On the 25th of June, 1874, a few friends of the Abolitionist cause met to confer together at York. All were filled with a profound sense of the solemnity of the purpose which had brought them together. It was a time of deep depression in the work. Those who were present fully recognised the powerful array of organised forces against which they had to contend; they were filled with a kind of awe in the contemplation of those forces, and the magnitude of the difficulties with which they were called to grapple. At the same time everyone of the group seemed animated by a deep and certain conviction that the cause would triumph. The circumstances under which this conference took place were such as to call strongly for the exercise of that faith which alone can animate reformers to contend against a sudden increase of an evil, at whose destruction they aim. The voice of the Abolitionist had for a time been partially stilled by the clash of parties in the General Election. For a time even the most energetic workers were unable to see what steps for the continuance of the work could most effectively be taken. Having hitherto felt themselves engaged in a battle for the abolition of the State sanction of vice in Great Britain only, they had become aware that a large and powerful organisation on the Continent was seeking to increase the efficacy of the vice regulations, and for that purpose was appealing confidently to England to take the lead in organising, under all the Governments of Europe, an international scheme for the application of these regulations to every country, and to every seaport throughout the world. After a period of silence for united prayer, the Rev. C. S. Collingwood, Rector of Southwick, Sunderland, addressed the little group around him in words which have never been forgotten by those who passed through the trial of faith of that year—words which were assuredly inspired by God, and were His message to us at that period of anxious suspense.

In the course of the speech he said: “Our ceasing to be heard in Parliament for a time, or in the Press, or by public meetings, means necessarily so much clear gain to the other side. We have a most solemn charge, and cannot even maintain our ground except on the condition of ceaseless warfare. Much of the hostile pressure comes from abroad, and we shall do well to consider the propriety of carrying the war into the enemy’s country by establishing relations with leading and earnest opponents of the regulation of sin, say in France, Belgium, Prussia, Italy, etc., and stimulating opposition in these countries, and perhaps holding our own international congress. There can be no doubt that in all the countries subjected to this degrading system a few sparks would create a great fire of indignation and revolt against the immoral system. When Granville Sharp, in 1772, obtained the famous decision that a slave is free as soon as he touches English territory, he did not think it one of the first steps towards the general abolition of the slave trade, and of slavery everywhere; but it was so. And thus, when some noble ones among us raised a cry of horror and indignation on finding that supervised vice had presumed to desecrate our English soil they little guessed how far their voices would reach, nor what the work was upon which they unwittingly were entering, nor what the victories which they were to achieve. But they have already been able to produce great effects in Africa, Australia, and the United States; and, though still unsuccessful at home, we and they believe that the opposition which has commenced in England will obtain its utmost success here, and that a force of public opinion and true sentiment is being slowly generated, which will cross all lands and seas, and in its progress sweep away everywhere the monstrous organisation of vice, against which we lift our voices to-day.”

These words found an echo in the breasts of all present, and from that conference all departed feeling that a new era was dawning upon the whole movement, which could only lead to the final triumph of the cause of justice and morality far beyond the limits of our own country.

