Selling My Religion: Shopping and the Preacher (2)
Selling My Religion: Shopping and the Preacher (2)
ANNETTE TELLS TALES How George Whitefield Sold His Religion. Pay Especially Close Attention if You're in Business.
Continued from:
How Long Is This Post? About 9,000 words, or 46 minutes. But if you loved part 1, you don’t mind! I’m counting on that!
Going Mainstream
This cartoon doesn’t actually say that’s Rev. George Whitefield in the pulpit, holding up puppets of a witch and a devil. But it hints. The dog’s collar says “Whitfield”. The author of the day’s hymn, says the sign at center, is G. Whitefield.
Drawn by 18th century London artist/cultural commentator William Hogarth [US Think Doonesbury or similar], its name is Credulity, Superstition and Fanaticism: A Medley. There’s always a lot in a Hogarth cartoon, but let me just give a few insights into what’s going on here. Superstition is represented by the puppets. Fanaticism is represented in the preacher’s wig flying off in his excitement, and the grotesque faces in the congregation. Plus don’t miss the thermometer on the right, rising out of a brain, and showing the impact of enthusiastic preaching on people’s emotions, with temperatures going from the depths of suicide, madness, then despair through love, then lust, and finally topping out at mad and RAVING.
And as for credulity, check out the fainting woman swooning at the sermon, and the doting man staring longingly at the preacher.
Obviously, Hogarth was a teensy bit skeptical about George Whitefield and his impact, and he wasn’t alone. But young Rev. Whitefield drew huge, excited crowds at his sermons, many held outdoors to accommodate the thousands who showed up. Most historians before Frank Lambert focused on Whitefield’s popularity as a preacher to explain how he spread his version of Christianity. Even if you couldn’t read, you could listen to him, right?
Yet, as Dr. Lambert shows us in ‘Pedlar in Divinity’: George Whitefield and the Transatlantic Revivals, on which I continue my riff today, Whitefield’s success had at least as much to do with people buying and reading his publications as with the massive audiences he drew in person.
Okay, Laing, I was only here for the history of shopping, not for the religion stuff. I’m out.
Hold on, restless reader! I feel you. This is still all about shopping and consuming, about selling and buying. There were no libraries, remember? If you wanted to read a book, you had to buy it, or know someone who was willing to loan it to you.*
*I stopped loaning books when I realized how rarely they were returned, and how rarely I returned the books that had been loaned to me. Ahem.
Dr. Lambert argues that printed materials, books, magazines, and newspapers (all of which cost money to buy, not given away) were Whitefield’s most successful medium for his message.
Print was part of a new way of living, or a modern life that was emerging fast in the 18th century. Historians assumed that Whitefield’s evangelical religion was about fighting back against the modern world of consuming stuff, buying stuff that you didn’t actually need, of which mass printing was part. They were right.
But they were also wrong. Because George Whitefield was very much a part of that modern world he pushed back against. He took his new evangelical old-time religion and his youthful apprenticeship in his family’s businesses, and used modern communications, PR, and marketing methods to spread the word about his old-time religion. Nothing more modern than that. He would have loved the Internet.
One goal of young George Whitefield’s autobiography (written when he was just 26) was to give him credibility. He did this not by presenting himself as modern, or as seeing into the future, but by celebrating the past. He pointed to the 17th century Puritan books that were the sources of his ideas. He was saying, “Hey, I’m not just some young idiot making stuff up. I have old-time religion on my side.” And in his autobiography, he gave his readers a exciting life story, all about how he went from hotel room-cleaning flunky who ate too many sweets, to superstar minister (although judging from his, um, girth in his later years, he never quite quit the sweeties). Suddenly, I’m reminded of a fun recent article by on his love of celeb autobiographies!
For maximum transatlantic buzz, Whitefield published his autobiography in 1740 simultaneously in London and Britain’s American colonies. By then, he had loads of fans eager to buy his writing. As they say in publishing today, he had an author’s platform from which to sell his work.
Even in George Whitefield’s lifetime, people argued about what happened when he was in America, drawing massive crowds to hear him speak. What was that about? Ben Franklin (not known for his religious devotion) gushed over Whitefield’s sermon in Philadelphia, and later wrote that “it seemed as if all the world were growing religious.” But then, as we’ll see, Ben had a vested interest in being a Whitefield fanboy.
Not everyone fell for George Whitefield’s charms. During what came to be known much later as the Great Awakening, many clergymen were horrified (or scared of the competition, or afraid of being canceled for being unwoke). Some New England ministers claimed that “religion is now in a far worse state than it was [before Whitefield showed up]”.
Historians, with a different agenda, still argue about Whitefield’s impact. But no question: Something happened.
