Books: The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists

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At present the workers, with hand and brain produce continually
food, clothing and all useful and beautiful things in great
abundance.

BUT THEY LABOUR IN VAIN - for they are mostly poor and often in
want. They find it a hard struggle to live. Their women and
children suffer, and their old age is branded with pauperism.

Socialism is a plan by which poverty will be abolished, and
everyone enabled to live in plenty and comfort, with leisure and
opportunity for ampler life.

If you wish to hear more of this plan, come to the field at the
Cross Roads on the hill at Windley, on Tuesday evening next at 8
P.M. and

LOOK OUT FOR THE SOCIALIST VAN

The cyclists rode away amid showers of stones without sustaining much
damage. One had his hand cut and another, who happened to look round,
was struck on the forehead, but these were the only casualties.

On the following Tuesday evening, long before the appointed time,
there was a large crowd assembled at the cross roads or the hill at
Windley, waiting for the appearance of the van, and they were
evidently prepared to give the Socialists a warm reception. There was
only one policeman in uniform there but there were several in plain
clothes amongst the crowd.

Crass, Dick Wantley, the Semi-drunk, Sawkins, Bill Bates and several
other frequenters of the Cricketers were amongst the crowd, and there
were also a sprinkling of tradespeople, including the Old Dear and Mr
Smallman, the grocer, and a few ladies and gentlemen - wealthy
visitors - but the bulk of the crowd were working men, labourers,
mechanics and boys.

As it was quite evident that the crowd meant mischief - many of them
had their pockets filled with stones and were armed with sticks -
several of the Socialists were in favour of going to meet the van to
endeavour to persuade those in charge from coming, and with that
object they withdrew from the crowd, which was already regarding them
with menacing looks, and went down the road in the direction from
which the van was expected to come. They had not gone very far,
however, before the people, divining what they were going to do, began
to follow them and while they were hesitating what course to pursue,
the Socialist van, escorted by five or six men on bicycles, appeared
round the corner at the bottom of the hill.

As soon as the crowd saw it, they gave an exultant cheer, or, rather,
yell, and began running down the hilt to meet it, and in a few minutes
it was surrounded by a howling mob. The van was drawn by two horses;
there was a door and a small platform at the back and over this was a
sign with white letters on a red ground: `Socialism, the only hope of
the Workers.'

The driver pulled up, and another man on the platform at the rear
attempted to address the crowd, but his voice was inaudible in the din
of howls, catcalls, hooting and obscene curses. After about an hour
of this, as the crowd began pushing against the van and trying to
overturn it, the terrified horses commenced to get restive and
uncontrollable, and the man on the box attempted to drive up the hill.
This seemed to still further infuriate the horde of savages who
surrounded the van. Numbers of them clutched the wheels and turned
them the reverse way, screaming that it must go back to where it came
from; several of them accordingly seized the horses' heads and, amid
cheers, turned them round.

The man on the platform was still trying to make himself heard, but
without success. The strangers who had come with the van and the
little group of local Socialists, who had forced their way through the
crowd and gathered together close to the platform in front of the
would-be speaker, only increased the din by their shouts of appeal to
the crowd to `give the man a fair chance'. This little bodyguard
closed round the van as it began to move slowly downhill, but they
were not sufficiently numerous to protect it from the crowd, which,
not being satisfied with the rate at which the van was proceeding,
began to shout to each other to `Run it away!' `Take the brake off!'
and several savage rushes were made with the intention of putting
these suggestions into execution.

Some of the defenders were hampered with their bicycles, but they
resisted as well as they were able, and succeeded in keeping the crowd
off until the foot of the hill was reached, and then someone threw the
first stone, which by a strange chance happened to strike one of the
cyclists whose head was already bandaged - it was the same man who had
been hit on the Sunday. This stone was soon followed by others, and
the man on the platform was the next to be struck. He got it right on
the mouth, and as he put up his handkerchief to staunch the blood
another struck him on the forehead just above the temple, and he
dropped forward on his face on to the platform as if he had been shot.

