1856-1862
My first sermons were to me the most tremendous endeavours
of my life, because I felt the awful responsibility
of standing in a pulpit, knowing that a great many
people would be influenced by what I said concerning
God, or the soul, or the great future.
When I first began to preach, I was very cautious
lest I should be misrepresented, and guarded the subject
on all sides. I got beyond that point. I
found that I got on better when, without regard to
consequences, I threw myself upon the hearts and consciences
of my hearers.
In those early days of my pastoral experience I saw
how men reason themselves into scepticism. I
knew what it was to have a hundred nights poured into
one hour.
I remember one infidel book in the possession of my
student companion. He said, “DeWitt, would
you like to read that book?” “Well,”
said I, “I would like to look at it.”
I read it a little while. I said to him, “I
dare not read that book; you had better destroy it.
I give you my advice, you had better destroy it.
I dare not read that book. I have read enough
of it.” “Oh,” he said, “haven’t
you a stronger mind than that? Can’t you
read a book you don’t exactly believe, and not
be affected by it?” I said, “You had better
destroy it.” He kept it. He read it
until he gave up the Bible; his belief in the existence
of a God, his good morals; until body, mind and soul
were ruined—and he went into the insane
asylum. I read too much of it. I read about
fifteen or twenty pages of it. I wish I had never
read it. It never did me any good; it did me
harm. I have often struggled with what I read
in that book. I rejected it, I denounced it,
I cast it out with infinite scorn, I hated it; yet
sometimes its caricature of good and its eulogium of
evil have troubled me.
With supreme gratitude, therefore, I remember the
wonderful impression made upon me, when I was a young
man, of the presence of a consecrated human being
in the pulpit.
It was a Sabbath evening in spring at “The Trinity
Methodist Church,” Jersey City. Rev. William
P. Corbit, the pastor of that church, in compliment
to my relatives, who attended upon his services, invited
me to preach for him. I had only a few months
before entered the Gospel ministry, and had come in
from my village settlement to occupy a place in the
pulpit of the great Methodist orator. In much
trepidation on my part I entered the church with Mr.
Corbit, and sat trembling in the corner of the “sacred
desk,” waiting for the moment to begin the service.
A crowded audience had assembled to hear the pastor
of that church preach, and the disappointment I was
about to create added to my embarrassment.
