The
Life of General William Booth
Vol. 2 ~ Chapter 12 ~ 1891 - 1892
Contents
AT THE
THRESHOLD
OF A NEW PHASE
WITH
the death of Catherine Booth and the publication of In Darkest England,
William Booth entered upon a new phase of his career. His autocracy was
sensibly modified, and his interest in social reform as sensibly increased.
Accustomed to lean upon Mrs. Booth, whose influence was exercised almost
entirely in the spiritual sphere, William Booth had never deeply felt
the need of counsellors and captains to share his burden of supremacy.
But with the death of Mrs. Booth, and the sudden opening of a new door
on the frontiers of social service, William Booth was inclined to call
others to his side, and was disposed to consider an entirely new policy.
He had arrived at ”four roads and no signpost.”
From 1890 to 1898, that is to say from his sixty-first to his sixty-ninth
year, this astonishing man was at the height of his powers. Till 1890
he had been a fervent and passionate preacher of the changed heart, but
a preacher harassed by poverty, opposed by enemies, and often involved
in doubts and uncertainties.
After 1907 or 1908 he was a beautiful and patriarchal figure, a genial,
gracious, amiable, and endearing old man, only on occasion a mighty captain
of salvation, or a vigorous legislator in the modern struggle of social
reform. We shall see that after 1898, before, that is, he had reached
the patriarchal stage, he began, if not to lose faith in the efficacy
of social reforms, at least to question whether he had done wisely in
throwing so much of his energy into this tremendous struggle.
But from 1891 to 1898, although insisting from time to time upon the first
importance of purely spiritual work, he was unquestionably heart and soul
in the Salvation Arm’s magnificent effort to solve the social riddles
of modern industrialism — that effort which is perhaps the most
striking monument to his life.
Mrs. Booth’s death, after so long and trying an illness, released
his energies from a sad restraint even while he was momentarily stunned
by her loss. He threw himself into the agitation concerning his Darkest
England, threw himself still more energetically into the work of establishing
his scheme, and in a few months had so overworked and exhausted himself
that it was imperative to send him away from England on a long journey.
Thus began, early in 1891, those wider world-travels of William Booth,
which were to make so picturesque an effect in almost every country under
the sun, which were to endear him to so many nations, and which were to
continue to the end of his life, in 1912. But these earlier travels were
not by any means chiefly picturesque.
William Booth set out on his travels with a compulsive desire in his mind
to fire the enthusiasm of the world for his new adventure. He visited
Germany, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and India. In the following
year he visited Germany, Denmark, and Switzerland.
With the one exception of 1905, he travelled every year of his life, visiting
nearly every country in the world; and the immense enthusiasm, the extraordinary
pageants which marked the later and more spectacular travels, were the
fruit of the earlier journeys, particularly the journeys of 1891—1898,
when he was consumed with a burning sympathy for the poor and suffering,
and was on fire with enthusiasm for his social theme.
We shall not attempt to follow him in any of his travels, but the reader
will perhaps be able to form some idea of the toil and success of those
many journeys from the following extracts taken either from his letters
or his diaries — extracts chosen, of course, not to furnish an account
of his travels, but to show the mind and character of the traveller:
We
must have some more spiritual work tip and down the country.
We stayed at Hamburg at an Hotel — had precious little comfort —
could not get enough to eat — yet they managed to make a good bill!
It seems a long time not to have a sign or a sound from you. You might
have raised a wire yesterday to say how you were.
I cannot help feeling anxious about Eva’s teeth, and as to whether
there have been any more earthquakes, or blizzards, or waterspouts, or
typhoons, or cyclones from The Times or any other quarter. . . . I long
after you continually and mourn that I am away from England just now.
Surely God will take care of you all, and continue unto us the blessings
we have so largely enjoyed up to now. . . .
I would have liked one line from you. You need not say much but just a
word or two of love. I have felt much and tenderly about you — arid
still feel as though I must come to you all right away.
