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Ne mt pcg at NTN a Si te CREE ONEL TT FS: Er ee tO a Sele des ae é cpp ret mrs EC RN tel 0 Te aes etometarenne ree rr apy Sretrs in eno can San Siete NR (gt REIT RT ae ra PO ELT A i NO Mle oO OF ae ct ge aT esha tagahndsaeee re ene TE on aN — Rte e ml atram me? ae ee a: So ted ba cemenlnewey te eae ene en een Ar rea asia aesiee eg ge PE ET ON SOE 8 IEE tt EEL OA NEE IO E errs 4 — crite 8 dpe peptiamahanetnn ge ee lt hee je mae aa pe A “ ee ee te ee eames inte see meet tt Cie as GS sat AP A ANA OO TLS LT SES 3 Foe te nae are Lee ar pat ge a wt Pa AE AE EPIC NIE Ns TE ¥ saa aint fs st A nee aS ar Frat Nty ene et a ae ean tes BX 9225 .W4 N5 1924 Ninde, Edward Summerfield, 1866-1935. George Whitefield, prophet- preacher Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2022 with funding from Princeton Theological Seminary Library https://archive.org/details/georgewhitefieldOOnind GEORGE WHITEFIELD PROPHET—PREACHER By | EDWARD S. NINDE THE ABINGDON PRESS NEW YORK CINCINNATI Copyright, 1924, by EDWARD S.NINDE All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian Printed in the United States of America he ei re { Lae : A: ‘dh j LA. aah nae : { ‘ce Aste e fe ve ean, oe Seeds re) eae Mean ry es ne i? - y 1) BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE STORY OF THE AMERICAN HYMN CUSAT AL hee SERRE RS SRSA CEE wonwosst SSCS STATUE OF WHITEFIELD, UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA IN REVERENT MEMORY OF MY PARENTS CHAPTER CONTENTS PAGE IRR RACH mcr atin eur Aniek, ty nomen e hrc iota 11 CHRONOLOGICAL OUTLINE OF WHITEFIELD’s Lire 13 IBORNeAN DL DORNCAG AIN : Lange oy nine pater pan ie 15 IRS TOV EEN TURES set vey hls leiedatig fe hen kee maa 25 ATIFANDMNGDARKNESS lia onde nue NI ny 35 LWA PINGEIN TOLLE AME con cube) anoh we sien lacie Rtn Wee ae 45 ENE RIRS EEN TH Ey oRGA ora ey un ein yee sn ote he ai 55 Pe OViss OF MGHILDREN ssh seid hat eit ys dae rhs: ‘VHEsV OICR OF A, PROPHET ice ee. es 89 Tue Bririsu IsLes FoR CHRIST.............. 99 RANGING AND HuntTING IN AMERICA.......... 125 WHITEFIELD THE PREACHER..... Th eae 159 VVHITERIELD (CH Ba DAN Sr ost) 40s cute esha 181 WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT... 25.2... 00500055. 197 Ill. Vic VII. VIII. IX. ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE Bronze statue of George Whitefield, by Dr. R. Tait McKenzie. Erected in 1919, in the dormitory triangle of the University of Pennsylvania, by Alumni of the Institution who were ministers and laymen of the MethodistyChurchyints ce te ernie eit ane Frontispiece Painting of Whitefield, at the age of twenty-seven, by Woolastan; in the National Portrait Gallery, London. GOpyrigh Cec Veet tales Sree ees eee eactelees hus ernie Rtie platy 48 From a drawing of Savannah, made in 1734, a little before Whitefield’s first visit. Courtesy of the New York PTD UCELADEALY 4 ceria red he ores Aceh aed Seno geen ooe aha te 65 The Tottenham Court Chapel, with front addition; erected for Whitefield, in London, in 1756. From a drawing EOD SOUL TAG ae coheed pereine Men SHI EN tnph ey ALARMS. fF 111 Second page of an autograph letter written by Whitefield from London on March 25, 1762, to “‘Mr. Read.’’ Photographed from the copy in the library of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania.................. 122 News items concerning Whitefield inserted by Benjamin Franklin in his Pennsylvania Gazette of November 29, 1739, and May 1, 1740. Photographed from the Gazette in the library of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. Whenever Whitefield was in the neighborhood of Phila- delphia, Franklin’s paper was full of references to him.. 134 A section of Whitefield’s autograph Journal, in the Library of the Princeton Theological Seminary. Photographed by courtesy of Dr. J. H. Dulles, Librarian............ 146 The old Philadelphia Court House on the right. The bal- cony was one of Whitefield’s favorite preaching-places. From a rare print in the collection of the Historical DOCIeLVEOLLLCONSYVLVAlIa rites eset eet arte eel os 162 On the left is the ““New Building,” in Philadelphia, where Whitefield’s Charity School—forerunner of the Univer- sity of Pennsylvania—was first held; and where he OLLENSPLeaChednwiec ieee ieee idly ere Ma erel ove Seater 162 XIV. Vi XVI. XVII. ILLUSTRATIONS FACING PAGE Whitefield’s Field-Pulpit, from which he preached more than 2,000 times; now in New York, in the possession of the American Tract Society, by whose courtesy this picture was taken. The platform of the pulpit stands three feet above the ground; the entire framework can be quickly taken apart or put together. The wood is almost as sound as the day it was first cut........... Portrait of Whitefield, painted by Nathaniel Hone in L768 2 Oe Re IE Bre el a rota he eta tele este Gaetan Cite va oe ey ee Whitefield’s last portrait. Painted by Russell in 1769. National Portrait Gallery, London. Copyrighted..... The old Tennent Church, as it now appears, near Freehold, N.J., where Whitefield delighted to preach. This and the following picture are taken from “‘A Brochure on Old Tennent,” by kind permission of the present pastor, Rev. -Charles’T.). Bates, Bi Dat {We ae ee The old Tennent parsonage at Freehold, just before it was torn down in 1866. Here Whitefield used to be enter- tained, and here occurred the conversation on death referred to Im our narrative. (3... eee An eighteenth-century painting of the Old South Presby- terian Church in Newburyport, Massachusetts, where Whitefield often preached, and where he was entombed. The first house directly in the rear is where William Lloyd Garrison was born. The house just beyond is the parsonage where Whitefield died. He occupied the front second-story room, facing this way. For assist- ance in securing this and the following picture, and for many other courtesies, the author is deeply indebted to the Rev. A. McDonald Paterson, D.D., the present pastor of the “Ohi# South... 32.2... The pulpit in the Old South Presbyterian Church, New- buryport, Massachusetts: — 220i) sooee aoe ee Whitefield prepared for burial. From an extremely rare broadsheet issued in Boston just after the funeral, and now in the collection of the Historical Society of Pennsylvania cot) eee eee 10 178 185 199 202 202 208 209 PREFACE Very little has been written on Whitefield in re- cent years. The standard Lives are out of print, and almost nothing can be obtained in the book- market. This, if nothing else, would seem to justify a new study of the great preacher’s career. The present volume is in no sense a full biog- raphy. Numerous details have been omitted, many of them bearing on controversial and other sub- jects which have little or no interest for present- day readers. Nor has the chronological method been strictly followed. The aim has been to bring together, in specific groupings, those outstanding and colorful facts which show the real Whitefield: the Prophet- Preacher who left his impress on two continents; and the Man of like passions with ourselves. The sources of information are ample. Besides all that his contemporaries and later writers have told us, we have his own “Short Account” and “Further Account” of his early life, his Journals and Sermons, and 1,465 Letters from his pen; to- gether with the many pamphlets he published be- tween 1738 and the time of his death, which throw light on his ministry. Happily, our American his- torical collections are rich in original material. Epwarp 8S. NINDE. West Chester, Pennsylvania. 11 CHAPTER I BORN AND BORN AGAIN ? TF a 4 ids yy CHAPTER I BORN AND BORN AGAIN Lord Jesus, make us great proficients in the school of thy cross.* I have put my soul, as a blank, into the hands of Jesus Christ my Redeemer, and desired him to write upon it what he pleases. I know it will be his own image. 1The quotations at the opening of each chapter are chiefly from Whitefield’s letters. CHAPTER I BORN AND BORN AGAIN NortHwest from London, a hundred miles as the crow flies, is the quaint old town of Gloucester. The lofty tower of the ancient cathedral looks down on many an historic spot. Over toward the Welsh hills les the hamlet where William Tyndale was born. In Saint Mary’s Square, under the very shadow of the cathedral, the stout-hearted Bishop Hooper died at the stake, rather than surrender his Protestant convictions to “Bloody Mary.” Yonder, in Southgate Street, in that curious timber-framed house, Robert Raikes, of Sunday school fame, used to live, while farther on is the place where he or- ganized the first group of children. But most in- teresting of all, for our present purpose, is the old Bell Inn, where, nine days before Christmas, in the year 1714, a boy was born whom his parents named “George,” and who became one of the mightiest preachers of the gospel since Apollos. We cannot help contrasting the boyhood advan- tages of George Whitefield with those of John and Charles Wesley. The Wesleys, born and reared in the tonic atmosphere of the Epworth parsonage; a devout father; their mother, one of the rarest women of that or of any age; from infancy, ideally 17 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER trained for life’s duties. Whitefield, brought up in a public house, with its daily round of drunken brawls; when two years old losing his father; his mother, a sincere woman, of good intentions but of ordinary parts; up to his thirteenth year receiv- ing a very meager education, and having no ade- quate religious oversight. The marvel is that the boy did not go through life a common bartender, utterly unheard of beyond the borders of the town where he was born. To the end of his days, and with good reason, Whitefield never ceased to magnify the divine grace that had saved him. But under the mistaken no- tion that the blacker he painted himself the more he glorified God, he unconsciously fell into the habit of exaggerating his badness. During his first voyage to America he wrote out an account of his early years. If we were to accept the description at its face value, we would be shocked at some things he relates. According to his own statement, he was depraved from the day he was born, and as time went on he broke the Commandments and was guilty of the most scandalous conduct. And yet, in spite of his appalling catalogue of misdeeds, we have reason to believe that he was not worse, but much better than the average boy and young man in Gloucester. He was never vicious, and in his wrongdoing there was often a curious mingling of good and bad. Occasionally he stole money from his mother, but more than likely he hurried off to 18 BORN AND BORN AGAIN give half of it to a poor family; and when he took books that did not belong to him, often they were devotional books, Two centuries ago England had no regular pub- lic-school system, and a poor boy stood but a slim chance of obtaining an education. In Gloucester, happily, there was an endowed school, connected with the Saint Mary de Crypt Church. A limited number of boys were received, and when he was twelve years old young Whitefield was admitted as a pupil. In accord with the ideas of those days, he was almost at once set to work on Latin; but far more important, his genius on the rostrum was quickly seen, and he soon became the star speaker on all public occasions. At that time, in most schools, much was made of dramatic performances, and this mightily appealed to George. He grew passionately fond of reading plays and then of act- ing them, and more than once he neglected his other studies, and remained home for days at a time to prepare himself to take part in a school exhibition. Often he was dressed up as a girl, a fact that in after years filled him with shame and remorse. As he approached his fifteenth birthday he de- cided to leave school and go to work. Apparently, a university course was out of the question, and, as he tells us, “more learning I thought would spoil me for a tradesman.” So for eighteen months he was in the employ of his mother at the Bell Inn. “I put on my blue apron and my snuffers [to trim or 19 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER extinguish the candles], washed mops, cleaned rooms, and, in one word, became professed and common drawer,” or bartender, as we would call it. But the lad was restless; this was not his place and he knew it. A divine Hand was upon him; a divine Voice was calling him. Mind and soul were in a tumult. He had all manner of conflicting expe- riences. One day he would be carried out of himself, filled with “unspeakable rapture”; the next he would be in the depths, yielding to sin. In a burst of confidence he unbosomed his heart to his sister: “God intends something for me which we know not of.” Secretly he longed to go to Oxford, for he had a strange feeling that he ought to be a preacher. It was in his blood. His great-grandfather White- field and his great-uncle had both been ministers, and in the intervals between handing out drinks he was composing sermons. One day something happened. A former school- mate, like George, a poor lad, had entered the Uni- versity. When home on a vacation, he called on George and his mother, and reported that he had just completed a term, and after meeting every ex- pense had one penny to the good. “Upon that my mother immediately cried out, “This will do for my son! ‘Then, turning to me, she said, ‘Will you go to Oxford, George? I replied, ‘With all my heart!’ The matter was settled then and there, and it marked the beginning of a new life. A week later he was back at the Saint Mary de Crypt 20 BORN AND BORN AGAIN School for further preparation, and within a year he was an undergraduate at Pembroke College, Oxford. Like his young friend, he had to earn his way. The great majority of the students were from wealthy families, but it was the custom to admit a few from humble homes and let them support them- selves by waiting on the tables of Fellows and Gen- tlemen Commoners. They were called “servitors,”’ and it is interesting to know that the father of John Wesley, and a number of other well-known Oxford graduates, belonged to this class. Whitefield entered college late in the fall of 1732, shortly before his eighteenth birthday. The Wes- leys had already been there for quite a time, and the little group nicknamed “Methodists,” or, “The Holy Club,” had been meeting regularly for three years. Whitefield had heard of them before going to Oxford, and he longed to know them, but a year passed before he obtained an introduction. At once he was welcomed to the society as a brother beloved. He had felt very lonely during the opening months. Socially he enjoyed no standing with the great bulk of the students, and the religious atmosphere was anything but congenial to a young man who wanted to be a genuine Christian. When Parliament passed the Act of diet artie in 1662, requiring all clergymen and University men to conform to the usages of the Established Church, on pain of expulsion, not only were two 21 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER thousand of the ablest occupants of English pulpits driven from their parishes, but the universities also lost many of their finest professors and Fellows and undergraduates. Spiritual life at once declined and almost died out, and a moral lethargy that was utterly deadening overspread the colleges. Reli- gion became a mere form, and in Whitefield’s day even the form was sneered at. Deism was rampant, and it was freely said that the universities were “dens of infidelity.” No wonder that, with reli- gious restraints gone, morals collapsed. Profanity, gambling, and drunkenness were but outstanding offenses in a long train of evils. The one spiritual oasis at Oxford was the Holy Club, and fortunate was the student from Gloucester when he was admitted. And yet, even the Club could assist him only in a measure. He had been a nominal Christian since he was sixteen, if not before, but, like the Wesleys, he was to pass through a long and painful struggle before enter- ing into the full joy and liberty of a son of God. If there was ever a young fellow that needed reli- gious help, it was George Whitefield. Joln and Charles Wesley befriended him. ‘They were the soul of kindness in encouraging and counseling the boy, so many years their junior. But at that time they themselves were groping in the dark, and there was little they could do for others, What a half-decade it was, from 1730 to 1735, in the life of this young servitor at Pembroke! He 22 BORN AND BORN AGAIN was desperately in earnest, determined to win God’s favor though he perished in the attempt. He has left us an account of the austerities which from time to time he practiced. “I began to leave off eating fruits and such like. . . . I always chose the worst sort of food. ... My apparel was mean. I wore a patched gown and dirty shoes.” For a long while he regularly fasted “twice a week for thirty-six hours together,” and “I fasted myself almost to death all the forty days of Lent.” He deliberately exposed himself to the cold “till part of one of my hands was quite black.” “My continued abstinence . so emaciated my body that I could scarce creep upstairs.” In his weakened state he became subject to terrifying hallucinations. “Whole days and weeks have I spent in lying prostrate on the ground,” writhing under satanic torments. At last his condition grew so serious that his tutor was alarmed and called a physician. No wonder that the tutor, as well as the friends in Gloucester when they heard of these things, were sure the young man had gone mad. He was not mad, but he was strug- gling toward the light, and he had not yet learned to say: “In my hand no prite I bring; Simply to thy cross I cling.” He thought he could earn his own way, and he failed. When his agony of soul was at the limit, help 23 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER came from an unexpected source. In 1678 a young clergyman by the name of Henry Scougal died in Scotland. He was only twenty-eight, but he had lived long enough to write a book entitled The Life of God in the Soul of Man. In these days both the writer and his book are almost unheard of, but God used that little volume in a wonderful way. It fell into the hands of Charles Wesley, and proved such a blessing to him that he passed it on to his friend Whitefield. As the young man read, the light began to dawn and he saw where he had blun- dered. “God soon showed me that ‘true religion was a union of the soul with God, and Christ formed within us.’” Then “a ray of divine light was instantaneously darted in upon my soul, and from that moment, but not till then, did I know that I must be a new creature.” Whitefield dated his actual conversion about seven weeks after Easter, in the year 1735. A few months before he died, he said: “I know the place. . . . Whenever I go to Oxford, I cannot help running to the spot where Jesus Christ first revealed himself to me, and gave me the new birth.” Henceforth he was indeed a new man. The haunting fears, the self-torture, the morose temper, were gone. He was jubilant in the peace and comfort of a simple faith in Jesus Christ. No wonder that to his dying day the New Birth held the supreme place in his thought and in his preaching. 24 CHAPTER II FIRST VENTURES Christ is the believer’s Hollow Square; and if we keep close in that, we are impregnable. Here only I find my refuge. Garrisoned in this, I can bid defiance to men and devils. Our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual ene- mies. When Eve began to gaze on the forbidden fruit with her eyes, she began to long after it with her heart. CHAPTER II FIRST VENTURES W HITEFIELD was victor, but he bore the scars of conflict to the close of life. ‘There can be no doubt that the ill health from which he suffered more or less all through the years was due in part to the harsh way he treated his body while at Oxford. As an immediate outcome he was compelled to leave college in May, 1735, and return to Gloucester for nine months of recuperation. But while he rested he was not idle. He talked with a number of young people, and a society for prayer and Bible study was formed for those who, like himself, were eager to become more proficient Christians. Every day he called on the poor and the sick, and he made fre- quent visits to the county jail. He read many valu- able books, and did his best to grow strong in soul as well as in body. As we have already seen, when a mere boy, be- fore he ever went to Oxford, George had a strange presentiment that some time he would be a preacher. Quite innocently he chanced one day to mention this to his mother, but the good woman, regarding it as a bit of youthful arrogance, ex- claimed: “What does the boy mean? Pri thee hold thy tongue!’ But after entering college the divine 27 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER call grew so clear that every doubt vanished. ‘The only question then was, When should he take the step? He wanted to delay till he was at least twenty-three. He was in mortal fear lest he enter the sacred work prematurely. The matter came to an issue rather unexpectedly toward the close of his rest period. Happily, the Bishop of Gloucester was Doctor Benson, a man of spiritual devotion as well as good sense. Unbeknown to Whitefield he had kept an eye on him for some time, and was greatly pleased with the youth. Sending for him one day, he announced that he would gladly ordain him to the ministry whenever he wished. ‘The young man was in a tumult of desire and dread. He was only twenty-one. He longed to enter on what he knew would be his life-work, but was he ready ? He could never forget the wrestling of those critical days. In one of the last sermons he preached in London, only a year before his death, he said: “I never prayed against any corruption I had in my life, so much as I did against going into holy orders. I have prayed a thousand times till the sweat has dropped from my face lke rain, that God, of his infinite mercy, would not let me enter the church before he called me. I remember once in Gloucester—I know the room; I look up at the window when I am there and walk along the street; I know the bedside, and the floor upon which I prostrated myself, and cried: Lord, I cannot go! 28 FIRST VENTURES I shall be puffed up with pride, and fall into the condemnation of the devil. I am unfit to preach in thy greatname. Send me not, Lord, send me not yet!” But the Lord sent him at once, and White- field never ceased to be grateful that at least one of his prayers had not been answered. He was ordained deacon on June 20, 1736, and “When the bishop laid his hands upon my head, I offered up my whole spirit, soul, and body, to the service of God’s sanctuary.” The following Sun- day he preached his first sermon, not, as we might have expected, in some out-of-the-way rural com- munity, but right there in Gloucester, in the ancient Church of Saint Mary de Crypt, where he had been baptized and had grown up as a boy. No wonder the town was stirred. Could it be that this young fellow, who but a short time before had been mop- ping floors and handing out drinks, or picking up a little knowledge in a charity school, scarcely bet- ter than one of the rabble—that he was now within a few days of receiving a bachelor’s degree from Oxford University, that he was already a deacon in the Church of England and authorized to speak as an ambassador of Almighty God? How the people flocked to the church! Of course the mother was there, trembling but joyous, and the rest of the kindred, and the old-time friends and neighbors and schoolmates, and a host of others, eager to see and hear. When it was all over, the young preacher wrote to a friend: “Curiosity, as 29 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER you may easily guess, drew a large congregation together. The sight at first a little awed me; but I was comforted with a heartfelt sense of the Divine Presence, and soon found the unspeakable advan- tage of having been accustomed to public speaking when a boy at school, and of exhorting and teaching ~ the prisoners, and poor people at their private houses, whilst at the University. By these means I was kept from being daunted overmuch. As I proceeded I perceived the fire kindled, till at last, though so young, and amidst a crowd who knew me from my childhood days, I trust I was enabled to speak with some degree of gospel authority. A few mocked, but most for the present seemed struck; and I have since heard that a complaint has been made to the bishop that I drove fifteen mad. The worthy prelate, as I am informed, wished that the madness might not be forgotten before the next Sunday.” This first sermon in the marvelous series of eigh- teen thousand that fell from those eloquent lips, was thoroughly characteristic of the man. “He preached like a lion,” exclaimed one of his hearers. On the Saturday preceding this memorable service, Whitefield said to a friend: “I shall displease some, . . . but I must tell them the truth, or otherwise I shall not be a faithful minister of Christ.” Fear- less, fervent, tenderly persuasive and with heav- enly unction, thus the twenty-one-year-old preacher began his ministry, and thus he went on. A few 30 FIRST VENTURES days later he was back in Oxford, where he received his degree of Bachelor of Arts. Many of his friends urged him to accept a parish in or near Gloucester, but the university town appealed to him more strongly. The Wesleys were in Georgia, and the work of the Methodists, so dear to his heart, had seriously declined. Here seemed to be the greater need, and nowhere was it more pathetic than among the inmates of the Oxford jail. As we read the story of those early days, we are constantly impressed with the intense concern that Whitefield and his fellow Methodists felt for the prison unfortunates; and well they might. In some respects civilization had made striking advances, but in the treatment of crime and criminals Eng- land was still ‘back in the Dark Ages, and the grossest barbarities were practiced. People were thrust into jail on the flimsiest pretext and with little regard to their innocence or guilt. More than two hundred offenses, many of them extremely petty, were punishable with death. At times the gallows became so glutted that criminals whom the overworked hangmen could not attend to were shipped off to penal colonies. It was an open ques- tion whether the gibbet or transportation was not preferable to remaining in prison. Jail conditions were frightful. ‘The wardenship was sold to the highest bidder, and the one who obtained it was out for the last shilling he could make. There was no pretense of providing adequate ventilation. Every 31 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER window in a building was taxed, and as the warden had to pay for the jail windows, he saw to it that only enough were put in to save the inmates from suffocation. Picture prison cells, with men, women, and children, the beastly and the innocent, huddled together; the foulest immoralities; earth floors, sometimes covered with an inch of water, swarming with rats and vermin; an open sewer running through the center; the dead bodies of criminals allowed to lie near by till the stench rose to high heaven; some of the inmates mere skeletons from lack of food; others locked in with fellow-prisoners down with smallpox; many sick and dying with the dreaded “jail-fever,” human beings with im- mortal souls, almost as neglected religiously as if they had been cattle. At one time John Wesley was so stirred that he wrote a letter of protest to the London papers: “Of all the seats of woe on this side of hell, few, I suppose, exceed or even equal Newgate”; but there were a number that did even exceed Newgate. Is it any wonder that such tragic and pitiful con- ditions mightily appealed to the little Oxford brotherhood, and that when Whitefield learned that in the absence of the Wesleys the prison work was lagging, he longed to get back and urge it forward? Nothing these young men ever did was more des- perately needed and had more of the Christ spirit in it than the visitation of the jails. Whitefield’s opportunities were limited, but at least he was able 32 FIRST VENTURES to do something around Oxford; he could counsel and pray with the prisoners, and he could use funds intrusted to him for the purpose, in helping those who had been put in jail for petty debts. He was thoroughly happy in his work, and he’ fully ex- pected to be busied in these and in similar activities for several years. But God had other plans. In the midsummer of 1736 there came urgent word for him to hurry to London, to serve for a few weeks as supply curate at the Tower. He hesi- tated; he had never been farther away than Oxford. London—the vast metropolis! A thousand mis- givings filled his mind. But the call was impera- tive and he went. His experiences there were not altogether delightful. He tells us that as he “passed along the streets, many came out of their shops to see so young a person in gown and cassock; and one cried out, “There’s a boy parson!’ which served to mortify my pride.” He preached his first Sunday morning sermon in Bishopsgate-street Church. As he went up the pulpit stairs he felt decidedly uncomfortable, for “almost all seemed to sneer at me on account of my youth.” But he had not been speaking many minutes before both he and his hearers became absorbed in something more im- portant than age. No doubt Whitefield was un- usually boyish-looking at this time, but Doctor Gil- lies, who for years was his intimate friend, tells us he was “graceful and well proportioned. His stat- ure was rather above the middle size. His com- 33 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER plexion was very fair. His eyes were of a dark blue color, and small, but sprightly. He had a squint with one of them, occasioned either by the ignor- ance or carelessness of the nurse who attended him in the measles, when he was about four years old. In his youth he was very slender, . . . but about the fortieth year of his age he began to grow corpu- lent.” He remained in London only a couple of months, but this was enough to give him a certain self-con- fidence and home-feeling, as well as standing, in the great city where, through the coming years, he was to do such a mighty work. His preaching in churches and prisons made so deep an impression that people from all over London flocked to hear him. When he went back to Oxford, once more he expected to settle down, but again the Divine Will intervened. For a few weeks he helped a friend in a rural parish, and then, in December, almost on his twenty-second birthday, he took the momentous step which led him out of the regular ministry. Henceforth he was to be missionary and evangelist- at-large. 34 CHAPTER III A LAND IN DARKNESS The Lord empties before he fills; humbles before he exalts. All the promises of the Gospel, all that is said of God and Christ, can do us no good except that God and Christ are ours. ‘The devils can say, “Oh God!” but the devils cannot say, ‘““My God!” ‘That is a privilege peculiar to God’s chosen people. CHAPTER III A LAND IN DARKNESS To appreciate the significance of the religious movement in which Whitefield and the Wesleys were the outstanding figures we must bear in mind conditions in England two hundred years ago. At no time in the history of the Island Kingdom were morals and religion more deeply submerged than in the opening decades of the eighteenth century. When Charles the Second came to the throne, in 1660, the popular reaction from the stern measures of Cromwell was swift and fierce. Led on by high society, the nation went in for a “wide-open”’ pol- icy. Soon there came the notorious Act of Uni- formity, foolish as it was unjust, which in one day drove from their parishes nearly two thousand rec- tors and vicars, the very men who at Oxford and Cambridge, in London and in all the leading towns throughout the land, represented the highest learn- ing and devotion of the church. It was intended as a body blow to Puritanism, but tenfold worse was its deadening effect on Conformity itself. As the years went by, spasmodic efforts were made to improve the situation, but gradually almost the entire nation seemed to settle down into an easy complacence, which, had it not been broken, would have proved fatal. The effect on public morals 37 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER was ruinous. Crime became rampant and un- checked. The streets of London swarmed with desperate characters, many of whom the timid and ofttimes decrepit constables were afraid to arrest. Robberies and hold-ups were so constant that Lon- don almost ceased to be a civilized town. The crime mania invaded the higher as well as the lower circles. The Mohock Club was made up entirely of young villains from “polite” society. They were accustomed to sally forth after an eve- ning of hard drinking, to engage in their favorite sports. Some would “tip the lion,” which amiable pastime consisted in seizing a passer-by and squeez- ing his nose flat on his face, and gouging out his eyes with their fingers. Or they might turn “danc- ing-masters,’ and, forming a circle around their unhappy victim, stimulate him to vigorous capers by pricking his legs with their swords, till he fell ex- hausted at their feet. Woe to the women who were caught! Well for them if they escaped with simply being shut up in barrels and rolled down the rocky steep of Snow Hill. The street perils were so great that no one who could afford it thought of going out at night without a strong bodyguard of retain- ers, armed to the teeth. Traveling in the country was equally dangerous. Highway bandits, well- trained in robbery and murder, infested the roads. As late as 1751 Horace Walpole wrote, “One is forced to travel even at noon as if one were going to battle.” 38 A LAND IN DARKNESS Drinking and drunkenness were well-nigh uni- versal, and were regarded as quite the proper thing. When Robert Walpole and his father would sit down together for a carouse, the elder was accus- tomed to pour out a double draught for his son, saying, “Come, Robert, you shall drink twice while I drink once; for I will not permit the son in his sober senses to be witness of the intoxication of his father.” But some years later, when Robert was prime minister, he himself felt no shame in being seen drunk. His political foe, Lord Bolingbroke, would sit up all night drinking, and in the morning bind a wet napkin about his head, and then, when sufficiently sobered, hurry off to his official duties, without a moment’s sleep. It would be interesting as well as instructive to know how far English pol- icies both in home and in world affairs, through a long and critical period, were determined by states- men befuddled with liquor. The drink-habit among the poor knew no limit. Never was it more widespread than at the very time when Whitefield was acting as bartender at the Bell Inn. Gin had been introduced and all were calling for it. In London every sixth house was a saloon. In front of them signs were placed, offer- ing to make a man drunk for a penny, dead-drunk for twopence, while down cellar straw was spread out where the wretches might sleep off their de- bauch. The nation was almost drowned in liquor. At one time the total output reached an average of 39 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER two or three barrels annually for every man, woman, and child in the realm. And yet the people cried for more, still more! ‘The ruinous effects be- came clearer every day. Crime and immorality steadily increased; the birth-rate declined; tens of thousands were sick and dying from diseases di- rectly caused by drink. Sensible men became alarmed. Doctors and others who realized the havoc that was being wrought, freely predicted that the nation itself would be destroyed unless the evil was checked. Restraining laws were passed, but they accomplished little. A mightier cure was needed, and that cure no Parliament could provide. If gambling was less common than drinking, it was merely because it was a form of luxury that only the well-to-do could afford to indulge in to any extent. But Swift assures us that it was “the bane of English nobility.” It led to the permanent injury, if not the complete downfall, of some of the nation’s most gifted leaders. But no curse of that degenerate age left in its train such deep and ghastly marks as did the vice of immorality. It invaded all classes of society, high and low. ‘The royal household was a notorious offender. Eminent servants of the state, even a prime minister, were quite willing to appear at the theater with their mistresses. The courtly Lord Chesterfield thought it proper to instruct his son in “the art of seduction as part of a polite educa- tion.” Personal purity and domestic fidelity were 40 A LAND IN DARKNESS laughed at as altogether impossible, if, indeed, de- sirable. The average theater of to-day may not be an ideal place for the saints, but it is a paradise in comparison with the playhouses of Whitefield’s boyhood. At that time shows of such a character were presented that ladies who were determined to witness them and whose sense of modesty was by no means fastidious, were impelled to wear masks to conceal their identity. On the drawing-room tables of fashionable homes were books by popular authors of the day, books that were freely read in parlor gatherings with many a jocose comment and with no trace of shame, yet so foul that in these times no decent person would think of touching them even in the privacy of his own chamber. If there is any lingering doubt as to the indecencies tolerated two hundred years ago, one has only to take from the library shelf of the British Museum a huge portfolio of broadsheets and handbills, such as were once commonly distributed, but so obscene that anyone who attempted to put them out at the present time would speedily find himself behind prison bars. We are not surprised that in the period which we are studying there were gross scandals in re- gard to marriage. The laws respecting this solemn - compact were extremely lax, and almost any couple that desired could be wedded without delay. There were “marrying parsons” then as now, but the brand was the lowest of the low. Most of them, 41 | WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER while claiming to be priests, were men of infamous lives, ready to stoop to any abomination. One was reported to have married an average of six thou- sand couples a year, while another boasted that he had performed one hundred and seventy-three cere- monies in a single day. In most instances the con- tracting parties had known each other less than a week, and very often only a few hours. In many cases the whole thing was done—put through very likely by designing persons—when one or the other or both parties were drunk, and what was their as- tonishment and dismay, when awaking, to find that unwittingly they had entered into an alliance so ironclad that it could be dissolved only by special act of Parliament! ‘The untold miseries that were entailed can readily be imagined. We pause now to ask, Where was the church all this time? What was she doing? England pro- fessed to be a Christian nation; there were ten thou- sand clergymen and millions of communicant mem- bers, and a vast establishment, the growth of cen- turies. Then why this moral degradation? The answer is simple: in large measure the church had lost her power. Not that the nation was utterly depraved, for both in pulpit and pew were men eminent for godliness, but their number was com- paratively small. Upon the land as a whole there rested, like a dismal pall, a moral and spiritual leth- argy. When Bishop Butler wrote his famous Analogy he declared that “it had come to be taken 42 A LAND IN DARKNESS for granted that Christianity is not so much as a subject for inquiry; but that it is now at length dis- covered to be fictitious”; and such was the religious indifference that no one cared. On his return to France in 1731, after two years in England, Montesquieu reported that the English people had no religion, that when the subject was mentioned in higher social circles it excited mirth, and that not more than four or five members of the House of Commons were regular attendants at church. Top- lady, author of “Rock of Ages,’ and himself a clergyman of the Established Church, declared that in his own communion “a converted minister was as great a wonder as a comet”; and Isaac Watts assures us the situation among the Dissenters was likewise deplorable. It is no exaggeration to say that “the English clergy were the idlest and most lifeless in the world.”* Their standard of conduct was extremely low. Men who ought to have been in prayer or at study or visiting their flocks, too often were fox-hunting or, far worse, gambling and drinking. Intoxication was a prevalent vice among them. On a certain occasion the Bishop of Chester rebuked one of his clergy for drunkenness. “But, my lord, I never was drunk on duty.” “On duty!’ exclaimed the prelate; “‘and pray, sir, when is a clergyman not on duty?” “True; my lord,” said the other; “I never thought of that.” z 1Green’s A Short History of the English People, page 739. 43 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Even Lord Bolingbroke, notorious as a gay liver and an infidel, was scandalized by what he saw all about him. “Let me seriously tell you,” said he, pointing the finger of scorn at a recreant clergy- man, “that the greatest miracle in the world is the subsistence of Christianity, and its continued pres- ervation as a religion, when the preaching of it is committed to the care of such un-Christian men as you.” Is it any wonder that the pulpit in those days was for the most part utterly dead? It was out of the question for such men to condemn sin or to assail the glaring evils of the age. As a rule, their ser- mons were colorless essays, barren of any vital re- ligion, and read in a spiritless manner. At a still later date Sir William Blackstone, the eminent ju- rist, visited all the leading churches in London, and “heard not one discourse which had more Christian- ity in it than the writings of Cicero.” If there was a period in all her history when Eng- land and her sons everywhere needed the message of a veritable prophet of the Lord, it was in those critical decades of the eighteenth century. We will search in vain the annals of all time for a clearer evidence of the presence of God in the affairs of men than we find in the appearance, at the hour of supreme need, of Whitefield and the Wesleys as the prophetic leaders in that religious movement which turned England and America upside down and left a permanent impress on the whole world. 44 CHAPTER IV LEAPING INTO FAME The bank of heaven is a sure bank. I have drawn thousands of bills upon it, and never had one sent back protested. Be much in secret prayer. When you are about the common business of life, be much in ejaculatory prayer. Send, from time to time, short letters post to heaven, upon the wings of faith. They will reach the very heart of God, and will return to you loaded with blessings. CHAPTER IV LEAPING INTO FAME In October, 1735, the Wesley brothers sailed for Georgia, John as a missionary to the Indians, and Charles as secretary to General Oglethorpe, gover- nor of the colony. The following summer, while supplying in London, Whitefield received letters from his friends across the sea, describing the field and the need of more workers. He longed to join them, and had he been left to himself, would prob- ably have embarked in the first boat bound for Savannah. But all to whom he mentioned his de- sire insisted that such a step would be rash; at least he must wait for a clearer opening. He patiently bided his time. Early in December word came that Charles Wesley had unexpectedly arrived in England, seeking recruits; and a few days later letters reached Whitefield from John Wesley, praying that God would speedily send helpers. “What if thou art the man, Mr. Whitefield? . . . Do you ask me what you shall have? Food to eat and rai- ment to put on; a house to lay your head in, such as your Lord had not; and a crown of glory that fad- eth not away.” “Upon reading this,” says White- field, “my heart leaped within me, and, as it were, echoed to the call.”” The question was settled there 47 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER and then. In Charles Wesley’s Journal, under date of December 22, 1736, we find this brief but mo- mentous entry: “I received a letter from Mr. Whitefield, offering himself to go to Georgia.” The young man expected to embark at once, but unlooked-for delays arose. The ship was not ready; and then Oglethorpe, who was to be in charge of the outgoing party, for various reasons kept post- poning the date of departure, so that a whole year elapsed before they finally sailed. But not a mo- ment was wasted; the time of waiting was Basle with events of tremendous importance. It was during this period that Whitefield really “found himself.” He fairly leaped into fame, and his name became a household word. What an amaz- ing change a few months wrought! In June we find him wrestling in prayer that his ordination may be delayed; he has one lone sermon; he feels he must have at least a hundred before he will dare to begin preaching; he ventures into the pulpit for the first time, with quaking limbs. The weeks pass, and soon we see him delivering sermons day after day in the leading churches with all the abandon of a veteran; he fairly exults; the king has come to his throne. He journeyed in triumph from place to place. He made a brief visit to his old home-town of Gloucester and preached to crowds. “I began to grow a little popular,” is his naive comment. He went on to Bristol, at that time the second largest 48 WHITEFIELD AT TWENTY-SEVEN - od F *s de : A y vf i 4, i ; ‘ : “3 ou ' ‘. © * 4 a ? As ‘ 1 ' ? . 4, i + ’ * @ ’ a . r ~t - ' oii ‘ ' eo we ear “th _ LEAPING INTO FAME city in Kngland, and the clergy vied with each other in urging him to occupy their pulpits. He also preached before the mayor and the Corporation at their insistent request. A few weeks later he was in Bristol again, preaching five times a week. “It was wonderful,” he wrote in his Journal, “to see how the people hung upon the rails of the organ loft, climbed upon the leads of the church, and made the church itself so hot with their breath that the steam would fall from the pillars like drops of rain.” The throngs were so dense that he could scarcely make his way to the pulpit. When he left, at the end of the month, multitudes were in tears, and he slipped out of town in the small hours of the morn- ing, to avoid the great company that had intended to follow him on horseback and in coaches. He several times visited Bath, England’s most fashionable resort. ‘The notorious “Beau” Nash was the undisputed dictator of the place, but this did not hinder the young Methodist itinerant from being repeatedly invited to preach in the cathedral pulpit, where his sermons created a mighty stir among the élite hearers. He nowhere made a deeper impression than in London, where he spent several months. As a rule, he preached nine times a week, but he could not be- gin to meet the calls that poured in upon him. He was busy from early till late. “On Sunday morn- ings,” he tells us, “long before day, you might see streets filled with people going to church, with their 49 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER lanterns in their hands, and hear them conversing about the things of God.” The crowds were so great that constables were stationed at the church doors to keep order. “The sight of the congrega- tions was awful. One might, as it were, walk upon the people’s heads, and thousands went away from the largest churches for want of room. They were all attention, and heard like people hearing for eter- nity.” Soon the tide of enthusiasm ran so high that “T could no longer walk on foot as usual, but was constrained to go in a coach, from place to place, to avoid the hosannas of the multitude. They grew quite extravagant in their applauses, and, had it not been for my compassionate High Priest, popu- larity would have destroyed me. I used to plead with him to take me by the hand, and lead me un- hurt through this fiery furnace. He heard my re- quest, and gave me to see the vanity of all com- mendation but his own.” There is something deeply pathetic in the artless account which the young man gives of his immense popularity, and of the determined effort to remain true to his best self and to God while passing through what was indeed a “fiery furnace.” Re- member that it was less than six years since White- field was a common bartender, without the slight- est prospect of anything better in life. Neither he nor any of his friends dreamed that he would ever be heard of beyond the borders of his native town. - And yet, lo and behold! a mere stripling of twenty- 50 LEAPING INTO FAME two, he now stands before the world an alumnus of a renowned university; though only a deacon in the opening year of his ministry, he is filling some of the greatest pulpits of the land, and receiving the plaudits of the people as no preacher has done for generations. Whitefield was human, intensely hu- man. We are drawn to him all the more because he was a man of like passions with ourselves. ‘The marvel is not that, in spite of all his efforts to hold steady, there were times when he became somewhat inflated, but, rather, that he was not ruined by his popularity. True, the multitudes, high and low, of every denomination, thronged his ministry, but what went they out to see and hear? A mere artist in human speech? A juggler of moral phrases? A dispenser of soft words? Nay, verily, but a prophet of the Lord! Be it said to Whitefield’s everlasting credit, that from his first sermon to the end of his career, whether in cathedral or in field, in cottage or in palace, before the great or the lowly, he preached what he believed to be the eter- nal verities of the faith. Wiuithout fear or favor he condemned sin and exalted righteousness. Is it not singular that in the very year, 1737, when Whitefield was in all his glory and passing through a “fiery furnace” in his endeavor to keep humble, Wesley was over in Georgia, feeling the heat of quite a different sort of furnace, as he en- -dured one of the bitterest trials of his life? It seemed to him that the mission into which he had 51 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER put his very soul had been a failure and worse than a failure. In spiritual agony he cried, “I went to America to convert the Indians, but, Oh! who shall convert me?” ‘Though more than eleven years Whitefield’s senior, he had not yet entered into the rich experience which the younger already en- joyed. Presently he was to receive that baptism of power which would make of him a new man; but in the meantime he was groping in the dark, while the boy preacher was marching through the land with the shout of triumph. As a matter of fact, it was Whitefield, and not Wesley, who first introduced Methodism to the world; who, by his marvelous preaching, set people to thinking and talking about this strange thing; who aroused both curiosity and enthusiasm, and who prepared the way for the still mightier work which was to be done by the favored sons of the Epworth manse. Those were happy days for Whitefield, and no wonder; but it was not all joy. If he had friends, there were likewise enemies. Already might be heard the first mutterings of that opposition which would presently become fierce and malignant, and which would follow him to the end of his life—and beyond. In caricature and through warnings in the press his foes were beginning to stir up the peo- ple against him. The truth was that his preaching was too plain. Unconverted ministers did not en- joy sermons on the New Birth. The laymen might stand it, but the clergy were soon in torments. And 52 LEAPING INTO FAME more than this, he was altogether too friendly with Dissenters. ‘To be sure, he himself was a member of the Established Church, but he saw no reason for despising good men who happened to belong to some other communion. In these and in sundry other ways he disturbed the peace of mind of many people. So we are quite within bounds in suspecting