centre of all the frenzy.  Glances were cast at him even from the pulpit, which was not far away.  One of the ministering preachers gave him a look of recognition, and then, bending down, whispered in the ear of another preacher, a very young man who stood below the pulpit among the fallen, exhorting them to repentance.  The exhorter shook off the whisperer and went on with his impassioned plea.  He, too, was well worth looking at, and better worth listening to—­this inspired young backwoodsman, Peter Cartwright.  His swarthy face was pale with the pallor of fanaticism, and his dark eyes were aflame with some mystic fire.  His long black hair was wildly blown by the wind which bore his broken words still more brokenly:—­

“Such a time as this has not been seen since the day of Pentecost....  A sacred flame is surely sweeping sin from the earth....  Come all ye.  Take up your cross and follow Him....  Heaven’s gate stands wide to-night....  Praise the Lord!...  Come in....  Come at once....  Do not delay—­or the gate may close, never to open again.  Come!  Come with me to the mercy seat.  I was once like you.  My soul, like yours, was rent in agony.  I wept, I strove, I prayed, I was in utter despair ... just as you are now....  Sometimes it seemed as if I could almost lay hold on the Saviour....  Then—­all of a sudden—­such a fear of the devil fell upon me that he appeared to stand right by my side ready to drag me down to hell.  But I prayed on, and said, ’Lord if there be mercy for me, let me find it!’ ...  At last, in the midst of this awful struggle of soul, I came to the foot of the altar—­here—­where I am begging you to come....  And then it was as if a voice out of heaven said to me, ’Thy sins are forgiven thee.’ ...  Glory!  Glory!  Delight flashed all around me.  Joy unspeakable sprung up in my soul.  It seemed to me that I was already in paradise.  The very trees, the very leaves on the trees, seemed to be singing together and praising God....  Will you share this divine peace with me?  Will you come with me this night to the foot of the cross?...  Then come now—­now—­for this may be the accepted hour of your salvation....  Come....  If you wait, you are lost ... lost!”

But these simple, broken words are only the cold and lifeless echo of Peter Cartwright’s fiery, living eloquence.  Nothing can ever bring that back as it really was.  None may hope to tell those who never heard him what it was like.  No one, perhaps among the numberless thousands who did hear him, ever knew what the power was, by which this unlettered backwoodsman swayed multitudes at his will.  Perhaps David afterward described it as nearly as any one could, when he said that the mere sound of Peter Cartwright’s voice that night—­when he could not hear the words—­made him feel so sorry, so grieved, so ashamed, that he wanted to fall down on the earth and hide his face and weep like a woman, for his own sins and the sins of the whole world.