I was holding court at [I
cannot now recall the name of the town he mentioned], and on Saturday
was told that a Methodist camp-meeting was being held a few miles from
town. I determined to visit it, and reached the place of meeting in good
time to hear the great preacher of the occasion--Father Fisher. The
meeting was held in a river canyon. The rocks towered hundreds of feet
on either side, rising over like an arch. Through the ample space over
which the rocks hung the river flowed, furnishing abundance of cool
water, while a pleasant breeze fanned a shaded spot. A great multitude
had assembled--hundreds of very hard cases, who had gathered there,
like myself, for the mere novelty of the thing. I am not a religious man
--never have been thrown under religious influences. I respect religion,
and respect its teachers, but have been very little in contact with
religious things. At the appointed time, the preacher rose. He was
small, with white hair combed back from his forehead, and he wore a
venerable beard. I do not know much about the Bible, and I cannot quote
from his text, but he preached on the Judgment. I tell you, sir, I have
heard eloquence at the bar and on the hustings, but I never heard such
eloquence as that old preacher gave us that day.
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