speaks with regret of retiring into winter-quarters. He pines. for the return of good preaching weather. "Field-sickness

was his home-sickness." During an illness, occasioned by his many labors and exposures, his physicians prescribed several remedies, silence, warmth, and, one of them, a perpetual blister. But he preferred his own remedy, "perpetual preaching. When this grand catholicon fails," said he, "it is all over with me. Sometimes his impatience was such, that he would go forth in spite of hail and rain; and his spirits returned, objects resumed their old look, and he was again at home and himself. He thus speaks of his preaching in the cold season.

"At seven in the evening, I preached in the open air, to a great multitude. All was hushed, and exceedingly solemn. The stars shone exceedingly bright. Then, if ever, I saw by the eye of faith, Him who calleth them all by their names. My soul was filled with a holy ambition, and I longed to be one of those who shall shine as the stars for ever and ever. My hands and my body were cold; but what are outward things, when the soul within is warmed by the love of God. Oh, that I may die in the field."— p. 392.

In a mild climate, beneath a soft moonlight, or the shadow of mountains or trees, with a population accustomed to be in the open air for amusement, society, or business, and affected from early years by the soothing or romantic influences of natural scenes, we should see nothing extraordinary in out-ofdoor preaching, any more than in music upon the lake or river side. There would be no profanation, and no violation of taste in either; but rather a gracious harmony, between the purest of sentiments and the religious beauty of nature. Even the vision of Jacob seems to gain something from the place and hour,

"Dreaming by night under the open sky,

And waking cried, 'This is the gate of Heaven.'" So the rite of baptism, by immersion, no doubt has a more imposing (why not a more spiritual?) influence, upon spectators, if it be performed on the margin of pure running water, or by the ocean side, and under a soft sky, than in foul docks on a raw day, or in a stagnant reservoir under cover. Whitefield was often favored by the scene and hour of his ministrations. He says,

"The open firmament above me, the prospect of the adja

cent fields, with the sight of thousands and thousands, some in coaches, some on horseback, and some in the trees, and, at times, all affected and drenched in tears together, to which was sometimes added, the solemnity of the approaching evening, was almost too much for me, and quite overcame me." pp. 105, 106.

With a little exercise of the imagination, those who are most scrupulous with regard to the proprieties of worship may find their objections subdued by the scene they can conjure up of a silent crowd, in a romantic spot, intent upon holy thoughts. Those who were present at the consecration of Mount Auburn will understand this. Suppose the assem bly swelled to fifty thousand, seated on rural benches, round the wooded hill, on a day like that, when shadow and light, and the air itself, harmonize with a sober, yet elevated sentiment, in all; and then suppose every eye and heart turned to one eloquent man, whose voice penetrates every nook, as easily as the tide seeks every inlet of the coast, — and we may have some idea of Whitefield and his audience. We may say, that this is mere exhibition, a gratification of the senses, or at best a source of poetical meditation and rapture; and that the religious part of the occasion is but one of the circumstances. This is possible. But the important consideration is, and the only one we have in view, — how easily the devout sentiment may be made predominant and overwhelming, and permanent too, when these influences from abroad take a decidedly religious direction, and when in after life the clear image of such scenes as we now speak of, is readily associated with devout feelings.

We are far from recommending field-preaching, as a general practice. We do not recommend it at all; but would speak fairly of its advantages, and remove fallacious objections against it. No one can say, that we have discovered the only true or the best method of communicating religious instruction. And few will doubt, that Whitefield accomplished more good in this way, than he would have done in churches alone. It brought him into connexion with more hearers; and, which is more important, with the ignorant, poor, and vicious, whom he would have sought in vain within the walls of a church. If it be objected, that a riotous mob, swarming from the foul dens of a large town, is not a fit audience for a preacher of divine truth, and that he is to be

blamed for exposing it to vulgar contempt, - the objection shows distrust, not only of the power of oratory, but of the power of the religious principle in all men, and of that spiritual striving in the dark, which needs only a ray from heaven, however imperfectly and accidentally it may come, to be changed into rapture, and at last into peaceful assurance. Whitefield ran very little risk of bringing religion into dishonor by offering it to his wild audience, except when he grossly violated prudence and decorum, and became as much a rioter himself, as those whom he denominates the instruments of Satan.

But, though field-preaching has its advantages in certain hands, and in peculiar circumstances, we cannot overlook the obvious inconveniences and dangers, that would follow from its coming into general use. It would introduce a violent and rudely passionate style of oratory, partly from the necessity of the case, where so many are addressed in the open air, and partly from the reaction of listening and agitated throngs upon the speaker himself. From the promiscuous assembling of men and women, of the aged and young, strangers to each other, and of course unrestrained by daily intimacies and familiar objects, and by common habits of thought and feeling, we may expect excessive and false agitation; and vast immediate results will be looked for, and unduly estimated. We lose what many deem the incalculable good of the orderly meeting of households in one church. We must, in a great measure, lose the undoubted assistance which worshipping in the same place affords, by recalling the religious feelings that we have associated with familiar objects. And, finally, we put in jeopardy the support of stated worship, to which much importance is reasonably attached, as upholding good habits and cherishing calm sentiments.

