Listen to one of his long sermons, as the hour-glass at his side is turned possibly for the second time, and in the way the congregation give attention, you see evidence of his authority and of his hold upon them. He discourses on high themes, abstruse doctrines, and obscure points of faith. He discusses his text and subject in a logical and philosophical way; defines the doctrine, first by what it is not, and then by what it is; divides and sub-divides, and divides again, illustrates with analysis and analogies, intersperses with other passages from the Bible, and perhaps with occasional Greek or Latin quotations, draws to the “conclusion,” adds the “improvement,” goes on as though taking a fresh start to his “finally,” and then ends with his “and now last of all.” For a full hour, or perhaps two, the congregation have listened, counting it a precious privilege so to do; and that which he has advanced will be remembered, repeated, talked over, and discussed among them all the week. Those early clergymen are not by any means to be spoken of slightingly. Some of us may know more of science, and be better informed in matters of natural history and of the contemporaneous condition of other lands; but few of us know as much Hebrew and Greek, few of us are as deeply versed in metaphysics, few of us are more vigorous in argument, and none of us certainly have such influence in our communities, or could hold our congregations for so long services. Those country parsons were men of mark; deep theologians; strong in the doctrines; prone, men may think to-day, to a narrow and iron-clad theology; but they were veritable giants also, and in fast, thanksgiving, and election day sermons did not hesitate to handle national themes, point out very specifically and with square condemnation, popular sins, and to discuss, and if necessary, pass open judgment on the courses and actions of public men. It is often remarked that the fathers builded first the church and then, next and near by, the school-house; and so next to the minister a marked man in those older days was the “Village Schoolmaster.” Occasionally the schoolmaster and the minister were one. Sometimes he was a minister who, from the too prevalent affliction of throat disease—a judgment, possibly, on account of the long sermons—had exchanged preaching for teaching. Oftenest he was a man by himself; and no teacher in any public school of to-day quite perpetuates his likeness. I can not do better in attempting to describe him than to quote from Prof. McMaster, in his admirable “History of the People of the United States:” “The master was expected to live with the parents of his pupils, regulating the length of his stay by the number of the boys in the family attending his school. Thus it happened that in the course of his teaching he became an inmate of all the houses of the district, and was not seldom forced to walk five miles, in the worst of weather over the worst of roads, to his school.