THE BEGINNING OF THE FIGHT
AGAINST OLD AGE

THE reader will see from the writings of William Booth which compose the present chapter that he was still eagerly pursuing the ideal of his earliest youth, and pursuing that ideal in the spirit of dissatisfaction with himself which was one of his most salient characteristics.

Dostoevsky has said that self-satisfaction is the mark of a quite peculiar stupidity; certainly William Booth, whatever else he may have been, was not stupid. His honesty, his thirst for reality, his hatred for all shams and pretensions, made it impossible for him in his quest both of God and man, ever to be long at rest, ever for a moment to be really satisfied with his own efforts. If he constantly accused the world of indifference, and some of his Officers of lukewarmness, quite as constantly he upbraided himself for lack of faith and want of understanding.

“You can only keep company with God,” he once wrote, “by running at full speed,” forgetting that breathlessness is not consonant with peace of mind, and that exhaustion is not the prize for which the soul of humanity strives. The Byronic hero, we are told, went to clasp repose in a frenzy:

All crimson and aflame with passion, he groaned for evening Stillness.

Of the religious enthusiast it may also be said that he pursues the peace which passes understanding as if he was running to catch a train. And it must be so: for, unlike the mystic, he seeks that peace for others, and those others are in number like the sands on the shore.

By temperament, of course, William Booth was the last man in the world to value equanimity or to he satisfied with patience, but his violent quest of God — quest of a God who interfered, who provided, who relieved, who rewarded —added whirlwind to the natural storm of his -character and a poignant bitterness to the natural unrest of his heart.

He writes to Bramwell Booth after an illness:

. . . I have been seized with a spirit of determination this morning more than ever to go forwards regardless of the opposition of men or devils, traitors or cowards or renegades or the whole lot. If any considerable number of Officers and Soldiers can rise up to this spirit of self-abnegation and reckless go-forwardism, baptized with the Holy Ghost, we shall yet awake a blaze that will light up not only this world but the universe. You will guess that I am feeling a little better!

These moods of tremendous aggression and of almost undefeatable optimism were by no means transitory, nor were they, as the success of the Salvation Army very practically proves, fruitless. But as he advanced in age, reaction from these sudden accessions of tempestuous energy was at times sharp and swift. His diaries, his letters, even his public utterances, bear witness to the darkness which clouded his vision and the burden of sorrow which weighed down his soul during such periods.
In his letters to Bramwell Booth we read:

I suffer about many things that I do not tell you about, nor anybody else. There are two or three very heavy burdens upon me just now. God is very good to me, and although I have very little time for privately dealing with Him, and have to do my closest work largely lying on my bed, He does come to me and comfort me. And I suppose I ought to feel, as I think I do to some extent, that it is a great joy to be allowed, not only to believe on Him but to suffer something for His sake. I think I know better now than ever what Paul meant when he talked about “the care of the Churches” being the biggest trial he had to endure.

I am very tired — but must on — on — on — I cannot stand still. I have worked to-day and laid down when I could sit no longer, and then got up and gone on again A ”fire” is in my bones, and though at times I feel as though I should die of a broken heart, I revive and go on again. But I feel often as if I was approaching an end — here!

Very characteristic is a reference to one of his other sons:

Why doesn’t he settle down and get some rest? What a worrying thing “Booth blood” is.

That this Booth blood was active and restless enough in his own veins, we find plenty of evidence in his letters to the Chief of the Staff throughout the present period. He manifests the keenest interest in all the concerns of the Army, even troubling his mind about such matters as the journalistic style of his Officers:

I hope you will translate this Canadian cable into decent Christian English. I do hate this “Cock-a-hoop” style. Where is the humility and lowliness of religion gone to?

Of the Colony at Hadleigh he writes:

God’s plan in farming, in my opinion, was “five acres and a cow,” and whenever you depart from that you have to pay, the piper.

But another letter, describing a successful meeting, shows his desire to keep social betterment in a second place:

We were packed last night at the Social Lecture and had a pretty good time, although I must say I am heartily tired of Social Schemes in places where I can get a crowd and get souls saved.

