CHAPTER XV

Sursum Corda!

*LIST OF PORTRAITS*

The Marechale . . . _Frontispiece_

Catherine Booth . . . 32

(_From a drawing by Edward Clifford, exhibited in the Royal Academy and

presented to Mrs. Booth_)

The Marechale in the Cafe . . . 114

(_From the painting of Baron Cederstroem_)

The Marechale . . . 160

(_From a photo taken in Paris, circa 1890_)

The Marechale . . . 302

(_From a photo taken in London in 1913_)

*CHAPTER I*

*FINELY TOUCHED TO FINE ISSUES*

In the summer of 1865 William Booth, Evangelist, found his life-work.

For some time back his imagination had been more than usually active.

He could not help thinking that all his past efforts had been but

tentative solutions of a difficult problem. He felt the spur of a vague

discontent. He seemed to be groping his way towards an unrealised

ideal. At length he got the inner light he needed. While he was

conducting a series of meetings in a tent pitched on the disused Quaker

burying-ground at Baker's Row, Whitechapel, he saw his heavenly vision

and heard his divine call. He accepted a mission which was no less real

than those of Hebrew Prophets and Christian Apostles. The words in

which he describes his vocation form part of the history of Christianity

in England. "I found my heart," he says, "strongly and strangely drawn

out on behalf of the million people living within a mile of the tent,

ninety out of every hundred of whom, they told me, never heard the sound

of the preacher's voice from year to year. 'Here is a sphere!' was

being whispered continually in my inward ear by an inward voice ... and

I was continually haunted with a desire to offer myself to Jesus Christ

as an apostle for the heathen of East London. The idea or heavenly

vision or whatever you may call it overcame me; I yielded to it; and

what has happened since is, I think, not only my justification, but an

evidence that my offer was accepted."

Thus it was that on a memorable June night, having ended his meeting and

after-meeting, he rushed home, tired as usual, but with a strange light

in his face which indicated an unusual glow in his heart.

"Darling," he exclaimed to his wife, "I have found my destiny!"

His unexpected words, like the touch of Ithuriel's spear, proved the

quality of his life-mate's womanhood. For a moment she trembled under

the test. While her husband poured out his burning words about the

heathenism of London, and expressed his conviction that it was his duty

to stop and preach to these East End multitudes, she sat gazing into the

empty fireplace. The voice of the tempter--so she imagined--whispered

to her, "This means another new departure, another start in life." She

thought of five little heads asleep on their pillows upstairs, and

remembered that she had already passed through more than one time of

domestic anxiety. But no woman living at that time was more ready for

acts of daring faith; few, if any, were so animated by scorn of

miserable aims that end in self. After silently thinking and praying

for some minutes, she said:

"Well, if you feel you ought to stay, stay. We have trusted the Lord

once for our support and we can trust Him again."

Thus the die was cast, and the day ended with one of those scenes by

which our common humanity is ennobled. "Together," he says, "we humbled

ourselves before God, and dedicated our lives to the task that it seemed

we had been praying for for twenty-five years. Her heart came over to my

heart. We resolved that this poor, submerged, giddy, careless people

should henceforth become our people and our God their God as far as we

could induce them to accept Him, and for this end we would face poverty,

persecution, or whatever Providence might permit in our consecration to

what we believed to be the way God had mapped out for us."

One feels perfectly certain that these two modern apostles would have

fulfilled their destiny even if they had stood alone; but it could

scarcely have been so ample and glorious a destiny if God had not given

them children who inherited their gifts and helped them to realise their

ideals. It is the simple truth that the ruling passion of each of their

eight sons and daughters has been the love of souls; each of them has

exulted to spend and be spent in the service of Christ, which is the

service of humanity; and if one of them has been too feeble in her

health to be a militant Salvationist, the great Captain of our salvation

accepts the will for the deed.

Among all the bold and original acts by which the breath and the flame

of a new life have been brought into the modern Church, none is more

striking, and yet none more simple and natural, than the revival, after

all these centuries, of the apostolic ministry of women. Like Philip

the Evangelist of Caesarea, William and Catherine Booth "had four

daughters who did prophesy"; brave and gifted English girls who,

baptised with the Holy Spirit, used their dower of burning eloquence to

bring sinners to the mercy-seat. If to-day "the women that publish the

tidings are a great host," the fact illustrates the power of example.

In every new movement there must be daring pioneers and self-sacrificing

leaders. For woman's "liberty of prophesying," as for every other form

of freedom, the price has had to be paid. The purpose of this little

book is to sketch the life of the eldest of General Booth's four

daughter-evangelists, who was called to carry the spirit of the

Gospel--Christ's own spirit of love--first into many of the cities of

England, and afterwards, in fulfilment of her distinctive life-work,

into France and Switzerland, Holland and Belgium. If her story could be

told as it deserves to be, it would stand out as one of the most

remarkable modern records of Christian work, for there is perhaps no one

living to-day who has seen so much of what Henry Drummond used to call

"the contemporary activities of the Holy Ghost."

Catherine Booth the elder, the Mother of the Army, was already in her

thirty-second year when she wrote her famous brochure upon _Female

Ministry_, and, not without fear and trembling, delivered her first

evangelistic address in the Bethesda Chapel at Gateshead-on-Tyne, where

her husband was minister. Little Catherine, who had been baptised in

that chapel, was in her second year when her mother began public

speaking, and in her seventh when her father found his destiny.

Probably no child ever had greater privileges than she enjoyed. Her

earthly home was a house of God and a gate of heaven; and from the first

she seemed to respond to all that was highest and best in her

environment. She was one of those happy souls who have no memory of

their conversion, who cannot recall a time when they did not heartily

love the Lord Jesus Christ.

Her father was the centre of all her childish thoughts and most vivid

recollections, and nothing could ever really dislodge him from the first

place in her affections. An interesting page from her earliest memories

may be reproduced. When she was three or four years old, her father was

a Wesleyan Pastor in Cornwall, where his ministry led to a revival in

which hundreds of souls found salvation. One night Katie was taken by

her nurse to the meeting, and, on arrival, found herself before a flight

of steps leading up to the gallery. Thinking herself quite a big girl,

she wished to climb, but nurse, fearing the crowd, snatched her up and

carried her to the top. At length they were inside, and what the child

then saw and heard remained for ever vividly impressed on her

imagination. The great building was crammed. Away down on the platform

stood her father, with her mother sitting beside him. He was leading the

singing, keeping time with his folded umbrella, and this was the chorus:

Let the winds blow high, or the winds blow low,

It's a pleasant sail to Canaan, hallelujah!

How well did the eager-hearted little maid enjoy that voyage, and how

proud she was of her captain! The winds blew low and the sun shone upon

her in those days. But it could not always be fair weather. Often

since that far-off Cornish time have the winds blown high, and sometimes

the mariner has felt herself tossed, chartless and rudderless, on dark

tempestuous seas; but ever the winds have fallen, the sun has shone out

again over the waves; and to how many tens of thousands has this

daughter of music sung, with sweet variations, her father's song--"It's

a pleasant sail to Canaan, hallelujah!"

The Booth children were left in no mist of doubt as to their future.

There was an end, a point, a purpose, in their life. They grew up in an

atmosphere of decision. Many children are made timid, diffident,

ineffective by their training. They are constantly told how naughty

they are, till they begin to believe that they are good for nothing.

The Booth parents acted on a different principle. They had faith in

their children and for their children. When Katie was still a little

girl in socks, her mother would say to her, "Now, Katie, you are not

here in this world for yourself. You have been sent for others. _The

world is waiting for you._" What a phrase that was to send a little

girl to bed with! There she turned the words over and over in her own

mind. "Mother says the world is waiting for me. Oh, I must be good....

How selfish I was in taking that orange!" The lesson was worth L1000 to

a child. In the development of Katie's mind and character her mother's

influence was naturally very strong. The fellowship between them soon

became peculiarly intimate, and it was the mother's joy to find her

_alter ego_ in the daughter who bore her name.

Katie's memories of her early London life were bound up with the

Christian Mission. Hand in hand with her sister Emma, and often singing

with her "I mean with Jesus Christ to dwell, will you go?" she walked

every Sunday morning along the great road leading to Whitechapel.

Ineffaceable impressions were made on her sensitive mind by the open-air

preaching at Mile End Waste, Bethnal Green and Hackney; by the apostolic

spirit of holy enthusiasm; by the Friday morning prayer-meetings, where

the officers met alone to plead with God and wrestle in tears for more

power. All this became the warp and woof of her own spiritual life,

preparing her for her high calling. And, though she could not remember

the day of her new birth, she clearly recalled several times when she

consecrated herself, body and soul, to God. In a great whitewashed

building in the East End her father preached on "The King's daughters

are all glorious within," and she prayed that she might have the inner

purity which would make her a child of God. From a meeting of Christian

workers she ran home to her room, shut herself in, and deliberately gave

her heart and life to Christ. She could not, perhaps, realise all that

her covenant meant, but one thing she understood--that she was called to

yield herself completely to do His will and to save souls.

There was plenty of laughter and fun in that home. The Booth children

were all born with the dramatic instinct, and the spirit of the

Christian Mission invaded the nursery. Not only were the great dramas

of the Bible--Joseph and his brothers, David and Goliath, Daniel and the

lions, and a score of others--enacted there, but the meeting and the

penitent form, the drunkard and the backslider, the hopeful and the

desperate case were all reproduced in the plays of the children. Katie

and Emma brought their babies to the meeting, and the babies generally

insisted on crying, to the despair of Bramwell or Ballington, who

stopped preaching to give the stern order, "Take the babies out of the

theatre," against which the mothers indignantly protested, "Papa would

not have stopped, papa would have gone on preaching anyhow." But the

dramatic masterpiece was Ballington dealing with an interesting

case--generally a pillow--coaxing, dragging, banging the poor reluctant

penitent to the mercy-seat and exclaiming, "Ah! this is a good case,

bless him! ... Give up the drink, brother." That is a scene which is

still sometimes re-enacted to the delight of new generations.

