down, and, with his eyes bent upon the floor, nursed his wrath.  The little preacher began his sermon, and soon astonished everybody by the energy with which he spoke.  As he proceeded, the frown on Uncle Ben’s face relaxed a little; at length he lifted his eyes and glanced at the speaker in surprise.  He did not think it was in him.  With abnormal fluency and force, the little preacher went on with the increasing sympathy of his audience, who were feeling the effects of a generous reaction in his favor.  Uncle Ben, touched a little with honest obstinacy as he was, gradually relaxed in the sternness of his looks, straightening up by degrees until he sat upright facing the speaker in a sort of half-reluctant, pleased wonder.  Just at the close of a specially vigorous burst of declamation, the old man exclaimed, in a loud voice: 

“Bless God! he uses the weak things of this world to confound the mighty!” casting around a triumphant glance at the Bishop and other preachers.

This impromptu remark was more amusing to the hearers than helpful to the preacher, I fear; but it was away the dear old brother had of speaking out in meeting.

I must end this Sketch.  I have dipped my pen in my heart in writing it.  The subject of it has been friend, brother, father, to me since the day he looked in upon us in the little cabin on the hill in Sonora, in 1855.  When I greet him on the hills of heaven, he will not be sorry to be told that among the many in the far West to whom he was helpful was the writer of this too imperfect Sketch.

Sanders.

He belonged to the Church militant.  In looks he was a cross between a grenadier and a Trappist.  But there was more soldier than monk in his nature.  He was over six feet high, thin as a bolster, and straight as a long-leaf pine.  His anatomy was strongly conspicuous.  He was the boniest of men.  There were as many angles as inches in the lines of his face.  His hair disdained the persuasions of comb or brush, and rose in tangled masses above a head that would have driven a phrenologist mad.  It was a long head in every sense.  His features were strong and stern, his nose one that would have delighted the great Napoleon—­it was a grand organ.  You said at once, on looking at him, Here is a man that fears neither man nor devil.  The face was an honest face.  When you looked into those keen, dark eyes, and read the lines of that stormy countenance, you felt that it would be equally impossible for him to tell a lie or to fear the face of man.

This was John Sanders, one of the early California Methodist preachers.  He went among the first to preach the gospel to the gold-hunters.  He got a hearing where some failed.  His sincerity and brainpower commanded attention, and his pluck enforced respect.  In one case it seemed to be needed.