Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell (fiction novels to read .txt) 📕
Another answer is that `The Philanthropists' is not a treatise oressay, but a novel. My main object was to write a readable story fullof human interest and based on the happenings of everyday life, thesubject of Socialism being treated incidentally.
This was the task I set myself. To what extent I have succeeded isfor others to say; but whatever their verdict, the work possesses atleast one merit - that of being true. I have invented nothing. Thereare no scenes or incidents in the story that I have not eitherwitnessed myself or had conclusive evidence of. As far as I dared Ilet th
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The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists
by Robert Tressell
PrefaceIn 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.
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 lightly and
scarcely reaching the top of his patched and broken hobnailed 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
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