Sensational religion is no uncommon thing in England. All evangelistic movements are sensational. Your nineteenth century apostle isn’t content to preach the gospel simply and grandly, as St. Paul did; but must tickle the public curiosiry, startle commonplace propriety, and frighten into a feeling of religion all such people as are insensible either to reason or ordinary persuasion. Lorenzo Dow, an American revivalist, stationed a negro in a tree under which he was preaching, and told him to blow his hardest as soon as he heard any mention of “the last trump.” The negro carried out the terms of the contract splendidly. Dow worked up his audience to a pitch of excitement, described the terrors of the last judgement, and exhorted all his hearers to prepare for it as if it were to take place that moment. “When the last trump shall sound —,” he exclaimed. “Boom” went the big instrument over-head; and the terrified audience fell on its knees. Here was a splendid opportunity for exhortation, and Dow made the most of it. Similar tricks are not uncommon; but most revivalists rely more on the supply of curious attractions than on the production of terror. Converted sweeps and converted clowns are the most common ornaments of revivalist platforms. They may be met with in almost all parts of England now and then, clowns and sweeps seeming to have a sort of taste for getting converted and taking to the stump. Though, however, we have been used to hear of a sweep preaching, and of a clown burning his motley in the market place; it required “General” the Rev. William Booth the organise eccentricity into a system. The chief of the Salvation Army glories especially in the means by which he attracts the multitude. If one had not heard him say so, the fact would be apparent enough from the little book which is called “Orders and Regulations,” and from which I had occasion to quote yesterday. In that work I read that a stranger entering a town on any Saturday afternoon “would be at once awakened by the sight of large bills announcing ‘Samson’s Wife,’ or some other equally extraordinary personage, to appear at a circus the next day. Proceeding on business into the town, he would find in almost every back street either a board standing outside some shop, hanging on some wall, or a card of a most striking kind in some window, urging him to attend the same circus, and a week-night place of meeting, with an extraordinary name, such as ‘The Salvation Barracks.’” It will thus be seen how clearly the eccentricities of the army are part of a system. Indeed, the “Orders and Regulations” explain a very great deal of the frenzy and incoherence which one sees at the meetings. For instance, we are told that shortly after our stranger entered “the Salvation Barracks,” “the second verse of a hymn would be given out with an extraordinary remark, and the singing would be of the loudest and wildest description, the chorus being again repeated many times, but always led off by the leader. In the course of singing the next verse many shouts would be head, and some would stand on forms and wave their arms.” On reading such things I am convinced that it is easily possible to waste a good deal of hard thinking. Here have I been trying to find psychological reasons for peculiarities which are readily explained by the “orders.” When a man jumps up in the middle of a hymn, waves his arms about, and cries “Hallelujah,” it is natural to think that there is something extraordinary the matter with him. It is hard to believe that the reason for his behaviour goes no deeper than to add to the peculiarities of the service. Yet this is the conclusion one is unwillingly forced into by the “Orders.” There is, of course, a great deal of common-sense in this way of working. As the “General” said yesterday, eccentricities gather audiences, for which reason there was yesterday an exhibition of “idols.” The announcement of this event was made to the army in such extraordinary terms that I cannot help quoting them. In a pink bill referring to the present week’s “Council of War,” the “General” says:- “We purpose to back up the stories of victory that will be told by officers and men from all parts on the Monday afternoon by the exhibition of idols which have been cast away by the rescued slaves of sin. There are many who would gladly deliver up pipes, tobacco-pouches, snuff-boxes, cigars, boxes of lights, dog-collars, packs of cards, dominoes, feathers, artificial flowers, chains, ornaments, and their cast off badges of the days of slavery. It would be a very proper thing for any who has given up smoking for Christ’s sake owing to the efforts of any corps, to beg a pipe for some unconverted smoker, if their own has already been thrown away or destroyed, and they might thus not only present a fair evidence of their own decision, but perhaps help to deliver some one else from the same bad habit. In the same way, it might be very useful for all who have been in the habit of reading a newspaper on Sunday, to present an old copy should one be in their possession, or to beg a copy from some sinner next Sunday, and present it on Monday. At any rate, if every officer will do his part, we shall have such an exhibition of idols as may arouse the attention of the whole country to the need for full devotion to God and souls.” The notion of exhibiting borrowed “idols” is, I think, quite unique.