Before separating, the conference passed a simple resolution, accepting Josephine Butler’s proposition to open correspondence with opponents of the Regulation system abroad. This opening of correspondence “was in its beginning an apparently feeble—as it was indeed a laborious—undertaking, carried on somewhat in the vague and in the dark.” The results however were so far encouraging that later in the year she resolved to undertake a personal mission to the Continent. Shortly before her departure a meeting of women to wish her “God speed” was held at Birmingham, chiefly promoted by the Society of Friends. Mrs. Richardson, of York (who, like her sister, Mrs. Kenway, of Birmingham, was one of Josephine Butler’s oldest and dearest fellow-workers), wrote of this meeting:“I desire that you may be reminded of the meeting which took place immediately before her departure, and to which all then present, and she herself, largely attributed the remarkable success which was permitted to attend her labours, believing it to have been the direct answer to earnest prayer offered up there, and from many other friends elsewhere who were with us in spirit that evening. The meeting was called for the express purpose of united prayer to God on Mrs. Butler’s behalf—that He would guide and protect her on every hand, and prosper the work upon which she was about to enter.... After the reading (of Psalm xci), Mrs. Wilson offered prayer for God’s presence and blessing on the meeting, that it might tend to the help and strength of Mrs. Butler, and of all present. Mrs. Butler then gave a little account of how this widening prospect of the work had grown upon her. The necessity of seeking the sympathy and co-operation of other countries had been brought forcibly before her mind at the time of a conference at York in June, when this feature of the subject had taken great hold of the meeting; and knowing that it could, for obvious reasons, be more successfully carried out if universally adopted, she reminded us that those who were promoting the hateful system of regulated vice in continental nations were watching with anxiety the action of England in this direction, and rejoicing to see that it was beginning to take deep root here, and that whereas amongst them it was a police regulation only, here Parliament had seen fit to make it the law of the land. Mrs. Butler expressed her conviction that it must be made known abroad that many in England had determined, by God’s help, to bring to an end the entire system, and desired the sympathy and co-operation of those in other countries, who, she knew, had long groaned in secret under the burden of an evil which they felt powerless to grapple with. From that time Mrs. Butler had increasingly felt that the task must devolve upon herself of setting a spark to the smouldering embers, and in connection with this prospect the words of the Scriptures had constantly been before her mind: ‘I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it.’ She believed the time had now come when she must give herself up to this new branch of the work."15

Josephine Butler herself wrote to a friend concerning this meeting:—

As we sat, during those calm silences which I so much love in Friends’ meetings, when God seems even more present than when any voice of prayer is breaking the hushed stillness, I did not think any more of the cold winter, long journeys, cynical opposition and many difficulties I knew I was going to meet. I knew that God is true, and that certainly I should be able to trample on the lion and adder. My thoughts were carried far beyond this near future, and a vista seemed to rise before me of the years to come—of some great and marvellous and beautiful manifestation of the power of God, of gathering hosts, an exceeding great army, before whom will melt away the monstrous wickedness which men of the world believe to be indestructible, and of the redemption of the slave.

She left England in December, accompanied by one of her sons, and joined later by her husband and other sons and Mr. Stuart. Some idea of the extent and nature of her work during this journey through France, Italy and Switzerland may be gathered from the following letters.

To Mr. Stansfeld.

December, 1874.

I think I told you that I spent a part of my last afternoon in Paris, at the Prefecture of Police. The memory of that interview is so exceedingly painful to me that I feared I should be unfitted for my work if I dwelt upon it. I was struck by the grandeur of the externals of the office, and by the evidence of the irresponsibility and despotic sway over a large class of the people possessed by the man Lecour. I ascended a large stone staircase, with guards placed at intervals, and many people coming and going, apparently desiring audiences. The Prefect’s outer door is at the top of the staircase, and over it, in conspicuous letters, are engraved the words; “Arrests—Service of Morals” (the arrests being of women only). In looking at these words the fact (though I knew it before) came before me with painful vividness, that man in this nineteenth century has made woman his degraded slave, by a decree which is heralded in letters of gold, and retains her in slavery by a violent despotism which, if it were applied to men, would soon set all Paris, and not merely a few of its buildings in flames. The words “Service des Moeurs” is the most impudent proclamation of an accepted falsehood. Too clearly and palpably is the true meaning of it “Service de DÉbauche”; and M. Lecour’s conversation throughout showed and confirmed most powerfully the fact (though he himself may be blind to it) that it is immorality, not morality, for which his office makes provision. I was kept waiting some time in the handsomely furnished room of the Prefect while he finished his interviews with people who had preceded me. While seated by the fire, with the newspaper in my hand which had been given to me by a liveried servant, I heard the whole of the conversation (it was impossible not to hear it) which passed. It left a very sorrowful and terrible impression on my mind. An elderly man was there, who appeared to be pleading the cause of a woman, perhaps a near relation, or in some way dear to him. M. Lecour spoke of the woman as one whom he had full power to acquit or to condemn, and there was a lightness in his tone which contrasted strikingly with the troubled gravity of the other, who more than once interrupted the volubility of the Prefect with the words, spoken in a voice of sullen, repressed emotion, “But you have accused her.” I thought of the words, “Whose soever sins ye remit, they are remitted; and whose soever sins ye retain, they are retained.” Such a power in a merely human, but most awful sense, is possessed by that irresponsible ruler of the women of Paris; but his credentials are not divine. As I left his place I felt oppressed with a great sadness, mingled with horror; and, in thinking of M. Lecour, I recalled the words about “man, drest in a little brief authority,” who “plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven as make the angels weep”; and not only that, but as make women die, cursing God, in horror and despair.