So how did George Whitefield build his platform to launch his autobiography, and all his other publications, in London, the most go-go city of its time, and in Britain’s faraway mainland American colonies, which everyone considered a backwater, even the people who lived there? That’s the story for today, and we’ll see how it connects with the 18th century consumer revolution, the rise of shopping and buying.
The Product: George Whitefield on UK Tour
In 1737, young George Whitefield, newly graduated from Oxford and ordained as a Church of England minister, hit the road on speaking tour in England.
He gave his first sermon to a large and friendly hometown crowd in Gloucester, outdoors, the only place that would fit everyone who might turn out to see him, in a field owned by his family.
He had already seen at his family’s inn how pubs, with their big event spaces, were great for a crowd. So, just like the traveling salesmen who set up pop-up shops in the Bell Inn in his childhood, he rented a meeting room in a pub in the town of Basingstoke, and then advertised his appearance. Defending himself from critics, he wrote “Others sing songs in public houses. Why should be not sing psalms?” From now on, more and more of Whitefield’s congregations would be much larger than could be held in a church or a pub. More and more, he preached outdoors, sometimes in marketplaces, where people shopped. He became a product.
George Whitefield was ambitious for his message. It, and he, were too big for one church, one denomination, and for the little island of Great Britain. His plan was to go bigger. Much bigger. And his plans started with a letter from his old college buddy, John Wesley.
Letter from America
After John Wesley and George Whitefield graduated from Oxford, Wesley left for America as a missionary of the Church of England to the small newly-settled seaport town of Savannah, in Britain’s newest American colony. Georgia. Very soon, Wesley wrote to George Whitefield to ask for his help in Savannah.
Whitefield was already an overnight preaching sensation in England. He was mulling over offers. Yet he decided that Georgia was where the Lord was calling him (I had a experience like that, you know. That’s how I ended up turning down a job at a research university to teach at Georgia Southern University. Ahem. The less said about that, the better . . . )
Whitefield needed a manager/agent. And he already had someone, even before he boarded the ship to America.
Selling a Sensation
William Seward was one of Whitefield’s first fans. He was also a businessman. a stockbroker. He had been treasurer of the South Sea Company, a Ponzi scheme that sold shares by stirring up excitement about huge potential profit that went well beyond evidence and credibility. The frantic buying of stock ended as these things do, crashing in 1721, taking its investors’ dreams (and cash) with it.
Seward remained a stockbroker, the 18th century word for which was stockjobber. “Stockjobber” was soon defined in Dr. Samuel Johnson’s new English dictionary (it now reads more like Urban Dictionary) as “a low wretch who gets money by buying and selling shares.” So, yeah, about a reputable as a used-car salesman, or maybe a seller of NFTs (non-fungible tokens, don’t ask, you won’t believe me) or digital currencies today.
Still, Seward certainly had a lot of marketing experience, promoting the South Sea Company and its shares in newspaper advertising. Now he put his experience and skills to work selling George Whitefield.
And he didn’t just use advertising, but what we now think of as media relations, including personal branding. Seward wrote daily reports for the newspapers of estimated size of the huge crowds that flocked to hear Whitefield preach, as if he were giving stock numbers. People who followed Whitefield, reading Seward’s puff pieces in the newspaper, could now congratulate themselves on being among the popular crowd, and being influencers themselves. In this new consumer society, more and more people wanted to be fashionable, they wanted to have the newest, most fashionable ideas, to be part of the in-crowd, even if their brains sent them in a different direction. There’s a huge wow irony to these fashionable followers of George Whitefield, and don’t worry if you haven’t spotted it. We’re going to get to that!
Seward’s first ad campaign introduced George Whitefield to newspaper readers as an honest, authentic young man of deep faith. Look! He was giving up big money opportunities to go on mission to Georgia. And he was popular: Big crowds already gathered for Whitefield in England, where he passed the collection plate to raise money to open free schools for poor children. A great cause! Obviously, this fine young gentleman was worth a look! People were rushing to see him! Don’t be left out! Come see this sensational new preacher!
Seward sold Whitefield as if he were an exciting new kind of merchandise. Which he kind of was. And his ads for Whitefield sounded much like his ads for his stockbroking business, in which he claimed that he knew a NEW and BETTER way for people to buy shares.
Advertising sermons in newspapers wasn’t Seward’s invention. London churches already advertised charity sermons (think benefit performances) But such ads were simple: The preacher’s name, the charity that would get the money from the collection, when, and where. There wasn’t usually a report afterward about how the sermon went, and how well the congregation received it.
Seward and Whitefield changed that. Seward fired off press releases, ready-made articles for paid placements in newspapers. These were supposedly written by a neutral reporter, but they were actually ads written by Seward. This was the best kind of advertising, according to champion 18th century knick-knack selling wizard Josiah Wedgwood. They were the ancestors of infomercials, fake news, public relations puff pieces, the kind of stuff we see everywhere today.
