The Power of Personality
"Who is that?" said an elderly man in one of the buggies that passed
Hartigan after the adventure with the baulky horse.
"I think it's the new preacher," said the driver. "Anyhow, we can easily
see." They watched the buckboard with the black horse and saw it turn in
at the white cottage.
"My guess was right, Mr. Hopkins," said the driver. "I haven't been in
church for two years, but I'm going to hear that fellow preach next
Sunday, all right."
"Why don't you go to church?" said the older man, who by his dress and
manner was apparently some one of social importance.
"Oh, I dunno. I got out of the habit when I came out West," said the
driver.
"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, Regent
of Madison University, man of affairs, philosopher and patron of a great
many things, was silent for some time. He was pondering the question of
the 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 bunch
of dough-lumps." Whatever this might mean, it was, at best, a backhanded
compliment to Hartigan. Yet, the driver was anxious to hear the new
preacher. Why? Because he was impressed with his personality. It all
resolved itself into that; the all-ruling law of personality. How wise,
thought Hopkins, was the Church that set aside rules, dogmas, and
scholastic 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 could
hold, Hopkins went that night to the Evangelical Church to hear
Hartigan. The Preacher's choice of hymns was martial; he loved the
trumpets of the Lord. His prayers were tender and sincere; and his
sermon on kindness--human kindness, spontaneous, for its own sake, not
dictated by a creed--was a masterpiece of genuine eloquence. His face
and figure were glorified in his effort. The story of his active
sympathy with the injured horse had got about, and won the hearts of
all. They came ready to love him, and--responding to the warm, magnetic
influence--he blazed forth into the compelling eloquence that was native
to his Celtic blood. He was gentle and impassioned; he spoke as never
before. They heard him breathlessly; they loved his simple, Irish common
sense. He held them in the hollow of his hands. The half hour allotted
had been reached, and his story was told, and yet, not fully told. For a
moment he paused, while his eyes sought a happy face in the nearest pew.
Belle gently drew her watch. Mindful of their careful plan, he stopped
at the signal, raised his hands, and said, "Let us pray." With one great
sigh, the congregation kneeled before him, and with him, in body and
spirit, and prayed as they never before had prayed in Deadwood.
* * * * *
After the service the young preacher came forward to meet the people. He
was uplifted and radiant with a sense of power, with all the magic
influence of the place and thought; and they crowded round him, many
with tears in their eyes.
An elderly man of polished manner pushed through the circle and shook
him by the hand. "I'm a stranger in town," he said; "here's my card. May
I 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 as
they 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 to
have them go away saying: 'Why did he stop so soon?' rather than: 'Yes,
wonderful, inspiring; but too long.' They will now be keener than ever
to hear you. You never spoke so well before. Oh, my dear, I was never so
proud of you! Now I know, without a doubt, that you are a chosen vessel
of the Lord."
He held her in his mighty arms and kissed the gold-brown hair. "It's all
your doing, Belle. I'm a rudderless ship without you." Then, after a
long pause: "I'm thinking of my first visit to Deadwood."
She spoke no word, but pressed her frail face against the knotted
muscles of his great throat and gently stroked his cheek.