No one can pretend that “General,” Booth is a man of spiritual genius. He is essentially a man of business. His faculty is for organisation, not for the promulgation of new ideas or the creation of new material. His eye for a good advertisement is unequalled. Barnum forgot Booth in calling himself the greatest showman on earth. As the present writer said in 1882, the head of the Salvation Army is “a dexterous manager; he knows how to work the oracle; he understands catering for the mob; in short he is a very clever showman, who deals in religion, just as other showmen deal in wild animals, giants, dwarfs, two-headed sheep, fat women, and Siamese twins.” Everything in the Salvation Army is subordinated to “business.” At the head-quarters a minute register is kept of all the officers. Few of them are paid a regular salary. They are largely dependent on “results.” Whatever their faculty may be for “saving souls,” they must rake in enough shekels, or they are drafted from post to post, and finally discharged. On the same principle, Booth has married his family “well,” as the world calls it, and put them into all the higher posts. By this means he secures a select circle of trusted subordinates, who convey his orders to the lower circles of the Army, and see to their execution. While this plan lasts there will be no dangerous mutiny; especially as, in addition, the whole of the Army’s property is held in the name of William Booth. There is, in fact, a Booth dynasty; though it may be doubted if the dynasty will long outlast its founder. Certainly his death will cause changes, and his empire will probably split up like Alexander’s. Eight years ago the General’s eldest sun was married to a young lady of ‘‘great expectations,” who joined the Booths against her father’s wishes. With a keen eye for business, the General resolved to turn the marriage into a public show. Of course, the legal ceremony had to be performed elsewhere, but the Salvation performance came off at the Army’s biggest meeting-place. The price of admission was a shilling a head, and £300 was taken at the doors. A collection was also made inside. During the speech of “Commissioner” Railton, an able man who has had an eccentric career, the crowd began to press towards the door. “Stop,” cried Booth, “don’t go yet, there’s going to be a collection.” But the audience melted faster than ever. Then the General jumped up, stopped Railton unceremoniously, and shouted, “Hold on! we’ll make the collection now.” During the farcical marriage ceremony the General was duly facetious. His remarks tickled the ears of the groundlings. There was also the usual spice of blasphemy. Before Bramwell Booth marched on to the platform a board was held up bearing the inscription, “Behold the bridegroom cometh.”