The Marechale began to blame herself. Why did she not inspire the poor

creature with confidence? Why could one not make her feel at rest? Why

had she run away? She had seemed to suspect something. It was a sore

disappointment.

After some waiting, the girls began to come, and the tables filled up,

but every time the door opened the Marechale turned her eye towards it

in the hope of seeing her old woman return. A gloom had been cast over

her spirit because that woman had gone out, not believing that she was

welcome, thinking she was too old and too ugly.

The beautiful grace, "Nous Te benissons," was sung, prayer was offered,

and sweet music filled the air while the plates were handed round. Some

of the guests were pretty and some ugly, some young and some old, some

clad in rags and some dressed in the height of fashion. Some poor

famished creatures asked for a plate of meat four or five times, while

others, having already supped, merely touched a little fruit with their

dainty fingers and sipped a cup of black coffee.

The supper was nearly ended, and the Marechale was preparing to speak,

when the door burst open, and in came our old woman, with a pretty young

girl, fair as a lily, on one arm, and a dark one, equally young and

beautiful, on the other. Up she came to the "Holy Virgin," with her

dear old face radiant.

"_Voila_! I have gone and found them. It's _these_ that you want! For

me it is too late, but show them _the other side of the medal_."

The Marechale could not speak. Her eyes filled with tears. The words

cut her through. The woman did not know what an act she had done, nor

what an unforgettable phrase--_le revers de la medaille_--she had used.

"I have spent a long time in seeking them," she said. "I _am_

pleased--_Je suis contente_."

"And I, too, am happy," said the Marechale, "but especially because you

have come."

"_Moi!_! for me it is finished. For me it is too late. But these--they

are young, they are pretty, they have life before them. It is these

that you want!"

The three sat down, the Marechale taking the old woman next to her. And

she never served a cup of coffee with such pleasure in her life.

In after years she would sometimes tell the story of that old woman on a

Sunday morning to an English congregation, and then ask the searching

question, "Which of you has ever spent two hours day or night seeking

for a lost soul as she did?"

*CHAPTER XI*

*THE PRODIGAL SON*

Baron X, the eldest son of the Baron of that name, was born at Bordeaux,

and brought up in a family of strict Catholic traditions. He studied at

the College de Tivoli and the Lycee, but he cared for little except

sport and pleasure. After he had wasted much of his father's substance

in riotous living, he was informed that his allowance would be entirely

cut off unless he went abroad for a time. Leaving home in disgrace, he

sailed for New York, and was beginning to taste the bitterness of exile,

when, chancing one day to enter a big restaurant, he was astonished to

meet his cousin, the Viscount of X., who, having inherited a fortune of

two million francs, was making haste to squander it. Falling upon each

other's necks, they at once became companions in pleasure. Giving

themselves up to all kinds of insanity, they spent immense sums in a few

months.

Baron X was afraid to give himself a single moment of reflection on the

enormity of his errors. He was inwardly miserable, and found that

everybody else who was pursuing pleasure was as unhappy as himself. One

night, at a dance in Montreal, he said to the queen of the ball, admired

by everybody for her beauty and charm--

"Would that I could find out how to enjoy myself again!"

She answered, "If _I_ seem to be gay, I have no reason for being so.

Oh, how I suffer!"

The young man felt that existence became more and more mechanical, the

days succeeding one another in an endless monotony of unsatisfying

amusements. He seemed to be living in a bad dream.

After a while he returned to France, and one evening he was sitting, sad

at heart, on the balcony of the _Cafe de la Paix_, wondering to what

place of pleasure he should turn his steps, when some Salvationist girls

came to offer their journal to the customers. They were greeted with

the usual pleasantries. Baron X asked the waiter if he knew who these

people were.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur, they are the _Salutistes_, and if you want to have a

good laugh, you have only to go to the Rue Auber, which is quite near

by; they have a hall there where you could spend a good evening."

His curiosity awakened, Baron X went to the place indicated, taking a

_fille de joie_ with him. The fair-haired young man and his companion

sat at the bottom of the hall laughing. That evening there were

"testimonies," which somehow arrested Baron X's attention. He could not

help asking himself how these young people seemed so happy. Then a

young officer read the words, "The wages of sin is death, but the free

gift of God is eternal life through Christ Jesus our Lord," and

delivered an address which was not correct in language, but extremely

incisive. Baron X said to himself, "He knows my history, and speaks to

me." As he went out, he bought some publications which were exposed for

sale at the door, and spent the night in reading them. He came next

evening alone, and a great spiritual conflict began. He continued to

come, and one night remained behind, being in an agony of soul. Sobbing

aloud, he confessed that he had led a wild and wicked life, dishonoured

his name, and broken his mother's heart. At one o'clock in the morning

he gave himself to God.

The Marechale saw that he was afraid of himself in Paris, and opened her

doors to him. For six months he lived partly at her house and partly at

the headquarters in the Rue Auber. She soon came to know him through and

through, and was struck by his simplicity and absolute sincerity. He

had broken completely with the past, and never had one _arriere pensee_.

He was ready for any sacrifice and for the humblest service.

One day a police agent came to tell the Marechale that she had somebody

living in her house and wearing the uniform of the _Armee de Salut_, who

was passing himself off as the son of Baron X. She called Baron X, and,

while the two men stared at each other, said, "This is the son of Baron

X." The official apologised and withdrew.

Baron X had written to tell his parents of his conversion, but received

no answer. After six months the Marechale had to begin a _tournee_ at

Bordeaux, and told Baron X that she would seize the opportunity to go

and visit his parents. He was overjoyed. He hoped for much, and said

he would pray.

When the Marechale, clad in uniform, drew near to the gates of the

Baron's chateau, a complete stranger stopped her and exclaimed, "My poor

child, what are you going to do in that house?" She only smiled and

walked on, but the question came back to her mind afterwards.

Ringing the bell, she was shown into a luxurious room, and presently the

Baron, the Baroness, and their daughter appeared. She was received as

stiffly as if she had been the representative of the Queen, and found it

hard to begin. Making an effort, she said they had probably learned

from their son that a wonderful change had taken place in his life. She

was happy to be able to confirm it. For six months she and her officers

had witnessed his life, and had noticed nothing in word or look or act

inconsistent with this marvellous change.

There was no answer. The parents and daughter simply stared at their

visitor. She continued--

"I know that his life has been bad, but I thought that you would be glad

to hear of his conversion."

Then the Baroness could no longer contain herself. A torrent of words

fell from her lips. She depicted the scandalous life of her son, who had

been a real prodigal in every sense of the word, gambling away their

wealth, bringing his mistress into their house, and disgracing their

name.

"But," said the Marechale, "that was before his change. Do not bring up

what he once was. Think of what he is now. He has been living among my

children, and I can trust him to go in and out with them. I know

something of real conversions, and I think I can judge. I assure you

that he has become a new man, with new desires, new aspirations, a new

nature."

These assurances only led to another realistic description of his sins.

"But," pleaded the Marechale, "that was when he was Saul; now he is

Paul."

They stared and did not comprehend the meaning of her words.

"Let him come back to the Catholic Church," said the Baron. That his

son should profess to have been saved outside the holy Mother Church was

evidently a last blow to his pride.

"That is surely a secondary matter," said the Marechale. "Considering

what a sinner he has been, you should not mind by whom the change has

come. He has been converted in the _Armee du Salut_, but there is only

one God and one Saviour. Catholic and Protestant are alike if they have

no life."

But the Baroness drew herself up in her beautiful robe, and said--

"Let him come back to the Catholic Church, or he will never receive

another sou from us."

The Marechale saw that it was time to end the interview.

"Very well, Baroness," she said, rising, "I will be your son's mother.

I will buy your son clothes and boots."

With that she left their house disappointed and weary, having spent

hours under their roof pleading their son's cause, but they had never

offered her so much as a cup of tea.

On her return to Paris, she called Baron X. His face fell when she began

to speak. She bade him be brave, described to him her interview with

his people, and ended by saying, "I will be a mother to you, and you

shall never lack for anything."

He worked on with her in Paris for some months, and then he received a

telegram, "Come quickly, father dying." The Marechale rushed him off,

and he afterwards gave her an account of his eventful journey.

When he got home, he found the house silent, every sound muffled without

and within.

"Am I too late?" he asked.

"No, hush! He has been asking for you all the time. Come quickly."

Upstairs he went to his father's room. Entering, he saw two thin white

hands on the coverlet, and heard a voice--

"Is it my son?"

"Yes, father!"

With one bound he was at the bed-side, and fell on his knees. With

breath coming thick and fast, his father said faintly--

"Oh, my son, your religion is better than mine. Forgive your old father

for not forgiving you."

Holding his hand, his son spoke to him of the Saviour, and sang to him

some of the choruses he had learned in the Army. Father and son were a

thousand miles away from Catholicism and Protestantism. They were

simply in the presence of the Saviour. With words of salvation in his

ears, and filial arms around him, the old Baron passed away.

Himself now Baron X, he came into his fortune. However bad an eldest son

has been, he cannot, by French law, be disinherited.

For the next four years Baron X was an officer in the _Armee du Salut_.

In Paris and Nimes, England and Belgium he worked with ardour for the

salvation of souls. He was with the Marechale in her Brussels

campaign.[1]

[1] Described in chap. xiii.

He married Mlle. Babut, the daughter of the well-known pastor in Nimes.

