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merchant, and made bad affairs on it; but seein' a way o gettin' on agin' I started fresh; first of all at Gleason's, now the pictur' gallery; saw a better chance, and got a feller to build the Museum-my own idea. Barnum copied after me. I could tell yer many things, how I hit, and how I missed; but the first great "go" was the "Temperance Reform" piece; I made a sort of "Tom and Jerry" affair on it; lugged into the piece a young fellow, a quiet, modest person at starting, but who turned out a h-ll of a drunkard; and then, I had a sort of Logic man to go about with 'un, just to try and keep 'un in order, and a Yankee chap to make some fun. We put the thing together among ourselves; and I made Smith my manager-he's a capital feller, though he can't act; but anything 'll-so I made Smith play the hero.

"In order to create a proper feeling among the sober classes, I loaned about fifteen black coats, bought as many white chokers, and dressed up fifteen fellers in 'em, to look like parsons, and put 'em in the most conspicuous part of the house; and thus we managed to hook in all the clergy and Christian soft-mouths. The piece drew all h-1; we played it sometimes four times a day-on Christmas Day we played it six times, beginning at nine in the morning.'"

No one who knows Mr. Kimball will believe this, nor what follows. We omit the profanity which he puts into the manager's mouth :

"Here I rose to take my leave. 'Wait a minute-I'll tell yer what I did wi' yer! That 'Bohemian Gal' o' yourndidn't we go ahead wi' her? I kept in all the situations,

sent the music to smash, threw in a couple of Dromios for my low comedians, and away we went like fun!'

"We literally shrieked with laughter when he added: 'Ay, and I shall do the same with your Enchantress, if I can pick up a couple of funny chaps.'

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"I naturally asked him how much he paid per annum for his literature, when he answered: About twelve and a half cents every packet that arrives. I get all the last pieces from England-the cheap editions as Lacy publishes; and as soon as they come to hand, I and Smith, and the box-office feller, set to work, and lick a bad piece into good shape in no time!'"

PETER CARTWRIGHT.

THE great Western preacher has arrived and is now searching the well-thumbed Bible for his text. Quite a number of distinguished divines are present. The preacher looks like a backwoodsman, whose face has been bronzed

at the plough. His black hair, straggling seven ways for Sunday, is slightly tinged with the frost of age. A strip of black silk is twisted around his neck, and a shirt collar, scrupulously clean, is turned down over it. He is of ordinary size, dresses plainly, and looks like a man perfectly free from affectation. In a faltering voice he reads a hymn. The choir wed the words to sweet and solemn music, a fervent prayer goes up on the wings of faith-another hymn is read

and sung-the 12th verse of the 11th chapter of Matthew is selected for his text. Now the old pioneer preacher, who has waded swamps, forded rivers, threaded forests, travelled with Indians, fought with bears and wolves, preached in the woods and slept in the field or on the prairie at night, is standing before us. Look at him, ye gentlemen with white neckcloths and black coats, who ride in carriages over smooth roads to supply churches with cushioned pews and soft benches to kneel on. How would you like to labor for nothing among wild beasts, and board yourselves, in a climate where the ague shakes the settlers over the grave two-thirds of the year! Would you exchange your fat livings, and fine palaces, and unread libraries for black bread and dry venison, a log hut and the society of bears and blue-racers? God bless the brave, wise, and good men to whom we are so much indebted for the blessings we enjoy.

He says he would make an apology if he thought it would enable him to preach better, for he is afflicted with a severe cold. "Some folks," said he, "say I am fifty years behind the age. God knows," he continued, "I am willing to be a thousand behind such an age. Religion is always of age, and can talk and run without stilts or silver slippers." He concluded an able and interesting discourse, which elicited undivided attention, with the following fact. "During a splendid revival of religion at the west, a young preacher, manufactured in one of your theological shops out here, came to lend a helping hand. I knew he could not handle Methodists' tools without cutting his fingers, but he was very

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officious. Well, we had a gale, a Pentecostal gale, and sinners fell without looking for a soft place, and Christians fought the devil on their knees. Well, this little man would tell those who were groaning under conviction, to be composed. I stood this as long as I could, and finally sent him to speak with a great, stout, athletic man who was bellowing like a bull in a net, while I tried to undo the mischief he had done to others. He told this powerful man

to be composed, but I told him to pray like thunder—just at that instant, the grace of God shone in upon his soul and he was so delirious with delight, he seized the little man in his hands and holding him up, bounded like a buck through the congregation."

It is impossible for the pen to do justice to this fact. The speaker moved us all to tears and smiles at the same moment while he said what few men should venture to say.

The subject of this sketch once put up at the Irving House, N. Y., (if I am correctly informed) and when he wished to retire at night, one of the waiters lighted him to a room near the roof of that mountain of marble and mortar.

"How shall I find the way back?" inquired the preacher. "Oh just ring the bell and we will show you," said the waiter.

By the time the waiter reached the bar-room, tingle, tingle went the bell, the waiter climbed five or six flights of stairs and asked what was wanted.

"Show me the way down," said Mr. Cartwright. The waiter did so. "Now show me the way up again;" he did so;

but he had scarcely reached the reception room when the bell rang again. This time the landlord went up stairs to see what the matter was.

"I want a broad-axe," said the preacher.

"What do you want with a broad-axe?" inquired the • astonished landlord.

"I want to blaze my way down stairs," was the cool reply. The landlord took the hint and gave the frontier preacher a room on the first floor.

A foul-mouthed infidel once attacked him on board of a boat on the Western waters. Mr. Cartwright submitted quietly to his profanity, vulgarity and obscenity for a long time. Finally, he approached the gaseous sceptic with a stern face, and with a voice of a stentor said, "if you do not take back what you have said, I will baptize you in this river in the name of your father the devil."

The infidel at once apologized and saved himself a ducking.

The other day some member of the Conference suggested that some act should be done out of courtesy. This announcement brought the old gentleman to his feet—and he said, "I do not know what you gentlemen at the East think of courtesy, but we out West, who were born in a cane-brake -cradled in a gum-tree-and who graduated in a thunder storm, don't think much of modern etiquette."

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