CAPTAIN COPPIN.
It was at this time that Tom Coppin, Captain Coppin of the Salvation
Army, paid his only visit to Angela, that visit that caused so much
sensation among the girls.
He chose a quiet evening early in the week. Why he came has never been
quite clear. It was not curiosity, for he had none; nor was it a desire
to study the kind of culture which Angela had introduced among her
friends, for he had no knowledge of, or desire for, culture at all. Nor
does the dressmakers' workshop afford a congenial place for the exercise
of that soldier's gifts. He came, perhaps, because he was passing on his
way from a red-hot prayer meeting to a red-hot preaching, and he thought
he would see the place which among others, the Advanced Club for
instance, was keeping his brother from following in his own steps, and
helping him to regard the world, its pleasures and pursuits, with eyes
of affection. One knows not what he expected to find or what he
proposed by going there, because the things he did find completely upset
all his expectations, if he had any. Visions, perhaps, of the
soul-destroying dance, and the red cup, and the loud laughter of fools,
and the talk that is as the crackling of thorns, were in his mind.
The room was occupied, as usual, with the girls, Angela among them.
Captain Sorensen was there too; the girls were quietly busy, for the
most part, over "their own" work, because, if they would go fine, they
must make their own fineries; it was a frosty night, and the fire was
burning clear; in the most comfortable chair beside it sat the crippled
girl of whom we know; the place was hers by a sort of right; she was
gazing into the flames, listening lazily to the music--Angela had been
playing--and doing nothing, with contentment. Life was so sweet to the
child when she was not suffering pain, and was warm, and was not hungry,
and was not hearing complaints, that she wanted nothing more. Nelly, for
her part, sat with hands folded pensively, and Angela wondered what, of
late days, it was that seemed to trouble her.
Suddenly the door opened, and a man, dressed in a tight uniform of dark
cloth and a cap of the same, with "S. S." upon it, like the Lord Mayor's
gold chain, stood before them.
He did not remove his cap, but he looked round the room, and presently
called in a loud, harsh voice:
"Which of you here answers to the name of Kennedy?"
"I do," replied Angela; "my name is Kennedy. What is yours, and why do
you come here?"
"My name is Coppin. My work is to save souls. I tear them out of the
very clutches and claws of the devil; I will have them; I leave them no
peace until I have won them; I cry aloud to them; I shout to them; I
pray for them; I sing to them; I seek them out in their hiding-places,
even in their dens and courts of sin; there are none too far gone for my
work; none that I will let go once I get a grip of them; once my hand is
on them out they must come if the devil and all his angels were pulling
them the other way. For my strength is not of myself; it is----"
"But why do you come here?" asked Angela.
The man had the same black hair and bright eyes as his brother; the same
strong voice, although a long course of street-shouting had made it
coarse and rough; but his eyes were brighter, his lips more sensitive,
his forehead higher; he was like his brother in all respects, yet so
unlike that, while the Radical had the face of a strong man, the
preacher had in his the indefinable touch of weakness which fanaticism
always brings with it. Whatever else it was, however, the face was that
of a man terribly in earnest.
"I have heard about you," he said. "You are of those who cry peace when
there is no peace; you entice the young men and maidens who ought to be
seeking pardon and preaching repentance, and you destroy their souls
with dancing and music. I come here to tell you that you are one of the
instruments of the devil in this wicked town."
"Have you really come here, Mr. Coppin, on purpose to tell me that?"
"That," he said, "is part of my message."
"Do you think," asked Angela, because this was almost intolerable, "that
it is becoming a preacher like yourself to invade a quiet and private
house in order to insult a woman?"
"Truth is not insult," he said. "I come here as I would go to a theatre
or a singing-hall or any soul-destroying place. You shall hear the plain
truth. With your music and your dancing and your pleasant ways, you are
corrupting the souls of many. My brother is hardened in his unrepentance
since he knew you. My cousin goes on laughing, and dances over the very
pit of destruction, through you. These girls----"
"Oh!" cried Rebekah, who had no sympathy with the Salvation Army, and
felt herself an authority when the religious question was touched, "they
are all mad. Let him go away."
"I would," replied the captain, "that you were half as mad. Oh! I know
you now; I know you snug professors of a Saturday religion----"
"Your mission," Angela interrupted, "is not, I am sure, to argue about
another sect. Come, Mr. Coppin, now that you have told us who you are
and what is your profession and why you come here, you might like to
preach to us. Do so, if you will. We were sitting here quietly when you
came, and you interrupt nothing. So that, if it would really make you
feel any happier, you may preach to us for a few minutes."