It was disappointing, after all, to find that the exhibition of “idols” was nothing more than an attraction; and a very cheap one at that. Hurrying to the circus with a complacent feeling that something good was to be seen, I found my way continually obstructed by “Hallelujah” processions. This was, indeed, a great day. The noise of boisterous singing resounded through the town from noon to night. Some of the streets were as thronged as they are in the race week. The new banners floated as cheerfully in the breeze as if they were proud of their duty and of that very terrible motto, “Blood and Fire.” How wicked it was to burlesque all this religious fervour. Yet a party of girls from the neighbourhood of the Postern and the Back Row formed themselves into a procession, appointed a leader who walked backwards beating the time, and marched to the Circus singing as lustily as if they had been “Hallelujah Lasses” of the genuine kind. “Those who came to laugh remained to pray,” says Goldsmith, speaking of the persuasive influence of his village parson. So it might have been; but the Back Row pantomimists could gain no entrance to the “Salvation Barracks.” The line was drawn at burlesque. The Circus, however, was full without them - so full that, in spite of my protestations that I wanted to have a close view of the “idols,” I was despatched to the gallery. If ever there was a motley audience, it was to be seen here. My close neighbours were mostly of the bullet-headed, closed cropped type, who appeared to be better acquainted with a certain high-walled barracks near the Manors than with the interior either of a circus or a chapel. Let me say for them that they behaved extremely well. Some of them were earnest, and some of them were amused; but they were all orderly. They were fair types of the majority of the men who join the Salvation Army. That body is largely recruited from much the same class as the militia. No doubt many of the recruits are thoroughly acquainted with their drill. The exhibition, however, was not attractive merely to the bullet-headed class. It had drawn many highly respectable people, so that the audience was disposed something in this way - members of the army in the ring and round the platform, respectable curiosity seekers in the boxes and stalls, and rank outsiders in the gallery. The platform itself was occupied by the great officers of the army - the General, his wife, and his two sons; the “Hallelujah giant”; the converted sweep; the pious Swede; the Bishop Auckland pitman; and “Hallelujah Lasses” from various parts of the country. It was a great gathering. “Commanding officers” and others had come to relate their “War Memories”; and when the preliminary singing had been gone through, and the necessary collection had been made, the ball was opened by a gentleman who had much to tell about hard fights, and savage persecutions, and ultimate victories. Persecution is a great topic with the field officers of the Salvation Army. They court it; they glory in it; and it seems to give the appropriate seal to their ministry. One would think that more wonders had been worked on their behalf than for the sake of the apostles. Every retailer of “war memories” had some extraordinary story to tell; but it required the “converted sweep” to work the audience up into a general shudder. It is dangerous to oppose the sweep. Folks die after it. I didn’t count the number of his victims; but they were many. Let one story suffice. “I was preaching in one place,” said the sweep, “when a great fellow squared up to me with his big fists, and threatened to knock a hole into me; but the Lord knocked a hole into him. He died in three days.” It was really enjoyable to hear the “Hallelujah fiddle,” after listening to such records of victory. But one could have enjoyed that fiddle at any time. It was jerked about; it was bobbed up and down; it was made to perform all sorts of gymnastics. Never was poor fiddle so hardly entreated; but for all that, it was fairly played, and was made to perform a rattling music-hall tune to the words:-
My readers will no doubt be anxious to hear of, as I was to see; the exhibition of “idols.” What would be the trophies of war? Would the burglar give up his “jemmy;” the garotter his bludgeon; the pick-pocket the knife which so delicately makes it’s way to your trouser linings? Well, almost. At any rate, the swell-mobsman had given up his false whiskers.