would speak of the broad meadows, the bright flowers, the beautiful streams, and the fruitful fields it had found in its delightful excursion. It would describe the frisking lambs, and the fine cattle, that almost equalled the first company that old Pharaoh saw in his dream, coming up from the river of Egypt, denoting the seven years of plenty that should come on all the land. These are the objects that are in perfect unison with the delicate and refined taste of the dove, and these are the favorite themes on which it will delight to expatiate.

He

The

"But now, children, suppose you send a buzzard over that same lovely landscape; none of the things which I have named will interest him in the slightest degree. The buzzard goes to search for carrion. has no taste for the beauties of nature. Carrion alone suits his appetite; and as soon as he starts, he begins to snuff and scent for tainted air. The beautiful meadows, waving in the breeze, have no charms for him. The rich grain field, where the golden harvest is ripening, he regards not. The fine flowers, bending over the bright, meandering stream, he sees not. flocks and herds, and playful lambs, rejoicing in their green pastures, give him no delight. But if there be a dead pig, or a dead 'possum, or the putrid carcass of a rat, in all the wide range over which he has passed, the buzzard has found that out. That corresponds with his taste, and the developments of his genius are all in that line. And he will light down where he can find carrion, and spread his wings, and strut and parade round, and rejoice more over the half-rotten. carcass of a dead calf, than over ninety and nine living cattle, feeding and thriving in a meadow.'"

At this point, the company in the cabin of the steam

boat broke out in unrestrained and boisterous expressions of approbation. They clapped, they stamped, they cheered, and gave the most decided demonstrations of entertainment and delight. The young Texas officer shouted aloud, "It is the best thing I have heard in all my life!" And when through with one volley of clapping and cheering, he and the company would set off again on a fresh score, and seemed wholly unwilling to cease their boisterous expressions of approbation and mirth.

It has often been said, that he who excels at giving a joke, or jest on another, is not apt to excel in bearing one that is pointed against himself. The reason is plain. That very shrewdness, which enables him to say severe and biting things against another, enables him to see the point or edge of any severe remark that is aimed at him. A dull man can bear a jest like a philosopher. He does not see the point of the wit, and, of course, does not feel it. It is whipping a sheep on its wool. But not so with the wit himself. He sees all the point of a severe remark aimed at himself, and feels it, too. This was clearly exemplified in the rough, rude man who had brought on this discussion. Not a man in all the company saw the whole application of the above remarks more clearly than did he himself. He had been altogether engrossed with the story of Abraham, and of the dove. Eyes, ears, and mouth were attentive. He seemed to suspect nothing. He neither saw nor "smelt danger," till the buzzard was on him, flapping its wings about his head and ears. He sprang to his feet, stretched himself, and gaped, one of the most awkward gapes I have ever seen, and looked as if he was in an agony of effort to think

He

of something to say, that might relieve him. Gladly would he have kindled up into fierce anger, in selfdefence; but, then, not a word had been said to him. My remarks were all directed to Major Jenkins, and contained merely a rehearsal of what had been addressed to the children at Shreveport. The crest-fallen calumniator walked out from the cabin to the boilerdeck, “heavy and displeased," though totally at loss in what direction, or on whom, to vent his bile. was followed by a number of young men, still laughing in full volley, and exclaiming, "O that buzzard! O that buzzard!" At the first wood-yard that presented itself, our hero left the company, and went ashore; and if he be capable of profiting by the lessons of that excellent teacher, Experience, he will most likely, hereafter, when he enters the cabin of a steamboat, "count the cost," before he attempts to play off his rude jests on any of the passengers.

SUDDEN CONVERSIONS.

IN the autumn of 1840, I concluded to visit the mineral region in Wisconsin. I had understood that a tide of population was pouring into that country; and I resolved to spend a few months in laboring there. Peradventure some Christian might be comforted, whose lot had been cast in a destitute neighborhood; peradventure some sinner might be converted to God, over whom the angels of heaven would rejoice; peradventure some little church might be planted, on which the early and the latter rain might descend, until it would grow, and become strong, and eventually prove a blessing to hundreds - perhaps, even, to thousands — of immortal souls. There is something very delightful, to my mind, in establishing a new church in the heart of a great, rising country. When you plant the acorn in the rich western soil, you cannot tell how deep that plant may strike its roots into the earth. You cannot tell how high its stem will shoot up towards heaven. You cannot tell how wide its branches will spread, how great will be the abundance of its fruit, or how many living creatures, in ages to come, will feed upon its fruit, and find shelter under its shadow. I had no connection with the Home Missionary Society. I went under the authority of that primitive commission, "Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every

creature. He that believeth, and is baptized, shall be saved." (Mark xvi. 15, 16.) I had then no expectation of publishing an account of these labors. They were known to God, and to the community where they were bestowed. I desired for them no further notoriety. Nor should even a sketch of them be published now, but that I see, that, by doing so, I can illustrate great principles, and place important truths before the church, and before the world.

I took passage in a steamboat, commanded by Captain Miller, and ascended the Mississippi, to a point some ten or twelve miles above the town of Dubuque, in Iowa. I there went ashore, on the Wisconsin side of the river. There was no village, no farm, no improvement of any kind at the landing. A dim path put off from the river, across the wide Mississippi bottom. I took that path, and followed it through the tall cotton-wood timber, some six or eight miles. There I found a small village, stretched along a narrow ravine, that came down through the bluffs of the highlands. The name of the location was "Snake Hollow; " and the village was called by that name far and near. I learned that a miner, at an early day, while searching for mineral, had dug into a den of rattlesnakes; and that circumstance had given a name to the place, and afterwards to the village. I took up my residence, pro tempore, with a Jew, who was there selling goods, a very gentlemanly and hospitable man, who kindly invited me to make his house my home. And I commenced preaching to these people. We were greatly incommoded by the want of a suitable house. The small room in which our meetings were held, would not contain one half the people who were desirous