*The Autobiography of
B.F. Hall, M.D. and D.D.S.

It is no agreeable task for one to undertake to write the history of his own life. I nerve myself to the task, not from any feeling of vanity, or to transmit my humble name to posterity, but, if possible, to do good after I am dead; with the hope that my example may stimulate and incourage(sic) some poor young man to break the shackles that fetter him, and rise above his early surroundings.

I was born in Nicholas County, Kentucky, the 15th day of June 1803. My father was a Virginian by birth, and lost his father of Smallpox when he was but a boy. His mother, being poor, and having but two children—both sons—put the younger out to learn the tanning business, and the elder, my father, to the shoe-making business. As soon, however, as he was of mature age, not liking his trade, he turned farmer. He first became an overseer for some gentleman in Fauquire (sic) County. Being sober and economical, he acquired some property, and purchased a farm and went to work on his own account.

My mother on her mother's side was French, and descended from the Huguenots. Her ancestors were among the few Protestants who escaped massacre on the fatal night of St. Bartholomew, when so many thousands fell martyrs to the persecuting hate of Romanists in France. I have set for hours and heard my dear old grandmother tell of the scenes of that dreadful night, and the manner of escape of her ancestors from the massacre. Those recitals created in me a dislike to Romanists which I have not wholly conquered to this day.

My father was a Revolutionary soldier, and was in several battles. He was afterwards with General Wayne against the Indians. When a boy I used to sit and hear my father and his old fellow soldiers talk over those scenes of war and bloodshed. From that Lime to the present I have not been especially fond of the British or Indians. So much for early impressions and prejudices.

My mother, whose name was Martha Foster, was born in New Jersey but when quite small, her parents removed to Virginia and settled in the neighborhood of my father. Her parents were rigid Presbyterians of the blue-stocking order. Hence she was brought up in that faith, but could never be a Calvinist, My father's mother was a Baptist. My father, though a strictly moral man, and lived to be almost 80 years old, never made a profession of religion.

My mother, when quite young, was converted under preaching of the Wallers, the Craigs and Samuel Harris, the Baptist "Apostle;" and, against the wishes of all her friends joined the Baptists. I have frequently heard her say she was seven years "under conviction," and was all that time "seeking religion," and anxiously inquiring what she must do to be saved. She was a woman of good judgment, fine memory, large conscientiousness and remarkable decision of character.

She had profound reverence for the word of God, and could repeat whole chapters, in both the Old and New Testament, by memory. She loved the Psalms of David. She was a great admirer of Watts and Rippons' hymns, and could repeat, perhaps, more than one hundred of them by memory. She was possessed of a strong faith in the God of the Bible and Providence. She could see God in everything. Altogether she was a great and noble woman. Her influence had more to do in moulding my character than all others together. I cherish her memory yet with the fondest, tenderest emotions. Though dead, she still speaks to me and many others. I thank the Lord for giving me such a mother. She has gone to her high reward.

When "Continental money" was yet, my father sold his real estate, consisting of two farms in Virginia and such personal property as he could not take with him, and with two loaded wagons started to Wheeling in company with a Mr. Metcalf and family (the father of the late Governor Thomas Metcalf) where they purchased two flat boats, and having wythed them together, started down the Ohio river, destined for Limestone (now Maysville) Kentucky. They frequently saw Indians on the Ohio side but were not, at any time attacked by them. They reached their destination in due time, and all well. Maysville then consisted of a few log cabins. There was but one house then between them and Lexington, which was at that time an insignificant little town of log buildings. The whole country was covered with switch cane. As Indians made frequent, raids into Kentucky, and no place was considered free from their incursions, they did, for several year, go into the interior', but lived in Lee's Station, a few miles from Maysville. The people in the Station—and there was a number of them—went to work and enclosed ground enough to raise sufficient grain to bread all their families. Some worked, while others, guns in their hands, kept a lookout for Indians.

A few years after this, the lndians became less troublesome, and people left the Station and began to open farms in the interior of Kentucky. My Father purchased land on the North fork of Leiking{Licking}, where he remained for a few years, when he sold out and purchased still further in the interior, where Morefield now is in Nicholas County, where he remained till his death about the year 1833.

My parents had some four or five children when they came to Kentucky, but lived until they had eleven, eight sons and three daughters, all married, save one!, my youngest brother, Dr. B.W. Hall of Nashville, Tennessee. Out of the eleven only four are now living, three brothers and one sister.

The neighborhood in which my father lived was almost entirely Presbyterian, and most of the family became members of that church. My father's house was the preacher's home—not only Presbyterian, but those of other denominations. I attended that church generally, and their Sunday School, where I learned the whole "Shorter Catechism," and memorized many of the Psalms and numerous chapters in the New Testament, which I can repeat my memory at this time. I have never forgotten them. Youth is the period to store the mind with knowledge to be used in riper years.

The rudiments of my education were acquired, first in a log School house, and after in a frame building, some two miles from father’s on the road, which was frequently muddy in winter. Here I learned to read and write and “cypher” through Gutherie’s and Pike’s Arithmetic. 

After I became large enough to work in the crop, I went to School only in the winter, and worked the farm the rest of the year. I never had to be persuaded, nor scolded to go to school; on the contrary, I often cried when I was told I had to stay from school. I was often whipped for mischief at school, but never because I did not learn my lessons. I was fond of learning.

My parents were very strict with their children; and frequently chastized us for "breaking the Sabbath," so called. I continued to go to school in winter and work on the farm in summer until I was not far from seventeen years of age. Sometime before this I was encouraged by Gen. T. Fletcher, a friend of my father's, to study law, and had read Blackstone, and a few other elementary works and studied them pretty thoroughly for a boy of my age, and wits occasionally examined by Gen. F., who encouraged me by saying I was learning rapidly. My reading law, however, was carefully concealed from my father, who had quite a repugnance to the profession.

When I was about Seventeen years of age, an incident occurred, which changed the whole tenor of my life.

My brother next older than myself were {sic} quite volatile and fond of fun, even though it should be at the expense, and to the injury of others. In the spring, when the corn was fully up, we attended a muster in the neighborhood. A good deal of whiskey was sold and drank on such occasions. Towards evening it began to rain. We bought whiskey, pint after pint, and induced quite a number of my father's neighbors, heads of families and others, to drink. They agreed to drink as long as we would buy and give them. They drank until several of them were becoming drunk. One of them, a good liver, feeling quite rich just then, invited the crowd to his house for supper. We all went; my brother and I to see the fun; for we had drank none whatever. By the time we got to the house, some were too drunk to eat, or to go home; and they fell on the floor and rolled, and cursed and swore, and some were very sick. Some would sing and pray and use profane language, by turns. Thus the night wore away, and the morning was drawing near, when my brother and I had to be at home to begin our day's work. So we set out and reached home about day break. That day my brother harrowed the young corn and I re-planted. How my brother's mind had been employed through the day, I had no means of knowing, but mine had been painful occupied with the scenes of the past day and night. I thought how sinfully we had acted, and how much sin we had been the occasion of others' committing. The recollection of these stung the heart. I began to awake to a sense of my sinful condition. The sins of my life rushed, thick and fast, into my mind. I grew sick at heart, and tears, bitter, burning, blinding tears, rolled down my cheeks. I felt that I was a sinner; a great sinner; a hell-deserving sinner. The guilt of my many and heignous{heinous} sins came careering up before my mind, and a sense of guilt settled, with a leaden weight upon my heart. I was opprest; my heart was crushed with grief. Then and there, in the field, I resolved, for the first time in my life, to change my course, and to seek the Lord, and never to give over {to} the struggle until I had the evidence of pardon. I had been brought up to say my prayers; and often had my dear old mother taken me with her into the closet, and knealt{knelt} down with me by her side upon my knees, and, putting her blessed hand upon my head, prayed for her poor, sinful boy. Still, I had never prayed. My heart had never gone out after God. I had never, until now, been burdened. oppressed, crushed beneath the weight of conscious sins. I had never known before what repentance meant. But now I felt it all, painfully poignantly. Every breath was a prayer for mercy. But my lips moved not, except with quivering emotions. For the first time in my life I resolved to seek a retired spot to pray—to pour out my burdened soul before God.

The sun was almost down. Our day's work was done. My brother started towards the house, and I went of a secret place to pray. Back of the field, near a hollow, in a briar thicket, I found a shot suited to my purpose. After looking all around to be assured that no one saw me, I dropped upon my knees, my head and hands upon a log, I made my first effort to pray. I knealt{knelt} for some moments in silence, for words came not to my lips. I could think of nothing to say. My pent-up grief was intense. It seemed that my heart would break. Tears gushed unbidden from my eyes. I sobbed aloud. A wail of agony welled up from the deep fountain of my heart. Amid sobs and groans I instinctively, and half unconsciously, ejaculated, "God, have mercy on my poor soul!" but I could think of nothing else to say. My agony of soul was too intense for utterance. I fell prostrate, my face upon the ground, and wept, and sobbed, and groaned with agony of soul. I had, somehow, imbibed the idea that God of stern inflexibility, of rigid justice, but without mercy, and that Christ was full of mercy and compassion. These ideas now rushed upon my mind, and under their influence, I instantly turned my thoughts to Jesus, and cried out, "0 thou compassionate Savior, have mercy upon my poor sinful, miserable soul!" How long I wept and prayed, I know not; but when I bethought myself it was night. I arose and started for the house. On the way, I dried up my tears, and composed myself as much as possible to prevent anyone from knowing my state of mind. Supper was announced; I went to the table, but could not eat. My countenance must have looked haggard, for my mother asked me if I was sick: I told her I did not feel well; and, lest I should be interrogated further, and something should be said that would reveal the state of my mind, I left the table, and retired to my room. I went to bed early; and though I had slept none for more than twenty-four hours, I could not sleep. For a long time I wept, until my pillow was wet with tears; finally, exhausted, I sunk into a troubled sleep. I dreamed the day of judgment had come, I thought one at a time was called into a church-house, that was in the neighborhood, to give an account of his past conduct. All the people of the neighborhood, I thought, were out of doors, and one by one, they were called into the house. The aisle was in the middle of the house, directly before the pulpit, which was at the further end of the house from the door; and I thought that, as each one was judged, he was assigned a place in the house, either on the right or left-hand of the Judge, according as he was either acquitted or condemned. The righteous were placed on the right, and the wicked on the left hand of the Judge.

