CHAPTER XXXII.

WHITEFIELD'S CHARACTERISTICS.

I FORESAW, from the commencement of this work, that I was incapable of imbodying the character of Whitefield, at the end, in a form which would satisfy myself. I therefore kept back nothing, for the sake of final effect; but allowed him, at every step, to appear all he was at the time and place. His characteristics have thus come out like the stars, now one by one, and anon in constellations, and all "in their season." In this form they have kept alive my own interest in both his Life and Times, whilst writing these pages; and therefore I see no necessity, and feel no inclination, to try my hand at a formal portrait. Whitefield paints himself upon every eye that follows him. The only dif ficulty felt in trying to realize this mighty angel of the everlasting gospel, as he flies in the midst of heaven, arises from the figure he presents in almost all the portraits which have accompanied his works hitherto. Indeed, until I saw the full-length engravings of him, from pictures taken when he was in his prime, I found it impossible to associate with his form (except in the case of his uplifted hands and eyes) just ideas of his spirit. This difficulty is now removed, and by no stratagem. The portrait in this volume is a faithful copy (except in length and scenery) of the original engraving, taken from Russell's picture of him, as he appeared in Moorfields in all his glory.

I have another reason for not trying to imbody the whole character of Whitefield: it would present an inimitable example; and thus defeat one great purpose I had in writing his life. His image as a whole, is not calculated to multiply itself. Happily this is not the fact, in regard to some features of it.

Some of them, like queen bees, are each capable of producing a whole hive. Indeed, it is impossible that any conscientious minister of the gospel can contemplate Whitefield in this volume, without setting himself to imitate him in something: whereas no one would dream of even trying to imitate him in all things. At least, I never saw the man who could be a second Whitefield. Rowland Hill was not that. SPENCER, from all I could learn in Liverpool, during eleven years' occupation of his pulpit, seems to have approached nearest to the pathos and fascination of Whitefield; but he had evidently none of his commanding majesty.

I studied Whitefield until I understood him; and therefore, I have instinctively recognised whatever resembled him, in all the popular preachers of my time. James, of Birmingham, has occasionally reminded me of his alternate bursts of tenderness and terror, in all but their rapidity; Rowland Hill of his offhand strokes of power; and Spring, of New York, his offheart unction, when it fell like dew, copiously and calmly. Baptist Noel also has reminded me of this. Robert Newton has some of Whitefield's oratory, but none of his high passion. Irving had nothing of him but his voice. Cooper, of Dublin, when in his prime, and preaching in the open air, has enabled me to conceive how Whitefield commanded the multitude in Moorfields. I must add,-although I shall not be generally understood, that Williams of the Wern, and my friend Christmas Evans, of Wales, and Billy Dawson of Yorkshire, have oftener realized Whitefield to me, than any other preachers of my time and yet these three men do not resemble him, nor each other, in mind or body; but they can lose themselves entirely, as he did, in tender and intense love to souls. This is what is wanted; and it will tell by any voice or style, and from any eye or stature. Rowland Hill knew and loved one minister in Scotland-the late Cowie of Huntly-for his resemblance to Whitefield. I do not wonder at this. It was Whitefield's likeness to Cowie, that first won my heart. I saw in the busts, and read in the books of George Whitefield, the express image of George Cowie, the pastor of my boyhood. I was not twelve years old when he died: but the majestic music of his voice is

yet in my ear, and the angelic benevolence of his countenance yet before my eye. I could weep yet, as I wept when I did not understand him. I wept often then because he was bathed in tears of love. I loved him, because he loved me for my father's sake, when my father died. He then became a father unto me. Whether he bequeathed me to Dr. Philip, I do not know but I can never forget that in his house Dr. Philip adopted me. This he did in the true spirit of adoption! I owe every thing, in early life, to this. Even in mature life, I feel the benefit of it every day.

