about him. He looks as if he might yet wrestle with bears and come off conqueror, as we learn he really has heretofore. There is not, in fact, a stronger-looking man, young or old, on the Conference floor. He is war-worn and weather-beaten. His complexion is bilious, the integuments of his face wrinkled and tough, his eyes small and twinkling, and defended by a heavy pair of spectacles with green sideglasses, his mouth compact and full of force, his head large and round, his forehead deeply indented, and his hair-there is no description of that; it looks as if he had poked it into the bag of the Kilkenny cats, and had not had time to comb it since its extrication. And yet do not suppose there is any fierceness about his caput. Nay verily, a face more finely characterized with good nature and gallant generosity is not to be seen in the assembly. Should we attempt an intellectual portrait of Peter Cartwright, we should summarily say that he is characterized by good sense and good humor. We know not that we can better describe him. He speaks frequently, though not inordinately; and we challenge an instance of weak or irrelevant remark to be produced from his speeches. They are, in fact, especially noticeable for their direct, though sometimes rough pertinency. He strikes right at the object before him, and never fails to hit it; and he has that characteristic of the highest deliberative wisdom-brevity, sententiousness. We never knew him to speak in General Conference more than five minutes at once. His humor is always spontaneousalways ready. It sometimes cuts sharply, but is usually genial and generous, relieving rather than exasperating the case. Humor is a rare excellence, but it is not, like gems, valuable chiefly for its rareness; it is intrinsically valuable. It should not be too severely grinned at, with elongated faces, in even ecclesiastical bodies; it often gleams like exhilarating sunlight among lowering clouds of discord, and sometimes dispels them, and does infinitely more than the strongest logic or the loudest rhetoric to remove obstructions to business. Still, a man of combined good sense and good humor is liable to suffer some disparagement. Our poor human nature has a sort of self-complimenting propensity to speak of a superior man with a qualifying "but," the import of which is, that though he excels us in some things, we can see in him defects we have not ourselves. He has imagination," but " he has not much sense; he has humor, "but " he has not much logic. Much of this kind of twaddle is sheer fudge, and something worse. Peter Cartwright is not merely a man of humor, but of genuine sagacity; woe be to the man that attempts to circumvent him in debate. If some of his short sayings were divested of their humor, and spoken by a grave man, they would pass for unique utterances of wisdom; as they are, they pass for pertinent jokes-happy hits. Peter Cartwright is a "Doctor of Divinity." Good old George Pickering, when asked once if the Methodists had any Doctors of Divinity, replied, “No, sir, we don't need them; our divinity has not yet become sick." Those healthful days seem, however, to have passed, if we may judge from the ample provisions made for theological medication among us now-adays. Some college in the West deemed Peter Cartwright too knowing in the Materia Medica, or too skillful with the scalpel, to die untitled, and, therefore, dubbed him D.D. We know not that he pretends to encyclopedic erudition, or is more skillful than some other doctors we are acquainted with in the learned languages, a knowledge of which is usually presupposed, in giving that title; the only learned quotation we ever heard from him was in respect to a matter of business, which seemed to be beyond the reach of his brethren; it was, said he," in swampus non comatibus." The learned doctors around him smiled very cognizantly, as they usually do at college commencements when a Latin phrase is quoted which, though unintelligible to the vulgar throng, is remarkably striking to them. But with Peter Cartwright the "degree" is not merely nominal, as it is with so many of his fellow ecclesiastical medicos-it is a valid reality. He is a sound theologian. His preaching shows it. His sermons are generally skillful dissections of their subjects. His thoughts are clear, his method regular and consecutive, and the whole tenor of his discourse logical and instructive. How could such a man be other than a good sensible preacher? Those who go to the church to hear his wit are usually disappointed. His preaching at the General Conferences is seldom up to his ordinary standard. This, however, is the case with most of the delegates. The reasons of the fact are obvious. Peter Cartwright joined the "old Western Conference" in 1805, though he began to travel a year earlier, we believe. He was a young man-only about 18 years old-when he entered the itinerant field, and he has been in its foremost struggles ever since. The "old Western