     My mother's name at length was called. She quietly arose and walked calmly and alone into the house. My heart beat terribly, but I had no difficulty in dividing in my own mind what her doom would be, and I as readily decided what would be my fate—the very opposite of my mother's. I waited in silence and in dreadful apprehensions, and with deep emotion, to be summoned before the throne. I knew that justice would be done me, for Jesus was the Judge; but justice was the very thing that I feared. But I had not to wait long, for soon my name was called, and I arose, trembling, and went in. As I entered the door, looking to the right hand of the Judge, I saw my mother. I caught her eye. She was weeping. I knew it was in anticipation of my doom. Her lips quivered, as I had seen them quiver a thousand times before when she was burdened with grief too deep for utterance. She spoke not, but turned away her head and wept. I cast my eyes towards Jesus as he sat upon his throne with the Bible open before him. He cast one look upon me. It was full of tenderness, but I read in his countenance my fearful doom. He gently called me to draw near before him. I started down the isle, but before I had reached the spot his eye had indicated for me to come, I awoke, and, to my infinite relief, behold, it was a dream! It would, nevertheless, have been a reality, as resputed my destiny, had I at that time been summoned before the judgment seat of Christ.

     The next day was Saturday, and I had an appointment with a young man to visit, that evening, some young ladies in the neighborhood. But now I did not wish to make the visit. In my state of mind I could not engage in frivolous conversation, and any other sort would not likely interest them. Then, I did not wish to my condition of mind. I had resolved to live a new life, and did not wish my attention to be diverted from it. What was I to do; Would it be right to ignore my promise to the young man? This, I thought, would not be honorable. Should I meet him, he might insist on my filling my engagement, which I now resolved not to do. After revaluing the subject, as I supposed, fully in my mind, I determined to meet him at the time and place agreed upon, and frankly tell him all, and ask him to release me from the engagement. I went accordingly, and on the way I decided on the manner in which I should broach the subject. We met. Our greeting was, as usual, cordial. I soon summoned resolution to open my case fully before him, and in conclusion, asked to release me from the engagement. What was my delight and joy, when he not only released me, but added, as I had resolved to set out for heaven, he would become my companion on the journey.

     There was no religious excitement at this time in the neighborhood; indeed religion seemed to be at low ebb. The next day the people who called themselves Christians had a meeting in the neighborhood. I had a sister, younger than myself, who, next to my mother, was the idol of my heart. I asked her to accompany me to the meeting. She readily consented. On the way I revealed to her the state of my mind, and asked her to join me in seeking the Lord. She was a sweet girl and religiously inclined. She wept, and promised to go with me to heaven. We sat that day some distance apart, but so that I could see her face, and I loved to look at her, for to me she was very precious. During the sermon I noticed that she wept, and the preacher too noticed it; and in the conclusion of the discourse he invited persons forward to the anxious seat. I thought that, likely, my sister would like to go forward, and I wished her to go. When the congregation commenced singing, I went to my sister and asked her if she wished to go up to be prayed for? She said she did, but could not get through the crowd. I told her I would go with her. We both arose from our seat, she took my arm, and I led her through the press near to the minister where I sat down, and my sweet sister knelt, resting her head upon my knee. The audience appeared to be astonished, both at my sister and myself. We had taken them by surprise, for no one, except the young man alluded to above, knew anything of my feelings, and until then, he was ignorant of my sister's purpose and feelings. My conduct was inexplicable. When they saw me go to my sister, they supposed my purpose was to prevent her going up to be prayed for, perhaps, to take her out of the house—for all had seen her emotions; but I was stern, and had not shed a tear. They had seen me looking at her. And when they saw me lead her forward, weeping, and me unmoved, they were greatly perplexed. They did not understand. My concern was not about myself, but her. And when, after prayer, the minister commenced talking to me, I told him to talk to my sister. After dismission, my sister took my arm, and we started home. On the way I encouraged her all I could, and exhorted her never to give over till she had found her Savior. She promised to hold on faithfully, and try to meet me in heaven. Shortly afterwards she joined the Baptist church with her mother, and in  relating her experience, dated her conviction from my conversation to her. The young man, a few weeks afterward, joined the Christian Church, and stated that the first concern he had felt about his soul was occasioned by my speaking to him on the subject of religion.

As yet, I had not "got through." I continued to go to meetings, whenever opportunity offered, day and night, far and near.

One afternoon Elder John Rogers preached at a private house in the neighborhood. Many were there, and I among the rest. At the close of his discourse, he invited "mourners'' forward to be prayed for. I sat and wept, but moved not. A lady seeing my agitation, pressed through the crowd, and asked me if I did not wish to go forward? I answered, I did, but could not get through the press. She told me to follow her, that she would open the way for me. I went forward and, kneeling down, began to beg for mercy. This was the first time I had ever asked God's people to pray for me; but after that, I went forward at every meeting when mourners were called for.

I neglected to state, at the proper place, that, the day after I had resolved to change my life, and after my dreadful dream of the judgment, my mother sought an opportunity to speak with me privately; and, suspecting the real cause of my want of appetite and haggard appearance, she asked what was the matter with me; and in a way that none but a mother, a Christian mother, can do, desired me to be candid with her. I told her all, and found relief in the disclosure. During the recital, tears came in to her eyes; when I had concluded my brief but sad story, tears gushed from her eyes. She wept aloud, and threw hear blessed arms about my neck, and I threw my arms around her neck, and, clasped in each other's embraces, we wept. My mother wept from joy, and I wept from mingled emotions of joy and grief. For a long Lime we thus stood, our hearts beating and our tears mingling together. It was a scene wholly new to me. It was the beginning of joy and happiness.

Time wore on, still no relief came to my troubled mind, my burdened heart. True, my mental agony was gradually becoming less intense; but this increased my grief, for I was beginning to fear my convictions were leaving me, and this caused me great sorrow. Still, I resolved never to give up the struggle. I prayed regularly night and morning, and as often through the day as I could find a secret place in which to beg God for mercy. Away in the night I would retire to a grove not very distant from the house, and pray for mercy, and beg the Lord to show me some token of my acceptance with him. I would close my eyes and desire to a light like that which Paul saw, or to hear a voice, like to that which he heard, I wanted to hear him tell me in an audible voice that my sins were forgiven. I had frequently heard professors speak of having had such manifestations, and of hearing God thus speak peace to their souls. I had been always taught that this was the evidence which God afforded a person of the remission of his sins. And what less could I reasonably expect! I waited long for such a manifestation, and anxiously expected it whenever God saw proper to forgive my sins.

This was the condition of my mind when, one day a preacher came by to get me to go to meeting with him. Soon alter we started, he asked me how I was getting on seeking religion, and whether I had yet found the Lord in the remission of my sins? I replied that I was getting on badly; that, instead of having heard the voice of the Lord telling me my sins were forgiven, I feared I was losing my convictions; that the burden of my sins was not then as oppressive as it had been, which caused me great alarm. At this the preacher smiled. I thought it cruel of him to smile at my grief, occasioned too, by the fear that I was growing worse instead of better. He saw I was hurt, and observed I was mistaken. I replied that I feared I was not mistaken. He proposed to ask me some questions, to which I assented. He proceeded to ask me if I loved the Lord? The question brought me to reflection; to earnest thinking; and I inquired mentally, what is God? what are His attributes, his character? Do I know what he is? If not, how can I be assured that I love him? I knew I loved something which I supposed to be God. But then, I might be deceived; that might not be the true God, but a creation of my own fancy. Hence I answered: "If I know what God really is, I love him; but I may be mistaken in his character. Still I love what I suppose to be God," "I will ask you another question, one that I know you can answer. Do you love the people of God?" "Yes, I answered, "I do; and I love them because they are his people, and because I suppose they love God." "Then," said he, "you are a Christian; your sins are pardoned, for the Scripture says, 'we know we have passed from death unto life because we love the brethren.' " "No." I responded; my sins are not pardoned. God has not spoken peace to my soul; he has never told me my sins are pardoned." "Benjamin," said the preacher, "God does not now speak to us audibly, by a voice from heaven, as he used to speak to the people before the cannon of scripture was completed. The written word is to us the same as the spoken word was to the people then." This was a new idea to me, and contrary to what I had been always taught; and I told him I had heard many persons say they had heard God speak to them audibly from heaven," "That is all imagination," said the preacher. "The preachers must believe the people do have such new revelations now; and that God does tell them by a voice directly from heaven, that their sins are forgiven; because they receive them into the Church on the relation of such experiences." What he said to this, I do not now remember; but I recalled that he said, among other things that the word of God is our only source of information now, and that God there addresses us as characters; that he then describes the character of those on whom he will have mercy, those whose sins he will pardon, and that when we are assured of being that character, we are authorized to believe that our sins are pardoned. "I am satisfied," said he, "from what I know of you, and from what you have told me that your sins are pardoned, and that you are a Christian, and that you ought to join the Church and be baptized this very day." I told him I did not believe my sins were pardoned, and that I intended never to join the Church until I had assurance that my sins were remitted.

We had now reached the place of meeting; and just as I was taking my seat in the congregation, and before my companion had entered the pulpit, an elderly minister arose to preach. In the progress of his discourse he detailed the travels of a soul from sin to holiness. He described my experience from the beginning to the point which I had reached, and further. Had I not known that the preacher who went with me had not had an opportunity to say a word to him, and that no other human had heard me detail my religious exercises; I would have supposed the venerable speaker was speaking of me personally, and of my soul-travels. Several were that day immersed; and I stood on the bank alone, observing with deep interest the solemn scene, my eyes suffused with tears. Just as the last one emerged from the stream, I felt a hand laid gently on my shoulder; as I turned to look, my eyes met the tender gaze of a deacon of the church, who asked me affectionately if I did not desire to follow the humble and pious example of those dear young persons who had been just buried with the Lord in baptism? I answered, "I wish I was worthy to do so," and burst into tears. He said soothingly: "Do not be discouraged. I trust the day is not distant when I shall have the happiness of seeing you buried in the liquid grave and rise to walk a new life in Christ Jesus. God bless you, and give you consolation and good hope through grace! I wish you to go home with me," he added. I told him I was compelled to go home that evening, and obtain leave of my parents to return to the meeting on the morrow. "Then," said he, go home with me tomorrow to dinner." I promised him I would ask my parents' consent to do so.