And newspapers were hungry for what Seward offered, what we would now call “content” (any old crap would do), because they didn’t have staffs of paid reporters on call.
If this all sounds like historian Dr. Frank Lambert was writing with the internet in mind, he wasn’t. That’s me talking. Remember, he was writing in the very early 90s, before the Internet. Newspapers were still very much in business. As he researched in the 1980s, Lambert wasn’t aiming this at the hellscape of 21st century journalism.* He was burrowing through archives, piecing together, from dusty old documents, what actually happened in the 18th century.
*If you’re not paying for any of the newsletters you read, and especially those not written by celebs, then watch them vanish, one by one. I’m seeing it happen. To misquote British foreign secretary Sir Edward Grey in 1914, the lamps are going out all over the Internet. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime. Journalists can’t live on likes.
So articles in 18th century newspapers came from volunteer journalists, Their articles were published anonymously, so they weren’t even writing for the dreaded “exposure”. Editors didn’t check for accuracy because they didn’t have time or staff to do it. They needed entertaining “content” (as we would say), and since they weren’t paying, they couldn’t be too fussy about whether it was all based in facts. Like most websites today. Including news sites. Just saying.
Seward’s articles (supposedly written, remember, by a neutral reporter) raved about the large and excited crowds at George Whitefield sermons, and how happy his hearers were to support his charities, and how his work founding schools would benefit the poor. Seward also announced Whitefield’s coming appearances. This amazing man is coming soon to a town near you!
But Seward hadn’t asked Whitefield if it was ok to do this on his behalf. He was a fan, not an employee.
The Reluctant Celeb: Crafting a Brand
George Whitefield shared the opinion of his friend John Wesley about sermon ads, that they were tacky. So he was horrified when he first saw a newspaper article that his fan William Seward had written on his behalf. Whitefield complained to the printer/publisher, asking that he never be mentioned again in his newspaper. The publisher blew him off: He got paid to run the ad, he replied, “and he would not lose two shillings for anybody.”
That was probably the last time George Whitefield complained about newspaper ads about him. He soon realized that these ads were as useful in attracting crowds to his sermons, as they had been in attracting customers to his family’s Bell Inn. And they didn’t just reach a local audience with stories of his success, but people far, far away, in the remotest parts of Britain, and even as far away as Britain’s American colonies.
For the next two years, Rev. Whitefield worked closely with William Seward, now acting as his media agent, creating an entire publicity campaign. Seward sent article after article to newspapers, not just in Britain, but also in America. He mailed copies of Whitefield’s sermons, journals (think blogs), and letters for the public to printer/publishers, booksellers, and important evangelical clergy. When Seward’s articles in newspapers appeared, he sent copies to newspaper publishers in towns Whitefield would soon visit. That gave the preacher lots of advance publicity, creating buzz ahead of his appearances.
And George Whitefield was now deeply involved in writing these glowing articles about himself, in third person, as if he were a neutral reporter.
Most people think of George Whitefield, if they think of him at all, as a speaker. But even when we’re thinking of him like that, Seward putting things in print helped avoid embarrassing incidents, like one in which Whitefield, while preaching, announced the wrong venue for a future sermon, which left a lot of people waiting for him in the wrong place—including “persons of distinction” (i.e. VIPs). After that screw-up, he and Seward ran daily newspaper ads to give people all the info in writing, in a campaign that lasted for three months, until he set sail for America. By then, he was not only a preaching sensation at home, but news of his fame, and word that he was headed for the colonies, had already crossed the Atlantic.
So: Starting three months before Whitefield set sail for America, he and William Seward created a Whitefield image, a brand, if you like. Rev. George Whitefield not just the usual kind of clergyman who gave charity sermons! He was an amazing young man who put others before himself, who was dedicated to fundraising for schools for poor kids, and who was risking everything to sail to remotest Georgia, in America, to care for the souls of needy colonists, far from home.
And Whitefield was turning out to be a brilliant fundraiser. At one church where the collection was usually about ten shillings (about what a workman made in a week), Whitefield’s sermon raised £5 and 18 shillings, which was maybe possibly (nobody really knows, ask an economic historian) pushing close to $2,000 in modern US money. Anyway, it was a lot.
This kind of fundraising was especially amazing because most of the people who came to hear Whitefield in England in 1737 were poor. But if you had a venue that could accommodate a lot of people, like a field, you could collect a lot of money, even if individual people attending didn’t have much money to give.
Starting a Non-Profit with Profit
While George Whitefield was in Georgia in 1737-39 he came up with the idea of starting a charity (US non-profit), right there in Savannah. It would be an orphanage, for free (and presumably white) boys only, because this is the 18th century, and what else? This would be Whitefield’s main charity for the rest of his life.
