settlement in all this vast region where he had not preached, or a cabin where he had not prayed with the inmates. So poor was he oftentimes, that his clothes, as he himself said, "were patch upon patch, and patch above patch, until the patches themselves were worn out, and bare-kneed, and bare-elbowed;" without a cent in his pocket, or a friend to give him a new garment, he must needs go forward in the service of his master. After three and twenty years of unremitting toil, having experienced hardships and suffering beyond description, he lost his voice, and was obliged to abandon his vocation. Selling out his stock in trade, saddle, bridle, horse, and saddle-bags, he found himself in possession of two hundred and thirteen dollars, as the total receipts for his twenty-three years' labor. And now let me give you some facts from the history of one of my own friends, whom I loved well-nigh as a father-one of the noblest men that ever trod this globe. He left us nearly six years ago. Although not one of the earliest, he was in the field at a sufficiently early date to entitle him to the name of a pioneer preacher.

He too was a specimen of Young America, for he began to preach at the age of sixteen years. As I remember, he had never received three months' schooling in his life. He was remarkably handsome.. For five and twenty years he was called the Apollo of the West-albeit for a good portion of the time Apollo in homespun. He was one of the gifted sons of genius. Henry Clay, who should have been a good judge in such matters, pronounced him the most eloquent man he ever heard open his lips.

I have said he was very handsome, and that in the

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esteem of many of his brethren, was equivalent to heresy. I have known many well-meaning simpletons, who, to use their own expression, "couldn't abide him because he looked so like a dandy." Many of the old brethren of the laity and clergy thought it "wasn't in him to be a preacher." Whenever they saw him coming towards them with his ingenuous face and kingly carriage, their countenances would lengthen to a preternatural longitude, and uttering what they meant to be a pious groan, they would murmur among themselves, "he'll never do."

There was one old brother, who, while he shared this prejudice, nevertheless felt some interest in the stripling; blunted, indeed, must have been that nature which refused response to the generous spirit of my friend. The old gentleman took it upon himself to deliver admonitory lectures on the subjects of apparel and demeanor, to the candidate for holy orders. "Henry, my son," he said, in a gruff, rebuking tone, "why don't you try to be like a preacher, and look like a preacher? You'll never be worth shucks as long as you live."

"I don't mean anything by it," modestly responded the young man—never have I known a woman more diffident than he was, except in presence of peril, where lion was never bolder-"I can't help the way I look; I am just the way God made me."

"No you ain't," responded the senior, "you can help it. Dress better, and don't look so much like a fop."

"I have to wear the clothes that are given me; you know I have no money to buy new ones."

"If that is all," said the old man, "it can soon be

fixed. Will you wear a suit of clothes I'll have made for you?"

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Anything in the world," rejoined the other.

"Very well, trust me. I'll make you look like a preacher."

"I wish you would, with all my heart; nothing would please me better," said the future orator.

They parted, the young man going to his work, the old man to see to the tailoring. At the end of six weeks, the appointed time, the young man made his appearance. The aged saint, standing in the midst of a number of friends whom he had summoned to witness the transformation of his deformed protégé rubbing his hands in glee, pleased with his anticipations of success, pointed to a thicket of bushes, behind which the new suit was deposited-for houses were small, and the only dressing-room was the "timber." The re-appearance of the young clergyman in his canonicals was impatiently awaited. At length, attired in his new habiliments, with manly stride and noble person he approaches. The old gentleman looks, then stares, unable to believe the evidence of his senses. He hastens to meet the parson, then withdraws a pace or two, and performs a circuit round him. Some trick has been played upon him; these are not the clothes he has caused to be manufactured. Rushing up, he turns the young man round and round. "Yes, it is the very suit-copperas homespun, shad-belly coat, a vest to match, breeches, as nearly alike as possible. Whirling on his heel, his countenance expressive of disgust, mortification, and contempt, he exclaims, as he marches off, "tut, tut, boy there's no use in the world trying to do any

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thing with you. You look more like a dandy now than ever you did in your life."

I have said he was a modest man, but a brave one too. On one occasion it became needful that he should administer a sharp rebuke to some disorderly young men in the congregation. These worthies swore vengeance, declaring that they would thrash him within an inch of his life. It was known that they intended to waylay him, as he crossed the mountain on the morrow, on his way to the next appointment. Some of the church-members endeavored to dissuade him from proceeding on his journey, assuring him that the young men who had uttered these threats were desperate characters, and that they would be sure to make good their word; and that the consequences might be fatal to himself. He briefly replied that it was his duty to go, and he would go.

One of his brethren volunteered to bear him company. On their way, they stopped to cut stout hickory cudgels, with which to defend themselves. Approaching a narrow pass on the mountain side, a wall of rock on one hand, a precipice on the other, the four rowdies were discovered with shirt-sleeves rolled up, their hands clubbing their weapons.

"Four against two; let's go back" said the churchbrother.

"Come on," said the preacher.

"They'll kill us," replied the other.

"Go home, then," said the preacher; and keeping his horse in a walk, quietly fixing his commanding eye on these four men, bent on mischief, he rode up and passed them, while not a man of them seemed

able to raise his club. The preacher's companion who had tarried behind watching in terror, seeing how rowdyism cowered before manhood, pricked his steed, and now came riding up. "That was pretty well done," said he.

"Do you wish to ride with me across the mountain ?" said the preacher.

"Yes," answered the other, somewhat abashed. "Then fall back and follow; cowards shouldn't ride abreast with men."

In illustration of his nonconformity to clerical appearance, take the following: Having occasion to traverse Kentucky from Louisville, where he was then stationed, to one of the southern counties, he stopped, at the end of a hard day's travel, at a lonely cabin, where lived a Dutchman and his family. After supper mine host, who was as inquisitive as a tinpeddler, commenced catechising the stranger, asking all manner of questions, such as, "Where did you come from? Where are you going to? You're a lawyer, I suppose? No? Then you must be a doctor?" To all of which and many more, our friend responded as briefly as possible. The bewildered Dutchman at length exclaimed, "What are you then?"

"A preacher!" incredulously exclaimed the old Teuton, “What sort of a preacher? Episcopal ?" "No."

"Presbyterian ?"

"No."

"What then?"

"A Methodist."

"A Methodist! What, in them clothes? Good