THE BIOGRAPHY OF GEORGE WHITEFIELD

1878. 1 George Whitefield and his Ministry

. by J. C. Ryle D.D.




 CHAPTER I. Whitefield’s B irth-place and Parentage—Educated at Gloucester Gram mar School—Enters Pembroke College, Oxford—Season of Spiritual Conflict—Books which were made useful to him—Ordained by B ishop Benson—First Serm on—Preaches i n L ondon—Curate of Dum - mer, Ha nts—Goes to America—Returns in a Year—Preaches in t he open ai r—Is exclude d from most Lond on Pul pits—Extent of his Labo urs f or thirty-one y ears—Dies at Ne wbury Port, America, in 1770—Interesting circumstances of his Death.



 WHO were the m en that revived relig ion in England a hundred years ago? What were their names, that we may do them honour? Where were they born? How were they educated? W hat are the leading facts in their lives ? What was their special departm ent of labour? To these questions I wish to supply som e answers in the present and future chapters. I pity the man who takes no interest in such inquiries. The instruments that God employs to do his work in the wo rld deserve a close inspection. The m an who did not care to look at the rams’ horns that blew down Jericho, the hammer and nail that slew Sisera, the lamp s and trumpets of Gideon, the sling and stone of David, might fairly be set down as a cold and heartless person. I trust that all who read this volume will li ke to know something about the E nglish evangelists of the eighteenth century. The first and foremost whom I will name is the well-known George Whitefield. Though not the first in order, if we look at the date of his b irth, I place him first in the order of merit, without any hesitation. Of all the spiritual heroes of a hundred years ago none saw so soon as W hitefield what the tim es demanded, and none were so forward in the great work of spiritual aggression. I should think I committed an act of injustice if I placed any name before his. Whitefield was born at Gloucester in the year 1714. That venerable countytown, which was his birth-place, is connected with more than one name which ought to be dear to every lover of Protestant truth. Tyndal, one of the first and ablest translators of the English Bibl e, was a Gloucestershire m an. Hooper, one of the greatest and best of our English reform ers, was Bishop of Gloucester, and was burned at the stake for Chri st’s truth, within view of his own cathedral, in Queen Mary’s reign. In the next century Miles Sm ith, Bishop of Gloucester, was one of the first to protest against the Romanizing proceedings of Laud, who was then Dean of Gloucester. In fact, he carried his Protestant 2 feeling so far that, when Laud m oved the communion-table in the cathedral to the east end, and placed it for th e first tim e “altar-wise,” in 1616, B ishop Smith was so much offended that he refused to enter the walls of the cathedral from that day till his death. Places like Gloucester, we need not doubt, have a rich entailed inheritan ce of m any prayers. Th e ci ty where Hooper preached and prayed, and where the zealous Miles Smith protested, was the place where the greatest preacher of the gospel England has ever seen was born. Like many other famous men, Whitefield was of humble origin, and had no rich or noble connections to help him forward in the world. His m other kept the Bell Inn at Glouces ter, and appears not to have prospered in business; at any rate, she never seem s to have been able to do any thing for Whitefield’s advancement in life. The inn itself is still standing, and is reputed to be the birth-place, not only of our greates t English preacher, but also of a w ellknown English prelate—Henry Philpot, Bishop of Exeter. Whitefield’s early life, according to his own account, wa s anything but religious; tho ugh, like many boys, he had o ccasional prickings of conscience and spasmodic fits of devout feeling. But habits and general tastes are the only true test of young people’s characters. He confesses that he was “addicted to lying, filthy talking, and foo lish jesting,” and that he was a “Sabbath-breaker, a theatre-goer, a card-player, and a romance-reader.” All this, he says, went on till he was fifteen years old. Poor as he was, his residence at Gl oucester procured him the advantage of a good education at the Free Grammar School of that city. Here he was a dayscholar until he was fift een. Nothing is known of his progress there. He can hardly, however, have been quite idle, or else he would not have been ready to enter an Univers ity afterwards at th e age of eighteen. His letters, m oreover, show an acquaintance with Latin, in the shape of frequent quotations, which is seldom acquired, if not picked up at school. The only known fact about his school-days is this curious one, that even then he was remarkable for his good elocution and memory, and was selected to recite speeches before the Corporation of Gloucester at their annual visitation of the Grammar School. At the age of fifteen Whitefield appear s to have left school, and to have given up Latin and Greek for a season. In all probability, his m other’s straitened circumstances made it absolutely necessary for him to do som ething to assist her in business and to get his own living. He be gan, therefore, to help her in the d aily work of the Bell In n. “At length,” he says, “I put on my blue apron, washed cups, cleaned room s, a nd, in one word, becam e a professed common drawer for nigh a year and a half.” This state of things, however, did not last long. His mother’s business at the Bell did not flourish, and she finally reti red from it altogether. An old schoolfellow revived in his m ind the idea of going to Oxford, and he went back to the Grammar School and renewed his studies. Friends were raised up who made interest for him at Pem broke College, Oxford, where the Grammar School of Gloucester held two exhibitions. And at length, after s everal providential circumstances had s moothed the way, he entered Oxford as a servitor at Pembroke at the age of eighteen.1 Whitefield’s residence at Oxford was the great turning-point in his life. For two or three years before he went to the University his journal tells us that he had not been without religious convicti ons. But from the tim e of his entering Pembroke College these convictions fast ripened into decided Christianity. He 3 diligently attended a ll means of grace w ithin his reach. H e spent his leisure time in visiting the city prison, reading to the prisoners, and trying to do good. He became acquainted with the famous John Wesley and his brother Charles, and a little band of like-m inded young men, including the well-known author of “Theron and Aspasio,” Jam es Herve y. These were the devoted party to whom the nam e “Methodists” was first applied, on account of their strict “method” of living. At one tim e he s eems to have greedily devoured such books as “Thom as a Ke mpis,” and “Cas tanuza’s Spiritual Com bat,” and to have been in danger of becoming a semi-papist, an ascetic, or a mystic, and of placing the whole of religion in self -denial. He says in his Journal, “I always chose the w orst sort of food. I fasted twice a week. My apparel was mean. I thought it unbecom ing a penitent to ha ve his hair powdered. I wore woollen gloves, a patched gown, and dirty shoes; and though I was convinced that the kingdom of God did not consist in meat and drink, yet I resolutely persisted in these voluntary acts of self-denial, because I found in them great promotion of the spiritual life.” Out o f all this darkness he wa s gradually delivered, partly by the advice of one or two experienced Christians, and partly by reading such books as Scougal’s “Life of God in the Heart of Man,” Law’s “Serious Call,” Baxter’s “Call to the U nconverted,” Alleine’s “Alarm to Unconverted Sinners,” and Matthew Henry’s “Comm entary.” “Above all,” he says, “my m ind being now more opened and enlarged, I began to read the Holy Scriptures upon m y knees, laying aside all other books , and praying over, if possible, every line and word. This proved m eat indeed and drink indeed to m y soul. I daily received fresh life, light, and pow er from above. I got m ore true knowledge from reading the book of God in one month than I could ever have acquired from all the writings of m en.” Once taught to understand the glorious liberty of Christ’s gosp el, Whitefield never turned again to asceticism , legalism, mysticism, or stran ge views of Christian