The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists E-Book

Robert Tressell

• Herausgeber: CKF Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists (1914) is a semi-autobiographical novel by the Irish house painter and sign writer Robert Noonan, who wrote the book in his spare time under the pen name Robert Tressell. Published after Tressell's death from tuberculosis in the Liverpool Royal Infirmary in 1911, the novel follows a house painter's efforts to find work in the fictional English town of Mugsborough (based on the coastal town of Hastings) to stave off the workhouse for himself, his wife and his son. The original title page, drawn by Tressell, carried the subtitle: "Being the story of twelve months in Hell, told by one of the damned, and written down by Robert Tressell."

Leseprobe

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

Contents

Biography

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Biography

Robert Noonan (17 April 1870 – 3 February 1911), born Robert Croker and best known by the pen name Robert Tressell, was an Irish writer best known for his novel The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists.

Tressell spent his entire early adult working life in South Africa. It was in Johannesburg that he was drawn into labour organisation and socialist politics. In Johannesburg he was also involved with some of the leading protagonists of Irish nationalism.

Having arrived back in England he worked as a painter and decorator in Hastings and wrote his novel The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, probably between 1906 and 1910, 'about exploitative employment when the only safety nets are charity, workhouse and grave.' George Orwell called it a wonderful book.

Noonan was born in 37 Wexford Street, Dublin, Ireland, the illegitimate son of Samuel Croker, a former Inspector of the Royal Irish Constabulary, who by the time of the birth was a retired Resident Magistrate. He was baptised and raised a Roman Catholic by his mother Mary Noonan. His father, who wasn't Catholic, had his own family, but attempted to provide for Robert until his death in 1875.

By 1875 Noonan was living in London. He was recorded on the 1881 England Census, under his step-father Sebastian Zumbühl's surname, living at 27 Elmore Street, Islington, London. Noonan had, in the words of his daughter, Kathleen, "a very good education" and could speak a variety of languages. It seems he may have had the opportunity of entering Trinity College Dublin, but, when he was sixteen, he showed signs of a radical political consciousness, and left his family, declaring he "would not live on the family income derived largely from absentee landlordism". It was around this time he changed his surname to his mother's maiden name.

In 1890, Noonan was a sign writer living in Queen's Road, Everton, Liverpool. On 10 June 1890 he appeared at Liverpool County Intermediate Sessions court at Sessions House, Islington, Liverpool after previously having pleaded guilty to housebreaking and larceny on 31 May 1890. On 27 May 1890 he had broken into the dwelling house of his sister's employer, Charles Fay junior, shipping agent, Courtney Road, Great Crosby and stolen a quantity of silver and electro-plated articles. He was given a six-month prison sentence. The case was covered by the Liverpool Mercury newspaper on 2 and 11 June 1890.

By 1891, Noonan had moved to Cape Town, the capital of Britain's Cape Colony where he was a painter and decorator. When he married Elizabeth Hartel in October 1891, he was recorded as Robert Phillipe Noonan, Decorator. A daughter, Kathleen, was born on 17 September 1892.

Around 1894 Robert went to Johannesburg. Kathleen was taken there also and lived in a convent boarding school. In Johannesburg he worked for the painting and decorating firm of Herbert Evans and seems to have had a foreman's job. During the 1890s a number of attempts were made to organise amongst British and other immigrant workers. One of them was the Trades and Labour Council (TLC), also known as the Transvaal Federated Building Trade Council. In the late 1890s the organisation represented 'only the building trades, called together by Mr Noonan of Mssrs Herbert Evans and co'. It was in Johannesburg that he was drawn into socialist politics. He was elected to the committee of the newly formed International Independent Labour Party. Elected alongside Noonan was James Thompson Bain and it is possible that through Bain, Noonan was introduced to the socialist ideas of Robert Blatchford, and the political writings of William Morris, both thinkers that influenced the writing found in The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists.

Two aspects of the labour movement of Johannesburg at this time - the movement towards the policies of racial segregation in industry, and support of the Transvaal government, mean that it is possible that Noonan at least acquiesced in these politics.

In 1897 he appeared in the Supreme Court, Cape Town, a plaintiff in a divorce case. The court granted the divorce and awarded Robert custody of Kathleen. It has been suggested that the failure of his marriage may have provided a sub plot in The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists that concerns Ruth Easton, who has a child by Alf Slyme.

He became active in the Irish Nationalist circle in the Transvaal. In 1898 Noonan became a member of the Executive Committee of the Transvaal '98 Commemoration Committee - established to arrange a celebration of the centenary of the Irish uprising. One of those who helped plan the Johannesburg commemoration was an Irish immigrant called Arthur Griffith, and serving on the committee was an assayer of the mine, John MacBride. The Boer government saw militant Irish Nationalism as a potential ally against the British. Noonan left Johannesburg shortly before the Boer War erupted.

From 1899 to 1901 Robert and Kathleen moved back to Cape Town, the suburb of Rondebosch. In September 1901 they left for England.

Noonan began to work as a painter in Hastings, Sussex, but at much lower wages and in far poorer conditions than he had experienced in South Africa. Kathleen was initially sent to boarding and convent schools, including St. Ethelburga’s Girls High School, a Roman Catholic convent at Deal, Kent; but in 1904, she transferred to the coeducational and Protestant St Andrew's Public Elementary School in Hastings.