that when, from time to time, he reiterated his intention to go to Georgia—a wilderness as far removed from England as two or three times the circumference of the globe in these days—the news brought de- cided relief to some troubled hearts. Never for a moment, during the year of waiting, had his pur- pose wavered. True, his mother was heartbroken, and friends reminded him that if he wanted to con- vert Indians he could find suitable subjects at Kingswood, where the colliers were as wild and sav- age as any red-skins in America. And there were others who would sorely miss him. ‘T’wo hundred years ago the only chance that a poor boy in Eng- land had to obtain an education was at one of the Charity Schools that philanthropic individuals and organizations had founded. Whitefield could never forget his own humble home and his early struggle for knowledge, and wherever he had preached and permission was granted, he made an appeal for the support of these schools. In this way he had col- lected a thousand pounds, a very large sum when we remember the value of money at that time. 53 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER But all the while he was restless. His heart was beyond the sea and he longed to be off. At the very close of this eventful year sudden word came that the ship in which he was to sail was about to leave, and immediately he went on board. They pro- ceeded as far as Deal, where they were detained for. several weeks, and here a singular thing happened. On the morning when the ship was to weigh anchor and continue its voyage, a vessel from America crept into the harbor, with John Wesley on board. Great was his astonishment to learn that Whitefield was just sailing. At once he cast lots, and con- cluded that the young man ought not to go, and he hurried off a brief note advising him to return home. ‘Then, without waiting for an answer, he landed, and started post-haste for London. He had had a bitter time in Georgia and he hoped that no friend of his would risk a similar experience. But in this case, Wesley, usually so wise in counsel, seriously blundered. We dread to think what the consequence would have been, for England as well as for America, if Whitefield had yielded and aban- doned his mission. Happily his mind and heart were fixed. God had called him; he knew it; and with no trace of misgiving he went straight for- ward. 54 CHAPTER V IN PERILS IN THE SEA I lead a pilgrim life; God give me a pilgrim heart! We must be made perfect by sufferings. If we do not meet them in our younger days, we shall certainly have them in the decline of life. Trials, at such a season, are like the finishing strokes of the limner’s pencil. They serve, in the hands of the Holy Spirit, to complete the new creature, and make it fit for heaven. CHAPTER V IN PERILS IN THE SKA BETWEEN the opening of 1738 and the close of 1769 Whitefield crossed the Atlantic thirteen times. It is doubtful if this record was equaled by anyone not a seafaring man. In the eighteenth century no one thought of taking an ocean voyage for mere pleasure; it was serious business. Very few crossed the sea even once, and still fewer risked it a second time. Great was the contrast between the mammoth liners of our own day, of nearly sixty thousand tons, and nearly one thousand feet in length, racing back and forth in five days, at almost railroad speed, heedless of storm or calm, and the small ves- sels that Whitefield knew! Sir Francis Drake cir- cumnavigated the globe with five ships, the largest of less than one hundred tons and the smallest of only fifteen. In the middle of the eighteenth cen- tury many ships regularly engaged in the trans- Atlantic trade were of less than fifty tons burden. Doubtless those in which Whitefield sailed were larger, but at best they were mere cockle-shells. No matter how staunchly put together, the constant buffeting of wind and wave would soon start the seams. ‘The experience of a certain Captain David 57 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Lindsay was a common one. He was four thousand miles from his home port in Rhode Island, and his tiny brigantine of forty tons in bad condition. After surveying her he made the gloomy comment: “My vesiel will not last to proceed farr. We can see day Lite al round her bow under deck.” But he must get back to America in some way. He made a few patches and then started. It was a voyage of months, and for twenty-two days a storm raged without ceasing. ‘The sails were torn to tat- ters and floods of water poured in at the open seams; but somehow they finally limped into port. Whoever ventured on the great deep took his life in his hands, and the cry to man the pumps was al- most as familiar as the call to raise or lower the sails. On the contrary, a long-continued calm might be as serious as a storm. Many are the tales of horror, where food and water gave out and the hapless crews suffered torture worse than death. More than this, there were dangers from enemy ships. We must bear in mind that during a good part of the eighteenth century England was at war with France and Spain, and in spite of oc- casional peace treaties there was not a day from 1700 to 1763 when English ships were safe at sea. Privateers swarmed everywhere, ready to swoop down on a defenseless merchantman, sinking the ship or taking it into port as a prize, and throwing the crew into prison. Those were indeed perilous times. No wonder 58 IN PERILS IN THE SEA that in the church services the prayer for sailors was recited most fervently, and that in every hymn book were oft-sung petitions for those out on the “vast and furious” ocean. And then not only were there serious dangers. As a rule, a sea voyage was anything but comfort- able. The towering “castles,” fore and aft, which were the familiar features of earlier ships, had been considerably cut down in Whitefield’s time, but the only sleeping accommodations worth the name were still at either end. Imagine being cooped up in such a place for two or three months! Very likely the captain is a tyrant, the crew mutinous, and the passengers anything but congenial. When the weather is fair one may walk the deck for a few paces, but for weeks at a time the passengers are shut below while the small craft is swept by the waves. Again and again the bunks are swamped, and if it is winter there is the freezing cold and no fire. After the first few days the provisions begin to grow stale, and they do not improve as the tonths pass. Picture the discomforts and the perils, and then think what it must have been to make the venture thirteen times. Happily, Whitefield was a good sailor; some of his voyages were comparatively pleasant; and, best of all, he never for a moment doubted that he was on the King’s business. But in following his career, we do well not to overlook the real heroism of the man, who, like the apostle 59 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER of old, could say of himself that ofttimes he was ‘in perils in the sea.” As nearly as we can estimate, Whitefield was actually at sea for a total of seven hundred and thirty-two days, or almost exactly two years. This does not include the weeks he spent at anchor in harbors, waiting for favorable winds, or the various trips along the American and English seaboard. The voyages to this side were almost always longer than those in the opposite direction. As is well known, the prevailing winds are from the west, and for the old-time sailor, with his unwieldy craft, it was hard work to get across. Asa rule he had to fight his way mile by mile, and he used to talk of going “uphill to America.” Whitefield’s longest voyage took just eleven weeks, and was made in 1744, from Plymouth to York, Maine. His short- est trip was when he returned to England for the last time, in 1765. He was on a fast boat, with good winds, and he landed in twenty-eight days. Some of his experiences he could never forget. “On December 28, 1737, I left London and went on board the Whitaker’; thus he wrote. What a memorable day! For a whole year he had been waiting and longing to start, and now was his chance. ‘The Spaniards in Florida had been threat- ening the Georgia colonists, and it was decided to send over a regiment of British soldiers to protect the Englishmen. A company was to sail on the Whitaker, and Whitefield was to go along as chap- 60 Eee & ele, te a IN PERILS IN THE SEA lain, and on reaching America he would take charge of the parish of Savannah, to which he had been assigned. Before embarking he spent many hours in prayer with his friends, and they attended the holy communion together. It was a solemn time for the young cleric. The ship stopped at several points on the way down the Channel, being detained three weeks at Deal. Whitefield went ashore nearly every day, and frequently preached and held services of prayer. On February 2 they finally left the English coast. The little vessel was packed to the gunwales with its human cargo. In addition to the crew, more than a hundred people, including a number of women and children, families of the soldiers, were on board. Every nook and corner was full, and it was indeed a motley crowd. Never was a young preacher of twenty-three put to a sterner test than was George Whitefield, and, be it remembered, never did one meet the test in a nobler and more triumphant spirit. When he embarked at London the officers, both of the sailors and of the soldiers, looked upon him as an impostor; he was such a boy in appearance; and at first they were inclined to snub him. It was a critical situation. A tactless word or attitude would have ruined him for the whole voyage; but he carried himself with perfect self-poise. He neither cringed nor domineered, but in a quiet, manly spirit he went straight forward and did his 61 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER work, and very soon the general opinion began to change. On the first Sabbath “nothing was to be seen but cards, and little heard but cursing and blasphemy. T could do no more for a season than, whilst I was waiting, now and then turn my head, by way of reproof, to a lieutenant of the soldiers, who swore as though he was born of a swearing constitution.” He intimated to the military captain that he would be glad each day to use a short collect before the officers. “After pausing a while and shaking his head, he answered, ‘I think we may, when we have nothing else to do.’ ” Whitefield was not in the least discouraged. He at once began holding morning prayers on the deck, let come who would. He seized every chance to preach to the soldiers, and organized groups of them and also of the women for special instruction. He was tireless in his attention to the sick. One night, early in the voyage, a terrific storm burst upon them, and the waves broke through the hatch- way and poured down upon the terrified pas- sengers. The little ship was on her beam-ends, and in great peril. Whitefield writes: “I arose and called upon God for myself and those that sailed with me. . . . Then, creeping on my hands and knees, I went between decks, and sang psalms with, and comforted the poor wet people.” He adds the interesting item that, in the midst of all the uproar, “IT was enabled to finish a sermon before I went to 62 IN PERILS IN THE SEA bed, which I had begun a few days before, and was never more cheerful in my life.” But even White- field was mortal, and though he prided himself on his qualities as a sailor, he does admit “being a little sick by the late shaking of the ship, and the heat and the smell of the people between decks.” He was alert to every opportunity to say some- thing for his Master. In his Journal we constantly meet references like these: “Breakfasted with some of the gentlemen in the great cabin, who were very civil, and Jet me put in a word for God”; “Had an hour’s conversation with a gentleman on board . on our new birth in Christ Jesus’; “Gained an opportunity, by walking at night on deck, to talk closely to the chief mate, and one of the sergeants of the regiment, and hope my words were not alto- gether spoken in vain’; “About eleven at night went and sat down among the sailors in the steer- age, and reasoned with them” concerning the Chris- tian life. His unswerving loyalty to his calling, and his uniform courtesy and kindness of spirit, soon won for Whitefield the respect and friendship of everyone on board. Nor were they slow to rec- ognize the extraordinary ability of their young chaplain. Soon both captains were begging him to regularly conduct morning and evening prayers on deck, and he did so, with a captain standing on either side and the soldiers massed around him. Two boats, the Amy and Lightfoot, also carry- 63 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER ing soldiers, accompanied the Whitaker, and when the sea was smooth, Whitefield often visited them and held service. Now and then the three ships would draw close together, everyone crowded to the decks, and he would preach, his magnificent voice easily being heard by the entire audience. What scenes those must have been! Nor did he deal in soft things. One day his subject was, “The Eter- nity of Hell Torments,” and he adds, “I was ear- nest in delivering it, being desirous that none of my dear hearers should experience them.” We may well believe he was “earnest,” for the sermon made a tremendous impression. On another occasion he preached against drunkenness. It never seems to have occurred to him to experiment with total ab- stinence, for without the least hesitation he informs us that on this very voyage he was taking along, for the use of his future parishioners, “two hogs- heads of fine white wine.” Drinking was universal in those days. But drunkenness he abhorred, and the temperance orator never lived who could pic- ture it in more startling colors. In all ages, profanity, especially among soldiers and sailors, has been a besetting sin. Whitefield lost no chance to deal it a body blow. He well knew whom he was hitting, but he was utterly fear- less, and his words reached the mark. One day, at the close of a sermon, Captain Mackay asked the soldiers to stay, and then he humbly confessed to them that he had been a notorious swearer, but that 64 et i ye a et es LJ pee pt 5 ? if bee 7 ~ 65 er, De 7 - = ys ’ ee . is . - 7 7 ~ \ <= = iM ¥. t a -—. 16 ~* us 7 e a eal) ° - 7 - ¥ - i 5 F s i ve - ht mn - +4 lj . Ls co ingle >" I ‘ r . a s # ” = 5 A 7 ‘= a i 4 ; ’ 7 t 7 w 4 4 - 7 , , > ’ , = .& x * g ‘ ; 7 1 en A - 4 ‘ + = ‘ ( Ox 7 vt * as . ~~ . ss t - nat = _ ‘ i J a . he ; ee a - z > 7 h. : - ” “ A ‘ a soy «> é © A oe Z a »* ~* t.e- ~ a re , ¢ = * wy a) = = = ae a . be be a lh i \ ' eh : i a _ 5 2 aa ' i i ‘ : a ah Pell ey 7 =) = *- HVNNVAVS JO DNIMVUG ATYVY IN PERILS IN THE SEA through the influence of Whitefield’s preaching “he had now left off, and he exhorted them, for Christ’s sake, to go and do likewise.” The Whitaker and her companions stopped at Gibraltar, to take on more soldiers and sailors, and then they made for Savannah, where they arrived on May 7. Long before the voyage was ended a complete transformation had been wrought on ship- board. Not an oath was heard, many of the soldiers and sailors had been soundly converted, and in the great cabin, where the officers met, religion was a daily subject of conversation. Such was the spirit- ual triumph of this young preacher on his first voy- age, utterly inexperienced in such company but filled with the Holy Ghost. Four months later he was on the sea again, re- turning to England to receive his final ordination. As he set sail he prayed, “Lord, send us a prosper- ous voyage!’ But his faith was to be sorely tested. The winds were so contrary that for days they scarcely got out of sight of land. ‘Then storm fol- lowed storm. In one tempest the sails were “torn all to tatters! not a dry place was to be found in all the ship. ‘The captain’s hammock was half filled with water. ... All was terror and confusion.” The fresh provisions and several barrels of fresh water were swept overboard. After they had been out five weeks, each person was put on a daily al- lowance of water. On October 30, Whitefield _ wrote in his Journal: “Our ship’s company are now 65 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER brought into great straits. Their allowance of water is a quart a day, and our constant food for some time has been salt beef and water-dumplins, which do not agree with the stomachs of all amongst us.” Five days passed: “Our allowance of water is now but a pint a day, so that we dare not eat much beef. Our sails are exceeding thin, and no one knows where we are; but God does, and that is sufficient.” Four days later: “Most of us now begin to be weak, and look hollow-eyed. Yet a little while and we shall come to extremity.” Another three days and he writes: “An ounce or two of salt beef, a pint of muddy water, and a cake made of flour and the skimmings of the pot, is my daily allowance.” But relief was at hand. In less than twenty-four hours the coast of Ireland was sighted. As soon as possible a boat was sent ashore, and presently came back loaded with water and provisions. Happily, on this return voyage to England very few persons were on board besides the crew. Had there been a large company, the suffering would have been tragic. When it was all over, Whitefield wrote: “The voyage has been greatly for my good; for I have had a glorious opportunity of searching the Scriptures, composing discourses, writing let- ters, and communing with my own heart. We have been on board just nine weeks and three days. .. . My clothes have not been off (except to change me) all the passage. Part of the time I lay on 66 IN PERILS IN THE SEA open deck; part on a chest; and the remainder on a bedstead covered with my buffalo skin.” He had to content himself with somewhat simple religious services, but the power was there. One day as he was preaching, the captain of the ship was so deeply convicted that he cried out, “Lord, break this hard heart of mine!” Captain Gladman, whose ship had been wrecked on the Florida coast, was on board as a passenger, and was soundly converted. He gave up a seafaring life to devote himself to religious work, and became one of Whitefield’s traveling companions. Best of all, the young preacher himself gained a personal experience, a deepening of his faith and trust in God, that en- riched his whole after-life. Immediately on landing he received every kind- ness. A gentleman on a near-by estate hurried to his relief and provided him with horses for the jour- ney across Ireland. When he reached Limerick, the Protestant Bishop, though an entire stranger, greeted and entertained him with affectionate hos- pitality. Whitefield preached in the cathedral, and the next day, as he was leaving, “the good Bishop kissed me, and said: ‘Mr. Whitefield, God bless you! I wish you success abroad. Had you stayed in town, this house should have been your home.’ ”’ He rode on to Dublin, where he was also treated with every courtesy. Many of the church leaders had heard of him and were deeply interested in the young missionary. ‘Then across to England and 67 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER on to London, where his old-time friends gave him a joyous welcome. In spite of perils and hardships Whitefield thor- oughly enjoyed the ocean. From the time he was at Oxford he was never robust, and during much of his life he was almost constantly on the verge of physical collapse. The change of scene, the sea air and the relaxation did him immense good, and often in his letters, when feeling unusually worn, he expresses his longing for another voyage. Or- dinarily, his sea experiences were more common- place than when he came to America and returned the first time. He made full use of his leisure in study and meditation. He was always gathering new thoughts and illustrations for sermons. For example, he writes in his Journal: “To-day we were entertained with a most agreeable sight. It was a shark about the length of a man, which followed our ship, attended with five little fishes, called the pilot- fish, much like a mackerel but larger. These, I am told, always keep the shark company. And what is most surprising, though the shark is so ravenous a creature, yet let it be never so hungry, it never touches one of them. Nor are they less faithful to him. For, as I was informed, if the shark is hooked, very often these little creatures will not forsake him, but cleave close to his fins, and are often taken up with him. Go to the Pilot-fish, thou that forsakest a friend in MER consider his ways and be ashamed.” 68 IN PERILS IN THE SEA He was also an indefatigable correspondent, es- pecially for an age when letter-writing was by no means as common as it is now. On his way to America the second time he wrote more than sixty letters, which were ready for the post when he reached Philadelphia. It was a rather expensive luxury for an itinerant missionary. A mail went from Philadelphia to England once a month. It cost a shilling to send a single sheet, and four shil- lings to send an ounce. Reference has already been made to the fact that the longest time Whitefield was ever at sea was eleven weeks, when he made his third visit to Amer- ica, In 1744. He was now married and his wife was with him. He had planned to leave in June, but at the last minute word came from the captain of the vessel in which he was to embark, that, as Whitefield put it, “he would not take me, for fear of my spoiling his sailors.” Evidently, the news was out in maritime circles that whenever White- field boarded a ship a revival followed, and it made some captains extremely uneasy. But finally, in August, the evangelist and his wife set sail. It was a time of great danger. England was at war with France, and as a measure of precaution, one hundred and fifty merchantmen started out together, convoyed by a number of war vessels. In a short time the fleet began to break up, some going in one direction and some in another, while White- field, on board the Wilmington, and still under 69 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER convoy, made direct for New England. As was his invariable custom, on embarking he had begun holding “regular public prayer morning and eve- ning, frequent communion, and days of humilia- tion and fasting.” All this was within his province, for he was chaplain of the ship, but most chaplains were hopelessly remiss. One day the Wilmington collided with a smaller boat and nearly sank her. “A little while after,” writes Whitefield, ““we came up with the convoy, and our captain informed them of what had happened. The answer was, “This is your praying, and be damned to ye!’ This, I must own, shocked me more than the striking of the ship.” Again and again the alarm was sounded that the enemy was in sight. On one occasion two ships were seen approaching under full head of canvas, and the captain was sure they were French men-of- war. Whitefield afterward wrote to a friend: “The preparations for an engagement were for- midable. Guns mounting, chains put about the masts, everything taken out of the great cabin, hammocks put about the sides of the ship. . . . My wife, after having dressed herself to prepare for all events, set about making cartridges.” At first Whitefield went below decks, being told that was the usual place for the chaplain, presumably to help in caring for the wounded. “But not liking my situation, ... I crept up on deck, and for the first time of my life beat up to arms by a warm exhorta- 70 IN PERILS IN THE SEA 3 tion.” It was a false alarm, however, the ships proving to be friends. But though this danger was escaped, one storm followed another, and the voy- age as a whole was one of the most trying White- field ever made. The memory of it lingered with him all through life. am oo CHAPTER VI A LOVER OF CHILDREN I hope to grow rich in heaven by taking care of or- phans on earth. It is better to be a saint than a scholar; indeed, the only way to be a true scholar is to be striving to be a true saint. CHAPTER VI A LOVER OF CHILDREN On the ship that brought Whitefield to America the first time were several children belonging to the soldiers’ families. The young chaplain became very fond of them and they of him; but he required absolute obedience. One day a little fellow, four years old, refused to say the Lord’s Prayer. Such obstinacy would never do. Whitefield forced him to his knees and gave him “several blows,” and then, after he had conquered, he rewarded the child with some figs. On another occasion a small boy misbehaved at a public service. The chaplain or- dered him to be tied with cords, and required him to learn the penitential wail of David, the fifty-first Psalm, and to recite it before the entire ship’s com- pany; and not till then was he unbound. We might infer from such incidents that the young preacher was unduly severe in his treatment of children, though it is more than likely that his methods would fully have commended themselves to so wise and experienced a disciplinarian as Su- sannah Wesley. At all events there can be no doubt that he was of an unusually warm and affec- tionate nature, and we know that children made a peculiar appeal to him. As we shall presently see, all this had a distinct bearing on his entire ministry. 75 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Of his married life we shall speak more fully later on, but one incident calls for notice in this con- nection. On February 9, 1744, he wrote: “Who knows what a day may bring forth? Last night I was called to sacrifice my Isaac; I mean, bury my only child and son, about four months old.” The father had looked forward to the coming of the baby with eager anticipation; it had been the sub- ject of constant prayer. He fondly hoped and be- lieved that the child would be a boy, that he would grow to manhood and become a preacher. White- field was very happy in the thought “of having a son of my own so divinely employed.” When the baby was a week old the father “publicly baptized him, and in the company of thousands, solemnly gave him up to that God who gave him tome. A hymn, composed by an aged widow, as suitable to the occasion, was sung, and all went away with big hopes of the child’s being hereafter to be employed in the work of God. But how soon have all their expectations been blasted, as well as mine!” It was a bitter disappointment. But if White- field had no one of his own flesh and blood to follow in his steps, he enjoyed the extraordinary privilege of seeing scores, if not hundreds, of spiritual sons, on both sides of the Atlantic, enter the ministry, and many of these grew up from childhood at his very feet. Wherever he went he was constantly seeking trophies for the Master from among the children. 