I attended the meeting next day, and went home with the deacon. After dinner he asked me to take a walk with him. We went some distance from the house talking about Jesus and religion. That was the only theme in which I took any delight. After we had gone out of sight and hearing of the house, he proposed, if I had no objection, he would join in prayer. I gladly acceded to his proposition. We knelt, and he led in prayer. I have often thought it was one of the most earnest, heart-felt, importunate prayers I had ever heard. He plead beseechingly in my behalf.

After a long conversation with me, he expressed himself satisfied of my acceptance with God, and requested that I would join the Church that night. I did not promise him that I would do so, but told if, in the course of the meeting, I became satisfied with my state of mind, I would.

Before the meeting some of the ministers conversed with me and expressed themselves fully satisfied with my experience, and urged me to unite with the Church at once, assuring me I had experienced all that they themselves had, or any others known to them. I was still undecided, and so told them. Elder John Rogers preached that night, and "opened the door of the church" for the reception of members. I concluded to go forward, and did, to the joy of many hearts. I was asked to relate my experiences. Many of the members had heard it before—had heard it all—in its details. They so stated to the church. They, therefore, requested me to relate the substance. I did so in about the following language: "Reflecting upon my past life, I became convinced I was a great sinner. I endeavored to give myself to the Lord, and trust I have found him to be my Savior." With this experience the Church was satisfied, and gave me the right hand of fellowship accordingly.

As the meeting closed that night and I had to be at home at work on the farm, my baptism—which was not deemed of much importance anyway—was postponed till the next meeting, to be held a few weeks hence at a stand near old brother Nesbit's about a mile below Carlisle. To that meeting I went, and was immersed by brother William Morrow, in a small stream that heads a short distance above the town. The place where I was buried in baptism is now dry land.

I was now just 17 years old. I had set out for heaven, determined, by God's help to be faithful till death. I had many outward difficulties to encounter. My neighbors generally and my relations all were opposed to my joining the Christian church all except my mother. She would have preferred that I had joined the Baptists to be with her and my young sister. But she was so rejoiced to think I was a christian that she was reconciled. My other relations were Presbyterians. They could hardly endure the Baptists; but the "New Lights," as they called them--they could not tolerate.

The day that I joined the Christian Church my father went to Carlisle to hear Walter Warder, a Baptist, preach. He told him of my mental state, and asked him to come to see me. Next morning brother Warder was there to breakfast. No one present, not even my mother, knew at the time that I had joined the Christian Church the night previous. At the table brother W. requested me to relate my experience. I did so. When I had concluded brother W. said he was satisfied with my experience and believed I had found peace with God; and asked my mother how she felt about it. I looked and saw that my mother was weeping. As well as I remember she answered brother W. question in about in these words: "It appears all well enough except one thing. I cannot understand how Benjamin got through so soon. He was only about four weeks under conviction; and it was seven years before I obtained comfort, and I was all the while earnestly seeking the Lord." Brother Waller told her we had more light now than was enjoyed then; and referred to some cases in Arts, where some found comfort, and were baptized the same day. My mother interposed no further objection. Brother Waller then turned and asked me when it would suit me to be baptized? This led me to inform him that I had united with the Christian Church. He said no more, arose from the table, and soon took his leave.

Besides the difficulties without, I had now to contend those against within. I was naturally volatile, fond of mirth and amusements, and had a passion for dancing. Although I was 14 years old before I was ever at a dancing party or ball, I soon became fond of the amusement. The first time I ever danced, I was solicited to do so by a young lady. I told her I did not know how to dance; did not understand anything about it. She generously (?) offered to become my teacher. I told her they would all laugh at my awkwardness. She promised, and got the company to promise they would not. At length I consented. The set was made up, and she was to be my partner. We walked out upon the floor. The fiddle was tuned, and the bow drawn a time or two over the strings. The music struck up, and our feet and limbs and all began to keep time with the instrument. I soon made a bobble; directly I lost my place; and before we were through I made half a dozen blunders. Some turned away their heads to prevent my seeing them laugh; my partner crammed her handkerchief into her mouth. All were amused except myself. The ice was now broken, and I determined to succeed--to excell those of my own sex who had amused themselves at my expense, and I accomplished my object. Then I would dance to show how much I could beat them.

I had been in the habit of using profane language. This I overcame at once. I was also fond of plays at weddings and parties. To avoid being drawn into these, I went to no gatherings where I supposed they would be indulged in. In order to avoid being drawn into any improprieties, I carefully avoided all had company. Even at religious meetings, instead of associating with the gay and frivolous, I associated with the venerable and pious members of the Church; and would generally engage in singing, or ask questions by which I could gain some useful information. This course I continued to pursue until I lost all-relish for loud laughing, frivolity and amusements. In matters of doubtful propriety, I consulted the old and pious members of the church, and was governed by their judgment.

Some twelve months after I had joined the Church I imagined I was called to preach. I loved sinners and felt an ardent desire for their salvation. As far as I was able at the time to do so, I counted the cost, and felt prepared to make the sacrifice, to perform the toil and to endure the consequences. The idea of becoming a minister of the gospel presented an array of new difficulties, greater and more numerous than I had as yet been called to encounter. First of all, I had an impediment in my speech, and stammered badly, especially when agitated or embarrassed. I had read of Demosthenes and learned how he overcame the impediment in his speech. What the Athenian Orator had accomplished for worldly advantage and renown, I felt could be accomplished for the good of souls and the glory of God. I was, at least willing to make the effort, persuaded that, I could ultimately succeed. Then again, my constitution was frail, and many thought predisposed to pulmonary consumption. This I determined to invigorate by physical discipline, proper exercise and diet. My voice was weak and without volume. This I determined to remedy, and did, by proper instruction and culture.

But I was without sufficient education—did not even understand the Grammar of my own language. Then, again, I was poor. But I was young and could learn, provided another great difficulty was removed. My father's will was law in our family. Could his consent be obtained for me to prepare for ministry in a church with which he had no sympathy? This was to be tested, and I resolved to make the trial. But how was it to be done? In one way only; that was through my mother. Suppose he should consent, what then? How was I to proceed to acquire an education? A thought struck me. I had a brother-in-law, the husband of my eldest sister, with no children, and he a Yankey and an elder in the Presbyterian Church and in good circumstances, and loved education. Maybe he will assist me. Then I had a brother who taught me my letters, and loved education. Both lived in Flemingsburgh, some 16 miles away. My brother might be able to render me some aid. I revolved I would write to them and ascertain what they would do for me, if anything. I wrote. Both answered promptly. My brother would board me, and my brother-in-law would furnish me with books and pay my tuition at a Latin school, taught in Flemingsburgh by Mr. Peter Acres, then a lawyer, and afterwards a Methodist minister. So far, all right. The next thing was to gain my father's consent to let me go. I opened the case to my mother. Told her of my desire to preach, and committed to her good sense and management the affair with my Father. She agreed to undertake the mission, but with little hope of succeeding. But she would try. She tried, and failed. I urged her to try again, and to tell him I did not ask him to pay my tuition or board. She made the second effort, and used her own sweet eloquence to induce him to consent. But he was inexorable. He could not spare me; he needed my labor on the farm. The case seemed settled; and one less determined than myself would have given it up as hopeless. But I was not discouraged; I resolved to make another effort--through my mother. Wearied, out of patience, exasperated at our importunity, and evidently to put a full end to our intreaties and any further annoyance to him, he told my mother to say to me there was one condition, and one only, on which he would consent to give me up, and that was, that, henceforth and forever, I should not have a dollar of his money, nor any of his property, nor any assistance from him in any manner whatever. The question was settled, for he was a man of strong will and fixedness of purpose. From this decision he could not he moved, and my mother knew it. Neither she nor my father had any idea that I would accept his conditions and leave. What could I do? I was young, and poor, uneducated, in rather feeble health, and, more than all, friendless. Neither as yet knew the propositions made me by my brother-in-law and brother. My mother came into the room weeping, and told me my father's decision, and begged me to give up the matter, at least for the present, and wait the openings of Providence. I then told her, smiling, that Providence had already opened the way before me, and that I should walk in it. I told her all, and we rejoiced together. I hastened to my father and accepted his terms, asking him only to let me have a horse to ride to Flemingsburgh. He was astounded at my acceptance of his terms, and asked me how I expected to obtain an education? I told him I would try to do my duty and trust in God for aid. After a short pause, he told me I should have a horse to ride to Flemingsburgh.

Some time prior to this my brother who was with me at the muster, had made a profession of religion and united with the Christian Church. And he and myself, by our father's consent, hold worship in the family.

There was not, perhaps, in all Kentucky, a more harmonious united and happy family than ours. We all loved and were beloved by each other. We were noted for our love of books and music, and were generally good singers. We would spend our winter evenings singing. Mother would sit in one corner knitting, and father in the other listening to the singing of their children, and they would occasionally join in a song with us. But the household is broken; and nearly all have gone to the spirit world. But few of us are on this side of the Jordan, and we shall soon pass over to join those who are gone before, we trust not again to be severed.

Having obtained my father's consent to leave him, my mother and sister set about fixing; up my clothes ready for me to go.

In a few days I was pleasantly situated as an inmate of my brother's family. My brother-in-law, having procured for me books, as directed by my future teacher, took me down to the school-room, and introduced me to Mr. Acres, who, at once put me to memorizing the Latin Grammar. In due time I recited my first lesson; and the older pupils were no little amused at my pronunciation of the words Nominative, Genative,{Genitive} Dative, Accusative, etc. My teacher bit his lips to avoid laughing outright. My queer pronunciation had quite upset his gravity. After looking for a moment disapprovingly at his other pupils for laughing at my awkwardness and uncouth pronunciation, he composed himself somewhat, and observed: "We are accustomed here to pronounce these words thus"; and proceeded through the list of cases to pronounce each one correctly and distinctly. I was no little mortified at first, but soon recovered from my embarrassment. That one correction was sufficient; I never made the same blunder again.