Jesus Himself watched the games of the children who piped and mourned in

the market-place. Life is none the less strenuous for its interludes of

mirth. Catherine, who was dramatic to the finger-tips, was very early

mastered by a sense of the sacredness of duty. The moral ideal set

before her was the highest, and her conscience was tremulously

sensitive. She was oppressed with the sense of what ought to be, and

inconsolable when she failed to attain it. A word of rebuke cut her

like a knife, and she would sometimes weep far into the night if she

thought she had put pleasure before duty. It is a great thing to make

religion real to children, and especially to give them a sense of the

obligation to please Christ in everything. Mrs. Booth found Katie ready

to go all lengths with her, and even to outrun her, in her ideas of what

was right and what was wrong for Christians. It is amusing to hear that

when the mother was going out one day to buy new frocks for her little

girls, Katie's words to her were not "Do buy us something pretty!" but

"Mind you get something Christian!" and that when Mrs. Booth came home

with her purchases, and Katie rushed downstairs to meet her, the child's

first inquiry was, "Are they Christian?"

But the sense of duty may become morbid if it is not transmuted by love.

Many servants of God never learn the secret which makes Christ's yoke

easy and His burden light. They have to confess to themselves that they

cannot say, "To do Thy will, O Lord, I take delight." It would have

been strange if any of the Booth children had not learned the secret.

Catherine discovered it early, learned it thoroughly, and it became in

after years one of the hidden sources of her power. As a child she

lived in union with Christ; she practised and felt the Real Presence;

she understood that Christianity is a Divine Service transfigured by a

Divine Friendship. In Victoria Park there was a shady alley where she

was in the habit of walking, because Some One walked beside her! In

Clifton, where she lived for a time, she had a tiny upper room in which

she felt that she was never alone! That was her childhood's religion,

which she never needed to change. She found it to be utterly

independent of time and place, form and ceremony. In the glare of

public life, in the storm of persecution, in the hour of temptation and

danger, she had always a cathedral into which she could retire that she

might find peace. She was spiritually akin with the Hebrew mystics who

lived in the secret place of the Most High, who had at all times a

pavilion from the strife of tongues. In her Neuchatel prison she wrote

some simple words which sent a thrill through the heart of Christian

Europe:

Best Beloved of my soul,

I am here alone with Thee;

And my prison is a heaven,

Since Thou sharest it with me.

*CHAPTER II*

*A GIRL EVANGELIST*

When the heart is warm and full the lips become eloquent. Jesus expects

each of His followers to testify for Him. His redeemed ones should need

little persuasion to plead His cause. Every genuine conversion creates

a new advocate for His side. Dumbness is one of the signs of unreality

in religion. The sin of silence received due castigation, in public and

in private, from the tongues of fire which the Spirit gave to William

and Catherine Booth. Their children therefore learned that it is every

Christian's calling to speak in season and out of season for Christ, to

press His claims upon the willing and the unwilling alike. Katie, it

appears, began among her little companions in the Victoria Park. Her

old nurse still remembers how she would gather little groups about her

and tell them of the Saviour's love. When she was in her twelfth year,

she lived for some time with a family in Clifton, along with whom she

attended the Church of England. One Sunday evening the Vicar, who had

noticed her earnest gaze fixed on his face, sent for her that he might

have a little talk with her. He asked her what she liked best in the

Bible, and she answered "The Atonement." He was so struck by her

intelligence that he offered her a children's class, which soon grew

large. Week by week she talked to the little ones of sin and the

Saviour. Letting story-books go, she went for their conversion. Having

to return home on her twelfth birthday--the last day on which she could

travel with a half-ticket--she told her mother of her great longing to

continue her work among children. Her mother readily consented, and

soon there was a weekly gathering of young folk in a downstairs room of

the Gore Road house. After a while Katie had the assistance of her

sister Emma, who was her junior by little more than a year. Tears were

shed, confessions made, and lives changed in that room. And there two

of the most brilliant evangelists of our time first learned to deal with

souls. They were in every way kindred spirits. Long afterwards one

finds Emma writing to Catherine: "We will always be 'special sisters.'

We were Ma's two first girls, and were brought up side by side--and side

by side we will labour and love till we stand with our children in her

presence again before the Throne!"

Katie was thirteen when she first spoke in public. No one asked her to

do it; she yielded to an irresistible inward impulse. Her eldest

brother was conducting an open-air meeting opposite a low public-house

at the corner of Cat and Mutton Bridge in Hackney. Katie was beside

him, and whispered, "I will say a few words." Her brother was

delighted, and she delivered her message with a directness and fluency

which compelled attention and proved her a born speaker. Not very long

after, she spoke in the hearing of the General, who wrote to his wife,

"I don't know whether I told you how pleased I was with dear Katie

speaking in the streets on Sunday morning. It was very nice and

effective. Bless her!" "From this time," says Mr. Booth in a document

of great importance, "she continued occasionally to speak in public

meetings, but it was not until she was between fourteen and fifteen,

when she was with me in Ryde, Isle of Wight, that I fully realised and

settled the question. During that time my eldest son joined us for a few

days, and, with another friend or two, held open-air meetings; on one of

these occasions Catherine accompanied them, and her brother induced her

to say a few words, which it appears fell with extraordinary power upon

the listening crowd of men and others, such as usually comprise the

visitors at these places. On their return my son described to me the

effects of her address, but, not being fully emancipated from my old

ideas of propriety, I remonstrated and urged such objections as I

presume any other mother, consecrated but not fully enlightened, might

have urged against her being thrust into such a public position at such

an early age. My son, gazing at me with great solemnity and tenderness,

said, 'Mamma, dear, you will have to settle this question with God, for

she is as surely called and inspired by Him for this particular work as

yourself.' These words were God's message to my soul, and helped me to

pull myself up as to the ground of my objection. I retired to my room,

and, after pouring out my heart to God, settled the question that

henceforth I would raise no barrier between any of my children and the

carrying out of His will concerning them, trying to rejoice that they,

not less than myself, should be counted worthy to suffer shame for His

name."

From that time Catherine's path was clearly marked out. While she

continued her education, which included a special liking for French, she

gradually undertook more and more public work. Her father's delight in

her ripening powers found frequent utterance, and her companionship with

him during the next six years of work is one of the most beautiful

things in the literature of evangelism. "William," said Mrs. Booth about

this time, "writes that he is utterly amazed at Katie; he had no idea

that she could speak as she does. He says that she is a born leader,

and will if she keeps right see thousands saved.... Praise His name

that she can stand in my stead, and bear His name to perishing souls."

After holding meetings in different parts of London, from Stratford and

Poplar to Hammersmith, Catherine began, just before she was seventeen,

to conduct evangelistic campaigns in many of the other great cities of

England, sometimes lasting three weeks or a month. The largest building

in the town densely crowded Sunday after Sunday, and frequently on week

nights as well; hundreds of people to speak to about their souls'

salvation every week; correspondence and travel; ceaseless labour and

responsibility--these things absorbed all her energies of body and mind.

She was but a frail girl, and suffered for a time from a curvature of

spine, which compelled her to lie on her back in great weakness and

pain. If she yet overcame, it is evident that she was "marvellously

helped."

In 1876 Katie was one of the speakers at the annual Conference in the

People's Hall, Whitechapel. As she appeared on the platform, she was

described by her lifelong friend, R. C. Morgan of _The Christian_, as "a

fragile, ladylike girl of seventeen, half woman, half child, a

characteristic product of the Christian Mission, whose words fell like

summer rain upon the upturned faces of the crowd." This was the

Conference at which the epoch-making measure was adopted of appointing

women evangelists to the sole charge of stations. Miss Booth was

reserved "for general evangelistic tours."

It is interesting to glance through the numbers of the old _Christian

Mission Magazine_ and light upon brief reports of Catherine's work. From

Hammersmith (1875): "Miss Kate Booth [age 16] spent a Sabbath with us,

preaching twice with great acceptance. A large audience was deeply

impressed, and some, we trust, were truly converted to God." From

Poplar: "Mr. Bramwell and Miss C. Booth were with us. On the Sunday and

Monday evening the hall was crowded, and some thirty souls at the two

services sought salvation.... On Easter Sunday one sister's face was cut

with a stone, and heavy stones fell upon some on many occasions of late;

but we endure as seeing Him who is invisible." From Portsmouth: "Miss

Booth, assisted by W. Bramwell Booth, commenced a series of special

services, which God owned and blessed to the salvation of many precious

souls. In the morning Miss Booth preached, and all felt it good to be

there. Then a love-feast was conducted by W. B. Booth in the

afternoon.... In the evening Miss Booth preached in the music-hall to

upwards of three thousand people. The Spirit applied the Word with

power, and seventeen broke away from the ranks of sin and enlisted under

the banner of Jesus Christ." Again from Portsmouth, some months later:

"We had a visit from Miss Booth with her brother Mr. Bramwell, and again

the dear Lord blessed their labours in this town. Each service was

fraught with Divine power; many trembled under the Word, and anxious

ones came forward seeking forgiveness of sins, until the penitent-rail

and vestry were filled with those who, in bitterness of soul, sought

pardon and peace through Jesus."

From Limehouse (1876): "We had dear Miss Booth and her brother, and a

blessed day. In the evening she preached with wonderful power, and ten

or twelve came out for God. May they be kept faithful!" From

Portsmouth: "Miss Booth's visit was made of the Lord a great blessing to

us all. Very few who listened to her in the morning will forget how she

pleaded with us to present our bodies a living sacrifice. Oh, may God

bless her and make her a mighty blessing, for Christ's sake." From

Whitechapel (1877): "An earnest appeal was made at one of our Sunday

evening services by Miss Booth, from 'Run, speak to that young man.'

Although in very delicate health, the Lord blessedly assisted her. The

word was with power, and eleven souls decided for Jesus, among whom was

the converted Potman. This young man was a leader in petty and

mischievous annoyances. The genuineness of his conversion was evidenced

by his giving up the public-house work to seek more honourable

employment." From Middlesbro' (1878): "Miss Booth visited us for five

days, and many blood-bought souls have been blessed and saved. Her

first Sunday with us was a day of power, and it will not be soon

forgotten by those present. It was a grand sight to see a large hall

filled to the door with anxious hearers, while hundreds went away; but

the grandest sight of all was to see old and young flocking to the

penitent form." From Leicester: "Miss Booth's services may be

summarised in the statement that she had twenty-two souls the first

Sunday evening, and increasing victory thereafter right on to the end."

At Whitby there was a six weeks' campaign, organised by Captain Cadman.

On the first Sunday "the large hall, which holds three thousand, was

well filled, and in the after service many souls were brought to Jesus."

