ine Booth? It was a day of
universal grief. The whole nation mourned. For Mrs. Booth was one of the
most striking personalities, and one of the mightiest spiritual forces,
of the nineteenth century. To the piety of a Saint Teresa she added the
passion of a Josephine Butler, the purposefulness of an Elizabeth Fry,
and the practical sagacity of a Frances Willard. The greatest in the
land revered her, trusted her, consulted her, deferred to her. The
letters that passed between Catherine Booth and Queen Victoria are among
the most remarkable documents in the literature of correspondence. Mr.
Gladstone attached the greatest weight to her judgment and convictions.
Bishop Lightfoot, one of the most distinguished scholars of his time,
has testified to the powerful influence which she exerted over him. And,
whilst the loftiest among men honored her, the lowliest loved her.

Such strong lives have their secrets. Mrs. Booth had hers. Her secret
was a text. As a child she learned it by heart; as a girl she pinned her
faith to the promise it enshrined; amidst the stress and strain of a
stormy and eventful life she trusted it implicitly; and, with all the
tenacity of her keen, clear intellect, she clung to it at the last. In
the standard _Life of Catherine Booth_--a huge work of a thousand
pages--four chapters are devoted to the scenes at the deathbed. And then
we read:

'The lips moved as though desiring to speak. Unable, however, to do so,
the dying woman pointed to a wall-text, which had for a long time been
placed opposite to her, so that her eyes could rest upon it.

MY GRACE
IS
SUFFICIENT FOR THEE

It was taken down and placed near her on the bed. But it was no longer
needed. The promise had been completely fulfilled.'

'That,' said a speaker at one of the great Memorial Meetings in London,
some of which were attended by many thousand people, 'that was her
text!' And, as so often happens, her text explains her character.

For, considered apart from the text, the character is an insoluble
enigma. It is like a consequence without a cause. I was talking a week
or two ago with an old man, who, in Australia's earlier days, did a good
deal of pioneering in the heart of the bush.

'Once,' he told me, 'soon after I first came out, I really thought that
I had reached the end of everything. I was hopelessly lost. My strength
was utterly exhausted. I had gone as far as I could go. The country
around me was flat and dry; my