his mighty voice could be heard above all the sounds of that sad and pitiful company of broken and wrecked souls.  The old class-meeting instinct and habit showed itself in his semi-lucid intervals.  He would go round among the patients questioning them as to their religious feeling and behavior in true class-meeting style.  Dr. Shurtleff one day overheard a colloquy between him and Dr. Rogers, a freethinker and reformer, whose vagaries had culminated in his shaving close one side of his immense whiskers, leaving the other side in all its flowing amplitude.  Poor fellow!  Pitiable as was his case, he made a ludicrous figure walking the streets of San Francisco half shaved, and defiant of the wonder and ridicule he excited.  The ex-class-leader’s voice was earnest and loud, as he said: 

“Now, Rogers, you must pray.  If you will get down at the feet of Jesus, and confess your sins, and ask him to bless you, he will hear you, and give you peace.  But if you won’t do it,” he continued, with growing excitement and kindling anger at the thought, “you are the most infernal rascal that ever lived, and I’ll beat you into a jelly!”

The good Doctor had to interfere at this point, for the old man was in the very act of carrying out his threat to punish Rogers bodily, on the bare possibility that he would not pray as he was told to do.  And so that extemporized class-meeting came to an abrupt end.

“Pray with me,” he said to me the last time I saw him at the Asylum.  Closing the door of the little private office, we knelt side by side, and the poor old sufferer, bathed in tears, and docile as a little child, prayed to the once suffering, once crucified, but risen and interceding Jesus.  When he arose from his knees his eyes were wet, and his face showed that there was a great calm within.  We never met again.  He went home to die.  The storms that had swept his soul subsided, the light of reason was rekindled, and the light of faith burned brightly; and in a few weeks he died in great peace, and another glad voice joined in the anthems of the blood-washed millions in the city of God.

Tod Robinson.

The image of this man of many moods and brilliant genius that rises most distinctly to my mind is that connected with a little prayer-meeting in the Minna-street Church, San Francisco, one Thursday night.  His thin silver locks, his dark flashing eye, his graceful pose, and his musical voice, are before me.  His words I have not forgotten, but their electric effect must forever be lost to all except the few who heard them.

“I have been taunted with the reproach that it was only after I was a broken and disappointed man in my worldly hopes and aspirations that I turned to religion.  The taunt is just”—­here he bowed his head, and paused with deep emotion “the taunt is just.  I bow my head in shame, and take the blow.  My earthly hopes have faded and fallen one after another.  The prizes that dazzled my