t that time, and the country round
was settled in an early day by a colony of Yankees. At the time
of my appointment I had never seen a Yankee, and I had heard dismal
stories about them. It was said they lived almost entirely on
pumpkins, molasses, fat meat, and Bohea tea; moreover that they
could not bear loud and zealous sermons, and that they had brought
on their learned preachers with them, and were always criticising us
poor backwoods preachers."

The "isms" our circuit-rider now encountered would have appalled
a less resolute man. He seems, however, to have gotten along fairly
well except with one "female," who, from all accounts, was given
over in about equal parts to "universalism" and "predestinarianism."
This troublesome female, that he candidly admitted he had _a
hard race to keep up with,_ he has left impaled for all time as
a "thin-faced, Roman-nosed, loquacious, glib-tongued Yankee."

Something of the antagonism of the different persuasions in the
good old pioneer days, may be gathered from the tender farewell
taken by Brother Cartwright of a former associate, one Brother D.,
"who left the Methodists, joined the Free-will Baptists, left them
and joined the New Lights, and then moved to Texas, where I expect
the devil has him in safe keeping long before this time!"

It would be idle to suppose that Peter Cartwright was a mere
visionary or dreamer. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
He was abundantly possessed with what, in Western parlance, is
known as "horse sense." He was a student of men, and kept in close
touch with the affairs of this world. His shrewdness, no less than
his courage, was a proverb in his day. Upon one occasion, at
the beginning of his sermon before a large audience, he was more
than once interrupted by the persistent but ineffectual attempt of
a saintly old sister to shout. Annoyed at length, turning to her he
said: "Dear sister, never shout as a matter of duty; when you
can't help it, then shout; _but never shout as a mere matter of
duty!"_

At a camp-meeting on the banks of the Cumberland in the early years
of the last century, an attempt was made by a band of desperadoes to
create a disturbance. To this end their leader, a burly ruffian, stalked
to the front of the pulpit, and with an oath commanded Cartwright to
"dry up." Suspending divine service for a few minutes, and laying
aside his coat, the preacher descended from the pulpit and springing
upon the intrud