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Herbert sang and whistled in his bath next morning. In a way, this was his expedition -a secret reconnaissance, as Dr. Dowie called it.

Deacon Halsey was sent to walk south on Michigan Avenue to Central Zion Tabernacle. Attorney Endi­cott was hustled off to walk north on the avenue to the Logan Statue. Herbert, walking faster, was to be at the Auditorium Annex. By this arrangement no one at the Home would suspect that the General Overseer and these three went away together.

The General Overseer's carriage, driven by Otto Berger, with Captain Erdman on the box, picked up the three at their appointed places and took them to the Wells Street station. When Herbert joined them at the Annex he almost laughed to see his chieftain arrayed in an old ulster of Captain Erdman's, the high collar turned up, his prophetic beard stowed away in its bosom, and a black slouch hat pulled down over his eyes.

"Make sure you remember to address me always as Mr. Alexander," he reminded Herbert in a stage whis­per. That young man nodded and succeeded in keep­ing his face straight.

"Perhaps all this play-acting is necessary," he thought. "Anyhow, the G. O. can't afford to take


chances. But, gosh, doesn't he get a lot of fun out of it!"

At Waukegan the party found that Captain Erd­man, as usual, had carried out his instructions well. He had an unusual gift of understanding the spirit as well as perfectly memorizing the letter of his or­ders. As a result, he not only met unforeseen demands but often supplied needs of the occasion better than his chief had asked. It was true in this case. Carriages for the party were from different stables and one waited at each end of the platform. One-a cur­tained surrey--carried the General Overseer, Deacon Halsey, Deacon Worcester, and Herbert, who took the reins. The other, a top buggy, was for Captain Erdman, who drove, and Attorney Endicott. In it was also the party's picnic lunch.

It was a warm, sunny day and the General Overseer was expansive. God was smiling on their enterprise, he told his companions.

Soon they arrived at the southern boundary of the site. Herbert began pointing out its features. At about this point a road-none too good-ran eastward to the lake shore. Down this they drove. Curtains on the surrey had been rolled up and the whole party was feasting eyes on this flat swampy waste as if it were at least another Grand Canyon.

After a half hour of this gloating they climbed back into their livery rigs, their shoes full of already sacred sand, and drove back to the main road. Here they turned north and within a mile or two passed a quaint little country cemetery.

"This," said Herbert, "is the old neighborhood



burying ground. It lies close to the middle of the tract and is, as you see, on the main north and south road. It probably could not be bought, more's the pity. But it is small and is pretty good-looking for a cemetery."

“I would not disturb it for the world," said Dr. Dowie. “My own body, if I should fall asleep before Christ returns, will lie in Zion Temple; but some of the builders of Zion City may sleep here among those who pioneered the land many years ago."

A half mile farther north was a handsome modern farm-house in the midst of well-kept orchards and gardens. "This farm," explained Herbert, "belongs to Luther Nettus, one of the wealthiest property-owners on the site. He is owner of the hill. Suppose we ask him if we may go in and have our lunch there."

There was no little discussion as to which one of the party should make the request. Dr. Dowie was afraid of having anyone in the party recognized. Finally, St. John Worcester was chosen as being, at the time, least publicly identified with Zion's business affairs.

The little engineer's quest was successful, Mr. Net­tus himself coming out, opening the wagon gate, and directing the party how best to reach his grove. The horses were watered as they passed through the barn­yard and, unhitched, were fed as soon as a little grassy open space in the grove was reached. Lunch-baskets were unloaded and opened, Captain Erdman, assisted by Herbert, serving a luncheon which proved that Fred Jeffords could provide excellent food.

The noonday sun of April was warm and promis­ing, some few dandelions were like newly minted coinage 



in the grass, and, although the oaks were still bare, there were many flashes of delicate pink, green, lavender, and yellow among the shrubs. Delicate, in­toxicating odors drifted through the golden air. Springtime rioted in the veins of the six men.

They ate ravenously but thought little of food. They laughed, they sang, they "saw visions and dreamed dreams." They "prophesied."

When they had eaten, they walked about and viewed the landscape from every available outlook. Their enthusiasm grew until the General Overseer could contain his no longer. Making the other five sit down on the grass, facing him, he held an impromptu meeting. After they had recited their thirty-fifth chapter of Isaiah and sung "We're Marching to Zion," with tears running freely and voices that wa­vered and all but broke down, the General Overseer prayed in an ecstasy of gratitude and praise.

After this he talked long. His voice rang out like a trumpet-call; then \blared cock-like in triumph; it was hushed and husky with awe and humility; it wa­vered, broke, sobbed with emotion; it gibed, jeered, and taunted his absent enemies; it roared defiance to the Devil and his forces of evil in the world; it lashed and snarled at possible traitors in his own camp; it caressed and comforted the sick, the poor, the lonely, the oppressed, and promised them health, prosperity, and happiness, together with his own love and affec­tion; it laughed and joked and teased.