76 A LOVER OF CHILDREN One day, on his first visit to Boston, he was preach- ing to a great congregation. Governor Belcher and many other notables were present. He says, “I think I never was so drawn out to pray for little children, and invite them to Jesus Christ.” He had just been told of a child who had heard him preach, and some time afterward had been taken sick and died, and who, as the end came, whispered to his mother, “I will go to Mr. Whitefield’s God.” “This encouraged me to speak to little ones; but, oh, how were the old people affected, when I said, ‘Little children, if your parents will not come to Christ, do you come, and go to heaven without them.’ There seemed to be but few dry eyes. I have not seen a greater commotion during my preaching at Boston.” This was not the only time that Whitefield used a child to give added strength to an appeal. On one occasion, as he was holding an open-air service, “a little boy, about eight years of age, wept as though his heart would break. Mr. Cross took him up into the wagon, which so affected me, that I broke from my discourse, and told the people that, since old professors were not concerned, God, out of an infant’s mouth, was perfecting praise; and the little boy should preach to them.” Wherever he went Whitefield made an indelible impression on the child-mind. In 1835, when Doc- tor Stearns became pastor of the Old South Church in Newburyport, beneath whose pulpit Whitefield 77 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER is entombed, he found an aged woman who vividly remembered the great preacher. She used to tell in particular of a Sunday morning when, the gallery being full of children, he suddenly paused in his sermon, and spreading out his hands, beckoned to the boys and girls, and called the “dear little birds to come and fly to the arms of their Saviour.” The manner of the appeal, of which only a Whitefield was master, so thrilled his young hearers that they — could not forget it to their dying day. Some of his most beautiful letters were written to children. One of his youthful correspondents lived in Boston, a certain “John D.,” and in 1741 Whitefield wrote him from Scotland: “My dear Child, I thank you for your letter. I neither forgot you nor my promise. O that God may effectually work upon your heart betimes, for you cannot be good too soon, or too good. The little orphans at Georgia are crying out, ‘What shall we do to be saved? And I am glad to hear that this is the lan- guage of some little ones in New England. If you know any of them, pray give my love to them, and tell them that I pray that Jesus Christ may be re- vealed in their dear hearts. How did he love the little children, how did he take them up in his sacred arms and bless them! Let this encourage you to come unto him. What comfort will you enjoy! You will then have a heaven upon earth.” Instinctively children were drawn to Whitefield. They soon came to love and to trust him, and noth- 78 A LOVER OF CHILDREN ing could be more touching than their sympathetic devotion. Very often in his open-air meetings in England, especially in the earlier years, the rabble treated him roughly. At the close of a letter to a friend, describing some experiences through which he had just passed while preaching in Moorfields, London, he adds this: “Several little boys and girls who were fond of sitting round me on the pulpit, while I preached, . .. though they were often pelted with eggs, dirt, etce., thrown at me, never once gave way, but, on the contrary, every time I was struck, turned up their little weeping eyes, and seemed to wish they could receive the blows for Me. We cannot help thinking how different in many ways Whitefield’s career might have been but for the apparently simple fact that he was so deeply in- terested in children. When he crossed the ocean the first time and landed at the village of Savannah, Georgia was not quite six years old. It was the youngest as well as the southernmost of the Amer- ican colonies. Florida belonged to Spain. When the British government chartered the new colony, the primary thought was to provide a home for un- fortunate debtors who had been languishing in English prisons, and who needed a place where they could begin life over again. General Oglethorpe, one of the noblest leaders of his time, accepted the governorship. ‘The first shipload of emigrants ar- rived in the winter of 1733, and three years later 79 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER John and Charles Wesley landed with the members of the fifth company. John was to be pastor of the little flock and missionary among the neighboring Indians, and Charles was secretary to the governor. Charles remained only eight months, but this was long enough to convince him that something must be done to provide for orphaned children. Already several parents had died, and the number of or- phans was sure to-increase, while the condition of the homeless waifs was pitiful in the extreme. When he returned to England late in the year, and described the situation to Whitefield, the heart - of that lover of children was deeply stirred, and he resolved that if he ever got to America, one of his first concerns should be to start an orphanage. As we have already seen, he was delayed in sailing, and did not reach Savannah on his first voyage till May 7, 1738. It was a hurried trip; in four months he was on his way back to England, being anxious to receive his final ordination to the priesthood. But what he saw during those few weeks gave a mighty impetus to his plans. I’rom this time to the end of his life no enterprise appealed to him as did his orphan work in Georgia. He dreamed of it by night and toiled for it by day. His journals and letters are crowded with refer- ences to it. Wherever he went, in England and Scotland, and along the Atlantic seaboard in America, he was constantly presenting the claims of his little wards and soliciting gifts to provide for 80 A LOVER OF CHILDREN their needs. His frequent visits to Philadelphia, New York, and Boston were in part prompted by his desire for help, and he was rarely disappointed. More than one voyage across the Atlantic was made largely for the sake of the orphans. Indeed, it is not too much to say that his ministry, especially as it was related to America, was in considerable measure shaped by his absorbed interest in the homeless boys and girls whom he gathered under his protecting care in the Georgia colony. No sooner did he reach England after his first visit to America than he began appealing in public and private for the project so near his heart. By the middle of the summer of 1739 he had collected more than a thousand pounds, and he was eager to get back to Savannah and start the new enterprise. So widespread was the interest awakened that, as he tells us, ‘““Multitudes offered to go with me,” but he took only a few selected helpers. In forming his plans he was strongly influenced by the accounts he received of the great orphanage which Professor Francke had founded at Halle, in Germany, where two thousand children were cared for, and whose fame as a model institution was world wide. ‘To plant something of this kind on American soil, however modest the beginning, was the ambition of his heart. Five hundred acres were granted him a few miles out of Savannah, and there on a March day, in the spring of 1740, while the workmen knelt around him in prayer, he laid the 81 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER first bricks of the new building. “I called it Be- thesda, because I hoped it would be a house of mercy to many souls.”’ The rules which he laid down for the manage- ment of the place are interesting, not only because they were prepared by Whitefield, but as showing the ideas that most good people used to hold as to the proper way to bring up children. 'The orphans were wakened every morning at five o’clock. As soon as they slipped on their clothes, each one spent a quarter of an hour in private prayer. Then they all gathered in the chapel and sang a psalm and lis- tened to an exposition of the Scriptures. At seven Ken’s morning hymn was sung and a prayer of- fered. After that the hungry children sat down to breakfast, but the meal was interrupted at various stages for the singing of more hymns. From eight to ten, while the girls were busy with spinning and sewing, the boys drew water and chopped wood, and some of the more promising ones were “placed under tailors, shoemakers, or carpenters.” At ten school began, when they were taught to read and write. Dinner was at noon, “and between that and two o'clock, everyone was employed in something useful, but no time was allowed for idleness or play, which are Satan’s darling hours to tempt children to all manner of wickedness, as lying, cursing, swearing, and uncleanness; so that, though we are about seventy in family, we have no more noise than if it was a private house.” From two to six 82 : A LOVER OF CHILDREN was given to school work. In the evening there was another religious service, and a closing period of private prayer. _ Verily times change. What child in these days could be induced to submit to such a program as this? And yet the Georgia orphans were perfectly contented, and whatever criticism may have been leveled at the work, not a voice on either side of the Atlantic condemned the strictness of the rules. From the start it was Whitefield’s earnest hope that the orphanage might be more than a mere haven for homeless children. He expected to see it expand into an educational center. The colony was new and schools were almost unknown. Why should not Bethesda become a fountain-head of Christian instruction for all the southland? And then Whitefield had a still fonder dream, that this institution, founded in prayer, should prove a nur- sery for the Christian ministry. He hoped, as the years went by, to gather groups of boys who should grow up, at least in part, under his own influence and supervision, who should be taught the deeper things of the spiritual life, and trained to go out as preachers of a full gospel. No wonder that with these visions before him he sought with peculiar earnestness to bring the chil- dren to Christ. Some of his happiest evangelistic work was done at Bethesda. Scarcely had he be- gun when we find him writing to friends in Lon- don: “O what wonderful things is God doing in 83 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER America! . . . My little orphans now begin to feel the love of Jesus Christ. When we came to church the power of the Lord came upon all. Most of the children, both boys and girls, cried bitterly. The congregation was drowned in tears. When I came home I went to prayer again. It would have charmed your heart to have heard the little ones, in different parts of the house, begging Jesus to take full possession’ of their hearts.” | Wherever he journeyed, by land or sea, the or- phans were constantly in his mind, and from the midst of his crowded life he took time to correspond with them. To many of them he was their closest earthly friend, and their reverent love for him was as touching as it was genuine. He frequently read to English and Scotch audiences letters he had just received from the children, and many a time the people were melted to tears, and numbers were converted as they listened to these simple experi- ences from beyond the sea. Whitefield’s letters to the orphans were written in a perfectly familiar style. He knew his young wards by name—“Dear Betty,” “Dear Molly,” “Dear James,” “Dear John’—and so on down the long roll. His mes- sages were always an appeal to get close to the Master, as when he wrote: “Dear Bekky, and is the Lord still striving with you? O then admire his patience, and give him your whole heart. IThadno | other end in bringing you to Bethesda, but that you might be brought to Jesus. . . . What sweet 84 A LOVER OF CHILDREN opportunities do you enjoy! How freely may you go into the woods and pour out your heart before the dear Jesus. How early was Samuel acquainted with the Lord, and why should not you be ac- quainted with him? ... Come then, my dear Lamb, and wander no longer. Away to him just as you are, and when you are near to God, forget not your affectionate friend, George Whitefield.” During the thirty years and more in which Whitefield lived to watch the progress of the work, hundreds of children enjoyed the blessed influence of the orphanage, and were trained for happy and useful lives. A number of the boys entered the ministry. And yet, in spite of all the time and prayer and toil that he devoted to it, in spite of the fact that he impoverished himself by giving more than two thousand pounds of his own money, the enterprise never quite fulfilled the high hopes of the founder. Its location in the extreme south, away from the centers of population, together with other circumstances, militated against a large and per- manent success. The indirect results were much more significant than the direct. The institution was unutterably dear to Whitefield, the very apple of his eye, and again and again it was this that lured him to Amer- ica. Seeking funds for its support brought him into close touch with multitudes of leading men and women on both sides of the Atlantic, while on num- berless occasions his sermons gained a peculiar and 85 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER persuasive power as he told of his orphans and ap- pealed for help. — | And, still more important, Whitefield could never forget the humble home where he was born, and how he struggled for an education; and it gave him a tender sympathy for poor children, espe- cially those who, like himself, had no father to en- courage and help them. In the background of all his pleading for others was the vivid recollection of his own early experience. ‘Think of this man, the most eloquent preacher of the age, evangelist on two continents, year after year, through a whole generation, going up and down the lands, holding before the multitude this picture of the supphant orphans! He wrought better than he knew. It was a small thing that help should be found for Georgia, but how much it meant, in a day when philanthropies were few and social service was al- | most unknown, that men everywhere should be aroused, and that the mind and heart of the Eng- lish-speaking world should be turned to the needs and claims of neglected childhood. It is no ex- aggeration to say that the immense interest which to-day is felt in every phase of child welfare, the numberless institutions for the protection and train- ing of children, and especially the tender concern for the little waifs without home and parents, may be traced in no small part to the new spirit awak- ened by that royal lover of children, George White- field. 86 A LOVER OF CHILDREN After the death of Whitefield, in 1770, Bethesda met with a succession of disasters. The manage- ment fell into wretched hands, and the work sadly deteriorated. Fire broke out one night and nearly consumed the main building. It was partially re- stored, only to be completely ruined by fire and hurricane. For years everything was abandoned, and even the foundations of the old orphanage were plowed up. But the name “Bethesda” clung to the original site. In 1870, under entirely changed auspices, a new building for the care of children was erected, and it is gratifying to know that the pres- ent-day orphanage is on the spot so dear to White- field, that it is known as “Bethesda,” and that, with its one hundred boys, it is in a flourishing condition. 87 2 CHAPTER VII THE VOICE OF A PROPHET When a soul is turned to God, every day is a Sabbath, every meal is a spiritual refreshment, and every sentence he speaks should be a sermon. Whether he stays abroad or at home, whether he is on the Exchange or locked up in a closet, he can say, **O God, thou art my God!” Some more coronets are likely to be laid at the Redeem- er’s feet. They glitter gloriously when set in, and sur- rounded with a crown of thorns. CHAPTER VII THE VOICE OF A PROPHET An unfailing feature of religious crises is the appearance of prophets. This has been true from early Hebrew times down through all the centuries. Two hundred years ago Engiand was well supplied with preachers, but among them there was no out- standing prophet; for while prophets are preach- ers, preachers are not always prophets. If ever the prophetic spirit was needed, it was in the gloom preceding the great Evangelical Re- vival. Reference has been made to the spiritual apathy of the age. To be sure, many of the clergy and of the laity led lives that were morally correct, and were everywhere regarded as exemplary Christians, but they were held in the grip of the chill formalism which was abroad in the land. No word in the current vocabulary struck deeper dis- may to men’s hearts than “enthusiasm.” From pul- pit and press, church leaders were constantly in- veighing against it. ‘To betray such a spirit in re- ligious work, or to permit one’s own experience to become tainted with it, was a most serious offense. Heresy, deadness, enthusiasm—all might be bad, but the worst of these was enthusiasm. Calm self- 91 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER restraint, stiff compliance with conventional ways, alone could be tolerated. Some of the commonest truths of Christianity had been well-nigh forgotten. Even distinguished prelates had no conception of the meaning of the New Birth or justification by faith. So eminent a leader as Bishop Butler failed to understand how a human soul could enjoy the immediate personal guidance of the Divine Spirit. One day he hotly exclaimed, “Sir, the pretending to extraordinary revelations and gifts of the Holy Spirit is a horrid thing, a very horrid thing!’ And he would not tolerate it among his clergy. For the most part, the pulpits of the land were occupied by men with little or no religious experi- ence, men whose principal identification was their clerical garb. ‘There was no moral tonic in the preaching. The pulpit was cowardly. On the great sins of the times, such as dueling, drink, gam- bling and slavery, the voice of the clergy was prac- tically silent. The typical sermon of the day was a cold, unfeeling essay, with perhaps a religious squint, perhaps not. Even so worthy a man as the Reverend Samuel Wesley, father of John, tolerated a curate at the Epworth Church whose favorite topic in the pulpit was the duty of making one’s will. In most churches a burning, soul-gripping message on some great spiritual theme would not only have startled the hearers, it would have scan- dalized the more sober-minded. ‘There was but 92 THE VOICE OF A PROPHET scant sympathy in those days with the fervent cry of the sainted Baxter: “T preached, as never sure to preach again; And as a dying man to dying men.” The quite general belief that the New Birth ac- companied baptism, and that nothing further was to be expected or desired, rested like a dead hand on spiritual aspiration. ‘The application of the water was enough; henceforth little was to be feared for this life or the life to come. In the midst of this darkness and stagnation be- gan the new movement in which Whitefield played so large a part. We think of him as a preacher, as the orator with a matchless voice; but back of the voice was the soul, and greater than the orator was the message. ‘hose eloquent lips have been sealed for many a decade, but the truths they ut- tered will vibrate to the end of time. No doubt the crowds were charmed and swayed by the wonder- ful delivery, but this alone would never have held them or brought them together again and again. They may not have known it, but a prophet was in their midst. Whitefield had caught a heavenly vision, and he was not disobedient to that vision. His doctrinal teaching was simple but funda- mental. He was in no sense a systematic theolo- gian; his mind was not built that way. Now and then ideas crept into his thinking which were inac- curate, and the phrasing was sometimes crude. But 93 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER at heart he was absolutely loyal to the old-time faith. ‘The dread reality of sin and the beatific real- ity of salvation, the pathetic helplessness and the dire need of man and the all-sufficiency of the di- vine Saviour, the barrenness of a Christless life and the joy and duty of Christlhke living—these prim- itive truths were the very soul of his preaching, from the first sermon to the last. Behind the words was his own experience; he had the Pauline assurance, “I know!’ ‘There was the fadeless memory of an hour in the old Oxford days when a wonderful light burst upon him, and he knew he was born again. He had heard the divine call, and with glowing conviction he could say: “Christ, the Son of God, hath sent me o’er the widespread lands ; | Mine the mighty ordination of the piercéd hands!” When he spoke, it was not a mere sermon, it was a heavenly message. ‘There was no spiritual arro- gance in his heartfelt belief that God was speaking through him. If he was not a foreteller, he was something better. He possessed the highest gift of the ancient prophets—he was a forth-teller, and, like them, he dared to say, “Thus saith the Lord!” John Wesley was once asked why he spoke so often from the words, “Ye must be born again.” He quietly replied, “Because ye must be born again!’ Whitefield was of the same mind, and this mighty truth, together with justification by faith, 94 THE VOICE OF A PROPHET formed the burden of his preaching. 'The second sermon he ever prepared, and the first to be pub- lished, was on “The New Birth,” and so great was the interest awakened that three printings were ealled for within a few months. Years afterward, referring to this sermon, he said: “I remember when I began to speak against baptismal regenera- tion, . . . the first quarrel many had with me was because I did not say that all people who were bap- tized were born again. I would as soon believe the doctrine of transubstantiation.”’ He was “the voice of one crying in the wilder- ness,” that forms and ceremonies, however solemn and beautiful, are powerless to save; that even the highest morality is inadequate. There must be the transforming touch of a Divine Hand. Such preaching to-day sounds almost hackneyed; in Whitefield’s time it was positively startling. No clearer evidence could be found of the sweeping change which has been wrought in men’s religious thinking during the past two centuries than the fact that many of the sermons by Whitefield and the Wesleys which produced overwhelming effects, if preached now, would awaken very little comment. Nor is there a finer tribute than this to the deep and genuine results wrought by the Evangelical Re- vival. : Whitefield never wavered, either in the matter or in the intensity of his message. Most of the clergy, from the country curate to the bishop on his throne, 95 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER stormed and raved at him, and many of the laymen were as angry as the priests. ‘The new prophet was turned out of the churches and all manner of eccle- siastical preferments were denied him. The press flayed him unmercifully. Yet none of these things moved him. And as time went on it became in- creasingly evident that this message was the very thing that multitudes not only needed but were really hungry for. . People everywhere were suffer- ing the pangs of spiritual famine, though most of them were ignorant of the cause of their trouble. But they knew something was lacking and they in- stinctively felt that here was a man who could help them. In no other way can we explain the surging of the crowds to his ministry. They clung to him; he was rarely alone. While he was still a young fellow in the early twenties, in noticing one of his preaching tours, a newspaper casually remarked that “he was attended ... by sixty or seventy horse, so great was the love of the people to his person, and to his doctrine of the New Birth.” In later years one of the shrewdest observers of Whitefield’s work and of the whole Evangelical Movement, was George III. As is well known, Charles Wesley, Jr., son of the great hymn-writer, was a musical prodigy. He often played before the royal family and was on intimate terms with the King. Once, when they were together, after his Majesty had lost his sight, he said, “Mr. Wesley, is there anybody in the room besides you and me?” 96 THE VOICE OF A PROPHET “No, your Majesty.” “Then I will tell you what I think. It is my judgment that your good father, your Uncle John, George Whitefield, and Lady Huntingdon have done more to promote true religion in England than all the dignified clergy put together.” The old king was obtuse on some subjects, but he was keen enough to know that there were proph- ets in the land. 97 yy CHAPTER VIII THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST God forbid that I should travel with anybody a quar- ter of an hour without speaking of Christ to them. I am never better than when I am on the full stretch for God. CHAPTER VIII THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST For a year and more, prior to his first visit to America, Whitefield’s popularity in England was enormous. He was eagerly welcomed to pulpits great and small, and wherever he preached churches — were packed to the doors. Nothing like it had ever been seen, and the young man was commonly re- ferred to as “Ye wonder of ye age.” But at the very time when the people were shouting his praises the clouds were beginning to gather, and distant rumbling was heard, ominous if not loud. When he set sail, many supposed he was gone for good, and they gave a sigh of relief. What was their dismay, less than a year later, to find him back again, bold and aggressive as ever. But a change had come. He was no longer greeted with shouts. Everywhere churches were closed to him. At first three or four clergymen in London ventured to in- vite him into their pulpits, but soon every door was shut. Bristol, the second city in England, had witnessed some of his greatest triumphs. But now the chancellor plainly told him that if he dared to preach anywhere in the diocese, he would be excom- municated. | _ Why this revulsion of feeling? Perhaps some of the clergy were jealous of Whitefield’s success. 