containing wardrobe and library; their wearing apparel copperas or madder dyed homespun; their fare often parched corn and jerked venison or baked 'possum; their bed sometimes the bare earth or a hollow log, in winter as well as summer. If such were the life and labors of the Bishops, what had the rank and file to expect but unremunerated toil, penury, hardship, suffering, and probably an early death? And to what end were this heroic courage and fortitude dedicated, if not that they might preach Christ, "warning every man and teaching every man in all wisdom, that they might present every man perfect in Christ Jesus." "Whereunto they also labored, striving according to his working, which wrought in them mightily."

In February, 1813, Bascom received license to preach, and was appointed by the presiding elder, the excellent James Quinn, of blessed memory, as "helper" on Brush Creek Circuit, which lay in several counties up and down and back of the Ohio River, and in the following autumn was received on trial in the Ohio Conference. At that day a Presiding Elder's District in the West covered as wide a territory as is now included in several Conferences: the larger part of Indiana, the whole of Illinois, and the whole of Missouri were in single circuits. The last war with Great Britain was raging; the Indians on the western border were in arms against our people, and preachers had to face the peculiar dangers and endure the especial hardships of the times. Bascom's zeal and devotion were equal to every demand upon them. He devoured whatever books came in his way, mastered and retained their contents; preached once or twice, sometimes thrice, almost every day; met the classes; visited the sick; had long rides, sometimes perilous ones, through unbroken forests as well as in the open; fared and slept hard; "was instant in season and out of season," and made full proof of his ministry. As Chillicothe, the capital of Ohio, was in his first circuit, it offered him rare advantages, better society, and more books than he had before seen, and he eagerly appropriated them. His yearning for all kinds of knowledge was passionate, insatiable. Never did a youth more earnestly redeem the time from sloth and self-indulgence by the ransom of sleepless vigilance, shrewd observation, patient and unremitting study, and

untiring efforts to improve and educate himself in every part and in all directions. He read while in the saddle on his long, hard rides, or, seated at the foot of a tree, where a panther might be lurking for a deadly spring, (as, indeed, was once the case, when he was saved from the fierce creature's teeth and claws by the timely ball of a hunter's rifle, the monster falling dead at his feet;) in the cabin homes of his parishioners, where the single room served as kitchen, laundry, nursery, diningroom, bedroom, for the family and their guests, and sometimes, also, as kennel and poultry yard, with the scolding wife, grumbling husband, squalling children, growling curs, and clucking hens, to furnish a musical accompaniment to his studious researches, or when the rest were locked in sleep, he, lying on the ample hearth, pursuing his studies far into the night by the flickering light of a pine-knot stuck in a corner of the chimney. Knowledge thus gained is sure to be valued and converted into the reproductive grain by which a man may live. Brave as the boldest frontiersman who ever fought with crafty savages, he was yet shy, self-distrustful, and sensitive as a timid girl; and, seeking to hide his quivering sensibilities and tremulous, almost morbid, modesty from the common gaze, he covered himself with a mantle of reserve, which was thought, by common observers, to be one of haughty pride. Cast in nature's finest mold, "ruddy and well-favored,” with buoyant step, grace in every motion, erect and dauntless in carriage, every feature of the face perfect, his head covered by a wealth of curly, dark hair, a study for the artist, the light of intense feeling and fiery genius in his glorious eye, which looked straight at and through you, it is not strange that he should be misunderstood and misinterpreted by the mass of men about him. Silent among strangers; without command of the commonplace nothings of ordinary talk; hating gossip and scandal; wholly free from the spirit of fault-finding and backbiting sometimes called criticism; speaking, when he had anything to say, in a prompt, decisive, sometimes impetuous, way, the emphasis of his utterance increased by his shrinking diffidence, and, withal, an uncompromising adherence to truth and a fearless honesty-all these qualities helped to throw him out of the pale of instant recognition and easy familiarity. Rarely, therefore, has it happened that so sweet, tender, mag.

nanimous, princely a nature as his has been so generally misconstrued, oppressed, and, at times, almost crushed. His brilliant genius, too-a genius, which laid under contribution the thoughts of other men, assimilated and reproduced them, bearing the impress of his striking individuality, and sent them into wide circulation as glittering yet precious coin, but totally different from the mintage of other men-served to increase the distance betwixt himself and them.

It was resolved by the authorities to put Bascom's mettle to the proof, and he was sent to Guyandotte Circuit, in West Virginia, pleasantly styled the Botany Bay of the Conference, as rough a part of the country, at that day, as any preacher has ever been sent to work in. To Guyandotte he went without a murmur, and within nine months preached four hundred times, rode through that wild, sometimes trackless, almost impassable mountain district, three thousand miles, battling with the elements, sleeping in hollow logs, chased by wolves, fighting with a bear, swimming mountain torrents, living on "hog and hominy," "dogger and bear meat," and received for his year's work twelve dollars and ten cents. This is what he said in a letter to a friend, at the close of that year:

But none of these things move me. I possess a settled consciousness that I did not engage in the ministry to accumulate wealth, and when I meet with trials and disparagements I am not at all disappointed, but meet with firmness what I had anticipated, not with fear. I can get, as soon as I please, five hundred per annum for my services; but no, I'll travel, and try to possess the spirit of goodness and universal benevolence; and, while I feel animating fires in my veins, I'll preach His Gospel who gave me power to preach.

