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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
has been said that the nearest, shortest way to a man’s heart is
round by the throne of God. It is true. Direct advice, counsel, and
warning to those who err may sometimes be effectual, and
especially with the young. But too often they are wholly useless, and
even excite antagonism. But the love, the power, the promise of God
never fail.
But you tell me, “Oh, I am not good enough to pray for others, and
to receive answers to my prayer.” This is a great mistake. What is
our goodness to God? We are none of us good. Think of all the
people mentioned in the Gospels who sought after Christ. What was
it that brought them to His feet? It was not their goodness, but their
great needs, wants and desires, their miseries, their sicknesses, their
deep heart griefs, and the griefs and miseries of those dear to them.
Our only claim in coming to Him is that we need Him and want Him.
There is none other. It is written that God “turned the captivity of
Job when he prayed for his friends.” We learn to know God in
drawing near to Him on behalf of others. We fathom the deeper
treasures of His love in pleading for those whom we love.
I hear people say sometimes, “But I have prayed for So-and-so for
weeks, for months, and I have received no answer.” This reminds me
of a little boy who made some childish request of God, and ended
his prayer by saying, “I will wait three weeks, God, and no more.”
We limit God. We measure the great work of His Spirit by the span
of our little lives. We must rise above that thought, with courage and
patience, and persistent trust and confidence, remembering that His
years are not limited. He has all eternity to work in, all eternity in
which to remember and fulfil our hearts’ desires.
When the case is one the issues of which reach into eternity, when it
is the bringing from darkness into light of an immortal spirit, when it
is the training and teaching of a soul, the correction of faults which
sometimes requires a whole life’s discipline, or the evolution of some
great good from a family’s or a nation’s griefs, then all childish
impatience is out of place, foolish, and fatal often to the very
fulfilment of that which is desired. “Though it tarry, wait for it,” said
the seer, “because it will surely come.”
But your sad hearts are asking still concerning the wanderers whom
you love. Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there?
There is, there is. There is hope, not only for the weak and erring,
but for the criminal who has been guilty of the moral death of
another, for him on whose head rests the guilt of cruelty and
treachery. “Nazarene, Thou hast conquered,” were the last words of
Julian the Apostate, at the close of a lifetime of rebellion and
defiance. The Nazarene is a great conqueror. The heart of the most
scornful of the rebels against God’s holy laws may be broken,
softened and laid bare to the healing dews of heaven; and his eyes
may be opened to see, like Hagar, close at hand a well of water
which he knew not of.
In speaking of life and love to some of the most fallen and wrecked
of men and women, it has sometimes appeared as if I were
speaking into the ears of a corpse, of one in whom there remains no
longer any conscience or will to respond to the call of God.
Sometimes I have been answered by the wildest blasphemies on the
part of men, who later asked with hungry eyes, “Tell me truly, is
there any hope for me?” Love is not easily persuaded that the
moment of death has arrived. Love, like Rizpah, watches with a
constancy stronger than death by the silent corpses of her dearly
beloved and longed-for, with all her strength denying that they shall
be given as carrion to the wolves and the vultures.
Suffer me to recall an incident, one only. On entering the ward of a
large city hospital, reserved for women of the lowest class, I met the
chaplain leaving the ward, his hands pressed upon his ears in order
to shut out the sound of a torrent of blasphemy and coarse abuse,
hurled after him by one of the inmates to whom he had spoken as
his conscience had prompted him, and under a sincere sense of
duty. I drew near to that woman. She was hideous to look at, dying
and raging; a married woman who had had children and lost them,
who had lived the worst of lives, descending lower and lower. She
had been kicked (as it proved, to death) by the man, her temporary
protector. Her broken ribs had pierced some internal organ, and
there was no cure possible. Though dying, she was hungry, as
indeed she had been for years, and was tearing like a wild beast at
some scraps of meat and bread which had been given to her. An
unseen power urged me to go near to her. Was it possible for
anyone to love such a creature? Could she inspire any feeling but
one of disgust? Yes, the Lord loved her, loved her still, and it was
possible for one who loved Him to love the wretch whom He loved. I
do not recollect what I said to her, but it was love which spoke. She
gazed at me in astonishment, dropped her torn-up food, and flung it
aside. She took my hand, and held it with a death-grip. She became
silent, gentle. Tears welled from the eyes which had been gleaming
with fury. The poor soul had been full to the brim of revenge and
bitterness against man, against fate, against God. But now she saw
something new and strange; she heard that she was loved, she
believed it, and was transformed.
I loved her. It was no pretence, and she knew it. At parting I said, “I
will come again,” and she gasped, “Oh, you will, you will!” I came
again the morning of the next day. The nurse told me that she died
at midnight, quiet, humble, “as peaceful as a lamb,” always
repeating, “Has she come back? She will come again. Is she coming?
Yes, she will come again.” If I had been asked, as I sometimes am,
“But had she any clear perception of her own sinfulness, did she
understand, etc.?” I could give no answer. I know not. I only know
that love conquered, and that He who inspired the love which
brought the message of His love to the shipwrecked soul knew what
He was doing, and does not leave His work incomplete.

