Part 4

Religion in England—and Religion has, inaptly enough, become a synonym for Christianity, in which general sense of the term I use it here—Religion in England, just like everything else, is conducted in the interest of the Middle-class. Go into the London back-streets on a sunday morning. You will find the men leaning against the walls, the women at the doors, the children in the gutters. The public-houses, you observe, are closed: the Middle-class does not like that the People should be drinking beer and spirits while they themselves are indulging in religious worship. Enter the church or the chapel. What are the services like? We all know them—a performance on the part of the choir, or a discreet, sibilant, half-articulate murmur on the part of the congregation. The clergyman or minister reads out a portion of the wonderful and beautiful history of Jesus in a fine meaningless monotone, and “here endeth the second lesson.” But of the passion and the peace of the Galilean story, what does _he_ know? He has forgotten or never known Jesus, but he can tell you plenty about Christ. Listen to the sermons. What do they treat of? Matters that are likely to interest the men and women outside there? The sermons are empty of Jesus and full of Christ—empty of the truth of the Master and full of the dogmas of the Pupils. Theology, theological dogmas, Catholic or Protestant, are perhaps interesting to men and women who are well to do, and like to have something to argue about; but what does poverty care for them? The man who has eaten a good breakfast and is waiting for a good dinner may care to have it shown to him, that he and his fellows are the one body of Christians that is absolutely and entirely orthodox; but the man with an empty belly, and little or no prospect of filling it, may perhaps be forgiven for not caring a jot whether these are blasts of true or false doctrine, or not. The matter does not affect him: he stops outside. So should we.

Now, I would not for a moment imply that there are not priests, clergymen, and ministers who have done, and are doing, fine and noble work among the People. There are many such. But what I do say is, that, speaking generally, the church and the chapel have both utterly failed to seriously affect the mass of the People, and that they have done so for the reasons I have given above.—“In the year 1865,” says Mr. Booth in one of the Salvation Army pamphlets, “Mr. Booth was led, by the Providence of God, by no plan or idea of his own, to the East of London, where the appalling fact that the enormous bulk of the population were totally ignorant and deficient of real religion, and altogether uninfluenced by the existing religious organizations, so impressed him that he determined to devote his life to _making_ these people _hear_ and _know_ God, and thus save them from the abyss of misery in which they were plunged, and rescue them from the damnation that was before them. The Salvation Army is the result.” _The Salvation Army is the result._ He simply states the fact. It was “by no plan or idea of his own.” He has, so far as I know, never explained more than the phenomena of it.[6] I have talked with one of his sons on the subject, and all he has to tell me in explanation of 859 corps or stations, 2041 paid officials, and _War Cry_ newspapers with a weekly circulation of 550,000, is _how_, as he takes it, the Salvationists “get at” the People; but he knows, and probably cares, absolutely nothing about the _why_. “The grate was set,” I say, “You were the match, and behold the fire!” “It is the Lord,” he says, and I do not think of contradicting him. It is not natural that a man who takes part in a movement should know more than the _how_ of it, should know the _why_. If he did, he would not be as unhesitating as he is in his belief that his movement is so good. To achieve little we must aim at much. He who lives passionately in the present must leave the dead to bury their dead and the babes unborn to consider their suckling: he must create, he has not time to criticise. At the same time how important it is that there should be not only doers but watchers; not only creators but critics; not only those who concern themselves with the _how_ but also those who concern themselves with the _why_, for the _why_ unlocks the gates of both the past and the future: it tells us not only the _whence_ but also the _whither_.

Now, as I have said, in a certain state of affairs which we have noticed lies _this why_, and there, if we can only look well enough, we shall find it. The Salvation Army is, like everything else an organism. It has its seed, and all its stages of development up to its maturity and down into its decay, when it, too, like everything else, will go to form nutriment for other organisms, just as others have for its own.

Now, nothing will help us more in our search after this _why_ than a knowledge of the _how_, and, since this knowledge is, at any rate among the governing classes, wonderfully limited, I propose giving a short account of how the Salvation Army and its work has struck me personally. It seems almost needless to state that I am an unprejudiced observer. The Salvation Army, as the Salvation Army, is literally nothing to me: my only interest in it lies in the influence which it exerts, whether for good or evil, on the People. I have no cause to plead. If anyone can point out mistakes of mine, or even demonstrate to me that my whole view of this matter is an illusion, no one, I am sure, will be more pleased and grateful than myself. Those are our real benefactors who demonstrate to us an illusion and open the way to a better view of things.

IV.

