Review of Reviews, 119/06. 



HOW GENERAL BOOTH MAKES EMIGRANTS. 



By An Australian. 



While on a visit to England recently, people were 

 asking me, " Why don't you encourage immigration 

 in Australia ?" My answer was that Australians did 

 not exiictly approve of the class of immigrants that 

 would be likely to be sent out by that great immi. 

 gration agent, General Booth, who was, at the time, 

 I believe, making negotiations with Mr. Deakin 

 concerning a tract of broad acres on which he pro- 

 posed to place some hundreds of the " submerged " 

 of England. Thinking, however, it might interest 

 " the man in the street " to know exactly how Gene- 

 ral Booth first reclaimed the " social crock," and then 

 turnad him out, a capable, intelligent tiller of the 

 soil, I determined to go to the Hadleigh Farm 

 Colony, to see for myself, and to learn, by prac- 

 tical experience, something of the making of an 

 immigrant. 



In view of probable future ex'ents. it might also 

 be of interest to Australians to know the way in 

 which intending colonists are trained at General 

 Booth's Farm Colony at Hadleigh, in Essex. To 

 this end, I am recording my impressions of actual 

 facts and incidents that I saw, during a two months' 

 course of training — as an intending colonist — at 

 Hadleigh. 



I may say here that I am no novice in the school 

 of hard manual labour. During a seventeen years' 

 residence in Australia I have turned my hand to 

 most things. I have " humped my bluey " in the 

 back-blocks of New South Wales ; slept with my 

 boots under my head for a pillow; lumped coal 

 on the .Melbourne wharves, worked with pick and 

 shovel, and, in short, have earned my bread literally 

 • by the sweat of my brow. I mention this in pass- 

 , ing, in order to show that it was not to be taught 

 /lotv to work that I went to Hadleigh, but rather 

 : to learn, if possible, how men ii'ere taught who had 

 little or no previous experience of farm work, nor 

 indeed, in some cases, work of any kind. The 

 " dead-beat," or " social crock," or whatever you 

 like to call him, is not picked up out of the gutter 

 by the men in red jerseys and semi -military caps 

 and packed off straightway to Hadleigh. Oh, no ! 

 He has first to prove to the Salvation Army Officers 

 that he is earnest in his desire for reformation. 

 How is this done? By means of the "Elevator." 

 There are many such institutions in London — testing 

 places — where paper sorting and other light employ- 

 ment are offered to the man who last night was 

 sleeping out on the Thames Embankment — home- 

 less, friendless and penniless — under the very sha- 

 dow of the Hotel Cecil, with its glitter and wealth 

 and luxuries. 



" As a man works, so shall he eat," is the motto of 

 the Salvation Army's social system. The newly- 



arrived " casual " at the Elevator is given so much 

 paper to sort per diem. If he fulfils his allotted 

 task — not a very severe one, by the way — he is fed 

 in proportion. If he fail, he is still fed, but not 

 so well as his more industrious fellow- worker. If, 

 after the testing time in the Elevator, he is found 

 to be willing, and deserving of better things, he 

 is sent down to the Farm Colony at Hadleigh, al- 

 ways providing he is physically fit. I should, I 

 think, lay stress on the point that no man is sent 

 to Canada or elsewhere if he fail to pass the 

 medical examination held prior to the departure 

 of the emigrants from England. 



There are three stepping-stones in General Booth's 

 scheme for the making of an emigrant — (ist) the 

 Elevator, (2nd) the Farm Colony, (3rd) Canada, or 

 some other colony. At present all — or nearly all — 

 of the Hadleigh colonists go to Canada. 



Having duly applied, and been accepted, as an 

 intending colonist, I was given a pass, entitling me 

 to a cheap ticket to Leigh-on-Sea, the nearest station 

 to the colony, and one bleak, blustering day in 

 February found myself at Leigh station, looking 

 for some means of transport to the colony, distant 

 about two and a-half miles. A man in the familiar 

 red jersey and peaked cap hailed me, and I climbed 

 into a serviceable-looking dog-cart, and was soon 

 being driven through the winding, narrow streets of 

 one of the quaintest little seaports in south-eastern 

 England. " ' Leigh-on-mud ' they call this place," 

 said my jehu, with a grin; and, looking around me, 

 I soon saw the reason. The tide was out, and be- 

 tween us and the sea there was a great gulf of mud 

 ftxed-"mud, on which lay fishing boats, at all kinds 

 of angles, mud that lay everywhere, and stuck to 

 everything. And over the mud wlnstled a sharp east 

 wind — altogether a dreary and depressing impres- 

 sion of the place where I was to spend two of the 

 coldest months of an English winter. We scratched 

 up a steep hill, past the old cliurch, and along an 

 almost impassable road, with flat country stretching 

 away for miles on either hand. " Many colonists on 

 the Farm now?" said the driver, in answer to my 

 <|uestion : " 'bout one hundred and forty, I suppose. 

 Soon l>e losing fortv of 'em — going to Canada." He 

 pointed with his whip to a huge tract of land where- 

 in several men were at work with hoes. " That's 

 part of the market garden," he explained; "we 

 supply pretty well all Southend." On, past more 

 broad acres, through the village of Hadleigh, past 

 the "governor's" hou.se, known locally as "Govern- 

 ment House " — down a lane, or rather a sea of mud, 

 with low hedgerows on either hand, and so to the 

 entrance gates to the colony. Here we stopped be- 

 fore the Home Office, which I was invited to enter, 



