last, he set me upon a little business, and told me he should
expect me to preach two mornings in the week. He appointed
me particular times when I was to call upon him; and, besides
sending me upon errands, of which he always had a great number,
he set me to transcribe some of his manuscripts. He shewed
himself much dissatisfied with my writing and orthography; but
he desired me to take a lodging near the chapel, where he could
conveniently send for me; gave me a little money to defray my
expenses; and, by degrees, brought me into a capacity to be
useful to him. Soon after, he proposed my going to Mr. Green’s
for a few hours in the day, to be initiated into the Latin
grammar; but he interrupted the design by requiring a close
attention to his own business, and the large demand he made of
my pulpit services. A single quarter of a year closed my school
exercise, in which I hardly gained knowledge enough to decline
_Musa_. It was plain Mr. Whitefield did not intend to promote
my literary improvement. Indeed, he said, Latin was of little
or no use, and that they who wish to enter upon it late in life,
had better endeavour to acquire a good knowledge of their mother
tongue. Having recently attended Mr. Wesley’s conference, and
having heard him speak to the same effect, he was confirmed in
this sentiment, and discouraged my perseverance.
“Perhaps it would be putting the picture of so valuable a man,
as Mr. Whitefield was, into too deep a shade, to say that he was
not a fit person for a young man in humble circumstances to be
connected with. He was not satisfied with deficient abilities,
but he did not sufficiently encourage the use of the lamp
for their improvement. The attention of a youth, designed
for the ministry, was too much diverted from the main object,
and devoted too much to objects comparatively trifling. I was
considered as much the steward of his house as his assistant
in the ministry. While I was kept in bay and at anchor, many,
piloted by him, set sail, and I at last knew not whether I was
to indulge a hope for America or not. My fidelity being proved,
I became one of the family, slept in the room of my honoured
patron, and had the privilege to sit at his table. I judged I
was where I should be, and was determined never to flinch from
the path of duty, nor intentionally to grieve the man, who had
many burdens upon him, and for whom I could have laid down my
life.”[559]
Considering the circumstances of Cornelius Winter, there is a little
unseemly grumbling in the foregoing extract; but let it pass. The
quondam workhouse boy seems to have been an inmate of Whitefield’s
house for about eighteen months; and as he is the only one, _thus
privileged_, who has left behind him any account of Whitefield’s
domestic habits and public life, this is a fitting place to introduce
what he says concerning the patron to whom he owed so much.
In reference to the composition of sermons, the mode of conducting
public services, and action in the pulpit, Winter writes:――
“The time Mr. Whitefield set apart for preparations for the
pulpit, during my connection with him, was not distinguished
from the time he appropriated to other business. If he wanted to
write a pamphlet, he was closeted; nor would he allow access to
him, except on an emergency, while he was engaged in the work.
But I never knew him engaged in the composition of a sermon,
until he was on board ship, when he employed himself partly in
the composition of sermons, and partly in reading the history
of England. He had formed a design of writing the history of
Methodism, but never entered upon it. He was never more in
retirement on a Saturday than on another day; nor sequestered
at any particular time for a period longer than he used for his
ordinary devotions. I never met with anything like the skeleton
of a sermon among his papers, with which I was permitted to
be familiar, and I believe he knew nothing of such a kind of
exercise as the planning of a sermon.
“Usually, for an hour or two before he entered the pulpit, he
claimed retirement; and, on the Sabbath morning especially, he
was accustomed to have Clarke’s Bible, Matthew Henry’s Comment,
and Cruden’s Concordance within his reach. His frame at that
time was more than ordinarily devotional; I say more than
ordinarily, because, though there was a vast vein of pleasantry
usually in him, the intervals of conversation then appeared to
be filled up with private ejaculation and with praise.
“His rest was much interrupted, and he often said at the close
of an address, ‘I got this sermon when most of you were fast
asleep.’ He made very minute observations; and, in one way or
another, the occurrences of the week, or of the day, furnished
him with matter for the pulpit. When an extraordinary trial
was going on, he would be present, and I have known him, at the
close of a sermon, avail himself of the formality of the judge
putting on the black cap to pronounce sentence. With his eyes
full of tears, and his heart almost too big to admit of speech,
he would say, after a momentary pause, ‘I am now going to put
on my condemning cap. Sinner, I must do it. I must pronounce
sentence upon thee.’ And then, in a strain of tremendous
eloquence, he would recite our Lord’s words, ‘Depart, ye cursed.’