I propose, I said, giving a short account of how the Salvation Army and its work has struck me personally. When I was in England I studied it, as I study all movements that are going on around me, with more or less care. Since I have been in Australia I have done the same, and, as I have found the differences between the English and Australian Salvation Armies to be immaterial ones, and as I am now addressing an Australian audience, I shall speak of the Salvation Army as I have seen it here, so that he who cares may go and see for himself whether I am correct or incorrect in my view of it. This, too, will enable him more easily, if he desires it, to point out my mistakes and even demonstrate to me that my whole view is an illusion, and make me his pleased and grateful debtor for life. First, however, let me just notice what these differences between the English and Australian Salvation Armies are. In one word the Australian is less exaggerative. The People in Australia breathes free: it does not feel the weight of the two great divisions of the Middle-class that is above it, the well-to-do and the gentlemen. Workmen here do not go slouching down the streets, as they do in England, crushed under the sense of their inferiority. This is a true republic, the truest, as I take it, in the world. In England the average man feels that he is an inferior: in America he feels that he is a superior: in Australia he feels that he is an equal. This is indeed delightful. It is the first thing that strikes a new arrival in this country, and although Australia’s sins—sins against true civilization, I mean—are as many as they are heinous, still a multitude of them, as it seems to me, is covered by this—namely, that here the People is neither servile nor insolent, but only shows its respect of itself by its respect of others. Nowhere else but in France is there, I think, anything quite like it.

There is, then, naturally less exaggerativeness in the Australian than the English Salvation Army. When a man is, as they say, “saved” there, it is from a far deeper “abyss of misery” than it is here. The very atmosphere of England is heavy with the degradation of the People. For a man to become, no longer passively, but actively aware of this, is almost overwhelming, and so is his feeling when he believes that he has escaped from it. Hence those wild words and acts of the Salvationists which have offended so many. Add to this the excitement caused by a large gathering, religious emulation, etc., etc., and the matter is a simple one.

Now let us go to a Salvationist popular service, and see their manner of work there. The hall is crowded. The great bulk of the congregation is made up of the upper stratum of the People, servants, small shopkeepers, etc. There are also a not inconsiderable number of the lower stratum of the People, labourers. Many outsiders have come from curiosity. On the stage or platform are a certain number of the regular paid officials in their uniforms, and of “hallelujah lasses” in their straight dresses and poke-bonnets. Considering these men and women attentively, what most strikes us is that the generality are, as Jeffrey said lightly of Carlyle, “terribly in earnest.” Some have the business-like air of all officials, religious or otherwise: some have a somewhat disgusted air, as if they were rather wearying of it all, now that the novelty has worn off. But the generality of them are, there is no doubt of it, “terribly in earnest.” Presently the head officials enter, and the service is opened with a hymn. The Salvationists sing well: I remember that, at the first Salvationist service at which I was present, this singing of theirs was something like a revelation to me. It was not its “go,” as we say, that affected me: it was its depth and sweetness. It comes from the heart and goes to the heart. This is the only language the People can either use or understand.

Just beside me a little boy of four or five, standing between his father’s knees with shut eyes and waving arm, is shouting and bawling out the words of the hymn, so that he may attract attention and be an “edification.” It is painful. (Later on during a prayer he lies along the floor on his stomach and eats a green apple and pinches a bigger boy’s legs. Myself, I prefer him like that.) During the prayers there are frequent interruptions, chiefly from the platform, of “Hallelujah,” “Praise God,” and so on, for the most part in a business-like fashion, quite formal. A man cannot repeat the same words and acts for long with impunity.—These, and things like these, are the inevitable accompaniments of all services, religious or otherwise. We take them for granted, and pass on.

Presently a man is brought forward to give his testimony. He begins by saying that he never thought to address such a gathering as this, that he is a poor ignorant man, and so on, but that he trusts in Jesus to help him through alright. He tells his tale. It is a tale for ever old and for ever new. He was a drunkard, he was debauched, a blasphemer. He used his wife and children ill, he paid no heed to the clergyman and the minister. Then a Salvationist came to him and told him about Jesus. And that converted him, and now, etc., etc., etc. His excitement grows: his voice rises to a high-pitched monotone. He implores, he begs, he entreats, he abjures. “Come to Jesus, come to Jesus! It’s only him can make you happy! You don’t know how he loves you!—O dear people,” he bursts out at length, “I could _die_ for you, if you would only come to him!” In the end, it is painful: the high-pitched monotone oppresses us, and we are glad when he has ended.

