Three years later, the ornate church on Rookwood Road had achieved a kind of curiosity value. In the pews would be seated the occasional middle-class matron, who would comment on the sermons or the order of service – like that of the Anglican matins ‘but strangely different’. Some who entered its portals might tut-tut, ‘Those hymns!’ While others might comment on their fellow churchgoers, ‘who for all the world look just like us, my dear!’
The doors of this strange church would then be closed to the public without warning, sometimes for weeks at a time. That was when the rumours began.
Newspaper reporters wrote about the various theories being put forward by neighbours of this Ark of the Covenant. One was that the now-secret services had something to do with the Mysteries of Eleusis of the Ancient Greeks and involved symbolic sacrifices that were a foreshadowing of the Christian sacrament of the Eucharist. A report that Smyth-Pigott had once been a common sailor was quickly seized on as proof that these Mysteries of Eleusis were somehow involved because it was well known that sailors in fear for their lives at sea asked each other if they had been initiated at Eleusis.
Another speculative report suggested that the secret services were to do with Sophocles. Hadn’t the great philosopher said, ‘Thrice blessed are they who behold these mystical rites, ere passing to Hades’ realm. They alone have life there. For the rest all things below are evil.’
But just as suddenly, the church would reopen its doors to the public and it soon became clear there was still nothing particularly strange about the services: just singing hymns from an admittedly unusual hymn book and calls to salvation by the pastor and members of his congregation.
Strangers were welcomed. It became fun, almost daring, to attend the Sunday services, even though many left unimpressed by the long convoluted address by the pastor, even with his vivid imagery. But he was attractive and so others stayed, many of them single women in their 30s, who, facing the prospect of lifelong spinsterhood and all its strictures, answered my grandfather’s siren call of the imminent arrival of the Second Coming.
During one of the unannounced closures of the church in early August 1902, a newspaper reporter, no doubt desperate for a story in the dog days of summer, went to investigate. ‘We – the world – is on the verge of a crisis,’ warned the only church member the reporter could find who would speak to him. ‘God alone knows. There is a terrible crisis at hand.’ But the elderly gentleman would say no more and the reporter gave up and went back to his boss, editor of the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette. The story was spiked.
But not for long.
No one knows whether the reporter decided to continue delving into this strange sect or whether he received a tip-off that it might be in his interests to attend evensong on Sunday, 7 September 1902. My grandfather had turned 50 on 1 August.
When the reporter arrived, a little late, he found the church packed to overflowing and the congregation singing the first hymn. He squeezed into a back row next to a lady accompanying two children dressed in white. She smiled at the reporter’s whispered apologies and offered to share her hymn book. Others seated in the row in front also turned and smiled at him. ‘The interior of the ark is white stone beautifully carved, the seats are of a light oak colour, and beyond them, in a semicircular altar, reached by carpeted steps, was a throne, before which was placed a table of white marble,’ read the reporter’s account in the 10 September edition of the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette. It went on:
Upon this throne was seated a tall emaciated man, with a sallow countenance, dark and glittering black eyes, thin black hair parted down the centre of a small head, but otherwise clean-shaven. He was dressed like a clergyman. Around him at the bottom of the dais were seated several men without any distinguishing vestments . . .
It appeared to be a very well-dressed congregation, hardly any poorly-clothed people, such as you see in other churches, being present . . . Several times, for instance, one of the (presumably) members of the church turned and, with a smile, pointed out the place of the hymns in the hymn book . . .
The singing was accompanied by the notes of a small organ. At its conclusion there was a deep silence, which lasted for quite half a minute, during which no movement was made. Then the dark young man sitting on the throne got up slowly and still more slowly walked round the table to the centre of the dais. There he stood for a time looking fixedly at the congregation facing him.
Then speaking softly, almost musically, and with deliberation, he said: ‘It is appointed unto man once to die and after this the judgment. Christ suffered for sin and it was promised that for them who waited for Him He would appear a second time with the salvation to man from death and judgment. Brother Prince was sent before his Lord’s face to prepare this way, to prepare the way for the Second Coming of Him who suffered for sin, to prepare the way for the restoration of all things. His testimony was true and the work of the Holy Ghost in him was perfect, and I who speak to you tonight, I am that Lord Jesus Christ who died and rose again and descended into heaven; I am that Lord Jesus come again in my own body to save those who come to me from death and judgment. Yes, I am He that liveth, and behold I am alive for ever more – the Lord from heaven and Life giving Spirit to those who know me and come to me. I am come again for the second time as the Bridegroom of the Church and the Judge of all men, for the Father has committed all judgment to me because I am the Son of Man. And you, each one of you, must be judged by me . . .’