As a girl she had been brilliantly clever, but very wilful, closing her

heart to all who sought to influence her for good. When the Marechale

came to Nimes she went, like everybody else, to the meetings, taking

with her girl friends whom she excited to mock and laugh. But a strange

power seized her. In vain she tried to escape by ridiculing what she

heard. "One evening," to use her own words, "the Marechale--directed by

God--turned her eyes full on me and said, 'Young woman, you have not the

right to waste your life.' Clear, pointed, cutting like a sword, this

truth penetrated me, and with it the conviction, 'I ought to yield to

God here and now.'" Three months later she was in the Training Home in

Paris.

The Baron X and his wife afterwards became missionaries in Madagascar.

They gave themselves heart and soul to the work. When Baron X's health

began to fail, they returned home, and he continued to labour for Christ

as long as he had any strength left. His end came in 1911. Pastor

Babut said he had been attending death-beds for fifty years, but had

never seen anything so beautiful as the Baron's latter end.

"Courage," said some one to the dying man.

"Courage? I do not need it when heaven is open to me."

"Do you see the Lord Jesus near you?"

"But I am with Him!"

"God has used you to work for Him."

"All I have done counts for nothing, only the immense grace and love of

God remain."

*CHAPTER XII*

*SO GREAT FAITH*

It was mid-winter, and the ground was covered with snow. There was no

little anxiety at the Villette. Forty hungry mouths had to be filled at

the Ecole Militaire, and there was nothing for dinner. The simple fact

was that the cash-box was empty, and it was difficult not to have a

heavy heart. But the maxim of a _Salutiste_ is "Keep believing!" God

had never forsaken the Marechale when she trusted in Him. Depression

and melancholy she regarded as lack of faith. She bade her secretary

call a _fiacre_. When they got in, the officer said--

"You have the fare, Marechale?"

"No!"

"But-----"

"The Lord have mercy upon you! Where is your faith? Get down on your

knees and pray!"

The officer instantly obeyed. They both prayed--it was real prayer--and

their hearts became lighter.

The _fiacre_ drew up at the gate of a beautiful house in the Champs

Elysees. It had to be kept waiting, for there was no money to pay the

_cocher_.

The Marechale was ushered into a luxurious apartment, and was soon

talking with a Russian Countess about her soul. They had never met

before, but they found common ground.

"I too," said the Countess, "adore the Christ! Come and see.... Look,

the Christ!"

They stood before a beautiful picture of the thorn-crowned Redeemer.

"I adore Him!" she repeated.

"But it is one thing," said the Marechale, "to adore Him here in these

charming surroundings, and another thing to adore Him amidst the filth,

the immorality and the misery of the Villette, where I live night and

day among the poor and the dying, and where I have devoted young

comrades who have left comfortable homes and bright prospects, and are

now labouring for Christ and receiving nothing for it. What is your

adoring Christ compared with theirs?"

The Countess was silent, and evidently felt bad. She had suddenly

received a new ray of light upon the adoration of Jesus, and, realising

that deeds are better than words, she left the room for a minute, to

return with an offering of 500 francs.

It was by such gifts that the Army was maintained on the Continent. The

Marechale, it is somewhat strange to discover, was not only the apostle

but the financier of the _Armee du Salut_ in France. Others, of course,

could administer the funds, but on her fell the burden of replenishing

the exchequer. As years passed and the work extended, the task became

more and more heavy. Officers had to be supported, the rent of houses

and halls paid, the Training Home, the Rescue Homes, the Orphanages, the

Homes of Rest maintained, and to meet all this outlay the Marechale

toiled, travelled, and wrote countless letters. Those who adored the

Christ sent her their gifts from many lands.

While there were many generous supporters of the Army in France and

Switzerland, the largest contributions came from the home-country. We

have noted that the General did not like to see Catherine's

hand-writing, because he thought of her weak spine. Yet in one day she

and her secretary would sometimes write over a hundred letters with

their own hands, which at the end were too cramped to go on with more.

Experience had taught her the value of a personal application. Many a

well-wisher who would have given L5 in response to a typewritten letter,

did much better on receiving a warm appeal in the leader's own

handwriting. She even made it a rule to write receipts herself.

Lean months tested the spirit of the Training Home. Though there was

nothing to eat but a plate of cabbage-soup and a potato, the cadets

never murmured. "_C'est la vie apostolique_," they cheerfully said one

to another. And it was easy to bear any hardship when their leader

shared it with them. One who was an officer with her for years wrote:

"In all things she was our example. If you wished to incur her

displeasure, you had but to give her something to eat which the workers

did not have. As she was in delicate health, sometimes those around her

would try to get a little luxury to tempt her appetite or strengthen

her. They would be met with the answer: 'Whatever is this? It is not

for me, I hope, because, though it is very good of you, I did not want

it, and will not have anything of the sort.' Then she would share it

all round."

Whenever it became known that the exchequer was almost empty, the

officers and cadets knew that this was a call to prayer. On one occasion

the rents of the Rue Auber and Quai de Valmy halls were due; there was

nothing to meet them; and there were but three days of grace. These

were days of agony. All the officers who had anything to spare gave it.

The children in the orphanage gave three francs and ten centimes. But

when the best had been done, not a tithe of the necessary 3000 francs

was in hand.

Everybody met for prayer. The Marechale spoke on the words, "Though the

fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines ... the

flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the

stalls: yet will I rejoice in the Lord." She rang the changes on that

"rejoice," asking, "Are we _there_?" Yes, they were all there--anxious

for nothing, but in everything by prayer with thanksgiving telling God

their needs.

At such times the leader of the little band felt that God had to take

care of His name, His honour; He _had_ to send what was required. Who

will call such a faith in question? Did not the German people say of

Luther, "Look, there is the man who gets from God whatever he asks?"

When the Marechale was travelling with her secretary in a third-class

carriage in the West of France, the poor people got in with their

baskets of vegetables, and one of them said in a loud whisper, "Take

care what you say; these people when they pray get from God all they

want."

To return. On the morning of the last day of grace the Marechale

received a letter from Scotland containing a draft for L100, a "God

bless you," and nothing more. She never knew what kind human heart had

been moved to send the letter. But she never doubted that God had sent

it.

Such occurrences were not solitary. Here is the testimony of M.

Grandjean, who was for years one of the Marechale's best officers. "I

think with gratitude to God of the difficult days in which our faith was

severely tested, when I was cashier in Quai de Valmy, and I had not a

shilling, and we had to pay the 6000 francs for rents and other

expenses. I shall never forget my overwhelming joy when one night I

appealed to the cadets who could pray with faith, and when five or six

of us prayed with me in the little kitchen of the Quai de Valmy. The

next day the Marechale received by the first post a cheque of 6000

francs from some one who did not know that we were in need."

In one of her _tournees_ the Marechale was labouring down in the South

of France. Though she was in the greatest need and had a heavy heart,

she went on with her meetings, when a lady who had been wonderfully

blessed, and two of whose children had been saved through her ministry,

was moved to give her a thankoffering of 5000 francs. Having to travel

all night on the way back to Paris, and finding herself alone among a

lot of working-men the Marechale put the money in her bosom and prayed,

"Now keep Thy little one," but did not dare to sleep.

Among the Army's unfailing supporters in France were the Marechale's

personal friends. One of the dearest of these was Madame de Bunsen, nee

Waddington, who wrote _In Three Legations_. They first met in Cannes,

where the Marechale was conducting a campaign in the theatre; and a

great bundle of letters, partly in French and partly in English,

testifies to the warmth of their friendship. Madame de Bunsen once

persuaded the Marechale to rest for some weeks in her castle on the

Rhine; and another time she tried to induce her to visit Florence, but

the Marechale could never quite get over the feeling that taking

holidays was backsliding.

Another of her constant supporters was Mr. Frank Crossley, that

high-souled man of business whose _Life_ has been admirably written by

Rendel Harris. Soon after the Marechale went to France he wrote to

express his "ardent sympathy" with her work. "I have," he said, "met

and known well several Christian workers--D. L. Moody, Miss Ellice

Hopkins, Miss Mittendorff, and others--but I will tell you that perhaps

none of these have created the same impression that you have done."

In one of her last letters she wrote "Tell me, how is it that what seems

so far off to us is near to you." She was a beautiful soul and found

peace in Christ.

he received hundreds of letters from him, and they are very interesting

reading. What chiefly attracted him to the Marechale was her intimacy

with Christ, which was the reward, as he saw, of self-sacrifice. His

words on this theme go very deep.

"It is a struggle hard and long, but it is only the struggling, who

spend their life-blood in the cause, that can claim _blood_-relationship

with the Lord Jesus. The rest are second-cousins or not even as near as

that. They don't know Him very intimately or feel much at home with Him

when they pay Him a morning call.... He makes the entrance high and the

gate strait that it may be prized when gained--I believe that is the key

to the mystery of life, or at least to a large part of it. To let us up

to the top for the prayer of a moment and the sacrifice of nothing would

in many cases at any rate be impossible and useless. Tell me soon more

of how to climb. I am a slow learner."

Mr. Crossley's nature had a pensive strain which the Marechale's

friendship helped to modify. Regarding such a matter he felt that

"speech should not go near the length of feeling," but ere long we find

him writing, "Das hallelujah Voegelein singt in meinem Herzen."

His donations to the work of the Army both at home and in France were

very generous. He gave the Marechale many thousand pounds a year. His

liberality was part of his worship of Christ. Nothing could be finer

than the following: "I know you will be thinking it is a serious slice

off my capital. Well, it is a branch off the tree. 'They broke off

branches from the palm trees and strewed them in the way and shouted

Hosanna,' and so do I." And again: "You are very grateful to me for

what I have been able to give you, but if you knew how indebted and

grateful I also felt to you, you would see how God makes us unequal that

we may teach ourselves by the aid and necessary services He enables us

to render." Mr. Crossley wished the Marechale to accept a gift of

L10,000 for the maintenance of her family, that she might be personally

free from financial care, and also offered to build her a home outside

Paris, but she declined both these offers, not wishing to be in a

different position from the other officers of the Army.