Sometimes an account of his crowded and enthusiastic meetings is made the opportunity for a dig at his Officers:

We had a fearful struggle last night owing to the heat, but we got thirteen out, which on the top of a Salvation Army and Social address was not so bad; if we could have had people there who could have worked the thing, and had room, we should have got forty. It is the Officers. I felt last night that if I was the Lord I would send them all to Hell for a little bit. I was so vexed with the cold-blooded way in which they dealt with the opportunity.

When he hears a good story that might be useful for campaigning, he finds time to send it to his Chief of Staff in London:

I heard two good stories yesterday. One was suggested by an illustration I had been giving in the Council, on the folly of using high-falutin language in prayers.

A young minister, full of big empty phrases and anxious to show himself off to the simple people in a Yorkshire town, commenced on a certain occasion his prayer something as follows: “O Thou Great Omnipotent Being,” and then stuck fast. He started again, “O Thou Great Omniscient God,” and again had to pause. He made another effort, “O Thou Great Eternal Spirit,” and hesitated, starting off once more, “O Thou Great — what shall we call Thee?”

An old woman in the audience could stand it no longer and jumping up, she called out to the bewildered preacher, “Call him Fayther, lad — call him Fayther.”

Something of the work which the General undertook may be gathered from the following account of a campaign in Scotland, written by one of his secretaries:

The General rose at 7.20, having only had a fair night, and consequently very tired indeed. Breakfast at 7.40, departed for Glasgow at 8.5, travelling 8.20 train.

. . . The General . . . wrote the Chief of Staff advising a system of training of Probationary Officers in Scotland, and for Scotland a system of rigid inspection, the insistence upon Visitation, Open-air preaching, Circles, Hawking, etc.
The remainder of the journey was taken up in preparation for the Officers’ meetings in Glasgow.
. . . Proceeded directly to the Masonic Hall, where the General met the Officers of Scotland. The General’s topic was “My model Officer.”
Drove to the Hall for afternoon meeting, and, following up his morning talk, the General spoke upon “The operation of the Holy Ghost in co-operation with men and women in the work of soul-saving. . .

The City Hall was crowded at 7.30. Good reception. The General promised in his opening remarks that he would have something to say upon the present condition of the Social Scheme, which greatly pleased the crowd.

“Who is on the Lord’s side?” was the General’s topic. Writing to the Chief about this meeting the General said, “We had a very good meeting last night — a time of great power. . . . Somehow or other, independently of all I had to say, the Spirit of the Lord seemed to come down upon us, and I was able to talk to the hearts of the people and the result was a great awakening in many minds.” There were 43 for Salvation and 17 for the Blessing. . .

The General dispatched to London Indian communications etc. by the night train.

In his own diary the General writes on one of the days of this campaign:

Beautiful morning. Charming for a walk, but cannot afford the time. I did promise myself half-an-hour yesterday, but could not feel free for it.

During one of his visits to Scotland he stayed at the house of a wealthy merchant whose son, a singularly able man, has since become Lord Provost of Glasgow. The General was very anxious to enlist this son in the Army, and made repeated efforts to get him to join. At last he said, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, digging the obdurate Scot in the ribs: “Look here, you join us and I’ll make you a Colonel!”

It was on this same occasion that he lost his wife’s wedding-ring, which he always wore on a finger of his left hand. A daughter of the house eventually found this precious ring and restored it to him. “The General,” she said, “rushed at me, covered my hand with kisses, and with tears in his eyes told me that he had rather lose anything else in the world than this ring of his dear wife’s.”

From Scotland the party journeyed to Ireland, and the Secretary, after telling of the arrival at Belfast on the previous day, when the General gave “an address to 800 Soldiers at seven o’clock, when 76 came out to the mercy-seat,” proceeds as follows:

The General rose this morning at 7.30 and had breakfast with Mr. Morrow, and after prayers spent the time in his bedroom till 10.30 in close preparation for the coming meetings in the Ulster Hall. At that hour the carriage called, and at 11 the General was facing the first public audience of the visit.

