WILDERNESS

THE idea which now occupied the mind of William Booth — the first sign of movement towards the career which awaited him in London — was to extend his revivalism from the particular denomination he had served so industriously for seven years to all the Churches of his native land.

He and his wife paid a brief visit to Nottingham after the resignation, and Mrs. Booth then proceeded direct from this place to her parents in London. William Booth, in order to save expense, returned to Newcastle, where they had left their four children, and took them by sea to London. He was accompanied, it is interesting to observe, by their faithful Irish servant, Mary Kirton, who had declared that “no change in circumstances should induce her to leave her mistress, and that, with or without wages, she would continue to shepherd the little ones.”

The stranded and penniless family were quartered for the present upon Mr. and Mrs. Mumford in Brixton, who showed the greatest kindness to the Booths in their difficult position. An invitation from a faithful friend in the New Connexion to conduct a mission in Hayle, Cornwall, was the first opening of a door since the resignation, and thither the Booths journeyed, in August. But it was a very small door indeed, and people more worldly-minded than William Booth might have been tempted to wait for something that offered a wider prospect of success. No remuneration, so far as we can see, was suggested; and apparently the Booths had to pay their own travelling expenses.

However, this humble mission in a small town with a coasting trade of no very considerable proportions was destined to widen into a great Cornish Campaign. Although he was warned that the Cornish people would not tolerate a penitent-form, William Booth persisted in this method of confessing Christ, and soon had crowds of people, weeping, groaning, and beating upon their breasts, kneeling at this simple symbol of the mercy-seat.

We had the greatest difficulty (he writes) to clear sufficient space for a penitent-form, and when we had, the people crowded up and around, and the prayers of those in distress, the shouts of those who had obtained deliverance, and the sympathetic exhortations and exultations and congratulations of those who stood round, all united made the most confounding medley I ever listened to. Again and again I endeavoured to secure order, but it was of no avail, and at length I concluded to let it go for the evening, doing as well as we could.

He speaks all through his journals at this time of difficulty in preaching, and occasionally tells of the pains which racked him. “Opened my eyes this morning,” he says in one place, “with strong desire for more of the Holy Ghost in my own heart. Felt some little power in private. I want more.”

A venerable friend of mine, visiting in Cornwall at this time, tells me that she saw him in Pendeen Church on Good Friday, where a well-known evangelist, the Rev. Robert Aitken, was preaching; she remembers that William Booth listened intently to the sermon, that he remained in prayer long after the service was concluded, and that his eyes were filled with tears as he waited to speak to the Vicar.

There can be no doubt, in spite of all the accounts of this time, that William Booth was suffering very acutely both in body and soul. To read the descriptions of that remarkable Cornish Revival one might imagine that the revivalist himself was carried forward on a wave of enthusiasm, glowing with the pride of victory, and happy in the conviction that he had found his mission. But this is an altogether false impression.

Often he had to drag himself to the various chapels he visited, his head bursting with pain, his whole body heavy with sickness, his mind harassed by time thought of the future, his soul asking questions hard to answer. Occasionally he was troubled by the character of the conversions. Sometimes he wondered if this work was indeed the work to which he had been called by God. He contemplated the abandonment of his preaching, and once suggested to his wife that he should seek commercial work in London.

It is interesting and instructive to remember that this immense depression of mind occurred in a revival which unquestionably was a real religious awakening. Villagers tramped over the hills, and fishermen rowed eight and ten miles across a dark sea, to the towns where William Booth was preaching. Local newspapers record that in some places business was at a standstill.

Throughout that corner of the duchy, from Camborne to Penzance, the flame raged with increasing force. Conversions were made in hundreds. Scenes occurred “beyond description”; the cries and groans “were enough to melt a heart of stone”; in the town of St. Just “a thousand persons have been gathered into membership in the different churches.”

There was opposition, of course, to this fiery campaign. The Wesleyans, for instance, decided to close their chapels to Mr. and Mrs. Booth. Nor did the reports of the revival influence the 1862 Conference of the New Connexion. By 56 votes to 15 the Conference decided to accept Mr. Booth’s resignation, and thus any hope he may have nourished of a return to the Church of his adoption was effectually knocked on the head. At the same time the Primitive Methodists passed a resolution “strongly urging all their station authorities to avoid the employment of revivalists, so called.”

In this way William Booth was saved from the coils of a somewhat narrow ecclesiasticism, and, being driven out of a particular Church, was driven towards his appointed destiny. He was not to serve one Church, but all the Churches; he was not to labour in one country, but in all countries.

