"If any one thinks that these verses are 'rot,'I'm the very last person to say they are not."
"If any one thinks that these verses are 'rot,'I'm the very last person to say they are not."
Despite Sir Wilfred's humbleness, I have no hesitation in saying that if the verses in question have no literary form, they nevertheless go straight to the point.
I will quote two of them."THE BREWER'S POWER.Who to the heathen far away,Send Christian men to preach and pray,And bring them to a brighter day?My Brewer.Who, when aloud the poor have cried,And poverty is raging wide,Has means of charity supplied?My Brewer.Who fills his pocket with the saleOf porter, beer, and generous ale,Which crowd the workhouse and the gaol?My Brewer.Who fills our slums with waifs and strays?Who havoc with our nation plays,And brings disgrace on all our ways?My Brewer.Who is it bosses all the show,As through this curious world we go,And dominates both high and low?My Brewer."And again,"THE BISHOP AND THE BREWERSaid the Bishop to the Brewer, 'Sir, I very greatly fear,From all that I have heard, that you adulterate your beer.Said the Brewer to the Bishop, 'Nay, that really is not true;Who told you such a story? I insist on knowing who.'But the Bishop he was silent as to what they put in beer,He didn't seem to have, in fact, the very least idea.For in all his great researches, both in pamphlet and in 'vol.,'It never really struck him that it must be alcohol.Sir William Gull has told us how the world by this is cursed,That alcohol of all bad things is just the very worst.But the Bishop—dear, good man!—he still has got a strong idea,That there's something very charming in the purity of beer.Oh! these Bishops and these Brewers, I really greatly fear,They will never, never solve this point about what's in the beer.But the land is full of sorrow, and there's little hope of cure,Unless these wise men hit upon a beer that's really 'pure.'Then let us set to work, boys, with heart, and hope, and cheer,And help them all we can to get 'The Purity of Beer.''Tis beer which keeps in comfort—as by every one is known,The Brewer in his mansion, and the Bishop on his throne.The British Constitution, and all we value here—Church, Army, Navy, Parliament—it's corner-stone is beer."
I will quote two of them.
"THE BREWER'S POWER.Who to the heathen far away,Send Christian men to preach and pray,And bring them to a brighter day?My Brewer.Who, when aloud the poor have cried,And poverty is raging wide,Has means of charity supplied?My Brewer.Who fills his pocket with the saleOf porter, beer, and generous ale,Which crowd the workhouse and the gaol?My Brewer.Who fills our slums with waifs and strays?Who havoc with our nation plays,And brings disgrace on all our ways?My Brewer.Who is it bosses all the show,As through this curious world we go,And dominates both high and low?My Brewer."
"THE BREWER'S POWER.Who to the heathen far away,Send Christian men to preach and pray,And bring them to a brighter day?My Brewer.
Who, when aloud the poor have cried,And poverty is raging wide,Has means of charity supplied?My Brewer.
Who fills his pocket with the saleOf porter, beer, and generous ale,Which crowd the workhouse and the gaol?My Brewer.
Who fills our slums with waifs and strays?Who havoc with our nation plays,And brings disgrace on all our ways?My Brewer.
Who is it bosses all the show,As through this curious world we go,And dominates both high and low?My Brewer."
And again,
"THE BISHOP AND THE BREWERSaid the Bishop to the Brewer, 'Sir, I very greatly fear,From all that I have heard, that you adulterate your beer.Said the Brewer to the Bishop, 'Nay, that really is not true;Who told you such a story? I insist on knowing who.'But the Bishop he was silent as to what they put in beer,He didn't seem to have, in fact, the very least idea.For in all his great researches, both in pamphlet and in 'vol.,'It never really struck him that it must be alcohol.Sir William Gull has told us how the world by this is cursed,That alcohol of all bad things is just the very worst.But the Bishop—dear, good man!—he still has got a strong idea,That there's something very charming in the purity of beer.Oh! these Bishops and these Brewers, I really greatly fear,They will never, never solve this point about what's in the beer.But the land is full of sorrow, and there's little hope of cure,Unless these wise men hit upon a beer that's really 'pure.'Then let us set to work, boys, with heart, and hope, and cheer,And help them all we can to get 'The Purity of Beer.''Tis beer which keeps in comfort—as by every one is known,The Brewer in his mansion, and the Bishop on his throne.The British Constitution, and all we value here—Church, Army, Navy, Parliament—it's corner-stone is beer."
"THE BISHOP AND THE BREWERSaid the Bishop to the Brewer, 'Sir, I very greatly fear,From all that I have heard, that you adulterate your beer.
Said the Brewer to the Bishop, 'Nay, that really is not true;Who told you such a story? I insist on knowing who.'
But the Bishop he was silent as to what they put in beer,He didn't seem to have, in fact, the very least idea.
For in all his great researches, both in pamphlet and in 'vol.,'It never really struck him that it must be alcohol.
Sir William Gull has told us how the world by this is cursed,That alcohol of all bad things is just the very worst.
But the Bishop—dear, good man!—he still has got a strong idea,That there's something very charming in the purity of beer.
Oh! these Bishops and these Brewers, I really greatly fear,They will never, never solve this point about what's in the beer.
But the land is full of sorrow, and there's little hope of cure,Unless these wise men hit upon a beer that's really 'pure.'
Then let us set to work, boys, with heart, and hope, and cheer,And help them all we can to get 'The Purity of Beer.'
'Tis beer which keeps in comfort—as by every one is known,The Brewer in his mansion, and the Bishop on his throne.
The British Constitution, and all we value here—Church, Army, Navy, Parliament—it's corner-stone is beer."
The brewer, because he amasses a large fortune out of beer, is ennobled.
