TESTIMONIES AND FACTS ILLUSTRATIVE OF WHITEFIELD'S CHARACTER.
"Last evening," says a letter from Boston, October 1, 1770, to the
"Pennsylvania Journal," "we were informed by a melancholy messenger
from Newburyport, that yesterday morning about six o'clock, at
that place, the renowned and Rev. George Whitefield, chaplain to
the Right Hon. the Countess of Huntingdon, etc., was, by a sudden
mandate, summoned to the bosom of his Saviour. He had been preaching
in divers parts of this province since his arrival from the
southward, with his usual diligence and energy; was now from a tour
to the province of New Hampshire on his return to this town, but
being seized with a violent fit of the asthma, was in a short space
translated from the labors of this life to the enjoyment of a better.
"Of this truly pious and very extraordinary personage, little can
be said but what every friend to vital Christianity who has sat
under his ministry will readily attest. In his public performances
throughout Europe and British America, he has, for a long course of
years, astonished the world as a prodigy of eloquence and devotion.
With what frequency and cheerfulness did he ascend the desk, the
language of his actions being ever, 'Wist ye not that I must be
about my Master's business?' With what divine pathos did he plead
with, and persuade by the most engaging incitements, the impenitent
sinner to the practice of piety and virtue. Filled with the spirit
of grace, he spoke from the heart; and with a fervency of zeal
perhaps unequalled since the apostles, ornamented the celestial
annunciations of the preacher with the graceful and most enticing
charms of rhetoric and oratory. From the pulpit he was unrivalled
in the command of an ever-crowded and admiring auditory; nor was
he less entertaining and instructive in his private conversation
and deportment. Happy in a remarkable ease of address, willing to
communicate, studious to edify, and formed to amuse--such, in more
retired life, was he whom we lament. And while a peculiar pleasantry
enlivened and rendered his company agreeable, his conversation was
ever marked with the greatest objects of his pursuit--virtue and
religion. It were to be wished that the good impressions of his
ministry may be long retained; and that the rising generation, like
their pious ancestors, may catch a spark of that ethereal flame
which burnt with such lustre in the sentiments and practice of this
faithful servant of the most high God."
Another contemporaneous article says, "Dr. Cooper of Brattle-street,
called an enthusiast by none, won early to serious religion by his
[Whitefield's] instrumentality, delivered a sermon upon his death,
in which he pronounced a strong eulogy in favor of his holy and
successful activity in the cause of vital and practical religion
through the English dominions. Pews, aisles, and seats were so
crowded, and heads and shoulders were in such close phalanx, that it
looked as though a man might walk everywhere upon the upper surface
of the assembly, without finding an opening for descending to the
floor."
When the news of Mr. Whitefield's death reached Georgia, its
inhabitants vied with each other in showing him the highest respect.
All the black cloth in the stores was bought up; the pulpit and
desk of the church, the branches, the organ-loft, and the pews of
the governor and council were covered with black. The governor and
council in deep mourning convened at the state-house, and went in
procession to church, where they were received by the organ playing
a funeral dirge. Two funeral sermons were there listened to by the
authorities. In the Legislature high eulogiums were pronounced
on the admirable preacher, and a sum of money was unanimously
appropriated for removing his remains to Georgia, to be interred
at his orphan-house; but the inhabitants of Newburyport strongly
objected, and the design was relinquished. Forty-five years later
when a new county was formed in Georgia, it received the name of
Whitefield in commemoration of his worth and useful services.
In a letter from Dr. Franklin to a gentleman in Georgia, he says,
"I cannot forbear expressing the pleasure it gives me to see
an account of the respect paid to his memory by your assembly.
I knew him intimately upwards of thirty years; his integrity,
disinterestedness, and indefatigable zeal in prosecuting every good
work, I have never seen equalled, I shall never see excelled."
Of course it would be expected that the sermons at Savannah would
be of great interest. Such a discourse was delivered by the Rev.
Mr. Ellington, who very truly said, "Whitefield's longing desires
for the salvation of immortal souls would not admit of his being
confined within the limits of any walls. How he has preached, with
showers of stones, and many other instruments of malice and revenge
about his ears, many of his surviving friends can witness. But
having the salvation of sinners at heart, and a great desire to
rescue them from the power of an eternal death, he resolved to spend
and be spent for the service of precious and immortal souls; and
spared no pains and refused no labor, so that he might administer
to their real and eternal good. He died like a hero on the field
of battle. Thousands in England, Scotland, and America have great
reason to bless God for his ministrations."
Who shall attempt to describe the feelings of the congregations
at the Tabernacle and Tottenham Court chapels, when the news of
their pastor's death first reached them? All were indeed clothed in
mourning. By Whitefield's own previous appointment, the Rev. John
Wesley preached the funeral sermon at Tottenham Court-road chapel.
The preacher bore this testimony: "In his public labors he has for
many years astonished the world with his eloquence and devotion.