It is told among the many beautiful incidents of the early Church,

that a young Roman soldier, converted to Christianity, and received
as a catechumen, awaiting baptism, was called to serve in the field
with the legion to which he belonged. The night after a battle, he
found himself lying under the stars wounded and faint. Near him a
fellow-soldier in the same condition as himself was groaning heavily.
The night was cold, and his comrade’s wounds were exposed to the
frosty air. “Take my cloak,” whispered Martin; and though in sore
pain, and shivering himself, he folded his cloak tenderly around his
comrade and fell asleep. Then there arose before him in his sleep a
strange and beautiful vision. He saw in the skies a number of angelic
beings and saints in light, in the midst of whom stood the Saviour,
clothed in “raiment white and glistening,” and—strange!—wearing on
His kingly shoulders, over the resplendent white, the poor, torn,
bloodstained cloak of a Roman soldier. As Martin gazed in
astonishment, the Saviour smiled, and turning to His angelic
attendants said, “Behold Me with the cloak which Martin the
catechumen hath given Me! For inasmuch as ye have done it unto
one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”
In one of the African provinces of Rome, partly Christianised, there
occurred in the second century a sore famine. The inhabitants were
driven to terrible straits. In a certain town, it is recorded by one of
the old chroniclers, there lived a saintly bishop—not one of “my
lords” of modern times, dwelling in a palace, but a humble shepherd
or overseer of a scanty flock gathered out of the heathen city in
which he dwelt. There lived in the same city a poor street musician,
called Xanthus, an ignorant fellow of no good reputation. When the
famine had endured some months, and Xanthus’ body presented the
appearance of a walking skeleton, he saw, one evening in the
twilight, a female form at the corner of a street, with the figure and
bearing of a refined lady, though closely veiled and wearing a poor,
used, black robe. She was holding out her hand for alms and
receiving none, and worn and faint she yielded to the stress of
hunger, and was about to accept the last terrible resource of selling
her own person to a passer-by, who was apparently far above want.
Penetrated with a sudden feeling of pity and horror, Xanthus
interposed, and reverently begged the lady to accept of such poor
help as he could give her. “Lady, I have little, but all I have shall be
yours until these times of tribulation are over.” She moved towards
him without replying, her tears alone proving her grateful
acceptance of his aid. He led her back to her abode, and from that
time forward he worked for her day and night, plying to the utmost
his poor skill as a musician, affecting a cheerful manner, and adding
to his fiddling various tricks and jokes to arrest the attention of the
citizens who crossed his path. Every day he brought to the lady (for
such she was) his modest gains, finding her food, and waiting on
her, deeming it an honour that she should accept the help of such a
creature as he.
The famine over, she was restored to her former position; but
Xanthus fell ill, and his music and jokes were no more heard in the
streets. Friendless and forlorn, he lay dying, when the good bishop
above-named was visited in a dream by a heavenly messenger, who
bade him go to such a street and such a house and find there a man
called Xanthus, for “the Lord would have mercy on him.” Awaking
from his sleep, the good bishop obeyed. He entered the place—more
like a dog’s kennel than a human dwelling—where Xanthus lay.
“Xanthus!” he cried, “the Lord Jesus Christ hath sent me to you to
bring you glad tidings.”“How! to me—to me—your God has sent you
to me! No, there is a mistake. I am the street-fiddler, Xanthus, the
most miserable, God-forsaken of men—a man who has done nothing
but ill all his life.” Then the good bishop recalled to the memory of
Xanthus (this having been revealed to him) the day when he turned
back a tempted fellow-creature from sin, and the weeks in which he
sustained her, at the cost of his own life; and he added, “The Lord
bids me say to you, that, for this cup of cold water you have given to
one of His redeemed creatures, you shall in no wise lose your
reward. Your sins are forgiven. Christ says to you, ‘This day you shall
be with Me in paradise.’” And so it came to pass that Xanthus died
that day, his poor heart, it is said, broken; but not with sorrow;
broken through excess of joy, through the thrill of astonished
gladness at the heavenly greeting, and the wondrous announcement
that the Lord of Glory had deigned to notice and acknowledge the
one redeeming act of his life. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me.”
Not in the times of old, but quite lately, in Hyde Park, London, on a
sultry day in summer, there lay under one of the trees a poor sheep,
panting, dying from the heat. By its side there kneeled a little ragged
boy, a street arab, his tears marking gutters in the dust of his soiled
face. He had run down to the water again and again and filled his
little cloth cap with water, which he held to the mouth of the sheep,
bathing its nose and eyes, until it began to show signs of returning
life, speaking to it all the time loving words such as his own mother
may have spoken to him. A gentleman walking near stopped, and
looking with amusement at the child, said, “You seem awfully sorry
for that beast, boy.” The cynical tone of the speaker seemed to
grieve the little boy, and with a flushed face he replied, in a tone of
indignant and tearful protest, “It is God’s sheep.” The gentleman
grunted and walked away. I felt the presence there of One who said
to that child: “Inasmuch as you have done it unto one of the least of
these My brethren, you have done it unto Me.”
If the spirit of that boy were fully shared by even a fraction of our
Christian population, the brutality and sin of the vivisection of God’s
creatures would soon become a forbidden and unknown thing
among us. Our Lord’s words concerning the humblest of the animal
creation are no mere figure of speech. He meant what He said.
There is a penalty attached to contempt for or oblivion of those
words of His, as of every other word He spoke. “Are not five
sparrows sold for two farthings, and not one of them is forgotten
before God.” The price of a sparrow was half a farthing, but in case
one of four sold might possibly be very small, ill-fed, and not worth
its half-farthing, a fifth was “thrown in” to insure the purchaser from
loss. Yet even the presumably worthless fifth sparrow was “not
forgotten before God.” When the prophet Jonah was in a bad
humour because his prophecy of destruction to Nineveh had not
been fulfilled, and his sheltering gourd had withered, God said to
him: “Thou hast had pity on the gourd, which came up in a night,
and perished in a night: and should not I spare Nineveh, that great
city, wherein are more than sixscore thousand persons that cannot
discern between their right hand and their left hand; and also much
cattle?”“His mercies are over all His works.” He cares for every living
thing.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
TWO CONFERENCES.