The General Overseer poured out on five men all the fervor and dramatic intensity he had ever lavished upon five thousand. His talk was of the future of


Zion and Zion City. It was rich with quoted scripture. Every promise to "Zion" recorded in the Bible now became applicable to this piece of land and its future inhabitants. Take a concordance and look them up-­you will see what an irresistible force they could be made in the mouth of a great preacher.

The five who heard him were carried far out of the world of reality. For them the city was built, more beautiful than any other city on earth, and its God­like citizens were enjoying peace, prosperity, and a physical and moral cleanliness never before known. Every difficulty was overcome, all problems were solved, all discords harmonized.

It was all so simple. Just obey the Will of God in the person of John Alexander Dowie!

"God has led me wonderfully to this site for Zion City," the speaker continued, closing: "From the first I felt that He revealed to me that Zion City should be built on the shore of Lake Michigan, between Chi­cago and Milwaukee. Everything, humanly speaking; was in favor of such a selection. I have always loved the sea, and I have loved Lake Michigan. It gives a majesty, a distinction, a wide and inspiring horizon' to a city built on its shore that no inland city can ever hope to have. Then, too, the lake shore is being rapidly built up with residential suburbs of the best class. Its value is and always will be rising. Nothing can ever depress it, because no one can ever add one yard to its length. In other words, it is strictly exclusive and lim­ited real estate. I felt sure, therefore, that Zion City ought to be built somewhere near the Wisconsin state line. When I first set out to look for a site, I was




tempted to come up here at once and find it. But I wanted to be doubly sure, however, so I sent our splen­did young manager of Zion Land and Investment As­sociation, Deacon Renbrush, down to the Indiana shore to work right around from southeast to north, spying out the land and reporting to me upon what he saw. His reports confirmed my own conviction that there was no site anywhere comparable with this one. As you have seen and heard for yourselves to­day, he enthusiastically agrees with me."

The remainder of the afternoon was spent driving wherever roads would take them on the twelve to fifteen square miles under consideration.

Often they sang for joy as the~ rode along. Be­tween songs, St. John Worcester was called upon to estimate altitudes, acreages, possibilities of drainage, character of soil, beds of clay for brick and gravel for concrete, and many other data.

Herbert had to do his best to forecast how much each farmer would demand for his property-also how many lots could be cut out of an acre and how much each could be sold for.

As a result there was some mental arithmetic on this order: "Twelve square miles is nearly eight thou­sand acres. Suppose I buy it for an average of one hundred and fifty dollars an acre. That makes a little more than a million dollars. Now suppose we set aside four square miles for factories, streets, parks, and so forth: that leaves eight square miles or a little more than five thousand acres to be divided up into lots and sold. With five good big lots to the acre, selling at an average of a thousand dollars a lot, there is an



assured return of twenty-five million dollars. Take off five million dollars for expenses of road building, sewers, overhead, and so forth, and we have a clear profit, on the residence lots alone, of twenty million dollars. That belongs to your investors in Zion Land and Investment Association, Herbert. Do you think you can sell your stock with that clear profit for them in plain sight?"

Herbert, being young and not much accustomed to thinking in millions, saw the profit almost as plainly as did his chief. If the banker, the lawyer, and the engineer had doubts, they were silent about them. Thus the great day ended on a high note.

On the way home Dr. Dowie said, "Herbert, did you not tell me, when you first came to Zion, that you had a friend in a real-estate office in Chicago?"

"Yes, General Overseer. Philip Carter graduated from college in the class ahead of me. He's working for P. D. Wouldt & Company, in La Salle Street, or was the last I knew. I haven't been in touch with him recently."

"What kind of man is he?"

"One of the finest on earth, General Overseer, except that he's not in Zion."

"Can he hold his tongue in seven languages?"

"Well," laughed Herbert, "I'm afraid he doesn't know that many, but he's a pretty close-mouthed old guy."

"Is he a good trader?"

"Well, it was his trading ability that made him take up real estate. His father is a dealer in farm real



estate in Minnesota and Phil got his start buying farms and farmlands for his father."

"Look here, then; do you go and see him. Study him. See how he has come on since he left college. Find out, if you can, what he's been doing here in Chicago. Then report to me."

The outcome was that Philip Carter was commissioned by Dr. Dowie to go and buy between seven thousand and eight thousand acres of land.

