142 A FEW NOTICES OF WHITEFIELD. plexity and spiritual affliction, and his health in the meantime was rapidly undermining. This season of trouble was blessed to him. He had been subjected to severe self-examination, he had been driven by the rod to seek comfort and support to his soul, and by this rod he was graciously guided to more correct views of the gospel. Having his residence on the banks of the Isis, he devoted much of his time to attendance on the prayer meetings held by his religious associates, to exhorting in the prison, and at the bedside of the sick and dying. At the age of 21, after painful struggles as to the path of duty, he was ordained in 1736, by the good Bishop Benson. His first sermon was preached in the church of St. Mary de Crypt, where he had been baptized, and had first received the Lord's supper. His text was from Ecclesiastics iv. 9-12. He acquitted himself, he says, "with as much freedom as though he had been a preacher for some years." The impression made by this sermon was extraordinary—in the exaggerated language of the times, it was affirmed that he had "driven fifteon persons mad." Soon after this he went by invitation to London, to officiate in the chapel of the Tower. His preaching very soon arrested the notice of the public, and had he not after a short time taken his departure for America, he would speedily have realized the popularity to which he was rapidly ascending. To America, however, he would go, out of pity for the spiritual wants of the settlers in Georgia. He was only 23 years of age when he first crossed the Atlantic, and during the course of his public life, he crossed it thirteen times. He "ranged" over a great part of America, and on one occasion visited the Bermudas, in all places declaring the glad tidings of salvation, and by the divine blessing on his labours, adding everywhere multitudes to the number of them that believed. In Georgia he founded an orphan hospital, which he named Bethesda, a house of mercy, and for the success of which he made indefatigable exertions by preaching and making collections in its behalf in all parts of England and Scotland. By his labours in travelling and preaching, he was often greatly exhausted, but no consideration, while he could lift up his voice, could induce him to rest or desist. Soul and body, time and talents, ease and pleasure, were all magnanimously sacrificed by him for the good of immortal souls. He could peril his life, but Whitfield could not lose an opportunity of preaching Christ. 6 On his return from his first visit to America he resumed his labours in London. For a time he was admitted into many of the pulpits of the establishment, but his methodist habits, i. e., his attending upon, exhorting at, and encouraging of prayer-meetings, together, no doubt, with his amazing popularity, speedily shut him out of 'consecrated ground.' To 'the field,' however, he did not yet betake himself, nor did the idea suggest itself till the crowds that followed him to the churches which were still open to him, became so immense that he resolved, though laughed at by his frisnds for the resolution, to brave the regularity' of ecclesiastical order, and even condescend to imitate the example of his divine Master and the inspired apostles. He hesitated for a short season, but the project having once taken hold of his mind he was impelled to make the experiment. His first field sermon was to the 'wild colliers' in the wood at Bristol. The effect was wonderful, for by this discourse men who cared for none of these things,' rose up and ever afterwards observed the commandments and ordinances of God. Having succeeded in this his first attempt, Whitefield now felt himself out of unsanctioned trammǝls, in a more liberal atmosphere, he breathed more easily, and knew the zeal within him would undergo a quick and glowing expan A FEW NOTICES OF WHITEFIELD. 143 sion. When from his dizzy eyry the eagle has beheld his prey, what shall scare him from descending to transfix it with his talons? When blood has been scented, who shall recall the baying hound from pursuing its tract? When the eye of wisdom hath long and wearily looked forth, and at length pierces the vail and embraces some ennobling truth, what idle chimera shall divert its penetrating gaze? What dictates of fear could mortify the travailing convictions of Galileo in his dungeon? What maxims of prudence could shame the spirit of Franklin from watching over the mystic sport of his kite? What authority could have separated Newton or Herschell from their telescopes? Could gold or power have bribed Paul from the cross to the Sanhedrim, or Luther back to his rosary, or Wishart from his stake, or Knox from his Bible? These things could not be done. There is that both in the animal and mental nature which, when impelled by instinct, or fascinated by the love of science, or guided by inspiration, can