The ordinary man and the extraordinary thing

THE ORDINARY MAN

AND

THE EXTRAORDINARY THING

The Ordinary Man

and the

Extraordinary Thing

By

HAROLD BEGBIE

AUTHOR OF "SOULS IN ACTION," "OTHER SHEEP,"
"TWICE BORN MEN," &C.

< RE i

HODDER & STOUGHTON

NEW YORK

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

. . . the pressure of the soul has increased among mankind, . . . its
mysterious influence is diffusing itself among the people.

It is well that men should he reminded that the very humblest of them
has the power to " fashion, after a divine model that he chooses not, a
great moral personality, composed in equal parts of himself and the
ideal; and that if anything lives in fullest reality, of a surety it is
that."

If you knew that you, were going to die to-night, or merely that you
would have to go away and never return, would you, looking upon men
and things for the last time, see them in the same light that you have
hitherto seen them ? Would you not love as you have never yet loved ?
Is it the virtue or the evil of the appearances around you that would be
magnified f Would it be given you to behold the beauty or the ugliness
of the soul ?

. . . of so many in this world does the aim seem to be the discourage-
ment of the divine in their soul.

May it not be the supreme aim of life . . . to bring to birth the
inexplicable within ourselves ; and do we know how much we add to
ourselves when we awake something of the incomprehensible that
slumbers in every corner?

. . . the soul is like a dreamer, enthralled by sleep, who struggles
with all his might to move an arm or raise an eyelid.

We must be heedful; it is not without fit reason that our soul
bestirs itself.

Maurice Maeterlinck.

{Translated by Alfred Sutro.)

TO

MY FRIEND

PERCY L. PARKER

EDITOR OF THE INDISPENSABLE REVIEW
"PUBLIC OPINION"

PREFACE

IN this book the endeavour is made to bring home
to the minds of men one of those great and
central truths of life which are so often ignored in
the pressure of surface existence. This particular
truth may be expressed in various ways :

The veritable life of a man is lived, not visibly
and externally, but in the impenetrable solitude
of his soul.

Profound and extraordinary changes of soul
are experienced by the most ordinary of men.

Conversion is not generally a sudden and
catastrophic experience, but for most men a
gradual and imperceptible process of development.

Without religion, the moral and physical pro-
gress of those great masses of humanity who
carry the fortunes of civilisation can never be
assured.

The narratives which form the main body of this
book are true stories of the lives of men ; and they
witness, in the midst of all their differences and all
the variety of their circumstances, to the truth of
Maeterlinck's assertion that in this present time
" the pressure of the soul has increased among
mankind."

A 2

x THE ORDINARY MAN

An unknown correspondent, the librarian of a
university in America, writing to me about Broken
Earthenware and In the Hands of the Potter, asked
me some months ago to write a book dealing with
" the conversions of ordinary people, respectable
men and women, who do not indulge in drunkenness,
or theft, or lying, or gross immorality." He went
on to say, " Because of the conditions that surround
them, many people know only those who belong
to the respectable classes, and I am sure that many
of your readers, of whom I am one, would welcome
a work narrating the religious experiences of our
brethren who belong neither to the ' submerged
tenth ' nor to the ' four hundred.' "

Of course, the supreme test of religion is its in-
fluence upon the central host of humanity. If
education and refinement can safeguard civilisation,
and if the bulk of mankind can advance in virtue
and righteousness without religion, such conversions
as are narrated in Broken Earthenware might well
become merely curious and interesting problems in
psychology.

The investigations which form the body of this
book represent an attempt to get at the heart
of the ordinary man, to penetrate to that inner
consciousness which is the true life of the individual,
to reach and explore those recesses of the soul where
decisions are made in secret and character is formed
in silence — an attempt to understand the com-
munion which exists between the man in the street
and the God in his soul. The result of these investi-
gations has been the conviction that now, as ever,
the heart of representative man is in search of God.

PREFACE xi

The character of the search has changed, the vast ad-
venture of life is tangled with a hundred complexi-
ties, it is not now so easy to believe, or to believe in
the manner of our ancestors ; for, as Joubert says,
it is more difficult to be a modern than an ancient ;
but, nevertheless, fundamental to our complex
civilisation is^the quest of the human heart for
that everlasting rest, security, and peace which
only faitlljn agood and compassionate Creator can
bestow. The stories which compose the pagesoJ
this book, not only witness to the truth of this
proposition, but prove that civilisation is not safe
without religion, that society cannot organise itself
without God.

The reader of this book will find himself walking
in the main streets of civilisation, along the most
crowded high roads of human progress ; not, as
in Broken Earthenware, threading narrow and
mephitic alleys, standing with awe and disgust
in his soul before the dark entries and filthy door-
ways of back streets, where civilisation has made its
dust heap. He will discover, however, that in the
main streets of modern life there are strange and
almost unbelievable realities hidden behind the
respectable walls. He will be amazed, I think,
by the romance and mystery which exist in the
commonplace. And I do not think it will be possible
for him, if he is an honest man, to doubt that religion
is essential to the progress of the human race — more
essential to the central host of humanity than to the
poor broken and unhappy wretches who creep
through life in the shadows and the deprivations of
the back streets of civilisation.

xii THE ORDINARY MAN

I must make the confession that it has been more
difficult for me to write this book than to write
Broken Earthenware. I went for my materials to
a wonderful Brotherhood which has overspread the
world, which has made itself one of the great
safeguards of civilisation, and which is composed of
respectable men representative of humanity's central
host. But the ordinary man does not easily discuss
the inward mystery of his life. Even where his
confidence is won, and even where he is anxious for
the sake of others to tell the story of his life, even
here, in spite of his education and knowledge of the
world, he is far less able to express himself than the
humble man who has been broken on the wheel of
life. It is not so much that he shrinks from speaking
of his spiritual experiences, as that his very effort
to be intellectual and intelligent in his account of
the miracle renders him obscure and sometimes
unconvincing. He has none of that elemental
reality, none of that fervour of a great gratitude,
which makes the humbler man who has suffered
tremendously, so movingly eloquent, so entirely
convincing, so splendidly real.

A certain critic of my books, writing in a Roman
Catholic review, admitted the wonder of these
documents of conversion, but averred that the
reading of them made him shudder. It is as if,
he said, a reporter were present taking notes at our
private devotions. Hypersensitive people may
applaud this sentiment, and may even relish the
sneer which it conveys ; but a mind of more robust
force will perceive its dreadful immodesty. For
someone " reported ' the Agony in Gethsemane ;

PREFACE xiii

and if the private prayer of the Son of God may be V
given to the world, our little sorrows, our little i
agonies, our little experiences of God's mercy and J
forgiveness, if they can help mankind, may surely
be given freely to those who are still comfortless.
Are we really to_suppose that God is, whispering
into our ears a confidence which is only for us_? —
that anything which happens to us is meant to be /
hoarded in the secrecy of our souls as a private
benefaction ? — that we are the favourites of heaven
called apart into an empty room to receive gifts
and treasures which must be hidden from our
brothers and sisters ?

The real truth of this matter has been declared
by Christ Himself :

" Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.

" And he saith, Master, say on.

" There was a certain creditor which had two
debtors : the one owed five hundred pence, and
the other fifty. And when they had nothing
to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me
therefore, which of them will love him most ?

" Simon answered and said, I suppose that he,
to whom he forgave most.

" And he said unto him, Thou hast rightly
judged."

The ordinary man, I think, and particularly the
ordinary man of the religious world, does not yet
understand the meaning of that strange word, Joy
shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more
than over ninety and nine just persons which need no
repentance. He does not realise why it was that

xiv THE ORDINARY MAN

Christ sought sinners, was happier in the company of
sinners than in the company of Scribes and Phari-
sees, was actually the Friend of Sinners. He is still
entangled in the meshes of dogmatic theology. He
does not perceive that the hunger of heaven is for the
love of the human heart, for the overflowing, grate-
ful, and self-forgetting passionate love of humanity ;
not for a credo, not for the repetition of formal
prayers, not for faithful loyalty to a piece of eccle-
siastical machinery. Love isthe secret of Christ.
And it_ is .because. Jo wKom little is forgiven^ the^same
loveth little, that the gaze of Christ is_ turned more
tenderly towards jhe sinner and the outcast than
toward* the_ respectable and the religious.

Pascal, writing of the prophecies mentioned in the
New Testament, exclaims : " You believe that
they are reported to make you believe. No, it is to
keep you from believing." This quite devilish idea
of a kind of hide-and-seek between God and man
still exists under various forms among religious
people. They dress it up in a less revolting shape
than the honesty of Pascal permitted him to employ ;
but in reality it is the same black, sinister, and un-
Christly spectre masquerading as the true religion

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,

An evil soul, producing holy witness,

Is like a villain with a smiling cheek ;

A goodly apple, rotten at the heart ;

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath !

And the truth is so simple, is so palpable, is so
persuasive and reasonable. A merciful God, a
heavenly Father, asks of His creatures the love of
their hearts, asks for that love, not because it is

PREFACE xv

necessary to Him, but because it is essential to their
own welfare, is the one power by which they can
come to harmony with the universe, the one means
by which they can grow in the likeness of their
Creator, and inherit the joys prepared for them
before the foundation of the world. Love is the
secret, love is the way, and love is the truth. Her
sins, which are many, are forgiven ; for she loved
much :but to whom lijLle.is. forgiven; the samejo^eth^
little. ("The conversion of a respectable man can be
as wonderful and beautiful a thing as the conversion
of a great sinner ; but it is seldom that the result
of that conversion utters itself in an uprush of burn-
ing and torrential love which bursts the flood-gates
of self-repression, and flows over the whole brother-
hood of man in a tide of self-forgetting care and
compassion.

But difficult as it has been to write this book —
and I have made no effort to exaggerate the miracle
or to embroider its consequences — I venture to
think that it shows in a very useful manner one
particular aspect of conversion which is almost
entirely neglected by students of psychology.
One of my correspondents, an English engineer
living in Burmah, assures me that conversion is
a matter of " cortical susceptibility," and many
others seem to share the delusion common to materi-
alists that conversion is always the result of some
form of emotional excitement. This idea is entirely
foolish. It limits its painful diagnosis to the single
moment of conversion, and conveniently ignores
the long after-life of virtue, self-sacrifice, and new-
born holiness. It explains, or imagines that it

xvi THE ORDINARY MAN

explains, how a man loses the evil habits of a life-
^ time in the shock of a nervous excitement ; but it

idoes not explain, does not attempt to explain,
how it is that long after the excitement has worn
away, that life continues in its new path, calm,
tranquil, and pure with the love of God.

And these critics with their " cortical suscepti-
bilities ' 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 energies and often 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 conver-
sions accomplished by this means. I can see the need
for revivalism, and I can see in the future a develop-
ment of revivalism which will be of noble service
to humanity ; but I dislike the un-Christly character
of these worked-up excitements, and I am utterly
uninterested by their results.

Conversion, real conversion, however — as I showed
even in Broken Earthenware — is almost always the
effect of individual loving-kindness, of personal
and quiet love, of intercourse between a happy and
an unhappy soul in the normal colloquies of friend-
ship, of passionate seeking of the lost by those
whose lives are inspired by unselfish love. It may
[possibly have its culminating point in a public
leeting ; the act of standing up and publicly

PREFACE xvii

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. And now in this book I show
that 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 good.

It is a matter of great importance to make this
truth of conversion more widely known. No occa-
sion should be lost to teach the ordinary man that
this central fact of religious experience is not the
property of the revivalist. T^.truest case of.jiQrmal
conversion, the conversion of the ordinary man,
is that told in the parable of the prodigal son.
There was no one present when he came to himself
in a far country; and when he said, "I will arise
and go to my father," he was neither the victim
of mental excitement nor the hypnotised hysteric
of a religious meeting. When he turned he was
converted. And when he was yet a great way
off his father saw him — only his father — and ran,
and fell on his neck, and kissed him.

Such conversions are common. Christianity
recruits its ranks from them.

CONTENTS

PACK

Foreword . . . , • • i

CHAPTER I
A Man and His Work . • • . 9

CHAPTER II
The Work . . . ... 30

CHAPTER III
A Decent Man . . . • . 58

CHAPTER IV
The Accidents of Life . . , , 73

CHAPTER V
A Bad Hat . . . , , . 92

CHAPTER VI
The Professional Amateur . . , . 111

xx THE ORDINARY MAN

CHAPTER VII

PAGE

A Soul in the Street . . . . 127

CHAPTER VIII
The Opening of a Door . . . . 147

CHAPTER IX
Master and Man . . ... 162

CHAPTER X
An Original Character . • . . 184

CHAPTER XI
A Little Publican . . ... 201

CHAPTER XII
The Big Scale . . ... 218

CHAPTER XIII
Rank and File . . ... 234

FOREWORD

WHEN a newspaper boy runs through the
streets with the cry of " Horrible tragedy ! "
he is exalted by something more than the certainty
of good fortune. Regard his excited eyes, the
strain of the muscles round his mouth, the effort
of the body to hurl itself ahead of the hurrying
legs, the obvious awe and self-importance of a
spirit charged with evil tidings. He knows nothing
of the news except its headline. Unconscious that
he himself is horrible tragedy, he runs in his foul
rags through the mud of the gutters thrilled by the
mere announcement of horror. . . . Tragedy has
occurred, and, the gods be thanked, horrible tragedy.
He bawls the adjective with an almost overpowering
sincerity, lopping with the shears of his trembling
lips the mild, inoffensive, and emasculating "H."
Thus does he make tragedy more than tragedy,
and horrible tragedy a thing of awe to which the
mere printed letters of these two words afford
nothing like so gruesome an index. His sudden cry
breaking with hoarse and terrifying menace on the
winter darkness of suburban roads, shattering the
decorum of tea-parties and bursting like a storm
upon the fireside calm of uneventful domesticity,

2 THE ORDINARY MAN

is like the trumpet of death. It brings the invisible
world about the head of those trivial common-
places. The clangorous wings of calamity smite
that villa comfort in the face. And the terror is
welcomed ; the doors are thrown open to receive
the horror. It is something to talk about.

Humanity, clearly, is still in the barbarous stage
where the drama of life without action, violent
action, is reckoned dull and tedious. The multitude
must have murders, suicides, divorces, and political
crises in their newspapers ; a novel which describes
the religious evolution of a soul is relegated some-
times even by judicious critics to the ponderous
shelf of theology ; a play which does not excite the
crude passions is pronounced a tiresome excursion
in psychology ; even sermons to be popular must
flash with a little lightning and reverberate with a
morsel of thunder.

It is difficult for men to realise that the only
veritable life is the life of the inward sanctuary,
the life of silence and communion with invisible
and everlasting truth. Like children, they want
something to happen. Like children, they do not
want to feel, but to be made to feel. They are
perhaps afraid of the solitude of their con-
science.

' I admire Othello," says Maeterlinck, " but he
does not appear to me to live the august life of a
Hamlet, who has the time to live, inasmuch as he
does not act. Othello is admirably jealous. But
is it not perhaps an ancient error to imagine that
it is at the moments when this passion, or others of
equal violence, possess us, that we live our truest

FOREWORD 3

lives ? " And then follows the profound and
beautiful passage : —

" I have grown to believe that an old man,
seated in his arm-chair, waiting patiently, with his
lamp beside him ; giving unconscious ear to all
the eternal laws that reign about his house, inter-
preting, without comprehending, the silence of
doors and windows and the quivering voice of the
light, submitting with bent head to the presence
of his soul and his destiny — an old man, who
conceives not that all the powers of this world,
like so many heedful servants, are mingling and
keeping vigil in his room, who suspects not that
the very sun itself is supporting in space the little
table against which he leans, or that every star
in heaven and every fibre of the soul are directly
concerned in the movement of an eyelid that
closes, or a thought that springs to birth — I have
grown to believe that he, motionless as he is,
does yet live in reality a deeper, more human, and
more universal life than the lover who strangles
his mistress, the captain who conquers in battle,
or ' the husband who avenges his honour.' " *

II

The trouble about this universal love of horror
and calamity and violent action lies in its influence
upon the journalist from whom so many people take
their ideas of life. Because Murder multiplies

1 The Treasure of the Humble. Translated by Alfred Sutro.
(George Allen & Sons.)

4 THE ORDINARY MAN

editions and Divorce or Crisis sends up the sales
to a zenith of prosperity, it is conceived that all bad
news is profitable and all good news is dull. And
from this reasoning proceed the pessimism, the
cynicism, the hysteria, and even the despair which
characterise the modern newspaper. If one's
knowledge of life were obtained only from the
newspaper, who would not conclude that mankind
is now staggering at the edge of a precipice, with
ruin darkening over its head, and perdition yawning
at it3 feet? Such a word as "Unrest" is seized
hungrily and repeated so apprehensively that it
comes to mean , not an awakening of the human soul,
not an uprising of dim multitudes from mental tor-
por to spiritual consciousness, but a menace to
civilisation and a portent of cataclysm. Such a
phrase as " The Cost of Living " is noisily bruited
till it quite obscures the simple, silent fact that
never hitherto in the history of organised mankind
have the necessities of life been cheaper or the
luxuries of life so universally shared by society.
And, worse still, all that is dark, tragic, discouraging,
and perilous in modern life is so harped upon, so
underlined, emphasised, and reiterated that the
immense energy of religious activity and the
splendid impulse of social service, which are every-
where carrying humanity forward to the fuller glory
of its destiny, are smothered and obliterated out of
knowledge.

Truly might one conclude from the newspaper
that righteousness stands paralysed before the
advancing frontiers of hell, and that love lies
bleeding at the feet of Satan.

FOREWORD 5

III

/ Now, as everyone desires to have beautiful sur-
l roundings, and chooses furniture, pictures, and wall-
/ papers for their charm and graciousness ; and as
) friends are sought among the best and sweetest of
( humanity, not among the most terrible and re-
pulsive— should we not seek for the furniture of our
minds, and the companions of our souls, thoughts
that are beautiful and encouraging, knowledge that
is strengthening and uplifting ? Should we not
resolutely turn our backs upon all that is morbid,
gruesome, violent, and hysterical, and keep our
face steadfastly and cheerfully towards the calm
light of hope which burns upon the forward way of
human progress ? For if we do not decorate our
walls with pictures of murder and treasonable lust,
and ask to our table the criminal financier, the
hangman, the screaming journalist, and the brazen
woman of fashion, why should we care to read about
sordid and disgusting things in the newspaper, or
occupy our minds with the vulgarities of second-
rate people and the never-ending crises of sen-
sationalism ?

Infamy has its tens, evil its hundreds, and
vulgarity its thousands ; but the central host of
humanity, the grand army of mankind, which is
ever marching to stronger victories over sin and
nobler visions of the universe, which is actuated by
righteousness and impelled by love, which is kind,
tender, considerate, and unselfish, which is hopeful
and not despairing, which is noble and not base,
which is happy and not sad, and which is doing all

6 THE ORDINARY MAN

the great and solid work of humanity — this, the
central host, is numbered by millions and tens of
millions, and the variety of its employment covers
the whole field of human enterprise.

To acquaint ourselves as often and as deeply as
possible with all the good that is being done in the
world, with all the kindness that is sweetening
existence, with all the victories of love which are
exalting and redeeming human nature in every street
and parish of the globe on which we live, this is
to escape from the gloom and to shake off the
melancholy of newspaper pessimism ; and to asso-
ciate ourselves with those whose lives are beautiful
and kind and true is to acquire that healthful spirit
of hope and enthusiasm without which no fruitful
work can be done, no life really lived in the warmth
and blessing of contented faith.

It is good to remind oneself when reading the
newspaper that millions of people love their gardens
more than the tavern, that the innocent pleasures
and refining occupations of life are more in number
than its much-advertised iniquities, and that the
love of home, delight in children, and devotion to
books, music, and pleasant games are still the
mainspring of our national life. But, better^still
is it to go into the world and see for ourselves
how^jnnumerable is tEe^ostjol those who i_~lfv& for
otherSa^nd how manifold, unceasing^ and miraculous
are the activities of religious faith.
"XleTme^sayTiO those~*wEose existence is narrowed
by circumstance, and whose notions of the world
are taken from the newspaper, that the longer I live
and the more I get to know of the miracles of

FOREWORD 7

religious energy, the more do I marvel at men's
pessimism and stand amazed before the confidence
of infidelity.1

IV

This book attempts to tell the story of one single
society working in the enormous field of Christian
activity. It shows how a small seed planted in
London sixty-seven years ago has struck its roots
deeply into our national life, has spread its branches
throughout every land in the British Empire, has
sown itself in nearly every kingdom and republic of
the civilised globe, and is now a force working for
Anglo-Saxon unity, the peace of the world, and the
elevation of mankind. Such an achievement in
itself is something of a miracle, for the man who
sowed the first insignificant seed was a humble clerk,
almost friendless at the heart of the Empire ; but
when one studies the thing attentively, when one
examines the ramifications and increasing energies
of this quiet, unobtrusive, and almost silent society
— above all, when one comes face to face with
individuals composing it, and penetrates to the
spiritual passion which inspires it — then with over-
whelming force does the intense mystery of our

1 As this book goes to press I make acquaintance for the first time
with a most interesting and important work, The Christian Mission
and Ragged School of Hoxton Market. For the past two years this
little-known society of unselfish people has fed some 10,000 hungry
children a week. It provides boots and clothing for thousands of
children, helps the unemployed of Hoxton, and spreads its Christian
influence over the whole of that struggling area. The Superintendent
of this Mission is unpaid, has to work hard for his own living,
and gives himself body and soul to the work with a quite splendid
enthusiasm. Let the reader who is cynical or pessimistio pay a visit
to Hoxton Market.

8 THE ORDINARY MAN

human life come home to the heart and the reality,
the penetrating and suffusing reality of the religious
life quicken every imagination of the soul. That
such a work is meaningless no man in his senses
dare affirm, and that it could have been done
without faith in God is a thing impossible to believe.
And this is but one activity of our manifold
religious life, but one society among thousands
labouring for spiritual evolution, but one small
regiment in the grand army of the central host
which carries the fortunes of humanity.

Can it be true, the news He is declaring ?

Oh, let us trust Him, for His words are fair
Man ! what is this 1 and why art thou despairing?

God shall forgive thee all save thy despair 1

CHAPTER I
A MAN AND HIS WORK

IN the autumn of 1821 — rather a savage and
brutal period of English history — there was
born in Ashway Farm, Dulverton, a child destined
to spread the influence of his personality not only
throughout the British Isles, not only throughout
the British Empire, but throughout the whole
world.

He was the youngest child of a stalwart yeoman
named Amos Williams. His brothers were tall,
stark, hard-riding men, vigorous with the winds
and spaces of the moorland, somewhat barbarous
with the roughness and struggle of their remote
existence. Amos Williams himself was an excellent
farmer, an energetic and go-ahead man who did not
allow his love of hunting to interfere with his work
in the fields. Elizabeth Williams, his wife, was
a notable representative of refinement in that
home with the beautiful name. She was the angel
of Ashway Farm. Small, gentle, humorous, win-
some, and sanguine, this little mother of a great
man permeated the rough fibres of that Devonshire
home-life with something sweet and gentle. She
was for ever weaving into the sullen fabric of that
existence threads of gold which transformed the

9

10 THE ORDINARY MAN

sternness of the pattern into something which sug-
gested beauty, and which was ultimately, in the
life of her youngest child, to command the ad-
miration of a great Queen, the reverence of nations,
and the blessing of humanity.

This youngest son, George Williams, bore no
resemblance to his brothers. He was diminutive ;
he was highly strung ; he was sensitive and gentle.
But whereas the tall brothers were dour men, silent
and stern except in moments of exhilaration, the
little Benjamin of the house was for ever and irre-
pressibly bright and vivacious, was overflowing with
high spirits, was fond of singing, and in all his
wits was as sharp and vital as his brothers were
serious and stern. Americans would have called
him " quick in the uptake."

He went to Dulverton Church and heard a great
many sermons and listened to a great many prayers
which made no impression on his mind and con-
tributed not the smallest influence to his spiritual
development. He went to a dame-school, and
picked up with average ease the elements of learning.
He drove his father's sheep to the moors, and con-
tracted the habit of swearing. He chaffed his
sterner brothers, but they did not resent his
frivolities. He tried on one occasion to lead a
waggon-load of hay from the meadows, and a
rut, unobserved by the inattentive boy, overturned
both waggon and horses. The brothers mourned
for him ! It was agreed on all hands that baby
George would never make a farmer. The over-
turning of the waggon pitched the lively boy
into a shop. His father drove him one day

A MAN AND HIS WORK 11

from the farmyard, and deposited him as apprentice
with Mr. Holmes, draper, of Bridgwater, there to
shift for himself.

As a rule the youth from a country village makes
his first experience of evil in the town to which he
goes to earn his living. On the contrary in this
case, the little George Williams, careless of anything
in the nature of religion and given to swearing,
made his acquaintance with spiritual life in the shop
of a Bridgwater draper. There were two other
apprentices in this business, and both of them were
serious lads. Their conversation, their manner of
life, the whole set and purpose of their characters
came to the farmer's son as a great awakening.
He became vividly aware of another world pene-
trating and interpenetrating the world of sense,
a world of which he had scarcely begun to dream.
His master was a Congregationalist, and insisted
that his apprentices should attend chapel. The
early spirit of Methodism was abroad, and in the
Bridgwater chapel little George Williams heard
sermons which deepened the influence made upon
his soul by the conversation of the other appren-
tices. He saw that infinity separated good from evil.
He became sharply sensible of the great issues of
character. He visualised the two great roads
on which every man that lives must make his
journey to Eternity. He felt in the deepest recesses
of his soul the immense separation of sin and the
exquisite unifying force of love. " I now began to
pray," he said, " but even on my knees oaths would
come to my lips."

A sermon in chapel determined his life. There is

12 THE ORDINARY MAN

here nothing of cataclysm or traceable upheaval.
It is a case of one who had begun to seek, one who
had already detected the great difference between
good and evil, quietly but with an iron decision
turning the direction of his inward life away from
selfishness, vanity, and evil, towards love, beauty,
and God. There as he sat and listened to an un-
recorded sermon by a preacher whose very name is
probably forgotten, the youth in a back pew of the
chapel just simply turned his face to God and
decided for righteousness. He said of that time : —

" I learnt at Bridgwater to see the vital differ-
ence, the tremendous importance, of the spiritual
life. I saw in this town two roads — the downward
road and the upward road. I began to reason, and
said to myself, ' What if I continue along this
downward road, where shall I get to, where is the
end of it, what will become of me ? ' Thank
God ! I had kept in the clean path ; nevertheless
I was on the downward road."

After the service he returned to the shop, knelt
down behind the counter, and, in a phrase sometimes
ill-used but too marvellous and beautiful in the
history of mankind ever to become false or meaning-
less, gave his heart to God. " I cannot describe to
you," he said, " the joy and peace which flowed into
my soul when first I saw that the Lord Jesus had
died for my sins, and that they were all forgiven."

Uncertainty had come to an end. Darkness had
rolled away. Henceforth he saw a straight road,
a definite destiny, and a great light streaming from
the kingdoms of invisible beauty.

A MAN AND HIS WORK 13

At the age of nineteen, the days of his apprentice-
ship over, George Williams was taken up to London
and presented to Mr. Hitchcock, head of a great
firm of drapers on Ludgate Hill. The mighty man
looked at the slender youth, adjudged him poor
stuff, and said, " No ! I've no place for him. He's
too small." Nelson's reception into the Navy was
not colder or more heart-breaking. The brother who
had brought George Williams to London said that
" though there might be little of him it was very
good." Mr. Hitchcock considered, and bade the
youth come again next day. " Well," he said, on
this second view, " you seem a healthy young
fellow. I will give you a trial."

That which follows is like a spiritualised version
of Dick Whittington, is certainly one of the most
wonderful, picturesque, and romantic stories in
modern records of humanity. Beyond everything
else, it is as striking and as incontrovertible a proof
of the Miracle as anything in the biographies of
mysticism.

George Williams found himself in that great
warehouse on Ludgate Hill, one among a host of
young men whose lives for the most part were as
low and vulgar as it is possible to conceive. They
must not be judged. From early morning to late at
night they toiled like slaves ; it is said that half an
hour in the day sufficed for the three beggarly meals
provided by the firm ; and beyond the work of the
day and the crowded, frightful dormitory — two
men occupying in many cases a single bed — there
was nothing but the street.

Horrified by what he saw and heard, George

14 THE ORDINARY MAN

Williams looked about him for at least one or two
virtuous men with whom he might share his
spiritual life in this crowded scene of materialism.
It was with him from the very first a certainty of
God that the spiritual life is to be shared. He had
nothing in his eager blood of the cloister, nothing
in his burning soul of the hermit and fakir. To
associate with men who loved the Way, whose
hearts were consecrated by the Truth, whose souls
longed for ever greater indraughts of the Life, this
was the peculiar genius of his spirit and the definite
achievement of his great career.

When he had found the two or three, they
gathered themselves together and prayed. Perhaps
the most interesting element in the story of this,
man's extraordinary life is his concept of prayer.
He believed with implicit faith in the power of
prayer, he had no shadow of doubt in his soul that
prayer reached to God and returned in quiet
blessing to the earth ; but he also believed that
prayer should be sent not loosely nor aimlessly
into the vastness of infinity, but should have for
its objective some definite mark here upon earth.
He believed in praying for individuals.

Whatever some men may be disposed to think
of this idea, the facts are plain, the results are
indisputable. It will really not do for the superior
person to scoff or for the indulgent man to smile.
George Williams prayed for particular men, the
most unlikely and hardened men, and their lives
became transformed. He set his little company of
faithful friends to pray for other men, again the
most unlikely and hardened men, and their lives

A MAN AND HIS WORK 15

were transformed. Miracles occurred in that ware-
house on Ludgate Hill as wonderful and as in-
disputable as any natural law in the physical
kingdom. A man may be unwilling to believe this
affirmation, but he cannot refute the testimony.
He may desire to ignore the fact, but to this day it
stares him in the face throughout the civilised globe.

" It was said in after years," writes Mr. J. E.
Hodder Williams,1 "that when he joined Messrs.
Hitchcock and Rogers it was almost impossible for a
young man in the house to be a Christian, and that,
three years afterwards, it was almost impossible to
be anything else."

Let it be remembered, we have overwhelming
evidence for the truth of a contemporary assertion
that in that period of our history " there was no
class more degraded and dissolute, none who were
sunk deeper in ungodliness and dissipation than the
shopmen of London."

George Williams, we are told, on finding himself
one among a host of low, vulgar, indifferent, and
depraved young men, immediately singled them out,
one by one, and prayed for them individually, day
after day, night after night, in the dormitory where
life was brought almost as near to perdition as it
can go on earth.

One of the worst men in the house was a gay
and uproarious person named Rogers. He was the
presiding genius of smoking concerts at a public-
house in the neighbourhood, and was so antipathetic
to the beautiful in life that he deliberately set

1 The Life of Sir George Williams, by J. E. Hodder Williams.
(Hodder and Stoughton.)

16 THE ORDINARY MAN

himself to prevent men from coming under the
influence of religion. Above all others in that
establishment he was the champion of existing
materialism, the avowed enemy of a threatening
religiousness. George Williams immediately marked
him out as the Saul of that little warehouse world,
the Saul who must be changed, by the grace of
God, into the Paul of the new life.

This man was first softened by the tact and
pleasantness of George Williams, was then moved
to attend the meetings of the two or three, grew
concerned for the health of his spiritual life, and
finally became one of them — one of the twelve who,
in an upper room in a warehouse by St. Paul's
Cathedral, laid the foundations of a Brotherhood
which now covers the whole earth. " By a curious
coincidence," says Mr. Hodder Williams, " his is the
only one of the twelve cards of membership which
has been preserved." George Williams said to a
friend some few da}Ts before this notable event, " I
was praying for him this morning until it seemed as
if I heard a voice from heaven saying to me, ' Yes ' ;
and I knew he would be converted."

It was the fixed opinion of George Williams that
the first twenty-four hours of a young man's life
in London usually settled his eternity in heaven or
hell. With such a passionate conviction in his soul
he could not rest content with one, two, three, four,
and five conversions among his fellow-clerks. He
sought to change the whole spirit of the establish-
ment. To do this it was necessary to convert the
master, the gruff and vigorous rich man who sat in
his counting-house and directed every energy of

A MAN AND HIS WORK 17

that great machine with the resolution of a most
masterful dictator.

George Williams, without a single misgiving,
began to pray for the soul of George Hitchcock.
He was at this time high up in the firm's service,
a valuable servant, an industrious worker, not only
one who could be trusted and relied upon, but one
whose talent for the trade added handsomely to the
firm's profits. When it came to the ears of the mas-
ter that this youth from Devonshire was praying
for him, that in one of the bedrooms of the establish-
ment four or five of his servants met every night
and actually prayed for his soul, he was filled with
amazement, was staggered, was angry, and sent
for George Williams into his presence.

It is well for the reader to remind himself that this
narrative is no romance, that George Hitchcock, of
Ludgate Hill, was no character in a novel, but actual
flesh and blood, one of the great master merchants of
the City of London. When I was in his warehouse
the other day, and looked through the glass partition
and saw the clerks at their desks, the cashier in his
box, and the coming and going of many people
through the swing-doors opening on the street, I
thought of old Osborne of Vanity Fair, of young
George coming to borrow money from Mr. Chopper,
of the Family Bible in Russell Square, and of the
old merchant in his broken age going home from
the City to see the little George Osborne riding on
his pony in Regent's Park.

But this story is a true story, and it is many
times more wonderful.

George Williams stood in front of his master.
c

18 THE ORDINARY MAN

c<

Is it true," demanded Mr. Hitchcock, " this tale
I hear about you, that you are praying for my
soul ? "

George Williams was startled, but he faced his
master and said, " Yes, sir, it is true."

Hitchcock measured him with stern eyes, meas-
ured the little man of whom he had said not many
years ago, " He's too small." Perhaps he now
seemed bigger than he had thought.

After a pause he asked, " You pray for my
conversion ? "

" Yes, sir."

" You think I need conversion ? "

" Yes, sir."

" Are you aware that I am a churchwarden ? "

" Yes, sir."

" But you do not think I am converted ? "

" No, sir."

" Why not ? "

The quick, challenging question was opportunity
with a golden key. George Williams opened his
heart. He told his master many terrible truths
about the business. He spoke eloquently of the
tainted moral atmosphere. He brought home to
the heart and soul of the rich man his frightful
responsibility towards those who served him. He
magnified nothing, but he spared nothing. He
told the truth, and that sufficed.

Hitchcock heard him out.

" You can go," he said ; " but continue your
prayers for me."

In a few days the man's life was transformed.
He came publicly into the office one day and

A MAN AND HIS WORK 19

announced certain momentous changes in the
conduct of the business. He gave his influence
to the spiritual work of George Williams. He set
himself to purify his house from the top to the
bottom.

The work flourished, but George Williams was not
satisfied. He thought of the thousands of young
men pouring into London from the provinces,
thousands of pure and innocent lives for whom the
City waited like a hungry lion, thousands of men
inexpressibly dear to their parents, inexpressibly
precious to England, inexpressibly dear and precious
to God. They came to London, many of them,
upright, chivalrous, manly, industrious, honourable,
and, in some cases, dreaming dreams. And London
had nothing for them but foul dormitories, heart-
breaking hours of labour, the companionship of
debased and brutalised minds, the excitements
of the tavern, the perils of the street, the hell of
disenchantment and despair. Could nothing be
done for them ? — nothing to save them ? — nothing
to develop and uplift them ?

One day he was crossing Blackfriars Bridge with
a fellow- worker named Edward Valentine. The
great warehouses rose above moored barges on either
side of the broad river, dark, smoky, and forbidding
against the sunlight of a spring evening. The
gentleness of the sky was black with spires, towers,
roofs, chimneys, and congregating stone. Crowds
of people and crowds of vehicles passed to and fro.
The sense of humanity which comes to us in a great
city was merged into the beauty of the sky, the
width of the river, and the peace of a Sunday

20 THE ORDINARY MAN

twilight. With the stir of feet and the turning
of wheels came the sound of bells. Between the
arches of the bridge the most human river in the
world flowed towards the sea. Afar to the west,
in a haze of smoke and mist, the sun was almost
level with the roofs. It was one of those scenes,
one of those moments when the stress of material
existence sets no darkness between the soul and its
destiny, when life, real life, is felt to he deep within
the silence of our invisible being.

The sweetest thought in the unfathomable depths
of his heart rose to the lips of George Williams.
He took the arm of his friend, and asked him if he
was prepared to make a great sacrifice for Christ.
The friend, Edward Valentine, replied, " If called
upon to do so, I hope and trust I can." They had
been very silent up to this point, each man lost in his
own reverie. But now George Williams became
eloquent. He told his dream for the first time.

And this was the dream. To spread into every
large establishment throughout the City of London
the same spirit of profound religion which had now
begun to move in the warehouse on Ludgate Hill,
a spirit of prayer, a spirit of love, a spirit of service,
so that the whole trade of London might one day
be associated in worship of God and devotion to the
life of Christ, so that no single soul might be lost to
the eternal truth of existence save those who
definitely elected for evil.

He said he felt himself persuaded that if a few
earnest, devoted, and self-denying men could be
found to unite themselves for this purpose, the
work could be accomplished. It would mean hard,

A MAN AND HIS WORK 21

incessant work. It would mean an absolute self-
sacrifice. It would, mean a lifelong service. But
it could be done, with God's blessing.

Edward Valentine said that he agreed.

And this was the beginning of the great Brother-
hood.

From that moment when he gave the first utterance
to his thought, George Williams lost not a single
day till the end of his long life in toiling for its
realisation and its greater power for righteousness.
From that moment on Blackfriars Bridge to the
other moment in Devonshire when he passed to the
invisible and eternally beautiful murmuring the
words " Beloved young men ! " the whole life of this
man was consecrated to the stiD greater glory of his
idea, which, even in the vigour of his own lifetime,
had passed into every region of our Empire, and
into every country of the civilised world.

A circular was sent out to all the chief drapery
establishments at both ends of the town ; satis-
factory answers were received ; a meeting was
decided upon ; a society was formed ; and the
Young Men's Christian Association came into being.

In the chapter which follows I shall trace briefly
the fortunes of this Association from its humble
beginnings in 1844 down to the present day, when
it is recognised by America, by Canada, by Aus-
tralasia as a force of tremendous importance in
the national life, and when it seems as if it is about
to enter on an even more vigorous existence in the
home and city of its birth.

For the present I would tell the reader the rest
of George Williams's story, so far as its many and

22 THE ORDINARY MAN

strange events can be compressed into a few words
of narrative.

George Hitchcock's health gave way in the year
1863 ; his wife consulted the family solicitor as to
the future of the business ; the solicitor's advice
resolved itself into a phrase. He said, " Take young
George Williams into partnership."

The little boy from a Devonshire farm became a
partner in one of the world's greatest business
houses. At the age of thirty-two he married the
daughter of his former master, Helen Hitchcock,
whose life was given with an impulse of the most
earnest and enthusiastic devotion to the great
charitable purposes of her husband. From that
moment everything prospered with our Dick
Whittington. But blessed with enormous and
increasing wealth, he lived not merely frugally, but
parsimoniously, ordering the lives even of his
children, whom he adored, with a rigorous regard
to economy, in order, as he told them with a pleasant
smile, that they might have more money to give
away. He was a man of whom it may be said with
entire truth, and not merely as a convenient phrase
for expressing a lavish generosity, that he never
thought of himself. His wealth was his opportunity
to help others ; his time was only his own that he
might devote it to his fellow-creatures ; his energies,
his faculties, his enthusiasms, and his strength of
soul and body belonged to God.

When, on the occasion of the Association's
Jubilee, Queen Victoria made him a knight, he
accepted the honour, not for himself, but for the
object of his life. It was to make the Association

A MAN AND HIS WORK 23

better known in England and throughout the world
that he laboured from morning till night, and
thought, and prayed, and lived with all the splendid
courage and determination of his royal character.

It must not be supposed that he devoted himself
exclusively to the Association which he himself
had called into being. This had the first affection
of his heart, and the first call on his sympathy ; but
he gave himself with extraordinary energy and a
most earnest devotion to many other agencies for
good — some of which sprang from the loins of the
Association. At the time of his death he was pre-
sident of thirty-nine societies. How he contrived
to support the tax upon bis physical powers it is
difficult to imagine. He was no decorative president
or figure-head of philanthropy, and no sleeping
partner in the warehouse of his gigantic business.
And in addition to all this work there was the
labour of a private correspondence sufficient to
break the strength of an ordinary man. Letters
rained upon him from all quarters of the world,
and not only from men of one class, but from every
class in the community. No one will ever know —
for his son burned all his correspondence and
will disclose no secrets — how many men, from the
highest to the lowest, George Williams rescued from
ruin, lifted from despair, and strove to direct to
God. On the day that followed the announcement
of his death over ten thousand letters of sympathy,
many of them expressing a most heartfelt gratitude
for help he had given to the writers, were received
by Lady Williams and her sons. For several months
a staff of clerks was employed acknowledging the

24 THE ORDINARY MAN

letters which continued to pour upon his family
from every quarter of the world.

One who knew him well, quite well, said to me,
" He was not really a very first-rate man of business.
Clever, industrious, courageous, and far-seeing, yes ;
but not a mighty organiser and pioneer. His genius
lay in this, that he saw the folly of doing ten men's
work himself, and got the rigid ten men to do his
own work. His knowledge of human character,
his judgment of a man was almost infallible. He
seemed to read a man's heart in a glance of his
eyes. I don't know that he was ever once mistaken
hi the men he chose for directing his business."