On the second Sunday "Miss Booth was listened to with breathless

attention. In the after service we drew the net to land, having a

multitude of fishes, and among them we found we had caught a fox-hunter,

a dog-fancier, drunkards, a Roman Catholic, and many others. In the

week-night services souls were saved every night. The proprietor of the

hall had got some large bills out announcing 'Troupe of Arctic Skaters

in the Congress Hall for a week,' but he put them off by telling them it

was no use coming, as all the town was being evangelised." The

concluding services "drew great crowds from all parts of town and

country, rich and poor, until the hall was so filled that there was no

standing room." In a Consecration meeting, "After Miss Booth's address

we formed a large ring in the centre of the hall, which brought the

power down upon us; hundreds looked on with astonishment and tears in

their eyes, whilst others gave themselves wholly to God.... Ministers,

like Nicodemus of old, came to see by what power these miracles were

wrought, and, going back to their congregations, resolved to serve God

better, and to preach the gospel more faithfully in the future."

From Leeds: "Miss Booth in the Circus. A glorious month. Hard-hearted

sinners broken down. Best of all, our own people have been getting

blessedly near to God. On Sunday mornings love feasts from nine to

ten.... It would be impossible to give even an outline of the various

and glorious cases of conversion that have come under our notice through

the month which is past. For truly Christ has been bringing to His fold

rich and poor, young and old." From Cardiff: "The question, 'Does this

work stand?' received a magnificent reply on Sunday. The crowds who

filled the Stuart Hall, to hear Miss Booth, were the largest any one can

remember seeing during all the four years of the Mission's history

there." From King's Lynn: "Miss Booth's Mission. The town has had a

royal visit from the Lord of Lords and King of Kings. There has been a

great awakening, and trembling, and turning to the Lord. Whole families

have been saved, and whole courts have sought salvation. Our holiness

meeting will never be forgotten.... The work here rolls on gloriously.

Not only in Lynn but for miles round the town it is well known that a

marvellous work has been done and is still going forward."

All these battles and victories were naturally followed by the General

with intense interest, and as often as it was possible he was at his

daughter's side. Mrs. Booth joined them when they were opening a

campaign together at Stockton-on-Tees, and sent her impressions to a

friend. "Pa and Katie had a blessed beginning yesterday. Theatre

crowded at night, and fifteen cases. I heard Katie for the first time

since we were at Cardiff. I was astonished at the advance she had made.

I wish you had been there, I think you would have been as pleased as I

was. It was sweet, tender, forcible, and Divine. I could only adore

and weep. She looked like an angel, and the people were melted, and

spellbound like children." The General began to call her his

"Bluecher," for she helped to win many a hard-fought battle which he

might otherwise have lost. When the rowdies threatened to take the

upper hand at a meeting, he would say, "Put on Katie, she's our last

card; if she fails we'll close the meeting."

"I remember," wrote her eldest brother, "a striking instance of this

occurring in a certain northern town on a Sunday night. A crowd

assembled at the doors of the theatre, composed of the lowest and

roughest of the town, who, overpowering the doorkeepers, pressed into

the building and took complete possession of one of the galleries, so

that by the time the remainder of the theatre was occupied this portion

of it represented a scene more like a crowded tap-room than the gallery

of what was for the moment a place of worship. Rows of men sat smoking

and spitting, others were talking and laughing aloud, while many with

hats on were standing in the aisles and passages, bandying to and fro

jokes and criticisms of the coarsest character. All this continued with

little intermission during the opening exercises, and the more timid

among us had practically given up hope about the meeting, when Miss

Booth rose, and standing in front of the little table just before the

footlights, commenced to sing, with such feeling and unction as it is

impossible to describe with pen and ink,

'The rocks and the mountains will all flee away.

And you will need a hiding-place that day.'

There was instantaneous silence over the whole house; after singing two

or three stanzas, she stopped and announced her text, 'Let me die the

death of the righteous and let my last end be like His.' While she did

so nearly every head in the gallery was uncovered, and within fifteen

minutes both she and every one of the fifteen hundred people present

were completely absorbed in her subject, and for forty minutes no one

stirred or spoke among that unruly crowd, until she made her concluding

appeal, and called for volunteers to begin the new life of

righteousness, when a great big navvy-looking man rose up, and in the

midst of the throng in the gallery exclaimed, 'I'll make one!' He was

followed by thirty others that night."

[Illustration: CATHERINE BOOTH

(_From a portrait by Edward Clifford, exhibited at the Royal Academy

and presented to Mrs. Booth_)]

Well might the General's hopes regarding the young soul-winner be high

and confident. "Papa," wrote Mrs. Booth, "says he felt very proud of her

the other day as she walked by his side at the head of a procession with

an immense crowd at their heels. He turned to her and said, 'Ah, my

lass, you shall wear a crown by-and-by.'"

With what desires and prayers the mother of this _Wunderkind_ followed

such a career is indicated by her letters. "Oh, it seems to me that if

I were in your place--young--no cares or anxieties--with such a start,

such influence, and such a prospect, I should not be able to contain

myself for joy. I should indeed aspire to be 'the bride of the Lamb,'

and to follow Him in conflict for the salvation of poor, lost and

miserable man.... I don't want you to make any vows (unless, indeed,

the Spirit leads you to do so), but I want you to set your mind and

heart on winning souls, and to leave everything else with the Lord.

When you do this you will be happy--oh, so happy! Your soul will then

find perfect rest. The Lord grant it you, my dear child.... I have

been 'careful about many things.' I want you to care only for the _one_

thing.... Look forward, my child, into eternity--_on_, and ON, and ON.

You are to live _for ever_. This is only the infancy of existence--the

school-days, the time. Then is the grand, great, glorious eternal

harvest."

Whatever gifts were the dower of the young evangelist, she refused to

regard herself as different in God's sight from the poorest and meanest

of sinners. If God loved her, He loved all with an equal love. That

conviction was the motive-power of all her evangelism. A limited

atonement was to her unthinkable. How often she has made vast audiences

sing her father's great hymn, "O boundless salvation, so full and so

free!" When she was conducting a remarkable campaign in Portsmouth, she

found herself one day among a number of the ministers of the town, one

of whom in his admiration of her and her work persisted in calling her

one of the elect. This led to an animated discussion on election.

Katie listened for a while, but lost patience at last, and, rising,

delivered herself thus: "I am not one of the elect, and I don't want to

be. I would rather be with the poor devils outside than with you

inside." Having discharged this bombshell she flew upstairs to her

mother. "Oh!" she cried, "what have I done?" When she repeated what she

had said, her mother, whose laugh was always hearty, screamed with

delight. Election as commonly taught was rank poison to the Mother of

the Army. The doctrine that God has out of His mere good pleasure

elected _some_ to eternal life made her wild with indignation. When her

son Bramwell was staying for a time in Scotland, she wrote him: "It

seems a peculiarity of the awful doctrine of Calvinism that it makes

those who hold it far more interested in and anxious about its

propagation than about the diminution of sin and the salvation of

souls.... It may be God will bless your sling and stone to deliver His

servant out of the paw of this bear of hell--Calvinism."

One naturally asks what became of Catherine's education all this time.

On this subject also Mrs. Booth held strong views. When her daughter

was sixteen she wrote to her: "You must not think that we do not rightly

value education, or that we are indifferent on the subject. We have

denied ourselves the common necessaries of life to give you the best in

our power, and I think this has proved that we put a right value on it.

But we put God and righteousness _first_ and education second, and if I

had life to begin over again I should be still more particular.... I

would like you to learn to put your thoughts together forcibly and well,

to think logically and clearly, to speak powerfully, _i.e._ with good

but simple language, and to write legibly and well, which will have more

to do with your usefulness than half the useful knowledge you would have

to spend your time over at College." When the principal of a Ladies'

College, who had attended Mrs. Booth's meetings and been blessed,

offered to receive Catherine and educate her gratuitously, Mrs. Booth,

after visiting the College and breathing the atmosphere of the place,

declined the tempting offer with thanks. Some will, of course, be

disposed to question the wisdom of the mother's decision. It should not

be impossible to combine the noblest learning with the most fervent

faith. Yet every discipline must be judged by its fruits. How many

Catherine Booths have hitherto been produced by Newnham and Girton?

Long after Catherine the second had left her home-land, she continued to

receive letters from her English converts, and when, after many years,

she resumed her evangelistic work in England, people whom she had never

seen and never heard of before would come and tell her that they had

been saved through her mission at this or that place. All these

testimonies were like bells ringing in her soul. One out of many may be

resounded. Writing to Paris in 1896, Henry Howard, now the Chief of

Staff in the Army, said: "I have certainly never forgotten your Ilkeston

campaign of sixteen years ago, when God made your soul a messenger to my

soul. You led me towards an open door which I am pleased to remember I

went in at, and during these many years your own share in my life's

transformation has often been the subject of grateful praise."

*CHAPTER III*

*THE SECRET OF EVANGELISM*

After many victories at home, William and Catherine Booth began to look

abroad. They realised that "the field is the world," and they longed to

commence operations on the Continent. In the summer of 1881, with high

hopes and some natural fears, they dedicated their eldest daughter to

France. In giving her they gave their best. Delicate girl though she

was, she had become one of the greatest spiritual forces in England.

She swayed vast multitudes by something higher than mere eloquence.

Wherever she went revivals broke out and hundreds were converted. There

was a pathos and a power in her appeals which made them irresistible.

At the time of her departure she received many letters from friends whom

she had spiritually helped, and who realised how much they would miss

her in England. Nowhere had she done more good, nowhere could her

absence create a greater blank, than in her own home. Her sister Eva

wrote: "I cannot bear the thought that you are gone. You have always

understood me. I hope one day to be of some use to you, in return for

all you have done for me." And her brother Herbert wrote her: "You

cannot know how much I felt your leaving. The blow came so suddenly.

You were gone. Only God and myself know how much I had lost in you. I

can truthfully say that you have been _everything_ to me, and if it had

not been for you I should never have been where and what I am

spiritually at present. God bless you a thousand thousand times. Oh! how

I long to be of some little service to you after all you have been to

me.... Thousands upon thousands of true, loving hearts are bearing you

up at the Eternal throne, mine among them. You have a chance that men

of the past would have given their blood for, and that the very angels

in Heaven covet."