The speaker again paused for several seconds, gazing abstractedly on his hearers. Then with a sudden reenlightenment of his eyes and lifting of his hands he resumed: ‘It is not up there – in heaven – where you will find your God, but in me who am united with the Father . . . Yet no man can come to me except the Father who sends me brings him for every man who really desires to know God will be taught by him and will come to me.’
The reporter was stunned. He re-read his notes. Yes, that’s what the preacher had said: ‘I am the Son of Man!’ Later, the reporter would note:
For this startling denouement there was nothing to prepare the visitor . . . It was quite obvious that many others in the church were unprepared for the announcement upon whom the reiterated testimony to the claim produced in one or two cases a dramatic effect.
The speaker moved his head slowly from side to side, and then slowly walked back to his throne, where he sat for a time with his head buried in his hands. After this there was a silence until a well-dressed woman got up in the centre of the congregation. ‘Every word he has spoken,’ she said, ‘God has spoken. God is here. I see him on the altar.’
An old grey-haired man got up and said, ‘Behold that is Christ.’
The speaker appeared to be quite calm.
‘Behold that is God,’ said another.
‘The Desire of all nations,’ said another.
‘Behold I testify to the Lord God,’ came from someone else . . .
At last a man, who appeared to be a stranger sitting next to the Leader representative, fell down convulsively on to his knees, his eyes full of tears, and dragging his wife on to her knees with him, said, ‘God, Annie, that is Jesus.’
It was not the only scene:
The last testimony having been given, several of those present addressing themselves to the figure on the throne, cried aloud, ‘Oh hail! Hail! Holy man!’ after which the entire body of those present said, ‘O hail thou King of Glory,’ at the conclusion of which the figure on the throne rose up and, in an ecstatic voice, said, ‘Peace! Peace be with you.’
It was to be anything but.
‘THE ARK STORMED. RIOTOUS CROWDS THREATEN THE AGAPEMONITES’ screamed the Morning Leader of 9 September 1902:
Some two hundred of the five or six thousand people who assembled on Clapton Common yesterday morning [8 September] got into the Agapemone or Abode of Love [sic] and heard the Revd J.H. Smyth-Pigott declare himself to be the Messiah on his Second Coming.
The police arrangements to cope with the crowd were quite inadequate, and the long queue that had been formed was broken up by a sudden and ugly rush, in which several women were bruised. The chapel was carried by assault, and dozens clambered over the railings after the gates were shut. Both on arrival and departure Mr Pigott was hissed and groaned at, but attempts to strike him were warded off by police . . . There were at least 3000 outside when the faithful began to arrive . . . the women were the most vehement . . . the men usually chaffed the congregation, fitting Biblical names to them with some appositeness and asking when the miracles were going to begin . . . Mr Pigott stepped out [of his coach] with a lady . . . Vigorous hissing and hootings greeted him. His response was to remove his hat and stare at the people with a weird and inscrutable smile upon his lips . . . After Mr Pigott had entered the building . . . about twenty men of the Salvation Army marched to the front of the church singing lustily, ‘We shall know him’. ‘Halt,’ said the captain, who then stepped forward and addressed the people. ‘Be it known unto you,’ he said, ‘that there is no other way of forgiving sins save through the Lord Jesus Christ . . .’ As they marched away again, the significance of this dramatic little interlude was not lost . . . There was an ominous swaying and a sudden and irresistible forward move . . . they hammered on the door in a very noisy manner . . . about two hundred of those who had got into the grounds were admitted . . . when the strange service was over, the crowd rushed out pell-mell . . . [Mr Pigott] came out shortly, still smiling and calm and was seen into his brougham by police . . . a mounted policeman galloped a lane through the crowd . . . thousands of people [ran] over the common after the carriage, yelling and hissing and uttering threats . . .
Half a century later, the coachman who made that dash to carry my grandfather to safety recounted the events of that day to a Daily Express reporter. The story was published on 16 December 1955. ‘Blimey, what a to-do!’ recalled Alfred Rawlings, then 82:
Old Smyth-Pigott had said he was the Lord and word, of course, spread like lightning. I mean to say, you’re asking for trouble if you go around saying things like that. Well of course, there were hundreds of people waiting for us. They were shouting and roaring. I whipped the coach round smartly and headed for home. The mob chased us right across Clapton Common shouting ‘hypocrite’ and things like that – a lot worse. We went to Smyth-Pigott’s house, he and the missus nipped in smartly . . .
On 15 September 1902, the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette reported:
The sensation caused by the blasphemous antics of the Reverend J.H. Smyth-Pigott culminated yesterday in one of the most disgraceful scenes that have ever desecrated an English Sabbath . . . the roadway was completely blocked and rendered impassable . . . fresh reinforcements of police came on the scene, but they were powerless . . . [inside the church, Mr Pigott’s preaching] was evidently too much for the unconverted portion of the audience, who vented their disapproval with cries of ‘Humbug,’ ‘Nonsense,’ ‘Liar’ . . .
