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get their youth, but listened reverently while
the old men spake and counselled. But, alas!
we have changed all that! The wigs have
disappeared, and with them much of the dig
nity, and, some say, much of the wisdom.
Now, it seems a settled point with many, that
a minister of the Gospel is never so great and
wise as when very young; and even the
churches seem ready to agree, that age and
experience make a minister a fool, and dis
qualify him for his office.
The association before which my friend ap
peared met at New Haven, in the lecture room
under the north end of Trumbull Gallery.
After a very close examination, which was
continued eight or nine hours, he was unani
mously approved and duly licensed.
Mr. Ward, as I must now call him, went
with a classmate to spend the next Sabbath
after this event in one of the northern par
ishes of New London county. Here he was
to make his first appearance as a preacher.
The minister of this parish was an old man,
who had occupied the same pulpit thirty-five
or forty years. Young Ward was well ac
quainted with him, having resided in his fami
ly while employed here as a teacher.
His first sermon! Did a clergyman ever
forget the day, when he stood in a pulpit, be
fore a hushed, curious, expectant audience,
to preach his first sermon ? I presume not.
Some are able to stand up unembarrassed at
such a time, and speak to the people serious
ly and earnestly, as a preacher should speak ;
but many find themselves so troubled by vain
endeavors to rise above circumstances, and
command the hour, or so misled by their aim
to preach with astonishing eloquence, that
their first rt tempts are liable to prove very sad
and mortifying failures. Some, like Robert
Hall, are repeatedly struck dumb with embar
rassment; and they deserve it for allowing
their aim to be corrupted by over-anxiety
about what the audience will think of their
skill and power as speakers
Young man, (for some such may read this
paper,) —you, I mean, who have just folded
your license, on which the ink is scarcely dry,
and are making preparations to preach your
first sermon, 1 have had more experience than
you. True, I am not very old : I claim no
share of that reverence which is due unto the
fathers; but I have travelled over a portion
of that path on which you are just beginning
to set your feet. Therefore hear a few words
cf advice. If you would appear in the pul
pit with entire self-possession, and preach
your first sermon as it should be preached,
dismiss that anxiety to preach with astound
ing eloquence, and be thought a youth of
great promise,—keep your mind in a just re
lation to theuivine authority of truth, —pray-
erfully preserve a sincere aim, and cherish a
quick sense of preaching as a serious, solemn
business, —and when you go before the peo
ple, let your thoughts and feelings be regula
ted by the conviction that you have something
to say which it is important for them to hear.
If you cannot possibly receive this counsel,
then you must go on to find wisdom in the
lessons of experience; and, I tell you before
hand, I shall not be sorry if your advance to
wisdom is hastened by some very mortifying
troubles, like those which befell my friend,
Timothy Ward.
He went to preach his first sermon, with
his mind by no means in the best condition.
He was excited and disturbed by the various
feelings common to all young preachers at
such a time ; and, besides, during the last year
of his course in the seminary, he had allowed
his mijftdro become rather more occupied with
the art of writing and delivering sermons,
than w T ith the great reasons for preaching.
He had, moreover, conceived an extremely
favorable notion of his own capacity, and
doubted not that his style of preaching would
be deemed almost indescribably superior to
that of the good old pastor of the church
where he was to make his first appearance.
He wished, and expected to make a great im
pression.
It is proper to remark, also, that his ambi
tion on this occasion was considerably stimhi-
Jated by another circumstance. During the
time he had passed here as a teacher, he had
become acquainted with most of the young
people of the parish, and, among others, a
certain Mary Ellis, whose bright eyes, amia
ble disposition, and great excellence of char
acter, drew his attention, and charmed his
heart, until he deemed her a most beautiful
and delightful person. He perceived that her
presence made all places brighter, and all
sounds sweeter. This interest in Mary Ellis
became so absorbing, that he finally told her
what he thought and felt; and it is certain
she did not get angry with him. In a word,
she had promised to become his wife. Well,
she would hear him preach his first sermon ;
and, for her sake, he resolved to outdo him
self. Yes, she would be proud of him. He
was really a most excellent young man, and
§®®irasia &,airsais
it was surprising that such feelings were suf
fered to lead him so far astray. Yet, so it
was.