There was no _Entente Cordiale_ in those days, and at the thought of

parting with Katie, and letting her go to live in the slums of Paris,

Mrs. Booth confessed that she "felt unutterable things." In a letter to

a friend she wrote: "The papers I read on the state of Society in Paris

make me shudder, and I see all the dangers to which our darling will be

exposed!" But if her fears were great, her faith was greater. Asked by

Lady Cairns how she dared to send a girl so young and unprotected into

such surroundings, she answered, "Her innocence is her strength, and

Katie knows the Lord." And if Katie herself was asked to define

Christianity, she answered, "Christianity is heroism!" For a girl of

this spirit, was there, after all, anything so formidable in the French

people? Was there not rather a pre-established harmony between her and

the pleasant land of France, as her remarkable predilection for the

French language already seemed to indicate? Is any nation in the world

so chivalrous as the French? any nation so sensitive to the charm of

manner, the magnetic power of personality? any nation--in spite of all

its hatred of clericalism--gifted with so infallible a sense of the

beauty of true holiness? _Courage, camarade!_

What were the ideas with which Catherine began her work in Paris? What

was her plan of campaign? How did she hope to conquer? On these points

let us listen to herself. "I saw," she says, "that the bridge to France

was--making the French people believe in me. That is what the

Protestants do not understand. They preach the Bible, they write books,

they offer tracts. But that does not do the work. 'Curse your bibles,

your books, your tracts!' cry the French. I have seen thousands of

testaments given away to very little purpose. I have seen them torn up

to light cigars. And the conviction that took shape in my mind was

that, unless I could inspire faith in me, there was no hope. Only if

Jesus is lifted up in flesh and blood, will He to-day draw all men to

Him. If I cannot _give Him_, I shall fail. France has not waited till

now for religion, for preaching, for eloquence. Something more is

needed. 'I that speak unto thee am He'--there is a sense in which the

world is waiting for that to-day. You may say that this leads to

fanaticism, to all sorts of error; and yet I always come back to it.

Christ's primary idea, His means of saving the world, is, after all,

personality. The face, the character, the life of Jesus is to be seen

in men and women. This is the bridge to the seething masses who believe

in nothing, who hate religion, who cry 'Down with Jesus Christ!' What

sympathy I felt with them as I listened to their angry cries against

something which they had never really seen or known. They shout

'Jesuits,' but they have never seen Jesus. Could they but see Him, they

would still 'receive Him gladly.' It is the priests' religion that has

made them bitter. 'Money to be baptised! Money to be married! Money to

be buried!' was what I heard them mutter. Ah! they are quick to

recognise the comedian in religion, and equally quick to recognise the

real thing. France is more sensitive to disinterested love than any

nation I have ever known. France will never accept a religion without

sacrifice.

"These were the convictions with which I began the work in Paris, and,

if I had to begin it over again to-day, I would go on the same lines.

When I knew what I had to do, my mind was at rest. I said, 'We will lay

ourselves out for them; they shall know where we live, they can watch us

day and night, they shall see what we do and judge us.' And the

wonderful thing in those first years of our work in France and

Switzerland was _the flame_. We lighted it all along the line. Wherever

we went we brought the fire with us, we fanned it, we communicated it.

We could not help doing so, because it was in us, and that was what made

us sufferers. The fire had to be burning in us day and night. That is

our symbol--the fire, the fire!

Seigneur, ce que mon coeur reclame,

C'est le Feu ...

Le seul secret de la Victoire,

C'est le Feu.

We all know what the fire is. It warms and it burns; it scorches the

Pharisees and makes the cowards fly. But the poor, tempted, unhappy

world knows by whom it is kindled, and says: 'I know Thee who Thou

art--the Holy One of God!'

"That was what filled the halls at Havre and Rouen, Nimes and Bordeaux,

Brussels and Liege. We personified Some One, and that was the

attraction. I have not the insufferable conceit to suppose that it was

anything in _me_ that drew them. What am I? Dust and ashes. But if you

have the fire, it draws, it melts; it consumes all selfishness; it makes

you love as He loves; it gives you a heart of steel to yourself, and the

tenderest of hearts to others; it gives you eyes to see what no one else

sees, to hear what others have never given themselves the trouble to

listen to. And men rush to you because you are what you are; you are as

He was in the world; you have His sympathy, His Divine love, His Divine

patience. Therefore He gives you the victory over the world; and what

is money, what are houses, lands, anything, compared with that?

"This was the one attraction. When I went to France I said to Christ:

'I in You and You in me!' and many a time in confronting a laughing,

scoffing crowd, single-handed, I have said, 'You and I are enough for

them. I won't fail You, and You won't fail me.' That is something of

which we have only touched the fringe. That is a truth almost

hermetically sealed. It would be sacrilege, it would be desecration, it

would be wrong, unfair, unjust if Divine power were given on any other

terms than absolute self-abandonment. When I went to France I said to

Jesus, 'I will suffer anything if You will give me the keys.' And if I

am asked what was the secret of our power in France, I answer: First,

love; second, love; third, love. And if you ask how to get it, I

answer: First, by sacrifice; second, by sacrifice; third, by sacrifice.

Christ loved us passionately, and loves to be loved passionately. He

gives Himself to those who love Him passionately. And the world has yet

to see what can be done on these lines."

*CHAPTER IV*

*CHRIST IN PARIS*

In the early spring of 1881 Captain Catherine Booth and her intrepid

lieutenants, Florence Soper, Adelaide Cox and Elizabeth Clark, who

enjoyed the privilege of her example and training, began life in Paris.

Later on they were joined by Ruth Patrick, Lucy Johns and others. Soon

after they were joined by the General's youngest son, Herbert Booth, who

is proud of having received his first black eye in assisting his sister

during those early fights, and Arthur Sydney Clibborn, who lived a life

of unparalleled devotion and heroism, and later became the Marechale's

husband. Years before Canon Barnett and his band of Oxford men were

attracted to Whitechapel, these fresh young English girls settled in a

similar quarter of the French capital. What quixotic impulses carried

them thither? They had no social or political ideals to realise. They

had not been persuaded that altruism is better than egoism, that the

enthusiasm of humanity is nobler than the pursuit of pleasure or the

love of culture. They were not weary of the conventions of society and

seeking a new sensation in slumming. They were not playing at soldiers.

But they, too, had their dreams and visions. They loved Christ, and

they wished to see Christ victorious in Paris. Coming into a wilderness

of poverty, squalor and vice, they dared to believe that they could make

the desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose. They had the faith which

laughs at impossibilities.

The first letter Catherine received from her father after she set foot

in France breathed tender affection and ardent hope. "Oh, my heart does

yearn over you! How could you fear for a single moment that you would

be any less near and dear to me on account of your brave going forth to

a land of strangers to help me in the great purpose and struggle of my

life? My darling, you are nearer and dearer than ever.... France is

hanging on you to an extent fearful to contemplate, and you must regard

your health, seeing that we cannot go on without you. We shall

anxiously await information as to when you make a start. Everybody who

has heard you and knows you feels the fullest confidence in the result.

Nevertheless I shall be glad for you to get to work, seeing that I know

you won't be easy in your mind until you have seen a few French sinners

smashed up at the penitent form."

With her own hand Catherine raised the flag at Rue d'Angouleme 66, in

Belleville. Here was a hall for six hundred, situated in a court

approached by a narrow street. The bulk of the audience that gathered

there night after night were of the artisan class. Some were young men

of a lower type, and from these came what disturbance there was. The

French sense of humour is keen, and there were many lively sallies at

the expense of the speakers and singers on the platform. Every false

accent, every wrong idiom, every unexpected utterance or gesture was

received with an outburst of laughter. But the mirth was superficial,

and the expression on the faces of the tired men, harassed women, and

pale children was one of settled melancholy. Catherine instinctively

felt that what they needed was a gospel of joy; certainly not the

preaching of hell, for did they not live in hell? These toiling sisters

and brothers were the multitudes on whom Jesus had compassion.

Meetings were held night after night, and for six months the Capitaine

was never absent except on Saturdays. Those were days of fight, and she

fought, to use her own phrase, like a tiger. She had to fight first her

own heart. She knew her capacity, and God had done great things through

her in England. The change from an audience of five thousand spellbound

hearers in the circus of Leeds to a handful of gibing _ouvriers_ in the

Belleville quarter of Paris was indeed a clashing antithesis. A

fortnight passed without a single penitent, and Catherine was all the

time so ill that it was doubtful if she would be able to remain in the

field. That fortnight was probably one of the supreme trials of her

faith. The work appeared so hopeless! There was nothing to see. But

for the Capitaine faith meant _going on_. It meant saying to her heart,

"You may suffer, you may bleed, you may break, but you shall go on."

She went on, believing, praying, fighting, and at last the tide of

battle turned.

The beginning of what proved a memorable meeting was more than usually

unpromising. One of the tormentors, a terrible woman, known as "the

devil's wife," excelled herself that night. She was of immense size,

and used to stand in the hall with arms akimbo and sleeves rolled up

above the elbows, and with one wink of her eye would set everybody

screaming and yelling. On this occasion there was not a thing that she

did not turn to ridicule. The fun grew fast and furious, and some of

the audience got up and began to dance. The meeting seemed to be lost;

but by a master-stroke the leader turned defeat into victory. Through

the din she cried, "Mes amis! I will give you twenty minutes to dance,

if you will then give me twenty minutes to speak. Are you agreed?" A

tall, dark, handsome _ouvrier_, in a blue blouse, who had been a

ringleader in the disturbances, jumped up and said, "Citizens, it is

only fair play;" and they all agreed. So they had their dance, and at

the end of the appointed time the _ouvrier_, standing with watch in

hand, cried, "Time up, citizens; it is the Capitaine's turn!" The

bargain was kept. Everybody sat down, and an extraordinary silence

filled the place. Not for twenty, but for an hour and twenty minutes

the leader had the meeting in the hollow of her hand. When the audience

filed out, the tall _ouvrier_ remained behind, and Catherine went down

to where he was sitting in the back of the hall. With his chiselled

face and firm-set mouth, he looked like a man who could have seen one

burned alive without moving a muscle.

"Thank you," said the Capitaine, "you have helped me to-night. Have you

understood what I have been saying?"

"I believe that you believe what you say."

"Oh! of course I believe."