He called his planned orphanage “Bethesda”. He didn’t want to run it with the Church of England, or the colonial government, the Trustees. He wanted to be in charge, so nobody could take it away from him. But going it alone would be expensive. To raise the huge sums of money needed, he had to use every modern technique he had learned about big-time trade from his wine-trading brother James in Bristol, and more. He had to get lines of credit from merchants in London and in America. He had to get attention for his orphanage charity, when there were so many other good causes competing for people’s money.
After two years in America, George Whitefield would return to Britain in 1739, for a preaching tour of the UK, this time themed on raising money for his orphanage in faraway Georgia. Hey, these were British kids, and they were far from home.
The Rover’s Return*
*UK Readers: Yes, that was a Coronation Street reference.
By the time George Whitefield returned from Georgia in 1740, he was a superstar. And while he was gone, London publishers, hoping to win the rights to publish his Journal (think blog) had been competing with each other to give him the most publicity, so he would pick them.
Whitefield’s Journals were immediate bestsellers. Published in short pamphlet form, they only cost sixpence each, affordable for the ordinary people who were increasingly taking up reading, and much cheaper than unbelievably expensive books. And in his Journals, Whitefield advertised that he was fundraising for his Savannah orphanage.
Now he had returned to England, Whitefield’s messaging included criticizing other clergy directly. He accused them of not teaching proper Protestantism, especially about salvation, In other words, he was attacking Arminianism, only now, he wasn’t just grumbling in his letters to the Bishop, but trashing his senior colleagues before massive audiences of common people.
This time, his critics in Britain were ready. Church of England Bishops announced that for an Anglican priest to go on tour was “irregular”, i.e. not normal. That’s rich: Many young Anglican priests at this time couldn’t find full-time well-paid jobs, and had to gallop from church to church to make a living by stringing together work as curates (like most university faculty now. I wish I were joking about that.)
Clergy in Britain refused Whitefield the use of their churches for his sermons, and some posh lay leaders backed them up.
Local authorities in Basingstoke, where, two years earlier Whitefield preached in a pub, now shut him down, announcing that only churches were appropriate places for worship, “not in brothels and places where all manner of debauchery may have been committed.” I have no idea how “debauched” that pub was, but that doesn’t matter: It was a great excuse to silence a critic of the Church of England, which was also an arm of the British state, even today: King Charles is official head of the Church.
Whitefield didn’t take this quietly. He was a man with on a mission. He pointed out that, near the Basingstoke pub. there was a stage for travelling entertainers. Why, he asked, should religion be put at a disadvantage when competing with popular entertainments?
Notice his business language: Competition. Whitefield knew he was competing for people’s attention in a marketplace full of ideas, entertainment, and goods for sale. And he competed by criticizing this fact: He snarked that he was up against normal Anglicanism, “a decent, genteel, and fashionable religion” for “lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God.”
The irony? A lot of consumption, buying of stuff, was for people to show off their status: To show they were in the elite (genteel). To show they were fashionable. Now, Whitefield, using marketing techniques from the consumer revolution, was attacking the consumer revolution.
And his strongest criticisms were for the people who were the most avid shoppers: People who were in the elite, or people who wanted people to think they were in the elite. Ever watch BBC’s Keeping Up Appearances, with Mrs. Bucket? Those kinds of people. Which is, when all’s said and done, all of us.
His critics lost because the Church of England, not wanting to lose their woke star preacher, didn’t stop him. Whitefield, because he would preach anywhere, could always find somewhere to preach. And people in the crowds of thousands he attracted in Britain dug deep in their pockets for the poor orphan children in Georgia.
Because Whitefield was a bestseller and celebrity, he (and Seward) could always find newspapers willing to publish glowing accounts of his successes, which bred more success. People like to back a winner, which is why I’m thrilled to announce that Non-Boring History now has a hundred thousand readers, and I’m a millionaire!*
*Alas, I’m also a historian with a shred or two of integrity, so these things aren’t true. NBH is definitely growing though! People are noticing us! And we’re already kinda global, with readers around the world! Send money for the bragging rights that you were a Patron and pioneering fan. It won’t go to an orphanage in Georgia, but it will allow me to carry on spreading my message of history for everyone:
Measuring Success in Numbers
Newspapers weren’t staffed with modern professional journos, and they relied on volunteers sending them what we might today call content (that’s often as bad as it sounds). These articles were accepted uncritically, and published anonymously, so nobody knew that Whitefield and Seward were writing their puff pieces. How accurate were the numbers they provided about crowd sizes and collections for charity, to show Whitefield’s success?
