which flashed in his eye and lighted up his face. It may be mentioned here, as evidence of his early promise, that he had so far mastered the rudiments of the Latin language as to be able to read any of the less difficult authors, at seven years

of age.

When about fourteen or fifteen, he entered the now celebrated Liberty Hall Academy, taught by the Rev. Wm. Graham, "a most indefatigable and successful teacher of youth." This institution was located within a mile of Lexington, on the road leading to the Warm Springs. It was incorporated early in the present century, and is now known as Washington College-deriving its name from the fact that General Washington left a legacy for its endowment. It was in this institution, while yet Liberty Hall Academy, that Dr. Archibald Alexander, Dr. Baxter, Dr. J. Holt Rice, Dr. Conrad Speece, and Hon. James Brown, minister to France, prosecuted their classical studies, and laid the foundation of that reputation for learning and piety which has given such eminence to their honored names. Here too, the subject of this sketch, applied himself to study with faithfulness, diligence and success. Strictly speaking, he was never a member of college. But as has been well said of him, "he was a student out of college." He was always a student, in the best sense of the word. Even when the infirmities of age pressed upon him and the exhausting toils and labors of half a century had worn. his life almost away, he continued to study. He was not a mere reader of books; skimming over the surface; glancing at the contents and hurrying on to the finis. He studied them, if they were worth studying (and he read no others); sounded: their depths; extracted what was good and true; rejected the bad and false, making the former his own by wholesome meditation. After completing his studies at the Academy, he did not decide immediately what profession he should enter, but employed himself at home in reading history and the lighter literature of the day.

He made a public profession of religion when about eighteen years of age. This was several years after he indulged the hope that he was a new creature in Christ Jesus, and had we space, it might not be uninteresting or unprofitable to dwell at

length upon those eventful months, during which his soul struggled in all the anguish of the new birth. For it was in this fiery experience, and amid these mighty conflicts, that he acquired much of that consummate skill for which he was distinguished in after life, in directing inquiring sinners in the way of salvation; in resolving the doubts and driving away the unfounded fears of the timid and distrustful.

We approach now a period, which, whether we consider the struggle through which he passed, or the conviction of duty which he reached, is one of the most important of his life. For many years he had felt that he would become a preacher of the Gospel. Now that he had publicly confessed Christ before men, the claims of the ministry pressed upon him and stirred his spirit as perhaps no other question ever did, in all his life. He attempted to evade it; reason it away; or procrastinate its decision. He would say to himself, "I have neither religion, nor sense enough. I am not half such a man as I ought to be. I cannot think of assuming the functions of an office so sacred, so responsible." For two years this subject engrossed his thoughts. He heard the divine call to the ministry; the voice of the Master was continually ringing in his ears, "Go thou and preach the Kingdom of God." But he shrank from his duty, fearing lest his motives were not right. Nothing was so revolting to his ingenuous mind, as the thought of seeking the sacred office from any other than the purest, most unselfish and honorable motives. Hence he often subjected his motives in desiring the office of a bishop to the most rigid test: "Am I actuated by a desire to promote the glory of God, by toiling for the salvation of men and the establishment of the Redeemer's kingdom. Or do I seek mere distinction-mere worldly honor and fame?" These were the tests by which he tried his spirit and his motives. At one time he was almost persuaded to study law. Many plausible reasons were suggested to him why he should turn his attention to the bar. But he was not satisfied with them. For a season, it may be, he would yield his objections and put aside his preferences for the pulpit, but the conflict was soon renewed. An unseen hand, stronger than the attractions of the law; mightier than the arguments and persuasions of his friends; more potent

even, than the deductions of his own logic, was controlling all his movements and leading him on to such decisions with respect to duty, as at length fully satisfied his own mind, and from which he never swerved through a long, toilsome life-a life in which discouragement and hope, self denial, persecution, reproach, honor, and success, were intimately and strangely blended. Deeply pondering the important question, he at length felt reconciled to study law, provided his motive was to glorify God. So deeply inwrought, into the very "web and woof" of his soul, had been that first question and answer of the Catechism, that he could not have peace unless he felt assured that he was acting according to its spirit and its letter. He was now approaching the crisis, which was to determine his future course. If he could glorify God as a lawyer, and if this were his controlling motive, then he could see his way clear to go to the bar. One step farther-was this his motive? With an indistinct impression that it was, he was about to make the final decision, when God arrested him. Suddenly the thought presented itself, "If you can study law with the desire to glorify God as the supreme, controlling motive, this is all God requires in one who seeks the ministry-this is all that is necessary in order to preach the Gospel." Here he rested. In this thought he found peace. He decided to study for the ministry, and from that day to the day of his death, a period of more than half a century, the Divine Glory was the grand motive of all his actions.