In 1891 the Marechale went to America to raise funds for the work in

France. Accompanied by her secretary, Mme. Peyron--who was her Geneva

convert Mlle. Roussel--she sailed in October by the _Columbia_ for New

York, and visited twenty-eight of the principal cities of the States and

Canada, holding sixty meetings, travelling sometimes for thirty or forty

hours at a stretch, and once with the added experience of being snowed

up for twelve hours. She was everywhere very cordially received, and

all the buildings in which she spoke were densely crowded. Ministers

offered her churches in which a woman had never spoken before. After

one meeting she received invitations from a Bishop and seventeen pastors

to address congregations on her work.

The reporters everywhere found her and her utterances good copy. "She

was not able to see representatives of the press in New York, although

they came by dozens," as one learns from the Boston man who claimed to

be "her first American interviewer." He found that "her life in France

has given a Gallic twist to this Englishwoman's tongue. She is quite as

French in manner as her staff-captain, Madame Peyron, the dark-eyed

Frenchwoman who travels with her."

One morning she got a great reception from the divinity students of

Yale, to whom she spoke at length on the qualifications necessary for

"saving souls," namely, the possession of a pure heart and the baptism

of the Holy Spirit. "When she had finished her address she said she was

willing to answer any questions they might have to ask, and for half an

hour the students and several of the professors poured a host of

questions upon her that would have embarrassed and muddled the

clearest-brained ministers of the country under similar circumstances.

She, however, showed that she had answered questions before, and gave

answers that brought both laughter and applause, for her wit is keenly

cultivated."

It is interesting to see her through Yale eyes. "Her face is a study the

like of which an artist or a sculptor might seek for years without

finding. In repose it reminds one of the pictures of the Madonnas of

Michael Angelo, but when she speaks its earnestness is so intense that

it is almost stern. Her voice is one that any actress might well covet

for its depth and strength. It is the equal of the great Bernhardt's,

and yet it is sweet and soft, and has none of the harshness of the

masculine tone. Her accent is something charming, for it has all the

attractiveness of the English tongue made even more sweet by long

familiarity with the French language. From her long acquaintance with

the lower classes, the socialists and all free-thinkers of France, she

has acquired that fiery directness and ease and attractiveness in her

speaking which is so characteristic of French oratory and so fascinating

to Americans. It is no injustice to this remarkable woman to say that,

had she chosen the stage for her role in life, her name would have

certainly been as famous in that profession as it is to-day as the

Marechale of the French Salvation Army."

In America she had the immense happiness of being reunited with her

brother Ballington, who, being a year older than herself, had been her

chum in childhood, and his wife, _nee_ Maud Charlesworth, who had been

her brave girl-comrade in the first days of persecution in Switzerland.

In the end of January, 1892, the Marechale returned to France, after an

absence of three months and a half. America had given her $60,000 for

her work, and memories of unlimited kindness.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*BEAUTY FOR ASHES*

"You have added a new word to the French language," said M. Sarcey, the

famous critic, to the Marechale; "I mean the word 'Salutiste.'" In 1881

there was not a single Salvationist in France or Switzerland. After

fifteen years there were 220 stations and outposts, over 400 officers,

headquarters in five cities, and four weekly papers.

But these bare facts only feebly indicate what the Marechale did for

France. In a moment of depression at the thought of French infidelity,

the Princess Malzoff once remarked to her--

"The French have no soul."

"How dare you," asked the Marechale, "say such a thing?"

Her friend replied with charming inconsistency, "But you have found the

soul of France!"

That was perhaps the highest tribute ever paid to her.

If one asks some Frenchman who knew the Marechale in those days how she

won the heart of France, one gets the answer, "But it is natural--she

has the French temperament; and, besides, _elle aime la France_." If

one asks some convert of hers how she found the soul of France, the

reply is, "Ah! she brought us the Christ, who is victorious everywhere."

Both questions were answered together by one who, speaking for many,

said, "She bought us at the price of tears and sacrifice."

When she was at the zenith of her power in France, an admirable

appreciation of her was written[1] by one of the saints of the modern

calendar, Miss Frances E. Willard. We extract a few sentences. "She

inherits, it is said, beyond any other of the endowed and consecrated

eight children of the General and Mrs. Booth, their special gifts,

graces, and grace.... The Marechale's career already fulfils her

father's prophecy that women will, if once left free in their action,

develop administrative powers fully equal and oftentimes superior to

those of men.... 'I love France,' she said to me, with sparkling eyes:

'it is a great and wonderful country, and I love its people every bit as

much as ever I loved my own. I have become familiar with its peasants in

the provinces; have sat down with the French women who clatter about in

sabots; have shared their chestnuts with them, heard of their sorrows as

well as their joys, and, believe me, the human heart is just the same in

France as it is everywhere; and if you classify the saints whose

histories have come down to us, France would occupy the front rank. The

nation that has produced a Lacodaire, a Pascal, a Fenelon, and a Madame

Guyon, does not lack the germs of spiritual life.'"

[1] _The Review of the Churches_, Feb. 1894.

In 1896, however, her career in France came to an end. She received the

command to go and devote herself to the work of the Army in Holland, and

loyally prepared to obey.

Catholics and Protestants alike were dismayed at the news. One of her

dearest friends, the Catholic scholar M. Lassaire, whose exquisite

translation of the four Gospels had the honour of being put upon the

Index Expurgatorius, came to her and said--

"You ought not to leave us. God has given you the ear of the nation as

it is given only once in a hundred years."

"But I am commanded."

"If the angel Gabriel descended from heaven and bade you go, you ought

not to leave France!"

Theodore Monod, whose own family had been greatly blessed through the

Marechale, deeply sympathised with her, and grieved over her departure

almost as if she had been his own daughter, but tried to comfort her by

saying, "You leave us your hymns!"

The day on which the Marechale left France was one of the two or three

dark days of her life. She felt somewhat like the young Scottish Queen

who said as she gazed at the receding shores of Calais--

"Adieu! mon charmant pays de France,

Adieu! te quitter c'est mourir."

And yet she believed in her heart that God would work out His gracious

purpose, which no circumstances can ever alter.

That she loved France with a deep, pure, passionate love does not need

to be said. How France appreciated her in return may be indicated not

only by M. Sarcey's emphatic dictum, "The devil take the country where

she was born! she is French in her soul," but by any letter taken at

random from hundreds which she received from men and women of France.

The following extract, faithfully translated, shows the calibre of the

people whom the Marechale was able to reach, as well as the warm,

generous style in which the Latin races habitually express themselves.

"The evening in which you spoke of the scene on Calvary and the words of

the penitent thief, 'Remember me,' that simple story, told by a

believing soul, had more effect upon me than all the theses, quotations

and theological arguments of all the doctors I have ever heard. That

expression, that attitude, that conviction, that certitude, that

assurance, that _living faith_ which affirmed itself before me in an

apostle, a new disciple of Christ, and that melodious voice, completed

my transformation. I believed that I was the penitent thief and you the

Christ who said to me, 'When I am in Heaven I will remember thee,' and

that affirmation transported me....

"I marvel at the courage with which you endure fatigue, mockery,

journeys, labours of all kinds to conquer for truth and light the

millions of _savages_ who are still in France, plunged in the darkness

of error and superstition. Permit me to express once again my sincere

admiration, and to offer you in the name of my country (I am perhaps a

little presumptuous to speak in the name of France, but I have the

right, as much as the other ten millions of citizens)--in the name of my

country, and in the name of civilisation, my warm gratitude. Deign to

accept the homage ... of a very humble soldier and disciple of Christ."

Swiss love, too, was now deep and strong, as will be sufficiently proved

by a single letter, which enclosed a thankoffering.

"Dear Marechale--(How much that word contains of affection, admiration,

and veneration, I cannot express),--These thousand francs fulfil their

end where they do the most good and give you the greatest pleasure. You

always think of yourself last, if you think of yourself at all; that is

why others must think of you. I would have liked to relieve you, dear

Marechale, you particularly and personally. But you are devoured by the

zeal of your divine work, and all goes that way. Be it so! God will

relieve you directly by His hand. He will, but do not forget yourself

entirely, I beg of you. Care for yourself, for the sake of those who

love you, and who need your help, and who find so much happiness in your

heavenly affection.... In the love of Christ, your devoted, A.S."

In the end of that year the Marechale needed words of good cheer, and

they were not lacking. Her sister Eva was one of her comforters,

sending many tender messages across the Atlantic. Just after Christmas

Day--Eva's own birthday--she wrote: "I cannot say how much you have been

in my thoughts. I wished I could have popped in and had a sister's

birthday kiss and a good talk, but the Lord came very near to me, and I

was cheered that His birthday found me very busy on mine seeking the

poor lost souls of men. The years pass, but then what matters? Every

day brings us nearer our Eternal home, does it not, and then we will

live and love together for ever and ever, all of us. Dear, darling

Katie, I don't like to hear you say the year has been a sad one. You

are treasured by us all, by God and the world, and how much you have

done for the Kingdom as well.... There are some fond memories I

treasure which have to do with you and me, when I made you laugh and

gave you baked potatoes! I will write again soon. Till then and for

ever after always the same, Eva."

