LORD OF THE MANOR OF OSEA 239
ILLUSTRATIONS
_To face page_
FREDK. N. CHARRINGTON _Frontispiece_
THE BREWERY 10
A VERY EARLY FAMILY GROUP 22
LOOKING OUT UPON LIFE 38
DAVID AND JONATHAN 90
CHARRINGTON'S MORAL MICROSCOPE 118
FREDERICK CHARRINGTON IN 1912 138
MR. CHARRINGTON APPARENTLY SNUFFED OUT 142
THE GREAT ASSEMBLY HALL 196
A CARTOON WHICH APPEARED IN _FUN_ DURING THE
PEOPLE'S PALACE AGITATION 219
THE PIER, OSEA ISLAND, WITH MR. CHARRINGTON'S
STEAMER, THE "ANNIE," APPROACHING 240
THE SALTINGS, OSEA ISLAND 240
TREE POINT, OSEA ISLAND 256
CHAPTER I
THE GREAT ACCEPTANCE
In the year 1882 the most popular novelist of his day wrote as follows
about the East End of London--
"Two millions of people, or thereabouts, live in the East
End of London. That seems a good-sized population for an
utterly unknown town. They have no institutions of their own
to speak of, no public buildings of any importance, no
municipality, no gentry, no carriages, no soldiers, no
picture-galleries, no theatres, no opera,--they have
nothing. It is the fashion to believe they are all paupers,
which is a foolish and mischievous belief, as we shall
presently see. Probably there is no such spectacle in the
whole world as that of this immense, neglected, forgotten
great city of East London. It is even neglected by its own
citizens, who have never yet perceived their abandoned
condition. They are Londoners, it is true, but they have no
part or share in London; its wealth, its splendours, its
honours, exist not for them. They see nothing of any
splendours; even the Lord Mayor's Show goeth westward: the
City lies between them and the greatness of England. They
are beyond the wards, and cannot become aldermen; the rich
London merchants go north and south and west; but they go
not east. Nobody goes east, no one wants to see the place;
no one is curious about the way of life in the east. Books
on London pass it over; it has little or no history; great
men are not buried in its churchyards, which are not even
ancient, and crowded by citizens as obscure as those who now
breathe the upper air about them. If anything happens in the
east, people at the other end have to stop and think before
they can remember where the place may be."
It will be a somewhat startling reflection to many of us to realise
that Sir Walter Besant wrote _All Sorts and Conditions of Men_ thirty
years ago, and it is more profitable to inquire how true the words I
have just quoted are to-day. It is indubitable that a great
improvement has taken place. The East End has been "exploited" by many
other eminent writers, following in the footsteps of Sir Walter. It is
no longer true in the main to say that the East End of London is
wholly neglected: the pages of any decent book of reference will bear
witness to the innumerable philanthropic and religious missions which
have sprung up in the City of the Poor. Yet, to the average man and
woman of some place and position, both in London and in the country, I
venture to say that the East End is just as remote and visionary a
place as Suez.
As an average man myself--perhaps, owing to my profession as a writer,
having seen even more of life than the average man, and being endowed
with a rather eager curiosity and liking for new scenes--I had never
visited the East End, or been nearer to it than Liverpool Street
Station, until the early part of the present year.
About the time of which I speak certain facts came to my knowledge
about the work that was being done by Frederick Nicholas Charrington,
Honorary Superintendent of the Tower Hamlets Mission. It was in a
casual conversation with one of the great experts on inebriety that I
first even heard of Mr. Charrington's name. What I heard seemed rather
extraordinary and out of the way. From what was said, I suspected that
a strange personality, and one offering considerable interest to a
novelist, was hidden away--at least, as far as I was concerned--in the
East End of London.
It came to pass that from other sources I heard more of Mr.
Charrington, almost immediately afterwards.
I suppose every one knows how, when they have met with some new word,
some quotation, or name of a place, entirely fresh to them, they find
it cropping up on every possible occasion. Now, this, of course, is
not coincidence. It is merely that one's eyes have been opened.
I heard of the subject of this biography as conducting a work unique
in its scope and methods among the great charitable organisations of
London. I heard of him as being the owner of a sea-girt island not
more than forty-five miles away from London! and some vague story of
the sacrifice, made in his youth, of an enormous sum of money.
One does not hear of this sort of personality every day, and my
curiosity was immediately excited. Then, as chance would have it--or
who shall say that it was not some Higher Power than chance?--I made
the acquaintance of Mr. Charrington, chiefly through a novel dealing
with the subject of intemperance which I had recently published.
It is not necessary to say more about the genesis of this book, save
only that from all over the world the subject of it has constantly
received requests from people of every class to write his own
biography. Publishers have approached him also with the same proposal,
but he has consistently declined. In the event Mr. Charrington has
done me the honour to appoint me his biographer, and to place the
fullest information as to his career in my possession.
I have made personal experience of the work in the East End. I have
read through an enormous amount of documents, both printed and
written. I have interviewed and had long conversations with friends
and fellow-workers of Mr. Charrington, who have been associated with
him for forty years. And finally, I have lived with the man himself,
upon his island.
The first time that I ever went to the East End was upon a Sunday,
after lunch. I was sitting in my club in St. James' Street. After
breakfast, in the smoking-room I asked a man there how to get to the
Great Assembly Hall in the Mile End Road. His reply, which was prompt
and to the point, was, nevertheless, not exactly what I wanted. He
said, "Why, take a taxi-cab, of course," but I discovered that he knew
no more how to get to the place in question than I did. Shortly
afterwards, in my bedroom, I spoke to the head valet--a very old and
confidential servant of the club. He, at least, was able to give me
more detailed directions, but added, "If I may say so, sir, you will
have a rather unpleasant time of it among as nasty a lot of ruffians
as you'd find anywhere!"
What experiences I _did_ have upon this first visit, and upon
subsequent ones, will be related in their proper place in this picture
of F. N. Charrington, but the remarks of both member and servant
recalled very forcibly the passage I have printed from _All Sorts and
Conditions of Men_.
It is, then, to the East End, and to a series of incidents so rich in
drama, a time so breathlessly exciting, and at all times so strangely
seen in a light which is not of this world, that readers of this
memoir are coming with me. To many of them it will be as fresh and as
intensely interesting as it has been to me, and, as Thackeray indulged
in theatrical simile in the preface of _Vanity Fair_, let me also
announce the ringing up of the curtain upon as soul-stirring a drama
upon the boards of life in a city as, perhaps, it has ever been the
lot of a man to write.
You shall see the wars of the Powers and Principalities of the air
against the Angels of Light, you shall hear the menacing drums of the
legions of Evil, and the clear, clarion calls of the soldiers of God.
Nor shall there be wanting a pastoral interlude also, of a lonely
Island of Rest, where summer breezes blow among the trees, and there
is a murmur of many waters.
. . . . . . . . . .
The Mile End Road, which is the great main thoroughfare through the
East End--from the City of London west, to the vast glades of Epping
Forest in Essex--has no more conspicuous an object than the vast
brewery of Messrs. Charrington & Head.
It stands up in the middle of the wide thoroughfare like some
Gibraltar rising from the human tide at its feet. It is a huge pile of
almost goblin masonry, with its colossal ladders, towers, and vast
receptacles for malt. It is surrounded by a high wall, and covers an
enormous expanse of ground. It hits the eye like a blow with its
vastness, its suggestion of mighty, vested interests, solidity, and
wealth. It dwarfs everything else in the neighbourhood.
On almost every public-house that one meets one reads in huge gilt
letters the words, "CHARRINGTON & CO.'S ENTIRE." If you go off the
main roads it is the same thing--every little public-house flaunts the
same legend. From the mighty portals of the brewery, day by day
throughout the year, a never-ending flood of alcohol is pouring, and
in those enormous vats who shall say how many souls have been
dissolved?
I quoted above from Sir Walter Besant's _All Sorts and Conditions of
Men_. The quotation was more _a-propos_ to commence this life than
most people are aware. The story of "Miss Messenger," the heiress to
the great East End brewery of "Messenger & Co." in the Mile End Road,
and how she went to live among the struggling millions of the East,
was inspired by the life story of Frederick N. Charrington. It was his
career that, in the first instance, made it possible for Sir Walter to
write one of the most popular novels of the last fifty years.
A great many people will remember the description in chapter four,
where the heiress of the brewery is taken over her own possession for
the first time in her life.
It is a singularly vivid picture Sir Walter has given us, and one
which is substantially true to-day.
"The walk from Stepney Green to Messenger and Marsden's
Brewery is not far. You turn to the left if your house is on
one side, and to the right if it is on the other; then you
pass a little way down one street, and a little way, turning
again to the left, up another--a direction which will guide
you quite clearly. You then find yourself before a great
gateway, the portals of which are closed; beside it is a
smaller door, at which, in a little lodge, sits one who
guards the entrance.
"Mr. Bunker nodded to the porter, and entered unchallenged.
He led the way across a court to a sort of outer office.
"'Here,' he said, 'is the book for the visitors' names. We
have them from all countries: great lords and ladies;
foreign princes; and all the brewers from Germany and
America, who come to get a wrinkle. Write your own name in
it too. Something, let me tell you, to have your name in
such noble company.'"
. . . . . . . . . .
"'Ah! it's a shame for such a property to come to a girl--a
girl of twenty-one. Thirteen acres it covers--think of that!
Seven hundred people it employs, most of them married. Why,
if it was only to see her own vats, you'd think she'd get
off her luxurious pillows for once, and come here.'
"They entered a great hall, remarkable, at first, for a
curious smell, not offensive, but strong and rather pungent.
In it stood half-a-dozen enormous vats, closed by wooden
slides, like shutters, and fitting tightly. A man standing
by opened one of these, and presently Angela was able to
make out, through the volumes of steam, something bright
going round, and a brown mess going with it.
"'That is hops. Hops for the biggest Brewery, the richest,
in all England. And all belonging to a girl, who, likely
enough, doesn't drink more than a pint and a half a day.'
. . . . . . . . . .
"He led the way up-stairs into another great hall, where
there was the grinding of machinery, and another smell,
sweet and heavy.
"'This is where we crush the malt,' said Mr. Bunker--'see!'
He stopped, and picked out of a box a great handful of the
newly-crushed malt. 'I suppose you thought it was roasted.
Roasting, young lady,' he added with severity, 'is for
Stout, not for Ale.'
"Then he took her to another place, and showed her where the
liquor stood to ferment; how it was cooled, how it passed
from one vat to another, how it was stored and kept in vats;
dwelling perpetually on the magnitude of the business, and
the irony of fortune in conferring this great gift upon a
girl.
"'I know now,' she interrupted, 'what the place smells like.
It is fusel oil.' They were standing on a floor of open iron
bars, above a row of long covered vats, within which the
liquor was working and fermenting. Every now and then there
would be a heaving of the surface, and a quantity of malt
would then move suddenly over.
"'We are famous,' said Mr. Bunker, 'I say we, having been
the confidential friend and adviser of the late Mr.
