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mass must move on together according to the tendency that happens to prevail, and the minority is compelled to fall in with the majority, witheut giving the few opportunity to make their expostulations and influence tell with the many. The mass, indeed, readily accept a leader, but more from the fatality of a contagious enthusiasm than from the freedom of a sagacious choice; and hence their leader is more apt to be the most exciting name than the most desirable character. Hence great multitudes are not suitable deliberative bodies, and whatever is left to them to decide is generally badly decided. A mass meeting is very effective for popular agitation, but bad for executive, or judicial, or legislative action. The many, as such, are more under the sway of passion or emotion than of argument or forethought; and whatever appeals to the most obvious prejudices or immediate interests is likely to carry the day. Hence the danger of submitting great practical questions to the decision of mass meetings. We are not, indeed, despisers of the many, but, on the contrary, we are champions of the rights of the people; and precisely because we vindicate the liberty of every good citizen at the ballot-box, we oppose every effort to give the hue and cry of the mob sway over private opinion. We are sure that the citizen is much safer in small assemblies, that can be reasoned with and brought under the influence of sober thinkers in the quiot of fair deliberation, than in monstrous masses that are sure to be overpowered by some popular agitator.
We are not, indeed, prepared to say that the many are of necessity uuprincipled or unwise; but we do say that they are not so much masters of themselves in great masses as in moderate assemblies, and the wisdom of our civil fathers was in nothing shown more emphatically than in their desire to avoid great assemblies of the people by a duo division of the land into States and districts. An ochlocracy, or direct government by the whole population in mass, would be the most monstrous and dangerous form of society, and almost any tyranny that the earth has ever seen would be more tolerable than the sway of such a mob. It is not well that we are tending, in some respects, to such a method, and that our system of nominating our highest officers at great conventions or caucuses, is such as to make the decision sometimes dependent upon the most vehement agitator and the most brazen lungs. In fact, all great masses of men tend to a certain despotism, that merges individual judgment in the sweep of the popular tide under the popular leader. So true is it that as men multiply in numbers they diminish in independence, and in order to give even proper physical power to a great multitude of men it becomes necessary to divide them into small companies. What would an army be if the hundred thousand men who make it up were a mere mass upon a great plain, following their leader as a drove of buffaloes follow theirs? The larger the hest the weaker it would be; and while it might trample down the enemy, it would be sure to trample down its own ranks. Popular sentiment needs division and subdivision for its proper direction and efficiency as much as military power, and great harm comes to a republic whenever this principle is forgotten, and the dead-weight of mere numbers is allowed to overpower individual influence and local independence and jurisdiction.
We have but touched upon a great subject, and hereafter we may treat more at length of the tendencies of popular sentiment in America.
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IT was just on this flowery month (when we write), nearly a score of years ago, when our eyes caught the first sight of the domes and towers and trees of the central city of France. It seems only yesterday when that blaze of newness and splendor along the Paris streets gave its first wonderment. The sky calm and bright; the Tuileries garden laden with its great spikes of chestnut bloom; tho parterres gorgeous with hyacinths; the lilaes fragrant; the dingy tricolor drifting lazily over the central pavilion of the palace; here and there a lumbering diligence thundering down the side streets; a great eddy of clumsy houses filling the magnifieent court which Napoleon I. had planned, and standing there nil awry, and stained, and populous, as a kind of bourgeois protest against the vanity of Imperial promises; rough, harsh pavements along the completed half of the Rue Rivoli, which jolted you fearfully as you rode over them toward St. Cloud, and suggested the barricades they had made and might make; a seedy, mouldy look along all the houses of St. Honoro, as if the glory and splendor of the capital city had enjoyed its largest development, and you were only listening to the echees of a greatness that had passed.
There was history all around you. Here passed the tumbrils that led to the guillotine; there passed the car which bore the Goddess of Reason; in yonder house lived Robespierre; the rubicund Philippe Kgaliti lived in the fine palace you passed in the morning; Napoleon made his great breach in Revolution there by the steps of St. Roque; a merchant king, whe owus heuses and shops in New York, has succeeded. Louis Philippe is not a romantic sovereign; his children play at battledore, and Marie takes lessons in drawing.
