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!