Messenger, deceased; we are famous for our Stout; also for
our Mild; and we are now reviving our Bitter, which we had
partially neglected. We use the Artesian Well, which is four
hundred feet deep, for our Stout, but the Company's water
for our Ales; and our water rate is two thousand pounds a
year. The Artesian Well gives the Ale a grey colour, which
people don't like. Come into this room now,'--it was another
great hall covered with sacks. 'Hops again, Miss Kennedy;
now, that little lot is worth ten thousand
pounds--ten--thousand--think of that; and it is all spoiled
by the rain, and has to be thrown away. We think nothing of
losing ten thousand pounds here, nothing at all!'--he
snapped his fingers--'it is a mere trifle to the girl who
sits at home and takes the profits.'
. . . . . . . . . .
"Then they went into more great halls, and up more stairs,
and on to the roof, and saw more piles of sacks, more malt,
and more hops. When they smelt the hops, it seemed as if
their throats were tightened; when they smelt the
fermentation, it seemed as if they were smelling fusel oil;
when they smelt the plain crushed malt, it seemed as if they
were getting swiftly, but sleepily, drunk. Everywhere and
always the steam rolled backwards and forwards, and the
grinding of the machinery went on, and the roaring of the
furnaces; and the men went about to and fro at their work.
They did not seem hard worked, nor were they pressed; their
movements were leisurely, as if beer was not a thing to
hurry; they were all rather pale of cheek, but fat and
jolly, as if the beer was good and agreed with them. Some
wore brown-paper caps, for it was a pretty draughty place;
some went bareheaded, some wore the little round hat in
fashion. And they went to another part, where men were
rolling barrels about, as if they had been skittles, and
here they saw vats holding three thousand barrels; and one
thought of giant armies--say two hundred and fifty thousand
thirsty Germans--beginning the Loot of London with one of
these royal vats. And they went through stables, where
hundreds of horses were stalled at nights, each as big as an
elephant, and much more useful.
. . . . . . . . . .
"In one great room, where there was the biggest vat of all,
a man brought them beer to taste; it was Messenger's Stout.
Angela took her glass and put it to her lips with a strange
emotion--she felt as if she would like a quiet place to sit
down in and cry. The great place was hers--all hers--and
this was the beer with which her mighty fortune had been
made.
"'Is it?' she asked, looking at the heavy foam of the
frothing stout; 'is this Messenger's Entire?'
[Illustration: THE BREWERY
(This photograph was taken during the year 1912. Frederick
Charrington is the centre of the three small figures below)
[_To face p. 10._]
"'This is not Entire,' he said. 'You see, there's fashions
in beer, same as in clothes; once it was all Cooper, now you
never hear of Cooper. Then it was all Half-an'-arf--you
never hear of any one ordering Half-an'-arf now. Then it was
stout. Nothing would go down but Stout, which I recommend
myself, and find it nourishing. Next, Bitter came in, and
honest Stout was despised; now, we're all for Mild. As for
Entire, why, bless my soul! Entire went out before I was
born. Why, it was the Entire that made the fortune of the
first Messenger that was--a poor little brewery he had, more
than a hundred years ago, in this very place, because it was
cheap for rent. In those days they used to brew strong Ale,
Old and Strong; Stout, same as now; and Twopenny, which was
small beer. And because the Old Ale was too Strong, and the
Stout too dear, and the Twopenny too weak, the people used
to mix them all three together, and they called them "Three
Threads"; and you may fancy the trouble it was for the
pot-boys to go to one cask after another, all day
long--because they had no beer engines then. Well, what did
Mr. Messenger do? He brewed a beer as strong as the Three
Threads, and he called it Messenger's Entire Three Threads,
meaning that here you had 'em all in one, and that's what
made his fortune; and now, young lady, you've seen all I've
got to show you, and we will go.'"
To a brewery identical with the one described in almost every respect,
owning hundreds of tied public-houses, producing the revenue of a
prince for its proprietors, Frederick Nicholas Charrington was heir.
He was born in the Bow Road, in the East End of London, on February 4,
1850, and is now, therefore, in the sixty-second year of his life.
A dear venerable old lady (Mrs. Pratt), still retained under Mr.
Charrington's roof, well remembers his mother, a deeply religious
woman, driving in a pony and chaise visiting the sick and needy, and
relieving them according to their several necessities, for miles round
the neighbourhood of the brewery. She always took with her a cordial
which was made up in her own home, and for which there was a great
demand from the poor, who regarded it as an infallible remedy for all
kinds of diseases.
Mrs. Pratt remembers carrying "Master Fred" in her arms when he was
about two years of age, and how excited he became when she took him to
see a balloon passing over what was then known as Charrington's Park,
open fields by which the brewery was then surrounded, but which have
long since been built over.
She also remembers Master Fred at nine years of age, taking a bundle
of bank notes from his father's table in the counting-house, and
throwing them into the fire. When asked by his father why he did so,
he characteristically replied that "he wanted to see a blaze."
Surely the child was father to the man!
In all the great breweries of London the rule has been made, and is
very generally adhered to, that the partners share and share alike, so
that it must be explained that Mr. Charrington was not sole heir to
the business. The revenues, however, are so enormous, that, roughly
speaking, a million and a quarter pounds would have come to the boy
who was born in 1850. Mr. Charrington's parents were members of the
Church of England, and belonged to the Evangelical school of thought.
Frederick was educated at Marlborough, but during his stay at the
famous public school he was laid low by a fever, which necessitated
his removal at the time. Subsequently he was entered at Brighton
College, where he finished his school career. He lived the ordinary
life of a boy born to great wealth, and, when school days were over,
he was given the choice of proceeding to the University of Oxford or
of Cambridge, whichever he preferred. A University life, however,
offered no attractions to the young man's cast of mind. His first
experience of the larger world of men and things was made upon the
Continent. It must be remembered that, at this time, the tradition
that it was necessary for every young man of position to make what was
known as "the grand tour," had not yet died away. Travelling was then
a most costly affair, and only possible to the rich. Sir Henry Lunn
and Messrs. Cook and Sons had not, at that time, made the chief
Continental cities practically suburbs of London. It was thought, and
rightly thought, that a Continental tour was in itself an education,
and this was the means selected to widen the young man's mind. All his
subsequent life Mr. Charrington has been a great traveller, and there
are few parts of the world which he has not at one time or another
visited, and where he has not been welcomed. So that this first
foreign excursion must have been a time of great pleasure and
enlightenment.
He was accompanied by the Rev. Thomas Scott, a clergyman, and had for
his companion Mr. J. H. Buxton, another wealthy young brewer, who
subsequently became chairman of the London Hospital. The lads visited
the Paris Exhibition of 1867, and travelled through both Switzerland
and Italy.
Upon his return Frederick Charrington at once elected to learn the
details of the great business which there was, at the time, every
prospect of his superintending. He went to the smaller brewery of
Messrs. Neville, Read & Co., who were brewers to the Queen at Windsor.
There he shared rooms with a young curate, the Rev. John Stone, who,
by the way, was the author of the two famous and beautiful hymns, "The
Church's one Foundation," and "Weary of earth and laden with my sin."
The young man's pursuits, even at this time, were by no means those of
his contemporaries. Although he had the command of large sums of money
if he had wished, the pleasures of ordinary young men did not appeal
to him. It is not to be understood that he was in any way a milksop.
He was a good waterman upon the river, and at a time when young men of
position did not indulge in cricket, football, and other field sports
to anything like the same extent that they do to-day, he was yet a
fearless, skilful rider. There had always been many horses in his
father's stables, and from his earliest youth Mr. Charrington had been
an expert equestrian. In those days a young man so fond of horses, and
so good a horseman, nine cases out of ten owned horses or took great
interest in betting and the affairs of the turf, while an alternative
was the driving of a four-in-hand coach, generally in the company of
people of both sexes, neither desirable nor worthy for them to know.
Mr. Charrington did nothing of the sort. The attractions of the gilded
youth of his adolescence passed him by without any appeal, and at the
end of the twelve months' experience at Windsor, he entered his
father's great brewery in the Mile End Road.
A rather interesting little episode in connection with Mr.
Charrington's horsemanship might be mentioned here. One day, during
his time at Windsor, he was riding a very spirited chestnut in a quiet
and narrow lane in the environs of the town. Suddenly a groom upon
horseback turned the corner, galloped up to him, and with a rude and
overbearing manner ordered him to turn round and go away. Extremely
surprised at the man's insolence, Mr. Charrington refused to do
anything of the sort, and it seemed that almost a scrimmage was
imminent.
The man then explained that the Queen was coming, and Mr. Charrington
asked him why on earth he had not said so before. It was now too late.
A carriage and pair, with outriders, came down the road in the
opposite direction, and Queen Victoria was seated within.
Mr. Charrington realised at once what was happening, although the man
had given no reasons, and he backed his horse as well as he could into
the hedge. The lane was very narrow, and there was hardly room for the
carriage to pass. Mr. Charrington made his horse rear upon its hind
legs and took off his hat as he did so. It was only by the display of
the most magnificent horsemanship that he was able to keep his seat,
and allow the chaise to pass, and her Majesty smiled and bowed very
graciously as she went by.
Soon after this he accompanied his parents upon another Continental
tour. Upon this occasion he met with Mr. William Rainsford, son of the
Rev. Marcus Rainsford, of Belgrave Chapel. The two young men returned
to England together, and Charrington invited his friend to stay with
him at his father's house.
It was during this visit that Mr. Rainsford spoke to his friend about
his soul, and plainly asked him if he knew whether he was saved.
The question struck Mr. Charrington as singularly unpleasant. It
startled him, and seemed also in bad taste. He had lived a moral and
decent life in every way, and, moreover, a definitely religious life.
Such a point-blank question appeared unnecessary, and he protested
against such a subject of discussion, referring to the pleasant time
spent upon the Continent, and hinting that a reminiscent talk of their
adventures would be far more _a-propos_ at the moment. Mr. Rainsford,
however, pressed the question home, and would not be denied.
Eventually he made his friend promise that the next time he was alone
he would read the third chapter of the Gospel of St. John. The promise
was kept, though the reader expected no new spiritual experience
whatever.
As he opened the Bible an incident of the past struck him, and before
reading he paused to recall it.
Upon one occasion whilst staying at Hastings he became friends with a
Mr. Canning, who subsequently became Lord Garvagh. This young man was
at the time at the watering place with his tutor, and when he first
met Charrington had just come from hearing Lord Radstock preach. Fired
with enthusiasm, he straightway told his new acquaintance the history
of the meeting, and made a special reference to the third chapter of
the Gospel according to St. John. He related that he believed that he
was now a saved man. He definitely stated that conversion had taken
place. Now to Mr. Charrington the whole thing was a riddle, and he
thought it was at least indecorous for a youthful aristocrat to go and
hear a Dissenter, even though that same Dissenter was a peer himself.
Moreover, the word conversion presented no very special meaning to
him, and was associated in his mind with suggestions of sudden
hysteria, and no particularly lasting result. He did not know, as Mr.
Harold Begbie has pointed out in his brilliant psychological studies
of spiritual experiences, that conversion is in reality nothing of the
sort. As Mr. Begbie says--
"... And these critics with their 'cortical susceptibilities' and
'explosions of nervous energy,' limit their investigations of
conversion to those examples of the miracle which become public
property through the chronicles of revivalism. It is now a vulgar idea
that conversions only follow upon the hysterical absurdities of
professional revivalists. It would be fatal to religion if such were
the case. No one, I think, could more detest the professional
revivalist than myself, and than myself no one could more entirely
doubt the lasting effect of the majority of the conversions
accomplished by this means. I can see the need for revivalism, and I
can see in the future a development of revivalism which will be of
noble service to humanity; but I dislike the un-Christly character of
this worked-up excitement and I am utterly uninterested by its result.