I was progressing finely in my studies, overtaking class after class that had been in advance of me until some time in the next year some time before the Presbytery was to meet in Flemingsburg. My brother, who was not a professor of any religion, hinted to me one day that it might be to any advantage to join the Presbyterians, intimating that it might contribute to my obtaining an education. But as I did not entertain the proposition for a single instant, but rather gave him to understand distinctly that I could not conscientiously do so; he dropped the subject, and never said any thing more to me about it. A few days afterwards, however, my mother's brother, Uncle N. P. Foster, an elder in the Presbyterian church, broached the subject to me, and labored hard and long to convince me that it would greatly promote my interests, and was, therefore my duty to join the Presbyterian Church and also the Presbytery when it should meet there. I chose, however, to be governed by principle and let interest take care of itself. The time came for the Presbytery to meet. My brother-in-law authorized my sister, as she informed me, to say to me, if I would join the Presbytery, and become a candidate for the ministry, he would send me to Princeton College, N.J. and pay all my expenses there until I graduated in both the Literary and Theological Departments. I was anxious for an education, not, however, to preach Presbyterianism, which I did not believe, but to preach what I understood at that time to be the Gospel. I could not sacrifice principle to policy. Nor could I do such violence to my conscience for worldly honor and renown.

Men of policy rather than principle suggested to we that I might acquire the education, and then leave the Presbyterian Church. But to this course I had serious objections—insurmountable difficulties. 1. I could not do it, I told them and he an honest man. None but an arrant hypocrite could be guilty of such duplicity. I could not do it and be an honest man; of course, I could not be a Christian. 2. I could not do it and be a truthful man. None but a base, unscrupulous liar could pretend to what he was not. I would have to avow my belief in the doctrines of Con. of Faith, and at the same time not believe them. 3. It would have been wrong to deceive my brother-in-law, and obtain his money under false pretences. These were a few of the many reasons I gave for not acting so basely. I resolved I would not do it if I never acquired an education. When I made profession of religion, I promised, among other things, to be an honest, honorable, and truthful man. Besides, I knew that the way to avoid doing wrong was to keep out of temptation. Had I joined the Presbyterians, where would I have been today? Not a preacher of the gospel, certainly. I would rather be right, however obscure, than to be the Pope of Rome. I would rather be the humblest member of the Church of Christ than to occupy the loftiest position on earth in any other society.

When my brother-in-law learned from my sister that there was no hope of my becoming a Presbyterian, he directed her to inform me—I use the very words she told me he employed—that he could not place a club in my hands for me to beat his brains out. That is, he would not educate me to oppose Presbyterianism. This was certainly taking a practical or business-like view of the matter. His original agreement, however, with my brother was that he would furnish me books and pay my tuition; and this was not to be done on condition that I would join the Presbyterians. This was an after-thought, or, at least, an after-suggestion.

Being, perhaps, somewhat sensitive anyhow, especially in my destitute and dependent situation, I began to feel that my condition was an unpleasant one. What should I do? My tuition for the full session had been paid; so that my continuing at school the whole term could make no pecuniary difference with him. Should I continue? While revolving this question in my mind—while I had it under consideration—other circumstances occurred which made it necessary to come to an immediate decision; among which I mention the following:

My clothes furnished by my dear old mother, were becoming thread-bear; I had no money. What was I to do? To remain at school appeared next to impossible. But what should I do? What could I do, if I left? Where could I go? I could not return to my father's. I was not qualified to teach school even. I was without a home, without money, and without friends;

I had set out under the impression that I was called to preach; but it was my duty to qualify myself for the work. God does nothing for man that man can do for himself. Like the Israelites at the Red Sea, I had gone as far as the way seemed opened before me. What could I do more but to wait and watch the indications of providence, As I said to my father, I meant to trust God; and, like Job, I intended still to trust him; though he should slay me. I thought of Abraham whose trust in God's promise led him to forsake his father's house, and his native land; and God provided for him. Every man's faith needs to be tested, and now was the time to try mine. It was a severe trial for one of my age and experience. My way seemed to be hedged up. All around was dark and gloomy. All I could do was to wait and watch.

My relations all, save my mother, were opposed to my course. They were not willing for me to be a preacher. They did not think I could succeed, and they were, moreover, hostile to my sentiments. Hence, those who were able, would render me no assistance. Even my mother expressed doubts, whether I would ever make a preacher. Still she would have assisted me, but that my father had forbidden her to do so. My brethren gave me no encouragement and afforded me no assistance. They did not support the aged, talented and useful ministers. Of course they would not assist me.

In this condition of affairs, I waited, and prayed, and watched the indications of Providence. About this time a Christian preacher of the name of Harrison Osburn, a young and popular minister, sent an appointment to preach in the court-house in Flemingsburg. I went to the meeting and introduced myself to him. He seemed glad to make my acquaintance, and invited me to call at his stopping place the next morning. I did so. He had heard of me, and something of my trials. He told me if I was called to preach, I ought to be at the work. He advised me to quit school and travel with him around his circuit through Fleming, Lewis, Mason and Bracken Counties. I told him I had no horse. He proposed to procure one for me, if I would go with him. I agreed to do so. He borrowed a horse for me to ride of a brother Richard Hart of Fleming County. I borrowed an outfit of my brother, and we set out. Brother Osburn's first appointment was in the country, some 8 or 10 miles from Flemingsburg.

I had been for some time in the habit of praying in public, indeed, almost from the time I joined the church. I was considered a good singer, and delighted in music, and was frequently called on to lead the singing in the congregation. I was familiar with most of the airs sung in those days, and knew most of the hymns by memory, and could learn a tune or hymn by hearing it sung a few times. After singing a few songs, brother O. requested me to open meeting with prayer. I did so. He then asked me to speak to the people. This I had never attempted to do, and asked him to excuse me at that time, promising that I would do so at the next appointment. I wanted time for reflection and to prepare some thing to say; but he would not let me off, telling me as I had to make a beginning. I might as well do it then as any other time. I accordingly made to effort, and a poor effort it was! In less than five minutes my resources were exhausted. I could think of nothing to say. I became embarrassed I stammered. The young people smiled and tittered. This increased my confusion, and caused me to stutter worse than ever. In this state of confusion, I sat down, deeply mortified, but not discouraged. Brother O. arose and, as I thought, delivered a fine discourse.

After dinner we started on to his next appointment. We were scarcely in our saddles when brother O. said he was anxious to hear me speak that he might decide whether I was called to preach. He said he was convinced I had mistaken my calling; that he did not believe I would ever succeed as a preacher; that my stammering would always prevent my being a public speaker of any kind; and that he did not think I could ever make myself useful as a minister; and advised me to return home and rescind the bargain I had made with my father, and ask him to take me back as a farmboy; that he thought I could succeed better as a farmer than at any thing else; and much more he said to the same effect—all calculated to discourage and drive from the field almost any other young man. But it did not have this effect upon me. I related to him my first and several succeeding efforts in the ballroom, and of the final result. This made him laugh outright. He said there was quite a difference between one's heels and his head; that it did not require much sense to learn how to dance; that some of the most expert dancers he ever knew did not have sense enough to fit a dress, to cut a coat—(he had himself been a tailor) or scarcely (sense) to knit a pair of stockings; but that it required brains to make a preacher! All this I admitted might be true, but it did not follow that I would not make a preacher. I told him he might drive me away from him, if he did not wish me to go, but that He could not keep me from trying to preach. I informed him that I had not yet had a fair trial, and that it would be shameful, if nothing worse, to give up such a cause upon such an experiment; and that I never intended to abandon the work, involving consequences so momentous, without a fair trial. Seeing I was resolute and determined, and that I was not to be moved by his judgment, formed prematurely, he advised me to continue with him around the circuit. Before the month was out, he changed his opinion somewhat, revised his decision and reversed his former judgment.

It was my practice to pray morning and evening in secret. I would retire early in the morning to some secret place to pray, and would then read my Bible till about breakfast time. My clothes were now threadbear and thin. I was near Minerva in Bracken County, Kentucky. I had on cotton pantaloons, the last gift of my mother. At early dawn I went out to pray. When I knelt down, my pantaloons split open on the knee. I had no others. What was I to do? I had an appointment to preach that day. I must meet it. I returned to the house, and too diffident to ask any one to mend the rent, I got a needle and thread and sewed it up, and went on to my meeting.

The coming winter I spent in Fleming and Mason Counties, speaking on Lord's days and reading through the week. Early in the spring I made a visit to Servise County, {Ohio} and spoke at Canbincreek. A brother then took me to one side and after looking all around to satisfy himself that no one saw him, while bidding me farewell, slipped 25 cents into in hand. This he did that the scripture might he fulfilled. ''Let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth." Until then I did not have one cent of money. I was enabled to pay my ferriage across the Ohio river; and I was anxious to get over to attend a meeting in Highland County, Ohio.

On walking out into the woods one day some distance from the meeting place, I noticed a great many tracks of barefeet. For some, time I could not understand this, as all, as far as I could see, had on shoes at the meeting. But one day I happened to see some ladies, going from the meeting, some distance from the place, pulling off their shoes and stockings. The mystery was explained. They would walk from home barefooted, carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands until they got near the meeting place, then they would put them on; and take them off at the same place returning from the meeting.

From Highland, I went to Minerva, Kentucky. I gave the ferryman my hymn book to cross me over the river. At Minerva I met brother John Rogers on his way to a meeting in Ohio. He requested me to accompany him. I told him I had no money to pay my ferriage. He proposed to pay it for me. The first night we stayed with Matthew Gardner, publisher of a hymnbook. On brother R's telling him I had none, and why; he, in the exuberance of his charity, proposed to make me a present of one on condition that I would sell a dozen copies for him without charge. The bargain was soon struck. He gave me the book; I took a dozen which I sold, and on my {way} back, paid him the money.