Commissioners E.D. and Lucy Booth-Hellberg--the General's youngest

daughter--who took over the command of the Army in France and

Switzerland, wrote in their first Annual Report (1896): "One of the last

links in the long chain of desperate efforts for the salvation of

France, put forth with undiminished love and faith by the Marechale, was

the Lyons campaign, which lasted for six weeks during the months of

January and February. Supported by a number of believing and

hard-working officers, she conducted a series of truly remarkable

meetings in the _Salle Philharmonique_, which was filled on every

occasion with an attentive and largely sympathetic audience. The

results of the campaign were most encouraging and of a decidedly

permanent nature. The local corps, which up till then had led a very

struggling existence, received a powerful lift and is now in a healthy

condition. Furthermore a considerable amount of prejudice against our

work was removed and a number of friends and sympathisers were made, the

immediate result of which was the establishment of a Rescue Home for

women in that city." Later on Lucy wrote to the Marechale, "Darling,

your love for France is wonderful; you cannot understand it."

Had the Marechale been sent to another of the Latin races--for example,

the Italians or the Spaniards--her gifts might still have been used to

the highest advantage. She once conducted a brief campaign in a great

hall at Turin. At the beginning she encountered a storm of opposition.

While she dedicated the child of one of her former officers, her voice

was drowned in an uproar which turned the solemn service into a fiasco.

The audience got completely out of hand, and, as a final stroke of

devilry, a troop of students, headed by a big fellow with an evil,

cynical face, came marching up the aisle, shouting, yelling and

brandishing sticks. The ringleader had made a bet that he would kiss

the Marechale. Her officers began to think it was high time to close

the meeting. But she was not near the end of her resources. Giving her

familiar order, "Leave them to me, and pray!" she stepped to the edge of

the platform, and, when the leader was within a foot of her, fixed her

eyes on his face, raised her finger, and sang--[2]

Si tu savais comme Il t'aime,

Sans tarder tu viendrais a Lui,

Tu viendrais a l'heure meme,

Tu viendrais des aujourd'hui.

[2] This hymn was composed by one of her officers, M. Grandjean. The

tune was one of the sweetest operatic airs of the day.

The clear, sweet notes went vibrating through the great hall, and Italy

knows the power of song. The ringleader stood staring as if he had been

petrified, and his followers did not advance another step. While the

Marechale sang on, she was heard in breathless silence. Then she spoke

for an hour. The after-meeting lasted till midnight, and the leader of

the students, completely broken down and sobbing like a child, said,

"Oh, stay with us, you will make angels of us all!"

In Holland, where the Marechale laboured six years, she was heavily

handicapped by the fact that most of her speaking had to be done through

an interpreter. She had not that Open Sesame to the heart of a

people--the mastery of its language. She learned, however, to sing

beautifully in Dutch, and the translation of her addresses was admirably

done by her secretary. If she could not deny that her heart was still

in the Rue Auber of Paris, she repressed her tears and took her new

task--a very tangled one--resolutely in hand, doing some deep and

lasting spiritual work in Amsterdam and other towns, where she sometimes

had as many as forty or fifty penitents in one night.

She was lacking in what a statesman called "Batavian grace," being cast

in a very different mould, yet she came ere long to feel quite at home

among the warm-hearted Dutch people. She had taught Paris to sing her

hymn, "_Aimez toujours, et malgrez tout aimez toujours_," and now she

put the lesson into practice in Holland. Preaching and living the

gospel of love, she had many tokens of success among all classes. Best

of all, she awoke in others the wistful desire to imitate her example.

One of Queen Wilhelmina's cabinet ministers brought his daughter, a

thoughtful young girl, to a meeting conducted by the Marechale, and when

those who were willing to give themselves to Christ and His service were

invited to show it in some way, up went the hand of this eager girl.

Her father at once whisked her out of the meeting. But the deed was

done, and now there is no one who is doing a nobler work among the poor

and sunken classes of Holland than Miss Rose Pierson. Of that happy day

in her life she wrote long afterwards: "When I first heard the Marechale

speak I was a girl of seventeen. I remember still every word she spoke.

I know it was a revelation to me what a reality Christ could be to a

soul. I believe that was what impressed me--her perfect assurance of

Christ's presence and her own ardent love of souls."

Holland gave the Marechale two of her most efficient secretaries, Miss

Van der Werken and Miss de Zwaan, who ideally fulfilled all the

requirements of the office--ability and willingness to nurse a babe,

make a cup of tea, write a letter, cook a decent dinner, talk in two or

three languages, keep the door of a hall, preach a sermon, and generally

make the best of everything!

It is possible that the Marechale's exile from France deepened and

enriched her nature, drawing out stops not so often used before,

especially the _vox humana_--the voice of sympathy with all human pain

and sorrow. At the same time she began to have a more tragic sense of

the world's sin, which prompted one of her strangest and yet most

characteristic impulses, and issued in what was in some ways the most

remarkable of all her campaigns.

One midnight, while she lay awake in Amsterdam, she heard a clear inner

voice saying to her, "Go to Brussels; go in sackcloth and ashes; go and

tell of sin; let everything in your person speak of sin and awaken

conscience; then proclaim, Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the

sin of the world."

Without waiting to take counsel with flesh and blood, she went with her

nurse-secretary Swaan and her babe Frida, the child of peace, to

Brussels, and hired for three weeks the most beautiful hall in the city,

the Salle de la Grande Harmonic--the same in which fair women and brave

men danced on the eve of Waterloo.

When she at length divulged to one of her comrades the fact that she was

to appear in sackcloth and ashes, he answered--

"You cannot! never!"

"I must, it is so commanded."

So a _robe de bure_ was made for her--a single-seamed garment of the

coarse brown stuff worn by monks, with a hole cut out for the neck and

two for the arms, and a hempen rope for the waist.

Before the opening meeting she had intimate dealings with her officers.

"It is necessary," she said, "that one die for the people. I want to

bring that thoughtless, frivolous city into touch with God. I wish your

faces to speak of another world. It is your minds and hearts that I

seek. If you are going to think of your own people and your own

concerns, if you are going to be preoccupied with a hundred and one

things, go back at once. I am going to live these three weeks as if

they were the last on earth. I have left home and little ones and am

going to exist for this town. If Christ laid down His life for us, we

have got to lay down our lives for the salvation of Brussels." There

were heart-searchings and confessions and tears among the officers;

fresh alliances were made with God; and the Marechale believed that this

was one of the secrets of the wonderful success of that campaign.

On the evening of the first meeting, she clothed herself in the _robe de

bure_, and put real ashes on her head. But if ever the devil in person

attacked any poor soul, the Marechale felt herself so assailed in those

moments when the great hall was filling and she was waiting. What shafts

of ridicule were hurled at her as by a spiritual foe! Could any dress

he more ridiculous, any realism more contemptible? How comical was that

assumption of the role of prophet! What a miserable fiasco the whole

performance would prove! She was seized with a paralysing fear, and

when Antomarchi--her "St. Francis"--came to announce that the audience

was ready, he found her white as a sheet and shaking from head to foot.

"Have I made a mistake?" she asked.

"No! Marechale, go on! go on! it is all right!"

"Tell them to sing and pray, and then I will come."

Her soul gathered strength from the strains of her own hymn, "_O toi!

bien-aime fils de l'homme_," with the chorus--

Viens, Jesus t'appelle;

Ne sois plus rebelle.

Viens au bien-aime Fils de Dieu,

Crois en sa tendresse eternelle--

as well as from the succeeding silence in which she knew that faithful

hearts were praying for her. The clouds vanished, the fear of men was

gone, and only the awe of the unseen world remained upon her spirit.

Slowly she walked onto the platform, not raising her eyes from the

ground. The audience seemed petrified by the strange apparition. After

a moment of deathly silence, her clear, penetrating voice sounded

through the hall.

"'He was despised and rejected of men, a man of sorrows and acquainted

with grief ... and we esteemed Him not. _Nous n'en avons fait aucun

cas_.'

"If I wear mourning to-night, it is the better to express the feelings

which are in the depths of my heart. Your people, who are capable of

great things, are going to their ruin. On all hands there are nameless

miseries, despairing cries of women and children without defence and

exposed to shame and the most frightful misery, and why? Because you

have made Him--Christ--of no account. I mourn your sins, the sins of

your country; the drunkenness, the debauchery, the selfishness, the

wrongs which are seen everywhere; your rejection of the Christ of God,

the Saviour of the world. This fills me with sorrow, and this, unless

it is forsaken, will bring upon you the judgments of God."

Thus she unburdened her soul, and thus began not a three weeks' but a

two months' campaign, which from the first moment--in so strange

contrast to the tumultuous openings at Havre and Rouen--was marked by a

beautiful reverence and solemnity. The services of the police were

never required during the whole time. Four or five evening meetings

were held every week, besides afternoon gatherings, _salon_ meetings,

and midnight suppers. All Brussels was moved. An eminent statesman

said to the Marechale, "Everybody has been ridiculed here except you.

Ridicule kills everything; you have killed ridicule."

In the full tide of the mission she wrote to her father: "Most

marvellously is God working here in Brussels. Last night I had the

concert-hall crowded and a great number were turned back at the door.

The silence, the attention is unbroken, and there is conviction among

all kind of persons. Worldly and Catholic papers speak beautifully of

us. Four journals have given leading articles to me. Praise God, it is

all His work! This morning I had a conversation with a senator who is

at the head of the party of progress here, and he says that the movement

is the most remarkable "the city has seen for a hundred years and that

the effects are profound and astonishing." Another senator has sent me

L20. I feel more than ever now I ought to continue and push the battle.

We shall be able to do something extraordinary and put Belgium on a new

footing."

