The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

Robert Tressell

The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

by Robert Tressell

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

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