An International Conference was held in Brussels in 1899, for

the purpose of considering and promoting international action
for the preventive treatment of venereal diseases. As the
programme of the Conference was expressly limited to the
administrative and medical aspects of the question, and took no
account of matters of moral and social order, the Abolitionist
Federation declined to take any part officially in the
proceedings, although individual members of the Federation
accepted invitations to attend. The results of the Conference
were a surprise to everyone, being in the nature of a triumph
for Abolitionist principles. The prophets, who had been called
together to bless the Regulation system, found themselves
almost with one accord led by the spirit of truth to curse it. This
Conference, and the Conference of the Federation which took
place the same year at Geneva, were dealt with in The Storm-
Bell in three articles, which are here given with some omissions.

It was very impressive to me and others to hear at our Geneva

Conference an account of the Brussels Conference from Dr. Fiaux of
Paris, who had attended it, and who with others had nobly fought
the battle of the Abolitionists. His report was of such a nature as to
fill our hearts with thanksgiving, wonder and praise. The Conference
of Brussels, as my readers know, was convened with the confessed
purpose of proposing an appeal to the European Governments to
establish a uniform system of Regulation—of in fact patching up, if
possible perfecting and making universal the unlawful and degrading
system which we oppose. The conveners of the Conference were
however, it seems, sincere and open-minded men; and the
numerous medical and other disputants, who came delegated from
different countries of Europe, and who were attached to the evil
system, regarding only the material and medical side of the great
question, appear to have been shaken in their views, and to have
been compelled, even by the confessions of some leading
Regulationists, to see that their theories are untenable, and that the
system they have so many years upheld is as it were hanging in
rags, a miserable failure, an old worn out and infected garment, into
which it is worse than useless to introduce patches of new cloth.
Almost all the delegates, of whom the immense majority were
Regulationists, acknowledged during the Conference that they had
come there to learn, implying that they had need of knowledge.
There seemed to prevail an open-mindedness, which had not been
anticipated. Some of the English medical delegates, full of the old
prejudices in favour of the system of combined slavery and license,
must have gone home knowing more than they did before. Finally
two resolutions were passed. One of the resolutions was in favour of
an appeal to all the Governments to take measures for the better
protection of minor girls, in order to prevent their being drafted into
the service of organised vice; and another was to the effect that it is
desirable that doctors should be better educated in the matter of the
maladies in question. These harmless resolutions were voted
unanimously.
An observant delegate wrote: “We all have the impression that the
Regulationists now fully recognise us (of the Federation) as a force
which they must in future reckon with.” A clearer idea of the
influence, which was at work in winning for us this victory, was
granted to me while listening to Dr. Fiaux’s report at Geneva. He
spoke of an influence which hovered over the Conference from the
first day to the last; an influence which restrained, which prevented
rash or erroneous propositions, an influence which he believed to
proceed from the gradually increasing tide of awakened and
changed public opinion, and to which he attributed a kind of spiritual
force, a restraining and guiding force. He asserted that it was felt by
all, that it tended to check all violence of opposition, and disposed
the minds of the delegates to accept a position of enquiry, and to
begin again afresh the study of the question, rather than to hold to
the conservation of the system, in which they could not any longer
place absolute confidence. More than once Dr. Fiaux endeavoured to
describe this influence, raising his hands above his head to illustrate
something which hovered over the assembly, resting above it and
making itself felt. Those of us, who have asked that an influence
above and beyond all, that we ourselves by our utmost effort can
exercise, might come to our aid when the opposing principles should
thus meet in conflict, will understand what all this means, and will
give thanks.