It was only by hearing him, and by beholding his attitude and
his tears, that the effect could be conceived.
“My intimate knowledge of him enables me to acquit him of the
charge of affectation. He always appeared to enter the pulpit
with a countenance that indicated he had something of importance
to divulge, and was anxious for the effect of the communication.
His gravity on his descent was the same. As soon as he was
seated in his chair, he usually vomited a considerable quantity
of blood.
“He was averse to much singing after preaching, supposing it
diverted attention from the subject of his sermon. Nothing
awkward, nothing careless appeared about him in the pulpit.
Whether he frowned or smiled, whether he looked grave or
placid, it was nature acting in him. Professed orators might
object to his hands being lifted up too high, and it is to be
lamented that in that attitude, rather than in any other, he is
represented in print. His own reflection upon that picture was,
when it was first put into his hands, ‘Sure I do not look such
a sour creature as this sets me forth. If I thought I did, I
should hate myself.’ The attitude was very transient, and always
accompanied by expressions which would justify it. He sometimes
had occasion to speak of Peter going out and weeping bitterly;
and, then, he had a fold of his gown at command, which he put
before his face with as much gracefulness as familiarity.
“I hardly ever knew him go through a sermon without weeping, and
I believe his were the tears of sincerity. His voice was often
interrupted by his affection; and I have heard him say in the
pulpit, ‘You blame me for weeping, but how can I help it, when
you will not weep for yourselves, though your souls are upon
the verge of destruction, and, for aught I know, you are hearing
your last sermon!’ Sometimes he wept exceedingly, stamped loudly
and passionately, and was frequently so overcome, that nature
required some little time to compose itself.
“When he treated upon the sufferings of our Saviour, it was with
great pathos. As though Gethsemane were in sight, he would cry,
stretching out his hand, ‘Look yonder! What is that I see? It is
my agonizing Lord!’ And, as though it were no difficult matter
to catch the sound of the Saviour praying, he would exclaim,
‘Hark! Hark! Do you not hear?’ This frequently occurred; but
though we often knew what was coming, it was as new to us as
if we had never heard it before.
“The beautiful apostrophe, of the prophet Jeremiah, ‘O earth,
earth, earth, hear the word of the Lord!’ was very subservient
to him, and was never used impertinently. He abounded with
anecdotes, which, though not always recited verbatim, were very
just as to the matter of them. On the Sabbath morning, he dealt
far more in the explanatory and doctrinal mode of preaching,
than, perhaps, at any other time; and occasionally made a little,
but by no means improper, shew of learning. If he had read
upon astronomy in the course of the week, you would be sure
to discover it. He had his charms for the learned as well as
for the unlearned. The peer and the peasant alike went away
satisfied.
“This was his work, in London, at one period of his life. After
administering the Lord’s supper to several hundred communicants
at half-past six o’clock in the morning, he, in the forenoon,
read the Liturgy, and preached full an hour. In the afternoon,
he again read prayers and preached. At half-past five, he
preached again, and, afterwards, addressed a large Society.
At the Society meeting, widows, married people, young men, and
spinsters were placed separately in the area of the Tabernacle.
Hundreds used to stay, and receive from him, in a colloquial
style, various exhortations, comprised in short sentences, and
suitable to their various stations.
“Perhaps he never preached greater sermons than at six in the
morning; for at that hour he did preach, winter and summer, on
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. At these times,
his congregations were of the select description. Young men
received admonitions similar to what were given in the Society
meetings. ‘Beware of being golden apprentices, silver journeymen,
and copper masters,’ was one of the cautions I remember
being given. His style was now colloquial, with little use of
motion; pertinent expositions, with suitable remarks; and all
comprehended within the hour.
“Christian experience principally was the subject of his
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening lectures; when,
frequently having funeral sermons to preach, the character and
experience of the dead helped to elucidate the subject.
