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 ravages of vice and dissipation by coating their faces with powder
and paint. Mingling with and part of this crowd were a number of
well-fed-looking individuals dressed in long garments of black cloth
of the finest texture, and broad-brimmed soft felt hats. Most of
these persons had gold rings on their soft white fingers and
glove-like kid or calfskin boots on their feet. They belonged to the
great army of imposters who obtain an easy living by taking advantage
of the ignorance and simplicity of their fellow-men, and pretending to
be the `followers’ and `servants’ of the lowly Carpenter of Nazareth -
the Man of Sorrows, who had not where to lay His head.
None of these black-garbed `disciples’ were associating with the
groups of unemployed carpenters, bricklayers, plasterers, and painters
who stood here and there in the carriageway dressed in mean and
shabby clothing and with faces pale with privation. Many of these
latter were known to our friends with the cart, and nodded to them as
they passed. Now and then some of them came over and walked a little
distance by their side, inquiring whether there was any news of
another job at Rushton’s.
When they were about half-way down the Parade, just near the Fountain,
Crass and his mates encountered a number of men on whose arms were
white bands with the word `Collector’ in black letters. They carried
collecting boxes and accosted the people in the street, begging for
money for the unemployed. These men were a kind of skirmishers for
the main body, which could be seen some distance behind.
As the procession drew near, Sawkins steered the cart into the kerb
and halted as they went past. There were about three hundred men
altogether, marching four abreast. They carried three large white
banners with black letters, `Thanks to our Subscribers’ `In aid of
Genuine Unemployed’, `The Children must be Fed’. Although there were
a number of artisans in the procession, the majority of the men
belonged to what is called the unskilled labourer class. The skilled
artisan does not as a rule take part in such a procession except as a
very last resource … And all the time he strives to keep up an
appearance of being well-to-do, and would be highly indignant if
anyone suggested that he was really in a condition of abject,
miserable poverty. Although he knows that his children are often not
so well fed as are the pet dogs and cats of his `betters’, he tries to
bluff his neighbours into thinking that he has some mysterious private
means of which they know nothing, and conceals his poverty as if it
were a crime. Most of this class of men would rather starve than beg.
Consequently not more than a quarter of the men in the procession were
skilled artisans; the majority were labourers.
There was also a sprinkling of those unfortunate outcasts of society -
tramps and destitute, drunken loafers. If the self-righteous
hypocrites who despise these poor wretches had been subjected to the
same conditions, the majority of them would inevitably have become the
same as these.
Haggard and pale, shabbily or raggedly dressed, their boots broken and
down at heel, they slouched past. Some of them stared about with a
dazed or half-wild expression, but most of them walked with downcast
eyes or staring blankly straight in front of them. They appeared
utterly broken-spirited, hopeless and ashamed …
`Anyone can see what THEY are,’ sneered Crass, `there isn’t fifty
genuine tradesmen in the whole crowd, and most of ‘em wouldn’t work if
they ‘ad the offer of it.’
`That’s just what I was thinkin’,’ agreed Sawkins with a laugh.
`There will be plenty of time to say that when they have been offered
work and have refused to do it,’ said Owen.
`This sort of thing does the town a lot of ‘arm,’ remarked Slyme; `it
oughtn’t to be allowed; the police ought to stop it. It’s enough to
drive all the gentry out of the place!’
`Bloody disgraceful, I call it,’ said Crass, `marchin’ along the Grand
Parade on a beautiful day like this, just at the very time when most
of the gentry is out enjoyin’ the fresh hair.’
`I suppose you think they ought to stay at home and starve quietly,’
said Owen. `I don’t see why these men should care what harm they do
to the town; the town doesn’t seem to care much what becomes of THEM.’
`Do you believe in this sort of thing, then?’ asked Slyme.
`No; certainly not. I don’t believe in begging as a favour for what
one is entitled to demand as a right from the thieves who have robbed
them and who are now enjoying the fruits of their labour. From the
look of shame on their faces you might think that they were the
criminals instead of being the victims.’
`Well you must admit that most of them is very inferior men,’ said
Crass with a self-satisfied air. `There’s very few mechanics amongst
em.’
`What about it if they are? What difference does that make?’ replied
Owen. `They’re human beings, and they have as much right to live as
anyone else. What is called unskilled labour is just as necessary and
useful as yours or mine. I am no more capable of doing the
“unskilled” labour that most of these men do than most of them would
be capable of doing my work.’
`Well, if they was skilled tradesmen, they might find it easier to get
a job,’ said Crass.
Owen laughed offensively.