Two days later, the same newspaper published the following:
Reverend J.H.S. Pigott left Clapton on Monday for the Abode of Love at Spaxton . . . news that he was to arrive at Bridgwater en route for Spaxton seems to have caused great excitement . . . a crowd of several hundred proceeded to the railway station. Directly the train came in all eyes scanned the carriages and presently a clergyman was seen to emerge . . . he was a short man and wore a straw hat . . . instantly there was a big rush . . . the clergyman was considerably hustled by the crowd and there were several ugly rushes . . . [the stationmaster] assured the crowd that this was not Mr Pigott, but the crowd was incredulous and the carriage drove away amid much booing and hooting.
And on 22 September 1902:
As generally anticipated, no services were held at the ‘Ark of the Covenant’ . . . the Reverend Mr Pigott will avoid all appearances in public until the popular resentment caused by his blasphemous claim to be the Messiah has somewhat abated . . . evidence of the state of excitability into which the people of north London have been thrown by Mr Smyth-Pigott’s claim to Divinity was afforded Friday night by an extraordinary scene at Dalston Junction.
Between seven and eight o’clock a carriage was drawn up to the north London station, and to an inquiry as to who he was waiting for the coachman jokingly replied, ‘Mr Smyth-Pigott.’ As if by magic the rumour spread that the leader of the Agapemonites was on the station, and in an incredibly short space of time a crowd of people in a state of angry excitement had gathered. Before long, the streets in the immediate neighbourhood were quite impassable to vehicular traffic . . . [railway officials] closed the station . . . a strong body of constables were quickly marched to the scene . . . [but] as train after train deposited its passengers the crowd, instead of being decreased, swelled to greater proportions . . . the scene was of the wildest description . . . it was late in the evening before it was deemed advisable to open the station gates to other passengers.
Was my grandfather losing his nerve? Was he regretting his extraordinary claim? Certainly, he cancelled all services at his Ark of the Covenant until further notice. But even that did not stop what the Hackney and Kingsland Gazette dubbed ‘the idle and the curious’ from hanging around outside the church hoping for more excitement. ‘Sunday lecturers’ made their appearance, hoping to capitalise on the crowds, but without success. Their strange beliefs were listened to politely and then ignored, as the crowd dispersed.
Other pretenders to divinity appeared. The Hackney and Kingsland Gazette reported: ‘A French rival to Mr. Pigott has come forward.’ He was apparently found ‘wearing a long robe haranguing a large crowd in the main street at Fontenay near Paris’. The police carted him off to a lunatic asylum. In Kentish Town, London, a shoeblack argued that he too was the reincarnation of the Messiah and anyone rejecting his claim would be rejected by God.
But the reporter who had broken the story was not to be diverted. He stationed himself outside the nearby lodgings of the ‘Messiah’ and was just in time to see ‘a gentleman whose name is not unknown in Debrett [sic] and who at one time had a seat in the House of Commons’ arrive and be admitted.
When he re-emerged about an hour later, the gentleman related how he had spoken with a Mr Douglas Hamilton, secretary to Mr Pigott. The secretary had explained, he said, that it wasn’t surprising that Christ had come in the body of Mr Pigott because Christ had changed his appearance many times after the crucifixion – as a gardener when he appeared to Mary Magdalene, as a stranger to two of his disciples on the road to Emmaus. The unnamed former Member of Parliament said he had countered that the true identity of Christ had been confirmed when he had shown to St Thomas the marks of the nails in his hands and feet. Hamilton, he reported, had repeated that Christ had appeared in many different characters.
The letters pages of area newspapers were overwhelmed. Heading a column’s worth on 26 September 1902 is – along with comments on ‘the state of the roads’ and ‘the wicked education bill’ – ‘the Clapton “messiah”’.
‘. . . Pity him,’ wrote D.W. Miller, ‘I do not believe him to be a hypocrite, but a man of great religious feeling, though sadly deluded . . . Had Mr Pigott developed his reason a little more he would not have been victim of his absurd delusion.’ And he wasn’t the only one.
By October, my grandfather had shaken off the dust of disbelieving London and repaired to his Abode of Love in Somerset, where he was greeted with a mixture of awe, delight and supplication. It was left to loyal Douglas Hamilton to deal with this latest skirmish with Church authorities. A Reverend Browne of Crouch End had written asking to publicly debate Mr Pigott on his Messianic claims. ‘We have nothing to debate,’ replied Hamilton.
Moreover, he continued, future correspondence would not be forthcoming unless the Messiah was approached ‘in the attitude of supplication’. The Reverend J.H. Smyth-Pigott had ‘ceased to be’.