"Now, Mr. Carter," said the General Overseer, when they had come to terms, "I need not impress upon you the need for superhuman discretion. Your activities are going to make a great deal of talk and conjecture, not only in the neighborhood, but in Kenosha, Waukegan, and Chicago. Reporters, real-­estate men, and thousands of other people will try to get you to tell them whom you represent. I shall have to rely on you not only to refrain from telling out­right but so to conduct yourself as to keep them from guessing. "

“It occurs to me, Doctor," Carter replied, "that you have made it almost impossible to keep the thing from being pinned on you. You have a bank, which you call Zion City Bank. You have a Zion Land office. You have publicly announced that you are going to build a city, and you are publicly receiving funds to use in buying the site. You even go so far as to take people's stock in your land company in ex­change for lots. Now, when it gets talked around that somebody is buying a big block of land in Lake County, it will take a pretty dumb real-estate re­porter not to put two and two together."



"Ah, but I shall drag a red herring across my trail -indeed, a whole school of herring. I shall keep the newspapers of Chicago, and indeed of the whole world, so busy with my other activities that they will forget all about my little bank and my obscure land office."

"Well, Doctor, if you can do that, my hat's off to you. In our business we find publicity mighty hard to get unless we pay good money for it."

"That's because you don't understand my involun­tary friends the newspapers. You are nice to them and they pay no attention to you. I fight them tooth and nail and they give me more free advertising than any other man in Chicago. Sometimes I am occupied with other affairs and do not pay much attention to the newspapers. Then they say little or nothing about me. But I can always stir them up and get dozens of columns of publicity whenever I need it."






The summer of 1899 was quiet. With the selec­tion of a site for Zion City, Herbert's trips into the city ceased. Dr. Dowie and his family spent a large part of the summer at their country home, Ben MacDhui, in Michigan. This set free many of his evenings. He reported by letter instead of spending hours in talk or in standing by the General Overseer's side while that indefatigable taker of pains revised proof sheets or documents.

Dr. Dowie refused to look at anything for publica­tion until it had been set up in type and a proof taken. His sermons were delivered extemporaneously, taken down by expert shorthand reporters, tran­scribed on the typewriter, copy-read by Nancy Har­row, and set in type. Huge piles of proofs were revised every week. Dr. Dowie, John and Nancy Harrow, and a big force of printers usually made an all-night job of it on Friday nights, "Leaves of Heal­ing" being published every Saturday.

Hour after hour the great man toiled, pen in hand. He wrote slowly, accurately, drawing each letter. His handwriting was striking, letters stiffly upright, tall and thin, every stroke precise, the up-strokes light, the down-strokes straight and heavy.

In revising proofs he often filled both four-inch margins on the sides and both six-inch margins top



and bottom with this uncompromising chirography, John Harrow standing by his side and looking over his shoulder, a service insisted upon. It was a bigger job for printers to correct these proofs than it had been to set up the type. Their work was done at night, so they were paid double the hourly rate. It was a mountain of labor, but "Leaves of Healing" had a reputation in the printing and publishing world for typographical excellence.

Double pay for printers troubled John Harrow, whose ancestors had helped to tame the asperities of nature on and about Massachusetts Bay and on the seas. One of his dreams of bliss was to have the Gen­eral Overseer set aside Thursday for reading proofs of "Leaves of Healing." During regular daylight hours of Thursday and Friday the alterations could be made and "double time" avoided. John believed in his dream; hoped and, Nancy said, even expected to see it come true.

Dr. Dowie also believed, hoped, and expected-or seemed to. Every Wednesday night when he left his office he gave orders to Captain Erdman and Murray that the morrow was to be devoted to "Leaves of Healing." Deacon Harrow was instructed to be on hand promptly at eight o'clock in the morning, with all his proofs in readiness.

And it was again Friday night, at nine, when the great editor attacked his proofs. Meantime, John Harrow had sat outside the door and waited while his chief attended to "urgent" affairs and "emergencies."

Executives and workers at Zion headquarters always said good-by to their General Overseer with




loverlike wails at parting, and then breathed a deep but carefully hidden sigh of relief when he was gone. Now they would get caught up in their work and would have some assurance of an evening or two away from duty.

Dr. Dowie went with a truckload of trunks and a retinue of cooks, maids, secretaries, attendants, gar­deners, boatmen, mechanics, and watchmen. He promised Mrs. Dowie and his son and daughter that he would stay a month. Within a week, or even ear­lier, he might be seen returning to Chicago with his trunks and a large part of his entourage. Life at Zion headquarters was never monotonous.,

Herbert had seen Edith Brelin, from afar, at the Tabernacle every Sunday. He had even found him­self searching her out before taking his seat so that he could sit where he could look at her without too much danger of being caught at it. He had met her a few times after the services. She had always been cor­dial. Once she had said to him, "What on earth do you do with your evenings, Mr. Renbrush?"

