I
Who that was in London on October 14, 1890, can forget the extraordinary
scenes that marked the funeral of Catherine Booth? It was a day of
universal grief. The whole nation mourned. For Mrs. Booth was one of the
most striking personalities, and one of the mightiest spiritual forces,
of the nineteenth century. To the piety of a Saint Teresa she added the
passion of a Josephine Butler, the purposefulness of an Elizabeth Fry,
and the practical sagacity of a Frances Willard. The greatest in the
land revered her, trusted her, consulted her, deferred to her. The
letters that passed between Catherine Booth and Queen Victoria are among
the most remarkable documents in the literature of correspondence. Mr.
Gladstone attached the greatest weight to her judgment and convictions.
Bishop Lightfoot, one of the most distinguished scholars of his time,
has testified to the powerful influence which she exerted over him. And,
whilst the loftiest among men honored her, the lowliest loved her.
Such strong lives have their secrets. Mrs. Booth had hers. Her secret
was a text. As a child she learned it by heart; as a girl she pinned her
faith to the promise it enshrined; amidst the stress and strain of a
stormy and eventful life she trusted it implicitly; and, with all the
tenacity of her keen, clear intellect, she clung to it at the last. In
the standard _Life of Catherine Booth_--a huge work of a thousand
pages--four chapters are devoted to the scenes at the deathbed. And then
we read:
'The lips moved as though desiring to speak. Unable, however, to do so,
the dying woman pointed to a wall-text, which had for a long time been
placed opposite to her, so that her eyes could rest upon it.
MY GRACE
IS
SUFFICIENT FOR THEE
It was taken down and placed near her on the bed. But it was no longer
needed. The promise had been completely fulfilled.'
'That,' said a speaker at one of the great Memorial Meetings in London,
some of which were attended by many thousand people, 'that was her
text!' And, as so often happens, her text explains her character.
For, considered apart from the text, the character is an insoluble
enigma. It is like a consequence without a cause. I was talking a week
or two ago with an old man, who, in Australia's earlier days, did a good
deal of pioneering in the heart of the bush.
'Once,' he told me, 'soon after I first came out, I really thought that
I had reached the end of everything. I was hopelessly lost. My strength
was utterly exhausted. I had gone as far as I could go. The country
around me was flat and dry; my thirst was a perfect agony; and my poor
dog followed at my heels, her tongue hanging out, and her sides panting
pitifully. We had not seen water for several days. I sat down under a
great gum-tree, hoping that an hour's rest would bring me fresh heart
and new vigor. I must have fallen asleep. When I awoke, Fan was standing
near me, wagging her tail. She seemed contented and satisfied; her
tongue no longer protruded. An hour or two later, I suddenly missed her;
she had vanished in the scrub. She was away about twenty minutes. I
determined to watch her. Presently she set out again, and I followed.
Surely enough, she had found a tiny spring in a slight hollow about half
a mile away; and by that spring we were saved.'
I have seen something like this in a higher realm. I recall, for
example, Richard Cecil's story of his conversion. Richard Cecil--the
friend and biographer of John Newton--was one of the great evangelical
forces of the _eighteenth_ century, as Catherine Booth was of the
_nineteenth_. But, in his early days, Richard Cecil was a skeptic. He
called himself an infidel, but he was honest in his infidelity. He could
face facts; and the man who can look facts fairly in the face is not far
from the kingdom of God. Richard Cecil was not, his skepticism
notwithstanding. 'I see,' he says, in telling us of the line of thought
that he pursued as he lay in bed one night, 'I see two unquestionable
facts.' And what were they? They both concerned his mother.
'_First_, my mother is greatly afflicted in circumstances, body and
mind; and I see that she cheerfully bears up under all her suffering by
the support that she derives from constantly retiring to her quiet room
and her Bible.
'_Second_, my mother has a secret spring of comfort of which I know
nothing; while I, who give an unbounded loose to my appetites, and seek
pleasure by every means, seldom or never find it. If, however, there is
any such secret in religion, why may I not attain to it as well as my
mother? I will immediately seek it!'
He did; and those who are familiar with his life-story know of the
triumphant result of that quest. It was precisely so with Mrs. Booth.
Her children knew that, like the bushman's collie, she found refreshment
at some secret spring. Later on, she told them of the text and led them,
one by one, to the fountains of grace. '_My grace is sufficient for
thee._' And when, at last, the avenues of speech and hearing were
closed, they hung the golden words before her clouding eyes. Again she
greeted them with rapture, and, with unwavering confidence, pointed her
children to their deathless message.