I am only very down to-day. I don’t improve; and feel terribly under
my work, altho’ when I get at it, I have remarkable freedom and
power. But nothing seems to cheer me as in the past. . . . I feel as though
I must come away home tonight, and yet if I was in London I don’t
suppose I should feel any better. This accommodation is wretched. Think
of a Training Home with only wood partitions. . . . They will make getting
on for £100 out of me, and yet could not take me a couple of rooms
where I could get a little quiet and sleep. Oh dear!
Do stop — sending out foolish instructions about my food. Here everybody
has raisins and I know not what — I never touch them. Why can’t
he ask me before he sends messages about my eating and drinking —
as if I was so fanciful.
I must feel very different in my spirits before I can write any more books.
The intervals of my meetings are often awful. I must get something for
my nerves, if possible.
The papers, so far, have been most friendly here (Copenhagen), none more
so than the Socialist Organ. . . . To-night I am on “Darkest England”
. . . every ticket has been sold already. This afternoon I am with Count
Moltke to dine and drawing-room [meeting]. My visit has made an enormous
advance for our people in Norway and Sweden, but I think here the benefit
will be far greater.
Going to Australia in my present state of mind seems simply impossible
I want to get home now. Why Brussels? or even Paris?
If I succeed after the same fashion or anything approaching it at Berlin,
I shall certainly think I ought to do the other capitals of Europe, whether
I am able or not.
His successful meetings in Berlin, where numbers were turned away every night from the doors, were interrupted by the bad news that his daughter Emma, Mrs. Booth-Tucker, was returning from India very seriously ill. He writes to Bramwell, on the eve of an all-night railway journey which must be made, “with this dreadful sorrow tugging at my heart-strings.” He insists that he must go to Emma at Cannes, and exclaims: “Surely God will spare us the horror of losing her.” This letter concludes:
I shall blame myself for trusting her to India. No rest — poor thing, after all that struggle and heart agony over Mamma. Oh, God help us!
He comes home and is taken ill — an illness which developed into dysentery. He writes to Bramwell:
Metcalfe is here. He says I am very low — I must have great care — which they always do — mustn’t do any mental work — which I shall. He orders me fish — can you bring a bit? — they say it is cheap. Eva might like a bit to-morrow.
Cured
of dysentery he is struck down a little later with influenza, caught,
he says, by sleeping in damp beds and fireless rooms while campaigning.
He insists that he must have proper rooms, and says that he will pay for
them out of his own pocket, “altho’ there is not much in it.”
He makes a long journey to comfort his sick daughter in Cannes, and on
one occasion writes in an inexcusably bad mood of foreign vexations:
— brought us some chicken that stunk, so we had to throw it out of the window — some stale bread and butter I could not eat — some dry raisins two seasons old, and some rotten oranges.
But
his letters are chiefly full of schemes for the future, and when he goes
back to his meetings in Germany next month he sends Bramwell all manner
of ideas: such, for instance, as a method for the manufacture of cheap.
non-phosphorous matches, and the possibility of establishing a tea plantation
in Ceylon.
But ever and anon everything on earth sinks into insignificance before
the urgent necessity of spiritual surrender:
I have been telling the Officers that without the heart right and possessed of the Holy Spirit all is vain. It came with great power. It went to my own heart. The rest of my days, many or few, I will spend teaching and by His grace exemplifying the truth.
But
he has moments when he is overwhelmed by his solitude: “I feel awfully
alone.”
In a letter to Bramwell, written from South Africa, he sends this affectionate
son and Chief of the Staff a child’s kiss, marked by a cross. Always
behind the fault-finding and truth-dealing public hero there is the heart
of the old man almost pathetic in its hunger for love and its thirst for
sympathy.
We find an interesting reference in one of these South African letters
to a psychological experience:
I
am trying to send something for All the World, and have outlined it, but
cannot make it fit, and have not darling Mamma to help me round the corner,
nor you, so I have stuck.