Conversion, real conversion, is almost always the effect of individual
lovingkindness, of personal and quiet love, of intercourse between a
happy and an unhappy soul in the normal colloquies of friendship, and
passionate seeking of the lost by those whose lives are inspired by
unselfish love. It may possibly have its culminating point in a public
meeting; the act of standing up and publicly declaring for
righteousness may have tremendous effect; but even in such cases, such
rare cases, the preparation has usually been long and difficult,
secret and gradual.
"... Conversion is a quite common experience among ordinary men, is
very often nothing more than a secret turning of the face towards God,
a private decision to live a new life, a personal and wholly tranquil
choice of the soul for Christ as its Master and Saviour. No priest
appears to be necessary, the excitements of the revivalist preacher
are absent. In the privacy of its own soul, the spirit turns from evil
and faces towards God."
As Mr. Charrington began to read the suggested portion of Scripture,
he remembered this Mr. Canning and his allusion to exactly the same
chapter, and it seemed a singular thing that two of his friends of a
similar age should agree in giving a certain passage the same
interpretation. The remembrance made him read the chapter with the
very greatest care, and the words "Marvel not that I said unto ye, Ye
must be born again," came to him with a singular force. And though,
perhaps, he was unaware of it at the time, in looking back upon it,
Mr. Charrington is convinced that this moment was the great
turning-point in his life. There was no sudden conversion, let it be
remembered--that is, using the word in its more widely accepted sense.
It must not be lost sight of that Mr. Charrington had always lived a
religious life. But, certainly, whatever name we may give to the
spiritual change which passed over him at the moment, it was a real
and lasting one.
I have in my possession a letter written by Mr. Charrington a good
many years ago, describing the occurrence exactly as it happened, and,
as I am allowed to quote, it may be as well to supplement my own
account with Mr. Charrington's own words.
"To begin with, I was travelling on the Continent along the Riviera,
or the South of France, and just before I returned from Cannes I met
with my friend William Rainsford, the celebrated episcopal clergyman
from New York. We travelled home together to England, and when we got
to London I invited him to come and stop at my father's house at
Wimbledon. At the time I was living a very moral life, and not without
some interest in eternal things, but my only belief and trust was in
the Book of Common Prayer, and especially the statement, 'Wherein I
was made a member of Christ, the Child of God, and an inheritor of the
Kingdom of Heaven.' When we got to my father's home, to my great
astonishment Rainsford suddenly said, 'I feel very guilty, we have
travelled together all the way over the Continent, and enjoyed
ourselves very much, but I have never spoken to you about your soul.
The fact is, I am a Christian, but I have spent the winter in the
South of France for my health, and I have been in very worldly
society; but now that I have got back to old England, these things
seem to rise in my mind, and I feel that I must ask you if you are
saved.' I said, 'Really, Rainsford, we have had a very good time on
the Continent, and I think it is a very great pity that you bring up
such a debatable subject just now.' He said, 'I only will ask you to
do one thing, and that is: when I am gone you will promise me to read
through the third chapter of St. John's Gospel.' I promised him I
would, and accordingly the next night, while smoking a pipe before I
went to bed, I read the third chapter of St. John, and as I read it I
thought to myself, 'This is a very curious thing: here are two men, my
new friend Rainsford, and my old friend Lord Garvagh, both say the
same thing, that they are "saved" '; and as I read the chapter, Light
came into my soul, and as I came to the words, 'He that believeth on
the Son hath everlasting life' I realised that I, too, possessed the
'eternal life.'"
We are come, then, to a certain definite point in the life of this
young man. As a result of what I have just described, he felt that he
ought to be doing something to help others, to be setting his hand to
some good works.
In its proper place, I shall tell of these first tentative efforts at
work for Christ, and how they broadened out into such a magnificent
life work. It is not in the scheme of this chapter, which I have
headed "The Great Acceptance," to give details at present. It is
sufficient to say that this early work prospered and became
engrossing, and it gradually led up to the astounding event, almost
without parallel, one fancies, which I am about to describe. Mr.
Peters, a nephew of Mr. Cunard the great steamship owner, used to help
Mr. Charrington in the ragged school for boys, conducted in a loft
over a stable. One evening at this period Mr. Charrington was walking
from the brewery to the horrible slum where the school was held.
He passed a horrid-looking little public-house, known as the "Rising
Sun."
When I say a horrid little public-house, I speak from experience.
There are dozens of varieties, from the magnificent bars of the West
End, with their columns of marble, their gleaming glass and silver,
rich carpets and sumptuous good taste, to the flaunting gin palaces or
even the picturesque, flower-covered country inn, and there are mean
little holes in back streets which are absolutely destitute of any
personality whatever. I think, for my part, though it is pure personal
opinion, that I have never seen a more utterly unlovely alcohol shop
than this same "Rising Sun." I went personally to look at it before
writing this chapter. It lies in an appalling neighbourhood, where
even the police patrol in couples, and it is about as hideous an
erection as can be found anywhere in England.
Mr. Charrington, then, upon the memorable evening of which I speak,
came up to this place. I quote his own words in the account of what
occurred here.
"As I approached this public-house a poor woman, with two or three
children dragging at her skirts, went up to the swing doors, and
calling out to her husband inside, she said, 'Oh, Tom, do give me some
money, the children are crying for bread.' At that the man came
through the doorway. He made no reply in words. He looked at her for a
moment, and then knocked her down into the gutter. Just then I looked
up and saw my own name, CHARRINGTON, in huge gilt letters on the top
of the public-house, and it suddenly flashed into my mind that that
was only one case of dreadful misery and fiendish brutality in one of
the several hundred public-houses that our firm possessed. I realised
that there were probably numbers of similar cases arising from this
one public-house alone. I thought, as if in a flash, that, whatever
the actual statistics might have been, there was, at any rate, an
appalling and incalculable amount of wretchedness and degradation
caused by our enormous business. It was a crushing realisation, the
most concrete, unavoidable object-lesson that a man could possibly
have. What a frightful responsibility for evil rested upon us! And
then and there, without any hesitation, I said to myself--in reference
to the sodden brute who had knocked his wife into the gutter--'Well,
you have knocked your poor wife down, and with the same blow you have
knocked me out of the brewery business.'
"I knew that I could never bear the awful responsibility of so much
guilt upon my soul. I could not possibly allow myself to be a
contributory cause, and I determined that, whatever the result, I
would never enter the brewery again."
Mr. Charrington went to his father and announced his intention of
absolutely giving up all share in the brewery. The opposition he met
with may easily be imagined. Mr. Charrington senior was amazed and
angry. The thing seemed the height of quixotic folly. It verged on
madness, and had neither rhyme nor reason to the older man, himself,
it must be remembered, a liberal, God-fearing Churchman of the
Evangelical school, as well as one of the most successful men of
business of his day.
The arguments used against Frederick's determination were all such as
keen common sense and the logic of this world would naturally employ.
[Illustration: A VERY EARLY FAMILY GROUP
Mr. Charrington with his sisters, brothers, and governess
[_To face p. 22._]
Mr. Charrington senior pointed out that he had been many years in
business, and that during every day of them he had been studying the
drink question. His interest in it was old, and at least as close and
personal as his son's could possibly be after a mere casual ramble in
the slums of the East End. It was to drink that Frederick Charrington
owed the position to which he was born. It might be distasteful to the
young man--though to the older it was nothing of the sort--but
whether it was agreeable or not, the plain fact was that beer had made
Frederick Charrington one of the richest young men in England.
It was suggested to him that he had suffered a kind of first nausea,
just as young surgeons are supposed to do when they first handle the
knife--or, more general still, and as has been so well described by
Sir Conan Doyle, medical students when they first see an operation.
But because medical students suffered nausea, it was quite unlikely
that operating or dissecting rooms were going to be done away with,
and certainly breweries and public-houses would not be done away with
though a million fanatics were to call for their suppression. For his
own part, Mr. Charrington had made it his business to brew as good
beer as could be brewed. His business was conducted with conspicuous
regard to decency and order, but, at the same time, he entirely
declined to be responsible for the actions of fools. He asked no man
to drink more of his beer than was good for him. He was not in the
least responsible for drunkenness. It was the drunkard himself who was
responsible for it. To indulge in sweeping condemnation of the brewery
because there were drunkards, was, so Mr. Charrington senior imagined,
just as logical and reasonable as to condemn religion because it makes
fanatics and maniacs.
In reply, the young man stated that his convictions were unaltered. It
was a question between himself and his conscience, his conscience and
the God whom he served. Nothing could possibly affect the issue.
"My father," Mr. Charrington has told me, and I record our
conversation here, "was terribly distressed. At first, I think, he was
more angry and astonished than pained, but afterwards his distress was
very great, and I would have done anything I could to alleviate it but
continue to take money from the brewery. I do not want to go too much
into this--your own father is alive, and you can imagine what a son's
feelings were. Of course, my decision was a very heavy blow to the
pride of the family. I am afraid I did not realise that sufficiently
at the time, but I do now, and I see what pain my decision must have
caused, although it was inevitable. After the first shock, however, my
father was extremely kind to me, when he realised that I could not
change. He certainly sympathised with my wish to do good among the
poor, and he had always helped me in my early efforts among the very
rough juvenile population, and himself paid for more suitable premises
in which we could carry on the work.
"Shortly after my decision was made my poor father met with a very
severe accident. He was thrown from his horse while out riding, and he
never recovered. When he was upon his deathbed I was sent for, and
what occurred between us at that solemn moment has always been a most
precious memory to me. Several other members of the family were
gathered round, but he said, 'You all go out of the room for a little
time. Let Fred remain with me. He is the only one who knows about
these things.'
"When we were left alone together, my father said, 'You are right,
Fred. You have chosen the better part, which will never be taken
away.' We prayed together then, and the next morning he again said to
me, 'After you prayed with me, my sleep was like an angel's slumbers.'
Finally he whispered, 'I am afraid I have left you very badly off, but
it is too late now.' Shortly afterwards he passed away."
Here is another picture in this astounding history of the Great
Acceptance.
One day in February, 1873, the whole traffic of the Strand at a
certain point was disorganised. Thousands upon thousands of people
were gathered in the vicinity of Exeter Hall. Exeter Street itself was
impassable. The Strand was blocked for many hundred yards. The crowd
was composed of people from all parts of London and the suburbs, but
it was obvious--as the _Daily Telegraph_ remarked in its issue on the
following morning--that many of the thousands present were
East-enders. "Troops of the East End saints were seen wending their
way to Exeter Hall"--was how the _Telegraph_ was pleased to put it.
And what was the occasion which brought such an enormous crowd
together? What spell was there over them all that they pressed onward
in phalanx after phalanx to the doors of Exeter Hall? The fact had
been noised abroad that the young ex-brewer had accepted the
invitation of the Band of Hope Union to preside over their Annual
Meeting, under the presidency of the Rev. Charles Garrett, the most
famous Temperance reformer of his day.
