Of the greatness of this man, to my mind, there can be no doubt. When
the point of time whereon we stand and play our separate parts has
receded, and those who follow us look back into the grey mist which
veils the past; when that mist has hidden the glitter of the
decorations and deadened the echoes of the high-sounding titles of
to-day; when our political tumults, our town-bred excitements, and
many of the very names that are household words to us, are forgotten,
or discoverable only in the pages of history; when, perhaps, the
Salvation Army itself has fulfilled its mission and gone its road, I
am certain that the figure of William Booth will abide clearly visible
in those shadows, and that the influences of his work will remain, if
not still felt, at least remembered and honoured. He will be one of
the few, of the very few enduring figures of our day; and even if our
civilization should be destined to undergo eclipse for a period, as
seems possible, when the light returns, by it he will still be seen.
For truly this work of his is fine, and one that appeals to the
imagination, although we are so near to it that few of us appreciate
its real proportions.
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