perfection. The experien ce received by bitter conflict was m ost valu able to him . The doctr ines of f ree grace, once thoroughly grasped, too k deep root in his heart, and becam e, as it were, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. Of all the little band of Oxford methodists, none seem to have got hold so soon of clear views of Christ’s gospel as he did, and none kept it so unwaveringly to the end. At the early age of twenty-two W hitefield was adm itted to holy ord ers by Bishop Benson of Gloucester, on Trin ity Sunday, 1736. Hi s ordination was not of his own seeking. The bishop h eard of his character from Lady Selwyn and others, sent for him, gave him five guineas to buy books, and offered to ordain him, though only twenty-two year s old, whenever he wished. This unexpected offer came to him when he was full of scruples about his own fitness for the m inistry. It cut the knot and brought him to the point of decision. “I began to think,” he says, “that if I held out longer I should fight against God.” Whitefield’s first s ermon was preached in the very town where he was born, at the church of St. Mary-le-Crypt, Gloucester. His own description of it is the best account that can be give n:—“Last Sunday, in the afternoon, I preached my first sermon in the church of St. Mary-le -Crypt, where I was baptized, and also first received the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. Curiosity, as you m ay easily guess, drew a large congregation together upon this occasion. The sight at first a little awed m e. But I was comforted with a heartfelt sense of the divine presence, and soon found the unspeakable advantage of having been accustomed to public sp eaking when a boy at school, and o f ex- 4 horting the prisoners and poor people at their privat e houses while at the university. By these m eans I was kept from being daunted overmuch. As I proceeded I perceived the fire kind led, till at last, th ough so you ng and am idst a crowd of those who knew me in my child ish d ays, I trus t I was enab led to speak with som e degree of gospel au thority. Som e few mocked, but m ost seemed for the present struck ; and I ha ve s ince heard th at a com plaint was made to the bishop that I drove fiftee n mad the first sermon! The worthy prelate wished that the madness might not be forgotten before next Sunday.” Almost imm ediately after his ordina tion, W hitefield went to Oxford and took his degree as Bachelor of Arts. He then commenced his regular m inisterial life by undertaking tem porary duty at the Tower Chapel, London, for two months. While engaged there he pr eached continually in m any London churches; and among others, in the pari sh churches of Islington, Bishopsgate, St. Dunstan’s, St. Margaret’s, W estminster, and Bow, Cheapside. From the very first he obtained a de gree of popularity such as no preacher, before or since, has p robably ever reach ed. Whether on week-days or Sundays, wherever he preached, the churches were crowded, and an imm ense sensation was produced. T he plain truth is, that a really eloquent, extem pore preacher, preaching the pure gospel with m ost un-common gifts of voice and m anner, was at that time an entire novelty in London. The congregations were taken by surprise and carried by storm. From London he rem oved for two mont hs to Dummer, a little rural p arish in Hampshire, near Basingstoke. This wa s a totally new sphere of action, and he seemed like a m an buried alive am ong poor illiterate people. But he was soon reconciled to it, and thought afterwards that he reaped m uch profit by conversing with the poor. From Dummer he accepted an invitation, which had been much pressed on him by the Wesleys, to visit the col ony of Geor gia in North America, and assist in the care of an Orphan House which had been set up near Savannah for the child ren of colonists. After preaching for a few months in Gloucestershire, and especially at Bristol and Stonehouse, he sailed for America in the latter part of 1737, and continued there about a year. The affairs of this Orphan House, it may be remarked, occupied much of his attention from this period of his life till he died. Th ough well-meant, it seem s to have been a design of very questionabl e wisdo m, and certainly entailed on Whitefield a world of anxiety and responsibility to the end of his days. Whitefield returned from Georgia at the latter part of the year 1738, partly to obtain priest’s orders, which we re conferred on him by his old friend Bishop Benson, and partly on business c onnected with the O rphan House. He soon, however, discovered that his p osition was no longer what it was b efore he sailed for Georgia. The bulk of the clergy was no longer favourable to him, and regarded him with suspicion as an en thusiast and a fanatic. They were especially scandalized by hi s preaching the doctrine of regeneration or the new birth, as a thing which many baptized persons greatly needed! The num ber of pulpits to w hich he had access rap idly diminished. Churchwardens, who had no eyes for drunkenness and im purity, were filled with intense indignation about what they called “breaches of or der.” Bishops, who could tolerate Arianism, Socinianism , and Deism , were f illed w ith indign ation at a m an who declared fully the atonem ent of Christ and the work of the Holy Ghost, and began to denounce him openly. In short, from this period of his life, Whitefield’s field of usefulness within the Church of Engl and narrowed rapidly on 5 every side. The step which at th is juncture gav e a turn to the whole current of W hitefield’s ministry was his adoption of the system of open-air preach ing. Seeing that thousands everywhere would atte nd no place of worship, spent their Sundays in idleness or sin, and were not to be reached by se rmons within walls, he resolved, in the spirit of holy a ggression, to go out after them “into the highways and hedges,” on his Master’s pr inciple, and “com pel them to com e in.” His first attem pt to do this wa s am ong the colliers at Kingswood near Bristol, in February 1739. After much prayer he one day went to Hanna m Mount, and standing upon a hill began to preach to about a hundred colliers upon Matt. v. 1—3. The thing soo n became known. The num ber of hearers rapidly increased, till the congregation amounted to many thousands. His own account of the behaviour of these neglect ed colliers, who had never been in a church in their lives, is deeply affecting:—“Having,” he writes to a friend, “no righteousness of their own to renounce, th ey were glad to hear of a Jesus who was a friend to publicans, and cam e not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. The first discovery of their being affected was the sight of the white gutters made by their te ars, which plen tifully fell down their black cheeks as they came out of their coal-pits. Hu ndreds of them were soon brought under deep conviction, which, as the event proved, happily ended in a sound and thorough conversion. The change was visi ble to all, though num bers chose to impute it to anything rather than the finger of God. As the scene was quite new, it often occas ioned m any inward c onflicts. Som etimes, when twenty thousand people were before me, I had not in my own apprehension a word to say either to God or them. But I was never totally deserted, and frequently (for to deny it w ould be lying against G od) was so assisted that I knew by happy experience what our Lord m eant by saying, ‘Out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water.’ The op en firmament above me, the pro spect of the ad jacent fields, with the sight of thousands, som e in coaches, som e on horseback, and some in the trees, and at times all affected and in tears, was almost too much for, and quite overcame me.” Two months after this Whitefield b egan the practice of open-air p reaching in London, on April 27, 1739. The circum stances under which this happened were curious. He had gone to Islington to preach for the vicar, his friend Mr. Stonehouse. In the m idst of the prayer the church wardens cam e to him and demanded his license for preaching in the diocese of London. W hitefield, of course, had not got this license any m ore than any clergym an not regularly officiating in the diocese has at this day. The upshot of the m atter was, that being forbidden by the churchwardens to preach in the pulpit, he went outsid e after the communion service, and preached in the churchyard. “And,” says he, “God was pleased so to assist m e in pr eaching, and so wonderfully to affect the hearers, that I believe we could have gone singing hym ns to prison. Let not the adversaries say, I ha ve thrust myself out of their synagogues. No; they have thrust me out.” From that day forward he becam e a cons tant field -preacher, whenever weather and the season of the year m ade it possible. Two days afterwards, on Sunday, April 29, he records:— “I preached in Moorfields to an ex ceeding great multitude. Being weakened by my morning’s preaching, I refreshed myself in the afternoon by a lit tle sleep, and at five went and preached at Kennington Common, about two m iles from London, when no less than thirty 6 thousand people were supposed to be pr esent.” Henceforth, wherever there were large open spaces round London, wh erever there were large bands of idle, godless, Sabbath-break ing people gathered toge ther, in Hackney Fields, Mary-le-bonne Fields, May Fair, Sm ithfield, Blackheath, Moorfields, and Kennington Comm on, there went Whitefield and lif ted up his voice for Christ.2 The gospel so proclaim ed was listened to and greedily received by hundreds who never dream ed of going to a place of worship. The cause of pure religion was advanced, and souls were plucked from the hand of Satan, like brands from the burning. But it was going much too fast for the Church of those days. The clergy, with a few honourab le exceptions, refused entirely to countenance this strange preach er. In the tr ue spirit of the d og in the manger, they neither liked to go after the semi-heathen m asses of population them - selves, nor liked any one else to do th e work for them . The consequence was that the m inistrations of W hitefield in the pulpits of the Church of England from this tim e almost entirely ceas ed. He loved the Church in which he had been ordained; he gloried in her Articl es; he used her Prayer book with pleasure. But the Church did not love him, and so lo st the use of his services. The plain truth is that the C hurch of Engl and of that day was not ready for a m an like Whitefield. The Church was too m uch asleep to understand him , and was vexed at a man who would not keep still and let the devil alone. The facts of Whitefield’s history from this period to the day of his death are almost entirely of one com plexion. One y ear was just like another; and to attempt to follow him would be only going repeatedly over the sam e ground. From 1739 to the year of his death, 1770, a period of thirty-one years, his life was one unifor m employment. He was em inently a man of one thing, and always about his Master’s business. F rom Sunday mornings to Saturday nights, from the 1st of January to the 31s t of December, excepting when laid aside by illness, he was almost incessantly preaching Christ, and going about the world entreating men to repent and come to Christ and be saved. There was hardly a considerable town in England, Scotland, or Wales, that he did not visit as an evangelist. When churches were ope ned to him he gladly preach ed in churches; w hen only ch apels could be obtained, he cheerfully p reached in chapels. When churches and chap els alike were closed, or were too small to contain his hearers, he was ready a nd willing to preach in the open a ir. For thirty-one years he labo ured in this way, always proclaim ing the sam e glorious gospel, and always, as far as man’s eye can judge, with immense effect. In one single Whitsuntide week, after preach ing in Moorfield s, he receiv ed one thousand letters from people und er sp iritual concern, and adm itted to the Lord’s table three hundred and fifty persons. In the thirty-four years of his ministry it is reckoned that he preached publicly eighteen thousand times. His journeyings were prodigious, w hen the roads and conv eyances of his time are considered. He was f amiliar with “perils in the wilderness and perils in the seas,” if ever m an was in mode rn times. He visited Scotland fourteen times, and was nowhere m ore acceptable or useful than he was in that Bibleloving country. He crossed the Atlantic seven times, backward and forward, in miserable slow sailing ships, and arrest ed the attention of thousands in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. H e went over to Ireland twice, and on one occasion was alm ost murdered by an i gnorant Popish m ob in Dublin. As to England and Wales, he traversed every county in them, from the Isle of Wight to Berwick-on-Tweed, and from the Land’s End to the North Foreland. 7 His regular m inisterial work in L ondon for the winter season, when fieldpreaching was necessarily suspended, wa s something prodigious. His weekly engagements at the Tabernacle in Tottenham Court Road, which was built f or him when t he pulpits of the Establishe d Church were closed, com prised the following work:—Every Sunday m orning he administered the Lord’s S upper to several hundred communicants at half-p ast six. After this he read prayers, and preached both morning and afternoon. Then he preached again in the evening at half-past five, and concluded by addressing a large society of widows, married people, young m en and spinsters, all sitting separately in the area of the Tabernacle, with exhortations suitab le to their respec tive stations. On Monday, Tuesday, W ednesday, an d Thursday m ornings, he preached regularly at six. On Monday, Tuesday, Wedne sday, Thursday, and Saturday evenings, he delivered lectures. This, it will be observed, made thirteen sermons a week! And all this time he was c arrying on a large corresp ondence with people in almost every part of the world. That any hum an fra me could so long endure the labours that W hitefield went through does indeed seem wonderful that his life was not cut short by violence, to which he was frequently exposed, is no less wonderful. But he was immortal till his w ork was done. He died at last ve ry suddenly at Newbury Port, in North Am erica, on S unday, Septem ber the 29th, 1770, at the comparatively early age of fifty-six. He was once m arried to a widow nam ed James, of Abergavenny, who died before him. If we may judge from the little mention made of his wife in his letter s, the marriage does not seem to have contributed much to his happiness. He le ft no children, but he left a nam e far better than that of sons and daughters. Never perhaps was there a m an of whom it could be so truly said that he spent and was spent for Christ th an George Whitefield. The circumstances and particulars of this g reat evang elist’s end are so deeply interesting, that I shall make no excuse for dwelling on them. It was an end in striking harm ony with the tenor of his life. As he had lived for more than thirty years, so he died, preaching to the very las t. He litera lly a lmost died in harness. “Sudden d eath,” he had often said, “is sudden glory. Whether right or not, I cannot help wishing that I may go off in the sam e manner. To me it would be worse than death to live to be nursed, and to see friends weeping about me.” He had the desire of his heart granted. He was cut down in a single night by a spasm odic fit of asthma, almost before his friends knew that he was ill. On the morning of Saturday the 29th of Septe mber, the day before he died, Whitefield set out on horseback from Portsmouth in New Hampshire, in order to fulfil an engagem ent to p reach at Newbury Port on Sun day. On the way, unfortunately, he was earnestly im portuned to preach at a p lace called Exeter, and though feeling very ill, he had not th e heart to refuse. A friend rem arked before he preached th at he looked more uneasy than usual, and said to him, “Sir, you are more fit to go to bed t han to preach.” To this Whitefield replied: “True, sir;” and then turning aside, he clasped his hands together, and looking up, said: “Lord Jesus, I am weary in t hy work, but not of thy work. If I have not yet finished m y course, let m e go and speak for thee once m ore in the fields, seal thy truth, and come home and die.” He then went and preached to a very great multitude in the fields from the text 2 Cor. xiii. 5, for the space of nearly two hours. It was his last serm on, and a fitting conclusion to his w hole 8 career. An eye-witness has given the followi ng striking account of this closing scene of Whitefield’s life: —“He rose from his seat and stood erect. H is appearance alone was a powerful serm on. The thinness of his visage, the paleness of his countenance, the evident st ruggling of the heavenly spark in a decayed body for utterance, were all deeply interesting; the spirit was willing, but the flesh was dying. In this situation he rem ained several minutes, unable to speak. He then said: ‘I will wait f or the gracious assist ance of God, for he will, I am certain, assist me once more to sp eak in his nam e.’ He then d elivered perhaps one of h is best serm ons. The latter part cont ained the following passage: ‘I go; I go to a rest prepared: m y sun ha s given light to m any, but now it is about to set—no, to rise to the zenith of i mmortal glory. I have out - lived many on earth, but they cannot outlive me in heaven. Many shall outlive me on earth and live when this body is no m ore, but there—oh, thought divine!—I shall be in a world where tim e, age, sickness, and sorrow are unknown. My body fails, but m y spirit expands. How willingly would I liv e forever to preach Christ. But I die to be with him. How brief—com paratively brief—has been my life com pared to th e vast labours which I see before m e yet to be accom plished. But if I leave now, while so few ca re about heavenly things, the God of peace will surely visit you.” After the serm on was over, W hitefield dined with a friend, and then rode on to Newbury Port, though greatly fati gued. On arriving there he supped early, and retired to bed. Tradition says , that as he went up- stairs, wi th a lighted candle in his hand, he could not re sist the inclination to turn rou nd at the head of the stair, an d speak to th e friends who were assem bled to m eet him. As he spoke the fire kindled with in him, and before he could conclude, the candle which he he ld in his hand had actually burned down to the socket. He retired to hi s bedroom, to come out no more alive. A violen t fit of spasmodic asthma seized him soon after he got into bed, and before six o’clock the next m orning the great preacher was d ead. If ever m an was ready for his change, Whitefield was that m an. When his time came, he had nothing to do but to die. Where he died there he was buried, in a vault be neath the pulpit of the chu rch where he h ad engaged to pr each. His sepu lchre is shown to this very day; and nothing m akes the little to wn where he d ied so fam ous as the fact that it contains the bones of George Whitefield. Such are the leading facts in the life of the prince of English evangelists of a hundred years ago. His persona l character, the real ex tent of his usefulness, and some account of his style of preaching, are subjects that I must reserve for another chapter. 9 CHAPTER II. Estimate of go od that Whitefield did—Testimonies to his direct Usefulness—Indirect good that he did—Peculiar character of his Preaching—Witnesses to his real power as a Preacher— Analysis of his seventy-five published Sermons—Simplicity, Directness, Power of Description, Ear nestness, Pat hos Act ion, Voice, a nd Fl uency, hi s l eading E xcellences—Inner Life, Humility, Love to Christ, Laboriousness, Self-denial, Disinterestedness, Cheerfulness, Catholicity—Specimen of his Preaching. GEORGE WHITEFIELD, in my judgment, was so en tirely chief and first among the English Reform ers of the last century, that I m ake no apology for offering some further information about him. The real amount of good he did, the peculiar character of his preaching, the private character of the man, are all points that deserve consideration. They are points, I m ay add, about which there is a vast amount of misconception. This misconception perhaps is unavoidable, and ought not to surprise us. The materials for for ming a correct opi nion about such a m an as Whitefield are necessarily very scanty. He wrot e no book for the m illion, of world-wide fame, like Bunyan’s “Pilgrim ’s Progress.” He headed no crusade against an apostate Church, with a nation at his back, and princes on his side, like Martin Luther. He f ounded no religious denom ination, which pinned its faith on his writings and carefully embalm ed his best acts and words, like John W esley. There are Lutherans and Wesleyans in the present day, but there are no Whitefieldites. No! The great evangelist of last century was a simple, guileless man, who lived for one th ing only, and that was to preach Christ. If he did that, he cared for nothing else. The records of such a man are large and full in heaven, I have no doubt but they are few and scanty upon earth. We must not forget, beside this, that the many in every age see nothing in a man like Whitefield but fanaticism and enthusiasm. They abhor everything like “zeal” in relig ion. They dislike every one who turns the world upside down, and departs from old tr aditional ways, and will no t let the dev il alone. Such persons, no doubt, would tell us th at the m inistry of Whitefield only produced temporary ex citement, th at his p reaching was co mmon-place rant, and that his character had nothing about it to be specially adm ired. It may be feared that eighteen hundred years ago they would have said m uch the sam e of St. Paul. The question, “What good did Whitefield do?” is one which I answer without the least hesitation. I believe that the direct good, which he did to immortal souls, was enormous. I will go further ,—I believe it is in calculable. Credible witnesses in England, Scotland, and America, have placed on record their conv iction that he was th e m eans of converting thousands of people. Many, wherever he preached, were not merely pleased, excited, and arrested, but positively turned from sin, and made thorough servants of God. “Numbering the people,” I do not forget, is at all tim es an objectionable practice. God alone can read hearts and discern the wheat from the tares. Many, no doubt, in days of religious excitement, are set down as converted who are not converted at all. But I wish m y readers to und erstand that my high estim ate of Whitefield’s usefulness is based on a solid foundation. I ask them to mark well what Whitefield’s contemporaries thought of the value of his labours. Franklin, the well-know n American philosopher, was a cold-blooded, cal - 10 culating man, a Quaker by profession, and not likely to form too high an estimate of any minister’s work. Yet even he confessed that “it w as wonderful to see the chan ge soon m ade by his preaching in the m anners of the inhabitan ts of Philadelphia. From being thoughtle ss or indifferent about religion, it seemed as if all the wo rld were gro wing religious.” Franklin him self, it m ay be remarked, was the leading printer of religious works at Philade lphia; and his readiness to prin t Whitefield’s sermons and journals shows his judgm ent of the hold that he had on the American mind. Maclaurin, Willison, and MacCulloch, were Scotch ministers whose names are well known north of the Tweed, and the two for mer of whom deservedly rank high as theological writers. All these have repeatedly testified that Whitefield was made an instrument of doing immense good in Scotland. Willison in particular says, “that God honoured hi m with surprising success am ong sinners of all ranks and persuasions.” Old Henry Venn, of Huddersfield and Yelling, was a m an of strong good sense, as well as of great grace. His opinion was, that “if the greatness, extent, success, and disinterestedness of a m an’s labours can give him distinction among the children of Christ, th en we are warran ted to affirm that scarce any one has equalled Mr. Whitefield.” Agai n he says: “He w as abundantly successful in his vast labours. The seals of his m inistry, from first to last, I am persuaded, were more than could be credited could the number be fixed. This is certain, his am azing popularity was only from his usef ulness; for he no sooner opened his m outh as a preacher, than God comm anded an extraordinary blessing upon his word.” John Newton was a shrewd m an, as well as an em inent m inister of the gospel. His testimony is: “That which finished Mr. Whitefield’s character as a shining ligh t, and is no w his crown of rejoicing, was the singular su ccess which the Lord was pleased to give him in winning souls. It seem ed as if he never pre ached in vain. Perhaps th ere is h ardly a place in all th e exte nsive compass of his labours where som e may not yet be found who thankfully acknowledge him as their spiritual father.” John Wesley did not agree with W hitefield on several theological points of no s mall