Of course I went to see Dowie and Zion City; everybody did. The place lay within an hour’s railway journey of Chicago. Four years before it had been waste land. In the interval there had sprung up a railway station, an hotel called Elijah House, a whole town of residences, a huge tabernacle capable of holding seven thousand people, and a population of over ten thousand souls. Knowing his gross life, the horrible language he used, knowing also that he was hounded out of England for his vituperation against King Edward—his King, for Dowie was born in Edinburgh and had lived only sixteen years in the States—I was surprised to find such a charming, kindly old gentleman. A man nearly seventy years of age, short and stout like Ibsen, with a large strong head and a grey beard; such was “Elijah,” as he pleased to call himself. Dowie received me in a most magnificent, book-lined library; thousands of well-bound volumes—for which I have since heard he never paid—filled the shelves. Beside him on the table stood a machine that was clicking. “What is that?” I asked, having visions of dynamite. He solemnly handed me a telegram which read: “Tom and Mary Bateson” (or some such names) “are seriously ill; pray for them.” Looking me full in the face, he remarked: “Tom and Mary Bateson were cured at 2.55.” It was then 3.30. “How?” I asked. “Through my prayers,” he replied, “by faith.” And taking up a little piece of paper, he clicked on it through the machine. “A duplicate of this,” he explained, “has been posted to the sick man’s friends so that they may have the record, but of course they felt the benefit of the prayer the moment I gave it.” He spoke so solemnly, so impressively, and with such apparent belief in his own infallibility, that he greatly impressed me. I kept the piece of paper as a memento of the occasion. It is short and business-like, and is here reproduced: PRAYED NOV 2 2-55 PM 1904 JOHN ALEX. DOWIE. The man was a charlatan. One felt it in his eyes and in the grasp of his hand; and yet at the same time there was so much enthusiasm about him, it was easy to understand how people came under his sway. Not one of those ten thousand persons, who then filled Zion City, drank alcohol, smoked tobacco, swore, gambled, or ate swine’s flesh. The people, whether from fear or love I know not, certainly worshipped the prophet. Unlike the Christian Scientists, he believed in illness, and said it was punishment for sin and would be cured by prayer. When I saw him he was revelling in every imaginable luxury, decked his wife in diamonds and fine gowns, ate off superb mahogany and handsome silver. Dowie was rich and prosperous, for every one of his followers was forced to give him a tenth of all he earned. Yet such were his extravagances that the largest shop in Chicago took possession of one of his summer residences, and let it, so that the rent might pay their bill.