That he was a pioneer in humanitarianism one
need not trouble to argue. It is enough to state,
what is perhaps not widely known, that the great
Early Closing Movement sprang from his brain,
that he set it going in his own house against all the
warnings and protests of business men, and went
to America and initiated it there. He was told it
meant ruin to his firm, that no one would follow
his example, and that he would be laughed to scorn
by the traders of the whole world. But the man
smiled at these solemn words. " You will see," he
retorted, " that the thing will become general and
universal. It is the right thing, and therefore it is
the wise thing." He never once regarded righteous-
ness as a foolish or dangerous speculation. His
rational mind, with its shrewd judgments and
shining humour, saw that righteousness was but
spiritual common sense. He did nothing for the
sake of money, but what he did brought money and
increased prosperity.

A MAN AND HIS WORK 25

One likes to think that every clerk and shopman,
from those employed in the greatest banks down to
those who slave in a little draper's shop, every one
of the vast army of employed citizens throughout
the whole world owe their Saturday afternoons and
their week-day hours of leisure, in the first instance,
to the little son of a Devonshire yeoman who began
his life by spilling a cart of hay.

" You must be careful to remember," one of his
friends told me, " that George Williams, in spite of
his theology, was one of the brightest and happiest
men alive. I do not think I ever met a man so
contagiously cheerful. It was splendid to see him
enter a hall where a great meeting was expected, and
where perhaps only a dozen people were congre-
gated ; his eyes would shine, his lips break into a
smile, and, rubbing his hands, he would exclaim,
' This is splendid ! We can have a real talk ! ' I
may truly say that I never once saw his face fall,
or once knew him dejected or disappointed. He
was the noblest optimist that ever gave himself to
humanity. And I need not tell you what was the
secret. His faith was that of a little child. God,
for him, was a Father, a living and a most loving
Father. He knew that so long as he worked his
hardest, prayed with all his heart, and really
believed, God Himself, in some way and at some
time, would give the increase."

He was a man who spoke jerkily, walked jerkily,
and made all his movements jerkily. He was
one of those electric personalities which break up
stagnation in a wide radius of their contact, and
set the dullest torpor into motion. No man could

26 THE ORDINARY MAN

easily yawn in his presence. He had the most benign
smile, the most contagious twinkle of the eyes, and
the most lovable way of saying kind or stimulating
things. On occasions he could be sharply amusing.
One of his friends, a fat and comfortable person,
once said to him. very lugubriously, " I'm ill,
seriously ill. I don't know what to do. My doctor
says I must take care of myself. What would you
advise me to do? " " Change your doctor," was
the answer.

Men of all nations and the most various occupa-
tions entertained towards him a feeling of the very
warmest, almost a filial affection. At the time of
the Association's jubilee in America, Mr. Pierpont
Morgan, Mr. Rockefeller, and Mr. Dodge happened
to be breakfasting together in America. It was
suggested that they should send " the dear old
man " a cable of congratulations. The message was
composed, and was about to be despatched when
Mr. Morgan, who is a better and kinder Christian
than many people suppose, exclaimed with a note
of rebuke in his voice, " But stop a minute ! Anyone
can send a telegram. Surely we ought to do some-
thing to show our appreciation and affection."
The others agreed. After a few minutes it was
decided to ascertain from the Central Office of the
Young Men's Christian Association in America the
extent of its debts and liabilities. This was done
by telephone. The sum was wiped out then and
there, and a few words were added to the original
cable, saying that the Association in New York was
now clear of debt.

Another instance. One day a poor widow called

A MAN AND HIS WORK 27

upon Sir George Williams begging his assistance in
a great tragedy. Her son had run away from home.
The good man, to whom the widow was a complete
stranger, gave himself up to help her. It was
discovered that the boy had taken service in a ship
bound for America. George Williams at once sent
a cablegram to a friend of his in Philadelphia, the
millionaire John Wanamaker, asking him to have
the boy met, reasoned with, and sent back to
England. When the ship arrived Mr. Wanamaker
himself was there to meet it ; he carried off the boy
to his own house, entertained him, and sent him
back to England with his love to George Williams.
No man could ever do too much for this noble
spirit.

But of all the men who knew him and felt for
him this warmth of affection, none, of course, ever
got nearer to his heart, or more perfectly appreciated
the man's depth of soul, than his son, Mr. Howard
Williams. To most people Mr. Williams is known
chiefly as treasurer to perhaps the wisest charity
in England, Dr. Barnardo's Homes, although very
few people are aware to what extent he has given
himself, heart and soul, to that great business of
saving children and making citizens. But Mr.
Williams is also one of the great forces at the back
of the Young Men's Christian Association, and not
only because he believes in the work, and not only
because he sees that the room for its development
is enormous, but because of his father's memory.

It is impossible for me to relate here what Mr.
Williams told me of his father's life, still more
impossible to convey the tone of affection in his

28 THE ORDINARY MAN

voice, the light of love and devotion in his eyes,
as he spoke of that great and remarkable man. One
saw that the impression made by the father on the
son's heart was as deep and everlasting as the effect
of a great revelation or the memory of a profound
beauty. " We believe and hold," he said, speaking
of the Association and its developments, " the
faith my father taught us. First, that the most
important thing in life is Character ; second, that
without Christ the perfection of Character is im-
possible ; and third, that the way of approach to
Christ is by prayer and reading of the Bible. That
was the foundational thing in my father's soul.
That was the inspiration of his life. And it is the
foundational fact of the Association. The Associa-
tion will grow in England as it has grown in the
United States, in Canada, and in Australia. It
will change as everything changes in time. It will
certainly march forward and enlarge its vision. But
it will always have as the rock of its foundation
those three dogmas of my father's life : Character ;
Character through Christ ; Christ through prayer
and reading of the Bible. And I don't believe any
good and lasting work can be done in the world
where those three foundational things are absent, or,
if present, weak and unemphatic. My father made
religion the base of the Association and the base of
his own life. His motto was, First things first.'"

On the 14th November, 1905, under darkened
heavens, and in sullen falling rain, the people of
London stood in the shuttered streets, stood in the
midst of the arrested traffic, and watched the
passing of the body of George Williams to St. Paul's

A MAN AND HIS WORK 29

Cathedral. In the almost unnatural gloom of the
wintry afternoon letters in white flowers on a
background of violets, shining from a wreath at the
back of the hearse, were visible to every eye — the
one utterance, the one intelligible sound in that
dumb and solemn progress of the dead. These words
were, " Loved by all."

That simple epitaph, spoken by white flowers,
moved through the hush of London like the deep
Amen of angels at the end of a beautiful life. No
spot of rain seemed to dull those shining flowers,
no speck of London's mud besmirched their purity.
Through the sombre gloom, close at the head of
the dead man, those letters shone to right and left of
the darkened streets, and breathed a sense of ten-
derest humanity and sweetest divinity on a great
and mighty City whose iron pulses beat to the ends of
the earth. Just those words, woven by the hands
and hearts of the dead man's staff in his house of
business, and the rest, silence and the turning of
wheels.

Without pomp or pageantry of any kind, the
gentle, sweet-hearted, and courageous man was
borne from the streets of the great City and laid
to rest close to the place of Nelson's burial. Like
Nelson, he had begun his life in delicacy and in
ridicule, and like Nelson, but with even a more
universal blessing, he was laid to rest at the heart of
the British Empire.

CHAPTER II
THE WORK

ON Midsummer Day in the year 1844 a meeting
was held in St. Martin's Coffee House, to
report upon the result of the circular sent out to the
big drapery establishments in London, suggesting the
formation of a society for young men on religious
lines. George Williams presided at this meeting,
announced that the answers to the circular were
encouraging, and a sum of thirty shillings was raised
towards expenses.

In a few weeks, so successful was the undertaking,
larger premises were needed, and a room was taken
in Radley's Hotel, Blackfriars, at a rental of seven
shillings and sixpence a week — "an increased
expenditure which seemed to many almost too
daring a venture ! "

" The first months of the Association's existence,"
says Mr. Hodder Williams, " were marked by many
signs of steady progress. Religious services were
established in fourteen other houses of business,
while weekly meetings were held at Radley's Hotel,
' from which gatherings the members of the Associa-
tion separated to their various places of business
strengthened and cheered by such fellowship for
the difficult task of keeping their flag flying in dor-

30

THE WORK 31

mitory, shop, and warehouse.' The members were
increasing constantly, and fresh conversions were
announced at every meeting. ... It must not be
forgotten that the work began as an association of
Christian young men, young men full, it is true, of
missionary zeal, but anxious, first of all, so to
strengthen each other by this bond of companionship
that they might, by their united stand, show a bold
front against the forces of evil which threatened
to overcome the weaker brethren."

Thus, as little else but a society for prayer and
Bible reading, the Association grew rapidly in the
metropolis, and became presently a society for
" mental culture," without losing its essential
spirit of religion. Before it was five months old as
many as 160 men attended to hear the reading of
the first reports. Lectures were delivered by such
distinguished men as Archbishop Whately, Dean
Stanley, and Professor Richard Owen on a variety
of subjects which ranged " from the Tabernacle of
Israel to the Mythology of the Greeks, from Renan
to Hogarth, and from Christian Evidences to
Popular Amusements." Nearly three thousand
people attended some of these lectures.

The great masters of trade and commerce gave
warm encouragement to this prospering society.
"It is no exaggeration to say that the platform
at the yearly gatherings of the Young Men's Chris-
tian Association . . . was occupied by more notable
men from all sections of society than were to be
found at any other public gathering of a religious
nature. . . . The most noble of all names connected
with the Association will ever remain that of the

32 THE ORDINARY MAN

heroic philanthropist and statesman, Lord Shaftes-
bury. It was in 1848, when, as Lord Ashley, he had
reached the height of his power in the House of
Commons . . . that he first came into close personal
touch with George Williams. . . . The complete
story of their friendship will never be told. George
Williams would not have wished the details of such
a relationship to be made public, and silence is the
golden tribute to both men. It is enough to say
that one of the finest, strongest characters of these
latter days spoke of Sir George Williams as his
' best friend,' and asked repeatedly for him as
he lay waiting for Death." In the estimation of
Lord Shaftesbury the Association was a " valuable
institution set for the glory of God and the good of
men."

But it was not all plain sailing. To George
Williams it became every day more evident that
the Association must open ever wider gates to the
increasing host of young men exposed to the
loneliness and temptations of London. He was
broad-minded, tolerant, far-seeing, and tender-
hearted. He had an infinite compassion for young
men surrounded on every side by the bewitchments
of evil. He would have done almost anything,
short of renouncing the religious basis of the
Association, to draw all men into its fold. But he
was opposed by the timorous, the intolerant, and the
narrow-minded. It was not until after a great fight
that the Association, as a body, recognised the
importance of what Herbert Spencer called " phy-
sical morality " and the necessity for greater
activity in the region of mental refinement.

THE WORK 33

Mr. Hodder Williams quotes in his biography of
Sir George Williams what he truly calls " two
amazing extracts " from the official organ of the
Association : —

" We have no hesitation in saying that a
Christian young man had better not compete in
a swimming match, or indeed in a match of any
kind. The desire of distinction will in itself be a
snare, while if he should win in the strife, passions
of envy, jealousy, or disappointment may be en-
gendered in his competitors."

A few days later Archbishop Trench and Dr. Dale,
of Birmingham, for attending some Shakespearean
celebration, were accused of having " trailed their
Christian priesthood in the dust to offer homage
at the shrine of a dead playwright " : —

"We see that Archbishop Trench closed his
discourse at Stratford Church by referring to the
correctness of Shakespeare's views on the cor-
ruptness of human nature and on the atoning
sacrifice of the Lord Jesus Christ. Did he think
such matters were of much account to those
who were about to join in idle pageants, theatrical
fooleries, and, above all, that oratorio of the
Messiah, wherein, as John Newton once said
roughly but pointedly, ' the Redeemer's agonies
are illustrated on catgut ' ? Masquerade and
sermon, pageant and oratorio ! — it is very
mournful."

Thoughtful and reflective people, acquainted with
the spirit of that age, will be able to find some excuse

34 THE ORDINARY MAN

for these pious opinions ; but the great, coarse,
hurrying world, so quick with sneers for what is
pure and refined, hears of them gladly and with
chuckles, only eager for an opportunity to laugh
at goodness and to ridicule the life of the righteous.

In spite of noble men who fought manfully in the
Association against this pitiful spirit of a quite
pinchbeck puritanism, a certain section of society
passed contemptuous judgment on its work and
made its members the target of their scorn. The
letters " Y.M.C.A." began to figure in comic prints
with the accompaniment of derision. A j^oung
man who hated to be dubbed " milksop " held aloof
from its gatherings. There was a fairly general
feeling that the Association existed for the manu-
facture of prigs.

Deadly as was this impression, George Williams,
and the best of the men supporting him, went
manfully forward with the great work, and continued
to win young men by hundreds and thousands.
The Association became more manful and vigorous,
more intellectual and refined. Local branches were
established throughout the country. They were
recognised by Church and commerce as beneficent
institutions. In spite of narrowness within, and
ridicule without, the Association prospered.

In the year 1852 George Williams was in Paris
on the business of his house. He asked a pastor
if a Young Men's Christian Association existed in
the city. He was told that such a society did not
and could not exist in that city. Not satisfied by this
answer, George Williams called a meeting, opened a
subscription list, and established the first foreign

THE WORK 35

branch of the Association in the City of Paris. A
commercial traveller, present at this meeting,
introduced the Association into Holland, from
whence it spread to other European countries. " In
the same year Richard Searle, a young man from
a business house in London, laid the foundation of
a flourishing Association in Adelaide, and shortly
afterwards branches were also started in Calcutta,
in Montreal, in Boston, and in other cities in the
United States." The Association had become
within eight years of its foundation — when twelve
young men prayed for it in a dingy little upper room
in St. Paul's Churchyard — imperial and inter-
national.

At this day the Association claims to be " the
greatest Brotherhood in the world — from humble
beginnings in 1844 of twelve young men, with the
modest expenditure for rent of 2s. 6d. weekly, it has
so multiplied itself that to-day there are upwards
of 8000 branches in 46 countries, with a membership
of nearly one million, some 1300 Associations
possessing their own buildings, valued at sixteen
million pounds."

Now, it must be confessed that if England can
give praise for the birth of this wonderful Brother-
hood at the heart of her kingdom, America is the
country which can most justly claim the chief
glory of its present prosperity. For what England
began to do timorously and on a rather niggardly
scale, America has done boldly, whole-heartedly,
and on a scale of confident magnificence. England
is now about to make up for lost time, is now about
to recover her lost ground, and it is possible — for so

THE ORDINARY MAN

great is the newly awakened enthusiasm — that she
may even rival and surpass America. But it is only
fair and right to say that the extraordinary genius
of the American nation for realising a good thing, for
appreciating a splendid opportunity, and for sparing
neither money nor energy in a really great under-
taking, is the inspiration of the present enthusiasm
in England.

One of the foremost workers for the Association
in America said to me the other day : "I could
almost have cried when I first came to England and

w how the Association had fallen to sleep. I went
to a provincial city. It was evening when I arrived.
The streets were crowded with people. I asked the
first man I saw to direct me to the Young Men's Chris-
tian Association. He didn't know it ! I asked another,
and another,, and at last I found someone to tell me.
It was down a back street. The door stood open.
In a dark passage two or three dirty bicycles leaned
_• inst the wall. I went upstairs. A kerosene
lamp was burning in a dull and stuffy room. A few
old papers lay on the table. Not a sound was to be

\rd. The room was empty. The whole ho.:
seemed to be deserted. Well, as I tell you, I could
have cried. Why ! in America, in a city of that size,
the finest and most prominent building in the whole
place would be the Young Men's Christian Associa-
tion. Not a soul there but would know it. It would
be the chief landmark, and the centre of the town's
social and religious life. Yes, it is high time you
woke up in England."

America has seen the immense possibilities of this
Association. Not a whit less insistent than England

THE WORK 37

as to the religious basis., it has developed the moral,
mental, and physical view-points of the Aseocaai

on a really gigantic scale. The bu:. _- vast and
utilitarian buildings, are hives of energy. Education
proceeds in numerous class-rooms on almost every
subject under the sun. from theology to chemistry ; a
physical director is kept hard at work with squads
of athletes in the gymnasium ; there are swimm. _
baths, shower-baths, fives-courts, running- tracks,
and rifle ranges ; billiard-rooms, and music-rooms are
provided on a handsome scale: n thing innc:
and healthy is excluded from one of these huge
clubs, where classes for study of the Bible are not
less well attended than the gymnasium and the swim-
ming-bath.

But the reader will learn in a subsequent chapter
of this book how entirely England has been out-
paced by America in the matter of develop _ S :
George Williams's great idea of assoc ting ung
men in a society for religiov. - i inte_ I
improvement. For the present I would attempt
to show how wide and considerable is the influence
for good exercised by the Association in England
even in its present condition, and ho~ "
and boundless are the possibilities now presented
to our vision in the awakening of this En_
Association to the immense field of action which
literally clamours for its activity.

The influence of the Association has long per-
meated our commercial life. Just as I rly-
closing movement, now universal, owes its s
to the brilliant thought and courageous en: . :
the Association's founder, so does the provision

38 THE ORDINARY MAN

now made in most of the big business houses for the
comfort and well-being of their servants have its
spring and origin in the example of the Association.
The indirect influence of this Brotherhood, the
more one studies its history and the concurrent
history of the nation's trade, is seen to be amazing.
One might almost say that the humanitarian spirit
which now characterises so many of the largest
shops and warehouses and factories of England had
its sole birth in the quickening impulse of the Young
Men's Christian Association.

Perhaps the general public is not aware of the
religious spirit which works behind the scenes of
material commerce, the religious spirit which is
busy with the souls of men even in the midst of
London's ceaseless trade. It may be well, therefore,
if I give a brief account of the inner life of one
establishment in London, where a most prosperous
religious activity keeps pace with an increasingly
successful trade, where the whole immense volume
of material activity is consecrated by a spiritual
influence. In this particular case the entire char-
acter of the religious life is directly due, not indirectly
traceable, to the work of the Young Men's Christian
Association.

To begin with, all the young people employed
by this firm, if they have no relations in London,
are, with very few exceptions, boarded and housed
in lodges of a most comfortable order. These
lodges contain from thirty to sixty individuals, who
are subjected to the same rules that obtain at
universities, with the exception that they are
allowed to go out at night until 11.15 and, for one

THE WORK 39

night a week, until 12 o'clock. The dormitories and
smaller bedrooms are comfortable and well venti-
lated ; the furniture is good ; the whole atmosphere
is refined and civilising. In each lodge there are a
room for games, a writing-room, a smoking-room,
and a music-room.

The religious welfare of this great concern is
superintended by a chaplain, who reads morning
pra3Ters every day of the week, and by a missionary
society among the staff of the establishment. This
society, which holds prayer meetings and Bible
classes every week, held its seventy-first annual
meeting last year, and for many years has con-
tributed from £120 to £160 annually towards mission
work.

The firm has its own sports ground. It has
cricket, football, hockey, bowls, lawn tennis and
other outdoor clubs. On the Saturday of the
week in which I visited the establishment eight
football and two hockey teams were engaged in
matches. In addition to these sports and games,
the firm possesses a miniature rifle-range ; and in
order to teach its young people the duties of
citizenship, and to encourage a national spirit,
it gives an extra week's holiday on full pay every
year to each man who becomes a Territorial and
goes to camp.

A qualified medical man is employed to attend
the sick, and no one loses wages through illness.
Where a young man has no place to go to for
recuperation, he is sent to a Convalescent Home
at the firm's expense.

The social side of the firm's life is provided for by

40 THE ORDINARY MAN

a library committee, which arranges entertainments
and lectures throughout the winter season, and
by an Eclectic Association which provides for im-
promptu speeches, discussions, set debates, and
lantern lectures. Draughts and chess clubs are
popular, and a rambling club has devoted members
who prefer long and philosophic walks to violent
exercise in the form of athletics.

Educational work is steadily maintained through-
out the autumn, the winter, and early spring.
Classes are held for elocution, composition, French,
singing, and even for ambulance work.

To encourage thrift, the members of the staff
are allowed to deposit with the firm the savings of
their salaries at 5 per cent interest. Coal and other
clubs are arranged for the benefit of married men.

From this necessarily brief and hurried statement,
the reader will perceive how very great is the change
which has come over the commercial life of England
since the formation of the Young Men's Christian
Association. At that time uncarpeted and never-
dusted rooms at the top of the warehouse served
for dormitories ; men slept two in a bed ; half an
hour served for the three wretched meals of the day ;
and in almost every single warehouse nothing was
done either for the physical or moral welfare of the
staff.

Three reflections will suggest themselves to the
mind of a man who quietly considers the account
I have just furnished of this firm's conscientious
regard for the welfare of its staff. First, the miracle
— the miracle that all this benefit has flowed from
the thought of a youth who came from Devonshire

THE WORK 41

to London less than a hundred years ago in search
of humble employment. No man can fail to be
struck, if he patiently considers the immense
change in public opinion, by the miracle of this
single life, the life of a friendless and almost penniless
youth, which by prayer and earnest faith in God
became one of the very greatest powers in the
evolution of the commercial conscience.

Second, the interest of modern life when we get
behind the apparent and the exterior, and explore the
inner workings of even that which appears at first
sight an entirely material undertaking. Is it not
interesting to reflect that within the grim and
crowded warehouses of London there is an organised
religious life permeating everything ? — a life in
which men seek to help each other, to be kind to
one another, to improve and develop both their
minds and bodies, to understand the evolving
revelation of Almighty God, and to hasten the
Kingdom of Christ by prayer and supplication.
Does not this thought at once deepen and intensify
our interest in life ? — does it not draw us, as it were,
a little closer to the heart of humanity ? — are we
not aware, as we reflect upon the spiritual life of a
London warehouse, of some invisible, mystic, and
overshadowing spirit which transcends the whole
orb of physical existence as our own individual
soul transcends the operations of the body ?

And finally, the reflection arises that it is im-
possible to trace the beneficent influences which
flow from the operations of organised goodness,
and that to count heads in the Young Men's Christian
Association, to number international branches, and

42 THE ORDINARY MAN

to estimate the capital value of their buildings, is
by no means to exhaust the catalogue of blessings
which have come to humanity from the idea of
Sir George Williams.

From this final reflection emerges another thought.
If the beneficent effect of the Young Men's Christian
Association has been so general, and the establish-
ment of which I have given an account is only one
of many which now conduct their business with a
genuine religious inspiration at the back of their
machinery — is there any longer need of the Associa-
tion as a separate and amalgamating institution ? —
has it not, by the force of its own influence, destroyed
the reason for its existence ?

The backward condition of the Association in
England, as compared with America and Australasia,
is due far more to this awakening of the moral
conscience among the great London firms than to
any previous narrowness on the part of its organisers.
In a great measure one may say that the principal
firms of London now offer their servants advan-
tages and boons which are beyond the means of
the Association to provide for its members. But
the need for the Association has become even
greater than before, and it is the realisation of this
tremendous need that is now inspiring the devoted
men at the head of the English Association to a
great forward movement.

The reader will easily perceive that the need for
the Association has increased rather than decreased
with the philanthropic efforts of the great London
firms, when it is pointed out that the very success
of these large houses renders the struggle of the

THE WORK 43

small employer to keep head above water more
and more difficult, so that it is wholly impossible
for him to devote either time or money to the social
and moral welfare of his servants. There are in
London and throughout the provinces innumerable
warehouses and factories where nothing of a saving
character is done for the staff ; and in addition
to these small and struggling warehouses and
factories there exist a vast number of offices in
which it has never been the fashion of the employers
to interest themselves in the moral and spiritual
life of their clerks. To leave this huge army of young
men, the great majority of whom live in lodgings —
like beasts of the field, as Stevenson would say — to
leave them with no provision for cultivating those
mystic qualities which alone can give a logical
interpretation to the fierce struggle for existence,
to leave them entirely unguarded from the tempta-
tions of London streets, to leave them with nothing
in life beyond the office desk and the back bedroom
of a suburban lodging-house — this is to commit a
most signal offence against the law of Christian
brotherhood, and to leave undone one of the first
and most urgent things every intelligent man should
do, both as patriot and humanitarian. The young
and lonely men of London are said to number
800,000 — a host which exceeds the whole population
of the next greatest city to the metropolis — and it is
a wild thought that so vast an army can be ade-
quately guarded from temptation by the philan-
thropic enterprise of a few of the largest firms —
an enterprise entirely restricted of course, to their
own employes.

44 THE ORDINARY MAN

And the welfare of these young men is a matter
of considerable importance even when religion is left
out of count. For the most part they leave school
and college, or come up from towns and villages in
the country, with their innocence but little soiled,
their tenderness and gentleness but little hardened.
And they find themselves free and untrammelled —
to all intents and purposes their own masters — in
a city where gross, horrible, and revolting forms of
vice are publicly paraded in the most fashionable
and popular streets, and where the guardians of law
and order look on as if this violation of purity and
virtue were a thing of no account.

It is not only that quite young girls are there,
publicly walking the streets, but that they are
there unashamed. These young men from clean
and virtuous homes see something far worse than
vice ; they see, naked to their eyes, the immodesty
of a fallen soul. They see vice laughing and tri-
umphant. They see girls, who have thrown their
very chastity away like a toy of childhood, walking
the streets of the town without one sigh, without one
tear, even without one blush. They are staggered.
They are shocked. Their inmost soul revolts
against this public desecration of virtue and modesty.
But they are spellbound. They are fascinated.
They become curious. And unless their souls are
strong, they fall. They become one of the crowd
that goes by, laughing and unashamed.

On every side of them are taverns, wine-bars,
theatres, music-halls. A thousand doors to bright
interiors stand open for them. The day has been
long and hard. If they go home there is only a dull

THE WORK 45

bedroom, a gas-jet, and a grubby chair. Is it
wonderful that they feel the magic of the streets,
that they glance in at those open doors, that they
are conscious of an inclination not to struggle any
longer, no longer to aspire ?

The more I see of London the greater grows
my amazement that there is so much virtue,
goodness, sobriety among the youth of the city.
For in London vice is not of the back street and
among the disreputable, but in the very centre of
the city's existence, and among the most splendid
and fashionable of the inhabitants. In a village,
in a small town, even in an average provincial city,
vice has its own deplorable quarter, and its guilty
votaries steal there, with fear of being observed.
But in London the most central music-halls, the
most central streets, the most central taverns are in
the frank and challenging possession of iniquity.
The men who crowd these places are not the shabby
and disreputable, but apparently the prosperous,
the fashionable, and the respectable. Vice is not a
thing of which the city is ashamed, but apparently
the very heart of its nightly pleasure. Sin is not
a thing from which humanity is struggling to liberate
itself, but apparently the single occupation of its
leisure. Until a man has talked with a youth
who came pure to London, he cannot know how
terrible and destructive is the shock of London's
public and triumphant shame.

Happily, such a Brotherhood as the Young Men's
Christian Association exists to protect modesty,
innocence, and purity — which the State leaves
absolutely alone to shift for themselves — from the

46 THE ORDINARY MAN

carnival of the midnight streets. And still more
happily, the Central Association in London has at
length awakened to the necessity of a much more
vigorous and splendid crusade against iniquity
than anything which has hitherto been attempted.
Great and wonderful work it has already accom-
plished— as the narratives that follow will help
to show — but much greater and more wonderful
confronts it now. I believe that with the active
and generous support of London's wealthy citizens,
the Association in England will become as potent a
force for righteousness, as triumphant against vice
and wickedness as the vigorous branches in America
and Australia. That this is a very great claim to
make, let the following incident suffice to prove.

At the time when the United States set about
their gigantic task of cutting the Panama Canal,
it was felt by the Cabinet that some provision should
be made for the social and moral welfare of the
25,000 white men employed in the operations.
The climate of the Panama Zone, the activity of
the saloon-keepers, and the energy displayed by the
agents of iniquity made it necessary for the State to
interfere on the side of righteousness. Accordingly,
great club-houses were erected at considerable cost,
in which the white men were invited to take their
ease and spend profitably the hours of their leisure.
But the saloons remained full, the clubs were
deserted. Then Mr. Roosevelt, one of the most
enthusiastic supporters of the Association, suggested
to his Cabinet that these houses, adequately
financed by the State, should be handed over to the
Young Men's Christian Association. Some misgiving,

THE WORK 47

I believe, was expressed as to the consequences of
such a step — the jealousy of other organisations,
the demands likely to be made on the State by
missionary societies, etc. — but Mr. Roosevelt held
to his course and carried the Cabinet with him.
They all knew that the Association in America is
" a real thing." And now those great buildings in
the Panama Zone are crowded from base to roof
with a strong and virile manhood, the saloons to
all intents and purposes are deserted, the agents
of iniquity have packed their bags and departed.
Such is the force, the power, and the irresistible
efficiency of the Association in America. And such,
also, is its reputation with Government.

That a similar destiny awaits the Association in
England one cannot doubt. For not only has a
wholly adequate and really magnificent head-
quarters at last been erected in London, but a
hard-headed and sensible man likely to drive
the Association forward by the force of his
own ringing enthusiasm has been called from
Australia to direct the new campaign, and is
confident of victory. Mr. J. J. Virgo brings to the
Mother Country the freshness, the energy, the
courage, and the exuberance of spirit which as much
characterise the Britons beyond the seas as the
United States of America. He is a man whom
neither our tragic snobbery can daunt, nor our ice-
cold aversion from enthusiasm can chill. He knows
what the Young Men's Christian Association is in
Australia, in Canada, and in the United States ;
and, better still, he knows what has made it a
recognised force in the national life of those coun-

48 THE ORDINARY MAN

tries. The same methods which he employed so
successfully in Australia will be employed here,
and unless the wealthy men of England are behind
their kinsmen across the sea in patriotism, in
humanity, and in a sense of responsibility to God,
those methods will assuredly make the Association
here a force of equal magnitude in the national life.

An. orthodox Jew, in giving £10 to the palace now
erected in Tottenham Court Road, as the Associa-
tion's memorial to Sir George Williams, said that
though he remained a Jew he should like to feel
that he had helped to put a few bricks and a little
mortar into so noble a factory for the making of
Character. This is Mr. Virgo's central enthusiasm —
the Association makes men. He feels that the making
of Character is the greatest work to which a man can
set his hand, and if he thought the Association
manufactured prigs and milksops he would be the
first man to laugh it out of our imperial existence.
But he knows that this fault, if it ever existed in any
considerable degree, has now entirely passed away.
The Association stands for the development of the
whole man — body, mind, and spirit. It exists to
make men physically wholesome, mentally efficient,
and spiritually strong. It does not develop only one
side of a man's character, and leave the rest to shift
for itself, to decay, to become corrupt, to atrophy.
It holds that no one side can be developed alone
without injury to the rest. And it holds the faith
that the future of the race, and the future of the
British Empire — which carries so much of the
welfare of other nations — must depend upon the
training of the young men throughout the whole

THE WORK 49

of the King's dominions in physical, mental, and
spiritual efficiency.

In discussing this question with me for the first
time, Mr. Virgo constantly made use of a single
phrase which I have since found out is the spring of
his optimism, if it is not the foundation of his en-
thusiasm. This phrase was, " The scope is bound-
less." While some people in England were inclined
to say " We have come to the end of our furrow,"
this Australian was standing on a hill-top and per-
ceiving with glad eyes that " the scope is boundless."

" When a man sees, really sees, without any mis-
take about it," he said to me, " that the scope of his
work is boundless, absolutely boundless, he isn't
likely to sit still whittling a stick. And it is bound-
less. Think what it means, first of all, from a
national point of view. No one who is not out of his
senses will deny that a sober, virtuous, and athletic
people are essential to a nation's greatness. A
nation cannot be great where young men are
abandoned to intemperance, gambling, vice, and
slothful lounging. The competition is too keen.
The stress of life is too severe. The other fellow
won't let you ! An immoral nation goes under,
sooner or later. But a nation, on the other hand,
composed of vigorous, intelligent, healthy, and
moral people — no matter how old its history or how
enormous its heritage — stands, sure and steady,
against every attack ; nothing can destroy it. Ask
an employer of labour whether he would rather have
sober or drunken workpeople, whether he finds
an earnest, athletic, and virtuous clerk more
profitable than a little, white-faced, cynical ninny

50 THE ORDINARY MAN

or a lounging, lisping masher ! Ask the doctors, ask
the eugenists ! But, of course, the thing is obvious.
The only serious point of the matter is this, that
the nation does not seem to realise, as a nation,
how important, how essentially and tremendously
important to its whole general welfare, is the
morality and purity of its young people at the start.
One does not seem to feel in England — at least
I do not feel it at present — that the whole nation
is convinced heart and soul of this importance.
But what an England it will be — my word, what an
England ! — when the nation does realise that
morality is its first concern, and does set itself,
this great and splendid England, to the manufacture
of men ! In that day you will not only get rid of
the scandal of 'the remittance man,' so injurious
to England throughout the colonies, but you will
have in England itself a manhood worthy of the
heart of the empire.

" Then, think what it means from an imperial
point of view. What ties are the strongest ? Are
they commercial ? Is a man more closely allied
with his tradesmen than with those whom he loves,
whether they serve him or not ? Surely affection is
the strongest and most unifying of all human bonds.
And what is the rock foundation of affection ? Is
it not a moral enthusiasm, a fervour of religious
idealism ? Throughout Australia and Canada you
have an immense organisation linked to a similar
organisation in England and waiting to develop
itself on imperial lines. That organisation is
religious. It is concerned with the manufacture of
men. It desires above everything else to feel itself

THE WORK 51

at unity with a triumphant body in the Mother
Country. It seeks to make the empire such a
power as the world has never known — an empire of
Christian manhood. A great awakening in England
would be felt to the uttermost parts of this empire.
It would quicken the whole fabric of British exist-
ence. For there is nothing like religious enthusiasm ;
it does not matter how far off or how sundered our
race may be, if they feel that they are one in religious
spirit, that they are one in a sublime religious ideal,
they will be a single people and a single nation.
Responsibility ties us together ; enthusiasm for a
great destiny makes us literally one people. Our
scope is boundless.

" One of the big things which lie before the
Association is the work of emigration. We seek
to send more and more men from England to
religious houses in the colonies, and to bring from
the colonies into England some of the best and most
go-ahead of their enthusiastic manhood. Again I
say, the scope is boundless. England, I think,
neither realises how deeply she is loved in the
colonies, nor how earnest are the colonies for a
religious unity with the Mother Country. Think
what it will mean when the Young Men's Christian
Association is the great central labour exchange of
the whole empire, and when our conferences are
held, with delegates from every nation, in all the
countries of the British Commonwealth !

" There is one other point for England to consider.
The most prosperous branch of the Association is
in the United States and Canada. The prospect is
not only imperial, but international. The ideal

52 THE ORDINARY MAN

before our eyes is one of Anglo-Saxon unity.
Through the Association, more easily than any other
agency, can this great unity of the race be achieved.
America, according to some of your newspapers,
is composed only of a greedy and grasping com-
mercial people ; but in truth it is, I really believe,
the most religious nation under heaven. The
religious life in America has its aberrations and
extravagances, but at bottom it is deep, manful,
and enthusiastic with a most splendid common sense.
If England desires the friendship of America, she
will not leave the matter to her statesmen and
diplomatists, but will herself propose a union for
moral, philanthropic, and religious idealism. She
cannot, in fact, too frequently remind America that
the supreme object of her existence is the Kingdom
of God, or too warmly invite the American nation
to co-operate with her in achieving this ideal. And
the Association, firm-fixed and universally extended
throughout the States, is the best organisation
for this cordial co-operation in a spiritual destiny.
Yes, the scope is boundless. A moral, manful,
and religious England linked up with a moral,
manful, and religious empire is a great and glorious
thought ; but greater and more glorious is the
equally possible consummation of a moral, manful,
and religious British Empire linked up with a moral,
manful, and religious America for the peace of
the world, the blessing of humanity, and the glory
of God. It is not a dream ; it is an eminently
practical possibility. Wherever an English member
of the Young Men's Christian Association goes in
the colonies or in America he makes straight for the

THE WORK 53

head-quarters of the Association, and there he finds
not only kindness and hospitality, but a genuine
eagerness to serve him in finding useful work. It
is not a question of a foreign country, or a scattered
empire ; he feels himself one of a consecrated
Anglo-Saxon brotherhood."

The comprehensiveness of the Association is
witnessed by the provision made in Tottenham Court
Road for physical and mental culture. On the upper
floors one sees an endless succession of class-rooms,
where the young men of London will be able to
get the very best instruction in every subject of
commercial education. This is a branch of activity
which the American Association has brought to the
highest pitch of perfection. It was long ago
recognised in America that mental efficiency is not
only necessary to commercial success, but valuable
to spiritual culture. The educational classes in
America are perhaps the most flourishing depart-
ment of the Association's work, and they are to be
equally successful in England, if enthusiasm and
thoroughness can make them so.

Just as an expert in education has been carefully
chosen for the new London head-quarters, so an
expert has been as carefully engaged for the Associa-
tion's work in physical culture. The gymnasium
will be a serious business, and not a mere playground
for senseless antics and unprofitable tomfooleries.
There will be regular courses of instruction, and
classes for every form of drill and athletic exercise.
In addition to the gymnasium, the head-quarters
possesses a swimming-bath, shower-baths, a minia-
ture rifle-range, and a room for fencing and boxing.

54 THE ORDINARY MAN

There are something like two hundred bedrooms
in this beautiful building, where a young man can
lodge as cheaply as three and sixpence a week. The
restaurants are on a most elaborate scale. The cook-
ing is to be as good as the money of the Association
can make it.

Besides the usual attractions of a club, the
Association provides a lecture theatre, a music-
room, a wonderful range of dark-rooms for the
developing of photographs, quiet rooms for private
study, and a bureau of inquiry as regards emigration
and employment.

But not less thorough is the organisation for
entirely religious purposes. There are rooms set
apart for the study of the Bible, and the best men
possible will help in the work of directing religious
enthusiasm into the most useful channels. A
missionary earnestness wi]l characterise the whole
life of this vast establishment. Public meetings of
a religious nature will be constantly held in the
auditorium. Men from all the churches will compose
the membership, and sectarianism will be entirely
obliterated by the single and central ambition to
make right reason and the Will of God prevail in
the life of the metropolis.

To this great and noble condition has the Associa-
tion now come in London, and before the closing
of this chapter, and passing to some remarkable
narratives of religious experience, I would invite
the reader to consider the urgent need for multiply-
ing such buildings as the London head-quarters
throughout the capital city, the suburbs, and the
provinces.

THE WORK 55

The very best safeguard for a young man's virtue
and honesty is association with virtuous and honest
men. Too poor to do anything but take a miserable
room in a back street, and with little else to do in
his spare time but wander aimlessly through the
town, the average young man who comes to London
for employment falls first into sin, then into a mood
of bitterness and depression, and finally passes to
a careless acquiescence in the general life of the
irreligious community. Neither wholly good nor
wholly bad, he drifts with the tide of indifference
and becomes a feeble creature, as unprofitable
to the State as useless to the purposes of God.

But such a young man, lodged and boarded in a
splendid house, surrounded on every side by the
bracing influences of morality, encouraged by those
who share this club-life to develop his bodily powers,
to educate himself as a rational being, and to
address his imagination and the thoughts of his
heart to the great God of the Universe, becomes
a man to whom the streets offer no temptation,
and one whose life may grow to be a blessing to his
fellow-men. He is definitely associated with good-
ness ; not solitary and aimless in the midst of a
city loud with senseless pleasure and bold with
shameless depravity. He is one in a moral army,'
a unit in a spiritual force, a comrade in a clean
and rejoicing brotherhood. Such a lot is as
certain for righteousness as the other is certain
for ruin.

Now, this is the thought I would leave in the
reader's mind. Young men do not usually go to
their ruin with gladness and determinate purpose.

56 THE ORDINARY MAN

They fall into sin. And they do not keep away from
the Young Men's Christian Association because
they dislike and deny such an organisation, but
because the Association has neither the room nor
the equipment to receive them. If such a building
as the head-quarters in Tottenham Court Road were
erected twenty and thirty times in London, it would
fill itself with a host of young men eager for its
club-life, its educational and physical advantages,
and the pleasures and refinements of its friendships.
Such is the state of things in America. There is
no reason in the world to imagine that such a state of
things cannot exist in England.

If, then, young men perish for want of moral
companionships, and if they are ready for such
a life as the Association provides, ought we not to
make it the immediate business of our Christian
brotherhood to set up these hostels throughout the
length and breadth of England ?

Think how frightfully the solitary man is exposed
to temptation in London ! Can you expect him to
go from his office or his warehouse to a little dingy
villa in the suburbs or to a hole-and-corner habitation
of the Young Men's Christian Association, as dark
and melancholy and depressing as his own lodgings ?
There are some people who appear to think that
when they have provided a young man with a back
room, a Bible, and a text for the wall, it is his own
deliberate fault if he goes with the crowd. But is
this, indeed, our whole duty to the solitary and
friendless young man at the most critical hour of
his career ? Are we quite certain that we have
done for him all that God would have us do ?

THE WORK 57

Have we shown him personal love and personal
kindness ?