no more be driven from its object than the stars from their courses or the tides from their estuaries. The soul of Whitefield had now effectually struggled into its genial element, nor did its zeal abate so long as it animated the mortal tabernacle-from this moment he was alive, only when emancipated from the temples made with hands, and free to roll his splendid voice over the far-extending multitudes quailing beneath the thunder of its power, enraptured with the sweetness of its music, or subdued by the tenderness of its pathos. Glowing and fresh with his laurels from Bristol, Whitefield hastened to summon together the thousands in London whom he knew to to 'without God.' He sought no privileged pulpit nor sacred rostrum, these were denied the Methodists; but over the tomb-stones of Islington cemetery he discoursed to dying men of the resurrection and the life,' and upon Moorfields and Kennington Common he converted almost incredible numbers to the belief and practice of the truth. The mighty city for a season re-echoed from the east to the west, the eloquence and influence of the preacher. He had sometimes TWENTY THOUSAND human beings at his feet, all rivetted for hours to the spot where he preached Christ. He thus speaks of his first sermon at Kennington Common : "Upwards of twenty-thousand were supposed to be present. The wind being for me, it carried my voice to the extremest part of the audience. All stood attentive and joined in the psalm and Lord's prayer, so regularly that I scarce ever preached with more quietness in the church. Many were much affected. For this let men revile my name, 66 "Such," says Mr Philip, was his own bulletin of this great field-day." In such labors he spent the remainder of his life, whether in America or when at home, throughout England and Wales, Scotland and Ireland. Lisbon also heard his voice. At Edinburgh, and in every part of Scotland, he produced powerful impressions; but Cambuslang and Kilsyth, especially the former, werc-the most glorious of his fields' in the north. His appearance at Cambuslang was at the request of the minister of the parish, that he might assist him in dispensing the Lord's supper. Whatever opinions were formed at the time concerning the effects which his preaching had upon hundreds of the people that flocked to hear him, we should think that there are few so ungenerous as not to admit that the Lord did great things by him. Upon a brae, near 144 A FEW NOTICES OF WHITEFIELD. the manse, 20,000 persons, it is computed, were assembled, and the sacrament was dispensed in the fields. Even after the services of the day were over, "they could hardly persuade the people to depart: all night in the fields might be heard the voice of prayer and praise." Whitefield himself thus describes the scene :-"When I began to serve a table, the power of God was felt by numbers; but the people so crowded upon me that I was obliged to desist and go to preach at one of the tents, while the ministers served the rest of the tables. God was with them and with his people. On Monday morning I preached to nearly as many as before; but such a universal stir I never saw before! The motion fled as swift as lightning from one end of the audience to another. You might have seen thousands bathed in tears. Some at the same time wringing their hands, other almost swooning and mourning over a pierced Saviour. But I must not attempt to describe it." By a series of afflictions the Countess of Huntingdon became genuinely pious, and having heard of the labors of Whitefield she sent for him and appointed him to be her chaplain. This introduced him to many in rank, and who figured at court in those days. Through her influence Chesterfield and Bolingbroke came and heard him preach, and for a moment even these profane wits trembled when Whitefield reasoned to them of judgment to come. By God's blessing, several ladies of distinction were melted under the influence of the gospel, and cast their coronets at the feet of Jesus. But though he continued to be chaplain of Lady Huntingdon, and superintended for her the erection and management of the numerous chapels which her pious liberality reared and endowed, he could not be confined even by the fascinations of a select and aristocratic audience. The godlike bias of his soul carried him alike from the splendid halls of the countess and his own pulpits in the Tabernacle and Tottenham court chapels, to the highways and hedges, whither he fled to compel sinners to come in to the gospel feast. Every one," he says, has his proper gift. Field preaching is my place. In this I am carried as on eagle's wings." It was no uncommon thing for Whitefield to preach four times in one day, and fifteen times in one week, and then we must consider How he preached. 