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 shillings 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 passed and overtook them.

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An Enterprising Pilgrim. 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 sunshine; 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 gods. 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 mass of clothing and pots and pans, were sleeping in it, and one clasped a kitten in her arms.

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An Indifferent Pilgrim.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, coarse 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 Béranger’s Bohemians, and laughed and made merry as if the world and its hardships 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.

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 passed 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.