Even more than this, I venture to ask religious
people whether they can say on their conscience that
it would be wholly good for a young man employed
all day in shop or factory to spend his evenings in a
gas-lighted room reading the Bible or praying to
God to save the world ? Is it not certain that such
a man would become morbid, feeble, degenerate,
and useless ? Is it not certain, on the other hand,
that the more his muscles are braced by healthy
exercise, the more his brain is developed by rational
education, and the more his mind is refined by
the companionship of cultured people in his own
class, the more readily and usefully will his soul
respond to the call of God, and the more worthily
will he fill his place in the citizenship of the British
Empire ?

Let us awake to our duty and to our opportunity.
Man, to be perfect, must develop body, mind, and
soul. The organisation most fitted to perform this
task stands ready to our hand. Two things alone
are lacking — the enthusiasm of the religious public
and the wealth of those whom God has blessed
with fortune. And in the meantime thousands are
perishing in London — perishing in body, mind, and
soul — because there is no adequate provision made
for the youth of the city.

To England a chance is now offered the magnitude
of whose promise cannot be exaggerated. For —
the scope is boundless.

CHAPTER III
A DECENT MAN

A POOR man of Scotch extraction, born in County
Antrim, moved to the land of his forefathers at
the dawn of his manhood, and settled down as a
quarryman in the village of Houston, some few miles
out of Paisley. His stature was of the giant order,
and he was possessed of prodigious strength. To the
deep reflectiveness of his Scotch ancestry he added
the gracious humour of the Irish people, so that his
words were wise and witty at the same time, so
that his society was at the same time serious and
delightful. The foundation of his character was
reverence for "the Name of God, the Book of God,
the Day of God, and the House of God." Everything
in his life sprang from this foundational seriousness.
He was what we call a deeply religious man.

Soon after settling down to work he married a
girl from the Highlands. She was wholly unlike
her huge and herculean husband, save in the fullness
of her faith. She was small, weak, delicate, and
soon after marriage was visited by a long and
wasting affliction of the body ; but she clung with
a strength that equalled her husband's to the faith
which illumined not only their own lives, but the
lives of their children.

58

A DECENT MAN 59

The son, whose story we are now about to follow,
has given the world a glimpse of the mother's faith,
a glimpse of the life in that Scotch cottage. " My
sweetest memory," he once declared, "is to re-
member, lying awake at night on my bed in my little
room, hearing the voice of my dear mother, who
for twenty-five years had never a night without pain,
and never a night with two hours' unbroken sleep
on end ; and through all that quarter of a century
this light shone, till it brought in the everlasting day.
My earliest and tenderest memory is lying awake
and hearing her, not singing, for she could not sing,
but trying to forget her pains by reading in the
silence of the night, with all the house, as she thought,
sleeping around her, though I was awake. And I
can hear her in her woman's voice— and all memories
hover over it, for the sweetest voice that can fall
on a man's ear is that of his mother — ' Yea, though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I
will fear no evil ; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort
me ! ' Sweet mother ! may your child rise up some
day and bear a like testimony for you ! "

This son, not so tall a man as his father, but of
sturdy build, thick-set, and enduring, was put to the
village school, and learned, with the elementary
subjects taught in similar English schools, the
rudiments of Latin. When his father moved to a
maritime village on the east shore of the Firth of
Clyde, the boy attended the local school and prose-
cuted his studies with a slow and laborious earnest-
ness. From the first he was nothing of a firework.
Always he was a plodder, taking slow steps, looking
where he went, and considering his purpose in going.

60 THE ORDINARY MAN

The local minister " remembers being struck by the
lad's habit of sitting alone on the doorstep for long
spells of meditation."

At the age of thirteen he was put to work. The
revenue of the cottage was small, the family was
increasing, it became necessary for the son to help
his father. The boy put down his Latin Grammar
and went out to open and shut a railway gate at the
level crossing of the local station. In addition to
this labour, he shifted luggage, clipped tickets, and
made himself generally useful at the station. He
was popular. The tall and burly youth had a red
countenance, brown eyes that sparkled mischiev-
ously, a big-chested voice peculiar for the tenderness
of its tone. People liked to talk to him. He was
witty, genial, frank, and, above all things, kind-
hearted.

It seemed to him that he was fitted for higher
employment. His education was not perhaps
above the average in Scotland, where almost every
man is something of a scholar, but it was the
sense of power within himself, the pressure of a
power which seemed greater than his own capacity,
and demanded greater opportunities before it could
develop that capacity, which drove him to a step
destined, most strangely, to affect his future life.
The boy in his father's cottage sat down and wrote
to the head-quarters of his railway company, stating
his opinion that he could worthily fill a higher
position than that of porter and ticket-collector.
He suggested that the railway company was wast-
ing him.

No answer was received to this letter.

A DECENT MAN 61

One day he was walking beside a train which had
just pulled up at the station, when a man looked
hastily out of a carriage window, called him, and
asked : " Are you the young man who considers
himself too good for his present situation ? ' The
young man's eyes sparkled, and he answered, "' I
am that young man."

He who looked out from the carriage window was
one of the highest officials. He took stock of the
fine youth, asked him a few questions, and then,
as the train went forward, bade him good-bye,
without making a promise of any kind. But a few
weeks afterwards the village porter received a letter
appointing him second booking-clerk in the Cale-
donian Station at Greenock. This was a great step.
But still the youth felt in his soul the pressure of
that sense of power which was like the Hand of God.

The larger life of the city did not bewitch him.
There was that in his soul which neither the be-
guilements of vice nor the materialism of a self-
absorbed commerce could satisfy or even attract.
The influence of his mother in his mind was like her
presence in his room. He was held by her purity,
consecrated by her piety. Deep and ineffaceable
was the impression made upon his character by
this good mother and the cottage life of simple faith
and steadfast earnestness.

It was a walk from Greenock to his home, and
whenever occasion offered he strode out from the
city with his face to the village. " He used to walk
to Inverkip, when his work was done, late on Satur-
day night, so that he might wake up on Sunday
morning and know that he was at home for the day."

62 THE ORDINARY MAN

At the Free Church on Sunday a pastor preached
who greatly stirred the depths of this young man's
soul. Combined with the sweetness and tenderness
of the home reunion, these sermons served to pro-
duce in the soul of the youth that change of the
spirit's poise and direction which we call conversion.
" I was a decent man," he says, " and the decent
man is the hardest of all to convert." This con-
version was quiet and tranquillising. It was the
case of a decent man slowly perceiving that decency
is not the highest flower of the spirit, that something
radically and inherently bad in human nature calls
for extirpation, and that the redemption of human
nature by the Son of God is the great pivotal fact of
history.

I asked him when he began to be aware of religion
as something tremendously real in his life. He re-
plied : '" As soon as I began to take notice." Mothers
use that phrase about their children. Perhaps God
may use it about us. There comes a time in the life
of a man when he begins to take notice. And then
he sees deep and wide, high and far, and knows
that he must decide.

Very quietly this young booking-clerk came to
see that steep heights of spiritual progress con-
fronted him, and that without a Divine Companion
he could never rise from the level of the common-
place. He publicly declared himself a converted
man, and this act was the one thing in his conversion
which was not invisible, inaudible, and perfectly
secret to his soul. He had definitely decided. At
this time he was nineteen years of age.

He says that the outward and immediate result

A DECENT MAN 63

of his conversion was a happy countenance, the
expression of an inward and spiritual calm. It was
like a liberation. He became brighter and keener.
He gave himself more freely to games, sports, and
athletic exercises. He had the feeling at last that
life was good — good to the very core. His soul,
hitherto struggling and obscure, was now conscious
of Life, and Life more abundantly.

Another promotion came to him soon after this
spiritual experience. He was moved to Edinburgh,
to take charge of the Company's office in Princes
Street. And very soon after this considerable step
he was offered the appointment of clerk in the
General Superintendent's Office of the North
British Railway Company. Almost the first thing
he did in Edinburgh was to become a member of the
Young Men's Christian Association, " one of the
wisest things a young man can do when he goes to
push his way in a town or city." Now that he looks
back on his life of extraordinary and world-wide
service, this man says that, humanly speaking, his
career was determined by that one simple action of
joining long ago in Edinburgh an association of
young men devoted to the Christian Life.

" I'll tell you," he said, " why the Young Men's
Christian Association is such a splendid thing in the
life of a big city. It gives the young and lonely
man, who fives in lodgings, somewhere to go to.
Ah ! that's a great thing. Somewhere to go. Consider
the lodgings in a back street. The dark, cold room.
A fire burning, perhaps ; yes, but a fire you could
put in your hat ! Loneliness, cold, dullness, and
idle hours. Outside, the glare of the streets, the

64 THE ORDINARY MAN

laughter, the merriment, the vulgarity, the de-
pravity, the sin of those who deny God. I tell you
it's well for a young man, living alone in a great
city, to have somewhere to go to in his leisure hours.
No man is safe at any time without a sure goal."

The Association in Edinburgh was not only a
pleasant club, it was a community fired by the
missionary spirit. It sought to fight publicly
against what is wrong and base, and to proclaim
with all its force the gospel of what is right and
noble. It organised itself for missionary work and
for open-air preaching. Every member who felt
in his soul the importance of conversion was a
missionary in his home, his office, the streets and
churches of the city. This young railway clerk
threw himself into the missionary work. He dis-
covered that he was a fluent speaker, he learned that
he was something better — a persuasive speaker ;
later he knew himself to be called to the service of
God.

At the age of twenty-three, encouraged by all
who worked with him, he decided to prepare himself
for the ministry of the Church. No one was more
earnest in this encouragement than the President of
the Young Men's Christian Association. There were
difficulties ahead, many and great. Long years of
study, college fees, a life of poverty and stress. But
when he told his mother of this thought, and the
brave invalid replied, " I never told you, but I
meant you for that from the first," his mind was
determined. He resigned from the railway company,
became a student missionary of St. Bernard's
Church, and entered Edinburgh University. For

A DECENT MAN 65

three years he attended the necessary Arts classes —
" a long, hard, and sore battle " ; and afterwards,
for a spell of four years, he was preparing himself
theologically in Glasgow. Thus working as a lay-
missionary he supported himself, and devoted every
other minute of his day to the mental preparation
demanded in Scotland of him who would serve in
the pastorate. It is a story marked throughout,
splendidly marked, by that phrase of Gladstone's,
" a long 'persistency of purpose." Never once did the
man waver, never once did he turn aside, never once
did he lose heart and question if the long, hard,
and sore battle was worth the fighting. Grimly he
stuck to his task. The little Latin and less Greek
of the ex-railway porter marched to an academical
approbation at the side of active and human work
for Christ done in the slums of Glasgow and Edin-
burgh.

From the first moment of his pastoral work, he
became a famous man. His church was packed
from end to end. He held open-air services which
were thronged. An Irishman who heard this
Ulster Scot said that of all the men he had ever met
this man " licks them entoirely for puttin' it on the
right foundation and givin' ye the right kind o'
feelin'." Dr. Blaikie said of him : " He has con-
trived to get from his curriculum a refinement and
enlargement of mind not common in men who have
had his history, while his mind continues to move
freely in its native grooves, and to express itself
with a simplicity and want of self-consciousness
that are very charming. "

In appearance he is like a countryman, rugged,

66 THE ORDINARY MAN

red-faced, bearded, and genial, with shrewd eyes,
eyebrows that are seldom at rest, a broad forehead,
a full countenance, and a smile which seems at
certain moments as if his heart would embrace the
whole world. But for this smile the face might
be even unpleasing, certainly it would not attract
attention ; but the smile is the presence of a
noble spirit. At the first glance he reminds one of
the famous cricketer, Dr. W. G. Grace, and, like
Dr. Grace, he has been ever a great sportsman —
swimmer, rider, golfer, and man of the open air ;
but the deep notes of his voice, the rolling accents
of his speech, and, above all, the earnest and un-
compromising opinions which he utters with a firm
assurance, soon acquaint one with the fact that
beneath an exterior uncouth, ordinary, and some-
what bucolic, here is a soul unlike any other soul,
a man really unique and remarkable, a personality
that is refreshing in the depths of its most true
originality.

I do not know that I have ever met man
in my life who made me so sharply and pro-
foundly conscious of what I would call an
isolated personality — a personality absolutely itself ;
an originality entirely uninfluenced by other men,
by books, by the circumstances of environment
or the fashions of the day. " Most people," says
a cynic, "are other people." This man is himself
alone. An ordinary man, but real ; not a copy of
someone else. Whether he be right or wrong in his
views, whether his ideas strike one as broad or
narrow, true or false, at least one feels that they
are veritably his own views, his own ideas. He is

A DECENT MAN 67

neither echo nor reflection, but a living voice ; one
who has looked at life for himself, has gone deep
into his inward soul for the answers to our human
riddles, who is himself one of life's realities.

There are few lives more full of danger to the
modesty of the soul, I imagine, than the life of a
popular preacher. To see one's name " billed '
in huge letters on the railings of church and taber-
nacle, to feel on entering a pulpit that a vast congre-
gation is expecting something remarkable and unique,
to be conscious in the commonest humanities of
daily life that one is on the pedestal of a particular
apostleship, and that even in brushing one's hair
before a spectator one must be careful not to
dislocate the halo — this is surely to live in a spiritual
peril as great as that which comes from carnal
iniquity. Then, too — unfortunately for the religious
life in our period — there is a competition for pulpits,
a rivalry for newspaper notoriety, and a necessity,
if the popularity of a preacher is to continue, for
incessant publicity. I do not think it is an un-
charitable comparison to liken these idols of the
pulpit to fashionable beauties who, to maintain
their position, must for ever wage a millinery
warfare one against the other.

Moreover, behind the scenes of sectarian propa-
ganda are a thousand pitiful jealousies, a thousand
contemptible meannesses. Until one has made
acquaintance with the inner life of organised religion,
one cannot realise the immense danger which exists
for the preacher in these infinitely small and in-
finitely trivial workings of the huge machine. I

68 THE ORDINARY MAN

once spent an hour with a popular preacher whose
views on religious experience I was really anxious to
obtain, and he wasted that entire hour for me, and
would, I think, have wasted many more if I had
allowed him to do so, in pouring out his grievance
against a certain journalist on the staff of a religious
paper who had minimised the reports of his revival
services, and had hinted that his popularity was on
the wane !

I have found among men of the world more
religion, more beauty of the spiritual life, than I
have yet found among professional disciples. In
conversation with the members of the Young Men's
Christian Association I discovered far greater depth
of spiritual reality, a far more sensitive appre-
hension of the sweetness and modesty of Christ,
than I have found among popular preachers. It
would be, I am sure, a most excellent discipline
for the preacher if he mixed with such a body of
laymen as that which composes the Young Men's
Christian Association, if he put off the orator,
forgot himself as Sir Oracle, and with all modesty
and humility gave himself to the work of sympa-
thetically understanding the thoughts and feelings
of these apparently lesser men.

In the case of the man whose story I have briefly
sketched above, the danger of an almost world-wide
popularity has been greatly mitigated by his
experience of the Association, by his companionship
with humble struggles after virtue, by his knowledge
of the immense valour and noble endurance which
inspire the soul of Christianity's anonymous laity.
Yet I would not pretend that he has altogether

A DECENT MAN 69

escaped the perils of notoriety, or that he has arrived
at a just estimate of the worth of his pedestal. But
I do think that he has retained, and with a firm
hold, the great essentials of the Christian verity,
and that he is in no danger of substituting a personal
and original theology for the ancient religion of his
Master.

He holds, if I understand him aright, that con-
version is the central fact of the Christian religion.
He maintains that Christ made it the central fact.
For him, beyond all doubt, there is a moment in
a man's life when decision is made, one way or
another — the decision to accept or to reject Christ
as Saviour-Redeemer. And he declares that the
chronicles of conversion supply at once the proof
of Christianity's divine origin and a refutation of
the theses of materialism.

I have heard of a preacher who would lift a
tumbler of water from the ledge of a pulpit, let it
fall to the pavement of the church, and then,
leaning over his pulpit, contemplating the shivered
glass and the spreading trickle of spilt liquid, would
ask someone to give him back that tumbler of water.
In some such way this Scot regards the miracle
of conversion ; and with that miracle challenges
the man of science. He says that the mechanical
evolutionist cannot explain how a man smashed to
pieces by sin and iniquity is restored, suddenly,
in the twinkling of an eye, to a man wholly different
from that he was before. He thinks that David
in the Fortieth Psalm presented a truer view of life
than the hasty protagonist of evolution, who would
reduce existence to the iron laws of mechanics.

70 THE ORDINARY MAN

He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of
the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and
established my goings. In these few words is ex-
pressed for him the whole miracle of conversion
and the complete answer to the materialistic man of
science. A poor wretch, smashed to pieces at the
bottom of a pit, shattered out of the likeness of
humanity, and lying helpless in the midst of miry
clay, is suddenly lifted up, lifted into fresh air,
placed upon a rock, and inspired with an entirely
different spirit of existence. From miry clay to
rock — where is the evolution ? From the bottom
of the pit to an established way of going — where
is the machinery ? He challenges science, not only
to account for this miracle, but to perform a like
act without the aid of God.

He views the present time, if I am not mistaken,
with some misgiving. He thinks that the present
generation does not realise the immense difference
in value between things temporal and things
eternal. He regards the general passion for aesthetics
as a grave danger — the act of a madman who
refuses the bread of life and seeks to support his
strength with the decorations of existence. He does
not play the Philistine towards art, but he says
that art is not the object of life, that a man cannot
nourish his soul by art, that Christ and His Apostles
certainly did not labour for art at the beginning
of our era. For what purpose did Christ come ?
and by what means did the Acts of the Apostles
come to be written ? — let a man, he says, honestly
face those two questions, and he will be forced to see
that there is something beyond art, that art is at

A DECENT MAN 71

least secondary — in fact, that the soul of man is
the one object of existence. He does not believe
that any solution will ever be found for political
and social problems, until the nation is convinced
that Christ is the universal Saviour, and that the
supreme purpose of human life is the education of
the soul.

He will have nothing to do with new theologies.
These teachings he is inclined to regard as short-
cuts, not to Christianity, but away from Christianity.
Those who follow the new theologies do not live
the Christ life ; they think that they think that
life, but they cannot imagine that they really live
it. Do they convert sinners ? Do they visit the
sick, the prisoners and captives, the widows and the
fatherless ? Do they hunger and thirst for the souls
of men ? He asks if the Acts of the Apostles — that
great fountain-head of the Christian religion —
could ever have been written if those who followed
Christ had held the views of the new theologies.

There is, I think, something harsh and something
hard and something narrow in his presentment of
the Christian religion, but one cannot doubt that
he holds with a most virile tenacity the original
essentials — the divinity of Christ and the need of
a new birth for the spirit.

In the narratives which follow the reader will find
that these two verities influence the souls of ordinary
men, and transform human life in a most extraordi-
nary manner. And he will see that the revolution
of a spiritual change does not always proceed from
gradual or sudden adhesion to a certain doctrine,
does not always flow from the excitement of a

72 THE ORDINARY MAN

revivalist meeting, is not always inspired by some-
thing said very eloquently or very strikingly by a
popular preacher. I am disposed to think that there
are as many conversions outside the churches as
within, that many of them are entirely independent
of theological opinion, and that in the majority of
cases they are experienced without one throb of
excitement, without one spasm of violence. I
believe that many men quite outside the churches
say to themselves, ;' I will arise and go to my
Father " ; and that no one save the Father is
aware of the turning round of that soul.

It has been to me an ever-increasing experience
to discover much Christianity outside the folds of
theology, and within those folds but little. I am
as greatly surprised by the number of Christians
outside the churches as by the paucity of Christians
within. And a saying of Christ's has become for
me exceedingly real and exceedingly wonderful in
consequence ; that saying which should be of
tremendous warning to the professional Christian,
and of singular encouragement to the good man
who does not dare to call himself a Christian : —

" Many shall say to me in that day, Lord, Lord,
have we not prophesied in thy name, and in thy name
have cast out devils, and in thy name done many won-
derful works ? Then will I profess unto them, I never
knew you."

CHAPTER IV
THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE

NOT many years ago a young journalist came
to London from the North of England, and
took up a humble position on one of those numerous
and struggling newspapers which are published in
the suburbs.

He was at this time only nineteen years of age,
typical of the North Country in the shrewdness and
energy of his character, and on every possible score
a youth of whom one would say that for him at
least the manifold temptations of the metropolis
presented scarcely the element of danger. He came
to London not aimlessly, but with the definite
purpose to push his fortunes. Even his ambition
was practical ; he did not dream of establishing
a reputation or of climbing to an editorial chair.
" I knew," he told me, " that London was the best
school of journalism, and my theory was to work
hard, learn my business, get all the experience I
could, and then return as soon as possible to my
native town and the provincial newspaper on which
T had begun my career."

Not only was his ambition practical and earnest,
but his temperament was antipathetic to vice,
frivolity, and looseness of any kind. He was not

73

74 THE ORDINARY MAN

one of those men to whom the streets of London
are like a fiery furnace. In the cold and garnished
chambers of his brain the lights of the town shone
with no glamour of illusion. He was a spectator
of the drama of the streets, moved neither by the
apparent gaiety of the swarming crowds nor by the
obvious misery, destitution, and depravity which
mocked at every turn the pageant of this crowding
pleasure. He looked on. He observed. He
reflected and made notes. A cooler brain, a more
detached philosopher, has seldom come to the great
city even from the North of England. I feel about
him that he is one of those rare children of tem-
peramental isolation for whom there exists no
contagion.

He is now a man of six- or seven-and-twenty, and
the experience through which he has passed can
almost be read in his worn and haggard face before
it is dragged, slowly, thoughtfully and reluctantly,
from his lips. He has suffered terribly, frightfully,
suffered nearly every bitterness and deprivation
which can befall unlucky men at the crowded centres
of life ; and the true measure of his agony is the
strong and stoical character of his nature, his
isolation of soul, his solitude and loneliness of brain,
so that, listening to him as he describes those
experiences and seeks to analyse his feelings — a pale
and rather cynical smile on his lips — one realises
that this man has endured tragedy of a very deep
and penetrating order, a tragedy deeper than
the heart, an unshared and bitterly self-annotated
tragedy of the brain and soul.

The face is handsome but not attractive at the

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 75

first glance. There is a suggestion of scorn on the
lips that are never firmly closed, of mockery in the
eyes that are weary and rather contemptuous ; it is
the face of a man who camiot easily " give himself,"
who is never carried away by passion or enthu-
siasm, who is self-watchful, self-critical, self-centred,
and perhaps distrustful of every single creature
on the earth until he has searched them through and
through for himself, and come to a judgment,
which, he would probably say, laughing at himself,
is quite likely to be wrong. Yet there are moments,
rare and silent, when one feels that his solitude
has at last established, or at any rate is beginning
to establish, the only contact that counts.

He had been brought up from childhood by an
aunt of whom he thought censoriously at the time,
but for whom he is now inclined to entertain gentler
feelings, almost of affection. " She was a hard
woman," he said, " one of those rigid and cast-iron
personalities, so sure of themselves that they think
it an easy matter to manage other people. But I
recognise now that she meant to be kind, and that
her rigorous dragooning was intended for my benefit.
She thought she could drill me into decency and
success."

I asked him if he had received from this woman,
the earliest influence on his life, any definite notions
of religion.

" No," he replied, " not directly from her, and
nothing definite. I cannot recall any single reference
ever made by her to religion. That is to say, she
neither taught me religion, nor, what would perhaps
have been much better, discussed the subject with

76 THE ORDINARY MAN

me. But she sent me to a Sunday-school, and on
the occasions when I grew restive she would tell
me that it was the right thing to do, to go to Sunday-
school, and that I must submit to her judgment.
She was of the Church of England, but so far as I
remember did not very often go to church ; she
sent me there, however, and always spoke of church
attendance as one of the usual duties of life."

At school he had exactly the same feeling for
religion as he had for arithmetic ; it was one of the
subjects. He grew up with exactly the same feeling
for religion as he had for the wash-basin and the hair-
brush ; it was one of the respectabilities.

When he arrived in London he was far too much
concerned with his daily work to give a single
thought to religion. It simply dropped out of his
life, and the loss of it made no difference. If he
had dropped his watch, or his pocket-handkerchief,
he would have missed it and looked about for it.
But religion fell from his thought, and he was even
unconscious of the fall.

" I think it is very likely," he said, " that I
should have gone occasionally to church, if my
work had allowed ; for, you see, to go to church on
Sunday was something of a habit with me, and at
any rate it would at least have been something to
do. But I simply never gave it a thought, because
my work occupied every hour of life from week-end
to week-end. People have no idea how hard a
journalist is worked on these suburban papers.
Why should they ? Who is likely to be interested
or care a jot for the obscure writer on a local rag !
But really it was hard work. I very often wrote

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 77

eighteen or twenty columns a week, and besides the
writing I had to superintend the printing and the
proof-reading, besides doing what I could to push
the sales. I really doubt if ever a slave worked
harder than I did then, and as many a man is doing
now, on a London suburban newspaper. There was
certainly no time for going to church."

To add to his depression of mind and to increase
his gradual feeling of bitterness, was the matter of
lodgings.

" Heaven save a man," he exclaimed, " from
living in London suburban lodgings ! I shall never
forget my experiences. I put an advertisement
in the paper, and received over a hundred answers.
At how many doors I knocked I can't say, but I
could almost swear that at every one a different
smell encountered my nostrils. The gloom of those
narrow passages ! The suffocation of those dirty
little rooms ! The grime upon everything — windows,
furniture, hangings, and bed-linen ! Ugh ! And
wTorse than the houses, worse than the rooms, worse
than the furniture — the landladies ! Oh, yes, a
thousand times worse. I think I could almost
write a book about those women. They seemed to
come to the front door from some frightful lair in
the back regions, like hungry animals disturbed in
sleep. Dirty tired faces, dirty unbrushed hair,
dirty slattern clothes — like scarecrows. It always
seemed to me that those women were not properly
awake. They were sleep-walkers, crawling about
in their dark houses, like figures in an evil dream.
I have been in pretty low places since those days,
and I have got accustomed to the doss-house and

78 THE ORDINARY MAN

the coffee-shop ; but I could not bring myself to go
back to suburban lodgings in London without a
struggle. You see, I could only afford to pay
fourteen shillings a week."

For some three years, at a beggarly wage, he
slaved on this little paper, and then moved to
another suburban district and into better circum-
stances. All this time, the reader must be careful
to remember, he had lived a moral and an earnest
life, unbeguiled by any one of the temptations
which drag a man swiftly or slowly down to the
gutter and inevitably defile his soul. He was too
hard-worked to go to church or to think about
religion, and too hard-worked to go to the dogs.
A trivial circumstance broke the connection with
this new paper after he had been there a couple of
years. However, the loss of regular employment
and steady pay was not in the nature of disaster.
He had learned the ropes. He knew how the great
London dailies get their news. And, what was more
important still, he had made the acquaintance of
several men on the sub-editorial staffs of some of the
principal London papers. He was in the position to
start as a free lance.

It must be explained to the reader that beneath
the regular editorial staff of a newspaper, and below
the regular sub-editorial staff of reporters and news
writers, there are two wings of a great and numerous
free-lance army. In the one wing are men of
letters, people of note or position, who contribute
special articles and are well paid for this occa-
sional work ; and in the other wing are the
young writer struggling for a foothold, the old and

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 79

broken writer struggling to keep up appearances,
and a heterogeneous host of life's failures from every
trade and profession in the world, seeking to keep
body and soul together by the easiest way of
obtaining bread without much effort and without the
necessity of special knowledge. Paragraphs are
paid for by shillings and half-crowns.

Our young man from the North came into this
free-lance army with the determination to make
himself useful and without a single misgiving.
It was, in some ways, a step up. The opportunities
for experience were innumerable, the field of dis-
covery was enormous. He dreamed no dreams,
but he looked confidently to getting a regular place
on one of the great papers, and then, crammed with
a rich experience, to go back to his native town, a
much more valuable commodity in that local
market.

Even here, in the larger and infinitely more
dangerous world of London journalism, he stood
clear of folly and uncontaminated by vice. So far
as conduct goes he was an ordinarily moral man ;
virtue did not attract him, but sin had no bewitch-
ments for him. He was a clever, rational, and
industrious young man following a definite road
to material prosperity.

For some time he did very well as a free lance.
He ran here and there, picked up news, got informa-
tion, discovered interesting things, and turned
them all into brief and simple " copy." Occasion-
ally he received a commission from a newspaper
and served as a reporter at public functions, ban-
quets, and even in the Press Gallery of the House of

80 THE ORDINARY MAN

Commons. There were certainly weeks when he
earned little money, but there were also single days
when he earned as much as he had hitherto received
in the suburbs for a whole week's work. He was
quite contented. He had no misgivings.

Then there occurred one of those great events in
life whose consequences reach into the remotest
corners of national existence. King Edward died.
For days, for weeks, the newspapers filled them-
selves with this tremendous matter. Special corre-
spondents, distinguished contributors and photo-
graphers were kept busy from morning to night.
The news-getter was crowded out.

Our man went hither and thither, but in vain.
His news might be good, might be interesting,
might be better than anything he had done before,
but there was no room for it. He asked to be put
on special jobs. They were all filled.

His money melted away. He became anxious.

Some weeks after the Royal funeral he began to
get occasional work, but with nothing like the same
regularity. It was one of those accidents in life
which seem to sever many and long-accustomed
connections.

The Coronation of King George proved our man's
culminating disaster. Long before the day of the
great pageant the papers concerned themselves
with little else than the preparations. He found
it impossible to earn sufficient money for his daily
needs.

" I thought it well out," he told me, " and then
I saw that it was a case of surrender. I was beaten.
I hated to do it, I struggled against it, for I suppose

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 81

I'm rather proud, and anyhow it was a thing I had
never done before or ever contemplated for a
moment — I determined to ask for help from my

relatives. I knew of cousins who lived in R .

I knew they were well-off, for I had heard my
aunt speak of property they owned in the town.
And I knew that they kept a shop. The money I
possessed was just sufficient to take me there by
train and buy me a clean collar. I went down
one afternoon, hating it as you can imagine, and
approached the street in which the shop was
situated, penniless and self-loathing. But other
feelings soon took possession of me. The shop was
not to be found ! I inquired here and there, but
no one could give me information of any kind.
Like a true journalist I made for the local news-
paper office. The proprietor could tell me nothing
beyond the fact that the family had long left the
town. I told him my position. He was quite decent,
but he said he really had not work enough for his
own staff. His son said he could put me up for
the night, and I slept there, grateful for a bed.
Next day I set out and walked to London.

" I am a good walker, but I shall never forget
how my whole body ached that day. I arrived in
London at night, very footsore, very dusty, and
absolutely ravenous for food. By good fortune,
I met a fellow- journalist who had a sixpence in his
pocket. The good chap bought me a glass of
milk and a scone, and smuggled me, without being
seen by the landlady, into the cubicle where he
lodged by the week. I slept till eight o'clock the
next morning ! "

G

82 THE ORDINARY MAN

And then our man came down upon the bed-rock
of life.

For weeks he walked and starved upon the
London streets, for weeks he slept and starved on
the Embankment. Now and then a friend in luck
took pity upon him ; now and then he earned a
few pence ; but for days he absolutely starved,
was pierced by cold and rain, and regarded the river
as perhaps the best solution of his difficulty.

It was only with the very greatest difficulty that
he could bring himself to speak of those days. He
seemed to tear the words from his heart. There was
always the pale smile on his lips, always the mocking
look in his eyes — half as if he detested himself for
speaking at all, and half as if he knew that no one
else could understand these matters — but the worn,
thin face would flush again and again, his voice
would almost break, and he would suddenly, with
an effort, look straight in my eyes and say, " You
know it's awfully difficult to say all this."

In brief, this is what he told me.

" There are two ways of describing those days.
The point of view then, the point of view now. I
dare say, too, that another man would describe
exactly the same things quite differently. It
depends on the temperament. I remember one
thing very clearly. As I was walking about the
streets, awfully tired and awfully hungry, it seemed
to me that everybody I passed knew it perfectly
well, just as well as I did, and didn't care a hang.
It seemed to me, too, that they were all tre-
mendously rich and comfortable. And I used to
think that these very rich and comfortable people

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 83

knew how awfully hungry I was, and how awfully
tired, and that they didn't care.

" Of course, it was absurd. I look back now and
laugh. But that was my feeling at the time, and it
was rather bad. In the case of a man with less
restraint and hotter blood it might have been
dangerous. When a chap is starving on the streets
he lives in a kind of dazed illusion. It's very queer.
I wonder if people think about that. Nothing is
quite real, except his hunger ; even that becomes at
last a numb ache. Everything is like a dream,
the sort of dream in which you want to shriek. The
cheapest jeweller's shop seems to flash with the
wealth of Monte Cristo. The meanest baker's
window suggests a royal banquet. The smells
of a greasy cookshop are simply delicious, but
maddening. And everybody, as I said, seems to be
prodigiously rich, and to know."

Then I got this from him.

" It was while I was starving on the streets that
I first thought definitely about God, or religion.
Not very beautiful thoughts, as you can imagine !
It seemed to me that all these immensely rich
people who knew I was hungry and didn't care, were
Christians. It made me angry with Christianity,
to think what a false and humbugging thing it was.
I never considered it as a theology ; I just thought
of it as a religion. It seemed to me a most ghastly
sham. Here was I, hungry and tired in the very
centre of London, and no one cared a curse for me !
All these preposterously rich Christians looked at
me, knew my need, and passed on without a twinge
of conscience ! One Sunday I was frightfully

84 THE ORDINARY MAN

weary, and slipped into a church, just for the rest.
The prayers and music rather soothed me ; I knew
them quite well, and their familiarity was something
in the nature of a consolation. But when the
parson got up to preach all my ire rose up in my
soul. I don't know the man, not even his name,
but I'd lay anything he's a humbug. Truly, he
made me wild. Every word rang false ; the in-
tonation was an affectation ; the gestures were
all studied ; and — well, the whole thing was
perfectly beastly to me ! I simply couldn't ctand it.
I got up in the middle of his preaching, and walked
out of church, disgusted with religion.

" I had always believed in a God, in some great
Power overruling the universe, although I had
never seriously concerned myself with the question.
It was rather at the back of my mind ; it seldom
presented itself to my definite consciousness. But
I began now to doubt if God of any kind existed at
all. It wasn't on account of my own misfortune ;
my own bitterness had nothing to do with it. It
was from what I saw. I don't like to tell you these
things. I doubt if they can be told. But I saw
things which made me feel as if God could not
possibly exist."

I pressed him to tell me.

" Here is one thing," he said reluctantly, " but
it's rather horrible, and I can't describe it fully ;
you'll have to imagine the real horror for yourself.
One night I was sitting on a seat by Blackfriars
Bridge, jolly tired and nearly nodding off to sleep.
Two women came shuffling towards the bench and
sat down together. They were middle-aged women,

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 85

dressed in most filthy rags. They spoke to each
other in that whimpering and complaining, but
perfectly resigned tone of voice which is common
to all miserable women. They talked of their aches
and pains. They were comforting each other. Then
one of them spoke of her cancer, and said it was
getting terrible. She opened her dirty jacket to
show her friend. I turned my head to look. Both
breasts were eaten away. "God in heaven!" I
cried to myself, and got upon my feet and walked
away as hard as I could go. I looked up at the stars ;
they seemed devilish. I looked at the river ; it
seemed infernal. I can't tell you exactly what I
felt at that moment, but I was certainly then what
men call Godless. I did not arraign God, or feel
animosity against Him. I simply felt that He could
not exist. That woman — homeless and penniless
on the streets ! . . .

'' But these were sudden uprushes, which came
and went. I was never persistently without the
sense of some God in the universe. However, my
thoughts were generally pretty bitter. Most of
them were directed against Christianity as a sham
religion.

' Then I came to see that my position, my
material position, was absolutely desperate. I saw
that I must make a final effort or perish on the
streets. A friend gave me a few coppers, and I
bought a clean collar, had a wash, and set out to call
on sub-editors. I surprised myself. I never knew
I had such audacity. I wasn't ashamed at the time,
although I am now, but I was amazed at my own
cheek. I simply refused to take their No. I

86 THE ORDINARY MAN

stood there and said I was hungry, that I was
literally starving, that they had got to give me work.
And do you know what most of them said ? It hurt
me more than anything else. They said, ' My
dear fellow, I know dozens of chaps like you.'
Well, that seemed awfully hard. It seemed really
brutal. I — well, I simply couldn't stand it. Dozens !
— yes, dozens and hundreds, and that was the
excuse for not giving me a crust of bread ! Of
course, I see it differently now. But at the time
it hurt me awfully.

" An idea occurred to me. I had once written
some paragraphs for a theatrical man. I went off
to the theatre and offered myself as his press agent.
I couldn't see him, but his manager said there was
no chance of such work for me. I begged him to Jet
me have a shot. He said No, and gave me his
reasons for thinking that such work did not affect
the bookings.

" I left him, and walked away in absolute despair.
I suppose I must have been very near a physical
collapse. Presently I felt that I could walk no
further. I came to a street corner in the Strand,
and stopped. What should I do ? It was the end
of things for me. I recognised that. But what
should I do ? — how should I take it, and where ?
At that moment, I can't tell you why, I raised my
head and looked up at the tall building on the oppo-
site side of the road. I knew it well. It was the
office of the Morning Post. But I looked above the
windows of the newspaper to the windows of the
second floor — how or why I cannot tell you — and
there I saw the words, ' Young Men's Christian

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 87

Association.' It didn't strike me at the time as an
inspiration, nor was I conscious of anything mys-
terious in the fact that I had looked up, straight
at those words. The only thought I had was an
angry one, at any rate a bitter one. I remembered
that I had heard in my native town something about
this Association and its machinery for helping young
men in great cities. I thought to myself, ' Well,
I'll test their Christianity ! ' I crossed the road,
entered the building, and went up to the second
floor.

" My manner must have been very bad, but I
think it was in keeping with my appearance. I
went straight up to the first man I saw, a good-
looking and rather well-dressed young fellow, and
said, ' I want a job.' It was really more in the
nature of a challenge than anything else that I
had come, a loud, arrogant, and cynical challenge,
testing this religion of Christianity. I shall never
forget what followed. It was nothing dramatic.
It was nothing that can be said in actual words.
It all came from the look in that man's eyes and the
tone of the voice in which he answered me. All of
a sudden the miracle had happened. Christianity
was a real thing.

" I was so completely aware of this reality that
I was instantly ashamed of the way in which I had
spoken. The young man did not give me time,
however, to express contrition. He asked me what
work I could do, and what I had done in the past.
His questions were quite business-like, but all the
time there was that look in his eyes, that tone in his
voice, which — well, which made a tremendous dis-

88 THE ORDINARY MAN

turbance in my soul. At the time, of course, I did
not analyse my feelings. I simply accepted the
revelation that religion was a real thing. And even
this feeling passed, when he went to the telephone
and I knew that I had got work. Heavens, how
happy I was !

" He spoke to me about religion, in a perfectly
sincere and wholly inoffensive way ; but I did not
relish a colloquy, and simply said I had not thought
about it. He said, ' Well, think about it now ; no
man can be happy outside the Kingdom of God.'
I said I would think about it, and then he asked me
if I had any money. He lent me sixpence, and I
bought another new collar, had a shave, and went off
to my work.

"The man to whom he sent me has a Home for
boys. I shall never forget him. He is a prince of
men. From the first moment he showed me kind-
ness and trusted me. He gave me a sovereign in
advance of my wages, and did it so naturally and
pleasantly that it didn't hurt. I began to think
again that there was something real in religion.
And then I saw that man's life and work. I saw
the scum of the gutter brought into the Home and
turned into the cream of human nature before my
very eyes. I looked on, wondered, and reflected.

" I think my first definite step to what I now
understand as religion came from the reflection
that these people helped me and were kind to me —
helped heaps of others and were equally kind to
them — because they were religious. I knew that
there was nothing likeable in me ; that I had no
rational reason to suggest why I should be helped

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 89

by them ; and that therefore it must be for some
other reason that they were so very kind and so
willing to help me.

" I went frequently to see my original friend at
the Association. I used the rooms for writing. I
liked the warmth. I liked the companionships I
found there. I played chess ; I smoked ; I read the
papers ; and I thought. I really can't tell you
what passed through my mind. It was simply a
deepening of the first feeling. I grew to reflect more
and more upon that act of kindness towards me
which had first made me conscious of religion as a
real thing. It led me far afield. I began to wonder
if there are really any accidents in life, if everything
is not in some strange way invisibly controlled from
without us. I thought of the sudden inclination at
the street corner, which had led me to look up to
those windows on the second floor. I could not
explain it. I saw that it might have been chance,
but I felt that there was something more than that
in it ; I could not rid my mind of the idea that it
was destined.

" Then I began to wonder about religion as a
real thing, as a vital principle of life, not simply as
theology. I saw that these men I met at the
Association — and, by George, they are men, real
men, I can give them no higher title — were not
formalists, certainly not humbugs, but were in some
strange way, a way that at first seemed to me a
little uncanny, different from myself and the men
with whom I had hitherto lived. They were separate
and distinct. I observed that they were profoundly
happy. I noticed that there was something bright

90 THE ORDINARY MAN

and attractive in their faces. I liked their manner,
their behaviour, their goodness and vigour, which I
felt to be extraordinarily thorough.

" How can I tell you the rest ? It's the most
difficult of all. In fact, even to myself, I can't
express it in words. I try to analyse it, but I can't.
I try to see it vividly, but it eludes me. And besides,
it isn't a thing, it's a process ; and I don't know
myself where it will lead me."

