Mr P. Roberts
The Forge
Stocks Hill
from Rev. Silas B. Phlegthruss B.A.,Calcutta
c/o the Figball-Possit Temperance Society Hostel for Peripatetic Clergymen
Great Portland Street
London W1
Dear Mr Roberts,First allow me to apologise for this intrusion, and then to introduce myself.
Modesty forbids that I assume you may have heard of me, though for a number of years now, I have toured the Provinces, lecturing against the Demon Drink.. Indeed I may make so bold as to say that my crusade in life is to alert as many poor souls as possible to the perils of alcohol, for you may be sure that a soul that has succumbed to the powers of intoxicating liquors is a very poor soul indeed.
Such was my assistant, Norman. I found Norman several years ago. Although only a man of less than thirty summers, far too many of those summers had been spent at the fountain of Bacchus. Norman was not just an alcoholic, he was an alcohol addict, a shambling wreck of a man, a hollow, twitching shell, a creature to be despised and shunned.
Although I managed to coerce Norman to see the light, to shun forever the paths of debauchery and self-indulgence, the damage that had been done to his mind and body would remain unchanged for the rest of his life. This is what made Norman so suited to the needs of my crusade, in fact, in latter years, Norman proved to be the main thrust of my attack, the grand climax of my lecture.
Briefly, the format of my lecture was this: I would begin by denouncing the evils of alcohol, both direct and associated, then when I felt that the audience was fully receptive, I would turn to outlining the benefits of a clean, healthy life, and would appear to be making this my closing climax, but at the last moment, I would reverse my tack, and with a suitably dramatic gesture I would divert the audience’ attention to the only available alternative for backsliding and failure; a curtain would open to reveal Norman.
Norman would shuffle forward with the aid of his sticks, and sit on a stool at the edge of the platform. He didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. The sight of him was enough. His patchy, lifeless hair, his blotched skin, his yellowed eyes in their inflamed, bulging sockets, the shiny red gash of his hideous, toothless grin, his stubbly chin with its permanent glistening of saliva, his pitifully contorted body, his bony hands twitching constantly, on his scrawny, shaking knees- altogether a picture from which even the stoutest heart would recoil in revulsion and horror, for in poor Norman’s figure, every man saw his own potential condemnation.
And so my lecture would end with Norman sitting at the front of the platform until every member of the audience had left, or rather fled.
Sadly, my lectures had to end suddenly, with the recent unhappy death of Norman. For the past three months, I have been resigned to abandoning my crusade, that is until mutual acquaintances told me of you, and so I am writing to ask if you would consider taking poor Norman’s place; if you will take up poor Norman’s fallen banner and carry it back into the fight, so that others may be dissuaded from bringing upon themselves the abuse that poor wretches like you and poor Norman have heaped upon themselves.
I beg you to consider most carefully before making your decision. I shall be at the above address until May 26th. May providence and the Almighty guide you in your deliberations
I remain, Sir, your obedient Servant,
Silas B. Phlegthruss
P.S. I forgot to mention that the mutual acquaintances alluded to are Neil and Valerie Smalley, and they will be delighted to attend your birthday tea.
Phlegthruss