WHICH TELLS OF A DIFFICULT
ROAD LEADING UP TO A
YOUTHFUL CONVERSION

“CE qu’on dit de soi,” says Renan. “est toujours poésie.” He would have us believe that a man only writes of “such things “— his childhood and the least details of his private life — in order to transmit to others his theory of the universe. He applauds Goethe for having chosen as the title of his memoirs, Vérité et Poésie; for, according to his thesis, autobiography, like biography, must of necessity partake of both truth and imagination.

William Booth, a less reflective and infinitely more active man than Renan, had no ambition to write the story of his life. He was entirely innocent of that miserable conceit —mesquine vanité — of which Renan complains. He was urged by others at the extremity of his age to set his memories on paper, and with much annoyance and a great deal of grunting half-humorous disapproval, the old, worn, weary, and near-blind prophet, bowed down by the business of the world, essayed this most difficult task — a task only possible of success, perhaps, in the case of an exact thinker, like Stuart Mill or Herbert Spencer, or a morbid and brilliant egoist, like Rousseau.

The result is deplorable, more deplorable even than “the dim, disastrous details” contained in the famous Paper Bags of Professor Teufelsdröckh. Confusion is everywhere, and not only the confusion justly attributable to the fact that these attempts at autobiography had been used by other people before they came into the hands of the present writer.

One encounters at the outset a scornful indifference to chronology; unbridgeable voids of silence at those very junctures where meticulous narrative is essential; a welter of propagandist eloquence and octogenarian reflection where a single incident or one clear, natural phrase would be invaluable; and throughout this dismembered and amorphous scrap-book of memory there is a spirit of revolt, the writer struggling to escape from himself to the work that was more to him than life.

Unfortunately, because he could not think himself out of the language of religious fervour, he exemplifies the truth of Renan’s epigram, that what a man says of himself is always poetry. In his case there was no patient stooping of the ear to catch from the deepest fathoms of his heart trembling vibrations from the sea-buried city of his childhood — the bells of those faery churches still calling to worship the faithful who could no longer hear them.

Rather was he a much busied man of affairs, practical and impatient, hard-headed and beset with a thousand troubles, who in a hurried moment seized upon his past with a violence which at once scared and scattered delicate memories to the four winds of heaven, and began at once to expound his theory of the universe from the cradle to the satchel, and from the satchel to the shop-counter.

It would seem, though I can find no confirmation elsewhere, that during William Booth’s infancy the family removed for a time to Bleasby, where Samuel Booth apparently attempted to make money at “fancy farming.” William Booth says that he learned his letters at the village school, and was presently sent to a boarding-school at Southwell, the favourite residence of his namesake the fifty-first Archbishop of York.

At six years of age the family returned to Nottingham, and the boy, who was encouraged to believe that he had a gentleman’s prospect before him, was sent to a good school kept by a Mr. Biddulph. Ann, it will be remembered, was learning to be a young lady at the best ladies’ school in Nottingham.

William Booth has nothing good to say of Biddulph’s School. “No stimulus,” is his laconic judgment. But his father had determined that he should be a gentleman; Biddulph’s School was the select academy of Nottingham, and to Biddulph’s School therefore he had to go. He complains, “Mr. Biddulph never fairly woke up my ambition to learn until the year before leaving.” He records a breakdown in his health with the explanation, “school hours too long.”

He remembers signing the pledge at six or seven years of age. He kept it — “no teetotal friend near me”— until he was thirteen, when his mother, who believed, in common with nearly everybody else who passed at that time for a sensible person, in the health-giving virtue of beer, insisted upon her delicate son taking alcohol as “medicine.”

During his schooldays there was a serious crisis in his father’s affairs. Mrs. Booth had to take a journey to Derby and Ashbourne to see some mysterious gentleman, probably to gain assistance for her husband. She took William on this journey; and he writes of that event: “Walk to Ashbourne. Coach gone. Walk of eleven miles. Last mile an hour. Gentleman not to be moved.” A dismal journey for a young child, the memory ineffaceable at eighty years.

There was no religious atmosphere in his home at this time, but the children were sent on Sunday to the parish church of Sneinton. William Booth was not attracted by the services; they gave him little notion of religion and its relation to the soul. But he remembers the clergyman, who was something of a character, and perhaps, in the social sense of the word, the only gentleman in the neighbourhood.

Parson Wyatt was a tall, dark-haired, solemn-visaged, ruminative man, who jerked his head as he walked, and moved about his parish, chin to breast, lost in remote reflection. He was thought to be a Puseyite, and there was opposition in the parish to his innovations. But a certain Wesleyan minister remembers him as a sincere and a good man, one who was friendly with the dissenters of his day and a clergyman who truly and earnestly sought to do his duty. William Booth himself says that this Mr. Wyatt was “no doubt a good man according to his light,” adding, however, the characteristic judgment:

But his rueful countenance and icy manner all seemed to say that his performances meant —“Do as I advise, or not; be what the prayers have asked that you might be, or not; do what the Scriptures have said, or not — it does not matter very much whether you comply with these requirements or not.” He may have felt a great deal more than this, but it did not make any very great impression upon my boyish mind, and, so far as I can remember, I do not think that the bulk of the congregation were ever carried very much further by what he said.