With what divine pathos did he persuade the impenitent sinner to
embrace the practice of early piety and virtue. Filled with the
spirit of grace, he spoke from the heart with a fervency of zeal
perhaps unequalled since the days of the apostles; and adorned
the truths he delivered with the most graceful charms of rhetoric
and oratory. From the pulpit he was unrivalled in the command of
an ever-crowded auditory. It was the love of God shed abroad in
his heart by the Holy Ghost which filled his soul with tender,
disinterested love to every child of man.... Mention has been
already made of his unparalleled zeal, his indefatigable activity,
his tender-heartedness to the afflicted, and charitableness towards
the poor. But should we not likewise mention his deep gratitude to
all whom God had used as instruments of good to him? of whom he did
not cease to speak in the most respectful manner, even to his dying
day. Should we not mention that he had a heart susceptible of the
most generous and the most tender friendship? I have frequently
thought that this, of all others, was the distinguishing part of
his character. How few have we known of so kind a temper, of such
large and flowing affections! Was it not principally by this that
the hearts of others were so strongly drawn and knit to him? Can
any thing but love beget love? This shone in his very countenance,
and continually breathed in all his words, whether in public or
private. Was it not this which, quick and penetrating as lightning,
flew from heart to heart; which gave that life to his sermons, his
conversation, his letters? Ye are witnesses."
The Rev. John Newton preached a funeral sermon at Olney, where
he was then settled, from the highly appropriate text, "He was a
burning and a shining light," John 5:35, in which he thus speaks
of Whitefield: "Some ministers are burning and shining lights
in a peculiar and eminent degree. Such a one, I doubt not, was
the servant of God whose death we now lament. I have had some
opportunities of looking over the history of the church in past
ages; I am not backward to say, that I have not read or heard
of any person, since the apostles' days, of whom it may be more
emphatically said, 'He was a burning and a shining light,' than the
late Mr. Whitefield; whether we consider the warmth of his zeal, the
greatness of his ministerial talents, or the extensive usefulness
with which the Lord honored him. I do not mean to praise the man,
but the Lord who furnished him, and made him what he was. He was
raised up to shine in a dark place. The state of religion when he
first appeared in public, was very low in our established church.
I speak the truth, though to some it may be an offensive truth.
The doctrines of grace were seldom heard from the pulpit, and the
life and power of godliness were little known. Many of the most
spiritual among the dissenters, were mourning under a sense of a
great spreading declension on their side. What a change has taken
place throughout the land within a little more than thirty years;
that is, since the time when the first set of despised ministers
came to Oxford! And how much of this change has been owing to God's
blessing on Mr. Whitefield's labors, is well known to many who have
lived through this period, and can hardly be denied by those who are
least willing to allow it.... His zeal was not like wildfire, but
directed by sound principles, and a sound judgment.... The Lord gave
him a manner of preaching which was peculiarly his own. He copied
from none, and I never met with any one who could imitate him with
success."
With regret we tear ourselves away from Romaine and Toplady, from
Pemberton and Parsons, and from a multitude of others who bore
testimonies like those we have given, but which would exceed the
limits of our narrative.
Mr. Newton, after his removal to London, once breakfasting with
a company of noblemen and gentlemen, was asked if he knew Mr.
Whitefield. He answered in the affirmative, and remarked, that as a
preacher Mr. Whitefield far exceeded every other man of his time.
Mr. Newton added, "I bless God that I lived in his time: many were
the winter mornings I rose at four o'clock to attend his Tabernacle
discourses at five; and I have seen Moorfields as full of lanterns
at these times, as I suppose the Hay market is full of flambeaux
on an opera night." As a proof of the power of Mr. Whitefield's
preaching, Mr. Newton said, that a military officer at Glasgow, who
had heard him preach, laid a wager with another, that at a certain
charity sermon, though he went with prejudice, he would be compelled
to give something. The other, to make sure that he would not, laid
aside all the money out of his pockets; but before he left the
church, he was glad to borrow some, and lose his bet. Mr. Newton
mentioned as another striking illustration of Mr. Whitefield's
persuasive oratory, his collecting after one sermon £600, or about
$3,000, for the inhabitants of an obscure village in Germany, that
had been burned down. After this sermon, Whitefield said, "We shall
sing a hymn, during which those who do not choose to give their
mite on this awful occasion, may sneak off." Not one moved; he came
down from the pulpit, ordered all the doors to be shut but one, at
which he held the plate himself, and collected the large sum we have
named. Mr. Newton farther stated what he knew to be a fact, that at
the time of Whitefield's greatest persecution, when obliged to speak
in the streets, in one week he received not fewer than a thousand
letters from persons distressed in their consciences by the energy
of his preaching.
A gentleman of title in England was one day examining some works
of the distinguished sculptor, John Bacon. Among them he observed
a bust of Mr. Whitefield, which led him to remark, "After all that
has been said, this was truly a great man; he was the founder of a
new religion." Mr. Bacon replied, "A new religion, sir?" "Yes," said
the baronet; "what do you call it?" "Nothing," was the reply, "but
the old religion revived with new energy, and treated as though the
preacher meant what he said."
Several interesting narratives have been given of visits to the tomb
of Whitefield, which show the preciousness of his memory.
In 1834, the Rev. Andrew Reed, D. D., of London, and the late
Rev. James Matheson, D. D., of Durham, visited this country as a
deputation to its churches from the Congregational Union of England
and Wales. In describing their visit to Newburyport, Dr. Reed says,
"We had a conference with the pastors here, and afterwards went
to the church which is enriched with the remains of Whitefield.
The elders of the church were present in the porch to receive us.
We descended to the vault. There were three coffins before us.
Two pastors of the church lay on either side, and the remains of
Whitefield in the centre. The cover was slipt aside, and they lay
beneath my eye. I had before stood in his pulpits; seen his books,
his rings, and chairs; but never before had I looked on part of his
very self. The skull, which is perfect, clean, and fair, I received,
as is the custom, into my hand. I could say nothing; but thought
and feeling were busy. On returning to the church, I proposed an
exercise of worship. We collected over the grave of the eloquent,
the devoted, and seraphic man, and gave expression to the sentiments
that possessed us, by solemn psalmody and fervent prayer. It was not
an ordinary service to any of us."