The ex-brewer—Frederick Charrington, for instance—who gives up an enormous sum for conscience' sake, and an enormous sum again made from beer, remains unhonoured, save by the love and adherence of his own people in the East End. If Frederick Charrington had mixed up an active political propaganda with his Christian work, by now he would have received a baronetcy or at least a knighthood. If he had been merely a paid secretary of some philanthropic organisation, he might yet have been knighted—as more than one recent ennoblement shows. But because he gave up everything, and worked for his Master, without pandering to this or that political party—though in politics he is a Liberal—theaccoladehas never come in his way. From his own point of view I know such an honour would count as nothing. It is for other, and unworldly honours, that he has lived his life. But, as a recognition of his self-sacrifice and devotion, surely some public acknowledgment from the throne would be a very proper thing?
The poor people are not snobbish. It matters nothing to Mr. Charrington's million or so of humble friends whether he is "Mr." or "Sir." But—and of this fact I am thoroughly persuaded—they would regard any honour which His Majesty might be pleased to confer upon him as not only well-merited,but in some sort a fitting recompense for a life of work and devotion almost unequalled in the annals of our time.
I will conclude this chapter of special reference to temperance work by quoting a poem dealing directly with Frederick Charrington, and which has had a very considerable success.
I take it from theGordon League Ballads, written by "Jim's Wife," who in reality is Mrs. Clement Nugent Jackson. The book is entitledMore Gordon League Ballads, and was published by Skeffington & Son last year.
The first series of these ballads sold in many thousands, and as dramatic stories in verse for reading or reciting at temperance meetings, they can hardly be surpassed. Nearly all of them are founded on fact, as is "A Brave Man," which I give below.
I make no apology for the inclusion of this verse. It is thoroughly representative of what is publicly thought about Frederick Charrington by his innumerable friends and admirers.
A BRAVE MAN
Brave men—I say it humble,Are common on English ground;Common as spires and chimneysWhenever you walk around;But the man of whom I'm thinking was brave with a bravery rare—Ah! a hundred times rarer than rubies—in England or anywhere.I am thinking of a Brewer.This may take you by surprise!But the tale has fact to rest on,And is not a pack of lies.He was rolling rich and generous—generous to every one.A Brewer and a Gentleman, John Sidney Donaldson.He sent big cheques to Hospitals,And for Children's Holidays,And to Unemployed Relief Funds,And Homes for Waifs and Strays.He was kind to all poor people and meant to do 'em good!Though he knew but precious little about the neighbourhoodIn which the greatest number of his licensed houses stood!'Twas the poorest part of London,Drink-riddled through and through,But his agents worked the business,And all John Donaldson knewWas how it looked on paperAnd the dividends he drew.He was Member for a County that was like a garden ground,For blossom and for beauty and for orchards smiling round.And you always found him willing,To open his Manor gatesFor Band of Hope rejoicings,And Sports, and Temperance Fêtes.When Parliament was sitting,It happened, one spring day,He visited his brewery.And strolling up that way—Alone, and sort of curious to see what he would meet—As he passed a gorgeous public, gilded and tiled complete,He saw a tipsy woman flung out into the street.The man who flung her savage,Went back inside the place;She fell upon the curb-stoneAnd cut her head and face.And she wasn't more than thirty. 'I'll give that man in charge!Says John Donaldson a-blazing, for his heart was big and large,Too large to hurt a woman—And then he went acrossTo lift the tipsy creature,And I've heard him say—a ForceLike twenty batteries struck him, and made his eyes see fire!For painted on the house-front was—Donaldson's Entire!He looked up at the sign-board.The house was his own tied house.A new one—not long opened—And called 'The Running Grouse.'He'd meant to call that man out. He'd meant to make a row.And send for a policeman—but he couldn't do it now.Something rose up and held him. The crowd that ran to stare,Said the woman's home was handy, so he helped to take her there,And a wretched hole he found it!...A man was up the stairs,Trying to cook his dinner,And give five children theirs.Just home from his work—poor devilHe looked up with a frownWhen he saw what they were bringing—'Ah!' he says, 'Chuck 'er down.If you'd brought 'er in 'er coffingI'd 'ave tipped yer 'arf-a-crown.''Your wife is hurt and bleeding,'John Sidney Donaldson said.'My wife,' groans the husband bitter,'I wish she was yourn instead!'And he picks up his yelling baby,And crams its mouth with bread.'Tain't the fust time she's a-bleedin'. 'Ere's a 'appy 'ome,' says he.'That's the mother of my childring! an' she don't get drunk on tea!Bright and 'appy, ain't we, guv'nor?I dunno who you are,But "The Running Grouse" 'ave done it—With its dirty Private Bar!'He shook his fist out of the window—'We don't want it 'ere.My wife was a sober woman, and it's ruined her in a year!A curse on the 'ouse, an' the landlord!An' I'll say it till I'm dead....'
Brave men—I say it humble,Are common on English ground;Common as spires and chimneysWhenever you walk around;But the man of whom I'm thinking was brave with a bravery rare—Ah! a hundred times rarer than rubies—in England or anywhere.I am thinking of a Brewer.This may take you by surprise!But the tale has fact to rest on,And is not a pack of lies.He was rolling rich and generous—generous to every one.A Brewer and a Gentleman, John Sidney Donaldson.
He sent big cheques to Hospitals,And for Children's Holidays,And to Unemployed Relief Funds,And Homes for Waifs and Strays.He was kind to all poor people and meant to do 'em good!Though he knew but precious little about the neighbourhoodIn which the greatest number of his licensed houses stood!'Twas the poorest part of London,Drink-riddled through and through,But his agents worked the business,And all John Donaldson knewWas how it looked on paperAnd the dividends he drew.He was Member for a County that was like a garden ground,For blossom and for beauty and for orchards smiling round.And you always found him willing,To open his Manor gatesFor Band of Hope rejoicings,And Sports, and Temperance Fêtes.
