The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
by Robert Tressell
CONTENTS
1 An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves
2 Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord
3 The Financiers
4 The Placard
5 The Clock-case
6 It is not My Crime
7 The Exterminating Machines
8 The Cap on the Stairs
9 Who is to Pay?
10 The Long Hill
11 Hands and Brains
12 The Letting of the Room
13 Penal Servitude and Death
14 Three Children. The Wages of Intelligence
15 The Undeserving Persons and the Upper and Nether Millstones
16 True Freedom
17 The Rev. John Starr
18 The Lodger
19 The Filling of the Tank
20 The Forty Thieves. The Battle: Brigands versus Bandits
21 The Reign of Terror. The Great Money Trick
22 The Phrenologist
23 The “Open-air”
24 Ruth
25 The Oblong
26 The Slaughter
27 The March of the Imperialists
28 The Week before Christmas
29 The Pandorama
30 The Brigands hold a Council of War
31 The Deserter
32 The Veteran
33 The Soldier’s Children
34 The Beginning of the End
35 Facing the “Problem”
36 The O.B.S.
37 A Brilliant Epigram
38 The Brigands’ Cave
39 The Brigands at Work
40 Vive la System!
41 The Easter Offering. The Beano Meeting
42 June
43 The Good Old Summer-time
44 The Beano
45 The Great Oration
46 The “Sixty-five”
47 The Ghouls
48 The Wise men of the East
49 The Undesired
50 Sundered
51 The Widow’s Son
52 “It’s a Far, Far Better Thing that I do, than I have Ever Done”
53 Barrington Finds a Situation
54 The End
Preface
In writing this book my intention was to present, in the form of an
interesting story, a faithful picture of working-class life—more
especially of those engaged in the Building trades—in a small town in
the south of England.
I wished to describe the relations existing between the workmen and
their employers, the attitude and feelings of these two classes towards
each other; their circumstances when at work and when out of
employment; their pleasures, their intellectual outlook, their
religious and political opinions and ideals.
The action of the story covers a period of only a little over twelve
months, but in order that the picture might be complete it was
necessary to describe how the workers are circumstanced at all periods
of their lives, from the cradle to the grave. Therefore the characters
include women and children, a young boy—the apprentice—some improvers,
journeymen in the prime of life, and worn-out old men.
I designed to show the conditions relating from poverty and
unemployment: to expose the futility of the measures taken to deal with
them and to indicate what I believe to be the only real remedy,
namely—Socialism. I intended to explain what Socialists understand by
the word “poverty”: to define the Socialist theory of the causes of
poverty, and to explain how Socialists propose to abolish poverty.
It may be objected that, considering the number of books dealing with
these subjects already existing, such a work as this was uncalled for.
The answer is that not only are the majority of people opposed to
Socialism, but a very brief conversation with an average anti-socialist
is sufficient to show that he does not know what Socialism means. The
same is true of all the anti-socialist writers and the “great
statesmen” who make anti-socialist speeches: unless we believe that
they are deliberate liars and imposters, who to serve their own
interests labour to mislead other people, we must conclude that they do
not understand Socialism. There is no other possible explanation of the
extraordinary things they write and say. The thing they cry out against
is not Socialism but a phantom of their own imagining.
Another answer is that “The Philanthropists” is not a treatise or
essay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story full
of human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, the
subject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded is for
others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses at least
one merit—that of being true. I have invented nothing. There are no
scenes or incidents in the story that I have not either witnessed
myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared I let the
characters express themselves in their own sort of language and
consequently some passages may be considered objectionable. At the same
time I believe that—because it is true—the book is not without its
humorous side.
The scenes and characters are typical of every town in the South of
England and they will be readily recognized by those concerned. If the
book is published I think it will appeal to a very large number of
readers. Because it is true it will probably be denounced as a libel on
the working classes and their employers, and upon the
religious-professing section of the community. But I believe it will be
acknowledged as true by most of those who are compelled to spend their
lives amid the surroundings it describes, and it will be evident that
no attack is made upon sincere religion.
Chapter 1
An Imperial Banquet. A Philosophical Discussion. The Mysterious
Stranger. Britons Never shall be Slaves
The house was named “The Cave”. It was a large old-fashioned
three-storied building standing in about an acre of ground, and
situated about a mile outside the town of Mugsborough. It stood back
nearly two hundred yards from the main road and was reached by means of
a by-road or lane, on each side of which was a hedge formed of hawthorn
trees and blackberry bushes. This house had been unoccupied for many
years and it was now being altered and renovated for its new owner by
the firm of Rushton & Co., Builders and Decorators.
There were, altogether, about twenty-five men working there,
carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, bricklayers and painters, besides
several unskilled labourers. New floors were being put in where the old
ones were decayed, and upstairs two of the rooms were being made into
one by demolishing the parting wall and substituting an iron girder.