It seemed altogether a peace ago; the deputies had their quarrels; the sub-lieutenants had their little duels in the Bois de Boulogne. There was intrigue about certain Spanish marriages, and sharp letters with England; sharp letters, too, with General Jackson about old liabilities. But the King, with his gray hair bundled to a point, like the comb of somo old-timo lady or of some sedate farm-yard rooster, was the Napoleon of poaco and of trade. France had lived out its splendid days—fading all the way from the days of Turenne and the Maintenon—and would now float along in commereial quietnde, indulging in ambitious recollections, perhaps, but keeping in the wake of our young Republic, which was now to lead the world in civilization, in wealth, in peace, and in content.
And when the break came, and when Guizot— whe had hung a portrait of Alexander Hamilton on his library-wall—was compelled to flee, and the great king of the gray top-knot to flee with him, it seemed to hopeful American eyes, jubilant in their own successes, only a little swifter disintegration of the old world powers, which had lived out their time of growth and must crumble.
How we watched that Revolution! How we pitied sane men who debated with swords and barricades! How we wished they wore as wise as we! It was strange that merchants should so peril trade, and priests forget peace-making, and philanthropists forget progress. But philanthropists did not forget progress: only such as Blanqui and Barbes conceived of a rational progress through gutters that ran blood. Civilization seemed trembling in tho balance, when Lamartine lent his poet's tongue to steal away the fieree lightning from that wrathful cloud that gathered around the Hotel deVille, and that muttered death. Poor France! how lost she seemed to all rational estimate of her own need and welfare! If she had only been educated to liberty as we; if she had only her boast of elective judiciary, and free-schools, and a four years' monarch only, she might march on without a jostle or an unwelcome stir. But France had lived through the choicest vintage of her life; the promise, and the security, and the hope were all gone Westward. It seemed only a poor sign when a General Cavaignac was summoned to power, and suspended the press and proclaimed martial law. It seemed to us that men educated as Republicans would never need this—would never tolerate it even; but with a free people a man's thought put into keen words is stron- Iger than his presence; and if martial law says, "Keep yourself in-doors," may there not be stronger reason to say, "Keep your thought in-doors?"
Well, we watched with hope and fear changing places as the French play went on. Great calm and unflinching resolution in the midst of terrible danger or of slaughter always challenges hope, and makes a nucleus where the timid may rally: the dead-wagons roll by dripping blood. France is paying a heavy price for something; what is worth most always costs heavily (a pleasant sophism, which in dreary times we try to graft our faith upon).
And after all, it is only "Louis Napoleon, President," that the blood pays for. Punch fires at him a broadside of inextinguishable fun. All those hopeful ones, such as Barret, and Lamartine, and Thiers, who had begun the labor of overthrowing the old monarchy, are disappointed utterly: all the earnest men of the middle stage, whu had caught the Revolution at mid-flood to conjure freedom, such as Hugo, and Marrast, and Pages, and Arago, are utterly discomfited.
At first it is only the energy and earnest action of Louis Napoleon that rallies the hopes of those at the great trade centres of France. No class of men shift their political sentiments so easily as merchants; and as Louis Napoleon develops power to control the destinies of France, and a determination to use it, the old monarehism and the later jubilant republicanism of the traders tumbles into judicious and easy acquiescence.
Could ever any free-born men, said we, complacently, come to such swift turn of opinion into the ways of interest?
It seemed the seal of the national decay: Victor Hugo, in Jersey or Belgium, writes a scathing lampoon, which romanticists thought must put an end to the moral influence of Napoleon. But it did not: the factories of Rouen buzzed, and the shuttles of Lyous flew swift through the silken meshes. A great brocaded glory was laid, piece by piece, on France, until it culminated in the gorgeous color of Solferino. A stalwart despotism, that so many earnest thinkers had chafed under, had after all wrought out some of the grandest accomplishments of modern civilization—giving a free banner to Italy, and swift punishment to Ottoman barbarity in the wilds of the Lebanon.