66 66 66 In September, 1765, Whitefield left England to cross, but not again to recross, the Atlantic. As if aware that he might never return, he, in a very solemn manner, took farewell of his friends both at the Tabernacle and Tottenham court. His text was John x. 27, 28. "The parting scene," says Mr. Philip, was awful, and seems to have been repeated." On reaching America, after a perilous voyage, he re-commenced his favorite work, and left behind him in the cities and wildernesses of Columbia, while he journeyed from place to place, numerous trophies of divine grace. But frail man could not thus continue to bear up under these extraordinary exertions. Symptoms of decaying strength now appeared, and this amiable servant of the Lamb looked to his dismission from the field of the world with only one regret, and that was, that he should no longer be honored to sing the song of redemption to his fellow-sinners on the footstool. To such a heart as his, no other hope could be soothing in the prospect of death, than that of chaunting the song of Moses with his fellowsaints before the throne. It was on the morning of September 29, 1770, that he set out from Portsmouth to Boston. By the way he preached for two hours at Exeter to a great multitude in the fields, and arrived greatly fatigued at Newbury Port in the evening. He had engaged to preach at this place on the WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON. 145 following day, Sabbath. After retiring to rest he was suddenly seized with a violent attack of asthma. He continued every ill till five in the morning, when he was obliged to rise from bed and sit at the open window for air. At this time the friend who was with him heard him say: "I am dying," and after a few painful pantings for breath, "he stretched out his feet and breathed no more." Before he left Portsmouth in the morning, he said in the hearing of a friend, while he clasped his hands together, and looking up: "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." From the above it will be seen that his prayer was heard. Thus died George Whitefield, when he was fifty-six years of age, and had been thirty-four in the ministry. During three years he had preached more than 18,000 sermons. His body was interred in the church of Mr Par sons at Newbury Port. His soul is in glory. The Casket. WASHINGTON AND NAPOLEON. A PARALLEL. THE statue of Washington, like that of Bonaparte, was not beyond the ordinary standard. There was nothing peculiar about his person; he did not act on a vast arena; he did not contend against the most skilful generals, and the most powerful sovereigns of his time; he did not fly from Memphis to Vienna, from Cadiz to Moscow; he defended himself with a handful of citizens, on a territory uncelebrated, and within the contracted circle of its domestic hearths; he did not fight battles that called to mind the triumphs of Arbella and Pharsalia; he did not destroy thrones in order that he might construct others with their fragments; he did not order his servants to say to kings waiting at his gate-Let them longer wait; let Attila grow weary.' There was a degree of quietness about Washington's deeds, he acted with circum. spection; it might be that he felt himself entrusted with the liberty of the future and he feared to comprise it. The destiny that drew along this new kind of hero was not his own-it was his country's. He would not sport with what was not his; but what light flashed from under this profound humility! Search the woods where gleamed the sword of Washington, what do you find? Tombs? No; a world! The United States is the trophy he left on his field of battle. Bonaparte had no trait in common with the grave American. He fought with all 'the pride, pomp, and circumstance of war' on an ancient territory he wished of his personal glory alone: he cared but for his own interest; he seemed to know that his mission would be short-that the torrent which descended from so great a height would rush away rapidly; he was in haste to enjoy and abuse his glory, as a fugitive youth hood. Like the gods of Homer, he would arrive from the other end of the earth in four steps. He appeared on every shore, wrote hurriedly his name in the archives of every people, threw crowns to his family and to his soldiers; haste marked his monuments, his laws, his victories! Leaning over the world, with one band he overthrew kings, with the other he quelled the giants of revolution; but in crushing anarchy he strangled liberty, and ended in losing his own on the field of his last conflict. Each was rewarded according to his works. Washington raised a nation to independence; a ruler at rest, he sleeps at home amidst the regrets of his fellow countrymen, and the veneration of all nations. Bonaparte tore from a nation its independence; a fallen emperor, he was driven into exile, when, though guarded by the ocean, the frighted earth hardly thought him secure. He died; and the news published at the gates of the palace, where