The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 24

The Autobiography of a Super Tramp 24

On making my way into the library, and seeing two large cases of

books, one containing fiction, and the other being enriched by the

poets, historians, essayists, with biography and miscellaneous

literature, and hearing how quiet this room was, in spite of the

presence of over a hundred men, I at once made up my mind to pay a

week's lodgings down, indifferent whether the sleeping accommodation

was good or bad. This I did at nine o'clock, after which I sat

sometimes reading the paper, and again watching the faces of this

mixed assembly. Some of them were of refined appearance, with their

silk hats, their frock coats, cuffs and collars, and spoke in voices

subdued and gentle. Some of them were of such a prosperous appearance

that no doubt I had already passed them in the street, thinking they

were either merchants or managers of great concerns; and, more likely

than not, the paper boys had followed on their heels, and the cabmen

had persistently hailed them.

 

If I wanted to devote my time to study, living on eight shillings per

week, this was apparently a suitable place for my purpose. Being my

own barber, doing my own plain cooking, and living abstemiously,

renouncing drink and the pleasures of theatres, and other indoor

entertainments, and retaining tobacco as my sole luxury--I saw no

reason why this could not be done, at the same time making up my mind

that it had to be done.

 

I had been here little more than a week, when I set to work in

earnest, and the result of two months' diligence was a tragedy,

written in blank verse, and which I called "The Robber." Never

dreaming but what it would at once meet with success, owing to its

being full of action--a very difficult thing to marry to verse, but

which I thought was successfully accomplished--I was somewhat taken

aback to have it returned to me on the third day, with the manager's

regret. Now it seemed that the Rowton House had a bad name, owing to

the great number of criminals that were continually in the Police

Courts giving that address. Some of these lodgers, for that very

reason, had their correspondence addressed to various small shops,

where they were customers for tobacco, papers, and groceries.

 

On having this tragedy returned, I, thinking of this, came to the

conclusion that no respectable person would be likely to consider or

respect any work, or application for the same, that emanated from a

house of this name. I spoke to a gentleman with whom I had become

acquainted, on this difficult subject, and he agreed with me, saying

that such were the true facts of the case. "But," said he, after a

thoughtful pause, "as your means are so limited, and the shopkeepers

charge one penny for every letter they receive on a customer's behalf,

would it not be as well to still have your correspondence addressed

here, but in another way, of which you probably have not heard? Give

your address as number one Churchyard Row, and, although people will

not recognise this house under that name, yet the post office

authorities will know it for its proper address." This I did, without

further question, and "The Robber" was despatched on a second journey.

Fourteen days after my robber returned to number one Churchyard Row.

Bothering my head to account for this, I came to the conclusion that

my tragedy had not been read farther than the front page, and that a

tragedy that was born and bred in such a place as Churchyard Row--the

address being so appropriate to the nature of the work--was enough to

make any man, who had the least sense of humour, condemn it with a

laugh. My conceit, at this time, was foolish in the extreme, and yet I

was near my thirtieth year.

 

The next work was a very long poem, in which the beasts of the field,

the birds of the air, and even the fishes of the sea, met in a forest

glade to impeach man for his cruelty to them, and went on to describe

their journey at midnight to the nearest town, and the vengeance they

then took on the sleeping inhabitants. My confidence in this work

being accepted could not have been altogether whole-hearted, for the

following reason: I made two copies of this poem, and posted them

simultaneously to different publishers. I felt quite satisfied that

one of these would be accepted, but when a whole week had passed on,

and I had received no communication from either publisher, I was then

horrified to think that they both were giving the poem such a

consideration that there was a probability that both of them would

accept it, and that both publishers would call on me to make terms,

perhaps at the very same hour. This thought so preyed on my mind that

I did not feel at all easy until I had one of the copies returned; but

it was a great disappointment to receive the second copy on the

following day.

 

Thinking that short poems would stand a better prospect of being

accepted, I set to work on a hundred sonnets, writing five, and

sometimes six a day, but when this number had been accomplished and

submitted, this work met with the same failure. After this I wrote

another tragedy, a comedy, a volume of humorous essays, and hundreds,

I believe, of short poems. I was always writing at this time, either

beginning or finishing a work, but, strange to say, none of this work

was being sent out, but was safely treasured, under the impression

that it would some day find its market.

 

After having had twelve months' practice, in the last months of which

no attempt had been made at publication, I decided to make one more

effort, this time with a small volume of short poems. This was

immediately sent to a well known publisher, who in a few days returned

answer, offering to publish at the author's expense, the sum needed

being twenty-five pounds. This success completely turned my head.

With all my heart I believed that there would not be the least

difficulty in procuring money for such a grand purpose, and at once

wrote to several well known philanthropists, writing six letters. Two

of them never murmured, and the other four set their secretaries to

snap me up in a few words. Exasperated at this I wrote to several

others, all my trouble being to no purpose.