To Mr. Stansfeld.

Antibes, December, 1874.

I should like our friends to know how much the little faithful band of sympathisers in Paris recognise our mission as from God. There has lately been a great religious movement in France, as in some parts of England. Meetings for prayer are still held constantly. It seems also that there was among some a feeling of suspense, of expectation, almost of discomfort, in the belief that action, and aggressive action, ought to follow, and must follow, the deepening of spiritual life and the clearer apprehension of their personal relations with the Father in heaven. They have been feeling it is not enough to meet and pray, and to try for themselves to draw ever nearer to God. There must be a deeper meaning in this spiritual awakening; there must soon be a call to battle. Thus then without knowing what had been passing in Paris, and ignorant of the fact of a religious awakening, I spoke to them what I felt, and said that the only meaning of our being on earth at all was to be combatants; that the only condition of our spiritual health is war, unceasing war, against the whole kingdom of Satan, and against all evil things. I found some of these good men pondering these matters, and I began to see the connection in their minds between this call to oppose the evil round them and the previous movement. They saw, and confessed that the deepened personal life of the soul meant increased responsibility, and they recognised the guidance of God in this second call; and as the path became clearer to me I saw how “God leads the blind by a way they know not of.”

From her sister.

Naples, New Year’s Eve,
Midnight, 1874-1875.
“Beloved of my Soul,

“I want to spend this solemn hour with you. My heart is overflowing with gratitude to Him whose cross you bear. This year, which you told me began with such discouragement, and with the revelation of such new, untold horrors that you would not repeat them, has finished gloriously with the carrying of the standard of the fiery cross over the sea and into another land; and you—it is as if (no, there is no if about it) God surrounds you with His shield.

“Everyone out of England to whom I told your mission said you would be insulted and outraged in Paris, and could not do any good.

“Even people who believe in your mission told me of the way irreverent Frenchmen turn to ridicule anything spoken with a foreign accent; spoke of the dangers you would incur, and the impossibility of your making any impression. When they talked thus I smiled and said, ‘Wait and see: this is of God, and He will justify His handmaid.’ I felt so clearly that God gave it you to do; and whatever the world may think, God knows what He is about.

“He is not an idealised Joss, who lives in churches. He is present among us. He can manage even the Paris police. How He laid your enemies under your feet! Sometimes I got frightened because of your weak chest, and the bitter weather, and I longed to be with you, that I might at least run about after you with spirit-lamp and tea-caddy, or muscat wine, cloves and sugar to cheer you. Two days ago I got your first letters to your dear husband, which he sent on to me. It must not happen that you do not get here. With all you have to do, it seems cruel to bring you so far; but it would be sweet that you should once be in my dirty Naples, and dear George also. I recall all his kindness and goodness, since old Oxford days, until that crowning goodness of receiving us with our dead treasure as his guests, the pretty guest chamber ready for her, in spite of all the unhealed wounds the sight must have opened in your hearts. All that comes up, and we long to have you as our guests, to repay the kindness.

“Your mission is too high and holy to be understood! Is it not wonderful how people go on thinking it lovelily humble and sweetly meritorious to go on picking off a bad-smelling leaf here and there from the upas tree, instead of taking the Sword of God and striking at its very tap root—nipping here and there the results of its growth, instead of cutting off the source of its life?”

To her husband.

Naples, January 13th, 1875.