Among his sermons, were two which he
had written and re-written with extraordinary
care, and, as it seemed to hijn, with extraor
dinary eloquence. Eloquent!—oh, the magic
word ! How it can magnetize the blood of
young preachers and lawyers! How it some
times heats the fancy and turns the head, un
til every thing seems to swim and glimmer!
“Yes,” he said to himself, as he read over
these sermons, the evening after receiving his
license. “ Yes, these sermons are of the high
est order. They will make an impression. 1
shall not be surprised, if I am requested to
furnish copies of them for the press.” And
he was impatient for the Sabbath to arrive.
The Sabbath came at length, with no un
usual hurry, and, as it appeared to him, with
unu-ual tardiness. All the morning he was
conning his discourse, and declaiming the
more highly-wrought passages; but as the
family restrained the free use of his voice in
the house, he went out to the most distant
part of the orchard. The morning was beau
tiful. The soft, exhilarating sunshine seem
ed alive with gladness ; but the soul of Tim
othy Ward was too wild with excitement to
feel the serenity of holy and beautiful
thoughts. He could think of nothing but
his sermon : and taking his stand on a rock,
under a large tree, he spread'it before him, on
the wall, .and began to declaim.
And his declamation produced a very stir
ring effect among certain auditors, who heard
it without an invitation. The wall divided
the orchard from a pasture, and he did not
observe that a cow lay near it, just in front of
him; nor that a flock of turkeys were bask
ing in the morning sunshine, at a little dis
tance from her, to the left. He began with
great power, and was rolling of!’ the carved
sentences with stunning emphasis on almost
every word, when a most surprising commo
tion arose. His unnoticed hearers were elec
trified. The cow sprang to her feet, gazed at
him an instant, and then, with head and tail
erect, ran bellowing to the farthest side of the
pasture, and leaped into a meadow. The
tnrkeys started up, stretched their necks, ut
tered various nervous sounds, expressive of
their sudden astonishment, and finally flew off
into an apple tree, where the old captain of
the flock yelled as if possessed by a whole
legion of demons! Altogether, the effect was
very great.
Mr. Ward saw the power of his preaching,
and stopped. It may be. that for one instant
he looked to see the stones move, and the
trees begin a holy dance. But immediately
gathering up his manuscript, he hastened back
to the house, beginning to feel that he had
made himself ridiculous, and glad that none
of his startled hearers was able to speak and
tell what he had done. The adventure cooled
his excitement. Better thoughts began to re
turn ana gleam into his mind, and he com
muned a little with his conscience.
There was, however, but little time for self
communion, for, as he entered the house, the
bell began the summons to church. His feel
ings were by no means pleasant; and he un
dertook the services with evident embarrass
ment, which was increased first by his mis
taken fancy that the features of some of his
hearers intimated that his embarrassment
them, —and next, by perceiving that, in his
present mood, he was unequal to the delivery
of the more eloquent passages of his sermon,
particularly that very eloquent passage where
lie had introduced a Jong quotation from Pol
lok’s Course of Time. There was a burr in
his ears, the house seemed to darken, he grew
wet with perspiration, and began to deliberate
whether he should sit down and weep, or
leave the pulpit and run away. But he kept
on bravely, and finished his discourse, with
out leaving out more than one-third of it.
Then he sat down in the corner of the pulpit
wishing for darkness, that he might leave the
house without being seen. But it was broad
noon. He left the pulpit at length, and walk
ed to the house of the old minister, in an
agony of mortification.
