LETTER XXI.
From Clarence to Carlton.
Dear Robert,—The history of your Maria reminds me
of an incident in my history, which perhaps may interest you.
Like most young clergymen, my first stock of written
sermons was exceedingly meagre. I commenced my clerical
life with precisely four; which, as no opportunity offered
of writing others, were so frequently delivered and re-delivered,
that I really detested the sight of the articles. Still, being
on that southern journey you have elsewhere done me the
honor to celebrate, I was compelled to stick both to the texts
and the sermons. The places, it is true, where the discourses
had to be repeated, were often two hundred miles
apart, and there was very fair chance of a bran-new audience
every time; but I felt so satiated and disgusted myself,
it seemed even strange audiences must nauseate the repetition.
I have lived long enough to know that old sermons may
be occasionally used again, and with great profit, both to
speaker and hearer; but having more vanity then, and morbid
sensitiveness, and perhaps less reliance on a higher power,
I felt as if my sermons were intrinsically good for nothing,
and that no good could, or even ought to be done, by repreaching
them. I was, however, a minister of the Gospel,
and knew it was my duty always to preach when opportunity
offered; and so I got over the task the best way possible.
I may not say how much blame may have been in all
this, nor how erroneous my estimate of the effect, but the
discourses, by the time I reached Georgia, were, to use a
westernism,
used up; and so being importuned by some relatives
to preach in a Baptist church some hundred miles to the
south of Charleston, I consented; stating, however, my incapacity
of preaching without notes, and my fear that small
attention would be paid to a manuscript sermon.
Well, after being consoled with the assurance that due
allowance would be made for so young a preacher, and complimented
on my modesty! I appeared with one of my detestable
papers, and essayed to get through the affair as comfortably
as possible. Never, dear Robert, was I more uncomfortable,
either in mind or body; for additional to the
cause already named, the meeting-house was an unchinked
log building, and the day (it was in the month of January)
was very cold, cloudy, and windy. There I stood, in a half
shiver, wrapped, not in a bishop's tasteful and reverend silk
gown, but in an old-fashioned worsted and striped plaid, and
read away in a trembling voice, husky from the raw and
chilly atmosphere. Indeed, Robert, I meant no irreverence,
yet I felt that so mean a service could not be acceptable, and
most certainly could not and ought not to benefit any one.
Such, I mean, were my feelings and sentiments at the time;
and perhaps might ever have been so, had I not some nine
years after been informed of one remarkable result.
After wandering in different parts of the Union for about
nine years, I again visited Philadelphia, and on going to see
a southern lady, one of my auditors on that day in the Baptist
church, she surprised me by this exclamation:
“Oh, Mr. Clarence! how glad I am to see you! Do you
remember preaching for us that time—”
“Pray, Madam, do not name it. I am ashamed of the
little interest I felt that day in trying to do my duty—”
“Ashamed! Why, sir, that sermon did more good than
you are aware.”
“Good! impossible. Such a sermon, and such a delivery!
Could these do good?”
“Yes, sir; and so will you think, when you hear my
story. A poor negro man had driven his master's carriage,
and during the service he sat out of doors, on the carriage-box,
and through the open chinks of the house he heard your
sermon. And what do you think, Mr. Clarence? Why, sir,
he was awakened by that discourse, and he finally became,
as we all believe, a true convert! Yes, sir, he made a profession
of religion in our church shortly after you left the
South; and for some years after he lived as a true Christian,
when he died, not only calmly but triumphantly, and is doubtless
gone to heaven.”
Dear Robert! I must say this gives me more pleasure than
to own a princely estate. If that poor African brother was
saved by my instrumentality, it was worth all my toilsome
and hazardous journey. I am rebuked, too, and corrected.
But I am consoled also, with the hope that very unworthy
services, and in which motives not wholly religious
doubtless existed, may have in other cases effected good,
without my knowledge. Possibly, some of your clerical
acquaintances would be glad to have this incident. If so,
read this letter to them.
Yours truly,
C. Clarence.
