(April, 1882.)
There is no new thing under the sun, said the wise king Many a
surprising novelty is only an old thing in a new dress. And this
is especially true in respect to religion. Ever since the feast of
Pentecost, when the Apostles all jabbered like madmen, Christianity has
been marked by periodical fits of insanity. It would occupy too much
space to enumerate these outbursts, which have occurred in every part
of Christendom, but we may mention a few that have happened in our own
country. During the Commonwealth, some of the numerous sects went to the
most ludicrous extremes; preaching rousing sermons, praying through the
nose, assuming Biblical names, and prophesying the immediate reign of
the saints. There was a reaction against the excesses of Puritanism
after the death of Cromwell; and until the time of Whitfield and Wesley
religion continued to be a sober and respectable influence, chiefly
useful to the sovereign and the magistrate. But these two powerful
preachers rekindled the fire of religious enthusiasm in the hearts of
the common people, and Methodism was founded among those whom the Church
had scarcely touched. Not many years ago the Hallelujah Band spread
itself far and wide, and then went out like a straw fire. And now we
have Salvationism, doing just the same kind of work, and employing just
the same kind of means. Will this new movement die away like so many
others? It is difficult to say. Salvationism may be only a flash in
the pan; but, on the other hand, it may provide the only sort of
Christianity possible in an age of science and freethought. The educated
classes and the intelligent artisans will more and more desert the
Christian creed, and there will probably be left nothing but the dregs
and the scum, for whom Salvationism is exactly suited. Christianity
began among the poor, ignorant, and depraved; and it may possibly end
its existence among the very same classes.
In all these movements we see a striking illustration of what the
biologists call the law of Atavism. There is a constant tendency to
return to the primitive type. We can form some idea of what early
Christianity was by reading the Acts of the Apostles. The true believers
went about preaching in season and out of season; they cried and prayed
with a loud voice; they caused tumult in the streets, and gave plenty
of trouble to the civil authorities. All this is true of Salvationism
to-day; and we have no doubt that the early Church, under the guidance
of Peter, was just a counterpart of the Salvation Army under "General"
Booth--to the Jews, or men of the world, a stumbling-block, and to the
Greeks, or educated thinkers, a folly.
Early Christians were "full of the Holy Ghost," that is of wild
enthusiasm. Scoffers said they were drunk, and they acted like madmen.
Leap across seventeen centuries, and we shall find Methodists acting
in the same way. Wesley states in his Journal (1739) of his hearers at
Wapping, that "some were torn with a kind of convulsive motion in every
part of their bodies, and that so violently that often four or five
persons could not hold one of them." And Lecky tells us, in his "History
of the Eighteenth Century," that "religious madness, which from the
nature of its hallucinations, is usually the most miserable of all
the forms of insanity, was in this, as in many later revivals, of
no unfrequent occurrence." Now Salvationism produces the very same
effects. It drives many people mad; and it is a common thing for men
and women at its meetings to shout, dance, jump, and finally fall on
the floor in a pious ecstacy. While they are in this condition, the
Holy Ghost is entering them and the Devil is being driven out. Poor
creatures! They take us back in thought to the days of demoniacal
possession, and the strange old world that saw the devil-plagued swine
of Gadara drowned in the sea.
The free and easy mingling of the sexes at these pious assemblies, is
another noticeable feature. Love-feasts were a flagrant scandal in the
early Church, and women who returned from them virtuous must have been
miracles of chastity. Methodism was not quite so bad, but it tolerated
some very strange pranks. The Rev. Richard Polwhele, in his "Anecdotes
of Methodism" (a very rare book), says that "At St. Agnes, the Society
stay up the whole night, when girls of twelve and fourteen years of age,
run about the streets, calling out that they are possessed." He goes
on to relate that at Probus "the preacher at a late hour of the night,
after all but the higher classes left the room, would order the candles
to be put out, and the saints fall down and kneel on their naked knees;
when he would go round and thrust his hand under every knee to feel if
it were bare." Salvationism does not at present go to this length, but
it has still time enough to imitate all the freaks of its predecessor.
There was an All-Night meeting in Whitechapel a few months ago, which
threatened to develope into a thoroughgoing love-feast. The light was
rather dim, voices grew low, cheeks came perilously near, and hands met
caressingly. Of course it was nothing but the love of God that moved
them, yet it looked like something else; and the uninitiated spectator
of "the mystery of godliness" found it easy to understand how American
camp-meetings tend to increase the population, and why a Magistrate in
the South-west of England observed that one result of revivals in his
district was a number of fatherless weans.
In one respect Salvationism excels all previous revivals. It is
unparalleled in its vulgarity. The imbecile coarseness of its language
makes one ashamed of human nature. Had it existed in Swift's time, he
might have added a fresh clause to his terrible indictment of mankind.
Its metaphors are borrowed from the slaughter-house, its songs are
frequently coarser than those of the lowest music-hall, and the general
style of its preaching is worthy of a congregation of drunken pugilists.
The very names assumed by its officers are enough to turn one's stomach.
Christianity has fallen low indeed when its champions boast such titles
as the "Hallelujah Fishmonger," the "Blood-washed Miner," the "Devil
Dodger," the "Devil Walloper," and "Gipsy Sal."
The constitution of the Salvation Army is a pure despotism. General
Booth commands it absolutely. There is a Council of War, consisting of
his own family. All the funds flow into his exchequer, and he spends
them as he likes. No questions are allowed, no accounts are rendered,
and everything is under his unqualified control. The "General" may be a
perfectly honest man, but we are quite sure that none but pious lunatics
would trust him with such irresponsible power.
We understand that the officials are all paid, and some of them
extremely well. They lead a very pleasant life, full of agreeable
excitement; they wear uniform, and are dubbed captain, major, or some
other title. Add to all this, that they suppose themselves (when honest)
to be particular favorites of God; and it will be easy to understand
how so many of them prefer a career of singing and praying to earning
an honest living by hard work, The Hallelujah lads and lasses could not,
for the most part, get decent wages in any other occupation. All they
require for this work is a good stomach and good lungs; and if they can
only boast of having been the greatest drunkard in the district, the
worst thief, or the most brutal character, they are on the high road to
fortune, and may count on living in clover for the rest of their sojourn
in this vale of tears.