Conference" was in that day the only one beyond the Alleghanies. It extended from Detroit to Natchez, and each of its districts comprised a territory about equal to two of the present conferences beyond the mountains. Those were the days of great moral battles in that vast field; and the men who fought them were made great, some of them gigantically so, by their circumstances. Among them were Young, Walker, Shinn, M'Kendree, Burke, Lakin, Blackman, Quinn, and similar mighty men. Cartwright began his regular travels with Lakin on Salt River Circuit, (save the name!) Most of his fellow-heroes have gone to their rest; but they gained the field, and fortified their cause all over it. They, in fact, laid the moral foundations of our ultramontane States. The few remnants of the old corps should be cherished and honored by the Church. Peter Cartwright stands prominently among them; but there are some of his early cotemporaries here also, whom we shall introduce to our readers hereafter. THE BEACON-FIRE OF THE TYROL. THIS THIS saying was once exemplified in Tyrol by the short and simple history of a poor crippled boy whose memory is still cherished there. About fifty years ago a soldier's widow came with an only child to reside in a small hut near to one of those romantic villages which may be seen nestled amid the splendid mountains of that country, on the tablelands, or sierras, which afford space for the habitations of the mountaineers, who there shelter in winter the numerous flocks they drive in the summer to pasturage on the heights above. That village was the scene of busy industry; the people were independent and comfortable; they worked for themselves, and, except the emperor, to whom they were called no man lord. this poor widow took up her abode there, agitation and fear had invaded this once happy and peaceful spot. It was the period when the reckless ambition of Napoleon deluged Europe with blood: this widow's husband had fallen fighting against him in the fearful battle of Austerlitz. Had the issue of that battle been different, and the army in which he served been victorious, it is probable that the bereaved wife would have felt her loss just as deeply; for what the world calls glory does not heal a bleeding heart, nor atone for the individual sufferings which war occasions. The widow was very poor, and as the partner of a soldier's life, she had been long separated from the friends of her youth: her affliction was then such a common one that it excited little interest; and the grief which she felt the deepest was just that which caused her to be of no consequence to the little community among which she came. loyally devoted, they Still, at the time when It has been already said she had one child-a maimed, disabled boy. The dangers to which the mother had been exposed, the hardships which had attended his infant life, produced this effect. Hans, the widow's son, was deformed; his figure was drawn considerably to one side, and he had very little power in using his arms. This was a sore trial to the poor woman; often would she look at her boy and sigh, for she thought in her age she should be left without aid or support; she could no longer work for him, and he could neither work for himself nor her. But when the murmuring thought found entrance to her heart, she hid it there, or rather she prayed to God to take it thence; she never let her son perceive it; she would have him only to feel that he was the solace of her life. And so he was; a true mother's love is ever most strongly shown to the child that needs her love, her care, her toils; and beyond this maternal feeling were her affections drawn to him. Hans was, moreover, a kind boy, an affectionate, tender son; he was naturally of a thoughtful, reflective disposition; the peculiarities of his constitution tended to render him so. Separated by his bodily infirmity from the rude sports, the hardy pursuits, and daring adventures, in which the other young mountaineers engaged, that grave, reflective cast of countenance, which characterizes the bold, independent, and gay, while deeply-superstitious Tyr This pass lies between the towns of Landeck and Meran; a splendid road has since been formed there by engineering skill; but even still, amid modern improvements, the passage between the rocks is so narrow in places as to appear a mere cleft formed by the violence of the torrent which is heard roaring in the deep gulf below. These rocks rise towering olese, was in his case blended with actual | which our story refers. The arbitrary will of Napoleon Buonaparte, then in the zenith of his glory, had decreed that Tyrol should belong to Bavaria, and not to Austria, and a French and Bavarian army was already garrisoned in the country. We do not mean to discuss the propriety of the attachment which the Tyrolese showed to the latter; the chief reason of their attachment was, however, a right one-it was that their once independent land had passed to the dominion of