"Sh!" he said, "don't talk so loud. I'm always in my office trying to make folks think I'm industrious."

"Humph! What a waste! I'm going to have some young folks at my flat next Thursday night. You'd better come and play with us."

"Thank you, I'll come."

John and Nancy Harrow had also been invited, and the three went together to Woodlawn, where Miss Brelin lived. They were the first arrivals. Their hostess was dressed in some kind of filmy blue that matched her eyes. She presented them to her mother.



Mrs. Brelin's smooth masses of silver-white hair, glowing, youthful complexion, and brown eyes, full of fun and intelligence, attracted Herbert at once. He found her frank, wholesome, self-possessed, and began to devote his evening to her. Semi-consciously he was a little ashamed of hiding thus behind mother's skirts because he was afraid of daughter-of her beauty, her physical attractiveness, the charm of her personality. He grinned derisively at himself. Edith laughed at him too. "Nancy and I can at least admire your taste, Mr. Renbrush. Mother's a real person, if I do say it. But trust her not, she's a flatterer and de­ceiver."

“It would be an honor and a privilege," replied Herbert, "to be flattered and deceived by her."

"Oh, so you can make fine speeches," said Edith.

"’In vain is the net,' Edith," laughed Mrs. Brelin, as Herbert, embarrassed, did not reply. "There's the door-bell."

Young Stoneham appeared and immediately dem­onstrated that no matter how violently he might feel Miss Brelin's charm, he was not afraid of exposing himself to it. Herbert was both relieved and jealous. Again he laughed at himself.

Eric Usher, commercial artist, came next, bring­ing his fiancée, Lillian Archer, and her sister, Juliet. Lillian, a plump blonde, pretty and feminine, talked too much about "our dear Lord Jesus."

Last of all came Mr. and Mrs. Leon Steelhaver of Cleveland. Leon was an illustrator, friend of Eric Usher, who had been with him in art school, and of Edith Brelin, for some of whose stories he had drawn




pictures. Of medium height, stockily built, he looked athletic and a lover of the out-of-doors. But there was a hint of the scholar in his high head, broad above the brows but narrow at the ears, covered with soft, dark, waving hair. His clean-cut face and open, can­did eyes expressed sympathy, kindliness, and too much credulity. He frankly showed ardent love for his wife, who returned his affection with submission and worship. It almost frightened Herbert to see them so utterly devoted and so happy about it. What a tragedy if anything should happen to shatter the heaven they two had built and inhabited!

Mrs. Brelin's ice-cream, cake, and coffee were de­licious, and these people were more congenial than Herbert had hoped to find in Zion. While they ate, he talked with Leon Steelhaver and his wife.

“We've only just come into Zion," confided Leon. “Eric has been after me a long time, sending me the 'Leaves' and other literature. I didn't pay much at­tention until Edith Brelin and her mother joined. Then we took it all to God in prayer and He opened our hearts to the Truth. Now we're in, we're hap­pier than ever before. Isn't it glorious the way God answers Doctor Dowie's prayers? We came to Chicago to have him pray for Ada so that we may have the crowning joy of dear little children in our home."

After that evening at Edith Brelin's, Herbert bought a bicycle. He had no conscious intention of courting anyone and he felt that going about with girls was playing with fire. Yet he bought a tandem.

After a ride with Edith, one evening, he gladly ac­cepted Mrs. Brelin's invitation to come in.


Over cake and coffee she said, “I hear the General Overseer is rebuilding Ben MacDhui this summer."

I guess that's right. Captain Erdman writes me they have carpenters at work there."

“Carpenters!" laughing. "Mrs. McAssey is over there, as housekeeper for the help's cottages, and she writes me the General Overseer's building a palace and making a park around it-acres and acres of lawns and gardens. I'd like to see it, wouldn't you?"

“Mother," chided Edith, “that's almost gossip."

“Not ‘almost,' child. It is gossip. I don't defend it. I don't excuse it. I just like it. However, it's no secret. Mrs. McAssey says there are about a hundred Zion men and women at work over there."

“But Ben MacDhui is Doctor Dowie's private home," said Edith-“the only place on earth where he's likely to get much privacy, and I should say he'd probably like it better if we didn't even discuss what he does there. It's none of our business."

"Isn't she a noble young woman?" asked Mrs. Brelin, appealing to Herbert. Then she sobered, her eyes grew soft, and she patted her daughter's hand. “You really are, too, Edith," she said, “and your mother's an old cat."

“No, Mother, you're a brick. I forgive you every­thing else because you told Mr. Renbrush his friends don't see him often enough. I wouldn't dare tell him that myself, and yet he ought to be scolded for the error of his ways."

"That," said Herbert, “is such sweet music I want to go home with it ringing in my ears," and he said his good nights.