Some of the window frames and sashes were so rotten that they were
being replaced. Some of the ceilings and walls were so cracked and
broken that they had to be replastered. Openings were cut through walls
and doors were being put where no doors had been before. Old broken
chimney pots were being taken down and new ones were being taken up and
fixed in their places. All the old whitewash had to be washed off the
ceilings and all the old paper had to be scraped off the walls
preparatory to the house being repainted and decorated. The air was
full of the sounds of hammering and sawing, the ringing of trowels, the
rattle of pails, the splashing of water brushes, and the scraping of
the stripping knives used by those who were removing the old wallpaper.
Besides being full of these the air was heavily laden with dust and
disease germs, powdered mortar, lime, plaster, and the dirt that had
been accumulating within the old house for years. In brief, those
employed there might be said to be living in a Tariff Reform
Paradise—they had Plenty of Work.
At twelve o’clock Bob Crass—the painters’ foreman—blew a blast upon a
whistle and all hands assembled in the kitchen, where Bert the
apprentice had already prepared the tea, which was ready in the large
galvanized iron pail that he had placed in the middle of the floor. By
the side of the pail were a number of old jam-jars, mugs, dilapidated
tea-cups and one or two empty condensed milk tins. Each man on the
“job” paid Bert threepence a week for the tea and sugar—they did not
have milk—and although they had tea at breakfast-time as well as at
dinner, the lad was generally considered to be making a fortune.
Two pairs of steps, laid parallel on their sides at a distance of about
eight feet from each other, with a plank laid across, in front of the
fire, several upturned pails, and the drawers belonging to the dresser,
formed the seating accommodation. The floor of the room was covered
with all manner of debris, dust, dirt, fragments of old mortar and
plaster. A sack containing cement was leaning against one of the walls,
and a bucket containing some stale whitewash stood in one corner.
As each man came in he filled his cup, jam-jar or condensed milk tin
with tea from the steaming pail, before sitting down. Most of them
brought their food in little wicker baskets which they held on their
laps or placed on the floor beside them.
At first there was no attempt at conversation and nothing was heard but
the sounds of eating and drinking and the drizzling of the bloater
which Easton, one of the painters, was toasting on the end of a pointed
stick at the fire.
“I don’t think much of this bloody tea,” suddenly remarked Sawkins, one
of the labourers.
“Well it oughter be all right,” retorted Bert; “it’s been bilin’ ever
since ’arf past eleven.”
Bert White was a frail-looking, weedy, pale-faced boy, fifteen years of
age and about four feet nine inches in height. His trousers were part
of a suit that he had once worn for best, but that was so long ago that
they had become too small for him, fitting rather tightly and scarcely
reaching the top of his patched and broken hob-nailed boots. The knees
and the bottoms of the legs of his trousers had been patched with
square pieces of cloth, several shades darker than the original fabric,
and these patches were now all in rags. His coat was several sizes too
large for him and hung about him like a dirty ragged sack. He was a
pitiable spectacle of neglect and wretchedness as he sat there on an
upturned pail, eating his bread and cheese with fingers that, like his
clothing, were grimed with paint and dirt.
“Well then, you can’t have put enough tea in, or else you’ve bin usin’
up wot was left yesterday,” continued Sawkins.
“Why the bloody ’ell don’t you leave the boy alone?” said Harlow,
another painter. “If you don’t like the tea you needn’t drink it. For
my part, I’m sick of listening to you about it every damn day.”
“It’s all very well for you to say I needn’t drink it,” answered
Sawkins, “but I’ve paid my share an’ I’ve got a right to express an
opinion. It’s my belief that ’arf the money we gives him is spent on
penny ’orribles: ’e’s always got one in ’is hand, an’ to make wot tea
’e does buy last, ’e collects all the slops wot’s left and biles it up
day after day.”
“No, I don’t!” said Bert, who was on the verge of tears. “It’s not me
wot buys the things at all. I gives the money I gets to Crass, and ’e
buys them ’imself, so there!”
At this revelation, some of the men furtively exchanged significant
glances, and Crass, the foreman, became very red.
“You’d better keep your bloody thruppence and make your own tea after
this week,” he said, addressing Sawkins, “and then p’raps we’ll ’ave a
little peace at meal-times.”
“An’ you needn’t ask me to cook no bloaters or bacon for you no more,”
added Bert, tearfully, ’cos I won’t do it.”
Sawkins was not popular with any of the others. When, about twelve
months previously, he first came to work for Rushton & Co., he was a
simple labourer, but since then he had “picked up” a slight knowledge
of the trade, and having armed himself with a putty-knife and put on a
white jacket, regarded himself as a fully qualified painter. The others
did not perhaps object to him trying to better his condition, but his
wages—fivepence an hour—were twopence an hour less than the standard
rate, and the result was that in slack times often a better workman was
“stood off” when Sawkins was kept on. Moreover, he was generally
regarded as a sneak who carried tales to the foreman and the “Bloke”.
Every new hand who was taken on was usually warned by his new mates
“not to let the b—r Sawkins see anything.”