“Well,” observed Deacon Adams, to a
group of persons who were, at recess, seated
in one of the Sabbath-day houses, “Mr. Ward
has preached a pretty fair sermon, considering
it is his first one.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Bassett, “he did very
well for a beginner, He was a good deal em
barrassed, as was natural. We can’t expect
a young man to do as w T ell, at first, as when
he gets used to preaching. I think he will
make a pretty fair preacher.”
“Oh, these young men, when they first
come from college, try more to preach great
sermons than good ones,” said aunt Deborah
Collins; “and, then, it takes some time to
get the starch out of them. But Mr. Ward
is a good young man. He did a great deal of
good when he kept school here; and, I think,
he will make an excellent minister.”
Such was the tone of criticism, generally.
Mr. Somers, the old minister, perceived his
young friend’s trouble, and said many things
to console him. Mr. Ward was led to view
the matter with pleasanter feelings, and began
his preparations for the afternoon. Remem
bering his adventure in the orchard, he now
went to the barn. There was still a chance
to redeem himself. He thought of prayer,
but his mood was not truly prayerful. He
looked over his sermon; it was eloquent,
very eloquent,—even more so, he thought,
than the other. But, he felt a little misgiving.
There was something like a suspicion, that,
at present, he was not equal to the delivery
of any thing so very powerful. Without
doubt, he could do it well enough when more
accustomed to the pulpit; but, was not such
a discourse too much for him, under present
circumstances? He laid down the manu
script, and, walking to and fro on the barn
floor, began to repeat portions of the sermon,
from memory. He thought of the orchard,
and ventured not to lift up his voice in de
clamation ; but with appropriate gestures he
delivered, in spirit, one or two important pas
sages. There was no audible voice: no, it
was merely the ghost or phantom of power
ful declaiming.
While thus employed, he did not observe
that a current of air had carried his manu
script into the stable, where it was taken pos
session of by a calf. As he walked and ges
ticulated up and down the floor, the calf
smelled around the wandering manuscript a
moment, and then began to chew it. Yes,
the calf seemed to relish an eloquent sermon,
and chewed it with great industry. When
Mr. Ward sought it again, to refresh his
memory, half of it was chewed to pulp, and
the remainder trodden into the mire of the
stable.
He gazed at his ruined sermon, and thought
convulsively,—is there anything more to hap
pen? Can anything equal this ? He won
dered how men feel when they swear:
wondered whether his present emotions were
not, in reality, so many oaths and curses; —
wondered whether profane words are anything
more than the body of a profane oath : wheth
er profanity is not just as wicked, when dis
embodied, as when bodied. Presently he be
came so much absorbed with this case of con
science, as to forget his ruined manuscript.
He communed awhile with his own heart,
and, at last, exclaimed, —
“Heaven be praised! I ought to be, and
shall be, deeply thankful for this! How
foolishly and wickedly have 1 acted! But, 1
have learned a lesson, and, I think, I shall
never forget it.”
He went immediately to the house and said
to Mr. Somers, —
“1 am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I
cannot preach for you this afternoon, —really
I cannot. In preparing to preach my first
sermons, I have allowed myself to be influ
enced by so many wrong thoughts and anxie
ties, that I find myself incapable of preach
ing. I have learned a lesson. I think 1 shall
act more religiously, in future. But you must
excuse me, tor I cannot preach now.”
Timothy Ward did learn a lesson that day,
which he has never forgotten. He did not
feel quite at ease, when he joined Mary Ellis
to walk home with her; but her look and
voice reassured him, and led him to tell her
the whole story of his follies and disasters.
He never again sinned in like manner. When
he preached in the pulpit of his native parish,
a few weeks afterwards, he felt as he ought,
and spoke with great seriousness and effect.
Since that day, he has constantly aimed to be
a sincere, truthful, earnest, prayerful preach
er of Christ.
A celebrated itinerant preacher of the
present day, held forth a short time since at
Danville, Pa. On giving notice of his inten
tion to preach, he requested the ladies not to
bring their children when they came to hear
him. He thought it was enough to have one
crying aloud in the wilderness at a time.