The Booths at this juncture were staying in Penzance, and here another child was born, a son, Herbert, bringing up the number of the family to five. The situation was a desperate one. Wesleyans and Primitive Methodists might he calling to William Booth from every town in the duchy, but the ministers had the key of the chapel door, and there was no admittance for “revivalists, so called.”

However, an opening was made for them in Redruth, where the Free Methodists placed their chapel at the disposition of these gipsies of the religious life, and there a revival was very soon in full swing. When the Booths left Cornwall it was estimated that seven thousand persons had professed conversion.

A call came to them from Cardiff, and they left Cornwall in February, 1863, after a visit of eighteen months. It was at Cardiff that they made something of a break with the chapels and began a method of procedure which led up to the Salvation Army. Although chapels were open to them here and there, the principal chapels were now as firmly closed against them as the Roman and Anglican Churches. Therefore the Booths decided to make use of secular buildings, and the most successful of their meetings at Cardiff were held in a circus.

Some of William Booth’s pecuniary anxieties were lightened at this period in his life by a rich coal merchant, John Cory, who, with his brother Richard, came under his influence and gave him generous and unflinching support. Here, too, the Booths made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Billups, also generous people, who showed the greatest sympathy in their work and became, like the Corys, their life-long friends.
In spite of this support, the Booths were faced, wherever they turned, by the boycott of the religious authorities.

They went here and there, preaching where they could and hoping everywhere for an opening to reach the people, but encountering everywhere the opposition of officialdom. At Walsahl, meetings were held in the open air and a real revival was established, both William and Catherine Booth drawing large crowds to hear them. And here they stayed for some time, their children with them, hoping to have found a resting-place for at least a few months.

At a children’s meeting held in this town by Mrs. Booth, their eldest child, William Bramwell Booth, “gave himself to Christ.” The incident is related by Mrs. Booth in a letter which is very characteristic and enlightening:

For some little time I had been anxious on his behalf. He had appeared deeply convicted during the Cardiff services, and one night at tihe circus I had urged him very earnestly to decide for Christ. For a long time he could not speak, but I insisted on his giving me a definite answer, as to whether he would accept the offer of salvation or not. I shall never f orget the feeling that thrilled through my soul when my darling boy, only seven years old, about whom I had formed such high expectations with regard to his future service to the Master, deliberately looked me in the face and answered “No!”

It was, therefore, not only with joy, but with some little surprise that I discovered him in one of my Walsall meetings kneeling at the communion rail among a crowd of little penitents. He had come out of his own accord from the middle of the hall, and I found him squeezed in among the rest, confessing his sins and seeking forgiveness. I need not say that I dealt with him faithfully, and to the great joy of both his father and myself, he then and there received the assurance of pardon.

But Walsall was to prove a disappointment in other respects. “I feel a good deal perplexed, and am sometimes tempted to mistrust the Lord,” wrote Mrs. Booth. “But I will not allow it. Our Father knows!” At that hour they had not received sufficient money to pay their travelling expenses and house rent.

Once more harried and dejected, once more ordered by the policeman of orthodoxy to “move on,” the poor gipsies suddenly found themselves in a fresh crisis. William Booth broke down in health. He had contracted a bad ulcerated throat, he had sprained his ankle, and the worries of his position were now greatly disturbing his peace of mind. But for the kindness of some friends who sent him off to Matiock for hydropathic treatment, there is little doubt that this breakdown in health, coming at a time of great financial anxiety, would have had serious results.

In the quotations from the letters of William Booth to his wife which now follow it will be seen that the impulsive and ardent revivalist was sometimes called upon to encourage the drooping spirits of Catherine Booth. Depression was not entirely on his side. Very often it was his courage and his faith which rose to meet difficulties almost overwhelming to Mrs. Booth. These letters, written from Sheffield in the autumn of 1864, provide one with a fairly intimate picture of the domestic circumstances of the separated couple:

I am rather afraid that I am not going to be very comfortably located. There is much knocking about. They come in and out of my room and sit in it occasionally. I like privacy. I want no company but yours. I was woke up this morning at 6 with some one at the house bell and could not sleep, so I thought I would get up and talk to you.

