Read Ebook: George Whitefield: A Biography with special reference to his labors in America by Belcher Joseph

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is ERECTED, WITH AFFECTIONATE VENERATION,

To the Memory

BORN AT GLOUCESTER, ENGLAND, DECEMBER 16, 1714; EDUCATED AT OXFORD UNIVERSITY; ORDAINED 1736. IN A MINISTRY OF THIRTY-FOUR YEARS, HE CROSSED THE ATLANTIC THIRTEEN TIMES, AND PREACHED MORE THAN EIGHTEEN THOUSAND SERMONS. AS A SOLDIER OF THE CROSS, HUMBLE, DEVOUT, ARDENT, HE PUT ON THE WHOLE ARMOR OF GOD: PREFERRING THE HONOR OF CHRIST TO HIS OWN INTEREST, REPOSE, REPUTATION, AND LIFE. AS A CHRISTIAN ORATOR, HIS DEEP PIETY, DISINTERESTED ZEAL, AND VIVID IMAGINATION, GAVE UNEXAMPLED ENERGY TO HIS LOOK, UTTERANCE, AND ACTION. BOLD, FERVENT, PUNGENT, AND POPULAR IN HIS ELOQUENCE, NO OTHER UNINSPIRED MAN EVER PREACHED TO SO LARGE ASSEMBLIES, OR ENFORCED THE SIMPLE TRUTHS OF THE GOSPEL BY MOTIVES SO PERSUASIVE AND AWFUL, AND WITH AN INFLUENCE SO POWERFUL, ON THE HEARTS OF HIS HEARERS. HE DIED OF ASTHMA, SEPTEMBER 30, 1770. SUDDENLY EXCHANGING HIS LIFE OF UNPARALLELED LABORS FOR HIS ETERNAL REST.

TESTIMONIES AND FACTS ILLUSTRATIVE OF WHITEFIELD'S CHARACTER.

"Last evening," says a letter from Boston, October 1, 1770, to the "Pennsylvania Journal," "we were informed by a melancholy messenger from Newburyport, that yesterday morning about six o'clock, at that place, the renowned and Rev. George Whitefield, chaplain to the Right Hon. the Countess of Huntingdon, etc., was, by a sudden mandate, summoned to the bosom of his Saviour. He had been preaching in divers parts of this province since his arrival from the southward, with his usual diligence and energy; was now from a tour to the province of New Hampshire on his return to this town, but being seized with a violent fit of the asthma, was in a short space translated from the labors of this life to the enjoyment of a better.

"Of this truly pious and very extraordinary personage, little can be said but what every friend to vital Christianity who has sat under his ministry will readily attest. In his public performances throughout Europe and British America, he has, for a long course of years, astonished the world as a prodigy of eloquence and devotion. With what frequency and cheerfulness did he ascend the desk, the language of his actions being ever, 'Wist ye not that I must be about my Master's business?' With what divine pathos did he plead with, and persuade by the most engaging incitements, the impenitent sinner to the practice of piety and virtue. Filled with the spirit of grace, he spoke from the heart; and with a fervency of zeal perhaps unequalled since the apostles, ornamented the celestial annunciations of the preacher with the graceful and most enticing charms of rhetoric and oratory. From the pulpit he was unrivalled in the command of an ever-crowded and admiring auditory; nor was he less entertaining and instructive in his private conversation and deportment. Happy in a remarkable ease of address, willing to communicate, studious to edify, and formed to amuse--such, in more retired life, was he whom we lament. And while a peculiar pleasantry enlivened and rendered his company agreeable, his conversation was ever marked with the greatest objects of his pursuit--virtue and religion. It were to be wished that the good impressions of his ministry may be long retained; and that the rising generation, like their pious ancestors, may catch a spark of that ethereal flame which burnt with such lustre in the sentiments and practice of this faithful servant of the most high God."

