Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

a tramp-fellowship among them. They pick one another up at resting

stations, and go on in companies. They always go at a fast swing –

though they generally limp too – and there is invariably one of the

company who has much ado to keep up with the rest. They generally

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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

talk about horses, and any other means of locomotion than walking:

or, one of the company relates some recent experiences of the road

– which are always disputes and difficulties. As for example. ‘So

as I’m a standing at the pump in the market, blest if there don’t

come up a Beadle, and he ses, “Mustn’t stand here,” he ses. “Why

not?” I ses. “No beggars allowed in this town,” he ses. “Who’s a

beggar?” I ses. “You are,” he ses. “Who ever see ME beg? Did

YOU?” I ses. “Then you’re a tramp,” he ses. “I’d rather be that

than a Beadle,” I ses.’ (The company express great approval.)

‘”Would you?” he ses to me. “Yes, I would,” I ses to him. “Well,”

he ses, “anyhow, get out of this town.” “Why, blow your little

town!” I ses, “who wants to be in it? Wot does your dirty little

town mean by comin’ and stickin’ itself in the road to anywhere?

Why don’t you get a shovel and a barrer, and clear your town out o’

people’s way?”‘ (The company expressing the highest approval and

laughing aloud, they all go down the hill.)

Then, there are the tramp handicraft men. Are they not all over

England, in this Midsummer time? Where does the lark sing, the

corn grow, the mill turn, the river run, and they are not among the

lights and shadows, tinkering, chair-mending, umbrella-mending,

clock-mending, knife-grinding? Surely, a pleasant thing, if we

were in that condition of life, to grind our way through Kent,

Sussex, and Surrey. For the worst six weeks or so, we should see

the sparks we ground off, fiery bright against a background of

green wheat and green leaves. A little later, and the ripe harvest

would pale our sparks from red to yellow, until we got the dark

newly-turned land for a background again, and they were red once

more. By that time, we should have ground our way to the sea

cliffs, and the whirr of our wheel would be lost in the breaking of

the waves. Our next variety in sparks would be derived from

contrast with the gorgeous medley of colours in the autumn woods,

and, by the time we had ground our way round to the heathy lands

between Reigate and Croydon, doing a prosperous stroke of business

all along, we should show like a little firework in the light

frosty air, and be the next best thing to the blacksmith’s forge.

Very agreeable, too, to go on a chair-mending tour. What judges we

should be of rushes, and how knowingly (with a sheaf and a

bottomless chair at our back) we should lounge on bridges, looking

over at osier-beds! Among all the innumerable occupations that

cannot possibly be transacted without the assistance of lookers-on,

chair-mending may take a station in the first rank. When we sat

down with our backs against the barn or the public-house, and began

to mend, what a sense of popularity would grow upon us! When all

the children came to look at us, and the tailor, and the general

dealer, and the farmer who had been giving a small order at the

little saddler’s, and the groom from the great house, and the

publican, and even the two skittle-players (and here note that,

howsoever busy all the rest of village human-kind may be, there

will always be two people with leisure to play at skittles,

wherever village skittles are), what encouragement would be on us

to plait and weave! No one looks at us while we plait and weave

these words. Clock-mending again. Except for the slight

inconvenience of carrying a clock under our arm, and the monotony

of making the bell go, whenever we came to a human habitation, what

a pleasant privilege to give a voice to the dumb cottage-clock, and

set it talking to the cottage family again! Likewise we foresee