When Parliament was sitting,It happened, one spring day,He visited his brewery.And strolling up that way—Alone, and sort of curious to see what he would meet—As he passed a gorgeous public, gilded and tiled complete,He saw a tipsy woman flung out into the street.The man who flung her savage,Went back inside the place;She fell upon the curb-stoneAnd cut her head and face.And she wasn't more than thirty. 'I'll give that man in charge!Says John Donaldson a-blazing, for his heart was big and large,Too large to hurt a woman—And then he went acrossTo lift the tipsy creature,And I've heard him say—a ForceLike twenty batteries struck him, and made his eyes see fire!For painted on the house-front was—Donaldson's Entire!He looked up at the sign-board.The house was his own tied house.A new one—not long opened—And called 'The Running Grouse.'He'd meant to call that man out. He'd meant to make a row.And send for a policeman—but he couldn't do it now.Something rose up and held him. The crowd that ran to stare,Said the woman's home was handy, so he helped to take her there,
And a wretched hole he found it!...A man was up the stairs,Trying to cook his dinner,And give five children theirs.Just home from his work—poor devilHe looked up with a frownWhen he saw what they were bringing—'Ah!' he says, 'Chuck 'er down.If you'd brought 'er in 'er coffingI'd 'ave tipped yer 'arf-a-crown.'
'Your wife is hurt and bleeding,'John Sidney Donaldson said.'My wife,' groans the husband bitter,'I wish she was yourn instead!'And he picks up his yelling baby,And crams its mouth with bread.'Tain't the fust time she's a-bleedin'. 'Ere's a 'appy 'ome,' says he.'That's the mother of my childring! an' she don't get drunk on tea!Bright and 'appy, ain't we, guv'nor?I dunno who you are,But "The Running Grouse" 'ave done it—With its dirty Private Bar!'He shook his fist out of the window—'We don't want it 'ere.My wife was a sober woman, and it's ruined her in a year!A curse on the 'ouse, an' the landlord!An' I'll say it till I'm dead....'
. . . .
John Donaldson gave him a sovereign,And went out with a hanging head.
John Donaldson gave him a sovereign,And went out with a hanging head.
. . . .
He haunted that part of LondonFor three whole months and more;And he saw what Brewers seldom see,What he'd never faced before.He saw the truth stark naked—not glossed or veiled or hid,He saw with his own eye open that harm that his own beer did.He saw for himself—John Sidney,Wherever his Houses stood,A Force that worked for evil,That did not work for good.He saw—he was bound to see it—in the slums the drink-shops made,Christ's flag torn down and trampled by the brute heel of the Trade.He saw, laid bare as murderDone in the broad daylight,The base and ceaseless temptingThat goes on day and night.The tempting of men and women already weak in will,And poor enough in pocket, to be poorer and weaker still.'We didn't want it 'ere!'... No!And they didn't want it there!Yet here it was, and there it was,For ever! Everywhere!The Tied House in the open,The Hidden Drinking lair,The Spirit Vault, the Cellars, the Private Bar and seat,Calling from every corner and tempting from every street!The cries, the blows, the curses,Entered into his ears.He saw his golden profitsBlackened with blood and tears.He saw—as angels see them—the facts of what has grownThe saddest money-making the world has ever known.And when he'd seen it fairly,He didn't turn and run!In a hurry to forget it!As many would have done.He wasn't built that way,John Sidney Donaldson.He took and thought for over half a year.And then he made his mind up—steady and firm and clear—To sacrifice his fortune and say good-bye to Beer!'You're a fool,' said brother Brewers.'And mad!' said the world outside.'I've seen ...and I can't unsee it,'John Donaldson replied.'There are other ways of business that are happier ways and higher,And I won't make another shilling out ofDonaldson's Entire!'
He haunted that part of LondonFor three whole months and more;And he saw what Brewers seldom see,What he'd never faced before.He saw the truth stark naked—not glossed or veiled or hid,He saw with his own eye open that harm that his own beer did.
He saw for himself—John Sidney,Wherever his Houses stood,A Force that worked for evil,That did not work for good.
He saw—he was bound to see it—in the slums the drink-shops made,Christ's flag torn down and trampled by the brute heel of the Trade.He saw, laid bare as murderDone in the broad daylight,The base and ceaseless temptingThat goes on day and night.The tempting of men and women already weak in will,And poor enough in pocket, to be poorer and weaker still.
'We didn't want it 'ere!'... No!And they didn't want it there!Yet here it was, and there it was,For ever! Everywhere!The Tied House in the open,The Hidden Drinking lair,The Spirit Vault, the Cellars, the Private Bar and seat,Calling from every corner and tempting from every street!
The cries, the blows, the curses,Entered into his ears.He saw his golden profitsBlackened with blood and tears.He saw—as angels see them—the facts of what has grownThe saddest money-making the world has ever known.And when he'd seen it fairly,He didn't turn and run!In a hurry to forget it!As many would have done.He wasn't built that way,John Sidney Donaldson.He took and thought for over half a year.And then he made his mind up—steady and firm and clear—To sacrifice his fortune and say good-bye to Beer!
'You're a fool,' said brother Brewers.'And mad!' said the world outside.'I've seen ...and I can't unsee it,'John Donaldson replied.'There are other ways of business that are happier ways and higher,And I won't make another shilling out ofDonaldson's Entire!'
. . . .
I don't say he turned pauperAnd slept upon the boards!But instead of a man with millionsHeading straight for the House of Lords,He dropped to a man with hundreds—just heading for nothing at allBut the prize that falls to the conscience which has answered a noble call.He is living now in London,Careless of blame or praise.Working to help the PeopleIn a hundred splendid ways.Pledged to the cause of TemperanceTo the ending of his days.What he did may be forgotten, or labelled a mistake!But the sacrifice of riches is a mighty one to make.I'm proud of this little Island that gave John Donaldson birthAnd I place him right in the forefront of the bravest men on earth!"