It is of course extremely doubtful whether the boy felt any more need for religious instruction than the schoolboy of Anatole France who invented sins in order to satisfy his confessor :—“The first difficulty is to find them. You may perhaps believe me when I tell you that, when I was ten, I did not possess the gift of self-analysis in a sufficiently marked degree to enable me to make a thorough examination of my inner consciousness.”

William Booth was no doubt perfectly satisfied with the ministrations of Parson Wyatt at the time, using the church railings for thrusting his head through — the game consisting in getting it back again — playing in the churchyard, looking about him during the services, and only voting it a considerable bore that he had to attend these religious services at all. It was not, perhaps, until much later in his life that he became aware of Parson Wyatt’s deficiencies.

But he did become aware, even as a child, of something lacking in his own life. His first religious impressions came from one of his cousins, a Methodist named Gregory, who was a humble shoemaker. William Booth was struck by this man’s “separate and spiritual life.”

On one occasion Gregory said to him, “Willie Booth, do you know that religion is something that comes to you from outside of you?”

This idea haunted the boy, and repeating it later on to his minister, he was told that he would soon be teaching in the Sunday school! He remembers, too, that a great impression was made upon his mind by the singing in Sunday school of the hymn, Here we suffer grief and pain; the idea oppressed him and gave a new turn to his thoughts. His cousin’s persistent religiousness made him later on “a sort of teacher”; and this, he says, was “an altogether new influence.”

But he complains, even after this beginning, that no one ever spoke to him about the spiritual life. “I do not remember,” he says, “a direct word about my soul —the necessity and possibility of my being converted — or of encouragement being spoken to me up to the date of my conversion, and very few afterwards.”

His father, he says, was “religiously blind”; his mother’s moral instruction in those years was, “Be good, William, and all will be well.” Parson Wyatt never spoke a direct word to him; no one, not even Cousin Gregory in the Sunday school, ever attempted to get at the innermost privacy of his soul.

The first faint beginning of that revolution in his personality which was to have so wide and wonderful an effect for mankind was simply a feeling in his childish consciousness that Cousin Gregory lived a separate and spiritual life. He does not go back for his first religious impressions to a prayer learned at his mother’s knee, but to an indefinable, incommunicable reverence in his mind arising from contact with a humble shoemaker who, though he said little to the boy in a personal or direct way, conveyed a feeling to the child’s soul of respect for the spiritual life.

“Religion is something that comes to you from outside of you..”

This feeling, however, was destined to fade; and the hymn and its tune, Here we suffer grief and pain, ceased to haunt his mind. He says he grew “utterly regardless with respect to religion,” that he “altogether settled down in the uttermost indifference,” that thoughtlessness would be the best term to describe his state at that time. But he avers that he can remember “an inward dissatisfaction with his condition.”

“ My heart,” he says, “was a blank.”

He acknowledges that he was wilful, headstrong, passionate. He was allowed to have his own way. Mischief he underlines in the disjecta membra of his reminiscences as the spirit of his boyhood. He would do anything for fun. Among his plavfellows he was a lord of misrule. Nevertheless this devotion to mischief of every kind went hand in hand with a love of reading. He was affected by poetry — the Niqht Thoughts of Young, and the poems of Kirke White.

He also read many novels, as we have already said, and he gives us a hint that his favourite authors were Walter Scott and Fenimore Cooper. He complains of that period, “There was no one to direct me.” He considered on reflection that he was saved from ruin in boyhood by the financial sorrows of his family.

“Doubtless the trials of my early days caused by my father’s failing fortunes had a beneficial effect on my character. I felt them most keenly; it is not too much to say that they embittered the early years of my boyish life.”

Always there is the shadow of the father on his childhood. He might play mischievously in the churchyard, go gratefully to fish in the Trent, bury himself in poetry and novels, dream of greatness in manhood —for he was decidedly ambitious — but always his thoughts, his hopes, his headstrong audacity, and his cheerful games were darkened by the shadow of that silent and unlovable father going steadily down to ruin.

A strange incident occurred while he was still at school. A lady and gentleman passing William Booth while he played in the streets would turn so often to look at him that at last he became aware of their interest. He would look up at them as they appeared, and watch them as they passed on, wondering what it was that caused them to regard him so affectionately.

One day they stopped and spoke to him, the gentleman asking how he was getting on at school. The lady then made it clear why they were interested in him. Her eyes filled with tears, as she told the boy that he greatly resembled their son whom they had lost by death.