No other man living than Mr. Charrington has ever caused the Strand to
be blocked for hours. No such sight was ever seen before or has been
since. The interest created was universal. An eye-witness of the scene
has told me that it will never be obliterated from his mind while life
lasts. Here was a young man, only just entering his twenty-third year,
called upon to preside over an immense meeting for which many of his
seniors in the Temperance Cause thought it an honour to receive an
invitation.
When the wishes of the Union were first conveyed to him, and the
formal invitation made, it gave him food for deep thought. He had left
the brewery, and the world's eyes were upon him. He shrank from the
great ordeal which acceptance would mean. Still, he was not a man to
turn his face from anything he considered to be his duty, and for the
welfare of the cause he had at heart. He assented to the wishes of the
committee.
"On the night in question," writes a friend who was with him, "Mr.
Charrington and I started from Stepney Green and mounted one of the
City omnibuses about 7 o'clock. In those days travelling by 'bus was
an entirely different thing to what it has since become, and there was
always an element of adventure, inasmuch as it was extremely
problematical whether the vehicle would keep any sort of time, or even
arrive at its destination at all!
"We arrived, however, at last, but it was with great difficulty that
we managed to get into Exeter Hall, and had almost to fight our way
through the crowd which was already gathered, and which had not then
anything like the dimensions it afterwards assumed. The front of
Exeter Hall was blocked on both sides of the roadway with police
drafted to keep the traffic through, and others who were keeping back
the non-ticket holders. Shortly after this the task of keeping this
great artery of London clear was finally left, and the traffic was
diverted into the side streets. Dr. Newman Hall, one of the speakers
who arrived late, sat next me on the platform, and he told me that he
had been three-quarters of an hour getting into the building.
"When Mr. Charrington appeared the whole vast audience rose to its
feet. The cheering was deafening, and the waving of hats and
handkerchiefs continued for several minutes. Again, when he rose to
speak the audience broke out into a most extraordinary demonstration
of appreciation, and it was a long time before he could get a hearing,
so great and electrical was the excitement. It was said that no such
gathering had ever congregated at any meeting held in that historic
building."
While the meeting was proceeding, large reinforcements of police had
to be sent for, as the crowd outside could not be persuaded to go
away, or convinced that it was impossible for them to get into the
hall. The "Hall Full" placards placed outside were of no use whatever
in making them disperse. There was an enormous desire to catch a
glimpse of Frederick Charrington as he left the building. On that
memorable night many hearts were uplifted in earnest prayer that the
young man might be kept true to the profession he had made, and become
pre-eminently useful in the service of Christ--prayers which have been
so abundantly answered.
Such is the history of Frederick Charrington's Great Acceptance, and
it is as well to consider for a moment exactly what it means.
Mr. Charrington gave up, for the sake of conscience, the enormous sum
of a million and a quarter. It is very difficult for ordinary people
to realise what this sum means. In the first instance, it means about
fifty thousand pounds a year--roughly a thousand pounds a week, or
about a hundred and forty pounds a day. And yet the figures quite fail
to convey the reality. For those who set store by honours and high
places, a million and a quarter means a peerage, a singling out and
setting above the vast majority of one's fellow-men. It ensures the
adulation of almost every one. Plenty of people say, "I do not value
the man for his possessions, but for himself," and such a remark may
be made perfectly sincerely. But in point of actual fact, there are
very few people who can listen to the _obiter dicta_ of a millionaire
without unconscious deference, and, for my part, without the least
wish to be cynical, I have always thought what truth there is in a
certain celebrated passage from "Vanity Fair" _a-propos_ of the rich
Miss Crawley.
"What a dignity," says Thackeray, "it gives an old lady, that balance
at the bankers'! How tenderly we look at her faults if she is a
relative (may every reader have a score of such), what a kind,
good-natured old creature we find her! How the junior partner of Hobbs
and Dobbs leads her smiling to the carriage with the lozenge upon it,
and the fat, wheezy coachman. How, when she comes to pay us a visit,
we generally find an opportunity of letting our friends know her
station in the world! We say (and with perfect truth) 'I wish I had
Miss MacWhirter's signature to a cheque for five thousand pounds'....
Is it so, or is it not so?"
We must remember also that, while the millionaire of sense does not
pay much attention to vulgar flattery, it is very pleasant to have
people of charm, intellect, and position around one, and to be great
among them. A million and a quarter, if a man has artistic tastes,
enables him to buy the finest pictures, the most perfect pieces of
statuary, the rarest and most beautiful of books evolved by the genius
of mankind. If Mr. Pierpont Morgan, for example, had not a passion for
beautiful things, he would certainly not own the greatest art
collections that exist. But above all, a million and a quarter means
Power--the most eagerly sought for, the most satisfying possession
that this world has to offer.
All these things, and the list might be prolonged indefinitely,
Frederick Charrington threw away.
You remember--"And behold, one came and said unto him, Good Master,
what good thing shall I do that I may have eternal life?"
And again, "Jesus said unto him, if thou wilt be perfect, go and sell
that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in
Heaven: and come and follow Me.
"But when the young man heard that saying he went away sorrowful: for
he had great possessions.
"Then said Jesus unto His disciples, Verily, I say unto you, that a
rich man shall hardly enter into the Kingdom of Heaven."
We all know the story of the rich young man, which has been referred
to over and over again as the Great Refusal. In this book you read the
true story of what I beg leave to call "The Great Acceptance."
Christ Jesus came to this young man, Frederick Charrington, with
exactly the same appeal as to that other in Palestine so long ago.
The challenge has been given many, many times since the words of our
Lord were first spoken, but how seldom has it been responded to! The
rich man went away in sorrow, for he had great possessions. It was
probably not only the loss of worldly wealth which troubled him. The
sacrifice demanded of him involved far more than this, great as this
indeed was. We must remember that the expenditure of vast amounts of
money on philanthropic objects have often been made with very unworthy
motives. There are to be found dozens of men and women--most people
will have a case of their own in mind--who would, and do, gladly spend
thousands in order that they may obtain a reputation of superior
piety, and, in short, become what one might call social saints. They
lay the flattering unction to their souls that they "are not as other
men." But surely it was the concluding words of Jesus that were the
most important, it was the last condition which demanded the greatest
sacrifice of all--"Come and follow Me."
When Agrippa said, "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian"--if
the words were not merely ironical, as some scholars will have it--he
seems to have been convinced in his judgment of the truth of
Christianity. The native King of Judaea makes no objection whatever to
anything the prisoner Paul says. He neither disputes the statement he
makes of his astonishing conversion, nor denies the inference he draws
from it, that the Jesus he preached was indeed the Christ. But Agrippa
stopped at "almost." He could not give up his darling vice, so sweet
just then, such a Dead Sea apple afterwards. He could not abandon
Berenice; he could not face the sneers and the scorn of the gilded
gang which were his companions at Caesar's court. There are many
Agrippas still in the world; there are many young men of great
possessions who are convinced that the words of our Lord are true, who
will bear to hear the Gospel, even love to hear it, are often deeply
affected by it, and seem to themselves and others on the very point of
being won over to it--honest, candid men, who are neither afraid nor
ashamed to avow their feelings.
And yet, day by day, the Great Refusal is made.
I must not linger upon this starting-point in Frederick Charrington's
career, fascinating as the discussion of it is.
How many others are there who have made this Great Acceptance? What
sort of young man was this who started out upon life with such a
record? As we go further we shall see.
CHAPTER II
BEGINNINGS
There is a certain passage at the end of the "Apostles," by Ernest
Renan, which has always seemed to me to be one of singularly
penetrating beauty.
Translated, it runs as follows: "I am impatient to tell again that
unparalleled epic, to depict those roads stretching infinitely from
Asia to Europe, along which they sowed the seed of the Gospel, those
waves over which they fared so often under conditions so diverse. The
great Christian Odyssey is about to begin. Already the Apostolic
barque has shaken forth her sails; the wind is blowing, and aspires
for naught save to bear upon its wings words of Jesus."
I am reminded of this passage now, as I begin to tell of Frederick
Charrington's life work for Christ. The Great Acceptance has been
made, the journey is about to begin. The soldier has girded on his
sword and is marching to battle.
Among the first work which the young man undertook was that of helping
in a night-school under the direction of the Rev. Joseph Bardsley,
then Rector of Stepney. During his work among the very rough he heard
of something of the same sort which was being carried on by two young
men in the neighbourhood, and not far from the night-school itself.
One was Mr. Hugh Campbell, junior, the other Mr. E. H. Kerwin, who has
been secretary of the Tower Hamlets Mission ever since its inception,
and one of Mr. Charrington's most loyal helpers.
Mr. Campbell and Mr. Kerwin conducted their Evangelistic work in a
hayloft over a stable. It was all the shelter that they had, it was
all they could afford, and yet from Mr. Charrington's association with
it has sprung a mission so wide-reaching in its effects, so
world-embracing in the influence that has radiated from it, that we
may well marvel at such results from a beginning so humble.
Not long ago I was telling the story of these early days to a lady
whose life has been passed in works of charity. She smiled when I
spoke of the little hayloft, and she said, "The Light of the World
streamed forth from the manger at Bethlehem."
One evening Mr. Charrington visited his new friends and made personal
experience of their efforts.
He found the entrance to the stable guarded by a small boy, who showed
him up a terribly rickety staircase of open boards to a long room
lighted with cheap paraffin lamps which hung from the rafters.
There was a platform, none too elaborately constructed, at one end of
the loft, and the floor was covered with rude benches.
The odour of the stable below ascended in all its pristine richness
and mingled with the smell of the crude oil lamps, while the
atmosphere was still further complicated by the fact that the roof of
the hayloft was a low one, and the ventilation almost non-existent.
Yet, on that night, with a congregation of the roughest and most
untaught lads to be found in that part of the East End, in such
unpropitious surroundings, the guest nevertheless heard addresses to
the lads about the love of Christ for them, which made a lasting
impression on his mind.
As he stood at the end of the hall and watched, something must have
come to him to tell of the mighty work that, under God's blessing, he
himself was destined to do in the future. New and unaccustomed as was
the scene, strange as some of the methods must have been to him, yet,
at that moment, some hinting, some prophetic vision, came to him. He
had arrived at last upon the field. He was present at a mere skirmish
with the forces of evil, but it was a foretaste of the great battle to
come. He had arrived at the front.
He has told me that as he watched and listened he thought, "This is
far more like real work for the Lord than my own more secular
night-school work," and when the service was nearly over, as the lads
sang--
Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide for ever
Flowing by the throne of God?
such an impression was made upon his mind that within another night or
two he was again present at the service. He proposed at once that he
should join forces with his friends, and brought immediately a fresh
and burning enthusiasm, a fierce energy, a daring originality, which
almost at once began to alter the whole character of the little
mission.
The difficulties, the discouragements, were enormous. The neighbours
who surrounded this oasis in the desert were entirely unsympathetic.
They scoffed and jeered at the whole thing. Hard words, however, break
no bones--there are few men living who believe more thoroughly in the
adage than Mr. Charrington--but hard words were not the only thing
that the young missioners had to endure.
The man from whom the stable loft was rented was a burly, ruffianly
fellow, who, when under the influence of drink, would do his best to
upset the meetings.
Once this man burst into the room with an explosion of horrible oaths.