The first senator referred to in the letter was M. le Jeune, who said to

the Marechale--

"The bar, the artist world, society, Catholic and Protestant--they have

all come to hear you. You are universal, Madame."

"Yes," she answered, "the Christ is universal."

During these two months she had daily interviews with men and women

crushed under the burden of all kinds of sin--a burden that weighed so

heavily on her own spirit that sometimes, instead of delivering an

address, she could only fall on her knees and cry to God to forgive all

the sins that come from the heart of man--murders, adulteries, thefts,

uncleanness, lies, blasphemies--all of which had been confessed to her.

It was a time of wonderful spiritual blessing for all her comrades, who,

like her, literally "lived for the people." One of them said, "We have

grown as much with you in these weeks as in twenty years."

To a thousand men of the _elite_ of Brussels she delivered an

address--which was afterwards published--on "The Greatest Injustice of

the Century." It was a woman's mournful, tender, passionate protest

against man's sins in a city which had its twelve thousand so-called

_filles de joie_, many of them of the tenderest years. One of her

audience, a typical Brussels man of the world, covering his face with a

hand on which flashed a diamond ring, and shaking with great sobs of

anguish, cried, "I am a leper--damned already!" "Madame," said an

editor, "they would hiss anybody else who said these things to them.

They bear them from you, because they feel you love them."

One day she received an invitation to dine with a dozen anarchists. Her

comrades told her of the danger of bombs, etc., but she went, and, many

years after when asked by an English Divine, "How did you get into such

society?" she answered, "Extremes meet."

"So you are come to talk to us," said Elisee Recluse[3] with a smile,

"of justification by faith and sanctification by faith," etc.

[3] Exiled from France as an anarchist, he had become a Professor in

Brussels. He had been trained as a Protestant Pastor. He was the

greatest geographer of modern times, the writer of _Une nouvelle

geographie universelle_ (19 vols.).

"Oh, no, no! I do not talk of doctrines. They never troubled me in my

life. I care only for realities. You have suffered; I too have

suffered. Let us begin there, and compare notes. Some of you have been

in prison; I have been in prison. You have been exiled; so have I. You

have wept over the injustice and cruelties of the world; so have I wept,

so do I weep."

And thus they found common ground, agreeing in their diagnosis of the

diseases of society; differing only as to the remedy. "You believe in

anarchy," said the Marechale. "One of your number said at one of my

meetings that anarchy is the most beautiful of all religions. I know a

more excellent way--a shorter cut to making the world better. You fling

your bombs to destroy life; how can people be converted when their heads

are gone? Christ said 'Follow me to Calvary!' He shed His _own_ blood.

No one else's. He bids us save the world by denying ourselves and

taking up the Cross."

That evening Elisee Recluse drove her in his carriage to her meeting at

the _Salle Harmonie_, and in her little ante-room they prayed together.

A Brussels sculptor begged the Marechale to pose for him in her _robe de

bure_, but she declined. Renee Gange, the heroine of the Belgian

socialists, after passionately embracing her before a thousand eyes,

published a charming pen-and-ink portrait of "this enigmatic woman,"

comparing her to a serene, calm statue that _almost_ smiles. "The fine

and slender figure of the Marechale will long remain one of the most

curious, the most strange apparitions in the midst of our society of

money-makers and machine-constructors."

The prophet, the mystic, the saint will always be a mystery to the art

and science, not to speak of the sin and selfishness, of the world. This

truth was finely expressed by a writer in _L'Art moderne_ of Brussels.

"The Marechale does not seek to 'demonstrate' anything. I have seen her

shrug her shoulders a little and smile when some one wished to reason or

discuss with her. She could do it, for she is intelligent and

_merveilleusement intuitive_. But her faith does not 'demonstrate'

itself. It lives and expands itself. It affirms itself. And those

who, now numerous, have some psychological tact have felt that this

woman obeyed something more powerful than herself. Perhaps she is the

happy and unconscious instrument of an expansive force too much ignored,

too little recognised and obeyed, as necessary for our preservation as

the law of self-preservation itself.... Her addresses are neither

weighed nor balanced. But they have the colour, the life, the strong

suggestiveness, the moving sincerity of an inspiration come from one

knows not where, from above us, from outside us--mysterious impulses of

things eternal."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE*

In the year 1902 the Marechale and her husband severed their connection

with the Salvation Army. Concerning the causes that led to this, it is

their united wish that nothing should be said that would interrupt the

good feeling that has always existed, and still exists between them and

thousands of their old and dearly loved comrades in that organization.

There are those who have misjudged the Marechale in this matter, as

having taken this step for personal advantage, and without due regard to

its effect on her father and his work. How little do they know the

truth. To one who has read the correspondence of those days, and all

other days since, who has watched within the inner circle of the home,

overhearing the most confidential conversations, nothing could be so

shocking a contravention of the truth as to accuse this devoted daughter

either of parental disregard, or self-willed unconcern for the welfare

of the Kingdom of Christ. This step cost heart's blood to the

Marechale.

"Katie," said the General in Victoria Station, when she was starting on

her second journey to France, "you have remarkable instincts; follow

them, and you will never go wrong." Twenty years after, her friend

Mlle. Constance Monod, the daughter of the great French preacher, wrote

to her, "I would beseech you to trust yourself, trust your divine

instinct, which God has developed so, so wonderfully in you."

Heredity, training and experience had combined to give her the instincts

of a prophetic soul-winner. The grace of God had imparted to her a

spirit of wisdom and revelation. Her intuitions were at once her

strength and her safety. Her instinctive love of the true, the

beautiful, and the good, her instinctive hatred of the false, the

sordid, and the selfish, formed the touchstone to which she brought

everything in the moral, social and religious life of France. Great

numbers of the _elite_ of Paris and other cities, who were technically

far better educated than she, came and sat at her feet, because they

bowed to the authority of the Christ-Spirit in her. And her instincts

of sympathy with poor, sick, suffering souls drew multitudes who were

outside the pale of the Church to the Saviour.

She always maintained that she went on her mission as a simple English

girl, doing only what any other girl, with the same opportunities and

the same faith, might have done. There is a divine power in a woman's

instincts of purity and righteousness which puts the baseness of men to

shame. That power, many believe, will be the chief factor in the

salvation of the modern Church and modern society. Ours is an age which

needs Deborahs and Huldahs with their divine instincts. The Song of

Songs tells how a simple Hebrew girl, tempted by the glory of the world,

but strong in her passion of holy love, merited the wonderful

ascription, "Fair as the moon, clear as the sun, _terrible as an army

with banners_." If the Christian womanhood of the twentieth century

rises to that level, the future of the Kingdom of God will be far more

glorious than its past.

The Marechale's instincts for the beautiful in nature and in art

doubtless constituted no small part of her charm for the Latin races.

She looked at all the glory of heaven and earth with a poet's eyes.

During her early crowded life of evangelism in England, her father once

took her on a tour through the Trossachs of Scotland, and the memory of

that vision of beauty at the age of sixteen ever afterwards haunted her

like a passion. "Let me stay here!" she said to the General, whose

reply, calling a soldier to arms, equally remained in her memory: "Men

are more interesting than scenery." If she scarcely ever took holidays

in after life, it was not that she did not sometimes sigh for the wings

of a dove that she might fly away and be at rest. There was a lifelong

conflict between the natural and the ascetic in her.

She had never had time to cultivate any art except music, but her sense

of everything lovely in form and colour and sound was exquisite, and she

became without study a supreme artist in at least one department. At

the time of the coronation of Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, there was a

grand Exhibition of all that women can do in the modern world. A

deputation waited on the Marechale and begged her to give an address

along with two other well-known lady speakers. She agreed to come,

provided she should be allowed to choose her own subject. Consent was

readily given, and she delivered an address in French upon what Christ

has done for Woman and what Woman for Christ. She gave no thought to

the manner of delivery; she merely realised that she had a golden

opportunity of proclaiming her Saviour to a magnificent audience. She

had never in her life received a lesson in elocution, and to have done

so might have seemed to her wicked backsliding. But she was awarded the

palm of eloquence.

If her scholastic education was somewhat defective, she was wonderfully

guided by her instincts in her later self-education. During her

American tour she was taken one day by three white-haired professors to

see the greatest library in the States. Her unsophisticated mind was

bewildered by all that mass of learning. "Surely," she said, "it must

strike despair into the minds of the students!"

One of her guides questioned her about her own favourite books.

"Well," she answered, "I have never been a reader; I think I have only

two."

"What might they be?"

"One of them you know."

"Yes, the Bible; what is the second?"

"The Heart of Man. I am always at it, on land and sea, in the streets

and in railway carriages, morning, noon and night. It helps me with my

first book better than any commentary."

She came to know the Bible with a thoroughness which not one man in ten

thousand ever attains. Her spiritual instinct seized, and her

extraordinary memory retained, the vital and the essential. She never

studied the Bible in the ordinary way, sitting down with lexicon and

concordance. There was no time for that in her busy life. She took her

spiritual food from the Bible as the bee sips honey from flowers. The

Bible was her companion and she read it for pleasure. She absorbed and

assimilated it without effort. That she knew much of it by heart was of

less importance than the fact that it became part of herself. Therein

lay her power of expounding and applying it. "Nothing," said Dr. Munroe

Gibson after listening to her nightly for a week, "charmed our people

more than her expositions of Scripture."