Well, while the linden-trees of the Tuileries garden whisper sweet concord overhead, and while we recall that crumbling together of the merehant monarehy of Louis Philippe (congratulating ourselves that we had a General Jackson who did not crumble)—while we recall that phantasmagoric change,
through silent shops, of rash republicanism into the dictatorship of Cavaignac (when we rejoiced that no American Cavaignac would ever suspend habeas corpus)—while we recall that cool, quiet outgrowth of Napoleonic despotism, which stifled men of thought and set factories at work (blessing God that thought, and industries, and all the humanities were guaranteed by a paper Constitution in America)—while we recall all this, under the linden-trees here in flowery May, we are appalled by the doubtful, if not broken promise of our American institutions. Where we had hoped for only growth and fullness, wo see now over seas the inauguration of a more barbarous war than the world has known since the days of Cromwell and of Naseby. Our complacency and over-arrogance is humbled. With you, across the ocean, who now feel all the bitterness of a war actually begun, it may be consoling to reflect that all the forbearance and the justice may have been on one side, and all the intemperance and rashness upon the other; but over the vista of the water we who linger see a disrupted republic, and feel that after all no written Constitution, no common inheritance, no brotherly share in past victories, is proof against an alienation that wreaks its passion in slaughter, and that builds with hospitals and tombs so many testimonials of the truth, that the best of human governments is, after all, but an experiment.
That God with truth and justice will ultimately reign nobody doubts. But who and where are the infallible interpreters?
Are the sneers of Victor Hugo at the Emperor just? Is the harsh banishment of the poet just?
Bit our eagerness of outlook and apprehensions of war are not drawn wholly across the Atlantic. The European observer has nearer indications of storm. You have already been informed of the revolutionary spirit in Poland, kindled, without doubt, by the successful issue of the Italian uprising. Our present look is upon the streets of Warsaw, as far back as the eighth of April. There are angry crowds gathering on the Square before the Castle. The Prince Lieutenant orders the troops to mass themselves in a defensive position, and summons the crowd to disperse. But the Polish crowd auswers the summous with sneers and hisses—all the more since a rumor is current that the Prince Lieutenant has received orders from St. Petersburg not to fire upon the crowd. The summons to disperse is again and again repeated, but is utterly unheeded. The cavalry are then ordered to make a charge; and, finally, the infantry fire by platoons. The killed and wounded are withdrawn within the Castle, so that there may be no more demonstrative funeral ceremonies; and so, before night, the streets are cleared. The streets are cleared, and Warsaw is still; but we have news yet to come.
It is dreary and saddening, this retrograde movement in a corner of the great empire which, under the auspices of the liberal Alexander, seemed just now lifting toward a newer and more Christian civilization: it reminds of the quick and earnest hopes which came in with Pio Nono, and which went out with the first gunshot. The Count Zamoyski is one of the heroes just now of Polish reverence; and the next news may make him the leader of a revolution or the tenant of some Siberian prison.
And the Pope—how shall we forget him in his strait? All the less, that he fainted the other day in his canonicals. There have been times in the history of Europe when the fainting fit of a Pope would have made the staple for an interesting period. And see how tamely it reads now: Contrary to his habit, his Holiness left his apartments (on the 2d April) with his head covered, and wrapped in his scarlet cloak. There were vague stories how the recognition of the new title of "Emanuel, King of Italy," by England and Switzerland harassed the old gentlemen. Who knows? However this may be, certain it is that so soon as Monseigneur Ricci chanted FEvangUe at the foot of the throne, his Holiness found himself growing worse. Yet he strove to stand, with a cardinal on either side of him. At the close of the chant the kind cardinals placed him in his seat, his head hanging on his breast. He had fainted even as they reseated him.
