--but let the curtain fall on the scene that
followed. The seven were found next day lying dead, a bullet through the
brain of each, the murderer, by the side of the wife, still holding the
weapon of death in his hand, its muzzle against his right temple.

Other pictures of real life and death crowd upon, my mind, among them
noble forms and faces that were near and dear to me; but again I hear
the appealing voices. The page before me is wet with tears--I cannot
see to write.

Father Fisher.

He came to California in 1855. The Pacific Conference was in session at
Sacramento. It was announced that the new preacher from Texas would
preach at night. The boat was detained in some way, and he just had time
to reach the church, where a large and expectant congregation were in
waiting. Below medium height, plainly dressed, and with a sort of
peculiar shuffling movement as he went down the aisle, he attracted no
special notice except for the profoundly reverential manner that never
left him anywhere. But the moment he faced his audience and spoke, it
was evident to them that a man of mark stood before them. They were
magnetized at once, and every eye was fixed upon the strong yet
benignant face, the capacious blue eyes, the ample forehead, and massive
head, bald on top, with silver locks on either side. His tones in
reading the Scripture and the hymns were unspeakably solemn and very
musical. The blazing fervor of the prayer that followed was absolutely
startling to some of the preachers, who had cooled down under the
depressing influence of the moral atmosphere of the country. It almost
seemed as if we could hear the rush of the pentecostal wind, and see the
tongues of flame. The very house seemed to be rocking on its
foundations. By the time the prayer had ended, all were in a glow, and
ready for the sermon. The text I do not now call to mind, but the
impression made by the sermon remains. I had seen and heard preachers
who glowed in the pulpit--this man burned. His words poured forth in a
molten flood, his face shone like a furnace heated from within, his
large blue eyes flashed with the lightning of impassioned sentiment, and
anon swam in pathetic appeal that no heart could resist. Body, brain,
and spirit, all seemed to feel the mighty afflatus. His very frame
seemed to expand, and the little man who had gone into the pulpit with
shuffling step and downcast eyes was transfigured before us. When, with
radiant face, upt