When you see a young lady who likes
to be continually playing with the gentlemen’s
hats, trying them on, &c., you may be sure
she will, some day or other wear the “breeches”
Socrates, being asked what was the
best mode of gaining a high reputation, said,
“ To be what you appear to be
We always treat our thoughts as we
do pigs—i. e. we pen them.
A hen pecked husband says that in
stead of he and his wife being one, they are
ten; for she is 1 and he is 0.
Millions for de-fence , as thedarkey said
when running for the fence, chased by a mad
bull.
®l)e (ffssagist.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
| SHAKSPEARE’S MIRANDA.
BY J. H. N.
We admire the filial piety and affection of
Cordelia—applaud the honesty, and unsus
pecting innocence of Desdemona—weep over
the mournful distraction of Ophelia— court
the odor-laden zephyrs, as sighing through the
flowers, they call to mind the moonlit bower
of Juliet—almost worship the gentle, confi
ding Imogen—but oh! how deeply do we love
Prospero’s sweet, simple child, the “divine
Miranda!” There is one great peculiarity in
in all the female characters of Shakspeare :
they are as distinct and unique as though
each was the chef-d’ oeuvre of so many master
minds. The love of Desdemona for her lord,
was not the love of Juliet for Romeo; neith
er was the affection of Cordelia for her poor
old father an exhibition of feeling similar in
every respect to the child-like adoration of
Miranda for Prospero. Even when delinea
ting the same passion, Shakspeare never con
fers upon two of his ideal images the identi
cal emotions which spring from the exercise
or the gratification of that passion—and here
he is true to nature. The mind catches the
impression of outward objects, first, through
the instrumentality of the eye, which organ
transmits external images alike to all; but
when the mind comes to reflect upon, to class
ify and arrange, the several natures oi these
images, at once, how dissimilar they are ! Not
Milton’s Eve in all her native grace, beauty,
and pristine excellence, is so perfect s char
acter as Shakspeare represents His Miranda.
Scarce had Eve stepped forth from Adam’s
side, when we perceive the dawning of pas
sion in her enthusiastic admiration of Adam’s
manly beauty. But from childhood to maid
en-hood, Miranda had never beheld a. human
being save her father and his miserably de
formed slave. The sensations of love—of
that love which regards the acquisition of its
object, the end and aim of its happiness, had
never touched the virgin chords within the
bosom of the island girl. The world in which
she lived was circumscribed by the small cir
cle of her horizon : beyond that blue ring all
was darkness. Her father’s lessons may have
sent her imagination soaring beyond the lim
its of her vision, and fancy, perhaps, had pic
tured to her unsophisticated mind a bright and
beautiful land, far over the tree tops, peopled
with thousands of happy creatures like her
self and father; but still all was vague. “ un
certain as in a dream.” The first expression
emanating from her lips, introduces us at one®
into the secret beauties of her character.
“ h by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them
Here we have a touching appeal to the gen
erosity of her parent. The benevolence of
her heart and her natural sympathy for the
misfortunes and sorrows of others, could not
be unconcerned when so many noble crea
tures were being dashed to jtieccs.—The foun
tain of pity was touched, and she joined her
cries to the cries of the suffering mariners.
The mystery which enveloped the circumstan
ces of her birth and situation, at times per
plexed her sorely; and she said to her father,
“You have often
Begun to tell me what I am ; but stopp’d
And left me to a bootless inquisition ;
Concluding, Stay, not yet. , ’ > —
As the soul, encased in a muddy vesture of
clay, loves to look beyond the tenement of its
earthly sojourn and contemplate the glorious
promises of its immortality, so would the
bright and beautiful spirit of Miranda delight
to flee from the realities of a life on a desert
island, to an acquaintance with the awful
mysteries which obscured her own existence.
With what devotion does she listen to the un
folding of those mysteries—and with what
divine goodness does ehe bear with the au-