urch in Suisun
Valley. The Bishop and a number of the most prominent ministers of the
Pacific Conference were present at a Saturday-morning preaching
appointment. They had all been engaged in protracted labors, and,
beginning with the Bishop, one after another declined to preach. The lot
fell at last upon a boyish-looking brother of very small stature, who
labored under the double disadvantage of being a very young preacher,
and of having been reared in the immediate vicinity. The people were
disappointed and indignant when they saw the little fellow go into the
pulpit. None showed their displeasure more plainly than Uncle Ben Brown,
a somewhat eccentric old brother, who was one of the founders of that
Society, and one of its best official members. He sat as usual on a
front seat, his thick eyebrows fiercely knit, and his face wearing a
heavy frown. He had expected to hear the Bishop, and this was what it
had come to! He drew his shoulders sullenly down, and, with his eyes
bent upon the floor, nursed his wrath. The little preacher began his
sermon, and soon astonished everybody by the energy with which he spoke.
As he proceeded, the frown on Uncle Ben's face relaxed a little; at
length he lifted his eyes and glanced at the speaker in surprise. He did
not think it was in him. With abnormal fluency and force, the little
preacher went on with the increasing sympathy of his audience, who were
feeling the effects of a generous reaction in his favor. Uncle Ben,
touched a little with honest obstinacy as he was, gradually relaxed in
the sternness of his looks, straightening up by degrees until he sat
upright facing the speaker in a sort of half-reluctant, pleased wonder.
Just at the close of a specially vigorous burst of declamation, the old
man exclaimed, in a loud voice:

"Bless God! he uses the weak things of this world to confound the
mighty!" casting around a triumphant glance at the Bishop and other
preachers.

This impromptu remark was more amusing to the hearers than helpful to
the preacher, I fear; but it was away the dear old brother had of
speaking out in meeting.

I must end this Sketch. I have dipped my pen in my heart in writing it.
The subject of it has been friend, brother, father, to me since the day
he looked in upon us in the little cabin on the hill in Sonora, in 1855.
When I greet him on the hills of heaven, he will not be sorry to be told
that among the many in the far West to whom he was helpful was th