As the speed of the vehicle increased, a regular hail of stones fell
upon the roof and against the sides of the van and whizzed past the
retreating cyclists, while the crowd followed close behind, cheering,
shrieking out volleys of obscene curses, and howling like wolves.

`We'll give the b--rs Socialism!' shouted Crass, who was literally
foaming at the mouth.

`We'll teach 'em to come 'ere trying to undermined our bloody
morality,' howled Dick Wantley as he hurled a lump of granite that he
had torn up from the macadamized road at one of the cyclists.

They ran on after the van until it was out of range, and then they
bethought themselves of the local Socialists; but they were nowhere to
be seen; they had prudently withdrawn as soon as the van had got
fairly under way, and the victory being complete, the upholders of the
present system returned to the piece of waste ground on the top of the
hill, where a gentleman in a silk hat and frockcoat stood up on a
little hillock and made a speech. He said nothing about the Distress
Committee or the Soup Kitchen or the children who went to school
without proper clothes or food, and made no reference to what was to
be done next winter, when nearly everybody would be out of work.
These were matters he and they were evidently not at all interested
in. But he said a good deal about the Glorious Empire! and the Flag!
and the Royal Family. The things he said were received with rapturous
applause, and at the conclusion of his address, the crowd sang the
National Anthem with great enthusiasm and dispersed, congratulating
themselves that they had shown to the best of their ability what
Mugsborough thought of Socialism and the general opinion of the crowd
was that they would hear nothing more from the Socialist van.

But in this they were mistaken, for the very next Sunday evening a
crowd of Socialists suddenly materialized at the Cross Roads. Some of
them had come by train, others had walked from different places and
some had cycled.

A crowd gathered and the Socialists held a meeting, two speeches being
delivered before the crowd recovered from their surprise at the
temerity of these other Britishers who apparently had not sense enough
to understand that they had been finally defeated and obliterated last
Tuesday evening: and when the cyclist with the bandaged head got up on
the hillock some of the crowd actually joined in the hand-clapping
with which the Socialists greeted him.

In the course of his speech he informed them that the man who had come
with the van and who had been felled whilst attempting to speak from
the platform was now in hospital. For some time it had been probable
that he would not recover, but he was now out of danger, and as soon
as he was well enough there was no doubt that he would come there
again.

Upon this Crass shouted out that if ever the Vanners did return, they
would finish what they had begun last Tuesday. He would not get off
so easy next time. But when he said this, Crass - not being able to
see into the future - did not know what the reader will learn in due
time, that the man was to return to that place under different
circumstances.

When they had finished their speech-making one of the strangers who
was acting as chairman invited the audience to put questions, but as
nobody wanted to ask any, he invited anyone who disagreed with what
had been said to get up on the hillock and state his objections, so
that the audience might have an opportunity of judging for themselves
which side was right; but this invitation was also neglected. Then
the chairman announced that they were coming there again next Sunday
at the same time, when a comrade would speak on `Unemployment and
Poverty, the Cause and the Remedy', and then the strangers sang a song
called `England Arise', the first verse being:

England Arise, the long, long night is over,
Faint in the east, behold the Dawn appear
Out of your evil dream of toil and sorrow
Arise, O England! for the day is here!

During the progress of the meeting several of the strangers had been
going out amongst the crowd giving away leaflets, which many of the
people gloomily refused to accept, and selling penny pamphlets, of
which they managed to dispose of about three dozen.

Before declaring the meeting closed, the chairman said that the
speaker who was coming next week resided in London: he was not a
millionaire, but a workman, the same as nearly all those who were
there present. They were not going to pay him anything for coming,
but they intended to pay his railway fare. Therefore next Sunday
after the meeting there would be a collection, and anything over the
amount of the fare would be used for the purchase of more leaflets
such as those they were now giving away. He hoped that anyone who
thought that any of the money went into the pockets of those who held
the meeting would come and join: then they could have their share.

The meeting now terminated and the Socialists were suffered to depart
in peace. Some of them, however, lingered amongst the crowd after the
main body had departed, and for a long time after the meeting was over
little groups remained on the field excitedly discussing the speeches
or the leaflets.