We have often watched the light thistledown, the winged seed,

mount in the air and disappear, carried by the breeze who knows
where? We only know it will settle somewhere, drop, die, live again,
and spring up to bear in its turn “fruit after its kind.” The career of
that special seed is denounced by cultivators as mischievous. But
there are good seeds also with wings, which silently travel about the
world, plant themselves and bear fruit for which all men bless them.
It is of the latter kind that I want to say a word.
I do not think that as yet any adequate appreciation of the character
of our last September Conference in Geneva, and its results, has
appeared in our English Abolitionist Press. I should like, if possible,
in some degree to supply that omission. That Conference has been
spoken of in several English reports as “a Conference of members of
the Federation.” It was not exactly so. It would be quite correct to
say it was a Conference organised by the Federation (and splendidly
organised it was by the brave little group of members of the
Federation in Geneva). But we have never yet had such a crowded
Conference organised by us, at which were present so few members
of the Federation. We were a mere handful from England. Several of
our allies whom we generally see from other countries did not
appear, while many of our prominent members on the Continent and
in England were prevented from coming by illness or other
circumstances. Yet we had crowded sessions every day and all day.
The striking feature of that Conference was the influx to it of new
adherents to our principles, many of whom we had never seen, or
never even heard of. Adherents to our principles they were, but not
members of the Federation; nor did they, with very few exceptions,
become there and then members of the Federation. And herein lies
the encouragement of which I wish to speak. It is in connection with
this fact that I wish my English friends to take courage and thank
God with me. They flocked to us—these new adherents to our
principles from France, from Belgium, from Germany, from Italy, etc.
There were among them persons of many different creeds and
opinions, and an extraordinary number of leaders of the Press from
different countries, more especially of that enlightened Press
minority in France who fought so hard and so noble a battle (in the
Dreyfus case) in favour of justice. There were with us also many
distinguished ladies—distinguished morally and intellectually—who
for the first time greeted us as allies. Those who were at the public
evening meeting in the Great Hall of the Reformation must have
been struck by the immense variety of nationality, character, creed,
and opinion of those who took part in it; and at the same time by
the perfect unity, heart, and downrightness of that vast assembly in
regard to the great question of Justice for which the Federation
labours. Many were asking, “How has this come about? What
energising and purifying wind has been blowing through Europe to
bear towards us this new unexpected ‘cloud of witnesses’ to testify
that truth gains ground in its own mysterious way?”
It seems to me that we—the Federation—are like persons who,
wishing to propagate some beautiful flower, should have carefully
laid out a garden, hedged it round, dug it well, and then sown in it
abundantly the seed which was to produce the beautiful flower. We
took great pains with our garden. We sowed our seeds in rows,
neatly and measuredly, perhaps a little formally. We arranged with
our under-gardeners, training them, and turning them off if they did
not suit. Perhaps we pottered a little sometimes, but always with the
one desire at heart of seeing some day a great harvest of this
beautiful flower—a flower of such pure colour, and wholesome
hygienic qualities. Sometimes we sighed, in times of drought or of
failure of “hands” for the work. But lo! a day came when the
assembled gardeners, coming together to reckon up the results of
their work, happened to look over the hedge, and with astonishment
noted that the country all round, fields and hillsides, on which they
had not bestowed any personal labour, were ablaze with the azure of
the beautiful flower which they had cultivated so carefully in their
garden. They had forgotten that seeds have wings, and that they
could silently distance the garden fence and fly afar. So with the
principles which we have cultivated.
There were at Geneva young men, pastors from the French
provinces, whose prayers at our morning devotional meetings were
an echo of the depths of my own heart; and there were young
women, some very young, looking in whose faces I asked myself,
“How and where have these young people learned that zeal for
justice, that pity for oppressed womanhood, and that grave view of
life which we of the Federation could however never, and less now
than ever, imagine to be the monopoly of experienced workers?”
The Conference of Brussels pre-eminently brought to us the lesson
of the “Winged Seed.” The speech of Dr. Fiaux, of Paris, who came
from that Conference to Geneva to tell us its results, was to me full
of teaching of which possibly the speaker himself was not wholly
conscious. It told of the power and silent progress of a truth carried
abroad by the Spirit which “bloweth where it listeth.” The lesson of
the “Winged Seed” goes far beyond our own special crusade. We
may apply it in the darkest times. For Truth (like Love) cannot die.
Therefore we will take heart and labour on, though the End is not
yet.
A very friendly critic, in giving a report of the Geneva Conference in
September last, asked the question, “Where was Mrs. Butler?” when
some sentiment or proposition was announced which seemed not
quite in harmony with the principles of the Federation. He added,