He looked about him in hesitation. This kind of preaching was not in his
line: he loved a vast hall with a thousand faces looking at him; or a
crowd of turbulent roughs ready to answer the Message with a volley of
brickbats; or a chance gathering of unrepentant sinners in a wide
thoroughfare. He could lift up his voice to them; but to preach in a
quiet room to a dozen girls was a new experience.
And it was not the place which he had expected. His brother, in their
last interview, had thrown in his teeth this house and its doings as
offering a more reasonable solution of life's problems than his own.
"You want everybody," he said, "to join you in singing and preaching
every day; what should we do when there was nobody left to preach at?
Now, there, what they say is, 'Let us make ourselves comfortable.'
There's a deal in that, come to think of.
"Look at those girls now: while you and your Happy Elizas are trampin'
in the mud with your flag and your procession, and gettin' black eyes
and brickbats, they are singin' and laughin' and dancin', and makin'
what fun they can for themselves. It seems to me, Tom, that if this kind
of thing gets fashionable you and your army will be played out."
Well, he had come to see this place, which had offered pleasure instead
of repentance, as a method of improving life. They were not laughing and
singing at all; there were no men present except one old gentleman in a
blue coat with brass buttons. To be sure, he had a fiddle lying on a
chair beside him. There was no indication whatever of the red cup, and
no smell of tobacco. Now, pleasure without drink, tobacco, and singing
had been in Tom's unregenerate days incomprehensible. "I would rather,"
said Dick, "see an army of Miss Kennedy's girls than an army of
Hallelujah Polls." Yet they seemed perfectly quiet. "Make 'em happy,
Tom, first," said Dick, who was still thinking over Harry's speech as a
possible point of departure. Happiness is not a word in the dictionary
of men like Tom Coppin; they know what it means; they know a spree; they
understand drink; they know misery, because it is all round them--the
misery of hunger, of disease, of intemperance, of dirt, of evil temper,
of violence; the misery which the sins of one bring all, and sins of all
upon each. Indeed, we need not go to Whitechapel to find out misery. But
they know not happiness. For such as Captain Coppin there is, as an
alternative for misery, the choice of glory. What they mean by glory is
ecstasy, the rapture, the mysteries of emotional religion; he, they
believe, is the most advanced who is most often hysterical; Dick, like
many of his followers, yearned honestly and unselfishly to extend this
rapture which he himself so often enjoyed: but that there should be any
other way out of the misery save by way of the humble stool of
conviction, was a thing which he could not understand. Happiness, calm,
peace, content, the sweet enjoyment of innocent recreation--these things
he knew nothing of; they had not come his way.
He had come; he had seen; no doubt the moment his back was turned the
orgy would begin. But he had delivered his message: he had warned the
young woman who had led the girls--that calm, cold woman who looked at
him with curiosity and was so unmoved by what he said: he might go. With
his whole heart he had spoken and had so far moved no one except the
daughter of the Seventh-Day Independent--and her only a little. This
kind of thing is very irritating. Suppose you were to put a red-hot
poker into a jug of water without producing any steam or hissing at all,
how, as a natural philosopher, would you feel?
"You may preach to us, if you like," said Miss Kennedy.
She sat before him, resting her chin upon her hand. He knew that she was
beautiful, although women and their faces, graces, and sweet looks
played no part at all in his thoughts. He felt, without putting the
thing into words, that she was beautiful. Also, that she regarded him
with a kind of contempt, as well as curiosity; also, that she had
determined not to be moved by anything he might say; also, that she
relied on her own influence over the girls. And he felt for a moment as
if his trusty arms were dropping from his hands and his whole armor was
slipping from his shoulders. Not her beauty; no, fifty Helens of Troy
would not have moved this young apostle; but her position as an
impregnable outsider. For against the curious outsider, who regard
captains in the Salvation Army only as so many interesting results of
growing civilization, their officers are powerless indeed.
If there is any real difference between the working-man of England and
the man who does other work, it is that the former is generally
emotional and the latter is not. To the man of emotion things cannot be
stated too strongly; his leader is he who has the greatest command of
adjectives; he is singularly open to the charm of eloquence; he likes
audacity of statement; he likes to be moved by wrath, pity, and terror;
he has no eye for shades of color; and when he is most moved he thinks
he is most right. It is this which makes him so angry with the people
who cannot be moved.
Angela was one of those persons who cannot be moved by the ordinary
methods. She looked at Tom as if he was some strange creature, watching
what he did, listening to what he said, as if she was not like unto him.
It is not quite a fair way of describing Angela's attitude of mind; but
it is near enough; and it represents what passed through the brain of
the Salvation captain.
