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

"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,' (dropping his stick feebly from his shaking hands,) '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.'

"Yes, there lay the man, or at least, all that remains of the once mighty preacher. A strange awe came over me at his words, 'That's the man.' I took the skull in my hands, and examined it carefully. The forehead was rather narrow than broad, and by no means high. I soon put it back again to the coffin."

Among the more prominent traits in the character of Whitefield, we may designate his indifference to his own honor and ease, of which his narrative contains almost innumerable illustrations. In the preparation of the deed of trust for his intended college, he entirely omitted his own name, that the proposed trustees might accept the office without suffering contempt for being connected with him. It was not pretence which led him often to say, "Let the name of George Whitefield perish, if God be glorified." On the same principle of almost self-annihilation he acted in reference to the accumulation of money. He secured nothing for himself. It does not seem that what he left to his friends by his will was or could be paid; what had been left him as legacies had been nearly all expended, and would have been entirely, had he lived to return to his beloved Bethesda. By his will he placed the institution in the hands of Lady Huntingdon, who sent out ministers and other persons to conduct it. But soon after this, the buildings were burnt down. After the fire, came the Revolutionary war, which tended to unsettle the tenure of property, and at the time of its close, the whole plans, alike of the orphan-house and the college, were nearly unknown. The authorities of Savannah, in accordance with the high regard which they still entertained for Whitefield's memory, secured whatever they could of the wreck, the proceeds of which they invested in a school for the young, which yet flourishes.

Perhaps no man was ever more thoroughly fond of labor. From a memorandum in which Mr. Whitefield recorded the times and places of his ministerial labors, it appears that from the period of his ordination to that of his death, which was thirty-four years, he preached upwards of eighteen thousand sermons. It would be difficult to imagine how many thousand miles he travelled. When he ascertained that his physical powers began to fail, putting himself on what he called "short allowance," he preached only once on every week-day, and three times on the Sabbath. In view of his various journeyings in the slow and inconvenient modes of travelling then in use, his thirteen voyages across the Atlantic, and all that he accomplished, it appears that few men ever performed so much labor within the same period.

Nearly every one who has attempted a description of Whitefield has said much of his extraordinary voice. It is known that Garrick was heard to say that he would give a hundred guineas if he could say "Oh!" as Whitefield did. The late Rev. Dr. Haweis, speaking of his "wonderful voice," and of its sweetness and variety of tone, said he believed on a serene evening it might be distinctly heard for nearly a mile. Others have given similar evidence.

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 distinguished man had a peculiar talent for making the narration of facts tell in the pulpit. Nothing occurred among even his own family connections, but he would make it contribute to the edification of his auditors. One Lord's day morning, with his usual fervor he exhorted his hearers to give up the use of means for the spiritual good of their relatives and friends only with their lives. He told them he had a brother, for whose spiritual welfare he had very long used every possible means. He had warned him, and prayed for him, but all apparently to no purpose, till a few weeks previous; when that brother, to his astonishment and joy, came to his house, and with many tears declared that he had come up from the country to testify to him the great change which divine grace had wrought in his heart, and to acknowledge with gratitude his obligation to the man by whom God had wrought. Mr. Whitefield added, that he had that morning received information, that on his brother's return to Gloucestershire, where he resided, he dropped down dead as he was getting out of a stagecoach. "Let us pray always," said he, "for ourselves, and for those who are dear to us, and never faint."

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."

He sometimes made use of an incident of history in the reign of Henry VIII. The apprentices of London appeared before that monarch, pleading his pardon for their insurrections, manifesting intense feeling on the matter, and praying for "mercy, mercy." "Take them away, take them away," was the monarch's request, moved by the sight and the cries of these youths, "I cannot bear it." The application, as will be readily supposed, was, that if an earthly monarch of Henry's character could be so moved, how prevalent must be the plea of the sinner in the ears of infinite Love.

The case of two Scotchmen in the convulsion of the state at the time of Charles II. served him on more than one occasion. These men, having to pass some of the troops, were thinking of their danger, and meditating the best way of escape, when one of them proposed wearing a skullcap; but the other, thinking that would imply distrust of the providence of God, determined to proceed bareheaded. The last was the first laid hold of, and being asked, "Are you for the covenant?" replied, "Yes;" and being further asked, "What covenant?" answered, "The covenant of grace;" by which reply, eluding farther inquiry, he was allowed to pass; but the other, not answering satisfactorily, received a blow from the sabre, which penetrating through the cap, struck him dead. In the application, Mr. Whitefield, warning against vain confidence, exclaimed, "Beware of your skullcaps."