He was in a fury, his face was livid with hate, and with every
circumstance of violent speech, he bawled out that his poor horse, who
had to work hard for its living all day long, could not sleep on
account of the noise made by the lads singing hymns!
This ferocious, but singularly ineffectual person, on another occasion
stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the loft with a horrible
bulldog by his side, daring his tenants to approach the scene of their
devotions.
But little circumstances like these had no effect whatever upon the
work. Every form of opposition was only like the call of a linnet in a
hedge as a regiment of soldiers marches down the road.
Boy after boy came thronging to the standard which the friends had
unfurled, and the hayloft became far too small for the purpose. At
this moment the Rector of Stepney very kindly placed his schoolroom
at the disposal of the three Evangelists. This kindly act, however,
was not productive of much success. The lads who attended the meetings
were of such a low character--I quote the opinion of the parents of
the day-scholars who attended the schools--that the day work began to
be seriously interfered with, and "respectable" people complained.
To overcome this difficulty, and perhaps not a very unreasonable
opposition on the part of the parents of the day-scholars, a capacious
workshop was next taken at Hertford Place, and fitted up by Mr.
Charrington's father, at a cost of three hundred pounds, as a mission
hall for boys. Another room was rented in Heath Street, Stepney, and
this was for girls. In both these halls religious services were held
nightly by Mr. Charrington and his friends. There is a brief account
in my possession of what was being done at this period, which Mr.
Charrington wrote a little later.
He said--
"These premises in Hertford Place, situated at the back of
the building represented in our engraving, were secured in
May 1870, and fitted up as a school and mission room for
boys. Here we had accommodation for over three hundred lads,
and the rooms were soon filled with some of the most
troublesome roughs of the neighbourhood, including a number
of boys known as 'The Mile End Gang,' who had long been a
trouble to the police. This gang was soon broken up, in
consequence of several of its members, including their
leader, professing conversion. An interesting incident
occurred soon after this. A number of lads from Whitechapel,
known as the 'Kate Street Gang,' or 'The Forty Thieves,' all
of whom were by their own rules convicted thieves, came down
one Sunday night, with thick sticks up their sleeves to fight
our boys; but after our gaining their confidence, and
assuring them that we were not in connection with the police,
they were induced to enter the building and join in the boys'
Sunday evening service.
"After we had continued these meetings for some time, many of
the parents expressed a wish to attend them. At first we
could not see our way to accede to their request, but after a
time they became so pressing that we agreed to hold a service
for them at the close of the boys' meeting. These services
soon became so crowded that we had to seek a larger building.
"We started a Boys' Home, which was an outcome of the work
among the lads. Often after a service boys would come and
plead for their companions, who were without home or shelter
for the night. This led to our taking a small house in the
court in which we were working, and fitting it up for their
accommodation. The numbers so increased, however, that we had
to take another cottage, and finally, with the aid of kind
friends, we purchased a building, which was previously a
beer-bottling warehouse.
"In connection with the Home was a savings bank, which gave
the boys the opportunity of putting by their spare money.
Many instances could be given of the good resulting from the
training in this home. Many of our lads were sent to Great
Yarmouth, where, through the agency of the Rev. Mr.
Nicholson, they were employed on the fishing smacks. Through
the kindness of Lord Polwarth, with whom I stayed at his
place on the borders of Scotland, several lads were sent to
Scotland, and gave the greatest satisfaction. A boy came to
us direct from prison. After a time he was sent to Yarmouth.
A few months afterwards he had a holiday, and called to see
the Master of the House. The first thing he said was, 'I have
come to pay you what I owe, and to thank you for enabling me
to make a fresh start in life.' The Home was exclusively for
boys who were willing to maintain themselves by their own
industry. Over 1000 boys received the benefits it affords.
Many of them were orphans."
Frederick Charrington had by this time definitely given up his huge
inheritance, had left a luxurious home, and had taken a house in
Stepney Green. In one of a series of long talks with Mr. T.
Richardson, Registrar of the Eastern Telegraph Company, his life-long
friend and helper, I have gathered some curious and amusing details
about the life lived in Stepney by the young Evangelist.
"In his early days," Mr. Richardson told me, "Mr. Charrington's one
idea was for self-denial--personal asceticism."
This early ideal he has persisted in throughout his life. Like other
workers for God in different fields, he has chosen celibacy as his
lot, in order to give his whole time and all his interests to his
work.
[Illustration: LOOKING OUT UPON LIFE
Frederick Charrington at the commencement of his evangelistic career
[_To face p. 38._]
"He took a house in the East End," Mr. Richardson continued, "near the
brewery, and in furnishing it went in for self-denial with an almost
monkish enthusiasm. Although it is many years ago, I remember it all
perfectly well. He had only a table and one or two chairs, and when
there was nothing else to sit upon, an empty packing-case did as well
as anything else. He had no carpet at all. One day his mother came to
see him, and was dreadfully distressed to see him living like this.
Expostulations on the part of Frederick were in vain, and Mrs.
Charrington drove immediately to the biggest furnisher's in the City
of London and told them to take no denial, but to go at once and
furnish her son's house properly.
"He was red-hot and full of enthusiasm. I remember we had been out to
a meeting together one night, and somewhere about one or two o'clock
in the morning we found ourselves sitting on a costermonger's barrow
in a blind alley. Charrington clutched me by the arm and almost shook
me. 'We must do something,' he said, 'we must do something to call
attention to this cursed liquor traffic. We must get a gang of men
armed with cudgels and go and smash the fronts of the public-houses.
We shall never do anything till we call attention to it!'"
I shall have much to say shortly of the beginnings of what is perhaps
the greatest Temperance crusade that England has ever known, but
meanwhile these little glimpses I am able to afford my readers of the
quaint house in Stepney so many years ago are curiously interesting.
"Mr. Charrington's house,"--so Mr. Richardson told me--"was the house
of call in the neighbourhood, and by strange coincidence, everybody
went there about mealtimes! Once, when Mr. Marcus Rainsford was
staying in what was locally nicknamed the 'Monastery,' a certain
zealous and holy man of God looked in. It was during the evening.
Now, a peculiarity of the gentleman to whom I refer is, that when he
goes anywhere, he never knows when it is time to leave. On the
particular occasion that I remember, he stayed on and on until he
missed the last omnibus that could take him to his home. He said to
Mr. Charrington, 'You will have to put me up for the night.' Mr.
Charrington told him that he hadn't a spare bed. Accordingly, Mr.
----, nothing daunted, replied that he would sleep with Mr. Rainsford
if he didn't mind. Mr. Rainsford did not seem at all delighted at the
prospect, and said he preferred to take his rest undisturbed as a
rule, but that for one night, at any rate, he didn't mind.
"Accordingly, the matter was arranged thus, and in the morning Mr.
---- got up first. There was a bathful of water in the bedroom, and
the guest inquired if he could take his bath at once. Mr. Rainsford
was still almost asleep, and mumbled some sort of an assent. When Mr.
---- had completed his ablutions, he asked Mr. Rainsford where he
should empty the water, and Rainsford, who was by no means awake yet,
and who hated being disturbed, growled out that he could pour it out
of the window. The too literal Mr. ---- obeyed blindly, with the
result that the bath-water descended in an unbroken stream upon the
poor old housekeeper, who was breaking coal in the area below."
It must indeed have been a most curious establishment at Stepney
Green! Comfort, as ordinary people know it, appears to have been
entirely absent. The strangest characters foregathered there, all day
and all night the place hummed like a hive. Mr. Charrington, as will
be seen later, has always had a fondness for strange pets. In the
house at Stepney a monkey was added to the _entourage_, and shortly
afterwards a well-known Evangelistic preacher, who must also, I beg
leave to think, have been a considerable prig, called at the
"Monastery." Mr. Charrington, who was smoking his inevitable pipe,
introduced this person to the monkey. The Evangelist threw back his
head, rolled his eyes upwards, and lifted his hands. "Not very
spiritual, Charrington," he said, "not very spiritual!" "I wonder if
your tom-cat is very spiritual?" was Mr. Charrington's retort.
Mr. Mowll, who is now vicar of Christ Church, Brixton, a college
friend of Keith Falconer, who frequently visited the house at Stepney
Green, always went to bed very late indeed. One night he rigged up a
figure of a man with cushions and an overcoat, put a hat on its head
and a pipe in its mouth, and then went to bed, leaving all the gas
burning. The next morning, when the housekeeper went into the room to
dust it, the poor thing was frightened out of her life to find, as she
thought, a strange man sitting there in the full glare of the gas. She
was so upset that Mr. Mowll, a most ardent Temperance reformer, was
perhaps rightly punished by having to fetch the old lady some brandy
from the nearest public-house.
These incidents are all trivial enough, but I give them as
illustrating the happy and boyish natures of the young men who found
themselves together under the leadership of Mr. Charrington. When the
bathroom tap was left on, and the whole house was flooded, their
equanimity was not disturbed. When there was no proper dinner, they
ate bread and cheese. The vagaries of the housekeeper, the odd
behaviour of the monkey, were all subjects for mirth. The moral of
this sort of life is obvious enough. These men cared nothing for
personal comfort or pleasure. Their life was lived in an unceasing
warfare with the powers of evil. Their swords were always girded
on--the rest was as nothing.
The late Earl of Kintore stayed for some little time at the East End
house, and, as it unhappily turned out, just before his death. As he
was leaving after his visit he shook his host's old housekeeper--whose
name was Mrs. Pilgrim--by the hand and said, "Well, good-bye. You're a
pilgrim and I'm a stranger, and we shall soon be at home." As a matter
of fact the earl died suddenly only a fortnight afterwards.
I continue the record of the early beginnings of the great work that
was to come, for it was now that the East End Conference Hall first
came into being.
"About this time Mr. Charrington received a letter from the late Mr.
Pemberton Barnes, who was said to own the largest number of houses of
any one in the world (then nearly a stranger to him), stating that he
held a site known as Carlton Square, which he was anxious to devote to
a Christian work. He had originally intended it for the erection of a
church, but being deterred by the rapid advances of Ritualism, of
which he was an opponent, he resolved to build a mission hall instead.
The result was the erection of the present building, which seated 600
persons, and was opened on Friday, November 1, 1872.
"The following extract is from _The Christian_ of that day.
"'Another very interesting movement has been inaugurated in the East
End. On the 1st of this month a new and very elegant iron structure,
capable of accommodating 600 people, was opened for public worship and
evangelistic effort of various kinds. T. B. Smithies, Esq., editor of
the _British Workman_, presided, and addresses were given by Revs.
Jack Kennedy, H. Barton, Dr. Sharpe, Dr. Barnardo, and other friends.
A statement of the circumstances which led to the erection was made by
Mr. F. N. Charrington, the honorary superintendent, who said, some
time ago, being anxious to establish a boy's lodging house, he asked
Mr. Pemberton Barnes to devote an old house (situated in the East End,
and belonging to him) to that purpose; but Mr. Barnes said he had,
unfortunately, given it into the hands of the builders a week
previously, and so the matter dropped. A short time ago, however, he
had received a letter from that gentleman saying he was desirous of
doing something for the Lord; he owned a square on which he proposed
building a house with a small hall attached. Mr. Charrington visited
him the next day, and Mr. Barnes agreed to build a hall in which the
Gospel might be preached, and in which the work would be thoroughly
unsectarian. The meetings held on the four Sunday evenings since the
opening have been numerously attended, and not one has passed without
distinct testimony of blessing received by some of those present.