I spoke about the two forms of conversion — the
swift and sudden turning about, the slow and
gradual turning round.

" Yes, I know," he replied ; " there are the
two things. I've heard about sudden moments of
illumination, flashes of light, and immediate new
birth ; but nothing like that has occurred to me.
No ; it's altogether different. And it's going on
now, just as I suppose most men feel that their
spiritual life is a gradual matter, an evolution, an
approach to something always ahead. It began
with me the very moment I entered the Association,
deepened as I saw the life lived by the men, and it
came to something rather big and something rather
beautiful, one night, at a service, in the Association's
room. There was a man who gave an address ;
it touched me ; there were one or two stories in
it that really did move me ; and afterwards he
came and spoke to me ; we were there, I think,
till after midnight, alone together. And — well, you
know that phrase about giving the heart to God ?
I think I did that then. Well, I know I did. I
did, that night, give my heart to God,"

He paused for some time.

THE ACCIDENTS OF LIFE 91

" Nothing happened," he continued, " except
a feeling that I had done what was right, and that
the thing would work itself out. It's working itself
out now. There is a difference in me, but I can't
define it. I can only tell you that I am happy,
and that I look back on all that I went through as
something that was necessary. It has a meaning
for me. Perhaps that is my illumination — the
feeling that everything in life is linked up and that
God is at work. There are no accidents. But we
can't explain these ideas, these feelings, which
swim in the soul. They are there, and if we let them,
they will control us."

Very soon after this deliverance from despair,
and this turning about to the light, he received a
letter in answer to an application he had made
months before for a situation on a provincial news-
paper.

' That is another thing," he said, " that struck me
as mysterious. I saw the advertisement in a paper
when I was beginning to go rather badly down ; I
spent a penny on answering it, and the next day
forgot all about it. If the answer had come at once,
I should never have had this experience of con-
version ; and it has come just when I want it.
Of course, it may only be coincidence. But it
seems mysterious. At any rate, I feel certain that
things have happened to me from outside myself.
And I can't believe that there are any accidents."

However far he may be from the " central
touch," the absolute union of the sou], at any rate
he has escaped from the isolation of his former life.

CHAPTER V
A BAD HAT

AT the age of seventeen he was sent out to
- Canada. His parents felt that England
was not big enough for his energies. " All I hope
is this," said the father, " that you won't live to
be hanged." He had once thrown a table-knife at
his mother.

He is a man of forty, bright, alert, and animated.
His appearance is decidedly handsome, and he
rather lays himself out, one thinks, to heighten
these natural advantages. He is very well dressed,
carefully groomed, and suggests prosperous circum-
stances— perhaps a good conceit as well. You
would pass him in the street for a successful stock-
broker. I really do not think that one man in a
million would guess for a single instant that the
extraordinary thing had happened to him.

" When I went to Canada," he told me, " the
only bad things about me were temper and a love
of devilry for its own sake. My temper started
when I was quite a chicken. I was turned out of
the Sunday-school again and again ; I had rather
a decent voice and sang in the church choir, but
they hoofed me out of that as well. I was for
ever doing wild things, and then rushing into a

92

A BAD HAT 93

blazing temper directly I was called to account.
But I had moments of remarkable gentleness ;
there were times when I was even tender and
affectionate, particularly with my mother. It
used to be a saying with my father that I was
either a Hon or a lamb. In my gentle moments I
wanted to be good ; in my wild moments I had
but one single concern, and that was to keep out
of prison. I didn't care what I did, so long as I
was not laid by the heels."

I asked him if the religion he was taught in
Sunday-school, and the religion he heard about in
church, had had any conscious effect upon his mind.

;' I don't think," he replied, " it made the smallest
difference to me. In Sunday-school I was always
thinking of larks and mischief ; and in church,
beyond the singing, which simply interested me
as singing, I was only bored to death by the repe-
tition of prayers and the intolerable length of the
sermons. I went to church far too often to care
about it. At last it got on my nerves, and I didn't
go at all."

Then he told me about the change which came
over him in America.

" I worked on a line of steamers among the
lakes. It was a wild part of the world. My mates
represented every class of Englishman. Some
were scholars, some were gentlemen, some were
working-men ; and the whole crowd of them were
blackguards. They thought of absolutely nothing
but drink and vice. There was one little station
on a certain lake where all the houses were occu-
pied by women who were far more like fiends than

94 THE ORDINARY MAN

human beings. Men used to go there from the
neighbouring towns. When any of our fellows
rowed out, the women would come right into the
water to meet them, wearing no clothes at all. . . .
" I soon got sick of life aboard ship, and managed
to get some work in the States. Someone recom-
mended me to a boarding-house in the town where
my job lay. It was managed by a woman whose
husband was an old humpbacked veteran, half silly
or, at any rate, unnaturally quiet and self-absorbed.
He used to sit all day in a rocking-chair on the
verandah, one leg over the arm, swinging himself
slowly to and fro, a sad, far-away sort of smile on
his face, his eyes looking straight ahead of him —
a most queer and sad old man. And his wife — well,
she was a demon. That woman got hold of me,
and I was powerless in her hands. Not only that,
there were two unmarried girls in the house, and
they were just as bad as the woman. . . . When
I look back now, I see that that house was like
hell. I didn't think so at first, and I didn't see
it as it really was even when I left. I used to
laugh at the poor old humpbacked man in the
rocking-chair. I was proud of my attractions.
Life seemed to me, at first, highly amusing and
exciting. I was young, tremendously strong, and
fancied my good looks. Besides this, I was some-
thing of a fighting-man, and took pride in making
myself cock of the walk. I liked to feel that men
feared me. I liked to know that I was pointed out
as a terror. I worked hard, made money, and
lived like a real bad one. Those who called me
a bad hat weren't far out.

A BAD HAT 95

" Of course, I never once thought of going to
church. For one reason, there was not a single
white man's church in the place. There were a
few nigger churches about, and I would sometimes
go there with a friend or two, just for the fun of
hearing a nigger preach. We used to make game
of the poor fellows, used to laugh at them, just
as if we were in a theatre. Religion didn't occupy
my mind in any way, and this nigger religion only
seemed to me a thing for amusement.

" But after some months, nearly a year, I was
suddenly visited by the most intense feeling of
home-sickness. I can't tell you how it came, and
perhaps the cause was only physical exhaustion,
but anyhow I felt such a tugging of my heart home-
wards as was absolutely irresistible. I got to hate
the town, to hate my work, to hate the saloons,
and to loathe — oh yes, to loathe — those women
and the boarding-house. It became unbearable.
The feeling that I must go home was most intense.

" One day I sold everything up, and started
home. There was nothing in my heart of repent-
ance, no shame for the life I had been living, no
desire for goodness. I was simply filled with a
giant disgust, a feeling that I must get away, a
kind of ravenous hunger to be home in England.
That was all. But looking back now I see what
was really happening to me at that time. It was
the beginning of a most marvellous mercy.

" Well, I got home at last, welcomed with tears
of rejoicing by my mother, and not too warmly
received by my father. However, I had sobered
down a bit, and soon made it clear that I intended

96 THE ORDINARY MAN

to get work and stick to it. My father was evi-
dently relieved by this change in me. He took
steps to help me, and at the age of twenty I found
myself in the employ of Government.

" For some months I lived a more or less regular
life, my only real trial that hotness of temper which
seemed to get worse the more virtuously and tem-
perately I lived. At the slightest provocation I
would hit a man, and many a big fight marked my
calendar of those days. I don't suppose anybody
but a man who has suffered in this way can under-
stand the violence and savagery of a really fiery
temper. The smallest thing sets the blood boiling.
The least contradiction in an argument is in-
sufferable. Let one little thing go wrong in dress-
ing or in eating or in working, and you want to
chuck the whole caboodle out of the window.

" There was an old man working close at my side
in this Government office, a really dear old fellow,
who quite quietly, quite gradually, established a
feeling of friendship in my heart. I got to like
him, and we would talk together, and look at each
other as men do when there is an understanding of
soul between them. We would go out to luncheon
together. He used to ask me about Canada and the
States. I told him stories and he would listen with
interest. Gradually, and I cannot recall how it
came about, the dear old man used to talk about
life and conduct, about the difference between
goodness and wickedness. I was interested, and
gave my opinion in the downright fashion which
characterised my manner in those days. He never
showed the least resentment, and would listen

A BAD HAT 97

patiently, and reply very gently, always like a
man of the world who is not easily shocked or un-
naturally good.

" But one day he said to me, ' Why don't you
come with me to the Young Men's Christian Asso-
ciation ? Do you know, I think you'd enjoy it.
There are some very pleasant fellows up there, and
we get some really good intelligent conversations.'
The name, Young Men's Christian Association, gave
me a kind of shudder. I almost laughed ; I almost
scoffed. But he went on speaking so simply and
naturally, that I forgot this first feeling, and finally
said I would go with him one day. To this he
answered, ' There's an Indian missionary over here
just now, a very fine man, a Hindu Christian ; he
is speaking at Exeter Hall on the Opium Question ;
you ought to hear him. — What do you say if
we go to-morrow in the dinner-hour ? ' I said,
' All right ; if you're going, I'll go with you ' ; and
never gave the matter another thought till next day.

" And that next day was the beginning of my
awakening. The Hindu was a fine speaker, and a
very impressive man altogether. As I sat and
listened to him I was fascinated. Then the horror
of opium seized upon me. Then the thought that
England, my country, was concerned in the trade,
set me on fire with indignation. My blood began
to boil. I wanted to start off then and there, to
fight the devilish thing. I could see the homes of
men and women brought to desolation by the
poisonous drug, I could see children turned out
upon the road to die of starvation, I could see the
souls of millions going down to perdition, rotten

H

98 THE ORDINARY MAN

and corrupted and destroyed. And England made

money out of it. Not only permitted it, but profited

by it — profited by the ruin of millions of helpless

men. I tell you, my blood was on fire. I wanted to

start up, then and there, and be off to do something.

I didn't think what, but anything to stop this most

damnable shame."

He had never thought, in the midst of his own

sins, how he dragged souls down to ruin. It had

never occurred to him that he had responsibility

towards those who tempted him and to whose

temptations he so readily yielded. He had never

once experienced the agony of that emotion which

cried out to God from the soul of a saint —

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door ?

But now, confronted with the thousandfold desola-
tions wrought by a sin in which he had never shared,
his soul revolted, and he was consumed with a
passionate indignation. He ranged himself incon-
tinently on the side of righteousness. He was ready,
on the instant, to rise up and strike for God.

From that moment he was facing in the right
direction. It is clear that his eyes were not yet
opened, that his heart was far from being cleansed,
and that the mystery of the new birth had not yet
changed and transformed his whole nature. Never-
theless, in the sense that he had swung clean round,
was no longer facing away from God, but was facing
towards God, he was at that moment converted.
The full conversion of spirit was soon to follow.

For a week he talked to his old friend at the
Government office about the Opium Trade, about

A BAD HAT 99

Christianity, about the life of the soul. At the
end of this period, willingly and eagerly, he accom-
panied his friend to a spiritual meeting of the Young
Men's Christian Association.

The speaker on this occasion dealt with the neces-
sity for a life of service.

" One word," the man told me, " rang through
all he said. It was the word Work. He insisted
again and again that no man could truly be said
to love Christ who did not work for Him. Any
man who deeply realised that the beautiful and
holy Christ was his Saviour and his Redeemer,
would work for Him and fight for Him against the
hosts of evil.

" That word Work stuck in my mind. It seemed
to be echoing itself in my soul. All the time he
was speaking I was saying to myself, Work, work,
work — knowing that it was true, and wondering
how I could work for Christ. I wanted to work.
I was eager to do something. But I couldn't see
what I should do. It was perfectly clear to me,
as clear as daylight, that if a man really once felt
that he owed Christ an immense debt, he would
work day and night for his triumph over sin. That
was quite clear. But how to work, what kind of
work — that puzzled me.

" After the address came a prayer, and in the
prayer was the word armour. Man had to put on
the whole armour of Christ. Before he could do
anything for his Saviour, before he could safely
attack the enemy, he had to put on that Saviour's
armour. I remember, as if it was yesterday, the
question springing up in my mind, Have I got that

100 THE ORDINARY MAN

armour ? It was like a sudden cry of, ' Hands up ! '
on a dark road. It jerked me right back upon myself.
I was startled, confused, frightened. I felt abso-
lutely helpless.

" Then it dawned upon me, and it must have
been a message from God, that the armour of
Christ was faith — faith in Him as Saviour and
Redeemer. Difficulties against believing thai came
crowding into my soul, like a swarm of living
things. For a moment I was bewildered. How
could I believe when I didn't believe ? What was
the use of saying I would have faith in Christ as
my Saviour and Redeemer when the faith was
absent from my brain ? While these chaotic
thoughts were chasing themselves about in my
troubled mind I realised, all of a sudden, that the
soul could seize upon faith, seize it and hold it by
one tremendous effort, in spite of every difficulty
in the mind. As I realised that, I asked myself
if I had strength for the effort. I remembered my
sins. I felt my infamy and guilt. I was conscious
of a great need for a Saviour. Then I knew I had
strength for the effort.

" There was a call at the end of the meeting for
those who felt their need of a Saviour to stand up
and make their Decision then and there. I stood
up. The very act of getting up, publicly getting
up, and by the very fact of standing up publicly
confessing my need for a Saviour, seemed to change
my whole nature. At that moment I was converted.
There is no question about it, no getting away from
the fact, and no possibility of thinking that I de-
ceived myself. And I will tell you why I say that.

A BAD HAT 101

If only my ordinary sins had ceased from that
moment I might perhaps be tempted to think that
just deep emotion produced some kind of change
in my mind which a psychologist could explain.
But something much more wonderful occurred to me,
and occurred instantaneously — something that no
psychologist can explain, and no psychologist, un-
less he is a Christian, can understand. From that
moment my temper departed, like a devil cast out
by the power of God.

" That was what staggered me, and even now,
all these long years afterwards, I look back with
amazement on that tremendous miracle. For I
believe truly that I was one of the hottest-tempered
men that ever lived. My temper was infinitely
worse than all my other sins lumped together. I
was sensual enough, God knows, but not ever-
lastingly ; there were periods when the very thought
of such sins disgusted me and made me feel sick ;
I was never wholly unconscious of the pleasure which
comes from wholesome exercise and manly sports
and clean habits. But my temper was the very
core of me. It was my life's blood, the beat of my
heart, the pulsation of my brain. I simply couldn't
brook interference. Authority was galling to me.
A man had only to offer me the slightest insult to
get my fist in his face. As to forgiving an injury —
why, I should have laughed at such a thing.

" But conversion changed me — instantaneously,
mind you — into absolute peace of mind. I lost all
sense of heat and tempest and obstruction. Life
was clear sailing. I could see far ahead of me, and
was easy in my mind, as easy as a little child.

102 THE ORDINARY MAN

" To show you how complete was the change.
At this time my old friend joined a society which
worked for abstinence from alcohol and tobacco.
Men who belonged to it wore in their button-
holes a little blue ribbon with a white line down the
centre. Well, he got me to join. I had liked drink,
and I was a great smoker ; but I experienced
no difficulty in giving up both these habits. I
wore the ribbon in my coat. Immediately, I be-
came the target for jokes among the other men at
the office. They saw I was converted, lost their
former fear of me, and took advantage of my re-
ligion to tease and chaff and even mock me. Well,
I never minded it in the least. And only a few
days before, mind j^ou, I should have been all over
them in a moment ! "

He smiled and looked at me with the very straight
gaze of a hard-punching man, the teeth locked, the
chin protruded, a nod of the head giving emphasis
to the words, " I should have been all over them
in a moment."

The strange story of this man's eventful life does
not end with his conversion. He became a member
of a London church, and there fell in with a beauti-
ful and noble girl for whom he speedily contracted
a great affection. She was destined to exert a re-
markable influence on his life.

There was in her rich and noble nature something
of that depth and mysticism which make the earliest
women of Methodism as beautiful in modern eyes
as the most enchanting of the medieval saints.
Her whole character had the spiritual atmosphere
of Adam Bede. To the sweetness and humanity of

A BAD HAT 103

her nature was added a profound tenderness, an
almost sorrowful beauty of faith which conferred
upon her presence and breathed from her personality
something sacred and exalted. In the midst of
modern London, surrounded by all the vulgarity
and coarseness of our period, this noble girl lived an
existence of beauty and tranquillity.

As soon as he became engaged to such an inspiring
creature, the man was filled with desire for a wider
and more splendid life. London became oppressive
to him. The darkness, the poverty, the tragedy,
the sunken degradation, misery, and destitution
which crowd upon the soul from every side of the
vast unhappy city, grew intolerable to his heart and
brain.

" I could feel Canada calling to me," he said,
" just as if it was a human being calling to me by
name across the sea. Honestly, it was just like a
voice, a human voice. And I longed to go, simply
longed to shake the dust of London off my feet, and
get out there at once — into the big, wholesome land
with its pure air and its clean skies."

He told his desire to her whom it most con-
cerned. He was surprised to find that she made
no appeal for him to stay. Her dark, haunting
eyes regarded him with quiet searching for a mo-
ment, and then she said, " Yes, go ; it is a good
move ; it will bring a blessing." He spoke of his
hopes about getting land near the railway, hundreds
of acres of land, and making a comfortable income
as a farmer ; they would be wonderfully happy
together. She smiled, and listened, and said
nothing till the end. Then she said to him, " Will

104 THE ORDINARY MAN

you promise me one thing ? — Whatever happens
to you, good fortune or bad fortune, promise me
that you will never lose your faith. Keep believing.
Keep believing" She smiled at him, and added,
" That is our motto, yours over there and mine
waiting here. Keep believing ! "

A friend of his had the same inclination towards
Canada. This man was a fine and splendid charac-
ter, just the very partner one would desire for a new
venture. He was an ordinary upright and pro-
fessing Christian, but had never experienced a pro-
found change of heart. For the rest, he was a
steady, moral, industrious, and ambitious man —
the very salt of those who carry England's best
traditions into other lands.

The two started together. Arrived in Canada,
one went one way and one the other, prospecting
for land. The man whose story I am telling was
struck down by an attack of rheumatic fever soon
after this separated quest had begun. Letters from
the saint in England had regularly arrived with
two little capitals in the corner of the envelope —
'K.B." And at the end of each letter those same
two capitals always appeared below the signature,
the last message from her soul. The man took to
his bed, determined to keep his promise. His letters
and envelopes, too, had always carried that signal
back to England. He was strong and steadfast.
At all costs, he would Keep Believing.

The time came when fever carried his conscious-
ness into the region of delirium. He was lying in
the bedroom of an hotel that had not long been
built and yet was almost as old as the town in

A BAD HAT 105

which it flourished. His bedroom window opened
on the public square. All day long a procession of
vehicles passed across this centre of a new market.
At night, when the whole place blazed with electric
light, the square was very often discordant with
drunken voices and the sound of degradation
striving to sing itself into happiness.

The man who had put on the whole armour of
Christ lay and tossed on his bed, doctors and
nurses watching the struggle of his soul.

One afternoon familiar music came to his ears.
He listened intently. The music became clear. He
realised that it was close at hand, just outside and
below his window. He had no notion why he lay
in bed, nor where he was ; but he listened to the
music, glad that it was so near. It was a hymn.
Above the din of the band he could hear the voices
of men and women, singing words which he knew
by heart.

" I don't know how to tell you what that hymn
did for me," he said thoughtfully. " It was some-
thing very quiet and beautiful ; it seemed to flow
into my soul with a message of peace, and to touch
me, at the very heart of my being, with the thought
of God's Presence. I seemed too, at that very
moment, to know all that had happened to me. I
turned to the nurse and asked what band was
playing. She replied, ' Oh, it's only one of those
Missions ; does it worry you ? ' I smiled, and said,
' No ; it doesn't worry me.' Then I closed my eyes
and lay thinking.

' Without any excitement or wonder in my
mind, I knew then and there what I had got to do.

106 THE ORDINARY MAN

Without surprise, I found that all my plans and
ambitions had vanished. I accepted, without the
smallest demur, my new destiny. And it seemed
the most beautiful thing that had come to me.
I was going to give up everything, embrace poverty,
and become a missioner.

" The next day as I lay in bed, with closed eyes,
thinking of this new life, I heard the doctors whisper-
ing together and expressing doubts as to my re-
covery. I learned afterwards that it was a special
consultation ; there were no fewer than five doctors,
for I was on the very verge of death. I opened my
eyes, looked at the doctors, smiled, and said,
' Don't be anxious ; I'm not going to die ; my life
has only just begun ! ' It was no utterance of
delirium. I remember saying it. And I meant it.
I felt that I had been born again.

'' Directly I got well, and was able to walk, I went
to the local Mission and offered myself for ser-
vice. I wrote home and told the news. I knew
that whatever happened, however it was received,
I should have to go on. I looked that sacrifice in
the face, and was prepared to make it. Everything
seemed ordered for me, as if it must be and had
to be.

" One thing puzzled me, and that concerned my
friend. He had not returned, nor sent me a line.
I wanted to write and tell him of this great altera-
tion in my ideas, to prepare him for the change in
his plans which, of course, it entailed ; but I didn't
know where to find him.

' Then a strange thing, an extraordinary thing,
occurred. My friend arrived and announced that

A BAD HAT 107

he had abandoned all idea of farming, as he had been
greatly influenced by the same Mission in British
Columbia and intended to give up his life to that
service. While I had come to a similar resolution
in Eastern Canada, he — unconverted till that mo-
ment— had surrendered to the same influence in
Western Canada, nearly four thousand miles away !
We had both gone to Canada, keen and ambitious
young men, to make our fortunes, and thinking of
little else. We had discussed again and again our
plans, our schemes, our hopes. We had talked
grain, stock, implements, and labour for months
together. And now — at our first meeting after a
separation to fulfil all these fine dreams — we each
discovered that the other partner had determined
to become a missioner !

' When I received the anxiously awaited letter
from home I was still further startled by the
mysterious. She knew I should not become a
farmer, she wrote, and she knew that I would
become a missioner. She had been perfectly cer-
tain of this before I started, and it was what
she herself desired above anything else. But there
was bad news in this letter as well. Her parents
would not hear of her marriage to a missioner,
and would not permit her to become a missioner
either in England or Canada. However, she com-
forted me by saying that everything would pre-
sently work out as we both wished, and she con-
cluded with a strong and underlined ' K.B.,' which
now had an interpretation for my heart as well as
for my soul. I tell you I clung to that 'K.B.'
with both hands !

108 THE ORDINARY MAN

" And all turned out well. Her parents yielded ;
I sent home the money for her passage ; and she
came out to me, longing, simply longing, for the
work. She made a magnificent sister of mercy.
For nearly nine years we lived and laboured in
America, getting to know the human heart and the
tragedy of life as neither of us knew it before, for
our work lay among the broken men of all classes
who turn to a religious Mission for help when they
get right down to rock level. We worked both in
Canada and the States. Sometimes it was thrilling
work ; sometimes encouraging ; sometimes heart-
breaking ; but all through my wife was simply
splendid, and absolutely gave herself up to it. Her
faith — well, I've never come across anything like it.
It seems as if she knows what God is going to do."

The rest of the story is an uneventful history of
development and progress. An opportunity for very
much more extended and responsible work among
outcasts and miserables presented itself after these
nine years in America.

For eight years the man was a great and
steady force in an agency which deals with social
failures. By his influence the entirely social and
humanitarian nature of this work was given a re-
ligious consecration. He did a noble work among
thousands and tens of thousands of unhappy people.

And now he occupies a high and responsible
position in one of the great trading concerns of the
empire ; but one of those undertakings which even
while they remain purely commercial play an enor-
mous part in the restoration of fallen and degraded
manhood. His work still lies with helping the weak.

A BAD HAT 109

" No one," he once said to me, speaking of his
life's work, " could see such misery and wreckage
as I have seen, and am likely to see till the end
of my days, without coming to the conclusion that
the most serious thing in the whole world is sin.
People who make light of sin can really know nothing
of the world. Its consequences are something fright-
ful. They cannot be exaggerated. And it's not
only such obvious things as drink, gambling, and
sensuality in general, but what are called spiritual
sins — pride, selfishness, snobbery, vanity, and miser-
liness— they, too, very often, more often than people
think, drag human nature down into dirty water,
very dirty water.

" And I'll tell you something else I'm certain
about, after a pretty long and varied experience.
The very means which society employs to minister
to misery, without religion, can be turned by misery
against society, for its own undoing. Take, for one
instance, the model, municipal, and charitable
lodging-houses which are now being set up all over
the place. On the face of it they are perfectly
splendid ; nothing could be better ; compared with
the old and horrible doss-house they are like heaven.
But go inside, talk to the men you find there ! Do
you think they want to reform ? Not they ! Do
you think they are conscious of shame ? Not a
bit of it ! Do you think they are making a single
effort to become good and useful citizens ? Not
one in a hundred ! Why ? — because it's all made
so very cheap and comfortable for them. A man
can nowadays slip away from his wife and children,
burrow into one of these fine houses, be lost to all

110 THE ORDINARY MAN

who know him, and support himself quite easily,
like a prince, on an hour's work in the market or
three hours' cadging in the streets. They live better,
these fellows, a jolly sight better, than the honest
workman who has to rent a house and support a
family.

" Religion is the one means whereby a man can
be changed from bad to good. Charity can change
him from poor to rich ; philanthropy can change
him from hungry to filled ; county councils and
local rates can change him from homeless to housed ;
but nothing except religion can change him from
bad to good. Let society try, and see if they can
do it.

" And, of course, I don't mean a merely formal
religion. That's not a bit of good ; indeed, I really
think it's worse than useless — for it angers and
embitters miserable and degraded men, it makes
them mock. But the religion that goes straight
for the heart of a man, that tells him his peril, that
is not content with a lip profession of faith, but
insists on a cleansed heart, a changed nature, and
a converted soul — that's the religion which alone
can lift the fallen and restore the lost.

" It seems to me that some people are afraid to
say anything nowadays of the chief thing that makes
religion a living fact and the supreme mystery of
existence. They're afraid of the miracle.

" Why ! without conversion religion is nothing
more than a philosophy. And imagine taking
philosophy into a prison, a lodging-house, a gin-
palace, or a brothel !

" But you can take Christ there."

CHAPTER VI
THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR

THERE is a precision about this man which is
bracing and invigorating. He holds his head
well, is fresh-coloured, keen-looking, has a trick of
voice which is penetrating and incisive, speaks to
the point, is alert and watchful. You imagine that
he never yawns. You cannot picture him collapsed
and dishevelled in a chair. As I talked to him it
occurred to me that an ingenious treatise might be
written on the Psychology of a Rigid Backbone.

As a boy he must have been one of those of
whom nurses say that " it pays to wash." I am not
satisfied to declare of him as a man that he is well
groomed ; I desire to add that he is well tubbed
or well soaped. He has the appearance of one
fresh from the Turkish bath and more than ready
for a meal. A keen man.

As certainly as the profession of priest or soldier
sets its seal upon a man's countenance, the pro-
fession of the law has set its seal upon the face of
this fresh-coloured and trenchant gentleman of my
story. He is a barrister. One could never mistake
him for merchant or doctor or engineer.

The tale of his life is what one would expect from
his appearance, save for one incident, and even that

111

112 THE ORDINARY MAN

is not bold in the miracle. He looks like a pro-
fessional man who from the first has kept a straight
course, who has never turned aside by the breadth
of a hair from the goal of his ambition, and who
will continue to his life's end the fixed and rigid
habits of his mind. It would not easily occur to a
casual observer that this man is an amateur minister
of religion, or that his whole life is consecrated
by religious idealism. It certainly would not occur
to a casual observer that this alert and vigorous
man devotes a great part of his life to saving his
fellow-creatures from sin, and that he has been the
human means of rescuing many from the greatest
peril of soul.

He came to London from a country home, and
settled down in chambers to prepare for the Bar,
The home was religious. He was born and bred
a Churchman, and remains a Churchman to the
present day. But at the time of his coming to
London religion was only one of his good habits.
He had no enthusiasm for the subject. He had
really never deeply considered it.

Among the men with whom he came into contact
were many who had no sense of religion at all,
and were disposed to live very much in defiance
of religious principles. Untempted by these men,
and as much shocked by the carelessness with which
they prosecuted their studies as by the general moral
tone of their characters, he was conscious in their
society of a feeling of loneliness and isolation.

He was distinctly unhappy.

There was, apparently, no risk that he would
form coarse or vulgar habits, no peril that he would

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 113

fall into actual sin. But in the society of these men
who were entirely without the sense of seriousness,
whose conversation was rather base and con-
temptible, who were given to gambling and the
sin which some suppose is inevitable to youth in
crowded cities, he was exposed to the risk of an
indirect contamination, and might easily have come
to entertain views of religion disastrous to a really
noble life.

His story helps one to see clearly a truth often
obscured by crude thinking. Sin is not beaten only
when it is withstood ; the dangers of bad influence
are by no means confined to the seduction of souls
into acts of sin ; it is possible for a man to be pure,
honest, upright, and industrious, and yet corrupted
by iniquity. And this indeed is one of the first
lessons that a wise man would impress upon the
mind of a son whom he greatly loved. He would
warn him against that contagion of sin which, while
it leaves the heart unspotted, paralyses the activities
of the soul. How many men live reputable and
moral lives, in whom the soul is almost destroyed,
or at any rate completely paralysed ? I think the
host of such men is well-nigh as numerous as the
host of reckless wrong-doers. And the life of their
soul has been thus poisoned or destroyed by the
contamination of surrounding iniquity — the atmo-
sphere in which sin thrives of a flippant frivolity,
a wholesale irresponsibility, a contempt for the
religious life, an indifference to the whole region of
spirit. They consider that it is no good to think
about God and no use to bother themselves with
the open question of immortality. And so imagina-
i

114 THE ORDINARY MAN

tion withers at its roots, existence dwindles to the
petty round of the individual ambition, and the
mind shuts and bolts its doors against mystery.

Difficult is it for such men to understand the
meaning of Maeterlinck's thought — " It is not
unreasonable to believe that the paramount interest
of life, all that is truly lofty and remarkable in the
destiny of man, reposes almost entirely in the
mystery that surrounds us."

It is no exaggeration, but a veritable truth of
existence, to say that the hobbies, fads, and recrea-
tions of respectable people may be just as destructive
of the spiritual life as the crimes and excesses of the
disreputable. A man whose whole life is absorbed
in the cult of old china, the growing of roses, the
breeding of dogs, or the collection of postage-
stamps will suffer as utterly in his spiritual existence
as the man abandoned to sensuality. In one case
the soul is murdered ; in the other it is starved.

The danger of this particular man was not moral,
but spiritual. He had none of those propulsions
towards vice which drive other men so easily into
vulgar sins. His nature, one might almost say, was
sinless. Sin had no attraction for him. He was
untempted. There was in his nature a fineness of
feeling, a delicacy of refinement, which held him
not merely free from sin, but superior to sin.
Still, he was in peril. The society into which he
was thrown had strength enough to destroy in a
more Christian man than this the beauty and the
purity and the enthusiasm of the religious life. He
might easily have abandoned church-going, forgotten
that he possessed a Bible, given up the habit of

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 115

prayer, and drifted into the dull and inactive ranks
of agnosticism, or at any rate of indifference.

He was in a rather depressed and unhappy state of
mind, when he came across a man of his own age
who happened to introduce the subject of religion
into their conversation. This man mentioned
certain churches in London, certain preachers, and
suggested that they should go together on the
following Sunday to hear a particular man. A
friendship was in this way established, and the
feeling of loneliness somewhat abated in the mind
of the young barrister. But he was, nevertheless,
afflicted from time to time by a sense of something
lacking in his life, some void which at present
nothing had begun to fill. He sought by regular
attendance at church, by earnest prayer, and by
industry at his work, to get rid of this uneasiness
of mind. Sometimes he thought he had succeeded.
But eventually the feeling returned — a feeling of
vague unrest.

His friend spoke to him one day of certain men
actively engaged in the work of the Young Men's
Christian Association at Exeter Hall in the Strand.
He became interested, and expressed a desire to
visit the hall and make acquaintance with the work
of the Association. The very first experience of this
company induced him to become a member of the
Association, and he at once began to take a quiet
and humble part in the missionary adventures of
the Brotherhood. He was happy in having found
congenial companionships, and still happier in
having discovered a field for work.

From the young barristers who surrounded his

116 THE ORDINARY MAN

life he came in for the usual amount of banter
and ridicule. It was sometimes hard to bear,
but never intolerable. It was irritating and annoy-
ing, but not cruel.

Something in this chaffing opposition of the
world prevented him, apparently, from losing all
sense of self in the work of the Association. He was
by no means conscious of doubt, by no means
tempted towards infidelity ; but, thoroughly believing
and earnestly working, he was aware of the world
and conscious in his soul of something he knew
not what which came between himself and peace.

The one incident in his religious experience which
touches the miracle occurred at this period. He
was walking swiftly and happily one day to a
meeting of the Association, when he suddenly felt
himself stopped in the street, and found himself
cross-examined, as it were, by his own soul. There
in the London streets, jostled by a procession of
passers-by, he stopped dead, and his soul asked him
a question : Was he going to that meeting to hear
an address, to meet friends, to pass his time away ?
or was he going there because he belonged to Christ
and desired to serve Him ?

Such was the question that faced him as he stood
in the street, and would not let him go on till it
was answered. Those acquainted with the varieties
of religious experience will recognise in this arrest
of the whole body by a sudden activity of the
conscience the features of a common occurrence.
A self divided, if it be but dimly aware of the
division, dimly conscious of two influences in the
mind, can never rest, never be satisfied, till the

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 117

soul has decided one way or the other. The word
decision is one of the most important in the literature
of religious experience. It is almost a synonym
for conversion. There is in the soul of a man
once awake to religious impulses, but still resting his
head on the pillow of his former habits, a hunger
and a longing for decision which presses for satis-
faction with enormous weight on the whole of the
moral nature. The soul feels the need for absolute
decision, but cannot bring itself to rise and stand
upright. It fences and prevaricates. It turns
this way and that, to think it over. But the pressure
increases. Up ! — up ! — nothing will happen while
you he still ; come to the penitent form, stand up
in the midst of the meeting, or kneel down here in
the solitude of your room — anything so long as it is
action, anything so long as it is decision, anything
so long as it is not meditation, vacillation, a
balancing of this and that.

I have heard from the lips of numerous men,
representing many classes in the community and
many degrees of culture, the phrase, " When I
decided for Christ. ..." Until I heard it from
real men, whose souls woke in me a sincere admira-
tion, I had the feeling of one who hears a sharp
discord, or who is offended by a coarse accent.
It vexed me. It irritated me. It seemed to me akin
to cant. But my experience of men and my reading
of books have brought me to know that the word
decision expresses, as well as human language ever
can express the things of the spirit, one of the
most common and one of the most striking needs
of the human soul. And I believe thoroughly that

118 THE ORDINARY MAN

what the world calls " unrest " is the inevitable
condition of the soul of man until it has arisen from
the distractions of the world and decided for the
laws of God. The price of the attempt to serve
two masters is unrest. Even if the decision be
resolutely made for the world, unrest will depart.
To decide for God means, as is amply proved in
the crowded chronicles of religious experience,
the attainment of peace and an impulse towards
personal service.

This barrister tells me that as he stood in the
London street, confronted by the question of his
soul, he received the assurance that Christ came
first in his life. He does not know how to express
his sensation in words. He says he felt himself pass
" from death unto life," and when I ask him if he
can find words outside the language of metaphor,
ordinary and natural words, to express his experi-
ence, he says frankly that he knows of none. And
he is emphatic in his protest that the language of
metaphor accurately expresses the sensation of his
soul. It was a feeling of having passed from one
state of being to another, from a state of death to
a state of life, a feeling of resurrection and vital
existence, a glorious and illuming sensation of the
Personal Love of a Personal God.

So real was this feeling, he tells me, that he went
back next day to the very spot where he had stopped
in the streets and said to himself, "Here, yester-
day, by the grace of God, I was converted and
born again." Many years have gone by since then.
The world has prospered with him. He is a married
man, with the care of children on his hands. But,

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 119

he tells me, in the midst of many and great
activities, that single incident stands out clear and
vivid in his mind, and for evermore that stone in
the pavement will be for him most sacred ground.

Soon after this experience the branch of the
Association whose meetings he attended received
a visit from Sir George Williams. The barrister
tells me that he was greatly struck at the time by
the simple fact that Mr. Williams, as he then was,
had come at considerable inconvenience to himself,
and would have to depart at six o'clock the next
morning to fulfil another engagement. He re-
flected on this fact, and it led him to see that men
who devoted themselves to religion, who really
lived the life of a Christian, counted no cost in the
service of Christ. This reflection worked in his
soul. At the same meeting an address was given by
Mr. Hind Smith on the text, To me to live is Christ.
The idea contained in this address of service and
devotion, ceaseless service and passionate devotion,
haunted the barrister for weeks and months.

He learned soon afterwards, he says, to show his
colours. " To stand on the street," he says, with
a smile, " where one was well known, and invite the
passing young men to the meetings, was not always
pleasant to the flesh, but it was good discipline, and
not without its use in character building."

There was a feeling of joy that he had given
himself to Christ, that his colours were at last
firmly nailed to the mast, that the irrevocable step
had now been taken boldly and certainly. But he
had his moments when he rather shrank from the
ordeal of public activity and public demonstra-

120 THE ORDINARY MAN

tion ; smiling, he tells one that sometimes it was
necessary to make a great effort.

His spiritual life, however, was deepening and
intensifying. He learned at this period to believe
with a really profound faith in the power of prayer.
The incident which produced this particular effect
upon his mind may appear trivial and uncon-
vincing to many people ; but to the man himself
it had a marked significence.

" The extension of the work of the Association,"
he says, " had necessitated a new building. When
all available funds had been collected there still
remained a substantial debt. The situation was
rather serious. At a meeting of the Committee
one of the members proposed that they should all
give up their business for a whole day and devote
it to prayer for the removal of the debt. Now, it is
a strange thing but true, that a certain merchant
at that time made his will, and, quite unknown to
any of the Committee, left one-fourth of his re-
siduary estate to the Association, subject to his
wife's life-interest. Soon after the making of this
will he died ; but his widow was destined to live
for many jears. The will, however, did not suit
her, as she desired to become absolute owner of her
husband's money. In the end, with the sanction
of the Court, the widow bought up the reversionary
interests, and the amount payable to the Associa-
tion was just enough to cover the outstanding
mortgage debt."

He tells me of one or two incidents in his career
as a worker for the Association which have greatly
impressed him.

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 121

A young man once came to the meetings of the
Association who appeared to be very unhappy and
distressed in his mind. He told the barrister that

he was a valet to Lord , that his situation

was a good one, that nothing troubled him about
his future, but that for many weeks he had been in
much anxiety about his soul. Somehow, he said,
the peace which he sought eluded him.

It was a case of unrest, proceeding from indecision.
He wanted to surrender his soul to Christ, but cer-
tain considerations, more or less intellectual, held
him in check. He could not be quite sure whether
he believed the Bible. Certain arguments he had
heard troubled him.

One evening a few members of the Association
interested in the young man remained talking with
him after a meeting, striving to settle his intellectual
doubts and doing all they could by persuasion to
make the man surrender. They not only talked with
him, but there in the room knelt and prayed with
him. It was useless. He acknowledged the cogency
of their arguments, professed himself unworthy of
their kindness, but said that he could not yet bring
himself to take the plunge.

At this point the barrister turned aside and wrote
on a piece of paper the words, "/ now reject the
Lord Jesus Christ as my Saviour." He then passed
the paper to the young man and suggested that he
should sign it. The poor fellow read the words,
started, and said, No, he would not sign it — much
wondering at the suggestion. The barrister took
back the piece of paper, turned it over, and wrote
on the other side, "I now accept the Lord Jesus

122 THE ORDINARY MAN

Christ as my Saviour.'''' Then he passed it to the
man, saying nothing. For a moment he hesitated
after reading the words ; then with a kind of spring
of suddenness he took a pen and wrote his name
underneath. In the act of signing he was conscious
of liberation.

Within a very few days of this end to his spiritual
wretchedness he was arrested on a charge of steal-
ing some sleeve-links belonging to his master. He
was brought before a magistrate and sent for trial.
A previous employer happened to see a report of
the proceedings in the newspaper, and convinced
of the man's innocence at once went and bailed him
out. He then took steps, at his own expense, to
get Mr. Montagu Williams instructed for the defence.
At the trial, however, the whole case collapsed.
The jury stated that they did not wish to hear the
defence, and the innocent man was instantly
acquitted.

The barrister told me that he was greatly
impressed by the man's quiet confidence and
singular calm all through this most trying and
testing time of trouble. :' Not a word of com-
plaint," he said, ' passed his lips as to the false
charge, but many expressions of gratitude for
God's faithfulness to him in that time of heavy
trial. I constantly met him in after years, and the
last occasion I saw him was in Hyde Park taking
part in a religious meeting."