The unpleasant silence which now ensued was at length broken by one of
the men, who told a dirty story, and in the laughter and applause that
followed, the incident of the tea was forgotten.
“How did you get on yesterday?” asked Crass, addressing Bundy, the
plasterer, who was intently studying the sporting columns of the _Daily
Obscurer_.
“No luck,” replied Bundy, gloomily. “I had a bob each way on Stockwell,
in the first race, but it was scratched before the start.”
This gave rise to a conversation between Crass, Bundy, and one or two
others concerning the chances of different horses in the morrow’s
races. It was Friday, and no one had much money, so at the suggestion
of Bundy, a Syndicate was formed, each member contributing threepence
for the purpose of backing a dead certainty given by the renowned
Captain Kiddem of the _Obscurer_. One of those who did not join the
syndicate was Frank Owen, who was as usual absorbed in a newspaper. He
was generally regarded as a bit of a crank: for it was felt that there
must be something wrong about a man who took no interest in racing or
football and was always talking a lot of rot about religion and
politics. If it had not been for the fact that he was generally
admitted to be an exceptionally good workman, they would have had
little hesitation about thinking that he was mad. This man was about
thirty-two years of age, and of medium height, but so slightly built
that he appeared taller. There was a suggestion of refinement in his
clean-shaven face, but his complexion was ominously clear, and an
unnatural colour flushed the think cheeks.
There was a certain amount of justification for the attitude of his
fellow workmen, for Owen held the most unusual and unorthodox opinions
on the subjects mentioned.
The affairs of the world are ordered in accordance with orthodox
opinions. If anyone did not think in accordance with these he soon
discovered this fact for himself. Owen saw that in the world a small
class of people were possessed of a great abundance and superfluity of
the things that are produced by work. He saw also that a very great
number—in fact the majority of the people—lived on the verge of want;
and that a smaller but still very large number lived lives of
semi-starvation from the cradle to the grave; while a yet smaller but
still very great number actually died of hunger, or, maddened by
privation, killed themselves and their children in order to put a
period to their misery. And strangest of all—in his opinion—he saw that
people who enjoyed abundance of the things that are made by work, were
the people who did Nothing: and that the others, who lived in want or
died of hunger, were the people who worked. And seeing all this he
thought that it was wrong, that the system that produced such results
was rotten and should be altered. And he had sought out and eagerly
read the writings of those who thought they knew how it might be done.
It was because he was in the habit of speaking of these subjects that
his fellow workmen came to the conclusion that there was probably
something wrong with his mind.
When all the members of the syndicate had handed over their
contributions, Bundy went out to arrange matters with the bookie, and
when he had gone Easton annexed the copy of the _Obscurer_ that Bundy
had thrown away, and proceeded to laboriously work through some
carefully cooked statistics relating to Free Trade and Protection.
Bert, his eyes starting out of his head and his mouth wide open, was
devouring the contents of a paper called _The Chronicles of Crime_. Ned
Dawson, a poor devil who was paid fourpence an hour for acting as mate
or labourer to Bundy, or the bricklayers, or anyone else who wanted
him, lay down on the dirty floor in a corner of the room and with his
coat rolled up as a pillow, went to sleep. Sawkins, with the same
intention, stretched himself at full length on the dresser. Another who
took no part in the syndicate was Barrington, a labourer, who, having
finished his dinner, placed the cup he brought for his tea back into
his dinner basket, took out an old briar pipe which he slowly filled,
and proceeded to smoke in silence.
Some time previously the firm had done some work for a wealthy
gentleman who lived in the country, some distance outside Mugsborough.
This gentleman also owned some property in the town and it was commonly
reported that he had used his influence with Rushton to induce the
latter to give Barrington employment. It was whispered amongst the
hands that the young man was a distant relative of the gentleman’s, and
that he had disgraced himself in some way and been disowned by his
people. Rushton was supposed to have given him a job in the hope of
currying favour with his wealthy client, from whom he hoped to obtain
more work. Whatever the explanation of the mystery may have been, the
fact remained that Barrington, who knew nothing of the work except what
he had learned since he had been taken on, was employed as a painter’s
labourer at the usual wages—fivepence per hour.
He was about twenty-five years of age and a good deal taller than the
majority of the others, being about five feet ten inches in height and
slenderly though well and strongly built. He seemed very anxious to
learn all that he could about the trade, and although rather reserved
in his manner, he had contrived to make himself fairly popular with his
workmates. He seldom spoke unless to answer when addressed, and it was
difficult to draw him into conversation. At meal-times, as on the
present occasion, he generally smoked, apparently lost in thought and
unconscious of his surroundings.
Most of the others also lit their pipes and a desultory conversation
ensued.
“Is the gent what’s bought this ’ouse any relation to Sweater the
draper?” asked Payne, the carpenter’s foreman.
“It’s the same bloke,” replied Crass.
“Didn’t he used to be on the Town Council or something?”
“’E’s bin on the Council for years,” returned Crass. “’E’s on it now.
’E’s mayor this year. ’E’s bin mayor several times before.”