importance. But when he pr eached his funeral serm on, he said: “Have we read or heard of any pe rson who called so m any thousands, so many myriads of sinners to repentance. A bove all, have we read or heard of any one who has been the blessed inst rument of bringing so m any sinners from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God?” Valuable as these testimonies undoubted ly are, there is one point w hich they leave totally untouched. That point is the quantity of indirect good that Whitefield did. Great as the direct ef fects of his labours were , I believe firmly that the indirect effects were even greater. His ministry was made a blessing to thousands who never perhaps either saw or heard him. He was am ong the first in the eightee nth century who revived attention to the old truths which produced the Prot estant Reformation. His constant assertion of the doctrines taught by the Reformers, his repeated reference to the Articles and Homilies, and the d ivinity of the best English theo logians, obliged many to think, and roused them to examine their own principles. If the whole truth was known, I believe it would prove that the rise and progress of the Evangelical body in the Church of E ngland received a m ighty impulse from George Whitefield. 11 But this is not the only indirect good that W hitefield did in his day. He was among the first to show the right way to meet the attacks of infidels and sceptics on Christianity. He saw clearly th at the most powerful weapon against such men is not cold, m etaphysical reasoning and dry critical disquisition, but preaching the whole g ospel—living the whole gospel—and spread ing the whole gospel. It was not the writings of Lela nd, and the younger Sherlock, and Waterland, and Leslie, th at rolled back the flood of infidelity one half so much as the preach ing of Whitefield and his co mpanions. They were th e men who were the true champions of Christia nity. Infidels are seldom shaken by mere abstract reasoning . The sures t arguments against them are gospel truth and gospel life. Above all, he was the very first Englishm an who seems to have thoroughly understood what Dr. Chalmers aptly called the aggressive system. He was the first to see that Christ’s m inisters must do the work of fisherm en. They must not wait for souls to come to them, but must go after souls, and “compel them to come in.” He did not sit tam ely by his fireside, like a cat in a rainy day, mourning over the wickedness of the land. He went forth to beard the devil in his high places. He attacked sin and wickedness face to face, and gav e them no peace. H e dived into holes and corners after sinners. He hunted out ignorance and vice wherever they could be f ound. In short, he set on foot a system of action that, up to his tim e, had been comparatively unknown in this country, but a sy stem which, once commence d, has never ceased to be em ployed down to the present day. City m issions, town missions, district visiting societies, open-air preachings, home missions, special services, theatre preachings, are all evidences that the value of th e “aggressive system” is now thoroughly recognized by all the C hurches. We understand better how to go to work now than we did a hundred years ago. But let us never forget that the first m an to commence operations of this kind was Ge orge Whitefield, and let us give hi m the credit he deserves. The peculiar character o f Whitefield’s preaching is the subject which next demands some consideration. Men naturally wish to know what was the secret of his unparalleled success. The subject is one surrounded w ith considerable difficulty, and it is no easy m atter to fo rm a correct judgm ent about it. The common idea of m any people, that he was a m ere common place ranting Methodist, rem arkable for nothing but great fluency, strong doctrine, and a loud voice, will not bear a m oment’s investigation. Dr. Johnson was foolish enough to say, that “he vociferated and made an impression, but never drew as much attention as a m ountebank does; a nd that he did not draw attention by doing better than others, but by doing what was strange.” But Johnson was anything bu t infallib le when he be gan to talk about m inisters and religion. Such a theory will not hold water. It is contradictory to undeniable facts. It is a fact that no preacher in Engl and has ever succeeded in arresting the attention of such crowds as W hitefield constantly addressed around London. No preacher has ever been so universally popular in every country that he visited, in England, Scotland, a nd America. No preacher h as ever retained his hold on his hearers so entirely as he di d for thirty-four years. His popularity never waned. It was as great at the end of his day as it was at the beginning. Wherever he preached, men would leave their workshops and employments to gather round him, and hear like those who heard for eternity. This of itself is a great fact to command the ear of “the masses” for a quarter of a century, and 12 to be preaching incessantly the whole time, is an evid ence of no co mmon power. It is another fact that Whitefield’s preaching produced a powerful effect on people in every rank of life. He won the admiration of high as well as low, of rich as well as poor, of learned as well as unlearned. If his preaching had been popular with none but the uneducated and the poor, we m ight have thought it possible that there was little in it bu t declamation and noise. But, so far fro m this being the case, he seems to have been acceptable to numbers of the nobility and gentry. The Marquis of Lothian, the Earl of Leven, the Earl of Buchan, Lord Rae, L ord Dartmouth, Lord Jam es A. Gordon, m ight be nam ed among his warmest admirers, beside Lady Huntingdon and a host of ladies. It is a fact that em inent critics and literary men, like Lord Bolingbroke and Lord Chesterfield, were frequently his delighted hearers. Even the cold a rtificial Chesterfield was known to warm under Whitefield’s eloquence. B olingbroke said, “He is the most extrao rdinary man in our tim es. He has the m ost commanding eloquence I ever heard in a ny person.” Franklin the philosopher spoke in no m easured terms of his pr eaching powers. Hume the historian declared that it was worth going twenty miles to hear him. Now, facts like these can never be e xplained away. They completely upset the theory that Whitefield’s preaching was nothing but noise and rant. Bolingbroke, Chesterfield, Hume, and Franklin, were not men to be easily deceived. They were no mean judges of eloquence. They were probably am ong the best qualified critics of their day. Their u nbought and unbiased opinions appear to me to supply unanswerable proof that there m ust have been som ething very extraordinary about W hitefield’s p reaching. Bu t still, after all, the qu estion remains to be answered, What was the secret of Whitefield’s unrivalled popularity and effectiveness? And I frankly admit that, with the scanty m aterials we possess for for ming our judgm ent, the question is a very hard one to answer. The m an who turns to the seventy -five serm ons published under W hitefield’s name will prob ably be m uch disappointed. He will see in th em no commanding intellect or grasp of m ind. He will find in them no deep philosophy, and no very striking thoughts. It is on ly fair, however, to say, that by far the greater part of thes e sermons were taken down in shor thand by reporters, and published without correction. These worthy men appear to have done their work very indifferently, and were evidently ignorant alike of stopping and paragraphing, of gra mmar and of gospel . The consequence is, that m any passages in these seventy-f ive serm ons are what Bishop Latim er would have called a “m ingle-mangle,” and what we should call in this day “a complete mess.” No wonder that poor W hitefield says, in one of his last letters, dated September 26, 1769, “I wish you had adver tised against the publication of my last sermon. It is not verbatim as I delivered it. It som e places it m akes me speak false concord, and even nonsense. In others the sense and connection are destroyed by injudicious, disjointed paragraphs, and the whole is entire ly unfit for the public review.” I venture, however, to say boldly that , with all their f aults, W hitefield’s printed sermons will well repay a candid perusal. The r eader must recollect that they we re not c arefully prepared for the pr