Travelling on one day through Ohio, I fell behind brother Rogers, and became absorbed in meditation. I thought of my trials; the difficulties I lead to contend with; my discouragements; the fact that not a brother had ever spoken to me a word of encouragement or comfort; my utter destitution of resources; the rusty and ragged condition of my clothes; the fact that, though worse dressed than any preacher, many called me proud—said I was too proud for a preacher. Providence, it seemed, had hedged up my way. What was to become of me? What could I do? For the first time in my life, I almost despaired of ever making a preacher. In this state of mind, I rode up to the side of brother Rogers and told him I was fearful I would not succeed; and enumerated my difficulties. By way of comfort(?) he replied that he did not think I would ever make much of a preacher, but that, as brother K once told a desponding brother, some one must be the poorest preacher, and I might as well be that one as any body else. This waked me up, nerved me, touched my pride, excited my ambition, gave me resolution to suffer any thing, to endure every thing for the time being, to brave everything. I felt as I had never felt before; I was aroused as I had never before been aroused to dare and do. I straightened myself in my saddle. I erected my head; I lifted up my right hand, and said: Brother Rogers, from this moment I resolve to make a preacher, or to die trying!" The Rubicon was passed. The great struggle was over: the clouds dispersed. Hope took wing. I determined to succeed. And having formed the resolution, "Richard was himself again." From that day to this, I have never been discouraged. Opposition gives me resolution. My motto is: "Hope on; hope ever." Don't give up the ship. My opinion is, with my example before me, that a man can accomplish almost any thing he determines to do; and a young man, without an education, without a dollar, and without friend, but with ordinary capacity and a tolerable constitution, can make of himself almost any thing that he resolves to be, by energy and perseverance. And one such who has not the nerve to undertake it of himself, deserves no assistance, and would be of no account, if assisted. I like to see one resolve to be a man.

While in Ohio, I would retire to the woods to pray and preach to the trees and brushes. My auditors kept very quiet; they were not restless; they did not grow weary of hearing me; nor did they smile at my ignorance, or laugh at my stammering. Speaking aloud in the dense forests, I learned to modulate my voice and to speak without stammering. I was at first a rapid speaker. Many words I could not pronounce without pausing an instant before speaking them. When I hurried on rapidly, I always stammered at these words and stumbled over them. By this training I became a deliberate speaker, and was able to articulate distinctly.

I neglected to mention in the proper place that the Conference at its meeting this year gave me license to preach, as the Conference of the preceding year had given me authority to exhort.

In the fall, I returned to Kentucky and early in the winter I went to Crawford County, In., on a visit to my oldest brother, Cornelius. Among other plans, I visited Bloomington, then in the woods; and Indianapolis, where the timber had been felled and was still lying on the ground. A few log cabins with mud chimnies, constituted the town.

While living with my father I had bought a colt which was now grown. This I rode to Ind. and near Indianapolis traded it off for a lot in the contemplated town. Early in the spring, just before the ice broke up, I started a foot for Kentucky, carrying my overcoat and saddlebags. For a few days, I got along tolerable well, but my boots were soon torn to pieces on the rough frozen ground. This made it bad to travel. But the worst was yet to come. The weather moderated; it rained, and the snow and the ice began to melt. I had to wade through mud. I crossed rivers and creeks on the brittle ice while the water, once in particular, was six inches over the ice. At length I reached the Ohio river, at the North bend, near where General Harrison then lived. The ice was running in the river at a terrible rate. The ferry man refused to cross me over unless I would pay him, I think it was $5.00. I agreed to give it, although I had not a dollar left. With much difficulty, and after encountering great danger, I was safely landed on the Kentucky shore. It was about the middle of the afternoon. After walking several miles, I asked to stay all night at a good-looking house, but was refused because I had told them I was out of money, or nearly so. I went on to the next house and told the same sad story. I received a hearty welcome; they gave me a good, warm supper—the first I had eaten since morning. During the evening I learned that they were members of the Christian Church. I showed them my license to preach. Next morning the brother directed me where I could stay all night with a brother. I reached the place, told the same tale, and was invited in with tons of welcome. I told who I was. They were glad to see me; said I must stay the next day and preach at night. The brother said if I would do so, he would have my boots mended. I stayed, of course and preached. The next day I reached the house of a brother I had before known in Harrison. I had acquaintances then all the way to my father's.

On reaching home, I learned there was a Conference soon to be held in Bath County, on big flat creek, I think was the name of the stream. The weather was now comfortable but the roads were muddy. When the time for the meeting arrived, I expressed a determination to attend it; but I had no horse to ride. My father, however, had a number—more than he needed for immediate use. I asked him for the loan of one to ride to the meeting, and told him I would return early the next week. But he refused to let we have a horse, telling me I had better go to work and make an honest living instead of running over the country living on other people. I resolved to go, nevertheless. Accordingly the next morning I threw my saddlebags across my shoulder, rolled up my pantaloons and plunged out in the mud. I got along pretty well in my mended boots.

A good many preachers were at the meeting. I participated in singing and public prayer, but was not asked to preach. On Monday the Conference met in secret session—I, at least, was not asked to be present. I was at the stand engaged with others in singing and praying. Just before the preaching was to begin, an old preacher, John Mavity, took me aside and requested me to go home with him to the upper end of Montgomery County, and preach to his neighbors. This to me was a strange event. I had seldom been asked to preach before then, and never by an old and popular preacher. I told him I had no horse. He informed me he had an extra horse and saddle which I could ride. But how was I to get back? He proposed to furnish me a horse to ride home. Taking this as an opening of providence, I accepted the invitation. An appointment was sent up in advance. The next evening I preached at a private house to a fine audience. For the first time in my life, my tongue was loosed; words flowed in a regular and continuous stream; my ideas were better than I had ever had; my feelings became excited, and, here and there, one was beginning to weep. Soon the house was in tears, the speaker with the rest. Gradually my voice mellowed. The effect was electrical; the excitement was intense. Brother Mavity sprang to his feet, and rushing towards me, threw his arms about my neck, and amid tears and sobs, said: ''Go on, brother Hall. You are called to preach. Give yourself wholly to the work, and God will crown your labors with success!” When he had concluded, I resumed my discourse, under great excitement. He interrupted me again, telling me to call for mourners. I did so instantly; and they rushed forward in great numbers. We prayed for them, and concluded the exercises with a song.

On our way to brother Mavity's after the meeting that night, he revealed to me the mystery about his inviting me home with him. He told me that, on Monday the Conference met in secret session on my case. I had been licensed to preach. Many of the preachers did not think I was called to preach, and the question was about taking from me my license. He told the Conference he had never heard me, and was not prepared to vote on the question; but if they would postpone the case till the next meeting of Conference, so as to give him an opportunity to hear me, he would be prepared to vote on the question of withdrawing from me license to preach. This was the last I ever heard about taking away my preaching license.

Brother Mavity was about to start to Indiana on a tour of preaching; and, now that he was satisfied I was called to the work of the ministry, he was anxious for me to accompany him. I was very willing to go, but had not horse to ride. Brother M. had promised to furnish me a horse to go to my father’s. If I remember, his son came that far with us and took the horse back. On reaching my father’s we found him inclined to aid me in procuring a horse. I purchased one from one of the neighbors on time at low figures. I gave my not for the money with my father as security. I paid the note when due with the proceeds of the horse I had sold at Indianapolis.

We held several successful meetings in Indiana. I preached almost every day, and, apparently, to the satisfaction of people generally, and to the delight of brother Mavity. I feel greatly indebted to the venerable brother. He was a sensible and good man, and took especial aim to give me all the instruction in his power. He was useful in his day, but has long since gone to his reward. He had, and yet has, some sons engaged in preaching the word.

Having fulfilled our mission in Indiana, we returned, late in autumn to Kentucky. I spent the winter reading the Scriptures and preaching on Lord’s Days.

Late in the winter, I received a letter from the venerable B.W. Stone, then living at Georgetown, Kentucky informing me that the brethren in the upper Green river country desired him to send them a young preacher to ride that season with brother Isaac Mayfield in that county. Sever had been solicited to go, but declined. I seemed to be the only chance. I consented to go. Accordingly early in the spring I set out for that wide field of labor. I went by way of Georgetown, and, receiving from father Stone letters of introduction and recommendation, and his parting blessing, I pursued on my journey. After some five or six days travel through the mud, and over hills and along hollows, I arrived, safely at the house of brother John Jones on the East fork of Green river. Here I received a hearty greeting and a cordial welcome. Brother Stone had advised them of my coming; hence they were expecting me. A circuit had been formed embracing the Counties of Casey, Adair, Russell (it is now), Wayne, Pulaski and Lincoln. Some parts of the above Counties were rich but broken, but the most of the country is poor.

After preaching at Purgamus near brother Jones’, brother Mayfield and I started around our big circuit. We were to complete the circuit once in every month. To accomplish this, we had to travel hard, and preach only a few times at one place. We had but one rest-day in the month, and that was at brother Jones! We had but few clothes, and these we scattered around the circuit so as to have clean garments to put on about once a week. Altogether some of that circuit embraced some of the roughest country and people I have even seen, and I have seen a good many of both. We had to encounter extreme poverty, ignorance, filth, ticks and bed-bugs, and other vermin. We had to lodge on boards, shucks, straw, and, which on many accounts, the best of all, on the floor. Our diet was at some places the poorest, the most meager, and the worst prepared that l had ever seen. At other places it was good. One night, in one of the most out-of-the-way places I had ever seen, I selected as my theme the words: "Go into the high ways and hedges, and compell{sic} them to come in." Brother Mayfield remarked afterwards that he thought the subject quite appropriate.

During that season quite a number were converted and immersed into the Christian Church. l, of course, received almost no compensation for my labors.