He was now entitled to be admitted into the Conference as a member, and to receive deacon's orders. His character was blameless, his conduct irreproachable, his industry unremitting in every part of his duty, and his devotion to his Master's work supreme; but a vote of the Conference refused to admit and grant him orders!

The Minutes for that year state that Henry B. Bascom was continued on trial. The next year he was sent to the Mad River Circuit, which was bounded on one side by the Indian country. The savages had not yet slaked their thirst for blood, and a house in which he stayed for a night was assaulted

by them, but was so well built and guarded that their attack was fruitless. As he rode off the next day, he found himself pursued by the red men, but, as he was on a powerful horse, he managed to keep well ahead, but soon came in sight of the Great Miami River, full and covered with floating ice. As he paused the Indians raised an exulting shout, for their prey now seemed within their grasp. He spurred his horse, plunged boldly into the rushing torrent, steered as well as he might amidst the floating ice, and gained the other shore just as the savages reached the one he had left. They dared not venture into the roaring flood, contented themselves with impotent yells and brandishing their tomahawks. His dripping clothes were soon changed into a mail of ice, and he was in danger of freezing. Emptying the water from his saddle bags and boots, wringing his stockings, he mounted again, and, after a long ride, reached a friendly house, where he was soon re-clothed and comforted. Going to bed early, after the fatigue and excitement of the day, his deep, sweet sleep was soon disturbed by the information that the accouchement of the lady of the house was at hand, and the request that he would go in search of a nurse and doctor, and find himself another place to sleep. Twenty years later, at the close of a service where he had preached, a young lady was introduced to him, who begged his pardon for having robbed him of a night's sleep after a trying day. Somewhat startled by the statement, he was endeavoring to recall where and how, when she laughingly informed him. that it was her advent in this sphere that made the finale of that day's experience.

Another year's hard work was done, and faithfully done, yet his brethren doubted if he were worthy to become a member of the Conference and ordained a deacon. Some light may be shed on the problem by this incident: An old layman, who was really much attached to Bascom, was, nevertheless, grieved to the core by what seemed his conformity to the world in the matter of dress, and that conformity argued a very low state of piety. "Henry, my boy," he said, in a half admonitory half pathetic tone, "what makes you such a dandy-why don't you try to be and look like a Methodist preacher? You dress and carry yourself in such a way that many of your brethren think you've got no religion." "My dear brother," answered

Bascom, meekly, "my pay is so poor that I am obliged to wear what clothes are given me, and if I happen to look well in "Yes, you them I can't help it; God made me what I am." can help it," said the old man, with some warmth, "and you must help it. I'll cure the matter. Will you wear a suit of clothes that I'll have made for you?" "Gladly," said Bascom. "All right," said his old friend, "I'll make you look like a Methodist preacher; the clothes shall be ready for you when you come around the next time to attend the camp-meeting." A month later, Bascom reached the camp ground, and his old friend was ready for him; taking him out into the woods, he said, exulting, "Strip off those foppish clothes and put on these, and, for once in your life, you will look like a minister." Bascom stepped aside, arrayed himself in the new garments, while the old man rubbed his hands and chuckled with glee at the prospect of beholding his protégé in orthodox parsonic gear. The deformed, transformed Bascom stepped forth, his fine person attired in a suit of blue jeans, the waistcoat buttoned straight to the throat, the coat a genuine Quaker "shad belly," something like an English bishop's. As the old man saw him approaching with elastic step, in his radiant beauty,* he started up aghast, could scarce trust the testimony of his eyes, advanced, turned Bascom round and round, retired a few paces, surveyed him from every point of view, and, with a discomforted expression and dolorous tone, exclaimed, "Henry, there's no doing anything with you; you're a born fop; you look a hundred times more like a dandy than you ever did before." What could be done with a man who was so becoming in whatever he wore, who looked like a courtier or prince even in homespun !

When Bishop M'Kendree saw that a majority of the Conference had resolved to keep Bascom still on trial, he said, "Give that boy to me, admit and elect him to deacon's orders, and I will take care of him." Bascom was transferred to the Tennessee Conference, and appointed to the Danville Circuit, in Kentucky. Year after year he wrought and studied with

* So impressive were his presence and bearing, even in his latest years, that, as he walked the streets of Lexington, where he was as well known as was Henry Clay, it was the habit of those who saw him oftenest, as well as strangers, men, women, and children, white and black, to pause as he passed, turn round and gaze upon his receding figure.