George Whitefield: A Biography, with special reference to his labors in America

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 prosopopœia 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.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHARACTER OF WHITEFIELD AS A PREACHER – CENTENNIAL COMMEMORATIONS

In suggesting a few of the characteristics of Whitefield's preaching, we are very greatly indebted to an excellent anonymous writer in the London Evangelical Magazine for 1853. We consider as among the reasons of his success, and as worthy of our imitation,

First, the prominence given to the leading truths of salvation, and the constant exaltation of Christ in them. There needs no minute inquiry, or great analytical care, to ascertain what was the pervading theme of this popular minister: it was "Christ, and him crucified," and the glorious truths that hover around the cross, and derive from it their being and lustre. There was no other subject, in Whitefield's estimation, that was worthy of preëminence, and to unfold, elucidate, and apply it, was the great design of his labors. He saw in it such a wonderful adaptation to the necessities and condition of fallen humanity, that he stood in the midst of its wants and woes with all the confidence of a good physician who had a sovereign and sufficient remedy to propose. He knew that there was no case which it could not meet, no moral disease from which it would not recover, no spiritual need which it would not supply; and therefore, however far gone men might be from original righteousness, however hardened in sin, sunk in iniquity, or however elevated by the delusions of a false morality and fancied self-righteousness, he propounded this as the only and all-sufficient antidote, at once to destroy and heal, to kill and to make alive. As to the spurious production of a rationalistic theory on the one hand, or the prescriptions of ceremonial virtue and sacramental grace on the other, he knew them not. He saw at once their hollowness and insufficiency, and would not mock the necessities of our fallen nature, or aggravate the wounds which sin had made by a proposal of them. His acquaintance with the human heart was deep, and his knowledge of the different modifications of the original disease was so great, that he despaired of relief from any expedients save that which infinite Wisdom had devised, and which "the gospel of the grace of God" revealed. Philosophy with all its discoveries, and reason with all its powers, the law with all its authority, and virtue with all its rewards, he knew could only, like the priests and the Levites, have passed the patient by, and left him to despair, till a greater than they should arrive, and say, "I will come and heal you." On that adorable Personage, therefore, and the wonders of his skill and love, he delighted to dwell. Every sermon was full of Christ; every discourse was odorous of him. From whatever part of revealed truth he derived his text, and with whatever peculiar development of man's moral physiology he had to do, there was something to suggest, to demonstrate the need, or the suitableness, or the all-sufficiency of the Saviour of the world. To set him forth, in the glories of his wonderful person, the variety of his offices, the perfection of his righteousness, the completeness of his atonement, and the plenitude of his grace, was his perpetual aim. To these he gave continual prominence, at all times, and in every place. There was no reserve, no equivocation, no partial statement on such themes. It was a full, clear, consistent gospel. From his lips the gospel gave no "uncertain sound." This made him a welcome messenger of glad tidings to all. This gave him a key to the hearts of many, who, as they stood around him, and wondered at him, like those five thousand whom the Redeemer fed with "five loaves and two small fishes," found all their appetites suited, and all their necessities supplied. It was the magic power which arrested them; the centre of gravitation which attracted them; the bread of life which fed them. "As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness," so now was the Son of man lifted up by the ministry of this his devoted herald; and far as the camp extended, and wide as the circumference of poison and death was spread, the wounded looked thereon and lived. A restorative virtue issued from it. The hardest heart was softened. The most obstinate in rebellion was overcome. The blindest saw. The moral lepers were cleansed. The broken in heart were made whole, and the spiritually dead were raised to life. "This was the Lord's doing, and it was marvellous in their eyes." They beheld the man. They heard him preach. They felt the power. It was because He was exalted among them who had said, "I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me."

Secondly, the glow of feeling, the melting compassion, which pervaded his own soul. Oh, it is supremely delightful and deeply affecting to observe the tender affection and melting pathos with which Whitefield propounded and proclaimed the precious truths and everlasting verities of the gospel to his fellow-men. He stood among them as one of their race, one of their number, conscious of the common misery into which all had fallen, and weeping over the miseries and ruin in which by nature they were alike involved. As he opened up the treasures of infinite mercy, and the riches of redeeming love to their view, he wept to think how long they had been unknown or despised by many, and with what base ingratitude thousands would probably still turn away from them. As one who saw their immortal being in jeopardy, and their souls standing on the verge of irretrievable ruin, he hastened, with joy in his countenance and tenderness in his heart, to tell them of One who was "mighty to save," and that "now was the accepted time, and now the day of salvation." Not as one who had a cold lecture on ethics to deliver, or a dissertation on philosophy to expound, or a problem in mathematics to solve, did he proceed to such a work; but as one who felt the weight of his great commission, and knew the worth of never-dying souls. The evil of sin, the danger of impenitence, the powers of the world to come, the glories of heaven, and the unutterable miseries of the regions of woe, were visibly present to his own mind; and of these, "out of the abundance of his heart," he spoke to others. He could not be calm, he could not be apathetic on such themes as these.