The next Sunday evening when the Socialists came they found the field
at the Cross Roads in the possession of a furious, hostile mob, who
refused to allow them to speak, and finally they had to go away
without having held a meeting. They came again the next Sunday, and
on this occasion they had a speaker with a very loud - literally a
stentorian - voice, and he succeeded in delivering an address, but as
only those who were very close were able to hear him, and as they were
all Socialists, it was not of much effect upon those for whom it was
intended.

They came again the next Sunday and nearly every other Sunday during
the summer: sometimes they were permitted to hold their meeting in
comparative peace and at other times there was a row. They made
several converts, and many people declared themselves in favour of
some of the things advocated, but they were never able to form a
branch of their society there, because nearly all those who were
convinced were afraid to publicly declare themselves lest they should
lose their employment or customers.

Chapter 44

The Beano

Now and then a transient gleam of sunshine penetrated the gloom in
which the lives of the philanthropists were passed. The cheerless
monotony was sometimes enlivened with a little innocent merriment.
Every now and then there was a funeral which took Misery and Crass
away for the whole afternoon, and although they always tried to keep
the dates secret, the men generally knew when they were gone.

Sometimes the people in whose houses they were working regaled them
with tea, bread and butter, cake or other light refreshments, and
occasionally even with beer - very different stuff from the petrifying
liquid they bought at the Cricketers for twopence a pint. At other
places, where the people of the house were not so generously disposed,
the servants made up for it, and entertained them in a similar manner
without the knowledge of their masters and mistresses. Even when the
mistresses were too cunning to permit of this, they were seldom able
to prevent the men from embracing the domestics, who for their part
were quite often willing to be embraced; it was an agreeable episode
that helped to vary the monotony of their lives, and there was no harm
done.

It was rather hard lines on the philanthropists sometimes when they
happened to be working in inhabited houses of the better sort. They
always had to go in and out by the back way, generally through the
kitchen, and the crackling and hissing of the poultry and the joints
of meat roasting in the ovens, and the odours of fruit pies and tarts,
and plum puddings and sage and onions, were simply maddening. In the
back-yards of these houses there were usually huge stacks of empty
beer, stout and wine bottles, and others that had contained whisky,
brandy or champagne.

The smells of the delicious viands that were being prepared in the
kitchen often penetrated into the dismantled rooms that the
philanthropists were renovating, sometimes just as they were eating
their own wretched fare out of their dinner basket, and washing it
down with draughts of the cold tea or the petrifying liquid they
sometimes brought with them in bottles.

Sometimes, as has been said, the people of the house used to send up
some tea and bread and butter or cakes or other refreshments to the
workmen, but whenever Hunter got to know of it being done he used to
speak to the people about it and request that it be discontinued, as
it caused the men to waste their time.

But the event of the year was the Beano, which took place on the last
Saturday in August, after they had been paying in for about four
months. The cost of the outing was to be five shillings a head, so
this was the amount each man had to pay in, but it was expected that
the total cost - the hire of the brakes and the cost of the dinner -
would come out at a trifle less than the amount stated, and in that
case the surplus would be shared out after the dinner. The amount of
the share-out would be greater or less according to other
circumstances, for it generally happened that apart from the
subscriptions of the men, the Beano fund was swelled by charitable
donations from several quarters, as will be seen later on.

When the eventful day arrived, the hands, instead of working till one,
were paid at twelve o'clock and rushed off home to have a wash and
change.

The brakes were to start from the `Cricketers' at one, but it was
arranged, for the convenience of those who lived at Windley, that they
were to be picked up at the Cross Roads at one-thirty.

There were four brakes altogether - three large ones for the men and
one small one for the accommodation of Mr Rushton and a few of his
personal friends, Didlum, Grinder, Mr Toonarf, an architect and Mr
Lettum, a house and estate Agent. One of the drivers was accompanied
by a friend who carried a long coachman's horn. This gentleman was
not paid to come, but, being out of work, be thought that the men
would be sure to stand him a few drinks and that they would probably
make a collection for him in return for his services.