Look, Anglican missionaries in America, like John Wesley, had to send reports to London in which they reported how many people were in their parishes, how many were Anglicans. how many took communion, and so on. They filed these reports on what may have been the first fill-in-the-blank forms in history. I know that the missionaries had to guess wildly, and I’m sure sometimes exaggerated, whether or not on purpose.
So Whitefield and Seward likely exaggerated, even if by mistake. When they claimed crowds of twenty, fifty, even sixty thousand on commons in London, critics sharply questioned these numbers. Whitefield himself, when he wrote his autobiography, changed his reports to “many thousands” (kind of like when McDonalds went from showing numbers of hamburgers sold on their signs to “billions and billions”, only, okay, that’s a lousy comparison). In other words, all told, Whitefield did a pretty lousy job of collecting data, but who didn’t in the 18th century?
And what’s more, Whitefield didn’t even try to measure his success by recording how many converts he made. Conversion, he believed, was not his business. It was between people and God. He didn’t see follow-up as his job. He sowed the seed, and moved on. He said his “business seems to be to evangelize.” And note that word: Business.
In the News Business
“Seward and Whitefield,” Dr. Lambert writes, “did more than report news: they created it.” Whitefield wasn’t the first preacher to take to the open air. But he was the first to combine outdoor preaching with newspaper publicity. He and Seward staged events, advertised them in newspapers, and then advertised again by reporting on them in the same newspapers.
And Whitefield preached anywhere, even from the graveyards of churches of which the clergy refused him use of their churches. He preached in Hyde Park, and other open spaces in London. He preached at a horse-racing track. He preached in London’s shopping streets, standing in front of shop windows, as if he were presenting himself for sale, which he kind of was, to thousands of eager buyers.
And even if people weren’t able to see him live and in person, they could join in the excitement through the thrilling accounts that Whitefield and Seward wrote for newspapers.
Newspapers, so freshly inked that the ink came off on your fingers, added to the feeling that readers were part of exciting events, going on right now. Newspapers, Dr. Lambert writes, “did not demand readers’ reflection on timeless truths, but confronted them with the latest happenings . . .”
Once again, the snobby dictionary guru Dr. Samuel Johnson had an interesting take: News, he said, the stuff that would soon get old and be replaced with more news, was more useful in everyday life for the common people than were “more pompous and durable” books.
Hmm. Well, I agree with the long-dead Dr. Johnson that it’s easier to make the latest info in short form attractive to busy people. That’s how Twitter works, and look how useful it has been! {cough}. Reliable, too! {cough, cough} Certainly, quick news is more doable than expecting everyone to read long books about everything. But there’s a lot to be said for slowing down in acquiring knowledge and thinking, as the well-read Dr. Johnson knew, and as we can all imagine.
Whitefield was successful, Dr. Johnson, not because of his message, of salvation through being “born again”, a sudden conversion, but because of his medium, speaking: He was famous enough to draw a big crowd, because of his unusual venues and excited sermon delivery. In other words, it was his speaking that made Whitefield successful. But was Dr. Johnson right? Dr. Lambert, hundreds of years later, directs our attention not to Rev. Whitefield’s live appearances, but to his newspaper campaigns.
Let’s see why.
I Read the News Today, Oh, Boy
We love news, as you can see all around you. But now we want more and more information, and we want it free, and the result is that good journalists, the ones who tell us stuff we don’t want to hear, are becoming a rare species. We are witnessing the final collapse of professional journalism* once the pride of the 20th century US. The “news” that remains is often free, but it’s easily manipulated by money representing all sorts of wealthy interests, however deeply stupid or evil they might be. That’s not a dig at the right or the left. It’s a dig across the political spectrum.
*You can still find professional journalists, by the way, but it is much harder than it used to be. I say this as a former vice-president of a Society of Professional Journalists campus chapter, who knew lots of lovely old newsmen and women with bags of decency and integrity, and who once was anointed with a peck on the cheek and hug from Walter Cronkite, true story,
This is not, however, a new problem. What did 18th century people want to read? News from Britain. News from Britain’s American colonies. News from around the world. Politics and wars (including in other countries), European stock prices. London’s fashions, especially as worn by British lords and ladies. New. New. New.
One American reader wrote (translation below):
“This inquisitive disposition for novelty is almost universal and peculiarly gratified with utility in the vehicle of a newspaper . . . [By reading newspapers] the plebian furnishes himself with matter for a week’s conversation.”
Translated: “Almost everyone is curious, and looking for new brain food. Newspapers are best at feeding our curiosity, with news that’s actually useful, each edition giving the riff-raff non-posh readers enough material for a week’s conversation.”
Annette’s Aside: One of my best history professors, a native Southerner who grew up in Georgia, in somewhat more privileged circumstances than most of us (his dad was an eminent judge), once joked about how boring most conversation among common people must have been in the Middle Ages. “They probably spent the winter talking about seed,” he said.