 

Now, when I first entered this lodging house, I had something like

thirty shillings to the good, being ahead of my income, and up to the

present had no reason for spending this amount. Could I put this to

some use? My mind had several plans, and one in particular seemed good

and feasible. I would write three or four short poems on a page, get

them printed, and sell them from door to door. Two thousand of these

sheets, sold at threepence per copy, would be twenty-five pounds, and,

no doubt, I could sell quite a hundred of these copies a day,

providing I went from house to house, from street to street, from

early morning till late at night. With this object I lost no time in

seeing a job printer, and was told that thirty-five shillings would be

needed to defray expenses. This large amount disappointed me not a

little, but I paid a deposit and went back to the house, where I lived

and nearly starved in saving four shillings that were short, which was

done in two weeks out of the sixteen shillings that were to maintain

me in food and lodgings for fourteen days. At last, after great

privation and sacrifice, it was done, and I received from the printer

two thousand and some odd copies. Early the next morning I was to be

seen in the suburbs of London, with my hands and pockets full of these

copies, going from door to door. I mentioned to the inhabitants that I

had had an offer from a publisher, and that he could not undertake to

publish my work under twenty-five pounds. All these people did was to

stare, none of them seeming to understand, and no one seemed inclined

to ask questions. I had, I believe, visited the doors of some thirty

houses or more, and had not sold one copy. Most of these people were

poor, and some had become sufficiently interested to enquire the price

of my copies, seeming inclined and willing to trade with me in a small

way, but none of them seemed to be anxious to give threepence for a

sheet of paper which they did not understand. At last I chanced upon a

house that was much larger than the others, at which place a servant

answered the door. I lost no time in relating to her the true facts of

the case, and she was standing there silent and puzzled as to my

meaning, when her mistress called to her from the top of the

stairs--"Mary, who's there?" On which the maiden gave answer in a

halting voice--"Some man selling some paper." At this there was a

pause, and then the same voice said, from the direction of the

stairs--"Give him this penny, and tell him to go away," and, almost

instantly, that copper coin fell at the bottom of the stairs, and came

rolling rapidly towards us, as though aware of its mission. The girl

handed me this penny, which I took mechanically, at the same time

persisting in her taking a copy to her mistress. That lady, hearing

our further conversation, and perhaps, guessing its import, cried

again, this time in a warning voice--"Mary, mind you don't take

anything from him." This crushed the last hope, for I began to think

that if this lady, who might be a woman of some cultivation and rich,

could only see and read what had been done, she might have at once, in

her deep interest, merged the whole twenty-five pounds, at the same

time befriending me for life. Alas! I have been unfortunate all my

life in believing that there were a great number of rich people who

were only too eager to come forward and help talent in distress.

 

I was so disgusted at receiving this single penny, and being so

dismissed, that I at once put the sheets back in my pockets and

returned to the city. How long would it take to get twenty-five

pounds, at this rate? What am I talking about! Money was lost, not

even this single copper was a gain; for this penny-a-day experience

had cost me three pennies in tram fare, without mention of a more

expensive breakfast than I usually had.

 

When I got back to the house I started, with the fury of a madman, to

burn the copies, and did not rest until they were all destroyed,

taking care not to save one copy that would at any time in the future

remind me of my folly.

 

It was at this time that I came under the influence of Flanagan. That

gentleman, seeing me often writing and apparently in deep thought, at

once gave me credit for more wisdom than I possessed. He was a very

illiterate man, having no knowledge of grammar, punctuation or

spelling. The upshot of this acquaintance was that he informed me in

confidence that he was the lawful heir to nearly half the county of

Mayo, in Ireland; on which estate was a house like the King's palace.

In exchange for this confidence I told him that I was the author of a

book of verse, which could not be published except the author defrayed

expenses. On which Flanagan expressed much sympathy--more especially

when I read him aloud a few lines expressing my disapproval of

landowners and rich tyrants--and promised sincerely to relieve me of

all difficulty providing, of course, that he made good his claims to

the estate. Flanagan then proposed that I should put some of his

arguments in grammatical form, which he would immediately forward to

the proper authorities. This I began to do at once, and some of

Flanagan's arguments were so strong that I am surprised at the present

day at being a free man. I told one eminent statesman that he should

retire and give place to a more honest man, and another that though he

was born in Ireland and bore the name of an Irishman, yet he was a

traitor, for his heart had ever been in England. Despite these

powerful letters, the County Mayo never to my knowledge changed hands,

and I was disappointed in my expectations, and Flanagan grieved daily.

At that time, I must confess, I thoroughly believed Flanagan, perhaps

through being blinded by my own ambitions as an author. Even at the

present time, though I have cut down the estate considerably, from

half a county to half an acre, and have taken out quite a number of

windows from the estate's residence--after doing this, I still believe

that poor Flanagan was robbed of a cottage and garden by an avaricious

landlord.

 

This was at the time of the Boer War and Flanagan's long dark beard

and slouched hat gave him the exact appearance of one of those

despised people. Therefore we seldom took a walk together but what we

were stoned by boys in the street, and even grown up people passed

insulting remarks. In fact everywhere we went we were regarded with

suspicion. Our clothes not being of the best, drew the attention of

attendants at museums and art galleries, and we, being swarthy and

alien in appearance, never paused near a palace but what sentry and

police watched our every movement. One morning we were passing

through Whitehall, what time a regiment of soldiers were being drilled

and inspected by a gentleman in a silk hat. Now Flanagan was a man of

great courage and never thought it necessary to whisper. Therefore a

vein of savage satire broke in Flanagan's heart when he beheld a man

in a silk hat inspecting a troop of soldiers. "See!" he cried,

"there's a sight for the Boers." A number of bystanders resented this

remark, and there were loud murmurs of disapproval. On which Flanagan

asked the following question: "Will the best man in the crowd step

forward?" But no man seemed inclined to attempt Flanagan's

chastisement, without being assisted. Although I did not entirely

approve of him on this occasion, still, seeing that the words could

not be recalled, I was quite prepared to be carried with him half dead

on a stretcher to the nearest hospital; for I liked the man, and he

certainly seemed to like me, since he always took his walks alone when I did not accompany him.