He told me that he had known scores of men
whose lives had been entirely changed, some of them
completely revolutionised, by contact with the
Association. He mentions a certain squire in the

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 123

south of England who has given up a life of sport
and pleasure to devote himself entirely to the
missionary work of the Association ; a barrister,
who had been " more than a little wild at the
'Varsity," who became a worker for the Associa-
tion while he was in London reading for the Bar,
and who since his father's death has lived in the
country, " where he administers justice from the
county bench and astonishes his fellow- justices with
his outspoken Christianity " ; a prominent surgeon
of the present day, who joined the Association as
a medical student, worked exceedingly hard for it,
and keeps up his connection to the present day ; a
young London solicitor, who, influenced by Moody's
Mission in 1884, came to the Association " with a
view of getting some Christian work," and has
ever since been an active member ; an architect,
by no means unknown, who joined the Association
many years ago and ascribes " much of his Christian
development and character to his connection with
and work in the Association " ; a young country
lawyer, in London for the last years of his articles,
who then joined the Association, and is now " well
known in a West-country town as an out-and-out
Christian and is always willing to testify to the
definite blessing and help he got at the Association
in his London days."

And then he says : " Others I could name who for
a time ran well and then fell off, but the falling off
always came after they had severed their connection
with the Association."

He told me of one rather remarkable incident in
his experience of the Association's work. At a

124 THE ORDINARY MAN

certain meeting held in the Strand three men from
the country passing along the street were persuaded
to come in. They were obliged to leave before the
close of the meeting, in order to catch a train at
King's Cross. Within a week a letter arrived at
the Association's quarters in the Strand, addressed
to " The Chairman of the Meeting." It was written
by one of the three men, and told that while two of
them had been willing, as Christian men, to attend
the meeting, the third had held back at first and
had only consented at last on the persuasions of his
friends. At the meeting, however, this man heard
something that touched his heart, and there and then
" gave himself to Christ." In the train, on their way
home, the three countrymen rejoiced together in
a common enthusiasm for the religious life. In less
than a week the man who had surrendered himself
at the meeting was dead.

The barrister told me why he remains an active
worker for the Association, in spite of his loyalty
as a Churchman.

" The Association brings one," he said, " into
intimate communion with men of all denomina-
tions, and gives one in this way a broadness of out-
look which is withheld, I think, from those who have
not known work outside their own church. I count
this right adjustment — Christian first, Churchman
second. A man gets a most useful knowledge of
the world-wide influence and appeal of Christianity
by mixing with Christians of all the various churches
and chapels. No proselytising takes place. The
members are united on the essentials of Christianity,
and the Association may be said to represent the

THE PROFESSIONAL AMATEUR 125

Church of Christ in its spirit of brotherhood which
is superior to mere differences of opinion, and which
unites men of the most opposite Churchmanship
in a missionary unanimity for the essentials of
religion.

" Another great advantage of the Association,
one which every young man starting life ought to
take into account, is the opportunity it affords for
the formation of noble friendships. You meet men
of most classes in the Association, and among them
a man will always find those with whom he can
associate in his social life, and who may very likely
be most helpful to him in his professional or business
career. Several of my friendships date back twenty-
five and even thirty years in connection with Asso-
ciation work.

" Finally, there is the immense advantage of
finding in the Association a field of active service.
And this service, so important to the development
of spiritual life, differs materially from that of one's
own church. With the latter it is a specified work,
such as a Sunday-school class, and done at a speci-
fied time. There is something of machinery about
it. On the other hand, the Association teaches a
man that he is always on duty, as it were — particu-
larly in the sphere of his own daily calling. The
outcome of this is individual dealing, fishing for men
in all waters — a form of service which brings more
success and more joy than any other. The open-air
work, evangelistic work, Bible study, and the like,
all combine to make one open one's mouth in public
— not only in testimony, but also, in a measure, in
teaching and preaching."

126 THE ORDINARY MAN

His own life is devoted in this way to the service
of his Master.

The reflective reader will consider what might
have happened to this man if he had drifted into
a condition of indifference and had never felt it his
duty to lift a finger for religion. He might have
remained scrupulously moral, but would his life
have been so useful or his heart so restful ?

He gave me above every other impression the
feeling that in active work for Christianity there is
a pleasure and a satisfaction which, besides develop-
ing the spiritual life — that life which demands a
perpetual culture and a particular atmosphere —
adds enormously to the mere interest and adventure
of human existence. He struck me as one of the
happiest men I have ever encountered. He enjoys
the work of amateur missionary with an almost
athletic zest, and few things give him so much
pleasure, he tells me, as occasionally forgathering
with his friends of the Association and talking over
old times and old strivings for the souls of men.

For the man who does nothing to spread the
glory of the Kingdom of God he has a sorrowful
pity — such a compassion as Cicero may have had
for the dumb and Shakespeare for the blind. And
yet, remember, he began life with no taste for such
work ; he had to drive himself to it at the beginning
with a great effort of the will.

We think these things are decided for us by
temperament. But character is made by the
decision of the will,

Quo vadis ?

CHAPTER VII
A SOUL IN THE STREET

ONLY a reader who is not afraid to explore the
dark and innermost recesses of a morbid mind,
and to behold naked before his eyes the soul of
one whom science would perhaps describe as a
degenerate, should give himself the trouble of
perusing this present chapter. For I confess at the
outset it is a tale of extraordinary gloom, a most
morbid and dismal story — one of those psycho-
logical autobiographies which a healthy man will
probably read with increasing aversion and disgust
only to find that he has taken into his memory a
haunting and unforgettable unpleasantness. It is
like a story by Guy de Maupassant, or a visit to the
dissecting-room of a hospital. One shudders, turns
away with relief, but never forgets.

Why, then, do I tell the tale ? Is it not a useless
task to which I address myself ? — something which
can do no good to anybody ?

" Useless,'''' writes Myers, " is a pre-scientific, even
an anti-scientific term, which has perhaps proved
a greater stumbling-block to research in psychology
than in any other science. In science the use of
phenomena is to prove laws, and the more bizarre
and trivial the phenomena, the greater the chance

127

128 THE ORDINARY MAN

of their directing us to some law which has been
overlooked till now." Properly regarded, nothing
in life is either trivial or without significance.

And not only this. The longer one lives and
the more one becomes acquainted with the secrets
of the human mind, the less one is inclined to divide
men into the ranks of normal and abnormal. I
should be glad if I could think the man of this
story was solitary in the midst of London's millions,
or that he was one of a little, ill-starred brotherhood
moving through the obscure shadows with envy
of the happier multitude. But I am persuaded that
he represents a considerable host of human beings,
and I am strongly disposed to think that this host
will not diminish but increase, while the tendency
of mankind to coagulate in vast masses continues
to impoverish the fields and pack the unnatural
cities. These unhappy men, I mean, are manu-
factured by a civilisation which tends to be-
come every day more careless of the laws of
nature.

It is certainly well that those able to contemplate
the tragic depths of the human mind should read
such a tale as this, read it, reflect upon it, and con-
sider what may best be done for those suffering in
like case ; but I even go so far as to say that the very
people whom I warn against the reading of it would
probably broaden their sympathies and usefully
enlarge their knowledge of existence, if they per-
suade their intelligence to take the place of their
prejudices and read the story as a man of science
would examine a problem in physics. With this
warning I proceed to tell the tale.

A SOUL IN THE STREET 129

He is a man of medium stature, thin, but broad-
shouldered, with a worn and troubled face, to which,
it would seem, smiles had never come, even in
childhood. The complexion is the dusty grey of
London's indoor population, a pallor which has no
freshness, an anaemic condition which is without the
refining sense of disease ; no amount of soap and
water could give this pallor the appearance of
cleanliness ; it is like a face that has been washed,
but dried with a dirty towel.

The head is finely shaped, but disproportionately
large for the flat-chested and starved-looking body.
The hair grows thickly and stands upright. The
eyebrows are as heavy as a sybarite's moustache ;
the moustache is like a Frenchman's beard. Sur-
rounded on every side by this bushy hair, the
large eyes, set deep in their sockets, look sadly and
pathetically forth from under the heavy eave of the
white brow, and through eyeglasses which are stained
and smudged. They would be beautiful eyes but
for their look of woe, which dulls the brightness
of the brown iris, and robs the whole expression of
animation and vitality. One sees that the soul is
never near the surface, never pressing its face
close to the windows of its tenement ; it is far away,
busy at the back of the house, and obsessed by
internal problems ; only from thence does it strain
occasionally to see what is taking place out of doors.

He sits very quietly, looking smaller than he
really is ; the head sinks a little towards the breast ;
the hands are clasped over one of the knees which
is crossed upon the other leg ; the thick eyebrows
are raised high in the wrinkled forehead. He speaks

130 THE ORDINARY MAN

in a low and even voice, like a man who has just
suffered a great bereavement. His frankness in-
creases as he proceeds ; he is amazingly pitiless
towards himself ; he becomes in his quiet and
restrained manner earnestly self -analytical ; he is
interested as an outsider in the commotion which
distracts him ; he asks advice, and discusses remedies.

The quiet of the man is astonishing. He reminds
me of Victor Hugo's description of Villemain — " he
was rather disordered - looking, but gentle and
earnest." In a man troubled, as I found him
to be troubled, one looks for excitability, self-
conscious nervousness, and that condition which
we describe as jumpiness. But he is like a man
under the influence of morphia.

He occupies a position of importance in a firm
of chartered accountants. He is not only a clever
and trustworthy clerk, but an able man. In the
City of London many people know him as an
excellent fellow. This position, as the story will
show, has been won entirely by his own efforts.

One of his greatest friends is a member of the
Young Men's Christian Association. It was this
friend who, having told me something, but only a
small part, of his story, brought us together. As
soon as we were alone, the man said to me, " You
have heard how I started life ? "

" So-and-so," I replied, " has told me that you
had a hard time in boyhood."

He looked at me for a time, and then said,
without any emotion or the least sign of feeling, "I
am what is called an illegitimate. I never saw my
father, and to this day I don't even know his name.

A SOUL IN THE STREET 131

I should like now to hear something about him,
I am interested in heredity. It might explain things
which are difficult to understand. My mother, I
must tell you, was quite a poor woman.

" She lived in Finchley, and just before I was
born went to lodge at the house of a foreman printer
in Westminster Bridge Road. As soon after my
birth as possible she went back to her people, and
left me to the care of the printer and his wife. I
suppose she must have paid something down, or
perhaps she contributed a certain sum to the weekly
expenses. I never heard. She went away, and when
I was old enough to ask questions I wasn't suffi-
ciently interested to inquire. She came to see me
from time to time. I liked her, but never regarded
her as my mother. Since those days I have been
able to support her. But she lives far away ; we
do not see each other.

' ' For me, my parents were the foreman printer
and his wife. I called them * father' and * mother,'
and they treated me almost as well as they treated
their own son, who was a year or two my senior.
Their house in Westminster Bridge Road was my
home. Their son was my brother.

" How my life would have gone but for that son
I do not dare to speculate. His father and mother
were kind to me — kind as one is kind to a dog or a
cat ; but they took no pains to discover my thoughts,
to guide my inclinations, or to shape my character.
They taught me morals by saying, ' Don't do that,'
or * You mustn't do this.' They never told me a
single word about God and the soul. They never
looked into my mind.

132 THE ORDINARY MAN

" It is a great puzzle to me how their son got his
notion of religion. Perhaps he was born with it.
I can remember how he would say to me, when we
were talking about temptations, ' I never feel
anything like that ; I can't understand how anyone
can sin ; I was born good and always shall be good."
He used to laugh when he said it, just as if he were
some spirit or a fairy, flashing his eyes at me, putting
his arm round my neck, and drawing me close to his
side with what was almost a gay affection. There
was something strange about the boy. In some
ways he was much more like a girl. He was never
rough or boisterous. He never wanted any horse-
play. He was gentle and clinging, and had some-
thing in his nature which was positively maternal.
He used to take me on his knees when I was quite a
little chap, and tell me about God, the angels,
heaven, and the life of Christ. We would sit like that
on the doorstep, the traffic going by all the time, till
it was bedtime. . . .

" Later in my boyhood he encouraged me to
pray with great earnestness, and taught me the
urgent need of deciding to give my life to religion.
I don't remember if he used the word conversion.
He used to speak about making up the mind,
deciding, making certain how one was going to live.
Perhaps he got these ideas from his Sunday-school.
What strikes me now in thinking about those days
is the motherliness of my foster-brother. He
was really as tender as any woman. And there was
something radiant about him.

" He was certainly a very remarkable boy ; but
I dare say that if we knew all the facts of his ancestry,

A SOUL IN THE STREET 133

and all the circumstances of his childhood, we should
see that there was nothing particular in his natural
religiousness.

" As soon as he was able to leave school his father
apprenticed him to a firm of electrical engineers.
Of course I could not expect such luck for myself,
and I went out soon afterwards to shift for myself
as an errand-boy.

" That's rather a strange life. I often look at
little chaps of twelve and thirteen, hurrying up
to the City with a packet of sandwiches under their
arms — little beggars beginning the great struggle
of life in London. I wonder what they are thinking
about. I wonder if they are fighting temptations.
People often forget that a boy has a battle in his soul
as big as any man's. And they're pitchforked
straight out of school into the very middle of
London. . . . Well, they hear things and see things,
as well as feel the strange things that move about in
the human brain. A little boy thrown into the
midst of London is exposed to many serious risks —
big risks.

" I'll be quite frank with you. I should have gone
straight to the devil but for my foster-brother. As
it was I went some considerable way in that direc-
tion. I fought hard. I put up a real fight. But I
was beaten again and again. .So passed my boyhood.
I grew into my youth without any enthusiasm
for life. I felt tired and fagged out before I was
twenty.

" There's no doubt at all that my salvation, so far
as a man in my case can ever dare to talk about
salvation, came from the Young Men's Christian

134 THE ORDINARY MAN

Association. My foster-brother persuaded me to
become a member. He told me about the educa-
tional classes, encouraged me to be ambitious, and
assured me — for I used to tell him about my
temptations — that I should get strength from the
religious meetings of the Association. So I joined.
It proved a great blessing to me. First of all, the
religious meetings really did help me. I got from
them a decided bent towards religion, and set
myself to obtain, if possible, the miraculous change
of heart which follows conversion. I am one of those
men, I must tell you, who feel themselves converted
again and again. I have had moments in which
hell seemed to drop away from me, shrivelled up at
my feet, and left me free. For weeks and months
I have lived as if I was in communion with God,
quite happy, and quite untempted. Then — well,
the darkness has returned. But I must tell you
about that later on, if you care to hear about it.

"I made great strides in the educational classes.
In a few months I was able to take a place as a clerk.
I learnt everything I possibly could. I was keen,
not only for the sake of getting on in the world, but
for the sake of getting away from myself. Religion,
education, physical culture, the games and meet-
ings and discussions of the Association — I welcomed
all alike, as distractions from my wretched self.

" I should like you to know one thing about the
Association, which perhaps other people haven't told
you. Men of all classes, except the manual labourer,
are members, and some of the first people in the land
come to the meetings and mix freely with the rest.
You find aristocrats, prominent bankers, famous

A SOUL IN THE STREET 135

merchants, and officers of the army mixing with
clerks and shop-assistants, with a real spirit of
friendship and brotherhood. Now, to a young
fellow placed as I was placed, born in dishonour and
starting life as an errand-boy, those friendships,
those acts of kindness I received from great people,
had a most useful moral effect. When I was
tempted I used to feel guilty of disloyalty and
treason ; when I fell, it was with a sense of shame
and horror. I used to think, ' If they only knew my
true character ! ' And I used to strive — God alone
knows how hard — to be worthy of those friendships.
I feel pretty certain that scores of young fellows
must have been helped in the same way. It's a
simple thing, but simple things in life often count
more than the big ones.

"Well, through the kindness of a man in the
Association, I got a good appointment in a firm of
chartered accountants, and was soon earning a
decent salary. My foster-father was dead. For
some time I had been living in lodgings. It occurred
to me now that the best thing I could do for my
soul and body would be to get married. At this time
I experienced what seemed to me a definite con-
version. I became exceedingly happy. For a
quite considerable period I knew something of the
joy, the elation, which saints tell about. It was
like living in Paradise.

" During that happy spell in my life I got married.
My salary enabled me to take a small house in
Willesden. My wife was all I could wish. For a
year or two I was free from spiritual persecution.
A child came to us, and I experienced the full

136 THE ORDINARY MAN

happiness of parentage. It seemed as if my con-
version had exorcised the demon.

" One day I discovered that the demon had only
been sleeping. It woke in a strange form.

" I will tell you about it, if you really would care
to hear the story. It's strange and puzzling, as
well as rather horrible. I had been working late
at the books of a big firm one day, and emerged,
tired and fagged, into the streets a little before
eight o'clock. A feeling came to me that it would
be dull to go home. I seemed to have no energy to
make for the railway station. I loitered in the
streets, tired, irresolute. Then I thought I would go
westwards, get something to eat, and look at the
people till it was time for bed. It did not definitely
occur to me at that moment, nor till an hour after-
wards, that I was contemplating a sin, that my
demon was awake, certainly not that my soul was
in peril. Yet, I was dimly conscious of something
that was off the line.

" When I had eaten my dinner I walked about
the streets. I walked at a slow pace, almost a
crawl. I found it pleasant and interesting to look
at people. It was as if something of the world's
pleasure and enjoj^ment came to me from the crowd,
like the warmth of a fire. I was conscious of a
sense of satisfaction, of interest, almost of gratitude.

"As I loitered in this way I noticed a girl standing
alone at a street corner. She was a decent girl of
the lower-middle classes, quietly dressed, and
obviously respectable. No one in his senses would
have taken her for a bad woman. Directly I saw
her I wanted to speak to her. It was not a swift

A SOUL IN THE STREET 137

and violent impulse ; it was sluggish, sly, circum-
spect ; but it was irresistible. I walked past her ;
looked in her face ; went by ; returned ; looked
at her again ; and then stood at a few paces from
her, watching. She saw me, and responded to my
look with a smile. I felt myself tremendously
tempted. I walked towards her, and as I went
I knew that I was on the edge of sin, that my
demon was awake.

" I made no resistance. I seemed to toss away
all the restraints of my life, all my ideals, all my
faith in God — everything. It was almost as if I
went to my fall mocking. And yet, no sooner did
I speak to the girl than I knew I should protect her
from ruin."

He looks at me, and says very slowly : " What I
am going to tell you is very difficult to put into
words. I have studied myself so closely, however
— just as if I were a doctor examining a patient —
that I can give you at least a notion of my strange
case.

" I have never committed, since my marriage,
what the world would describe as a sin. The irre-
sistible attraction which lonely women in the streets
at night have for my mind is that of curiosity.
There are times when I simply cannot pass without
speaking to a girl who is standing alone in the streets.
I feel I must speak to her. I feel I must talk with
her. And sometimes I feel that I must tempt her
to the edge of ruin. I want to know what she is
doing, how she earns her living, where she lives, if
she is religious, how she spends her leisure, and
what things she thinks about in the privacy of her

138 THE ORDINARY MAN

mind. If I become very friendly with such a girl,
and we meet often, and talk dangerously, and she
becomes careless of everything, I always have the
power to save her from ruin. I have told many
such girls that I would rather die than do them
harm.

" There's something, I can't tell you what, in
these night encounters on the London streets which
has for me just such a baleful fascination as the
dipsomaniac finds in alcohol. It is as difficult for
me sometimes to pass a solitary woman as it is at
times for a dipsomaniac to pass a public-house.
Many a time I go home, sit down with my wife and
children, take up a book or a newspaper — and
then the thought of women standing all alone in the
dark street comes upon me with a spring, and I
have to get up and go out. It's like a madness.
It's something that I can't resist. It seems as if
there are ghosts in all the dark streets of London
beckoning and calling me. I see a woman in the
shadows long before I get to her, and I seem to
know instantly whether we shall speak and become
friends. There seems to be some telepathic com-
munication of ideas between solitary souls in
London. A woman will often look up at me before
I reach her. Many girls have said to me, ' I knew
you were going to speak before you came up.'

" It isn't only that I seem to want the sympathy
of these lonely women. That might be passed over
and forgiven. There's something else. I am
often visited by a really devilish desire to corrupt
their minds and poison their purity. That is what
depresses me, Wn-en I am out of these fits I see

A SOUL IN THE STREET 139

how odious and abominable I have been. But at
the time I am untroubled ; I chuckle over it ; just
like a fiend.

" The fit seizes me in different ways. Sometimes
I will go up to a girl, ask what she is doing, tell her
that I am at a loose end, and suggest that we go to
a cinematograph show or a music-hall. Very often
I have done this, and parted from the girl outside
with scarcely another word. I can't explain why.
A cinematograph show or a music-hall would not
attract me in the least if I were by myself, but
sitting with a strange girl at my side, I enjoy such
things as much as anybody else. And afterwards
I just say good-bye to the girl, forget all about her,
and go home contented — to feel in an hour all the
anguish and contrition which follow a great sin.

" At other times I feel I must make a girl drink.
The younger and the more innocent, the stronger
is this feeling with me. Horrible and dreadful as
I know this to be, I am struck by the curiosity of
it. For I am to all intents and purposes a teetotaller.
In my wholesome moods I recognise that alcohol is
one of the most prolific sources of sin and crime.
I have argued for teetotalism as hotly as any
fanatic. It is part of the work I have undertaken
in connection with my church. But when the mood
is on me, I feel a savage pleasure in chaffing a girl
to come into a public-house and drink with me.
The more she hangs back, the more I persuade.

" Sometimes I am visited by a desire to find
in one of these lonely women a true affinity, one
with whom I can talk freely of everything in my
soul, knowing that she will understand. Two or

140 THE ORDINARY MAN

three times this has happened to me. For weeks
and even months I have lost all sense of the casual
woman's attraction, and have been as constant as
any lover to one particular woman. We have met
as often as possible, gone for long solitary walks,
met at luncheon in the middle of the day, gone into
the country on Saturday afternoons, prayed together
side by side in church on Sunday evenings. And with
these women I have shared the whole of my double
nature. At one moment I have been as low and vile
as sin can drag me, at the next as sincere in religious
aspiration as a saint. In one of these women I
think I really did find my twin soul. No one would
believe me if I told him about that girl's mind.
She had nearly all the heights and nearly all the
depths. At one moment she was saving my soul ;
at the next I was saving hers. We loved and struggled
together till I thought it was impossible to endure
the strain. I was, in fact, on the point of yielding
to my lower nature and letting all my responsibili-
ties go when I got one of those great checks which
at various times in my life have been like a hand
grabbing my shoulder and pulling me with violence
away from utter ruin. In this case it was a
sermon.

" I must tell you that my home life has not been
happy. The discovery of my lower nature was soon
made. It has been impossible for me to make
amends. The fault is mine. No one can recognise
that more clearly than I do. But now, when I am
struggling hard, I could wish either that what is
past had never been discovered or that it could be
utterly forgiven and forgotten.

A SOUL IN THE STREET 141

"However, that is an aspect of the case which I
would rather not pursue. The interesting point
is the recurrence in my life of the miracle of con-
version. I have never felt myself absolutely aban-
doned by God. It is most curious to observe how
I am pursued by the invisible powers of mercy. You
would think I should be afraid of making you feel
that I am a hypocrite. But if I make myself clear
you will not fall into that error. There is really no
element of hypocrisy. I long with a very deep and
sincere longing for purity of heart. I go to religion,
when I recognise my peril, with a perfectly sincere
eagerness for rescue. And again and again in my
life I have experienced such extraordinary changes
of heart that I cannot prevent myself from acknow-
ledging the miracle of conversion. Many men would
say that I delude myself, that these occasions are
not instances of conversion, because the effect is
transient. I can see that they are certainly not the
profound conversions which are experienced by other
men ; but just as certainly I know that they are
not delusions. I have felt myself quite swept away
towards God, and for weeks I have lived in the most
complete assurance of His mercy and forgiveness.
Indeed, at all times in my life, I have had the feeling
that God alone knows my heart through and
through, and that because He does know it — black
and bad as it is — He continues His mercy. For
with the evil propensity there has always been the
reaction towards purity.

" My greatest human safeguard has been the
Association. My wife has implored me to be more
regular in my attendance, even to the point of

142 THE ORDINARY MAN

urging me to spend the whole of my spare time
there, knowing that I get from the members a
strengthening and energising of my moral faculties.
Often has she said to me, 'You always come back
from the Association a better and a nicer man.'
But for the Association — through which I obtained
material prosperity — I think I should have gone
to spiritual shipwreck. And I will tell you why I
say that. Directly a man who is trying to be good
commits a sin, he is most powerfully tempted to
abandon all effort and go with the tide. He has the
feeling, first, that it is useless to contend against
his own nature, and, second, that he will be a
hypocrite if he associates himself with religious
men. It is difficult for a sensitive mind to support
the burden of this idea. It gives a man the feeling
of a whipped dog. He seems to be slinking through
fife, not walking upright and squarely. I imagine
that thousands of young men in London, once pure
and religious, go to their everlasting ruin just through
this feeling.

"It's a tremendous help to have such an institu-
tion as the Association, where a man guilty of sin
can meet men, of his own age and circumstances,
who are alive with moral energy and vigorous with
spiritual fervour. He gets something from them.
He is ashamed of himself, and feels reproached by
their kindness and cheerfulness. They give him
a new affection for straight living, an enthusiasm
for the spiritual conflict. And what I feel particu-
larly to be so helpful is this — a man who goes
regularly to the Association and makes friendships
and takes part in the general life of the brotherhood,

A SOUL m THE STREET 143

gets to know that spiritual warfare is the chief con-
cern of the universe ; he loses, I mean, the depress-
ing and ignominious sense that he is tainted, isolated,
unique ; he feels that every man in the world is en-
gaged in the universal fight, and that he, with his
particular trouble, is only one among the millions
of the human race.

" In church I have the feeling of isolation and
guilt. Everyone else is Peter and John, Martha
and Mary — I the solitary Judas. I don't say that
is altogether bad. Often I have got a powerful
impulse from a church service. But it's better in
the Association. There's a feeling of reality and
comradeship about those gatherings. I get no end
of strength from them. They save me from despair.
I think if it had not been for this help I should, long
ago, have sunk to the bottom of London mud.

"It is very easy to give up the struggle. A
man's own conscience seems to urge him in the
direction of surrender. All the success in his daily
life — and I have risen to be head clerk in my office
— seems nothing, seems useless and contemptible.
But the kind word and the true look of another
man who believes in God and who makes him feel
that the whole world is fighting for victory over
sin will very often give a poor wretch just the
necessary flick of courage which will make him
struggle on, and hope. At least, I have found
it so."

This man is now in a period of peace. Certain
words said to him have restored his sense of Christ
as a living, acting power for liberation. He has
emerged from the black night of self-contempt

144 THE ORDINARY MAN

and pitiless self-examination. It may be that
once again, or many times, he will relapse ; but
for the present at least he feels himself on surer
ground than ever before. I do not think he will
ever become abandoned to an evil and degraded life,
though there is that in his nature which, without
religion, might drag him into the worst of crimes
and the most hideous of abominations. Only re-
ligion can hold such a man, and only religion lift him
up when he breaks free and falls into sin.

He said to me at the end of our talk, " The
tyranny of the habit was worse than the love of it.
I never was happy ; I felt myself always to be a
victim. And now I have the feeling of deliverance,
the sensation that a monster has been knocked
from off my shoulders, as if I am at last truly my

real self."

t

If this story only depresses you I fear that you
are one of those who have never once stopped
on your road, reined in your mule, and dismounted
to bind up the wounds of a fallen fellow-creature.
There are those who cannot bear to look upon a
wound, for whom the sight of blood has a frightful
horror, and who turn away from the fallen man,
not that they grudge carrying him on their mules
to the nearest inn and discharging the landlord's
demands, but because their sense of refinement is
too sharp and poignant for contact with gaping
flesh and oozing blood. But there is something
infinitely greater than refinement, something with-
out which the fullness of the nobility of human nature
can never be attained ; and this thing is charity.

A SOUL IN THE STREET 145

Many and great are the wounds of fallen humanity.
The professional physician, in the form of psy-
chologist and philosopher, stops to examine those
wounds, delivers to the crowd an interesting lecture
on the result of his examination, and, in the name of
science, reproaches those who accuse him of a mor-
bid interest in the unnatural and abnormal. But
it is only the great Physician Himself Who stops on
His way, bends over the fallen man, pours oil into
the wound, lifts him up from the ground, and
carries him away to a place of safety.

Those who are disciples of the great Physician
must neither pass by on the other side nor stop
merely in the interests of experimental psychology.
They must bend down with love and pity, to com-
fort and to heal.

I do not think a man can ever understand the
meaning of that phrase "The love of God" — "God
so loved the world " — until he has a deep acquaint-
ance with the horrors of sin and the depths of
degradation to which the human mind can sink.
We are apt to turn away with disgust from the
frightful, drunken harridan, reeling blasphemous
and filthy through the midnight streets, and to feel
a profound aversion from the hard and scoffing
man of sensual habits ; but not only are these
sad people included in the Universal Love of God,
but those who have sunk to sins more dreadful,
and those who have contracted the strangest and
the worst diseases of the soul.

We find it hard even to think kindly of such
people, we who are ourselves stained by I know
not how many sins and visited by temptations

146 THE ORDINARY MAN

perhaps of a like nature ; but Christ, the Son of
God, the exquisite, innocent, and most holy Christ,
not only thought kindly of such people, but wont
to them, embraced them, ministered to them,
and sought to heal them.

It is not in the definitions of theologians that I
come to a realisation of Christ's Divinity, but by
a steadfast contemplation of His attitude towards
sinful men. That amazing title " Friend of
Sinners " has more of wonder and glory and divinity
for me than all the clauses of the Athanasian Creed.
The one vexes my intellect ; the other touches
my heart. The Son of God had hard and burning
words for the orthodox religious of His day ; He had
nothing but love and tenderness, entreaty and tears,
for those from whom we are too prone to turn with
horror or contempt.

No man, I suppose, who has not learned to what
depths the soul may sink, to what ruin and state
of putrefaction that soul may come in the mire of
the pit of infamy, can either feel the fullness of the
wonder of Christ's love, or understand the meaning
of those words, " Joy shall be in heaven over one
sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and
nine just persons which need no repentance,"

CHAPTER VIII

THE OPENING OF A DOOR

" A LIFE," writes William James, " is manly,
^t\. stoical, moral, or philosophical, we say, in
proportion as it is less swayed by paltry personal
considerations and more by objective ends that call
for energy, even though that energy bring personal
loss and pain. This is the good side of war, in so
far as it calls for ' volunteers.' And for morality
life is a war, and the service of the highest is a sort
of cosmic patriotism which also calls for volunteers."
Such a volunteer is the man with whom this story
is concerned. To him Mystery is a fact of life, but
nothing of the mystic shows in the man's appearance.
He is tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and
muscularly upright. He makes one think of a
soldier who has seen much service and won
great honour. One feels, looking at the healthful
face, which really burns with happiness, that for
him it has never been difficult to obey the injunction
of Joubert, " Finally, we must love life while we have
it : it is a duty.'''' He is one of those vigorous men
whose very voice is a rousing optimism. To have
him righting at one's side in a tight corner, or
leading a forlorn hope, would inspire courage, I
think, in the most cowardly. Nothing, one imagines,

147

148 THE ORDINARY MAN

could ever sink his joy or dash his fortitude with
misgiving.

Such is the man's appearance, such is the impres-
sion made upon one's imagination by his outward
form. But speak to him, and you find that he
shrinks from even a military metaphor, that he will
not allow you to call him a soldier of Christ, that
his nature is modest, sensitive, humble and retiring
almost to bashfulness. He told me that I might
call him a labourer, a peasant of Christianity, but
certainly not a soldier. The great strong vigorous
man is as kind and gentle as a child.

There is a foolish habit among certain writers to
speak of the religious type. From the most modern
novelist, who would sacrifice everything for his
conception of reality, down to the dreariest comedian
of the music-hall stage who imitates the unctuous
curate of a bygone age, there is a disposition to
portray the religious man as a particular order of
the human species, easily recognisable by certain
distinct characteristics and swayed by a particular
temperament which is common to the religious of
all nations. This very ignorant and wholly un-
philosophical attitude of mind misses the great
wonder of religion. Nothing is more obvious,
nothing is more striking, nothing is more interesting
to the true and honest philosopher, than the
universality of the religious spirit. Men of the most
various temperament and the most diverse cir-
cumstances in life are impelled by the pressure
of the soul, often along quite different roads, to the
many kingdoms of immortality. From Pascal to
Bunyan, from Milton to Kelvin, from Newman to

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 149

William Blake, from Bishop Gore to General Booth,
from yourself to the man who lives next door to you,
are there not to be found in the multitudinous army
of God every order of individual and every type
of human character ? Consider the separation
which divides John Lawrence, of India, from
Brother Lawrence of The Practice of the Presence
of God. Think of the infinity of variation which
lies between Livingstone and Goethe. Reflect
upon the stellar space which stretches from the soul
of Tolstoy to the soul of Manning. And what likeness
can be found in the life of Kingsley to the life of
Swedenborg ? To look carefully upon the Church
of Christ is to look upon the world. " I will draw,"
said the Saviour, " all men unto Me."

In this story the reader finds himself glancing at
the life of a successful business man who is conscious
of the mystery of the universe, who has felt himself
definitely swayed by invisible agencies, and who is
a gay, bright-hearted, and most valiant labourer
for God. Strangely different is he from the type of
religious person in contemporary novels, and yet he
is but one of a vast host whom you pass every day
in the streets of a city, the ordinary man in the
ordinary world of commonplace, to whom the extra-
ordinary thing has happened and for whom ever-
more life is ennobled by a " cosmic patriotism."

He is a Welshman ; a man some fifty years of age ;
fine-looking, as I have suggested, with the spirit
of the soldier both in face and figure. His eyes
are extraordinarily bright, with sheer happiness ;
the skin has the glow of perfect health ; his deep
voice is melodious and good-humoured. He seems

150 THE ORDINARY MAN

to rejoice in everything. He speaks with the
same ringing enthusiasm of physical exercise,
sleeping in the open air, and temperate eating as
characterises his references to the joy and glory of
the religious life — the active religious life. He is
above everything else a man of action — one who
recognises that a true Christian must make himself
an instrument in the Hand of God, and for the
glory of God work hard and ever for the Kingdom
of righteousness.

There is no point in his life at which he recognises
the mystery of a single yielding of his spirit —
a definite hour of the soul with God. He does not
speak of his conversion as a single moment of
sudden apprehension. Illumination was in his
soul from early childhood, a dim light at the
beginning, but one which has increased in bright-
ness with the development of his other faculties.
He has been without the sense of God, he
has suffered and questioned, but he has never
fallen into desperate sin nor surrendered himself to
the indifference of agnosticism.

" I owe everything," he says, with a charming
tenderness, " to my mother. Ah, her death ! — it
froze everything. She taught herself geography
by writing to her sons. From the days when we lay
in her lap to the days when we were middle-aged
men scattered all over the world, she poured out a
great tide of love upon us all, a love which was as
wise and intelligent as it was deep and gentle. I
believe her letters to her sons, in their manhood,
helped to preserve their purity and sense of
honour."

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 151

He saw something of poverty and distress in the
town where his childhood was spent, and came
gradually and as it were unconsciously to know the
horror of life, the cruelty of circumstance, the
bitterness of sin and suffering.

" There was in our town a small branch of the
Young Men's Christian Association, and as soon as
we were old enough to join it some of us became
members. It was there that I first got a chance
of doing something for others."

At this time he was old enough to see what sin
did in the fives of men. He could not take a walk
through the streets or listen to the gossip at the
supper-table without learning that sin is the enemy
of happiness, the great discordant element in
human fife. At first he could not understand how
men — intelligent and sensible men — could drink
themselves into wretchedness and ill-health. That
a man should ever come to spend his money on
drink, while his children went in rags and actually
lacked food, staggered his mind. He saw that
bad men are lower than the meanest of animals.
He saw to what depths of unnatural infamy the soul
may come when it denies the laws of God.

" I was impressed and perhaps influenced by
the Sunday afternoon services which the Asso-
ciation used to hold, during the summer months,
on the side of the mountains overlooking the town,

" It was very beautiful and calm. The whole
earth seemed to lie at our feet. Above our heads
was the blue of heaven, like the blessing of God.
And looking down from the rock of the mountain,
over the grassy sides which were bright with little

152 THE ORDINARY MAN

flowers and soft with the foliage of trees which
shone in the sunlight, I used to gaze into the city
under the haze which floated over the roofs, and,
while we were singing hymns or listening to the
words of Christ, think of all the sin and misery,
all the unhappiness and ugliness, which was hidden
in its crowded streets."

One is reminded of Carlyle. " Oh, under that
hideous coverlet of vapours, and putrefactions, and
unimaginable gases, what a fermenting - vat lies
simmering and hid ! The joyful and the sorrowful
are there ; men are dying there, men are being born ;
men are praying — on the other side of a brick
partition men are cursing ; and around them all is
the vast, void Night. . . . All these heaped and
huddled together, with nothing but a little car-
pentry and masonry between them ; — crammed in,
like salted fish in their barrel ; — or weltering, shall
I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers,
each struggling to get its head above the others :
such work goes on under that smoke counterpane ! "

The young Welshman on the mountain - side
realised that there was another remedy for all
this misery than a flow of splendid, stimulating
rhetoric. He believed that each man suffering
and unhappy in that " Egyptian pitcher of tamed
vipers," before he could become glad of life and
profoundly happy in his spirit, must surrender his
heart to God, must accept Christ for his Saviour,
and live henceforth with the music of eternity in
his soul. He thought of political remedies. He
concerned himself occasionally with sociological
theories and the theses of philosophy. But

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 153

more often, perhaps, he realised that then and
there — with all the existing laws and in all the
existing circumstances, without change of any kind
in the physical conditions of that daily life — all
the misery and wretchedness, all the unhappiness and
conflict, all the desperation, ruin, and thousandfold
vexations of heart and brain, would cease instantly,
be as if they had never been, did the town bub
kneel before their Father in heaven and acknowledge
the Love of Christ.

And it was not only that he saw through religion
this change in the lot of the wicked and unhappy,
but he saw through religion, true religion, a change
in the lives of the moral and prosperous. He
visualised those prosperous people active in the
service of Christ, ministering to the sick and sad,
helping the poor, strengthening the weak, teaching
the young, and comforting the old ; so that the
town became not a city divided against itself, but a
united family of the human race, of whom God was
the acknowledged Father.

" It was there," he told me, " that I began to long
for more active work, that I heard the call of my
Master to serve with His labourers. And the call
was not to any work in the ministry, but to work
as a layman among laymen — which is the spirit of
the Young Men's Christian Association. I deter-
mined to fight against sin, to be ever on the side of
Christ, and at the same time to earn my bread by
honest work while I marched in the ranks of the
human army, a simple private."

From this point he comes to an extraordinary
thing in his life. He has never told it to the world,

154 THE ORDINARY MAN

only a few of his friends know about it, and he
told it to me before he quite realised what he had
done — carried away by his honesty as he sought to
go back thirty years in his life and trace the in-
fluences which had shaped it.

" I obtained," he told me, " an important ap-
pointment, the nature of which I do not wish to
disclose. But it was an appointment which pro-
vided me with something more than money and
something more than authority — it provided me
with the enthusiasm of ambition.

" For a long time I thought myself the most
fortunate man in the town. My mother was
delighted. My brothers were proud of me. All my
friends said that I was an exceedingly lucky fellow.
Such was the state of things with me, when a change
in the organisation of this service introduced and
made necessary a certain duty which violated my
conscience. If I stayed in my appointment, I had
to do something which my conscience told me
was wrong. And if I refused to do this thing,
there was nothing for it but dismissal.

" I was conscious of a great depression. I went
about the world in a very wretched condition,
feeling that my career was now broken, that I
must inevitably resign, and not knowing in the
least what would become of me.

;' I made it a matter of prayer. I read the Bible
for guidance. . . .

" The weight of depression gradually lightened,
leaving me uncertain, teased, perplexed. I was
unhappy in a tolerable way.

" During this time I was following my official

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 155

career and spending my Sunday afternoons with
the class in a local Sunday-school to which I had
devoted myself for some time.

" One Sunday afternoon I was teaching my
class when, at the sudden opening of the door,
I experienced a strange, indescribable feeling. I
cannot make you understand the sensation, which
seemed suddenly to run all through my body,
except by saying that I knew, just as if I had been
told, that something was going to happen. In a
moment my listlessness, my vexation, my sense of a
divided and uncertain consciousness, vanished clean
out of my mind. I was startled by a vivid appre-
hension of expectation. Something was going to
happen. Then. Immediately. To me.

" That was the feeling as well as I can describe
what is really indescribable. The door had opened,
a stranger had entered, and before he spoke a word
I felt that something was going to happen to me.

" And now I must tell you something more
strange and more difficult to explain. As the door
opened an intuition came to me which seemed to
say, ' Speak to this man.1

" The man who had entered the schoolroom
was, as I have said, a complete stranger. I sur-
mised from his appearance that he was an English-
man. Something apart from my intuition attracted
me to this man. I went towards him and spoke
to him.

" He told me that he was an Englishman, and
explained that he was interested in children and
methods of education. I offered to show him the
Sunday-school. All the time I was explaining

156 THE ORDINARY MAN

things to him I had the feeling that this man had
come to me by the mercy of God. I did not
know in what way he would affect my life, but
I was sure, strangely, very strangely and absolutely
sure, that he would change the conditions which
were then afflicting me. Shall I put it in the simplest
way ? I knew this man had come to me in answer
to my prayer.

" After he had listened to my lesson to the
children I inquired if he had yet seen the town,
placing myself entirely at his disposal if he should
care to go sight-seeing.