“Let’s see,” said Payne, reflectively, “’e married old Grinder’s
sister, didn’t ’e? You know who I mean, Grinder the greengrocer.”
“Yes, I believe he did,” said Crass.
“It wasn’t Grinder’s sister,” chimed in old Jack Linden. “It was ’is
niece. I know, because I remember working in their ’ouse just after
they was married, about ten year ago.”
“Oh yes, I remember now,” said Payne. “She used to manage one of
Grinder’s branch shops didn’t she?”
“Yes,” replied Linden. “I remember it very well because there was a lot
of talk about it at the time. By all accounts, ole Sweater used to be a
regler ’ot un: no one never thought as he’d ever git married at all:
there was some funny yarns about several young women what used to work
for him.”
This important matter being disposed of, there followed a brief
silence, which was presently broken by Harlow.
“Funny name to call a ’ouse, ain’t it?” he said. “‘The Cave.’ I wonder
what made ’em give it a name like that.”
“They calls ’em all sorts of outlandish names nowadays,” said old Jack
Linden.
“There’s generally some sort of meaning to it, though,” observed Payne.
“For instance, if a bloke backed a winner and made a pile, ’e might
call ’is ’ouse, ‘Epsom Lodge’ or ‘Newmarket Villa’.”
“Or sometimes there’s a hoak tree or a cherry tree in the garding,”
said another man; “then they calls it ‘Hoak Lodge’ or ‘Cherry
Cottage’.”
“Well, there’s a cave up at the end of this garden,” said Harlow with a
grin, “you know, the cesspool, what the drains of the ’ouse runs into;
praps they called it after that.”
“Talking about the drains,” said old Jack Linden when the laughter
produced by this elegant joke had ceased. “Talking about the drains, I
wonder what they’re going to do about them; the ’ouse ain’t fit to live
in as they are now, and as for that bloody cesspool it ought to be done
away with.”
“So it is going to be,” replied Crass. “There’s going to be a new set
of drains altogether, carried right out to the road and connected with
the main.”
Crass really knew no more about what was going to be done in this
matter than did Linden, but he felt certain that this course would be
adopted. He never missed an opportunity of enhancing his own prestige
with the men by insinuating that he was in the confidence of the firm.
“That’s goin’ to cost a good bit,” said Linden.
“Yes, I suppose it will,” replied Crass, “but money ain’t no object to
old Sweater. ’E’s got tons of it; you know ’e’s got a large wholesale
business in London and shops all over the bloody country, besides the
one ’e’s got ’ere.”
Easton was still reading the Obscurer; he was not about to understand
exactly what the compiler of the figures was driving at—probably the
latter never intended that anyone should understand—but he was
conscious of a growing feeling of indignation and hatred against
foreigners of every description, who were ruining this country, and he
began to think that it was about time we did something to protect
ourselves. Still, it was a very difficult question: to tell the truth,
he himself could not make head or tail of it. At length he said aloud,
addressing himself to Crass:
“Wot do you think of this ’ere fissical policy, Bob?”
“Ain’t thought much about it,” replied Crass. “I don’t never worry my
’ed about politics.”
“Much better left alone,” chimed in old Jack Linden sagely, “argyfying
about politics generally ends up with a bloody row an’ does no good to
nobody.”
At this there was a murmur of approval from several of the others. Most
of them were averse from arguing or disputing about politics. If two or
three men of similar opinions happened to be together they might
discuss such things in a friendly and superficial way, but in a mixed
company it was better left alone. The “Fissical Policy” emanated from
the Tory party. That was the reason why some of them were strongly in
favour of it, and for the same reason others were opposed to it. Some
of them were under the delusion that they were Conservatives:
similarly, others imagined themselves to be Liberals. As a matter of
fact, most of them were nothing. They knew as much about the public
affairs of their own country as they did of the condition of affairs in
the planet of Jupiter.
Easton began to regret that he had broached so objectionable a subject,
when, looking up from his paper, Owen said:
“Does the fact that you never ‘trouble your heads about politics’
prevent you from voting at election times?”
No one answered, and there ensued a brief silence. Easton however, in
spite of the snub he had received, could not refrain from talking.
“Well, I don’t go in for politics much, either, but if what’s in this
’ere paper is true, it seems to me as we oughter take some interest in
it, when the country is being ruined by foreigners.”
“If you’re going to believe all that’s in that bloody rag you’ll want
some salt,” said Harlow.
The Obscurer was a Tory paper and Harlow was a member of the local
Liberal club. Harlow’s remark roused Crass.
“Wot’s the use of talkin’ like that?” he said; “you know very well that
the country IS being ruined by foreigners. Just go to a shop to buy
something; look round the place an’ you’ll see that more than ’arf the
damn stuff comes from abroad. They’re able to sell their goods ’ere
because they don’t ’ave to pay no dooty, but they takes care to put
’eavy dooties on our goods to keep ’em out of their countries; and I
say it’s about time it was stopped.”