In the year 1835, a similar deputation visited this country from
the Baptist Union of Great Britain and Ireland. It consisted of
the late Rev. F. A. Cox, D. D., of London, and the Rev. James
Hoby, D. D., then of Birmingham. They also visited the tomb of our
never-to-be-forgotten evangelist. We give a few sentences from their
report: "We made an excursion to Newburyport, thirty-nine miles from
Boston, to see the tomb of Whitefield. On our arrival, we hastened
to the depository of the precious remains of that eminent servant
of God.... We descended with some difficulty into the subterraneous
vault, which is immediately behind the pulpit, in a small chamber
like a vestry, external to the body of the church. Deep expectant
emotions thrilled through our bosoms, while a kind of trap-door was
opened, and we descended beneath the floor to another door, which
stood perpendicularly, by which we entered, or rather crept, into
the awful and silent sepulchre. There were three coffins placed
in parallel lines; two of them containing the mortal part of Mr.
Parsons and Mr. Prince, pastors of the church. We instinctively
took our seats, the one on the one coffin, the other on the other,
with the coffin of Whitefield between, over which, when the upper
part of the lid was removed, to reveal the skeleton secrets of the
narrow prison-house, we bent in solemn stillness and awe. We gazed
on the fragments--we contemplated and handled the skull of that
great preacher of righteousness--we thought of his devoted life,
his blessed death, his high and happy destiny; and whispered our
adorations of the grace that formed him both for earth and heaven."
The following lines were written by the departed and amiable William
B. Tappan, on visiting this spot in September, 1837.
"And this was Whitefield!--this, the dust now blending
With kindred dust, that wrapt his soul of fire--
Which, from the mantle freed, is still ascending
Through regions of far glory, holier, higher.
Oh, as I gaze here with a solemn joy
And awful reverence, in which shares Decay,
Who, this fair frame reluctant to destroy,
Yields it not yet to doom which all obey--
How follows thought his flight, at Love's command,
From hemisphere in sin, to hemisphere,
Warning uncounted multitudes with tears--
Preaching the risen Christ on sea and land--
And now those angel journeyings above!
Souls, his companions, saved by such unwearied love!"
In December, 1845, one of the London daily papers, "The Sun,"
contained a somewhat extended account of Whitefield in New England,
and especially his death, funeral, and tomb, from which we
borrow mementos that in both hemispheres may be interesting "for
generations to come."
"I was spending Sunday at Old Ipswich, in the latter part of last
September, when by accident I fell in with an old inhabitant of
the town who had heard Whitefield preach there. He was a sort of
patriarch of the place, and as he sat on one of the stones which
surrounded the ancient orthodox meeting-house, his grey locks
streaming from beneath his queerly shaped hat, and attired in his
primly cut old-fashioned coat, he appeared no bad representative of
the departed Puritans who, in former days, had soberly and decently
obeyed the call of the Sabbath bell, and worshipped in the same
temple whose steeple now casts its shadow athwart the green sward
beneath.... As the bell of Old Ipswich church swung out that bright
Sabbath morning, it was a pretty sight to see the village people
coming from different points to the decaying old church, which
was situated, as most country churches in New England are, on a
hill-top. While I was enjoying the scene, the old man to whom I have
alluded, and who was sitting on a stone, accosted me, and asked me
if I was not a stranger 'in these parts.' On my informing him that I
was, he pointed out to me the 'lions' of the neighborhood, and wound
up by asking, 'I suppose, sir, you've heard of Whitefield?'
"'Of Whitefield? to be sure I have.'
"'Well, I've seen Whitefield, George Whitefield stood on this very
stone,' (dropping his stick feebly from his shaking hands,) 'and I
heard him preach here.'
"'And do you remember any thing about him?' I asked.
"'Well, I guess I do. I was but a bit of a boy then; but here he
stood on this stone, looking like a flying angel, and we call this
Whitefield's pulpit to this day.... There was folks here from all
parts to hear him; so he was obliged to preach outside, for the
church wasn't half big enough for 'em, and no two ways about it.
I've heard many parsons sin' that time, but none on 'em could come
nigh him, any how they could fix it.'
"'Do you remember any thing of his sermons?' I inquired.
"'Oh, I was too young to notice aught, sir, but the preacher hisself
and the crowds of people, but I know he had a very sweet voice;
and as I said, when he spread his arms out, with a little Bible in
his hand, he looked like a flying angel. There never were so many
people, afore nor since, in Old Ipswich. I suppose, sir, you'll be
going to see his bones? He was buried at Newburyport, and you can
see 'em if you like.'
"I made up my mind that I would see them, if possible. On the
following day, I went over to Newburyport by railroad, and proceeded
first to the house in which Whitefield died. It was at the time the
residence of the Rev. Jonathan Parsons, the first regular pastor of
the Presbyterian Society in the town. It is a plain unpretending
structure, possessing no other claims to attention than its being
the spot where the last scene of Whitefield's career was enacted.
I knocked, and asked of a lady who answered my summons, if I might
be allowed to see the room in which Mr. Whitefield died. She very
courteously showed me up a flight of stairs into a chamber, which,
she said, Mr. Whitefield used to sleep in. 'Here is the place he
died in,' said the lady, as she showed me a little entry just
outside the door of the chamber, directly over the entrance to the
house. 'He lay the night before he died,' said the lady, 'in that
bed-chamber; and when he was struck with death, he ran out to this
entry window for breath, and died while sitting in a chair opposite
to it.'