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.[2 - 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.

It has been well said by a living American writer, that "Whitefield was, in sacred eloquence, what Handel was in sacred music. There was an air, a soul, and a movement in his oratory, which created indescribable emotion in his vast assemblies, and if Handel, with a thousand auxiliary voices and instruments, astonished the multitude in Westminster Abbey, even to raising them on their feet, by the performance of his Messiah, Whitefield did greater wonders in his single person by preaching the Messiah to the immense crowds in Tottenham Court-road and Moorfields."

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."

The Rev. Mr. Winter says, "I hardly ever knew him to go through a sermon without weeping more or less;" and again, "It was only by beholding his attitude and tears, that one could well conceive of the effect." No doubt there was a connection between the tears of Whitefield and his piety; but it must not be supposed that he was always "the weeping prophet;" he could smile as well as weep. A venerable lady in New York, known to some yet living, speaking of the influence which first won her heart to God, said that "Mr. Whitefield was so cheerful that it tempted her to be a Christian."

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

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

We have before us two narratives of his preaching during very heavy storms. Dr. Campbell, a successor of Whitefield in the Tabernacle in London, and whose ministry has been marked by much of the power and success of his great predecessor, has given to the first of these narratives the title of "Thunder and Eloquence." Before he commenced his sermon on this occasion, long darkening columns crowded the bright sunny sky of the morning, and swept their dull shadows over the building, in fearful augury of the storm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The whole congregation instantly rose, and poured forth the sacred song, in which they were accompanied by the organ, in a style of simple grandeur and heartfelt devotion that was probably never surpassed. By the time the hymn was finished the storm was hushed. The remainder of the services were well adapted to sustain the elevated feeling which had been produced; and the benediction with which the good man dismissed the flock was universally received with streaming eyes, and hearts overflowing with tenderness and gratitude.

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

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

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

There are yet extant about eighty of the sermons by which Whitefield agitated nations, and the more remote influence of which is still distinctly to be traced, in the popular divinity and national character of Great Britain and of the United States. Of these compositions, Sir James Stephen, an evangelical Episcopalian of London, wrote at some length in the "Edinburgh Review," 1838, and we shall make no apology for borrowing a portion of his remarks, combining them with some of our own.

It is true, that these sermons have fallen into very general neglect; for to win permanent acceptance for a book, into which the principles of life were not infused by its author, is a miracle which not even the zeal of religious proselytes can accomplish. Yet, inferior as were his inventive to his mimetic powers, Whitefield is entitled, among theological writers, to a place which, if it cannot challenge admiration, may at least excite and reward curiosity. Many, and those by far the worst of his discourses, bear the marks of careful preparation. Take at hazard a sermon of one of the preachers usually distinguished as evangelical, add a little to its length, and subtract a great deal from its point and polish, and you have one of his more elaborate common topics discussed in a commonplace way; a respectable mediocrity of thought and style; endless variations on one or two cardinal truths – in short, the task of a clerical Saturday evening, executed with piety, good sense, and exceeding sedateness. But open one of that series of Whitefield's sermons which bears the stamp of having been conceived and uttered at the same moment, and imagine it recited to myriads of eager listeners with every charm of voice and gesture, and the secret of his unrivalled fascination is at least partially disclosed. He places himself on terms of intimacy and unreserved confidence with you, and makes it almost as difficult to decline the invitation to his familiar talk as if Montaigne himself had issued it. The egotism is amusing, affectionate, and warm-hearted, with just that slight infusion of self-importance without which it would pass for affectation. In his art of rhetoric, personification holds the first place; and the prosopopœia is so managed as to quicken abstractions into life, and to give them individuality and distinctness without the exhibition of any of those spasmodic and distorted images which obey the incantations of vulgar exorcists. Every trace of study and contrivance is obliterated by the hearty earnestness which pervades each successive period, and by the vernacular and homely idioms in which his meaning is conveyed.