“’Ear, ’ear,” said Linden, who always agreed with Crass, because the
latter, being in charge of the job, had it in his power to put in a
good—or a bad—word for a man to the boss. “’Ear, ’ear! Now that’s wot I
call common sense.”
Several other men, for the same reason as Linden, echoed Crass’s
sentiments, but Owen laughed contemptuously.
“Yes, it’s quite true that we gets a lot of stuff from foreign
countries,” said Harlow, “but they buys more from us than we do from
them.”
“Now you think you know a ’ell of a lot,” said Crass. “’Ow much more
did they buy from us last year, than we did from them?”
Harlow looked foolish: as a matter of fact his knowledge of the subject
was not much wider than Crass’s. He mumbled something about not having
no ’ed for figures, and offered to bring full particulars next day.
“You’re wot I call a bloody windbag,” continued Crass; “you’ve got a
’ell of a lot to say, but wen it comes to the point you don’t know
nothin’.”
“Why, even ’ere in Mugsborough,” chimed in Sawkins—who though still
lying on the dresser had been awakened by the shouting—“We’re overrun
with ’em! Nearly all the waiters and the cook at the Grand Hotel where
we was working last month is foreigners.”
“Yes,” said old Joe Philpot, tragically, “and then thers all them
Hitalian horgin grinders, an’ the blokes wot sells ’ot chestnuts; an’
wen I was goin’ ’ome last night I see a lot of them Frenchies sellin’
hunions, an’ a little wile afterwards I met two more of ’em comin’ up
the street with a bear.”
Notwithstanding the disquieting nature of this intelligence, Owen again
laughed, much to the indignation of the others, who thought it was a
very serious state of affairs. It was a dam’ shame that these people
were allowed to take the bread out of English people’s mouths: they
ought to be driven into the bloody sea.
And so the talk continued, principally carried on by Crass and those
who agreed with him. None of them really understood the subject: not
one of them had ever devoted fifteen consecutive minutes to the earnest
investigation of it. The papers they read were filled with vague and
alarming accounts of the quantities of foreign merchandise imported
into this country, the enormous number of aliens constantly arriving,
and their destitute conditions, how they lived, the crimes they
committed, and the injury they did to British trade. These were the
seeds which, cunningly sown in their minds, caused to grow up within
them a bitter undiscriminating hatred of foreigners. To them the
mysterious thing they variously called the “Friscal Policy”, the
“Fistical Policy”, or the “Fissical Question” was a great Anti-Foreign
Crusade. The country was in a hell of a state, poverty, hunger and
misery in a hundred forms had already invaded thousands of homes and
stood upon the thresholds of thousands more. How came these things to
be? It was the bloody foreigner! Therefore, down with the foreigners
and all their works. Out with them. Drive them b—s into the bloody sea!
The country would be ruined if not protected in some way. This Friscal,
Fistical, Fissical or whatever the hell policy it was called, WAS
Protection, therefore no one but a bloody fool could hesitate to
support it. It was all quite plain—quite simple. One did not need to
think twice about it. It was scarcely necessary to think about it at
all.
This was the conclusion reached by Crass and such of his mates who
thought they were Conservatives—the majority of them could not have
read a dozen sentences aloud without stumbling—it was not necessary to
think or study or investigate anything. It was all as clear as
daylight. The foreigner was the enemy, and the cause of poverty and bad
trade.
When the storm had in some degree subsided,
“Some of you seem to think,” said Owen, sneeringly, “that it was a
great mistake on God’s part to make so many foreigners. You ought to
hold a mass meeting about it: pass a resolution something like this:
‘This meeting of British Christians hereby indignantly protests against
the action of the Supreme Being in having created so many foreigners,
and calls upon him to forthwith rain down fire, brimstone and mighty
rocks upon the heads of all those Philistines, so that they may be
utterly exterminated from the face of the earth, which rightly belongs
to the British people’.”
Crass looked very indignant, but could think of nothing to say in
answer to Owen, who continued:
“A little while ago you made the remark that you never trouble yourself
about what you call politics, and some of the rest agreed with you that
to do so is not worth while. Well, since you never ‘worry’ yourself
about these things, it follows that you know nothing about them; yet
you do not hesitate to express the most decided opinions concerning
matters of which you admittedly know nothing. Presently, when there is
an election, you will go and vote in favour of a policy of which you
know nothing. I say that since you never take the trouble to find out
which side is right or wrong you have no right to express any opinion.
You are not fit to vote. You should not be allowed to vote.”
Crass was by this time very angry.
“I pays my rates and taxes,” he shouted, “an’ I’ve got as much right to
express an opinion as you ’ave. I votes for who the bloody ’ell I
likes. I shan’t arst your leave nor nobody else’s! Wot the ’ell’s it
got do with you who I votes for?”
“It has a great deal to do with me. If you vote for Protection you will
be helping to bring it about, and if you succeed, and if Protection is
the evil that some people say it is, I shall be one of those who will
suffer. I say you have no right to vote for a policy which may bring
suffering upon other people, without taking the trouble to find out
whether you are helping to make things better or worse.”
