and thinks that a man shouldn't be ashamed of buying what he has to
eat, and needn't blush if he has to carry home what he wants to
digest. His sermons in both manner and matter are essentially
Haworthian. There is no gilt, no mock modesty in his style; there is
to vapid sentimentalism in the ideas he expounds. A broad, unshaven,
every-day Lancashire vigour pervades both; and what he can't make
out he guesses at. In the pulpit he seems earnest but uneasy--
honest, but fidgetty about his eyes, and legs. Watch him: he
preaches extemporaneously, but often peers up and winks, and often
looks down at his bible and squeezes his eyes. He has a great
predilection for turning to the left--that he apparently thinks is
the right side for small appeals of a special character; and when he
gets back again, for the purpose of either looking at his book or
sending out a new idea, he makes a short oscillating waddle--a
sharp, whimsical, wavy motion, as if he either wanted to get his
feet out of something or stir forward about half an inch. He pitches
his hands about with considerable activity, and often flings himself
suddenly into a white-heat, tantrum of virtue, and the brethren like
him when be does this. He is original when stormy; is refreshing
when his temper is up. His style is natural--is a reflection of
himself--is warm with life, is odd, and at times fierce through the
power of his sincerity. His illustrations are all homely; his
theories most original; his expressions most honest and quaint. He
has a fondness for the Old Testament--likes to get into the company
of Isaiah, Jeremiah, &c.; sometimes touches the hem of Habakkuk's
garment; and nods at a distance occasionally at Joel and the other
minor prophets. We should like to see a Biblical Commentary from his
pen; it, would be immortal on account of its straightforwardnsss and
oddity. Adam Clarke and Matthew Henry must sometimes turn over in
their graves when he expounds the more mysterious passages of sacred
writ. To no one does Mr. Haworth hold the candle; he is candid to
all, and pitches into the entire confraternity of his hearers
sometimes. He said one Sunday "None of you are ower much to be
trusted--none of us are ower good, are we? A, bless ya, I sometimes
think if I were to lay my head on a deacon's breast--one of our own
lot--may be there would be a nettle in't or summut at sooart." He is
partial to long "Oh's," and "Ah's" and solemn breathings; and
sometimes tells