"Will you preach to us?" she repeated the third time.
He mechanically opened his hymn-book.
"Number three hundred and sixty-two," he said quietly.
He sang the hymn all by himself, at the top of his voice, so that the
windows rattled, to one of those rousing and popular melodies which have
been pressed into the service of the army; it was, in fact, "Molly
Darling," and the people at Stepney Green asked each other in wonder if
a meeting of the Salvation Army was actually being held at Miss
Kennedy's.
When he had finished his hymn he began to preach.
He stammered at first, because the surroundings were strange; besides,
the cold, curious eyes of Miss Kennedy chilled him. Presently, however,
he recovered self-possession, and began his address.
There is one merit, at least, possessed by these preachers; it is that
of simplicity. Whatever else they may be, they are always the same; even
the words do not vary while there is but one idea.
If you want to influence the dull of comprehension, such as the common
donkey, there is but one way possible. He cannot be led, or coaxed, or
persuaded; he must be thwacked. Father Stick explains and makes
apparent, instantly, what the logic of all the schools has failed to
prove. In the same way, if you wish to awaken the spiritual emotions
among people who have hitherto been strange to them, your chance is not
by argument, but by appeals, statements, prophecies, threats, terrors,
and pictures, which, in fact, do exactly correspond, and produce the
same effect as Father Stick; they are so many knock-down blows; they
belabor and they terrify.
The preacher began: the girls composed themselves to listen, with the
exception of Rebekah, who went on with her work ostentatiously, partly
to show her disapproval of such irregular proceedings and partly as one
who, having got the truth from an independent source, and being already
advanced in the narrow way, had no occasion for the captain's
persuasion.
It is one thing to hear the voice of a street preacher in his own
church, so to speak, that is, on the curbstone, and quite another thing
to hear the same man and the same person in a quiet room. Tom Coppin had
only one sermon, though he dressed it up sometimes, but not often, in
new words. Yet he was relieved of monotony by the earnestness which he
poured into it. He believed in it, himself; that goes a long way. Angela
began by thinking of the doctrine, but presently turned her attention to
the preacher, and began to think what manner of man he was. Personally
he was pale and thin, with strong black hair, like his brother, and his
eyes were singularly bright.
Here was a man of the people: self-taught; profoundly ignorant as to the
many problems of life and its solutions; filled, however, with that
noble sympathy which makes prophets, poets, martyrs; wholly possessed
of faith in his narrow creed, owning no authority of church or priest;
believing himself under direct Divine guidance, chosen and called, the
instrument of merciful Heaven to drag guilty souls from the pit;
consciously standing as a servant, day and night, before a Throne which
other men regard afar off or cannot see at all; actually living the life
of hardship, privation, and ill-treatment, which he preached; for the
sake of others, enduring hardness, poverty, contumely; taking all these
things as part and parcel of the day's work; and, in the name of duty,
searching into corners and holes of this great town for the vilest, the
most hardened, the most depraved, the most blinded to a higher life.
This, if you please, is not a thing to be laughed at. What did Wesley
more? What did Whitfield? Nay, what did Paul?
They paid him for his services, it is true; they gave him
five-and-twenty shillings a week; some of this great sum he gave away;
the rest provided him with poor and simple food. He had no pleasures or
joys of life; he had no recreations; he had no hope of any pleasures;
some of the officers of his army--being men and women as well as
preachers--loved each other and were married; but this man had no
thought of any such thing, he, as much as any monk, was vowed to the
service of the Master, without rest or holiday, or any other joy than
that of doing the work that lay before him.
A great pity and sympathy filled Angela's heart as she thought of these
things.
The man before her was for the moment a prophet; it mattered nothing
that his creed was narrow, his truths only half truths, his doctrine
commonplace, his language in bad taste, his manner vulgar; the faith of
the man covered up and hid these defects; he had a message to mankind;
he was delivering that message; to him it was a fresh, new message,
never before intrusted to any man; he had to deliver it perpetually,
even though he went in starvation.
Angela's heart softened as she realized the loyalty of the man. He saw
the softening in her eyes and thought it was the first sign of
conviction.
But it was not.
Meantime, if Angela was thinking of the preacher, the girls, of course
with the exception of Rebekah, were trembling at his words.