But they are homely nice people from the neighbourhood of South Lincolnshire. If I am not right I shall change . . . you may rely on it, my dearest, that I shall be most thankful once more if possible to abide at home and to abide with thee. But we must be careful. We could not come here much, if anything, under £10. We shall want £21 for Assurance directly, and the extra expenses for winter clothing, sable victorine, teeth, etc. etc., will be £6 or £8 more. So we must look before we leap. Still I think there is a sphere here, and I shall do my utmost to work it, and we will all live together again so soon as the Lord shall make it possible. . . . My poor little children. Bless them. And dear Willie; I am afraid we are rather hard on them sometimes.

. . . Good-bye for the present. Cherish yourself. Always wear the respirator.

I had a slight throat affection last night. Pray for me. Live in and for Jesus.

I have little else but this paper with me and I want to use it and get it out of the way. I fancy it would suit your writing; try it. It does not suit my old quill a bit. . . . How very much I should like to see you to-day, to hold you in my arms and look at you, right through your eyes into your heart, the warm living beautiful heart that throbs so full of sympathy and truth for me and mine, and then to press you to my heart and hold you there and cover you with kisses, warm and earnest kisses. Bless you. I send you two kisses; you understand me and you will keep your promise with them.

Kiss the children for me. Tell Willie I got him a penknife this morning, and Ballington that I am going about the white mice. The white mice and pigeon man is coming with the Hallelujah Band to Leeds. I have not time or patience to write more. Somehow I am nervous, the day is damp and sultry, and my room is hot and close, and I am out of sorts for writing . . . I feel lonely and nervous. I don’t like the folks much I am with and I am tired. I shall be better in the morning.

In one of his letters he asks her to send him “a little love-talk” to carry about with him in his purse. It appears that he burnt most of her letters but always kept one particularly affectionate note which he packed into his purse. Sometimes, on his rare visits to her, she would find one of these crumpled notes in his purse, and ashamed of her “love-talk” would destroy it. “You robbed my purse,” he complains, “of the bit you sent me to Hyde.”

I could write on for hours to you. O we won’t be afraid of loving one another. We will not hold in and bind up our hearts. Let us be grateful for all our mercies. We have many many more than many around, and there may be gloomy hours in the future. Days of a long and dreary separation, a separation made by the grave. O to think of you being the other side of the river and me not able to see and embrace and speak to you. Never to hear your voice more.

Now you are away, but I am feasting on you, and on the hour when again I hold you, and look at you and kiss you, and have the delicious rapture of hearing you say you love and reciprocate all my feelings.

The visit of the Hallelujah Band to Sheffield interests him, and it is evident that the impression made upon him by these Yorkshire “trophies” was a lasting one, and that it recurred to his mind when he came to form the Salvation Army.

They certainly are waking up people here, and our services are so different. They all wear red shirts, coats, and vests off, sleeves turned up, and sing and jump together. This won’t last long or take with everybody.

He debates the question of renting a small house in Sheffield, and making it a centre for their free-lance revivalism:

On the whole, I think it would be the best. Of course I would like to do better and somewhat different. But is this the best? I have not seen Mr. Paton. I don’t see how he could help me. It will cost me 7s. to go to Nottingham, 3rd class return. I would like to have a night there. To go and come in one day would break mother’s heart.

Mrs. Booth appears to have had some trouble with a dishonest servant, and he writes to her on the subject, referring at the same time to the engagement of a governess for the children:

Your letter has amazed me. I am astonished with the girl’s audacity. I am at rest now, but O she must have been to the Police Station before this time, or she would never have dared to have gone, when she could so easily have saved herself. It was that that perplexed me, and feeling how much better it was to let 20 guilty persons escape rather than punish one innocent one.

Well! Now I think you should write her uncle to tell him she has left you, and to say you would like her to return to him until she can obtain a situation. Could you not propose this to her? I am so afraid of her taking to the WORST OF ALL. The Lord have mercy upon her.
With regard to Miss C—. I don’t dislike her letter. One thing in it would need an explanation if you engage her, and that is what does she mean by holidays? Would she expect to go to Cambridge twice a year, and for HOW LONG? A week or fortnight, SAY A FORTNIGHT ONCE A YEAR, we could not object to. But longer or more frequently would not be easily managed. What do you think?

That is my mind. Laundress of course goes in at our offer. . . . I hope she understands what we expect. You must tell her that it is Leeds where we reside if you engage her. But you must have an understanding about holidays. I don’t dislike the tone of her letter, it is like that of one who has seen something of the world.

. . . I am sorry beyond measure about your toothache. Could any other dentist help you?

He goes to Nottingham and sees the famous Dr. Paton, who needed no urging on his visitor’s part to embrace the idea of evangelistic work among the churches.