. . . I think the Tour will do me good nervously . . . I had a shadowy,
strange feeling for months gone — as tho’ I were not myself
— as tho’ my real self had gone out of me. I cannot describe,
but I think I am coming back again to my old self.
From Australia he writes approvingly of a member of his staff:
_____ looks after me personally, and would, I believe, eat anybody he thought likely to incommode me. The way he looks at the babies that squall in the meetings is something to be remembered!
Rumours reach him that a rich and most friendly supporter of the Army is criticising his scheme, and he sends Bramwell this humorous letter from Colombo:
If Mr. Richard Cory is not satisfied, tell him that on good information I hold him to be an arrant humbug! Put it a bit milder than that.
The following letter written from Bombay at this time will give the reader some idea of the immensity of the General’s labours when on his world tours, as well as of the welcomes with which he was acclaimed:
BOMBAY,
January 16, 1892.
I broke off at the beginning of my Calcutta Campaign as above, not having
had a moment’s space to resume. Never had I such a crush of engagements
before, and it was really all I could possibly do to keep pace with them,
and that I only did to some extent in a poorish way.
The detail of them I must leave to another day.
I may say, however, that Calcutta in interest exceeded anything I have
seen since I left England. From the rush of welcome at the railway-station
at six in the morning, to the pack who came to say farewell (in which
the papers say there were 3,000 people), it was one series of surprises.
Although the Town Hail Meeting was stiff, and the Europeans were conspicuous
by their absence, still there was sufficient indication of the high esteem
in which the Army was held in general, and myself in particular, to make
it a matter of great interest and encouragement.
Of the welcomes that followed from individuals of note, such as Mr. Bannerjee
and Mr. Bhose (representing the Brahmo Samaj); and the successor to Chunder
Sen, Mr. Chuckervetty, the lay reader of the Yogal Samaj, His Highness
the Maharajah Sir Joteendro Mohun, of Tanjore, one of the most princely
men of the city; the Nawab Abdool Luteef, the most distinguished leader
of the Mohammedans, etc.; and of the several missionaries who came up,
all was really complimentary and respectful — nay, affectionate.
Then
there were the crowds, perhaps the greatest in the Emerald Theatre, in
which there must have been nearly 3,000 people, inside and out, listening
through the doorways. It was certainly the most remarkable audience I
ever addressed.
Exclusively native. I only saw one white face in the crowd beyond our
own people. Nothing more hearty could have been conceived.
Then came Meeting upon Meeting; but the Circus on Sunday night outdid
almost anything, in some respects, that I have ever witnessed in my life.
It came upon me quite by surprise. The hour fixed was the same as the
churches, and it had been predicted that we should not get an audience.
It was right away outside the city, in a park in the swellest part of
the suburbs. Consequently, it was not at all attractive to the native,
who doesn’t like to get outside his own quarter.
The Emerald
Theatre had been a great success because it was in the midst of his quarter:
the Europeans would not come there, and now it was fair to assume that
the native would not come to the European centre.
As to any attendance of English people, that was hardly to be expected.
They had cold-shouldered me at the Town Hail, the Lieutenant-Governor
had even refused to see one of our Officers when she called, although
he had the reputation of being a Christian man. The Viceroy had been civil
to me —he could not have been otherwise; in fact, he verged on friendliness
before we parted — but that was all. His Military Secretary had
been as stiff as military etiquette could possibly make him. There seemed
to be, therefore, nothing much to expect as to audience from them.
Then
I was tired out — a more wearying morning and afternoon I had seldom
experienced — and I bargained in my own mind, and even mentioned
it to Ajeet Singh, that if there was not much of an audience I should
leave them to bear the brunt of the burden.
As we drove up the appearance of things seemed to confirm my anticipations.
Everything was silent. They had been afraid of the roaring of the wild
beasts disturbing the Meetings. but there was not a growl to be heard,
nor a carriage to be seen, not even a pedestrian. It is true we were at
the back part of the Circus.