Whitefield's triumphs were not limited to the poorer classes and to field-preaching. In Scotland, least liable of all to give way to impulse, he was sought after by all conditions, and by divided Christians. In America, toward which his heart yearned to the end, he was received with delight by ministers, rulers, and people. In his frequent visits to this country, he passed through it again and again, as a religious agitator and an asker of alms for his school, and apparently without the charm of his appeals being broken or weakened. He preached before the colleges, and at the

tables of magistrates; in the churches, and sometimes in the fields; and, in his own view, with such success, that his hope for Scotland is, that she may be like New England. The business of common life seems to have been suspended, that the whole population might go forth to hear the young stranger. That he was opposed by many, and deserved rebuke, is not disputed. Our object is to show, that he had power in different spheres.

If we turn now to high life in England, we shall find him no less successful there in drawing attention. As chaplain of the Countess Dowager of Huntingdon, who was one of his most determined proselytes, he was brought into the society of people of fashion. Wits, accomplished infidels, nobles, the last to follow a Methodist, unless as they would seek out any odd thing to relieve their dull, jaded lives, — these are among his hearers, and some are his disciples. They attend upon him once, and desire to hear him again. Chesterfield thanks him, and Whitefield preaches at his chapel, or rather in Bretby park, for the chapel was soon found to be too small. Bolingbroke comes and tells him, if the Bible is true, Whitefield's views of Christian doctrine are incontrovertible, and his Lordship is ready to vindicate the Methodist against all his revilers. Even the king is apprized of the new power, that is at work among the nobles and wits, and has his jest at Lady Chesterfield, one of the converts, for the simplicity of her dress.

It is needless to say more of his successes among the highborn and learned, whether in London or in the rural chapels. We do not refer to them as being much in his favor. The dignity of a convert is of little moment. And who can escape wholly the fascination of praise from those who in any way excel us? It is social as well as selfish in us to be pleased with it. Whitefield was safer in the wilderness and among the weeping colliers. He feels his danger. When the nobility graciously accepted copies of his sermons, he said, "Thus the world turns round. In all time of wealth, good Lord deliver me." He says, it took him twice seven years of pretty close intimacy with contempt, to make contempt an agreeable companion; and he discovers, that a love of power and distinction sometimes intoxicates even God's dear children.

We have no reason to think, that Whitefield preached very

differently before his fashionable, and his less educated audiences. He would have risked much, if he had been careful to adapt his discourse and manner to particular tastes; and he knew the secret of his subject and of his power too well, to stand in awe of his hearers, or even distrust his own poorest matter. What in reading may appear to us little better than a rambling and empty rhapsody, was sustained and borne to the heart by a voice that prepared a way. The hearer was soon transported far above the sphere of criticism. Whether he listened to denunciation, appeals, or invitation, or to question crowding on question, and whether clothed in language of Scripture, or of the market, or of polite life, a power he could not resist kept him always in advance of the speaker, with a conscience ready to tremble and a heart to break, while the word yet hung upon the lips of the prophet. What mere lover of art would not rejoice to have been present, when Whitefield, after he had ruled his vast audience in the fields, paused, and, as in a whisper, communed with the multitude upon the awful silence and the falling tears?

We have room but for one or two of the reports which have been transmitted of his manner. The first is from Hume. He says, "Once, after a solemn pause, Whitefield thus addressed his audience. The attendant angel is just about to leave the threshold of this sanctuary, and ascend to heaven. And shall he ascend, and not bear with him the news of one sinner, among all this multitude, reclaimed from the error of his ways?' To give the greater effect to this exclamation, Whitefield stamped with his foot, lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven, and cried aloud, Stop, Gabriel, stop, ere you enter the sacred portals, and yet carry with you the news of one sinner converted to God.' This address was accompanied with such animated, yet natural action, that it surpassed any thing I ever heard or saw in any other preacher." *

To what a height must he have carried his art, how perfect a master must he have been of natural expression, if his ut

A less showy but more striking testimony to his eloquence may be found in the following anecdote, which we take from Southey's "Life of Wesley." "A ship-builder was once asked what he thought of Whitefield. Think!' he replied, I tell you, Sir, every Sunday that I go to my parish church, I can build a ship from stem to stern under the sermon; but, were it to save my soul, under Mr. Whitefield, I could not lay a single plank.'"