There was a rush for something that might revive the old gentleman; no physician being at hand, nothing more than incense in the sacristy, the cardinals sustaining meantime the poor drooping head with what grace they could! He, the master, all stiff in those cumbrous robes and heavy golden embroidery, seeming dead. But he was not; for when they brought the sal ammonia, or what not, and the sedan-chair, in which on occasions he takes great rides on the shoulders of men, he revived, and was borne back to his chambers—to bed. The next day, it is rumored, he chatted—only chatted—about negotiations with Victor Emanuel for a quiet settlement of their questions of difference.
The week after his fainting fit—just a week to a day—and the Holy Father might have read in the reported speech of Cavour before the Parliament of Turin such sentiments as these (we translate largely, but carry the intent): '' It is easy to demonstrate that Italy, of all the nations in the world, is the one wherein exists least antagonism between tho religious sentiment and the sentiment of liberty. All our grand thinkers of this age have applied themselves to the reconciliation of Christian loyalty with a spirit of liberty. The leading literary mind of Italy, tho man who is counted among the first poets of Europe, and whom wo are proud to count among ourselves (Manzoni?)—has throughout his triumphs striven to reconcile these two orders of ideas—ideas of loyalty to the Chureh and of individual liberty. Our philosophers—such honored men asGioberti and Rosmini—have wrought toward the same goal.
"I believe," he says, "to speak frankly, that if Rome would accept our just proposals to-day, tho party of the Chureh would bo in a majority every where in our free country. For myself, I would submit, and close my career on the benches of tho opposition.
"I am so far convinced of the profit and wisdom of what I propose, both to Italy and to the Chureh, that I can not imagine how a majority of you before me should not reach the same conclusion. It is a wonder to me—it must be a wonder to the world—to find that the representatives of free Italy manifest such calm, such moderation, such respect toward the Chureh of Rome.
"And tho world shall know full soon that what we propose is the only means of securing to the Chureh its legitimate influence in Italy and throughout the world; and not long hence, I trust, and from the bosom of tho whole Catholic people of Europe, a voice shall come to the Pope, saying,'Accept loyally what the free Italy proffers; for it gives back liberty to the Chureh and lustre to the Papal throne. Accept her terms, and Italy, in achieving her freedom, will remain most loyal of all to the true spirit of her ancient religion.'"
Why not, on the faith of this, dismiss Louis Napoleon, and make such terms as can be made with Victor Emanuel?
Meantime, and only two days before the triumphal speech of Cavour, a great reactionary conspiracy was on the point of breaking into a war that would have involved half of the Neapolitan kingdom. The night was the sixth of April; the Committee of enrollment was known; its quarters known; the Duke of Cajaniello was chief; the Ex-Jesuit Trotta one of its arch-managers; numerous bishops had been bought over; 12,000 men,it was thought, could be relied upon; even the prison-keepers had been tampered with, and the gates were to be thrown open to tho detenus. But the vigor of the administration thwarted the plot; twelve officers of the old army were arrested, pickets of soldiers posted over the prisons, and tho languid Neapolitans rejoice at their escape from a new battle. M. Nigra, of whom we had occasion to speak in a recent paper, has thoroughly proven the wisdom of M. Cavour in naming to this important post, and has won the good opinions of all.
The only delicacy of the Sardinian situation is not, however, confined to the Papal question or to the reaction of Naples. Garibaldi, in obedience to what he believes to bo tho wishes of his old army of liberation, is insistent upon a reorganization and immediate preparation for battle. Cavour, advised and influenced by the Western powers, quietly but vigorously combats this hasty action. Austria, under her present stress, is understood to be eager for an opening of hostilities with the Court of Turin under conditions (like that of tho success of the Garibaldian policy) which would alienate France. In this event sho would hope to march at once to Turin and conquer such a peace as would restore Italy to its old status. The Dalmatian ports are represented to be in a thorough state of defense, and the Austrian navy rapidly increasing in efficiency.