"Well, I was not sure before." With a sigh he added, "Have you time to

listen?"

"Yes, certainly."

It was midnight and they were alone. As he began in softest tones to

tell the story of his inner life, she felt the delicacy of the soul that

is hidden under the roughest exterior. He said, "I had the happiest

home in all Paris. I married the woman I loved, and after twelve months

a little boy came to our home. Three weeks after, my wife lost her

reason, and now she is in an asylum. But there was still my little boy.

He was a beautiful child. We ate together, slept together, walked and

talked together. He was all the world to me. He was the first to greet

me in the morning, and the first to welcome me in the evening when I

came home from work. This went on till the sixth year struck, and

then...." His lips twitched, and he turned his face away. His hearer

softly said, "He died." He gave a scarcely perceptible nod, and

smothered a groan. "And then," he continued, "I went to the devil.

Before the open grave in the Pere Lachaise cemetery, with hundreds of my

comrades about me, I lifted my hand to heaven and cried, 'If there be a

God, let Him strike me dead!'"

"But He did not strike you dead?"

"No."

"He is very gentle and patient with us all. And now you have come here

to-night. Does it not seem to you a strange thing that you out of all

the millions of France, and I out of all the millions of England should

be all alone together here at midnight? How do you account for it?

Isn't it because God thought of you, and loves you? ... Do you ever

pray?"

"I pray? Oh, never! Perhaps I prayed as a child, but never now."

"But I pray," said the Capitaine, and, kneeling down, she prayed a

double prayer, for herself as well as for him. She wanted this man's

salvation for her own sake and the work's sake. For weeks she had been

fighting and praying for a break, and she felt as if on the issue of

this wrestling for a single soul depended the whole future of the work

in France. While she prayed for his salvation from sin she was silently

praying for her own deliverance from doubt and fear and discouragement.

And both prayers were heard. When she opened her eyes, she saw his face

bathed in tears. She knew that his heart was melted, and she spoke to

him of the love of God.

"But I have hated Him. I have hated religion; I have come here to mock

you; I have called you Jesuits."

"Yet God loves you."

"But why did He allow my wife to lose her reason? Why did He take my

child if He is love?"

"I cannot answer these questions. You will know why one day. But I

know He loves you."

"Is it possible that He can forgive a poor sinner like me?"

"It is certain."

Emile was won. Some nights afterward he gave his testimony, and for

seven years he always stood by the Marechale. He was her best helper.

When he used to get up to speak, there was immediate attention.

"Citizens," he would say, "you all know me. You have heard me many

times. This God whom I once hated I now love, and I want to speak to

you about Him."

After this, conversions became frequent. The mercy-seat was rarely

empty. One of the first French songs of Catherine's composition

contained the most curious idioms:

Quand je suis souffrant,

Entendez mon cri, etc.

--Donnez moi Jesus.

But she sang it with such feeling that it was the means of the

conversion of a clever young governess, who became one of her most

devoted officers.

Then another striking conquest was made. One night a rough fellow,

partly drunk, approached the Capitaine and said a vile word to her in

the hearing of "the devil's wife," who dealt him a blow that sent him

reeling across the hall crying, "You dare not touch her, she is too pure

for us!" (_Elle est trop pure pour nous!_) Catherine rushed between

them and stopped the fight. Thus "la femme du diable" was won, and from

that time she got two or three others to join her in forming Catherine's

bodyguard, who nightly escorted her and her comrades through the Rue

d'Allemagne, which was a haunt of criminals, and saw her safe at the

door of her flat in the Avenue Parmentier.

When Baron Cederstroem was seeking local colour for his painting "The

Marechale in the Cafe,"[1] he drove down with his wife to a meeting in

the Rue d'Angouleme. As they approached the hall, the Baroness caught

sight of some of the faces and took fright.

[1] This painting is now in the picture gallery of Stockholm. The

artist, as is well known, afterwards married Madame Patti.

"Go back, go back!" she shouted to the coachman.

The Baron tried in vain to reassure her.

"Give me my salts!" she cried, feeling as if she would faint. "I never

saw such faces in my life. They are all murderers and brigands." To

Catherine, who came out to welcome her, she exclaimed, "I am sure the

good God won't send _you_ to Purgatory, for you have it here!"

"You have nothing to fear," was the answer; "I am here every night."

But as the Baroness was led up to the front seats, she still cast scared

looks at the people she passed.

Some of the politically dangerous classes did give trouble for a time.

Knives were displayed and some blood was shed. An excited sergeant of

police declared one night that half the cut-throats of Paris were in

that hall, and by order of the authorities it was closed. Soon,

however, the meetings were again in full swing, and when Catherine's

eldest brother Bramwell, her comrade in many an English campaign, paid

her a flying visit three months after she left home, he was delighted

with all that he saw. "The meetings," he wrote, "are held every night.

The congregations vary from 150 to 400.... On Sunday, at three, I

attended the testimony meeting, which is only for converts and friends.

About seventy were present. Miss Booth took the centre, and gathered

round her a little company. I cannot describe that meeting. When I

heard those French converts singing that first hymn, 'Nearer to heaven,

nearer to heaven,' I wept for joy, and during the season of prayer which

followed my heart overflowed. Here, using another tongue, among a

strange people, almost alone, this little band have trusted the Lord and

triumphed.... Then testimonies were invited.... I wept and rejoiced,

and wept again. I glorified God. Had I not heard these seventeen

people speak in their own language of God's saving power in Paris during

those few weeks! I require all who read this to rejoice. I believe they

will. Remember how great a task it is to awaken the conscience before

Christ can be offered; to convince of sin as well as of righteousness;

to call to repentence as well as faith.... On the following night 300

were present.... Miss Booth stepped off the platform as she concluded

her address, and came down, as so many of us have seen her come down at

home, into the midst of the people. Her closing appeal seemed to go

through them. Many were deeply moved. Some of those sitting at the

back, who had evidently come largely for fun, quailed before one's very

eyes, and seemed subdued and softened. God was working."

Later in the year the new headquarters on the Quai de Valmy were opened.

Here there was a hall for 1200. No other form of religion could draw

such an assembly of the lowest class of Parisians as nightly met in it.

The men came in their blouses, kept their caps on their heads,

and--except that they abstained from smoking, in obedience to a notice

at the door--behaved with the freedom and ease of a music-hall audience.

But the earnest way in which most of those present joined in the hymns

proved that they were not mere spectators, and it was astonishing that

many rough, unkempt, and even brutal-looking men soon learned to sing

heartily without using the book.

There were a hundred converts in the first year and another five hundred

in the second. Paris herself began to testify that a good work had been

begun in her midst. On the way to and from the hall in the Rue

d'Angouleme Catherine, who by this time had begun to be endearingly

known as the Marechale, the highest military title in France, used often

to meet a priest, to whom she always said "Bon jour, mon pere." One day

he paused and said, "Madame la Marechale, I want to tell you that since

you began your work in this quarter the moral atmosphere of the whole

place has changed. I meet the fruits everywhere, and I can tell better

than you what you are doing." She felt that God sent her that word of

encouragement.

One of her letters of this time indicates what kind of impression her

work was making. "There is a man," she wrote, "who has attended our

meetings most regularly. He listens with breathless attention, and

sometimes the tears flow down his cheeks. He was visited, and sent me

70 francs for our work, with a message that he desired to see me. I saw

him, and he gave me 80 more, with the words '_Sauvez la jeunesse_'!

('Save the young!') I found him very dark and hopeless about

himself.... The next week he again called me aside in the hall, put 50

francs into my hand, saying he hoped soon we should have a hall in every

quarter of Paris. 'Save the young people!' he again said. I said 'Yes,

but I want to see you saved.' 'That will come,' he said, and left the

hall. Last Sunday afternoon, I noticed him weeping in a corner of the

hall, as our young people were witnessing for Jesus, and, after the

services, he asked if he might speak to me for two minutes; this time he

handed me 60 francs, telling me to go on praying for him. He has lived

a bad life and is troubled with the thought of the past."

It began to be commonly believed that the Marechale could work certain

kinds of miracles. A woman who had attended the meetings, and been

blessed in her soul, became convinced that the English lady had power to

cast out devils, and one day she brought a neighbour to the physician of

souls, introducing her with the remark, "She has not only one but seven

devils." The new-comer had a frightful face. She was so drunken,

immoral and violent that nobody could live with her. Yet she, too, had

a soul. The Marechale made her get down on her knees, put both her

hands on her head, and prayed that the devils might all be cast out.

"She's now another woman," was the testimony soon after borne by all her

neighbours.

One of the surest indications of the success of the work in Paris is

found in the fact that, before the end of the first year there was a

general demand for a newspaper corresponding in some degree to the

English _War Cry_. That was a memorable day on which the Marechale and

her officers sat in their Avenue Parmentier flat, like a coterie of

Fleet Street journalists, gravely discussing their new venture. It was

indicative of the holy simplicity of the editor-in-chief that she

thought at first of changing _The War Cry_ into _Amour_. She did not

realise the sensation which the cry "Amour, un sou!" would have created

in the Boulevards. Her proposal was overruled, but her second

suggestion, to call the paper _En Avant_, was received with acclamation.

This was a real inspiration. The paper duly appeared in the beginning

of 1882, and has gone on successfully ever since. The shouting of its

name in the streets set all the world and his wife a-thinking and

a-talking. What if the Man of Nazareth is after all far ahead of our

modern philosophers and statesmen, and if this handful of English girls

is come to lead us all _forward_ to true liberty, equality and

fraternity?

The reports of the work in France were received with feelings of

gratitude at home. To "My dear Kittens"--a family pet-name--her brother

Bramwell wrote: "We are more than satisfied with your progress. The

General says that so far as he can judge your rate of advance in making

people is greater than his own was at the beginning. I am sure you

ought to feel only the liveliest confidence and greatest encouragement

all the time." And to "My darling Bluecher" the General himself wrote,

"I appreciate and admire and daily thank God for your courage and love

and endurance. God will and must bless you. We pray for you. I feel I

live over again in you. We all send you our heartiest greetings and our

most tender affection. Look up. Don't forget _my_ sympathy. Don't

trouble to answer my scrawls. I never like to see your handwriting

because I know it means your poor back. Remember me to all your

comrades."