After this a friendship sprang up between the old people and the boy. They asked him to their house, treated him with the greatest kindness, and would even have adopted him. They were Wesleyans, and, with his parents’ permission, occasionally took him to chapel. This was his first introduction to Methodism.

“My religious training,” he says, “was nil”; and he adds that attendance at this chapel made some slight impressions upon him, but nothing more.

Then came an event that did away with every thought about religion. The calling in of a mortgage precipitated his father’s ruin. The family was plunged into poverty. “The purpose of making me a gentleman,” says ‘William Booth, “was defeated.” He was taken away from school and sent into business. He was thirteen years of age.
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To the end of his days William Booth could seldom bring himself to speak freely of his first acquaintance with business life. There is no doubt that the memory was a sad one. He shunned it. In all his writings I can find no direct reference to the nature of this employment. He speaks always of “a business,” or of “a trade,” never once can he force himself to say outright that the business to which his father apprenticed him was a pawnbroker’s.

And yet there cannot be any doubt at all that it was the associations of this business which had a determining effect upon his after life. He became deeply acquainted with the misery of other people. There had been misery enough in his own childhood, but it was a form of misery which isolated him from the world.

He felt his position, and knew that his parents endeavoured to hide their poverty from their neighbours, as though all the neighbours were respectable and prosperous, they alone poor and struggling. But now he learned that many other people were fighting against poverty, and grew to know that suffering and sorrow, deprivation and shame, positive penury and positive want, drag their net in a wide sea of human misery.

Furthermore, it is also certain that the subsequent shame which he felt for his work deepened in his soul a longing for a life more beautiful and more satisfying, embittering his bitterness still further, agitating his unrest still more violently, and driving him more and more outwards from himself, outwards from that centre of his consciousness where all was dark, unhappy, and without peace.

Why did his father choose this particular business? “Because,” says William Booth, “he knew no greater gain or end than money.”

The boy had been trained to regard himself as a gentleman’s son. He had been told that his father intended to make a gentleman of him. He was adored by his sisters. He was the leader of his playfellows. He had been sent to a good school. He was in every way something of a hero.

And now, at the age of thirteen, he was told that he must go and work for his living, and learned that he was to serve in a small pawnbroker’s shop situated in the poorest part of Nottingham.

His father had a talk with him. He held forth to the boy the allurements of money. He told him it was a business that paid well, a business by which fortunes were not only easily but quickly made. He counselled his son to give all his attention to the work, and to keep ever before him the prospect of setting up for himself, avoiding partnerships.

William Booth was only a boy. The business promised freedom from school. He liked the idea of earning money. “I went into it,” he says, “with a will.” Then he adds the characteristic notes: “My after hatred of the trade. A proper estimate of the business. The use and abuse of it.” He also remarks that this work “continued my association with the poorest and lowest.”

He was too honest a man not to perceive that pawnbrokery has a good side — a side, indeed, which is of distinct benefit to the poor. His full dislike of the trade came to him after his actual experience of the business. He himself had enormously developed when he perceived the deadening effect it is apt to exercise on the highest sympathies of human nature. He disliked it, there is no doubt, more in his old age than in his youth; in his youth it was an interruption of his spiritual life, a disagreeable, dislikable employment, but not a thing of loathing or disgust.

At this time he made companionships whose influence, he says, was anything but beneficial. “I went downhill morally, and the consequences might have been serious, if not eternally disastrous, but that the hand of God was on me in a very remarkable manner.”

One must bear in mind that this memory was written many years afterwards, and one may be forgiven the doubt if the boy of thirteen had really gone very far down the hill that leads to moral disaster. It is more probable that the phrase means carelessness in ideas, frivolity in conduct, and indifference to religion.

He had not been a year in this shop when he was hurriedly summoned from his bed one night and told to come quickly, for his father was dying. This was in September, 1842. Samuel Booth had manifested spiritual concern in this last illness, chieflv through the persistent appeals of “Cousin Gregory.” He was at last willing, he at last had time, to attend to religion. “Very sincerely,” the son believed, “he turned his heart away from the world that he thought had used him so badly.”
The Sacrament was administered.

The group round the bed sang Rock of Ages. Samuel Booth committed his wife and children to the care of God, and died in peace.

“So ended,” wrote his son, “his career — devoted to money-getting.” It was a death-bed repentance. “Though this skin-of-the-teeth sort of business of getting to heaven is to be in no ways recommended, yet because he impressed me and all else who knew him as such a real honest-hearted man according to his light, and seeing that the transaction was in keeping with his character, and therefore a reality, it is a ground of hope concerning my meeting him again where fortunes made shall he lost no more.”

He says in another place, as we recorded before, “Deeply though I felt his loss, my grief was all but forbidden by the thought that it was not my mother who had been taken from me.”