Early in the fall I was taken sick of fever, and was confined at brother Jones' several weeks before I was able to travel. Wishing to go to school that winter, I traded off a good horse for an inferior one for the sake of the "boot" with which I wished to pay for my tuition. Soon as I was able to travel, I started with my pony and my money for home. Then I learned there was an excellent school taught in Carliste {Carlisle}, by one Mr. McCabe, a graduate of Washington College, PA. I went down to see what arrangements I could make if any, about going a session to that institution. Brother John Rogers was then married and living there. I told him my desire and my means. He took the matter in hand and soon made arrangements with the brethren to board one week about for one term. So I procured books, principally of the Teacher, paid for my tuition in advance, and set in to school. During the session I studied English Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, and Algebra, and commenced the Greek. When my time and money were exhausted, I quit the school and the place, feeling under many obligations to the brethren, especially Brother Rogers, and also to my gentlemanly and accomplished teacher; and being solicited to labor that season in Middle Tennessee, I started for that field of labor. At a brother Carnohan's in Rutherford County I met with the pious and intelligent and amicable brother Abner Hill, and two young men just starting out to preach—Levi Nichols and William D. Jourdan. They had made their debut with brother Hill. Brother Jourdan was somewhat older than l. He had been a school teacher, and was a very good English scholar. He was a man of fine memory, quick perception, and ready utterance, somewhat pugnacious, but not very hopeful, and was occasionally seized with fits of hypercondria, he was, nevertheless, a companionable man, and zealous for what he believed to be the truth.

Our circuit embraced a part of Wilson, Rutherford, and Smith Counties, and what is now Cannon. We did a great deal of preaching in that country during the time we travelled on that circuit, and saw many turn to the Lord.

Brother Jourdan was a great student of the Bible. We were mutual aids to each other, and each stimulated the other to the study of the Scriptures. We read the Bible to the exclusion of almost all other books. Hence we became quite conversant with it, and loved it far more than all other writings. We also memorized large portions of the Scriptures, and knew where to find almost any passage that might be called for.

All around that circuit, I was called "the proud preacher", and brother Jourdan was known by the appellation of the "fighting preacher," on account of his supposed love of controversy.

I spent a part of two seasons traveling and preaching, having at different times for my companion, besides brother Jourdan, P. E. Harris and W. D. Cains {Carnes}. This was the time of his first setting out to preach. Asbury Stone also traveled with me a few months, just beginning to preach.

Beside our daily preaching, galloping around the circuit, we attended many camp-meetings during the two autumns we spent in middle Tennessee. We preached a great deal in the open air. We were very zealous, and frequently spoke at the top of our voice, and sometimes screaming at such a rate as almost to split our throat. We substituted sound for sense, indeed, figuratively speaking, we supposed that the power was in the thunder instead of the lightning; hence we thundered more than we lightened or enlightened, for, in truth, we had not much light to emit.

We differed very little in those days from the Sects in our views of spiritual influence, getting religion, the evidence of remission, and kindred subjects. Hence we practiced the mourners' bench or anxious-seat system throughout. Our views on these and other subjects were dark and confused, nor can it be expected that it could have been otherwise, considering the gross darkness that covered the land. In many things, however, we were, even then, greatly in advance of the Sects.

The Old Christian brethren, with Elder B. W. Stone in the lead, about the beginning of the present century, introduced a great reformation. They started right. They resolved to take the Bible and the Bible alone for their creed, and resolved to follow wherever it lead them, giving all human creeds and Confessions of Faith, to the mobs and bats. It is not to be supposed they could reach the ultimatum of the teachings of the Bible at a single bound. From the position they had assumed, they were prepared, however, to abandon error when they discovered it by the Scriptures to be such, and to embrace the volume. The taking the holy scriptures for their only guide, was a grand achievement, and could not but lead to important results. They thus pledged themselves to believe all the Bible says, and to practice as they discovered it whatever it commands; and, as a consequence, to repudiate and abandon, as any part of their theory and practice, all not taught in the Scriptures, either in express words or necessary inference. Taking the word of God alone as their rule of faith and practice, implied, as they understood it; required, either a plain "Thus saith the Lord" or inspired example. Hence, whatever might be taught and practiced by others not included in the above rule of their faith and practice, they very properly rejected as making any part of Christianity.

It is scarcely to be presumed, however, that they should have avoided falling into some errors; for, starting as they did, post-haste out of Bablyon, they were in danger of running past Jerusalem. They, however, did better than might have been expected.

Thrown, as I Providentially was; on the borders of "our Zion," with no one to direct my studies and investigations of the Word of God, and no books to read, and ardently in search of truth, and surrounded by opponents, and my teachings publicly and privately tracked; I was driven to the necessity of searching the Scriptures de nova, for myself, and of depending on my own resources.

I was naturally skeptical, so far at least, as to take nothing upon trust—to accept no proposition without what I conceived to be adequate evidence of its truth. Hence, I was frequently led to question some of the teachings of my own brethren as well as those of the Sects. Consequently, I was often charged with bringing strange things to the peoples' ears—with introducing new-fangled notions. I had made the discovery that we were not under Moses, but under Christ—not under the law, but under the dispensation of the Gospel. This discovery led me to inquire into the difference between the two economies, and to draw the contrast between the law and the gospel—between the law of Moses and the law of liberty. I had studied this subject for a long time, and had digested and arranged my thoughts so as to mark distinctly the points of contrast between the two. On Saturday morning, at a Camp meeting on Globe creek, I delivered a long discourse on the points of difference between the law of Moses and the gospel of Christ. A number of preachers were present. They generally rejected the views presented. At the head of the list of opposes {opposers} was brother Jourdan. After dinner, I was invited into the preachers' tent and called to account for my heresay {heresy?}. I defended my positions as well as I was able. Some were very severe in their expressions of censure. A brother Robert Randolph, a modest, sensible and good man had as yet said nothing. He was asked his opinion of my sermon. He modestly answered, that, he thought I had preached a great deal more truth than error. On being further interrogated, he said he had never heard the ideas advanced before, but that I had convinced him of the truth of every thing I had advanced except one. He was requested to state that one thing. He replied: "Brother Hall said he was, he presumed, as anxious as any one to have the good opinion of his brethren, and to avoid giving offense to any. “In this," said he, "I think he is mistaken; for I believe he would preach what he believes to be the truth even if he knew it would cause every friend he has on earth to forsake him." This created a laugh, which closed the discussion.

At the close of the meeting, I parted with most of the preachers, Brother Jourdan returned to his field of labor; and the next I heard of him, he was preaching the abolition of the law of Moses.

After the Globe creek meeting, I went further south to attend some camp meetings in North Alabama: one in Gandies' cove, in Morgan County; another in Honey Comb valley, and another at McNutty town in Madison County. As my resources were about exhausted and my clothes well worn; and as I had received but little if any remuneration for my labors; I taught a three-months school in the winter, and occupied my leisure time studying medicine.

An incident occurred in Alabama, which I will here relate. I, at a meeting above Miridianville, delivered a discourse on the design of baptism and invited persons to confess the Lord. One young lady came forward, and desired to be immersed forthwith. Her mother was dead. Her father, had been a Baptist preacher, but had become an apostate and a wicked man. As we were yet talking about the best place to immense in a stream nearby, the old man came up to me, and shaking a large hickory cane in my face, told me I must not baptize his daughter. I inquired: "Why not?" He answered huffishly: “That is none of your business; but"—shaking his cane again at me, his eyes looking daggers—"you had better not attempt to baptize her''—and his large frame shook with rage. Turning to the young lady, who sat weeping, I asked her if she still desired to be baptized? She said she did. "Then I will baptize you at all hazzards." I said, and, turning to the audience, designated the place where we would administer the rite. The old man, turning to his daughter, said: "If you are baptized, you shall never enter my house again while you live." The poor girl, looking up at me through her tears, said: "I want to be baptized." An old brother Griffin, a man well to do in the world, who stood near by, walked up to the agonized girl, and said: "My daughter, you shall have a home at my house." We repaired to the water, and I baptized her, the, old man offering no resistance. The young lady got into mister Griffin's carriage, and went home with her. A few days afterwards, her father sent for her to return home. She sent him word she would not go then; but if he would bring a horse and saddle the next Friday, and take her down to a meeting to be held at McNuttytown, she would go home with him after the close of the meeting.

Accordingly, on the day designated the old gentleman rode up to brother Griffin's, leading a horse with a lady's saddle. The young lady was soon in the saddle, and she and her father were on their way to the meeting.

The next day I preached and gave the usual invitation to penitent believers to confess the Lord. The old gentleman who was sitting directly in front of the stand, arose instantly and came forward weeping, holding the same big cane in his hand. His daughter sprang to her feet, and uttering an exclamation of joy, rushed forward, and threw her arms around her father's neck and sunk down upon her knees by his side! It was a touching scene to see the father and his motherless daughter clasped in each other's arms weeping—the one shedding tears of bitter grief and penitence; the other tears of joy.

Had not the young lady resolutely obeyed the Lord, brooking the bitter opposition of her wicked father, both would doubtless have gone to perdition together; but now, hand in hand, they were treading the pilgrims pathway to the city and home of God. It is always right for one to do his duty—to obey God. In such cases, all results well.

The religion of those days consisted principally of feeling; and those who shouted the loudest and made the greatest ado, were looked upon as the best Christians. Hence our preaching, our prayers, and songs we adapted to excite the emotions. We would clap and rub our hands, stamp with our feet, slain down and tear up the Bible, speak as loud as possible and scream at the top of our voice, to get up an excitement. I often blistered my hands by clapping and rubbing them together; and my feet were made sore by repeated stamping. My voice was clear, and its tones silvery. I could sing for hours without being tired or becoming hoarse. I was excitable, and dealt much in the pathetic. I was considered good at exhortation. Death, the judgment, heaven and hell, were my favorite themes. Here fancy had ample room for play; and on such themes the feelings of the masses could be reached. Knowing my forte, the brethren were want to have me to bring up the rear on occasions when an excitement was desired. I frequently spoke when, on account of the loud shouting of christians, and the screams of sinners, I could scarcely hear my own voice. Then was the time, after a short pause to call for mourners, and it was seldom they failed to come. I have known them to come in such numbers and crowd so closely around me as I stood before the stand, in the midst of the audience, that, when we were about to pray for them, I had not room to kneel down. Sometimes the excitement would be so great—so many brethren all praying aloud at once, and mourners screaming and begging for mercy, that no single voice could be distinguished from the rest. I have spent whole nights singing, praying and trying to instruct weeping, broken-hearted sinners how to "get religion," and, now and then rejoicing with one who had Just "got through".