It is in the grandeur and singleness of purpose that the charm of Whitefield's preaching seems to have consisted. You feel that you have to do with a man who lived and spoke, and who would gladly have died, to deter his hearers from the path of destruction, and to guide them to holiness and peace. His gossipping stories, and dramatic forms of speech, are never employed to hide the awful realities on which he is intent. Conscience is not permitted to find an intoxicating draught in even spiritual excitement, or an anodyne in glowing imagery. Guilt and its punishment, pardon and spotless purity, death and an eternal existence, stand out in bold relief on every page. From these the eye of the teacher is never withdrawn, and to these the attention of the hearer is riveted. All that is poetic, grotesque, or rapturous is employed to deepen these impressions, and is dismissed as soon as that purpose is answered. Deficient in learning, meagre in thought, and redundant in language as are these discourses, they yet fulfil the one great condition of genuine eloquence. They propagate their own kindly warmth, and leave their stings behind them.

The enumeration of the sources of Whitefield's power is still essentially defective. Neither energy, nor eloquence, nor histrionic talents, nor any artifices of style, nor the most genuine sincerity and self-devotedness, nor all these united, would have enabled him to mould the religious character of millions in his own and future generations. The secret lies deeper. It consisted in the theology he taught – in its perfect simplicity and universal application. "Would ministers," says he, "preach for eternity, they would then act the part of true Christian orators; and not only calmly and coolly inform the understanding, but by pathetic and persuasive address, endeavor to move the affections and to warm the heart. To act otherwise, betrays a sad ignorance of human nature, and such an inexcusable ignorance and indifference in a preacher, as must constrain the hearers to suspect, whether they will or not, that the preacher, let him be whom he will, only deals in the false commerce of unfelt truth." His eighteen thousand sermons were but so many variations on two key-notes: man is guilty, but may obtain forgiveness; he is immortal, and must ripen here for endless weal or woe hereafter. Expanded into innumerable forms, and diversified by infinite varieties of illustration, these two cardinal principles were ever in his heart and on his tongue. Let who would invoke poetry to embellish the Christian system, or philosophy to explore its esoteric depths, from his lips it was delivered as an awful and urgent summons to repent, to believe, and to obey. To set to music the orders issued to seamen in a storm, or to address them in the language of Aristotle or Descartes, would have seemed to him not a whit more preposterous than to divert his hearers from their danger and their refuge, their duties and their hopes, to any topics more trivial or more abstruse. In fine, he was thoroughly and continually in earnest, and therefore possessed that tension of the soul which admitted neither of lassitude nor relaxation, few and familiar as were the topics to which he was confined. His was, therefore, precisely that state of mind in which alone eloquence, properly so called, can be engendered, and a moral and intellectual sovereignty won.

Nor less important is it to remark, though we need not illustrate it at length, that much was effected by every one seeing that he always forgot himself in his subject, and rested only on heaven for success. He felt himself called to serve Christ, and gave himself to his task, to save sinners, and he cared for nothing else. No one ever doubted his sincerity when he prayed, "Help me, Friend of sinners, to be nothing, to say nothing, that thou mayest say and do every thing, and be my all in all." If the same feelings were fully shown by the ministry at present, our messages would tell more on the hearts of our hearers.

We need hardly remind the reader that Whitefield was remarkable for a devotional spirit. Probably no man ever lived nearer to God. Had he been less prayerful, he would have been less powerful. It has been said that during a few of the last years of his life he read the voluminous exposition of Matthew Henry, comprising six quarto volumes, in a kneeling posture, pausing and praying that God would engraft upon his mind the instructions of that extraordinary man. When he came before his auditors, he looked like one who had been with God. This it was which won for him the title of seraphic– he was a human seraph, and burnt out in the blaze of his own fire. Usually for an hour or two before he went into the pulpit, he claimed retirement. In this claim he was imperative, and would not be interrupted in his seasons of hallowed intercourse with God.

Engaged almost incessantly in preaching, or in preparation for it, it was impossible, however much he desired it, to pay many private visits of a religious nature. We are told, however, that on one occasion, when a young minister, afterwards exceedingly popular and useful, was once visiting him, he was sent for to visit a poor woman who had been so dreadfully burnt that she could not survive many hours. He went immediately, and prayed with her. He had no sooner returned, than she called out, "Oh, where is Mr. Whitefield?" Urged by her entreaty, her friends requested him to visit her a second time. He complied, and again prayed with her. The poor afflicted woman continued still to desire his presence. When her friends came for him a third time, "I begged of him," said the young clergyman, "not to go; for he could scarcely expect to do any good. 'Your nerves are too weak, your feelings are too acute to endure such scenes.' I shall never forget his mild reproof: 'Leave me; my Master can save to the uttermost, to the very uttermost.'"