The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 2
And then, how much did I know about hotels until I read this book! I
have often wondered how the poor travel; for it is plain that the
Ritzes and Metropoles, and even the hotels noted by Baedeker as
"unpretending," are not for them. Where does the man with sixpence in
his pocket stay? Mr. Davies knows. Read and learn.
It is to be noted that Mr. Davies is no propagandist of the illusions
of the middle-class tramp fancier. You never suspect him of having
read Lavengro, or got his notions of nomads from Mr. Theodore Watts
Dunton. He does not tell you that there is honour among tramps: on the
contrary, he makes it clear that only by being too destitute to be
worth robbing and murdering can a tramp insure himself against being
robbed and murdered by his comrade of the road. The tramp is
fastidious and accomplished, audacious and self-possessed; but he is
free from divine exploitation: he has no orbit: he has the endless
trouble of doing what he likes with himself, and the endless
discountenance of being passed by as useless by the Life Force that
finds superselfish work for other men. That, I suppose, is why Mr.
Davies tramps no more, but writes verses and saves money to print them
out of eight shillings a week. And this, too, at a moment when the
loss of a limb has placed within his reach such success in begging as
he had never before dared to dream of!
Mr. Davies is now a poet of established reputation. He no longer
prints his verses and hawks them: he is regularly published and
reviewed. Whether he finds the change a lucrative one I venture to
doubt. That the verses in The Soul's Destroyer and in his New Poems
will live is beyond question; but whether Mr. Davies can live if
anything happens to his eight shillings a week (unless he takes to the
road again) is another matter. That is perhaps why he has advised
himself to write and print his autobiography, and try his luck with it
as Man of Letters in a more general sense. Though it is only in verse
that he writes exquisitely, yet this book, which is printed as it was
written, without any academic corrections from the point of view of
the Perfect Commercial Letter Writer, is worth reading by literary
experts for its style alone. And since his manner is so quiet, it has
been thought well by his friends and his publishers to send a
trumpeter before him the more effectually to call attention to him
before he begins. I have volunteered for that job for the sake of his
poems. Having now done it after my well known manner, I retire and
leave the stage to him.
G. B. S.
Ayot St. Lawrence. 1907.
Contents
Preface by G. Bernard Shaw
CHAPTER
I. Childhood, 1
II. Youth, 12
III. Manhood, 23
IV. Brum, 32
V. A Tramp's Summer Vacation, 39
VI. A Night's Ride, 46
VII. Law in America, 56
VIII. A Prisoner His Own Judge, 66
IX. Berry Picking, 77
X. The Cattleman's Office, 87
XI. A Strange Cattleman, 101
XII. Thieves, 112
XIII. The Canal, 119
XIV. The House-Boat, 126
XV. A Lynching, 138
XVI. The Camp, 147
XVII. Home, 157
XVIII. Off Again, 168
XIX. A Voice in the Dark, 178
XX. Hospitality, 192
XXI. London, 197
XXII. The Ark, 213
XXIII. Gridling, 227
XXIV. On the Downright, 242
XXV. The Farmhouse, 254
XXVI. Rain and Poverty, 267
XXVII. False Hopes, 274
XXVIII. On Tramp Again, 283
XXIX. A Day's Companion, 296
XXX. The Fortune, 303
XXXI. Some Ways of Making a Living, 310
XXXII. At Last, 317
XXXIII. Success, 329
XXXIV. A House to Let, 338
The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD
I was born thirty-five years ago, in a public house called the Church
House, in the town of N----, in the county of M----. It was kept by my
grandfather, native of Cornwall, a retired sea captain, whose pride it
was, drunk or sober, to inform all strangers that he had been master
of his own ship, the said ship being a small schooner. In those days
there was a steam packet, called the _Welsh Prince_, trading regularly
between N----and Bristol, and in the latter town we had relatives on
my grandmother's side. The fact of the matter was that my grandmother
belonged to Somerset, and she often paid a visit to three maiden
sisters, first cousins of hers, living, I believe, near Glastonbury,
who had a young relative that had gone on the stage, and was causing
some stir under a different name from his own, which was Brodrib. My
grandmother held very strong opinions about the stage, and when these
first cousins met, no doubt the young man, in those early days, was
most severely discussed, and, had he not been a blood relation, would
have been considered a sinner too far advanced for prayer.
My earliest recollection is of being taken as a small boy with an
elder brother to Bristol on the _Welsh Prince_ by my grandfather. I
believe the frequency of these trips was mainly owing to the
friendship existing between the two captains, as my grandfather seldom
left the bridge, taking a practical part in the navigation of the ship
and channel--except at times to visit the saloon cabin for a little
refreshment.
On one trip we had a very stormy passage, and on that occasion the
winds and the waves made such a fool of the _Welsh Prince_ that
she--to use the feminine gender, as is the custom of every true
mariner, of one of whom I am a proud descendant--often threatened to
dive into the bowels of the deep for peace. It was on this occasion
that my grandfather assisted the captain of the _Welsh Prince_ to such
purpose that people aboard acclaimed him as the saviour of their
lives, and blessed him for the safety of the ship. It is not therefore
to be wondered at when the old man ashore, returning at midnight from
this rough voyage with me and my brother, would frequently pause and
startle the silent hour with a stentorian voice addressed to
indifferent sleepers--"Do you know who I am? Captain Davies, master
of his own ship." Whether the police were awed by this announcement,
or knew him to be an honest, respectable man with a few
idiosyncrasies, I cannot say; but it was apparent to me in those young
days that they assisted him home with much gentleness, and he was
passed on carefully from beat to beat, as though he were a case of new
laid eggs.
Alas! the _Welsh Prince_ became childish in her old age. She would
often loiter so long in the channel as to deceive the tide that
expected her, and to disappoint a hundred people who assembled on the
bridge--under which she moored--to welcome her. What with her missing
of tides, her wandering into strange courses, her sudden appearance in
the river after rumours of loss, her name soon became the common talk
of the town. Her erratic behaviour became at last so usual that people
lost all interest as to her whereabouts, or whither she had wandered,
and were contented to know that she arrived safe, though late. They
were not curious to know if she had been dozing in a fog or had rested
for a day or two on a bank of mud; whatever she had done, she had been
too wary to collide, and, being too slow to dash through the waves,
had allowed them to roll her over with very little power of
resistance. These things happened until she was condemned and sold,
and her mooring place to this day is unoccupied by a successor. When
I now cross the bridge and look down on her accustomed place, I think
with tender emotion of the past. After the _Welsh Prince_ had been
deposed in her old age, accused of disobeying captain and crew,
charged with being indifferent to her duties, and forgetful of her
responsibilities--her captain, losing his beloved ship, idled a few
months ashore and died. No doubt he had grown to love her, but she had
gone beyond the control of living man, and a score of the best seamen
breathing could not have made her punctual to her duties; therefore he
could not reasonably answer the charges made against her. Some other
company, it was rumoured, had chartered her for the Mediterranean,
which would certainly be much better for her time of life;
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