The Ulster Hall is a long building with a large gallery round three of its sides and a great platform. On special occasions it would seat, I should think, about 2,000 people. This morning, however, only about 1,500 were present. They were an appreciative lot, and listened very well, although the General seemed not to get away from the stiffness; at least he said so. He turned over very poorly yesterday and is not yet better, so that accounts for his feelings in the matter.

Perhaps it will be different in the afternoon. His topic was “If we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us,” and every word went into the hearts of the people, and at the end of the morning 18 souls came to the front and sought for Salvation or Sanctification, which, considering the ice was hardly broken, was in the estimation of us all very good.

Dinner was partaken at the Young Women’s Christian Association. The Superintendent did all she could to make the General comfortable. There are, however, about twenty young ladies living in the house and so with all their efforts it was impossible to keep the place quiet, therefore the General’s rest was very much broken into and he was not in a very good state for the afternoon’s meeting.

The congregation was a larger one, and more enthusiastic, and the General on “The backslider in heart shall be filled with his own ways,” took every one by storm. He spoke with much more freedom than even this morning, and kept it up.

Sunday afternoons in Belfast so far as meetings of any description are concerned are always difficult affairs, and this afternoon was no exception. Although the General spoke with so much power, and although there was a spirit of anxious longing for something to be done pervading the meeting, no sooner did Colonel Lawley commence the first chorus than the congregation rose en masse and left the Hall. Only three solitary cases came to Jesus. The General’s disappointment was intense,

He had tea at the Y.W.C.A. but by himself, and turning very poorly after the meeting this afternoon he got away to his room as soon as he could, and lay down for a few moments. There was no sleep for him, however, as he was too much in earnest for the evening’s meeting, and rising from the bed he spent the time till the commencement of the meeting in close preparation and prayer.

The Ulster Hall to-night presented a picture. It was crammed in every part, and hundreds were hammering at the doors long after the commencement of the meeting in vexation at being shut out. Inside, the air was stuffy and close and more than once the General stopped, out of consideration for those whom he could see from the platform were suffering from faintness, and ordered a window here or a door there to be opened to let in a little fresh air.

His topic for the evening was “And the Flood came and took them all away.” Like his foregoing topics it told on the people, and the smash that followed convinced every one of the mighty Holy Ghost power with which it went into the hearts of the people who were present. 59 cases came out to the Penitent-Form and some of them very remarkable ones.

The meeting over, the General, accompanied by Mr. Morrow and self, went to Hillcrest, and had supper, and after to bed.

During this campaign he cries out in his diary: “Souls! Souls! Souls! My heart hungers for souls!”— and to the people of Dundee, he hammers in the object of his mission, the object of his life’s calling, the conversion of everybody, Christian and Pagan, to the practical work of benevolence:

There is no need for me to teach you anything. How can I, when a Scotchman knows everything? — everything that ever happened, or is going to happen! No, you are cradled in theology, and fed on religion. But I’ll tell you what I can do: I can urge you to make practical use of what is in your heads and your hearts. Real, practical religion! to get you into the ways of the Saviour, who went about doing good —that is why I am here.

In this same year (1897) he paid a visit to the Continent. His journal contains incidents of the following character:

Over no one did our people rejoice more than a tall, powerful, battered-looking man who was praying for mercy among the Penitents, like a little child. He had been for years a notorious drunkard, quarrelsome in his cups, and being a powerful fellow, he was not very easy to deal with when he got into a row. Consequently he gave the police no end of trouble.

In talking over my coming visit, the Inspector said to one of our Sergeants, “Now if you can get that fellow saved, you will do the town a good turn, and we will stand fifty kroner for the job.” “Done,” said, or thought, the Sergeant. The man promised to come to the meetings, kept his word, came sober and professed Salvation. I hope the fifty kroner will be honourably paid. It has been well earned, and the work is cheap at the money!

And to The War Cry he sends the following story:

I left Berlin with reluctance. But there was no alternative. I was expected at Copenhagen, and go to Copenhagen I must. Almost the last thing I looked upon in my Quarters on that Saturday morning was a really beautiful basket of flowers sent in the night before, bearing the inscription:

Top

“The Baroness Stephanie von . . . presents her compliments to General Booth, with the love of her aged mother —eighty-four — who was converted last Monday night, and trusts that he will continue to have good health and win many souls for Christ’s Kingdom, and speedily return.”

