.' It is quite distressing, my dear, to think how much Captain
Corn-flower's education has been neglected in many ways. He is only
called `Captain' by courtesy you know, having never been in the army.
Heigho! what a deal of ups and downs one does see in one's life to be
sure. Why, it is not more than three years since you and I, my dear,
resided in the same big stable, and used to trot great fat old Lady C--
to church in that stupid big yellow chariot of hers. And now heigho!
the old lady has gone to heaven, or wherever else old ladies _do_ go,
and you and I are parted. But often and often now, while housed in some
sad unsavoury den, I think of you, my dear, and olden times till tears
as big as beans roll over my halter. And I think of that old stable,
with its tall doors, its lofty windows, its sweet floors and plaited
straw, and the breath of new-mown hay that used to pervade it! Heigho!
again.
"I was telling Corn-flower only last night of how I once kicked an
unruly, unmannerly nephew of my ladyship's out of the stable door,
because he tried to pull hairs out of my tail to make a fishing line.
Poor Corn-flower laughed, my dear, and said,--
"`Which ye was always unkimmon ready to kick, Polly, leastways ever
since I has a-known ye.'
"He does talk so vulgarly, my dear, that sometimes my blood boils to
think that a mare of my blood and birth should be--but there! never
mind, Corn-flower has some good points after all. He never loses his
temper, even when I kick him and bite him. I only wish he would. If he
would only kick me in return, oh, then wouldn't I warm him just! I gave
him a few promiscuous kicks before I commenced this letter. He only
just sighed and said, `Ye can't help it, Polly--that ye can't. You're
honly a mare and I be a feelosopher, I be's.'
"On the whole, though, I have not much to complain of at present; my
master is very kind and my coachman is very careful, and never loses his
temper except when I take the bit in my teeth and have my own way for a
mile.
"When we start of a morning we never know a bit where we are going to,
or what is before us; sometimes it is wet or rainy, and even cold; but
bless you, my dear, we are always hungry, that is the best of it, and
really I would not change places with any carriage-horse ever I knew.
Travelling does improve one's mind so, though heigho! I don't think it
has done much yet for the gallant Captain Corn-flower.
"The greatest bother is getting a nice stable. Sometimes these are cool
and comfortable enough, but sometimes so close and stuffy one can hardly
breathe. Sometimes they smell of hens, and sometimes even of pigs.
Isn't that dreadful, my dear? I hate pigs, my dear, and one day, about
a month ago, one of these hateful creatures struck my near hind leg with
such force that he was instantly converted into pork. As regards
bedding, however, John--that is our coachman--does look well out for us,
though on more than one occasion we could get nothing better than
pea-straw. Now pea-straw may be good enough for Corn-flower, my dear,
but not for me; I scorn to lie on it, and stand all night!
"I dearly love hay. Sometimes this is bad enough, but at other times a
nice rackful of sweetly-scented meadow hay soothes me, and almost sends
me to sleep; it must be like eating the lotus leaf that I hear master
speak about.
"Perhaps you would not believe this, my dear--some innkeepers hardly
ever clean out their stables. The following is a remark I heard only
yesterday. It was a Yorkshireman who made it--
"`Had I known you'd been coming, I'd ha' turned th' fowls out like, and
cleaned oop a bit. We generally does clean oop _once a year_.'
"Sometimes, my dear, the roads are very trying, and what with big hills
and thousands of flies it is a wonder on a warm day how I can keep my
temper as well as I do.
"But there, my dear, this letter is long enough. We must not grumble,
must we, my dear? It is the lot of horses to work and toil, and there
_may_ be rest for us in some green hereafter, when our necks are
stiffened in death, and our shoes taken off never to be nailed on again.
"_Quien sabe_? as master says. _Quien sabe_?
"Your affectionate old friend and stable-mate,--
"Polly Pea-blossom."
II.
From Captain Corn-Flower to Old Dobbin, a Brewer's Horse.