"The Federal-street church, where Whitefield was buried, was but a
short distance from the house in which he died, and on my way to
it I called on the sexton.... He preceded me through the aisle of
the church, and opening a little narrow door by the side of the
pulpit, we passed into a dim gloomy room behind it, and from thence
descending four or five steps, found ourselves in a brick vault
which lay directly under the pulpit. It was two or three minutes
before my eyes got accustomed to the gloom; but soon objects became
discernible, and I saw three old coffins, two of them serving as
supporters to the third, which lay across them.... The sexton
trimmed his lamp, then lifted the lid of an old coffin, and holding
the flame close to it, said, 'Here, look in, ... THAT'S THE MAN.'
"Yes, there lay the man, or at least, all that remains of the once
mighty preacher. A strange awe came over me at his words, '_That's
the man._' I took the skull in my hands, and examined it carefully.
The forehead was rather narrow than broad, and by no means high. I
soon put it back again to the coffin."
* * * * *
Among the more prominent traits in the character of Whitefield,
we may designate his _indifference to his own honor and ease_, of
which his narrative contains almost innumerable illustrations. In
the preparation of the deed of trust for his intended college, he
entirely omitted his own name, that the proposed trustees might
accept the office without suffering contempt for being connected
with him. It was not pretence which led him often to say, "Let the
name of George Whitefield perish, if God be glorified." On the
same principle of almost self-annihilation he acted in reference
to the accumulation of money. He secured nothing for himself. It
does not seem that what he left to his friends by his will was or
could be paid; what had been left him as legacies had been nearly
all expended, and would have been entirely, had he lived to return
to his beloved Bethesda. By his will he placed the institution in
the hands of Lady Huntingdon, who sent out ministers and other
persons to conduct it. But soon after this, the buildings were burnt
down. After the fire, came the Revolutionary war, which tended to
unsettle the tenure of property, and at the time of its close, the
whole plans, alike of the orphan-house and the college, were nearly
unknown. The authorities of Savannah, in accordance with the high
regard which they still entertained for Whitefield's memory, secured
whatever they could of the wreck, the proceeds of which they
invested in a school for the young, which yet flourishes.
Perhaps no man was ever more thoroughly _fond of labor_. From a
memorandum in which Mr. Whitefield recorded the times and places
of his ministerial labors, it appears that from the period of his
ordination to that of his death, which was thirty-four years,
he preached upwards of _eighteen thousand sermons_. It would be
difficult to imagine how many thousand miles he travelled. When he
ascertained that his physical powers began to fail, putting himself
on what he called "short allowance," he preached _only once on every
week-day, and three times on the Sabbath_. In view of his various
journeyings in the slow and inconvenient modes of travelling then
in use, his thirteen voyages across the Atlantic, and all that he
accomplished, it appears that few men ever performed so much labor
within the same period.
Nearly every one who has attempted a description of Whitefield has
said much of his _extraordinary voice_. It is known that Garrick was
heard to say that he would give a hundred guineas if he could say
"Oh!" as Whitefield did. The late Rev. Dr. Haweis, speaking of his
"wonderful voice," and of its sweetness and variety of tone, said he
believed on a serene evening it might be distinctly heard for nearly
a mile. Others have given similar evidence.
The late Sir George Beaumont, no mean authority on such a subject,
thus familiarly speaks: "Oh yes; I heard that young gentleman this
morning allude to 'roaring Whitefield,' and was amused at his
mistake. It is a common one. Whitefield did not roar. I have been
his auditor more than once, and was delighted with him. Whitefield's
voice could be heard at an immense distance; but that was owing to
its fulness, roundness, and clearness. It was a perfectly sound
voice. It is an odd description, but I can hit upon no better; there
was neither crack nor flaw. To describe him as a bellowing, roaring
field preacher, is to describe a mountebank, not Whitefield. He had
powers of pathos of the highest order. The tender, soft, persuasive
tones of his voice were melodious in the extreme. And when he
desired to win, or persuade, or plead, or soothe, the gush of
feeling which his voice conveyed at once surprised and overpowered
you."
Speaking on the authority of his tutor, the Rev. Cornelius Winter,
the late excellent Mr. Jay says that Whitefield's voice was
incomparable: not only distinct and loud, but abounding with every
kind of inflection, and perfectly under his power; so that he could
render every thing he expressed, however common or insignificant in
itself, striking and affecting.
This distinguished man had a peculiar talent for making the
_narration of facts tell in the pulpit_. Nothing occurred among
even his own family connections, but he would make it contribute to
the edification of his auditors. One Lord's day morning, with his
usual fervor he exhorted his hearers to give up the use of means for
the spiritual good of their relatives and friends only with their
lives. He told them he had a brother, for whose spiritual welfare
he had very long used every possible means. He had warned him, and
prayed for him, but all apparently to no purpose, till a few weeks
previous; when that brother, to his astonishment and joy, came to
his house, and with many tears declared that he had come up from
the country to testify to him the great change which divine grace
had wrought in his heart, and to acknowledge with gratitude his
obligation to the man by whom God had wrought. Mr. Whitefield added,
that he had that morning received information, that on his brother's
return to Gloucestershire, where he resided, he dropped down dead as
he was getting out of a stagecoach. "Let us pray always," said he,
"for ourselves, and for those who are dear to us, and never faint."
This habit of making every occurrence bear on his ministry, Mr.