Having thus determined to devote himself, his life, his all, to the great work of preaching the gospel, he applied at once to be taken under the care of Lexington Presbytery, and commenced his theological studies under the direction of Rev. Samuel Brown, a divine, whose solid learning, severe logic and metaphysical tastes gained for him the title of the "Edwards of Virginia." Soon after the removal of his father's family to Tennessee, he transferred his connection with Lexington Presbytery to the Presbytery of Union. He pursued his studies. under the direction of Rev. Samuel Carrick, an excellent and able man, and withal a severe critic. The preceptor, however, found in his pupil an overmatch for him on some controverted points in divinity, and he was not unwilling to hand the young

heretic over to Dr. Gideon Blackburn, who had charge of the church at Maryville. Dr. Blackburn had an interview with him, and they sat up till midnight discussing the doctrines of what was called New Divinity, and which was then eliciting heated controversy among the Presbyterian ministers of East Tennessee. "At the close of the interview," said Dr. Anderson, "I felt that my head was as empty as a barrel, and that my whole system of theology, which I had thought was incontrovertible, was completely set aside and utterly demolished." But if his own system was overthrown, he did not blindly adopt another. He studied and prayed over the matter. His thoughts were busy with the doctrinal views presented by Dr. Blackburn, and still for a long time he could not heartily assent to them. At length, while riding along the highway, profoundly meditating on these things, the whole system, as taught him by Dr. Blackburn, passed rapidly in review before his mind, and he saw at a glance that it was sound, scriptural and true.

He was licensed to preach at the spring meeting of Union Presbytery, April, 1802, and in the fall of the same year was installed pastor of Washington Church, now, and for many years past, under the pastorate of Rev. Gideon S. White. Here he labored nine or ten years, deriving his worldly support for the most part, from his farm and school. In addition to his labors in the field and in the school-room, besides the regular ministration of the Sabbath in his pulpit, he made regular preaching tours through the adjacent counties, sowing the seed by the way-side, and calling on men "everywhere, to repent." "He was moved with compassion when he saw the multitudes who were as sheep having no shepherd." With much of the self-denying spirit of his Master, he labored to gather these sheep into the fold of the great Shepherd. About this time, the Life of Whitefield fell into his hands. With great avidity he devoured its contents; and whilst he read and mused, the fire burned. The apostolic zeal and unparalleled success of that wonderful preacher so wrought upon his mind and heart that he determined to extend, as far as possible, the sphere of his labors. It was for this purpose that he made. the tours to which reference has just been made.

We have often heard Dr. Anderson recite the following

story, which, whilst it reveals the rude, uncultivated manners of the people, as well as the destitution of the means of grace in the region of country through which he travelled and preached, serves also to illustrate the self-denying endurance, the earnest zeal, the strong compassion of the missionary himself. He had an appointment to preach in a neighborhood. which he had never visited, and where he was an entire stranger. As he approached the house where he was to preach, "the woods seemed alive with men, women, and children. The very ends of the earth appeared to have come together." His quick eye detected in the midst of the vast crowd about the door, one of the largest men he had ever seen a strong, savage-looking Dutchman, of Herculean dimensions, by name Mosier. As he caught a view of this son of Anak, he said to himself, "If you are a good man, well-if not, wo be to this community." Unintimidated by the uncouth presence and bearing of his audience, he "preached to them boldly, in the name of the Lord Jesus." After the service, Mosier approached and accosted him thus: "I wish, to pe sure, you'd breach in my neighborhood."

"Have you a house to preach in ?"

"No; but I vill puild you von house."

The appointment to preach was made, and on the set day the preacher came. True to his promise, Mosier had erected a house of worship-of logs, of course. The interior accommodations of pulpit and pews, were also of poles from the banks of the Clinch. A large and motley crowd awaited the preacher's coming; and although it was the Sabbath, the men had brought with them their guns and shot-pouches. The preacher passed into the house, and ascended the pulpit. The people crowded around, peeping in through the interstices between the logs. He arose and addressed them, explaining to them what he was going to do, and inviting them to come in. A few entered the house, but the openings between the logs were still lined with curious eyes. The preacher repeated the invitation, and others entered; but they refused to occupy the log-sittings, prefering to crouch on their haunches on the dirtfloor. A few remained outside, and one man stood at the door holding his horse by the bridle. He apologized for doing