But maybe because I’m not posh, and a Scot from a storytelling culture, I thought about how my folk had spent their time together, even after before TV arrived: Gossiping about each other, and entertaining each other, telling stories, singing songs (stories set to music), and making the most of anything new: Every story from everyday life would be told and retold. My Scottish Granny left school when she was thirteen years old. She often talked about new things she learned from watching BBC TV, a BBC that still cared then about educating ordinary people.
Newspapers, then, were the best way to get across Whitefield’s message. They were quick and easy to read, at least compared to books, they were accessible to many people, and those people, in turn, could read them aloud to others, and mull over what they had read, and explain it in conversation, because everyone liked to be seen as an expert.
While Whitefield was on tour in America, colonial newspapers printed breathless accounts, from him and others, of his speaking events, That meant that if you were in Massachusetts, you could read about what Whitefield was doing hundreds of miles away in Georgia, and feel like you were there.
But there’s more. Whitefield also sent accounts from his American tour to London, where newspapers printed his reports. So people on both sides of the Atlantic were lapping up the latest news of his smash hit success. Seward, now back in England, constantly sent press releases to the London newspapers.
George Whitefield’s “old-time religion” was also happening right now, you could imagine (never mind that the reports took months to cross the Atlantic) as you read the newspaper in your home, workplace, or pub in London. Maybe you look across the coffeehouse, and, look, there’s someone reading the same news as you! Connection!
Even more: Through newspapers, people in London, or Essex, or Yorkshire, people in rural Connecticut, South Carolina, or New York City, could also imagine themselves as part of an amazing, exciting, ongoing transatlantic evangelical Christian movement, bursting out of the bounds of denomination, county, colony, and country.
During the Reformation, in the 16th century, books had brought together Christians across Europe. Now, community was being formed throughout Britain and America, and across the Atlantic, through newspaper accounts. Even if you were reading all by your ownsome, you could imagine all those people you were connected to who you had never even seen!
COMPLETELY UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: Newspapers. Newsletters. Community. *cough*. Just taking a quick moment to wave to my readers in the US, across the Atlantic in the UK, and especially Nonnies, my converts paid subscribers. Becoming a Non-Boring History Nonnie is easy and will enrich your life! Here’s the collection plate:
Everyone Has Their Own Truth (not really)
Don’t get the impression, Dr. Lambert tells us, that Whitefield could do a Vulcan mindmeld with his followers through newspapers, Okay, so Lambert didn’t actually write “Vulcan mindmeld”, but you get the idea.
For one thing, newspapers were in the business of making money by selling newspapers. You don’t make much money publishing what your audience doesn’t want to hear.* You want to publish what they do want to hear.
*Which might explain why we’re a very long way from raising the funds to put a new wing on Non-Boring House, or indeed, to put a new coat of paint on Non-Boring House. Or getting Annette a new wardrobe so she can be seen in posh places—oh, wait, she doesn’t much like posh places.
In other words, what we now call confirmation bias sells. So here’s a question I often ask newsletter readers to ask themselves: Does your favorite newsletter author write things that challenge how you think? Often? Ever? Something to think about. Because, honestly, I learn a lot more reading things I absolutely disagree with than I do hearing the sweet sounds of my views echoing back to me.*
*Hey, when I was an undergraduate, my political science professor assigned us to read the Ku Klux Klan’s newsletter, and I somehow don’t think it was because he was a Klan sympathizer. I mean, for one thing, he was Jewish. For another, my class was fascinated to realize how absurd the KKK newsletter was, together, in class discussion, just as the professor had intended. I will add that we had more nuanced discussions about readings that didn’t veer into, well, hate.
Right then. So, as early as 1732, even before Whitefield and John Wesley were students at Oxford, one pro-Church of England newspaper attacked the Holy Club to which they later belonged, because that’s what its readers expected and wanted. That’s what sold.
Other newspapers were more like reputable 20th century newspapers (not a lot of those left, honestly, and maybe even fewer than you think). When Whitefield’s revival tours were happening, such newspapers tried to be balanced printed articles that praised Whitefield, and others that criticized him. Sometimes, Whitefield’s own accounts of his success sat side by side on the same newspaper page with attacks on him. But then again, controversy sells: Even publishers who supported Whitefield couldn’t resist making a buck.
And there was one newspaper whose editor, probably not a fan, put Whitefield’s report of his latest headcount and huge collection in America right below the day’s stock prices, including the price of the shares of the South Sea Company (the subject of the stock collapse that had ruined the name of his agent, William Seward). This (whether it was malicious or not) helped spread the idea that Whitefield was a grifter who was getting rich from gullible people.
George Whitefield, Bestseller
George Whitefield, even as he moved from place to place speaking, delivered his message via the Internet of his day: Letters, including sermons and reports sent to newspapers.