I don't say he turned pauperAnd slept upon the boards!But instead of a man with millionsHeading straight for the House of Lords,
He dropped to a man with hundreds—just heading for nothing at allBut the prize that falls to the conscience which has answered a noble call.He is living now in London,Careless of blame or praise.Working to help the PeopleIn a hundred splendid ways.Pledged to the cause of TemperanceTo the ending of his days.What he did may be forgotten, or labelled a mistake!But the sacrifice of riches is a mighty one to make.I'm proud of this little Island that gave John Donaldson birthAnd I place him right in the forefront of the bravest men on earth!"
Since I am quoting a few verses in this chapter, I may perhaps give, as a final specimen, a few sternly vigorous lines which were handed to me by my friend the other day. They express, he told me, his whole sentiments upon the drink question in a nut-shell. They are not in the least my own, but that is not the point—their interest lies in the fact that they represent Frederick Charrington's unalterable convictions in a succinct form.
"LICENSED—TO DO WHAT?Licensedto makethe strong man weak;Licensedto laythe wise man low;Licensed a wife's fond heartto break,Andmakeher children's tears to flow.Licensedto dothy neighbour harm;Licensedto kindlehate and strife;Licensedto nervethe robber's arm;Licensedto whetthe murderer's knife.Licensed thy neighbour's purseto drain,Androbhim of his very last;Licensedto heathis feverish brain,Till madness crownthywork at last.Licensed, like a spider for a fly,To spreadthy nets for man,thyprey;To mockhis struggles—suck himdry,Then cast the worthless hulk away.Licensed, where peace and quiet dwell,To bringdisease, and want, and woe;Licensedto make this world a hell,Andfitman for a hell below."
"LICENSED—TO DO WHAT?Licensedto makethe strong man weak;Licensedto laythe wise man low;Licensed a wife's fond heartto break,Andmakeher children's tears to flow.Licensedto dothy neighbour harm;Licensedto kindlehate and strife;Licensedto nervethe robber's arm;Licensedto whetthe murderer's knife.Licensed thy neighbour's purseto drain,Androbhim of his very last;Licensedto heathis feverish brain,Till madness crownthywork at last.Licensed, like a spider for a fly,To spreadthy nets for man,thyprey;To mockhis struggles—suck himdry,Then cast the worthless hulk away.
Licensed, where peace and quiet dwell,To bringdisease, and want, and woe;Licensedto make this world a hell,Andfitman for a hell below."
. . . .
"Call up the dead from their cold, cold gravesAnd summon up memory's link,And see if human tongue can tell,The millions damned through drink."
"Call up the dead from their cold, cold gravesAnd summon up memory's link,And see if human tongue can tell,The millions damned through drink."
To sum up and crystallise his great temperance efforts, Mr. Charrington has invented a concrete symbol of them. The initials B.R.O.T.A. stand for "The Blue Ring of Total Abstinence," which is entirely Mr. Charrington's idea, and serves as a badge that unites abstainers throughout the whole world.
This ring is made of metal and blue enamel, bearing the aforesaid initials. It can be had in cheap metal, while for richer people it is manufactured in gold set with diamonds. In itself it is a beautiful and decorative thing. As a symbol, as a cementing of the great brotherhood of abstainers formed by Mr. Charrington, it is unique. Mr. Charrington invariably wears one of these rings himself, and from the farthest parts of the world applications for them are daily received.
We now pass to the final chapter of this book, where we see Frederick Charrington in an entirely new setting.
You have seen the subject of this memoir under very many changing circumstances, the central figure in one lurid scene after another, but there is a side to Frederick Charrington's life as strangely contrasted as possible to nearly all I have hitherto written.
My readers will not have accompanied me so far without realising that in Mr. Charrington is an unique personality. No one has done what he has done, and the originality of temperament has always been curiously aided and abetted by originality and strangeness of circumstance. I venture to think that this chapter illustrates not the least interesting of the great missioner's activities. Certainly he again appears against a background without parallel in English life to-day.
A few years ago—many people will remember it—the press of Great Britain was full of articles upon Osea Island.
Mr. Charrington, it was announced, had purchased this island, lock, stock, and barrel, and was about to develop it as a seaside and health resort, while at the same time carrying out the great temperance scheme.
The whole of the island was to be let or sold under express conditions that no license of any kindwhatever would be permitted, or clubs for the sale of intoxicating drink.
Osea was to be, in short, a Temperance Island, and as such was to stand alone in the United Kingdom.
The announcements which appeared at the time of which I am speaking created an extraordinary amount of interest.
THE PIER, OSEA ISLANTHE PIER, OSEA ISLAND, WITH MR. CHARRINGTON'S STEAMER, THE "ANNIE," APPROACHING
THE SALTINGS, OSEA ISLANDTHE SALTINGS, OSEA ISLAND[To face p. 240
TheSpectatorsaid—
"Mr. F. N. Charrington is about to try a most interesting experiment—the effect of total prohibition under fair conditions. He has purchased the well-wooded island of Osea, on the coast of Essex, and intends to turn it into a seaside resort in which the manufacture, sale, and consumption of alcohol will be absolutely prohibited. No license of any kind will be granted, and stringent conditions as to intoxicants will be inserted in all the leases. The island, in fact, will be a large sanatorium conducted on strict temperance principles, and will, it is probable, be in the first place a resort for the great number of persons who wish to break themselves finally of the habit of excess in drinking. The evidence which will gradually accumulate will, we hope, be sifted with much care, and will help to settle three disputed points. Will total abstinence for a time eradicate the desire for drink?—a question upon which the evidence of prisoners is by no means hopeful. Does total abstinence develop, as many affirm, a tendency to the use of drugs such as opium and ether?—a doubt suggested by the mass of experience acquired in the East. Has total abstinence any effect in diminishing working energy? Teetotalers declare with onevoice that this question is already answered in the negative; but none of the Northern races as yet show themselves convinced, though there is an approach to the conviction manifest in Canada."