Hoe came to meet us, however, at the gates, and when asked about the audience
very coolly announced, to our amazement. that they were full. Without
any delay, therefore, I mounted the platform, and the sight that met me
certainly was sufficiently surprising to be actually bewildering. They
say the place seated 3,500; it appeared to be full. It was a simple circle,
with a ring set in the centre.
At one end was a little platform seating myself and my Staff, opposite
me was the entrance for the horses, which was packed by the crowd, while
on the remaining space, circle upon circle, tier upon tier, the audience
was to be seen.
On the right hand we had row after row of Queen’s soldiers in their
red jackets, lower down the Eurasian and middle-class Europeans, with
a few natives. In the centre we had a very fair proportion of the elite
of Calcutta: there was the Lieut.-Governor, the Chief Commissioner of
Police, the Consuls of America and two or three other countries, some
great native swells, ladies bespangled with jewellery and finery, while
on the left was one mass of dark faces reaching up to the canvas sky.
It was the most picturesque audience I ever addressed, to say the least
of it.
Our singing of “Grace is flowing like a river” was very weak;
still everybody listened, nobody more so than the swell Europeans.
The solo, “On Calvary,” was sung with good effect, and then
I rose to do my best. The opportunity put new life into me. I was announced
to speak on “The Religion of Humanity,” but this did not seem
to me to be the hour for argument of any description; there was no time
for dissertation.
I felt I must have something that went straight to the point. I had been
talking to these Brahmo Sarnaj and other people upon Social Work, alluring
them on afterwards by indirect arguments long enough. Now I felt that
I must go as straight to the point as it was possible to do. So I took
“What must I do with Jesus?” and made it fit into “The
Religion of Humanity “ as best I could.
I never hit out straighter in my life, and was never listened to with
more breathless attention — except for a few natives in the top
seats, who would go, I guessed, because they did not know the language,
and came perhaps expecting I should be translated, and after sitting an
hour felt that was enough. However, they soon cleared out, the audience
taking no notice of the process.
Once done, however, a general movement took place; a Prayer-Meeting was
impossible. We retired feeling that a victory had been gained so far.
I cannot stop here to speak of the Meeting at which the Brahmo Samaj presented
me with an Address of Welcome the next day.
All I know is, that nothing surprised me more than to hear some of the
priests and laymen declare that they had gone with me in every word I
had said the night before.
Other Meetings followed, interviews, visits to the houses of the leading
natives, and with blessings without stint poured upon my head, and hand-shaking
that almost threatened to lame me, the train tore me away from the packed
platform, and I left Calcutta with unfeigned regret.
I stayed a night at Benares, and had the Town Hall crowded, with a leading
Hindu in the chair. Quiet Meeting. Landed here (Bombay) six this morning
with a hearty welcome, and, I think, with the promise of good Meetings,
although anything equal to Calcutta is not to be expected; and the news
of the death of the Prince has come in our way, the news of which we have
only just received.
Many
of the letters are full of social work. He announces that he is negotiating
for land for immigrants into South Africa and Australia, and sends Bramwell
suggestions for the manufacture of a certain kind of bricks, of coffee,
and non-alcoholic beer.
Mixed up with these schemes are references to Lucy, Emma, and Eva, who
are ill. He sends very tender and anxious messages concerning Eva. Lucy,
he says, is to go to South Africa to recuperate; but his orders are not
obeyed, and he threatens the Chief of the Staff, telling him that he must
produce very good reasons when the General returns.
He speaks of his magnificent receptions, his enthusiastic meetings, and
the friendliness of the various Governments.