At one camp-meeting in Middle Tennessee in the fall of 1825, there were upwards of fifty, who, during the meeting, came forward to be prayed for. I was greatly interested in their behalf. I was up with them the whole night. Some "professed religion" but many did not. The meeting closed with the greater number of them uncomforted. A brother James G. Green proposed that a song be sung, and the brethren and sisters first, and then the mourners, such as were resolved to strive to meet us in heaven, be invited to take leave of the preachers. We all stood in a row before the stand, and a long line of saints gave us the parting hand. Then came the mourners, weeping as if their hearts would break, and reached us their hand. It was too much for me to endure. I cried aloud, and wept like a child. My sympathies had overcome me.

Going on from that meeting to another, I began to reflect upon the scene I had witnessed. I asked myself why it was those dear people did not receive pardon? They appeared to be sincere and in good earnest. They seemed to be deeply penitent. They wept and prayed and begged for mercy. They mourned; and why were they not comforted? God is certainly willing to pardon them, and to do it now. They earnestly desire pardon: True, they have sinned. They know and confess this. They are sorry they have sinned. And they have promised to the Lord, if he will only forgive the past, they will strive to do better in the future. Why, then, does not God in mercy forgive them? Maybe, after all, I said mentally, our preaching may be at fault. Can it be that the wrong is in us? I then thought of the Apostles, their preaching, and the result. Some of sin-convinced, conscious-smitten hearers went away from hearing them, uncomforted. Still, strange to say, I could not perceive where the mistake was; wherein our preaching and practice differed from that of the apostles—in what consisted the difference.

A year before this, one day after I had called up mourners and prayed that God would pardon their sins, a brother, a private member of the church had asked me for my authority for calling persons forward to the anxious seat, and praying that God would then and there pardon their sins? I answered: "The Bible is my authority for this practice." "What part of the Bible?" he inquired, "The whole of it." I answered. "I would like to see the plan," said he. I told him to read the Bible, and he would find it, He answered, he had done so very carefully, and had not been able to find any authority for the practice. "But," said he, "I find authority for baptizing penitents for remission of sins; but none for praying for their pardon before they are baptized," Much more was said on this subject by both of us—by him on the one side, and by myself on the other. But what he said made but little impression on my memory. Years elapsed; and I one day, in 1832, met this same brother in Memphis, and he reminded me of the interview. I was then fully committed to the teaching of baptism for remission of sins.

During the fall of 1825 and the winter of '25,6, I was perplexed and troubled about our preaching and the results; but for the life of me I could not find out where the mistake lay, I became convinced there was a great wrong somewhere, but could not find where it was, or wherein it consisted. In this state of perplexity I started for Kentucky in the spring of 1826. On my way I stopped at the house of a brother Gess on Line creek, on the line between Tennessee and Kentucky. It was late in the afternoon, and I was fatigued, having travelled hard all day. Brother Gess took my horse and I walked into the house. Sister Gess had gone to see a sick neighbor. No one was in the house when I entered. Before taking my seat, I looked around for a book. My eye caught sight of a little bookcase in one corner of the house. I rose and walked up to it. My eye soon rested upon a book with "Debate on Baptism," printed on the back. I found it to be the debate between A. Campbell and William MaCalla. I had heard it was published, but had never seen it till then. I knew I would not have time to read it then, and began to turn over the leaves. Mr. Campbell's speech, in which he introduced the "design of baptism," arrested my notice. I began to read it with fixed attention. The interest deepened as I proceeded. The light began to dawn, nay, it flashed upon my mind; and ere I had concluded the argument, I was a full convert to the teaching of baptism for remission of sins. I sprang to my feet in an ecstacy and cried out, "Eureka! Eureka!" "I have found it; I have found it:; And I had found it. I had found the key-stone in the gospel arch, which had been set aside and ignored by the builders. I had found the key-stone in the gospel arch, which had been set aside and ignored by the builders. I had found the long-lost link in the chain of gospel obedience. I was converted anew—thoroughly, and as I believe, soundly converted. I was happy, transported with joy; happier than when I was first converted, and my conversion was more sudden, and more satisfactory. I saw now the evidence of remission, which I had never seen before. When brother Gess came in, I took him by the hand, and told him I was converted over, and explained to him all about (it). Soon Sister Gess returned and I told her about my conversion. I loved to tell it, I felt so happy; and I yet love to tell it. Had I not found this grand truth, I should have died unhappy; my sun would have gone down under, a cloud, a dire dark cloud. I would have died disappointed in my faith, and hope, and expectation of the power of the gospel of Christ. Now I can understand it, see it, feel it all, and with confidence, preach it as God's power to save all who believe it.

Next morning I resumed my journey a new man, and happier than I had ever been before. I now had a message to every body, the gospel-message—the whole gospel. O how sweet, how precious it "the glorious gospel of the blessed God!” It is sweeter than honey in the honeycomb. I prize it above rubies. It is more precious than gold, yea, than fine gold. Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift!

Two days travel brought me to a brother Luper's. I told him all about my new discovery. In two days more I was at brother John Jones. His son, S. E. Jones was then quite a young man and a member of the church. With him I had a long conversation on baptism for remission of sins. He rejected it at first, and told me I was frequently making discoveries that no one else had ever heard of, and preaching new-fangled notions calculated to disturb the minds of brethren, and administered a prudent caution to me not to be carried away by heresay, but finally, he agreed to give the subject an investigation. The next time I heard of him, he was a preacher of the ancient gospel.

A few days further travel brought me to my brother Levi Hall's, some eight miles from my father's. My brother had married a second wife during my absence. I had never known her, but found her to be a noble woman. She was brought up a Baptist of the strictest sort. She had often tried to "get religion"; had been frequently at the "anxious seat," but could never "get through." She was piously inclined, and desired to be a Christian. She concluded to go with me to my father's. On the way I preached to her the gospel. She received it, and requested me to make an appointment at their house a few days thereafter, and baptise her. I did so; and as she came up out of the water, she clasped her hands together, and said; "Thank the Lord!" This pleased me greatly. It was the first time I had immersed any one for remission of sins, and I was delighted that she experienced such joy. It increased my confidence in the truth.

It was now about a year since I had been ordained at a Conference at Old Union, in Fayette County, Kentucky by brother B, W. Stone and others, by recommendation of the churches in Tennessee and Alabama. Brother T. M. Allen of Missouri was ordained at the same time. The intervening years I had spent preaching in Southern Kentucky, Middle Tennessee and Northern Alabama, and baptized quite a number of persons. I had also taken a young man of the name of Mansel W. Matthews to travel with me. His venerable father gave him to me saying: "Take Mansel and make a preacher of him, if you can; and if you cannot, send him back home to me." He became a useful, popular and influential preacher; but has removed about so much that he has "wasted his fragrance on the desert air."

In the summer of 1826 I visited Georgetown, and conversed with father Stone resputing baptism for remission of sins. He said it would not do; that he had introduced it early in the present century, that it was like throwing ice water on the people; that it froze all their warmth out, and came well nigh driving vital religion out of the country, and would have done it, if he had not resisted from preaching it. He said he had preached it at different places and to different congregations, and that the same results followed. Finally he abandoned it altogether, I asked him why he had preached it at all? He answered, because he found it in the Scriptures, he was an old man, a father in the ministry, and the reputed founder of the Christian Church. He was a preacher before I was born—many years before, and was in his prime, and in the midst of his usefulness, and in the midst of the great revival in 1803, the year I was born, I could not find it in my heart to argue the question with him as with an equal in years. I ventured to tell him, however, that if it was in the Bible, as he admitted it was, it was certainly right to preach it; and that I could not see how one could declare the "whole counsel of God" without preaching it. Moreover, I stated that I could not understand how preaching what was taught in Scripture could destroy vital religion; and cautiously intimated that what some considered "vital religion" might, after all, turn out to enthusiasm, if not wild fanaticism, and not christianity at all; and if this should happen to be the case, the sooner it died out the better. Much more was said by both of us, but without any favorable result. I gave him, however, to distinctly understand that I fully believed it to be the truth, and that I was resolved to preach it; and that, if any of the brethren rejected it, I would tell them "brother Stone says it is taught in the Scriptures." This made him laugh. He then pleasantly remarked I was so hardheaded that he could not do anything with me, and he saw I was determined to have my own way. He afterwards requested me in a serious tone not to broach that idea in Georgetown. But I did not promise, for my soul was full of it.

On the 4th day of July brother Stone preached in Georgetown in the morning on Civil and Religious Liberty; I preached at night on the Parable of the Great Supper. I spoke with freedom and effect. Many were effected and wept bitterly. Brother Stone told me to call for mourners. I did so—for I had not, as yet, gotten fully out of that notion. Many came forward, among whom, if memory is not at fault, was John A. Gano, long known among the brethren as the Apollos of Kentucky. Brother Stone took him under his tuition, and I saw him no more until I met him as an eloquent, zealous and efficient preacher.

A few days after this I went with brother Stone and others to a two-days meeting near the Sulphur Well, some eight miles from Georgetown. Brother Stone and I were to preach Lord's day morning. I had prepared a discourse on the 2nd Chapter of Acts, and informed brother Stone that I desired to deliver it that morning in his hearing; and that if I did not preach the truth, he could correct me in his discourse which was to follow. He, however, pleaded with me not to preach the doctrine of baptism for remission of sins; that, it would chill him and prevent his preaching to any purpose. He said he would return home after dinner, and that, if nothing else would do me, I could preach my "chilling and religion-killing doctrine at night." Unwilling to offend him, I yielded to his request. That night, however, some one else preached; but during the discourse a tremendous rain began to fall, and continued till after midnight. As the people could not leave, the now venerable Samuel Rogers and myself occupied the time singing, praying and speaking with those who appeared to be serious. That night before the rain ceased several persons were persuaded to take the Lord at his word, and to be baptized for remission of sins. Early next morning we repaired to the water, where I took their confessions, and buried them with the Lord in baptism. To the honor of the head and heart of brother Samuel Rogers, I have to say, he made no opposition to my preaching to the people that night the doctrine of faith, repentance and baptism for remission of sins; although he did then avow his belief of the teaching. But when I next met him, he was a warm advocate of, the sentiment and was earnestly teaching it.