Nearly every paper of any importance in the kingdom devoted considerable space to Mr. Charrington's new scheme.
Near New York there is another island where no intoxicants can be obtained, and it was hearing of this that first gave Mr. Charrington his idea as to the purchase of Osea.
The thought of a drink-barred domain arose in his mind as a logical outcome of his forty years experience in dealing with the miseries and vices of the poor in East London. The work for temperance naturally brought Mr. Charrington into contact with all sorts and conditions of people, and it was not only the slaves of the fiend alcohol in the lower classes—he saw many members of the upper classes going down to their destruction no less surely than their poorer brethren.
He made inquiries, and thought over the whole problem with sustained and earnest attention.
He found that while there were several sanatoria for well-to-do inebriates scattered up and down the country, yet, in nearly every case, such retreats were in proximity to the public-house. No one knew better than he to what lengths the inebriate will go when the craving is upon him, and he found that the unhappy victims who were confined in grounds often very limited in extent would either cunningly or violently break away and secure alcohol.
It was then, while meditating upon the bestmethods to adopt in rescuing inebriates, that Mr. Charrington noticed a report of the fact that a New York temperance society had purchased an island for a retreat or a sanatorium. Here, it seemed to him, was a thoroughly admirable solution of the problem. Proprietorship of an island precluded the incoming of drink across the silver streak of sea, and at the same time, the domain was large enough in extent to make living upon it perfectly pleasant and without any sense of confinement.
One cannot, however, go to Whiteley's and order an island, and there was still the problem of finding one which should be suitable for the purpose. It was solved at last by the purchase of Osea.
Nothing could have been more convenient. The island is arealisland. It is always surrounded by deep water on three sides, while on the other the mainland is reached by a road called "The Hard" about a mile long, and only uncovered at low tide.
Shortly after the acquisition of Osea Mr. Charrington stated his plans to an interviewer. How these plans have been extended I shall proceed to say, but meanwhile it is interesting to read the proprietor's views at the time, when the island had only just become his own.
The interviewer ofHousehold Wordswrote—
"I had noted in a contemporary: 'Mr. Charrington has long been a power in the East End, where his name is a household word,' and I thought it would be in the eternal fitness of things if I interviewed him forHousehold Words. As Honorary Superintendent of the Tower Hamlets Mission he is naturally a very busy man, and as soon as hecould give me a few moments I put the question to him—"'What is the main idea of this new scheme of yours of a teetotal island?'"'It is not altogether new,' was the reply, 'for the same idea has been carried out on various properties owned by temperance landowners of not allowing drink licenses on any part of their property, as is the case with the Corbett estates; but the good work has been rendered ineffectual by drink being obtainable on adjoining property.'"'Drink would not be obtainable in inebriate homes,' I suggested."'Inebriate homes situated in ordinary neighbourhoods experience the same difficulty,' he exclaimed. 'Inmates afflicted with the accursed craving will scale high walls and walk miles to obtain drink. You would not credit the trouble they would take, the fatigue they would undergo, and the risks to life and limb they would run to procure alcohol. It is only a man who has spent a lifetime in a practical study of the question who can realise its difficulties.'"'And you anticipate much good from the acquisition of Osea?'"'In many ways, yes. As a retreat for those whose removal from all chance of temptation is a necessity it will be perfect. Instead of being confined within four walls, like being in a prison, they will be able to roam at large for four miles. Already I have had applications from persons wishing to buy building plots for inebriate homes, convalescent homes, and from one lady M.D., who desires to erect a house for her patients suffering from nerve trouble, and to whom the quiet will be invaluable.'"'Will it be populated entirely by invalids and inebriates?'"'Oh, dear, no! Yachting men have appliedfor sites for bungalows, and can have them on agreeing to the non-intoxicant clause. It will be a very delightful temperance seaside resort. The island is well wooded, with high elms running in single lines north and south and east and west, the trees being in centre of avenues, and by planting young trees on either side we shall get double avenues, as in Chicago and Berlin.'"'Have you commenced to build yet?'"'Only workmen's cottages for the builders' men to live in, and these will be picturesque, half-timbered dwellings, similar to those in the city of Chester.'"'And you anticipate a commercial success for your philanthropic investment?'"'Most decidedly. Since I acquired Osea at a remarkably moderate cost, I have seen two other islands offered for sale for the same purpose, one near Tenby, and one in Scotland, at £28,000 and £18,000 respectively, which figures are a great contrast to mine, and Osea has the great attraction of being the nearest seaside resort to London.'"'How do you reach it?'"'By Great Eastern Railway to Maldon in Essex, and thence by a steamer which has been purchased, which now runs twice a day, the distance being only five miles.'"'And Osea is not a desert island?'"'It never has been since the Conquest. In the Doomsday Survey Book (1086) there had always previously been on the island three serfs, one fisherman, and pasture for sixty sheep. If needed there would be room for 10,000 people. Osea has many natural attractions. It abounds with most curious marine plants and shrubs, and is so wild that some of the sea-gulls, the tuke, the stone-runner, and the bar-goose have taken to breeding on the shore.'"To be able to enjoy life on an island withinforty miles of the metropolis, including sea-bathing, fishing and shooting, has the wonderful charm of novelty, to say nothing of its freedom from the pandemonium created by drinking trippers. This of itself ought to draw all London holiday-makers, and we wish Mr. Charrington success in his noble efforts to promote temperance amongst the people, and trust he may have the gratification of seeing his most sanguine hopes realised and his self-sacrificing labours truly and thoroughly appreciated."