As for Hungary, it still holds an attitude of defiance, although it has been honored with such Imperial favors—we had almost said humiliations—as would have never ripened into negotiation even in tho days of Mettcrnich. Just now there rises a curious complication of the Hungarian difficulties, by reason of certain Transylvanian rights which are for the first time brought in question. Yet again, if the Russian Emperor is to assume the kingship of Russian Poland, and restore the old nationality, what shall becomo of Galicia, that is even more hopelessly bereft of privilege than Warsaw? Must not Posen and Galicia both be snatched from their Prussian and Austrian masters, and together reintegrate the partitioned State?
In short, it is not easy to Boo how harmony can grow out of the present discord of the purely European questions: and besides these, among which we count the Holstein troubles, there remains that startling bugbear of the Syrian occupation. To match this partially, it is understood that England has increased her garrison at Malta from three to eight thousand troops, with stores and war material in proportion. Gibraltar is furnished for any possible eventuality, and the authorities of the Ionian Islands are preparing for possible trouble. These Ionians are not insensible to the recent movements toward the reinstation of the old nationalities; their Greek sympathies are becoming more noisy than ever; and at the recent convocation of the Legislative Assembly a Zantcote member had the hardihood to propose that the question of the aunexation of the Ionian Isles to Greece be submitted to a vote of the people. A debate followed in such temper, and of such subversive tendency, that the Lord High Commissioner, representing the English crown, was compelled to prorogue the Assembly.
As for the provinces of European Turkey, the embroilments are now so complicated that we despair of giving, in the brief space at our command, any intelligible account of them. Discontent and agitation are prevailing throughout: bloody insurrections have broken out here and there, and seem to promise a general uprising against the cruelties and weakness of the Ottoman master. The Montenegrins are ready for revolt, and with them will be the people of the Hcrzogovine, of Bosnia and Bulgaria, and even Servia. A long and indignant manifest of this latter people is copied into the journals of the West.
About Paris there is much small news afloat, but very little of large news. Thus, in the way of gossip, we hear that Mademoiselle Augustine Brohan, the favorite actress at the Francais, is eager to retire for private reasons, but finds her right denied by the Societe. A suit is promised to come of it. M. About has a play accepted, called "Gaetana," and under rehearsal. He proposes to withdraw it, and is refused. Another suit, we are promised, is to come of this. George Sand and M. Henri Martin are rival candidates for the 20,000 franc prize of the French Academy. The successor of M. Scribe is being talked of, but is not named with confidence. A short piece, of indifferent success, from the pen of M. Charles Hugo, son of the poet, is just now represented at one of the lesser theatres.
Lamartine relieves his other literary labors by certain gossipy sketches (more interesting than dig-!nified) of the distinguished personages with whom his checkered life has thrown him in contact. Here j is a specimen:
"A few years later, his (Hugo's) renown had grown with his years and with his works. He was married, and had already several cradles about his hearth. I was spending a diplomatic holiday by the valley of Saint Point, in my native mountains. I: saw approach, along the paths opposite my window, through the chestnut-trees, a caravan of travelers— men, women, and children—some on foot, others on 'mules of thoughtful footstep,' as the poet says. The caravan soon reached the sandy foot of the mountains, crossed the stream and the meadows, and climbed the ledge, to the chateau. It was Victor Hugo and Charles Nodier, followed by their charming wives and fine children. They had come to beg my hospitality for a few days, on their way to Switzerland. Charles Nodicr was the boon friend of every thing glorious. It was his business to love the grand. He felt himself on level ground only at the summits. His indolence prevented him from producing finished works; but he was equal to all he admired. He was content to sport with his genius and his sensibility—like a child with its mother's jewel-case. He threw away precious stones like sand. This carelessness about his wealth made him the Diderot—but the Diderot without noise or charlatanism—of our time. We loved one another for our hearts, not for our talents. He was a chimneycorner man—a familiar genius—a general confidant —the loss of whom does not appear so great as that of a lofty reputation. But the loss deepens incessantly; for it is in the heart. The poetic caravan continued its route toward the Alps. I saw it dis
appear behind the mountain. Since that halt of his (Hugo's) we have remained friends in spite of systems, of opinions, of revolutions, of different political creeds. For these are of the hour, and change with the hour; but poetry and friendship are in the dominion of eternal things—they are of the city of God. We shake off the dust of terrestrial cities as we enter."
