Aladdin of London or, Lodestar
By Max Pemberton
The orator was not eloquent, but he had told a human story and all listened with respect. When he paused and looked upward it seemed to many that a light of justice shone upon his haggard face while the tears rolled unwiped down his ragged jerkin. His lank, unkempt hair, caught by the draught from the open doors at the far end of the hall, streamed behind him in grotesque profusion. His hands were clenched and his lips compressed. That which he had told to the sea of questioning faces below him was the story of his life. The name which he had uttered with an oath upon his lips was the name of the man who had deprived him of riches and liberty. When he essayed to add a woman’s name and to speak of the wrongs which had been done her, the power of utterance left him in an instant and he stood there gasping, his eyes toward the light which none but he could see; a prayer of gratitude upon his lips because he had found the man and would repay.
Look down upon this audience and you shall see a heterogeneous assembly such as London alone of the cities can show you. The hall is a crazy building enough, not a hundred yards from the Commercial Road at Whitechapel. The time is the spring of the year 1903—the hour is eight o’clock at night. Ostensibly a meeting to discuss the news that had come that day from the chiefs of the Revolutionaries in Warsaw, the discussion had been diverted, as such discussions invariably are, to a recital of personal wrongs and of individual resolutions—even to mad talk of the conquest of the world and the crowning of King Anarchy. And to this, the wild Asiatics and the sad-faced Poles listened alike with rare murmurs and odd contortions of limbs and body. Let Paul Boriskoff of Minsk be the orator and they knew that the red flag would fly. But never before has Boriskoff been seen in tears and the spectacle enchained their attention as no mere rhetoric could have done.
A man’s confession, if it be honest, must ever be a profoundly interesting document. Boriskoff, the Pole, did not hold these people spellbound by the vigor of his denunciation or the rhythmic chant of his anger. He had begun in a quiet voice, welcoming the news from Warsaw and the account of the assassination of Deputy Governor Lebinsky. From that he passed to the old question, why does authority remain in any city at all?
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Max Pemberton
Sir Max Pemberton JP (19 June 1863 – 22 February 1950) was a popular English novelist and publisher working mainly in the adventure and mystery genres.
Life
He was educated at St Albans School, Merchant Taylors’ School, and Caius College, Cambridge. A club man, journalist, and dandy (Lord Northcliffe admired his ‘fancy vests’), he frequented both Fleet Street and The Savage Club.
Pemberton was the editor of boys’ magazine Chums in 1892–1893 during its heyday. Between 1896 and 1906 he also edited Cassell’s Magazine, in which capacity he published the early works of R. Austin Freeman and William Le Queux.
His most famous work The Iron Pirate was a best-seller during the early 1890s and it initiated his prolific writing career. It was the story of a great gas-driven iron-clad, which could outpace the navies of the world and terrorize the shipping of the Atlantic Ocean. Other notable works included Captain Black (1911). Pemberton’s 1894 collection Jewel Mysteries: From a Dealer’s Notebook was a series of Mystery stories revolving around stolen jewels. Pemberton also wrote historical fiction. Pemberton’s I Crown Thee King is set in Sherwood Forest during the time of Mary I. His novels Beatrice of Venice (1904) and Paulina (1922) center on Napoleon’s military campaigns in Italy.
In January 1908, just one year after the death of Pemberton’s friend and fellow Crimes Club member, Bertram Fletcher Robinson, he had a story titled Wheels of Anarchy published by Cassell (publisher). This book includes the following book dedication in the form of an ‘Author’s Note’:
This story was suggested to me by the late B. Fletcher Robinson deeply mourned. The subject was one in which he had interested himself for some years, and almost the last message I had from him expressed the desire that I would keep my promise and treat the idea in a book. This I have now done, adding something of my own to the brief notes he left me but chiefly bringing to the task an enduring gratitude for a friendship which nothing can replace.
Max Pemberton
