From Litchfield the doctor went to an influential Presbyterian church in Boston; soon after, he went through with a trial for heresy, being guilty of believing in what are termed new school theological doctrines. He next accepted the presidency of Lane Seminary, and remained at that post, accomplishing a vast amount of good by his example and his instructions, until 1850. A thousand anecdotes are told of the good man, which exhibit his singular yet noble character. A few of them we will quote, as they show us the man better than mere description can. The following illustrates his comical nature:

"One dark night, as he was driving home with his wife and Mrs. Stowe in the carriage, the whole party were upset over a bank about fifteen feet high. They had no sooner extricated themselves from the wreck, than Mrs. Beecher and Mrs. Stowe, who were unhurt, returned thanks for their providential escape. 'Speak for yourselves,' said the doctor, who was feeling his bruises, 'I have got a good many hard bumps any how.""

This one his liberality:

"One day his wife had given him from the common purse twenty-five or thirty dollars in bills, with particular instructions to buy a coat, of which he stood in need. He went down to the city to make the purchase, but stopping on the way at a meeting in behalf of foreign missions, the box was handed round, and in went his little roll of bills. He forgot his coat in his anxiety for the Sandwich Islanders."

The following is a college anecdote:

"One night Mr. Beecher was awakened by a sound at his window, as if some one were drawing a cloth through a broken pane of glass; springing up, he dimly saw his clothes disappearing through a broken window-a thief having taken a fancy to them. Waiting for no ceremonies of toilet, he dashed out through the door after him. The rascal dropped the clothes at once, and put himself to his best speed. But Lyman was not the man to be easily out-run, especially when thus stripped to the race. After dodging a few times, and turning several corners, the caitiff was seized and marched back by the eager student. He ushered him into his room, compelled him to lie down on the floor by the side of his bed, while he, more comfortably ensconced in his bed, lay the night long watching him;-the silence being broken only by an occasional "Lie still, sir." In the morning the culprit was taken before a magistrate, who was evidently a lineal descendant of Justice Shallow. The magistrate, after hearing the particulars, asked Mr. Beecher, 'whether in turning the corners he lost sight of the man at all.' He replied, that he was out of sight but a second, for he was close upon him. ‘Ah, well, if you lost sight of him at all, you cannot swear to his identity,' and so the man was discharged. Mr. B. met the fellow several times afterward, but could not catch his eye."

The anecdotes which follow, have floated singly or in pairs over the country for years. J. Ross Dix has gathered them together in his "Pulpit Portraits," and they are too good to be overlooked:

"In a trip along the coast of Connecticut in a small craft for his health, being detained by baffling winds, it was in the midst of church service, on a sabbath morning, that he landed at a village where only the clergyman knew him. His was in full sea rigging. His entrance to the audience room attracted no attention. But when, during the prayer, after sermon, he walked up the aisle, and began to ascend the pulpit steps, all eyes were on him. The young people tittered, and the tithing men began to look authoritative, as if business was on hand. The officiating clergyman, at the close of his prayer, cordially shook him by the hand, to the growing surprise of spectators—not lessened by the doctor's rising to make some 'additional remarks.' 'When I began,' we once heard the doctor say, I could see all the good and sober people looking rather grave at such an appearance, while all the young people winked at each other, as if they expected some sport. But it was not long before I saw the old folks begin to look up and smile, and the young folks to look sober.' If any one has heard Dr. Beecher in one of his best moods, in an extemporaneous outburst, they can well imagine with what power an application would come from him, and how the sudden transitions of feeling, and the strange contrasts between his weather-beaten appearance and seaman's garb, and his impassioned eloquence, would heighten the effect. When he concluded, he turned to the pastor and said, 'how could you have such a grand sermon without any application?' 'I wrote out the body of the sermon, meaning to extemporize the application, but after you came in it scared it out of my head.'

"He once received from several ladies of his church a sum

of money for his wife, to be used in the purchase of a carpet. It was put into his vest pocket, and of course forgotten. There was, about this time, an effort on foot to build an orthodox church in a neighboring village, in which the doctor took great interest. Meeting a gentleman engaged in the enter prise, the doctor expressed a wish to give something himself. Ransacking his pockets, he discovered this carpet money, and expressed great surprise at its unexpected presence. 'Why-when did I get this? I am sure I do not remember this money! Well, it is plain Providence provided it for this cause.' Accordingly it was given. Not many weeks after, the lady donors called, expecting to see a new carpet on their pastor's parlor. Nothing was known about it by the good wife. The doctor was summoned, and the case stated. 'There, that was it! I remember now. It must have been the money I gave for that church.'

"When he was sixty-eight or seventy years of age, he visited a son in the interior of Indiana. One of the young men in the village kindly volunteered to go out with the doctor to hunt. After some success, they took a little circuit each of his own. Hearing the doctor's gun, Mr. V. made toward him, and to his surprise, saw the doctor, boots and coat off, about twenty feet up a tree, and making his way nimbly. 'Doctor, what are you doing?' 'I shot a squirrel, and he ran into that hole, and I am determined to have him out.' It was only on the promise of his young friend that he would go up and eject him, that he consented to give over his perilous climbing.

"When about seventy-five years of age, he spent a fort

night in the eastern part of Maine. A party of gentlemen at Calais, went with him upon a little expedition into the Indian territories, spending several days there hunting and fishing. When about to embark upon a chain of lakes in birch canoes, the Indian guide, Etienne, rather objected to so old a man attempting the adventure, fearing that he would give out. He did not know his man. The doctor rowed with the best of the youngsters; caught more trout than all the party together, and returned each day from the various tramps, in the lead; eat his fish on a rock, with a sea-biscuit for a trencher, and fingers for knives and forks: slept on the ground, upon hemlock branches under a tent, and, at length, the Indian guide went from the extreme of depreciation to the highest expression of admiration in his power,-saying, 'Ah! old man all Indian?'

"While residing on Long Island, in early life, he was returning home just at evening from a visit to old Dr. Woolworth. Seeing what he thought, in the dark, to be a rabbit by the road-side, a little ahead, he reasoned with himself'They are rather tender animals-if the fellow sits still till I come up, I think I could hit him with these books,' a goodly bundle of which he had in his handkerchief. Hit him he surely did; only it proved to be not a rabbit, but a skunk. The logical consequences followed, and he returned to his family in anything but the odor of sanctity. In after life, being asked why he did not reply to a scurrilous attack which had been made upon him, the doctor answered, 'I discharged a quarto once at a skunk, and I then made up my mind never to try it again.'