Other editions of book The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp

At the end of the 19th Century W.H.Davies hustled his way across America, working when he could, begging and stealing when he couldn't. He saw life on the breadline. He was beaten up in New Orleans, thrown into prison in Michigan and was present at lynching's in Tennessee, truly a diarist of the nether side of the American dream. After travelling with some of the most interesting and adventurous characters, an accident forced him to return to a similar poverty filled world back in England. "The incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. I have read it through from beginning to end, and would have read more of it had there been any more to read." George Bernard Shaw.

HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp.I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies' autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book. These pudent pages are unstained with the frightful language, the debased dialect, of the fictitious proletarians of Mr. Rudyard Kipling and other genteel writers. In them the patrons of the casual ward and the dosshouse argue with the decorum of Socrates, and narrate in the style of Tacitus. They have that pleasant combination of childish freshness with scrupulous literary conscientiousness only possible to people for whom speech, spoken or written, but especially written, is still a feat to be admired and shewn off for its own sake. Not for the life of me could I capture that boyish charm and combine it with the savoir vivre of an experienced man of the world, much less of an experienced tramp. The innocence of the author's manner and the perfection of his delicacy is such, that you might read his book aloud in an almshouse without shocking the squeamishness of old age. As for the young, nothing shocks the young. The immorality of the matter is stupendous; but it is purely an industrial immorality. As to the sort of immorality that is most dreaded by schoolmistresses and duennas, there is not a word in the book to suggest that tramps know even what it means. On the contrary, I can quite believe that the author would die of shame if he were asked to write such books as Adam Bede or David Copperfield.

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Get on the road with this predecessor to gonzo journalism as the Welshman Davies heads off for a life of adventure wandering the expanses of 19th century America, hopping trains and generally vagranting his way around. Following an accident which must have been horrific (but which he lightly skips over in the text) Davies returned to the UK, finding plenty of trouble but eventually succeeding with what must have been one of the world's first viral marketing campaigns.Included are many hints and tips on being a late-1800s super tramp, which are fascinating for both detail of a life far removed from our own and their cleverness. One such cute recommendation is the suggestion to sell showlaces for a living and the many advantages it brings a vagrant. After all these adventures the author eventually settled down with a wife, becoming a successful poet and author, so this is certainly a tale with a happy ending.W. H. Davies has had a solid effect on modern culture, with the title of this book inspiring the name of the band Supertramp and his famous couplet known to nearly all: "What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?" For fans of Wales, American rail, Davies' poetry or just fascinated by the hobo lifestyle this book is a must read. For the rest it is a great story well told.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com

This is an autobiography that describes what it was like to be a tramp in the late 19th century in North America. From the preface: "I HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp. I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies’ autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book.

This is an autobiography that describes what it was like to be a tramp in the late 19th century in North America. From the preface: "I HASTEN to protest at the outset that I have no personal knowledge of the incorrigible Super-tramp who wrote this amazing book. If he is to be encouraged and approved, then British morality is a mockery, British respectability an imposture, and British industry a vice. Perhaps they are: I have always kept an open mind on the subject; but still one may ask some better ground for pitching them out of window than the caprice of a tramp. I hope these expressions will not excite unreasonable expectations of a thrilling realistic romance, or a scandalous chronicle, to follow. Mr. Davies’ autobiography is not a bit sensational: it might be the Post Office Directory for the matter of that. A less simple minded supertramp would not have thought it worth writing at all; for it mentions nothing that might not have happened to any of us. As to scandal, I, though a most respectable author, have never written half so proper a book. These pudent pages are unstained with the frightful language, the debased dialect, of the fictitious proletarians of Mr. Rudyard Kipling and other genteel writers. In them the patrons of the casual ward and the doss house argue with the decorum of Socrates, and narrate in the style of Tacitus. They have that pleasant combination of childish freshness with scrupulous literary conscientiousness only possible to people for whom speech, spoken or written, but especially written, is still a feat to be admired and shewn off for its own sake. Not for the life of me could I capture that boyish charm and combine it with the savoir vivre of an experienced man of the world, much less of an experienced tramp. The innocence of the author’s manner and the perfection of his delicacy is such, that you might read his book aloud in an almshouse without shocking the squeamishness of old age. As for the young, nothing shocks the young."

William Henry Davies was born in the Pillgwenlly district of Newport, Monmouthshire, Wales, a busy port on July 3rd, 1871. Davies seemed to find childhood difficult. By the age of 13 he was arrested, part of a gang of five schoolmates, and charged with stealing handbags. He was given twelve strokes of the birch. The following year, 1885, Davies wrote his first poem; "Death". His yearning was to travel. In a half dozen years, he crossed the Atlantic at least annually by working on cattle ships. He travelled through many of the states, sometimes begging, sometimes taking seasonal work, but would often spend any savings on a drinking spree with a fellow traveller. In London, he came across a newspaper story about the riches to be made in the Klondike and immediately set off to make his fortune in Canada. Attempting to jump a freight train at Renfrew, Ontario, on March 20th, 1899, he lost his footing and his right foot was crushed under the wheels of the train. The leg later had to be amputated below the knee and he wore a wooden prosthetic leg thereafter. On October 12th, 1905 Davies met the poet Edward Thomas, then the literary critic for the Daily Chronicle. Thomas rented for Davies a nearby tiny two-roomed cottage. Thomas now adopted the role of protective guardian as he helped Davies to develop his career. In 1907, the manuscript of The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp drew the attention of George Bernard Shaw, who agreed to write a preface. In 1911, Davies was awarded a Civil List Pension of £50, which later increased to £100 and then to £150. The Georgian poetry publisher Edward Marsh introduced him, in 1913, to DH Lawrence who was captivated by Davies and later invited him to Germany. Despite this early enthusiasm, Lawrence's opinion waned and he noted the newer verses seemed "so thin, one can hardly feel them". On February 5th, 1923, Davies married 23-year-old Helen Matilda Payne, at the Registry Office in East Grinstead in Sussex. His book Young Emma chronicles the relationship in a very frank and revealing way. Having second thoughts he retrieved the book from the publishers and it was only published after Helens death. He had met her near Marble Arch decanting from a bus wearing a "saucy-looking little velvet cap with tassels". At the time Helen was unmarried and pregnant. While living with Davies in London, before their marriage, Helen suffered an almost fatal miscarriage. Davies made over a dozen broadcasts for the BBC, reading his own work, between 1924 and 1940. Davies returned to Newport, in September 1938, for the unveiling of a plaque in his honour, and with an address given by the Poet Laureate John Masefield. His health had now deteriorated, and this proved to be his last public appearance. W. H. Davies' health continued to worsen and he died, on September 26th, 1940, at the age of 69.

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