“But doubtless her silence was to be attributed to her desire to hold
the Federation together. She is naturally concerned about the
Organisation.” I wish to answer the question, and to rectify the
mistaken impression. I was absent from the discussion in question. I
am not able to listen to discussions from morning to night, owing to
diminished strength of body, and I must leave matters in the hands
of younger and abler combatants. But on the other matter, my
supposed attachment to our organisation, I want to say a word. I
have no faith whatever in organisations except so far as they are a
useful means for making known a truth or dispensing help to those
who need it, and when they are completely subordinated to those
ends. They are apt to become a snare to those who invent them and
work them, unless great care is taken to revive continually within
them the life by which alone they can usefully exist.
The history of the Jesuits and that of some other great organised
societies are monuments of the idolatrous tendency in human
beings, of their habit of degenerating to the worship of some
gigantic and intricate earthly creation from that of the Unseen, the
Living God. Such organisations may become in time the instruments
of a propagandism the very opposite of that proposed by their
founders; and they may end by following in the stately march of a
cruel and murderous Juggernaut, crushing the life out of men and
women, and all bespattered with the “blood of the poor innocents.”
Short of such a ghastly development as this, vast organisations (the
leaders of which may come to be themselves misled by pride or
vanity, or the praise of man, to imagine that the life is still in their
wheels when it is fast passing out from them) become effete, lifeless
and unfruitful. The more they are in evidence before the world, the
more showy they become, the more do they lose real power. Their
hold on God is insensibly loosened, their members forget the
command to “call no man master.” There creeps in upon them
frequently a tyrannising spirit. Their leaders become a prey to the
great delusion of the Russian ecclesiastical tyrant, that uniformity is
a beautiful thing, and that it represents power. Uniformity is not a
beautiful thing. There is no uniformity in God’s creation, either in the
natural or the spiritual world. The insistence on uniformity crushes
out individuality and hinders initiative. It clips the wings of the best
human gifts and capacities. It introduces the opposite of that
“glorious liberty of the children of God,” which sets each soul free to
develop into that good thing which He created it to become. “You
shall all speak alike, all work in the same way, all adopt the same
manner, and obey implicitly the same rule.” This command is itself
paralysing to freedom and to individual development and power. But
when it comes to, “You shall all think alike, all believe the same
things, all receive what your leaders teach, and act in accordance
with a uniform creed,” then there comes down a spiritual blight,
which ultimately leaves a body without a soul. It is best then that
such an organisation should break up and disappear. If its existence
is prolonged it may become the tenement of a spiritual influence
which is directly evil, while still wearing the outward garb of what
was originally good.
But our humble Abolitionist Federation! Is it likely to incur such a
fate? No, I do not believe it ever will, for up to now it has continued
humble; moreover it has never been strongly centralised, and never
in any sense has it been tyrannised over by those who may be called
its leaders. It is a union of free workers, who are at liberty to work
along their own lines and in their own methods, in each country and
each group. I hope it will not surprise any of my readers if I say that
I should not grieve or be greatly disturbed if our Federation were to
break up and fall to pieces to-morrow. Observe that I do not here
speak of the people who form it, of the friends and fellow-workers of
years past, as well as of welcome new-comers whom I trust and
love. These are the life of the work. They are the living beings in
whose souls reside the deep conviction, the strength of principle,
and the unselfish purpose which have carried on our propagandist
work till now, and which will continue to carry it on, with or without
any special organisation. These persons will always have a warm
place in my heart, for they have been and are my revered “yoke-
fellows” in a just and holy cause; and when their own life-work is
over they will bequeath to those who come after them the spirit
which alone has made our labours fruitful. All my care is for the
principle which we have been called to proclaim, not for the
machinery through which the drudgery of the work has been
facilitated. God does not need our poor machinery. He can create
other methods of spreading a truth, if those now existing had better
come to an end.
There is a deep meaning in that mysterious vision of Ezekiel, of the
living creatures and the wheels. They were together lifted up from
the earth, and guided through space wherever God willed; the
wheels, wheel within wheel, an intricate mechanism, moved
upwards and onwards, with the ease and power of a soaring eagle,
because the Spirit was in the wheels, the Spirit which was as lamps
of fire and as lightning. I have sometimes thought if the Spirit had
left those creatures and that mass of wheels, with what a crash they
would have come down to the ground! So long as we have that
Spirit, even our wheels will have life, and our humble organisation
will continue, as it has done till now, to glide past all dangers, and to
win true hearts to our cause.
 CHAPTER XIX.
MEMORIES.