Winter, who knew him more intimately, and has told us more of his
private life and conduct than any other man, tells us was "perfectly
in character with Mr. Whitefield. He turned every thing into gold;
he improved every thing for good. Passing occurrences determined
the matter of his sermons, and, in some degree, the manner of his
address. Thus, if he had read on astronomy in the course of the
week, you would be sure to discover it. He knew how to convert
the centripetal motion of the planets to the disposition of the
Christian towards Christ; and the fatal attraction of the world
was very properly represented by a reference to the centrifugal.
If he attended any extraordinary trial, he would avail himself of
the formality of the judge in pronouncing sentence. It would only
be by hearing him, and by beholding his attitude and tears, that a
person could well conceive the effect; for it was impossible but
that solemnity must surround him who, under God, became the means
of making all solemn."
He sometimes made use of an incident of history in the reign of
Henry VIII. The apprentices of London appeared before that monarch,
pleading his pardon for their insurrections, manifesting intense
feeling on the matter, and praying for "mercy, mercy." "Take them
away, take them away," was the monarch's request, moved by the sight
and the cries of these youths, "I cannot bear it." The application,
as will be readily supposed, was, that if an earthly monarch of
Henry's character could be so moved, how prevalent must be the plea
of the sinner in the ears of infinite Love.
The case of two Scotchmen in the convulsion of the state at the
time of Charles II. served him on more than one occasion. These
men, having to pass some of the troops, were thinking of their
danger, and meditating the best way of escape, when one of them
proposed wearing a skullcap; but the other, thinking that would
imply distrust of the providence of God, determined to proceed
bareheaded. The last was the first laid hold of, and being asked,
"Are you for the covenant?" replied, "Yes;" and being further asked,
"What covenant?" answered, "The covenant of grace;" by which reply,
eluding farther inquiry, he was allowed to pass; but the other, not
answering satisfactorily, received a blow from the sabre, which
penetrating through the cap, struck him dead. In the application,
Mr. Whitefield, warning against vain confidence, exclaimed, "Beware
of your skullcaps."
An American clergyman has told us that he once related to Whitefield
an affecting occurrence, but did it with the ordinary brevity and
feeling of common conversation. Afterwards he heard Mr. Whitefield
preach, and tell this same story with such nature, pathos, and
power, that the clergyman found himself weeping like a child. It has
been well said, that he spoke with the tones of the soul; and that
his gestures were impelled by the same spontaneous magical influence
which made them, as well as his words, seem part of his soul.
Indeed, he threw his soul into every thing he did and said.
It is said that Whitefield would sometimes rise in the sacred desk,
and for a minute or two looking in silence around his vast audience,
as if salvation or perdition teemed in every cast of his eye, would
burst into tears, while the swift contagion, before he uttered a
word, had reached every heart that could feel, and dimmed every eye
that could weep.[2]
[2] The New York Evangelist, in 1830, made the remark, that
"Whitefield would have lost much of his oratorical influence on his
hearers, had his speaking eyes been covered with a pair of modern
spectacles."
While his path to the sinner's heart was thus met with tears, he was
never without strength or aim. He struck everywhere. He swung his
glittering weapon, "the sword of the Spirit," in every direction,
the same whether he preached in the cushioned and carpeted pulpit to
lords, ladies, and gentlemen, or encountered a mob of stage-players
and merry-andrews in the open field. He insisted on instant,
visible, decisive action in his hearers. All was commotion where he
moved. The very earth would seem to be shaken with the thunder of
his eloquence; the heavens seemed, in the bold metaphor of Isaiah,
to "drop down from above, and the skies to pour down righteousness,"
when he set the trumpet of the gospel to his lips, and made the
notes of salvation or perdition ring in the ears of dying men. Such
unwonted sounds startled the multitude into life, rousing energies
that were forthwith enlisted either for or against the mighty cause
which he advocated, with the boldness and fervor of one who had
received immediate commission from heaven. His sacred ambition was
content with nothing short of the conquest of thousands.
It has been well said by a living American writer, that "Whitefield
was, in sacred eloquence, what Handel was in sacred music. There
was an air, a soul, and a _movement_ in his oratory, which created
indescribable emotion in his vast assemblies, and if Handel, with a
thousand auxiliary voices and instruments, astonished the multitude
in Westminster Abbey, even to raising them on their feet, by the
performance of his Messiah, Whitefield did greater wonders in his
single person by _preaching_ the Messiah to the immense crowds in
Tottenham Court-road and Moorfields."
The same writer has said elsewhere, "The influence of Whitefield and
Edwards on theology and pulpit eloquence were immense. There was in
those two men indeed 'a diversity of gifts, but the same spirit,'
The intellect prevailed in Edwards, the impassioned in Whitefield.
Pure truth came forth from the mind of the one as nakedly
demonstrated as it ever was on the pages of Newton and Locke; for
Edwards, when but a child, read Locke with enthusiasm. From the
soul of Whitefield it came forth arrayed in the gorgeous robes of
his own many-colored imagination, baptized in the tenderness of his
own sympathetic spirit. At times, indeed, the thunders of Sinai
seemed to shake the sacred desk, but the softer music of the harp
of Zion was more congenial with his compassionate spirit, though he
was always bold for God, and braved danger in every form for the
salvation of sinners. It is not strange that American preachers
venerate, even to enthusiasm, the memory of such a man, and visit
his dust, enshrined as it is in the bosom of New England, with
feelings of indescribable interest. His labors were for us; his rest
is with us; his example is before us. The first were indefatigable;
the second is peaceful; the last is glorious."