He didn’t always like how these secular newspapers handled his reports, and especially not when they put his reports next to his critics’ attacks. He wanted more control over his publicity. In 1741, he got it, when reports on his American tours reinvigorated a dying evangelical magazine, called the Christian’s Amusement, published by a fan of his named John Lewis [UK No, not that one]
When Whitefield returned to London, although he kept John Lewis as editor, he took charge of the Christian’s Amusement himself, retitling it (probably a good idea), first as the Weekly History. His magazine was to be the evangelicals’ entertaining alternative to posh London magazines like the Tatler, and the Spectator (both of which still exist). Whitefield decided to lower the magazine’s price to make it affordable for even more people. It was mostly distributed in Britain, sold by other traveling evangelists, like traveling salesmen. Inevitably, some copies crossed the Atlantic, often sailing with evangelicals.
The Weekly History gave Whitefield a mouthpiece in his ongoing and angry dispute with John Wesley over whether anyone could potentially qualify for heaven (as Wesley thought) or only those whom God had preselected (as Whitefield taught, based on theologian John Calvin and the Puritans). The Methodist movement that began in the Holy Club at Oxford had now divided between the Wesleyan Methodists, who would go on to be the Methodist Church, and the Whitefield Methodists, who kept a wide range of denominational labels—Whitefield himself remained an Anglican, a member of the Church of England.
By 1743, Whitefield renamed the Weekly History again, to make clear what it was about. Big looooong titles for books were normal in the 18th century., and I guess the same applied to magazines,
Here’s the Weekly History’s new title:
Christian History or General Account of the Progress of the Gospel in England, Scotland, America as far as the Reverend Mr. Whitefield, his Fellow-Labourers and Assistants are Concerned
Yeah. I can just hear the conversation in the newsagents [US a place where magazines are sold in the UK]. Can’t you?
“Hello, do you have any copies of Christian History or General Account of the Progress of the Gospel in . . . (takes long breath) ETC.
Of course the title had to be shortened! Actually, I think I’ll give Non-Boring History a long title! How about:
Non-Boring History —or —Translations of Academic Scholarship in the History of the US and UK, the Atlantic World, and occasional guests, as interpreted by Dr. Annette Laing, in a Substack newsletter with assistance from a crack team of Gnomes, —also - amusing yet instructive accounts of visits to museums and historic sites, plus random crap for your amusement.
Phew.
In his new, rebranded Christian History, Whitefield put an ever more positive spin on the evangelical revivals. And his spin no longer had to compete with his critics on the same page. Christian History began printing ads for books that George Whitefield endorsed, including one called The Perfectionists, which attacked Wesley’s views on salvation, including his Mary Poppins-like view that Christians could become practically (but not entirely) perfect in (almost) every way.
Whitefield’s own publications, meanwhile, such as his books of collected sermons, and his Journals, were heavily advertised in Christian History. And—surprise!— they became bestsellers.
Whitefield developed a marketing strategy he called “print and preach” (his words, no kidding!) He released publications to prepare his hearers for his newest sermon. If they heard him preach, they could later buy the sermon and re-read his words, and dive deeper into his message.
Whitefield didn’t want to compete in the marketplace of ideas: He wanted to dominate it. He wanted his “good” books to replace the “bad” books of his critics.
And he wanted his converts to show off their new evangelical identities by reading their copies of his books in public, putting up prints of his portrait in their homes, and wearing clothes that signaled their identity (hmm… doesn’t this sound familiar?) Did they have T-shirts, I wonder? Well, no, but . . .
Christian History accepted ads from evangelicals offering merch. Evangelicals like Sister Betty Angus. She sold shirts that were imported from Holland, and Irish cloth, which she then discounted for evangelical customers. If Sister Betty were still in business today, I bet she would be hawking T-shirts. Can’t you just see that? George Whitefield American Tour dates on the backs, and everything.
Speaking of which . . .
In the pages of Christian History, readers could feel warm and fuzzy about identifying as evangelicals, and participate in, even profit from, the consumer revolution that Whitefield attacked in his sermons.
Yes, all mindless consumption is bad! That was a large part of the preacher’s message. This advice, obviously, did not apply to George Whitefield™ officially-endorsed products in the Lord’s service.
Did George Whitefield really attack mindless consumption? YES!
When he arrived in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1740, Whitefield pronounced, disapprovingly, that the city “seemed wholly devoted to pleasure”. People in Charleston spent more on dancing and jewelry, and other goods and entertainments, he learned, than on the poor.
Wealthy ladies who wore jewelry while they listened to him speak, he said, knew they were in the wrong: They blushed, and covered their bling with their hands, and their fans.