"I had noted in a contemporary: 'Mr. Charrington has long been a power in the East End, where his name is a household word,' and I thought it would be in the eternal fitness of things if I interviewed him forHousehold Words. As Honorary Superintendent of the Tower Hamlets Mission he is naturally a very busy man, and as soon as hecould give me a few moments I put the question to him—
"'What is the main idea of this new scheme of yours of a teetotal island?'
"'It is not altogether new,' was the reply, 'for the same idea has been carried out on various properties owned by temperance landowners of not allowing drink licenses on any part of their property, as is the case with the Corbett estates; but the good work has been rendered ineffectual by drink being obtainable on adjoining property.'
"'Drink would not be obtainable in inebriate homes,' I suggested.
"'Inebriate homes situated in ordinary neighbourhoods experience the same difficulty,' he exclaimed. 'Inmates afflicted with the accursed craving will scale high walls and walk miles to obtain drink. You would not credit the trouble they would take, the fatigue they would undergo, and the risks to life and limb they would run to procure alcohol. It is only a man who has spent a lifetime in a practical study of the question who can realise its difficulties.'
"'And you anticipate much good from the acquisition of Osea?'
"'In many ways, yes. As a retreat for those whose removal from all chance of temptation is a necessity it will be perfect. Instead of being confined within four walls, like being in a prison, they will be able to roam at large for four miles. Already I have had applications from persons wishing to buy building plots for inebriate homes, convalescent homes, and from one lady M.D., who desires to erect a house for her patients suffering from nerve trouble, and to whom the quiet will be invaluable.'
"'Will it be populated entirely by invalids and inebriates?'
"'Oh, dear, no! Yachting men have appliedfor sites for bungalows, and can have them on agreeing to the non-intoxicant clause. It will be a very delightful temperance seaside resort. The island is well wooded, with high elms running in single lines north and south and east and west, the trees being in centre of avenues, and by planting young trees on either side we shall get double avenues, as in Chicago and Berlin.'
"'Have you commenced to build yet?'
"'Only workmen's cottages for the builders' men to live in, and these will be picturesque, half-timbered dwellings, similar to those in the city of Chester.'
"'And you anticipate a commercial success for your philanthropic investment?'
"'Most decidedly. Since I acquired Osea at a remarkably moderate cost, I have seen two other islands offered for sale for the same purpose, one near Tenby, and one in Scotland, at £28,000 and £18,000 respectively, which figures are a great contrast to mine, and Osea has the great attraction of being the nearest seaside resort to London.'
"'How do you reach it?'
"'By Great Eastern Railway to Maldon in Essex, and thence by a steamer which has been purchased, which now runs twice a day, the distance being only five miles.'
"'And Osea is not a desert island?'
"'It never has been since the Conquest. In the Doomsday Survey Book (1086) there had always previously been on the island three serfs, one fisherman, and pasture for sixty sheep. If needed there would be room for 10,000 people. Osea has many natural attractions. It abounds with most curious marine plants and shrubs, and is so wild that some of the sea-gulls, the tuke, the stone-runner, and the bar-goose have taken to breeding on the shore.'
"To be able to enjoy life on an island withinforty miles of the metropolis, including sea-bathing, fishing and shooting, has the wonderful charm of novelty, to say nothing of its freedom from the pandemonium created by drinking trippers. This of itself ought to draw all London holiday-makers, and we wish Mr. Charrington success in his noble efforts to promote temperance amongst the people, and trust he may have the gratification of seeing his most sanguine hopes realised and his self-sacrificing labours truly and thoroughly appreciated."
In a book such as this, which purports to be a comprehensive history of Frederick Charrington's life, and which will be the only lengthy biography of him ever written with his sanction, it is necessary that I should give some account of the island with which his name will always be associated.
I propose, in the first instance, to tell the history of the island from the very earliest times, and afterwards to describe it in detail and to say something of my life with Mr. Charrington there. It may have struck some of my readers that up to the present I have said little or nothing about the great evangelist's personality. When I began this book I decided to leave this intimate part of the biography to the very last chapter. I designed to draw a pen picture of the man as he is to-day, as he lives upon the island which is his home among the simple things of nature.
In the first place, to the history of Osea. This has been compiled by his friend Mr. Rupert Scott for an excellent little publication issued by Messrs. Partridge, which is in itself a complete guide to the island.
Mr. Scott tells us that before the Norman Conquestthe name of this jewel of the Blackwater was Uvesia, and later Ovesey or Osey.
"During the reign of Edward the Confessor (1042-1066) it was owned by one Turbert, who was Lord of the district.
"At the time of the Norman Conquest it was in the possession of one Hamo Dapifer, nephew to William the Conqueror. He held it as a manor, and four hides of land, and there resided on it one bordar or resident. According to the Doomsday survey book (1086), there had always previously been on the island three serfs, one fisherman, and pasture for sixty sheep, and at the time of the survey belonged to the Bouchier family, afterwards created Earls of Essex; and was included in the Capital Manor, or Parish of Great Totham.
"During the reign of Henry II (1154-1189), it was held by Henry Malache, from the king, as one knight's fee. This is found in a MS. of the time of Henry VIII, viz.: 'Totham Magne cum Ovesem, alias Ovesey.' It is not known how this Henry Malache was related to the Bouchier family.
"In the reign of Edward II (1315), the Island of Osea was owned by Gilbart de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, and then came into the possession of Bartholomew de Bouchier and his wife, who retained it from 1410-1411 under Henry VI.
"Its next owner was Sir Hugh Stafford, who married Elizabeth, daughter of Bartholomew, Lord Bouchier, who died in 1420, and was held 'by him as the Manor of Oveseye from King Henry V, as the Honor of Bologne, by the service of half a knight's fee.'
"The island next came into the hands of oneLudovic Robbesart, and Elizabeth his wife, in 1431, during the reign of Henry V, and upon their death for the following two years was held by Anne, widow of the Earl of March.
"The next possessor of Ovesey Island was Henry Bouchier, created first Earl of Essex, and he held the manor of Totham-Oveseye from King Edward VI, and died in 1483.