`Do you mean to say you think that if all these men could be
transformed into skilled carpenters, plasterers, bricklayers, and
painters, that it would be easier for all those other chaps whom we
passed a little while ago to get work? Is it possible that you or any
other sane man can believe anything so silly as that?’
Crass did not reply.
`If there is not enough work to employ all the mechanics whom we see
standing idle about the streets, how would it help these labourers in
the procession if they could all become skilled workmen?’
Still Crass did not answer, and neither Slyme nor Sawkins came to his
assistance.
`If that could be done,’ continued Owen, `it would simply make things
worse for those who are already skilled mechanics. A greater number
of skilled workers - keener competition for skilled workmen’s jobs - a
larger number of mechanics out of employment, and consequently,
improved opportunities for employers to reduce wages. That is
probably the reason why the Liberal Party - which consists for the
most part of exploiters of labour - procured the great Jim Scalds to
tell us that improved technical education is the remedy for
unemployment and poverty.’
`I suppose you think Jim Scalds is a bloody fool, the same as
everybody else what don’t see things YOUR way?’ said Sawkins.
`I should think he was a fool if I thought he believed what he says.
But I don’t think he believes it. He says it because he thinks the
majority of the working classes are such fools that they will believe
him. If he didn’t think that most of us are fools he wouldn’t tell us
such a yarn as that.’
`And I suppose you think as ‘is opinion ain’t far wrong,’ snarled
Crass.
`We shall be better able to judge of that after the next General
Election,’ replied Owen. `If the working classes again elect a
majority of Liberal or Tory landlords and employers to rule over them,
it will prove that Jim Scalds’ estimate of their intelligence is about
right.’
`Well, anyhow,’ persisted Slyme, `I don’t think it’s a right thing
that they should be allowed to go marchin’ about like that - driving
visitors out of the town.’
`What do you think they ought to do, then?’ demanded Owen.
`Let the b—rs go to the bloody workhouse!’ shouted Crass.
`But before they could be received there they would have to be
absolutely homeless and destitute, and then the ratepayers would have
to keep them. It costs about twelve shillings a week for each inmate,
so it seems to me that it would be more sensible and economical for
the community to employ them on some productive work.’
They had by this time arrived at the yard. The steps and ladders were
put away in their places and the dirty paint-pots and pails were
placed in the paintshop on the bench and on the floor. With what had
previously been brought back there were a great many of these things,
all needing to be cleaned out, so Bert at any rate stood in no danger
of being out of employment for some time to come.
When they were paid at the office, Owen on opening his envelope found
it contained as usual, a time sheet for the next week, which meant
that he was not `stood off’ although he did not know what work there
would be to do. Crass and Slyme were both to go to the `Cave’ to fix
the venetian blinds, and Sawkins also was to come to work as usual.
The Week before Christmas
During the next week Owen painted a sign on the outer wall of one of
the workshops at the yard, and he also wrote the name of the firm on
three of the handcarts.
These and other odd jobs kept him employed a few hours every day, so
that he was not actually out of work.
One afternoon - there being nothing to do - he went home at three
o’clock, but almost as soon as he reached the house Bert White came
with a coffin-plate which had to be written at once. The lad said he
had been instructed to wait for it.
Nora gave the boy some tea and bread and butter to eat whilst Owen was
doing the coffin-plate, and presently Frankie - who had been playing
out in the street - made his appearance. The two boys were already
known to each other, for Bert had been there several times before - on
errands similar to the present one, or to take lessons on graining and
letter-painting from Owen.
`I’m going to have a party next Monday - after Christmas,’ remarked
Frankie. `Mother told me I might ask you if you’ll come?’
`All right,’ said Bert; `and I’ll bring my Pandoramer.’
`What is it? Is it alive?’ asked Frankie with a puzzled look.
`Alive! No, of course not,’ replied Bert with a superior air. `It’s
a show, like they have at the Hippodrome or the Circus.’
`How big is it?’
`Not very big: it’s made out of a sugar-box. I made it myself. It’s
not quite finished yet, but I shall get it done this week. There’s a
band as well, you know. I do that part with this.’
`This’ was a large mouth organ which he produced from the inner pocket
of his coat.
`Play something now.’
Bert accordingly played, and Frankie sang at the top of his voice a
selection of popular songs, including `The Old Bull and Bush’, `Has
Anyone seen a German Band?’, `Waiting at the Church’ and finally -
possibly as a dirge for the individual whose coffin-plate Owen was
writing - `Goodbye, Mignonette’ and `I wouldn’t leave my little wooden
hut for you’.
`You don’t know what’s in that,’ said Frankie, referring to a large
earthenware bread-pan which Nora had just asked Owen to help her to
lift from the floor on to one of the chairs. The vessel in
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