the conqueror had proclaimed so many deaths, neither surprised nor arres ted the passenger. What had the citizens to weep for? The republic of Washington lives; the empire is no more. Washington and Bonaparte rose from the bosom of democracy, both born of liberty-one was faithful to her, the other betrayed her. Washington was the representation of the wants, the ideas, the intelligence, the opinions of his epoch. He aided instead of retarding the movement of intellect; he resolved upon what he wished, which was the very thing to which he was called; hence the coherence and perpetuity of his work. This man, little striking because of the harmony of all his proportions, linked his existence to that of his country. His glory is the patrimony of civilization, his renown raises itself like those public sanctuaries whence flow fruitful and inexhaustible streams. Bonaparte could have equally enriched the general nations of Europe; he was at the head of the most intelligent, the bravest, and the most polished nation of the earth. What rank would he hold now, if to what was heroic in his character he had united magnanimity -if at the same time Washington and Bonaparte, he had named liberty universal legatee of his glory! But the giant did not join his destiny with that of his contempo. raries his genius belonged to modern, his ambition to past ages. He did not perceive that the wonders of his life outvied the worth of a diadem, and that Gothic ornament did not become him. Sometimes he precipitated himself on the future, sometimes recoiled upon the past; and whether he retracted or followed the course of time, he by his prodigious force restrained or urged onward its waves. In his eyes men were merely the means of power sympathy was between their happiness and his own; he had promised to deliver them and he enchained them; he isolated himself from them, they withdrew from him. The kings of Egypt placed their funeral pyramids, not among flowery fields, but amidst barren sands; those immense tombs lift up their head like eternity in solitude; in like manner Bonaparte built the monument of his renown.-Chateaubriand Memoirs d'outre Tombe. : THE DEVOUT GENERAL. no IN 1777, while the American army lay at Valley Forge, a good old Quaker, by the name of Potts, had occasion to pass through a thick wood, near head-quarters. As he traversed the dark brown forest, he heard, at a distance before him, a voice which, as he advanced, became more and more fervid and interesting. Approaching with slowness and circumspection, whom should he behold, under a thick-set bower, apparently formed for the purpose, but the commander-in-chief of the armies of the United States, the great WASHINGTON, on his knees, in an act of devotion, to the Ruler of the universe. At the moment when Friend Potts, who was concealed by the trees, came up, Washington was interceding for his beloved country, with tones of gratitude that labored for adequate expression; he adored that exuberant Goodness, which, from the depth of obscurity, had exalted him to the head of a great nation, and that nation fighting at fearful odds, for all the world holds dear. He utterly disclaimed his own ability for this arduous conflict. He wept at the thought of the ruin which his mistakes might bring on his country, and with a patriot's pathos, spreading the interests of unborn millions before the eye of eternal Mercy, he implored the aid of that arm which guides the starry hosts! Soon as the general had finished his devotions, Friend Potts retired. He returned to his house, and threw himself into a chair, by the side of his wife, under the influence of feelings which, for a time, refused him utterance. "Heigh!-heigh, Isaac!" said she, with tenderness, "thou seemest agitated! what is the matter?" "Indeed, my dear," quoth he, "if I appear agitated, it is no more than what I am. I have seen this day what I shall never forget. Till now I have thought that a Christian and a soldier were characters incompatible with each other. But if George Washington be not a man of God, I am indeed mistaken, and still more shall I be disappointed if if God do not, through him, perform some great thing for this country." RELIGIOUS EDUCATION.-Everything in the condition of mankind pronounces the approach of some great crisis for which nothing can prepare us but the diffusion of knowledge, probity, and the fear of the Lord. While the world is impelled with such violence in opposite directions-while a spirit of giddiness and revolt is shed upon the nations, and the seeds of imitation are thickly sown, the improvement of the mass of the people will be our grand security; in the neglect of which, the politeness, the refinement, and the knowledge accumulated in the higher orders, weak and unprotected, will be exposed to the most imminent danger, and perish like a garland in the grasp of popular fury. Robert Hall. |