When I received the announcement of the passing away, at ninety

years of age, of Mr. Arthur Albright, my thoughts were carried back
to many years ago. I felt a kind of peace in the thought that this
brave Christian has been permitted to live to such a ripe old age. It
is an encouragement to us all to observe, as we do in so many
cases, that the most strenuous workers for justice and truth, who
have been foremost in the ranks of combatants for the right, are
often strengthened in body and in nerves to endure for a greater
number of years than others who perhaps live more for themselves.
I have not seen Mr. Albright for very many years. In the seventies I
frequently met him at the annual meetings of the Friends at
Devonshire House. One incident stands out very vividly in my mind,
and I may be permitted to recall it just in the manner in which it
comes back to me. In the earliest years of our agitation for repeal (I
think it was in 1870) I was at Birmingham, where naturally my
message was received with unhesitating cordiality by leading
members of the Society of Friends. Among these stood foremost Mr.
Arthur Albright and his friend and relative Mr. John E. Wilson, who
have both now gone to their rest. (My most intimate friends in the
whole matter were Mr. and Mrs. Kenway, in whose house I always
stayed in Birmingham.) After a large meeting held there, there was a
discussion as to whether it would not be well at once to attack the
British stronghold of Regulation, viz. Plymouth, where already that
system had begun to bear its corrupt and tragic fruits, there having
been already several suicides of poor girls forcibly brought within its
tyranny. These Quaker gentlemen put it to me, Was I willing to go,
because they felt that, at that period of our crusade the cause must
be presented prominently as a woman’s cause, and be represented
by women? I answered, “Yes; probably it is right to go.” These
gentlemen replied that they would with pleasure charge themselves
with any expenses that the journey and the meetings might involve.
Well, I packed up my things, and with a somewhat trembling heart,
counteracted by the supreme love of battle which was born in me, I
went with a few friends to the railway station to proceed to
Plymouth. There I was somewhat startled to find myself closely
followed on the platform by these two friends above mentioned. Mr.
Albright was tall, straight, thin, and in figure as in principles, as firm
as a bar of iron. Mr. Wilson was also tall, broader, and perhaps more
imposing looking. I turned to thank them for their kindness in
coming to see me off. The reply in a very gentle voice was, “Oh, we
go with thee; we could not leave thee alone.” There came, I
recollect, to my heart quite a thrill at that moment of admiration and
gratitude. I thought to myself, “This is true chivalry.” These were
responsible business men, who had their duties every day in
Birmingham. I do not think that either of them were great speakers.
Mr. Albright was a silent man, but his few words were weighty, and
his convictions were immovable; he was one of those Quakers whom
the poet Whittier described as “a non-conductor among the wires.”
They came with me to Plymouth, together with other early friends of
our cause. At the great and stormy meeting which we had there
they stood by me, sat behind me when I had to speak, and I felt
that their presence was a tower of strength, though they said so
little. The day of our meeting was a day of overpowering heat. The
battle in which we were engaged was equally hot, and the Quaker
calm of my kind friends was better to me than even the breeze that
blew through the open windows. These may seem to be trifling
remembrances, but, strange to say, such memories live sometimes in
the brain when greater things are forgotten.