Owen had risen from his seat and was walking up and down the room
emphasizing his words with excited gestures.
“As for not trying to find out wot side is right,” said Crass, somewhat
overawed by Owen’s manner and by what he thought was the glare of
madness in the latter’s eyes, “I reads the Ananias every week, and I
generally takes the Daily Chloroform, or the Hobscurer, so I ought to
know summat about it.”
“Just listen to this,” interrupted Easton, wishing to create a
diversion and beginning to read from the copy of the Obscurer which he
still held in his hand:
“GREAT DISTRESS IN MUGSBOROUGH.
HUNDREDS OUT OF EMPLOYMENT.
WORK OF THE CHARITY SOCIETY.
789 CASES ON THE BOOKS.
“Great as was the distress among the working classes last year,
unfortunately there seems every prospect that before the winter which
has just commenced is over the distress will be even more acute.
Already the Charity Society and kindred associations are relieving more
cases than they did at the corresponding time last year. Applications
to the Board of Guardians have also been much more numerous, and the
Soup Kitchen has had to open its doors on Nov. 7th a fortnight earlier
than usual. The number of men, women and children provided with meals
is three or four times greater than last year.”
Easton stopped: reading was hard work to him.
“There’s a lot more,” he said, “about starting relief works: two
shillings a day for married men and one shilling for single and
something about there’s been 1,572 quarts of soup given to poor
families wot was not even able to pay a penny, and a lot more. And
’ere’s another thing, an advertisement:
“THE SUFFERING POOR
Sir: Distress among the poor is so acute that I earnestly ask you for
aid for The Salvation Army’s great Social work on their behalf. Some
600 are being sheltered nightly. Hundreds are found work daily. Soup
and bread are distributed in the midnight hours to homeless wanderers
in London. Additional workshops for the unemployed have been
established. Our Social Work for men, women and children, for the
characterless and the outcast, is the largest and oldest organized
effort of its kind in the country, and greatly needs help. £10,000 is
required before Christmas Day. Gifts may be made to any specific
section or home, if desired. Can you please send us something to keep
the work going? Please address cheques, crossed Bank of England (Law
Courts Branch), to me at 101, Queen Victoria Street, EC. Balance Sheets
and Reports upon application.
“BRAMWELL BOOTH.”
“Oh, that’s part of the great ’appiness an’ prosperity wot Owen makes
out Free Trade brings,” said Crass with a jeering laugh.
“I never said Free Trade brought happiness or prosperity,” said Owen.
“Well, praps you didn’t say exactly them words, but that’s wot it
amounts to.”
“I never said anything of the kind. We’ve had Free Trade for the last
fifty years and today most people are living in a condition of more or
less abject poverty, and thousands are literally starving. When we had
Protection things were worse still. Other countries have Protection and
yet many of their people are glad to come here and work for starvation
wages. The only difference between Free Trade and Protection is that
under certain circumstances one might be a little worse than the other,
but as remedies for Poverty, neither of them are of any real use
whatever, for the simple reason that they do not deal with the real
causes of Poverty.”
“The greatest cause of poverty is hover-population,” remarked Harlow.
“Yes,” said old Joe Philpot. “If a boss wants two men, twenty goes
after the job: ther’s too many people and not enough work.”
“Over-population!” cried Owen, “when there’s thousands of acres of
uncultivated land in England without a house or human being to be seen.
Is over-population the cause of poverty in France? Is over-population
the cause of poverty in Ireland? Within the last fifty years the
population of Ireland has been reduced by more than half. Four millions
of people have been exterminated by famine or got rid of by emigration,
but they haven’t got rid of poverty. P’raps you think that half the
people in this country ought to be exterminated as well.”
Here Owen was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and resumed his
seat. When the cough had ceased he sat wiping his mouth with his
handkerchief and listening to the talk that ensued.
“Drink is the cause of most of the poverty,” said Slyme.
This young man had been through some strange process that he called
“conversion”. He had had a “change of ’art” and looked down with pious
pity upon those he called “worldly” people. He was not “worldly”, he
did not smoke or drink and never went to the theatre. He had an
extraordinary notion that total abstinence was one of the fundamental
principles of the Christian religion. It never occurred to what he
called his mind, that this doctrine is an insult to the Founder of
Christianity.
“Yes,” said Crass, agreeing with Slyme, “an’ thers plenty of ’em wot’s
too lazy to work when they can get it. Some of the b—s who go about
pleading poverty ’ave never done a fair day’s work in all their bloody
lives. Then thers all this new-fangled machinery,” continued Crass.
“That’s wot’s ruinin’ everything. Even in our trade ther’s them
machines for trimmin’ wallpaper, an’ now they’ve brought out a paintin’
machine. Ther’s a pump an’ a ’ose pipe, an’ they reckon two men can do
as much with this ’ere machine as twenty could without it.”
“Another thing is women,” said Harlow, “there’s thousands of ’em
nowadays doin’ work wot oughter be done by men.”