" We left the school, and went out into the
streets.

" We had not done very much sight-seeing when
I opened my heart and told him the whole story
of my difficulty. Now, this may seem a simple
thing to say, but in reality it was as strange as the
first sensation of expectancy which had come to me
at the opening of the door. And I will tell you why.
In the first place, remember, this man was a
perfect stranger to me. In the second, he was not
Welsh, and could hardly be expected to understand
the local difficulties of the situation. And in the
third, the whole matter was of so private and
delicate a character that even now, many years
afterwards, I cannot declare it without causing
unpleasantness and doing harm.

" Yet I opened my heart and explained everything
to that stranger ! I felt that this confidence, so
difficult for me to give, so difficult for him to
understand, was all of a piece with the mystery
which seemed at that time to take my fife out of

THE OPENING OF A DOOK 157

my own keeping. I felt then, and I feel now, that
the invisible forces of God were active with my
soul. Nothing else of a like kind has ever happened
to me. I have never experienced any of those
mysterious things which happen to men in moments
of elation or at times of great abasement. My life
before that day was singularly normal, and ever
since it has been the hard and healthy life of an
ordinary business man. But on that day, as sure
as I am living now, something happened to me
that was not normal, not ordinary, and not a
delusion.

" Well, the Englishman heard me out, and then
turned to me with a smile and said, ' You are
perfectly right ; it would be a sin for you to go
against your conscience. I tell you what you must
do. You must resign at once, and come with me
to London.'

" Of course I had never dreamed of such a thing !
To leave Wales, the country that I loved, seemed
at the moment a hard, almost an impossible thing.
And yet, even with the shudder that came to me
at the thought of leaving home, I had the feeling
that God was leading me to England.

"And this feeling deepened, when I talked to the
Englishman, as we walked through the streets of the
town. I discovered that he was a most earnest
Christian. He took me back to his hotel, and
I sat with him for a long time, talking of religion
and the problem of my own life, which was inter-
woven with religion.

" I cannot tell you what occurred to me on my
arrival in London. You must be content with

158 THE ORDINARY MAN

things as they are at this present time. Ever since
I came things have prospered with me in a most
amazing way. But, of course, I recognised from the
outset that God did not bring me to England
only to prosper me and give me easy circumstances.
And I can tell you how I came to see what work
was ready for my hand, work in His Name and to
His Glory.

" One of the first things I did on coming to London
was to join the Central Young Men's Christian
Association. I was very happy there. I made true
friends and learned the outlook of the English mind
on religion and social problems. I threw myself
into the missionary work, thinking that it was for
this God had brought me to England. Services
and Bible classes were held at that time with
something of the enthusiasm of a religious revival.
I gave up every hour of my spare time to this work,
helping to save people at the same time that I
myself was learning.

" How it quite happened I cannot distinctly
remember, but I think this was the beginning. One
night a man was standing on the steps of our old
hall in the Strand, inviting people to come in and
join our meeting, when he saw two Frenchmen going
past, laughing and festive, certainly in no mood for
a religious meeting. They seemed to stand out from
all the other people crowding by. Something moved
him towards them. He went down the steps, took
the arm of the man nearest to me, and in his own
language invited him to come in and join our meeting.
They were both surprised. After a moment they
became self-conscious and awkward. They tried

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 159

to laugh it off. Gently he persisted with his invita-
tion. Finally they yielded.

" Now, one of those men was converted at the
end of the meeting. He is at this time of day —
more than twenty years afterwards — a most ardent
supporter of the Association. And he told me that
at the moment of that invitation he was walking
with his friend in the Strand looking out for an
opportunity for vice — the usual thing for which
the Strand was even more infamous then than it
is at the present time.

" He had only just arrived in England. On
landing it had seemed that a new life was begun for
him. In London he was instantly aware of the
contagion of vice and felt the attraction of sin.
But, at the meeting, something that was said
about home-life touched his heart with remembrance
of his mother. A thousand beautiful memories came
crowding back to his soul. The tears, he told me,
rushed to his eyes. He thought of the evil deed
he had just contemplated, and shrank in horror
from the man he had so suddenly become in a few
hours from leaving home. When the invitation
came at the end of the meeting for those who felt
the need of a Saviour to stand up and declare them-
selves soldiers of Christ, this Frenchman stood up
and gave himself for life and for eternity to the
service of God."

Incidents of this nature influenced the young
Welshman to take up definite work in the foreign
section of the Young Men's Christian Association, a
branch of its work little known to the general public.

He saw the peril of young foreigners in the London

160 THE ORDINARY MAN

streets. They come, many of them, from good
homes, and straightway are thrown to the mercies
of the world in the great glaring streets of London.
Before they can get their feet, before they can get
established on a virtuous foundation, they are
seduced by the apparent friendliness and kindness
of vice. They are alone, solitary, afraid. No one
is there to take their hand, to help them, to show
them kindness. The great, terrible city appals
and overwhelms them. And then they see what
looks like kindness, what looks like friendship,
what certainly appears to be bright, gay, cheerful,
merry, and good-hearted. Is it wonderful that some
of these lonely men in London forget the home left
behind in France, in Switzerland, in Italy, in
Germany ?

The man in this story felt a compassion for
these young foreigners in London, and devoted his
spare time to working for them. He recognised in
this particular work a call from God. He assisted
in the building up of the foreign section of the

oung Men's Christian Association, and to-day he
is still one of the men who give up their leisure
to this branch of the Association's activity. He does
not boast of what he has done ; he rather seeks
to minimise his part of the work, and to ascribe to
others the measure of success which it has obtained,
but one learns from those who know the truth of
the matter how lavishly he has given both time and
money to the work. There must be many men
scattered all over the world who owe their salvation,
humanly speaking, to the devotion of this honest
labourer for God,

THE OPENING OF A DOOR 161

In the new building of the Central Association
in Tottenham Court Road, provision is made on a
generous scale for the work of the foreign section.
It is greatly to be hoped that no effort will be spared
to make this work thoroughly successful. For it
requires no imagination to see how great may be
the benefit to humanity, to all nations and all
countries, from a religious brotherhood which
includes men of all languages and unites representa-
tives of all peoples in the common faith of an active
Christianity. There are branches of the Association
throughout the world, but a central brotherhood of
international character in London — where the
peoples of so many countries come into daily
collision — must have a useful influence among all
the nations.

I can assure the reader, who may possibly be
dull and bored by his existence, that he would
find most interesting employment for his time in
this branch of the Association's work. Here, as
elsewhere, the scope is boundless.

M

CHAPTER IX
MASTER AND MAN

THE man te]ls the story, and it is his own story ;
but as he tells it one feels that the master
is there also, standing behind him, watching,
listening, and guilty, like a prisoner in the dock.

Let me say at the outset that since hearing the
man's story I have made independent inquiries
and found that certainly the central facts of what
he told me are perfectly true. Let me also say
that I know in my own experience at least three
cases similar to that of the master in this story.

He was born in London, the son of a small trades-
man in the City, and grew up to boyhood in the
shadow of tall warehouses that closed about him
like prison walls. He was quick and independent,
something of a humorist, and perfectly contented
with his Cockney fate.

Gradually he perceived that things were going
wrong between his father and mother. At the time
he did not realise the grounds of this divergence, but
learned afterwards that the father was unfaithful.
He saw that his mother was miserable, depressed,
and that she frequently gave way to weeping. He
noticed that his father's manner was increasingly

162

MASTER AND MAN 163

hard and unkind. This was the child's earliest
contact with perplexity and confusion.

The lease of the shop fell in ; the father came to
loggerheads with his landlord ; there was a sudden
explosion in the domestic life, and that little home
in the centre of London's trade ceased to exist.

The mother took her children to a village in
Surrey ; the father disappeared out of their life.
He had given himself to sin, and sin carried him
far away from the family circle.

At an early age it became necessary for the boy
to earn his living. Influence procured him a place
in one of the warehouses whose walls had over-
shadowed his childhood. He went to London and
became a wage-earner.

Up to this period his training had been that of an
ordinary boy in humble circumstances — the board
school, perfunctory religious observances in the
home, and the Sunday-school. He was moral, but
he had no religious feeling.

The immensity of the warehouse stunned and
overwhelmed him at first. He was homesick, and
miserable, and rather frightened. Two or three days
after his arrival, however, he received a letter.
It was addressed to him from a local branch of the
Young Men's Christian Association, and invited
him to tea. He was flattered by the invitation,
was conscious, he told me, of a sense of importance,
and felt relieved to find that he had friends in
London. The horror of the living-in system, which
at that time was still bad, had begun to affect his
nerves.

As he entered the premises of the Association he

164 THE ORDINARY MAN

was greeted by name, and was at once introduced
to other young men of his own age. A feeling of
comfort and pleasantness destroyed his nervousness.
He felt happy and at ease.

He became a member, and spent most of his
leisure hours in the building. He formed friendships,
attended lectures, played games, read the papers,
and was present at some of the prayer meetings.
Religion did not at once exert an influence on his
character, but it was there in the atmosphere of that
social life, colouring the man's mind unconsciously,
if not consciously shaping his character.

And the next stage in his development brought it
nearer to his soul.

He became aware of human nature's strongest
passion.

Ordinarily he is the most quiet of men, a veritable
Cockney, drawling his words, smiling at his en-
thusiasms, and for ever seasoning his serious
speech with a quaint phrase, a telling piece of
slang, or an amusing story. But when he spoke of
those temptations in his early manhood, he became
almost fervent in his efforts to describe the furnace
through which he passed.

" I think I may fairly say," he began slowly,
" though it's a hard thing to say of one's own father,
but I think I may say I received from him an un-
naturally violent impetus to sin. In any case, some
men are more tempted in that way than others.
I've known a few men as badly tempted as myself,
others only slightly tempted, and some surprised
that a man should feel any temptation at all in that
direction. But in my case it was something so

MASTER AND MAN 165

frightful that I simply cannot describe it to you.
Why ! " he exclaimed, with sudden passion, " the
streets were like a burning fiery furnace to me !
The sight of it all ! The openness, the ease, the
glamour. . . . Well, all I can hope is that no other
young man may ever suffer as I did in those days.
I thought I should go mad ! "

The sense of danger became so overwhelming that
he looked to right and left of him for a way of
escape. He had tried everything he knew to
counteract the tendency in his blood, but it was
in vain. After all his laborious inventions to free
himself, he felt the driving force of this terrific
temptation pressing him out of purity and into
shame. He was on the very verge of the great
fall.

One day it occurred to him that religion was the
cure for his ill. He began to read the Bible, began to
pray, began to talk about religion with one or two
men in the warehouse who went to church. The
temptation remained.

He was almost in despair, felt himself on the
point of yielding, when an address delivered at
the Association's premises dragged him clear of the
danger. It was not an address about fighting
against temptations, nothing in the nature of a local
suggestion, but was the whole and total life of
Christianity, the life itself.

" I shall never forget as long as I live," he told
me, " the awakening, the revelation, the sensation
of seeing everything clear at last, which seemed to
light up my whole soul for me. It was as if a fog
had rolled away, all of a sudden. I saw everything

166 THE ORDINARY MAN

about me, not only clear, but shining. And this was
what the man said — only in better language than I
can tell you, although, mind you, it was quite
simple and plain, no fireworks, nothing of that
kind, just common-sense words. He said that
Christianity was a life of service ; that a man might
read the Bible and pray and attend church and meet-
ings, and yet not be a Christian at all. Unless, said
he, a man is working for others, helping others to be
good, doing all that he possibly can to stop evil
and propagate good, he is not a true Christian.
It struck me like a whip. I seemed to jump up.
' What ! ' I said to myself ; ' here have I been
calling myself a Christian all these months, and
really and truly I'm not a Christian at all ! And,
of course, I'm not. I'm selfish. I've been thinking
about my own soul, about my own temptations.
Why ! I've never lifted a single finger in my life
to help man, woman, or child.' I saw it as clear as
light. All my difficulty had come from brooding on
myself. And to get clear I had to be a Christian.
And to be a Christian I had to be converted. It
seemed to me then that conversion was something
more than a word ; that it was a tremendous
change of a man's whole life. I could see what it
meant. It meant a right-about-face ; yes, and a
turning inside out of everything that had before
seemed natural and obvious and common-sense.
I looked at the thing, saw it quite clearly, and knew
how to get it. But for a moment or two I hung
back, as if I was afraid to trust myself to it. It was
so big, and I was so small. The world was so
enormous, and this thing was clean contrary to the

MASTER AND MAN 167

world. However, I made up my mind to surrender.
That is the true word. It's a surrender of doubts,
and difficulties, and fears, and nervousness, and
misgivings. It's a surrender of argument and
seeking and looking about. It's a surrender of self.
I stood up in the meeting and declared for God.
Something happened to me. I can't describe it.
Something happened — as if a storm had stopped.

" I went back that night determined that no
single day should ever go over my head without
some act of service towards my fellow-man, done
for the sake and in the Name of my Saviour. I
started to pray night and morning in the dormitory.
I arranged a Bible-reading class once a week. I
went among the packers and carters and got them
to join our circle. Of course I had to stand a lot
of chaff. I was frightfully chipped ! But I'm a bit
of a funny chap myself, and I could see how it must
strike others at first, and I took it all in good part.
There was a looking-glass in the room where we had
our dinner, and I used to paste up a great big notice
on it, once a week, giving the subject of the next
address, generally a text. The other men used to
laugh at it and make jokes about it, but I generally
got the better of them on that score. Of course
there's a danger in exhibiting texts — by the by, I
must tell you a story about that — but I'm perfectly
certain it makes many a man think about religion.
I'm sure those texts on the looking-glass in our
dining-room began the work of conversion in the
hearts of many men.

" This is the story. I was once sending out
placards announcing a religious address at Exeter

168 THE ORDINARY MAN

Hall. The text was a very solemn one. I wanted
sandwich-board men to parade Regent Street and
Oxford Street with these notices, but was anxious
about getting the right kind of men for such a job.
So I went to the local agency of the Salvation Army,
said I wanted to hire so many sandwich-men, and
then added, ' But I don't want drunken-looking
fellows to parade the streets with that text on their
backs, nor to see the boards left outside a public-
house ; you must give me decent men.' ' Well,' said
the officer, considering, ' I could give you ordinary
men at two shillings, but I couldn't guarantee a
soundly converted man under three and sixpence.'
Isn't that good ? I couldn't help laughing ! The
price of a converted man — three-and-six ! "

I asked him if his temptations vanished at the
moment of conversion.

' They left me for a time," he said, " but they
came back — only without anything like the same
strength ; it was quite easy for me to subdue them.
There was no fever in the brain, no feeling that I
should go mad. Nothing of that. I was never
tortured again, not once."

He had been three years in the warehouse when
an opportunity came to improve his fortunes.
He was offered the position of clerk in a merchant's
office, a quite different business from that in which
he had been engaged, but, as he told me with a
proud smile, " There isn't much a man can't
do who has been three years in a City of London
warehouse." The pay, of course, was better,
the hours were a trifle lighter, and there was no
living-in. All these things were desirable, but what

MASTER AND MAN 169

most commended the change to him was the
character of this new master. He was " a godly
man."

This gentleman was married, and lived with his
wife in Wimbledon. The business was a com-
fortable one. It not only provided a good profit, but
allowed the master plenty of leisure for less material
pursuits. He took the chair at religious meetings,
gave addresses, made prayers, and served on com-
mittees of religious societies. He came from the
North of England, and had that grip and practical
hard-headed common sense which makes men of
affairs so extremely useful in the machinery of
religion. Moreover, he was a comparatively rich
man, and subscribed liberally to the funds of
religious activity.

Nothing could have been more promising for our
young man. He went to this new life with a feeling
that Heaven had rewarded him far beyond his
hopes. Everything had come to his hand. He
was a free man, able to live where he wished,
employed by a rich master who would not only
admire his enthusiasms but share them, and in his
ampler spare time he would have the work of the
Young Men's Christian Association, the friendships
and social intercourse of that society, to keep him
happy and active.

But it was not quite what he expected, after
all. The master was hard, sometimes exacting,
and very often lacking in even an elementary
sympathy. Further, his religious activity took him
out of office so frequently, and for such long spells,
that the clerk often had to work late in the evening

170 THE ORDINARY MAN

to make up for time thus lost in the day. He could
have supported this hardship but for the master's
roughness, which was sometimes cruel and un-
bearable.

In appearance the master was something of a
giant, a man with a shock of stubborn hair, a
bristling beard, eyes that flashed with energy and
vehemence, a massive forehead that was like a wall.
He was an able merchant, a powerful character, a
masterful soul. There was something fine and
strong in his rugged appearance which suggested
the strength and force of a rigorous spirit.

" You will hardly believe what I am going to tell
you," said the man, " but it is true, and worse,
infinitely worse, is to follow. For six years I never
had more than a week's holiday. He worked me
like a slave, and he treated me like a dog. Not at
first, but even from the first he was coarse and brutal,
as unlike a Christian as anything you can imagine.
It came gradually, not until I was master of his
secret, had the business, practically speaking,
entirely in my own hands, and was tied to him, as
well he knew, by loyalty and my sense of Christian
duty. Then he let himself go, and fairly trampled
on me. Outside he was everything noble, good, and
unselfish ; in the office he was like a devil.

" And now I must tell you his secret. He would
very often be absent for days, weeks, and at last
even for months. Sometimes he would tell me he
was going away ; but often it was only by telegram
a day or two later that I learned he would not be
back for some time. I had no suspicion at first, and
none of the junior clerks knew anything about the

MASTER AND MAN 171

matter. It was not until I noticed certain un-
accountable items in his bank-account — for I
had now full control of everything — that I began to
have an inkling of the truth. Many of these strange
cheques were for large sums, and some of them
were made payable to second-rate hotels in London.

" One day it came out. He sent for me by tele-
gram to one of these hotels. Certain contracts had
to be signed, and I had written to his private address,
pointing out the extreme importance of not missing
the date. The answer to my letter was the telegram,
which told me to bring the papers to the hotel.

" I shall not easily forget what I saw. He was
drunk ! — as drunk as a practised drunkard ever
can be drunk. There he sat, this godly man, alone
in a little dark room, his face the colour of violet,
his eyes frowning and half shut, his hair ruffled, his
clothes dirty — the living picture of a sot ! So
amazed was I, so horrified, that I could neither
plead nor reproach. I put the papers before him,
got pen and ink, showed him where he was to sign,
and went away as quickly as I could.

" That was the biggest shock I ever had in my
life. As I walked away, away through the crowded
streets of London, I was like a man who has been
stunned. I couldn't see an3^thing clearly. The
noise of the traffic and the sound of voices were
muffled and dull. Everything seemed unreal. And
I was thinking, as I walked along, that perhaps
religion was unreal too !

" I was a young man, and perhaps rather
emotional. But think of it ! This employer of mine
was a leader of religion. He was one of the great

172 THE ORDINARY MAN

fighters for righteousness, one of the captains in
Christ's army. Yes, and he made sacrifices for
religion. He gave his time, his talents, and his
money. He was no hypocrite using religion for
business purposes. Religion did not affect his
business at all. No ; he was perfectly genuine, and
the work he gave to religion entailed a very con-
siderable sacrifice. I knew that well, and I saw
it quite clearly. But, all the same, I had seen this
godly man in a little dark room of a little shabby
hotel in a back street, drunk and horrible ! I tell
you that was a frightful shock.

" It seemed to me, thinking it over, that religion
was not the power I had imagined it to be. I almost
came to think that I had deceived myself in my own
conversion. I thought to myself that if religion
had no power to prevent my master from sinking
to such depths it could not be so great and saving a
power as I had imagined. For you must see that
this man's religion was not merely one of profession,
but one of active work and sincere service. It was a
life. And yet I had seen what I had seen !

" For a long time I was dreadfully miserable.
My faith was not extinguished, but it was eclipsed.
What would have become of me but for the Associa-
tion, I do not like to think. It was the pure atmo-
sphere of that place, the affectionate friendships,
the interest and encouragement of the work, which
carried me through those dark days and at last
brought me to the light. I cannot overestimate the
value of the Association to my spiritual life at that
period. It helped me. It encouraged me. It
gave me hope, At last I saw the truth, I saw

MASTER AND MAN 173

that while service is the soul of the religious life,
the foundation is faith. I saw what I had never
sharply seen before, and never properly understood,
that a man may give his life to God's service and yet
be far from the Kingdom of God."

Our London clerk, one sees, had arrived at that
point where the mystery of faith seizes upon the soul
and illumines the whole field of appearance with
spiritual light, at that point where Maeterlinck
stood when he said :

" We may possibly be neither good, nor noble,
nor beautiful, even in the midst of the greatest
sacrifice ; and the sister of charity who dies
by the bedside of a typhoid patient may perchance
have a mean, rancorous, miserable soul."

In other, older, diviner, and more eternal words,
" Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in Thy Name,
and in Thy Name have cast out devils, and in Thy
Name done many wonderful works ? Then will I pro-
fess unto them, I never knew you."

Philanthropy pales before those words.

But for the life he lived in the work of the Associa-
tion, our clerk would never have come to realise
the essential consecration of faith. He might have
kept to the narrow path, he might have overcome
the temptation to think that religion was a psy-
chological illusion, but he could hardly have come
to deepen and transform his whole spiritual life
by and through the very cause which threatened at
first to overwhelm him.

He told me that as soon as he saw the fundamental
essentiality of faith he set himself to live in that

174 THE ORDINARY MAN

dependence on spiritual power, that utter trust in
the Person of Christ which is the only tranquillity
of soul a man may know on earth.

And all that he went through never once weakened
his spiritual life or disturbed its serenity.

The master would sometimes send for him in the
midst of a drinking bout, and the clerk would plead
with him and get him to go home. On many
occasions the man himself took the master home
and supported him into the house.

" It was terrible, those home-comings," he told
me. " There would be the wife, standing in the
hall, white as a ghost, horribly ashamed, and yet
so proud that she regarded me with hatred for being
the spectator of her tragedy. The master would
cling to me, insist that I should go with him into the
drawing-room, and make me play to him. There
we would sit — he collapsed in an arm-chair, I at the
piano, and the tall, white-haired wife, silent and
upright, on a straight-backed chair between us.
' Play something ! ' he would command ; ' you
know how to fiddle about with those notes ; play
something.' ' What shall I play ? ' I asked him on
the first occasion. What do you think he said ?
He said to me, ' Play Just as I am, without one
plea.' And I played him that hymn. Over and
over again when I took him home he made me
play him such hymns as that.

" He would come back to the office after one of
these debauches, and, sitting in his chair, I standing
before him, he would measure me with his eyes
contemplatively, and say, ' None of you fellows in
the Young Men's Christian Association know how to

MASTER AND MAN 175

deal with a penitent sinner — not one of you. You
don't understand anything about it.' And some-
times he would say to me — for by this time we used
to talk quite freely on the subject — ' Do you know
why I fall ? It is because the whole engine of
Satan's power is directed against me. And do you
know why the whole engine of Satan's power
is directed against me ? It is because he knows
I am in the forefront of the battle for Christ. Satan
knows, you may depend on it, who to go for. No
man could stand against such power.' And when
he said this, I believe he was sincere. I believe
his soul was in such a frightful state that he could
make himself believe any single thing that flattered
his spiritual pride or saved it from destruction.

" But wouldn't you have thought that my
knowledge of his secret sin, to say nothing of the
way in which I helped him and controlled his whole
business, would have led him to show me ex-
ceptional indulgence ? On the contrary, his tyranny
became worse with every day of our intimacy.
Really, his is the most extraordinary character
I have ever known. The worse his bout, the more
censorious his treatment of me. He used to come
back to the office in a flaming state of bitterness,
and speak to me as if I had been the cause of his
debauch. Let me give you a couple of instances
of what I mean.

" My mother was living with me in lodgings in the
suburbs. She had been very ill, and now it was
apparent that she must die. I was tenderly attached
to her, and I could not bear to think of her dying
alone in those dreary lodgings. Moreover, her

176 THE ORDINARY MAN

disease was terrible. She was dying in the greatest
pain.

" Well, I used to take every opportunity I could
to run down and see her during the day, if only for
a few minutes. I spent my dinner-time in this way,
and as the end came nearer I would sometimes go
and see her in the afternoon. Occasionally I arrived
late at the office, occasionally — if it were possible —
I went away before my usual time. I confess I
was irregular in my attendance. Remember, I had
only had six weeks' holidays for six whole years.
At last the end came. My mother was dead. I went
to my master, told him, and asked for a day's leave,
for the funeral. Now, what do you think that man
said to me ? He looked me full and accusing in the
face, as if I had committed a crime, and said, ' May
I ask if this is to be the last of these irregularities ? '
Hitherto I had always restrained myself, I had
always tried to be a true Christian, but then my
blood boiled with indignation. However, I got a
grip of myself, and only said to him, ' I believe, sir,
that after death there is nothing left except the
burying.' And it was long before I could really
forgive him.

" The other instance is not quite so bad. Thirteen
or fourteen months after my mother's death, I
was making arrangements to get married. I asked
for a week's holiday for the honeymoon. ' Is it
really necessary for you to get married ? ' he
demanded. Think of that ! Then he went on to say
that it was most inconvenient for him to let me go
at that time, that certainly a week was quite out of
the question, and that if the marriage really must

MASTER AND MAN 177

take place, could I not manage to do with just the
single day ? I was so bitter that I said to him,
' So far as that goes, sir, a whole day is not necessary ;
I believe the religious ceremony only takes an hour.
Perhaps you would kindly grant me an hour,
and I would come back immediately afterwards.'
And that was what actually happened. I went
from the office to the church, got married, and was
at my desk again in an hour's time.

" Some months afterwards — things going from
bad to worse in the office — my master sent for
me one day and had a long talk about the state of
the business. I knew how critical things were, and
spoke my mind with unusual frankness. I told him
plainly that no business could stand against these
continual absences of the head. I also mentioned
the matter of cheques drawn on the business for £30
in one week — cheques for dxink and lodging. He
said to me, ' You don't understand these matters.
I am marked down by Satan. The power of evil
swoops down upon me, and carries me away before
I know where I am. I can't stand against it,
because I never know when it is coming. It springs
upon me, and I know nothing more till the fit has
passed.' This may have been true in the past,
true when I first came to the business ; but it was
true no longer. For I myself could now tell when
these fits would seize him. He used to make all
his plans for them — a day or two beforehand. Yes,
on days when he was quite rational, when he was
taking the chair at religious meetings or conducting
prayer meetings, he would come to the office,
inquire as to contracts for the next two or three

N

178 THE ORDINARY MAN

weeks, draw sufficient cheques for the wages over
that period, give me the same instructions a man
would leave behind him on starting for a holiday,
and then disappear into the back streets of London,
and remain drunk for twenty days.

" I grew more and more anxious about this state
of things. My master had begun to speculate.
One or two of these speculations were of the wildest
possible character. You can imagine my anxiety,
for I was soon to become a father, and the future
looked black indeed. One day my master consulted
with me. ' I want you,' he said, ' to take a week's
holiday ; you deserve it ; you've worked hard ;
you had better go to the sea and get fit ; after that
we must see what can be done about the business.'
Then he said to me, ' We want capital ; I suppose
you haven't got three or four hundred pounds ? — you
couldn't put your hands on such a sum, could you ? '
I almost laughed at the idea. I told him I had not
even got enough money to go away with to the
coast, but should spend my holiday at home. He
nodded, looked relieved, which surprised me, and
took a casual farewell of me. This was on
Thursday.

" On Saturday I received a letter from him, dis-
missing me ! He told me to send back the duplicate
keys I possessed of the office and the safe, and
expressed the hope that I should not be long in
finding a fresh situation. In other words, he simply
flung me out on the street. I had a week-end, I can
tell you ! There was I, soon to become a father,
with only a few shillings in the family stocking,
flung out on the streets to starve, yes, and by a man

MASTER AND MAN 179

I had served faithfully for eight years ! I told my
wife, and she took it splendidly, sure that we
should be helped. We did what all people do when
they are made to realise their utter helplessness.
We simply poured out our souls to God. On the
Sunday afternoon I took my class as usual, and got
through it somehow or another, but not, I am afraid,
with much energy of will. The fear of the future
weighed me down. My face must have shown the
mental strain. One of my associates came to me
after the school was over, and asked if I was in
trouble. I told him the whole story. He was a poor
man, just one of those simple and humble Christians
who work hard all the week and give their Sundays
in obscure service to God. But what do you think
he said to me ? He said : ' Trust yourself entirely to
God ; He will never desert you ; this trial of your
faith will prove ultimately a blessing ; and in the
meantime I can let you have twenty pounds for
present needs.' At first I was only touched,
touched to the heart, by this splendid sympathy.
Then I saw how real and noble a thing religion is,
for this man was poor and had a struggle to live.
Finally I saw that it was an answer to prayer.

" Everything from that moment prospered with
me. It is too long a story to tell, but you may like
to know that I started in business for myself, that
another man employed by my former master joined
me later on, and that we are now busy from morning
till night. One thing I must tell you, the last thing
concerning my old master. When he asked if I had
three or four hundred pounds, or could put my hands
on such a sum, he was only trying to find out if 1

180 THE ORDINARY MAN

could start in business for myself. He knew he
was going to dismiss me. He knew that such a sum
could not have saved him from ruin. The look
of relief in his face, which had surprised me at
the time, meant that he was not afraid of losing
his customers in turning me out at a moment's
notice. He thought I should sink.

" I often think about him. He has no power now
to darken my faith, and I think I may say with
perfect honesty that I bear him no ill-will. I hope,
too, that I never judge him. But I am interested in
him as a man, and curious about him as a Christian.
You see, it wouldn't be true to say he is a hypocrite.
He has nothing whatever to get out of religion.
He might be an atheist without injuring his business.
But there he is, a saint in church and a drunkard in
secret. In public life he is a liberal and virtuous
man, in private a tyrant. What can you make of
such a man ? It is one of the most baffling cases I
ever came across.

" There is something I should like to say to you
about the Association. In my early days, alone in
London, and at a time when I was frightfully
tempted to go wrong, it provided me with the right
companionships, and led me to a life of service,
which is the only safe way and the only true way
for a young man to go. And mixing with religious
men of various creeds and various ages teaches one
tact. I remember once going into a Lockhart's
coffee-shop in the Seven Dials, where I used to do
mission work. An old man was seated there,
ragged, wretched, and depressed. In front of him
was a piece of bread and a mug of cocoa, at which

MASTER AND MAN 181

he looked lugubriously. I felt pity for the poor old
chap, and said to him, ' Dad, let me give you a
sausage to eat with that bread.' He looked up at
me and said, ' Thanks, I've ordered a beefsteak.'
That was a lesson for me ! And it's the same in
religion. The man to whom we go with our par-
ticular meat has often got better himself. Tact
is most essential in missionary work. The Associa-
tion teaches that.

" But it did something more for me, something
far greater. As it had saved my feet from sin, so
it opened my eyes to God. In the moment when
everything seemed false, and when my inexperienced
mind was staggered by what I took to be my
master's hypocrisy, the Association taught me,
by the lives of its members, the self-sacrificing and
noble lives of its members, that faith is something
real and magnificent. Why I lay stress on this point
you can probably guess. Some people think that
any society formed like the Association, but for
social purposes alone, would be just as useful to the
young men of London. That is illusion. It must
have the religious basis. If I had only gone to the
Association for billiards or chess, or for literary and
political debates, I should never have witnessed
with my living eyes the beauty of faith.

" Men commit a great mistake when they take a
lighthouse for a haven. Think of a ship making
straight for the Eddystone ! The Young Men's
Christian Association is not a harbour. It is a light-
house, and a very splendid lighthouse, set up in the
midst of Life's dangerous seas ; but not the haven
where there is security and calm water. It may

182 THE ORDINARY MAN

save hundreds of men from dashing their lives to
pieces on the rocks, but it will never bring peace to
their souls unless they see that it lights the way
to the harbour, which is Christ Himself."

Does the master, with his double life, remain a
mystery ?

Think well before you answer. Happy are you in
some ways if you can pronounce him, after reflection
and after very honest self-examination, a monster,
an ogre, and a most odious hypocrite ; for such a
judgment would declare you not only ignorant
of human life, particularly of human life in great
cities, but innocent of secret sins in your own
existence. A close observer, and one acquainted
with psychology, will perhaps pronounce a more
indulgent judgment. The saddest women in London
have strange tales to tell of those who seek them
in the shadows. The stockbroker and banker are
very often cynical with good reason about religious
people. The doctor in his consulting-room comes
to believe that the double life is not an exception
but the actual rule. And most men, I think, most
men who are tremendously honest with themselves,
know of secret doors in their souls which they
themselves keep rigidly closed even against those
nearest and dearest to them.

But the psychological interest of this story,
profoundly reflected on, has the most saving
illumination for the soul. It shows how great a gulf
separates the man who is absolutely converted
from the man who is simply struggling to be good.
One knows for certain that this particular master,

MASTER AND MAN 183

in spite of his praj^ers and subscriptions, had never
taken the great Decision which transforms char-
acter and literally saves the soul. You may hate
the word conversion, you may regard all talk
about a man being saved as so much odious cant,
but you must confess that until that extraordinary
thing called conversion happens in the life of an
ordinary man he is exposed to danger, and may
become as evil as the very worst of his fellow-
creatures.

CHAPTER X
AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER

THERE must be, of course, among the London
members of such a body as the Young Men's
Christian Association a certain sameness of experi-
ence, a certain identity in character, a certain re-
semblance in manner and opinion ; one does not
easily discover in the ordinary man of sophisticated
society, who has given himself early in life to the
discipline of religion, that obvious and impressive
emphasis of individuality, that clear, definite, and
rough-hewn sense of reality, which strike one in the
broken earthenware of humbler classes.

I was speaking on this matter one evening to a
member of the Association who possesses in a rather
remarkable degree the spirit of sympathy and the
gift of humour. " Would you like," he asked me,
" to see a real character, a real original ? " The
twinkle in his eyes and the laughter in his voice
promised something worth a journey. It was seven
o'clock ; I had eaten nothing since one ; the
afternoon had been spent in Hoxton Market among
the most tragic and distressing sights in London.
I was rather tired ; nevertheless, such assurance
was in the invitation that I accepted it with alacrity.
We set off then and there, and made our way to

184

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 185

the murky streets which surround Old Drury.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before I got back to
my hotel.

In a dark and quiet street my guide paused before
the one bright window in a row of gloomy houses.
It was a theatrical laundry. The big uncurtained
window threw a haze of yellow light upon the damp
street. Women were busily employed there, wash-
ing, wringing, ironing, and hanging to ropes sus-
pended across the room the festive garments of
theatrical ladies. Instead of the perfume of pat-
chouli, a healthy smell of honest yellow soap,
mingled with the damp and stifling atmosphere of
steam, came from these garish garments, which
hung like strangled ghosts in the moist air. No
sound of singing or talking issued from this bright
interior. The laundresses in their neat print dresses,
sleeves rolled to the elbow, worked under the gas-
jets in a hurrying silence. A couple of dreary
children pressed their dirty faces against the window
and watched the proceedings. The forlorn figure
of a man in rags slouched by the open doorway,
as if hoping for some job by which he might earn
a night's lodging. He was shuffling his feet for
warmth, and rubbing his hands together over his
stomach. The road, the pavement, the walls and
windows of this dark street, were wet with rain and
fog.

We passed through the doorway, followed a
passage to the back of the house, and entered a yard,
so dark that it was impossible to see anything
distinctly. A flight of wooden steps, such steps as
might lead to a loft, rose abruptly in front of us

186 THE ORDINARY MAN

with a hand-rail none too steady at the side. I
raised my eyes and saw in the air a little wooden
house, like a cabman's shelter. Through the half-
open door of this hut in the air shone the white
light of incandescent gas. My guide mounted the
steps, warning me to be careful ; I followed him
through the darkness, with some anxiety as to
the descent. It was like climbing to a pigeon loft.

He pushed open the door and entered. A cheerful
voice greeted him from the interior. His laughter
and the laughter of another reached my ears as
I passed through the doorway.

The interior of this tiny littered shed is such a
place as Dickens or Balzac would have loved to
discover, would have spent their fullest powers to
describe. And the man who works there is such a
person as Turgenev would have loved to know and
loved to write about.

He is a man of medium height, spare of flesh,
grey-faced, grey-headed, and grey-e}^ed, with some-
thing of a likeness to Lord Roberts, but with a
sparkle of light in his shrewd eyes which is too
human and tolerant and humorous for a soldier.
He wore a cloth cap towards the back of his head,
the peak pulled a little to one side. He was in shirt
sleeves, with an apron over his clothes. At the
opening of his waistcoat one saw a shirt-front and
a black tie.

When I extended my hand to him, he examined
the palm of his own for a moment with a rather
lugubrious expression on his face, and then slipping
it under his apron, and thus raising it to shake my
hand, he said, with a very pleasant ripple of laughter,

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 187

" You'll excuse my glove, won't you ? " Then,
glancing about the workshop, " Where will you sit ?"
he asked, and laughed again. There was only one
chair, and the back was broken.

The workshop was hung with the metal accoutre-
ments of horse harness. The man is a coach-
plater, and for a hundred years the name he bears
has been famous for this particular work. His
father made the brass harness for Queen Victoria's
Coronation ; Lord Mayors of London for many
years have gone their triumphal progress in Novem-
ber with his brass harness on their horses' backs ;
the aristocracy have been his customers for the
glory of their family coaches. The introduction of
the motor-car and the disappearance of splendour
from human equipages, have dealt hard blows to
the coach-plater. His big shops have closed their
shutters. The shed in the air is all that is now left
to him. In this shed he does some of the finest work
in plated harness to be found in all the world.

One side of the shed is occupied by a bench
with two heavy iron vices clamped to the edge.
A window overlooks this rough bench, which is
strewed with tools and pieces of metal. At the end
farthest from the door is a small forge ; beside the
forge, in a dark corner, stands a tall desk littered with
dusty papers, a penny bottle of ink, and a bundle of
broken pens. The red tiles of the roof are not
obscured by plaster ; from the rafters hang horse
collars and two or three pairs of hames. There is
a skylight in the centre of these cobwebbed tiles.
A gas-jet projects from the wall. The wooden floor
is shaky and uneven.

188 THE ORDINARY MAN

At first the coach-plater talked about his business,
about the changes which had overtaken it, but not
with bitterness, always with a ripple of amused
laughter running through his words, an incurable
cheerfulness of character saving him from bitterness
or complaint. " I'm happy enough," he tells you ;
" happier than most, and a deal happier than I
deserve to be. What are you laughing at ? " he
demands of my guide, laughing himself. " Why,
you're always laughing ; what's the matter with
you ? "

He leaned against the office-desk, his arms
folded over his chest, one leg crossed over the other,
only the toe of the boot on the ground. His hands
rubbed the sides of his arms as he spoke ; every now
and then he raised the right hand, pushed back his
cap, scratched his head, and then with a quick jerk
pulled the peak of the cap forward over his eyes.
After this the two hands resumed their incessant
rubbings of the arms. He has the habit of sniffing
through his nose now and then, as though the nos-
trils were obstructed. His eyebrows lift and twitch
in sympathy with the sparkle of his eyes.

It was not long before we got him to talk about
his religious experiences.

" When I was a young man," he said, " I lived
for one thing, and one thing only — Sport. I dearly
loved a bit of sport. I couldn't think that anything
in the world compared with Sport ; and certainly
I didn't give anything else a single thought. I was
a sinner, a real sinner — no getting away from that,
mind you — but I was not vicious. Sport kept me
from it. I didn't drink much, I didn't gamble at

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 189

all — once I had a shilling in a sweepstake, and lost
every penny of it ! — and I didn't lark about the
streets at night. No, all the time I was at work
I was thinking of boxing, rowing, and racing ; and
as soon as I could get away, I used to go down to
Hungerford Stairs and scull on the Thames till it
was dark. Then I would go where I could see a
bit of fighting, or where I could get a sparring
match for myself ; and after that I went home,
tumbled into bed — no prayers, of course — and fell
asleep dreaming of Sport.

" Then a strange thing happened to me. I began
to feel — I can't tell you how, for I don't know
myself what began it — but I began to feel uneasy,
unhappy, anxious, worried, as if things were going
wrong with me. At this time I was a young man
with plenty of money and a pretty tall opinion of
myself. A friend of mine asked me if I wouldn't
join the Young Men's Christian Association. I
said I'd consider it. He asked me again ; I con-
sented. I joined the Association. After I had been
a member for some time I began to see what was
wrong with me. ' Hullo ! ' I said to myself, ' you've
been living all this time without a reason, without
a purpose ; you don't know where you're going,'
I said, ' you haven't a definite object in life. If
you were to die,' I said, ' you'd be in a nice fix.
What have you ever done ? What are you doing
now ? Who made you ? Why were you made ?
What are you here for ? Where are you going
when you die ? ' Well, I saw at once that I was living
without religion. It seemed to me a sensible thing
to do to get hold of religion. So I set about it.