Most of the chaps were smoking twopenny cigars, and had one or two
drinks with each other to try to cheer themselves up before they
started, but all the same it was a melancholy procession that wended
its way up the hill to Windley. To judge from the mournful expression
on the long face of Misery, who sat on the box beside the driver of
the first large brake, and the downcast appearance of the majority of
the men, one might have thought that it was a funeral rather than a
pleasure party, or that they were a contingent of lost souls being
conducted to the banks of the Styx. The man who from time to time
sounded the coachman's horn might have passed as the angel sounding
the last trump, and the fumes of the cigars were typical of the smoke
of their torment, which ascendeth up for ever and ever.

A brief halt was made at the Cross Roads to pick up several of the
men, including Philpot, Harlow, Easton, Ned Dawson, Sawkins, Bill
Bates and the Semi-drunk. The two last-named were now working for
Smeariton and Leavit, but as they had been paying in from the first,
they had elected to go to the Beano rather than have their money back.
The Semi-drunk and one or two other habitual boozers were very shabby
and down at heel, but the majority of the men were decently dressed.
Some had taken their Sunday clothes out of pawn especially for the
occasion. Others were arrayed in new suits which they were going to
pay for at the rate of a shilling a week. Some had bought themselves
second-hand suits, one or two were wearing their working clothes
brushed and cleaned up, and some were wearing Sunday clothes that had
not been taken out of pawn for the simple reason that the pawnbrokers
would not take them in. These garments were in what might be called a
transition stage - old-fashioned and shiny with wear, but yet too good
to take for working in, even if their owners had been in a position to
buy some others to take their place for best. Crass, Slyme and one or
two of the single men, however, were howling swells, sporting stand-up
collars and bowler hats of the latest type, in contradistinction to
some of the others, who were wearing hats of antique patterns, and
collars of various shapes with jagged edges. Harlow had on an old
straw hat that his wife had cleaned up with oxalic acid, and Easton
had carefully dyed the faded binding of his black bowler with ink.
Their boots were the worst part of their attire: without counting
Rushton and his friends, there were thirty-seven men altogether,
including Nimrod, and there were not half a dozen pairs of really good
boots amongst the whole crowd.

When all were seated a fresh start was made. The small brake, with
Rushton, Didlum, Grinder and two or three other members of the Band,
led the way. Next came the largest brake with Misery on the box.
Beside the driver of the third brake was Payne, the foreman carpenter.
Crass occupied a similar position of honour on the fourth brake, on
the back step of which was perched the man with the coachman's horn.

Crass - who had engaged the brakes - had arranged with the drivers
that the cortege should pass through the street where he and Easton
lived, and as they went by Mrs Crass was standing at the door with the
two young men lodgers, who waved their handkerchiefs and shouted
greetings. A little further on Mrs Linden and Easton's wife were
standing at the door to see them go by. In fact, the notes of the
coachman's horn alarmed most of the inhabitants, who crowded to their
windows and doors to gaze upon the dismal procession as it passed.

The mean streets of Windley were soon left far behind and they found
themselves journeying along a sunlit, winding road, bordered with
hedges of hawthorn, holly and briar, past rich, brown fields of
standing corn, shimmering with gleams of gold, past apple-orchards
where bending boughs were heavily loaded with mellow fruits exhaling
fragrant odours, through the cool shades of lofty avenues of venerable
oaks, whose overarched and interlacing branches formed a roof of
green, gilt and illuminated with quivering spots and shafts of
sunlight that filtered through the trembling leaves; over old mossy
stone bridges, spanning limpid streams that duplicated the blue sky
and the fleecy clouds; and then again, stretching away to the horizon
on every side over more fields, some rich with harvest, others filled
with drowsing cattle or with flocks of timid sheep that scampered away
at the sound of the passing carriages. Several times they saw merry
little companies of rabbits frisking gaily in and out of the hedges or
in the fields beside the sheep and cattle. At intervals, away in the
distance, nestling in the hollows or amid sheltering trees, groups of
farm buildings and stacks of hay; and further on, the square ivy-clad
tower of an ancient church, or perhaps a solitary windmill with its
revolving sails alternately flashing and darkening in the rays of the
sun. Past thatched wayside cottages whose inhabitants came out to
wave their hands in friendly greeting. Past groups of sunburnt,
golden-haired children who climbed on fences and five-barred gates,
and waved their hats and cheered, or ran behind the brakes for the
pennies the men threw down to them.