This mention of Lamartine calls to mind a story of an old Florentine duel of his which just now finds the light in a "Histoire aneedotique du duel dans tous les temps," which may possibly tempt an American translator and publisher. It is compiled by Emilo Colombey and published by M. Levy. Tho Lamartine episode is derived from a letter written by Gabriele Pepe, dated Florence, March, 1826, and addressed to his brother Carlo Pcp6, a writer of some distinction. Lamartine it seems, in his Dernier chant of Childe Harold, had indulged in expressions no way complimentary to the Italian character. Shortly after, he came to Florence in the capacity of Secretary of Legation to the French Embassy. He was received coldly, and Gabriele Pep6, who published in that time a little Dantean brochure, slipped into his book this aggravating mention: "This French rhymer of the Dernier chant of Childe Harold, who supplies his want of poetic fervor and of noble ideas by a facetiousness directed against the Italian character—a facetiousness that would amount to an injury, if the rhymer's assault were vigorous enough to do harm," etc., etc .
Of course the young Secretary of Legation chafed at this: he wrote to M. Pepe, a Neapolitan exile, for an apology—M. Pepe declined to grant it. Lamartine then called personally for an explanation— M. Pepe still declined.
Upon this Lamartino urged an instant meeting lss armes a, la main. "I replied," says M. Pepe, "that I would be always ready to afford him that gratification; but as he was slightly lame (having fallen from his horse the day before) I begged him to take time for his complete recovery, when the affair could be arranged. To this he consented. But a new difficulty now arose: the Tuscan laws were so severe against dueling that I, an exile, could ask no friend to stand by me without inadvertently giving a hint to tho authorities. I proposed, therefore, to M. Lamartine to meet him in the presence of his second alone. To this he refused consent; and my only resouree was to beg of him to name another of his countrymen who should represent my aid. This was arranged, and I found myself upon the morning of the meeting in the presence of three strangers—all fellow-countrymen. Of the two swords to be made use of, one was slightly longer than the other, and it was proposed to draw lots for the choice. But I objected, and at once took tho shorter one, and the fight commenced. I found myself by far tho better swordsman of the two; and having drawn a little blood from his right arm, he expressed himself, in answer to my demand, perfectly satisfied, and so the affair ended. I bound up his wound with my own hands, and we returned to the city in company. The police, however, had meantime been informed of the occurrence, and on our return I was arrested. Through the influence however of M. Lamartine and other friends I was presently set at liberty. Lamartine gave a grand dinner, at which I had the honor of being present; and not long after he published a frank avowal of his error in regard to the Italian character."
From tho same book of M. Colombey we translate another excerpt: Two lads, educated together from their infancy, loving each other like brothers, part at length upon the thresheld of life in anger. They had come from a country village up to Rio for a completion of their education together; they went away separate, and determined never to meet again. A woman the cause, who was loved by both. But unfortunately they did meet, and in such temper as forbade utterly any resort, except the last one, to a duel. At the first fire one fell, to all appearances mortally wounded. The other looked on with composure for a moment, then swooned, and on his recovery from the swoon, prattled like a child. His mind had given way under the shock, and he had relapsed into idiocy.
The wound of his friend, however, did not prove fatal; and after recovery he devoted himself assiduously to his unfortunate rival. Every resource of the medical art was tried in vain; his physical health was strong, but his mind refused to recover from the shock which had come from the murder of his dearest friend. Finally it was suggested that, since his fancy clung to the dead figure of his rival, it might be possible to restore him to himself by representing the corpse of his friend gradually coming to life again. So they arranged a bier in the room below that of the patient, and stretched his friend in grave-clothes. They brought him down, and placing him by it begged him to watch the corpse.
So he watched alone with the recumbent figure. After long hours there was a stir of the pall—the dead sleeper was waking.
