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ART. XIV.-The Life and Times of the Reverend George Whitefield, M. A. By ROBERT PHILIP, Author of "The Experimental Guides," &c. &c. London: Virtue. 1837.

A BRIEF autobiography, letters, and other productions by Whitefield's own pen, together with notices which have long been before the public, and some new facts, constitute the principal contents of this thick octavo volume. Mr. Philip's efforts consist of an analysis of Whitefield's character, genius, and life, as well as of an attempt to make the reader clearly acquainted with the state of religion in Great Britain at the time that this extraordinary preacher arose and flourished, not only as it was taught at the two Great Universities; but as it was inculcated from the pulpit, and practised on the part of the majority of professed religionists. There is a good deal of commentary on all of these topics throughout the work, as well as many digressions and dissertations, some of which do not appear to throw any direct light upon the subjects in hand. For instance, immediately after the account of Whitefield's last moments, the biographer quotes these remarkable words, "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from henceforth; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labours, and their works do follow them;" which are, no doubt, very suitably introduced: but he continues" the very readiness with which we utter all this oracle at his death-bed, should lead us to inquire why we utter only part of it at the death-beds of the righteous in general," and then we have eight entire pages taken up with a meditation upon this matter, which, in as far as it relates particularly to this subject, ap pears to us might have more effectively been compressed into a few sentences. The general train of reasoning may be good and sound, but it looks rather like one who is habituated to sermonizing, and intent upon keeping himself more prominent before the reader than the character or circumstances of his hero.

We do not believe, however, that Mr. Philip was conscious of any such intent, or would knowingly sacrifice his subject for his own display. Far from it; for while he entertains for his hero an admiration, which, perhaps, cannot altogether be reasonably supported, we think that he has traced the progress of Whitefield's mind-the development of his feelings and principles, that he has, in his endeavour to guide the reader to a scrutiny and insight as respects the character of the great preacher, done that which has never before been performed ;-in short that he has come nearer to a comprehension of the philosophy of Whitefield's life than any of his previous biographers.

So far as the work is by the hand of Mr. Philip, he tells us that it is in Whitefield's own spirit. "It will therefore," continues he, "help all that is good, and expose not a little of what is wrong, in

all churches; and thus, like his actual life, tell upon both. At least, if it fail to do this, my object will be defeated,"-by which it may be understood that the biographer is of that party which is called the Evangelical; that is, if we mistake not, the Calvinistic. We, of course, are not going to say a word about the merits of religious systems or creeds; but we must be allowed to state, there is far too much dogmatism, sectarianism, and uncharitableness in the work to allow it to be so extensively read as otherwise it deserves to be; and therefore if we are right, the biographer has in a great measure defeated the purposes which every writer on religious subjects must particularly have in view. For example after referring to Whitefield's preaching, when but a young man, to a crowded congregation in Bow Church, Cheapside, we have the following assertions:-" Accordingly, Bow bells remind us of no one but Whitefield. His one sermon invests that church with more sacredness than its consecration, and with more interest than the whole series of its corporation sermons. There is neither venom nor vapouring in this remark. Visitors from the country, and from America, pause in Cheapside to gaze at the spire under which George Whitefield preached. They remember no one else. Why? Because no one else has so preached' there, that many believed.'" This is too much, and resembles very closely that sort of vapouring that not only exceeds the truth, but which appears in fact a matter of which the author can by no means be cognizant. Mr. Philip should remember that every one is not so full of George Whitefield's achievements as he who has been studying and writing five hundred and eighty-eight pages about his "Life and Times." Again

When speaking of Whitefield's extraordinary powers of oratory, and mentioning that amongst his admirers there were such judges as Foote, Garrick, Franklin, &c., and that Southey has compared his bursts of passion to "jets of a Geyser, when it is in full play,” it is added, "David Hume beheld one of these jets of the Tabernacle Geyser, and wondered, despised, and perished!" Now, can this manner of speaking do any good, and will it not to many convey offence and strong disgust? We think that no man who cultivates a habitual distrust of himself on the most serious and secret of all subjects that no one who admits that there is any topic too awful for him to canvass, and who feels that there are occasions when even the imagination ought not to seek to obtrude within the most sacred veil, (an intrusion which seems to us extremely likely to lead to the forgetfulness of a far more pressing inquiry, viz., " am I myself not on the road to destruction?") would have expressed himself in similar terms to those last quoted.

But Mr. Philip has not yet done with the Northern philosopher and historian, nor does he avoid revealing other solemn secrets in

relation to Hume's family. After informing the reader of the stratagems, so to speak, to which Whitefield had recourse, when he wished to carry the feelings of his hearers to the highest pitch, and saying that, on one occasion, to give greater effect to the exclamation-" 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!"-we are told, 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." Now what are the words which Mr. Philip appends to this claptrap extravagance? They are certainly worthy of such an exordium, and are these "How gladly Gabriel would have carried to the throne the news of Hume's conversion, and told it to his mother in her mansion of Glory! But Gabriel did not report Hume's words in heaven"-referring to his having said that it was worth going twenty miles to hear Whitefield. This, we think, is sensualizing heaven, and is disgusting.

So much for certain blemishes belonging to the spirit of our author's narrative and comments. As to his style, he tells us that he has "nothing to say, except that it is in my own way of telling the facts of personal history." We have however to say that it is not the best way; and yet there is a characteristic pith, and a sort of original or unusual extravagance about it, which, while it convinces us that the writer possesses considerable intellectual powers, and, though prejudiced in many things, is yet a man of an independent cast of mind, compels the reader to go on though he may in almost every page be so dissatisfied that he would not recommend the book to another.

We shall introduce a long extract from a part of the work on which the author would naturally bestow the greatest pains, and therefore it must be taken as a fair, or rather a favourable specimen of the style of the whole. It is from the chapter, headed "Whitefield's Characteristics," which naturally comes close after the account of his death. Mr Philip says

"I foresaw, from the commencement of this work, that I was incapable of embodying 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 difficulty 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 embody 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 his 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 off-hand 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 Huntlyfor 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 book 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 oecame a father unto me. Whether he bequeathed me to Dr. Philip, I do not know : but I can never forget that in this house Dr. Philip

adopted me. This he in early life, to this. day.

did in the true spirit of adoption! I owe everything, Even in mature life, I feel the benefit of it every

"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 co-operation 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."

This sort of rhapsodical style is calculated to tingle in the ears rather than to convey clear or just impressions; especially the delineation must be unintelligible to those who have not enjoyed similar opportunities with the author of listening to the great resembling orators he mentions. Instead of being called characteristics of Whitefield, these paragraphs should, therefore, have only obtained the honour of being styled Mr. Philip's method of description; or, as containing his own recollections. Whitefield's characteristics