THE TRAMP IN BRITISH LITERATURE, 1850-1950
By Luke Lewin Davies
Palgrave Macmillan. 344 pages. £99.99. ISBN 978-3-030-73431-2
Reviewed by Jim Burns
At the bottom of the street where I lived in the 1940s was the main
road heading south out of the town.
I have fading recollections of occasionally seeing a
shabbily-dressed, and often elderly man, carrying a bundle or
hold-all of some sort, moving slowly along the pavement and being
given a wide berth by passers-by. “A tramp,” my father, who’d had
his share of walking miles looking for work,
would say, and he wasn’t averse to slipping a coin into the
man’s hand if he asked for something.
I think I was perhaps seeing the last of a breed of people pushed
onto the road by the circumstances of the 1930s, hidden by the war
years, and mostly out-of-place in the post-1945 period. You never
hear the word “tramp” these days, at least not in relation to anyone
wandering from place to place either in search of work or trying to
avoid it. While it may
be true that a tramp was a homeless man or woman, it’s not
necessarily true that the contemporary homeless are tramps. The
individuals found sleeping in shop doorways in our towns and cities
rarely wander far from their locations. They probably don’t have the
inclinations to do so, and in any case they can sometimes find
casual work, if it’s available, beg when they can avoid attention
from the police in the streets, or take advantage of social care
provisions like night shelters, unsatisfactory though they may be.
It’s obviously not desirable that the situation should now become of
a nature that forces people back onto the road. But there is a
history of “tramping” in Britain, and Luke Lewin Davies’s
well-researched book endeavours to draw attention to it through its
portrayal in both factual and fictional forms. It will become clear
that it’s not always easy to determine where a neat dividing line
exists. Not every supposedly factual account is devoid of fictional
colouring, nor does every fictional narrative in the realistic
tradition offer factual clarity. Exaggeration may be found in both
forms.
The idea of the “vagrant” can be traced back beyond 1850, which is
where Davies aims to start his account, and he provides a certain
amount of information about how, for example, the “sturdy beggars”
of sixteenth century England were viewed. “Wyly wanderers” was just
one term applied to them. The threat of social disorder was a
constant preoccupation, and “the growing desire of governments to
control their subjects” led to various laws being enacted to enable
the authorities, both local and national, to restrict the activities
of the “masterless” class of men, i.e. those without regular
employment in a fixed location: “The masterless man represented
mutability when those in power longed for stability”.
Davies moves through the years, sketching in how attitudes towards
differing forms of vagrancy, homelessness, and avoidance of work,
changed. When he arrives in
the nineteenth century and the 1824 Vagrancy Act, making it an
offence to sleep outdoors, followed by the Poor Law in 1834, it
becomes obvious that the authorities were increasingly concerned
about the numbers of people not gainfully employed and having no
fixed abodes. The cost of relief provided for the poor was rising.
The effects of increasing industrialisation, new Corn Laws pushing
up the price of bread, Irish emigration to Britain, and other
factors, are all mentioned by Davies as contributing to a steep rise
in homelessness and more people being pushed onto the road.
It’s around this time that the word “tramp” appears to have come
into common usage to describe those who would have previously been
referred to as vagrants. And it may be that along with it came what
might be called a “theory” of tramping as a means of expressing
discontent with the rise in regimentation which was an inevitable
product of the rapidly developing capitalist industrial system. For
some people the prospect of working in a cotton mill, mine, or any
other highly-organised situation, was enough to make them take a
chance with life on the road. And for a minority of those a
consciously “radical anti-productivist” stance might have been
established. We’re in a difficult area here, because we have to
depend on written records by a handful of tramps who turned to
writing of one kind or another and sometimes became professional
authors. They may not have been typical of the mass of their
contemporaries.
It’s noteworthy that Davies briefly refers to bohemianism as a
similar activity in terms of seeming to present a challenge to “work
oriented capitalist culture”. Davies quotes Mary Gluck to the effect
that, in fact, bohemianism really offered “a conservative
repudiation of the modern world”. While I’m a great reader of the
literature of bohemia – novels, stories, poems, memoirs, histories –
it often does occur to me to recall the words of Arsène Houssaye: “I
don’t believe in the good faith of the literary Bohemian. His
disordered life is only a journey in search of sensations, of the
documents and observations he needs to produce his work. The real
Bohemian is the one who has no communication with the public. He
leads a vagabond existence for himself alone, not for any readers or
spectators”. I should add that Houssaye was writing at a time, the
1850s or so, when bohemianism meant more than the lives of writers
and artists. (See Daumier’s 1840s series, The Bohemians of Paris).
But the parallel with tramp writers is, I think, significant.
It’s worth noting, too, that Davies mentions the IWW (Industrial
Workers of the World) and their link to the “anti-productivist”
position. If it existed it was most likely in the minds of a number
of activists. Most rank-and-file members were more concerned with
the usual bread-and-butter issues of wages and conditions. And the
major IWW activities in terms of the number of workers involved were
largely concentrated in the East among the mills of New England and
Massachusetts where people looked for permanent, better-paid
employment. The romantic idea of the “Rambling Kid” (as Charles
Ashleigh called his autobiographical novel, Faber, 1930) related to
the wheat fields and other seasonal occupations of the mid and
far-West. Even there I
would guess that most members were more interested in immediate
gains than long-term utopian theories. As it says in
The Harvest War Song :
“Here goes for better wages, and the hours must come down”.