"I feel I live over again in you." The thought was evidently habitual

in the General's mind. "He bids me tell you," wrote Emma, "that you are

his second self." The resemblance was physical as well as spiritual.

With her tall figure, her chiselled face, her aquiline nose, her

penetrating blue eyes, Catherine became, as time went on, more and more

strikingly like her father. One of her sons, who saw her stooping over

the General the day before he died, said that the two pallid faces were

like facsimiles in marble.

*CHAPTER V*

*FREEDOM TO WORSHIP GOD*

In the autumn of 1883 the Marechale suddenly leapt into fame as a

latter-day Portia, brilliantly and successfully pleading in a Swiss

law-court, before the eyes of Europe, the sacred cause of civil and

religious liberty. The land of Tell, the oldest of modern republics,

has always been regarded as a shrine of freedom. It has shown itself

hospitable to all kinds of ideas, even the newest, the strangest, the

most anti-Christian, the most anti-social. There is a natural affinity

between free England and free Switzerland.

"Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,

One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice;

They were thy chosen music, Liberty."

In the "Treaty of Friendship" between Great Britain and Switzerland,

drawn up in 1855, it was agreed that "the subjects and citizens of

either of the two contracting parties shall, provided they conform to

the laws of the country, be at liberty, with their families, to enter,

establish themselves, reside and remain in any part of the territories

of the other." Yet the presence of a few English evangelists in

Switzerland evoked a storm of persecution in which the first principles

of religious liberty were as much violated as ever they had been in the

days of the Huguenots.

When the Marechale and some comrades accepted an urgent invitation to

Switzerland, she little thought that she would be the heroine of an

historical trial. She went to preach the gospel. She observed the laws

of the land, and respected the religious susceptibilities of its people.

When she entered Geneva, she published only one poster, and that after

it had been duly _vise_; she allowed no processions, banners or brass

bands in the streets. Her only crime was that she sought to gain the

ears of those who never entered a place of worship, and that she

marvellously succeeded.

If good order was not always maintained at her meetings, it was not her

fault, but that of the authorities who refused to do their duty. History

repeats itself. As in ancient Thessalonica during the visit of St.

Paul, so in modern Geneva, some citizens, "moved with jealousy, took

unto themselves certain vile fellows of the rabble, and gathering a

crowd set the city on an uproar." The ringleaders of the disturbance

were paid by noted traffickers in vice, who were themselves often seen

in the meetings inciting the audience to riot. One of the first

converts, a student, confessed that he had got twenty francs a night,

and as much whisky as he could drink, to make a row.

The Department of Justice and Police chanced at that time to have as its

president a Councillor of State, M. Heridier, who thought it right not

to punish the offenders but to banish their victims. In a sitting of

the Grand Council he said, "We have been petitioned to call out a

company of gendarmerie to protect these foreigners, and to prevent

brawls and rows. I will not consent to take such a step. There are

already eight police agents in these places every evening who have a

very hard time of it.... These agents might be doing more useful work

elsewhere, and I am just about to withdraw them." That meant handing

over the strangers to the tender mercies of the mob. It was a gross

breach of the laws of hospitality and chivalry as well as of the

constitution of a free country. The city of Calvin did not know the day

of its visitation.

The Marechale and her comrades began their meetings in the Casino on

December 22, 1882. The hall was crowded, and soon there was raging a

great battle between the powers of light and darkness. A disturbance

had evidently been organised. A band of students in coloured caps, who

had come early and taken possession of the front of the galleries and

other prominent positions, were on their worst behaviour. The first

hymn was interrupted by cries and ribald songs, and the prayer which

followed was almost drowned. But the Marechale was never more calm and

confident than when facing such music. At every slight lull in the

storm, she uttered, in clear, penetrating tones, some pointed words

which pierced many a heart. Within an hour she not only had subdued her

audience but was inviting those who desired salvation to come forward to

the penitent form. Scoffers of half an hour ago left their places,

trembling under the sense of guilt, and as they knelt down the Marechale

sang, in soft notes, the hymn:

Reviens, reviens, pauvre pecheur,

Ton Pere encore t'attend;

Veux-tu languir loin du bonheur,

Et pecher plus longtemps?

O! reviens a ton Sauveur,

Reviens ce soir,

Il veut te recevoir,

Reviens a ton Sauveur!

A strange influence stole over the meeting, hushing the crowd into

profound silence, and the Spirit did His work in many hearts.

The Marechale conducted a similar service the following night, and on

Christmas Eve she faced an audience of 3000 in the Salle de la

Reformation. Its composition was entirely to her mind, for she was

never so inspired with divine pity and power as when she was confronting

the worst elements of a town. The theatres, the cabarets, the dancing

saloons, the drinking dens, and the rendezvous of prostitution had

poured their contents into the hall. Socialists who had found refuge in

Geneva--men of many nationalities--came _en masse_. A large part of the

audience were so entirely strangers to the idea of worship or of a

Divine Being, that the sound of prayer called forth loud derisive

laughter, with questions and cries of surprise and scorn.

But the soldiers of Christ, clad in armour of light, were more than a

match for the powers of darkness. Many a winged word found its mark,

and the after-meeting in the smaller hall, into which three hundred were

crowded, was pervaded by a death-like stillness, in which many sought

and found salvation. Some of the ringleaders of the disturbance had

pushed their way into this room; but they remained perfectly quiet,

evidently subdued and over-awed, with an expression on their faces of

intense interest, which showed that they felt they were in presence of a

reality in religion which they had not before encountered. The

Marechale sang her own hymn "Je viens a Toi, dans ma misere," and many

joined in the chorus:

Ote tous mes peches!

Agneau de Dieu, je viens a Toi,

Ote tous mes peches.

One of those who were melted by the words wrote: "I was like the

demoniac of Gadara. I may say I was possessed; I was chained for fifteen

years to a frightful life.... It was then that you came. I was at

first astonished; then remorse seized me. Then followed a frightful

torment in my soul--a real hell. I resolved to put an end to it one way

or another. Yet I thought I would go and hear you once more. I had been

in darkness and anguish since the day of the first meeting. No word had

I been able to recall of that day's teaching, except the words of the

sacred song 'Ote tous mes peches' (Take all my sins away). These

sounded in my heart and brain through the day and the sleepless

night--these and these only. Bowed down with grief and despair, again I

came to the Reformation Hall, and to the after-meeting. The first

sounds which fell on my ear were again those very words, 'Ote tous mes

peches,' and then you spoke on the words, 'Though your sins be as

scarlet, they shall be white as snow'; you seemed to speak to me alone,

to regard me alone--and I felt it was God who had sent me there to hear

those words."

Hundreds of such letters were written. Evidence came from all sides of

blessing received in many homes, of wild sons reclaimed, of drunkards

and vicious men transformed by the power of God, of light and joy

brought into families over which a cloud had hung. Not only anarchists

and prodigals, but students of theology and the children of pastors had

their lives transformed. In a meeting for women only, at which 3000

were present, the daughter of Pastor Napoleon Roussel began the new

life. Her brother had been one of the converts in the first meeting in

the Reformation Hall. Mlle. Roussel was to be the Marechale's secretary

for five years, and accompany her in a great American tour. A divinity

student who attended a "night with Jesus" on New Year's Eve, wrote: "I

passed a long night of watch, which I shall never forget. Since then I

am ever happy, and can say 'Glory to God' every hour of the day."

But as the tide of Divine blessing rose, the tide of human hatred also

rose, and in the beginning of February the "exercises" of the Army were

by Cantonal decree forbidden. A week later, the Marechale, with a young

companion, Miss Maud Charlesworth, now Mrs. Gen. Ballington Booth, was

expelled from the Canton of Geneva. During her six weeks in the city

she had been used to bring about probably the greatest revival which it

had witnessed since the days of the Reformers.

One of the most eminent lawyers of Geneva, Edmond Pictet, who had

himself been greatly blessed during those stirring weeks, helped her to

draw up an Appeal (_Recours_) to the Grand Council. He found, however,

that she needed but little help, and often remarked that with the warm

heart of an evangelist she combined the lucid intelligence of an

advocate. When the Council of State had deputed two or three of its

members to hear her on the subject of her Appeal, she came back to

Geneva under a safe-conduct to meet them. In the course of the

interview, at which the British Consul in the city was present, the

leading Councillor said, "You are a young woman; it is not in accordance

with our ideas and customs that young women should appear in public. We

are scandalised (_froisses_) by it." The rejoinder which he received

was so remarkable a defence of "the Prophesying of Women" that we give

it in full.

"Listen to me, I beg of you, sir. It is contrary, you tell me, to your

sense of what is right and becoming that young women should preach the

Gospel. Now, if Miss Charlesworth and I had come to Geneva to act in

one of your theatres, I have no doubt we should have met with sympathy

and approval from your public. We could have sung and danced on your

stage; we could have dressed in a manner very different from, and much

less modest than, that in which you see us dressed; we could have

appeared before a miscellaneous audience, men and women, young and old,

and of every class; members of the Grand Council, M. Herdier himself and

others, would have come to see us act; we should have got money; Geneva

would have paid ungrudgingly in that case; and you would all have sat

and approved; you would have clapped your hands and cheered us; you

would have brought your wives and daughters to see us, and they also

would have applauded. There would have been nothing to _froisser_ you,

no immorality in all that, according to your ideas and customs. The

noise (_bruit_) we should have thus made would not have caused our

expulsion. But when women come to try and save some of the forty or

fifty thousand of your miserable, scoffing, irreligious population who

never enter any place of worship, when they come with hearts full of

pity and love for the ignorant and sinful, and stand up to tell the glad

tidings of salvation to these rebels, this mob, among whom many accept

the tidings with eager joy--then you cry out that this is unseemly and

immodest. You would not bring your wives and daughters to hear us speak

of Jesus, though you would bring them to hear us if we danced and sang

upon the stage of your theatre. Now you have expelled us; but still

there are those multitudes in Geneva who are dark, lost, unsaved; and

you know it. There they are; they exist. What will you do with them?

Say--what will you do? Are they not a danger? Does not their lost

condition cry out against you?"

The Councillor was not only silenced, but sank into his chair in a state

of temporary lapse. For the moment, at least, the reality of the

picture presented to him had touched his heart.

