CHAPTER XLIX
The Power of Personality
"Who is that?" said an elderly man in one of the buggies that passedHartigan after the adventure with the baulky horse.
"I think it's the new preacher," said the driver. "Anyhow, we can easilysee." They watched the buckboard with the black horse and saw it turn inat the white cottage.
"My guess was right, Mr. Hopkins," said the driver. "I haven't been inchurch for two years, but I'm going to hear that fellow preach nextSunday, all right."
"Why don't you go to church?" said the older man, who by his dress andmanner was apparently some one of social importance.
"Oh, I dunno. I got out of the habit when I came out West," said thedriver.
"Why do you want to hear this man?"
"Well, he kind o' makes one think he's 'some punkins.' He's a real man.He ain't just a sickly dough-lump as the bunch mostly is."
John Hopkins, President of the Dakota Flour and Milling Company, Regentof Madison University, man of affairs, philosopher and patron of a greatmany things, was silent for some time. He was pondering the question ofthe day and the light just thrown on it. Why don't men go to church?This Black Hills driver had answered: "Because the preachers are a bunchof dough-lumps." Whatever this might mean, it was, at best, a backhandedcompliment to Hartigan. Yet, the driver was anxious to hear the newpreacher. Why? Because he was impressed with his personality. It allresolved itself into that; the all-ruling law of personality. How wise,thought Hopkins, was the Church that set aside rules, dogmas, andscholastic attainments to make room for a teacher of real personality;such was the Founder's power.
Along with the livery driver and a hundred more than the church couldhold, Hopkins went that night to the Evangelical Church to hearHartigan. The Preacher's choice of hymns was martial; he loved thetrumpets of the Lord. His prayers were tender and sincere; and hissermon on kindness--human kindness, spontaneous, for its own sake, notdictated by a creed--was a masterpiece of genuine eloquence. His faceand figure were glorified in his effort. The story of his activesympathy with the injured horse had got about, and won the hearts ofall. They came ready to love him, and--responding to the warm, magneticinfluence--he blazed forth into the compelling eloquence that was nativeto his Celtic blood. He was gentle and impassioned; he spoke as neverbefore. They heard him breathlessly; they loved his simple, Irish commonsense. He held them in the hollow of his hands. The half hour allottedhad been reached, and his story was told, and yet, not fully told. For amoment he paused, while his eyes sought a happy face in the nearest pew.Belle gently drew her watch. Mindful of their careful plan, he stoppedat the signal, raised his hands, and said, "Let us pray." With one greatsigh, the congregation kneeled before him, and with him, in body andspirit, and prayed as they never before had prayed in Deadwood.
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After the service the young preacher came forward to meet the people. Hewas uplifted and radiant with a sense of power, with all the magicinfluence of the place and thought; and they crowded round him, manywith tears in their eyes.
An elderly man of polished manner pushed through the circle and shookhim by the hand. "I'm a stranger in town," he said; "here's my card. MayI call on you to-morrow?"
"Certainly," said the Preacher. And the stranger disappeared.
There was a holy joy enveloping the little white cottage that night asthey sat together reviewing the events of the day. "Don't you see, Jim,how much better it was to stop then? It's a thousand times better tohave them go away saying: 'Why did he stop so soon?' rather than: 'Yes,wonderful, inspiring; but too long.' They will now be keener than everto hear you. You never spoke so well before. Oh, my dear, I was never soproud of you! Now I know, without a doubt, that you are a chosen vesselof the Lord."
He held her in his mighty arms and kissed the gold-brown hair. "It's allyour doing, Belle. I'm a rudderless ship without you." Then, after along pause: "I'm thinking of my first visit to Deadwood."
She spoke no word, but pressed her frail face against the knottedmuscles of his great throat and gently stroked his cheek.
The Preacher of Cedar Mountain: A Tale of the Open Country Page 50