We have had an excellent meeting here. The circumstances which led to it were very affecting, and I must tell you all when we meet. You know that my one object in coming here was to see my darling Hatty, and to rest awhile with her in her beautiful home. I neither planned nor expected a continuance of my mission here; but God ordered it otherwise, and without our seeking it at all, the work came to us. Two gentlemen called and gravely desired to learn whether I would address a company of friends on the subject of our mission, if they undertook the arrangements. I was much touched and somewhat surprised. I said I could not refuse their request. They then asked me to accompany them to the office of the English Consul, to ask him to preside at the meeting. We parted at the Consul’s door, they to get circulars of invitation printed, and to make other arrangements, and I to confer with Hatty about the ladies who would be most likely to support us. In every step however the initiative was taken by others, and we only followed the guidance which was so distinct, that we could have no doubt at all about the Voice, saying, “This is the way; walk ye in it.” How often have I longed to have Hatty, my childhood’s beloved companion, associated with me in this holy work. You can imagine how sweet it is to me; and how full, and tender, and penetrating are her sympathy in, and her understanding of, the whole matter. The children are very good, Thekla a most lovable little maiden. Our days are very pleasant. Hatty takes me in her carriage the most beautiful drives. The first evening the sunset was lovely. Capri and Ischia were bathed in a sweet, pale rosy light, and the feathery cloud resting on Vesuvius was reddened and golden, and all these were again reflected in the smooth, pale blue waters of the bay. I wish every moment that you were here.

At the meeting we had no expressed opposition, but I was aware of an opposing current of thought and opinion in the room, which we were able to trace to its source, namely an English doctor. I thought he looked ominous as he entered with a great bundle of the Lancet under his arm, and I observed him whispering impatiently to his neighbours on each side as I spoke. It almost makes one smile to see that miserable Lancet brought forward as an authority in a great moral and humanitarian question like this. You can believe that Hatty and I returned to the house with our hearts full of thankfulness to God, and having arrived there that the word of command, “Tea, Giovanni,” was given with more thirsty eagerness than usual. Hatty says she believes Giovanni thinks our afternoon teas are a species of “culto,” which we “pagani” observe with great solemnity and punctuality. It was an afternoon meeting, as you will see. I should tell you that a resolution was passed, of sympathy with the work and the workers. Our friends here look anxiously to what may be done in Rome, and think that if some of the deputies and leading men would take up the question, and then send an invitation to them in Naples to co-operate with them, it would give the best chance for practical results here.

To her sister.

Turin, January 29th, 1875.

I live over again in thought the sweet days I spent with you. I look back upon that time as something sacred; but it leaves a blank in my heart. I realise more than before what a loss it is to us to be so far and so long separated, and I feel more than ever the tenacity of early affection, and the ties of kindred. Ah! how often I lie awake at night thinking of those hours we spent together. It was a sunshine and happiness to prepare me for the hard work which was to follow; and which is a suffering piece of work, though full of interest and hope. Going from city to city, tired and weary, always to meet with sharp opposition and cynicism, and ever new proofs of the vast and hideous oppression, is like running one’s breast upon knife points, always beginning afresh before the last wound is healed.

You understand, don’t you? I utter this little cry to you, but I am not despondent. This is really only physical weakness, I think, for I have to praise God for good work accomplished, and for souls inspired to work. “I know that my Redeemer liveth.” The hour of our redemption has struck! I say “our” for we have not only remembered those that are in bonds, as being bound with them, but actually suffered with them in spirit for long, long years. This may be but the beginning of the breaking of our bonds, and to our finite minds the Deliverer may seem long in coming. To the Lord a thousand years are but as one day, and one day as a thousand years; but the time is coming—is coming most surely. One thing we know, and that is, that all this cruelty and sin, this blinding and misleading of souls, this selfish profligacy, this slaughter of the innocents, this organised vice, this heavy oppression, this materialism which sets the body above the soul, profaning the sacred name of science, and making of her a “procuress to the lords of hell”—all this we know is hateful in the eyes of the Holy God, and we know that it must perish before the light of His countenance, when the arm of the Lord shall be revealed, and when His own arm shall bring salvation. Even out of the depths therefore we will praise Him, and rejoice for the day that is coming. Be strong in faith, my dear one; do not despair even for those poor captured victims, from their childhood forced into sin and shame, whose sorrowful sighing seems for a time to rise in vain to heaven. Can we love them so much, and doubt that God loves them far more than we? Our utmost pity is but a drop compared with the ocean of His pity for them. I feel a kind of triumph in that beautiful arrangement by which He has chosen the weak things of this world to confound the strong. It matters nothing at all what we are, provided we are but entirely willing to be made the instruments of His will, His agents in this world. I do not think we know the meaning of the word strength until we have fathomed our own utter weakness. I sometimes think of the lines about the “Steadfast Prince”—