Long ago I asked a gift of God—companionship with Christ. Shall I

murmur because He, having granted my request, grants it not in the
way that I expected? I thought of Mary sitting at His feet, hearing
His word calmly, happy and wise; but that is not the companionship
He grants me to-day (Good Friday). To-day it is the companionship
with Him of the penitent malefactor, nailed to a neighbouring cross. I
cannot grasp His hand, nor sit at His feet, nor lean on His breast as
the beloved disciple did, for I am bound hand and foot, stretched on
my cross till every nerve and muscle strains and aches. I can only
turn my head to that side where the Lord hangs in pain also, so near
that I can hear His breathing, His sighs, the beating of His heart; but
separated by the cross. The cross which brings me so near to Him is
the hindrance to a still nearer approach. I can speak to Him in few
and faint words from my cross to His, but without the tranquil rest
and consolation which I once knew in His presence, and such as the
family of Bethany knew, whom He loved. But did He not also love
that dying malefactor? and did not those two, in some sense,
resemble each other as they hung there, a spectacle to men and
angels, more than Martha or Mary resembled Him as they sat at His
feet, or ministered to Him with busy hands?
I recall these things to sustain me in the midst of mournful
questionings. He has chosen the manner of our companionship, and
therefore it is dear to me. No pleasant walks on the slopes of the
Mount of Olives, no evening converse or public teaching on the
shores of the lake or on the green hillside, no sweet ministerings by
the wayside or in humble dwellings to His human needs. These are
not His choice for me. In the morning of life I chose for myself—I
chose the beautiful and good things set before me; and now in the
evening, when the shadows are closing round, He chooses for me. If
I have worn a crown of roses, shall I not gladly change it for one of
thorns, if it brings me nearer? When my earthly paradise faded, and
its best human companionship was withdrawn, and I was left alone,
then my Lord remembered my first request—for companionship with
Him. And how could He choose better than He had chosen—to share
His solitude, to know the sweet and awful companionship of
suffering, of darkness, of the vision of the whole world’s sin, for
which He was wounded to death, and of the slow hours counted in
silent pain? I thank thee, O God!

The following message was written for the Conference of the

Federation held in Paris in June, 1900.