Another follows, but with little or no variety. Then a girl speaks, “happy Janet” (say). She has just the same tale to tell: it is all Jesus, nothing but Jesus! “To think,” I heard one of these girls say, hushed and awed, “to think that the Son of God loved us so that he suffered all this for _us_! To think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow!” and her voice broke.—Janet cannot say too much about the suffering of Jesus, because it was because he loved us all so, that he suffered. Then she tells how she had a brother, and the brother thought he was old enough to be by hisself, and do for hisself, and he went away, away to Màn-chester, and they were all very sad about it, e-specially mother. And the days and the weeks and the months went by, and they never heard anythink about him, and they went out and up and down the town, hoping he might come back and they might see him again, for he might be ashamed, they thought, to come into the house. And sometimes mother’d come to wake her up early in the morning, and say: “Come, Janet, let’s go out and look for Tom: maybe we’ll find him _this_ morning.” And they used to go out and look for him in the early morning, and they couldn’t find him. But at last he _did_ come back, and O, dear people, how thin he was! Yes, he’d had enough of it! He found he couldn’t do for hisself after all, so he came back to mother and us, and we loved him more than ever.—And O, dear people, that’s the way with _us_ and Jesus. We think we’re old enough to be by ourselves and to do for ourselves. But we ar’n’t: we’re never old enough to do without Jesus! He’s always loving us and strengthening us and giving us peace. So come to him; don’t wait any longer but come to him! Don’t think you’re too wicked. No one’s too wicked for Jesus: he suffered for us and he died for us, for _you_ and _me_, and he loves us more than all the others do, and we can’t tell how glad it makes him when we come to him! Here, as in the singing, it is not the “go,” the excitement, which affects us most, it is the depth and sweetness. It comes from the heart and goes to the heart. It is the only language the People can either use or understand.

_Jesus!_—It is always Jesus, I say, never or very rarely Christ. These Salvationists feel and know their Master. With them he lives: with us he exists. And Jesus is to them as some one dowered with all the possibilities of mortal happiness who yet renounced everything from his great love for the People, and suffered and died for them a cruel death. Herein is the secret of the sempiternal influence of Jesus: he is the great Lover. I do not for a moment think that these Salvationists have any connected scheme of the character or life of Jesus. They cannot argue about him, they would say: they know that he _lives_. They lay little or no stress on the risen Jesus, the Christ. Their concern is with the living Jesus, him who loved the flowers and the children and the publicans and the harlots, him who showed his love by his life and above all by his cruel death. This Jesus was not a philanthropist: he was better, he was a lover. “He, who might have been a great king, actually preferred to come and suffer and die a cruel death because he loved us so!” This love, this pity seems to them unique, godlike. “_To think of the thorns wounding his beautiful brow._” Hence the power of Jesus to awaken in men a sense of sin, and, still more, a hope of salvation. “Why,” they ask, “did this wonderful beautiful Jesus suffer all this?—_why?_” Then comes the answer. “_Because he saw that I was a sinner and he loved and pitied me so, that he suffered all this for my sake._” It is an overwhelming fact. Once get a man to see it and his life is revolutionised: he believes in Love.

Napoleon, we remember, was puzzled by this sempiternal influence of Jesus. He remarked that he himself understood how to awaken in his own behalf the enthusiasm of men, but he was alive, whereas Jesus was dead. “_O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, but ye would not!_” Yearning love like this was a mystery to our wonderful destructive Emperor: he would have called it foolish. And to many others beside him this sempiternal influence of Jesus has been, is, and will be the same. Here is our good Man of Science, the immortal dunce who dates knowledge from “Social Statics” and the “Origin of Species,” who thinks Jesus was a very fine character, you know, but full of superstition and delusion. And here is our most irrational of Rationalists who has a pathetic faith in the method of the late lamented Bishop Colenso, a method which consists in the profound consideration of the geometry of the empyrean and the colour of mathematical figures. And lastly, here is our dear blatant Secularist whose discourse so pleasantly shows us how a man who was a blockhead as a Christian can be doubly a blockhead as a Secularist.—Here, I say, are these three types, or let us take them as individuals. Here is our good friend Mr. Caffyn, who was writing such brilliant letters to the _Argus_ the other day, letters which show a nice acquaintance with the books of Dr. Maudsley and the rudiments of modern physiology; and here is the late lamented Sir Richard Hanson of Adelaide, whose mantle is just now descending on Mr. Justice Williams; and, lastly, here is our loquacious friend at the Hall of Science, Mr. Joseph Symes. All these gather around the poor ignorant labourer who is “saved,” and demonstrate to him his foolishness in believing in such an outworn piece of nonsense as Christianity. “As for this Jesus of yours, my good man,” they say after their several fashions, “he was a very fine character, you know, but—_he was only a man just like you or me_!” To whom the poor ignorant labourer answers with a smile: “Whether he be a fine character or not, I know not: one thing I know, that, _whereas I was blind, now I see_.” Come away, Mr. Caffyn: come away, ghost of Sir Richard: come away, Mr. Symes. It is quite useless to talk with a besotted Christo-maniac like this. Why, he absolutely believes that he has a spiritual experience of which you are ignorant, and can afford to smile at you! After this, the deluge!—Gentlemen, hadn’t you better go home to dinner, and leave the poor devil alone?