101 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Doubtless many more were offended that this young “upstart” should presume to cast doubt on the well-established and most comfortable doctrine that water-baptism alone is needed to effect the New Birth. Such disturbing talk was not to be tolerated. And in other ways Whitefield was not quite churchly, which all added to the general vex- ation. Moreover, he kept a Journal of the voyage to Savannah, which he sent back to some friends in England for their private perusal, and which, un- fortunately, they published. It had a wide circula- tion, and while harmless among the select few, it contained comments and allusions respecting him- self and others never intended for the public eye, and which put the writer in a false light. In a word, Whitefield was an outcast. What should he do? He might go back to America, where his Savannah parish would gladly receive him; and he was now fully equipped, having been ordained to the priesthood. But, aside from the imperative need for collecting money in England for the orphan enterprise in Georgia, he longed to spend a part of his ministry in evangelizing his native land. PREACHING IN THE FIELDS God moves in a mysterious way. It was the month of February, 1739. Whitefield had gone up from London to Bristol only to find every church door shut in his face. Then he turned to the 102 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST city prison. He would surely be free to preach there! But in a few days even this privilege was denied him. Only one opening remained. Should he make the venture? For a moment he hesitated, from no fear of the snows and bleak winds of mid- winter, but, would he be doing right, a priest of the Church of England, to risk such an unheard-of thing? He would! And forward he went with the swing of a mighty urge. Just out of Bristol was Kingswood Hill with its coal mines and the thousands of begrimed and neglected colliers. Here the break was made. “I went upon a mount and spake to as many people as came unto me. They were upwards of two hun- dred. Blessed be God that I have now broken the ice! I believe I was never more acceptable to my Master than when I was standing to teach those hearers in the open fields.” In these days, how commonplace it seems! And yet this was the beginning of that marvelous open- air ministry of Whitefield and the Wesleys and their followers, which, in carrying the gospel to vast numbers of the un-churched, did more than any- thing else to shatter the cold formalism of the day and to turn the religious world upside down. Whitefield started with two hundred, but soon the Kingswood crowds had leaped to ten thousand; it was no longer a venture. To be sure, it made a sensation—a regular clergyman, in gown and cas- sock, preaching under the open sky, and using, in- 103 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER stead of the liturgy, extemporaneous prayer! And when they heard of it, many were scandalized; but God was in it. Picture Whitefield with his sur- passing voice, a delivery that lifted hearers out of themselves, and a message that shook the nation; think of restricting such a man to the four walls of a parish church! As absurd as attempting to con- fine a lion in a bird-cage! Here was a prophet, and he must have the freedom of a prophet. The young Elijah was now in his element; “Field preaching is my plan, in this I am carried on eagle’s wings.” It became a life-motto with him: “Mounts are the best pulpits and the TEENS the best sounding- boards.” John Wesley was in London at the time. By temperament and training he was a stricter churchman than Whitefield, and when the news reached him he was startled. “I could scarcely reconcile myself at first to this strange way of preaching in the fields; . . . having been all my life (till very lately) so tenacious of every point relating to decency and order, that I should have thought the saving of souls almost a sin if it had not been done in a church.” But he soon yielded and began for himself. Whitefield was delighted. “I went to bed,” says he, “rejoicing that a fresh inroad was made into Satan’s territories, by Mr. Wesley’s following me in field-preaching. . . . The Lord give him ten thousand times more success than he has given me!” 104 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST Of the period from 1735, when Whitefield began to preach, till his death in 1770, approximately two years were spent at sea, nine years in America, and twenty-four years in Britain. Both at home and abroad he was an evangelist at large. Too restless to settle down in one place, he must constantly be on the move. Of course, such a roaming career was opposed to all church order, and Bishop Benson, who had ordained him, admonished him that it must cease. But the young man made a spirited defense of his course. He believed God wanted him to be just what he called himself, a “gospel rover,” and, bishop or no bishop, he would not yield. Unlike the methodical Wesley, whose elaborate itineraries were planned and executed with military precision, Whitefield followed the leading of the hour. With but little to do in organizing societies and directing followers, he was simply a preacher of the Word. As doors opened and calls came, it was the voice of God to him, and at once he went forward. It was in this spirit that he turned to the open fields. Here was his grandest opportunity on both sides of the Atlantic, and he made full use of it. His favorite scenes of action were near London. On the edge of the city lay the great open tract known as Moorfields. Formerly a swamp, it had been drained and otherwise improved, and now was a rallying ground for the rabble, who poured out there by tens of thousands. Wrestlers, boxers, 105 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER - mountebanks—every sort of show, decent and in- decent, all found their way to Moorfields. The place was a stronghold of Satan, and just where Whitefield longed to meet the enemy. Friends urged him not to risk it; they warned him he would never come out alive, and he himself admitted it was “a mad trick.” But he did it, and kept it up. He had no fixed time for preaching; any hour would do, so long as he had a crowd. Once he be- gan at six in the morning, and soon thousands were packed around him. He was always prepared for rough treatment, and he rarely escaped. It was an everyday experience of which he wrote: “I was honored with having stones, dirt, rotten eggs, and pieces of dead cats thrown at me.” A portable pulpit had been constructed for him, which could be quickly taken apart and carried from place to place. It stood on stilts, and at best was unstable. Sometimes the mob would make a rush and try to throw pulpit, preacher, and his circle of friends, allin a heap. More than once Whitefield’s life was really imperiled. “As I was passing from the pul- pit to the coach, I felt my hat and my wig to be almost off. I turned about, and observed a sword just touching my temples. A young rake was de- termined to stab me, but a gentleman, seeing the sword thrust near me, struck it up with his cane, and so the destined victim escaped.” But, as a rule, the people were good-natured, and the op- position, though annoying, and at times malignant, 106 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST was, after all, a mere incident in the mighty work. Here were vast multitudes, now and then a sprin- kling of the gentry in coaches or on horseback, drawn largely by curiosity, but the great mass of them from the very dregs of London’s population, the “devil’s castaways,” who rarely if ever darkened a church door, and who were now hearing about One who to most was an “unknown God.” What throngs! not only at Moorfields, but at Kennington Common, at Marylebone Fields, and wherever Whitefield preached in the open. Here are a few snatches from his Journal, describing some of his earlier experiences: “Preached this Sunday morning in Moorfields, to about twenty thousand people; ... and, at six, preached at Kennington. Such a sight I never saw before. I believe there were no less than fifty thousand peo- ple, near fourscore coaches, besides great numbers of horses. There was an awful silence among the people. God gave me great enlargement of heart. I continued my discourse an hour and a half.” “Preached at Kennington Common. God sent us a little rain, but that only washed away the curious hearers. Nearly thirty thousand stood their ground.” ‘“Preached at a place called Mayfair, near Hyde Park Corner. The congregation, I believe, consisted of near eighty thousand people; it was by far the largest I ever preached to yet. In the time of my prayer, there was a little noise; but 107 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER they kept a deep silence during my whole discourse. . . . God strengthened me to speak so loud that most could hear, and so powerfully, that most, I believe, could feel.” Whitefield made large use of singing. Needless to say, the “gospel” variety was unknown in those days. Indeed, until the Wesleyan song movement got under way, there were not many hymns apart from the Psalms. But the preacher did his best and the crowd followed suit, and so vociferously that when conditions were favorable the sound carried two miles. Singing proved especially ef- fective when the people were restless, or when dis- turbers tried to break up a meeting. Let no one imagine that this open-air work was easy; it taxed Whitefield to the limit. Picture a crowd—tens of thousands, the “scum o’ the earth’; and no police restraint; some of them openly bent on mischief; others friendly, but the bulk of them of uncertain temper, swayed by a passing breeze. It was a fa- miliar experience that Whitefield alluded to, when, at the close of one of these meetings, he wrote to a friend: “I continued in praying, preaching, and singing (for the noise at times, was too great to preach) about three hours.” Hard work, but glo- rious! Whitefield exulted in it. He used to say: “T think every day lost that is not spent in field- preaching.” Nowhere was he so completely in his element. He was a born master of crowds, and they felt it. Rarely did they escape him. 108 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST As time passed, his hearers were singularly drawn to him, and wherever he went multitudes became his stanch friends. Just before he sailed the second time for America we find this entry in his Journal: “Preached in the evening to near twenty thousand, at Kennington Common... . Could scarcely get to the coach for the people thronging me, to take me by the hand and give me a parting blessing.” An important part of these meetings, decidedly novel in those times, was the collection. Day and night the Georgia orphanage was on Whitefield’s heart, and next to saving souls he was bent on find- ing a support for his little wards. Rarely did he preach without bringing in an appeal for the chil- dren, and never lived the man who could appeal more persuasively than he. ‘The results were as- tonishing. This is a single day’s experience, taken almost at random: “Preached this morning to a prodigious number of people in Moorfields, and collected for the orphans £52 19s. 6d., above £20 of which was in halfpence. Indeed, they almost wearied me in receiving their mites, and they were more than one man could carry home.” No won- der! Ten thousand copper halfpennies, besides all the larger coins; and remember that the value of money then was several times what it is now. But this was not all. That same day he “preached in the evening to near sixty thousand people. . . After sermon I made another collection of £29 17s. 109 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER 8d.,” a total of nearly £83, worth at least $2,000 in these days, and a great part of it coming from the dregs of society. While open-air preaching, on a large scale, cen- tered in London, Whitefield carried it on to the limit of his strength, in all parts of the kingdom. Throughout the land he had his favorite preaching- places, pieces of rising ground where he could easily speak to multitudes; and for long years after his death many of these places were associated with his name and were known as “Whitefield’s Mounts.” TABERNACLE AND CHAPEL The results of this work were blessed and oft- times immediate. Whitefield used to invite those who wished to begin a new life to write a brief note and pass it up to him, and at the close of one of the huge London meetings, held in the spring of 1742, he wrote to a friend: ““We then retired to the Tabernacle. My pocket was full of notes from per- sons brought under concern. I read them amid the praises . . . of thousands. . . . This was the beginning of the Tabernacle Society. ‘Three hun- dred and fifty awakened souls were received in one day; and, I believe the number of notes ex- ceeded a thousand.” The Tabernacle of which he speaks was a large frame shed, recently erected by some of his friends on the edge of Moorfields, as a protection for his 110 NOGNO'T “IGdVH) LUN09) WVHNALLOL, SESSBRURE VUE AT ECHR RLRRE GANS EROKEOKEXED 4 ce = it ar Se ee Hi w wes aus § 4s , nS MS BEES woos iz ie Me a PRES 5 a ed nner = = i et ge 7 oe a 8 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST more regular hearers in cold and rainy weather. The original intention was to keep it there for only a short time, until Whitefield returned to America; but it continued in use for several years, when it gave place to a brick building on the same spot, and this stood for more than a century, the center of an important evangelistic work. For a considerable time Whitefield had wanted a meeting-place in the more fashionable West End of London. There were many people of social quality who had heard him on some chance occasion, and who were eager to hear him frequently, and for whom he certainly had a message; but they were not attracted either to the open-air meetings or to the barnlike Tabernacle. His hopes were realized when, in 1756, a chapel was erected in Tottenham Court Road. It was of dignified appearance, with a dome rising to a height of one hundred fourteen feet. Beneath it was a vault where Whitefield expected to be buried, and where he hoped John and Charles Wesley would lie beside him. The chapel was spacious, but when Whitefield was the preacher the building could not begin to hold the crowds, and among the multitude that came with more or less regularity were many of the élite of London. In comparison with the humble Tabernacle it was quite an aristocratic center. But let no one suppose that the preacher’s message was altered one iota to suit the ears of his more fashionable hear- Tae WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER ers. Never were the dread reality of sin and the need of a new birth declared with more burning intensity. With the preaching of every sermon definite results were expected. ‘God is doing won- ders in the new Chapel,” wrote Whitefield, a few months after the opening. “A neighboring doctor has baptized the place, calling it “Whitefield’s Soul- Trap.’ I pray that it may be a soul-trap indeed, to many wandering sinners.” As a priest in the Church of England, Whitefield wanted the Chapel to be a part of the Establish- ment, but certain narrow requirements in force at the time prevented; and in order to give the work legal standing, the place was licensed as a Dissent- ing Meetinghouse. When Whitefield was in town he himself was usually the preacher, but during his long absences picked laymen filled the pulpit, and they did so with considerable success. The prayer of the great leader was answered to the full. How many thousands have been converted on that spot God only knows. After a history of one hun- dred and thirty-three years the original building was torn down in 1889 to make way for the larger and up-to-date plant which occupies the same site, and which is one of the most distinguished centers of Nonconformist activity in England. Organized along institutional lines, it is ministering to a teem- ing population in that part of London. Under the leadership of the late C. Silvester Horne, “Old Whitefield,” as it is familiarly called, gained an in- 112 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST ternational fame; and it is gratifying to know that never more than in recent years has it been what the founder prayed it might be—a “soul-trap.” EXPERIENCES AS AN ITINERANT Whitefield loved London, and unless out of the country, he usually spent a part, if not the whole, of each winter there. He had the Tabernacle, and later the Chapel, and in favorable weather he could preach in the fields. But through life he held to an early resolve not to “nestle” in London. He dreaded entering “winter quarters,” and he always longed for the spring, when once again he could begin ranging up and down the land. He was glad to preach anywhere, in private homes, rich or poor, in barns, in church or chapel, and especially under the open sky. He was a prodigious worker. We find him in midwinter, preaching nineteen times in four days, twelve of the services being in the open. In a space of thirty-six hours he preached five times, “expounded” four times, and attended a love-feast that held on till four in the morning. A letter writ- ten in the spring of 1743 gives us a glimpse of his activities: Following a very heavy Sunday, “it was past one in the morning before I could lay my weary body down.” But he was up at five, hurry- ing on horseback to the place where he preached at seven. “At ten I read prayers and preached in 113 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Stenhouse Church,” and administered the Lord’s Supper. “Then I rode to Stroud, where I was enabled to preach to about twelve thousand... . About six in the evening I preached to about the like number on Hampton Common... . After this I went to Hampton and held a general love- feast. ... I went to bed about midnight, very cheerful and very happy.” At daylight the next morning he was at it again. Remember that Whitefield’s sermons often ex- tended to an hour and well beyond, and that he threw into every message all the passionate earnest- ness of his soul. No wonder that as the years passed he became so worn that his pace slackened. During the closing decade of his life there were considerable periods when he was able to preach very little, or none at all. In comparison with Wesley, Whitefield was not often imperiled by mob violence. He used to say of himself that he had “very little natural courage.” And yet he was far from being a coward, and more than once he stood his ground against assaults that would have terrified most men. As he journeyed from place to place, his experiences, if not always thrilling, at least were interesting. In those days the main roads were infested with bandits, and trav- elers were liable to be held up at any time. “In one of his journeys Whitefield was told of a widow with a large family, whose landlord had distrained her furniture, and was about to sell it, unless her 114 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST rent was paid. Whitefield’s purse was never large, but his sympathy was great, and he immediately gave the five guineas which the helpless woman needed. ‘The friend who was traveling with him hinted that the sum was more than he could reason- ably afford, to which the gushing, if not perfectly accurate, reply was, “When God brings a case of distress before us, it is that we may relieve it.’ The two travelers proceeded on their journey, and be- fore long encountered a highwayman, who de- manded their money, which they gave. Whitefield now turned the tables on his friend, and reminded him how much better it was for the poor widow to have the five guineas than the thief who had just robbed them. They had not long resumed their travel before the man returned and demanded Whitefield’s coat, which was more respectable than hisown. This request was also granted, Whitefield accepting the robber’s ragged habiliments till he could procure a better. Presently they per- ceived the marauder again galloping toward them most furiously; and now, fearing that their lives were threatened, they also spurred their horses, and, fortunately, arrived at some cottages, before the highwayman could stop them. ‘The thief was balked, and, no doubt, was immensely mortified; for when Whitefield took off the man’s tattered coat, he found, in one of its pockets, a carefully wrapped parcel containing one hundred guineas.” Thus the astonished preacher suddenly became pos- 115 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER sessor of the proceeds of sundry highway rob- beries!? In ScotTtanp, Wa.LEs, AND [IRELAND John Wesley, with his stanch Arminianism, never made the impression in Scotland that he did south of the Tweed. But Whitefield, who was a Calvinist, fared better. All told, he journeyed to the north fourteen times, his first visit being in the summer of 1741. Presbyterianism was the estab- lished faith in Scotland, but there, as in England, genuine religion was almost dead. Quite recently a group of earnest clergymen of evangelical spirit had withdrawn from the old Kirk and had formed “The Associate Presbytery.” In many ways they were akin to the Oxford Methodists, and when Whitefield heard of them, at once there was awak- ened in him a fellow feeling. He corresponded with them, and presently they invited him to make them a visit. He went with high hopes, but soon found himself in a disagreeable situation. The Se- ceders were extremely narrow. They demanded that their visitor preach exclusively for them and wholly ignore the old Kirk. But while in a gen- eral way Whitefield’s sympathies were with the new party, he refused to be drawn into their contro- versy, and insisted that he be left free to associate with any company of Christians, and to fill any 1'This story originally appeared in The Gospel Magazine, 1816, and is told by Tyerman, I: 525. 116 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST pulpit to which he was invited; and to this purpose he held firmly till his return to England in October. The following June he was back for a second visit, and he heard with joy that all Scotland was stirring with a new life. At once he threw himself into evangelistic work, chiefly with the members of the Established Kirk, for the ‘other party had grown very cool. A few weeks passed and then the storm broke. The Seceders could contain them- selves no longer, and they turned upon Whitefield with strange fierceness. He was publicly de- nounced as “an abjured, prelatic hireling,” “a limb of antichrist; a boar and a wild beast.’ When he preached in the fields or for the enemy, and souls were converted, it was anathematized as the work of the devil; and a day of fasting was appointed that they might implore divine forgiveness for hav- ing once invited such a son of Beelzebub to visit them. When Whitefield heard of it, he cried: “To what length may prejudice carry even good men? From giving way to the first risings of bigotry and party spirit, good Lord deliver us!” But the opposition did not seriously disturb him. The work went right on, and as the years passed the Seceders grew more lenient. At every subse- quent visit Whitefield’s grip on the Scottish people was strengthened. They came not only to honor but to love him, so that, in 1768, when he was there for what proved to be the last time, he exclaimed, “I am here only in danger of being hugged to 117 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER death.” Multitudes were awakened, and among them many young men who entered the ministry. It is doubtful if anyone not native to the soil ever preached in Scotland whose influence was as deep and abiding as that of George Whitefield. He had much to do with reshaping the religious life of the country and in giving to it the strong evangelical tone which it retains to the present day. Whitefield was also very fond of Wales. He made frequent tours through the Principality, and wherever he went, with few exceptions, he was re- ceived with high honor. Though not the founder of the Calvinistic Methodists, he was for a number of years their moderator, and to the end of his life he was a trusted friend and counselor. Wales owes an untold debt of gratitude to the great evangelist. There was something about Ireland that ap- pealed to John Wesley. He went there no less than twenty times, establishing an important work, and his name is associated with every part of the island. But it was otherwise with Whitefield. He visited Ireland only twice, and although he received a warm welcome and had his usual success in preach- ing, both visits were comparatively brief. While he was there the second time, in 1757, he had an experience he could never forget. One Sunday afternoon he preached to a great crowd on a green near Dublin. Starting to leave at the close, he was suddenly set on by a mob that seemed 118 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST determined to end his work for all time. During the service he had been attended by a soldier and several preachers, but at the first sign of real dan- ger they fled for their lives, leaving Whitefield to get on as best he could. “Vollies of hard stones,” he tells us, ‘““came from all quarters, and every step I took a fresh stone struck, and made me reel back- ward and forward, till I was almost breathless, and was covered all over with blood.” One large stone hit him in the temple and he fully expected to be killed but by a happy providence finally escaped. Years later, a stranger called on him one day in London, and when Whitefield learned he was an Irishman, he took off his cap, and bending toward him placed his hand on a deep scar in his head, saying, “Sir, this wound I got in your country for preaching Christ.” AMONG THE NOBILITY It is a singular fact that although John Wesley was born in the choicest of circles, and all through childhood and youth enjoyed a social environment far beyond anything that George Whitefield knew, he seems never to have felt thoroughly at home in what might be called high society. It is needless to say that whenever entertained in the palaces of the great, he carried himself with distinguished propriety; but his happiest hours were not spent there, nor did he very often preach to such classes. In his Journal, more than once we find a comment 119 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER like this: “I was a little out of my element among lords and ladies. I love plain company best.” Whitefield, on the other hand, was nowhere at greater ease than among the nobility. In 1739, or earlier, he had the rare good fortune to become ac- quainted with the Countess of Huntingdon, one of the most remarkable women of her age, and his whole after-life was profoundly influenced by her friendship for him. . The Countess was of royal descent; she was held in high esteem by King George III, and moved freely in -court circles. Still more unusual and significant, she was deeply religious, from the first intensely interested in the Methodist movement, and all through the years courageously open in letting the world know where her sympathies lay. Whitefield had not been long in the ministry when she heard of him and became impressed with his divine call, and she urged Bishop Benson to ordain him to the priesthood. The bishop yielded; but some time after, annoyed over the young man’s irregularities, he expressed to the Countess bitter regret at having done so. With great spirit she replied, “My lord, mark my words —when you come upon your dying bed, that will be one of the few ordinations you will reflect upon with complacence!’’ It is interesting to know that when the bishop lay dying he sent ten guineas to Whitefield, as a token of his favor, and begged to be remembered by him in his prayers. Several years later the Countess made White- 120 THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST field her domestic chaplain, and through her he was introduced to many of the nobility. While recog- nizing the vast work to be done among the poor and outcast, he soon came to feel that he had an equally important mission to those who dwelt in mansions, and whose souls were famished for God. In palatial homes, in both Scotland and England, and especially in the drawing room of the Countess, he preached scores of times before the most bril- liant companies. Many pages might be filled with the names of the lords and ladies who hung spell- bound upon his words: the élite of the realm, lead- ers in court circles, those eminent in affairs of state and in art and literature. A social nonentity, not a drop of blue blood in his veins, yet no other preacher in England had such a hearing; and some of his most notable spiritual triumphs were won where we should least expect them. _ Needless to say that the same gospel which he preached in the field he declared in the palace. One day his aristocratic hearers were amazed at his af- firming that Jesus was so glad to receive sinners that he welcomed even “the devil’s castaways.” “Absurd! Impossible!’ they exclaimed to each other at the close of the service, after the speaker had retired from the room. Being told of their © comments, Whitefield hurried back and proved to them from his own observation that this very mar- vel was happening day after day. Throughout his ministry Whitefield carried on 121 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER an extensive correspondence with both men and women of the titled class. His letters, simple and straightforward, show his burning eagerness to touch the hearts and lives of his aristocratic friends. It is midnight, after a day of toil, but he will not go to rest till he has written a message to “Lord L. °: “T hope Jesus is now passing by you, and saying unto you, ‘Live!’ O that the stone of infidelity, which before lay at the door of your heart may be now rolled away!... My Lord, if you could be brought once to love secret prayer, and to con- verse feelingly with God in his word, your heaven will begin on earth. .. . As for praying in your family, I intreat you, my Lord, not to neglect it. Apply to Christ for strength to overcome your present fears. ‘They are the effects of pride, or in- fidelity, or both. After once or twice the difficulty will be over... . My Lord, you are upon my heart. Methinks I would undergo the pangs of the new birth for you; but Jesus can carry you through.” Again we find him writing to “Lady F S——.”: “My heart’s desire and continued prayer is that your Ladyship, having put your hand to the plow, may be kept from looking back! Satan will not be wanting to exert his utmost efforts to divert you from the cross. He knows of what influence your Ladyship’s example must necessarily be, and therefore will always be striving to persuade your Ladyship at least to compound matters, and to at- 122 AUTOGRAPH LETTER BY WHITEFIELD [London, March 25, 1762. If the Redeemer spares me-I have thoughts of taking an American Voyage—Who knows but we may meet once more on this side Jordan? Lord Jesus help us in all things to say, not my will but thine be done—lI can as yet preach but twice or thrice a week—But the Redeemer is able to do more for me—I know you will pray that- He may—Oh my Dr. Friend, study I entreat you study to live near Him—Look up continually for the aids of His blessed Spirit & you shall be help’d to adorn the Gospel in all things That this may be your happy lot is the earnest prayer of my Dr. Mr. Read Yours, etc in our Common Redeemer GWhitefield 1) 7 t 2 a, THE BRITISH ISLES FOR CHRIST tempt to reconcile two irreconcilable differences— Christ and the world. But your Ladyship is too well grounded to hearken to his delusive insinua- tions, and too noble to refuse to give your whole heart to him who has bought it with no less price than that of his own most precious blood. What a price is now put into your Ladyship’s hands! What a glorious opportunity is now afforded you, to show even before kings, that we are made kings indeed, and priests unto God! Methinks I see angels gazing to see how your Ladyship acts your part. O that the angel of the everlasting covenant may always accompany you, and by the power of his eternal and all-conquering spirit, enable your Ladyship to fight the good fight of faith, and run with patience the glorious race that is set before you!” We are safe in saying that by voice and pen, through a whole generation, George Whitefield did more than any other man to arouse a new religious faith in the higher circles of English society. 123 CHAPTER IX RANGING AND HUNTING IN AMERICA We lead a moving life, but I trust we move heavenward. Eternity! Eternity! The very writing or hearing of this word is enough to make one dead to the world and alive to God. CHAPTER IX RANGING AND HUNTING IN AMERICA W HITEFIELD’s first visit to America, in the sum- mer of 1738, was very brief. After a few weeks in Savannah he returned to England, partly to com- plete his ordination to the priesthood and partly to obtain money for the proposed orphanage. The following summer he sailed again for these West- ern shores, landing near Cape Henlopen, on the Delaware coast, and riding through the forest to Philadelphia. ‘This time he remained in America more than a year, becoming fairly introduced to the people on whom he was to make so deep and lasting an impression. When he left England it was sup- posed he would quietly settle in Savannah as min- ister of the parish church. Impossible for such a man! He went down to Georgia but was too rest- less to stay there. ‘True, he needed help for the orphanage from the wealthy colonies in the North; but, far more, he was a prophet, with a divine mes- sage as a burning fire shut up in his bones, a mes- sage not for an obscure corner but for the entire land. And soon we find him entering on that long series of journeys, North and South, which con- tinued at intervals till his death in 1770. | 127 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER AMERICA IN WHITEFIELD’S TIME The America that Whitefield knew was not only quite unlike the America of to-day, but in many ways it differed from the mother country. The population was sparse and there were only three cities of any size—Boston, New York, and Phila- delphia. For many years Boston led, but before the Revolution Philadelphia had leaped forward and proudly boasted of 32,000 inhabitants; New York followed with 23,000, and Boston dropped into third place with only 16,000. Transportation was tedious, and so far as possi- ble waterways were used. Roads may have been none too good in England, but they were boule- . vards compared with those in America. Outside of the cities wheeled vehicles were unknown till the middle of the eighteenth century; people traveled on horseback. The first stagecoach between New York and Philadelphia was put on in 1756. In fair weather the distance of ninety miles was covered in three days. No wonder that Whitefield shunned winter travel. It was conducive neither to good spirits nor good health, to arrive at an inn at ten o'clock at night, worn, famished, and half frozen; swallow a bit of cold supper, climb into a cold bed, and at three in the morning climb out again, dress by the feeble light of a farthing candle, and amid snow and ice start off on another eigh- teen-hour journey. In 1769, shortly before White- 128 RANGING AND HUNTING field made his last trip North, a faster coach, drawn by young and spirited horses, was put on this route. People along the way left their work and watched with astonishment the “Flying Machine,” as it was called, go whizzing by. ‘The rate of speed may be estimated by remembering that it still took two days to make the ninety miles! It was two years after Whitefield’s death before the first coach was started between Boston and New York. It ran only twice a month and a distance that is now trav- eled in five hours took thirteen days. Taverns were rather common. ‘They bore such appealing names as “The Penny Pot House,” “The Jolly Tar Inn,” “The Crooked Billet Inn,” “Mrs. Mullin’s Beefsteak House,” or ““The Blue Anchor Tavern,” and some of them were famous for their cooking. In order to keep the meat slowly revolv- ing before the fire, it was the custom in many kitch- ens to train small dogs to run in hollow cylin- ders, like squirrels, the cylinders being attached to the turning-jacks. The old annals tell of more than one impatient traveler who was delayed in dining, while the servants were scurrying around after truant canines. | Although Whitefield frequently stopped at tav- erns, more often he was invited to private homes. It was the rule, especially in the more sparsely set- tled districts, to entertain freely anyone who came along. Many of the well-to-do settlers were in the habit, every night, of setting out a table loaded with 129 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER food, so that the chance wayfarer could help himself. All this greatly impressed White- field. Again and again he exclaimed, “The Americans are the most hospitable people under heaven.” Most of the homes, both in town and country, were surprisingly comfortable. This was especially true in Philadelphia. The dwellings were well built, usually of brick, with projecting roofs and wide porches, and many were surrounded with spacious gardens. Often a sundial was set in the wall. Carpets were not common, for most people preferred bare floors, scrubbed every day and sprinkled with white sand. 'Those old-time, ram- bling houses, with their tiny window-panes and the huge open fireplaces, bedsteads so high that a cradle could be slipped under them, spinning-wheel and loom-shuttle, tallow-candle and warming-pan, with all the rest that belonged to that day, had nothing sumptuous, but they could boast of solid comfort. In such homes Whitefield was entertained many a time. As the years went by, the private coach and se- dan-chair became common with the wealthier fam- ilies, and fashion grew more exacting in her de- mands. Society leaders among the women were re- splendent in silks and satins, velvets and brocades. It was also the custom to pile up the hair to prodigious heights and in extraordinary shapes. Of course professional hairdressers were required, 130 En RANGING AND HUNTING and on the eve of some notable function these artists began early, so that frequently a colonial dame was ready to start for a ball twenty-four hours ahead of time, and she must needs sit up all night, scarcely stirring lest she play havoc with the upper works. We can readily imagine what Whitefield thought of all this. Many a time, in public and in private, with no uncertain sound, he delivered his soul concerning female frivolities. Whitefield soon discovered that on the whole, morals in America were higher than in England. There were fewer serious crimes, such as highway robbery and murder, while official corruption was far léss common. It was likewise true that law- breakers were treated with greater humanity. At the very period when the statute books of England specified more than two hundred crimes punishable with death, Massachusetts named twenty and Pennsylvania only two. Of course drinking was well- ah universal. The records tell of occasional banquets where more than a hundred different dishes were served, and quan- tities of liquor almost past belief were consumed. It was worse in Philadelphia than in Boston, so that when John Adams came South on a visit he stood aghast at what he saw, though he presently fell in with Philadelphia’s ways. A funeral was a great time for feasting. If the deceased was a person of note, thousands attended, and the eating and drink- ing were on an immense scale. But while Boston 131 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER may have been more sober than Philadelphia, it was by no means “dry.” Less than ten years after the Great Awakening swept over Massachusetts, rum- making in the colony was at its height, with sixty- three distilleries at work. It was estimated that more than nine hundred vessels, sailing from Bos- ton and neighboring ports, regularly carried rum as a part of their cargo, either for use on board or for sale in other lands. Yet the Puritan conscience was apparently undisturbed. Nor did Whitefield ever lift his voice against the liquor traffic. On his first visit to Georgia he deplored the fact that the home government would not permit the colonists to import either rum or slaves, and when, a little later, the ban on rum was removed, he was highly gratified. Needless to say, though not a total ab- stainer, he was strictly temperate, and he always abhorred drunkenness; yet it seems never to have occurred to him to strike at the root of the evil. But such were the times in which he lived, and it must be frankly admitted that on some ques- tions the evangelist was not in advance of the times. : | Conscience is often curiously erratic. The Puri- tans looked askance at the theater, but they were extremely fond of cock-fighting, and they saw no harm in the lottery. Massachusetts went in whole- heartedly for distilleries, and then passed a law sternly forbidding kissing on the streets between the sexes as a gross indecency. As late as 1759 a 132 RANGING AND HUNTING Boston sea-captain, returning from a long cruise, and meeting his wife on the wharf, saluted her as one would naturally expect. At once he was ar- rested and sentenced by the outraged magistrate to be publicly whipped. Nothing in America impressed Whitefield more happily than the way in which the Sabbath was ob- served, especially in New England. He often re- ferred to it in letters to English friends. Even in a city as large as Boston the stillness was almost deathlike. Everyone who could do so went to church. There was no strolling, and if a group happened to linger on the street for conversation, they were quickly dispersed by a vigilant constable. Some of the clergy were so strict that they refused to baptize babies born on Sunday. But one of these ministers was put to unexpected and painful confusion, when on a Sunday morning his own wife presented him with twins. The old annals intimate that from that time the nonbaptism rule fell into serious disfavor. At church the men and women, as a rule, sat apart. If there was a gallery, it was reserved for the children, who were kept in order by elderly and solemn-faced women, armed with light rods. The churches were unheated save for the small individ- ual warming-pans, and the discomfort during a New England winter must have been extreme. Yet the people flocked to worship and rarely do we read of a complaint. 133 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER TRAVELING IN THE SOUTH As we have already seen, Whitefield sailed for America on his second voyage in the summer of 1739. He arrived in Philadelphia November 2. A few days later he began the overland journey to his distant parish in the south. The farther he went the rougher and wilder became the country. Often the way lay through-almost trackless forests, with treacherous swamps, and streams swollen with the winter rains. Settlements were few and far apart and he rarely knew where the night would be spent. Occasionally, coming to a clearing, and passing through a pack of yelping hounds, he would find a rude but welcome hospitality under some planter’s roof. Now and then a wayside cabin, boasting that it was a tavern, offered primitive entertainment. Often he was thankful for a bed of leaves under a friendly tree. A fire was soon kindled, and as the weary preacher lay down and listened to the howl- ing of the wolves, he gratefully reflected that as the fire of brushwood kept off the wild beasts, so “the fire of God’s love keeps the devil off.” These experiences were decidedly new to the young Englishman, but he enjoyed them, and through the years, as opportunity came, he contin- ued his forest journeys. As he once wrote to John Wesley: “If you ask what I am doing? I answer, ‘Ranging and hunting in the American woods after poor sinners.’”’ And there was need of it. Much 134 Solid tom a moral Yonsues FUVENTUS, SIPOCSSLSIPHS TANS Seno sesas PHILADELPHIA On Friday laft the Rev. Mr. WAITEFIELD, arsived here, with his Friends from New-York, where he preach’d eight Limes; and on his Rerurn hither preach’d at Evizabeth- bicfl | Teen, Brunfwick, Maidenhead, Trenton, Nehaminy and dbivg~ , and | dow. He has preach’d twice every Day in the Church to ve great Crowds, except Tuefdiy, when he preach’d at Germon- ‘rOw- | Town, fram a Balcony to abour 5000 People in the Streer > | hire | And laft Night the Crowd was fo great to hear his’ farewel * thim | Sermon, that the Church could not conrain onchalf,where~ = has | upon they withdrew to Society-Hill, where he preach d from been | a Balcony to a Multitude, compured at not lefs than rega | 10,000 People. He left this Ciry to day, and is to preach — Pat | at Chefler ; to morrow at Willines Torn, Satuiday ar New. » venef- Cafile, Sunday at Wbiteclay-Creck, and {> proceed on his Way = many | to Georgia, thro’ Maryland, Virginia and Carolina. . Vind _. GCuftom Houfe, Philadelphia, Emredin. nings | Sloop St. Auguttine, John Denmark, from New-York. ty =| ~~ Sloop Swan, Burgefs Hall, from Boon. = tit istCS ¢ Man Entred Ont. ._. Au- | Brigt. Squirrel, William Hill, for Jamaica. : Peng Cleared. es seats SSNPS Ca : . 5 ONE hak ME MAREREST CO EES | Dayo had a Letter from him, which was fent , with all pofible hafte, which I fuppote is for 9 difpatch | for thar Place :.’The Rebellious Negroes a ftopt fram | doing any further Mifchief, many of them g been put jto the moftcrue! Death. The yellow Fever is abated, bur | has been very Mortal. : _ FHILADELPHI 2 | On Tharfday laf the Rev. Mr WAITEFIELD, left this Ciry, and was accompany d to Ghefler by abour 150 | Hoste, and preach’d there ro about 7000 People ; on fridiy ‘| he preach 'd twice at Wiilixgs-Town to about 5000; on Su- furday at Newu-Cafile to about 2500, and the fame Eveuing at Chriflian- Bride to about 3000; on Sunday.at W biteclay- Creek he preach'd twice, refting about half an Hour between ;| the Sermons, to about Soco, of whom about 3000 "tis com- | puted came on Horfe-back, it rain’d moft of the Time and : }- | yet they Rood in the open Air: On Afonday he was to preach _j at North Loft, and then proceed direGly for Anmapolis, - Cufiem Eeufe, Philadg!poia, Entred in. te, ( Vulcan, Matthias Kirg, from Rhode-Ifland. _ / & 4 Samuel and Mary, Jaha Dunn, from 5. Carolina, 2 Indufiry, John "Meas, from Garbadoes. frend bs o ye, et, ih ag ft © € Content, Berhuel Gardner, from Golon. * % a fod i, £ oe Sa. ee Brier, Martha. Gurnev_ Wall, from Barbadees. Ee « La NEWS-ITEMS CONCERNING WHITEFIELD, BY BENJAMIN FRANKLIN RANGING AND HUNTING of the Southland was a spiritual desert. In many sections a clergyman had never been seen, and the people were practically heathen. The coming of Whitefield was like the visit of an angel. He touched lives everywhere, one or two, a family, per- haps a group of twenty; if a hundred gathered, he called it “extraordinary,” considering the scant population. It showed the genius of the man that he could so readily adapt himself to any occasion. Without doubt he was in his glory when speaking to thousands; but he was also happy and effective with a score. It was on these journeys in the South that he came into close contact with slavery. He was warmly interested in the Negroes. At one time he planned a large school for them, and he never ceased to labor for their conversion. He sternly rebuked those planters who would not permit their slaves to attend a preaching service on the plea that religion would make them proud and disobedient. More than once he imperiled his standing in the South by his vigorous denunciation of the many masters who treated their slaves cruelly. And yet the unpleasant fact must be recorded that to the end of his life he was a defender of slavery. In this he was out of accord with numerous leaders on both sides of the Atlantic. When he and John Wesley first came to Georgia the trustees of the colony forbade the importation of slaves. Wesley encouraged this stand, as did many others, but 135 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Whitefield condemned it. He believed that in such a hot climate work in the fields could be done only by Negroes, and that meant slaves. So he begged for them, and when the trustees yielded, he publicly rejoiced. At the very time that Wesley, reflecting the best conscience of England and America, was denouncing slavery as “that execrable sum of all villainies,’ Whitefield was himself becoming a slave-owner, in purchasing slaves for the orphan- age-farm. And in his will he disposed of his slaves as mere chattels, along with cattle and carts. We do not question the great preacher’s perfect sin-. cerity, but even his most ardent admirers must con- fess that at this point his ethical insight was de- ficient. RELIGIOUS CONDITIONS IN AMERICA Whitefield’s first overland journey to Savannah ended on January 10, 1740. During his brief stay there he resigned his parish, and henceforth he was free to devote more time to the orphans, and to be- come, as he called it, “a gospel rover.” A few weeks later he was back in Pennsylvania. mitted that they did the writer no credit. And yet, in spite of their mediocre character, they were used of God in blessing a multitude of lives. ‘They cir- culated widely on both sides of the Atlantic. They were read by individuals, by families, and in larger circles, and they carried the message to many who could never have been reached by the living voice. Take a single example. In those early times, religion in the colony of Virginia was at a very low ebb. A young layman, Samuel Morris, became burdened with the need of a revival, and he longed to help. One day, in 1748, there fell into his hands a volume of Whitefield’s sermons. Here was his chance. He could not preach but he could read, and calling his neighbors to his own house he began reading to them these sermons. ‘The effect was immediate. He tells us that “the concern of some of the people was now so passionate and violent that they could not avoid crying out and weeping bitterly. My dwelling house became too small to contain the congregation, and we determined to 178 WHITEFIELD’S FIELD-PULPIT WHITEFIELD THE PREACHER build a meetinghouse, merely for reading.” This led to the introduction of Presbyterianism and to its spread all over the colony. It marked the dawn of a new religious day. The question is often asked, “Would White- field’s preaching produce the same impression now that it did in the eighteenth century?” No, if what is meant is a mere transference of sermons and de- livery from that generation to this, any more than the Whitefield style of dress would be regarded with favor to-day. ‘Times change, and while truth remains the same, forms and expression are altered. But is it not fair to assume that, since Whitefield was so successful in adapting himself to the age in which he lived, he would be no less able to fit into the needs of the twentieth century? Doubtless some parts of his message would receive a new theological setting, and his pulpit language and manner might be modified. But, given the same prophetic vision with the same glad obedience to that vision, the same extraordinary qualities and gifts of heart and mind and body, the same world of sin and sorrow, only immensely bigger and more conscious of its need—may we not suppose that God would make as large use of his servant in these days as nearly two hundred years ago? At all events, we wish that Whitefield were here; we would like to see what would happen. 