Like my father, I was the youngest child. There were seven older than myself, and four of them had grown up to manhood before I was born. I had a common school education. The old school-house and my schoolmaster, Henry Rosman, I well remember. He went from house to house, and it was a great occasion when he came to my father’s to board. He was quite a character, a perfect original. He came from Hesse Cassel, and was one of the Hessian soldiers taken prisoner at Trenton, N. J., when Washington and his noble band crossed the frozen Delaware and surprised Colonel Ralle and his troops and took them prisoners, while their commander was slain. Many of the Hessians had come to this country contrary to their own will to fight against America, and they preferred remaining here to returning to Europe. A number of them were sent to Lancaster County, and among the rest my old schoolmaster. He possessed many rare qualifications for an instructor. He was a thorough German scholar, and had mastered the English language. His school was kept in perfect order; every scholar knew his place, and was obliged to keep it. The teacher prayed in school, and taught the children short prayers. Like Ichabod Crane, he sung psalms and hymns, and we learned to sing them. Some of the German hymns which he taught me to sing over eighty years ago I still remember well. To him I am indebted for my accurate knowledge of the German language, which I learned before the English. Germans have often admired my correct pronunciation of their vernacular. They said it was pure, and not mixed with other dialects, like the Pennsylvania German. In after years it was a great benefit to me when I preached in German. I was one of the first among the Methodists that preached in that language. This I have done in fourteen different states. Some things which I wrote in German over sixty years ago I have preserved, and am surprised to find them so correct. I was a great favorite with Mr. Rosman, and he took delight in giving me instruction. The little old school-house still remains, but where are the scholars and the teachers? When, after an absence of many years, I paid a visit to my native town in 1856, I inquired for my old schoolfellows, hoping to find one with whom I could converse about by-gone days. I inquired in vain. They were all gone, and I found myself alone and lonely. Dilworth’s spelling-book, from which I learned English, and the knife and fork I used when a very little boy, I have preserved as relics of my childhood.