I must not dismiss this reference to Cowie yet. It will help not a few to realize Whitefield. I have often roused the venerable Rowland Hill, in his old age, from absence and depression, when he was not likely to be himself in the pulpit, or on the platform, by a timely reference to "our old friend Mr. Cowie." This never failed to quicken him. I was to him so associated with Huntly, that he often called me Mr. Huntly. The public are thus indebted to me for not a few of Rowland Hill's last and best eulogiums on Whitefield. He had seen him personified in Cowie, and I kept the image before the good old man, whenever I met him in public or private. The secret was this. The chief cause of Mr. Cowie's excommunication from the antiburghers, was his cooperation with Mr. Hill, and itinerants of his stamp; and I had been Mr. Cowie's little servant on the day he defended himself before the synod. It was a high day to me, until I found him condemned. I had carried from his library to the top of his pulpit stairs, the books he intended to quote from; and handed them to him as he required them. It was a long defence; but I felt no weariness, although I did not understand a word of its real merits. There was Latin in it—and he had begun to teach me Latin; and thus I expected to understand the speech some day. And then it was a perfect stream of eloquence, flowing, now softly as the Boggie, and anon impetuously as the Dovern; the rivers which encircle Huntly. I was sure that nobody could answer him; and so vexed when they tried, that I could have thrown a book at the head of the moderator, and even two or three at some other heads of the synod. True; this was worse than foolish in a boy; but still,

it was not more foolish than old men flinging censures at the head of a champion, who was the Whitefield of the north. At this moment, I do not feel that I was the greatest sinner in that assembly.

I thus allow my recollections of Cowie to revel in their own vividness, because they will explain what I have ventured to call my "knowledge of Whitefield." I mean, that I met in the sermons and vein of Whitefield, the image of my first friend and pastor; and Rowland Hill, who knew both parties, attested the likeness. This fact must be my apology for the many instances in this volume, in which I gossip about Whitefield, as if I had been brought up at his knee. There is no affectation in this, whatever flippancy it may have betrayed me into. I have been all along at home, because in company with COWIE. Besides, only a character which speaks for itself belongs to biography; and he is no biographer of it, who does not speak in its own style.

I have often heard it asked and argued, whether Whitefield would be popular now, were he alive? The late Dr. Ryland used to maintain, that he would be as popular as ever! The Doctor was right, so far as Whitefield's manner and unction were concerned. Holy energy can never be unpopular. Holy daring will always wield the multitude. Natural eloquence will find an echo for ever in the human heart, however the truth it utters may be evaded or disliked. All ministers who cannot command attention, are unnatural in something. Whitefield's sermons, however, would not draw out the same crowd, nor the same classes now, that they did at first. His doctrine, as well as his manner, was a novelty then, even in London, to the multitude. They had never heard of regeneration but at the baptismal font ; and that, told them of its beginning and completion, in the same breath.

Too little importance, however, has been attached to Whitefield's manner of preaching. This is not his fault. He made no secret of his attention to delivery. He commended the study of oratory to the American colleges, and provided for it at Bethesda, and rebuked the neglect of it at Oxford. He was not ashamed to quote Sheridan's lectures, in remonstrating with

Durell.

66

Sorry am I to find so true what a celebrated orator takes the liberty of saying in the University of Oxford, if I mistake not, That the state of pulpit elocution in general, in the church of England, is such, that there never was, perhaps, a religious sect on earth, whose hearts were so little engaged in the act of worship, as the members of that church. To be pleased, we must feel; and we are pleased with feeling. The presbyterians are moved; the methodists are moved; they go to their meetings and tabernacles with delight. The very

quakers are moved: whilst much the greater part of the members of the church of England are either banished from it through disgust, or reluctantly attend the service as a disagreeable duty.' Thus far Mr. Sheridan."

Whitefield even quotes Betterton the player, and affirms that the stage would soon be deserted if the actors spoke like preachers. "Mr. Betterton's answer to a worthy prelate is worthy of lasting regard. When asked how it came to pass that the clergy, who spoke of things real, affected the people so little, and the players, who spoke of things barely imaginary, affected them so much,' he said, My Lord, I can assign but one reason; we players speak of things imaginary as though they were real, and too many of the clergy speak of things real as though they were imaginary.' Thus it was in his, and all know it is too much the case in our time. Hence it is, that even on our most important occasions, the worthy gentlemen concerned in our public churches, generally find themselves more obliged to musicians than the preachers; and hence it is, no doubt, that upon our most solemn anniversaries, after long previous notice has been given, and when some even of our lords spiritual do preach, perhaps not two lords temporal come to hear them."-Letter to Durell.

Whitefield's own maxim was, " to preach as Apelles painted, for ETERNITY." He was first struck with this maxim at the table of Archbishop Boulter in Ireland, where "the great Dr. Delany" said to him, "I wish whenever I go up into a pulpit, to look upon it as the last time I shall ever preach, or the last time the people may hear." He never forgot this. He often said, "Would ministers preach for eternity, they would then act the