179 yi) w CHAPTER XI WHITEFIELD THE MAN Dare to be singularly good. Why should we be dwarfs in holiness? There is not a thing on the face of the earth that I abhor so much as idleness or idle people. I expect to see you once more in this land of the dying. If not, ere long I shall meet you in the land of the living. CHAPTER XI WHITEFIELD THE MAN WHITEFIELD was a most lovable man, warm- hearted, generous, frank; with no trace of a re- vengeful spirit. If he made some enemies, he won ten times as many friends; and what is more, he clung to his friends and they clung to him; he would have perished without them; he feasted on human love. He was fond of America, and at the call of ~ duty he never hesitated to turn his face westward; and yet one of the keenest trials of his life was the parting from dear ones in the homeland. On an early voyage, as the shores of England faded from his view, he wrote these words: “Parting seasons of late have been to me dying seasons. Surely they have broken my very heart.” He said to a friend, “In parting from you, I feel that I am being ex- ecuted again and again.” Once when he was about to sail, several intimate companions sent word they would be at the ship to see him off. But he begged them not to do so: “I dare not meet you now. I cannot bear your coming to me to part from me. It cuts me to the heart.” — He was impulsive, and he had quarrels, many of them, but, like his faults in general, they involved the head rather than the heart. If in the wrong, he 183 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER was prompt to seek forgiveness, and he was ready to go almost any length to heal a breach. Long- continued enmity was a grief of soul to him, and he did his best to avoid it./ No doubt he was thinking of what he himself had often done in the counsel which he urged on an English gentleman: “My very dear Sir, do forgive and forget; and if you are conscious you have been too hasty in any re- spect, pray send to Mr. B a few lines of love. We never lose anything by stooping.” Those were disputatious times, and Whitefield was embroiled in all manner of theological con- troversies, especially in his early ministry. In the single year 1739, more than forty pamphlets were published against him. Partisan meddlers egged him on to more than one needless tilt. Nothing seemed to gratify them more than to cause trouble between Whitefield and some intimate friend. There was no person in the world to whom he owed so much in the way of spiritual leadership as to John Wesley, a man eleven years his senior and of mature Christian experience. And yet, when a young fellow of only twenty-six, because of certain doctrinal differences, he broke off all relations with Wesley, refusing even to give him his hand. How- ever, these were mere outbursts of youthful folly. The breach was soon healed, and the friendship was never again disturbed. Some years later, when Wesley lay very sick and it was feared he might not live, one of the tenderest letters he received was 184 Sn OLS Ae RENE BORE” LOTION Ps Rrcicqepetebropensireesiese CAGES HESS Die» i. CHARRETTE ERESTTT RAE WHITEFIELD IN 1768 1 WHITEFIELD THE MAN from Whitefield, closing with the words, “Your most affectionate, sympathizing, and _ afflicted younger brother.” JKnowing that the two men dis- agreed on certain points of doctrine, a zealous partisan of Whitefield asked him one day, “Do you think we shall see John Wesley in heaven?” “No, sir!’ was the prompt reply. “He will be so near the throne and we at such a distance that we shall hardly get a sight of him.” ,” When Whitefield began his ministry, to all in- tents he was an Arminian, but a year or two later he announced he was a Calvinist. Contact with Presbyterianism in Scotland and America led to the change, and in one way it was a practical help, for on both sides of the sea it gave him a ready hear- ing in a multitude of circles where Wesley would have been looked upon as a heretic. And yet all through life he preached universal salvation with an abandon that, in those days, must have startled the strict disciples of the great Genevan. The fact is, as we have seen, Whitefield was not a theologian, and it is unlikely that he ever thought through a system of theology. But with all his soul he believed in the glory of God, and Calvin- ism’s special emphasis on this point appealed to him. He was ready, eager, to sink to any depth of abasement and carry humanity with him, in the effort to magnify Deity. He wrote to a friend: “I hope we shall catch fire from each other and that there may be an holy emulation amongst us, who 185 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER shall most debase man and exalt the Lord Jesus.” As Franklin observed, one of his frequent expres- sions was, “Man is half a beast and half a devil.” Over and over again he described himself as “a worm and no man,” “a dead dog,” “a vile, worth- less, ungrateful wretch,” “a sink of sin and corrup- tion.” His bitterest foes never hurled at him more opprobrious epithets than he applied to himself. Evidently, he believed that the surest way to honor the Creator was to dishonor the creature. But whatever Whitefield’s ideas on these points, or however closely held, be it said to his credit that he rarely if ever preached them in a controversial spirit. Huis theology was not of the militant kind, and as the years passed he increasingly abhorred disputing for disputing’s sake. “We do not dis- pute,” he said, “but love. I find more and more that truth is great, and however seemingly crushed for a while, will in the end prevail”; and as he wrote in one of his beautiful letters to Benjamin Frank- lin, “Though we cannot agree in principles, yet we agree in love.” , Whitefield was remarkably broad and tolerant in his church sympathies. ‘To the close of his life he was a regular priest of the Anglican communion, and had he been permitted, no doubt the great bulk of his work would have been done in that body. In reality it was a Divine Hand that thrust him out. Like the founder of Methodism, he was too big: for any single branch; he belonged to the Church Uni- 186 WHITEFIELD THE MAN versal. The oft-quoted expression, “I look upon all the world as my parish,” was used for the first time by both Wesley and Whitefield in letters writ- ten in the same year, 1739. When Whitefield was refused admission to Epis- copal pulpits he turned to the Dissenters, who, as a rule, welcomed him with open arms. ‘This change was especially easy in America, with its freer spirit and its strong nonconforming bodies. Without surrendering in any measure his place and stand- ing in the church of his ordination, through most of his life he was virtually a Dissenting minister; and yet, as we have seen, he belonged to the whole church. He used to exclaim: “Oh, for a mind di- vested of all sects, and names, and parties! I care not if the name of George Whitefield be banished out of the world so that Jesus be exalted in it.” He made it his life aim “to strengthen the hands of all, of every denomination that preaches Jesus Christ in sincerity.” He never uttered nobler words than when he said, in one of his sermons, “The Spirit of God is the center of unity, and wherever I see the image of my Master I never inquire of them their opinions. I love all that love the Lord Jesus Christ.” Such catholicity of soul may be common in these days, but it was undreamed of before the Evangel- ical Revival. Whitefield was far in advance of the times. Even Wesley, with all his breadth of sym- pathy, scarcely kept pace with him at this point. 187 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Whitefield felt at home anywhere. Among church- men he was a churchman; among the Presbyterians and the other Dissenters of Scotland and America, he was a Dissenter. The holy communion was as sacred to him with one group as with another. He disagreed with the Quakers in some things, but he tells of his gleeful accord with the Friend who grasped his hand at the close of a sermon, saying: “Friend George, I am as thou art. I am for bring- ing all to the life and*power of the ever-living God. And therefore, if thou wilt not quarrel with me about my hat, I will not quarrel with thee about thy gown.” One Sunday he invited a Baptist min- ister to preach in his stead, joyfully commenting to himself, “O bigotry, thou art tumbling down apace!’ The story is still told in Philadelphia of how, on a certain occasion, when Whitefield was preaching from the balcony of the old Courthouse, he lifted his eyes and exclaimed: “Father Abraham, who have you in heaven? Any Episcopalians? ‘No.’ Any Presbyterians? ‘No.’ Any Baptists? ‘No. Any Methodists, Seceders, or Independents? ‘No, no! Why, who have you there? ‘We don’t know those names here. All who are here are Chris- tians.’ Qh, is that the case? Then, God help me! And God help us all to forget party names, and to become Christians in deed and truth.” The hardest struggle Whitefield had, all through life, but especially as a young man, was to hold his balance amid the tide of adulation that swept 188 WHITEFIELD THE MAN around him. Anyone would have felt it, and espe- cially a person of Whitefield’s emotional nature. Often he fell, and no one knew it better than him- self. There is a pathetic note in his voice as he frankly says, “It is too much for one man to be re- ceived as I have been, by thousands.” He lamented his “too imperious carriage,” and that a love of power had sometimes “intoxicated” him, and made him “mistake passion for zeal, and an overbearing spirit for an authority given from above.” No of- fender could have been more penitent than he, more humble in confession, more desirous of mending his ways. “I have been much concerned,” he said to a fellow clergyman, “lest I behave not with that hu- mility toward you which is due from a babe to a father in Christ. You know how difficult it is to meet with success and not be puffed up with it. Pray the Lord to heal my pride.” In letter after letter, with childlike simplicity, he pleaded with his friends, “Eintreat God to give me humility, so shall success not prove my ruin.” Once, receiving a se- vere rebuke, instead of resenting it, he meekly thanked the writer, and added: “When I am un- willing to be told of my faults, correspond with me no more. If I know anything of this treacherous heart of mine, I love those most who are most faith- ful to me in this respect.” At times his enemies were unmerciful, brutal, in their assaults, but he quietly accepted it. “God be praised for the many strippings I have met with. It is good for me that 189 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER I have been supplanted, despised, censured, ma- ligned.” It was a valuable discipline. But because Whitefield showed proper humility, let no one suppose there was the faintest trace of a cringing spirit; his whole attitude was one of robust independence. Some one took him to task on the ground that he paid too much attention to his dress. ‘Alas!’ he replied, “I myself thought once that Christianity required me to go nasty. I neglected myself as much as you would have me; but when God gave me the spirit of adoption, I then dressed decently, as you call it, out of principle.” When a clergyman wrote him, impertinently asking to be informed how often he prayed and prescribing cer- tain rules, Whitefield replied: “Morning and eve- ning retirement is certainly exceeding good; but if through weakness of body, or frequency of preach- ing, I cannot go to God in my usual set time, I think my spirit is not in bondage. It is not for me to tell how often I use secret prayer.” As a matter of fact, it was often, but he was not given to long prayers, nor did he like them from others. One day, when visiting at the home of a friend, the friend prayed so long that Whitefield got off his knees and sat down in a chair. At the close of the prayer, he exclaimed, “Sir, you prayed me into a good frame, and you prayed me out of it again.” Cornelius Winter, the young man quoted in the preceding chapter, who in the closing part of 190 WHITEFIELD THE MAN Whitefield’s life was an inmate of the London home, eating at the same table and sleeping in the same room with the great preacher, has left us an account of some of the personal habits of his mas- ter: “Mr. Whitefield was accessible but to few. He was cautious in admitting people to him. He would never be surprised into a conversation. You could not knock at his door and be allowed to enter at any time. ‘Who is it? “What is his business? and such-like inquiries usually preceded admission ; and, if admission was granted, it was then: ‘Come to-morrow morning at six o’clock, perhaps five, or unmediately after preaching. If later, I cannot see you.’ ” “No time was to be wasted, and his expectations usually went before the ability of his servants to perform his commands. He was very exact to the time appointed for his stated meals. A few min- utes’ delay would be considered a great fault. He was irritable, but soon appeased. Not being pa- tient enough, one day, to receive a reason for his being disappointed, he hurt the mind of one who was studious to please; but, on reflection, he burst into tears, saying, ‘I shall live to be a poor, peevish old man, and everybody will be tired of me.’”’ This irritability of temper grew upon him in the later years of his life. Doubtless it was due in large measure to persistent ill health, but it was a grief of soul to him. With touching candor he said: “I have nothing to disturb my joy in God but the dis- 191 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER order of my passions; were these once brought into proper subjection to divine grace, well would it be with me and happy should I be. But so long as I am angry with trifles, and throw myself into need- less disorders, so long must my heart be like the troubled sea, and so long must I consequently be unhappy.” Winter goes on to tell us: “He never commanded haughtily, and always took care to applaud when a person did-right.” He never indulged parties at his table, but a select few might now and then breakfast with him, dine with him on a Sunday, or sup with him on Wednesday night. In the last- mentioned indulgence he was scrupulously exact to break up in time. In the height of a conversation I have known him to abruptly say, ‘But we forget ourselves’; and, rising from his seat and advancing to the door, would add, ‘Come, gentlemen, it is time for all good folks to be at home!’ ” “Whether only by himself, or having but a sec- ond, his table must be spread elegantly, though it produced but a loaf and a cheese. He was unjustly charged with being given to appetite. His table was never spread with variety. A cow-heel was his favorite dish, and I have known him cheerfully say, ‘How surprised would the world be, if they could peep upon Doctor Squintum, and see a cow-heel upon his table.” He was extremely neat in his per- son, and in everything about him. Not a paper must be out of place, or be put up irregularly. 192 WHITEFIELD THE MAN Each part of the furniture, likewise, must be in its proper position before he retired to rest. He said he did not think he should die easy, if he thought his gloves were not where they ought to be. There was no rest after four in the morning, nor sitting up after ten in the evening.” “He never made a purchase without paying the money immediately. He often dined among his friends, and usually connected a comprehensive prayer with his thanksgiving when the table was dismissed, in which he noticed particular cases rela- tive to the family. He never protracted his visit long after dinner. He often appeared tired of popularity, and said he almost envied the man who could take his choice of food at an eating-house, and pass unnoticed.” Whitefield’s mother died in 1752, while he was absent in America. She was a woman of ordinary parts, but she loved her son, and in his younger days she did for him her very best. He in turn showed her the most beautiful devotion. At one time he felt worried about her religious condition, and he wrote to her very tenderly, “When you come to judgment, God will show you how many tears I have shed in secret for you. Honored mother, flee to Jesus!” Ata later date he wrote, “How does my heart burn with love and duty! Gladly would I wash your aged feet, and lean upon your neck, and weep and pray till I could pray no more.” And he sends her “ten thousand hearty and most humble 193 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER thanks” for all she had done for him. Happy the mother of such a son! | Whitefield: was married in November, 1741, a few days before his twenty-seventh birthday. He had been considering the matter for nearly two years. His orphanage in Savannah was in need of a trustworthy woman to act as matron, and he thought a wife would meet the situation. More than a year and a half before he was finally wedded he took definite steps looking in that di- rection. He selected a young woman who he thought would do, and then he proposed in a very businesslike way. He wrote to the parents, outlin- ing his plans, and asking if they felt their daugh- ter was a proper person for such an undertaking; and in case it met with their approval, they were to pass on to her a letter bearing a definite proposal of marriage. He added: “You need not be afraid of sending me a refusal; for, I bless God, if I know anything of my own heart, I am free from that foolish passion which the world calls love. I write, only because I believe it is the will of God that I should alter my state; but your denial will fully convince me that your daughter is not the person appointed by God for me.” In his letter to the girl he plainly told her of the fatigue that would be in- volved in taking “charge of a family, consisting perhaps of a hundred persons,” the “inclemencies of the air,” the long periods of separation when her husband would be on his journeys, and then he 194 WHITEFIELD THE MAN asked her if she would accept him. Needless to say that the odd wooings of the young suitor were promptly turned down. The woman whom he did marry was a widow and ten years his senior. It has generally been supposed that the venture turned out unhappily, but this is not true. Mrs. White- field was an estimable person, and the soul of loy- alty to her companion through the twenty-seven years of their wedded life. Very wisely, the orphan- age plan, for the most part, was discarded, but oc- casionally she accompanied her husband on his travels both in this country and in England. In many ways she was a genuine helpmeet. In his letters he refers to her most tenderly, as when he says, “My wife and I go on like two happy pilgrims, leaning on our Beloved.” There is recorded not a single unpleasant word between them. She died two years before her husband, and he preached her funeral sermon in London. He told what a bless- ing she had been to him; and then described in par- ticular an experience when he was preaching in the field and the crowd was disposed to be riotous: “At first I addressed them firmly; but when a desperate gang drew near, and with the most ferocious and horrid imprecations and menaces, my courage be- gan to fail. My wife was then standing behind me, as I stood on the table. I think I hear her now. She pulled my gown, and looking up, said, ‘George, play the man for your God.’ My confidence re-~ turned. I spoke to the multitude with boldness and 195 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER affection. They became still, and many were deeply affected.” With scarcely an exception, the biographers of Whitefield have expressed regret that he ever mar- ried. Doubtless the experience was not ideal; the utilitarian may have been too prominent; the joy of marriage-fellowship was marred by the frequent and prolonged separations of husband and wife. And yet, we cannot help feeling that the whole life of the man was ennobled and made richer, by en- tering into a relationship which for him had a sac- ramental value; by the coming of a little son, “‘trail- ing clouds of glory,” albeit the tarrying was for only a few short weeks; and by the consciousness, wherever he went, on land and sea, that there was one who was praying for him, and to whom he was knit by holy ties till death them should part. It may be said with absolute confidence that White- field’s moral character was above reproach. Prob- ably no man of his day met more women of every description and under every circumstance, and yet his bitterest foes knew there was one point where it was useless to assail him; he had a white soul. 196 CHAPTER XII WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT I would fain die sword in hand. O that death may find me either praying or preaching! Sudden death is sudden glory. Among Christians, death has not only lost its sting, but its name. The moment I leave the body, and plunge into the world of spirits, the first question I shall ask will be— Where’s my Saviour? ae Sites * ESS seg Si MRR RR eS oe ee AST PorTRAIT Sy al: > WHITEFIELD CHAPTER XII WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT Tue closing years of Whitefield’s life brought trials as well as joys. His enemies seemed to con- spire in publishing the most venomous attacks; and as if this were not enough, the stage took up the assault. In his preaching there was so much of the actor’s art that he laid himself peculiarly open to mimicry. At one time, in America, a club of young rakes had a Negro servant who was very clever in impersonating various characters. Whitefield hap- pened to be in town and, as usual, was creating a great stir. At a meeting of the club the members called on the servant to mimic the preacher; at first he refused, but, being urged, he sprang on a table, and in perfect imitation of voice and manner, cried, “T speak the truth in Christ; I lie not; unless you repent, you will all be damned!” The effect was so startling that it not only broke up the meeting but disrupted the club. Unhappily, the attacks were not always as harm- less. In 1760, Samuel Foote, the English come- dian, brought out “The Minor,” a burlesque of Whitefield and his followers. It ran for ten years and was acted even after Whitefield’s death. It was filthy and profane in the extreme, but White- 199 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER field ignored it. Only twice in his letters does he make a passing allusion, as when he says: “Satan is angry. I am now mimicked and burlesqued on the public stage. All hail such contempt.” Other plays, though less important, were written against him, but decent people, foes as well as friends, were disgusted, and Whitefield came through the trial a positive gainer. His health was never robust, and, unlike Wesley, he did not know how to take care of it. The mar- vel is that with a comparatively frail body, he was able to do so prodigious a work. But it was a con- stant struggle, and as the years passed, the col- lapses became increasingly frequent and serious. More than once the papers reported that he was dead, the first time when he was a young man of only thirty-three. For months at a time he was almost entirely laid aside, and on several occasions it was feared the end was at hand. When he sailed for America at the age of thirty-six he was so broken that his friends in the homeland never ex- pected to see him again. In his letters are constant references to “convulsions and fevers” and other ailments. Repeatedly, to the dismay of his friends, he left a sick-bed to appear in the pulpit. Though with the look of a dying man, he would preach with great power, and after a brief rest they would lift him to the back of his horse, and he would ride on to another point where he knew the crowds were ex- pecting him. One morning in London Wesley 200 WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT breakfasted with him, and afterward spoke of him as “an old, old man, fairly worn out in his Master’s service, though he has hardly seen fifty years.” As a young man his figure was quite slim, but about the age of forty he rapidly put on flesh. This was not due to indulgence of appetite, but it was a symptom of advancing disease. “I see the disease,” he wrote, “but know not how to come at a cure. I dread a corpulent body, but it breaks in upon me like an armed man.” | No doubt his imperfect health was in part re- sponsible for a lifelong and almost morbid habit of talking about death, and an apparent longing for it to come. His letters are full of the subject. As a young fellow of twenty-four we find him writing, “I want to leap my seventy years.” Ejjac- ulations, such as, “Fly, fly, O time! Welcome, welcome, long-wished-for eternity!’ were often on his lips. He used to say that the hope of bringing more souls to Christ was the only consideration that reconciled him to life. One day, in company with several other ministers, Whitefield was dining with his old friend, the Rev. William Tennent, in the parsonage in Freehold, New Jersey. After din- ner, as often happened, Whitefield expressed his joy at the thought of soon dying and being ad- mitted into heaven; and, then, appealing to the min- isters present, he asked if his Joy was shared by them. Generally they assented, but Tennent con- tinued silent. ‘Brother Tennent,” said White- 201 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER field, “you are the oldest man among us; do you not rejoice that your being called home is so near at hand?” “YT have no wish about it,’ bluntly an- swered Tennent. Whitefield pressed his question, and Tennent again replied: “No, sir, it is no pleas- ure to me at all; and, if you know your duty, it would be none to you. I have nothing to do with death. My: business is to live as long as I can, and as well as I can.” Whitefield was not satisfied, and a third time urged the good old man to state whether he would not choose to die, if death were left to his own choice. “Sir,” answered Tennent, “T have no choice about it. I am God’s servant and have engaged to do his business as long as he pleases to continue me therein. But now, Brother White- field, let me ask you a question. What do you think I would say, if I were to send my man Tom into the field to plow, and if at noon I should find him lounging under a tree and complaining, ‘Mas- ter, the sun is hot, and the plowing hard, and I am weary of my work, and overdone with heat; do, master, let me go home and rest’? What would I say? Why, that he was a lazy fellow, and that it was his business to do the work I had appointed him, until I should think fit to call him home.’ No doubt Whitefield was impressed by this frank rebuke from his faithful friend; and it is equally certain that those gathered at the dinner table that -1Tyerman’s Life of Whitefield, 2:590. The incident is taken from the Evangelical Magazine of 1807. 202 a eee ih BBY Ta Oxtp TENNENT PARSONAGE - ry + uu ~~ WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT day vividly recalled the incident, when, two months later, word came that the Master’s call had been received and the great preacher had gone home. On September 4, 1769, Whitefield embarked for America on his thirteenth and last voyage. With his roving nature, unless hindered by ill health, he must be constantly on the move, somewhere. As he used to say, “No nestling, no nestling on this side Jordan”; “A pilgrim life to me is the sweetest on this side eternity.’ But he was especially anxious to revisit America at this time. He had not been there for more than four years, and busi- ness connected with the orphanage demanded his personal attention. His general plan was to go to Georgia, spend several months there, placing the orphan work on a broader and safer basis; journey leisurely north- ward, meeting a host of old-time friends; back once more to Savannah, and then a last farewell, return- ing to England to remain. Before embarking at London he spoke closing words of counsel to his own people in the Totten- ham Court Road Chapel and in the old Moorfields Tabernacle, but as usual, he shunned private fare- wells. Writing to one whom he called “My very dear, steady old friend,” he said, “Talk not of tak- ing a personal leave. You know my make. Paul could stand a whipping, but not a weeping fare- well.” The voyage was long and tempestuous, and it 203 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER was December before Whitefield reached Georgia. In this connection we find a most singular coinci- dence. At the Methodist Conference held in Leeds, in August, 1769, an appeal was read by John Wes- ley from the little company of Methodists in Amer- ica, that some one be sent over to shepherd them. Richard Boardman and Joseph Pilmoor volun- teered to go; and at the very time that Whitefield was sailing west for the last time, bringing his min- istry to a close, another ship was bearing thither these two young missionaries on their first voyage, to officially found Methodism on American soil. The winter months of 1770 were spent in Georgia, and in the spring Whitefield started northward, arriving in Philadelphia May 6, and slowly pushed on to New England. His journey was a triumphal progress; old-time differences were forgotten; everywhere he was received with en- thusiasm; churches of all names threw open their doors in welcome, and he could not begin to accept all the preaching calls that poured in. One day such a huge pile of letters lay on his table that he sent the bundle to England as a curiosity. Homes that were privileged to entertain him felt signally honored. On all these occasions he was the oracle to whom every one gave heed. One day he dined with a New Jersey family, where among those present was a young man of twenty-two, by the name of William White, years afterward dis- tinguished as the first bishop of the Protestant 204 WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT Episcopal Church in America. The youth never forgot that day and how, all through the meal, his eyes were riveted on the visitor. “During dinner,” he tells us, Whitefield “was almost the only speaker, as was said to be common; all present be- ing disposed to listen.” The entire month of July was spent on a preach- ing tour between New York and Albany. As he sailed up the Hudson the scenery delighted him; again and again he exclaimed, “O Thou wonder- working God!” ‘This was a happy summer for him; his health was so much better that he was able to preach every day, and constant fellowship with loving friends was an unspeakable comfort. On July 31 he left New York by water for New- port, and then passed overland to Boston, preach- ing on the way. Everywhere the same joyful greet- ing awaited him. For three days in the middle of September he was too sick to preach, but at the first possible moment he was again in the pulpit. The last letter he ever wrote, addressed to a friend in London, was dated September 23, 1770, only seven days before his death. ‘The colonies, and especially New England, were having serious trouble with the mother country over the question of taxation. Whitefield’s sympathies were chiefly with the Americans, which explains an opening reference: “Poor New England is much to be pitied; Boston people most of all. How falsely misrepresented! I was so ill on Friday, that I 205 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER could not preach, though thousands were waiting to hear. Well, the day of release will shortly come, but it does not seem yet, for, by riding sixty miles, I am better, and hope to preach here to-morrow. .. . O for a warm heart! O to stand fast in the faith, to quit ourselves like men, to be strong!” On Saturday, September 29, he left Portsmouth, New Hampshire, for Newburyport, Massachusetts, where he had promised to preach the following morning. At the last moment he agreed to stop at Exeter and deliver a sermon in the open air. He was especially fond of this town, for he remembered how once when he was holding a service there, a man came, his pockets loaded with stones, and bent on mischief. But at the close of the sermon he went to the preacher in tears, “Sir,” said he, “I came here to-day with the intention of breaking your head, but God has given me a broken heart.” As he was starting from Portsmouth, a friend said to him, “Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach.” “True, sir,” Whitefield replied, and then, clasping his hands and looking up, he said: “Lord Jesus, I am weary in thy work, but not of thy work. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go and speak for thee once more in the fields, seal thy truth, and come home and die.” His prayer was answered; strength was given him for the Exeter sermon, the last he ever preached. No building could hold the crowd, and so mounting a hogsshead he spoke in the open. One 206 | WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT who was present described the scene: “The subject was ‘Faith and Works.’ He rose up sluggishly and wearily, as if worn down and exhausted by his stupendous labors. His face seemed bloated, his voice was hoarse, his enunciation heavy. Sentence after sentence was thrown off in rough, disjointed portions, without much regard to point or beauty. At length his mind kindled, ‘and his lionlike voice © roared to the extremities of his audience. He was speaking of the insufficiency of works to merit sal- vation, and suddenly cried out in a tone of thun- der, ‘Works! Works! a man get to heaven by works! I would as soon think of climbing to the moon on a rope of sand!” Whenever Whitefield got under way in preach- ing, physical weakness was forgotten. On this last occasion, though scarcely able to stand when he arose, he was filled with such divine energy that he spoke for two hours; but he had a presentiment that the end was not far distant. As he was closing he cried: “I go, I go to rest prepared; my sun has arisen, and, by aid from heaven, has given light to many. It is now about to set for—no, it is about to rise to the zenith of immortal glory. I have out- lived many on earth, but they cannot outlive me in heaven. Oh, thought divine! I soon shall be in a world where time, age, pain, and sorrow are un- known. My body fails, my spirit expands. How willingly I would live forever to preach Christ! But I die to be with him.” 207 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER Immediately on reaching Newburyport he went to the parsonage of the Presbyterian church, where he was to be the guest of his beloved friend, the Rev. Jonathan Parsons. He was utterly ex- hausted, and after an early supper he excused him- self and started for his room. But in the meantime it had been noised about that he was there, and many had gathered in front of the house and were even pressing into the hallway, who, as _ they caught sight of the great preacher, begged him for a short message. Spent as he was, he paused on the stairs for a moment, candle in hand, and spoke a word of exhortation, and then he went to his chamber. | Mr. Richard Smith, who accompanied him from England and who was with him to the end, de- scribes the last scene. Whitefield awoke at two in the morning in great distress: “He panted for want of breath. I asked him how he felt. He answered, ‘My asthma is returning; I must have two or three days’ rest. Two or three days’ riding without preaching, will set me up again.’ ‘Though the window had been half up all night, he asked me to put it a little higher. ‘I cannot breathe,’ said he, ‘but I hope I shall be better by and by. A good pulpit sweat to-day may give me relief. I shall be better after preaching.’ I said to him, I wished he would not preach so often. He replied, ‘I had rather wear out than rust out.’ He then sat up in bed and prayed that God would bless his preaching 208 Oxtp SoutH PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, NEWBURYPORT, Mass. NGER THIS FL rr ARR DEPOURITER THE REMAIN uF THE REY, OF. WHITESIBLD ASB THE REY. DINATHAN PARSONS, THE FIGHT PARTUM OF THIN CHER, WHO THED JOLY 18 2778, AY RD OF FRE RUT. AIRE PH PHINER. WRU BIRG iT e1. PULPIT IN OLD SoutH PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH, NEWBURYPORT WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT where he had been, and also bless his preaching that day, that more souls might be brought to Christ. He then lay down to sleep again,” but awoke, suf- focating. “He turned to me and said, ‘I am dying.’ I said, “I hope not, sir.’ He ran to the other win- dow, panting for breath, but could get no relief. I went for Dr. Sawyer, and on coming back I saw death on his face. . . . When the doctor came and | felt his pulse, he said, ‘He is a dead man’—and in- | deed so it proved, for he fetched but one gasp, | stretched. out his feet, and breathed no more. ‘This was exactly at six o'clock” on Sunday morning, September 30, 1770. Several years prior to this, Whitefield was dining one day at the home of President Finley, of Prince- ton. “Mr. Whitefield,” said the doctor, “I hope it will be very long before you are called home; but when that event shall arrive I shall be glad to hear the noble testimony you will bear for God.” “You will be disappointed,” was the reply. “I shall die silent. It has pleased God to enable me to bear so many testimonies for him during my life, that he will require none from me when I die.” And so it was. He left no dying message; none was needed. His whole life was an eloquent testimony to the divine power to save and to keep. Amid the tolling of the bells, and with the flags on the ships in the harbor at mourning, the funeral was held on Tuesday, October 2. Preachers came from every direction. Thousands of people stood 209 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER in the street, unable to enter the church. The Rev. Daniel Rogers, one of Whitefield’s converts, of- fered the prayer, and when he came to a point where he exclaimed, “O my Father! My Father!” he broke down and sobbed like a child. The whole audience was in tears. Whitefield was peculiarly interested in this church at Newburyport, with which he had been associated from its beginning, and more than once had expressed the desire that should he pass away in that vicinity, he be buried beneath the pulpit. His wish was carried out, and his body was placed in a newly prepared brick vault. The news of the death of this mighty servant of the Lord carried sorrow throughout the land and beyond the sea. Boston bowed in mourning; the tolling of the muffled bells of Old Christ Episcopal Church expressed something of the grief that Phila- delphia felt. Nowhere was the anguish more bitter than at the orphanage in Georgia: father, guide, protector was gone; the loss was irreparable. “The melancholy news,” as Wesley called it, reached England on November 5. Whitefield’s bosom friend, Robert Keen, of London, once asked him: “If you should die abroad, whom shall we get to preach your funeral sermon? Must it be your old friend, the Rev. Mr. John Wesley?’ At once Whitefield replied, ““He is the man.” ‘The choice was ideal. Except for a few months when rela- tions were strained, the two men had been close and 210 WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT loving friends for thirty-seven years. No one in the world understood Whitefield as did Wesley; he knew his limitations and he rejoiced in his strength. He used to say: “I praise God for his wisdom in giving different talents to different preachers, and particularly for his giving Mr. Whitefield the talents which I have not.” The funeral service was held on November 18, in the Whitefield Chapel in Tottenham Court Road, and as one would expect, Wesley’s sermon did affec- tionate and discriminating justice to the memory of his friend. Scores of memorial sermons were preached all over England as well as in America, and the press was full of accounts of the man whom even his critics recognized as one of the most ex- traordinary preachers in the history of the church. The biographer of John Wesley can close his narrative by pointing to world-wide Methodism, as the visitor to Saint Paul’s Cathedral is bidden to look about him if he would see the monument of the great architect. Not so with Whitefield. He organized no societies, he founded no denomination. God called Wesley to one type of work and White- field to another, and happily both men knew it. Whitefield was not an administrator. “The care of all the churches,” which came naturally to Wes- ley as it did to Paul, would have been an impossible task for him. Rather, like the Baptist, he was a “Voice”—and what a Voice! In him the ancient prophets lived again, those fearless forth-tellers of 211 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER the divine Word. But while his incomparable place in the pulpit is frankly admitted, it is often said that he was a preacher and no more; that he made no lasting impression; and that when the echoes of the matchless voice died away, little or nothing re- mained. Let us see. Contrast the Britain of 1736, when Whitefield began to preach, with what it later became. Vital religion, in pulpit and pew, almost dead; a spiritual darkness that could be felt resting on Churchmen and Dissenters alike; form and ceremony thrust to the fore while the deeper truths of the Kingdom were forgotten; a nation famishing for the Bread of Life and ignorant of the remedy. And now mark the change! The old order passes. Pulpits, thousands of them, filled with men of zeal, who know whereof they speak, and whose every mes- sage bears the divine seal, “Thus saith the Lord!’ Churches crowded; multitudes born again; the masses of the poor, so long neglected, having the gospel preached to them; a new joy, a new hope, a new faith, a new life. In all this Whitefield had a part. His relative place is a small matter; it never concerned him nor does it us. Certain it is that he was an apostle of the Lord. He was the first to revive the old prac- tice of open-air preaching. Up and down England he went, and everywhere miracles of grace were wrought. At a time when Scotland was drifting from her old-time belief in the deity of Jesus, he 212 TO teeters Fee a - ; id id ¥ ss Ls F é, a! 4 i" : : f é y “4 i z = | > ir. ‘ 4 os é ¢ ‘ w : An | ao ae. : - - i ’ i = = > / im, =e ae ~ ~~ >= dl ce 7 5 = ) 4 an i : Pie ’ S a - - ry a 7 I a “ ig Es 4] p- @ - « £ - > ‘ a . 7 . es ; BF - , ; : POA -S 3 we ‘ z "i> ~ + " i = ofa ey | q ir : ‘. a ~ > ys + A LU : ate oes Fe Por ss cca FA ea ) Satie - ; } a Feet i wp ou w = . TWINNG WO AAUVdaNG ATAIALIN AA Bom Seen $ ES au AO 14 my, da. . S}Ufol a kk ~ on 2 3 oOo. ao om ed 2 : © Pe «oc 7 w i Ae PPoyouy AA WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT helped to bring her back to the primitive faith. His ministry in Wales was monumental; he did much to save the Principality for Christ. Even more remarkable perhaps was his work in America. Through him the Great Awakening spread far and wide. Edwards spoke to a group in New England, and the Tennents to a circle around Philadelphia; but Whitefield, like a torch in flame, swept from Georgia to Maine. His voice never faltered, and so insistent was his message that finally men’s very souls caught the clarion impera- tive, “Ye MUST be born again!’ No one ever moved the religious life of America as did he. Wes- ley’s influence was immense, but he spoke through others; Whitefield’s was the personal touch. When passing through Philadelphia for the last time, in the spring of 1770, he met Boardman and Pilmoor, Wesley’s missionaries, recently arrived, and he gave them his blessing. They came at the strategic moment. As his work closed, theirs began; he had prepared the way. Methodism would never have been received as it was, nor have enjoyed the won- derful growth of those early years, had it not been for Whitefield in making ready the soil. A volume might be written on the spiritual trophies whom Whitefield won for the Master. Thousands were converted under his preaching, while scores, if not hundreds, entered the ministry. Think of the sources created, whence streams of influence flowed out in every direction! To cite a 218 WHITEFIELD: PROPHET—PREACHER single instance. Two days before his death White- field preached in Portsmouth. In the crowd was a godless young fellow by the name of Benjamin ) Randall. He was sobered but not converted. ‘The ( following Sunday noon a messenger galloped into \ town, crying, “Whitefield is dead!’ Randall /heard him, and long afterward wrote, “A voice -sounded through my soul, more loud and startling than ever thunder pealed upon my ears, ‘White- _ field is dead!’ Whitefield is now in heaven, but I ,am on the road to hell. O that I could hear his _/ voice again!” 'The young man gave himself wholly to Christ, entered the ministry, and became the founder of the Free Will Baptists. At a time when philanthropies were few, and most men were indifferent to their brothers’ needs, Whitefield went everywhere, pouring out his elo- quent appeals for the distressed, especially for or- phaned children. In both England and America he started a new tide of benevolence. He appeared to be the friend of slavery, this most tender- hearted of men. But it is interesting to remember that in 1769, shortly before he left England for the last time, a ten-year-old boy was led to Christ through his ministry, and that in after years this same lad became the world-leader in destroying slavery—William Wilberforce. His activity on behalf of Christian education never ceased. We have only to remember his warm interest in Harvard and Yale, his place in the 214 WHITEFIELD TRIUMPHANT early history of the University of Pennsylvania, and the interesting fact that both Princeton and Dartmouth were founded by his friends and fol- lowers. A preacher? Yes, and much more. For his words were transmuted into works whose influence will abide to the end of time. 215 r i AND se: Ed | = oh _ J MY o INDEX Act of Uniformity and its results, 21, 37 America, customs in Colonial days, 128, 133 America, religion in Colonial days, 136-140 Atlantic Ocean and its perils, 57-59 Awakening, the Great, in America, 138 Bath, Whitefield’s preaching successes, 49 Baxter, Richard, couplet on preaching, 93 Belcher, Governor, and Whitefield, 141, 142, 149 Bell Inn, Gloucester, 17 Benson, Bishop, ordains Whitefield, 28; admonishes White- field, 105 Bishopsgate-street Church, Whitefield preaches in, 33 Blackstone, Sir William, on preaching in London churches, 44 Boardman, Richard: sent to America, 204; meets White- field in America, 213 Bolingbroke, Lord, and drinking, 39; warns a recreant clergyman, 44 Boston, Whitefield’s first visit to, 140-142; Whitefield’s second and subsequent visits to, 144-147 Bristol, Whitefield’s preaching successes, 48 Butler, Bishop, on unbelief in England, 42; and doctrine of the Holy Spirit, 92 Charity Schools in England, 53 Charity School in Philadelphia, 157, 158 Charles II and reaction from Puritanism, 37 Chesterfield, Lord, and Whitefield’s preaching, 174 Children, Whitefield disciplines, 75; Whitefield’s influence over, 77; Whitefield’s letters to, 78, 84, 85; love of for Whitefield, 79 Clergy, English in eighteenth century, 43, 44, 91 Dartmouth College and Whitefield, 215 Drake, Sir Francis, and his ships, 57 Drinking in England, 39 219 INDEX Edwards, Jonathan, and the Great Awakening, 137; visited by Whitefield, 142; cautions Whitefield, 144 Exeter, New Hampshire, 206 Foote, Samuel, and “The Minor,” 199 Francke, Professor, and orphanage at Halle, 81 Franklin, Benjamin, friendship with Whitefield, 151-154, 155, 156, 186 Free Will Baptists and Whitefield, 214 Gambling in England, 40 Garrick, David, comment on Whitefield’s voice, 162 George III on Whitefield and the Wesleys, 96 Gillies, Doctor, describes’ Whitefield’s appearance, 33 Gladman, Captain, converted on shipboard, 67 Gloucester, England, Birth-place of Whitefield, 17; White- field preaches there, 29, 48 Harvard College and Whitefield, 141, 147, 148 Hooper, Bishop, scene of martyrdom, 17 Horne, C. Silvester, 112 Hume, David, and Whitefield’s preaching, 174, 175 Huntingdon, Countess of, and Whitefield, 120 Immorality in England, 40 Jails, English, 31, 32 Limerick, kindness of Bishop of, 67 Lindsay, Captain, and his ship, 57, 58 London, crime in, 38; and Whitefield’s preaching successes, 49, 50 Marriage-scandals in England, 41, 42 Methodism, first introduced in England by Whitefield, 52; in America, 204 Mohock Club in London, 38 Montesquieu, on irreligion in England, 43 Moorfields and Whitefield’s preaching, 105, 106 Morris, Samuel, uses Whitefield’s sermons, 178 New Birth, doctrine of in eighteenth century, 92; and Whitefield’s preaching, 52, 95, 142, 143, 213; doctrine of 220 INDEX in Colonial America, 137-139; as preached by John Wesley, 94 Newburyport, Massachusetts, 206, 208 New England and Whitefield’s ministry, 144, 146, 147, 205 New York and Whitefield’s ministry, 148, 149 Oglethorpe, General, governor of Georgia colony, 79 Orphanage in Georgia, need of, 80; erected, 81, 82; rules of, 82, 83; name of, Bethesda, 82; religious work in, 83, 84; indirect results from, 85, 86; later history, 87; public collections for, taken by Whitefield, 109, 153, 154 Parsons, Jonathan, 208 Philadelphia and Whitefield’s ministry, 127, 150 Pilmoor, Joseph: sent to America, 204; meets Whitefield in America, 213 Pilot-fish, lesson from, 68 Portsmouth, New Hampshire, 206 Princeton College and Whitefield, 149, 150, 215 Quakers and Whitefield, 150, 188 Raikes, Robert, and first Sunday Schools, 17 Randall, Benjamin, converted under Whitefield, 214 Saint Mary de Crypt Church, 29 Savannah, Whitefield’s first visit to, 79 Scougal, Henry, and Whitefield’s conversion, 24 Ships in eighteenth century, 59 Slavery, Whitefield’s attitude toward, 135, 136 Smalley, Doctor, recollections of Whitefield, 164 Stoddard, Solomon, on an unconverted ministry, 138 ‘Tabernacle in London, 110 Tennent family, 139 ‘Tennent, Gilbert, 139 Tennent, William, and conversation on death, 201, 202 Theater, in eighteenth century England, 41 “The Holy Club,” Oxford, 22, 138 Toplady, Augustus, on unconverted clergy, 43 Tottenham Court Road Chapel, 111, 112 Tyndale, William, birth-place, 17 221 INDEX University of Pennsylvania and Whitefield, 158 Walpole, Horace, 38 Walpole, Robert, and drinking, 39 Watts, Isaac, on English Dissenters, 43 Wesley, Charles, boyhood advantages contrasted with Whitefield’s, 17; befriends Whitefield at Oxford, 22; in Georgia, 47, 80 Wesley, Charles, Jr., and George ITI, 96 Wesley, John, boyhood advantages contrasted with White- field’s, 17; befriends Whitefield at Oxford, 22; missionary in Georgia, 47, 51, 52, 80; unwise advice to Whitefield, 54; preacher of the New Birth, 94; relations with Whitefield, 184, 185; and field-preaching, 104; preaches Whitefield’s funeral sermon, 210, 211 Wesley, Samuel, and the preaching at Epworth, 92 Whitefield, George, born, 17; youthful sins, 18; student at Saint Mary de Crypt School, 19, 20; bartender, 19; early love for dramatics, 19; his grandfather, 20; servitor at Pembroke College, Oxford, 21; austerities at Oxford, 23; conversion, 24; ordained deacon, 29; preaches first ser- mon, 29; visits to the Oxford jail, 31, 33; supply curate at the Tower of London, 33; appearance, 33, 34; receives degree at Oxford, 31; embarks first time for America, 54; first voyage to America, 60-65; first return voyage to England, 65, 66; third voyage to America, 69; letter- writer, 69; his son, 76; field-preacher, 103, 104, 107, 108; prodigious worker, 113; assailed by mobs, 114; in Scot- land, 116-118; in Wales, 118; in Ireland, 118, 119; among the nobility, 120-123; mother of, 18, 20, 27, 193, 194; wife of, 70, 194-196; sermons, 168-178; catholicity of soul, 187, 188; humility, 188, 189; personal habits, 190-193; burlesqued, 199, 200; poor health, 200, 201; last sermon, 206, 207; death and funeral, 209, 210 White, William, recollections of Whitefield, 204 Whittier, lines on Whitefield, 160 Wilberforce, William, converted under Whitefield, 214 Winter, Cornelius, recollections of Whitefield, 165, 190-193 Yale College and Whitefield, 145, 147, 148 222 ’ ee 1% i, i's owas BP i ay Retry OS 2 neigh Nee ae hier ae, rie Ld “ > , Wren ‘Sale Ve ne Me Priel am : 7 Pith punts PM bate ¥ a indenters aa) .) j Mo . ar > Ln f P ‘+ i arian iy r ‘. ; ‘ ! a Ln ar i A. 4 a . ¥ ‘ | bid ; oe j eee 1 + i) Laveen 4 \ ata , f iw i 4 e j Ws , he hd é a. i Nl 4 } ‘ t 4 | J in if es ps " sash p ' h A iy T* 30 at ‘ Py 5 . a) } Ae hie rum nite aN) atk ie we Oh val ewe : i wk. 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