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146 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-