“Mr. Whitefield adopted the custom of the inhabitants of New
England, in their best days, of beginning the Sabbath at six
o’clock on Saturday evenings. The custom could not be observed
by many, but it was convenient to a few. Now ministers of
every description found a peculiar pleasure in relaxing their
minds from the fatigues of study. It was also an opportunity
peculiarly suited to apprentices and journeymen in some
businesses, which allowed of their leaving work sooner than on
other days, and of availing themselves of, at least, the sermon.
“The peculiar talents he possessed can be but faintly guessed
from his sermons in print. The eighteen, taken in shorthand, and
faithfully transcribed by Mr. Gurney, have been supposed to do
discredit to his memory, and, therefore, they were suppressed;
but much of his genuine preaching may be collected from them.
They were far from being the best specimens that might have been
produced. He preached many of them when, in fact, he was almost
incapable of preaching at all. His constitution, long before
they were taken, had received its shock, and all of them, except
the two last, were the productions of a Wednesday evening, when,
by the business of the day, he was fatigued and worn out. He
was then like an ascending Elijah, and many were eager to catch
his dropping mantle. In the sermons referred to, there are many
jewels, though not connected in proper order. Whatever invidious
remarks may be made upon his written discourses, they cannot
invalidate his preaching. Mr. Toplady called him the prince of
preachers, and with good reason, for none in our day preached
with the like effect.”
So much in reference to Whitefield as a preacher, to which may be
added another fact stated by Cornelius Winter, namely, that, excepting
Andrew Kinsman, most of Whitefield’s substitutes at the Tabernacle
and at Tottenham Court chapel were very inferior preachers to himself,
and that, in consequence, the congregations, during his absence, were
greatly diminished. Notwithstanding this, however, “conversions were
very frequent.”[560]
Winter’s portraiture of Whitefield will not be perfect without the
addition of what he says respecting the renowned preacher’s private
character and habits. He continues:――
“Mr. Whitefield was accessible but to few. He was cautious in
admitting people to him. He would never be surprised into a
conversation. You could not knock at his door and be allowed
to enter at any time. ‘Who is it?’ ‘What is his business?’
and such-like enquiries usually preceded admission; and, if
admission were granted, it was thus, ‘Come to-morrow morning at
six o’clock, perhaps five, or immediately after preaching. If
later, I cannot see you.’
“A person consulting him upon going into the ministry, might
expect to be treated with severity, if not well recommended, or
if he had not something about him particularly engaging. One man,
on saying, in answer to his enquiry, that he was a tailor, was
dismissed with, ‘Go to rag-fair, and buy old clothes.’ Another,
who was admitted to preach in the vestry one winter’s morning
at six o’clock, took for his text, ‘These that have turned
the world upside down have come hither also.’ ‘That man shall
come here no more,’ said Mr. Whitefield. ‘If God had called
him to preach, he would have furnished him with a proper text.’
A letter well written, as to style, orthography, and decency,
would prepossess him much in favour of a person.
“He used too much severity to young people, and required too
much from them. He connected circumstances too humiliating with
public services, in a young man with whom he could take liberty;
urging that it was necessary as a curb to the vanity of human
nature, and referred to the young Roman orators, who, after
being exalted by applauses, were sent upon the most trifling
errands. His maxim was, if you love me, you will serve me
disinterestedly; hence he settled no certain income, or a very
slender one, upon his dependants, many of whom were sycophants,
and, while they professed to serve him, underhandedly served
themselves. Through this defect, his charity in Georgia was
materially injured, owing to the wrong conduct of some who
insinuated themselves into his favour by humouring his weakness,
and letting him act and speak without contradiction. He was
impatient of contradiction, but this is a fault to be charged
upon almost all great people.
“No time was to be wasted; and his expectations generally went
before the ability of his servants to perform his commands. He
was very exact to the time appointed for his stated meals. A
few minutes’ delay would be considered a great fault. He was
irritable, but soon appeased. Not being patient enough, one day,
to receive a reason for his being disappointed, he hurt the mind
of one who was studious to please; but, on reflection, he burst
into tears, saying, ‘I shall live to be a poor peevish old man,
and everybody will be tired of me.’ He never commanded haughtily,
and always took care to applaud when a person did right. He
never indulged parties at his table; but a select few might now
and then breakfast with him, dine with him on a Sunday, or sup
with him on a Wednesday night. In the last-mentioned indulgence,
he was scrupulously exact to break up in time. In the height of
a conversation, I have known him abruptly say, ‘But we forget
ourselves;’ and, rising from his seat and advancing to the door,
would add, ‘Come, gentlemen, it is time for all good folks to be
at home.’