ess, like the sermons of Melville or Bradley, but wretchedly repo rted, paragraphed, and stopped, and he must read with this continually before his mind. Moreover, he must remember 13 that English composition for speaking to hearers, and English composition for private reading, are almost like two different langua ges, so that sermons which “preach” well “read” badly. Let him, I say, remember these two things, and judge accordingly, and I am much m istaken if he does not find much to admire in many of Whitefield’s sermons. For my own part, I m ust plainly say that I think they are greatly underrated. Let me now point out what appear to have been the distinctive characteristics of Whitefield’s preaching. For one thing, Whitefield preached a singularly pure gospel. Few men, perhaps, ever gave their hearers so m uch wheat and so little chaff. He did not get up to talk about his party, his cause, his interest or his office. He was perpetually telling you about your sins, your hear t, Jesus Christ, the Holy Ghost, the absolute need of repentance, faith, and holiness, in the way that the Bib le presents these mighty subjects. “Oh, the righteousness of Jesus Christ!” he would often say; “I m ust be excused if I mention i t in a lmost a ll my s ermons.” Preaching of this kind is the preachin g that God delights to honour. It must be pre-eminently a manifestation of truth. For another thing, W hitefield’s preaching was singularly lucid and sim ple. His hearers, whatever they might think of his doctrine, could never fail to understand what he m eant. His style of speaking was easy, plain, and conversational. He seem ed to abhor long and i nvolved sentences. He always saw his mark, and went directly at it. He sel dom troubled his hearers with abstruse argument and intricate reasoning. S imple Bible statem ents, apt illustrations, and pertinent anecdotes, were the m ore common weapons that he used. The consequence was that his hearers always understood him. He never shot above their heads. Here again is one g rand element of a preacher’s success. He must labour by all m eans to be understood. It was a wise saying of Archbishop Usher, “To m ake easy things seem hard is ev ery m an’s wo rk; but to m ake hard things easy is the work of a great preacher.” For another thing, Whitefield was a singularly bold and direct preacher. He never used that indefinite expression “we,” which seem s so peculiar to English pulpit oratory, and wh ich only leaves a h earer’s mind in a s tate of m isty confusion. He met men face to face, like one who had a message from God to them, “I have come here to speak to you about your soul.” The result was that many of his hearers used often to thi nk that his sermons were specially meant for themselves. He was not content, as many, with sticking on a m eagre tailpiece of application at the end of a long discourse. On the contrary, a constant vein of application ran through all his sermons. “This is for you, and this is for you.” His hearers were never let alone. Another striking feature in W hitefield’s preaching was his singular po wer of description. The Arabians have a proverb which says, “He is the best orator who can turn m en’s ears into eyes.” Whitefield seems to have had a peculiar faculty of doing this. He dram atized his subject so thoroughly that it seem ed to move and walk before your eyes. He used to draw such vivid pictures of the things he w as handling, that his hear ers could believe th ey actually saw and heard them. “On one oc casion,” says one of his biographers, “Lord Chesterfield was among his hearers. The great preacher, in describing the m iserable condition of an unconv erted sinner, illu strated the subject by describing a blind beggar. The night was dark, a nd the road dangerous. The poor mendicant was deserted by his dog near the edge of a precipice, and had nothing to 14 aid him in groping his way but his staff. W hitefield so warmed with his subject, and en forced it with such gra phic power, that th e whole aud itory was kept in breathless silence, as if it saw the movements of the poor old man; and at length, when the beggar was about to take the fatal step which would have hurled him down the precipice to certain destruction, Lord Chesterfield actually made a rush forward to save hi m, exclaiming aloud, ‘He is gone! he is gone!’ The noble lord h ad been so entirel y carried away by the preach er, that he forgot the whole was a picture.” Another leading characteris tic of Whitefield’s p reaching was his trem endous earnestness. One poor uneducated m an said of hi m, that “he preached like a lion.” He succeeded in showing people that he at least believed all he was saying, and that his h eart, and soul, and m ind, and strength, were bent on making them believe it too. His sermons were not like the morning and evening gun at Portsm outh, a kind of form al discharge, fired off as a m atter of course, that disturbs nobody. They were all life and fire. There was no getting away from them. Sleep was next to im possible. You must listen whether you liked it or not. There w as a holy violence about him which firm ly took your attention by storm. You were fairly car ried off your legs by his energy before you had time to consider what you would do. This, we m ay be sure, was one secret of his success. We m ust convince men that we are in earnest ourselves if we want to be believed. The diffe rence between one preacher and another, is of ten not so m uch in the things said, as in the m anner in which the y are said. It is recorded by one of his biographers that an American gentleman once went to hear him , for the first tim e, in consequence of the report he heard of his preaching powers. The day was ra iny, the congregation com paratively thin, and the beginning of the sermon rather heavy. Our Am erican friend began to say to him self; “This m an i s no great wonder after all” He looked round, and saw the congregation as little interested as him self. One old m an, in front of t he pulpit, had fallen asl eep. But all at once Whitefield stopped short. His countenance changed. And then he suddenly broke forth in an altered tone: “If I had com e to speak to you in my own na me, you m ight well rest your elbows on your knees, and your heads on your hands, and sleep; and once in a w hile look up, and say, What is this babbler talking of? But I have not come to you in m y own name. No! I have come to you in the nam e of the Lord of Hosts” There he brought down his hand and foot with a force that made the building ring), “and I must and will be heard.” The congregation started. The old m an woke up at once. “Ay, ay!” cried Whitefield, fixing his eyes on him, “I have waked you up, have I? I meant to do it. I am not com e here to preach to stocks and stones: I have come to you in the nam e of the Lord God of Hosts, and I must, and will, have an audience.” The hearers were stripped of their apathy at once. Every word of the sermon after this was heard with deep attention, and the American gentleman never forgot it. One m ore feature in Whitefield’s p reaching deserves sp ecial notice; and that is, the immense a mount of pathos a nd feeling which it always contained. It was no uncommon thing with him to weep profusely in the pulpit. Cornelius Winter, who often acco mpanied him in his latter journ eys, went so far as to say that he hardly ever knew hi m get through a serm on without som e tears. There seems to have been nothing of aff ectation in th is. He felt intensely for the souls before him, and his feelings found an outlet in tears. Of all the ingre- 15 dients of his success in preaching, none, I suspect, were so powerful as this. It awakened affections and touched secr et springs in m en, which no a mount of reasoning and demonstration could have moved. It smoothed down the prejudices which m any had conceived against him. They could not hate the m an who wept so m uch over their souls. “I came to hear you,” said one to him, “with my pocket full of stones, intending to break your head; but your sermon got the better of m e, and broke m y heart.” Once becom e satisfied that a m an loves you, and you will listen gladly to anything he has to say. I will now ask the r eader to add to th is analysis of Whitefield’s preaching, that even by nature he possessed several of the rarest gifts which fit a man to be an orator. His action was perfect—so perfect that even Garrick, the famous actor, gave it unqualified