He read me an extract from an address delivered 3 years ago, before the Congregational Union of the West Riding of Yorkshire, stating that the setting apart, the ordaining of three of their ministers, suitable men to visit the churches, would iii his estimation be one of the greatest boons to the community.

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To this letter there is an interesting postscript:

Yours is just to hand. You acted as you often, almost always do, like a good brave woman with Miss C—. I think you did just right. Never mind about the house. Let God provide for us. He has led us wonderfully — often by a way that we knew not. We have much of earth, few have so much. O what a joy that we two hearts beat so lovingly and truly to each other. Think of that. And our children; bless them, and our usefulness, and by and by our Heaven.

Back in Sheffield he writes to her at the end of November:

I am grieved beyond measure that you are so poorly. What is to be done? Would not a change, entire change, be useful? Suppose you were to get right off, not to work, but to rest a few days. If you could take a service you would be treated very considerately and kindly at Hartlepool. London is such a long way. The journey would be fatiguing, and then you would feel the house smaller. And mother having no servant, it always pains me to see her driving ahead and groaning amid her determined energies.

I am really concerned about this sleeplessness. You must rest next week. Don’t let little things put you about. All will be well. Three or six months ago there was some apparent reason for anxiety. Now, our way is at least open, wide open, for a supply of our temporal need and it may be for an abundant supply of it. If the Lord does open my way with the Independents or if He does continue to open our way to labour and to secure the income we have had the last two months, I will have a house in which you can have some quiet, if I pay £50 rent for it.

And we will have a governess too with some heart and conscience, if we go on changing one per month for 10 years. What a heathen trick of Miss C. Well! I am not sorry in one respect; it has settled you on the propriety of letting her go. We have not regretted parting with any of the lot yet. The smooth-tongued shams and hypocrisies.

But look up. I think you err in not diverting your attention by reading. Here is the difference between us, and it may have something to do with my standing the wear and tear. I suffer my mind to be diverted for a season at least by prayer or books. You must be always at work. A change of mental occupation is rest for the mind. When I come home I divert your attention. Could you not let some book do the same? I send you the W.T. Look it through. Read the article on Disraeli’s speech. I will enquire for a library and get you a book when I come. Your mind preys on itself.

Now I do not think that since we left Cornwall we have had such reason for gratitude and contentment as we have now. With care we can earn all the money we need. Our children are in health. We are saved, so far, from those gloomy visits to the churchyard which so many other families have to pay. And we have many many many other mercies.

And we have that which is most precious of all that is human, our own warm, sympathetic, thorough, intelligent, well-grounded confidence in and affection for each other. Our love has not been merely an emotion, but is indeed and of a truth an affection. Bear in mind Finney’s distinction between the two words.

The optimism of this letter is characteristic. Here is a man separated from his wife and children, living in lodgings, sparing every penny, grudging every expense upon himself, traveling to and fro, working furiously in public, and never sure of an hour’s privacy or next week’s bread; here is a man, we say, situated as gloomily and wretchedly as this, writing encouragingly to his wife of “mercies,” making the proud boast that he will take a house for her if he has to pay £50 a year for it, and looking without fear and without anxiety into his future. One admires his optimism, but one’s sympathies are with Mrs. Booth.

“Cheer up!” he writes to her again. “All will be well. Whatever you do, don’t be anxious.” He speaks of a good meeting he has just conducted and says, “I like the folk, humble and emotional.” Then the governess crops up again, and we see how his mind is concerned about his children’s education, and the virtues he expects to get for £20:

1 cannot . . . give you any advice respecting Miss C— different to that already given. £20 ought to produce something more suitable to our wants. I want Ballington teaching, and the little ones, and if we give that sum we will have some one who will do it. Enquire about Willie’s Latin. Tell Miss C— she must see he is ready with it. He ought to have a lesson daily.

It seems that he had published a book of hymns, and was experiencing trouble with the publishers; but he takes matters into his own hands, acts as his own traveller, and sells 500 copies to a Sheffield bookseller. “So there is just a chance for me yet!” he adds, half humorously, half hopefully.

“What folly in you,” he writes to his wife, “to do without a fire. It is not in these little things that our cash goes, but if it were, surely you can afford a bit of fire while you are at home. Have your fire upstairs.” He tells her that it will do quite as well if she writes to him in pencil. “Let Willie get you a good H.B. from Bean’s, not less than 2d., and you can write more easily than with pen and ink.”

