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afterwards improved a farm near Gower's Ferry, and I believe died in California.

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But the leader of all the early circuit riders of the early times was Father" Thompson, as he was familiarly called by all who knew him. He made his home in the beautiful grove on the Rochester road about three miles east of Iowa City. and here he reared his very large family. Father Thompson was a large hearted, kindly man, who by his genial manners became endeared to all who knew him. He was an inveterate horse trader, so it was his habit to start on his circuit with three or four extra horses, and many a time he would return with two or three head more than he took away; but success was not always on his side of the bargain. The writer once heard him relate that on one of these trips he met with a lot of Hoosiers who succeeded so well in deceiving him in the swap which took place, that he found himself minus four good horses, and instead, the unlucky possessor of two very vicious, but fine looking ones; one of these would kick and bite so savagely as to be decidedly dangerous, the other would balk so bad that it would not pull an old hen off her nest,” and if a harness was put upon it, that horse would not move ahead a rod a day; would refuse to go until the harness was taken off its back: under the saddle it was the same, so he swapped' them off for a rifle and four calico handkerchiefs.

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Preceding the advent of these regular preachers," we had a class of irregulars, or exhorters." as they were called. They, like St. John, went about the wilderness of groves and prairies, and would stop and preach to any family they might find domiciled in a cabin on their way. These preachers were men well along in years, had no fixed thoughts on religious subjects, but got off a sing song address containing many scriptural quotations. One of these wandering evangelists was murdered by the Indians quite early in the settlement of Johnson county. An account of this unprovoked murder will be found in early volumes of the Iowa Annals.

Another of this class was a disciple of Miller, and wandered

about the country preaching the final destruction of the world. This man's name was Click, and he was known as " Old Click." The people considered him crazy, and many were afraid of him, so his welcome was not as certain as that of the others. I well remember seeing him enter the Territorial Supreme Court room with his old black greasy bible under his arm; bareheaded he was, his long tangled gray hair hanging down over his shoulders, his clothing in tatters, but rudely mended; his manner that of great importance as he slowly marched up towards Judge Mason who was holding court. "Old Click " passed the barrier between the spectators and the lawyers, halted directly in front of the Judge, opening his bible he began, A Prophet of the Lord has come- Marshal,

take that man into custody and out of this court room," thundered the Judge, drowning the remainder of Click's sentence. My father, who was acting marshal, went to the

prophet of the Lord" and taking him by the arm led him out without trouble, the prophet making no resistance; leaving him outside, the marshal returned and reported to the Judge that the man was of unsound mind and that he would be responsible for his future actions, so the Judge paid no further attention to the matter.

My father always gave Click shelter and food when he came to our cabin, so the prophet had a revelation to the effect that he was, together with his family, one of the elect and would have a small fragment of undestroyed earth saved for his eternal abiding place.

I never knew what became of this poor old fellow, he may have perished by the wayside as did his Indian compeer, the Prophet Cow-an-jutan," who was wandering about among the white settlements at the same time.

Another of these self-styled evangelists was an old man by the name of White He always used the murder of the preacher, before spoken of, to arouse the tearful sympathy of his hearers. He often preached at my father's house and I have many times heard him descant upon that murder, which

he always did in crying tones and copious tears. Now my bretheree ee-n and sisters s, I shall go to-to-morrow o-ah across-across the gree-een prahrees on foot-ah and alone ah, to preach the word-ah of the gospel-ah to the weeked and rebellious people ah of Bloomington-ah. But it may-ah be that you will-ah never a-gin see see -ah poor old White-ah for-ah the woolves ah ah may pick ah my poor old-ah bones on-ah on those beautiful-ah prahrees--ah and and-ah you will-a never see me any more ah in this wicked ah worldah." This closing of his sermon he would wind up with a regular boo-hoo and sit down; often he would be joined in the lament by some of the females of his little congregation.