praise. His voice was as wonderful as his action—so powerful that he could m ake thirty thousand people hear him at once, and yet so musical and well toned that som e said he could raise tears by his pronunciation of the word “Mesopotamia.” His manner in the pulpit was so curiously graceful and fascinating that it was s aid that no one could hear him for five minutes without forgetting that he squi nted. His fluency and comm and of appropriate language were of the highest order, prompting him always to use the right word and to put it in the righ t place. Ad d, I repeat, these gifts to the things already mentioned, and then consid er whether there is not sufficient in our hands to account for his power and popularity as a preacher. For my own part, I have no hesitation in saying that I believe no English preacher has ever possessed such a com bination of excellent qualification s as Whitefield. Some, no doubt, have surpassed him in som e of his gifts; others, perhaps, have equalled him in others. But for a well-balanced combination of some of the finest gifts that a preach er can possess, united with an unrivalled voice, manner, delivery, action, and co mmand of words, Whitefield, I repeat my opinion, stands alone. No Englishm an, I believe, dead or alive, has ever equalled him. And I suspect we shall always find that, just in proportion as preachers h ave appro ached that curious com bination of rare gifts which Whitefield possessed, just in that very proportion have they attained what Clarendon defines true el oquence to be—“a strange power of m aking themselves believed.” The inner life and perso nal character of this great spiritual hero of the last century are a branch of my subject on which I shall not dwell at any length. In fact, there is no necessity for m y doi ng so. He was a singularly transparent man. There was nothing about him re quiring apology or explanation. His faults and good qualities were both clear and plain as noon-day. I shall therefore content m yself with sim ply poin ting out the prom inent features of his character, so far as they can be gathered from his letters and the acco unts of his contemporaries, and then bring my sketch of him to a conclusion. He was a man of deep and unf eigned humility. No one can read th e fourteen hundred letters of his, published by Dr. Gillies, without observing this. Again and again, in the ve ry zenith of his popularity, we find him speaking of himself and his works in the lowliest terms. “God be merciful to me a sinner,” he writes on September 11, 1753, “and give me, for his infinite m ercy’s sake, an humble, thankful, and re signed heart Truly I am viler tha n the viles t, and stand am azed at his employing such a wr etch as I am .” “Let none of my friends,” he writes on D ecember 27, 1753, “cry to such a slu ggish, lukewarm, unprofitable wor m, Spa re thyself. Rath er spur m e on, I pray you, with an 16 Awake, thou sleeper, and begin to do so mething for thy God.” Language like this, no doubt, seem s foolishness and a ffectation to the world; bu t the wellinstructed Bible reader will see in it the heartfelt experience of all the brightest saints. It is the language of men like Baxter, and Brainerd, and M’Cheyne. It is the same mind that was in the inspired Apostle Paul. Those that have most light and grace are always the humblest men. He was a man of burning love to our Lord Jesus Christ. That name which is “above every na me” stands out incessant ly in all his co rrespondence. Like fragrant ointment, it gives a savour to all his communications. He seems never weary of saying something about Jesus. “My Master,” as George Herbert said, is never long out of his m ind. His love, his atonement, his precious blood, his righteousness, his readiness to receive sinners, his patience and tender dealing with sa ints, are them es wh ich appear ever fresh befo re his eyes. In this re - spect, at least, there is a curious likeness between him and that glorious Scotch divine, Samuel Rutherford. He was a man of unwearied diligence and laboriousness about his Master’s business. It would be difficult, perhaps, to name any one in the ann als of the Churches who worked so hard for Christ, and so thoroughly spent him self in his service. Henry Venn, in a funeral serm on for hi m, preached at Bath, bore the following testim ony:—“What a sign and wonder was this m an of God in the greatness of his labours! One cannot but stand am azed that his m ortal frame could, for the space of near thirty years, without interruption, sustain the weight of them ; for what so tryi ng to the hum an fra me, in youth especially, as long-continued, frequent, and violent stra ining o f the lung s? W ho that knows their structure would think it possible that a person little above the age of m anhood could speak in a single week, and that for years—in general forty hours, and in very m any weeks si xty—and that to thousands; and after this labour, instead of ta king any rest, could be o ffering up prayers and intercessions, with hymns and spiritual songs, as his manner was, in every house to which he was invited? The truth is, that in point of labour this extraordinary servant of God did as much in a few w eeks as most of those who exert th emselves are able to do in the space of a year.” He was to the end a man of eminent self-denial. His style of living was most sim ple. He was re markable to a proverb for m oderation in eating and drinking. All through life he was an ear ly riser. His usual hour for getting up was four o’clock, both in summ er and winter; and equally p unctual was he in retiring about ten at night A m an of pr ayerful habits, he frequently spent whole nights in reading and devotion. Cornelius Winter, who often slept in the same room, says that he would sometim es rise during the night for this purpose. He cared little for m oney, except as a help to the cau se of Christ, and refused it, when pressed upon him for his own use, once to the am ount of £7000. He am assed no fortune, and founde d no wealthy fa mily. The little money he left behind him at his death arose entirely from the legacies of friends. The Pope’s coarse saying about Luther, “This Germ an beast does not love gold,” might have been equally applied to Whitefield. He was a man of re markable disinter estedness and singleness of eye. He seemed to live only for two objects —the glory of God and the salva tion of souls. Of secondary and covert object s he knew nothing at all. He raised no party of followers who took his name. He established no denom inational system, of whi ch his own writings should be cardinal elem ents. A favourite ex- 17 pression of his is m ost characteristic of the m an: “Let the nam e of Ge orge Whitefield perish, so long as Christ is exalted.” He was a m an of a singularly happy and cheerful spirit. No one who saw him could ever doubt that he enjoyed hi s religion. Tried as he was in m any ways throughout his m inistry—slandered by som e, despised by others, m isrepresented by false brethren, opposed everywhere by the ignorant clergy of his time, worried by incessant controversy—his elasticity never failed him. He was eminently a rejoicing Christian, whose very demeanour recommended his Master’s service. A venerable lady of New York, after his death, when speaking of the influences by which the S pirit won her heart to G od, used these remarkable words,—“Mr. W hitefield was so ch eerful tha t it tem pted m e to become a Christian.” Last, but not least, he w as a m an of extraordinary charity, catholicity, and liberality in his relig ion. He knew not hing of that narrow- minded feeling which m akes som e m en fancy that ever ything must be barren outside their own camps, and that thei r own party has got a co mplete monopoly of truth and heaven. He loved all who loved the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity. He measured all by the m easure which the angels use,—“Did they profess repentance towards God, faith towards our Lo rd Jesus Christ, and holiness of conversation?” If they did, they were as his brethren. His soul was with such men, by whatever na me they were called. Minor differences were wood, hay, and stubble to him. The marks of the Lord Je sus were the only marks he cared for. This catholicity is the more remarkable when the spirit of the times he lived in is considered. Even the Erskines, in Scotland, wanted him to preach for no other denom ination but their own—vi z., the Secession Church. He asked them, “ Why only for them ?”