Her weak spine involved much lying on her back. He expresses sorrow that he cannot send her any cheering news. “Most people have had difficulties in obtaining anything great on which their hearts have been set. I hope you will get comfort from some source. I should like it to be from above. God will help us.”
Mrs. Booth meets with bad treatment in her public work, and he writes to comfort her:

I cannot understand how they can possibly treat you and the work of God thus. If it had been me, I should have scarcely marvelled, but you — it is absolutely confounding. . . . I am sure I hardly know what to advise. That which comes first is give them up and do it with a high hand. Then second thoughts say, that ten years hence the treatment we personally receive from these “leaders” (in religion) will be as NOTHING. We shall all but have forgotten it. But our treatment of the work of God, our forbearance and humility and meekness and perseverance under and in the face of difficulties will be everything.

In another letter he writes dismally of all the various moneys he owes, “in all some £85, and then these other things not included,” and adds:

I have not wherewith to meet it. But I suppose I shall have, some way or other. It certainly looks rather stiff. But it will turn out all right. . . . I am going to study economy with all my might! I have those new kid gloves on the mantelpiece to be ever before my eyes as a standing rebuke to my extravagance!

He concludes with the wishful exclamation, “Brighter days!” and adds a postscript, “O that I was worthy of you!”

The subject of the troublesome governess occurs in another letter full of dissatisfaction with his meeting:

We had a good many people to tea, but a poor meeting. I think it is the last speechifying meeting I will have. I had not time or power to say anything, and people who had next to nothing to do petted and patted the people, and no good was done by such a service that I could see. In future I will regard such meetings as being as much mine as the other services.

I will preside over them and wind them up in the good old soul-saving fashion of my other meetings. Several little things have occurred to disturb my equanimity.
I am right glad, heartily and honestly glad, that Miss C. is going. She was not born for such a service as we require. Don’t be concerned. She will easily get another place. . .Don’t be put about concerning anything.

My only fear is that Mr. Paton is an enthusiast in his way as far ahead of Independentism in spirit and discernment and desire for aggressive spirituality as I am myself. However in a quiet way we will try. John Unwin was with us last night. I like him less and less. It is strange, I could have embraced Mr. Paton . . . but some of these revivalists, I dislike them the more I see of them. I am a strange being, perhaps. I wonder if I appear as bragging and mechanical in my revivalism as some of these folks do.

O for more of the Divine to mingle with the human! I come far short just now.

After a flying visit to his family he writes to her:

Your tearful loving face is ever before me. I do so want to receive a line to know how you are. I do hope you will be cheered with a good day. I had a long weary journey, but I got my head into the book and it beguiled the tedium and withdrew my attention from the coarsish company and converse around me.

He tells of meetings and love feasts, offers to bring some new blankets that she requires, and complains of being bothered by his underclothing —”the drawers being so short.” All through his letters runs this strain of domesticity; there is nothing too small in the details of their domestic economy for his care and attention.

Another letter is full of advice concerning dentists; he lays stress on the wisdom of going to a man who is abreast of the times, not old-fashioned.
In the letters written on his missionary journeys, when Sheffield was his headquarters, we are introduced every now and then to the inconveniences of a travelling revivalist. For example, he writes from Bury:

. . . left luggage at station and walked to Mr. Brown’s, a mile distant; found him kind; had tea, and at nearly 7 he informed me that he had a meeting at 7, and he would take me where he thought I could get lodgings and be comfortable. He said he had two parties in his eye but did not know whether they could accommodate me. When we got to the houses both wives were from home and therefore I could not be entertained there.

Here was a fix! It was dark and rainy. After making an enquiry or two, he gave in and took me to the house of a friend and begged me accommodation until Monday, and here I am. He was to call this morning. I have been expecting him every minute and he has not appeared yet. Still, he is a very nice man.

A fit of depression seized him here. He found the people “cold as an ice-house.” He is “much disheartened.” He goes so far as to say, “I don’t feel disposed to persevere much longer in a life the results of which are really so trifling.” He goes on to say, sick at heart and suffering in body:

I need not tell you how I should like to see you this morning, and how lonely life is without your precious society. All the people appear only just tolerable. I don’t know how it is, but, quick interesting folks seem very rarely to cross my path. My tooth acts very well, saving that I feel as though I had some drying mineral in my mouth. I hope it is not the metal.

Give my love to my dear children. Bless them. I think much about them. Dear Katie’s merry voice and laughter are often ringing in my ears and so are the pretty ways and tricks of them all. I forget their troublesomeness when away from them.

