I desire to place on record my sense of the kindly interest and alacrity you have recently displayed in your endeavours to serve a person with whom, despite anterior intimate relations, you had a short time previously been on antagonistic terms.
"Your earnest and energetic zeal on a former occasion had commanded my respect and that of my wife, who witnessed some of your untiring efforts, and I regret that your friendly services have not met their full and due appreciation.
"I feel sure, nevertheless, that should an opportunity occur where your good offices would be required, you would not withhold them.—I remain dear Sir, yours most truly,
George R. Leverson.
"Chas. Bradlaugh, Esq."
When Mr. Bradlaugh quitted Mr. Leverson he also quitted St. Helen's Place, and went back to Tottenham to live, where, indeed, my sister and I had remained at a school kept by two maiden ladies during the greater part of the intervening time. He took the house, Sunderland Villa, next door to the one we had previously occupied, and for business purposes he rented an office in the city first at 23 Great St. Helen's, and later at 15 and 16 Palmerston Buildings, Old Broad Street. A company was formed called the "Naples Colour Company," of which he was the nominal principal, and in which he was very active. This enterprise arose out of the discovery that iron and platinum were to be found in the sand of the beach at Castellamare, a little place on the coast not far from Naples. From this sand, steel of the finest quality was manufactured, and paint peculiarly suitable for the painting of iron ships, inasmuch as it would not rust. I have a razor in my possession manufactured from this steel, and I remember that while we were at Midhurst my grandfather still had some of this paint, with which he loyally painted hen-coops, troughs, sheds, and every article in his possession that could be reasonably expected to stand a coat of paint. Everything in connection with the company was done in my father's name: the Italian Government granted the concession in his name; some stock in the Grand Book of Italy, at one time held in his name, was in connection with this company; Foundry, warehouses, and other buildings were raised; there were factories at Granili, Naples, and Hatcham New Town, London; steel and paint, especially the latter, were duly turned out, and were pronounced first-class; but somehow the business was a failure—perhaps partly because those engaged in it may not have been sufficiently versed in the "colour" trade (I do not know that this was so, but think it very probable), and also certainly because of my father's name. I well recollect his telling us how on one occasion a large order came for paint; the paint was duly taken down to the wharf to be shipped, when at the last moment came a telegram, followed by a letter countermanding the order. In the interval the intending purchaser had learned that the Bradlaugh of the "Naples Colour Company" was also Bradlaugh the Atheist, so, of course, he could not think of doing business with him.
In the city my father also fell into business connection with gentlemen who were concerned in the conduct of financial operations, and he himself took part in negotiating municipal loans, etc. I only remember two incidents in connection with these undertakings: one the loan to the city of Pisa, told by Mr. John M. Robertson in his Memoir,[27] and the other a negotiation he was conducting to supply the Portuguese Government with horses. His business was nearly concluded to his satisfaction when he was recalled by telegram to London. Overend, Gurney & Co. had failed, and "Black Friday" had come; Mr. Bradlaugh lost his contract; there was the terrible financial panic, and a fatal blow was struck to my father's business career. Mr. Robertson quotes him saying, "I have great faculties for making money, and great faculties for losing it;" and these words were very true.
While at Sunderland Villa Mr. Bradlaugh made many friends in the neighbourhood, and interested himself in local affairs. Going to the city every day, he made personal acquaintance with men who travelled daily in the same way, and won their liking and esteem. We children had a large circle of small friends, so that although there was a certain amount of hostility on account of my father's opinions[28] this did not greatly trouble us; we had ample local popularity to counterbalance that. In any case our house would have been sufficient unto itself, for during these years we nearly always had one or two resident guests, besides a constant flow of visitors of all nationalities. Many of our neighbours attended the Church of St. Paul's in Park Lane, of which the Rev. Hugh M'Sorley was the vicar; and I am bound to say that Mr. M'Sorley at least did not err on the side of "loving his neighbour." He felt the bitterest animosity towards Mr. Bradlaugh, which occasionally found some vent in sharp passages at vestry committees,[29] where, of course, they were almost always in opposition.
The Rev. Mr. M'Sorley's animosity at length culminated in an outrageous libel. An article had appeared in All the Year Round entitled "Our Suburban Residence," in the nature of a "skit" dealing with Tottenham, in which Mr. M'Sorley was alluded to under a very thin disguise. This article was reprinted in the Tottenham and Edmonton Weekly Herald, and Mr. M'Sorley, taking it into his wise head that Mr. Bradlaugh was the author, wrote the following "appendix" to the reprint, which appeared in the issue for April 28, 1866:—
"You will have seen that a serious omission has been made in a sketch which appeared in a recent number of All the Year Round, edited by C. Dickens, Esq. I crave your indulgence while I endeavour to supply the omission. It would be a crying injustice to posterity if the historian of our little suburban district were to omit one of the celebrities of the place. No doubt he is not much thought of or respected, but that shows his talent is overlooked. He is a great man this: why, our good-natured, genial, and humane vicar must hide his diminished head, when put in the scales and weighed against Swear'em Charley! and as for the 'bould' Irishman, the Rev. M'Snorter, why, he could not hold a candle to this genius; and as for the Rev. Chasuble—well, no matter, the least said about him the better, poor man!
"It was stated in the sketch that this parish had its representatives of all sorts of religions, from the Quaker to the Papist, the disciples of George Fox, who bends to no authority, and the disciples of the Pope, who makes all authority bend to him. We had a capital sketch of Churchism, High, Low, and Broad. But the sketcher forgot to add another to his list. Ay, truly, if we have those who are of the High Church, and the Low Church, and the Broad Church, we have some who are of 'No Church.' Why, we have got in our midst the very Coryphæus of infidelity, a compeer of Holyoake, a man who thinks no more of the Bible than if it were an old ballad—Colenso is a babe to him! This is a mighty man of valour, I assure you—a very Goliath in his way. He used to go 'starring' it in the provinces, itinerating as a tuppenny lecturer on Tom Paine. He has occasionally appeared in our Lecture Hall. He, too, as well as other conjurers, has thrown dust in our eyes, and has made the platform reel beneath the superincumbent weight of his balderdash and blasphemy. He is as fierce against our common Christianity as the Reverend M'Snorter is against Popery—indeed, I think the fiercer of the two. The house he lives in is a sort of 'Voltaire Villa.' The man and his 'squaw' occupy it, united by a bond unblessed by priest or parson. But that has an advantage; it will enable him to turn his squaw out to grass, like his friend Charles Dickens, when he feels tired of her, unawed by either the ghost or the successor of Sir Creswell Creswell. Not having any peculiar scruples of conscience about the Lord's Day, the gentleman worships the God of nature in his own way. He thinks 'ratting' on a Sunday with a good Scotch terrier is better than the 'ranting' of a good Scotch divine—for the Presbyterian element has latterly made its appearance among us. Like the homoeopathic doctor described in the sketch, this gentleman combines a variety of professions 'rolled into one.' In the provinces he is a star of the first magnitude, known by the name of Moses Scoffer; in the city a myth known to his pals as Swear 'em Charley; and in our neighbourhood he is a cypher—incog., but perfectly understood. He contrives to eke out a tolerable livelihood: I should say that his provincial blasphemies and his City practice bring him in a clear £500 a year at the least. But is it not the wages of iniquity? He has a few followers here, but only a few. He has recently done a very silly act; for he has, all at once, converted 'Voltaire Villa' into a glass house, and the whole neighbourhood can now see into the premises—'the wigwam,' I should say, where he dwells in true Red Indian fashion with his 'squaw.' This is the sketch of one particular character in our suburban residence, which has been omitted. But it is worth all the others
