The Great Acceptance: The Life Story of F. N. Charrington

Church, Army, Navy, Parliament – it's corner-stone is beer."

The brewer, because he amasses a large fortune out of beer, is ennobled.

The ex-brewer – Frederick Charrington, for instance – who gives up an enormous sum for conscience' sake, and an enormous sum again made from beer, remains unhonoured, save by the love and adherence of his own people in the East End. If Frederick Charrington had mixed up an active political propaganda with his Christian work, by now he would have received a baronetcy or at least a knighthood. If he had been merely a paid secretary of some philanthropic organisation, he might yet have been knighted – as more than one recent ennoblement shows. But because he gave up everything, and worked for his Master, without pandering to this or that political party – though in politics he is a Liberal – the accolade has never come in his way. From his own point of view I know such an honour would count as nothing. It is for other, and unworldly honours, that he has lived his life. But, as a recognition of his self-sacrifice and devotion, surely some public acknowledgment from the throne would be a very proper thing?

The poor people are not snobbish. It matters nothing to Mr. Charrington's million or so of humble friends whether he is "Mr." or "Sir." But – and of this fact I am thoroughly persuaded – they would regard any honour which His Majesty might be pleased to confer upon him as not only well-merited, but in some sort a fitting recompense for a life of work and devotion almost unequalled in the annals of our time.

I will conclude this chapter of special reference to temperance work by quoting a poem dealing directly with Frederick Charrington, and which has had a very considerable success.

I take it from the Gordon League Ballads, written by "Jim's Wife," who in reality is Mrs. Clement Nugent Jackson. The book is entitled More Gordon League Ballads, and was published by Skeffington & Son last year.

The first series of these ballads sold in many thousands, and as dramatic stories in verse for reading or reciting at temperance meetings, they can hardly be surpassed. Nearly all of them are founded on fact, as is "A Brave Man," which I give below.

I make no apology for the inclusion of this verse. It is thoroughly representative of what is publicly thought about Frederick Charrington by his innumerable friends and admirers.

A BRAVE MAN

Brave men – I say it humble,
Are common on English ground;
Common as spires and chimneys
Whenever you walk around;
But the man of whom I'm thinking was brave with a bravery rare —
Ah! a hundred times rarer than rubies – in England or anywhere.
I am thinking of a Brewer.
This may take you by surprise!
But the tale has fact to rest on,
And is not a pack of lies.
He was rolling rich and generous – generous to every one.
A Brewer and a Gentleman, John Sidney Donaldson.

He sent big cheques to Hospitals,
And for Children's Holidays,
And to Unemployed Relief Funds,
And Homes for Waifs and Strays.
He was kind to all poor people and meant to do 'em good!
Though he knew but precious little about the neighbourhood
In which the greatest number of his licensed houses stood!
'Twas the poorest part of London,
Drink-riddled through and through,
But his agents worked the business,
And all John Donaldson knew
Was how it looked on paper
And the dividends he drew.
He was Member for a County that was like a garden ground,
For blossom and for beauty and for orchards smiling round.
And you always found him willing,
To open his Manor gates
For Band of Hope rejoicings,
And Sports, and Temperance Fêtes.

When Parliament was sitting,
It happened, one spring day,
He visited his brewery.
And strolling up that way —
Alone, and sort of curious to see what he would meet —
As he passed a gorgeous public, gilded and tiled complete,
He saw a tipsy woman flung out into the street.
The man who flung her savage,
Went back inside the place;
She fell upon the curb-stone
And cut her head and face.
And she wasn't more than thirty. 'I'll give that man in charge!
Says John Donaldson a-blazing, for his heart was big and large,
Too large to hurt a woman —
And then he went across
To lift the tipsy creature,
And I've heard him say – a Force
Like twenty batteries struck him, and made his eyes see fire!
For painted on the house-front was – Donaldson's Entire!
He looked up at the sign-board.
The house was his own tied house.
A new one – not long opened —
And called 'The Running Grouse.'
He'd meant to call that man out. He'd meant to make a row.
And send for a policeman – but he couldn't do it now.
Something rose up and held him. The crowd that ran to stare,
Said the woman's home was handy, so he helped to take her there,

And a wretched hole he found it!..
A man was up the stairs,
Trying to cook his dinner,
And give five children theirs.
Just home from his work – poor devil
He looked up with a frown
When he saw what they were bringing —
'Ah!' he says, 'Chuck 'er down.
If you'd brought 'er in 'er coffing
I'd 'ave tipped yer 'arf-a-crown.'

'Your wife is hurt and bleeding,'
John Sidney Donaldson said.
'My wife,' groans the husband bitter,
'I wish she was yourn instead!'
And he picks up his yelling baby,
And crams its mouth with bread.
'Tain't the fust time she's a-bleedin'. 'Ere's a 'appy 'ome,' says he.
'That's the mother of my childring! an' she don't get drunk on tea!
Bright and 'appy, ain't we, guv'nor?
I dunno who you are,