Although not without a natural love for flowers, I have no time to regale myself with their beauties in this world: I shall probably have that leisure in the next. But those flowers, I must confess, charmed mine, because telling me of this dear, aged soul entering into the rest of faith when so very near eternity. May God keep her faithful to the last!

During the autumn of this same year he sat for his portrait to Professor Herkomer, making up for the enforced idleness of this unusual situation by his usual attempt to get at the souls of every one who crossed his path:

I have been three times to Professor Herkomer; he is an interesting man so far as his talking goes, however his painting may turn out. I hope to get at him some way or other. God must help me. He is full of worldly ambition, and yet I should think with a beautiful nature. Oh what might he not do for God and mankind if his magnificent genius was sanctified. God will help me to say something that will be of service.

Later the Secretary writes:

The General went this morning at 11.30 to Herkomer’s, and sat to that gentleman for the last time. He finished up very friendly, but as dissatisfied as ever with his performance. Herkomer seems to think the portrait is a very good one, and that either the General is a bad judge or else the picture will prove a great disappointment. . .

Early in the following year William Booth took Cecil Rhodes and Lord Loch to see the Farm Colony at Hadleigh. This was in May, 1898. It seems that William Booth was deeply perturbed by the political situation in South Africa, and regarded Cecil Rhodes as a man who might either plunge the country into war or make an end of a very dangerous tension by reasonable and conciliatory diplomacy.

On the way to the Farm Colony they talked of social redemption and land reclamation, and during the inspection of the Army’s work Cecil Rhodes was absorbed in practical agricultural affairs.

The Secretary says of these notable visitors: “Both were deeply interested, immensely impressed, and no little surprised by what they saw, Mr. Rhodes especially.” But General Booth was thinking of other things, and on his way back to London in the railway carriage, he put his hand upon the arm of Cecil Rhodes, and said to him: “I want to speak to you about yourself. You’re a man with much depending on you just now. Tell me, how is it with your soul?”

Lord Loch looked surprised, but Cecil Rhodes immediately made answer, “Well, General, it’s not quite so well with my soul as I could wish.” “Do you pray?” inquired the old man. “Sometimes; not quite so often as I should.” “Will you let me pray with you — now?” “Yes.” Lord Loch turned his face away, and looked out of the window.

William Booth and Cecil Rhodes kneeled down together in the railway carriage, and the Salvationist prayed that God would guide, direct, and save the soul of the South African Colossus. When they rose from their knees. Rhodes took the hand of William Booth, and said to him, “I hope you will continue to pray for me.”

In the month following, William Booth was on the Continent, and his diary contains, for the most part, nothing but jottings and ideas. For example:

. . . The speed of the train from Helsingfors to Christiania was such as to enable me to get through a fair amount of work. I wonder how it is that so many people seem to have no better occupation whilst travelling than to loll about and sleep or do nothing.

The curiosity evinced at seeing us at work.
The remarks made to my A.D.C. when I left the carriage.

Bradlaugh and the General at the station in England.

Instant in season and out.

We find in the journal such entries as this, showing how his mind was centred on salvation:

“Ah,” said a young man to Commissioner Booth-Hellberg in the morning meeting, “I have been a bad fellow. I have been saved before several times, and when I go out there no one would believe me. I can’t keep it. I am as weak as a rag. It is no use. I won’t come.” The Commissioner dealt faithfully with him, but when the meeting closed he sorrowfully rose from his seat, and walked out of the building.

I don’t know what his feelings were, but I am certain that the Spirit of God took powerful hold of him, for he came to the afternoon meeting, and when Colonel Lawley blew his whistle, and shouted out with all his might, “Here comes No. 5,” Commissioner Booth-Hellberg leant over to me, and joyfully said, “This is the man I was dealing with all through the Prayer Meeting this morning.”