No doubt the death of his father made a deeper impression upon his young mind than he remembered in his old age. One does not think that any child, but particularly a child of this temperament, could be called suddenly at night to the death-bed of his father, could witness and share in the spontaneous service at the bedside, and finally behold, in the wavering and ghostly candle-light, the solemn almost terrifying mystery of death, without thinking of his own soul and the life beyond death as it touched him in his innermost thought.

Certain it is that with no other change in his circumstances, with no help or guidance from any other creature, William Booth began from this time to he more interested in religion. He had almost parted company with the Church of England, and was now a frequent attendant at Wesley Chapel.

He formed more reasonable friendships. His life began to be coloured by the religion of other people. Among these friends was one who outlived him, a Mr. Newbold, who remembers William Booth, and recalls how he met him one day, “near to Broad Street,” and asked him to become a member of “Brother Carey’s Class.”

William Booth consented, and joined this class in the Chapel, which was “led,” as the Wesleyans say, by a Mr. Henry Carey —a very good and upright man of considerable position, whose wife took some share in his ministrations.

In the notes which he left behind him of this period, after remarking that he got nothing but impressions from the services in Wesley Chapel, and making two strokes after the full stop as if to indicate an emphatic termination to this part of the story, he sets down the name, Isaac Marsden.

But nowhere else in these ricordi does he again mention the name, and one would be left to conjecture whether Isaac Marsden definitely began the new chapter in his life, or was only a ghost haunting the dim horizon of his oblivious past, but for a reference to the matter in a book called Isaac Marsden of Doncaster, where the author quotes William Booth as saying:

I shall never forget the words I first heard from Mr. Isaac Marsden. I was walking out one evening with two friends at Nottingham, when I was fourteen years of age. Mr. Marsden was conducting special services at a Wesleyan Chapel, and at that time no one could hear him who had any belief in the great truths of the Bible without being deeply impressed and stimulated.
We entered the Chapel late — in the dusk. I could hardly see the speaker; but just at that moment he was saying, “A soul dies every minute.” . . I have little doubt that, but for my two friends, I should have stayed that very night and given my heart to God.

Inquiry leads one to surmise that Isaac Marsden gave to William Booth his great intelligent notion of a vital religion. It is credible that Isaac Marsden’s influence not only led to the conversion of William Booth, but sowed in the boy’s mind the seed which was destined to grow into a great tree overspreading the whole world. For Isaac Marsden was half a John Wesley and half a General Booth.

He is described to me by one who remembers him as a somewhat eccentric lay preacher whose head and mouth gave him a noticeable likeness to John Bright. He was “very strong mentally, a great saver of souls. A man of originalitv and power from the first; rough and wild before his conversion, a very lion in courageous faith ever after.” Isaac Page has written an account of Marsden:

He preached on Sunday when I heard him, and followed up the work during the week. Each night an old-fashioned revival service was held — a fervid sermon, strong appeals, a rousing prayer-meeting, many penitents, and shouts of praise to God. In those days nothing was said about closing the meetings at nine o’clock.

They continued as long as there were souls seeking salvation, sometimes till a very late hour. Not infrequently groups of happy people proceeded homewards at midnight, making the stillness lively with their songs of praise.

He used to hold an early Sunday morning prayer-meeting, says Mr. Page, “and if, as he returned, he saw a servant girl washing the door-steps, he would speak a word or two, and then down on his knees in the street to pray for her salvation.”

He would speak to men in his walks, or in houses or shops where he called, in such fashion that they were fain to go and bear him preach. One day, as he went along the street, he saw a woman hanging out clothes. His eyes glanced along the line of garments, and he said, “I say, missus, if your heart is not washed cleaner than those clothes, you’ll never get to heaven.”

He was devoted to children, and carried sweets in his pockets when he went to give a Sunday school address. He would teach them a little prayer to say daily: “Lord, make me good, and keep me good: and bless Isaac Marsden.”

Such a man must have had some fascination for William Booth. Nevertheless, when he came to look back on those far-off days, William Booth could recall no penetrating word addressed to his soul, no arresting hand laid upon liLs throbbing pulses. He could see nothing of human agency in the new birth which was then shaping in his soul.

One thinks, however, that a more rigorous examination of his memory, with the name of Isaac Marsden as a clue, might have led at least to some modification of this opinion.

“Although the change that came over me was sudden,” he says, “ it was nevertheless reached by stages. There was the realized superiority of the religious life over the purely worldly form of existence which I had lived so long.” (‘The reader will remember with a kindly smile that the worldly form of existence had extended to fourteen completed years of troubled childhood.)

“Although my heart was very largely unaffected by the form of service in which I joined, my mind was nevertheless convinced of the rightness, and dignity, and profitableness of the service of God that was set before my eyes. I realized its satisfying nature., and. consequently, I gradually became convinced of its superiority, and, more than this, a hunger sprang up for its realisation.