Austria by right of legitimate succession, their last native princess, Margaret, having married a prince of the house of Hapsburg, who became emperor of Austria, and, as such, added his wife's dominions to his own. Loyalty and religion had hitherto been closely combined in Tyrol, and the aversion its people testified to a union enforced by the French, sprang from the strength of those principles. They regarded them with horror; and a resolute zeal in the defense of their country and their religion had begun to animate men, women, and even children throughout that mountain land. At the juncture of which we now write, that valiant struggle was beginning which has afforded themes to many pens. Austria, unable to compete with Napoleon, withdrew the forces stationed in Tyrol, and left its people to defend themselves: their resistance to the powerful invader was one of the most celebrated and most successful that history records. The Pass of Finstermünz still presents its terrible records to the eye of the traveler, who, amidst the wonderful sublimity of the spectacle, recalls to memory the awful scene enacted there in the time to over that narrow pass, clothed sometimes beneath, conveys a sense of dizziness. "Rest This sublime mountain pass, so remarkable for natural beauty, has acquired a terrific celebrity in history from the epoch which just followed the incident that exemplified, as we have said, the Tyrolese proverb already quoted. We fervently hope that such celebrities are at an end; but were there ever a cause which could sanction the slaughter of our fellowcreatures, it is the defense of our land, our homes, and our faith—it is when the unjust invader is resisted, and the motto of a people is that which the Tyrolese flag bore in- such thoughts more or less disturbed every scribed upon its folds "For God, our Emperor, and our Fatherland." Here, as we stand in this sublime scene, and look up at the tree-covered heights, and bring our eye down over the shattered masses of rock that lie in the descent, we recall that terrible event, and involuntarily repeat the words "Fit spot to make the invaders rue For it was here that, in the year 1809, upwards of 10,000 French and Bavarian troops were destroyed by an unseen foe. An immense avalanche of felled trees and broken rocks had been prepared, and was held suspended along the heights. As the advancing army marched in undisturbed order along this romantic pass, the foremost heard the startling words, "Ist es Zeit?" "Is it time?" repeated above them. The officer halted, and sent back to ask directions. He was ordered to go forward. They went on. That word was repeated, and a louder voice, in a tone of solemn command, announced it was time! and desired the avalanche to be let go. It was loosened; it thundered down; and of all the living host who a few minutes before had trod that pass, few, if any, escaped from it alive. It was this determination to resist, and expel the foreign forces then stationed in their country, that had begun to animate the Tyrolese at the time when our poor Hans, having reached his fifteenth year, might be expected by the youth of the village to partake in their enthusiasm. That enthusiasm was general; a secret understanding prevailed among all the people of Tyrol; arrangements were made with noiseless resolution; intelligence of the advance of the Bavarian troops was to be conveyed from post to post, from village to village, by means of signal fires, materials for which were laid ready on the rocky heights. The village of which I have spoken lay directly in the line of route which that army would take; and with the animation and bustle it displayed, a great degree of fear and anxiety mingled. The old people felt the latter emotions-the dread of being surprised, of having their houses burned, their property destroyed, themselves killed, or driven shelterless to the mountains; home, but did not shake the courage and resolution of the people. Even the children acted in their plays what they heard their fathers and older brothers talk of, or saw them practice; and thus from the aged and timid-the latter indeed were few-down to the child who thoughtlessly mimicked in his sports the hostile events that were approaching, only one theme was heard in the village or in the whole country, only one spirit seemed to be felt; and scarcely any persons were to be found who were not preparing, in some way, to take a part in the coming struggle. I say scarcely any-for it will have been already seen that two, at least, of that small community knew their part was to sit still and see how the matter would go. These were the soldier's widow and her deformed boy. The widow had had enough of war; she had known its realities, while many of her young neighbors were deceived by its visionary renown. She had felt its horrors, while they contemplated in imagination its glories. She looked now at her disabled son, and did not sigh, as she had often done, in thinking of his