As soon as I had done, the Fishers, who were scattered all through the meeting, started to talk first to the person who was next to them, and then to move about tackling people who, they thought, were convicted.

“I am not saved yet,” said a girl in white as she was being dealt with in the Registration Room. Down they all went and spent some more time with her till she was through.

This often happened.

Later in this same year William Booth writes from Amsterdam to his Chief of the Staff:

I don’t think we ought to fret ourselves about evil doers —or about Officers and others who don’t do quite as well as we think they ought to do.
I wish I was stronger! I don’t think any of you have any idea of the amount of weakness and weariness, if not positive sickness, through which I have to fight my way! You see me under the stimulus of the hour or on the spur of the excitement caused by your intercourse — and are apt to infer wrongly as to my general condition. My life is now a hard fight.

A few quotations from the letters of this period from Bramwell Booth to his father show us something of the relations which existed both between father and son, and General and Chief of the Staff. As we have already recorded, Bramwell Booth was one of the few Officers who would stand up to the General, and not only stand up to this fiery spirit, but occasionally even reproach him for want of appreciation! The repentance of William Booth on these occasions was swift and absolute.
Here is an admirable example of reproof:

I really don’t quite understand your letter. I thought I was working a system — and sometimes indeed creating one — to a very large extent. How else is it supposed we do work the thing? Here I am with 300 men directing the movements of 10,000 Officers; we are passing through our hands £7,000 a week; besides the trade — doing Religion — money — social — farming — Rescue — Building — Newspapers — clothing, tea — buying and selling almost everything, from shiploads of timber to the contents of the ashpits — making in one way or another most things from baby linen to bicycles — law — banking — Continental campaigns — Jubilees — Self-Denials and Salvation — how could it be done as it is largely without friction and shindys, at any rate, so far as London is concerned, if there was not both system and authority and confidence? Really, I know you are a man with a “hungry heart” to make things better than they are, but I don’t quite see that we gain very much by not seeing what is done!

And here is a letter where reproof is mingled with something in the nature of a smoothing down:

. . . I rec’d . . . your letter of the 13/14 March, condemning me for suspending your New Zealand campaign. But, my dear General, you surely could not imagine that I could be a party to such an effort when you were in that state, or that I shd. allow you to have either the extra thought and worry of having to decide what you would do. Herbert cabled me your condition, adding the code word which meant that they could not control your movements, and that I must bring pressure to bear upon you!

I was aghast. You in dysentery fever, with high temperature, confined to bed, the possibility of heart trouble wh. I knew well enough to be in the background, and this abt. pressure being put on you lest you should attempt meetings! I felt, for once, that it was not the moment to ask you what to do. Indeed, I still feel that it would have been absurd, if not ludicrous, and unkind into the bargain, to consult you with your everlasting willingness to attempt all and sundry, to place you in the position of deciding. . .

Then Herbert’s wire seemed to me to show that he needed a little stiffening. I cabled therefore definitely, “The matter is in your hands,” and instructed him to drop the New Zealand campaign without consulting you, and to run no risks. Your life was at stake. What a pair of fools we shd. have been —I especially — to have hesitated abt. a few meetings over against letting you risk everything.

I knew that the only rational way to relieve you was to say that the thing was done. Immediately I found you were round the corner so wonderfully, I wired: “Can the New Zealand campaign go on omitting Tasmania?” I am not surprised that N. was anxious — we all were! If we had gone harassing you about yr. movements when you were in that condition and anything had gone wrong, neither he nor I would ever have been forgiven! You can see the cables when you arrive. Thank God it is all past.

The habit of making mere jottings in his diary grew upon him at this time, as will be seen in the following examples from his journal for 1899:

The monsoon continued.

The disappointment in my sea-going qualities. All but helpless.

When you can’t, you can’t, . . . How much better to say so and be off.

Paul says they lay-to and waited for the day! We waited for the monsoon to blow over,

. . . Aden. The mail. The night.

Strife of tongues—how these Easterns do talk. Corn. T. says it is because they don’t read. What splendid orators they would make.

The night.

The passengers who lay on the deck and in the coal dust.