In the midst of all that is now being done to promote a higher

morality and to win men, our soldiers and others, to accept the
higher standard, there is still, I think, a tendency to forget, or at
least to feel less, our responsibility towards the immediate and the
saddest victims of the social evil—the women, the young girls of the
so-called outcast class. May I once more put in a plea for them?
Unable now to work among them in any practical way, yet the
thought of them is ever with me. There are memories which nothing
can efface, forms which visit me again in the night season, faces
which look through the mists of the past and seem to plead for
some word from me, some reminder addressed to our busy workers
and noble social reformers—a word to recall to them that “we are
still in bonds; we are still in State prison-houses, in beleaguered
cities where a famine of all that heart and soul crave, and the
disease-impregnated atmosphere are wearing us out and holding us
until the last breath of hope is extinguished and we die; and yet no
sound of any relieving army reaches our ears, no glad tramp of
swiftly-flying horses bearing our deliverers; no cry from the watch-
tower, Relief is on the way! We are here while you are preaching
purity, more manliness to men, more courage to women, more love
for humanity. Have you forgotten us?” From the Maisons tolerées of
Geneva, of Paris, of Berlin, from slave pens and prisons all over the
Continent comes this cry to those who have ears to hear.
At the meeting of our Abolitionist Federation about to be held in
Paris will that voice be heard, or will it be lost amidst the excitement
of those days, amidst the pressure of a thousand interests and the
voices of appeal from many workers in innumerable good causes?
And yet a few streets distant there are and will be abodes filled with
human beings—our sisters, driven outside the pale of all law,
hemmed round and crushed down by a cordon and by weights of
arbitrary police rules, slaves and prisoners to whom no light comes,
to whom no word of hope penetrates. They have been so welded
into a compact class by human egotism that even the good and kind
among men and women are apt to forget that they are no more
criminal than others who are free, and to look upon them as a
peculiarly degraded portion of humanity.
May I recall a few memories? In Paris some twenty or more years
ago my husband and I, on our way to an evening meeting,
shortened our route by going through an obscure by-street. As we
passed there darted out of the darkness a girl gaily dressed, painted,
but no fille de joie, no dressing or paint could hide the marks of
slavery and pain. She made for me, she threw her arms round my
neck, her cheek for one moment pressed against mine, the tears
coursing down through the paint which hid the pallor underneath,
and calling me by my name, she said (in French), “We love you! Oh,
we love you!” I had no time to respond. She, seeing or feeling the
approach of a policeman or something, tore herself away and darted
back into the darkness. Like a meteor out of the darkness this vision
appeared, and into the darkness it returned, leaving no trace behind.
I never heard of her again. I know nothing. Where is that spirit now?
Where? I ask it of God. She told me she loved me (she and her
doomed comrades). Shall I ever have the opportunity of returning to
her those dear words? We had been having meetings, in which
sympathy was expressed for these captives. Some few of them, in
spite of police surveillance, had managed to creep into our meetings,
and perhaps they had read something in the newspapers.
Dare I to ask our friends who will assemble in Paris to keep their
ears open to this cry, and to remember that there, close by, in the
midst of all the charms of the Exhibition, and the interest of social
gatherings and meetings on behalf of every good end, there, close
by, are crushed hearts and maddened spirits, whose existence as an
officially acknowledged social necessity is a crime prophetic of woe
for that charming city en fête just now, but which must pass under a
cloud sooner or later, if for these and other slaves the sword of
justice is not unsheathed?
In the years past I visited sometimes houses of ill-fame in my own
country, where the law is with us and not against us in entering such
places. I recall one day sitting in a room with some score of young
women of the unhappy sisterhood. They were seated mostly on the
floor around me, some with an expression of weariness or
indifference on their faces, some hard, others gently inquisitive. I
spoke to them (do not be surprised, any friend who may read this)
of the sweetness of family life, of the blessing of the love of a pure
and chivalrous man, and of happy married life, of the love of little
children, the gaiety, the gladness they shed in the home, of the
delight even of the humblest household work in such conditions in a
home where true love reigns, and of the affection between a true
husband and wife, which deepens and becomes more holy as life
goes on. Was it cruel? It might seem so. But the effect was not so.
All round me there were heads bowed low; no more hardness nor
indifference, but tears dropping on clasped hands and faces hidden
on the shoulders of their companions. The room seemed to be full of
the sound of sighing and sobbing; it seemed to me a wail—almost
like the wail of lost spirits:“Too late! too late! That is not for us. Once
we had now and then such a dream, but now—nevermore!” I
dropped on the floor to be nearer and in the midst of them, and
spoke words which I cannot remember, but to this effect:“Courage,
my darlings! Don’t despair; I have good news for you. You are
women, and a woman is always a beautiful thing. You have been
dragged deep in the mud; but still you are women. God calls to you,
as He did to Zion long ago, ‘Awake, awake! Thou that sittest in the
dust, put on thy beautiful garments.’ It may be that the picture I
have drawn is not for you, yet I dare to prophesy good for you, and
happiness even in this life; and I tell you truly that you can become,
in this life, something even better than a happy wife and mother—
yes, something better. You can help to save others. You can be the
friend and companion of Him who came to seek and to save that
which was lost. Fractures well healed make us more strong. Take of
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