190 THE ORDINARY MAN

" That's not an easy job, is it ? especially when
you're young, when you're thickheaded, when you
think you know something. No, it's not easy !
Anyway, I didn't find it easy. I listened to sermons,
I read the Bible, I said prayers, I talked about
religion with people I met, but the light didn't come ;
I was just about as wretched and miserable as any
man can be. Well, if I knew a man or a dog who was
suffering as I was suffering then, I should want to
shoot the poor brute — just to put an end to that
misery. I should — honest. It was something
frightful. One day as I was crossing over Black-
friars Bridge I very nearly pitched myself over,
very nearly — in fact, I was as near to it as any man
could possibly go ; for I had lost the wish to live,
and I hadn't the strength to support the weight
on my brain which was pressing me out of life.
The gloom was something awful. The wretchedness
— no words can describe it. How shall I tell you ?
It was a terrible loneliness in my soul. I couldn't
get into contact with anything that gave me the
feeling of companionship. I was alone, all alone by
myself ; not only, mark you, alone in the world
of men, but alone in the whole universe. I hadn't
a friend ; I hadn't a single friend in all the great
wide universe of Man and God. And I couldn't
stand the solitude ; it drove me to the verge of
despair.

" How I came to the light was very simple.
It was one evening as I was reading the Bible.
I was following the words of John Fourteen :
' Let not your heart be troubled : ye believe in God,
believe also in Me.' Well, that didn't help me.

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 191

My heart was troubled. I could not keep it from
being troubled. All my misery rose from that fact.
Believe in God ? But I wanted to believe ; I did
believe ; at least, I thought I did. Believe also in
Me. Well, that was what I was struggling to do,
that was what I had been praying for, that was what
my life had become — a struggle to make myself
believe in Christ. I read on. I came to Verse Six.
At that moment, at the very first sight of the words,
' / am the way,' darkness went clean out of my
soul. It was all done in a second. Done for me.
Done without my doing anything at all. The
darkness went, the misery and wretchedness fell
right away from me, and I was happy. I was so
happy that I just sat perfectly still, feeling that
wonderful happiness in my soul. And as I sat there
I saw the truth of it. Christ had done everything ;
nothing that I could do was of any use. It was for
me to accept, to follow, and to love. That was all.
To accept, to follow, and to love.

" From that moment — it's over fifty years ago
now — the sense of peace, the certainty of Christ,
the conviction of my salvation through Him, have
never left me. And I'll tell you something that may
seem strange to you, but which is as true and real
as the rest. Not once or twice, but often, very often,
as I am working in this shop, I look up, raise my
head, turn round, and see Christ — see Him standing
here in this shop. I see Him as plainly as I see j^ou
now. It may be, I don't say it isn't — it may be
that the vision comes from my own thoughts, for
I am always thinking of Him ; it may be, as you
might say, I make the vision myself ; there's no

192 THE ORDINARY MAN

knowing ; but all the same, it's a real vision to
me. I love to see it, I am happier for seeing it,
and I hope it will last to my dying day. It doesn't
excite me ; it doesn't give me a single strange
feeling or one wild, fanciful thought ; it is just
beautiful, and it makes me happy. I look up, see
the vision, watch it steadily till it fades away,
and then go on with my work — with fresh happiness
in my heart. I hope you understand my meaning.
I don't lay claim to anything particular. I don't
set up for a mystic. All I say is this, that as I work
in this shop I very often look up to see a vision of
Christ regarding me, a vision which is as real to
me as you are now, and the sight of that vision
seems to me natural and beautiful ; and I am
happier for seeing it."

The written words can convey no idea of the
impressiveness, the profound honesty, and con-
vincing sanity of this utterance. The old coach-
plater's face became very solemn. He kept his eyes
fixed upon me, the head bent a little, the nervous
mobile eyebrows low over the eyes, and still, the rest-
less hands steady at the sides of the arms. The
cheerfulness and willing humour of the voice quite
departed, yet there was nothing artificial or
theatrical in the solemn tones of the measured
words. A certain hoarseness crept into his voice ;
there was a touch of tears in the grey eyes.

While he was speaking, I thought of the laun-
dresses busy by gaslight in the house which hid this
aerial hut from the street ; and I wondered what
they would think if they heard that the old coach-
plater had seen this great vision in his workshop,

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 193

over their muddy backyard, in the midst of Old
Drury. Would they believe ? Would they under-
stand ?

I had heard that this man was a teacher of
religion, and that ever since his conversion he had
done a humble but remarkable work for Christianity
in the neighbourhood of Old Drury. I asked him
to tell me about this work.

He smiled, tilted back his cap, rubbed his head
rather violently, and pulling the cap back over
his eyes and shifting his feet, he made answer,
" Well, you can't expect much from me. I needn't
tell you, you can see it for yourself, that I'm an
ignorant man ; at any rate, not an educated man.
You can tell that from my speech. I've had no
learning to speak of, except what I've picked up,
going along. But I've got a certain amount of
sense, and I have certainly had some very mar-
vellous answers to my prayers, helping me ; and so,
putting this and that together, I have done what
I could to help others.

" I fancy I must have got the momentum in
that direction from the Association. There were
some very nice young fellows in the branch I
attended, clever, well-educated, and gentlemanly
young fellows, all doing something to help other
people. The Association taught me a great deal in
that way. It gave me the feeling that I must work,
do something, give myself for others. I don't
think I can ever speak too well of the Association,
of what it has done for me, and of what I know it
has done for many others. It's a fine thing, one of
the greatest of our age.

194 THE ORDINARY MAN

" Well, I started a little Bible class of my own.
It was rather successful, and some of the members
began to look upon me — in spite of the fact of my
being an ignorant man — as a kind of an inspired
preacher, a sort of a born prophet ! Well, one day
somebody or other said to me, ' I wish you'd speak
to a young friend of mine ; he's in a difficulty ;
can't see his way clear.' ' Certainly,' I said ; ' you
send him up to me.' Well, he came. And, bless
my soul, he was a young gentleman from Oxford !
I thought to myself, ' Now you have gone and done
it.' I seemed to see that this young man had been
sent to me on purpose to take my conceit down.
Why, he had got whole libraries in his head ; and
what I knew would have gone on a postage-stamp.

" However, I suggested a walk, and one Saturday
afternoon we started off. He was interested in
my class, and talked about it very nicely. Presently
we slipped, quite naturally, into an argument ; we
began on the Bible, and before we had been at it
five minutes I knew I was out of my depth. I
didn't know Greek, I didn't know anything about
dates and translations, and all the rest of it ; in
fact, it doesn't need me to tell you that the young
gentleman very soon made mincemeat of Me.
' Well,' I told myself, ' you've taken on rather more
this time, old cocky, than you can deal with ! '
If Bradlaugh himself had been walking at my
side I couldn't have cut a poorer figure. I was
very nearly throwing up the sponge.

" Then it came to me, all of a sudden, that I was
trying to do then, just what I had been trying to do
before my conversion — trying to do what had

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 195

already been done for me and for everybody else
many years before — shoving myself forward, as
you might say. With this thought in my mind
I turned and gave the young gentleman a straight
talk clean out of my heart, not one word of it from
the brain. I asked him if he didn't want to be at
peace ; if he didn't want to have rest of soul ; and
I asked him if he thought Bradlaugh or Tom
Paine or any other atheist could ever give him that.
They might trouble his mind about the Bible,
but could they give him peace, joy, love, holiness ?
And I told him from my own experience that he
himself could never get those things, not one of
them. I told him that they were things neither
to be learned nor earned — that they were gifts,
gifts of God, gifts to the human heart through
Christ Who had redeemed the human race.

" And do you know, something I said must have
touched that young scholar's heart ; for although he
could double me up in argument, he gave in one
day, and told me that what I knew by experience
was worth all he had ever learned from books. He
became a Christian, a good Christian ! "

Many other stories, some of them encounters
with atheists, the old coach-plater told me in his
shed that night. He has won numbers of men from
evil to goodness, has converted many, and has long
been a centre of faith in a neighbourhood which
seems dark and hideous with a vulgar materialism.

The following story is particularly interesting
because of its strange ending.

Some years ago the coach-plater was asked to
call upon a man who had no faith, and was ill and

196 THE ORDINARY MAN

was unhappy. This man in a small way was notori-
ous for atheistical ideas.

" Have you spoken to him yourself ? " asked the
coach-plater. " Yes." " What did you say to
him ? " "I gave him Ephesians." " What ? "
said the coach-plater ; " Ephesians ! That's a bit
stiff, isn't it ? Is the man a Christian, then ? I
thought you told me he was an atheist ? " "So
he is." " Well, don't you think," asked the coach-
plater, " that you're expecting a bit too much of
him ? Ephesians is good, very good ; but Christ
is better. You want to prepare the heart first with
Christ before you get introducing Ephesians to
the head." After that he promised to go and see
the sick man. A certain clergyman, a great friend
of the coach-plater, had already been there several
times ; but in vain. The coach-plater prayed for
guidance, and set out to pay his first visit. The
atheist he found was a hard man.

" I didn't talk to him about religion for some
days," said the coach-plater. " I just used to drop
in of an evening, go up to his bedroom, sit beside
his pillow talking of anything that I thought might
cheer him up, and then take my leave with the hope
that he would pass a comfortable night. Very few
of his friends came near him, so he was rather touched
by these visits. Well, one evening he started the
subject himself. He asked me what I believed and
why I believed. I told him. He said he couldn't
believe anything like that. He said he thought
the Bible was a forgery. I said to him, ' Look here,
just oblige me by telling me what year it is.' He
seemed surprised. I pressed him. ' Come on,'

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 197

I said ; ' what year is it ? ' He told me. ' What ! *
I exclaimed, ' I thought the world was millions of
years old ? ' ' So it is,' he said ; ' many millions.'
' But,' I answered, ' the date doesn't make it even
two thousand — that's a rum go, that is ! You said
millions, didn't you ? ' Then, as he was staring at
me, I asked him if he didn't think it a strange thing
that a forgery — something that had never happened
— should have given the date to all civilised nations.
The year of our Lord ; Anno Domini. Everything
starting from the birth of someone who had never
existed. What an extraordinary thing ! Certainly
the calendar would never be altered to start from
the birth of Tom Paine or Charles Bradlaugh.
No one could imagine that. They had certainly
lived ; but who would think of dating human
experience from the year of their births ? Why from
Christ ? A carpenter's son, a crucified man in a little
obscure country that wasn't even free ! Surely,
there must have been something very strange,
and very wonderful, and very important, in this
Christ. He must have done something nobody else
had done.

" Well, from that I went on to the heart of things.
I told him that salvation was a gift from God,
that he had nothing to do but accept it, that God
didn't give him anything hard or difficult to do, but
on the contrary, wouldn't let him do anything at
all. It was done for him. Christ had done it.
All he had to do was to believe that Christ
had done it. All he had to do was to let himself
think of Christ having done it for him till gratitude
came into his heart, and until gratitude changed to

198 THE ORDINARY MAN

love. He saw it. He came round in a few days.
He became a happy man.

' One day a stranger came running up these
stairs, calling for me. The poor sick fellow was
dying and wanted to see me. He had told the
messenger to look for me in ' the shop behind the
house.' There wasn't time to wash or put on a coat
even. I started off and ran round to the dying man
just as I was, just as I am now — shirt-sleeves and
apron.

' The wife and children were gathered round the
bed. They were all weeping. A nurse was standing
by the pillows. The man looked at me — he was
perfectly conscious — and greeted me with his eyes.
I took his hand and spoke to him. He said to me,
' What are they crying for ? Why do they cry ? '
Then he smiled, and said to me, ' Why don't they
sing ? ' After a moment he repeated it, ' Why don't
they sing ? ' — as if he were conscious of a coming
glory. It was a difficult thing to do, but I and the
nurse started a hymn, one of his favourites, and we
sang it very softly round his bed. He lay there,
smiling, with his eyes shut.

" Presently the end came quite near. I never
saw anything like it before, and I don't expect to
see anything like it again. The man said, calmly
and happily, ' I'm going now.' And then he lifted
his hand to say good-bye to his wife, just as if he
was merely setting out on a journey. He bade her
good-bye, thanked her for all her goodness and
love ; and then turned to the children. One by one
he said good-bye to them. He told the girls always
to mind what their mother said to them, and he

AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER 199

bade the boys be good and take care of their mother
and help her. His voice seemed to be strong, his
eyes seemed to be bright with life. It was just like
a man going away on a journey. Finally he turned

to me. ' Good-bye, Mr. ,' he said, giving me his

hand ; and holding it, looking into my eyes with
great meaning, he said, ' / shall see you again.'' At
that very moment he died ; without a struggle,
without a gasp, without any visible collapse, the
man lay suddenly and quietly dead. When I came
to take my hand away, I found that I couldn't.
The nurse had to unfasten the dead fingers. It
was a wonderful death-bed ! "

It will give some idea of the affection which this
charming man, so original, and sensible, and
whimsical, and tender-hearted, inspires in his
friends, to tell the following incident. A member
of his Bible class came round to the workshop
one evening, and asked him if he would come and
dine with a few friends in a restaurant. He said
that such things were not in his way. The other
persisted, said it was important, and finally per-
suaded the coach-plater to comply with the request.
When he entered the room in which the dinner was
served, he found it filled entirely with old members
of his Bible class, gathered from all parts of London,
some of them from the country. There were middle-
aged men there whom he had not seen since their
boyhood ; men who said that they owed everything
to his teaching and influence. At the end of the
dinner a presentation was made to the coach-plater
of a purse containing many pounds.

The dinner was given to show the love of his

200 THE ORDINARY MAN

friends, and the purse was subscribed because a
few of those friends had heard how his business had
suffered in recent years.

;' I was once a bit of a swell, had plenty of money,"
he told me ; "' used to reckon myself one of the great
merchants of the City of London ! " He laughed,
and scratched his head. " Well, most of that has
gone. I'm rather a humble kind of person now ;
and I don't know that I'm sorry. I don't know that
it has made very much difference to me. For one
thing, I've let a good part of it go myself. I mean,
I haven't pushed for orders. I was never one to
eat up my neighbours. Live and let live ! So long
as I have got enough to keep me pleasantly busy,
and can earn enough to pay my way honestly,
I don't complain. This life isn't only a scramble for
money. Oh no ; it's something better than that ! "

A really lovable, good man.

CHAPTER XI
A LITTLE PUBLICAN

IN this strange story of a very ordinary life the
reader will make acquaintance with one of
those London interiors which, unknown to the
majority of respectable people, are the radiant centre
of I know not how many crowding lives.

" To begin with," says the handsome boy,
laughing amusedly — and he nurses one of his knees,
leans back on the table where he has perched
himself, and regards me with a shy but calculating
scrutiny — " to begin with I was born in a pub."

He is six-and-twenty, but looks not more than
eighteen or nineteen. Nevertheless, his manner has
all the ease, brightness, and assurance of a middle-
aged flaneur. I am perplexed for a long time by
the contradiction which exists between his appear-
ance and his mind. The face suggests an angel —
rather a well-bred and effeminate angel ; the manner
is cynical, mocking, hard. It is difficult to believe
that a youth so pretty and pleasing can have lived
at close quarters with the squalor of depravity :
more difficult to realise that a mind so apparently
gay, cheerful, and almost flippant can ever have
suffered the revolution of a great spiritual experience.
But, the wind bloweth where it listeth.

201

202 THE ORDINARY MAN

As I look at him I see a handsome boy ; as I
listen to him, I hear a man of the world who knows
everything. It is difficult for a long time to know
what to make of him.

" It wasn't a very hopeful beginning," he says,
with a smile which half closes the grey eyes and
depresses the corners of the small mouth. He is
evidently averse from tragedy or sentimentalism,
is something of a humorist, deprecates anything in
the nature of exaggeration. He continues : "A
pub. in the middle of the City isn't exactly the place
you'd choose for a kid's start in life. It sharpens
the wits, I've no doubt ; but it plays hanky-panky
with the rest of one. I knew pretty well everything
there is to know before I was nine ; but what
people call ' everything there is to know ' is just
that kind of thing which it is better not to know at
all. My father owned the pub. It was a little place,
and we did all the work ourselves. No barmen or
barmaids — a family affair. It was one of those
taverns which are in the nature of clubs ; it had its
regular customers ; the stranger dropping in for a
drink and then flying away was a rare bird. The
same men came every night, and sat there, as a rule,
till closing time. Everybody knew everybody else.
They were small tradesmen, small business men,
with a few salesmen from the markets. It was
rather a jolly place in a way. Fellows played games
there of various kinds — cards and dominoes. Games
weren't allowed by law, but at the side of the place,
up a little court, there was a door ; we called it the
' Bobby's Door.' My father was never worried by
the police !

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 203

'* One of the features of the pub. was a Sunday
excursion. My father used to get cheap tickets from
the railway companies, sell them during the week
at a small profit, and on Sunday he would take
charge of the excursion, organise the catering, and
run the whole show, there and back. They generally
ended up with a carouse at home ! I've heard some
stories — you bet ! Sometimes we would go to
Brighton or Margate ; sometimes inland to places
like Wolverhampton. It meant hard work for my
brother and myself. But it paid, and we always
enjoyed the outing when we got it. Saturday
nights, of course, were always our hardest times ;
but we had to be up at five next morning to prepare
for the Sunday excursion. My brother and I worked
like niggers. We had to be nippy, as you can
imagine. Little sharp beggars we were ! — not much
idle time for getting into mischief. I've often
worked in the bar, as a little kid, from eight in the
morning till half-past twelve at night. Pretty long
hours for a nipper ! I understood before I was in
my teens all about breaking-down spirits and fining-
down beer. We used to fine down the beer with
skate 's-skin — stuff like London mud ! I tell you,
I don't want to drink any more beer. Water's
good enough for this chicken !

" I began to drink when I was quite a kid. I got
toothache one day ; my face was swollen ; and I
looked generally dicky. Some fathead in the bar
told me that stout was a certain cure. I tried it,
and that was the beginning. Kids are challenged
to drink in bars. Fellows seem to think it funny
to see a little beggar rolling about drunk. I used to

204 THE ORDINARY MAN

be proud of my capacity. I'd drink great glasses
of port, one after another. Sometimes I was sick.
I used to run outside, making for the door with all
my might. The fatheads used to laugh as if they
would split. And then I'd come back and begin
again.

" My father sent us to school in the neighbour-
hood. We were potboys and scholars all in one.
I rather liked school. We were lively boys, and
made friends. One of my friends was a tip-top
decent sort of boy. He asked me once to meet him
on Sunday and go to Sunday-school. From his
description it sounded jolly. I regarded it as an
excuse for getting away from home. Curious idea,
wasn't it ? — Sunday-school seemed to me a bit of
an adventure, a new glimpse into the world outside
our pub. I wanted to go very much. But when I
asked my father's leave he fairly exploded at me.
' You dare to go to Sunday-school ! ' he shouted at
me ; ' you dare — that's all ! ' I felt as if I had
proposed something wicked ! "

He swings himself from the table to a tall office
stool. He is becoming interested in his own story.

" Most extraordinary thing that — my father's
point of view. He seemed to regard anything in the
nature of religion with a positive aversion. And yet
I never remember hearing him argue about religion.
He wasn't an active enemy or an embittered critic.
He never mentioned the subject himself. But you
only had to suggest it to get him at boiling point.
He swore at it, grew purple in the face, and
then dropped it, like a hot coal. He was a big man,
and tremendously fat. When I look back now I

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 205

can't imagine how he lived. He never took five
minutes' exercise in the open air. From Monday
morning to Saturday night he was in the pub. He
used to sit in the bar, drinking with the customers.
My mother and we two boys did most of the work
of the house. On Sundays, in summer-time, he
would go on our excursions ; but all the rest of his
life he was seated on a stool in the bar, drinking and
talking. I was not sufficiently interested in religion
to be curious about his point of view ; I only knew
that it was a subject which roused the lion's wrath.
It's true to say that I grew up, in the very centre
of London, without the smallest notion of Chris-
tianity. My mother ? — well, she was always so
occupied. As far as I know she never once mentioned
religion. It was with her as with thousands of
others — she never gave it a thought. It didn't
come into her life. At any rate my brother and I
got no notion of religion from our parents. We grew
up in absolute ignorance of the whole subject. In
the very heart of the City ! I often think now what
a jolly rum place London is. I dare say if you were
to count all the children who don't even know the
story of Christianity it would make a pretty con-
siderable army. As I walk along the streets I often
look into houses and wonder. . . .

" But I must tell you my story. I was — let me
see — yes, I suppose I must have been over thirteen,
thirteen and a half perhaps, when I began to get
other notions of things. I ran up against one of
my schoolfellows. It was in the streets. We had
a chat, just about anything ; and then he intro-
duced me to a friend of his. This friend belonged to

206 THE ORDINARY MAN

the Youths' Section of the Young Men's Christian

Association in Street — a pretty lively crowd

at that time ! He told me about it — the games,
sports, lectures, and Bible classes. It sounded
all right. I told him I should like to join. And
then he asked me to his house.

" To show you the state I was in, I found that this
fellow's people had family worship, and after my
first experience of such a thing, I took the chap
on one side and asked him — ' Is it serious ? ' I
simply couldn't make it out. Reading the Bible
out loud, and then kneeling down at a chair and
praying to God ! — it seemed to me a sort of
game, something that couldn't possibly be real
and serious.

" All the same, I was tremendously struck. For
days afterwards I thought about that family wor-
ship. It haunted me. I was something like a
fellow with a bee in his bonnet. I couldn't think
of anything else. All day long in the pub., and
afterwards, upstairs in my bed as I lay waiting for
sleep, I thought of that little family, gathered
together in a room, kneeling at chairs, and praying
to God, praying to be good. The thing had photo-
graphed itself on my brain. I saw it as a picture.
It kept jumping up in the dark, real as life. I
thought about it.

" My father died about this time. I don't think it
made much difference to me. My brother and I
knew that there would be certain money to come
to us when we were twenty-one, and that is about
all we thought of the matter. We had to work
harder than ever. My mother kept on the business,

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 207

and we boys were her only helpers. Mind you,
I wasn't fifteen at the time. My brother was a
year older. And we two youngsters practically ran
that London pub. It's rather a queer experience,
isn't it ?

" I joined the Youths' Section of the Young
Men's Christian Association. As often as I could
I ran round there in the evening and attended all
the classes. I did it at first simply for something to
do. My friend was a member. It was a case of
wanting to keep up a friendship, and having some-
thing to do that was different from the day's
work.

" To look back on that time is rather curious.
I'm not sure if I quite knew what was happening
to me. All day long I was among the bottles and
barrels, surrounded by jovial drinkers, working like
a galley-slave, and yet liking it all in some strange
way which I can't define. Then in the evening I
would spend an hour or two in the Association, at
Bible classes and prayer meetings. Quite a different
sort of thing ; and yet I liked that too. I got to
know about God. Religion was no longer a strange
idea to my mind. But nothing else, apparently —
it's so difficult to say — occurred to me. The only
definite effect of twelve months in the Youths'
Section of the Young Men's Christian Association
was to unsettle me. I felt myself unsettled. At the
end of that twelve months I was unhappy and
confused. I didn't know what to make of fife.
The things which had seemed to me normal,
ordinary, inevitable, and quite respectable, now
seemed somehow wrong, somehow false, somehow

208 THE ORDINARY MAN

dangerous. But, at the same time, the new things
I had learned in the Association did not seem to
me practical and real. I was troubled and bothered.
It was like a fellow trying to find his way in a
fog.

" One feeling began to emerge. I wanted to be
good. I had a strong conviction in my soul that
I could be better. That's really the first definite
thing I can remember. Before I knew whether I
believed or didn't believe what I was taught at the
Association, I wanted to be good. I saw good as
something desirable. And, as I say, I was quite
certain — I didn't know how — that I could be better,
happier. Drink gave me a momentary happiness,
but I knew that it was a false kind of happiness. It
was not merely that the happiness from drink ended
in reaction, and that next morning I felt foul in the
mouth, fuzzy in the head, and generally cheap and
chippy. No ; it wasn't only that. I had a quite
clear notion that the happiness itself was not true
happiness. I seemed to know for an absolute truth
that real happiness was something altogether
different. But what it was I could not have told
anyone.

" I connected this happiness with the idea of being
good. I suppose that something I had heard at a
meeting in the Association must have stuck that
idea in my mind. But it was vague and uncertain.
I only felt that goodness had something to do with
happiness. I didn't know it for a dead fact of
life."

His face grows serious. He averts his gaze. Still
nursing his knee, and leaning far back on the tall

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 209

stool, he looks up at the ceiling, wrinkles up his eyes,
and reflects within himself. Then he says :

" And yet it was not only moral unrest. It
was spiritual. I am sure it was my soul — seeking
unity with God."

' You were working all this time in the public-
house ? " I inquire.

He nods his head. " Yes, it was there, more than
at the Association, that my soul was clamouring,
clamouring and struggling, for that unity. I was
only a kid ; I didn't understand ; but I was
awfully unhappy. I was a child crying for some-
thing, and no one understanding. I had a dark
time. In a way, it was a fight. Two worlds seemed
to be tearing me between them. I couldn't quite
decide which to choose. But I fought against what
I felt to be bad, and I half fought against the
influence that was drawing me away from what I
felt to be bad.

" Something happened in the family at this time.
My mother married again. It turned out to be a
disastrous step. I don't want to say much about
what followed. We were all pretty miserable,
my poor mother most of all. The fellow turned out
a real bad 'un. He had simply married my mother
for her money, and made life a hell for all of us.
Perhaps it had been a hell before ; but now it was a
conscious hell. We knew all about it !

" Soon after her second marriage there was a
special mission at the Young Men's Christian
Association. A splendid fellow came down and
delivered a series of addresses. He was the kind of
man who makes a great impression on boys, and
p

210 THE ORDINARY MAN

his addresses were of the order that go straight
to the heart, open all the secret doors of the inward
life, and make a chap really look hard at his own
face in God's mirror. I don't know if I explain
what I mean. They weren't moral addresses, and
they weren't expositions of Bible texts. They
brought all the stirrings of the soul to the surface,
and set the truth of one's own struggling spirit, the
truth of one's own troubled and secret heart, clear
before the gaze. Well, they simply lifted me clean
out of my doubt and uncertainty. They made me
see what I had never seen till that time — the
necessity for a definite and resolute decision. I
understood then that all this time I had been
drifting. I knew that my mind had not taken a
definite straight course one way or the other.

" At one of these meetings he called on all the
youths present whose hearts were determined to
decide for Christ, to stand up. I had the kind of
feeling that I ought to stand up. I felt it would
be like telling the truth, owning up, doing the
straight thing. I don't think there was much more
in it, except that I really did want to get settled
and happy. Well, anyhow, I stood up. What
happened I can't say. But I'm absolutely certain of
this, the mere fact of standing up had a real spiritual
effect. It's not easy to explain ; some people may
even ridicule the idea ; but the fact remains all the
same. Until I stood up, my mind was troubled
and wretched and dark ; as soon as I stood up the
trouble vanished, the wretchedness disappeared,
I was conscious of light. That's what happened to
me as near as I can explain it. I don't pretend for

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 211

a moment that it was a case of instant illumination.
I didn't at that moment see the whole truth of re-
ligion, nor realise the whole spirit of the Christian
life. Whatever happened to me, it was not a
blinding, a dazzling, or even a quiet illumination.
It was rather a cessation of struggle, an end of
perplexity, just a peaceful, satisfied feeling that I
had done a wise and right thing."

He seeks to get rid of anything mystic in this
experience so far as he himself is concerned. He
seems as if he wishes to convince one that the thing
was normal and natural, something that any man
may experience at any time if he makes up a
definite mind to choose a direct course. But it was
all the same the moment of his conversion. After-
wards he saw greater light, experienced a deeper
joy, and is one of those men who will continue to
grow in enlightenment ; but at the moment when
he stood up and felt his struggle suddenly collapse
in his soul he was what men call converted. The
decision was made. The change of soul was
effected.

The serious look goes from his face, as if he is
glad to get rid of the necessity for careful speaking.
The smile comes back, the pleasing man-of-the-
world smile so odd on the boyish face, the smile
which wrinkles up the ej^es and depresses the corners
of the mouth.

"I'll tell you a little thing that had a help in
shaping me," he says eagerly. " I noticed for the
first time the — what shall I call it ? — well, the extra-
ordinary placidity — I think that's the word — of the
men in charge of the Youths' Section at our branch

212 THE ORDINARY MAN

of the Association. We were rather a lively crowd.
At times we were real beasts. From horse-play
and cheek, we often went to something that was
jolly near a riot. And yet, never once did the men
lose their heads or go for us in any way. As soon as
I began to notice this, it struck me as something
worth thinking about. It occurred to me that if a
similar rumpus was taking place in the pub. I should
certainly not be placid ! And then I began to think
about the secret which kept those men calm and
kind. They were not paid to teach us ; they got
nothing out of us ; whether we were good or bad
made no difference to their worldly fortune. And
besides, they came to teach us in their spare time,
when most men are thinking of themselves ; and I
guessed that it must sometimes be a bore for them,
sometimes a frightful fag. And yet they were
always placid. I was awfully struck by that.

" I began to be serious in my life. I wanted to get
the secret of those men." He laughs softly, with
great amusement at himself, tucking in his chin, as
he adds : "To show you the funny little beggar I
was, I used to take a candle upstairs, light it, and
sit up half the night reading the Book of Genesis !
I don't think it did me any good. But life wasn't
at all easy just then. My stepfather was making
things hum. Our home-life in the pub. was absolutely
wretched. And then I felt unhappy about the drink
trade. I didn't relish my share in a trade which
did so much harm. It got on my conscience. Things
went from bad to worse. While I was struggling
with Genesis my stepfather was making ducks and
drakes of the business. At last there was a general

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 213

shindy. The place was sold. We moved into the
suburbs, and took a private house. Although I was
glad to be out of the Trade, I don't mind telling you
that I felt jolly unhappy when I went out of the pub.
for the last time. I was between fifteen and sixteen,
and the dirty little place was all I had ever known
of home. Honestly, it hurt me to go.

" Well, to cut a long story short, things got so
hot in the suburbs that it was quite impossible for
my brother and myself to stay. We seemed to
enrage our stepfather, which only made things
worse for my poor mother. It was she who begged
us to go. If I could have done any good I would
have stayed ; but it was a hopeless case, quite hope-
less. In fact, to tell you the truth, our stepfather
kicked us out of doors. Well, I went to live with
an aunt, and through the Young Men's Christian
Association got a decent job in an office. I worked
hard, liked it all right, and after work usually turned
into the Association for an hour or two. I made it
my club.

" It's rather curious, this, by the way. All the
time I was using the Association like a club some-
thing was happening to me. An unconscious effect,
I suppose you'd call it. The kindness I received,
the atmosphere of friendship and goodwill, the
religious tone of everything were giving me a twist
towards the right direction. I was as moral as the
rest of them, I suppose ; religion was a pretty real
thing to me ; but I was still in the stage of reading
Genesis by candlelight. Then it came to me
from the Association, gradually, that the secret
was Work.

214 THE ORDINARY MAN

" I don't know if that is the moment of illumina-
tion for other people. It was certainly mine. When
the gradual process was completed I saw quite
clearly that I must do something for other people.
And then life seemed really a straight road. I saw
that reading Genesis by candlelight wouldn't help me
so much as spending half an hour in getting some
other fellow over a stile, or trying to get another
chap, who had fallen down, on to his feet. And it's
perfectly true. Work has a most splendid and tonic
effect on the soul. It gets a man out of himself.
It's the real thing. You catch the enthusiasm of
religion by working for other people.

" So I became a worker in the Association. And
that's the end of my story. I'm doing very well in
business, and all my spare time I give to working
for the Association. I don't drink beer ! I never
take stout if I've got the toothache ! And I find
something better to do on Sunday than go on
excursions ! In short, I'm occupied and happy."

It seemed an absurd question to ask such a boy,
but remembering that he is six-and-twenty I did
ask if he was married.

" No ; my brother and I have to keep my mother.
Our beautiful stepfather got every penny of her
money, and ours as well. He's dead now. And she
lives in the country. We both contribute."

" And do you still live with your aunt ? "

" No ; in rooms."

" That's rather dull, isn't it ? "

" Some rooms are awful, simply awful ! But I've
been lucky. For the last twelve months I've been
in clover. The family I'm with are the best Chris-

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 215

tians I've ever known. The home-life is perfectly
charming. I was converted ten years ago, about ;
but this last twelve months, simply from living with
these people, have been twelve months of spiritual
growth for me ; I seem to have changed completely
in the last year. I can't tell you what these people
are to me. They're perfectly delightful. And it
wasn't till I went to live with them that I had any
idea at all what home-life could be. I learnt the
beauty of a home in lodgings ! It was the first
Christian home I had ever struck.

" Yes, that's rather interesting. After ten years
of Decision, I have experienced twelve months of
spiritual growth. And it seems to me that I shall
go on learning something fresh every day, go on
growing, spiritually, till the end ; which is better,
at any rate it seems more interesting to me, than
one tremendous moment settling everything and
illuminating everything for evermore. Some men
one way, and some another. Conversion isn't
always a magic carpet that lifts one up and in a
jiffy takes one to the goal. My experience is that
Conversion means a turning about and a Decision
for Christ. After that, growth and progress all the
time. Something happens to one at the moment
of Conversion, but it isn't the end, and it doesn't
appear to me to be in the least unnatural."

Simple as this story is, a thoughtful man will not
be able to read it, I think, without a feeling of its
inner wonder. The question must occur, What
would have been the course of this life if religion
had not come to consecrate and direct it ? Imagine
the boy, kicked out of doors by his stepfather, left

216 THE ORDINARY MAN

to shift for himself in the streets of London. What
would have been his fate ? Think of him as the
boy who spent all the beautiful and most innocent
years of existence in a public-house. Turned like
a dog into the streets, what course could his life
have run but one of depravity and ruin ?

Was it a chance too, only blind accident, that he
made a friendship at school which introduced him
to the idea of prayer, of family prayer, and after-
wards brought him into touch with a religious
society ? Was there nothing but a boy's whim in
the impulse which led him to become — this poor
little potboy — a member of that religious society ?
If it is a question of temperament, from where did he
get the religious inclination ? In his house he learned
nothing of religion ; his life was calculated in every
way to keep all notion of religion out of his soul ;
and his environment was one which makes for sin,
vulgarity, carelessness, and a sort of coarse, sodden,
and torpid brutality. Yet there was something
in the boy's soul which opened to religion. An
invisible Hand led him into a religious atmosphere ;
in that atmosphere he responded to religion. Is it
easier to explain by an abrupt and dismissing use of
the word Coincidence ? — or by holding the faith
of the best and noblest of humanity that the
angels of God fight for us in the midst of the
battle ?

As I walked away from my meeting with this
strange youth I wondered if George Williams
dreamed, when he planned his pious society for
drapers' assistants, that he was stretching out a
hand through time which would one day lift a little

A LITTLE PUBLICAN 217

boy out of a public-house and bring him to the
Cross of Christ.

Think what you will of this story, does it not
convince you that in the midst of London there
goes on all about us a great invisible struggle of
the soul, and that the real drama of the City's
life is with this spiritual conflict ?

CHAPTER Xn
THE BIG SCALE

I STATED in my Foreword that the reader
would learn in the course of the narratives
something about the great work of the Young
Men's Christian Association in North America. The
man of whom I give some account in this chapter is
one of the Association's chief organisers in the
United States and Canada, and he is perhaps
better acquainted with the operations of the
Brotherhood all over that vast continent than
any other American.

" My own story won't interest you a bit," he
protested. " There's nothing in it. I just came
along, same as hundreds of other young fellows,
got caught in the cogs of the Association, gave up
everything else, and then went round with the
wheels. I like going round with the wheels ; it's all
right. But I guess I can tell you other things that
are really interesting. If you'll allow me. The
Association in America is big. There's a lot to say
about it. You don't get men like Mr. Roosevelt
taking up things that are not big, and he's just dead
keen on the Association. I tell you, people in Eng-
land don't realise what the Association is in the
United States and Canada. On the other side of

218

THE BIG SCALE 219

the Atlantic it's part of the national life. It's one
of the great national forces. But here, why, seems
to me, you're missing something that's worth while.
You've got some splendid men at the head of the
Association, some of the finest I've ever struck,
but as a nation, as a government, you don't seem
to catch on to a good thing even when you've
got it.

" Now, I'll just tell you what the American
branch sets out to do. Begin right here with what
Mr. Roosevelt says. These are his very words :

* ' All of us will make this twentieth century
better, and not worse, than any century that has
gone before in proportion as we approach the
problems that face us, as the Young Men's Christian
Association has approached them, with a firm reso-
lution that it will neglect no one side of the develop-
ment of the man, but will strive to make him decent,
God-fearing, law-abiding, honour-loving, fearless
and strong, able to hold his own in the hurly-burly
of the world's work, able also to strive mightily that
the forces of right may be in the end triumphant.''

" Nothing of the milksop about that ! No, sir,
we don't manufacture milksops in the Association.
And here's the secret. We don't organise ourselves
on the lines that we're engaged in making men
Christians, but on the lines that we're engaged in
making Christian men. You'll admit that a man
can be a Christian and awful poor stuff. There
are some Christians you wouldn't care to employ to
look after a yellow dog. Physically and mentally
they're not up to standard. But make a Christian

220 THE ORDINARY MAN

man, and you've got the finest article of the
human race, mentally and physically. Isn't that
so ? You can't beat the clean, straight fellow who
follows the Ideal. He's top-notch. Whether it is
as soldier or sailor, clerk or hand, merchant or
lawyer, minister or doctor, the Christian man stands
right out.

" Well, we say in America that every feature
contributes to a Christian man. We say he has
not only got to be moral but intellectual, not only
good, but fit right through. And so we make every
branch of the Association a manufactory for the
highest type of civilised human — the Christian man.
We get the best men to teach him the history and
spirit of Christianity, so that he can hold his own
in any argument as well as know how to live the
life ; and we get the best men to educate him in all
secular subjects, so that he may be able to enjoy
existence like a rational creature as well as fit him-
self for good employment ; and we get the best
physical directors to educate him in the develop-
ment of his body, so that he may be able to appre-
ciate the joy of health as well as save money on the
doctor and prove himself a strong citizen, worthy of
a great country.

" That reminds me. Here's a story might in-
terest you. Two widows came one day to a branch
of the Association in one of our largest manufacturing
towns. They were ladies, but come down. I don't
know whether you've got any of the sort over here ;
we've hundreds of them in the States. Rich one
day, poor the next. Oh, they're common. Well,
these two women were the widows of rich men.

THE BIG SCALE 221

And they'd both come right down. One was living
by a little needlework ; the other, if I remember
right, did a bit of washing. Anyway, these two
widows came to the Association and asked to see
the secretary. They told him that they each had
a son, and that these boys were just running wild
on the streets, growing anyhow. They wanted
to know how much it would cost to buy a ticket for
the boys ; each of them having made up her mind
that if the scamps could only get into the Associa-
tion it would be all right. Well, we took them in.
Some rich man, if I remember, paid for the tickets.
Those boys, sir, were wild. They were fair raga-
muffins. But they took to the gymnasium like
birds ; after the gymnasium we got them into the
educational classes — we teach everything ; and
after a little bit we moved them on to the Bible
class, which was taken by the physical director.
They cottoned right away. It was wonderful to
see how those boys changed. Their souls were just
waiting for that touch ! Instead of devils they
became angels. Sweeter, better boys never chose
the straight road. They were little men, heroes,
chivalrous and noble-minded heroes. And they
grew up to be first-rate citizens. One of them is with
us still. We sent him to Chicago to study medicine,
to fit himself for the work of physical director — all
our physical directors have to pass proper medical
examinations ; and do you know, that boy, who
was earning thirty dollars a month at the time, sent
ten dollars every month to his mother ! He told me
that his one square table d'hote meal used to cost
him fifteen cents a day. At night he ate a bit of

222 THE ORDINARY MAN

bread. He was a man. And to-day he's one of our
best physical directors — keen as fire.

" Just take hold of these words — President
Taft's words — they'll help to show you how the
Association is recognised in the United States as a
force in the national life. Oh, why isn't it like that
in England ? It ought to be ; my, wouldn't it pull
us all together ! England, America, Canada, Aus-
tralia— say, that's a big concern ! Well, it will
come. But here's what President Taft has to
say:

" ' There is possibly nothing needed worse in
all our cities and towns than well-organised
Young Men's Christian Associations which shall
stand for character - building in the threefold
way in which the Association endeavours to do
its work.

" ' The railroad companies find it to their pe-
cuniary interest to erect and fit up expensive
structures for the rational, physical, intellectual, and
moral amusement and entertainment of their em-
ployees on each division, and to put them under the
control of the Young Hen's Christian Association.
So Congress directed that permission be granted to
the Association to establish its work at the various
posts of the army, and officers were enjoined to
facilitate the efforts of the Association to provide
healthful, physical, intellectual, and nonsectarian
religious influences.

" ' President Roosevelt was directed by law
to build the Panama Canal and as a business
proposition one of the first things he did was to
have erected four buildings for the Young Men's

THE BIG SCALE 223

Christian Association. When you want a capital
operation performed you go to a good surgeon ;
when you want a lawsuit carried on as it ought to
be carried on you go to a good lawyer ; and when
you want a means of keeping a population occu-
pied during their leisure hours with rational
amusement of a high moral and religious tone
you go to those gentlemen who have had ex-
perience in carrying on such a work and such an
institution. It cannot be learned over-night. It
is just as illogical to say that you can learn it over-
night as it is to say you can learn self-government
over-night. You cannot do it. Therefore, what
we did was to apply to the Young Men's
Christian Association.'

