It was a blacksmith shop of fair size, fully equipped with all the tools of the trade, the walls blackened by smoke, the earthen floor littered with _débris_, a leathern apron hanging over the anvil. A curtain drawn aside formed a smaller, separate apartment, with puncheon floor, lighted by a small window through which a gleam of sun fell. I caught therein glimpse of a bunk full of disarranged blankets, a straight-back chair, and a small table, with a few books lying upon it. Yet all this was but the result of a glance, as my whole attention concentrated upon a kneeling figure just beneath the loop of the curtain. The man was facing me, but with eyes closed, and uplifted, as his lips poured forth the fervent words of prayer. I was not a religious man in those days, yet the faith of my mother was not forgotten, and there was something of sincerity about that solitary kneeling figure I could not but respect. The words uttered, the deep resonant voice, and above all, the expression of that upturned face, held me silent, motionless. He was a man of short, sturdy limb, but great bulk, massive chest, and immense shoulders evidencing remarkable strength. His face was rugged, the jaws square, the chin pronounced, the brow broad, rather than high, with nose like the beak of a hawk. His thick hair, iron-gray, was a bushy mat. His only clothing consisted of leathern breeches, well worn but clean, and a rough shirt, open at the throat, and sleeveless. This revealed a brawny chest, and arms knotted with muscle.
But it was the man's voice, deep, resonant, vibrant with feeling, which fascinated me, while the words spoken seemed to yield me a new conception of prayer, so simple were they, so clearly a true utterance of the heart. Believing himself alone with his Maker, there was a depth of sincerity in the tone which hushed all shallow criticism. Rare Christian faith, unreserved surrender, absolute confidence spoke through every syllable, and I stood there, almost breathless, listening, feeling that this was holy ground. What was this man, this praying blacksmith? A patriot surely, from his words of petition; one who had suffered much, but was willing to suffer more. The strength chiselled in that upturned face, those deeply marked features, revealed no common mental equipment. Here was a real man, with convictions, one who would die for an ideal; without doubt a radical, ready to go to any extreme where conscience blazed the way.