The Rev. Mr. Winter says, "I hardly ever knew him to go through
a sermon without weeping more or less;" and again, "It was only
by beholding his attitude and tears, that one could well conceive
of the effect." No doubt there was a connection between the tears
of Whitefield and his piety; but it must not be supposed that he
was always "the weeping prophet;" he could smile as well as weep.
A venerable lady in New York, known to some yet living, speaking
of the influence which first won her heart to God, said that "Mr.
Whitefield was so cheerful that it _tempted her to be a Christian_."
Every thing about this distinguished man excited attention. His
voice, accompanied by his look from crossed eyes, and proceeding
from a man of his robust frame, produced wonderful effects. It
is said that when once preaching in a graveyard, two young men
conducted themselves improperly, when he fixed his eyes upon them,
and with a voice resembling thunder, said, "Come down, ye rebels."
They instantly fell, neither of them being inclined again to come
into contact with such a look, or to hear such a voice.
He was once preaching to a vast crowd of people in southern
Pennsylvania, which was at that time ignorant and uncivilized. He
was incessantly disturbed by their noise, and twice reproved them
with great severity. At length he was so overcome by their noisy and
irreverent conduct, that he stopped short, dropped his head into his
hands, burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, Lord God, I
am ashamed that these people are provoking thy wrath, and I dare not
reprove them a third time." Such was the effect of his conduct and
feeling, that his audience became perfectly quiet, and remained so
till the end of his discourse.
We have before us two narratives of his preaching during very heavy
storms. Dr. Campbell, a successor of Whitefield in the _Tabernacle_
in London, and whose ministry has been marked by much of the power
and success of his great predecessor, has given to the first of
these narratives the title of "_Thunder and Eloquence_." Before
he commenced his sermon on this occasion, long darkening columns
crowded the bright sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull
shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm.
His text was, "Strive to enter in at the strait gate; for many,
I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able."
"See," said he, pointing to a shadow that was flitting across the
floor--"see that emblem of human life. It passed for a moment, and
concealed the brightness of heaven from our view; but it is gone.
And where will ye be, my hearers, when your lives have passed away
like that dark cloud? Oh, my dear friends, I see thousands sitting
attentively, with their eyes fixed on the poor unworthy preacher.
In a few days, we shall all meet at the judgment-seat of Christ.
We shall form a part of that vast assembly that will gather before
the throne; and every eye will behold the Judge. With a voice whose
call you must abide and answer, he will inquire whether on earth you
strove to enter in at the strait gate; whether you were supremely
devoted to God; whether your hearts were absorbed in him. My blood
runs cold when I think how many of you will then seek to enter in,
and shall not be able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge
of the whole earth? Can you say it has been your whole endeavor to
mortify the flesh, with its affections and lusts--that your life has
been one long effort to do the will of God? No; you must answer, 'I
made myself easy in the world by flattering myself that all would
end well; but I have deceived my own soul, and am lost.'
"You, O false, and hollow Christian, of what avail will it be that
you have done many things--that you have read much in the sacred
word--that you have made long prayers--that you have attended
religious duties, and that you have appeared holy in the eyes of
men? What will all this be, if, instead of loving Him supremely,
you have been supposing you should exalt yourself in heaven by acts
really polluted and unholy?
"And you, rich men, wherefore do you hoard your silver? Wherefore
count the price you have received for Him whom you every day crucify
in your love of gain? Why--that when you are too poor to buy a
drop of cold water, your beloved son may be rolled to hell in his
chariot, pillowed and cushioned around him."
The eye of the preacher gradually lighted up as he proceeded, till
towards the close it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire. With
his whole energy he exclaimed, "O sinners, by all your hopes of
happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be
awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kindled against you. See
there!" pointing to the lightning, which played on the corner of the
pulpit, "it is a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah!" Raising his
finger in a listening attitude, as the distant thunder grew louder
and louder, and broke in one tremendous crash over the building, he
continued, "Hark! It was the voice of the Almighty as he passed by
in his anger!" As the sound died away, he covered his face with his
hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in inward and
intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly away, and the sun, beaming
forth in his might, threw across the heavens a magnificent arch of
peace. Rising, and pointing to the beautiful object, he exclaimed,
"Look upon the rainbow, and praise Him who made it. Very beautiful
it is in the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about
with glory; and the hands of the Most High have bended it!"
On another occasion, as Mr. Whitefield was preaching in Boston, on
the wonders of creation, providence, and redemption, a violent
storm of thunder and lightning came on. In the midst of the sermon
it attained to so alarming a height that the congregation sat in
almost breathless awe. The preacher closed his note-book, and
stepping into one of the wings of the desk, fell on his knees, and
with much feeling and fine taste repeated:
"Hark, THE ETERNAL rends the sky!
A mighty voice before him goes--
A voice of music to his friends,
But threatening thunder to his foes:
'Come, children, to your Father's arms;
Hide in the chambers of my grace,
Till the fierce storm be overblown,
And my revenging fury cease--'
"Let us devoutly sing to the praise and glory of God this hymn, Old
Hundred."
The whole congregation instantly rose, and poured forth the sacred
song, in which they were accompanied by the organ, in a style of
simple grandeur and heartfelt devotion that was probably never
surpassed. By the time the hymn was finished the storm was hushed.
The remainder of the services were well adapted to sustain the
elevated feeling which had been produced; and the benediction with
which the good man dismissed the flock was universally received with
streaming eyes, and hearts overflowing with tenderness and gratitude.