helplessness. "Ah, Hans," said she abruptly, as she gazed upon him one evening, "it is well for us now that thou canst be of little use; they would take thee from me to serve thy country, my boy, wert thou fit to be a soldier." The widow did not know how very tender was the chord she touched in her son's mind. Hans had long been secretly suffering much pain from the rude discovery of the very fact she thus alluded to. That secret pain had not been exposed even to a tender mother's eye. Now the wound was touched. Hans bowed down his head; his mother had not observed that of late he had been more peculiarly pale, silent, and averse to go out. Now the large tear that suddenly rolled down the pale cheek and dropped upon his knee, told her that the feelings of the youth had been compressed within his own bosom. That tear seemed to fall upon the mother's heart: she felt its cause. "My son, what aileth thee?" "Mother! I am useless!" cried the youth, with a burst of now irrepressible grief. "Useless!" the widow repeat the tone in which she uttered t might seem to denote some little at the discovery her son had only then made. "Yes, useless," Hans continued: "look round our village-all are busy, all preparing, all ready to strive for homes and fatherland-I am useless!" boldly on in advance, her bell tinkling at her neck, her head loaded with ornaments, and her horns wreathed with flowers. All the flocks are more or less adorned, but she "My boy, my kind, dear son, thou art is the queen in her regal state. Behind not useless to me!" "Even to thee-I cannot work for thee; cannot in thy age support thee. Ah! I know all now. Why was I made, mother?" "Hush, Hans," said his mother; "these repining thoughts become you not. You will live to find the truth of our old proverb : "God has his plan For every man." Little did Hans think that ere a few weeks had passed this truth was to be verified in a most remarkable manner. them come the joyous owners, or their herds, playing on musical instruments, and adding noise to the pomp. What a rural, what a pleasant scene! There is nothing rude or revolting in this merriment; a sense of thanksgiving seems to mingle with it; one sees, at least, the expression of gratitude, the acknowledgment of God as the Author and Giver of all good things. Yes, I have felt how pleasant it is to see this acknowledgment when the hardy Tyrolese shepherd has passed me, mounting to difficulty and danger on the heights above, and wearing in his girdle the words, largely embroidered in white letters"God is Good." Hans And was every one in that mountain village busy in the exchange of good-will offerings, or festive preparations? leaned against the porch of his mother's house, the porch in which, at eventide, they sang their hymns after the manner of the country, and with joined hands repeated their evening prayers. Often may an aged couple, with children and grandchildren, be seen thus employed in the pretty porches of their houses while the sun de Easter Monday came-the most festive season in the Tyrol; and the nonarrival of the expected invaders had, in some degree, relaxed the vigilance of the inhabitants. The holiday in question, we may observe, in Switzerland resembles somewhat old Christmas in England, families meet, presents are exchanged; the toys, gloves, the ornaments of deer's horn, and other articles of Tyrolese industry, are all in request then. Early in the morn, accordingly, of the Easter Monday of which we now speak, children were seen carrying bunches of flowers to their grand-clines. Hans stood alone; the hut was a parents, aunts, or other old relatives, whose doors had been wreathed with branches of trees, interspersed with flowers, during the preceding night; and the children now stood before them, and sang the hymns which are often heard in their country. Women, too, were seen with little baskets on their arms, hastening to the house of the poor curate to present their small offerings; and young men brought some simple presents to lay on the windows of the maidens who they hoped before the next Easter should be their wives. But what was the most curious feature in the pleasant scene was the cattle procession, which takes place on this day; for now the winter is over and gone, the time of the singing of birds hath come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land. Now go the cattle forth from the sheds where they have been sheltered from snow and frost, and wend their way gladly to the mountains. The pride of the family, the favorite cow, goes first; and proud of her honors she seems to be, as she steps little beyond the village, on the ascent of The had made a passing impression on his mind; but he sighed, as amidst his own loneliness in the general bustle there seemed so little prospect of its fulfillment. Still, however, though he scarcely knew why, the words, as he uttered them, seemed to shoot a gleam of unwonted hope through his soul. The evening of the bustling holiday at |