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Whatever the circumstances that may have led to my conversion, that conversion was a definite and decisive event in my history. I was utterly without any experience of religion; in fact, wholly given up to a life of self-indulgence.”

The reader will remember the caution I ventured to express in the last chapter concerning William Booth’s memories of the past and also concerning his phraseology. It is surely misuse of language to speak of his boyhood as “a life of self-indulgence,” and to say that he was living a “purely worldly form of existence.” This is self-evident.

And it is also very probable that his other recollections of this important period of his life are saturated with the Aberglaube of later years. One cannot think that a boy between thirteen and fourteen years of age was “ convinced of the rightness, and dignity, and profitableness of the service of God,” or that he “realised its satisfying nature, and consequently . . . became convinced of its superiority.” Boys do not argue.

This is the language of the old man, the old man so used to that language of his maturity that he cannot quite think himself back into the moods of his childhood, moods destitute of a vocabulary.

It is plain that nothing more took place at this time in the boy’s mind than a gradual pressure of its former unhappiness. He was unhappy, and he knew that he was unhappy. In chapel and in class he heard about the religious life which is said to take away unhappiness. He desired that life, because he was unhappy.

He says, and there is no doubt a profound truth in the remembrance, “I wanted to be right with God. I wanted to be right in myself. I wanted a life spent in putting other people right.” Yes; but all this was cloudlike, inexpressible, and vague in the boy’s soul.

Almost immediately he adds: “How I came to this notion of religion, when I saw so little of its character manifested around me. sometimes puzzles me.” It was of course — save only the humanitarian impulse which probably came later —. a not uncommon experience of childhood. Children, as well as adults, are “tortured by divine things.”

They have a consciousness of unrest, a longing for satisfaction, a feeling towards and a longing after some mysterious beautiful and rapturous embrace which they feel is coming towards them from the invisible kingdom of dreams. They are inarticulate, they cannot express what they feel, and their longing is confused by a thousand influences from fairy-tale, legend, and belief in magic and witchcraft: but it is there, torturing their souls, a disbelief in the material world, a hatred of all dulness and mechanical exercise, a longing for romance, a repetition of the miracle.

One thing is certain. Throughout his childhood William Booth was overshadowed by a feeling of the nearness of God. He never knew the isolation of even a transitory atheism. Whether he was mischievous or good, whether he was “worldly” or unselfish, he believed in God. He was by no means in love with this faith, the sense of God by no means contributed to his happiness.

But he was perfectly certain of God’s existence. He speaks of “that instinctive belief in God which, in common with my fellow-creatures, I had brought into the world with me.”

Oppressed by this faith, and with no guidance from any one, the boy whose whole childhood had been darkened and embittered, the boy whose nature was passionate, headstrong, impulsive, and charged with the spirit of leadership, came at last to long for escape from himself, determined to make a fight for his own peace of mind.

While this pressure of unhappiness and this sense of God’s reality were deepening in his soul, he was devoting himself with natural zeal to the interests of his employer. He was quick, he was thorough, he was energetic, he was orderly and trustworthy.

There was no thought in his mind of forsaking this business. He was ambitious, and he meant to get on in the world. Side by side in his soul were these. two equal forces — one driving him to religious safety, the other urging him to material prosperity. Nothing of the mystic showed in his nature. No violent change in personality was manifest in these early stirrings of his spirit.

Soon after the father’s death Mary Booth was obliged to leave the humble house in Sneinton Road. She was robbed right and left, says her son, by those who had the handling of her husband’s ruined estate. It became necessary not only for her to leave the house in Sneinton Road, but to earn money for her children. She took a very small shop in one of the poor quarters of Nottingham.

A strange incident, of which William Booth never heard, occurred at this time. Opposite to the house in Sneinton Road, as we have said, was the smallware shop of Grandfather Page, and one of his sons, Isaac, now a retired Wesleyan minister, was a little boy when Mrs. Booth and her children moved from the neighbourhood.

He said to me, “The first knowledge I had of the Booths’ removal came in an odd way. I woke up one morning, went to the window of my bedroom, and looked out. I noticed something moving against the upper window of the house opposite, and calling my brother we both saw quite distinctly that a big white bird, like a swan or a stork, was beating its wings against the glass, jumping up and down as though struggling to get out.

Then we observed that the curtains of all the other windows had gone, and knew that the house was empty. This was our first knowledge that the Booths had gone. And we never solved the mystery of the white bird at the window.”

This is one of those weird and gratefully mysterious stories of which no wise man will ask an explanation. But Mr. Page refuses to see in it a supernatural significance.

“I have no doubt,” he says, “that some travelling showman had taken advantage of the empty house to place the creature there for the night.”

Fortunately, no child will be satisfied by this interpretation of a mystery.

William Booth’s wages as an apprentice were so meagre that he could do little to help his mother. Her establishment was a smallware shop, where she sold toys, needles, tape, cotton, and similar necessities of a good housewife —a very humble business with few customers and small profits.