Nevertheless the Marechale's Appeal was rejected, and M. Pictet wrote to

her: "The wretched storm of anger and prejudice which you witnessed and

which your friends deplore so much, has not blown over by any means. I,

for one, despair of ever seeing my fellow-citizens properly understand

what religious liberty and respect of other people's opinion

mean,--therefore the only course left to the Army seems to be the one

indicated in St. Matthew x. 23! _You_ have done your duty, you cannot

be expected to do more than Paul and Barnabas did (Acts xiii. 51)."

Meantime the enemies of righteousness rejoiced. The theatrical paper of

Geneva complimented the authorities upon the expulsion. "Our theatre,"

it said, "has lost a formidable rival, and the crowd is beginning to

find its way back to us."

At that critical time it was not only the civil but the spiritual

leaders who were weighed and found wanting. Injustice could scarcely

have been pushed so far had not the Churches sanctioned it by their

attitude of silence or open hostility. Many religious people took the

side of the persecuting government and the godless populace. The

bitterest pamphlet against the _Armee du Salut_ was written by Madame la

Comtesse de Gasparin, whom the delighted mob hailed as "a Christian if

ever there was one." But the most strange and humiliating fact of all

was that the Swiss branch of the Evangelical Alliance resolved, after

due deliberation, to refrain from uttering a single word in defence of

religious liberty. No wonder that a number of its most influential

members sorrowfully withdrew from its fellowship.

Banished from Geneva, the Evangelists found refuge for a time in

Neuchatel. Coming on the scene just after the authorities had forbidden

evening meetings, the Marechale gave notice of a morning one to be held

the next day. The hall was filled, and the meetings went on every

morning and afternoon, all through the week.

At six o'clock on Sunday morning the roaring of a crowd of roughs coming

up the street reached the ears of those who had already gathered inside

the hall. While the noise grew louder and louder, the Marechale said to

her officers, "Wait here and pray; I will go and meet them." On

stepping outside the door, she was at once surrounded by rough fellows

in their shirt sleeves, armed with sticks and forks and stones, who

began to demand what she wanted in their town, and poured upon her the

senseless accusations of the tap-rooms.

"Go away!" cried one, "we've got our pastors."

"My friend," was the reply, "you don't do them much credit."

"Here is my god!" (_Voila mon dieu!_), said another, pulling out his

pipe and brandishing it in the Marechale's face.

"You will need another when you come to die."

"You want our money!" shouted a third.

"What do you say? You say that again! Say it! You dare not, you do not

believe it, you know that it is a lie." And taking this man by the

shirt collar, the Marechale led him into the hall and up to the front

seat, where he sat listening most attentively for two hours. Two rows of

penitents sought pardon at the close of the meeting.

In June the Grand Council of Nauchatel voted for the suppression of the

_Armee du Salut_; and Zurich and Canton du Vaud soon followed suit. It

then became clear that the only hope of getting these unconstitutional

decrees rescinded lay in disobeying them. Jurists who were consulted

held that this was the best way to compel the authorities to retrace

their steps. Many Swiss converts were ready to suffer for conscience'

sake, but the Marechale resolved that she would herself, as a subject of

Queen Victoria, assert her right to worship God on Swiss soil. In a new

form she would raise the Apostle's question, "Is it lawful for you to

scourge a man that is a Roman and uncondemned?" The interest of the

situation was heightened by the fact that it was now a woman's question.

All the spirit of the modern world was in the Marechale's bold

declaration, "I am a British citizen."

After working for some months in the south of France, she returned to

Nauchatel and deliberately infringed the Cantonal decree. On the

afternoon of Sunday, September 9, she conducted a meeting at Prise-Imer,

in the Jura forest, some five miles above the lake. In a letter to

England she described the scene. "It was a day never to be forgotten.

Long before the hour the people met, and we had upwards of 500 who had

come out of Nauchatel to praise God. The weather was beautiful. After

so much trouble, fatigue and a long journey, we could meet to talk of

the things of God. Hearts and voices rose together, and it cheered me

much to look into the faces of our brave soldiers. There was no

mistaking their zeal and determination to go forward."

While the hymn "Come, Thou burning Spirit, come" was being sung under

the tall pine trees, a sentinel who had been stationed on the outskirts

of the forest announced that the Prefect in his carriage, attended by

sixteen policemen, was approaching. The Marechale gave the news to the

audience, and called on everybody to be calm and confident.

"Take no notice. We shall have a glorious meeting all the same."

The gendarmes found the congregation kneeling, and formed a ring round

it, the Prefect himself taking his stand close to the Marechale. He and

his followers were all overawed. For over two hours they listened as

men spellbound. They heard the Marechale pray for the Government, for

the nation of Switzerland, for themselves. They heard her speak of the

end and aim of the _Armee du Salut_--"to save the lost, to make all

thieves, drunkards, outcasts, and plagues of society peaceful and loyal

citizens, through the power of Jesus to lead the nations to God." Then

they heard the testimonies of converted criminals, one of whom told of

his three years' imprisonment. Pointing to a plain-clothes detective,

he said, "That policeman over there knows me; he took me to jail; but

now I am a changed man." No wonder that the Prefect of Police was

profoundly impressed. At the end of the service, he took out his

warrant with trembling hands, and stammered--

"I have here ... I ought..."

"Yes, I know. You have a decree for my arrest. Why didn't you give it

me before?"

"Well, I could not."

"Yes, a higher Power than man was here to restrain you."

He could not withhold his tribute of admiration. "This is a magnificent

work, if it does but last. You do nothing but good. I beseech you not

to hold me responsible for this act. I, like others, had judged you

without seeing or hearing you."

He had, however, to obey his orders. The Marechale and Captain Becquet,

one of her officers, were put under arrest. As they were leaving that

pleasant place, she exclaimed, "How strange that we are not to be

allowed to worship God in these beautiful woods! What a pity to see them

standing silent and unused!" To some of those who heard her voice that

Sunday evening, the spot was for ever holy ground. In the audience was

a young Switzer, Constant Jeanmonod, one of nature's gentlemen, who

found salvation on that day, gave himself body and soul to God, and

afterwards became one of the Marechale's most devoted friends and

comrades in many a hard campaign. He is now at the head of the work in

Belgium.

The Marechale and Captain Becquet were brought down to Nauchatel and

conducted to the house of M. Comtesse, President of the Council of

State, who said to them, "You are my prisoners, and it is my duty to

have you locked up this night." The Marechale, however, had just

received a telegram begging her to attend the funeral of a brave young

Geneva convert, who had breathed a dying request that she should speak

at his grave-side. She asked permission to fulfil this sacred duty, and

was liberated on bail of 6000 francs.

Next morning a service was held in the garden of the farmhouse near

Geneva where Charles Wyssa had died, and there the Marechale found a

lifelong friend. Mrs. Josephine Butler was present, and gave a brief

address which lived long in the memory of those who heard it. Having

spoken of her profound sympathy with the work of the _Armee du Salut_ in

Switzerland, she made a moving reference to the fact that she had lost

her only and dearly-loved daughter, whom she had named Evangeline in the

hope that her life would be dedicated to evangelisation. One fatal

evening, when, the mother returned home after a long journey, her little

daughter came running downstairs to meet and welcome her. In her

extreme eagerness to see her mother again, the child forgot all danger,

slipped over the staircase balustrade, and was taken up crushed and

unconscious. In less than an hour her gentle spirit had fled.

"At the coffin of that child," said Mrs. Butler, "I consecrated my life

to the relief of my suffering and oppressed brothers and sisters. My

great desire was that she should become a preacher of the Word of God.

And now," added the mother, throwing her arms round the Marechale, "by

another new coffin I have found my long-lost daughter, an Evangelist

chosen and blessed of God." When the Marechale had daughters of her

own, she called the eldest Catherine Evangeline and the youngest

Josephine.

From that garden the company moved to the churchyard, where the

Marechale spoke on the beautiful words, "Who are these which are arrayed

in white robes, and whence came they?" Just as John Wyssa, the younger

brother of Charles, was throwing a handful of earth on the coffin, and

murmuring the words "_Au revoir, mon frere_," the Mayor of the Commune

approached in order to arrest Miss Booth. At this juncture Col.

Clibborn interposed, saying, "Sir! this is a funeral." He was a coarse,

brutal fellow, very different from the Prefect of Police in Neuchatel.

The mayor not heeding was putting his hand upon Miss Booth's arm, when

she turned upon him with flashing eyes, and said, "Hands off! this is

holy ground! Don't you see that we are in the presence of the dead? I

finish this service, and then will speak with you."

When the funeral rites were ended, the Mayor thought his turn was at

last come. He was about to proceed with the arrest, when the Marechale

still objected.

"You can't arrest me!"

The Mayor stared in bewilderment.

"I say you can't arrest me!"

"May I ask why?"

"Because with the best will in the world I can't go to two prisons in

two Cantons at the same time. I am due in Nauchatel."

The Mayor saw that she was right, and retired crestfallen.

The Marechale returned to Nauchatel and surrendered to her bail. The

iron gates of the grim jail closed upon her. The imprisonment was

shared by her faithful lieutenant, Kate Patrick, who refused to leave

her.

It was twelve days before the trial came on. The Marechale was in

delicate health, and frequently became sick. The hunger-striking and

forcible feeding of these latter days would soon have killed her. She

tried to eat, but had little appetite, and what little she had was

destroyed by the garlic in the food. Mice disturbed her nights and in

the early morning the odours which came from the passages were

insupportable. The only way in which she could get any relief was by

putting her face between the iron bars of the window and breathing the

air which came up from the lake. She was always thankful that her face

was thin and just went through the cold bars.

One morning at five or six o'clock she was awakened by happy voices

singing dear familiar choruses outside the prison walls. She was very

ill, but she dragged herself from her hard bed to the window, waved her

hand, and cried "Amen!" Then she attached her handkerchief to a bar,

and let it flutter like a flag. The signal was received with shouts of

"Amen, Marechale--be of good cheer--hold on--hallelujah!"

As the time passed, she was thrown in upon herself, and went through a

great soul-struggle. She had lately been the victim of a stinging

article, grossly ignorant and cruelly unjust, which had appeared in a

religious paper, written, rumour said, by the wife of a Swiss pastor.