To these my poor companions seem I strong,

And at some times, such am I, as a rock

That has upstood in middle ocean long,

And braved the winds and waters’ angriest shock,

Counting their fury but an idle mock:

Yet sometimes weaker than the weakest wave

That dies about its base, when storms forget to rave.

I from my God such strength have sometimes won,

That all the dark, dark future I am bold

To face—but oh! far otherwise anon,

When my heart sinks and sinks to depths untold

Till being seems no deeper depth to hold.

Did I tell you how I had been pleasantly haunted before I left home by the words, “Behold, I have set before thee an open door, and no man can shut it.” I often used to wake up suddenly at night with a fear lest I had been presumptuous to think of such a mission as this; and then these words would again and again sound in my soul, and almost in my ears, as if an angel had spoken them. Yes, it is true, if that hand opens the door, not all the powers of earth nor of hell can prevail to shut it.

To her sister.

Lausanne, February 13th, 1875.

My work is over in Switzerland. A hard ten days’ work rather. My evenings are rather lonely, and the cold at times is bitter; at Chaux-de-Fonds it was really cruel. But it is over; and I can only see the good part of it now. At several places committees have been formed. Switzerland has responded wonderfully. Let us thank God! As in Italy a man was found to devote his life wholly to the work, so in Switzerland a man has come forward ready for any service—it is M. Humbert. Is it not touching to see how God prepares hearts? I have asked him to meet me in Paris, that we may try and find a man in France also who will give his life to the cause. I got your precious telegram to-day. It seemed to bring a breath of southern warmth into the cold. There is a terribly sharp wind to-day. I long to hear from you again, for I feel as if I had found you again after many days. We shall now, though parted for long, weary seasons, work in heart and in prayer at least together; hope, believe together, and together “watch for the morning.” I wrote my last letter home in one of those large Swiss railway carriages, with tables and chairs, and a nice fire in the corner. I was alone, and piled logs of wood on my fire, and was quite warm, and at ease. They fence out the cold perfectly in the houses here. It is only out of doors that one feels it. The scenes on the Jura reminded me of pictures of the winter retreats of chamois, or of bear-hunting in Norway. Those enormous pines, such as George drew, look so handsome with their loads of newly-fallen snow and pendants of icicles, like jewels, in the sunlight. I was asked to go to Bienne and Basel, but I could not stay. I regret most of all not going to Zurich. There is life there, and it will join us, I am sure. But I feel I ought not to delay longer here. Our meeting here was a most excellent one of men and women in a church. Mr. Buscarlet spoke after I had spoken; he had in his hand a copy of the Edinburgh Daily Review, which he had just received from Scotland, and out of which he read, translating it as he went on, part of the speech of Mr. Stansfeld at Edinburgh, and giving the statistical proofs, so ably stated by him, of the physical failure of these laws. It was listened to with great interest. After every meeting in Switzerland some practical step has been agreed upon, and I have confidence that the separate efforts will develop ere long into a connected, organised work. It has been agreed that the speech made by Professor AimÉ Humbert, at NeuchÂtel, shall be printed and widely circulated. This is being put in hand at once. I was glad to hear a citizen of Berne say, with grave conviction, that he believed the greatest obstacle they would have to contend against in Germany would be from the German habit of judging, which denies to woman her place as man’s equal, makes her the mere house-wife and child-bearer, and gives her no voice at all even in these matters, which concern women most terribly and closely. This, he said, would be a dead weight; but they must fight against it, protest against it; for it was upon this equality and the equality of the moral standard for both sexes that the whole reform we seek must rest for its success. I was glad to hear this sentiment from a German-speaking Swiss, and to hear the same conviction, in other words, strongly expressed by others. Another Swiss gentleman said it seemed to him that it would be around this question that the great battle of the “droit de l’individu,” the principle of personal responsibility and freedom, would be fought in Europe—that right which the party of privilege, the absolutists, on the one hand, and the socialists on the other, destroy or deny. I had a most pleasant evening at the Buscarlets’. I love Madame Bridel. She has written to her son-in-law, M. E. de PressensÉ.