With much regret we add that Mr. Pemberton Barnes, the kind friend to
whom the East End of London is indebted for this addition to its means
of evangelisation, died within a fortnight of its opening.'"
At this East End Conference Hall Mr. Charrington took up the question
of adult baptism. His work there was in no sense at all sectarian, nor
has it ever been so from those early days until the present moment--a
point which I shall enlarge upon at some length when I come to the
story of the Great Assembly Hall itself and my own experiences there.
At the same time, Mr. Charrington's own personal conviction was that a
form of baptism by immersion was warranted by his interpretation of
Scripture, and was a means for good. Mr. Richardson, in one of our
conferences, has told me the following curious anecdote. There was a
baptistry built in the new hall at Carlton Square, but there was no
water laid on. Accordingly, Mr. Charrington sent to the great brewery
in the Mile End Road and asked for a supply of wagons containing
hogsheads of water to be sent to the hall. The request was immediately
complied with, but there was considerable consternation among the
neighbours of the new mission when they saw great brewery wagons
delivering barrels at the hall--barrels which it certainly never
occurred to them, contained nothing but harmless water.
In addition to this central hall, interesting work was also being done
in Bethnal Green, where there was a building attached to the now
rapidly growing mission in Bonner's Lane. The neighbourhood, in 1875,
was a singularly interesting one. It took its name from the fact that
Bishop Bonner, of infamous memory, in the days of "Bloody Mary," had
his palace in the immediate vicinity, and additional antiquarian
interest was that the faith the then Bishop of London sought to
extinguish was afterwards propagated in that very neighbourhood by the
French Protestants, who settled there in 1572. The descendants of
these people occupied the neighbourhood at the time Mr. Charrington
started work there, and extremely picturesque their lives and habits
were. A record has been placed in my hands, and it tells of a day when
green fields and trees made pleasant a quarter now a wilderness of
bricks.
I read--
"I know an old inhabitant who has seen the changes of the
last fifty years, and he told me that a man he knew kept a
farm a few hundred yards from Bonner Lane. This man's great
desire was to possess a hundred black cows. For years he
tried to collect them, but never managed to collect more than
ninety-nine. As soon as he made the number up to a hundred,
one always died, or was lost; and the old man said to him,
'It always reminds me of the lost sheep in Scripture.' The
neighbourhood is well known by the name of Twig Folly, and
there is an inscription placed upon some houses built by a
man who obtained his property in the following way. There was
living there a man who made twig baskets. He was greatly
troubled by the boys robbing him of his fruit. One day,
seeing a boy in one of his fruit trees, he shouldered his gun
and shot him. Fearing the consequences, he made over all his
property to a friend, on condition that he himself should
have it back at the expiration of whatever punishment he
might get. But when he came to claim his property, he found
his friend not so faithful as he had anticipated; for,
instead of delivering it up, he kept it. In building these
houses with the proceeds of the property, the friend asked a
neighbour what he should name them, and received the
following reply: 'What could be better than to name them
after the old twig basket maker, for his folly?' So it was
named Twig Folly.
"The place is now inhabited by the working-classes. A few of
the old silk weavers are still left, who carry on a small
trade which cannot be very remunerative. In our hall for the
last three months some happy hours have been spent by many
who formerly could never be induced to enter any place of
worship.
"The plan of the services has been as follows: Meeting on
Sunday evenings at six o'clock, and going out with a band of
good singers, we invite the people in; then small handbills
are distributed, setting forth the order of the services,
which consist of singing by a good choir formed for the
purpose, and a short address; sometimes a few will tell their
experiences. We have by this means been able to fill the
hall. This has greatly encouraged us, for if we can obtain
such a good congregation in the summer months, we may expect
nothing less in the winter. But we are thankful that we can
go further and say, that many who have lived without God, and
been careless as to their future state, have been awakened
and converted. A man came in one Sunday, and stayed after
the service to be spoken to. He said he was a prize-fighter,
and on the Wednesday following he was to fight. But before he
left that night, he delivered his will over to God, and
determined by His grace to lead a new life and to keep away
from the fight. He has been seen since, and we are thankful
to say that he kept his word."
* * * * *
The work in Bonner Lane went on for some three years. After that the
activities at the Central Hall demanded so much of the Evangelist's
time that it was felt impossible to give the necessary supervision to
the offshoot of the mission.
Mr. Charrington was therefore glad to leave this field of labour in
the hands of the Rev. T. Bowman Stephenson, who purchased the Hall
from the chief organisation and carried on the work himself, though
still with friendly relations with the organisers of the chief
mission.
How my readers feel about this record I shall never be able to know. I
myself am impatient to proceed to a certain point where the immense
drama of Frederick Charrington's evangelistic life may be said to
commence. But in a life of this sort it is obviously necessary to
continue the story of small beginnings.
Throughout all these accounts of what happened in those early days I
see Mr. Charrington as the main force, the apostle. But I see him thus
only in imagination, only in the light of what he afterwards did. His
own memories of this period in his career are simply those of a man
who remembers that he was always hard at work, was always sacrificing
himself, his money, and his time for the good of others. But the
picturesqueness of the days which were to come so soon has somewhat
obscured in my mind--and I know in his also--the intimate and personal
point of view.
At the same time, as this life is written once and for all, the story
of the beginnings must be faithfully told, and told in such detail as
I can.
CHAPTER III
MORE BEGINNINGS
As I know him now, a marked characteristic of Charrington is his
extreme love of the open air. He has built the largest mission hall in
the world. I should be afraid to say how many erections of stone,
wood, and brick owe their inception to his courage and his work. But,
at the same time, the open air--under God's sky--has always appealed
to a man with a mind as clear and simple as running water.
The idea came to him that, while he could get large congregations into
his various missions, the great tide of human life must necessarily
pass them by. In that vast area of misery known as the East End, the
halls where the gospels were preached were indeed but insignificant
milestones upon the hard and tortuous way to salvation.
Open-air meetings were begun at a time when Mr. and Mrs. Booth, who
afterwards invented and started the Salvation Army, had certainly
given a lead, but were absolutely new factors in the attempted
reclamation of the masses. The great success of the indoor services
had had one inevitable effect. Accommodation for the great crowds who
thronged to hear the truths of the supreme philosophy which is called
Christianity, became inadequate.
As the work progressed, the originators, organised bands of converts,
who entered with willing hearts into the service, held open-air
meetings almost incessantly. Open-air work was immediately successful.
Large audiences were attracted in Victoria Park on Sunday afternoons,
and on the Mile End Waste on mornings, afternoons, and evenings.
Services were even conducted in the common lodging houses.
In Victoria Park there was a band of devoted adherents to the Mission
who secured an excellent position under the trees near the fountain
given by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts.
On the Mile End Waste, on Sunday afternoon, at the close of the
preacher's address, a very handsome young man came up to the speaker.
A faded document, with all that pathos which attaches to the records
of the past, is in my hands now. I read that this young man came up to
the preacher, and taking him by the hand, said, "It is all true what
you have said, but I am so unhappy! I have spent in waste and pleasure
between two thousand and three thousand pounds, and I am ruined."
The Preacher had a long interview with this young man, and ultimately
he persuaded him to decide for Christ. He came afterwards to one of
the East London meetings, upon a Tuesday evening, a new man in soul,
mind, and body.
The open-air work was not, however, confined entirely to services. The
hoardings offered a great opportunity, and it was Mr. Charrington's
idea that these possibilities of advertisement should be made use of.
Large posters were prepared and set up upon the walls of half-ruined
buildings, the wooden palings which circumscribed the erection of new
houses.
"CHRIST DIED FOR US," stared at the passer-by from every corner. I
have in my possession a wood-block drawing which represents one of the
hoardings of that period, covered with messages of religion. I cannot
reproduce it here, as there are other and more important illustrations
which must have a place in this biography. But the texts which blazed
out on a callous and only half-believing world were ones that must
have indeed arrested the faltering one, have turned the eyes, if not
to God, at least to a consideration of the fact that there was a God,
who watched unceasingly over His children.
"I am the Light of the World." "I am the Way, the Truth, and the
Life." "He that believeth on the Son hath Everlasting Life." "Fools
make a mock of sin."
It is now necessary to mention another offshoot of the Central
Organisation, known as the "Oxford Street Hall." The Oxford Street to
which I refer is not the Oxford Street of fashion, or of De Quincey.
It was a "street in the East."
This Branch of the Mission was opened in August, 1874. The Hall was
used previously as a school and for other purposes, and being situated
in a street leading from a main thoroughfare to a territory of
working-men's dwellings, was admirably suited to mission purposes.
The house was accessible from the Hall, and was occupied by the
missioner in charge of the work. There were no paid labourers; those
who helped were all engaged in daily toil, and were chiefly converts
from the Central Hall. The experiences of the first were somewhat
peculiar. Their efforts taught the workers the real wants of the
neighbourhood, and being cemented by brotherly love, which abounded
among them, they settled down with a doggedness of purpose that bore
great fruit.
This Branch of the Mission was carried on there for some years, until
the new site was secured and the Assembly Hall erected in Mile End
Road. This being but a short distance from the Oxford Street Hall, and
the lease of that building having nearly expired, the work was
transferred to the Great Assembly Hall. The hall in Oxford Street was
afterwards pulled down by the landlord, and a dwelling-house erected
in its place.
It soon became necessary to "move on" from the Conference Hall. The
place was too small for the enormous work which was now being done,
and of which it was the centre, so that a more important site became
imperative.
It was not long before a piece of ground in the Mile End Road, at the
corner of White Horse Lane, was chosen--a spot that had hitherto been
anything but an ornament to the neighbourhood. The largest portion of
it had been used for years by travelling showmen with wax-works,
merry-go-rounds, penny theatres, and every variety of exhibition. The
local authorities considered that a great boon had been conferred upon
the neighbourhood, and especially the police, who expressed their
thanks when Mr. Charrington bought this land and removed the
dilapidated buildings which stood there; while the respectable
inhabitants hailed with delight the demolishing of the old place
which had afforded facilities for persons of the lowest character.
It was a splendid situation, and the Hon. Elizabeth Waldegrave, sister
of Lord Radstock, kindly paid the rent, besides giving much of her
time and energy to the work. Here a tent was erected and evangelistic
services were conducted every night with great success during two
whole summers.
The speakers were chiefly soldiers of the Guards, who came all the way
from the West End barracks, many of them walking the whole way there
and back (a distance of ten miles) on purpose to preach the Gospel
night after night.
These soldiers were, of course, very far from eloquent, but they were
terribly in earnest, and even their rough, but heart-felt words had a
tremendous influence with the people they addressed. One can imagine
well how these splendid, scarlet-coated men, in the full height of
physical power, virile and disciplined, must have swayed the minds of
those to whom they appealed.
Charrington's close association with these soldiers came about owing
to a visit that he paid to a Mr. Fry, an Irish solicitor, at whose
house on Dublin Bay Mrs. Charrington stayed.
His old friend Mr. Richardson has told me of this particular visit,
and to what it subsequently led.