"He was followed by Anne Bouchier, Marchioness of Northampton, who brought the island to her husband under the title of 'Manor or Isle of Ovesey, with free fishery, free warren, and wrec of the sea.' She died in 1570, during Queen Elizabeth's reign. Her husband forfeited his estates for espousing the cause of Lady Jane Grey, but this Manor of Ovesey was returned to him by a letter patent from the Queen dated August 8, 1558, for his maintenance.
"On the death of the above Anne Bouchier, Marchioness of Northampton, this manor descended to the heir-at-law, one Walter Devereux, who was the first Earl of Essex of that name; but in order to carry on his warfare in Ireland he mortgaged and sold his estates in Essex, including 'Ovesey Island,' which was purchased by a Mr. Thomas Wiseman, of Great Waltham, as, or 'in the name of one tenement, isle, or land surrounded with water in Great Totham' and called 'Awsey,' otherwise 'Ovesey.' Mr. Wiseman held it of Queen Elizabeth by a Knight's service. He died July 15, 1584, without issue.
"It then came into the possession of his two sisters, Elizabeth, wife of Richard Jennings, and Dorothy Wiseman.
"Osea Island was purchased by a Mr. Charles Coe, of Maldon, but it is not known from whom, and it was still owned by him at the time of his death in 1786, and afterwards was conveyed to the Pigott family, who were evidently related to him, because on the south wall of St. Peter's Church at Maldon there is a mural monument to 'John Coe Pigott,' and dated March, 1802.
"The next owner of the island known was Mrs. Pigott, who married Henry Coape, and was succeeded by his son, Henry Coe Coape, who, through troubles, had to make it over to his brother."
Few spots of only a comparatively small acreage have so well-defined and localised a history as this, and the knowledge of what Osea was, no less than what it is, adds a unique interest to Mr. Charrington's possession.
I arrived at Osea Island, where nearly the whole of this book has been written, upon a bright afternoon in June. The run from Liverpool Street to Maldon is quite a short one, and on descending from the train at the little old-world Essex station, it was difficult to believe that the island of which I had heard so much, and on which, as it has turned out, I was to spend so many happy days, was really within reach.
I drove through Maldon, and came out into an ordinary country road fringed with dust-powdered hedges and high trees. It was ordinary enough, and if any country lane upon a June afternoon can be lacking in the picturesque, the lanes through which I was driven were so. It was all rather flatand monotonous, and the sense of anticipation was a little dulled.
After a drive of about two and a half miles, however, the coachman of my carriage turned to me, and pointing with his whip, said, "That is Osea."
I craned my neck forward, but could see nothing but a distant clump of what were evidently very large trees, cutting into the horizon in a silhouette of dark green. There seemed to be no trace of island whatever, and even when I stood up in the carriage I could see nothing but an adjacent sea-wall, and the red sails of some great sea-going barge, moving, apparently, among the corn-fields.
The suggestion was curiously Dutch, and reminded me of a journey I once made down the great ship canal which runs from Holland to Ghent. A few minutes afterwards the carriage took a sharp turn to the right. The fields changed their character. Coarse pasture-land took the place of corn, and we were running upon a well-kept road bordered by wire fences, which seemed to lead directly to the estuary itself. And then, in a moment more, I got what was my first real glimpse of Osea. The carriage climbed a gentle eminence, and there, spread below me, for the first time I saw the wide salt marshes and the long, curving ribbon of road, submerged twelve hours in the day under fifteen feet of water, which is the only approach to Osea by land.
Beyond was the Island.
One saw at once, and this was the first and prevailing impression, that this was a real island. On either side beyond it was a stretch of gleamingsea, the Island forming the centre of the picture. Just below the road proper ended, and what is locally known as "The Hard" took its place.
The horse began to go more slowly, and in forty seconds we had left all cultivated lands behind and were travelling at a slow trot upon one of the most curious and interesting highways—for "The Hard" can claim to be that—in England.
It was dead low water, but this strange roadway was still covered here and there with little marine pools through which the horse—well accustomed to the journey—ploughed his way manfully. A long row of stakes, at an interval of every ten or twelve feet or so, showed the course of the road, and separated its firmness from the vast expanses of mud on either side. The stakes were all hung with brilliantly-coloured sea-weed, and decorated with arabesques of barnacles. Everywhere, here and there, were sullen tidal creeks, or rather lakes in the mud, which the receding tide had still left full of water. The word "mud" is an unpleasant one, and it suggests something very different from what I saw. Even the more technical and correct phrase, "saltings," hardly gives a reader who has not seen this peculiar and interesting feature of our English landscape, any adequate idea of the scene.
I have already spoken of the long stretches of water, now touched to red and gold by the rays of the afternoon sun, but all round them the whole of the "mud" was covered with the marsh zostera, or widgeon-weed, in every variety of delicate greens and yellows. It looked firm enough to the eye, and yet I knew well that a few steps away from the good, firm passage of "The Hard"would mean frightful danger. Once in the mud a man would sink well up to his waist. He would sink no farther, probably, for the saltings are not quicksands, but he would be held in a grip as firm as steel, and, unless rescued, would remain until the "cruel, crawling foam" crept up and engulfed him.
As we covered the first few hundred yards of the last stage of our journey I realised with a thrill that we had indeed left the confines of ordinary landscape, usual experience, very far behind. The plovers were circling and calling all around us with their slow, graceful flight, a colour symphony in dark black-green with flashes of white. Everywhere they called to each other with their melancholy voices and seemed quite unafraid of man. I could have shot half-a-dozen in the first three hundred yards from the carriage, had I been bent on slaughter.