One of Bramwell Booth’s letters to his father, written on September
21, 1891, contains an interesting prophecy by William Stead concerning
Mrs. Annie Besant:
I had a nice talk with him (Stead) yesterday. He is deeply interested in the reports of your movements. He hopes you were able to make a good impression on Rhodes, about whom he is very anxious. The present attitude of Mrs. Besant towards Buddhism, etc., and towards what are called “Spiritual Phenomena” is interesting Stead very much. He thinks she will become a Christian. Anyway, she now says man has a soul, and unless you change it from bad to good you do nothing for him whatever else you do.
The journal of the General for this year is not very illuminating, but every now and then one comes across an entry which shows the state of his mind, or is characteristic of his temperament:
.
. . at the close of the meeting (Frankfort) I was rushed off in a cab
by some young fellow to see his mother, who wished me to introduce some
kind of coffee which is used in a limited way in Germany, and which she
thought would be a great boon to the poor people of England. She received
me in her own chamber — she suffered from some kind of head complaint,
and in the most friendly manner at once proceeded to unfold the great
advantages of this beverage -- simple, cheap, refreshing, almost as tasty
as the ordinary coffee, without any of its injurious properties.
They gave me a cup to taste, and I certainly was very pleased with its
resemblance to the genuine stuff, and brought away a pound or two as a
sample, and probably will enquire into it.
At 9 we were on board a magnificent boat steaming up the Rhine.
I have often heard that people talk in raptures, and have read poetic
and no small amount of prose rhapsody on the picturesque scenery of this
world-famed river. I suppose it is very beautiful, but I cannot say that
I was particularly carried away wit\h it. I don’t know whether anything
of the kind, however striking, would have impressed me, seeing that my
head was full of other things.
. . . .
I understood that the Army in N. Wales was in a low condition —
dying out. However, these people looked not only alive but shouted like
it also — they were a noisy crew. The wife of a Wesleyan Minister
said to me next morning that she did enjoy herself at the meeting, it
was like being near a red-hot furnace.
Of his daughter, who is suffering from a bad abscess in the shoulder, threatened with “something like Mamma’s,” he writes:
What
a mystery this depression is that creeps over one whether or no. As a
family we are all terrible sufferers in this direction. What a martyr
dear Mamma was to it, and some of the children, perhaps all, suffer in
the same direction, and I have thought I have done more so than any of
them. John Wesley boasts, as well he may, of his equable disposition in
this respect. What a boon it must have been to him.
. . . We are indeed fearfully and wonderfully made. The greatest earthly
mystery is the human heart. Mine is past finding out — that is,
by me. I am glad there is One who knows its every thought and every feeling
— and who loves it too. I must trust Him with it — with dear,
darling Lucy too. Oh, God help me!
However is it that I cannot shake the terrible lowness from my heart?
I think, nay, I am sure, I am feeling my loss, my loneliness more to-day
than 6 months ago, a great deal. Darling, darling Mamma, what would I
give to have you with me to-night; and yet I could not, would not, had
I the power to do so, fetch you back from your blessed home to share my
lot in this world of sorrow and strife.
No! my Lord, Thy will be done. My heart says so altho’ it bleeds
to say it.
Dear Bramwell is very tender to me — so are all my precious children,
but alas! their tenderness and sympathy cannot comfort my poor solitary
heart.
After an extraordinary hard week he is conscious of elation and good health:
I could only explain it on the theory of the terrible spiritual conflict and temptation and harassment with which nearly every great effort I make is preceded, and the nervous rebound which is the result of the consciousness that the work is done, and done fairly well.
There is an entry on July 16, when in Canada, which, besides offering amusement. shows that the Salvation Army was making friends among the powerful classes:
The
Earl of Aberdeen had written me, saying that the Countess would like to
call and say good-bye before I left, and this afternoon it was arranged.
He brought her and left her, having to go to some other appointment. She
is very tall, and what would be termed a fine-looking woman, I suppose.
She was exceedingly kind, quite affectionate, manifested considerable
interest in the work, which we talked over, in some of its aspects.
On my making the remark to her that it was impossible to understand our
Social Operations without a personal knowledge of the Army, she said that
some of them knew more about it than we thought; that she had often been
to our meetings, and mixed with our people.