Another contemporaneous article says, "Dr. Cooper of Brattle-street, called an enthusiast by none, won early to serious religion by his instrumentality, delivered a sermon upon his death, in which he pronounced a strong eulogy in favor of his holy and successful activity in the cause of vital and practical religion through the English dominions. Pews, aisles, and seats were so crowded, and heads and shoulders were in such close phalanx, that it looked as though a man might walk everywhere upon the upper surface of the assembly, without finding an opening for descending to the floor."

When the news of Mr. Whitefield's death reached Georgia, its inhabitants vied with each other in showing him the highest respect. All the black cloth in the stores was bought up; the pulpit and desk of the church, the branches, the organ-loft, and the pews of the governor and council were covered with black. The governor and council in deep mourning convened at the state-house, and went in procession to church, where they were received by the organ playing a funeral dirge. Two funeral sermons were there listened to by the authorities. In the Legislature high eulogiums were pronounced on the admirable preacher, and a sum of money was unanimously appropriated for removing his remains to Georgia, to be interred at his orphan-house; but the inhabitants of Newburyport strongly objected, and the design was relinquished. Forty-five years later when a new county was formed in Georgia, it received the name of Whitefield in commemoration of his worth and useful services.

In a letter from Dr. Franklin to a gentleman in Georgia, he says, "I cannot forbear expressing the pleasure it gives me to see an account of the respect paid to his memory by your assembly. I knew him intimately upwards of thirty years; his integrity, disinterestedness, and indefatigable zeal in prosecuting every good work, I have never seen equalled, I shall never see excelled."

Of course it would be expected that the sermons at Savannah would be of great interest. Such a discourse was delivered by the Rev. Mr. Ellington, who very truly said, "Whitefield's longing desires for the salvation of immortal souls would not admit of his being confined within the limits of any walls. How he has preached, with showers of stones, and many other instruments of malice and revenge about his ears, many of his surviving friends can witness. But having the salvation of sinners at heart, and a great desire to rescue them from the power of an eternal death, he resolved to spend and be spent for the service of precious and immortal souls; and spared no pains and refused no labor, so that he might administer to their real and eternal good. He died like a hero on the field of battle. Thousands in England, Scotland, and America have great reason to bless God for his ministrations."

The Rev. John Newton preached a funeral sermon at Olney, where he was then settled, from the highly appropriate text, "He was a burning and a shining light," John 5:35, in which he thus speaks of Whitefield: "Some ministers are burning and shining lights in a peculiar and eminent degree. Such a one, I doubt not, was the servant of God whose death we now lament. I have had some opportunities of looking over the history of the church in past ages; I am not backward to say, that I have not read or heard of any person, since the apostles' days, of whom it may be more emphatically said, 'He was a burning and a shining light,' than the late Mr. Whitefield; whether we consider the warmth of his zeal, the greatness of his ministerial talents, or the extensive usefulness with which the Lord honored him. I do not mean to praise the man, but the Lord who furnished him, and made him what he was. He was raised up to shine in a dark place. The state of religion when he first appeared in public, was very low in our established church. I speak the truth, though to some it may be an offensive truth. The doctrines of grace were seldom heard from the pulpit, and the life and power of godliness were little known. Many of the most spiritual among the dissenters, were mourning under a sense of a great spreading declension on their side. What a change has taken place throughout the land within a little more than thirty years; that is, since the time when the first set of despised ministers came to Oxford! And how much of this change has been owing to God's blessing on Mr. Whitefield's labors, is well known to many who have lived through this period, and can hardly be denied by those who are least willing to allow it.... His zeal was not like wildfire, but directed by sound principles, and a sound judgment.... The Lord gave him a manner of preaching which was peculiarly his own. He copied from none, and I never met with any one who could imitate him with success."

With regret we tear ourselves away from Romaine and Toplady, from Pemberton and Parsons, and from a multitude of others who bore testimonies like those we have given, but which would exceed the limits of our narrative.

