Now let us go to the Barracks of the Prison Brigade, and see what has
to be seen there. The officials (all, I believe, old criminals) and the
men that they have just got hold of, are gathered for a sort of home
service. Man after man, boy after boy, rises to give his “experience.”
The “experiences” can be pretty easily imagined. Then there are hymns,
choruses, addresses by the higher officials present. All, or almost
all here, there is no doubt of it, are “terribly in earnest.” The
interruptions, “Hallelujah,” “Praise God,” and so on, are all earnest.
One boy with a maimed face gets up and says: “I was miserable in the
streets, I’m very happy now. God bless the Major,” and sits down again.
For me, I confess that, over and over again, I have not known whether
to answer the word and acts of these men, or shall I say children, with
smiles or tears. Now and then I have answered them with both.
Afterwards we are shown the bedrooms, observing that we do not want
to see them. I have seen many bedrooms that were delightful, and many
keepers thereof whose hearts were as clean and hard as the floors.
Also I have seen bedrooms that were poor and crowded, and the keepers
thereof whose hearts were as rich as love and as soft as pity. I prefer
the latter, myself, if I must choose between them, but tastes of course
are different. Then the boy with the maimed face is brought in, to tell
his tale and show his wounded leg. The People like you to look at their
wounds and sores and casualties generally. It is painful. It is like the
young ladies of the Middle-class who like you to look at their drawings
and paintings, or listen to their playing and singing. I do not know
which habit is the more painful of the two—perhaps, on the whole, the
latter. The first only hurts my senses: the second hurts my soul. It
makes me lose hope in my ideas for the future of the Middle-class: it
makes me think it is doomed to the hideousness of clap-trap for ever. It
is like a visit to the sculpture at the Melbourne Public Library.
They show us the rooms and bring us the boy, you notice, in that
practical English spirit which is intent on making it clear that their
cry is proportionate to their wool, a fact of which we are not altogether
ignorant. Hence our carelessness about more than a glance at the rooms,
or a short talk with the boy with the maimed face. I think I could tell
him as much about himself as he can tell me. I have known him many times
before.
It is pleasing to notice here how much they insist on the new life, how
comparatively little stress they lay on the “conversion,” on the being
“saved.” Also, that the Salvationists know how to laugh. It is only men
who keep their religion for a fine heavy diet on sunday who cannot pray
at one moment and laugh at another. If my religion is a part of _me_, it
is also clearly a part of my laughter.
Now let us go the rounds of the opium dens and brothels round about
Little Bourke Street. We walk, my Salvationist and I, into any house that
we wish. No one opposes us: only once in the whole evening are we spoken
to other than respectfully. “_You see_,” says the mistress of the most
facially contorted Chinee I have yet seen, “_You see, the Salvationists
helps the girls, that’s why we likes ’em!_” Here we are in a den, a girl
lying on one side of the bed (the Chinese beds are like large alcoves.
In the middle is the opium-tray, containing the pipe, a lamp, etc.), a
Chinee on the other, getting her pipe ready for her. We sit and chat
with her. She tells us about herself simply enough, showing no signs
of wishing to alter her condition. Then the other girl comes in, and
we chat with her. My Salvationist recognises her: she was at Bella’s
funeral. (Bella was a girl who fell down dead in the brothel opposite,
and the Army buried her. All “the girls” about clubbed together, hired
cabs, and went to the funeral.) “O yes,” says the girl to him, “you said
the service for Bella.” She too tells us about herself simply enough.
Her mother is at Ballarat.—“Does she know you’re here?”—“O yes, she
knows.”—“Does she think you’re in service?”—“O no, _she_ knows what I’m
doing;” and so on. Presently I go into the other room and talk pigeon
English with the remarkable spectacled Chinee, who is like a venerable
old ape. Why will the English girls come and live with the Chinese? The
answer is simple: the Chinese both pay them well and are kind to them.
These girls are not bruised on the face and arms as most of the others
are.
You perceive now how the Salvationists work here? They are the “friends”
of the girls: they “help” them. Find out from a girl if she is miserable:
find out if she would sooner go back to a respectable life. Go everywhere
fearlessly: Find out if any girl is being detained against her wishes. Be
gentle with them as with equals. Make them feel that you care for them
for their own sakes. Work upon their feelings—speak of their home, their
mother, their father, their brothers, their sisters. Offer them a new
start. Then, the moment that of their own free will they are ready to
come, put them into a cab and drive straight away with them to the Home.
Here they come under the influence of the women officials of the Army,
(some of whom, however, also do visiting work), the same system being
pursued with them as with the men. They are not made to feel that they
are dealing with people more loftily refined or more loftily righteous
than themselves. They are not made to feel that they are “fearful
sinners.” They are made to feel that sin is fearful and that they have
sinned fearfully, but that they have every hope before them, hope of a
new life before God and man. As for the women officials of the Salvation
Army, I will say this, that in no body of female religionists, except
the Catholic Sisters, have I found so many sweet true women. I have also
known Anglican Sisters who were well worthy of a place beside them.
Such women are the essence of Christianity. They are the true children
of Mary Magdalene and Monica, of the love and of the affection of the
soul. Preference for any one of these three classes, there can be none.
I cannot exalt true love above true affection any more than I can exalt
heat above light: their joy is equal. But in one respect the Salvationist
women have an advantage over the others, just as the Salvationist men
have over the celibate priests—in just that, in the fact that they need
not be celibates. Many of these Salvationist girls and women are the
sweethearts or wives of their fellow-workers. This, I think, is as it
should be. He who neglects or despises that great law of Nature and God,
passion, will be assuredly punished for it. To make a large body of men
and women celibates is to put a premium on immorality and hypocrisy. This
great rock the Salvation Army has avoided, and herein it has done most
wisely. Here, where Rome is weak, it is strong. We must not, however,
think that there is nothing to be said in behalf of celibacy: there is
much, very much. If we were all men like Francis of Assissi or Vincent
de Paul, it would be perfect; but unfortunately we are not. At the same
time, he who has seen the work of Catholic priests and of Protestant
clergymen or ministers in times of plague and pest must feel how great
a clog to perfect courage are those hostages a man has given to fate in
wife and children. On the other hand, observe that times of pest and
plague are comparatively rare, and that every great idea when put into
practice is but a mixed good. What we have to do is to choose that which
has least evil, or shall we say most good, and this can, we feel sure, be
only chosen in conformity with all of those few great primeval laws which
are the guides of life, which are the direct words of Nature and of God.