Consider it—first generally and then particularly.
In Russia the People has religion and no freedom. In England the People
has freedom and no religion. (In both, let us add, the People has misery
unspeakable). The one question presses for solution in the one country,
the other in the other. The two most piteous spectacles in Europe are
the religious People of Russia, and the free People of England. The
Aristocracy which governs the one, the Middle-class which governs the
other, both are equally indifferent to the People. Add to the fact of
the utter want of religion of the English People (it is understood that
by People I mean the masses), the fact of their utter want of, I will
not say the comforts, but the necessities of life, and you have a field
for revolution such as nowhere else, I believe, presents itself save
in Russia herself.—I speak in the present, as if the problem presented
itself to me to-day just as it did years ago, and I am delighted to
notice that at last the English Middle-class is awakening to the fact of
the misery of the People, and also of the danger of letting that misery
continue. But it is quite a mistake to suppose that either the one or the
other is mitigated, not to say ended, or that it will be so for years to
come.
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.