At Hyde, near Manchester, the darkness covers him and he is filled with despair. He speaks of a few conversions, and then cries out, “But somehow my truth does not appear calculated for immediate results. I have not personally the confidence in it I once had. Perhaps that is it. I must try again.” And then after telling how he lay sleepless through the night, he goes on:

I wish I were in a more satisfactory state spiritually. I feel almost dead; powerless. Consequently my preaching and praying in public has but little effect on the people. But wishing produces no improvement. O that God would come and give me some new light or some new power. Will you pray for me? I never felt less emotion and power in prayer in my life. And I am sure I don’t know what to do. . .

It is no use me talking about my rebellion of heart against this separation. I must submit and say, Thy will be done. I wish 1 was sure that it was His will. As I turned into my lonely lodgings last night a young gentleman with a lady on his arm knocked at the door of the house opposite mine, and I could not help asking why I was parted from my young and precious wife. I know why, arid for a season it must be so — perhaps we shall grow accustomed to it and not feel it so much.

I do feel a measure of comfort from the thought that we are securing our own livelihood by it and not hanging on to any one. That thought has been like a canker at my heart of late. It must not be after that fashion. We will work and then rest together and then work again.

He calls this letter of desolation and heroic resolve, “a weary rigmarole,” and then declares, “such has been the state of my head and nerves the last three weeks that I have seemed to live in a sort of dream.” His only comfort just now is a “family group,” which he places on the mantelpiece of his lodgings —"a poor substitute, but the best I have.”

In another letter from Hyde the same dissatisfaction is expressed:

. . . I feel so low and powerless spiritually. It is the Divine we both need. But you far exceed me in the influence you can command in a service. I should much like to spend the evening with you all alone, far away from all excitement and disturbance, where we could commune with each other’s heart and be still.

Then he speaks of the “precious children”:

Let Willie do something every day in cyphering, if it be a compound addition and subtraction.. . . Don’t bother about anything else but your work, and giving them a little lesson or two. We must get some one to sew.

A governess is found in the person of a Miss McBean, and he writes

I am delighted with your account of Miss McBean. Strange and good that she should have heard of us. Of course she had an idea of what she was coming to. Hope the children will be good and respectful. Tell her she must exact uniform obedience. Tell Willie that if he does not obey and set his brothers and sisters an example in this matter he must prepare not only to lose his dog, but to live in the attic while I am at home, for I will not see him. On the other hand, if they are good and obedient, they shall have a party again on the Friday evening, and have Patience, etc., and we will have a great many more nuts and have some nice games, etc.

This extract, we think, is not merely typical of mid-Victorian severity in the matter of managing children, but it is in some way characteristic of William Booth’s theology, a theology which never doubted the moral advantage of offering a reward with the one hand and pointing out grievous consequences for disobedience with the other.

It will be seen later on that William Booth’s children were very fond of him, and it is quite certain that in his own way he was very fond of them. But we find in some of these letters expressions of regret that he had forgotten to say good-bye to them on one of his visits, or, in sending a kiss to this or that child, he adds, “I forget whether I said good-bye to him.”

One would not speak of him, at this time, as a father who adored his children; and he was sometimes irritated and aggravated by their noise; nevertheless, the children showed a very true devotion to him, and in later life this affectionate and reverential feeling for the tall, gaunt, dark-bearded man warmed into deep and generous love. In the case of Willie, threatened with the attic and the loss of his dog, the father was to find the most loving and faithful companion of his later and widowed years.

Here and there in those letters of the wandering preacher occur references to the children which are charged with tenderest affection and consideration; in his own way — a rough, strong, emotional, unsentimental way — he was extremely fond of them; but he is too absorbed by his work, too distracted by anxieties, and too often tried by physical pain to give them the whole and perfect love of a father’s heart. To

Mrs. Booth was committed the care of the family, and her character, at any rate in these early years, was the supreme and formative influence in their lives. Here, for instance, is a passage which shows how affectionately the father thought of his children, and how thoroughly he comprehended that they belonged to their mother:

Bless my darlings for me. Call them in and put your hands on their heads and bless them for their papa. In passing a shop this morning I saw a large wooden horse. I almost jumped and involuntarily exclaimed, that is the thing for my dear little Bertie. I saw one of Tom Fenton’s and one of George Hovey’s boys. But they don’t touch yours. Yours are the children! O may they grow up to honour their Maker and Redeemer.

It was in this year, 1864, that their sixth child was born, Marian, who, following an accident, developed serious physical weakness, and was only reared to an invalid life with considerable difficulty.

Chapter 20

Contents