. . . Now for the Red Sea.
Passed Hell Gates in safety.

Saw the spot passed in the outward voyage in the night where the China went -on the Rocks, when the Dancing was in full swing.

What I hear of the cost of the restoration of the China.

The cost of the restoration of the ship-wrecked Officers and Soldiers.

Never mind, they are worth it. Which can’t be said of the China.

A new vessel.

A restored backslider sometimes better — not always — for the experience.

The dreaded Red Sea.

Hot. “Hotty hotty,” China woman says.
(We have a China woman on board, an Ayah or nurse.)

The thermometer has registered 90 — to-day it is 88. Everybody perspiring and complaining, playing cards, reading novels and eating, specially eating.
I am living on potatoes, rice, and fruit. Not much choice of the latter. But plenty, and enough is as good as a feast. I am expecting an extra feed for dinner of macaroni and tomatoes.

. . . The Paris wrecked — on the rocks fatal to the M. Great efforts to save her. So many steamers tugged at her. Tons of rocks blasted. Given up.

Left there to her fate — melancholy conclusion to her career — to wait the action of winds and waves that will break her up.

A Salvage Company appears. The conditions.
And now the world rings with the tidings. The Paris is floating. The beautiful steamer is saved, towed into harbour, and with damages repaired is to resume her career.

Shall I tell you what my mind went on to? I suppose it is “the ruling passion” carries me on to the one track — the fiddling for ever on the one string — but, anyway, I could not help my thoughts going out to the miserable wrecks that strew the ocean of Time—not ships, but men and women.

The Paris was impaled on a sharp projecting piece of Rock — she held together, but any storm, etc.
Rocks on it.

Backslider.

Tremendous efforts made to save her.

No giving up.

Never despair.

Ingenuity succeeded.

And yet it was all in the ordinary course of things.
Tremendous satisfaction.

More interest than in the building of a new steamer.
Left there, she was a constant reproach.

Tremendous profit to the Saviours. And she steams about, one of the best-known ships on the Ocean.

There are one or two characteristic entries in the diary for 1900:

. . . as soon as I arrived (in Nottingham) a respectful invitation was handed me from the Theatrical Company performing at the Grand Theatre. I had already seen on the walls the announcement that a Play entitled The Christian was being run at the theatre. This invitation offered me a Private Box to witness the Play, as an inducement. Informing me that at a private performance of the Play in New York 2,000 Ministers had been present. I wonder whether that was truth or falsehood. I should be willing to believe the latter.

The book on which the Play is founded is a caricature of the Christian religion, and ought to be avoided in any and every shape. I told my Soldiers that if they wanted to see the real performance of the Christian it would be at the Albert Hall on the morrow!

Concerning a Sunday of three services in the Albert Hall at Nottingham, he writes:

If called upon to criticize my performances I should be disposed to regard them as a little too fierce. But how can it be avoided? When the heart is hot with a burning resolution to do or die, feeling that the great possibility of the hour can never come again, what is there but to go for the realization of your aim with all your might.

He kept his head during a rather painful period of the Boer War:

Everybody too much excited about the relief of Mafeking. Oh! that we could get some more interest into the world on the subject of the Salvation War.
Miriam broke in upon me at eight this morning with the news that Mafeking is relieved. The tidings reached London at 9.30 last night, and created according to the papers the wildest enthusiasm.

Within five minutes it is said that thousands of people collected in the principal thoroughfares that were all empty five minutes before, singing and shouting themselves hoarse with “God save the King,” cheering for Baden-Powell, and I know not what else.

The subject that really occupied his mind was the work of making bad men good, and good men Christian:

In the Registration Room they tell me the scene was most touching. One man said, “I’ve got a red nose now, but I’m going to change it for a red jersey.”

On the last day of the old year, and at the threshold of a new century, he writes:

So the Old Year goes out, or rather the Century. Have no time or heart to philosophize or sentimentalize on the event. Must turn my attention to getting some truths — facts, arguments, appeals, that will influence the thousands I shall have to talk to at 10.30. Oh God, what can I say?

Chapter 19

Contents