The truths by which she lived came to her intuitively. Her religion did

not consist of commandments and dogmas. It was life, light, liberty,

and above all love. Alike in what she accepted and what she rejected,

she acted instinctively--she could do no other. She had an aversion to

religious controversy. Arguments made little or no impression upon her

mind. She might sometimes be overwhelmed with theological doctrines,

the truth of which she could neither affirm nor deny, but in the end she

would emerge with the naive remark, "I am a very simple child, and I

must have a child's religion." She always held that Christ's religion

is for the multitude, and that the multitude are children. The essence

of Christianity can be assimilated by boys and girls who do not know how

to read and write, and they may become saints and saviours. A glance at

the Marechale's well-used Bible suffices to prove that for her the heart

of the Old Testament is in Hosea, the prophet of love, and Isaiah the

prophet of atonement, while the heart of the New Testament is in the

story of the returning prodigal or the penitent Magdalene.

Genius is never easy to understand. Its weakness is often related to

its strength. It has what the French call the defects of its qualities.

A great part of the Marechale's power certainly lay in her childlike

humility. As a soul-winner she never gave the impression of

condescending. She did not need to stoop; by nature and by grace she

was meek and lowly in heart. What drew multitudes of poor sinners to

her was their assurance that she would hear with human sympathy their

tales of sin and sorrow. At one of her midnight suppers a French lady

said to her, "I have been here all these years trying to bring these

poor girls together. How is it that you succeed where I fail, in

getting them to open their hearts to you?"

"Perhaps," said the Marechale, "it is because I do not make them feel

that there is a difference between them and me."

With her humility there was bound up a certain measure of self-distrust.

In her, as in her father, whom she resembled so strongly in spirit as

well as in features, there was an extraordinary combination of

confidence and diffidence. It used to be said by those who knew the

General most intimately that, while he commanded an Army, he was

apologetic to his cook. And if the Marechale had a splendid moral

courage, as her manner of dealing with hostile crowds abundantly proved,

she had also a womanly timidity in which there lay a certain subtle

danger. So long as she had faith in her God-given instincts, and in the

individual guidance of the Holy Spirit, she was unconquerable, but if

anything undermined them her power was for the time being paralysed. For

the criticisms of the world she cared little or nothing, but the real

love and understanding of her comrades was as the breath of life to her.

From them she was always eager to learn, and sometimes she let the

judgment of others obscure her spiritual and womanly intuitions.

She would sit at the feet of this or that teacher who spoke with an air

of wisdom and authority, when in nine cases out of ten the relation of

teacher and taught ought to have been reversed. As a rule, her

instincts made her a swift and unerring discerner of spirits, but there

were exceptional cases in which it almost seemed disloyalty to "try the

spirits whether they are of God." One of her life-long friends, Mr. W.

T. Stead, who went down on the ill-fated _Titanic_, knew both sides of

her character--her lion-like boldness as well as her dove-like

gentleness. He used to relate how she one day invaded the office of the

_Pall Mall Gazette_, and summoned him with all the categorical

imperiousness of her nature and her mission to quit politics and edit

the _War Cry_. Yet he used to say to her, with a seriousness that was

not altogether assumed, "You are damned by your humility!"

It is well known that the Marechale's husband was for a time a believer

in Dr. Dowie, the Scotsman who founded Zion City beside Chicago.

Finding that certain doctrines such as Faith Healing, the Second Advent,

the Rapture of the Saints, which were to him, as to thousands of others,

of vital importance,--were being faithfully preached by one who claimed

to be the second Elijah, the Forerunner of Christ, Mr. Booth-Clibborn

became a member of the Christian Catholic Church. Having been a Quaker

minister before his twenty years of faithful service in the Salvation

Army, he also cherished the hope of perfecting Zionism by adding to it

his own peace principles.

The Marechale could not accept Dr. Dowie's claims, but in her intense

desire for family unity she consented to go with her husband to see Zion

City, taking her two eldest daughters, Evangeline and Victoria, then

fourteen and thirteen years of age, and baby Josephine, who was but four

months old, with her. They remained there four months, July to October,

1902.

The diary and letters which she wrote during that visit are

psychologically and Spiritually among the most interesting human

documents I have ever seen, and sufficiently indicate her attitude of

mind at this time. But let us draw a veil, except for one or two

incidents and extracts, over the dark anguish of soul, the torture of

uncertainty, and the depths of despair which she then passed through.

She implored Dr. Dowie to take her husband and ordain him without her,

but he emphatically refused to do so.

The following paragraph, taken from her diary, shows in what a painful

predicament she found herself. Speaking of a friendly adviser, she

says: "He said, as I was the wife, the responsibility was on my husband,

and I must stand by him, even if he was in error, and God would forgive

me if it was a mistake." I felt so much taken aback by the way he

looked at the matter that I turned the key of my heart.

To one of her dearest friends she wrote a long letter, which was a cry

out of the depths: "I am not easily given to discouragement or despair,

but my position must make angels weep, if they can weep. I cannot bring

myself to accept Dowie, so much in him violates the highest spiritual

instincts I have.... The forcing of me outwardly does not convince me.

I have yielded all along the line, and now here I am ... but I am not in

despair. I have been. It seems to me as if God, who has seen the long

agony, will himself open the door. I cannot go further in this

direction.... I feel a fear over everything. I never was so unutterably

unhappy in my life, never. Oh, will you not help me?"

One day the prophet was attacking some noted evangelists of the day.

Presently he began to fulminate against the Salvation Army, and accused

the General of failing to reprove the sins of the rich. The Marechale

leapt to her feet, and facing the prophet with outstretched finger and

flashing eye, an image of outraged justice, exclaimed, "That is an

untruth! No man has been more faithful in reproving the rich than my

father and it is cowardly of you to attack a man who is not here to

defend himself." The prophet visibly quailed under the withering

rebuke. It was the first time any one had withstood him to the face.

With an hour of thundering oratory he tried to obliterate the impression

made on the vast audience, but for once he was evidently checkmated.

At length Dr. Dowie, seeing he could not overcome the Marechale's

opposition, and that her unwilling presence in the city was a disturbing

factor among his people, requested her and her husband to withdraw. Mr.

Booth-Clibborn, of whose absolute sincerity there can be no doubt, was

keenly disappointed at having to turn his back upon Zion, which had

become to him, as the Salvation Army in its early days a cause to live

for, and if need be to die for.

The strain on the Marechale had been so great that when she arrived in

England she was utterly prostrated. Two dear old cousins of her

husband's, the Misses Susan and Esther Bell, in Eastbourne, nursed her

back to life. Then came two dark, silent years in Brussels. The

Marechale looked for a friend and found none. All the world believed

that she had "joined Zion." The French papers announced that she had

burned (_brule_) the principles for which she had once fought. Her

daughter Victoria, who was with her in those years of lonely sorrow,

writes: "Gradually her strength left her. She suffered dumbly, vainly

hoping for some deliverance. Was this the Marechale who had led her

army to battle and faced the howling mob with a smile on her face? Her

sorrow had crushed and sapped her courage which the storm of persecution

only served to quicken."

Her children had starvation staring them in the face; another terrible

illness, brought on by household care, laid her low; her spirit was

exhausted by the torturing strain of years; and she could hold out no

longer. In a "blind faith, without conviction," she was received into

Zion Church. Broken on the wheel of life, stretched too long upon the

rack of this tough world, she accepted--like Savonarola and Galileo,

like Cranmer and Jeanne d'Arc--an alien creed, without her reason being

convinced or her heart won.

But--again like those--not for long. Her deliverance came in a

startling fashion. Soon after her removal with her family to Paris, her

husband began to suffer from the effects of a neglected influenza which

settled in his knee. True to his principles, he refused to see a doctor.

When he was at the brink of death, the Marechale brought in a physician

in the guise of a friend. The sick man's case was at first pronounced

to be hopeless, but three of the finest surgeons of Paris were hastily

summoned, performed four operations, and saved his life, leaving him,

however, crippled for the rest of his days.

The dismissal of Mr. Booth-Clibborn followed as a matter of course. He

had violated the strictest laws of Zion by accepting the aid of surgery.

Two of his own converts, now followers of Dr. Dowie, invaded the sick

room, and handed him the fateful document. Some time afterward he

wrote: "Dowie was a good man at one time. So was the devil. Dowie fell

through the same sin--Pride." In addition to a statement which was

published in four countries, he has recently borne the following

conclusive testimony: "The Marechale would never have had anything to do

with Dr. Dowie but for me. When she came near him it was on every

occasion unwillingly. She suffered unutterable anguish, pain and grief,

from the fact that from the first all her instincts, as well as the

consciousness of her true religious interest, were against Dr. Dowie's

spiritual personality, his ways, his claims, his style of government.

If, in a kind of despair, she went with me into it, though she was in it

she was not of it. It was never sought, it was endured. The only

comfort in the enduring was the possibility of doing a little good

meanwhile to people in it, and of ultimately helping in the opening of

my eyes."

*CHAPTER XV*

*SURSUM CORDA!*

All the Marechale's hearers remember her penetrating gaze. No one ever

encountered her eyes and saw them shift. Thousands have felt as if she

were looking through all disguises into their very souls, and her

tapering index finger has often made the bravest quail. "All through the

night," wrote a convicted sinner, "I saw her finger pointing straight at

me." And one feels certain that her look was never more direct, never

more searching, than when it was turned inward. She has always had a

passion for seeing things as they are, especially the things of the

spirit.

We are not surprised, therefore, at her often repeated words: "This

experience has taught me the folly of violating God-given instinct, and

allowing the inner light of God's Holy Spirit to be darkened by man.

When I compare myself with what I was in the past, in many respects it

seems as if that person was dead!"

Drawn by the cords of love, held by ties too sacred to be broken, worn

by years of poverty and sickness, and moving at last in a kind of

trance, more dead than alive, one of God's truest and bravest servants

blindly stumbled on till she found herself, for a time of agony, in a

spiritual prison-house from which there seemed to be no escape.

