His vast power remained until the close of his life. The last great speech, made in a contest with John Randolph, when he was nearly seventy years of age, and only three months before his death, was equal to any of his former efforts. “The sun had set in all its glory.”
These few sketches will sufficiently illustrate the eloquence of this wonderful man. It only remains to state what is known in regard to his methods of preparation. He never wrote. His mightiest efforts were made in situations where the use of the pen would have been impossible. The Virginia resolutions were written on a blank leaf in a law book, and during the whole of the terrible debate which followed, he was ever ready, and mastered all opponents. He thought much, but wrote little. He spoke only on great occasions, while in political life, but gave attention to all that was passing, and by keen observation learned the characters of those upon whose minds he wrought. Thus he was prepared to drive every word home to its mark. He was a great student of history, and this knowledge doubtless contributed very greatly to the clearness and precision of his views upon the great struggle in which the country was engaged, as well as gave him an ample fund of illustration in his speeches. Study of character and of history, cultivation of the power of narration and of language, seem to have been the means by which his wonderful natural genius was fitted for its triumphs.
GEORGE WHITEFIELD.
Few men of any age have been instrumental in accomplishing more good than the subject of our present sketch. Without deep logical powers, and with little claim to originality of thought, he chained vast multitudes by his eloquence, and was one of the foremost actors in a mighty religious movement.
None of the converts Whitefield gathered into the church ever passed through a more strongly marked experience in personal religion than he did. The agony of conviction he underwent was terrible, and he struggled long and desperately before he obtained peace. “God only knows,” he exclaims, “how many nights I have lain upon my bed groaning under what I felt. Whole days and weeks have I spent in lying prostrate on the ground, in silent or vocal prayer.” His mind almost failed under the violence of his mental conflicts, and he endeavored, by wearing the meanest apparel, and almost continual fasting, and many works of self-mortification to find relief. But all this was in vain. We see in it an indication of the terrible earnestness and sincerity of the man—qualities which never passed away from him. These months of vivid emotion affected his whole life, and imparted an intensity to his pictures of sin, and a vividness to his realization of its horrors, that he never would have had otherwise.
At last his health gave way beneath the pressure of his spiritual trials, and he fell into a long sickness. At the end of seven weeks he found peace, and his raptures became as great as the horrors of conscience had been. “But oh! with what joy, joy unspeakable, even joy that was full of glory, was my soul filled, when the weight of sin went off, and an abiding sense of the love of God and a full assurance of faith broke in upon my disconsolate soul.” This rapturous experience continued with few interruptions through life, and really formed the spring of his wonderful exertions. For thirty-four years his soul glowed in all the fervors that he had experienced at his first conversion, and he put forth his great strength in unwearied efforts to bring others to the same blessed enjoyment.
His career opened with wonderful brilliancy. The first sermon preached after his ordination as deacon, was said to “have driven fifteen persons mad,”—a kind of madness that soon became common in England. Everywhere the people flocked to hear him in crowds, and soon no church would contain the multitude, even when they were opened for him. Once, when preaching with “great freedom of heart and clearness of voice,” with thousands of persons standing outside of the church, after hundreds had gone away for want of room, he was struck with the thought of preaching the word in the open air. Friends discouraged, but the die was soon cast, and from that time forward his mightiest triumphs were won in imitation of his Master, “who had a mountain for His pulpit, and the heavens for a sounding board!” This was the proper theater for the display of his wonderful power, and his spirit felt the beauty and grandeur of the scene. Sometimes as many as twenty thousand people were gathered together.
The theater of his most marvelous triumphs was at Moorfields during the Whitsun holidays. The lowest class of London population was then poured forth, and the most riotous scenes enacted. He resolved to begin early, in order to secure the field before the greatest rush of the crowd. Ten thousand people were gathered impatiently waiting for the sports of the day. “He had for once got the start of the devil,” and soon drew the multitude around him. At noon he tried again. The odds against him were greater. Between twenty and thirty thousand people were present, and shows, exhibitors, and players were all busy. He shouted his text, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians,” and began the battle. It was waged fiercely, and stones, dirt, and rotten eggs, with every other means of annoyance, were brought to bear on the steadfast preacher. “My soul,” he says, “was among lions.” But soon his wonderful power transformed the multitude into lambs.
At night he renewed the assault on the stronghold of the adversary. Thousands had been added to the throng, and their leaders, who had lost much of their day’s gain by his preaching, were determined to endure it no longer. A harlequin attempted to strike him with a whip but failed. A recruiting sergeant, with many followers, and with drum and fife, made the next effort. But Whitefield called to the people to make way for the king’s officer, and the people yielded before, and closed up behind him, until he was in this manner conducted harmlessly out of the crowd. Next, a large number combined together, and taking hold of a long pole charged furiously on the assembly, roaring like beasts. But they too were foiled, and threw down the pole, many of them joining the hearers. At times the tumult rose like the noise of many waters, drowning the voice of the preacher, who would then resort to singing, until silence returned. He kept the field to the last, and gathered mighty spoil into his Tabernacle that night.
Very different were the sermons he preached at the mansion of Lady Huntingdon, but they were marked by the same power. Courtiers and noblemen joined in praising him, and Hume declared that he would go twenty miles to hear him. No one seemed to be impervious to his wonderful eloquence, and even in this selected circle he gathered trophies of the Cross.