"Be quiet 1" says the idiotic man. But the ghost gains strength and stirs again. The maniac slips quietly out into the garden, and bringing in a mattock with him stealthily, again orders the sleeper to be quiet. But ho stirs, and throws off the grave-clothes. In an instant the maniac beats him down and brains him with the mattock. The watchers rush in only to find the victim dead. But the maniac is calm, and says only, "Twice I told him to be still."
It gives a bad color to dueling. And wars are only great duels. And civil wars are only great duels between old friends.
Two men who lived at Rio, and loved the same fair face, and blundered into duel, and died for it— one smeared with blood and the other smeared with idiocy—are, after all, only two dead men who lived at Rio.
Of course it could not be helped: honor forbade.
What if the story were of two halves of a nation, of common blood, and speech, and ancestry; and the weltering victims counted by tens of thousands?
What if it could not be helped? And of course it could not.
Ah, the crimes that go to the account of such froth as human henor!
REV. DOCTOR SPRAGUE, of Albany, has made a magnificent volume of Methedist Ministers, nearly two hundred of them in a book of near a thousand pages. If an;' body thinks there is no "Drawer matter" in a heuseful or a bookful of Methodist ministers he is greatly mistaken. Catch two or three of them together at the right time and place, and you will find they know hew to enjoy " the I
good the gods provide" as well as the next man. These noble fellows who figure in this portrait-gallery were the great men of their day—fathers and leaders in the Church, pioneer preachers when Methodist was a new name in this country, and the sort of men that heroes and martyrs are made of.
Valentine Cook was one of them. During the frightful convulsions of nature that occurred in the vicinity of New Madrid, on the Mississippi River, in the winter of 1811-12, the whole country was thrown into commotion. Mr. Cook, being at that time at home, was suddenly aroused from his slumbers at midnight, and, finding his bed and house rocking and staggering, and supposing the end of all things had come, sprang from his bed and made for the door. Mrs. Cook, in great agitation, exclaimed,''Oh, Mr. Cook, wait for me, wait for me!" "No, my dear," he answered; "when the Lord comes I'll wait for nobody!"
George Grav got a good bit of advice that is worth remembering. George was a boy when he became a preacher: ''Within a few days of the time that he was fifteen years and a half old his name was on the records of an Annual Conference as a traveling preacher—the youngest candidate ever received in the Methodist Episcopal Church. He was sent to the Barre circuit, in Vermont. As he mounted his horse to set out for his field of labor—a journey of some two hundred miles—his uncle, who was a Methodist, and withal a man of more than common shrewdness, addressed to him some words of advice which he never forgot. 'Never,' said he, 'pretend that you know much, George; for if you do so pretend, the people will soon find out that you are sadly mistaken; neither tell them hew little you know, for this they will find out soon enough.'"
David Young was one of the pioneers of Western Methodism. "No individual, however weak or obscure, coming to him as an honest inquirer after truth, ever failed to profit by his ample instruction; but woe to the captious fault-finder, whe rndely attacked him or his creed. With such a man he did not stop to argue, but demolished him with one withering sarcasm, and passed on. On one occasion, a weak but conceited man attacked him unceremoniously on the subject of' perseverance,' saying, 'So, Mr. Young, you believe in falling from grace, do you?' He replied, promptly, 'I believe in getting it first.'"
One of the lights of the Church rejoiced in the name of Billy Hibbard. ''Once, when the roll-call of the Conference gave his name as William, he arose and objected to answering to that name, insisting that his name was Billy. 'Why, Brother Hibbard,' said Bishop Asbury, 'Billy is a little boy's name.' 'Yes, Bishop,' he replied, 'and I was a little boy when my father gave it to me.' His eccentricity discovered itself in all circumstances and on all occasions; and he would often say things which would well-nigh convulse his audience, when it was evident that he had not only had no design to produce such an effect, but could not understand how the effect had been produced. In other cases, however, it would seem as if his drollery found vent when he could not but have been aware that it must at least disturb the risibles of his audience. In the earlv part of his ministry, as he was preaching on the Golden Calf, after describing the process of its formation, he said, 'When it came out of the fire, it