It is significant that even in these altered circumstances Ann Booth’s friend, Sarah Butler, a young lady of some social distinction, still remained a visitor to the family, and that the first friends of William Booth were young men of position who had known him in the days of Nottintone Place.

The family still remained “proud and austere,” as Sarah Butler says; but there was evidently a deeper warmth and an entirely new feeling of freedom in the spirit of the household. Ruin had come; a definite poverty had fallen; but the shadow of the embittered man had lifted and the family drew closer together.
In this same year, 1842, there was great excitement in Nottingham over a Parliamentary election. Mr. John Walter, of The Times, was opposed by a Radical reformer from Birmingham, Mr. Sturge. Feargus O’Connor descended upon the town, and the scenes in the street, the oratory of the hustings, the procession of rival clubs, and the language of the newspapers were as picturesque, violent, and grotesque as the more famous election in Eatanswill.

In this case there was a very serious collision between the Chartists and the soldiers in the town; hundreds of men were arrested, and in several instances offenders were sentenced to six months, four months, and two months, with hard labour. In the same year Cobden and Bright came to Nottingham, and took part in a great Free Trade demonstration which further quickened the political feeling in the town.

William Booth was affected by this storm. He sympathized with the Chartists and attended their meetings. Mr. W. T. Stead says that he “grew up in an atmosphere of unrest, in a hot-bed of quasi-revolutionary discontent.” It should be borne in mind, however, that almost everything demanded by the Chartists is now a commonplace of our constitution, William Booth was never a revolutionary, and became more conservative as he grew older.

“My father,” says Bramwell Booth, “did not believe that you could make a man clean by washing his shirt.” In his fourteenth year, however, he was a hot reformer.

“The poverty,” says Mr. Stead, “that he saw on every side filled him with a spirit of passionate revolt against constituted authority. He was but a boy of thirteen when Feargus O’Connor first visited Nottingham, but in all the thousands the great Chartist orator had no more enthusiastic disciple than William Booth.

He was a Chartist — a physical force Chartist of course, being a boy, and therefore uncompromising. He went to their meetings, he cheered their speeches, he subscribed to the Charter, and, if need had arisen, he would have been disappointed if he could not have shouldered a pike or fired a musket. . . . ‘The Chartists were for the poor,’ so the boy reasoned, ‘therefore I am for the Chartists.’

There was now a threefold pressure on the boy’s mind. He desired to succeed in business and make money for his mother and sisters; he was enthusiastic for political reform — and somewhat ambitious to play the orator; he was vaguely but hauntingly anxious to arrive at some religious understanding with his own soul. In his home he was distressingly aware of poverty; in the streets and in his shop he saw little else but poverty; and in his spirit he was conscious of another and more insistent poverty.

One can picture the boy leaving his mother’s little shop early in the morning, probably rather hungry, and posting at a great pace to the pawnbroker’s shop. He was tall beyond his years, exceedingly pale, with hair as black as a raven, and dark luminous eyes that flashed at the least provocation; a thin, pinched, pallid boy, who walked quickly with a raking stride, stooping at the shoulders, the arms swinging with energy.

He would be one of the multitude hasting to work, pushing his way through a multitude unwillingly out of work, the noise of. the frame-knitting machines in his ears, the sight of hungry children before his eyes. And one can see him walking back through the dark streets at eight o’clock at night, fagged, hungry, and tortured by his thoughts, but eager for something to happen, willing to take part in any vigorous action, never listless or inert.

So passed two years of his “blighted childhood.” Occasionally he stole away from this wretchedness and forgot the pain of the world in his favourite sport of fishing in the Trent. Occasionally he was happy in the flowering fields, which he loved with a real and poetic fervour. Occasionally he threw himself into some merry adventure with the new companions of his employment.

But the three steady things in his mind were: first, the determination to get on in the world; second, the ambition to work for political change; and, third, a longing to right himself with God.

In the year 1844, with no outside human influence of any kind upon his soul, this headstrong and impulsive boy determined to make that total and mysterious surrender of personality which is a condition precedent to what we call conversion. He was unhappy, and he desired to escape from unhappiness.

Without language to describe his feelings, without the faculty to analyze his sentiments, he came to the decision that he would change the whole character of his life and divert the energy of his soul into a new channel.

“I felt,” he says, “that I wanted, in place of the life of self-indulgence to which I was yielding myself, a happy, conscious sense that I was pleasing God, living right, and spending all my powers to get others into such a life.”

In these words William Booth justifies the definition of ‘William James that “to be converted, to be regenerated, to receive grace, to experience religion, to gain assurance, are so many phrases which denote the process, gradual or sudden, by which a self hitherto divided, and consciously wrong, inferior, and unhappy, becomes unified and consciously right, superior, and happy, in consequence of its firmer hold upon religious realities.”