Another writer has thus described his appearance in the pulpit.
There was nothing in the appearance of this extraordinary man which
would lead you to suppose that a Felix would tremble before him.
He was something above the middle stature, well proportioned, and
remarkable for a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion
was very fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small
and lively. In recovering from the measles he had contracted a
squint with one of them; but this peculiarity rather rendered the
expression of his countenance more remarkable, than in any degree
lessened the effect of its uncommon sweetness. His voice excelled
both in melody and compass; and its fine modulations were happily
accompanied by that grace of action which he possessed in an eminent
degree, and which has been said to be the chief requisite in an
orator. To see him when he first commenced, one would have thought
him any thing but enthusiastic and glowing; but as he proceeded,
his heart warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetuous
and animated; till, forgetful of every thing around him, he seemed
to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to beseech in agony for his
fellow-beings.
After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long time in
profound silence, and so powerful was the effect on the most
heartless of his audience, that a stillness like that of the tomb
pervaded the whole house.
Mr. Tracy, in his narrative of "the Great Awakening" about 1740,
has admirably remarked, "It is often said that Whitefield cannot
have been a very great man, because his printed sermons contain only
plain, common thoughts, such as men of ordinary minds habitually
use. But what made those thoughts so common? They were not common
when he began to utter them. In England especially, and to a
considerable extent here also, they astonished his hearers by their
strangeness. What is more common than a voyage across the Atlantic?
But was Columbus, therefore, only an ordinary man? The case of
Copernicus is more nearly parallel. He reasserted a truth which had
been uttered, repudiated, and forgotten. That truth is now common,
even among school-boys. But was he, therefore, only a child in
intellect?"
There are yet extant about eighty of the sermons by which Whitefield
agitated nations, and the more remote influence of which is still
distinctly to be traced, in the popular divinity and national
character of Great Britain and of the United States. Of these
compositions, Sir James Stephen, an evangelical Episcopalian of
London, wrote at some length in the "Edinburgh Review," 1838, and
we shall make no apology for borrowing a portion of his remarks,
combining them with some of our own.
It is true, that these sermons have fallen into very general
neglect; for to win permanent acceptance for a book, into which the
principles of life were not infused by its author, is a miracle
which not even the zeal of religious proselytes can accomplish. Yet,
inferior as were his inventive to his mimetic powers, Whitefield is
entitled, among theological writers, to a place which, if it cannot
challenge admiration, may at least excite and reward curiosity.
Many, and those by far the worst of his discourses, bear the marks
of careful preparation. Take at hazard a sermon of one of the
preachers usually distinguished as evangelical, add a little to
its length, and subtract a great deal from its point and polish,
and you have one of his more elaborate common topics discussed in
a commonplace way; a respectable mediocrity of thought and style;
endless variations on one or two cardinal truths--in short, the task
of a clerical Saturday evening, executed with piety, good sense, and
exceeding sedateness. But open one of that series of Whitefield's
sermons which bears the stamp of having been conceived and uttered
at the same moment, and imagine it recited to myriads of eager
listeners with every charm of voice and gesture, and the secret
of his unrivalled fascination is at least partially disclosed. He
places himself on terms of intimacy and unreserved confidence with
you, and makes it almost as difficult to decline the invitation
to his familiar talk as if Montaigne himself had issued it. The
egotism is amusing, affectionate, and warm-hearted, with just that
slight infusion of self-importance without which it would pass for
affectation. In his art of rhetoric, personification holds the first
place; and the prosopopoeia is so managed as to quicken abstractions
into life, and to give them individuality and distinctness without
the exhibition of any of those spasmodic and distorted images which
obey the incantations of vulgar exorcists. Every trace of study and
contrivance is obliterated by the hearty earnestness which pervades
each successive period, and by the vernacular and homely idioms in
which his meaning is conveyed.
It is in the grandeur and singleness of purpose that the charm of
Whitefield's preaching seems to have consisted. You feel that you
have to do with a man who lived and spoke, and who would gladly
have died, to deter his hearers from the path of destruction, and
to guide them to holiness and peace. His gossipping stories, and
dramatic forms of speech, are never employed to hide the awful
realities on which he is intent. Conscience is not permitted to
find an intoxicating draught in even spiritual excitement, or an
anodyne in glowing imagery. Guilt and its punishment, pardon and
spotless purity, death and an eternal existence, stand out in bold
relief on every page. From these the eye of the teacher is never
withdrawn, and to these the attention of the hearer is riveted. All
that is poetic, grotesque, or rapturous is employed to deepen these
impressions, and is dismissed as soon as that purpose is answered.
Deficient in learning, meagre in thought, and redundant in language
as are these discourses, they yet fulfil the one great condition of
genuine eloquence. They propagate their own kindly warmth, and leave
their stings behind them.
The enumeration of the sources of Whitefield's power is still
essentially defective. Neither energy, nor eloquence, nor histrionic
talents, nor any artifices of style, nor the most genuine sincerity
and self-devotedness, nor all these united, would have enabled him
to mould the religious character of millions in his own and future
generations. The secret lies deeper. It consisted in the theology
he taught--in its perfect simplicity and universal application.
