Precautionary measures on entering commercial life. I join the _N.S.L._
and the _S.P.S.D.T._ A crying need in the conduct of
prayer-meetings. I join the _A.D.S.U._ Personal appearance of
Ezekiel Stool. Personal appearance of his five sisters. Predicament
of Ezekiel Stool on the fifth of November. A timely instance of
presence of mind. I am invited to a meal at the Stools’ residence. A
foreshadowing of sinister events.
IT was a distressing end. Few things are more distressing, indeed, than
the sudden demise of a potential clergyman. And for the first three or
four days of my work in Paternoster Row my spirits were appreciably
clouded. Nevertheless I was happy not only that I had embarked upon the
career so satisfactorily chosen for me, but also in the consciousness
that, but for my own perspicacity, Providence would have found it
difficult to assist me. Moreover it was an additional comfort to me to
reflect that, during my upward progress in the firm, I should have the
obligatory if unwilling support of Mrs. Chrysostom Lorton. A word in the
ear of her husband, and her infamy could be no longer concealed, and I
could not suppose that, callous as she was, she would dare to expose
herself to such an event.
Few young men, therefore, can have entered business life better equipped
or so advantageously placed, and had I in consequence been carried away
a little, it would scarcely perhaps have been unnatural. Very
fortunately, however, and thanks in a great degree to the
character-forming incidents already related, I realized from the outset
that I was now definitely committed to the most critical period of a
young man’s life—namely, the years, so fatal to the vast majority,
between his seventeenth and twenty-fourth birthdays. Then it is, alas,
that intoxicated with the knowledge that he has become, in my father’s
phrase, a marriageable adult that he begins to resort for the first time
to the tobacconist and the publican—to buy the cigarette that will so
inevitably lure him into loose and licentious company, and the fermented
liquor that will only too surely encase him in a drunkard’s coffin.
Nor is that all. For it is in these same years, turning aside from the
pleasures of home—from such innocent round games as Conceal the Thimble
or the less familiar Up Jenkins, or from the happy singing round the
family harmonium of such an humorous glee as Three Blind Mice—that he
enters the Pit (so appropriately named) of some garish and degrading
theatre.
It is a sorrowful spectacle. But happily for my own sake, I had already
been so deeply saddened by it that I had long since resolved, when the
necessity should arise, to take every possible precaution. No sooner,
therefore, had I obtained my appointment than I hastened to enroll
myself as a member of the Peckham Branch of the Non-Smokers’ League as
well as of the Kennington Division of the Society for the Prohibition of
the Strong Drink Traffic. Congenial in every way, I not only discovered
in these an enormous sphere for the exercise of my influence, but the
membership of both societies conferred the privilege of wearing a small
badge or bone medallion.
A slightly convex and circular plaque to be pinned on the lapel of the
wearer’s coat, the token of membership of the Non-Smokers’ League was
about an inch in diameter. Of a pale cream colour, it was tastefully
wreathed with dark blue lilies, symbolic of purity, the centre of it
being occupied with the initials _N.S.L._ boldly imprinted in the same
colours. No less decorative to the wearer than intriguing to the
beholder, a reply to the question so often put as to what the initials
_N.S.L._ stood for frequently afforded a valuable opportunity for
soul-intercourse on the subject of tobacco.
Nor was the medallion of the Society for the Prohibition of the Strong
Drink Traffic either less attractive or efficient as an instigator of
fruitful converse. Slightly larger—its diameter was an inch and a
quarter—its ground-work was of an olive green, the letters _S.P.S.D.T._
richly emerging from this in an ingenious monogram of canary yellow.
Into the work of these societies I now threw myself with all the
vehemence at my command, and had soon forced myself into the innermost
councils of the local branch of each. Meeting every fortnight in a
neighbouring church hall, the Peckham Branch of the Non-Smokers’ League
did not confine itself merely to the organization of these central
gatherings. Valuable as they were in providing a pulpit for lectures
upon nicotine-poisoning and its attendant evils, we rightly regarded the
outside world as the main field of our endeavours. Provided with such
strikingly headed pamphlets as _A Gentleman or a Chimney?_ or the even
more dramatic and spiritually searching _Your Soul or Your Cigar?_ we
would range the streets addressing obvious smokers, or station ourselves
upon the pavement in the neighbourhood of tobacconists’ shops. In this
way, though frequently required to endure verbal persecution, I am proud
to believe that the work performed by us was both timely and enduring.
Working on lines that were somewhat similar, the Kennington Division of
the _S.P.S.D.T._ held monthly re-unions for the purpose of communally
denouncing the use of alcohol; and here we would discuss, over cups of
tea and slices of plain but palatable cake, the results of our labours
during the previous four weeks and our plans for the four immediately
ensuing. Appreciably more dangerous, in that we deemed it our duty to
distribute literature at the doors of Public Houses, whence there would
emerge in depressingly large numbers combative men of considerable size,
we never embarked upon this particular mission save in groups of four or
five, each member being provided with a police whistle in addition to
his parcel of appropriate leaflets.