Mr. Newton, after his removal to London, once breakfasting with a company of noblemen and gentlemen, was asked if he knew Mr. Whitefield. He answered in the affirmative, and remarked, that as a preacher Mr. Whitefield far exceeded every other man of his time. Mr. Newton added, "I bless God that I lived in his time: many were the winter mornings I rose at four o'clock to attend his Tabernacle discourses at five; and I have seen Moorfields as full of lanterns at these times, as I suppose the Hay market is full of flambeaux on an opera night." As a proof of the power of Mr. Whitefield's preaching, Mr. Newton said, that a military officer at Glasgow, who had heard him preach, laid a wager with another, that at a certain charity sermon, though he went with prejudice, he would be compelled to give something. The other, to make sure that he would not, laid aside all the money out of his pockets; but before he left the church, he was glad to borrow some, and lose his bet. Mr. Newton mentioned as another striking illustration of Mr. Whitefield's persuasive oratory, his collecting after one sermon ?600, or about ,000, for the inhabitants of an obscure village in Germany, that had been burned down. After this sermon, Whitefield said, "We shall sing a hymn, during which those who do not choose to give their mite on this awful occasion, may sneak off." Not one moved; he came down from the pulpit, ordered all the doors to be shut but one, at which he held the plate himself, and collected the large sum we have named. Mr. Newton farther stated what he knew to be a fact, that at the time of Whitefield's greatest persecution, when obliged to speak in the streets, in one week he received not fewer than a thousand letters from persons distressed in their consciences by the energy of his preaching.

A gentleman of title in England was one day examining some works of the distinguished sculptor, John Bacon. Among them he observed a bust of Mr. Whitefield, which led him to remark, "After all that has been said, this was truly a great man; he was the founder of a new religion." Mr. Bacon replied, "A new religion, sir?" "Yes," said the baronet; "what do you call it?" "Nothing," was the reply, "but the old religion revived with new energy, and treated as though the preacher meant what he said."

Several interesting narratives have been given of visits to the tomb of Whitefield, which show the preciousness of his memory.

In 1834, the Rev. Andrew Reed, D. D., of London, and the late Rev. James Matheson, D. D., of Durham, visited this country as a deputation to its churches from the Congregational Union of England and Wales. In describing their visit to Newburyport, Dr. Reed says, "We had a conference with the pastors here, and afterwards went to the church which is enriched with the remains of Whitefield. The elders of the church were present in the porch to receive us. We descended to the vault. There were three coffins before us. Two pastors of the church lay on either side, and the remains of Whitefield in the centre. The cover was slipt aside, and they lay beneath my eye. I had before stood in his pulpits; seen his books, his rings, and chairs; but never before had I looked on part of his very self. The skull, which is perfect, clean, and fair, I received, as is the custom, into my hand. I could say nothing; but thought and feeling were busy. On returning to the church, I proposed an exercise of worship. We collected over the grave of the eloquent, the devoted, and seraphic man, and gave expression to the sentiments that possessed us, by solemn psalmody and fervent prayer. It was not an ordinary service to any of us."

In the year 1835, a similar deputation visited this country from the Baptist Union of Great Britain and Ireland. It consisted of the late Rev. F. A. Cox, D. D., of London, and the Rev. James Hoby, D. D., then of Birmingham. They also visited the tomb of our never-to-be-forgotten evangelist. We give a few sentences from their report: "We made an excursion to Newburyport, thirty-nine miles from Boston, to see the tomb of Whitefield. On our arrival, we hastened to the depository of the precious remains of that eminent servant of God.... We descended with some difficulty into the subterraneous vault, which is immediately behind the pulpit, in a small chamber like a vestry, external to the body of the church. Deep expectant emotions thrilled through our bosoms, while a kind of trap-door was opened, and we descended beneath the floor to another door, which stood perpendicularly, by which we entered, or rather crept, into the awful and silent sepulchre. There were three coffins placed in parallel lines; two of them containing the mortal part of Mr. Parsons and Mr. Prince, pastors of the church. We instinctively took our seats, the one on the one coffin, the other on the other, with the coffin of Whitefield between, over which, when the upper part of the lid was removed, to reveal the skeleton secrets of the narrow prison-house, we bent in solemn stillness and awe. We gazed on the fragments--we contemplated and handled the skull of that great preacher of righteousness--we thought of his devoted life, his blessed death, his high and happy destiny; and whispered our adorations of the grace that formed him both for earth and heaven."