To return to the meeting, which is not yet concluded.—When the testimonies are all given, those who feel that they have been leading a life of sin are exhorted to come forward and profess. The hall empties. Ten or twelve, men and women, young men and girls, come forward and kneel down at a bench in front of the platform. Some are inclined to be hysterical. The Salvationists, men and women, come and talk to them, leaning against them, their arms round their shoulders, exhorting and encouraging. This, you see, is Religious Socialism. No one can love Jesus, “the divine Communist” (as Heine calls him), with impunity. If you love, and to love is to know, Jesus, you must get others to love and to know him, and your desire to get others fills you with the same yearning love for them that Jesus has for you: “_O dear people, I could ~die~ for you, if you would only come to him_!”

Then, when no more will come forward, the service concludes with each of those who is “saved,” speaking before them all—saying what has come to him to make him repent, and expressing his firm determination to lead a better life. The first step has now been taken—the man by his public confession is compromised. He cannot now so easily fall back. He is known to his fellows, who will exhort and encourage him. He has every incentive to date a new life from to-day, not to put it off over and over again to “to-morrow.”

What, is all this, then, a trap? Yes, if you care to call it so. Men, to whom the “saved” and the “unsaved” life, the bliss of heaven and the anguish of hell, is a passionate reality, speak of it passionately to the ignorant or the careless, and then (like true guilefully guileless religionists) take advantage of the moment of realization which they have aroused in a soul, to compromise that soul before the world to lead a new life of continual realization. You see, these Salvationists are of the men and women of the People and they know the men and women, not only of the People, but of each and every class of us: they know how frail is unaided resolution, and they act on their knowledge. Do not think, though, that they believe that weakness of will is to be found only among the People. Far from it! They attack Respectability, they attack the hypocrisy of the Middle-class, as fearlessly as they attack the open sin of the People. Our good clergymen and ministers, for whom I have, in many respects, so much admiration, are afraid to attack the Middle-class: the Middle-class is the payer of pew-rents. Alas, alas, ye cannot serve God and Mammon! It is really a great nuisance; but ye cannot! Now these Salvationists do not happen to have pews: so they need not stand hat in hand before Respectability. They can say boldly that the Publican is as good as the Pharisee: that hypocrisy is no better, if it is not far worse, than open sin. Look, to it, my in-so-many-respects-admirable clergymen and ministers, you are not masters here but pupils!

V.

I am not going to discuss the question of Salvationist ritual. Brass bands and concertinas give but a poor idea of “the beauty of holiness:” a dissenting chapel does the same. Banners and handkerchiefs and so on are apt to be tawdry: so are dressed statues, standards, incense, and the rest. But who, considering the hideousness of Protestantism and the tawdriness of Catholicism, would therefore call Protestantism hideous and Catholicism tawdry? Certainly not I who am so sincere an admirer of them both. Neither, then, considering what we hear called the Christy-Minstrelism and Music-Hallism of the Salvation Army, must we think that, when we have called their meetings Christy Minstrels or Music Halls, we have quite disposed of them. Alas, my dear Middle-class, cannot you see that the People is what you, who govern the People, have made it? Might I, a humble unit of your millions, suggest to you that it is just because, what you call, your Upper Ten Thousand is hideous that you are more hideous? and that it is just because you, my dear Middle-class, are more hideous that the People is most hideous? Will it be many ages, I wonder, before you can be got to see this?—to see that you had better take the mote out of your own eye before you are so enthusiastic about taking the beams out of the eyes of your neighbours?

If, however, anyone wants to see what Mr. Booth himself has to say in defence of his “Colours, Bands of Music, Processions, and other sensational methods employed” (as he says), I would refer him to a little penny pamphlet called “All about the Salvation Army,” which can be got at the Salvation Army Head-quarters in Russell Street. For myself, I have nothing to do with this side of the question: I profess that I consider most church-bells are as bad as most brass-bands, and am profoundly indifferent as to whether they are, as Mr. Booth would like to know, “unscriptural” or not. I am of opinion that the admirers of church-bells and brass-bands had better fight it out among themselves.