Mr. Fry had a little daughter, a young girl of seventeen, who took a
great interest in the soldiers. One morning she asked Mr. Charrington
to accompany her round the barracks. He complied, and she showed him
everything. At the conclusion of their tour, she said to him, "Mr.
Charrington, all these soldiers are soon coming to London, where they
will have a great many temptations to drink, etc. I wish you would be
so kind as to try and do something for them when they are there." He
promised that he would. When he got back to the East End, he went to
the barracks to which they had been transferred, and asked them all to
come to the Hall. The soldiers came in their busbies and scarlet
uniforms, and as they were all over six feet high, they formed a
magnificent group on the platform. He set them all to work, and they
gave their testimonies. They could not, of course, speak well, but
just the recital of their experiences was far more effective than the
oration of the greatest speaker. They also used to accompany Mr.
Charrington's procession through the streets, and were known as
"Charrington's Bodyguard." They made a scarlet ring round him, and
their great height made it very effective indeed. One man was over six
feet four inches high, and was broad in proportion. He used to preach,
saying, "Well, dear friends, I cannot preach. I never have preached.
But I can tell you that if you don't give up the drink and turn to God
you will be damned. Give up the drink! I cannot preach, but I can tell
you that I was a drunkard myself, but I turned to God, and was saved.
Give up the drink!" Several of these men afterwards became
missionaries and preachers--notably Mr. W. R. Lane of the Free Church
Council.
The great tent was set up upon a waste piece of land on the 21st of
May, 1876. The inaugural meeting was very largely attended, and Mr.
Samuel Morley, the millionaire M.P., who, till the very day of his
death, was one of the most generous supporters of Mr. Charrington's
great work, was in the chair. He spoke as follows--
"I am here at the request of Mr. Charrington and other
friends, at least to have the satisfaction of showing my
earnest sympathy with the work which is to be carried on by
them. The presence of several clergymen around me evidences
that it is fully understood that in holding tent services
there is no attempt to draw from existing congregations, but
rather to reach those classes of which chapel and church
know but little; it is wanted to get at the masses of the
people. Born in London, bred, and brought up in the midst of
that kingdom--for such London is--I have arrived at a
conclusion that makes me anxious to co-operate with those
who are seeking to lift up the masses of the people from the
degraded condition in which they are now living. I fear that
more than one million of the population of London never
enter a place of worship, and if on the morning of any
Lord's day there was a desire to attend a place of worship
on the part of those who could go on the Sabbath, there
would be needed 800,000 more sittings than are at present
provided. That is proof positive of the neglect of public
worship, which can be viewed by Christians only with deep
grief and pain. I state this to stimulate to effort, not
merely clergymen and other Christian workers, but all
classes. I would quote from the Bishop of Lichfield, who
said that immorality and drunkenness were destroying our
nation. Well-to-do people who mix but little with the lower
classes can have no conception of the condition in which
they are now living. I would advise that, instead of
suggesting and inquiring as to what others should do, they
should set about to find what, as Christians, they
themselves should do. In the erection of this tent, you have
raised a standard declaring the observance of the Lord's
day. You can do this on physical grounds. The weekly day of
rest is not only desirable, but necessary, and for that
besides we have the authority of the Scriptures, and our
great national boast and thankfulness is that England has an
open Bible. Mr. Forster, addressing the children at the
Crystal Palace on a late occasion, said that in every
circumstance of life, whether of joy or sorrow, the Bible
would be a boon to them. To this I would add that it not
merely helps us amidst the joys and sorrows of this life,
but it tells us what awaits us in the next. It tells--and
this is the foundation-stone of this movement--it tells us
that 'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten
Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but
have everlasting life.' This will be the basis of the
utterances which will be delivered from this platform.
Believing this, I desire to offer to my Christian
friends--who, I am assured, have no idea of advancing a
sect, or preaching a particular doctrine--my most earnest
and heartfelt sympathy in their enterprise."
Such an inspiriting speech as this, from a man so well known and of
such high place, who was a life long friend of Frederick Charrington,
was the happiest augury for the success of this new departure.
Success it was, and in the highest degree, but everything to which
Frederick Charrington has put his hand has been a success. Already my
readers will be wondering at the ceaseless activity of this still very
young man and his band of devoted workers. They are, however, as
nothing to what is to follow.
"Rescue bands" were organised at this time.
The various mission halls, and the great tent were in full swing. Upon
the hoardings of bare spaces of the East End the texts of Holy
Scripture were seen on all sides, interspersed with advertisements of
Christian literature, and advertisements of forthcoming meetings.
Crowds of people were daily gathered round these stations, eagerly
reading the words of life. On Sunday mornings working men, taking
their weekly stroll, men who had never opened a Bible in their lives,
would stop to read the parable of the Prodigal Son. In the dead of
night the poor lost girl, as she passed along to her via dolorosa, was
startled to see the familiar text which she had learnt as a child in
the Sunday schools. The guardians of law and order on their solitary
beats at night turned the lights of their lantern upon the hoardings,
and in the darkness and the silence of the night read the story of
Christ's love for them--the profligate returning from scenes of
revelry was arrested for the moment by the words "Prepare to meet thy
God!" Such a revival, at such a time, was absolutely unknown. A great
light, growing larger and larger every moment, began to shine in upon
the dark places of the East End. It was as though some great
lighthouse of God had been built by living hands, growing rapidly,
like some building in a fairy story, and flooding this part of London
with radiance. And in the height of the tower, directing the
unflagging rays of hope, was Frederick Nicholas Charrington.
The Rescue bands which he organised and accompanied himself,
penetrated to the lowest, and often most dangerous, neighbourhoods.
London has changed since those days, and not, perhaps, in the
direction of the picturesque, and the earnest workers for Christ moved
among the strangest scenes imaginable. Space will not allow me the
pleasant task of recalling some of those vanished scenes, but I may
make a passing reference to one environment which certainly holds the
imagination.
When the Huguenot refugees fled from the persecutions of their enemies
to the peace and security of Spitalfields, they obtained a living by
weaving, and Bethnal Green and Spitalfields were the recognised
headquarters of this branch of industry. Machinery had done much to
cripple the trade, but had not yet entirely destroyed it. The prices,
however, paid to the weavers in this locality were barely
remunerative, and a great amount of poverty existed. In Club-row and
thereabouts, the upper windows of the houses were of that long, arched
pattern which was sufficient evidence to show that these tenements
were occupied by weavers, as they were built to admit as much light as
possible. The connection between silk-weaving and bird-selling is not
very clear, nor is it obvious how the ground floors of the weavers'
houses were transformed into bird shops. But then every other shop, at
least, engaged to provide for the wants of the "Fancy," whether it
required poultry, pigeons, or small birds, not to mention rabbits,
dogs, rats, guinea-pigs, mice, hedgehogs, and goats. An extensive
trade was driven in these and other objects of interest to fanciers,
but the great Bird Fair, when business is at its full height, was
reserved for Sunday morning.
A member of the principal Rescue band, that worked in Bird Fair,
wrote--
"One bright Sunday morning we passed down Sclater Street as the fair
was commencing. The glad sunlight was flooding the streets, searching
every nook and cranny, and putting new life into the caged prisoners,
so that they poured forth their hearts in song. A strange contrast,
the sweet heavenly music of the country, and the pent-up, confined
surroundings presented. At any rate, so it appeared to us; but the
'Fancy,' which was disporting itself in great numbers, clad in a
variety of garments, usually with a blue-checked neckcloth, and a
short pipe between its teeth, had eyes alone for lark, linnet, or
chaffinch, and naught else. The 'Fancy' seemed to repeat itself every
way one turned. Here was a man with a cage enveloped in a black
handkerchief under his arm, and there another--his counterpart in
every particular. They differed only in this, that they were variously
laden; one had under his arm a cage, whilst another had a fowl, and
another a dog; but cages and dogs seemed to be the most numerous, the
former being more in favour than the latter. These men and their cages
are inseparable. Walk in the park, they are there; walk into the
country, they are there; go to their homes, they are there. Give a man
his cage and his pipe, and he is content."
And again--
"The work in Bird Fair is especially interesting. As we entered one of
the largest of these houses, we found scores of men congregated in the
side-parlour, and as soon as we could distinguish the objects on the
other side of the room through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke with
which it was filled, we saw that every available mantel-shelf or ledge
was filled up with small bird-cages, each containing its little
captive. A man just then came into the room, calling out, 'No. 6 and
No. 2, are you ready?' from which we conjectured that a raffle or bird
club was being carried on. They looked at us somewhat surprised, but
civilly received the invitations to be present at the services in
Lusby's Music Hall in the evening. We found another house where none
but dog fanciers assembled. Ferocious looking bulldogs (carefully
muzzled), and delicately reared little pug dogs were seated on their
owners' laps, or squatted on the ground at their feet. Here, with the
exception of one man whose language was not very choice, we received a
kind welcome; and after we had visited the room at the back, the
landlord, to our great astonishment, invited us to come round one
Sunday evening and talk to the men in the parlour. We almost thought
that this was a joke on his part, but on paying him another call on
the following Sunday morning and asking him if he really meant what he
said, he replied, 'Come to-night.' Accordingly, the same evening we
sent off two members of the Rescue band to hold a service at the time
appointed. They found a number waiting for their visit, and in a few
minutes had forty of these men seated with the landlord in their
midst. They talked to them for over an hour of what the Lord had done
for them, and what He is willing to do if they would only come to
Him. At the close of the meeting there were many requests for them to
come again on the following Sunday, and the publican said on leaving
that they might come as often as they liked. As they passed the bar,
those who had not come into the meeting explained to them which of the
bull-dogs would fight, and which would not, etc., etc.; and as they
patted the dogs on the head, they got a word with their owners about
their own souls."
Support poured in to the multifarious activities of the mission from
all sides.
The young Earl and Countess of Aberdeen attended, and were warmly
interested. The great Lord Shaftesbury, for many years one of Mr.
Charrington's most intimate friends, was also among those
highly-placed Englishmen and women who gave their unwavering support.
Mr. Samuel Morley, M.P., has already been mentioned, and one of the
richest men in England, Mr. T. A. Denny, was a magnificently generous
subscriber, and never ceased in his unflagging patronage of the work.
It was Mr. Denny who generously bore nearly all the pecuniary burden
of opening a certain East End music hall on Sunday nights--a music
hall which will be seen, as the story of Mr. Charrington's career
advances, to have had a most extraordinary place and influence in his
life.
The music hall crusade was Mr. Charrington's idea, and it proved an
inestimable blessing to the population among whom he worked, hundreds
being reached there who could never otherwise be brought within the
sound of the gospel.
At the Foresters' Music Hall, the famous Evangelist, Mr. Sankey,
consented to sing, and for three years the most enthusiastic meetings
were held there.
Both the Hon. Jon. Keith-Falconer and Lord Mount-Temple addressed the
congregation. One service in this hall was broken up by the loud
roarings of some caged lions who were to be shown there on the next
night. The audience was terrified and refused to stay, despite Mr.
Charrington's assurance that there was no danger. The great beasts
were only separated from the Evangelist by the drop curtain, and the
experience must certainly have been very unpleasant and
nerve-shaking--though Frederick Charrington does not rejoice in
"nerves."