“In my opinion ther’s too much of this ’ere eddication, nowadays,”
remarked old Linden. “Wot the ’ell’s the good of eddication to the
likes of us?”
“None whatever,” said Crass, “it just puts foolish idears into people’s
’eds and makes ’em too lazy to work.”
Barrington, who took no part in the conversation, still sat silently
smoking. Owen was listening to this pitiable farrago with feelings of
contempt and wonder. Were they all hopelessly stupid? Had their
intelligence never developed beyond the childhood stage? Or was he mad
himself?
“Early marriages is another thing,” said Slyme: “no man oughtn’t to be
allowed to get married unless he’s in a position to keep a family.”
“How can marriage be a cause of poverty?” said Owen, contemptuously. “A
man who is not married is living an unnatural life. Why don’t you
continue your argument a little further and say that the practice of
eating and drinking is the cause of poverty or that if people were to
go barefoot and naked there would be no poverty? The man who is so poor
that he cannot marry is in a condition of poverty already.”
“Wot I mean,” said Slyme, “is that no man oughtn’t to marry till he’s
saved up enough so as to ’ave some money in the bank; an’ another
thing, I reckon a man oughtn’t to get married till ’e’s got an ’ouse of
’is own. It’s easy enough to buy one in a building society if you’re in
reg’lar work.”
At this there was a general laugh.
“Why, you bloody fool,” said Harlow, scornfully, “most of us is walkin’
about ’arf our time. It’s all very well for you to talk; you’ve got
almost a constant job on this firm. If they’re doin’ anything at all
you’re one of the few gets a show in. And another thing,” he added with
a sneer, “we don’t all go to the same chapel as old Misery,”
“Old Misery” was Ruston & Co.’s manager or walking foreman. “Misery”
was only one of the nicknames bestowed upon him by the hands: he was
also known as “Nimrod” and “Pontius Pilate”.
“And even if it’s not possible,” Harlow continued, winking at the
others, “what’s a man to do during the years he’s savin’ up?”
“Well, he must conquer hisself,” said Slyme, getting red.
“Conquer hisself is right!” said Harlow and the others laughed again.
“Of course if a man tried to conquer hisself by his own strength,”
replied Slyme, “’e would be sure to fail, but when you’ve got the Grace
of God in you it’s different.”
“Chuck it, fer Christ’s sake!” said Harlow in a tone of disgust. “We’ve
only just ’ad our dinner!”
“And wot about drink?” demanded old Joe Philpot, suddenly.
“’Ear, ’ear,” cried Harlow. “That’s the bleedin’ talk. I wouldn’t mind
’avin ’arf a pint now, if somebody else will pay for it.”
Joe Philpot—or as he was usually called, “Old Joe”—was in the habit of
indulging freely in the cup that inebriates. He was not very old, being
only a little over fifty, but he looked much older. He had lost his
wife some five years ago and was now alone in the world, for his three
children had died in their infancy. Slyme’s reference to drink had
roused Philpot’s indignation; he felt that it was directed against
himself. The muddled condition of his brain did not permit him to take
up the cudgels in his own behalf, but he knew that although Owen was a
tee-totaller himself, he disliked Slyme.
“There’s no need for us to talk about drink or laziness,” returned
Owen, impatiently, “because they have nothing to do with the matter.
The question is, what is the cause of the lifelong poverty of the
majority of those who are not drunkards and who DO work? Why, if all
the drunkards and won’t-works and unskilled or inefficient workers
could be by some miracle transformed into sober, industrious and
skilled workers tomorrow, it would, under the present conditions, be so
much the worse for us, because there isn’t enough work for all NOW and
those people by increasing the competition for what work there is,
would inevitably cause a reduction of wages and a greater scarcity of
employment. The theories that drunkenness, laziness or inefficiency are
the causes of poverty are so many devices invented and fostered by
those who are selfishly interested in maintaining the present states of
affairs, for the purpose of preventing us from discovering the real
causes of our present condition.”
“Well, if we’re all wrong,” said Crass, with a sneer, “praps you can
tell us what the real cause is?”
“An’ praps you think you know how it’s to be altered,” remarked Harlow,
winking at the others.
“Yes; I do think I know the cause,” declared Owen, “and I do think I
know how it could be altered—”
“It can’t never be haltered,” interrupted old Linden. “I don’t see no
sense in all this ’ere talk. There’s always been rich and poor in the
world, and there always will be.”
“Wot I always say is there ’ere,” remarked Philpot, whose principal
characteristic—apart from thirst—was a desire to see everyone
comfortable, and who hated rows of any kind. “There ain’t no use in the
likes of us trubblin our ’eds or quarrelin about politics. It don’t
make a dam bit of difference who you votes for or who gets in. They’re
hall the same; workin the horicle for their own benefit. You can talk
till you’re black in the face, but you won’t never be able to alter it.
It’s no use worrying. The sensible thing is to try and make the best of
things as we find ’em: enjoy ourselves, and do the best we can for each
other. Life’s too short to quarrel and we’ll hall soon be dead!”