The following lines were written by the departed and amiable William B. Tappan, on visiting this spot in September, 1837.

"And this was Whitefield!--this, the dust now blending With kindred dust, that wrapt his soul of fire-- Which, from the mantle freed, is still ascending Through regions of far glory, holier, higher.

Oh, as I gaze here with a solemn joy And awful reverence, in which shares Decay, Who, this fair frame reluctant to destroy, Yields it not yet to doom which all obey-- How follows thought his flight, at Love's command, From hemisphere in sin, to hemisphere, Warning uncounted multitudes with tears-- Preaching the risen Christ on sea and land-- And now those angel journeyings above! Souls, his companions, saved by such unwearied love!"

In December, 1845, one of the London daily papers, "The Sun," contained a somewhat extended account of Whitefield in New England, and especially his death, funeral, and tomb, from which we borrow mementos that in both hemispheres may be interesting "for generations to come."

"I was spending Sunday at Old Ipswich, in the latter part of last September, when by accident I fell in with an old inhabitant of the town who had heard Whitefield preach there. He was a sort of patriarch of the place, and as he sat on one of the stones which surrounded the ancient orthodox meeting-house, his grey locks streaming from beneath his queerly shaped hat, and attired in his primly cut old-fashioned coat, he appeared no bad representative of the departed Puritans who, in former days, had soberly and decently obeyed the call of the Sabbath bell, and worshipped in the same temple whose steeple now casts its shadow athwart the green sward beneath.... As the bell of Old Ipswich church swung out that bright Sabbath morning, it was a pretty sight to see the village people coming from different points to the decaying old church, which was situated, as most country churches in New England are, on a hill-top. While I was enjoying the scene, the old man to whom I have alluded, and who was sitting on a stone, accosted me, and asked me if I was not a stranger 'in these parts.' On my informing him that I was, he pointed out to me the 'lions' of the neighborhood, and wound up by asking, 'I suppose, sir, you've heard of Whitefield?'

"'Of Whitefield? to be sure I have.'

"'Well, I've seen Whitefield, George Whitefield stood on this very stone,' 'and I heard him preach here.'

"'And do you remember any thing about him?' I asked.

"'Well, I guess I do. I was but a bit of a boy then; but here he stood on this stone, looking like a flying angel, and we call this Whitefield's pulpit to this day.... There was folks here from all parts to hear him; so he was obliged to preach outside, for the church wasn't half big enough for 'em, and no two ways about it. I've heard many parsons sin' that time, but none on 'em could come nigh him, any how they could fix it.'

"'Do you remember any thing of his sermons?' I inquired.

"'Oh, I was too young to notice aught, sir, but the preacher hisself and the crowds of people, but I know he had a very sweet voice; and as I said, when he spread his arms out, with a little Bible in his hand, he looked like a flying angel. There never were so many people, afore nor since, in Old Ipswich. I suppose, sir, you'll be going to see his bones? He was buried at Newburyport, and you can see 'em if you like.'

"I made up my mind that I would see them, if possible. On the following day, I went over to Newburyport by railroad, and proceeded first to the house in which Whitefield died. It was at the time the residence of the Rev. Jonathan Parsons, the first regular pastor of the Presbyterian Society in the town. It is a plain unpretending structure, possessing no other claims to attention than its being the spot where the last scene of Whitefield's career was enacted. I knocked, and asked of a lady who answered my summons, if I might be allowed to see the room in which Mr. Whitefield died. She very courteously showed me up a flight of stairs into a chamber, which, she said, Mr. Whitefield used to sleep in. 'Here is the place he died in,' said the lady, as she showed me a little entry just outside the door of the chamber, directly over the entrance to the house. 'He lay the night before he died,' said the lady, 'in that bed-chamber; and when he was struck with death, he ran out to this entry window for breath, and died while sitting in a chair opposite to it.'

