His moral character was of high order from his boyhood. "If ever," says his biographer,* "amiableness of disposition and unimpeachable morality of conduct could assure one of the favour of God, it is believed that this would have been Mr. Emory's case. But he had learned that 'whoso keepeth the whole law, and yet offendeth in one point, is guilty of all;' and that 'by the deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified ;'-that 'without faith it is impossible to please God;' and that he that believeth hath the witness in himself.' And having no such immaculate purity by nature, and no such evidence of justification, his awakened conscience could not rest. His interest in the subject of experimental religion was further increased by the recent conversion of his elder brother and sister. For months he had been labouring under strong convictions; but his naturally retiring and silent disposition made it the more easy for him to conceal the fact from the rest of the family, until the day when he made an open profession of his determination to be on the Lord's side. The following account of the circumstances attending his conversion has been communicated by his surviving sister, who was present on the occasion: 'The evening before the quarterly or two days' meeting, (already named,) several members of our family, among whom were an elder sister and myself, had assembled at our brother Robert's, where my brother John was then living. The hours having been spent in singing hymns and conversing about experimental religion, when family prayer was concluded John betook himself, as he afterward told us, to a retired part of the garden, and there gave vent to the feelings of his burdened spirit. Early on the succeeding Sabbath morning the

Life of Bishop Emory, by his eldest son, p. 26.

family prepared to go to love-feast, expecting that, as public preaching did not commence until an hour or two later, John would not follow until some time after. He himself, however, proposed to accompany us, and on the way introduced the subject of religion to a pious relation, Richard Thomas, but without disclosing the real state of his feelings. This was, however, sufficient to induce Mr. Thomas to invite him to attend the love-feast. To this my brother assented, provided he would obtain permission of the preacher. But before he had an opportunity of doing so, the preacher presented himself at the door, and stated that none but members of the Church need apply for admission, the house being too small to hold them. This was an appalling stroke to him, and he said to his cousin, "You need not apply, for they will not let me in." But this good man, believing that God was at work, succeeded in procuring admittance for him. The house was quickly filled, and the exercises commenced, and soon the mighty power of God was displayed. My sister and myself had secured seats near the door. But few had spoken, when our attention was arrested by a voice which sounded like our brother's. We gazed at each other, and said, "Is it he?" (for we were entirely ignorant, as yet, of all that had passed, and had not the least idea of his being in the house :) "Yes," we said, with eyes streaming with tears of joy, "it must be his voice," for see him we could not. With intense interest we listened, while he there, in the most solemn manner, called upon God and angels, heaven and earth, and the assembly then present, to witness that he that day determined to seek the salvation of his soul. He then sunk upon his knees, and thus remained during the love-feast, calling upon God for the pardon of his sins.

After public preaching the same humble posture was resumed. Many prayers were offered up for him, and much interest manifested. A circle was formed around him of those who knew and felt that their God was a God of mercy, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin. All of a sudden he rose from his knees and seated himself; and with such composure and sweetness as I never witnessed in any, before or afterward, declared that he felt peace and comfort,-that all was calm.'"

This was on the 18th of August, 1806. From that time to the day of his death, his Christian convictions, faith, and hope, remained unaltered. The strong character of the man was shown in this as in all things. He knew not how to vacillate.

He was admitted to the bar in 1808, and opened an office in Centreville. Such was the public confidence in his capacity and integrity, that, young as he was, business soon began to flow in upon him. But the young man's mind had received another bent-new impulses were given to him from above, and he felt that he must obey them. He resolved to abandon his profession and devote himself entirely to the work of the ministry. "It was on the 9th of October, 1809," he writes, "that I made a covenant on my knees, wrote and signed it, to give up the law, after much reading, prayer, and meditation, and on the 10th I did so, though my father was very unwilling." This act, and the spirit that animated it, will afford a clew to his entire character. It was not so great a thing in itself, this mere giving up of good worldly prospects to become a preacher of Christ; if that were all, we might say that he had done no more than many others; nay, that he had done less. It is not so great a sacrifice, after all, for a man of any elevation

of soul to throw aside trifles for realities; a man altogether worldly and selfish might not understand such an act; but for a noble spirit, the far greater sacrifice would be to crush its heavenward tendencies, and suffer them to be trampled in the dust, by ambition or avarice, in the great highway of life. But the significance of the act lies in this, that the conflict, in the bosom of this youth of twenty, was not merely between worldliness and self-devotion, but between the high claims of a duty whose voice of authority he had implicitly obeyed from his childhood, and which had grown with his growth until it was interwoven with every fibre of his being, and the higher claims of a destiny newly unfolded to him and foreign from the early plans and training of his life. He revered his father as a wise and good man; nay, he loved him with an affection that had not been weakened by severity or alienated by unkindness, for he owed everything to his father's love; he had been used to look up to him for advice, and to render the ready obedience of a dutiful son; and now, in the great turning-point of his career, he was called upon to disobey! That little lawyer's office in Centreville was the scene, night after night, for months, of a mighty struggle. Often have we contemplated it thus: It is his duty to preach. He feels the fire within him, and he cannot extinguish it-the flame of love to God and man. And yet it has not free course; sometimes he even thinks it is dying away, and he longs to give it vent in its natural channels. The world lies before him in its wickedness. Men are rushing toward the precipice of destruction, and he knows that God has made his arm strong to pluck them from the awful brink. He sees moral evil, in its varied forms of malignant power, battling with the right and the true; a warrior's spirit is in him, and he

longs to stand in the thickest of the fray. The life of a man is before him, and he longs to fill it with good deeds. His vision embraces even other and further scenes. He recollects not only how nobly great souls have spent themselves in life, but how nobly, too, they have triumphed in death, and he looks forward to the hour, when, after his work is done, he too shall achieve that final victory. He is ready to go! But he looks even beyond the grave, and there gleams before his spirit-vision the crown of eternal life, all radiant with gems-immortal souls saved through his instrumentality-stars that are to shine forever in his coronet of glory. He must go, though all the world oppose him. But let the world speak. It tells him of his talents, and the brilliant prospects before him-wealth, distinction, a high name among men. It tells him of the poverty, the obscurity, nay, it even dares to say, the shame that must. come upon him if he change his course. More forcibly, it tells him that he has mistaken his way, and that he can be more useful as a weighty citizen or honest statesman than as a wandering preacher. Is this all? These petty sophisms cannot deceive him; his eye is too keen for that. Not that he is unambitious; but that he is all too ambitious to limit his undertakings to so narrow and temporary a sphere. If this be all, then the struggle is over. But, ah! the real conflict has yet to come. His very virtues are in arms against him. His filial love is pointed, an enemy's weapon, against his own bosom. His long habit of obedience binds him with chains of iron. His father's judgment he has always trusted, and can he pronounce it incorrect now? Certainly it is not altogether unreasonable; his health is so feeble that he has to relax his studies, and he needs the comforts of home, rather than the toils of a circuit. Can