It was this preacher of whom I have heard Peter Roberts relate a funny incident attendant upon one of his sermons. It was at the time when the basement walls of the Capitol were up to the water table and the workmen had constructed sheds inside the walls under which to work at stone cutting and other occupations incident to the construction of the edifice then going on. These sheds were often used to hold public meetings under, and, indeed. I remember a fourth of July celebration held there once. Well, Mr. White had announced that he would hold Divine Service · Divine Service" in the basement of the new Capitol on a certain Sunday. Mr. Roberts with a companion, seeing the notice, went up to hear him. They found him seated under the shed looking over his text. they took seats, and after awhile, no others coming, the preacher began the services, which included the usual preliminary prayers, and the lining out and singing of a hymn, the latter all by himself.

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He then read his text and began on a sermon which was arranged in subjects all the way from " firstly up to sixteenthly." The sermon was a long one, and the preacher had proceeded as far as thirteenthly and the time about two o'clock, P. M., when in came Mr. Coe, to swell the congregation. The preacher paused while the new comer hunted up a slab out of which, with some rocks properly piled up, he

constructed for himself a seat; that being accomplished and Coe seated, the preacher announced that "for the benefit of the brother who has just come in I will repeat what I have said," which he proceeded to do from firstly on to sixteenthly concluding with a lined out hymn and benediction.

Mr. Roberts assured me that this account was no fiction and constituted the longest drawn out divine service that he had ever listened to.

I would like to give an account of the Rev. J. W. Brier, one of our pioneers in the Iowa garden, who with, his wife made the trip overland to California, starting in 1849. Their party unfortunately took the Southern trail from Salt Lake, and passed through the furnace of the then unknown Death Valley, losing all their outfit, many of their companions, and nearly all of their animals. It was to the hopefulness, courage and supreme physical power manifested in the slight form of Mrs. Brier, that any of them were saved.

She was the only one, who in the last days of their sufferings, could arouse them and lead them on from the Valley of Death to the settlements of southern California. They now reside in the town of Lodi, in that State, enjoying the sunset of life, which with their experiences, is of itself a history of the privations, triumphs and joys of the lives of our illustrions pioneer fathers and mothers.

Washington, D. C., June 13th, 1894.

CHAS. W. IRISH.

WILDS OF WESTERN IOWA.

BY REV. W. AVERY RICHARDS, LEHIGH, IOWA.

(Continued from page 89, April, 1894.)

AJESTIC glory rests upon thy brow,
Fit emblem of the wild old ocean thou.
Thy vast, uneven surface (where are seen

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Ridges and mounds, while graceful thrown between

Are valleys wide and basins large or small,

Variable and ever-varying all

The slow descending plain or bluffy steep,
Shallow ravines, less shallow, then most deep),
Bears striking semblance to the restless main,
Whose waters seem a never-ending train

Of ever-differing shapes and forms, from proud
And tow'ring billow (which, like some great cloud,
Rolls out majestically until it breaks

A mass of tumbling fragments, then retakes
A milder mood) to gently moving wave
Which in its turn dies to a quiet, save

Where now and then the little breezes dance
On its smooth surface, leaving there, perchance,
In ripples small, their tiny footprints gay,
Like tracks of "little innocents" at play.
Not so sublime, and yet transcending far
The Ocean's charm in varied beauty, are

All these dear graces which thyself adorn,
Graces which, like God's mercies, every morn
Are bright and new.

Here is thy waving grass,

With which the gay winds sport, while as they pass
They rock them in their airy cradle wild,
As some fond mother rocks to sleep her child;
And as the mother sings her baby song,
So sing the winds the restless grass among.
Sweet is this strain of Nature's song to me,
And charmed I come to hear its melody;
I come the health-restoring power to hail,
Borne on the wings of every breeze or gale,
And gladly quaff of Nature's cordial, bro't
By Nature's messengers, who, quick as thought,
Come hovering, like dear mercy angels now,
Stoop in their flight to fan my fevered brow,
Then kiss my pallid cheek and make it blush
For joy
kiss it once more and lo! the flush
That promises fond health returns again
Health which I elsewhere sought but sought in vain.
And while I breathe this balmy air,

With which all tinctured fumes cannot compare,

And feel its sov'reign power, oh! how it sends

New life and health to every part, and lends

A mystic, magic skill to soothe and heal,
Braces, invigorates, and makes me feel
My former healthful, happy self again
Blow on, ye health-restoring breezes, then!

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