His journal for 1892 is still full of his great schemes, and only now and then do we find personal references or meditative asides which help us to understand his character or to obtain glimpses of his private life:
Only
a little dinner, but suffered out of all proportion. Oh this eating is
bound to kill me; and yet I must eat, I suppose.
All who are interested in helping the poor, and they are very, very few,
are concerned to do it in some other way.
Lord Radstock has seen, I expect, a statement I made to the representative
of Dalziel in an interview that I was in a corner for money, etc. He wired
me yesterday that he was in deep sympathy with me and had a plan to help
me of which he was writing. A letter has arrived to-day from him repeating
his expressions of sympathy; with respect to assistance, he simply says
that he and other Xtians would be willing to help me on two conditions:
1. The recognition by me of other Xtians in their service, and the recognition
that there is one common cause, the cause of Christ, that he is the Head
and His own Word the guide.
2. That if there is to be co-operation of Xtians, there must necessarily
be consultation and agreement for the conduct of our Commonwealth.
If there is agreement on these views as the basis of a conference, he
proposes one. The first, I am not aware but that I have adhered to and
acted upon all through my career — the latter I am foggy about.
I am willing to have God for my Head and His Word for my guide, but I
should certainly object to Lord Radstock and his woid in the same relations.
Referring to the custom of inviting people to meet him at his billets:
Oh
how I hate this fashionable usage of Society, and oh how weak and useless
is the chatter that goes on generally. I cannot think why people come
to meet me. In many cases they don’t appear to be desirous in the
slightest degree to receive information, to say nothing about instruction,
from me, neither do they seem to have any to impart—but they just
sit and eat and chatter, and then, with a few empty compliments, depart.
To-morrow commences Self-Denial week. It looks very much like a sad one
to me — but indeed a large number of my weeks are sad ones indeed.
If my heart is not depressed with disappointment in men and measures,
if I am not cast down with the innumerable cares of these enterprises,
I am perplexed as to which course should be taken on questions that appear
to be of insuperable importance to the Kingdom of God and the well-being
of mankind.
However, I must struggle on.
Worked, or tried to work, till very near morning. Brain stupid or weary
or something. Perhaps it is on the principle that all work and no play,
et cetera. I certainly do seem to be very nearly always doing or attempting
it — and I am sure I am dull enough.
. . . it is only too evident that there is some truth in the remark of
a Critic in one of the Reviews, that “The Country is tired of Mr.
Booth”; so I must let the Country rest, and go on as well as I can
without it.
On Christmas Day, 1892, at the end of this the second year of his widowerhood, he writes:
All
coming in to dine at 5 and spend the evening. Even this jars on my feelings;
I would rather be alone, but I think that she would like me to have them
together. We have been wonderfully together as a family for many, many
years only one or two absent on Christmas Day, and now we are very much
scattered.
Darling Emma and Lucy in India, Katie in France, and Balhngton in the
States. I have no doubt they will be thinking very tenderly about me.
Sympathy is very precious. But after all there are some sorrows that it
cannot very well get at.
During
part of 1892—93, leaving the organization of tlie Darkest England
Scheme very largely in the hands of his Chief of Staff, William Booth
visited India, Germany, Denmark, and Switzerland, and held a number of
very important meetings up and down the British Isles.
He was now a world figure, and though a certain section of the public
might be “tired of Mr. Booth,” it is quite certain that throughout
the world he was becoming recognized as a man who had discovered one of
the greatest secrets of life. He was no longer the outcast revivalist
of Whitechapel, but the head of an international organization which had
set itself to handle some of the most painful and troublesome difficulties
which beset the path of the legislator.
In this way, we find him not only welcomed, and rapturously welcomed,
by masses of people in every city he entered, but everywhere cordially
and respectfully entertained by men seriously attentive to the social
dangers which were threatening civilization.