 Soon after this, I started on a tour of preaching through Southern Kentucky, Tennessee and Alabama. The first protracted meeting I attended was at Mill Creek, in Monroe County, Kentucky in the neighborhood of brother John Mulkey's. On Saturday night a brother DeWit preached. Everything seemed dead and cold. While he was speaking, I requested brother Mulkey to follow in exhortation in which he excelled, and wake up the people. He said he could not do it; that he was not in the right mood to succeed, and urged me to follow. I did so, and so spoke that multitudes wept. I invited the serious forward to the front seat, which was soon filled. I then designated another, which was directly filled; then a third, and fourth. Some fifty persons in all came forward. Some knelt down and began to pray; some wept and sobbed aloud. At length they became composed somewhat, and I proceeded to preach to them baptism for remission of sins. Having concluded, I designated still another seat, directly before the pulpit, and requested that all who felt willing to take Jesus at his word, and to trust his promise for remission of sins, to take that seat. Some four or five, I think, took that seat. I heard their confession, and asked them when they wished to be baptized? One and another answered, "Now." "Tonight?" I asked. "Yes," they said, "tonight—just as soon as possible."

It was now near mid-night, and it was some four hundred yards to the water, and through a dense forest. Besides, there was no moon. But lamps and torches were soon prepared, and the long procession, silent and solemn, moved off down the long slope towards the water. The lights gleamed and flashed among the trees. The measured tread of the large procession was like the solemn march to the city of the dead. Scarcely a word was spoken above a whisper, and only the occasional melancholy host of the gloomy night-owl broke in upon the solemn stillness of the scene. It was a grand occasion. At length the gurgling stream was reached. The lights gleamed and flashed upon the clear waters. A brief prayer was offered, and the penitents were buried and raised again in baptism; and after receiving the congratulations of their friends, the procession moved slowly up the hill. A sweet, melodious song arose and swelled on which the wing of devotion poised itself for heaven. It was a camp-meeting. The large assembly was soon dispersed among the tents, and slept until the trumpet-blast at early dawn arosed{aroused} them from their sweet and quiet slumbers.

This was the first time the ancient gospel had been preached in that section, and the first time it had been heard by the venerable John Mulkey. He was a good man, and an able and efficient preacher. The next time I met him, he was preaching the gospel with marked success. He has long since been called home. He has, however, several sons ably advocating the same cause.

The next meeting that I attended, as I now remember, was on Crow Creek, among the hills, bordering on the line between Tennessee and Alabama. I delivered a discourse on Romans 10:1-10, in which I presented the elements of the gospel—its facts, commands and promises, and urged immediate compliance with its provisions in order to remission of sins.  I invited persons forward to confess with their lips what in their hearts they believed. Several came, and among them a venerable gentleman with a good face and fine broad, high-retreating forehead. He arose almost instantly the invitation was given. He supported with a cane his tottering frame, bent under the weight of many years, and stepped forward, and reached me his bony hand, the tears coursing down his furrowed cheeks. At the conclusion of the song, he asked if he might be permitted to say a few words. He was told to speak on. He arose, and standing nearly half­bent, supported by his cane spoke to the following effect: "Friends, I have asked permission to say a few words. You see I am an old man. I am upwards of seventy years of age. From my youth, I have been anxious to be a Christian. I have always attended religious meetings, and listened attentively to the preaching, anxious to learn what I must do to be saved. When I heard of this meeting, my first impulse was to attend it. But then I thought of my age and infirmity, and the distance, about seventy miles, and I remembered that I had never heard anything that I could understand that I must do to be saved, and it was not likely I would be more fortunate, should I come to this meeting, and I almost abandoned the idea of making the attempt. Then again, I remembered my great age and declining life, and knew I could not live much longer, and the thought of dying without religion was horrible. These reflections armed me with resolution to undertake the long and fatiguing journey, with the faint hope that maybe, I shall hear something that will give me hope and comfort in death. I devoutly thank God that I am here, and that I have been permitted to hear the sermon today. It is the first time in life that I have heard, so that I could understand, what I must do to become a Christian. Young friends, if I had, when I was of your age, heard the discourse to which you have just listened, I would have then become a Christian." At this sad story of the poor old man many wept, and no wonder, it was enough to move a heart of stone.

We heard the confession of the weeping penitents, and instantly repaired to the water but a few paces from the stand, when they were all immersed into Christ Jesus. As the old gentleman emerged from the liquid grave a smile played over his features, blending with his tears; he clapped together his thin hands, and said, "Thanks be to God for the assurance I now feel that my sins are forgiven! I have believed his word, and, as I trust, have from the heart complied with his prescribed conditions of pardon, and, confiding in his word of promise, I rejoice to be assured of my acceptance with my adorable Savior. I can now return home contented and happy, and occupy the few remaining days I may yet live on earth in making ready for the life to come. Friends, one and all, farewell. Our next meeting will be at the judgment. May I hope to see you all in heaven?" At this affecting talk of the old man many wept. It was the last day of the meeting. The congregation soon dispersed. I assisted the old man on his horse, and bade him a final adieu, and never heard of him afterwards, but hope to meet him in heaven. O what meetings and greetings, and joyful recognitions there will be in the spirit world!

Our next meeting was in the upper edge of Jackson County, Ala. in what was called the Price neighborhood. Here again I preached the ancient gospel and immersed for remission of sins some twenty-three persons, among them a James C. Anderson and a brother Russell. They had both been Methodists. Brother Anderson soon became a preacher; and for many years labored through both Ala. and Tenn. He was an efficient preacher, and won many souls to God. He was blind in one eye. He now rests from his labors.

On the approach of winter I retired from active field service, and resumed the study of Medicine, and preached on Lord's days. We had in those days but few meeting houses. When the weather would allow, we worshiped in groves and under sheds. But, as such plans were not suitable for preaching in the winter, we had to occupy private houses. No one now can have any idea of the sacrifices which were made by the Netrian pioneers of the present great religious movement; of the excessive labors which they performed, and the difficulties with which they had to contend. They had to meet bitter, wicked, malignant opposition at every turn. The teaching was new, and the prejudice against it was tremendous. The truth had but few adherants, and they were generally of the poorer class, and without great personal influence. The preachers too were poor, and received but little pecuniary aid. They had, consequently, to resort to some secular pursuit in order to make a living. They were a different class of men from the kid-glove gentry, who frequent the well-furnished houses of rich brethren flipping gold watch-keys, flourishing gold-headed rattans, pulling Havannas, dressed in fine broad cloth, reclining on velvet-cushioned sofas, reading light literature, sprouting Greek; waiting for a loud call to some, rich city church. Some of this class of men, who put on such airs, were born and brought up in poverty. As apparently humble and pious young men, they were sought out and found among the hills, or pining in the shade of apulence; they were recommended to the liberality of the brotherhood, by some of the old pioneer preachers; were sent to school and colleges and educated at public expense. They have advanced so rapidly and travelled so far from their former condition and surroundings as to have lost sight of the men who connected them and recommended them to the notice and liberality of the brotherhood. Some, indeed, have lost sight of their humble, pious mothers, and ignore their worthy sisters! Poor servants these of the sick and lowly! Musical messengers to herald his glad tidings to the poor! They are undeserving the name of ministers of Christ! O tempora! O mores!

An incident was related to me by the brother Rogers above mentioned, and of which he was an eye and Car witness, being at the time a Methodist, and present in the tent when it occurred.

A Methodist minister of the name of Mr. XXXX had been sent among the Cherokee Indians who lived at that time [1825] just across the Tennessee river from Jackson County, Ala. for the purpose of distributing Bibles and Testaments among them. Seeing an intelligent looking young wan who could read English, he made him a present of a new Testament, requesting him at the same time to read it and to do as it told him. The Indian accepted the present and promised to comply with the preacher's request. This was early in the spring of 1825. In the autumn of the same year the Methodists held a camp meeting in Jackson County, Ala. near Bellfront. The young Indian hearing of the meeting, went over to it. On reaching the camp-ground, he inquired for Col. U., the preacher above mentioned. He was informed that he was in the Preacher's tent, which was pointed out to him, He was at once admitted, and, recognizing the preacher, offered him his hand, telling him at the same time he was the man to whom he had given the New Testament; and he added: "I have done as you requested. I have read the book, and have come to get you to go with me to the river." "Why?" the preacher inquired, "Do you want me to go with you to the river?" "I want you to baptise me," was the answer of the red man. "I can baptise you without going to the river," responded the preacher. "How?" the Indian asked. The preacher proceeded to tell him; he "would take some water in a tumble and pour it on his head." This information took the Indian all aback. He paused a moment in evident perplexity and doubt, his eyes resting on the ground. Then raising his head and fixing his keen dark eyes on the preacher, he asked: "Is that baptism?" "Yes," responded the preacher, "that is the way we baptize." The Indian stood a moment as if in deep thought; then raising his head and fixing his eyes again on the preacher, he said, "Col. it that is baptism, you gave me the wrong book!" This terminated the interview. The disappointed Indian instantly left the place, and returned to his home.

The above incident I related to brother A. Campbell in Baltimore, in the winter of 1833-4, and it was published in the Millennial Harbinger sometime afterwards. Many missions have been given of the case since, and the circumstances variously represented. But the above is the correct version of the affair as reported to me by brother Rogers, who stated he was present and saw and heard it all. It had considerable influence in calling his attention to the New Testament account of baptism.

Early in the Spring of 1826, I paid a short visit to Ky. and returned to Tenn. taking with me my youngest brother, B. W. Hall, a youth of 18, when {whom} I immersed that summer for remission of sins.

In Sept. of that year, I attended a camp-meeting on Cypress, in Lauderdale County, Ala. On Sunday night the brethren put me on a table under a large Arbour, in the middle of a large audience. I discoursed on baptism for remission of sins. In the conclusion I invited forward penitents to confess Christ preparatory to their being immersed for remission of sins. Several presented themselves, and among them was Gilbert {Tolbert} Fanning, then a youth. They were immersed the next morning in Cypress Creek by Bro. James. E. Matthews. I will remember the tall form, and the awkward, gangling appearance of G. F. {T.F.} as he appeared at the water, with neithe