The Autobiography of a Super-TrampDavies, W. H. (William Henry)
General
The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
Davies, W. H. (William Henry)
Davies, W. H. (William Henry), 1871-1940; Poets, English -- 20th century -- Biography; Tramps -- Biography
going to sleep? I ain't done any labour for three weeks, and now as
I've got a chance at four in the mornin', blow me if I ain't robbed of
my slumber. Take care I don't set about yer at once, yer blooming lot
of bleeders. If I come arter yer body, yer'll know it, and no mistake
about it, either." No more was said after this. I at once made up my
mind to try Rowton House on the following day. That they had refused
this man a bed owing to his being drunk, and, more than likely,
quarrelsome in drink, was a strong recommendation to me after my
experience here, where it would be impossible to either read, write or
think, or to even partake of my meals in comfort.
The following morning, after having had breakfast at an eating house,
I enquired for Rowton House, and when the first person I addressed
asked which one I wanted, I answered him--"the nearest one." This
proved to be in Newington Butts and, after receiving instructions, I
proceeded accordingly, and was soon standing outside that place, where
I was to remain for two years, without in the least impressing London.
To my surprise, I found this house to be a fine large block of red
buildings, with an imposing front, and a fine entrance, polished and
clean; and, facing its many front windows, was an old church tower and
clock, set in an old leafy churchyard that had stones for the dead and
a number of wooden seats for the living.
On making an application for a bed, I learnt that this could not be
granted until nine o'clock in the evening, but was courteously allowed
the privilege of remaining indoors until that time. This place
surprised me by its accommodation of dining rooms, library, sitting
rooms, baths, lavatories, etc., all being kept clean and in thorough
good order by a large staff of men, its charge being sixpence per
night.
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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