At the end of this lengthy speech, the philosophic Philpot abstractedly
grasped a jam-jar and raised it to his lips; but suddenly remembering
that it contained stewed tea and not beer, set it down again without
drinking.
“Let us begin at the beginning,” continued Owen, taking no notice of
these interruptions. “First of all, what do you mean by Poverty?”
“Why, if you’ve got no money, of course,” said Crass impatiently.
The others laughed disdainfully. It seemed to them such a foolish
question.
“Well, that’s true enough as far as it goes,” returned Owen, “that is,
as things are arranged in the world at present. But money itself is not
wealth: it’s of no use whatever.”
At this there was another outburst of jeering laughter.
“Supposing for example that you and Harlow were shipwrecked on a
desolate island, and YOU had saved nothing from the wreck but a bag
containing a thousand sovereigns, and he had a tin of biscuits and a
bottle of water.”
“Make it beer!” cried Harlow appealingly.
“Who would be the richer man, you or Harlow?”
“But then you see we ain’t shipwrecked on no dissolute island at all,”
sneered Crass. “That’s the worst of your arguments. You can’t never get
very far without supposing some bloody ridclus thing or other. Never
mind about supposing things wot ain’t true; let’s ’ave facts and common
sense.”
“’Ear, ’ear,” said old Linden. “That’s wot we want—a little common
sense.”
“What do YOU mean by poverty, then?” asked Easton.
“What I call poverty is when people are not able to secure for
themselves all the benefits of civilization; the necessaries, comforts,
pleasures and refinements of life, leisure, books, theatres, pictures,
music, holidays, travel, good and beautiful homes, good clothes, good
and pleasant food.”
Everybody laughed. It was so ridiculous. The idea of the likes of THEM
wanting or having such things! Any doubts that any of them had
entertained as to Owen’s sanity disappeared. The man was as mad as a
March hare.
“If a man is only able to provide himself and his family with the bare
necessaries of existence, that man’s family is living in poverty. Since
he cannot enjoy the advantages of civilization he might just as well be
a savage: better, in fact, for a savage knows nothing of what he is
deprived. What we call civilization—the accumulation of knowledge which
has come down to us from our forefathers—is the fruit of thousands of
years of human thought and toil. It is not the result of the labour of
the ancestors of any separate class of people who exist today, and
therefore it is by right the common heritage of all. Every little child
that is born into the world, no matter whether he is clever or full,
whether he is physically perfect or lame, or blind; no matter how much
he may excel or fall short of his fellows in other respects, in one
thing at least he is their equal—he is one of the heirs of all the ages
that have gone before.”
Some of them began to wonder whether Owen was not sane after all. He
certainly must be a clever sort of chap to be able to talk like this.
It sounded almost like something out of a book, and most of them could
not understand one half of it.
“Why is it,” continued Owen, “that we are not only deprived of our
inheritance—we are not only deprived of nearly all the benefits of
civilization, but we and our children are also often unable to obtain
even the bare necessaries of existence?”
No one answered.
“All these things,” Owen proceeded, “are produced by those who work. We
do our full share of the work, therefore we should have a full share of
the things that are made by work.”
The others continued silent. Harlow thought of the over-population
theory, but decided not to mention it. Crass, who could not have given
an intelligent answer to save his life, for once had sufficient sense
to remain silent. He did think of calling out the patent paint-pumping
machine and bringing the hosepipe to bear on the subject, but abandoned
the idea; after all, he thought, what was the use of arguing with such
a fool as Owen?
Sawkins pretended to be asleep.
Philpot, however, had suddenly grown very serious.
“As things are now,” went on Owen, “instead of enjoying the advantages
of civilization we are really worse off than slaves, for if we were
slaves our owners in their own interest would see to it that we always
had food and—”
“Oh, I don’t see that,” roughly interrupted old Linden, who had been
listening with evident anger and impatience. “You can speak for
yourself, but I can tell yer I don’t put MYSELF down as a slave.”
“Nor me neither,” said Crass sturdily. “Let them call their selves
slaves as wants to.”
At this moment a footstep was heard in the passage leading to the
kitchen. Old Misery! or perhaps the bloke himself! Crass hurriedly
pulled out his watch.
“Jesus Christ!” he gasped. “It’s four minutes past one!”
Linden frantically seized hold of a pair of steps and began wandering
about the room with them.
Sawkins scrambled hastily to his feet and, snatching a piece of
sandpaper from the pocket of his apron, began furiously rubbing down
the scullery door.
Easton threw down the copy of the Obscurer and scrambled hastily to his
feet.
The boy crammed the Chronicles of Crime into his trousers pocket.
Crass rushed over to the bucket and began stirring up the stale
whitewash it contained, and the stench which it gave forth was simply
appalling.
Consternation reigned.
They looked like a gang of malefactors suddenly interrupted in the
commission of a crime.
The door opened. It was only Bundy returning from his mission to the
Bookie.