"The Federal-street church, where Whitefield was buried, was but a short distance from the house in which he died, and on my way to it I called on the sexton.... He preceded me through the aisle of the church, and opening a little narrow door by the side of the pulpit, we passed into a dim gloomy room behind it, and from thence descending four or five steps, found ourselves in a brick vault which lay directly under the pulpit. It was two or three minutes before my eyes got accustomed to the gloom; but soon objects became discernible, and I saw three old coffins, two of them serving as supporters to the third, which lay across them.... The sexton trimmed his lamp, then lifted the lid of an old coffin, and holding the flame close to it, said, 'Here, look in, ... THAT'S THE MAN.'

The late Sir George Beaumont, no mean authority on such a subject, thus familiarly speaks: "Oh yes; I heard that young gentleman this morning allude to 'roaring Whitefield,' and was amused at his mistake. It is a common one. Whitefield did not roar. I have been his auditor more than once, and was delighted with him. Whitefield's voice could be heard at an immense distance; but that was owing to its fulness, roundness, and clearness. It was a perfectly sound voice. It is an odd description, but I can hit upon no better; there was neither crack nor flaw. To describe him as a bellowing, roaring field preacher, is to describe a mountebank, not Whitefield. He had powers of pathos of the highest order. The tender, soft, persuasive tones of his voice were melodious in the extreme. And when he desired to win, or persuade, or plead, or soothe, the gush of feeling which his voice conveyed at once surprised and overpowered you."

Speaking on the authority of his tutor, the Rev. Cornelius Winter, the late excellent Mr. Jay says that Whitefield's voice was incomparable: not only distinct and loud, but abounding with every kind of inflection, and perfectly under his power; so that he could render every thing he expressed, however common or insignificant in itself, striking and affecting.

This habit of making every occurrence bear on his ministry, Mr. Winter, who knew him more intimately, and has told us more of his private life and conduct than any other man, tells us was "perfectly in character with Mr. Whitefield. He turned every thing into gold; he improved every thing for good. Passing occurrences determined the matter of his sermons, and, in some degree, the manner of his address. Thus, if he had read on astronomy in the course of the week, you would be sure to discover it. He knew how to convert the centripetal motion of the planets to the disposition of the Christian towards Christ; and the fatal attraction of the world was very properly represented by a reference to the centrifugal. If he attended any extraordinary trial, he would avail himself of the formality of the judge in pronouncing sentence. It would only be by hearing him, and by beholding his attitude and tears, that a person could well conceive the effect; for it was impossible but that solemnity must surround him who, under God, became the means of making all solemn."

An American clergyman has told us that he once related to Whitefield an affecting occurrence, but did it with the ordinary brevity and feeling of common conversation. Afterwards he heard Mr. Whitefield preach, and tell this same story with such nature, pathos, and power, that the clergyman found himself weeping like a child. It has been well said, that he spoke with the tones of the soul; and that his gestures were impelled by the same spontaneous magical influence which made them, as well as his words, seem part of his soul. Indeed, he threw his soul into every thing he did and said.

It is said that Whitefield would sometimes rise in the sacred desk, and for a minute or two looking in silence around his vast audience, as if salvation or perdition teemed in every cast of his eye, would burst into tears, while the swift contagion, before he uttered a word, had reached every heart that could feel, and dimmed every eye that could weep.

The New York Evangelist, in 1830, made the remark, that "Whitefield would have lost much of his oratorical influence on his hearers, had his speaking eyes been covered with a pair of modern spectacles."