" Perhaps that's news to you — about the railway
companies and the army ? But it ought to be the
same over here. In America business men recognise
that the moral character and the intellectual effi-
ciency of the men they employ are matters of pretty
well first-rate importance to the success of their
undertakings. And so they build the great clubs,
provide the equipment, and then come along to
the Association for the men to run them. Why ?
Simply because we are recognised as experts in the
making of men. There's no one else doing the same
job. If a better institution came along we should
have to shift. They're not in love with us simply
because we call ourselves the Young Men's Christian
Association, but because we do what we set out to
do — which is to manufacture the best type of man
known to civilisation. Our fellows would make

224 THE ORDINARY MAN

about as useful an army as you'd find in the world ;
pretty near every man is an athlete, pretty near
every man is a marksman, pretty near every man
is a teetotaller, and every man Jack of them is a
Christian at least in the making. Cromwell's men
were stiff stuff ; I believe our fellows are as good.
Cromwell hadn't got our gymnasiums!

" In Association work Canada and the United
States are one, united in their organisation into one
International Convention, supervised by an Inter-
national Committee whose head-quarters are at
New York with an office also at Montreal for special
supervision of the Canadian work.

" The Canadians are every bit as keen as the
* Yankees,' and their work is going ahead at a
tremendous pace.

" One of your own statesmen, Earl Grey, during
the years he spent in Canada as Governor-General,
observed and aided this movement. Note what he
has to say about it.

" Here is an extract from the Toronto World :

" ' A happy incident of the day was the cordial
interest in the campaign evinced by His Excellency
Earl Grey, who arrived at head-quarters at 1.15 p.m.,
being received with tumultuous applause. He said,
in part :

" ' " I happen to be here as an accident. Like every-
body else, I was reading in the morning newspaper,
and I was enthused by the account of your proceed-
ings, and thought I would like to come and have a
look at the Clock to see what it would indicate
to-day."

" ' His Excellency recalled the occasion of a few

THE BIG SCALE 225

years ago when the Y.M.C.A. in Ottawa made a
similar canvass. It was just at the time of the great
financial stringency, and although it seemed im-
possible to accomplish the object which they had
aimed at, they succeeded in raising the splendid sum
of $200,000. By comparison, His Excellency felt
quite certain that Toronto would raise the $600,000.
He said :

""'I find myself in the midst of this great company
of eager enthusiasts, who are all very anxious that
within the allotted time you will gain the goal which
you are aiming at. I have every confidence that you
will succeed, and I hope you will succeed, because
I know of no undertaking which is fulfilling to greater
satisfaction one of the most pressing needs of our great
cities.

" ' "There is no man for whom I have greater
sympathy than the young man of business who is
unable to afford the luxury of one of those expensive
clubs where he can obtain recreation in his leisure
hours. Unless there is such an institution as the
Y.M.C.A. with all its wealth of equipment to meet his
social and recreative requirements, society is asking
him to live his life in conditions which are not fair to
him. You are trying to give him opportunities for
living a healthy, happy, wholesome and delightful
life in the city of Toronto, and I heartily wish you,
from the bottom of my heart, the full measure of
success for all your endeavours, and wish the Y.M.C.A.
of Toronto, and the new buildings for which you are
about to provide, God-speed." '

" And here is a letter I have only just received
from Lord Grey, which will show you how he feels
about our present move over here :

9

226 THE ORDINARY MAN

" ' Howick, Lesbury,

" ' Northumberland,

'" 20th December, 1911.
" ' Dear Mr. Ward,

" ' I hear you are endeavouring to raise £100,000
for a new Y.M.C.A. building in Tottenham Court
Road, and that it is the hope of the members of the
Y.M.C.A. of London to make the Tottenham Court
Road building worthy in all respects of the parent
institution of the countless branches which have been
established all over the world, to the great advantage
of all concerned.

" ' My experience in Canada leads me to believe
that if you can succeed in bringing before the people
of London the great advantages resulting from the
establishment in its midst of Y.M.C.A.'s adequately
equipped, as they are in the United States and in
Canada, you will have no difficulty in raising the sum
of £100,000 or more than that sum.

" ' In Ottawa, with a population of less than 80,000,
the people raised, if I remember rightly, under your
guidance, $200,000 in a two weeks' campaign, at a
time in 1907 when there was a greater financial
stringency in the money market than had ever been
known before in our time ; and in Toronto, with a
population of under 400,000, the sum of $800,000
was obtained in a similar fortnight's campaign during
the following year.

" ' Although the institution of the Y.M.C.A. was
originally started in England, my impression is that the
people of Canada can offer to the people of England an
example in the Y.M.C.A.'s, which are now established
in all their principal cities, which the people of England
would do well to follow. I have no hesitation in
saying that the effect of the Y.M.C.A.'s in Canada

THE BIG SCALE 227

has been to save thousands of young men from goin^
to the devil.

" ' The methods you used in Canada were original,
but most effective. They should produce equally
good results in London.

" ' Yours sincerely,

"(Sgd.) 'Grey.'

" I should like you to see some of our buildings.
We don't go in for much beauty on the outside, and
it's not only the size of them we buck about. It's
the insides. They're bully ! We take as much care
with the insides of these huge blocks as a manufac-
turer with his factory. The rooms for the classes are
all built with a purpose, and fitted up just perfectly.
Our gymnasiums would make the mouths water
of London clerks. Then we have running-tracks,
swimming-baths, rifle-ranges, billiard-rooms, smok-
ing - rooms, libraries, auditoriums for lectures —
everything, in fact, for education, physical culture,
mental improvement, and spiritual development.

" One of our secretaries is Fred B. Smith, and he's
a genius. I dare say you know that he is the leader
of the Men and Religion Forward Movement — a
movement which is spreading right through the
whole continent of America. America is more keen
on that movement than anything else. It's the
biggest thing we've got. That movement has five
branches : (1) Evangelistic, (2) Bible Study, (3)
Social Service, (4) Work for Boys, and (5) Industrial.
There are specialists, real experts, for every one of
these branches in ninety principal cities at the
present moment — real experts, mind you ; and
arrangements are now being made for a thousand

228 THE ORDINARY MAN

cities to be touched in one season. It's as big a
movement as we've ever had in the States ; all the
churches are in it, and it's pulling the whole nation
together. That's what religion does, when it's
real.

" The type of evangelism has changed. The
froth is off. The new evangelism teaches steady
work and sacrifice. Revivalism is good as a tonic,
but you couldn't live on tonic alone. It was the
same with us as with you ; a revival came — and
went. Plain water saw it out. The reaction
didn't do good to anybody. But now we've got
something different. We've got the idea of an
Awakening, that's like a man quietly getting up
to do a long day's work. You can't keep kicking
a man out of bed without hurting him. And
there's the window — he might chuck you out !
This movement of ours is organised revivalism with
the water off the boil. It's a nation waking up
to make itself Christian. We believe that you've
got to take just as much trouble to make a
Christian man as to make anything else, whether
it's a prize-fighter or an automobile. We think
you shouldn't leave the making of a Christian man
to chance. We think it should be the first concern.
And that's what the Men and Religion Forward
Movement is doing — feeding the Church and the
Association right through the country. No more
boiling revivalism, but steady work, regular work,
persistent and organised work — all the time. What
for ? To make men. To make men by educating
them along the three great lines — physical, mental,
and spiritual. We think we can do it. And when

THE BIG SCALE 229

we have done it we think we shall be a pretty
good nation."

Although these words, when written, have some-
thing rather hard and self-confident about them,
I can assure the reader that they were entirely with-
out offence when uttered. One must always
remember Sainte-Beuve's lament over the trans-
formation from uttered to printed speech. Payer
cannot smile. ;' The objection," he says, " has
been urged against Collections of Thoughts, that
when they are not commonplace they often appear
pretentious ; yet the same things would have
struck us far otherwise, if we had heard them said.
The smile and accent of the speaker would have
won them acceptance ; but fix them upon paper
and it is quite another thing. Paper is brutish."

The speaker in this case is a man of middle
age — quiet, modest, and both in appearance and
manner entirely without the vigour of strenuosity.
He has a peculiarly low voice, so that it is often
hard to catch the end of his sentences. He speaks
with an engaging smile, as gentle as a woman's.
When he makes what may seem a boast, he looks
at one with a pleasant apology in his eyes, as if to
say, " Of course you understand ; we're not talking
algebra, are we ? "

But in spite of his subdued manner and quiet
voice, it is impossible to be long in his company
before realising that he is a man of power. His
position in America has been earned by solid
achievement. He impresses one with the force of
a resolute character perfectly in hand and subdued
because it is enduring.

230 THE ORDINARY MAN

And penetrate beyond the faculty for organisa-
tion, and the grasp and power and vision which
make him so great an energy in the Young Men's
Christian Association of America, and you find that
he has in his heart the steady faith of a convinced
and realistic Christian. He knows life.

With him, as with the Founder of the Association
in England, " first things come first." He has
but one foundation for his life. To him, mercifully
early in his experience, it came home that without
the Ideal of Christ he could do nothing, and in
all his work it is for the victory and unchallenged
supremacy of Christ that he is striving, heart,
brain, and soul.

But there are men who, insisting that first things
should come first, take no steps to perfect second
and third things. They rest with the first. " Make
a man a Christian," they say, " and you have done
all that can be done for him." It sounds true, and
it is true. But their definition of a Christian, how-
ever completely it may square with all the doctrines
of all the theologians, would not perhaps find favour
with nature. The laws of God, which are of more
importance than the laws of churches, demand in
men strength of body and power of mind. Nature
is pitiless to the weak, whether they be Christians,
pagans, or materialists. And civilisation is more
merciless than nature.

The man of whom I write smiles sadly at the
notion that a Bible class and a bagatelle-table provide
all the essentials for Christian manhood. The Bible
is the first thing, and he places it first ; but for the
Bible's sake as well as the man's whom he essays

THE BIG SCALE 231

to teach the beauty and the power and the glory of
that book, he would make the student strong in
body and vigorous in mind. He says that nature
is apt to flatten out the man with no muscles, and
that civilisation jumps on him when he's down.
He thinks that man is in the making, and the perfect
man he holds to be the Christian man who is truly
a Christian and as truly a man.

And his vision sees the Anglo-Saxon race, whom
God — if any man believe3 in God — has so mani-
festly blessed and prospered in spite of many sins
and innumerable follies ; his vision sees the Anglo-
Saxon race united in the common Ideal of Christ,
one in the sacred bonds of a religious brotherhood,
working throughout the whole world for peace and
knowledge and kindness — and leading all the
nations of the earth to the kingdom of heaven.

" I don't want to interfere," he says, " with your
own way of doing things ; but I should like England
to realise that in the Young Men's Christian Associa-
tion there exists the finest channel ever invented
for a real brotherhood with America, if that is one
of her ambitions. And the way, if I may suggest
it, for the Association over here to take its proper
place in the national life of England is the same
way that we have gone in America. First the
all-round development of men — body, soul, and
spirit ; second, the multiplication all over the
country of such buildings as you now have in
Tottenham Court Road ; and third, the active,
enthusiastic, and lavish support of your great
merchants and men of business. There's Puritan
blood on both sides of the Atlantic, and it ought

232 THE ORDINARY MAN

to have pretty much the same pulse-beats. Our
rich men, yes, and our Government, are workers
for the Association ; you ought to have it like that
over here. If we could only pull together ! I want
to see your railway companies, and your army and
navy, and your great trading-houses working with
the Association for Christian manhood. And I
want to hear your King say what President Taft has
said : ' The Young Men's Christian Association has
come to be recognised as a 'powerful and necessary
factor, both in business and government matters? Will
it ever come to that over here, do you think ? Well,
it will be as big as Waterloo when it does — for that
means the Anglo-Saxon Brotherhood of God."

He placed his hand in his pocket and drew out
a letter. " You might care," he said, " to read
what President Taft says on the subject. I received
this letter only the other day, written just after I
had left America." He handed me the following
document :

" The White House, Washington,

"November 13th, 1911.

"My dear Mb. Ward,

" I regret that I was unable, before your depar-
ture for London, to assist in dedicating the Young
Men's Christian Association Memorial Building at
that city, to express to you the interest which I take
in the work of this efficient organisation. The value
of its instrumentality in the promotion of good morals
and in furnishing wholesome associations and health-
ful occupation for young men during their leisure
hours has been practically demonstrated in the Canal
Zone, where great benefit has been derived by the

THE BIG SCALE 233

Government from the maintenance of club-houses
placed under the management of the Association.

" No less valuable in the direction of morality,
health and efficiency has proved its work among the
enlisted men of the Army and Navy of the United
States. It is a potent factor in the preservation of
the peace of the world, and it deserves the approval
of everyone having the best good of the world at
heart.

"The prosperity of the parent association at the
capital of the British Empire is thus a matter of
world interest, and my best wishes go with all who
work to promote that prosperity.

"Sincerely yours,

"Wm. H. Taft."

He smiled as I looked up from my reading.
" President Taft and ex-President Roosevelt have
spoken," he said quietly ; " I guess it's now the
turn of King George and his ministers. Wasn't it,
by the way, King George who said Wake up,
England ? Ah, I thought so. Well, let's hope ! "

CHAPTER XIII
RANK AND FILE

A YOUNG man entered the room in which I
was sitting one night at the Aldersgate Street
branch of the Association. He was in a hurry, and
could spare me only two minutes. He entered with a
billycock hat on his head, which he did not remove ;
he wore a brown mackintosh buttoned to the chin.
In height he was nearly six feet. His shoulders were
broad, his chest deep, and he held himself soldier-
fashion — the head thrown back, the neck rigid,
the body straight and oppugnant. I imagined his
age to be three- or four-and-twenty.

He was black-haired, with one of those rosy faces
which sometimes give to dark people a fresher and
cleanlier appearance than belongs to the fair.
His eyebrows were clearly defined ; the lashes
thick, but short ; the upper lip was marked by a
small moustache.

He had a curious trick of speaking. The teeth
appeared to be tight - closed, the lips moved un-
willingly, as it were, and with a threat, the chin
projected a little ; he regarded one with the look of a
boxer well on his guard and ready to let in a sudden
and crashing blow. His words issued with the note
of challenge.

234

RANK AND FILE 235

That such a man might have derived benefit from
the sports and games of the Association was palpable
enough, but that he had felt in his soul the magic
of religion, even obscurely, seemed to me at the
first glance extremely problematical. And yet this
young Achilles said something which haunts me
yet, the impression of which will probably never
fade from my mind.

He explained that he was going to take the chair
at a religious meeting some distance away, and was
already late. He could not possibly delay more than
two minutes. I think he remained for five.

His work, he told me, was in one of the large
warehouses of London. The majority of his fellow-
clerks were absolutely indifferent to religion. There
was no more immorality or looseness among them
than is common in a great city, but they appeared
to be wholly dead to the appeal of religion. ;' They
don't think about it ; they leave it alone," he said
through his closed teeth, bitterly, and with a
movement of his head which implied an equal
amount of contempt and pity.

I inquired if he was chaffed or ragged by these
men. " Not more than I can endure ; they know
when to stop," he said rather grimly, a light
flashing into his dark eyes.

" You go in for athletics ? "

" I scull every Saturday afternoon on the
Thames."

" You don't find it hard to bear — the chaffing and
ragging ? "

" There's good in all of them, even the worst ; I
try to get at that. Three or four of us hold prayer

236 THE ORDINARY MAN

meetings and classes for the study of the Bible.
We try to persuade the others to join us."

" And you don't despair ? "

"No, I don't despair," he said. And then the
colour in his cheeks seemed to deepen, he looked at
me with an added defiance, and through his closed
teeth he said, with an increased challenge in the
voice — "I've been wonderfully strengthened of late —
feeding on the Word of God" He stood before me,
with all the sense of restrained movement which one
feels in a man anxious to be gone, and added, with a
jerk of his head, " Yes, I've been feeding on the Word
of God.'7

Such words have often been addressed to me
by old people, by dear old cottage women, and by
grey-haired patriarchs of the fields ; I have heard
them and liked them, and looked at the old people
who uttered them with a tenderness and an appre-
ciation which in reality, perhaps, were nothing
less pitiable than a mere intellectual indulgence —
such as a father may show towards the first poems
of his children or their earliest crude drawings of
Christ and the Crucifixion. But when this young
man uttered the words, "I've been feeding on the
Word of God," something in them jarred upon my
mind ; I was distressed ; I wished he had expressed
the same thought as I myself might have expressed
it. They seemed to me to ring false, unreal, artificial.
But they remained in my mind. They haunted
me. The young man rose up again and again
before my mental vision, tall, straight, powerful,
the very picture of a formidable athlete ; and again
and again, through his clenched teeth, with that

RANK AND FILE 237

strange ringing note of an almost angry defiance
came the words, " I've been wonderfully strengthened
of late — feeding on the Word of God. Yes, Fve been
feeding on the Word of God."

They haunted me, till they grew familiar. It
seemed to me that I had heard them before, many
years ago, and uttered by some similar man in the
midst of London. Then it came home to me that I
associated this young warehouseman with Matthew
Arnold. I thought. In a moment there flashed back
to my remembrance a certain sonnet. When I
returned to my home I took down from the shelves
the green book of Matthew Arnold's poems, and
turned to the sonnet (not by any means a good
or memorable sonnet) called East London. Almost
the identical thought was there :

'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,
And the pale weaver, through his windows seen
In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said :

" 111 and o'erwork'd how fare you in this scene ? " —

" Bravely ! " said he ; for I of late have heen

Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread."

This faith Matthew Arnold called " a mark of ever-
lasting light " set up " above the howling senses'
ebb and flow."

The wonder of the words came home to me, the
wonder and the romance. The young and vigorous
warehouseman finds in the midst of a difficult and
disheartening life strength sufficient for his needs
from the Word of God ; and the refined and educated
clergyman in Bethnal Green, ill and overworked,
found sufficient strength in Christ the living bread

238 THE ORDINARY MAN

for his hard and heart-breaking life. And in each
case, when we penetrate below the form of words —
always reminding ourselves that words are but the
human invention of symbolism to express other
things — we find that the mystery conducts us
through the travail of the soul to the Presence
and Companionship of Christ. Does not that
thought strike on the mind arrestingly ? Think
for a moment what it really means — the fact of
Christ's Presence in the hearts of toiling men.

In a London warehouse, a young man, strong and
hardy above the average — who sculls every Saturday
afternoon upon the Thames — finds in reading a book
which relates the most important chapters in the
rise of humanity from superstition and magic to a
pure belief in One God, and which further declares
the revelation made to a risen humanity by this
One God in the Person of Jesus Christ, Light of the
World and Saviour of Mankind — a strength for
his soul which nothing else can give. For years he
has been active in religious work, for years he has
prayed night and morning with a complete faith ;
but the real strength has come to him recently
from reading this single book, this Bible, this Word
of God. And he tells you so, with a defiance which
endeavours to express the immense certainty of his
soul. Christ is real to this man. He could not
imagine his drab life without Christ. The Bible is
his strength. It is a thought, if you reflect upon it,
which helps the mind to realise something of the
romance of London, something of the unique power
of the Bible, and something of the great mystery
which overshadows human life.

RANK AND FILE 239

I do not think I shall ever forget the impression
made upon my mind by these words, and when I
hear them on the lips of almost inarticulate peasants
I shall understand their significance.

When the young athlete had gone, another and
a quite different man entered the room. He was
shy, timid, strange. Three or four years older
than the athlete, he yet appeared, because of his
extraordinary gentleness, much younger, and almost
childlike. Few faces have I seen more strangely
beautiful, few voices have I heard more low and
mysterious. He brought into the room with him
the sanctity and holiness of a mystic's cell.

He was of middle height, with a weak body on
which the thin clothes hung loosely and as it were
pathetically. The long narrow hands were held
in front of him, the fingers slowly fidgeting with the
ends of the sleeves, which were worn and frayed.
The head was large, too large for the body, but
perfectly shaped. Thick and shining dark brown
hair framed a fair face that was flushed and almost
feverish. The nostrils expressed the utmost sensi-
bility ; the mouth was gentle and refined — a little
weak and yielding, perhaps ; the very large and
brilliant dark eyes possessed beneath their surface
fight of almost startled timidity, unfathomable
depths of serenity. The whole character of the
man's soul showed itself in a general air of shrinking
and affrighted modesty.

In a voice very low and musical, speaking with
long pauses between each sentence, and with the
deep ring and subdued gentleness of the Welsh

240 THE ORDINARY MAN

in his intonation, never once raising his voice, he
talked to me of his experience in London. He said :
" I was somewhat prepared for what I had to
undergo by my experience at home. When I left
school I was apprenticed to a draper in my native
town. It was terrible to me at first. I think it was
the first shock I had ever suffered. Before that time
life had seemed to me very beautiful. I loved my
home — my father, my mother, my brothers and
sisters. Then the fields and the mountains and the
rivers were very beautiful. I used to go out alone.
I love the country. In the country you can be quite
alone. And where I lived it is very beautiful —
mountains, rivers, and wild flowers in the field.

:' I did not like school very much. I am not clever.
I did not get on as quickly as the others. But I
did not mind school. I was living at home, and there
were hours of freedom ; I could go out into the
country alone. But when I went to business, and
was kept in all day, and had to five with other
people who were strangers to me — I was terribly
unhappy. It seemed to me that fife had altogether
changed ; that the beautiful part was over and
would never return.

" So I was prepared for London. I did not expect
to be happy, I knew it would be worse, worse even
than the shop in my native town. And I was so sorry
to leave my father and mother, and my sisters, and
the country. But it was necessary for me to get on.
My brothers had gone to Australia. They are doing
very well there ; they want me to join them ; and
I think it would be happier there ; perhaps I shall go ;
I am thinking about it."

RANK AND FILE 241

I asked him if Christianity had made any real
entrance into his life during his youth. He told me
that religion had been real to him from childhood.
The beginning of his illumination came while he
was at Sunday-school. He felt in his soul the im-
mense mystery and the overwhelming truth of the
Christ's experience on earth. It was tremendously
real to him. In youth he joined the Christian
Endeavour and sought to make others feel what
was so intensely real to him.

" And in London," I said, " what were your first
feelings ? "

" I was stunned," he said quietly, with a sad
smile. " It was not a shock, like the experience in
my native town ; but it was bewildering. I felt lost.
Oh, it was dreadful ! The bedroom in the warehouse
was horrible. It was like a stable. There was no
carpet ; and so dark ; with the beds all close to-
gether, and they were grimy. There was no sitting-
room. We slept in the dark cold bedroom, and that
was all the place we had for our leisure. The con-
versation was dreadful. The men seemed to wish to
make themselves out worse and more horrible than
they were. It was an atmosphere of moral degenera-
tion. They talked of dreadful things. They mocked
at religion. And it is like that still. They do not
seem as if they can understand what is beautiful."

I asked what they talk about.

" Of betting and drink " — he paused, and in a
lower voice he added — "and women." Something
more than the exquisite sensibility of a refined
mind sounded in that last word ; it was the chastity
and the chivalry of a perfectly pure soul.

242 THE ORDINARY MAN

" Tell me," I asked, " do you say your prayers
in the dormitory ? "

" Yes."

" Do the others molest you ? "

" I am a httle bit scoffed at," he said slowly,
" but I think I am admired for my consistency.
If I did not live the Christian life, as well as I can,
they would be cruel to me. But they know it is real
to me. They cannot understand it, but they seem
to know it is real to me. And I never answer when
they mock me. I do not reproach them. I only
speak about religion when they ask me."

" How many men share your life in the ware-
house ? "

" There are two or three Christians out of a
hundred." For the first time he hurried in his
speech. " But," he added eagerly, " all of them
have good traits. There is not one who is altogether
bad. I have learned to know how much goodness
there is in men, even those who seem bad. There is
always something good in their hearts, though they
may seem to hide it. Not all who go to church are
Christians, and not all who stay away from church
are not Christian. I noticed this about them :
when I first came they held aloof from me for some
months ; I thought it was cruelty ; I thought they
would have nothing to do with me because I read
my Bible and said my prayers ; but I see now they
were watching my life to see if I was genuine. And
now they do not hold aloof. They are never cruel.
Even the worst of chaps admire genuineness."

"Those first months must have been hard for you."

" I don't know what would have happened to me

RANK AND FILE 243

in London but for the Young Men's Christian
Association. At first, before I knew my way about,
I used to go to the churches on Sunday. Oh, but I
felt myself so lost, so friendless in those big London
churches ! They are so cold. Nobody speaks to
you. Nobody seems kind. I think I was terribly
miserable in those churches. But when I was
introduced to the Association, I found people who
were warm-hearted and kind, and seemed glad to
see me. And they gave me chances to work. I was
happy when I could do something to help other
people.

"Another thing about the Association — you can
get solitude there. In rooms, which are set apart
for study, you can go and be alone with yourself.
I think my first feeling when I came to London
was the fear that I should never have solitude. It
seemed to me that in London you couldn't get
alone with yourself. That was terrible. In the
dormitory and in the warehouse there were always
many people ; and when you went out into the
streets there were crowds and crowds. Oh, how
often I longed for the mountains and the rivers !
I wanted the country. I wanted to get away and
be alone with myself, so that I might think."

He told me that next to the pleasure he derived
from working actively for religion through the
Association, he most appreciated this great blessing
of solitude which the Association made possible
for his soul. He impressed upon me the idea of a
veritable hunger after loneliness which eats away
the heart of certain men condemned to live a
barrack life in London. Hitherto I had regarded the

244 THE ORDINARY MAN

Association as a great central escape from solitude
and isolation ; now it was revealed to me as an
oasis of silence and retreat in the midst of mul-
titudinous obsession.

As I took leave of this remarkable man I asked
him : " Is it difficult to live a mystic's life in
London ? "

He smiled. " It is not always easy," he said softly.

" Have you ever seen visions or heard voices ? "

He shook his head.

" Not even in the country ? "

" They are nearer there, I think. If I could live
always in the country I should be happy. But
one has to work. My brothers tell me that in
Australia it is very beautiful."

So we parted. As we shook hands, and he looked
at me with his large and timid eyes, I thought of
Gray who suffered so frightfully at school and at
Cambridge, of Shelley who shrank with horror
from the coarse contact of the world, and of all
other delicate and tender natures for whom the
pressure of the multitude is a torment. How dread-
ful for such a man 'to live his life in a London
warehouse !

A third man with whom I made acquaintance
was as different from the other two as they were
different from each other. He was a little fellow,
wearing spectacles, and pale with the pallor of
London's second or third generation. I should say
he was typical of the suburbs.

There are many young men in London, physically
feeble and intellectually poor, who yet convey to

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one, and quite quietly, a sense of self-assurance and
a resourcefulness of self-dependence which convince
one of complete efficiency. They seem as if they
too — these pale-faced, thin-bodied, and stunted
weaklings — could go anywhere and do anything.

Such was the man who told me the following
story.

" My home was perfectly moral, but there was no
religion. My parents never went to church and never
showed any interest in religion. But my mother
appeared to think it was among the respectabilities
for her children to go to church services, and so we
were sent every Sunday, and in the afternoon we
attended Sunday-school. If I got any good from all
this it must have been subconscious. I was not
aware that it made the slightest difference to my
life. When I grew up and went out as a clerk
I soon dropped going to church. To put it in a
common phrase, I was sick of the whole business.
I don't mean that I was sick of religion. I really
hadn't thought about that ; it didn't live in my life.
All I was sick of was going to church.

"I lived a pretty ordinary life for a few years.

" Then, one summer, I went for my holidays to
Broadstairs. I stayed at a boarding-house which
a fellow-clerk had recommended. It was there that
the change began in my life. Among the guests
was a lady who was deeply religious. One day the
guests organised a picnic, and at this picnic, some-
how or another, conversation turned on atheism.
Several of the people said they didn't believe in
anything, and nearly everybody seemed to agree
that going to church was only a farce. The lady

246 THE ORDINARY MAN

did not make a remark, so far as I remember, during
this discussion ; but afterwards, as we were standing
about ready to go home, she came to me and said,
' I hope you don't share the views we have just
heard.' I was taken aback. I think I smiled.
I said, ' I don't know.'

" From that time we became friends. She gave
me quite a different attitude towards religion,
but I don't think she gave me religion itself. I saw
that it was something much more real than I had
thought it to be ; and I also felt deeply that it was
ever so much more interesting than I had imagined.
Although I feel that I owe everything to that lady,
who is now one of my closest and most honoured
friends, I cannot say that she herself gave me the
new birth of the religious life.

" When I got back to London I began going to
church. I joined the church club — but that did me
more harm than good. I don't want to say anything
unkind about those particular clergymen, for it was
really not their fault, but that club was really a very
low place. Gambling was general, men drank
just as much as if they were in a public-house, and
the language was about as low as anyone can
imagine. Of course, when one of the clergy came in,
all was in due order ; but no sooner was his back
turned than things became as bad as before, rather
worse, as if to show that the members didn't care !
I was tremendously fond of chess, and used to play
every night from seven till eleven. It exhausted me
mentally, and did me harm spiritually, by absorbing
all my attention.

" Then I began to read the Bible. I started at the

RANK AND FILE 247

beginning and determined to read it right through,
in the hope of finding out what I really did believe
and, if possible, what I ought to believe. It took
me a whole year, and I was no wiser at the end.

" One day a friend of mine suggested that I should
join the Young Men's Christian Association. He
spoke about the opportunities it gave one for work.
I wasn't very keen, and said I would think about it.
He said that a man couldn't understand religion
till he began to live the life.

" I saw a book one day that attracted my atten-
tion. It was called Conversations with Christ.
I got hold of it and took it home to read. I was
reading it in my lodgings one evening when the
application form for membership in the Association
arrived by post. When I had glanced through it,
I went on reading the book, holding the form in my
hand.

" I came to the conversation with the lawyer
who asked Christ, ' Master, what shall I do to inherit
eternal life ? ' When I got to the words, ' This do,
and thou shalt live,'' I felt, all of a sudden, just as if
they were spoken to me. It was an unmistakable
feeling. It was something I had never experienced
before. And the feeling came with the words This
do before I finished the sentence. It was as if they
were spoken to me, with an extraordinary emphasis,
This Do ! And I can't tell you why, but I instantly
connected the injunction, which I felt to be un-
mistakably real and unmistakably personal, with
the application form which I was holding in my
hand. There and then I filled it up, signed my
name, and sent it off by the midnight post.

248 THE ORDINARY MAN

:' I felt that the command This Do did not refer
simply to the Young Men's Christian Association,
but to the work which I had been told was waiting
there for me to do. I took it at once to be a message
to work.

' I do not call this experience my conversion.
I joined the Association, I took up work, and I en-
joyed doing it ; but my conversion came later.
It really came to me through the reading of a book
called Spiritual Blessings. I forget the author's
name, but I remember it was published in one of
Macmillan's series. I do not remember any par-
ticular words which had a marked or sudden effect
upon me ; but while I was reading the book the
knowledge came home to my soul, neither gradually
nor yet suddenly, that justification is not by our
tears, our prayers, or our work, but by God. I
realised that everything was done and given by
God, and that a man has nothing to do but bow with
gratitude before his Maker, and accept the gift of
His mercy and His love. And when I was made
aware of this truth, for it seemed to come from
outside me, I felt conscious of some mysterious
relief. It was as if a weight had been lifted from
my shoulders, as if a load I had long been carrying,
and had even got used to, had all of a sudden
dropped to the ground. I felt that all anxiety was
gone. I was not excited or carried away, but I
was aware of a sort of deep joy."

He told me some interesting stories of his work.

' The first experience I ever had of listening to a
man's trouble and trying to help him," he said,
" occurred very soon after my illumination. A

RANK AND FILE 249

young foreigner arrived at one of the evening
meetings of the Association. He appeared to be
in very deep trouble. When the meeting closed
I went to him and asked if I could be of any help to
him. He told me that he was a Pole, and that he
had been in Australia, where he had been converted ;
but on his return home he found that his wife
had gone away, abandoned the home ; he now knew,
he told me, that she was living as a governess in
Berlin. Then he said to me, ' But I know she will
come back to me ; I have prayed, and God will hear
my prayer ; I am sure she will come back.' I
became friendly with him ; he was a fine fellow,
and a real Christian. Some months after his wife
came back. She had no idea of the change in his life,
and had returned only because she felt a vague
conviction that it was her duty. Soon after her
return, however, she became a Christian. Their
home is happy ; he simply adores her ; and you
could not meet nicer people.

' That was my first experience of trying to help
a fellow-creature.

"It is really wonderful how many opportunities
the Association puts in a man's way for doing
simple but lasting work. I'm sure if people recog-
nised how it adds to the interest of life, and how it
satisfies one's own mind to be a worker for the help
and comfort of others, we should have a very much
larger membership on these lines alone. There must
be thousands of people in London wanting friend-
ship, kindness, and advice ; and of course there are
thousands who find life dull because they have got
no enthusiasm for anything.

250 THE ORDINARY MAN

"I was once speaking to a few fellows in the
Association about my own doubts and difficulties,
telling them how I had come to find light and peace
of soul. Another man, not in the group, came up to
me afterwards, told me that he had overheard what
I said, and added that he had a friend who was
then in much the same difficulty as I had been ; and
he would be very glad if I would meet this man
and speak to him. Merely from that little incident
I made a great friend, and was able to help a fellow-
creature to real happiness.

" It's very helpful, too, to get into relationship with
foreigners ; that is one of the great pulls of the
Association. We meet men of all nations, and
learn to understand their point of view. I was once
struck by the loneliness of a young Frenchman who
had lately joined, and seemed to be rather diffident
about making friends. I chummed up with him,
suggested that we should go for a country walk
together on the following Saturday afternoon,
and found that he was not only a very nice fellow
indeed, but that he wanted to talk about religion,
I made friends with him simply out of a filing of
Christian fellowship, and with no thought of playing
the missionary ; but it turned out that I could help
him. That is one of the reasons why I am so keen
about the Association. It gives the ordinary man,
who has his living to get, intelligent occupation
for his leisure, broadens his sympathies by acquaint-
ance with men of all nations, and gives him endless
opportunities for deepening his own spiritual life
by simply chatting with the friends he makes there.
I don't believe anything helps a man so much to

RANK AND FILE 251

realise the truth of the Christian life as talking
things over with other people of his own age,
and trying to help them in their troubles."

His face brightened, and he beamed at me
through his glasses as he said, "I'm going out
this week for a Saturday ramble with two young
Japanese. They're very clever fellows, and very
nice ; and they want me to talk to them about
Christianity. So this Saturday we shall take train,
get out of London, and then walk through the
fields, talking about the religion of Christ. I'm
looking forward to it with great interest. You can
imagine that it will be a fine opportunity. I believe
Japan is more interested in Christianity than any
other nation in the East."

From these brief conversations the reader will
surely gather that the Young Men's Christian
Association provides intelligent and thoughtful
men with an almost unique opportunity for the
work which alone can render life beautiful and
strong and pure.

In sudden and too transitory moments of illumina-
tion most men perceive that religion is fundamental
to the security of civilisation and the endurance of
the moral qualities in man. It may be but the
slightest occurrence that provokes this realisation,
that flashes for a moment before the apprehension
this tremendous and far-reaching truth ; such a
little thing as a party of hoarse-voiced and guffawing
hooligans bawling a banal song through the midnight
streets, careless if they wake the feverish sick or
disturb the pillow of the dying ; such a little thing

252 THE ORDINARY MAN

as a newspaper placard screaming from one end of
the metropolis of a great empire to the other
that some chorus-girl is married, some negro prize-
fighter arrived in England, or the results of a horse
race ; such a little thing as a play produced in a
London theatre in which indelicacies which would
offend almost every home in the land are the cause
of delighted laughter in men and women of all
classes night after night for a long season ; such
a little thing as one young drunken woman stagger-
ing through the streets to her children, hungry and
afraid in their slum home as the young of no other
species in creation are hungry and afraid ; such a
little thing as the violence, which actively denies
God and His Christ, practised by a mob of strikers
or a mob of political women in moments of hateful
anarchy ; such a little thing as the success and
popularity of newspapers which make their appeal
to the basest and most sordid instincts of human
nature ; such a little thing as the unchallenged
presence in the House of Commons and the House
of Lords of men whose names are a byword for
iniquity and crime ; such a little thing as the
sudden feeling, due perhaps to some quite trivial
event, that a really vital public opinion on all
great moral issues has ceased to exist throughout
the length and breadth of a materialistic England.

But the realisation that religion is fundamental
both to national greatness and to the moral
progress of human nature should be a permanent
conviction of the mind, the deepest and the most
earnest — a conviction entirely independent of chance
occurrence for its emphasis. From the beginning

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of time there have been no morals without religion ;
and every period in the world's history of a great
moral decadence, and the downfall of mighty
empires, has been preceded by the triumphs of
scepticism. Never has a god fallen, perhaps, without
crushing some of his devotees. Certainly never has
nation, race, or tribe produced a code of ethics with-
out the sanction of some faith in powers greater
than mankind. It is as huge a folly to think that
grammar preceded language as to imagine that
there was morality before there was religion.

Does ever any thoughtful man walk through the
streets of London, or Manchester, or Liverpool, or
Glasgow, or Dublin, without feeling in his soul that
the denial of God — which means among other things
the denial of those laws of God which are in operation
for our welfare — is fatal to human progress ? Not
merely the presence of striking and abominable
things forces this conviction upon the soul —
such things as public-houses packed with women,
or the frightful juxtaposition of enormous luxury
and appalling beggary — but the look in the faces of
the ordinary people, rich or poor, who pass one in the
streets. How much coldness, hardness, aloofness,
and self-satisfaction in the faces of the well-to-do ;
how little benevolence, modesty, sweetness, and
refinement of spirit ! — and in the faces of the
struggling workers, how much savagery, brutality,
bitterness, and sorrow dumb as death but watchful
as hate !

Is it not as if one walked among a people who
had a loathing for life and a contempt for
beauty, to whom the glory of aspiration had never

254 THE ORDINARY MAN

once come, nor the sanctifying humility which
inspires the soul of those who realise their depend-
ence on God ? One feels that the world is peopled
by a disillusioned and disenchanted humanity. It is
as if all joy and all tragedy were crushed out of
existence by a universal weariness and fatigue.
Here and there one hears laughter — it is from a
public-house. Here and there one sees vivacity —
it is in the face of a courtesan. But for the most
part the crowds go by, grey, silent, and oppressed.
Stand at the corner of London Bridge or Black-
friars Bridge, or in the streets of Oldham, when the
workers are going home. Look in their faces. It is
not poverty or coarseness or vulgarity or wickedness
which appals you : but hardness and absence of joy.
Can a people so hard and dispirited, so joyless
and divided, so little conscious either of immortality
or brotherhood, support the strain of its own godless
materialism ? can they even work out those high and
splendid destinies of empire for which enthusiasm
and faith are the first essentials ?

It is my hope, as I bring this book to an end,
that those of my readers who are either in despair
about the future, or careless as to the fate of
humanity, may realise that there exists among the
multitudes of their fellow-creatures a great hope
and a great call to personal service in that " pressure
of the soul ' which is one of the strange signs of
this troubled age, and to guide which is one of the
first duties of those who very really and very
earnestly have their affiance in Christ. Everywhere,
when we penetrate beneath the surface of society,
there is this disquiet of the spirit, this pressure of

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the soul, this dissatisfaction with earthly things, this
hunger after satisfaction and peace. The ordinary
man is conscious, dimly enough it may be, of the
extraordinary thing. No man alone with his inward
being is realty an atheist, save those who are really
devils. The whole nation, one may say, is tormented
by a division of the soul which lacks the decisive
choice. Not yet do they give themselves to God ;
but not yet, God be thanked, do they give them-
selves wholly to the devil. One way or the other
will the choice be made. Democracy growing
articulate, aristocracy growing afraid, will soon
end the pestering unrest which disturbs their
happiness by deciding either for God or the devil.

To make that decision ring true for God is the
work of the present time. And that there is strong
ground for hope that England will decide for God,
no man who is acquainted with the clamour of the
soul of even the most ordinary and vulgar for
deeper satisfaction, and with the work of those
who labour for religion in every quarter of the land,
can really doubt.

Take but one case. Is it not manifest, even
from what has been told in this book, that if
the merchants and the civic powers of England
devoted themselves, as men of their own blood have
done in America, to the development of the Young
Men's Christian Association throughout the country,
we should possess in less than a generation such a
manhood in our cities as would be a strength to the
empire, a glory to the race, and a power for the
things of God ? Here is, at our hand, this As-
sociation— long-founded and already flourishing —

256 THE ORDINARY MAN

which could literally save to manhood and religion
hundreds of thousands of young men now drifting
into indifference and decadence, if the religious
conscience of England realised the opportunity
and gave itself with enthusiasm to the work.

And all over England there are good men in equally
worthy societies waiting to do a tremendous work
for humanity in the name of God, but who are
paralysed by want of sympathy and enthusiasm
from the whole nation. And this lack of sympathy
and this want of enthusiasm are due to the pessimism
that religion is exhausted and the miracle exposed.
Progress has been handed over to the politicians.
Enlightenment is looked for only from the men of
science. As if politics or science could touch the
soul of humanity ! And in the meantime, all round
us and about us, through the humble labours of
obscure but holy men and women, Christ is feeding
the hungry, clothing the naked, healing the sick,
casting out devils, and raising the dead.

If England, as some think, is now falling through
materialism into anarchy and ruin, may one not
suppose that there is a sigh in heaven, and that
once more those words are breathed with sorrowful
compassion, " Ye will not come to Me, that ye might
have life " ?

Before England abandons herself to the politician,
it would be well for her once more to make her
appeal, earnestly and universally, to the Christ
Who called Himself Son of God and Light of the
World.

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II