“Whether only by himself, or having but a second, his table must
be spread elegantly, though it produced but a loaf and a cheese.
He was unjustly charged with being given to appetite. His table
was never spread with variety. A cow-heel was his favourite
dish, and I have known him cheerfully say, ‘How surprised would
the world be, if they were to peep upon Dr. Squintum, and see
a cow-heel only upon his table.’ He was extremely neat in his
person, and in everything about him. Not a paper must be out
of place, or be put up irregularly. Each part of the furniture,
likewise, must be in its proper position before we retired to
rest. He said he did not think he should die easy, if he thought
his gloves were not where they ought to be. There was no rest
after four in the morning, nor sitting up after ten in the
evening.
“He never made a purchase without paying the money immediately.
He was truly generous, and seldom denied relief. More was
expected from him than was meet. He was tenacious in his
friendship. He felt sensibly when he was deserted, and would
remark, ‘The world and the church ring changes.’ He dreaded the
thought of outliving his usefulness. He often dined among his
friends; and usually connected a comprehensive prayer with his
thanksgiving when the table was dismissed, in which he noticed
particular cases relative to the family. He never protracted his
visit long after dinner. He often appeared tired of popularity;
and said, he almost envied the man who could take his choice of
food at an eating-house, and pass unnoticed. He apprehended he
should not glorify God in his death by any remarkable testimony;
and he desired to die suddenly.”
Cornelius Winter’s critique on Whitefield is unartistic, but it is not,
on that account, the less valuable. Facts are not lost among words,
as is the case too often, in the philosophic and eloquent eulogies,
or censures, written by men who have a greater wish to display their
own cleverness than to pourtray the life and character of the person
on whom they exercise their skill. In some of his statements, Winter
may have been, unconsciously to himself, somewhat swayed by his
relationship to Whitefield; but, generally speaking, his description
of Whitefield’s preaching, and of his spirit and habits in domestic
life, is the most exact that has ever yet been published. The foregoing
extracts may be long, but they were written by a man who, during
Whitefield’s last two years in England, read prayers in Whitefield’s
Tottenham Court Road chapel, assisted in Whitefield’s study, sat at
Whitefield’s table, and occupied a bed in the same room as Whitefield
did. The man knew his master, and wrote with the utmost frankness
concerning him.
It is now time to return to Whitefield’s history. Little is known
concerning him during the first three months of 1767. They seem,
however, to have been chiefly spent in London, where his “feeble hands
were full of work.”[561]
The Orphan House in Georgia still occupied his attention. He was
anxious for “Bethesda to put on its college dress.”[562] The warm
friendship between him and Wesley yet continued. On Ash-Wednesday,
March 4, Wesley wrote, “I dined at a friend’s with Mr. Whitefield,
still breathing nothing but love.”[563] On the 20th of the same month,
the Countess of Huntingdon, at Brighton, had all her chaplains around
her, and Whitefield re-opened her ladyship’s enlarged chapel, in that
town, by preaching, to a crowded congregation, from “Grow in grace, and
in the knowledge of the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ: to Him be glory
both now and for ever. Amen.”[564]
In April, Whitefield set out for Norwich, and visited Rowland Hill
and his Society, at Cambridge, on his way.[565] A month later, he
was introduced to a young clergyman, who, afterwards, became famous.
Richard de Courcy was the descendant of an ancient and respectable
family in Ireland, and was distantly related to Lord Kinsale. He
had been educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and, at the age of
twenty-three, had received deacon’s orders, and become curate of the
Rev. Walter Shirley. Being invited to preach in St. Andrew’s Church,
Dublin, his fame brought a crowded congregation. Whilst the prayers
were being read, and because the young preacher was a reputed Methodist,
the pulpit was seized by order of the metropolitan, Dr. Arthur Smythe,
and De Courcy was not allowed to enter it. Upon this, he immediately
left the church; the congregation followed him; and, mounting a
tombstone, he at once commenced preaching in the open air. This was a
crime too great to be forgiven. The bishop refused to ordain him priest.