While his path to the sinner's heart was thus met with tears, he was never without strength or aim. He struck everywhere. He swung his glittering weapon, "the sword of the Spirit," in every direction, the same whether he preached in the cushioned and carpeted pulpit to lords, ladies, and gentlemen, or encountered a mob of stage-players and merry-andrews in the open field. He insisted on instant, visible, decisive action in his hearers. All was commotion where he moved. The very earth would seem to be shaken with the thunder of his eloquence; the heavens seemed, in the bold metaphor of Isaiah, to "drop down from above, and the skies to pour down righteousness," when he set the trumpet of the gospel to his lips, and made the notes of salvation or perdition ring in the ears of dying men. Such unwonted sounds startled the multitude into life, rousing energies that were forthwith enlisted either for or against the mighty cause which he advocated, with the boldness and fervor of one who had received immediate commission from heaven. His sacred ambition was content with nothing short of the conquest of thousands.

The same writer has said elsewhere, "The influence of Whitefield and Edwards on theology and pulpit eloquence were immense. There was in those two men indeed 'a diversity of gifts, but the same spirit,' The intellect prevailed in Edwards, the impassioned in Whitefield. Pure truth came forth from the mind of the one as nakedly demonstrated as it ever was on the pages of Newton and Locke; for Edwards, when but a child, read Locke with enthusiasm. From the soul of Whitefield it came forth arrayed in the gorgeous robes of his own many-colored imagination, baptized in the tenderness of his own sympathetic spirit. At times, indeed, the thunders of Sinai seemed to shake the sacred desk, but the softer music of the harp of Zion was more congenial with his compassionate spirit, though he was always bold for God, and braved danger in every form for the salvation of sinners. It is not strange that American preachers venerate, even to enthusiasm, the memory of such a man, and visit his dust, enshrined as it is in the bosom of New England, with feelings of indescribable interest. His labors were for us; his rest is with us; his example is before us. The first were indefatigable; the second is peaceful; the last is glorious."

Every thing about this distinguished man excited attention. His voice, accompanied by his look from crossed eyes, and proceeding from a man of his robust frame, produced wonderful effects. It is said that when once preaching in a graveyard, two young men conducted themselves improperly, when he fixed his eyes upon them, and with a voice resembling thunder, said, "Come down, ye rebels." They instantly fell, neither of them being inclined again to come into contact with such a look, or to hear such a voice.

He was once preaching to a vast crowd of people in southern Pennsylvania, which was at that time ignorant and uncivilized. He was incessantly disturbed by their noise, and twice reproved them with great severity. At length he was so overcome by their noisy and irreverent conduct, that he stopped short, dropped his head into his hands, burst into a flood of tears, and exclaimed, "Oh, Lord God, I am ashamed that these people are provoking thy wrath, and I dare not reprove them a third time." Such was the effect of his conduct and feeling, that his audience became perfectly quiet, and remained so till the end of his discourse.

His text was, "Strive to enter in at the strait gate; for many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able." "See," said he, pointing to a shadow that was flitting across the floor--"see that emblem of human life. It passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness of heaven from our view; but it is gone. And where will ye be, my hearers, when your lives have passed away like that dark cloud? Oh, my dear friends, I see thousands sitting attentively, with their eyes fixed on the poor unworthy preacher. In a few days, we shall all meet at the judgment-seat of Christ. We shall form a part of that vast assembly that will gather before the throne; and every eye will behold the Judge. With a voice whose call you must abide and answer, he will inquire whether on earth you strove to enter in at the strait gate; whether you were supremely devoted to God; whether your hearts were absorbed in him. My blood runs cold when I think how many of you will then seek to enter in, and shall not be able. Oh, what plea can you make before the Judge of the whole earth? Can you say it has been your whole endeavor to mortify the flesh, with its affections and lusts--that your life has been one long effort to do the will of God? No; you must answer, 'I made myself easy in the world by flattering myself that all would end well; but I have deceived my own soul, and am lost.'