"Would ministers," says he, "preach for eternity, they would then
act the part of true Christian orators; and not only calmly and
coolly inform the understanding, but by pathetic and persuasive
address, endeavor to move the affections and to warm the heart. To
act otherwise, betrays a sad ignorance of human nature, and such
an inexcusable ignorance and indifference in a preacher, as must
constrain the hearers to suspect, whether they will or not, that
the preacher, let him be whom he will, only deals in the false
commerce of unfelt truth." His eighteen thousand sermons were but
so many variations on two key-notes: man is guilty, but may obtain
forgiveness; he is immortal, and must ripen here for endless weal or
woe hereafter. Expanded into innumerable forms, and diversified by
infinite varieties of illustration, these two cardinal principles
were ever in his heart and on his tongue. Let who would invoke
poetry to embellish the Christian system, or philosophy to explore
its esoteric depths, from his lips it was delivered as an awful and
urgent summons to repent, to believe, and to obey. To set to music
the orders issued to seamen in a storm, or to address them in the
language of Aristotle or Descartes, would have seemed to him not a
whit more preposterous than to divert his hearers from their danger
and their refuge, their duties and their hopes, to any topics more
trivial or more abstruse. In fine, he was thoroughly and continually
in earnest, and therefore possessed that tension of the soul which
admitted neither of lassitude nor relaxation, few and familiar
as were the topics to which he was confined. His was, therefore,
precisely that state of mind in which alone eloquence, properly so
called, can be engendered, and a moral and intellectual sovereignty
won.
Nor less important is it to remark, though we need not illustrate
it at length, that much was effected by every one seeing that he
always forgot himself in his subject, and rested only on heaven for
success. He felt himself called to serve Christ, and gave himself
to his task, to save sinners, and he cared for nothing else. No
one ever doubted his sincerity when he prayed, "Help me, Friend of
sinners, to be nothing, to say nothing, that thou mayest say and do
every thing, and be my all in all." If the same feelings were fully
shown by the ministry at present, our messages would tell more on
the hearts of our hearers.
We need hardly remind the reader that Whitefield was remarkable for
_a devotional spirit_. Probably no man ever lived nearer to God. Had
he been less prayerful, he would have been less powerful. It has
been said that during a few of the last years of his life he read
the voluminous exposition of Matthew Henry, comprising six quarto
volumes, in a kneeling posture, pausing and praying that God would
engraft upon his mind the instructions of that extraordinary man.
When he came before his auditors, he looked like one who had been
with God. This it was which won for him the title of _seraphic_--he
was a human _seraph_, and burnt out in the blaze of his own fire.
Usually for an hour or two before he went into the pulpit, he
claimed retirement. In this claim he was imperative, and would not
be interrupted in his seasons of hallowed intercourse with God.
Engaged almost incessantly in preaching, or in preparation for it,
it was impossible, however much he desired it, to pay many private
visits of a religious nature. We are told, however, that on one
occasion, when a young minister, afterwards exceedingly popular and
useful, was once visiting him, he was sent for to visit a poor woman
who had been so dreadfully burnt that she could not survive many
hours. He went immediately, and prayed with her. He had no sooner
returned, than she called out, "Oh, where is Mr. Whitefield?" Urged
by her entreaty, her friends requested him to visit her a second
time. He complied, and again prayed with her. The poor afflicted
woman continued still to desire his presence. When her friends came
for him a third time, "I begged of him," said the young clergyman,
"not to go; for he could scarcely expect to do any good. 'Your
nerves are too weak, your feelings are too acute to endure such
scenes.' I shall never forget his mild reproof: 'Leave me; my Master
can save to the uttermost, to the _very uttermost_.'"
In conversation with his friends, Whitefield was as far removed as
possible from duplicity and mere compliment. He invited from his
friends whatever of instruction and of reproof they considered him
to need. And while he was always ready to receive reproof, he was,
when called to the duty, ready to give it, and often in a way which
his friends did not expect. A censorious professor of religion,
knowing the doctrinal differences between the two men, asked
Whitefield if he thought they would see Mr. John Wesley in heaven.
His answer was truly admirable: "No, sir, I fear not; for he will
be so near the throne, and we shall be at such a distance, we shall
hardly get sight of him."
It is said, that when he was once travelling in company with a
Christian man, they had occasion to stay for a night at a road-side
tavern. After they had retired, they were greatly annoyed by a
company of gamblers, who were in an adjoining room. Whitefield
could not rest, and told his friend that he would go into the room
and reprove them for their conduct. The other remonstrated against
his doing so, but in vain. He went; and unhappily, his words fell
apparently powerless upon them. Returning, he laid down to sleep.
"What," asked his companion, "did you gain by your trouble?"
Whitefield characteristically answered, "A soft pillow."
In his intercourse with general society, Mr. Whitefield never forgot
his dignity as a servant of Jesus Christ. When he was in the zenith
of his popularity, Lord Clare, who knew that his influence was
considerable, applied to him by letter, requesting his influence
at Bristol at the ensuing general election. To this request Mr.
Whitefield replied, that in general elections he never interfered;
but he would earnestly exhort his lordship to use great diligence to
make his own particular "calling and election sure."
Mr. Whitefield was greatly distinguished, even from early life, for
neatness in his person, order in his apartments, and regular method
in the management of all his affairs. He was accustomed to say that
a minister should be "without a spot;" and on one occasion remarked,
that he could not feel comfortable if he knew that his _gloves_
were out of their proper place. The advantages of such habits are
numerous. They save time, give a degree of comfort which can only
be known by experience, and add not a little to the dignity of the
Christian minister.
The device upon Whitefield's seal, of which probably few impressions
are now to be found, was truly characteristic. It was a winged heart
soaring above the globe, and its motto was, "_Astra petamus_"--Let
us seek heaven.