From the beginning of his life to the end, in spite of much language which might seem to exhibit religion only as an escape from punishment, only as an escape from wrath, only as an escape from eternal damnation, the heart and soul of William Booth’s religion was happiness — an uprush of feeling from obstruction towards the central pivotal sense of unity with God, a triumphant and penetrating blessing, a victorious and suffusing solution of all sorrow, trouble, difficulty, and spiritual con fusion.

He desired in his distracted boyhood “a happy conscious sense” that he was pleasing God.
“I saw,” he avers, “ that all this ought to be, and I decided that it should be. It is wonderful that I should have reached this decision in view of all the influences then around me.”

His employer, a Unitarian, “never uttered a word to indicate that he believed in anything he could not see, and many of my companions were worldly and sensual, some of them even vicious.”

He speaks of his instinctive belief in God, and goes on to say, “I had no disposition to deny my instincts, which told me that if there was a God His laws ought to have my obedience and His interests my service.”

Then follows a characteristic sentence: “I felt that it was better to live right than to live wrong; and as to caring for the interests of others instead of my own, the condition of the suffering people around me, people with whom I had been so long familiar, and whose agony seemed to reach its climax about this time, undoubtedly affected me very deeply.”

It may puzzle some people to believe that a boy of fifteen was powerfully moved by the humanitarian spirit; and no doubt William Booth saw in the darkness of those early days, when he came to look back upon them, something of the reflected light of the great master-passion which transfigured his after existence.

Indeed, this history will clearly show that he grew into humanitarianism, and that this humanitarianism was the developed fruit of his religion. Nevertheless, it is quite certain that the germ of humanitarianism was present in his soul from a very early age, and there is definite proof that he was conscious of it at the time of his conversion.

In all his papers dealing with this period of his life — and he made more than one attempt at autobiography — there is reference to the spectacle, in 1844, of children crying for bread in the streets of Nottingham.

This is perhaps the most definite of all his youthful memories, transcending, of a certainty, any influence made upon his mind by the oratory of Feargus O’Connor. He could remember not a word of the fiery speeches he had cheered till he was hoarse; he could remember not a sermon he had listened to in chapel, not an address, not “an experience” he had heard in class; but the visual memory of ragged children weeping bitterly for food in the streets of the town was a picture printed on his soul with a sharpness that could not be blurred.

This he remembered; and it will be seen that after his conversion he did at least one little act of humanitarian charity typical of the work which has ever since characterized and honoured the Salvation Army.

He had now reached that point when the soul determines to act with decision. He came nearer to the great step at the services in which he took part, at the occasional Class Meetings, where he answered the questions of his Leader concerning the state of his soul; but he could not bring himself to the actual deed of a public surrender. Something held him back. It was the memory of a sin.

“The inward Light revealed to me,” he says, “that I must not only renounce everything I knew to be sinful, but make restitution, so far as I had the ability, for any wrong I had done to others before I could find peace with God.”

The boy was now tormented by a guilty conscience. He carried about with him not only a guilty conscience, but a visible and tangible possession which upbraided him with the wrath of God. It was a silver pencil-case. And this silver pencil-case, going to and from his work, and all the time he was at his work, burned like fire against his flesh. Suddenly, though the approach had been gradual and, in a sense, dilatory, the struggle ceased. The moment came one night, at eleven o’clock, in the streets of Nottingham.

It was in the open street,” he says, “that this great change passed over me, and if I could only have possessed the flagstone on which I stood at that happy moment, the sight of it occasionally might have been as useful to me as the stones carried up long ago from the bed of the Jordan were to the Israelites who had passed over them dry-shod.”

He tells us what had hitherto held him back: “The entrance to the Heavenly Kingdom was closed against me by an evil act of the past which required restitution. In a boyish trading affair I had managed to make a profit out of my companions, whilst giving them to suppose that what I did was all in the way of a generous fellowship.

As a testimonial of their gratitude they had given me a silver pencil-case. Merely to return their gift would have been comparatively easy, but to confess the deception I had practised upon them was a humiliation to which for some days I could not bring myself.

“I remember, as if it were but yesterday,” he goes on, “the spot in the corner of the room under the chapel, the hour, the resolution to end the matter, the rising up and rushing forth, the finding of the young fellow I had chiefly wronged, the acknowledgment of my sin, the return of the pencil-case — the instant rolling away from my heart of the guilty burden, the peace that came in its place, and the going forth to serve my God and my generation from that hour.”

He was happy, but happy in a frame of mind which may be described as one of dead earnestness. He is careful to say that he had no experience at this time of emotional religion. He looks back and envies those who have had that experience from the first. But he was happy. “I felt . . . that I could willingly and joyfully travel to the ends of the earth for Jesus Christ, and suffer anything imaginable to help the souls of other men.”