Her greatest danger lay in a kind of fatalistic submission, which would

have meant permanent disloyalty to her own ideals and convictions, as

well as the abandonment of her vocation. She read the letters of Pere

Didon, whose heroic acceptance of his destiny influenced her in the

direction of sinking her individuality. And one cannot understand the

exquisite torture of her position unless one realises that her mind had

often been made an arena of conflict between the apparently

irreconcilable claims of the domestic and the apostolic life. And yet,

Father Hyacinth once said to her in Paris, "You are the only woman I

have ever met who has reconciled the vocation of a mother with that of

an apostle." It may be appropriate to say here that the prayers of both

father and mother have been answered in the conversion of their ten

children, who have of their own free will consecrated themselves to the

service of Christ. Four sons and three daughters are already engaged in

active evangelistic work, and have been used of God for the conversion

of many souls.

To bring the Marechale back to liberty, God used the voices of nature,

of children and of friends.

She had always had a poet's sensitive ear for earth's thousand voices of

praise, and, sitting in a garden on a spring morning, she wrote: "The

past, whoever was right or wrong, shall be buried. Let the dead bury

their dead. Leave it, and this beautiful spring-tide let us begin again.

The crocuses and snowdrops in this lovely garden all say, 'New

Resurrection life!'"

Her own children's voices called her back into the thick of the old

spiritual battle. "Now for the children," she wrote; "they must all see

some salvation work, and they will feel the glow of the heavenly fire.

It will warm them, and say something far more than all the Bible lessons

in the world." Her eldest daughters, at that time girls of sixteen and

fifteen, but with a wisdom far beyond their years, literally pushed her

into the war, and if ever she was unable to go they buckled on their

armour and took her place. "Mother writes me," says Victoria in her

journal, "that Evangeline held a beautiful meeting on Sunday because she

herself was too ill to go. Poor mother, it is difficult for her to keep

up her courage." This diarist of fifteen thus philosophises on the

meaning of her mother's sorrow. "Everybody can understand why God lets

people of the world, the infidels, the self-seekers, the indifferent,

suffer. It is to bring them to Himself through disappointments in the

world, in themselves, and in others. But why He allows His children

that love Him, those whose greatest wish is to serve Him--why He allows

them to suffer is a mystery. Perhaps it is to bring them into still

closer communion with Himself, so that they may become one with

Him--His, body, soul and spirit, without reserve."

The Marechale's friends helped to bring her back to her predestined work

of soul-winning.

During a time of awful silence, in which she never received a call and

rarely a letter, she had not courage to visit any of her old comrades in

Paris. Once, in her great sorrow, she wanted to get away to some

sympathising friend and open her heart. At first she could think of no

one, but suddenly she remembered a humble working woman, and, taking the

train to Paris, she wearily climbed to the fifth story of a house in the

Villette, sat down in this woman's little room, and burst into a flood

of tears. Her friend tried to comfort her and, not quite understanding

this passionate grief, made her lie down in her own bed while she

prepared for her a delicious little French meal.

Twenty years before, on a dark winter night, the Marechale was passing

along the Seine embankment on the way to her place of meeting on the

Quai de Valmy. She noticed a girl gazing at the dark, cold waters, and

a voice told her that she was meditating suicide. Touching her arm she

said--

"Don't look at those black, cruel waters. Come with me and have a nice

cup of coffee. You seem to be in trouble."

The girl, whose face was dark and sullen, looked at her suspiciously,

and did not speak. The Marechale gently pleaded with her to come and

hear a lady sing.

"She sings beautifully, and you will find light and warmth and comfort,

and you will have a good cup of coffee. Do come with me."

The girl at length consented and came. She heard the Marechale herself

sing. She sat right through the service without opening her lips and

with a hard look on her face. At the end the Marechale went down beside

her, asked if she had enjoyed the meeting, and said a word to her about

the goodness of God. At the mention of the name of God, the girl burst

into passionate speech.

"God! Don't talk to me of God! I hate Him. What has He done for me?

Why did He take my mother? He doesn't care for me. If He did He would

not have let me be born in prison. What have I done to deserve such a

life as this? It isn't my fault."

But, while the Marechale talked with her and prayed with her, the girl's

heart was softened. She began to attend the meetings, and soon gave her

heart to the Lord Jesus. Born in a prison, and saved from suicide in

the Seine, she became in turn her rescuer's best comforter in an hour of

supreme sorrow.

When the Marechale at length plucked up heart to revisit England, after

a long absence and silence, her steps were directed to the home of a

dear friend and kindred spirit in South London. It was in early

girlhood that Mrs. Holman of Jerviston was first attracted to the

Marechale. Her mother had, as Lady Mayoress, invited Miss Booth, before

the work began in France, to address a drawing-room meeting in her

house, and the indelible impressions made on a receptive mind on that

day proved an inspiration to a lifetime of quiet and devoted service of

Christ. But so timid and dejected had the Marechale become that she

dreaded the reception that might await her even in the home of a

lifelong friend! She trembled as she dragged herself across Streatham

Common. She sat down on a seat and--her ruling passion strong as

ever--spoke to a beggar about his soul, feeling a certain new kinship

with all outcasts and pariahs. When she stood before her friend's door

she scarcely had courage to ring the bell, and if she had been told to

go to the kitchen and have a cup of tea with the servants, she would

have answered quite simply, "Yes, I will go." But Mr. Holman himself

opened the door, and his hearty welcome and the outflow of a perfect

sympathy at once cast all her fears to the winds. Her friends were

ministering angels to her. They nursed her back to health, dried her

tears, and made her smile. Their little daughter--now one of the

sweetest singers in London--carolled to her every morning and awoke "the

hallelujah bird" again in her own breast. And God Himself was meanwhile

doing for her what even the best of friends could not do--giving her the

Resurrection Life, re-animating her hope, baptising her afresh with the

Spirit, not of fear, but of power and of love, breaking all shackles and

making her free--free from the ensnaring fear of man, free to obey the

Divine call she had received even as a child--woman's Pentecostal call

to prophesy for Christ, her one and only Master.

_Aller An fang ist schwer_, and the difficulties which the Marechale

encountered at the resumption of her work were enough to make any but

the stoutest heart faint. If she had in the past shown a bravery

transcending that of even the bravest all this was of small account

compared to the heroism now required of her. In the past she had the

help of her own people, her spiritual children, and a strong

organization back of her. Now she was utterly alone, thousands all over

the world had an erroneous conception of the entire situation, and many

even believed she had made shipwreck of her faith. Her daughter

Victoria stands out during that lonely period of beginnings. With

remarkably clear judgment, discernment and sympathy she cheered and

inspired her mother with her own enthusiastic hopefulness and vivid

faith.

The greatest service anyone could render the Marechale was to bid her go

on, fulfil her destiny, believe that God would again mightily use and

bless her. It might seem a small thing to say, "Be of good cheer," yet

it was one of those "little nothings" for which she was ever afterwards

profoundly grateful. I remember her coming one evening into my Chelsea

study in a mood of depression, baffled by life's insoluble mysteries.

Wondering what would lighten for her the burden and the weary weight, I

took down Browning and began to read "Rabbi ben Ezra," which was new to

her. From the opening words--

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was planned--

to the magnificent close, that inspired _Sursum Corda_ thrilled her as a

message direct from the great Heart of God. Only in one thing did she

venture to differ from the poet. "He sees his heaven beyond," she said;

"I want mine down here in the salvation of souls."

As soon as she resumed her work, she had her reward in signs following

everywhere. Doors opened to her, first in England, then in Scotland,

Ireland and Wales. She brought the breath of life into many churches,

rekindled the zeal of many workers for Christ, and broke the chains

which had bound multitudes of souls to an evil past.

Her own experience had given her, as a physician of souls, perhaps a

deeper sympathy, a surer insight, a greater power to grapple with every

form of evil than ever she had before. It became her mission to save

people from themselves by convincing them that only one thing is

entirely worth doing--living like Christ by letting Christ live in them.

There are certainly few evangelists who have changed the whole current

of so many lives in our country. Young ladies about to pass within

convent walls have found a more excellent way by receiving the living

Christ into their hearts. Actors and singers have consecrated their

gifts to Christ and His kingdom. Young men of the world have heard the

call of God and resolved to enter the ministry or go to the

mission-field. God's gift of life has revealed to many questioning eyes

its glorious possibilities. Multitudes who had no faith have heard

another say that she has faith for them--a faith which has somehow

dispelled the mists of doubt and error and brought them into the

sunlight of Divine love.

At the same time her ever-deepening knowledge of her two books, the

Bible and the Heart of Man, have made her a unique preacher to

preachers. One night at Keswick, in the summer of 1907, a brilliant

young Scottish minister, who was a member of a large house-party of

clergymen attending the annual Convention, came home late for supper.

"Excuse me," he said, as he sat down, "but I could not tear myself away

from the open-air meeting in the Square. I never heard such speaking in

my life. I stood transfixed. The preacher was the daughter of General

Booth, and I never knew the English language was such a magnificent

weapon until to-night. Her preaching was extraordinary."

Next day, through Dr. Harry Guinness, who was her host, she was invited

to address that house-party. Another preacher who was present has

recorded his impressions. "After tea we all gathered our chairs in a

circle round her as she opened up some sacred chapters in her life.

