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.