When He Walked With the King
He must have been a huge, unwieldy egotistical brute who said, "Big men have ever big frames." He might have had Samuel Johnson, Walter Scott, Lincoln or Washington in mind; but, standing ready there to hurl the glib lie in his teeth, were Napoleon, Hamilton, St. Paul, Tamerlane, and the Rev. Dr. Jo. Belloc, President of the Western Theological College in Chicago. He was five feet high in his stockinged feet, thin and wiry, with a large gray head, a short gray beard and keen gray eyes of piercing intensity. When you saw him on the street, you hardly saw him at all; when you met him in a crowded room, you felt that the spirit behind those eyes was a strong one; and when you heard him speak, he grew tall and taller in your eyes—you instinctively removed your hat, for now you knew that a great man and teacher was here.
Why should such a one devote his power to mere denominationalism? Ah, you do not understand. He answered thus to a hostile critic: "My friend, the harvest is huge, the labourers are few; we need more, and many more than we have. If they be of simple sort and not too strong, we teach them the sweep and cut of the scythe, the width of the swathe, the height of the stubble, the knot of the sheaf-band, all that is safe, neither to waste the crop, nor their time, nor cut their fellow harvesters in the legs. But, if we find a giant with his own mode, who cuts a double swath, leaves ragged stubble, smashes oft his scythe, but saves a wondrous lot of grain, we say: 'Praise God! You're doing well; the rules are for the helpless as the fence is for the sheep; but you we judge by your results; keep on.'"
Dr. Belloc was in his office when there came for an interview a man who towered above him as they shook hands. The president motioned him to a seat; then as he turned those piercing eyes on the comely countenance of his caller, the prophet's description of the youthful David came to his mind, "Now, he was ruddy and withal of a beautiful countenance and goodly to look to."
"What can I do for you?" asked the big little man who filled the room, but did not fill the chair.
Jim modestly stated that he believed he had a call to preach the Gospel and he wished to enter college. Then, in answer to questions, he told his story with simple sincerity and fervour. The keen gray eyes were glowing like coals, and although no word was spoken by the man whose soul looked through them, Jim felt his earnest, kindly spirit. He felt, as never before, that "here is one who understands. Here is one in whom I have absolute confidence. Here is one whom I should love to obey."
This leader stirred Jim to the depths. His best, his inmost soul came forth to speak in response to the master mind; and the older man smiled when he heard how the Preacher had hated the books at Coulter. "Coulter," he said, "is a good old college, we accept their entrance; but it is quite likely that our curriculum may more quickly win your interest than theirs did."
As the president pondered the question that had brought them together, the second part of the lines of Samuel's description of David rose in his mind: "Arise and anoint him, for this is he." But the college had its own way of saying these big things; documents, questions, boards, had each a bearing on the matter, or a drop of ink to spend, and each offered a delay to the decisive action that the President had then and there resolved on. But they slowly ran their course and in the early autumn Jim was back, a college boy, and Belle had taken up the ruler's post at the Club.
It was easier every month for Jim to fight the battle with the books, where before he had been badly beaten. No doubt he was helped by his determination to win the fight and by Belle; but the two great reasons were that he, himself, was more developed—had outgrown the childish restlessness of the first attempt; and last but strongest of all, was the compelling personality of the president. With what consummate tact had he first offered to Jim's wild spirit the concrete, the simple, the history of to-day, the things that clearly were of immediate use; and later—much later, and in lesser degree—the abstruse, the doctrinal. And when the younger mind of the student came to a place that seemed too hard, or met a teacher who was deadening in his dullness, it needed but a little heart-to-heart talk with the strong soul in the robe to brace him up, to spur him on.
The president soon discovered Jim's love for heroic verse and at once, by wise selection, made it possible to tie that up with books. When Jim betrayed his impatience of fine-split doctrines, the president bade him forget them and read the lives of Luther, Calvin, and Wesley—take in the facts; the principles, so far as they had value, would take care of themselves. Such methods were unknown to his former teachers. Such presentation—vivid, concrete, human—was what he could understand, and accept with joy.
Two years went by. The first six months seemed slow; The last eighteen all too rapid. Jim had won his fight, he had more than won, for he was valedictorian of his class. The graduation class was much like any other, as the world could see it, yet it differed, too. When the tall form of the student speaker was left standing alone on the platform, there were not lacking those who said: "Never before has one gone from these halls so laden with good gifts; all, all seems showered on him."
In the audience, bound by closer ties than kinship, was one whose heart was too full for any human utterance. For her it was the crowning of their lives; had she not helped to make it possible?
After the set programme was over, Dr. Belloc handed to Jim an official letter. It was a call to be the pastor of the church in Cedar Mountain. Jim could not see the typed words for his tears and the president took it from him to read aloud. As he listened to the words Jim's thought turned to his mother, and in his heart he prayed: "O, God, grant this: that she may see me now."
Reader of this tale, do you recall the history of Cedar Mountain—how the church grew strong in the newly given strength? Those of many diverse churches came, for they said: "We care not what the vessel's shape that draws the blessed water from the well, so long as it be always there and the water pure and plentiful." Then came the great gold strike in the near hills; and the Preacher was troubled till he learned that it had not touched his mountain. Another railway came, and the town grew big and bigger yet. There were those that feared that their Preacher might leave them, for the needs and calls of the great cities are ever loud and forceful. They said: "Our town is not big enough for such a man; he will surely go to the city." But it was not so; for the city came to the man and mightily grew about him.
Two years after the return to Cedar Mountain, late in the day, designedly late, two horses might have been seen ascending the crooked trail through the cedars that mantled the mountain. Familiar forms were these that rode. They had often taken this path before. The first was the Preacher; the second, the woman that had held his hand. But in her arms was another—the baby form of their first-born. This was their first long ride together since he came, this was the elected trail; and, as the big, red sun went down in the purple and gold of his curtains, Jim took the baby and led the way up the last rough trail, to the little upland, right to the Spirit Rock. The red symbols of the Indians had been recently renewed; in a crevice was a shred of tobacco wrapped in red-dyed grass. It was still a holy place, accounted so by those who knew it.
From the bundle that he carried on his back, Jim took a handful of firewood, a canteen of water, and a church baptismal bowl. He filled the bowl and set it on the lowest ledge of the Spirit Rock. Before the rock he lighted a little fire and, when it blazed, he dropped into the flames the tobacco from the crevice. "That is what they wished done with it," he said in reverence. When the thread of smoke went up nearly straight into the sky—an emblem of true prayer that has ever been—he kneeled, and Belle beside him with the little one kneeled, and he prayed to the God of the Mountain for continued help and guidance and returned thanks for the little one whom they had brought that day to consecrate to Him.
Jim wished it. Belle willed it. His mother, he knew, would have had it so. There seemed no better place than this, the holiest place his heart had ever known. There was no better time than this, the evening calm, with all the symbols of His Presence in their glory.
Belle handed the infant to Jim, who sprinkled water on its face, baptizing it in the form of the Church, and then added: "I consecrate thee to God's service, and I name thee William in memory of the friend of my childhood, a man of wayward life, but one who helped to build whatever there is in me of strength, for he never was afraid, and he ever held his simple word as a bond that might not be broken."