To Joseph Edmondson, and other friends.
Paris, February, 1875.

I write to you, dear friends, who may care to read this letter, a last letter before leaving France, and I want to tell you once more how wonderfully God has worked in this matter. I am filled with awe and gratitude when I think of it. I see His hand in all, and I think your prayers have followed and surrounded me: were it not so, I should hardly know how to account for many extraordinary interpositions when I was in extremities, and the kindness I have met with in every place. It is a touching history, and I now want to beg my friends in England not to be wanting in faith any more concerning this foreign work. I felt last autumn that most of my friends agreed to this part of the work because I wished it, rather than because they saw for themselves that it was a logical sequence to, and a necessary expansion of, our home work. Oh, if they could only see how hearts on the Continent are leaning towards England in this matter! We all fancied that our England was the only country which felt rightly, the only people which had groaned as just and good people under this evil and tyranny. It is not so. In no place which I have visited have I found a complete acquiescence in the evil, and in every place there has been, at one time or other, some active opposition breaking out here and there. But the evil has been too strong, and Governments have been too strong. Protests however have been made in almost every city at some time or other. Good and noble souls have laboured in secret, heroically, to try to undermine the system, and some have suffered persecution and contempt for the cause. I tell you all this because I want you to see, as I do, how providentially it seems that the open appeal to international effort should have come from England now. I want you to see how God has been training us, not for our battle in England alone, but for this battle of principles all over Europe. I am convinced that we should be simply fools if we were to be contented with achieving our own repeal victory. What do those English people, who care only for the interests of England, suppose would happen if we were to get repeal? Would they go back to their politics, their homes, their families, and be in no more danger? Not a bit of it. If we left the Continent unmoved and unhelped, we should not be safe for a year on our own soil. Whence did this particular evil come to us? Did it not come from the Continent? And what would hinder the infection from again invading us? But when once the open conflict is begun abroad, the case will be altered.

To her husband.

Paris, February, 1875.

It was a relief and rest to me, after seeing many sad places, to pay a visit to the “Maison des Diaconesses,” and to see the good work done there—the schools, hospital, and refuge. I dined with the deaconesses, and afterwards one of them took me to see the poor girls they rescue from misery and vice. They were all assembled, and this deaconess said to them, in a sweet, gentle voice, “I want you to look at this dear lady, my children. Yes, look at her well, for she is your friend, and perhaps you may never see her again. She is our friend; she has come to Paris to say that our bonds shall be broken.” And then she continued, speaking almost as a person speaks in a dream, and very solemnly,“Our bonds shall be broken. A time shall come when vice shall no more be organised and upheld by the law, to crush us down to hell. You understand what I mean, my children. Ah, you understand too well! She has come to Paris to oppose the great machinery which makes it so easy to sin, and so hard to escape. She brings you a message from Jesus to-day, my children, and asks you to love Him, and to look forward in hope. For our bonds shall be broken—ours; for we are sisters, we suffer with you.”

She explained further to them, very delicately and solemnly, till one saw they began to feel they had a part with us in the good war. I said a few words, and then we all sang a hymn together, about our bonds being broken, at the end of which this deaconess played a few notes on her harmonium, on which she had accompanied us, in which there came a minor tone of sadness for one moment, which seemed to express the hidden agony of the heart so well known to us, while we spoke only of hope to the poor girls.