—and receiv ed th e notable an swer that “they were the L ord’s peop le.” This was more than W hitefield could stand. He asked “if there were no other Lord’s people but them selves;” he told them, “if all others were the devil’s people, they certainly had more need to be preached to!” and he wound up by informing them, that “if the Pope himself would lend him his pulpit, he would gladly proclaim the righteousness of Christ in it” To this catholicity of spirit he adhered a ll his days. If other Christians m isrepresented him, he forgave them ; and it they r efused to work with him , he still loved them . Nothing could be a more weighty testim ony against narrowmindedness than his request, m ade shortly before his death, that, when he did die, John Wesley should be asked to preach his funeral sermon. W esley and he had long ceased to agree about Calv inistic points; but Whitefield, to the very last, was determined to forget minor differences, and to regard Wesley as Calvin did Luther, “only as a good servan t of Jesus Christ.” On another occasion a censorious professor of religi on asked him “ whether he thought they would see John Wesley in heaven?” “No, sir,” was the striking answer; “I fear not he will be so near the throne, and we shall be at su ch a distan ce, that we shall hardly get a sight of him.” Far be it from m e to say that the su bject of this chapter was a m an without faults. Lik e all God’s saints, he was an im perfect creatu re. He som etimes erred in judgment He often drew rash conclusions about Providence, and m istook his own inclination for God’s lead ings. He was frequently hasty both with his tongue and his pen. He had no business to say that “Archbishop Tillotson knew no more of the gospel than Mahomet.” He was wrong to set down some people as the Lo rd’s enemies, and others as the Lord’s friends so pre- 18 cipitately and positively as he sometimes did. He was to blame for denouncing many of the clergy as “letter-learned Pharisees, ” because they could not receive the doctrine of the ne w birth. But still, af ter all this has been said, there can be no doubt that in the m ain he was an eminently holy, self-denying, and consistent man. “The faults of his character,” say s an American writer, “were like spots on the sun—detected without much difficulty by any cool and careful observer who takes pains to look for them, but to all practical purposes lost in one general and genial effulgence.” W ell indeed would it be for the Churches of our day, if God was to give them more m inisters like the great evangelist of England a hundred years ago! It only remains to say that those who wish to know m ore about Whitefield would do well to peruse the seven volum es of his letters and other publications, which Dr. Gillies edited in 17 70. I am much m istaken if they are not agreeably surprised at th eir contents. To me it is matter of astonishm ent that, amidst the m any reprints of the ninet eenth century, no pu blisher has yet attempted a complete reprint of the works of George Whitefield. A short extract from the conclusion of a sermon preached by Whitefield on Kennington Common, may be in teresting to some read ers, and m ay serve to give them some faint idea of the great preacher’s style. It was a sermon on the text, “What think ye of Christ?” (Matt xxii. 42.) “O my brethren, my heart is enlarged towards you. I trust I feel som ething of that hidden but powerful presence of Christ, whilst I am preaching to you. Indeed it is sweet—it is exceeding ly comfortable. All the harm I wish you, who without cause are my ene mies, is that you felt the like. Believe m e, though it w ould be hell to m y soul to return to a natura l state again, yet I would willingly change states with you for a little while, that you m ight know what it is to have Christ dwelling in your hearts by faith. Do not turn your backs. Do not let the dev il hurry you away. Be not afraid of convictions. Do not think worse of the doctrine because preach ed without the church walls. Our Lord, in the days of his flesh, preached on a mount, in a ship, and a field; and I am persuaded many have felt his gracious presence here. Indeed, we speak what we know. Do not therefor e reject the kingdom of God a gainst yourselves. Be so wise as to receive our witness. “I canno t, I will no t let you go. Stay a little, and let us reason togeth er. However lightly you m ay esteem your s ouls, I know our Lord has set an unspeakable value on them. He thought them worthy of his most precious blood. I beseech you, therefore, O sinners, be ye reconciled to God. I hope you do not fear being accep ted in th e Belo ved. Behold , he calleth you. Behold , he prevents, and follows you with his mercy, and hath sent forth his servants into the highways and hedges to compel you to come in. “Remember, then, that at such an hour of such a day, in such a year, in this place, you were all to ld what you ought to think concern ing Jesus Ch rist. If you now perish, it will not be from lack of knowle dge. I am free from the blood of you all. You cannot say I have been p reaching damnation to you. You cannot say I have, like legal preachers, been requiring you to make bricks without straw. I have not bidden you to make yourselves saints and then come to God. I have offered you salvation on as cheap term s as you can desire. I have offered you Christ’s whole wis dom, Christ’s whole righteousness, Christ’s whole sanctification and eter nal redemption, if yo u will but b elieve on him. If you say you cannot believe, you say right; for faith, as well as every 19 other blessing, is the gift of God. But then wait upon God, and who knows but he may have mercy on thee. “Why do we not entertain more loving thoughts of Christ? Do you think he will have mercy on others and not on you? Are you not sinners? Did not Jesus Christ come into the world to save sinners? “If you say you are the chief of sinners, I answer th at will be no hindrance to your salv ation. Indeed it will not, if you lay hold on Christ by faith. Read the Evangelists, and see how kindly he be haved to his disciples, who had fled from and denied him. ‘Go, tell my brethren,’ says he. He did not say, ‘Go, tell those traitors,’ but, ‘Go, tell m y brethr en and P eter.’ It is as though he had said, ‘Go, tell m y brethren in general, a nd Peter in particular, that I am risen. Oh, comfort his poor drooping heart. Tell him I am reconciled to him. Bid him weep no m ore so bitterly. For though with oaths and curses he thrice denied me, yet I have died for his sins; I have risen again for his justification: I freely forgive him all.” Thus slow to ange r and of great kindn ess, was ou r allmerciful High Priest. A nd do you think he has changed his nature and f orgets poor sinners, now he is exalted to the ri ght hand of God? No; he is the same yesterday, today, and forever; and sittet h there only to m ake intercession for us. “Come, then, ye harlots; com e, ye publicans; com e, ye most abandoned sinners, come and believe on Jesus Ch rist. Though the w hole world despise you and cast you out, yet he will not disd ain to take you up. Oh a mazing, oh infinitely condescending love! even you he will not be asham ed to call his brethren. How will you escape if you neglect such a glo rious offer of salvation? What would the d amned spirits now in the prison of hell g ive if Christ was so freely offered to them . And why are we not lifting up our eyes in torments? Does any one out of this great multitude dare say he does not deserve damnation? Why are we left, and others taken away by death? What is this but an instance of God’s free grace, an d a sign of his good-will toward u s? Let God’s goodness lead us to repentance. O h, let there be joy in heaven over some of you repenting!” 20 FOOTNOTES 1 Happening to be at Oxford in June 1865, I went to Pembroke College, and as ked whether any one knew the rooms which Whitefield occupied when he was at Oxfo rd. The porter informed me that nothing whatever was known about them. The rooms, which the famous Dr. Johnson occupied at Pem broke, are still p ointed out. Johnson left Ox ford just before Whitefield went up. 2 The reader will remember that all th is happened a hu ndred years ag o, when London was comparatively a sm all place. Most of t he open places where Whitefield preac hed are now covered with buildings. Kennington Oval and Blackheath alone remain open at this day. 21