look above and beyond schools and art and rich attire to find one of Nature's noblemen; and then will sit down and write the life of Joab Powell, whose utterances were like those of Henry Clay's—spoken for the occasion and not for the future. There are those who on account of their individuality rise so far above conventionalism that we forget their titles and think of them solely as men. We say Socrates, Virgil, Ossian, Milton, Demosthenes; for no title can add lustre to their names. How refreshing would sound Rev. Peter, Dr. James, or Elder John, of sacred lore. So in our land there have been those in whom we at once recognize and revere the man: as Roger Williams, Lorenzo Dow and Peter Cartwright; and, in the farther West, Jason Lee, Father Newton and Joab Powell. These untitled messengers carried the gospel of higher civilization when the track of the wagon and the iron horse was but the dim trail of the Indian and the pioneer; and it behooves the rising generation to repeat and record their words of wisdom ere all they have said will be effaced except some trite tale unworthy of a listening ear.
THE BIBLE.
In each wagon of the long immigrant trains that came into our valley might have been found a certain book—plain book—precious book—book of books—the Bible; and the most indifferent some-
