for Tim Bobbin in his better moments, and for Sam Slick in his unctuous periods; cares more for thoughts than grammar; likes to rush out in a buster when the spell is upon him; can either shout you into fits or whisper you to sleep—­is, in a word, a virtuous and venerable “caution.”  He is the right kind of man for humble, queer-thinking; determined, sincerely-singular Christians; is just the sort of person you should hear when the “blues” are on you; has much pathos, much fire, much uncurbed virtue in him; is a sort of theological Bailey’s Dictionary—­rough, ready, outspoken, unconventional, and funny; is a second Gadsby in oddness, and force, and sincerity, but lacks Gadsby’s learning.  Unlike the bulk of parsons, Mr. Haworth does his own marketing.  You may see him almost any Saturday in the market, with a huge orthodox basket in his hand—­a basket bulky, and made not for show, but for holding things.  He has no pride in him, 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