Suddenly--the unexpected change was a kind of rhetorical trick which
often proved effective--the preacher ceased to denounce and threaten,
and spoke of pardon and peace; he called upon them in softer voice, in
accents full of tears and love, to break down their pride, to hear the
voice that called them.... We know well enough what he said, only we do
not know how he said it. Angela looked about the room. The Captain sat
with his hands on his knees, and his face dutifully lifted to the angle
which denotes attention; his expression was unmoved; evidently, the
captain was not open to conviction. As for the girls, they might be
divided into classes. They had all listened to the threats and the
warnings, though they had heard them often enough before; now, however,
some of them seemed as if they were impatient, and as if with a little
encouragement they could break into scoffing. But others were crying,
and one or two were steadfastly regarding the speaker, as if he had
mesmerized them. Among these was Nelly. Her eyes were fixed, her lips
were parted, her breathing was quick, her cheek was pale.
Great and wonderful is the power of eloquence; there are few orators;
this ex-printer, this uneducated man of the ranks was, like his brother,
born with the gift that is so rare. He should have been taken away and
taught, and kept from danger, and properly fed and cared for. And now it
is too late. They said of him in his connection that he was blessed in
the saving of souls: the most stubborn, the most hardened, when they
fell under the magic of his presence and his voice, were broken and
subdued; what wonder that a weak girl should give way?
When he paused he looked round; he noted the faces of those whom he had
mesmerized; he raised his arm; he pointed to Nelly and beckoned her,
without a word, to rise.
Then the girl stood up as if she could not choose but obey. She moved a
step toward him; in a moment she would have been at his feet, with sobs
and tears, in the passion of self-abasement which is so dear to the
revivalist. But Angela broke the spell. She sprang toward her, caught
her in her own arms, and passed her hand before her eyes.
"Nelly!" she said gently. "Nelly, dear."
The girl sank back in her chair, and buried her face in her hands. But
the moment was gone, and Captain Coppin had lost his recruit.
They all breathed a deep sigh. Those who had not been moved looked at
each other and laughed; those who were, dried their eyes and seemed
ashamed.
"Thank you," said Angela to the preacher. "You have preached very well,
and I hope your words will help us on our way, even though it is not
quite your way."
"Then be of our way. Cease from scoffing."
She shook her head.
"No, I do not scoff, but I cannot join your way. Leave us now, Mr.
Coppin. You are a brave man. Let us reverence courage and loyalty. But
we will have no more sermons in this room. Good-night."
She offered him her hand, but he would not take it, and with a final
warning, addressed to Angela in particular and the room in general, he
went as he had come, without greeting or word of thanks.
"These Salvation people," said Rebekah, "are all mad. If people want the
way of truth there's the chapel in Redman's Row, and father's always in
it every Saturday."
"What do you say, Captain Sorensen?" asked Angela.
"The Church of England," said the captain, who had not been moved a
whit, "says that two sacraments are necessary. I find nothing about
stools of repentance. Come, Nelly, my girl, remember that you are a
Church-woman."
"Yet," said Angela, "what are we to say when a man is so brave and true,
and when he lives the life? Nelly dear--girls all--I think that religion
should not be a terror but a great calm and a trust. Let us love each
other and do our work and take the simple happiness that God gives, and
have faith. What more can we do? To-night, I think, we cannot dance or
sing, but I will play to you."
She played to them--grand and solemn music--so that the terror went out
of their brains, and the hardening out of their hearts, and next day all
was forgotten.
In this manner and this once did Tom Coppin cross Angela's path. Now he
will cross it no more, because his work is over. If a man lives on less
than the bare necessaries in order to give to others; if he does the
work of ten men; if he gives himself no rest any day in the week, what
happens to that man when typhus seizes him?
He died, as he had lived, in glory, surrounded by Joyful Jane,
Hallelujah Jem, Happy Polly, Thankful Sarah, and the rest of them. His
life has been narrated in the "_War Cry_;" it is specially recorded of
him that he was always "on the mountains," which means, in their
language, that he was a man of strong faith, free from doubt, and of
emotional nature.
The extremely wicked and hardened family, consisting of an old woman and
half a dozen daughters, for whose soul's sake he starved himself and
thereby fell an easy prey to the disease, have nearly all found a refuge
in the workhouse, and are as hardened as ever, though not so wicked,
because some kinds of wickedness are not allowed in that place of
virtue. Therefore it seems almost as if poor Tom's life has been fooled
away. According to a philosophy which makes a great deal of noise just
now, every life is but a shadow, a dream, a mockery, a catching at
things impossible, and a waste of good material, ending with the last
breath. Then all our lives are fooled away, and why not Tom's as well as
the rest? But if the older way of thinking is, after all, right, then
that life can hardly have been wasted which was freely given--even if
the gift was not accepted--for the advantage of others. Because the
memory and the example remain, and every example--if boys and girls
could only be taught this copy-book truth--is like an inexhaustible
horn, always filled with precious seed.