Davies says that as the nineteenth century developed so did “a newly
emergent disciplinary era in which attempts to regulate and control
human behaviour were increasingly justified in terms of ‘the welfare
of the population’ and ’the increase of its wealth’ “. The first
book to make extensive use of the word “tramp” was James Dawson
Burn’s The Autobiography of a
Beggar Boy, published in 1856. Burn
came from what we would now describe as a “broken home” and went on
the road, working as a navvy and then becoming a hatter. He later
became a leading light in the hatter’s union in Glasgow and was
involved in the Chartist movement. As an example of working-class
literature, his book has value, though Davies suggests that its
“repentance narrative traditions limit its subversive potential”.
The “repentance” aspect was evident in more than one tramp
memoir and was presumably insisted on by publishers knowing that
potential readers were from a class that wanted assurance that their
settled lives were best, and going on the tramp was never likely to
lead to contentment. The tramp had to be shown to have come to an
awareness of the error of his ways.
The use of tramp as descriptive of certain writers sometimes comes
into question, as when Davies discusses the life and work of George
Atkins Brine, author of The
King of the Beggars: The Life and Adventures of George Atkins Brine.
He seems to have had a respectable early upbringing, but went on
the road after succumbing to “mischief and drink” and spending time
in prison. If his account is true “he tried many dodges, from that
of the travelling parson, ‘high-flyer’, quack doctor, schoolmaster,
and other professions”. He had relationships with any number of
women, and wasn’t against turning to thieving when necessary. Was he
a tramp in the true sense of the word? Davies thinks he fits more
easily into the “earlier rogue and picaresque traditions”. His
subversiveness, which included ridiculing authority, was personal
rather than political in intent.
It could be that the subversive angle, which Davies is usually keen
to find, did come more to the fore in the period between the two
World Wars. A wider awareness of radical ideas permeated society in
the aftermath of the Russian Revolution, the rise of Communism, and
the deepening effects of the Great Depression of the 1930s. But the
tramping experiences that were documented by John Brown (I
Was A Tramp, 1934) and Matt Marshall (The
Travels of Tramp-Royal, 1932) were not those of the mass of
anonymous tramps, though descriptions of some of them may be found
in the books concerned. Brown was “an active campaigner for the
Labour Party” and “would go on to become a journalist, a novelist,
and a travel writer”. Marshall “was a poet and journalist for the
Glasgow Times”. Going on
the road was presumably a way of finding material to write about.
The range of Davies’s reading is impressive, and he mentions and
analyses a number of now-forgotten memoirs that are about tramp
experiences. Not all of them show the narrator as being permanently
on the road. It was sometimes a short-term measure brought about by
circumstances. Some years ago I came across a copy of an obscure
novel, Tom Hanlin’s Once In
Every Lifetime (Wells, Gardner Darton & Co., 1945) in a
second-hand bookshop. The narrator works in the pits in
Scotland when there is work to be had, and at some point,
despairing of “the poverty and the hopelessness”, he goes on the
tramp: “There wasn’t much money on the go, but I was never hungry. I
could always get food and no bother. At the latter end I cadged
everything I ate, keeping the dole money for beer and beds”.
But he does eventually
return to his home town and a regular job. It’s noticeable that
there are no overt expressions of subversion from him or the people
he meets. What Davies,
when focusing on the writing of W.H. Davies (The
Autobiography of a Super-Tramp,
1908), refers to as “the transgressiveness of the tramp
lifestyle” isn’t a factor in Hanlin’s book. Tramping is, for his
narrator, simply a part of the overall working-class experience of
the time. In thIs, I would suggest, it is more realistic than many
other accounts.
I have to admit that some aspects of Davies’s book were not to my
taste. Its basis is clearly a Ph.D thesis and it shows when he
parades the academic compulsion (or requirement to keep up
appearances?) for theoretical displays. References to Foucault,
Slavoj Žižek, and Marcuse crop up, along with sentences like the
following:
”If this turns out to be the case and we end up having to categorise
the genre as a whole alongside the non-radical identity-oriented
anti-productivist bodies of work described above (such as bohemian
literature and nature writing) – the obvious point to observe will
be the coincidence that each of the non-radical anti-productivist
texts included in this category would then be united in being
identity-oriented, in turn implying that the Foucaldian reverse
discourse identity-oriented model of resistance struggles to produce
radical perspectives in a Badiouian sense – possibly for the reason
that narrowing the focus on the interest and outlooks of a single
minority group hinders the potential for engaging in totalising
speculations”.
To balance my dislike of that sort of writing, I can’t stress too
much how, when he gets down to the actual texts, Davies’s book is
valuable from the point of view of the number of novels and memoirs
he considers in his fascinating and wide-ranging survey of tramp
literature. Most of us will never get the opportunity to read the
books, and perhaps wouldn’t be keen to do so. They were not all
masterpieces. But he makes each book seem relevant within his chosen
framework and provides a great deal of information about them and
their writers in good, direct prose.
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