Noonan worked for Bruce & Co and Burton & Co., builders and decorators. He engaged in decorative work in churches in the area. He seems not to have joined a trade union. In 1905 he was fined for obstructing the police when a policeman disrupted his nephew Arthur from setting off fireworks, and around this time also he produced drawings illustrating The Evolution of the Airship, and offered a model airship of his own design to the War Office, but they rejected it.

In 1906 he became a founder member of the Hastings branch of the Social Democratic Federation. A photograph exists that shows Noonan and his daughter attending an outdoor meeting. He began work on The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. After a dispute with his employer, he left Burton & Co. He worked for Adams and Jarrett. In 1909 Noonan moved to a flat in London Road Hastings and the SDP (formerly SDF) campaigned against councillors dealings in the local gas and electricity companies. His health began to deteriorate and in August 1910 he travelled to Liverpool to arrange emigration to Canada.

He wrote under the pen name Robert Tressell as he feared the socialist views expressed in the book would have him blacklisted. He chose the surname Tressell as a play on the trestle table, an important part of a painter and decorator's kit. (Until the full manuscript was published in 1955, all copies of the book cited the author as Robert "Tressall".) He completed The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, (originally called The Ragged Arsed Philanthropists) in 1910, but the 1,600-page hand-written manuscript was rejected by the three publishing houses. The rejections severely depressed him, and his daughter had to save the manuscript from being burnt. It was placed for safekeeping in a metal box underneath her bed.

Unhappy with his life in Britain, he decided that he and Kathleen should emigrate to Canada; however, he only reached Liverpool when he was admitted to the Liverpool Royal Infirmary, where he died of 'phthisis pulmonalis' (i.e. pulmonary tuberculosis) on 3 February 1911, aged 40.

Noonan was buried in a pauper's grave on 10 February 1911 at Liverpool Parochial Cemetery, later known as Walton Park Cemetery. The location of the grave was not rediscovered until 1970. Twelve other people were buried in the same plot. The plot is now marked although the land is no longer used as a cemetery, it is now used by Rice Lane City Farm. The site is opposite Walton prison. A nearby road is named Noonan Close. In 2019, Tressell was commemorated with a march to his graveside led by a brass band.

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 is 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 that 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.

Chapter 2

Nimrod: a Mighty Hunter before the Lord

Mr Hunter, as he was called to his face and as he was known to his

brethren at the Shining Light Chapel, where he was superintendant of

the Sunday School, or 'Misery' or 'Nimrod'; as he was named behind his

back by the workmen over whom he tyrannized, was the general or walking

foreman or 'manager' of the firm whose card is herewith presented to

the reader:

RUSHTON & CO.

MUGSBOROUGH

-------

Builders, Decorators, and General Contractors

FUNERALS FURNISHED

Estimates given for General Repairs to House Property

First-class Work only at Moderate Charges

There were a number of sub-foremen or 'coddies', but Hunter was THE

foreman.

He was a tall, thin man whose clothes hung loosely on the angles of his

round-shouldered, bony form. His long, thin legs, about which the

baggy trousers draped in ungraceful folds, were slightly knock-kneed

and terminated in large, flat feet. His arms were very long even for

such a tall man, and the huge, bony hands were gnarled and knotted.

When he removed his bowler hat, as he frequently did to wipe away with

a red handkerchief the sweat occasioned by furious bicycle riding, it

was seen that his forehead was high, flat and narrow. His nose was a

large, fleshy, hawklike beak, and from the side of each nostril a deep

indentation extended downwards until it disappeared in the dropping

moustache that concealed his mouth, the vast extent of which was

perceived only when he opened it to bellow at the workmen his

exhortations to greater exertions. His chin was large and

extraordinarily long. The eyes were pale blue, very small and close

together, surmounted by spare, light-coloured, almost invisible

eyebrows, with a deep vertical cleft between them over the nose. His

head, covered with thick, coarse brown hair, was very large at the

back; the ears were small and laid close to the head. If one were to

make a full-face drawing of his cadaverous visage it would be found

that the outline resembled that of the lid of a coffin.

This man had been with Rushton--no one had ever seen the 'Co.'--for

fifteen years, in fact almost from the time when the latter commenced

business. Rushton had at that period realized the necessity of having

a deputy who could be used to do all the drudgery and running about so

that he himself might be free to attend to the more pleasant or

profitable matters. Hunter was then a journeyman, but was on the point

of starting on his own account, when Rushton offered him a constant job

as foreman, two pounds a week, and two and a half per cent of the

profits of all work done. On the face of it this appeared a generous

offer. Hunter closed with it, gave up the idea of starting for

himself, and threw himself heart and mind into the business. When an

estimate was to be prepared it was Hunter who measured up the work and

laboriously figured out the probably cost. When their tenders were

accepted it was he who superintended the work and schemed how to scamp

it, where possible, using mud where mortar was specified, mortar where

there ought to have been cement, sheet zinc where they were supposed to

put sheet lead, boiled oil instead of varnish, and three coats of paint

where five were paid for. In fact, scamping the work was with this man

a kind of mania. It grieved him to see anything done properly. Even

when it was more economical to do a thing well, he insisted from force

of habit on having it scamped. Then he was almost happy, because he

felt that he was doing someone down. If there were an architect

superintending the work, Misery would square him or bluff him. If it

were not possible to do either, at least he had a try; and in the

intervals of watching, driving and bullying the hands, his vulture eye

was ever on the look out for fresh jobs. His long red nose was thrust

into every estate agent's office in the town in the endeavour to smell