and cried, and fled." A brave text, but a very timid man to handle it.
I did not feel at all that hour either like blowing Gideon's trumpet, or
holding up the Gospel lamp; but if I had, like any of the Gideonites,
held a pitcher, I think I would have dropped it and broken that lamp. I
felt as the moment approached for delivering my sermon more like the
Midianites, who, according to my text, "ran, and cried, and fled." I had
placed the manuscript of my sermon on the pulpit sofa beside where I
sat. Looking around to put my hand on the manuscript, lo! it was gone.
But where had it gone? My excitement knew no bound. Within three minutes
of the greatest ordeal of my life, and the sermon on which so much
depended mysteriously vanished! How much disquietude and catastrophe
were crowded into those three minutes it would be impossible to depict.
Then I noticed for the first time that between the upper and lower parts
of the sofa there was an opening about the width of three
finger-breadths, and I immediately suspected that through that opening
the manuscript of my sermon had disappeared. But how could I recover it,
and in so short a time? I bent over and reached under as far as I could.
But the sofa was low, and I could not touch the lost discourse. The
congregation were singing the last verse of the hymn, and I was reduced
to a desperate effort. I got down on my hands and knees, and then down
flat, and crawled under the sofa and clutched the prize. Fortunately,
the pulpit front was wide, and hid the sprawling attitude I was
compelled to take. When I arose to preach a moment after, the fugitive
manuscript before me on the Bible, it is easy to understand why I felt
more like the Midianites than I did like Gideon.

This and other mishaps with manuscripts helped me after a while to
strike for entire emancipation from such bondage, and for about a
quarter of a century I have preached without notes--only a sketch of the
sermon pinned in my Bible, and that sketch seldom referred to.