From time to time the men in the brakes made half-hearted attempts at
singing, but it never came to much, because most of them were too
hungry and miserable. They had not had time to take any dinner and
would not have taken any even if they had the time, for they wished to
reserve their appetites for the banquet at the Queen Elizabeth, which
they expected to reach about half past three. However, they cheered
up a little after the first halt - at the Blue Lion, where most of
them got down and had a drink. Some of them, including the
Semi-drunk, Ned Dawson, Bill Bates and Joe Philpot - had two or three
drinks, and felt so much happier for them that, shortly after they
started off again, sounds of melody were heard from the brake the
three first named rode in - the one presided over by Crass - but it
was not very successful, and even after the second halt - about five
miles further on - at the Warrior's Head, they found it impossible to
sing with any heartiness. Fitful bursts of song arose from time to
time from each of the brakes in turn, only to die mournfully away. It
is not easy to sing on an empty stomach even if one has got a little
beer in it; and so it was with most of them. They were not in a mood
to sing, or to properly appreciate the scenes through which they were
passing. They wanted their dinners, and that was the reason why this
long ride, instead of being a pleasure, became after a while, a weary
journey that seemed as if it were never coming to an end.

The next stop was at the Bird in Hand, a wayside public house that
stood all by itself in a lonely hollow. The landlord was a fat,
jolly-looking man, and there were several customers in the bar - men
who looked like farm-labourers, but there were no other houses to be
seen anywhere. This extraordinary circumstance exercised the minds of
our travellers and formed the principal topic of conversation until
they arrived at the Dew Drop Inn, about half an hour afterwards. The
first brake, containing Rushton and his friends, passed on without
stopping here. The occupants of the second brake, which was only a
little way behind the first, were divided in opinion whether to stop
or go on. Some shouted out to the driver to pull up, others ordered
him to proceed, and more were undecided which course to pursue - a
state of mind that was not shared by the coachman, who, knowing that
if they stopped somebody or other would be sure to stand him a drink,
had no difficulty whatever in coming to a decision, but drew rein at
the inn, an example that was followed by both the other carriages as
they drove up.

It was a very brief halt, not more than half the men getting down at
all, and those who remained in the brakes grumbled so much at the
delay that the others drank their beer as quickly as possible and the
journey was resumed once more, almost in silence. No attempts at
singing, no noisy laughter; they scarcely spoke to each other, but sat
gloomily gazing out over the surrounding country.

Instructions had been given to the drivers not to stop again till they
reached the Queen Elizabeth, and they therefore drove past the World
Turned Upside Down without stopping, much to the chagrin of the
landlord of that house, who stood at the door with a sickly smile upon
his face. Some of those who knew him shouted out that they would give
him a call on their way back, and with this he had to be content.

They reached the long-desired Queen Elizabeth at twenty minutes to
four, and were immediately ushered into a large room where a round
table and two long ones were set for dinner - and they were set in a
manner worthy of the reputation of the house.

The cloths that covered the tables and the serviettes, arranged
fanwise in the drinking glasses, were literally as white as snow, and
about a dozen knives and forks and spoons were laid for each person.
Down the centre of the table glasses of delicious yellow custard and
cut-glass dishes of glistening red and golden jelly alternated with
vases of sweet-smelling flowers.

The floor of the dining-room was covered with oilcloth - red flowers
on a pale yellow ground; the pattern was worn off in places, but it
was all very clean and shining. Whether one looked at the walls with
the old-fashioned varnished oak paper, or at the glossy piano standing
across the corner near the white-curtained window, at the shining oak
chairs or through the open casement doors that led into the shady
garden beyond, the dominating impression one received was that
everything was exquisitely clean.