"You, O false, and hollow Christian, of what avail will it be that you have done many things--that you have read much in the sacred word--that you have made long prayers--that you have attended religious duties, and that you have appeared holy in the eyes of men? What will all this be, if, instead of loving Him supremely, you have been supposing you should exalt yourself in heaven by acts really polluted and unholy?

"And you, rich men, wherefore do you hoard your silver? Wherefore count the price you have received for Him whom you every day crucify in your love of gain? Why--that when you are too poor to buy a drop of cold water, your beloved son may be rolled to hell in his chariot, pillowed and cushioned around him."

The eye of the preacher gradually lighted up as he proceeded, till towards the close it seemed to sparkle with celestial fire. With his whole energy he exclaimed, "O sinners, by all your hopes of happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the wrath of God be awakened. Let not the fires of eternity be kindled against you. See there!" pointing to the lightning, which played on the corner of the pulpit, "it is a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah!" Raising his finger in a listening attitude, as the distant thunder grew louder and louder, and broke in one tremendous crash over the building, he continued, "Hark! It was the voice of the Almighty as he passed by in his anger!" As the sound died away, he covered his face with his hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in inward and intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly away, and the sun, beaming forth in his might, threw across the heavens a magnificent arch of peace. Rising, and pointing to the beautiful object, he exclaimed, "Look upon the rainbow, and praise Him who made it. Very beautiful it is in the brightness thereof. It compasseth the heavens about with glory; and the hands of the Most High have bended it!"

On another occasion, as Mr. Whitefield was preaching in Boston, on the wonders of creation, providence, and redemption, a violent storm of thunder and lightning came on. In the midst of the sermon it attained to so alarming a height that the congregation sat in almost breathless awe. The preacher closed his note-book, and stepping into one of the wings of the desk, fell on his knees, and with much feeling and fine taste repeated:

"Hark, THE ETERNAL rends the sky! A mighty voice before him goes-- A voice of music to his friends, But threatening thunder to his foes: 'Come, children, to your Father's arms; Hide in the chambers of my grace, Till the fierce storm be overblown, And my revenging fury cease--'

"Let us devoutly sing to the praise and glory of God this hymn, Old Hundred."

Another writer has thus described his appearance in the pulpit. There was nothing in the appearance of this extraordinary man which would lead you to suppose that a Felix would tremble before him. He was something above the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable for a native gracefulness of manner. His complexion was very fair, his features regular, and his dark blue eyes small and lively. In recovering from the measles he had contracted a squint with one of them; but this peculiarity rather rendered the expression of his countenance more remarkable, than in any degree lessened the effect of its uncommon sweetness. His voice excelled both in melody and compass; and its fine modulations were happily accompanied by that grace of action which he possessed in an eminent degree, and which has been said to be the chief requisite in an orator. To see him when he first commenced, one would have thought him any thing but enthusiastic and glowing; but as he proceeded, his heart warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetuous and animated; till, forgetful of every thing around him, he seemed to kneel at the throne of Jehovah, and to beseech in agony for his fellow-beings.

After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long time in profound silence, and so powerful was the effect on the most heartless of his audience, that a stillness like that of the tomb pervaded the whole house.

Mr. Tracy, in his narrative of "the Great Awakening" about 1740, has admirably remarked, "It is often said that Whitefield cannot have been a very great man, because his printed sermons contain only plain, common thoughts, such as men of ordinary minds habitually use. But what made those thoughts so common? They were not common when he began to utter them. In England especially, and to a considerable extent here also, they astonished his hearers by their strangeness. What is more common than a voyage across the Atlantic? But was Columbus, therefore, only an ordinary man? The case of Copernicus is more nearly parallel. He reasserted a truth which had been uttered, repudiated, and forgotten. That truth is now common, even among school-boys. But was he, therefore, only a child in intellect?"

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