Admirably illustrated, these bore such arresting titles as _Passing the
Poison_ or _From Beer to Bier_, two of the most efficient being _The
Dram Drinker’s Downfall_, and _Virtue versus Vertigo_. That all these
works, like those of the _N.S.L._, were published by the firm of
Chrysostom Lorton was of course an additional and pleasurable inducement
to further their disposal in every way. And although as yet this could
not result for me in any direct financial advantage, it must be
remembered that at this time there was still every prospect of its
eventually doing so.
To thousands of my readers, slacker in fibre, or not so resolute in the
pursuit of goodness, it may well seem now as if these activities must
have exhausted my spiritual capacity. But this was not the case, and
conscious as I was—it would have been an affectation to deny it—of my
very rapidly increasing ability for both religious and commercial
leadership, I took every opportunity of developing my unchallenged gift
of self-expression. Thus, within a year of my business advent, I had not
only addressed both the foregoing societies, but I had become a familiar
and, I trust, welcome figure at every local prayer-meeting.
I use the word welcome, because I had not only discerned in these
gatherings an admirable vehicle of elocutionary progress, but I had
quickly discovered in them a crying need that it was plainly my duty to
supply. Familiar to every frequenter of the average prayer-meeting,
whether Church of England or Non-conformist, this was nothing less than
the presence of a gap-filler, especially in the earlier stages of the
proceedings. Few can have failed, for example, to notice the pause that
almost invariably takes place after the Chairman has delivered his own
petition and invited the efforts of further supplicants. Painful in
itself, in that it so often accentuates the respiratory difficulties of
those present, how often is it broken, alas, by the simultaneous
commencement of two or more separate competitors? Nor is that all. For,
each realizing that he is too late, a disheartened silence generally
ensues, only to be broken perhaps by a second neck-to-neck effort on the
part of all the previous starters that abortively collapses again on
some such unfortunate phrase as “Oh dear, oh Lord.”
It was here then that I descried, and at once began to work, an almost
virgin field, never allowing an instant to elapse after the right to
supplicate had been declared general. Indeed on many occasions I filled
the subsequent gaps also, and at one particularly reluctant gathering, I
can well remember, in less than an hour, offering a dozen full-length
petitions. That I soon had rivals goes without saying. Who, in such a
position, could have escaped them? But once started, I allowed no second
petitioner to deflect or abbreviate my entreaties.
Perhaps the work, however, in which I was most interested was that of
the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory[6] Union founded by Ezekiel Stool, the
son of Abraham Stool, the inventor and proprietor of Stool’s Adult Gripe
Water. Probably the most persistent and unflinching opponent that the
theatre and dancing saloon have ever known, he was then some twenty-six
years of age and of a very remarkable and beautiful character. Indeed
all that he lacked of these two qualities in his actual physical
appearance seemed to have been concentrated with additional force in his
spiritual personality. No taller than myself, and weighing considerably
less, he had suffered all his life from an inherent dread of shaving,
and the greater portion of his face was in consequence obliterated by a
profuse but gentle growth of hair. His voice too, owing to some
developmental defect, had only partially broken; and indeed his father
Abraham (afterwards removed to an asylum) had on more than one occasion
attempted to sacrifice him, under the mistaken impression that he was
some sort of animal that would be suitable as a burnt offering.
Footnote 6:
Appertaining to dancing.
Regarded as a character, however, and when he had fully assured himself
that he was not in the presence of a theatre-goer or dancer, it would
have been difficult to imagine a more affectionate or deeply trustful
companion;[7] and many an hour we spent together combating the drama,
both in Central London and the suburbs. Well provided with money, thanks
to the sales of the Gripe Water—an excellent remedy to which I have
frequently had recourse—he had himself composed and caused to be printed
several extremely powerful leaflets. Of these perhaps the best were _The
Chorus Girl’s Catastrophe_ and _Did Wycliffe Waltz?_ and these we would
distribute in large numbers among the degenerate pleasure-seekers
standing outside theatres. Purchasing seats, too, we would ourselves
from time to time enter these buildings, rising in our places when the
curtain was drawn up and audibly rebuking the performers. Needless to
say, having registered our protest, we would then immediately leave the
premises, not always immune from the coarse objurgations of obviously
interested minions.
Footnote 7:
It was far otherwise, alas, in later years.
Nor were we less vigorous in our onslaught upon the equally prevalent
sin of dancing, either personally attending or stationing delegates at
the entrances to halls or private houses, and endeavouring if possible
by individual appeals to warn or deter would-be malefactors. An uphill
task, it was not for us to say to how great an extent we may have
succeeded, but I can remember at least twelve persons, male and female,
who promised to consider what we had pointed out to them.