It had accused her of unwomanliness, immodesty, and vanity. She made

the painful discovery that she could not yet say, "None of these things

move me." The poisoned arrows had gone deep, forcing tears from her

eyes and attacking her peace of mind. Chancing to notice a little slate

hanging on the wall of her cell, she took it down and began to write on

it all the accusations which her enemies might bring against her, asking

herself as she did so, "Could you write your name and say you accept

that, and that?" Her conscience compelled her to answer "No, there are

some things which I could not endure." She was appalled as she thought

of more and greater trials which God might ask her to undergo. He might

deprive her of health. He might send her to Japan. He might take away

her reputation and make it impossible for her to defend herself. Could

she bear such things? No, she could not yet sign her name under the

terrible words she wrote. With sorrow she put the slate back in its

place, and for two days it hung against the wall with its list of cruel

things which she could not accept. But during those days she pondered

and prayed. She rebuked her doubts and fears. How could she ever

distrust her Lord, who had led her with such infinite tenderness? How

imagine that He would ever lay upon her more than He would give her

power to bear? She soon crept up close to His arms, and realised that

nothing was really unbearable except doubt. Taking her slate down, she

read over again all that she might be called upon to suffer, and signed

"Catherine Booth." Then the Angels of God filled the prison cell; the

peace and joy of heaven flooded her soul; and from that hour her

communion with her Lord was so sweet that she kissed the walls of her

dungeon before she was led forth to her trial.

On that day (September 19) she wrote her exquisite prison song, "Best

beloved of my soul," and sent it to her father. It was sung, while she

was still in prison, at a great meeting for prayer, in Exeter Hall, at

which Mrs. Butler spoke. It was first written in French, the language

in which she now habitually thought, and translated by herself into

English. The latter is well-known, and many readers will be glad to

have the French.

O Toi que mon ame adore,

Je ne suis pas seule ici,

Car je T'y retrouve encore,

Et je suis au ciel ainsi,

Ma vie est a Ton service,

Je T'appartiens sans retour;

Corps et ame en sacrifice,

Je Te suivrai nuit et jour.

Combattons dans la souffrance,

Et les yeux baignes de pleurs;

Bien pres est la delivrance,

Voici l'Homme de douleurs!

Sa voix chasse ma tristesse,

Mon chagrin s'est dissipe;

Je chante avec allegresse,

Mon cachot est transforme!

Au milieu de la tempete

Rien ne peut troubler ma paix;

Son amour que rien n'arrete

Peut me garder a jamais.

Le combat est dur, terrible,

L'enfer rugit contre nous;

Mais l'Armee est invincible:

Avec Dieu nous vaincrons tout.

During the twelve days of her imprisonment the Marechale received many

letters of sympathy and good cheer from Swiss friends, whose words

proved to her how deep and real had been the work of the _Armee du

Salut_ in the country. One of the most interesting was signed by

seventy-two mothers, who bore glad testimony to the conversion of their

sons and daughters, and two more were signed by a number of wives

praising God for the conversion of their husbands.

More intimate letters came to Catherine from home, all breathing warm

love, tender solicitude, and ardent hope that good would come out of

evil. "I quite see with you," wrote her mother, "as to God's hand being

in all this, and it appears that when communities or nations get sodden

in sin and darkness, there is no way of arousing them but by such a

flashing of the truth in their midst as will provoke persecution. God

wants the attention of the people, and this is the best way to secure

it, no doubt.... Perhaps you are right about pleading your own cause,

only you should have some one at your elbow who knows the law. You will

not be up on points of law, I fear, otherwise I have no doubt that God

will give you what you should say. I feel it a great thing to have a

child in prison for Jesus' sake; there could be only one greater, namely

to be there myself; but one would hardly have thought it possible in

this age. How true that the devil hates real saints as much as ever he

did, and that the spirit of persecution only needs the real presence of

the Spirit of God to call it forth.... That the Lord comfort and keep

you and reveal _Himself_ to you more and more and make you a mother of

nations, prays your loving and sympathising mother.

"Catherine Booth."

The next letter admirably reveals both the father's and the General's

heart. With the deepest concern for his beloved daughter there is

combined a lively sense of the fact that his enemies are overreaching

themselves and doing him and his cause the greatest possible service. He

wrote: "My darling, no one can tell the anxieties we have all gone

through concerning you during this week.... We were awakened by

telegraph messenger with a wire from Geneva to say 'Bluecher detained

till trial. Patrick with her--cared for.' The last sentence fills us

with relief. We interpret it to mean Patrick is with you as your

secretary or maid, and you have all your wants supplied and no

_hardships_.... Enclosed is this morning's _Times_. All the papers

have notices of it, so that it is flying all over the world. _If you do

not suffer in your health, I don't care_. It will all work for good.

But your health is of more importance to me in my estimation than all

Switzerland. If you can only get assurance of this! I am all uncertain

whether this will reach you. There will be a storm directly and no

mistake if these Swiss go on at this rate. We all send you _all_ our

heart's love and heaps of prayers and sympathy. God bless and keep you!

Remember me to Lieut. Patrick.

"Your affectionate father,

"William Booth."

Mrs. Bramwell Booth, who as Miss Florence Soper had been one of the

Marechale's first comrades in Paris, wrote her: "I feel as if you had

mounted away to a land where I can call you 'Katie' no more. But I will

say, and I do say in my heart of innermost hearts, my Saint Catherine,

counted worthy to suffer.... If only I could beseech you to remember

that your health is everything. This is the dawning of a glorious

morning in your work--the forerunner of a glorious victory. Will you

send some word through Patrick of the whole _truth_--just let me

know---just your Flo--if it is as bad as a prison cell, and is it doing

your body the _least_ bit of harm? ... I wish you could know, in your

solitude, how we all love you--I wish the breezes over the lake could

bring you some whispers of what we have said of you. The glorious God

is our God for ever and ever, and His chariots of fire are with you--His

invisible army is around you. Your own Flo. 20. 9. '83."

Her sister Emma, who was now at the head of the Training School at the

Congress Hall, wrote: "What can be said at such times compared with what

is felt? I will not attempt to write. I am praying. All hearts here

hold you up ceaselessly--your example is before us! In the night and

the day I am with you--in your sorrow I find your joy in what is to come

out of all. 'They know not what they do,' and out of their very efforts

to hinder and stop God's work shall it spread beyond restraint. The

loss is great, my precious sister, but the reward will be infinitely

greater, and in both you will have been allowed to share. It would have

been easier to be with you, but I'll fight harder than ever in my corner

here. Filled with deepest sympathy and yearning desire for His kingdom

to come in Switzerland! Devotedly, Emma. PS. It is your back I most

tremble for--your poor back! I wonder if you have pillows. Bless your

dear little Pattie [Miss Patrick]. Oh, each moment I am with you!

JESUS is--He does love and choose and will honour you!"

Among those who wrote to the prisoner was George Railton,[1] whom she

regarded almost as an elder brother. He had lived with the family

during her childhood, and when she was a girl of twelve and onwards she

used to get up at six in the morning--slipping downstairs on her bare

feet in order not to awaken mother--to have a Bible lesson with him.

She always regarded the talks in those morning hours as among the great

formative influences in her life. Railton, who became the General's

first commissioner, watched her career with profound and affectionate

interest. He wrote on September 25: "Dear Marechale Prisoner, I have

just come from that tremendous prayer meeting [in Exeter Hall, held as a

protest against her imprisonment], one of the biggest and best this

world has ever seen.... The way the volleys burst out at the right time

and went ringing all round the Hall sounded splendid. And the sight of

thousands standing up to give themselves to God, hundreds and hundreds

for foreign service, and all for service somewhere, was magnificent....

My impression is that as they [the Swiss] have outraged law all along

they may very likely do it when it comes to sentence.... God only knows

what is coming next, but anyhow we shall win."

[1] Since these pages were written, this remarkable man has died--as he

wished--with his armour on, and been "promoted to glory."

Towards the end of her imprisonment Catherine wrote: "God will open the

door for us through this storm. My will is God's. All I want is to

accomplish His desire for the world. Do not worry at all. Jesus is

here. There is such wonderful victory ahead that all my cry is, Lord,

make us _equal to it_!--ready in every way! Ever fighting, in jail as

well as on the field, following on to know Him. I have been looking at

that wonderful sight--Calvary. I must ever live in sight of it."

The trial took place at Boudry on Saturday the 25th and Monday the 27th

September. It excited the greatest interest in Switzerland and far

beyond it. The _Journal de Geneve_ said: "This prosecution at Boudry

has an immense political significance in the highest sense of that word,

and the decision, whatever it may be, will take its place in the history

of Republican rights." Even the most sanguine scarcely hoped for the

acquittal of the accused. But the unexpected happened, and the triumph

of righteousness was a woman's triumph.

The Public Prosecutor spent much time in proving that Salvationists were

mountebanks and fanatics. A young Englishwoman had flung an insult in

the face of the Grand Council, accusing them of violating the

constitution. Her contempt for the law was the more surprising as the

English never rebel against the law, however unjust it may be (!). If

the _Armee du Salut_ was not suppressed they would have to enlarge their

asylums. Christ, who was, perhaps, the most religious man who ever

lived, favoured private rather than public prayer. Silent communion

with God was better than getting up and shouting "I am saved!" While

the accused placed herself above the law, the Queen of England was

obliged to submit to Acts of Parliament. Having not only ignored, but

deliberately violated the decree, the _Salutistes_ must bear the

consequences, and no doubt they would be happy to receive the crown of

martyrdom!

On the second day of the trial, after a speech in the defence by M.

Monnier, the Marechale rose to plead her own cause. Though she had

passed twelve days in prison, and sat many hours in the suffocating

atmosphere of a crowded court-house, she overcame her exhaustion, her

spirit subduing the frail body. She had been accustomed to face great

crowds since she was sixteen, and she was never more completely master

of herself or her audience than she was in that critical hour. Her

voice was never clearer, nor her manner more commanding. Her brother

Herbert, who was in the court, said he was amazed at her power. As she

pleaded the cause of religious liberty, her hearers felt that she had

not come to be judged but for judgment upon them all. Some extracts

will serve to indicate the quality of her speech.

"What is the need of the _Armee du Salut_? Allow me to read a passage

from one of your own journals: 'Cantonal Governments will see with alarm

the flood of demoralisation rising menacingly higher and higher; and

instead of seeking to destroy the causes of this deluge, they only take

away the remaining dams.' It is needless to enlarge on the necessity

for an _Armee du Salut_ in the face of these facts.