Lusby's Music Hall, the place of amusement to which I first referred,
and which was the largest music hall in the East End, was opened for
several seasons.
Work was begun there on a night in November, 1877. The crowd was so
great that it extended beyond the tram-lines, which were seventy feet
from the entrance, while before the doors were opened the line itself
was invaded, and the police had to regulate the crowd in order to let
the trams pass through it.
The hour of this first service was seven o'clock, but at half-past six
there was not a single vacant seat in the building, and wherever
standing room could be found, it was immediately occupied. Madame
Antoinette Stirling came down and sang "O rest in the Lord."
I wish especially to insist on the fact, ample record of which is in
my possession, that these music hall services on Sunday nights were
_continuously_ crowded. People who would not have even gone into the
great tent or the ordinary mission halls were to be found in the
transformed haunts of their ignoble week-day pleasures, and the souls
that were led to the foot of the Cross were incalculable.
In connection with Lusby's Music Hall, in particular, I cannot refrain
from recalling at least one case of very special interest.
A poor man, a dock labourer, who had not attended a service of any
kind for several years, entered the hall one Sunday evening when Mr.
Joseph Weatherley was the preacher. The sinner's need and the
Saviour's power to save him were clearly set before the people, and
the man that night rested his soul on the finished work of God. The
next day, while at work in the dock, he fell down a ship's hold, and
was carried to the London Hospital very much injured. The nurse (a
Christian woman), under whose care he was placed, saw that he was
dying and spoke to him of Jesus. She found him happy in the assurance
of sins forgiven, and on asking how long he had been a child of God,
he replied, "Last Sunday night, through the preaching in Lusby's Music
Hall." He died rejoicing.
I shall have so much to say of Lusby's Music Hall in a forthcoming
part of this book that I will not attempt, in this place, any
word-picture of the services there.
In connection with another establishment of the same kind, and, if
possible, much lower and more disreputable than the usual thing, I am
able to reconstruct a typical scene of the many that occurred there
when Mr. Charrington and his friends turned it for one night in each
week from a place of sin and corruption to a stronghold of our Lord.
Wilton's Music Hall, or, as it was affectionately called by its
habitues, "The Mahogany Bar," was a music hall opening on a quiet
square notorious as the Ratcliff Highway, then regarded as the most
disreputable street of its kind in the whole world. Ratcliff
Highway--has it not obtained an evil immortality in the words of
innumerable songs which are minor classics in their way?--was the
resort of the lowest characters of all nations, the very scum of the
earth. It was here that "Poor Jack" fell a prey to the vilest harpies
in Christendom, it was a den of prostitution, vice, drunkenness and
crime, tenanted by fiends in human form, who made their unholy gains
out of the passionate outbursts of the misguided sailors, who, by
their orgies, their desperate affrays, and frightful excesses, did so
much to confer its evil notoriety upon the street.
One Saturday night, Mr. Charrington and a friend, armed with handbills
announcing that Wilton's Music Hall was to be opened on Sunday and
that seats were free, turned into Leman Street, en route for some of
the lowest drinking, dancing, and singing saloons that East London
could boast.
They entered fifty public-houses and singing saloons of the worst
type. There was a sink of iniquity known as "The Paddy's Goose." "The
Gun Boat," "The Jolly Sailor" and "The Kettledrum" were hardly any
better.
Hardly any middle-aged women were to be seen, seafaring men, from the
apprentice to the mate, from the nigger to the English tar, men of all
stamps, sizes, nations, and colours; girls with shawl-covered heads,
usually in parties of three and four, under the supervision of
horrible old hags, made up the crowd that thronged these dens.
Elbowing their way through a group of sailors and wretched girls
gathered at the door of one of the establishments, and brushing past
one or two ragged little urchins who were peeping in at the chinks,
wishing, perhaps, to catch a glimpse of the comparative comfort
within, they entered those swinging portals, which move so easily
inwards, but with so much difficulty outwards. They found themselves
in a large and crowded drinking saloon. With the reflection that "the
righteous shall be bold as a Lion," they met the stare of the many
eyes turned upon them with a rather painful composure. The landlord, a
sporting-looking character, received them with evident astonishment
and curiosity.
He was soon acquainted with their mission--"Would he kindly allow a
bill or two to be placed upon his counter?" Appealed to in this
fashion, he could not refuse. In one case, such was the obliging
condescension, yet amazing incongruity, exhibited, that the monarch of
the bar declared that "he would do anything to help the cause."
The company were soon supplied with notices, and acknowledged them
with varying degrees of politeness. Some hardly looked at them, while
others criticised them narrowly. "Ah! it's not for the like o' me,"
exclaimed one man, with the marks of many a tempest upon his brow.
"Take it away, it only adds to my sins." "What! the Mahogany Bar
opened on a Sunday!" objected a would-be wit, "No, no; we'd go there
to-night, but on Sunday----" And the speaker concluded his sentence
with a well-affected pretence at remonstrance.
The opening service was on Sunday. For the first time within the
"Mahogany Bar" Music Hall, God's praises were sung on February 24,
1877. Never before had the cry "Stand up, stand up for Jesus" rung
from its benches, and never before, perhaps, had the Spirit of God
descended in mighty power, breaking the hard heart, subduing the
rebellious will, and making light to shine even in the stronghold of
Satan. Most encouraging it was to find that, notwithstanding the
service had been only scantily advertised by posters, and by the bills
alluded to, the hall was at seven o'clock very fairly filled, and
filled, too, by those same individuals that the Rescue party had
addressed the night before. Such a congregation was rarely seen in
those early days. Seafaring men were there in scores; and the girls of
loose character they had brought with them--"the sailors' women," as
they were known, almost entirely composed the audience.
Mr. Charrington conducted, and Mr. J. Manton Smith preached.
Considering they were on their good behaviour, and evidently felt the
restraint of silence during the prayers to be irksome, the people were
much quieter than was expected. The sailors, however, sat with their
arms round the girls who accompanied them as if it were quite the
right thing to do--otherwise they remained quiet and listened most
attentively to the preacher.
Mr. Smith led the singing upon his silver cornet. In the course of the
service he also sang a solo. Often hearts are touched by holy music
when all else fails. His address was founded upon the words "Nothing
to pay," and it was delivered in language understood by the people, as
was really shown by the attention he gained.
Mr. Smith related an effective anecdote of five poor castaway
fishermen, who had lost their smack and were tossing about in a boat
without oars, upon a raging sea, and far from land. A vessel drew near
to them. The captain--who related the incident to him--sighted them.
He backed and made for them, but failed. Despairing cries ascended
from the forlorn; they thought they were to be left to their fate. He
backed again to the oarless boat, and gradually drew nearer. Upon the
vessel there was a stoker--a huge man of immense strength. As the
little boat rose upon the ocean and dashed against the vessel's side,
the stoker stretched forward, and just as it was receding, caught hold
of one of the poor fishermen and pulled him on board. He was saved in
an instant. "And," said Mr. Smith, "that's just how Jesus saved me."
Before the service was over, six sailors were observed to follow one
another out of the hall with the tears running down their cheeks, and
trembling with emotion. It was not long before other cases were made
apparent. God had sent down his Spirit as a witness that souls can be
saved even in the Tempter's sanctuary. One brave fellow went out of
the hall rejoicing in the possession of the pearl of great price which
he had that night found, but which in his wanderings all over the
world he had hitherto failed to discover.
Every day in the week, and on every Sunday, the work of rescue and of
salvation was continued without cessation. The light burned brighter
and brighter. Mr. Charrington and his friends indeed seemed to be
under the special guidance of the Holy Spirit. There was never the
slightest diminution of energy or force. The white-hot fervour was
maintained.
The young man who had given up an imperial fortune, who had renounced
a life of luxury, for the hardest asceticism and constant warfare,
never flagged for a moment.
One of his friends, who was associated with him at that time, said to
me a few days ago, "Mr. Charrington has always been as fearless as a
lion, both physically and morally. He would go, entirely unprotected,
into districts where policemen only went in twos and threes. He never
had any hesitation in speech. He was by no means a great orator, but
once 'wind him up' and he would go on for ever. Dogged determination
has always been characteristic of him in everything. He has an almost
bull-dog tenacity of purpose, and will of iron.
"I remember, as illustrating Mr. Charrington's physical fearlessness,
that one night a policeman had very foolishly gone alone into a low
public-house in a back slum with a most sinister reputation to arrest
two men. There was an immediate uproar, and a fight. Mr. Charrington
happened to be passing, on one of his errands of mercy, and saw what
was happening. He realised in a moment that the policeman had no
possible chance against the crowd of low characters in the
public-house. He dashed in and asked if the constable required help.
The man was being hard pressed, and reinforcement was indeed a godsend
to him. 'All right,' Charrington said, 'You take one prisoner and I
will take the other.' How Charrington and the policeman managed it, I
don't pretend to say, but they collared their men. There was a furious
fight, the women especially assaulting Mr. Charrington with great
violence, scratching, kicking, and beating him on the head with
umbrellas. The prisoners were eventually got outside, and other
policemen came to the rescue, but when Mr. Charrington turned up at
the hall he was hardly recognisable. His hat was smashed in, his
clothes were in tatters, and he was fearfully kicked and bruised.
"He would stick at nothing in the work he had set himself to do. In
his efforts in the cause of Temperance one of the greatest
difficulties he had to contend with was that the police of those days,
in the part of the East End where he worked, were themselves often
heavy drinkers. The majority of them had regular houses in the
neighbourhood where they would go and get drink when on duty.
"Mr. Charrington saw that it was essential that this should be
stopped. It struck at the whole root of his campaign, and he
determined that he would put an end to it if he could.
"One night he watched the doors of a certain public-house. He saw a
policeman come up to it, the door opened and a hand shot out with a
can of beer. He had already started a definite campaign against drink
being given to the police when on duty, and, at that moment, the
policeman, who was just about to drink, looked round and saw Mr.
Charrington, whom he recognised immediately. He dropped the can of
beer upon the pavement, took to his heels and ran as hard as he could
go. As an illustration of the tenacity and "downrightness" of
Charrington, I may tell you that he gave chase, and after an almost
interminable pursuit through dark and badly lighted streets, chaste
and sober living told, and he caught his man.
"The policeman was utterly cowed, and begged Mr. Charrington not to
report him.
"'Very well,' his captor answered, 'I won't report you if you will
give me your word of honour to come to the hall to-morrow and sign the
pledge.' The man replied, 'Well, sir, I am engaged to a very nice
young lady indeed. She has always been on at me to give up the drink.
And if you will let me off this time, I promise you faithfully that I
will come round in the morning and do as you wish.'
"The next morning the man kept his word. He signed the pledge, and,
what is more, never broke it. His whole life was changed from that
day, and he became a regular worshipper at Mr. Charrington's services.
And in connection with this side of Charrington's work--which resulted
in purifying the morals of the East End police--I should like you to
make a note of the fact that Mr. Charrington _never reported a
policeman_. From first to last this never happened. He went about his
work of reclamation and purifying in his own way. It was entirely a
case of individual discovery and remonstrance. He certainly visited
headquarters and complained about the police generally, while he drew
attention to the existing state of things in the Press. But never,
from first to last, did he mention any individual. Then as now, he was
always a thorough sportsman."