There was something thorough in the effect of this conversion, and he was troubled by no disenchantment of reaction. “One reason,” he says, “for the victory I daily gained from the moment of my conversion was, no doubt, my complete and immediate separation from the godless world. I turned my back on it. I gave it up, having made up my mind beforehand that if I did go in for God I would do so with all my might.”

But one must be careful of this language.

There was scarcely a “complete and immediate separation from the godless world.” He remained in his employment for some years, and was a very clever and industrious assistant to his Unitarian employer, as we shall see in the next chapter. He was still obliged to rub shoulders with his former companions of this shop, some of whom were “worldly and sensual, some of them even vicious.”

What he means is this, though the language is the language of a far later period, that, living in the same surroundings as before, and pursuing the same commercial goal as before, he now separated himself from the more questionable of his former companionships, abandoned all selfish amusement in his leisure moments, and was conscious in his soul of a solemn dedication of himself to high and lofty purposes.

Rather than yearning for the world’s pleasures,” he says, “books, games, or recreations, I found my new nature leading me to come away from it all. It had lost all charm for me. What were all the novels, even those of Sir Walter Scott or Fenimore Cooper, compared with the story of my Saviour? What were the choicest orators compared with Paul? What was the hope of money-earning, even with all my desire to help my poor mother and sisters, in comparison with the imperishable wealth of ingathered souls? I soon began to despise everything the world had to offer me.”

The language is not extravagant in the light of after events, but it is probably exaggerated as a contemporary expression of those first early movements of the boy’s soul. There is no doubt that he relinquished the reading of novels; no doubt that he abandoned many of his former friendships; no doubt that he ceased to envy the oratory of Feargus O’Connor; and no doubt that he ceased to feel pleasure in the diversions of his former life.

But one must be careful to remember that he still continued to be the cleverest and most dependable of his employer’s staff, and gave no public signs of desiring a life with greater religious opportunities. The phrase, “I soon began to despise everything the world had to offer me,” is somewhat too exuberant for this phase of his experience.

But the great step was taken. Nothing is more characteristic of the man than the simple, downright, blunt, almost horrisonant statement in which he declares that he had made up his mind, “if I did go in for God,” to do so with all his might. To William Booth at that time, and to William Booth at the last stage of his long journey, the choice lay for all mankind between God and Devil.

He believed emphatically in both. He could see no escape from belief in both. And he knew already, had known it throughout his “blighted childhood,” that men definitely or indefinitely, consciously or unconsciously, by all their thoughts and by all their actions, with consequences visible here, and direr consequences unimaginable hereafter, serve the One or the other. To “go in for God,” however the phrase may strike upon the ear, meant with him a rational decision for the Best, a whole-hearted loyalty to the Highest, and a life of logical self-sacrifice devoted to Righteousness. He had inherited from his father a commercial mind; the imagination of his mother’s ancestry gave warmth and fervour to his disposition; the hard, vigorous, uncompromising spirit of the north inspired his soul.

Such a youth could speak about going in for God without offence, and in speaking about it he would mean it with an iron logic and a fixed determination. His instincts told him “that if there were a God His laws ought to have my obedience”; and “one feeling specially forced itself upon me, and I can recollect it as distinctly as though it had transpired only yesterday, and that was the sense of the folly of spending my life in doing things for which I knew I must either repent or be punished in the days to come.”

There was something of a bargain in his decision. Consciously or unconsciously, logic was at work in his soul. But chiefly he came to religion as an escape from the unhappiness, the unrest, and the dissatisfaction of his troubled heart; came to it, too, almost unhelped, unencouraged, and unbefriended.

The child who had grown up with the idea that he was “to be made a gentleman”; who had seen the shadow of poverty deepening every day upon the shabbying walls of his unhappy home; who had been left to form his own friendships and find his own amusements in the playing-fields of a manufacturing town; who had been thrust into a very exacting and dispiriting employment at the age of thirteen; who had seen his father die, and helped his mother while he was yet a boy to move into a humble shop and begin life over again; who had witnessed the utmost miseries and depressions of a commercial reaction which spread ruin on every side; who had listened with enthusiasm to the oratory of so-called revolutionary politicians — this boy came of his own choice, so far as we can judge, to the religion which makes a supreme demand and confers an exclusive benefit.

He came to it for release. He came to it, one may say, selfishly. And it is certain that hic realized neither the demand it was to make of him, nor dreamed of the triumph to which it was destined to carry him.

In the year 1844 William Booth was a very youthful shop-assistant who had decided to live a religious life, and who was working exceedingly hard to improve his material prospects. Happiness had come to him, and he had escaped from the wretchedness of unrest by confessing to a sin that haunted his conscience, and by deciding to live henceforth in the knowledge and service of God.

No conversion could be simpler, less dramatic, and more natural; few in the long history of Christianity have brought a richer harvest to the whole world.

Chaper 4

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