Shirley wrote to the Countess of Huntingdon, and, at her request,
De Courcy came to England, expecting, by the help of her ladyship,
to obtain ordination by an English bishop. On arriving in London, he
immediately called on Whitefield at the Tabernacle House. Whitefield
being told who he was, took off his cap, and bending towards De Courcy,
and, at the same time placing his hand on the deep scar in his head,
said, “Sir, this wound I got in your country for preaching Christ.” De
Courcy was captivated, and became Whitefield’s guest, Cornelius Winter
being charged to take care of him. The next day, which was Sunday, the
young Hibernian preached in Tottenham Court Road chapel, and, by his
sermon, laid the foundation of his future popularity. Whitefield and he
became ardent friends.[566]
About the middle of the month of May, Whitefield set out for the west
of England and Wales. His progress will be best told by extracts from
his letters. On arriving at Rodborough, where his old assistant, Thomas
Adams, lived and preached, he wrote to Mr. Keen as follows:――
“Rodborough, May 13, 1767. My new horse failed the first night;
but, through mercy, we got here last evening. I was regaled with
the company of some simple-hearted, first-rate old Methodists,
of near thirty years’ standing. God willing, I am to preach
to-morrow morning, and to have a general sacrament on Friday
evening. Perhaps, I may move after Sunday towards Wales; but,
I fear, I shall be obliged to take post-horses. I care not,
so that I can ride post to heaven. Hearty love to all who are
posting thither, hoping myself to arrive first. This tabernacle
often groans under the weight of my feeble labours. O when shall
I be unclothed! When, O my God, shall I be clothed upon! But I
am a coward, and want to be housed before the storm.”
A week after this, he reached Gloucester, where he spent several days,
and wrote as follows:――
“Gloucester, May 20, 1767. We have had good seasons at
Rodborough. I have been out twice in the fields. Lady Huntingdon
has been wonderfully delighted. She and her company lay at
Rodborough House. Dear Mr. Adams is about to be married to a
good Christian nurse. He is sickly in body, but healthy in soul.”
“Gloucester, May 21, 1767. I have preached twice in the open
air. Thousands and thousands attended. I am about to preach here
this morning, in my native city. On Sunday I hope to take to
Rodborough wood again. Good Lady Huntingdon and her company were
wonderfully delighted. They honoured dear Mr. Adams’s house with
their presence. He is but poorly, and wants a nurse. Perhaps,
before next Sunday, he may be married to a simple-hearted, plain,
good creature, who has waited upon him and the preachers near
twenty years. She has no fortune, but is one who, I think, will
take care of, and be obedient to him, for Christ’s sake.”
“Gloucester, May 25, 1767. I am just setting out in a
post-chaise for Haverfordwest; and I have therefore drawn upon
you” (Mr. Keen) “for £20. This is expensive; but it is for One
who has promised not to send us a warfare on our own charges.
We had a most blessed season yesterday. Thousands and thousands
heard, saw, and felt. Mr. Adams preached in the evening, on
‘The Lord is my portion, therefore will I trust in Him.’ A good
text for a new-married man. I have advised him to preach next on
these words, ‘The Lord’s portion is His people.’ He is now here.”
“Haverfordwest, May 31, 1767, Sunday. I am just come from my
field-throne. Thousands and thousands attended by eight in the
morning. Life and light seemed to fly all around. On Tuesday,
God willing, I am to preach at Woodstock; on Friday, at Pembroke;
here again next Sunday; and then for England. Rooms are not so
lofty or large, prospects not so pleasant, bedsteads not so easy,
in these parts, as in some places in or near London; but all are
good enough for young and old pilgrims who have got good breath.
I have been pushing dear sick Mr. Davies to go out and preach
six miles off. He is gone finely mounted, and, I am persuaded,
will return in high spirits. Who knows but preaching may be
our grand catholicon again? This is the good, Methodistical,
thirty-year-old medicine.”