Ernest Seton - The Preacher of Cedar Mountain

"Here we are again at the beginning of a new chapter; and again it starts on the old Deadwood trail."

It was a long but easy journey down south to the Union Pacific, and finally east to Chicago. And when the young couple, whom the passengers watched with much interest, arrived at the great city, they found half a dozen men and women of importance awaiting them at the Union Station, with more servants to assist them than they had pieces of luggage. Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, with their own carriage, were in attendance to offer the hospitality of their house to the Rev. James Hartigan and his bride. It was a long drive to Englewood; but everything that kind friends, clear skies, and human forethought could do to make it pleasant was fully done. For the time being, they were installed in the Hopkins mansion—a veritable palace—and for the first time Jim had the chance to learn how the rich folk really live. While it was intensely interesting, he was eager to see the field of his future work. Belle, however, agreed with their host and hostess that it would be worth while to see a little of Chicago first.

The stockyards are either fascinating or intensely disgusting. The Hartigans had their fill of them in five minutes. The Art Institute had not yet been built, but there were museums and galleries and good music in many places. Lincoln Park and the great rolling, gusty lake were pleasant to behold; but to Jim, the biggest thing of all—the thing of which the buildings and the crowds were mere manifestations—was the vast concentration of human life, strife, and emotion—the throb and compulsion of this, the one great heart of the West.

There was dirt in the street everywhere; there were hideous buildings and disgusting vulgarities on every side, and crime in view on nearly every corner; but still one had to feel that this was the vital spot, this the great blood centre of a nation, young, but boiling with energy, boundless in promise—a city with a vital fire in its heart that would one day burn the filth and dross away and show the world the dream of the noblest dreamers all come true—established, gigantic, magnificent. There is thrill and inspiration—simple, natural, and earthy—in the Canyon where the Cheyenne cut the hills; but this was a different thrill that slowly grew to a rumble in Jim's heart as he felt the current floods of mind, of life, of sin, of hope that flowed from a million springs in that deep Wabash Canyon that carved in twain the coming city of ten million hopes that are sprung from the drifted ashes of a hundred million black and burnt despairs.

Hartigan had ever been a man of the saddle and the open field; but gazing from the top of that tall tower above the station, sensing the teeming life, the sullen roar, far below, he glimpsed another world—a better thing, for it was bigger—which, in its folded mantle, held the unborn parent, the gentler-born parent, of the mighty change—the blessed cleanup that every wise man prays for and works to bring about.

What place were they to occupy in this maelstrom? Two ways were open—one, to dwell in the dungeons and the horrors as poor among the poor; the other, to come as different beings—as frequent visitors—from another world. Jim, with his whole-souled abandon, was for the former; but Belle thought that all he would gain in that way would be more than offset by loss of touch with the other world. At that time those two worlds were at war and she contended that his place was to stand between the world of power and the world of need.

Their compromise was a little flat on the second floor of a house in Englewood, near enough to the rolling Lake to afford a glimpse of it and convenient to the open stretch that is now the famous Jackson Park. Here, with pretty rugs and curtains and pictures of horses and hills, they lined the home nest and gathered the best thoughts of the lives they had lived. Here at all times they could come assured of peace and rest.

Then came the meeting with the Board of Deacons, the preliminary visits to the field of work, where the streets were full of misery and the slum life rampant. A few short blocks away was another world—a world of palaces. Jim had never before seen massed misery; he had never before seen profligate luxury, and the shock of contrast brought to him the sudden, overwhelming thought: "These people don't want preaching, they want fair play. This is not a religious question, it is an economic question." And in a flash: "The religious questions are economic questions," and all the seemingly wild utterances of old Jack Shives came back, like a sudden overwhelming flood at the breaking of a dam. In an instant he was staggering among the ruins of all in religious thought that he had held holy.

When he reached their apartment that evening he was in a distraught condition. For some time he paced up and down. At last he said: "I must go out, Belle. I must walk alone." He spoke with intense emotion. He longed for his mountain; there was but one thing like it near—the mighty, moving lake. He put on his hat and strode away. Belle wanted to go with him, but he had not asked her; her instinct also said "no"; besides, there was the physical impossibility of walking with him when he went so striding. She sat down in the dusk to wonder—to wait.

He went to the lake shore. A heavy gale was blowing from the north and the lake was a wild waste. It touched him as the sage plains did; and the rough wind helped him by driving away all other folk afoot. Northward he went, feeling, but seeing nothing, of the rolling waters. Jack Shives with his caustic words came back to mind: "It's their 'fore-God duty to steal if their babies are hungry and they can't feed them any other way." Jim had never seen these things before; now they were the whole world; he had seen nothing else these slumming days. His spiritual ferment was such that, one by one, all the texts he had read came back as commentaries on this new world of terror. He recalled the words of the Master: "Your Heavenly Father knoweth ye have need of these things"; the fearful doom of those that "offend these little ones"; the strict injunction to divide with the needy and care for the helpless; and again, the words, "The Kingdom of heaven is within you"—not in a vague, unplaced world after death, but here, now—and those who thought that, by placating the custodians of costly edifices, they were laying up "treasure in heaven" were blindly going to destruction.

He strode in the night with his brain awhirl. The old texts held for him some new power: "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added into you"; and again, "The kingdom of heaven is within you"; "Sell all that thou hast and give to the poor." In vain he sought for inspired words that would reestablish the happy land beyond the grave that his teachers had ever pictured in set phrase. Yet every word of the Master pointed the other way. " Here "; " now "; and " first within " was the kingdom. And the hollowness of all the rich man's preachment—that the poor must suffer patiently in hope of a reward beyond the grave—was more and more a hideous stratagem as in his mind arose together two portrait types: the pinched, sullen, suffering face of the slums and the bloated, evil face to be found on the boulevard.

The mockery of it horrified as the immensity of it all swamped him. He had no mind, no equipment, for the subtleties of theology, and his head was a whirl of maddening contradictions, till the memory of his mother's simple devotion came like a cooling drink in his fever: "Never mind trying to reason it all out; you can't do it; no one can. Only ask what would the Master have done?" Yes, that was easy. "Feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick"; and turning, he wheeled homeward. The upheaval of all foundations seemed less dreadful. He could not expect to reason it all out. It was enough to do as the Master would have done; and, whether it was the feeding of the multitude, the healing of the lepers, the gentleness to the woman taken in adultery, or the helping of the man who fell among thieves, there was no doctrine, no preaching—only kindness shown as sympathy and physical help in their troubles, here and now. The words of another childhood friend came back to him—those of Fighting Bill Kenna. He used to say, "I don't care a dom what he is, if he's a good neighbour." Yet the neighbour in question was a papist and they were kind and friendly every day of the year, except on those two set apart by the devil to breed hate. Kenna was right where his heart led him and wrong where his creed was guide.