, and I
consented. I was soon [76] invited to take charge of the church, but
declined it. It was even proposed to me to be established simply
as preacher, and to be relieved from parochial visiting; but as the
congregation was small, and could not support a pastor beside me, I
declined that also. But I went on preaching, and after about a year,
feeling myself stronger, I consented to be settled in the church with
full charge, and was installed on the 8th November, 1835, Dr. Walker
preaching the sermon.

The church was on the corner of Mercer and Prince Streets; a bad
situation, inasmuch as it was on a corner, that is, it was noisy, and
the annoyance became so great that I seriously thought more than once
of proposing to the congregation to sell and build elsewhere. On other
accounts the church was always very pleasant to me. It was of moderate
size, holding seven or eight hundred people, and became in the course
of a year or two quite full. The stairs to the galleries went up on the
inside, giving it, I know not what, a kind of comfortable and domestic
air, very social and agreeable; and last, not least, it was easy
to speak in. This last consideration, I am convinced, is of more
importance, and is so in more ways, than is commonly supposed. A place
hard to speak in is apt to create, especially in the young preacher just
forming his habits, a hard and unnatural manner of speaking. More than
one young preacher have I known, who began with good natural tones, in
the course of a [77] year or two, to fall into a loud, pulpit monotone,
or to bring out all his cadences with a jerk, or with a disagreeable
stress of voice, to be heard. One must be heard, that is the first
requisite, and to have one and another come out of church Sunday after
Sunday, and touch your elbow, and say, "Sir, I could n't hear you; I
was interested in what I could hear, but just at the point of greatest
interest, half of the time, I lost your cadence," is more than any man
can bear for a long time, and so he resorts to loud tones and monotonous
cadences, and he is obliged to think, much of the time, more of the mere
dry fact of being heard, than of the themes that should pour themselves
out in full unfolding ease and freedom. I have fought through my whole
professional life against this criticism, striving to keep some freedom
and nature in my speech, though I have made every effort consistent with
that to be heard. I have not always succeeded; but I h