Deeply as I appreciated, however, the opportunity of furthering this
valuable and congenial work, I had not as yet realized the ultimate
object that an inscrutable Providence had in view, or that in Ezekiel
Stool I had already been handed the compass that was destined to lead my
steps to matrimony. Such was the case, however, little as I then dreamed
it, and even less, if such a thing were possible, was I attracted, on a
first acquaintance, to any of his five sisters. Simply divided into
twins and triplets, these were all younger than Ezekiel himself, the
triplets being then twenty-four, and the twins three years younger. None
of them was married, and indeed, as regarded the triplets, this was
scarcely perhaps to be wondered at. For though they had been
interestingly named by their father as Faith, Hope, and Charity, they
were plain girls, deeply marked by the smallpox, and of rather less than
the average intelligence. Nor indeed were the twins, Tact and
Understanding, at all remarkable for personal beauty, and the toes of
one of them, as I was afterwards to discover, were most unfortunately
webbed. On the other hand, they were kindly, domestic creatures. All
five of them could play the piano. And the heart of each, as they have
frequently told me, was profoundly stirred by my first visit.
Little as I shared, however, though I could not fail to perceive, the
cardiac exaltation of these five females, I have always looked back to
that first visit with a very considerable degree of pleasure, and not
the less so because of the preliminary service that I was able to render
their brother Ezekiel. Indeed it was this that led to an invitation to
share the evening meal at the Stools’ house, a substantial residence
with a large garden, about five minutes’ walk from Camberwell Green.
A November dusk, some eighteen months or so after my entrance into
commercial life, I had forgotten that it was the anniversary of the
attempt of Guy Fawkes to destroy the Upper Chamber of our Legislature,
and my thoughts were engaged upon other matters as I began to walk home
from the omnibus stopping-place. I had hardly walked a hundred yards,
however, when my attention was suddenly attracted to a somewhat
vociferous group of boys, in the midst of whom, to my surprise and
anxiety, I saw my friend Ezekiel Stool. For a moment I was at a loss
both as how to proceed and the possible reason for the conclave. But a
moment later I discovered that the position was no less disturbing than
grotesque. Doubtless intoxicated with the memories of the day, these
ignorant and turbulent youths had apparently discerned in my friend
Ezekiel a resemblance to the conspirator of 1605. Nay, they had gone
further. They had professed to perceive in him an actual reincarnation
of the original miscreant, and this in spite of the fact that Ezekiel
had repeatedly explained to them that he had no knowledge of
pyrotechnics.
“Believe me,” he had said, “I am neither the man you mention, nor do I
resemble any authentic portrait of him. Nor have I placed explosives
under anybody’s chamber either in London or the Provinces.”
Despite his denials, however, supported as they were by references to
prominent local residents, the group of vociferators was quickly growing
both in numbers and excitement, and several suggestions were being
audibly made that he should be exterminated by fire. It was a moment for
action, and I took it. Fortunately my police whistle was in my pocket.
And in the next instant I was blowing blast upon blast to the utmost
capacity of my lung power. The effect was immediate. For scarcely had
the boys dispersed when three or four constables arrived on the scene,
all of them breathless from the act of running, but carrying their
truncheons in their hands. Being breathless too, I could only point at
Ezekiel, and for the first moment they misunderstood me, rapidly
surrounding him, as he leaned against a lamp-post, and lifting their
truncheons above their heads. Once again therefore it was a moment for
action, and once again I took it. Throwing myself in front of him, I
shouted to them to forbear, and then very briefly I explained what had
happened. Unfortunately, as I have said, the boys had already dispersed.
But then, as I pointed out to them, that had been my object, and the
fact that this had taken place before their arrival was no reflection
upon their courage. I cannot record, however, that their reception of
this news was either Xtian or even courteous, and it was a very great
relief both to myself and Ezekiel when these powerful professionals at
last went away. Nevertheless, as Ezekiel said, I had probably twice
saved his life, and during the evening meal, to which he at once invited
me, both his parents and his five sisters repeatedly expressed their
satisfaction. Mr. Abraham Stool, indeed, who had not then been
segregated, but who was already under the impression that he was the
Hebrew patriarch, several times insisted upon my approaching him and
placing my hand under his left thigh, after which he would offer me, in
addition to Mrs. Stool, a varying number of rams and goats.
Needless to say, I declined to accept these, and a week or two later, as
I have already indicated, it was deemed advisable, owing to his tendency
to sacrifice, to place him in other and remoter surroundings. But it was
a happy evening, during which, as I shall always remember, Ezekiel Stool
expressed his regret that my father and myself were not
fellow-worshippers with them at St. Nicholas, Newington Butts. Satisfied
as we were, however, with St. James-the-Least-of-All, where my father
had now become senior sidesman, we had seen no reason, as I was obliged
to point out to him, for again transferring our worship; and little did
I dream that even as I was speaking those sinister events were already
shaping themselves that were ultimately to unite us—their only redeeming
outcome—in this new and closer bond.
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