The strange calls of the marsh-birds—not strange to me, however, who had spent many winters wild-fowling in various parts of the United Kingdom—were heard on either side. With flute-like tremolo the red-shanks—dove-coloured and white—pirouetted in quartettes over the marsh. I saw at least two varieties of the rarer gulls, and then, greatest excitement of all, not a hundred and fifty yards away stood three great herons, full three feet tall, standing like sable sentinels against the green.
And now, at last, we were actually a few yards from the island itself. A well-made road, bordered on one side by a sea-wall, grown over with thick grass and brilliant with wild flowers, ran inland.Upon the other side were smiling cornfields, and everywhere among the fields rose great elms.
From where the sea-road touches the Island, up to Mr. Charrington's home, the "Manor House," is exactly a chain mile. After the fields, the road turns sharply to the right, and proceeds along a fine avenue of shady trees until the "village" is reached.
For several years in succession parties of the Unemployed have been sent to Osea by the Mansion House Committee, theDaily Telegraphfund, and other agencies, and it is partly by means of their work that roads were made, sewers laid in the village, and the costly sea-walls strengthened.
There are quite a lot of people who can hardly conceive a picturesque village without, as its central adornment, a village inn. Personally—though, no doubt, there are such places—I have never seen an English village without a public-house. Certainly in any novel dealing with country life the village inn is always mentioned, and frequently plays a spectacular part in the story, while upon the stage a village scene is never complete without the rustic public-house.
Not so at Osea, though I defy any one to find a more picturesque little spot than this tiny settlement in the heart of the Island.
Apart from the one that I have just mentioned, there are other features about the village that make it unique.
In the first place, it is incredibly small at present. In the second, the buildings form a most astonishingly picturesque blend of old and new.
There is an old, flower-covered cottage as oneenters, beyond it is the village shop, where every necessary can be obtained. The farmer who farms the cultivated land of the island lives there in a charming old house. Close by in the little village square are enormous elm trees with seats built round their trunks, affording a most grateful shade upon a hot day. There are a few other quaint houses of considerable age, and two of the prettiest and most artistic little bungalows that I have ever seen. These are but the beginning of a whole series of these charming little residences, and are already occupied. With their red roofs, white walls, and green-painted windows, they are as neat and dainty as one of those delicate models of chalets that one buys in Switzerland.
But the principal building in the village is the convalescent home, to which it is intended to bring some of the sick and suffering poor who come under the sheltering care of the Great Assembly Hall workers. This home is nearly finished. The interior alone remains incomplete, and the sum of about a thousand pounds is yet required before it can be opened. I am concerned now, however, merely with its picturesque aspect, and I remember well how struck I was by my first view of the beautiful gabled house with its tall white Tudor chimneys, its Elizabethan woodwork, its true peace. The great bow windows are filled with leaded glass, the high-pitched roofs are of red tiles, and when at length the necessary money is forthcoming I can well conceive what a Paradise this Island Palace of Rest will seem to those who come to it from festering alley and fœtid slum.
There is another very interesting building in thevillage, though perhaps this can hardly be called picturesque.
This is known as the "Village Hall," and is a large structure of corrugated iron, the money, £1000, for which was the last gift of the late Mr. John Cory to Mr. Charrington for his Osea Island scheme. In his letter enclosing the cheque Mr. Cory said he hoped others would follow his example.
I may perhaps be unduly prejudiced in favour of things Osean, but even this corrugated iron structure, with its background of trees, has mellowed and weathered itself into harmony with its surroundings.
The interior is panelled throughout, and lighted by lofty windows. There is an excellent stage for concerts, and three extra rooms in addition to the large hall. There is a billiard table there for the men working on the estate, and for the use of the many camping parties and others to whom I shall presently refer. In wet weather badminton is played there, and the floor is arranged for roller-skating—let those who think that Osea is without indoor attractions owing to the absence of gin-shop or the theatre, pause!
Of course, upon my first drive to Osea I only took in a single eyeful, as it were, for the carriage left the village and proceeded up a firm, gravelled road to the "Manor House," Mr. Charrington's large and beautiful home.
Another man than Frederick Charrington might well have said to himself, when he purchased such a place as Osea, that he would build a retreat from the harassing work of rescue upon which he was always engaged. He might well have allowedhimself to enjoy a little peace now and then undisturbed by those cares for others which he has sustained so nobly throughout his life. But there is nothing of the sentiment uttered by the cultured man in Tennyson's poem. Mr. Charrington had no thought of building himself "a lordly pleasure-house, in which alone to dwell."
Osea was not only to be the one prohibition island in England. It was not only to be an example and encouragement to others in this respect, but it was also to be a means of helping and rescuing other and very differently placed slaves to the Fiend Alcohol than those of the East End. The "Manor House" was not from the first, is not now, merely the great philanthropist's charming country house. It is also a retreat for those members of the upper classes who have fallen into the drink habit. Here they may come if they wish and live a quiet, well-ordered life in a mansion which presents no essential differences either in its appointments or way of life from the comfort of their own homes. There is no restriction of any sort. Victims of drink or of drugs are not kept within the imprisoning walls of some large garden misnamed a "park." They have a whole kingdom of their own in which to enjoy every form of healthy outdoor pursuit, they have a perfectly appointed house in which to live.
The "Manor House" is a large building with many windows looking out over the sea, charming octagonal rooms in two turrets with steep-pointed roofs in the style of an old French chateau, a beautiful lounge with large, open fireplace, where every one foregathers at all hours of the day, abilliard room, dainty private sitting-rooms—all that the most exigeant could possibly desire. Nor is the hospitality of this delightful house offered only to sufferers from self-poisoning. Many people requiring absolute mental rest and perfect quiet, both men and women, make Osea Island their home for a time. And this leaven of the outside world makes the life of the guests at the Manor a singularly bright and cheerful one. I only know of the life in the regular inebriate "homes" from hearsay. But from what those who have confided in me have said, even the best of such places are invested with gloom—a sense of the locked door, of being set apart from the world, which is never absent.