Hour after hour sped. No one thought of moving to go to the Tent

meetings. There we sat spellbound, through a long evening, feeling we

had never come across such a being before. This was the first of many

such meetings, to which as many outsiders were invited as the large

drawing-room could hold. What evenings these were! Highland worthies

sat gazing at her with open-mouthed wonder, held by her witchery, her

strange tales from actual life, by her wisdom and pathos. Her voice,

rich and sweet, sometimes fell to dreamy cadences, and sometimes rose to

the bugling of a gale. It thrilled people and it melted them. Her eyes

were wonderful. Sometimes they rested on one person in the audience

with a soft and appealing look; then they gleamed and blazed with holy

passion. Her long arms with their fine tapering fingers--how they

helped to express her mind! But it was the face that was the great

exponent, and as emotions played on her own mobile features she also

touched the deep chords of every minister's heart. What struck us most

was the access she won to the hearts of penitents. The mother-love in

her was so deep and real that we all felt as if we, too, could give her

our sacred confidences. A favourite word of hers was from St.

Augustine, 'Love, and do as you like,' and every man in our company felt

she was a living illustration of it. Her beautiful and choice language,

simple, fresh, exquisitely fitting, and used with superb ease and

mastery, was a constant amazement. She never attempted addresses or

expositions, but her talks, for no other name would she apply, were now

and again gemmed with texts which came as with a flash of diamonds,

flaming."

Thus she revealed herself to men who know that the care of all cares is

the "cure" of souls--_cura curarum cura animarum_. She warned them that

the "apostolic life," the most Christ-like of all vocations, is only for

those who are willing to "fill up that which is lacking of the

sufferings of Christ." Prayer and fasting, love and sacrifice, real

asceticism combined with joyful enthusiasm are the conditions of success

in the never-ending warfare with evil. The world will always be a broad

field of battle. But the living Christ gives so much of His real

presence that His service is liberty and His rewards are sure. No

breath of human praise can compare with the fervent and life-long

gratitude which souls rescued from the powers of darkness bear to their

deliverer. Since the Marechale laid aside the French language---perhaps

only for a time--and resumed her mother-tongue, she has received

literally thousands of English letters from both continents testifying

to blessings received through her ministry. I here give a few carefully

selected extracts from these letters with a few words of introduction.

One Sunday morning, as the Marechale was about to address a large

congregation, the minister whispered to her: "You see those two young

ladies in black, if you can do anything with them, it would be a

miracle."

In one of the after-meetings of the mission, the Marechale approached

the elder of these ladies and ventured to speak with her, but intense

reserve on her part made conversation impossible. A cloud of utter

despair seemed to have settled on her spirit. The look in her eyes

revealed sorrow too deep for words.

This is her story:

"At twelve o'clock one night I was returning home from business with my

mother and only sister. I found the body of my father hanging in the

corridor! I was so horrified that for a moment I could not move, then,

recovering my presence of mind, I put out the lights and called my

mother and sister to another door, just in time to prevent them seeing

the sight. _But I can never forget it!_

"Then my mother's health broke down, and for four years I faithfully

watched and cared for her.

"During this second painful trial I received the startling news that my

dearest and only brother had met with a serious accident while driving

his own automobile. On arriving at the hospital in all haste I was met

with the words, 'Too late.' He was gone! The scene which followed is

too terrible for me to speak of. We adored him! The effects of the

shock hastened my mother's death. We said good-bye to her, and oh, the

recollection of it haunts me still.

"After my mother's death my sister and I left the house of tragedy,

broken down with sorrow and grief. These blows were beyond my powers of

endurance. In vain did I seek some ray of comfort. Then I grew

careless! Wine began to get a hold on me; and I sank into depths of

despair, of which you only know. I really thought there was no God, and

contemplated ending my own existence.

"Through it all the Lord was looking down in tender compassion and love.

He sent you at this critical time in my sad career.

"When I look back on the past I can only praise God for what He has done

for me, through you.

"I am now conscious of the fact that He has washed and redeemed me

through the precious blood. Jesus is very dear to me. He is the Lily

of the Valley, the fairest of ten thousand to my soul. The pleasures of

the world have henceforth no attraction for me, in Him I can overcome

all temptations."

The following is from a gentleman in America, who, for thirty-five

years, had never entered a church. He happened to hear the Marechale

once, and, rushing into the vestry, he broke down utterly and told her

the tragical story of his life.

He was an illegitimate child, and his mother often used to beat him

until the blood ran. As a lad he struggled hard to be good, and,

although he was sometimes led astray through the drink, he always

shunned anything of an immoral character.

He married a sweet German girl, and by honest labour obtained a very

good position in New York, where he was esteemed by all who knew him.

At this juncture he met the French woman who ruined his life. He told

the Marechale between his sobs that his wife naturally refused to have

him back. Remorse and anguish of mind had driven him twice to attempt

suicide, but he was miraculously rescued. In January, 1914, he writes:

"Dear Marechale and honored Spiritual Mother:

"It was with joy that I received your dear letter. God has indeed been

wonderfully good to me, an undeserving sinner! He has rolled away the

stone from a heart heavy with sin and sorrow. I thank Him daily for His

mercy, and wonder how I could ever have lived so long without Him. No

wonder I failed and would have been lost, had I not found Him at last

through you, dear Marechale. Life has a new meaning for me. It is a

pleasure to live now, and before it was a curse. The musicians are

playing ragtime while I am writing this, but God is playing another

melody in my heart. I thank Him for the opportunity I have here to do

good. God has indeed changed me. He has given me great power over the

minds of my men. The change which, with His help, I have been able to

effect in their natures in two short weeks is wonderful to see. I am

happy, very happy.

"There is surely a devil, for he has sorely tempted me, but I shake him

off like a feather, smiling happily in my God-given strength. I say to

him, 'I fear you not, for I belong to Christ Jesus forever.'

"I am indeed in an unholy place. It is given over to the devil in every

form, but what matters, I belong to Christ for all time.

"In prayer and humility I thank and greet thee, Beloved Marechale."

A beautiful girl in society writes the following:

"All night long I have whispered your name over and over again to

myself, saying, 'You have given me life, Marechale, do you hear me?

LIFE!!!!' I was dying of remorse and fear. I shudder when I think of

what would have become of me if I had not come to you. I used to say to

myself, 'Oh, well, what's the use, I have sinned beyond recall, so why

not sin again, and again, and again? I am destined for Hell anyway, I

may just as well get there as fast as I can'--that is what you have

saved me from.

"I wonder how many times I have prayed 'Let me forget, only let me

forget,' and the more I would pray, the more I would remember, and the

more I would remember the more terrified I would get, until life seemed

to slip away from me, and I would fall down, down, down, into a

bottomless pit of horror.... And now I LIVE!!!! Oh, Marechale (how I

love that name, it sounds like music to me!) My mother gave life to my

poor miserable body, but you gave life to my soul. My mother would not

mind me loving you so if she knew that you gave me back to her."

Again she writes: "I have lived alone, absolutely alone. God only knows

how utterly alone I have been! But now I have Him, a _Some One who

cares_! Is it not wonderful, Marechale, I am no longer alone for I have

my Christ? The warm thing that flames in my soul is the _knowledge that

He loves me_! Now I know why all these years I have searched with empty

hands for something. I have it now, I _LIVE!!!!_"

A young gentleman whose life was transformed through attending the

meetings held by the Marechale's family in Keswick writes from Beyrout,

Syria:

"Oh! what a responsibility it is for us to be the ambassadors of Christ,

to represent Him to those who do not know Him, to be His Images! If it

were not for us Christians, who so often stand in His way, Christ might

have a chance. Some of the college men are meeting daily in my room to

pray and I wish you could hear them praying in English, Arabic, Turkish,

Armenian and even Abyssinian. You would not understand the words, but

you could never mistake the spirit.

"To-day I invited a man whom I know is in the hold of a terrible vice.

He came, and during the half hour he looked as though he had made a

mistake in coming, but, before he left, he had led in prayer for

strength to overcome temptation.

"Don't you think America is a fine country? And yet, with all its great

resources, opportunities and phenomenal progress, it is a very wicked

country in many parts. Races, nations and individuals may prosper and

succeed in plans for betterment and still be without the realisation of

God,--they may be 'Good but Godless.'"

[Illustration: THE MARECHALE

(_From a photograph taken at the Gainsborough Studio,

Oxford Street, London, W., in_ 1913)]

With the tribute of one grateful heart this sketch may fitly close.

"I have been used in the past in the conversion of hundreds of souls,

but I made a _compromise_ and it has spelt ruin to my soul. No one

knows how vile I have been, meriting desertion by God and man.... I had

resolved to end my existence, but somehow I was brought to that meeting

to hear about that Russian lady. Even then I _determined_ you should

not influence me, but God somehow through you gripped my life. I saw

myself in the true light as (I say the words not in their usual sense) a

'blasted hypocrite.' Don't forget to echo and re-echo the words that

reached me, 'Compromise with the world spells ruin.' That burnt into my

soul.... I remember while you spoke a big lump rising in my throat, and

just as you were closing your address the thought came, 'I wonder if she

would understand.' Ay, more, I remember how you received me that day.

God bless you. I came out of hell. I have a clear sky. I want to let

you know that the consciousness of forgiveness of the past has come with

almost an overwhelming force, and an awful load has gone. No daughter

ever loved mother more than I love you, I know that. Why is it? Because

God made you the means of my salvation. My heart just bursts with love

and gratitude. So I am yours, and at that last great day you will see

it if I come through at last.... Dear one, have you ever thought of

this--some one by a gallant effort rescues lives from fire or shipwreck;

the world applauds and honours the deliverer. You (by the grace of God)

rescued me from shipwreck of soul. Christ will own it before His Father

and all the countless multitudes."

THE END