Whitefield firmly believed he was having an impact, that consumption of stuff declined during his visits. Um, maybe. Probably everyone picked it up again after he left, though. If you were rich, it was hard not to show off to everyone else.
Whitefield wrote for consumption, of course, although if he were standing next to me, he would point out that his material was the good kind of consumption.
And he wrote for a broad audience that even included the poor (which I think is very cool, just saying, even though my goals and his are decidedly different) Like other innovative publishers of his time, he serialized books, including his autobiography, publishing a short chapter in every issue of Christian History , to keep things short and sweet.
Why, that’s like my West With the Wagons series for paying subscribers (Nonnies)! Ahem! Here’s a sample:
Serialized books worked for people who couldn’t afford books, and they also created suspense and excitement as people waited on the next exciting chapter. The joy of serials is hard to remember in the era of bingewatching and instant reading, but it’s real. Christian History offered discounted cash subscriptions for readers. Like an annual subscription to Non-Boring History, ahem.
Whitefield also offered wholesale discounts to book retailers, like New York bookseller Thomas Noble (not related to Barnes and Noble, I checked.)
Meanwhile, other evangelical ministers launched publications, and borrowed Whitefield’s marketing ideas and content. Plagiarism was considered flattery in the 18th century, hard though that is for us to get our heads around (That said it’s not nice for authors to repeatedly filch without at least coughing up some payment, just saying.)
Criticism of Whitefield continued, but he came to understand that there really was no such thing as bad publicity. In North Carolina, in 1739, a man came to hear Whitefield because he had read attacks on him in the newspaper.
All the same, Whitefield used testimonial letters from others to introduce himself to new communities: He brought a letter from a respected minister in Charleston, SC, to introduce himself to powerful and influential people in Boston in 1740. He then printed the letter in the Christian Weekly, to open more doors in future without fuss.
And yet. Whitefield fretted about the dangers of succumbing to printing’s temptations. He especially worried that all this publishing would lead him to the deadly sin of hubris, or human pride. As his first publications quickly became bestsellers, he wrote a prayer in which he asked God “to give me humility so shall success not prove my ruin.”
These weren’t the words of a man who put fame and fortune first.
George Whitefield began working with evangelical booksellers, to avoid being pressured into doing things purely for profit. Evangelical London booksellers James Hutton and John Syms became his distributor and his exclusive publisher, respectively. But Hutton may not have shared Whitefield’s lofty goals, as the preacher suspected: Whitefield noted that Hutton had made “hundreds” (read: possibly millions) from his work.
After 1741, his relationship with Hutton soured over religious differences, and Whitefield now became his own publisher. He had built a wooden megachurch in London, called the Tabernacle, and it now housed his publishing HQ.
As an independent publisher, Whitefield not only had more control over his books, but advantages in selling them. After services, he held book signings, and gave away copies of his printed sermons as free samples. New books now included ads for books that were soon to be published. He used the huge transatlantic evangelical letter-writing network to send samples and notices of his work. And he opened a bookstore in the Tabernacle.
The Digital Nomad Meets Ben Franklin
When Whitefield came back to America in 1739 to go on preaching tour, he landed in Philadelphia, people were expecting him excitedly, thanks to newspapers. He came on a ship groaning with random merchandise he had brought to sell to raise funds, and he set up a pop-up shop in Philadelphia, in the house he was staying in, and ran an ad in Benjamin Franklin’s Pennsylvania Gazette, listing what he had brought for sale from London, including brass candlesticks. He also brought boxes and boxes of books to sell.
Whitefield was all set to use his “print and preach” technique in America. He was ready to visit every colony, to “sell” his message direct to the people, while continuing to produce more material for publication. He was a digital nomad on a horse!
Among the Philadelphia crowds who greeted Whitefield on his arrival was a printer/publisher who didn’t give a toss about the preacher’s religious views, but knew a money-making opportunity when he saw one.
His name was Benjamin Franklin.
Ben Franklin was an ambitious youngish printer, 33 years old, so forget the aged mental picture you might have of him from the Revolution, which was forty years in the future. He had already started printing stories about Whitefield two years earlier, when Whitefield spent time in Georgia. The big crowds and Whitefield’s own publicity machine* left Franklin in no doubt that the young preacher was big news.
* Seward was still Whitefield’s agent until Whitefield sent him back to England in 1739, to keep up the Georgia orphanage fundraising momentum there. Seward was preaching near the border of England and Wales, when he was murdered by unimpressed listeners, making him the first Methodist martyr. Seriously. Can’t make this stuff up.
Franklin decided to go hear this guy speak himself. Even before he got to the venue, he decided not to donate to Whitefield’s silly Georgia orphanage scheme.
Who the hell would build an orphanage in Georgia? Franklin wondered. Why would he build in that backwater! Why didn’t he plan to build in, say, Pennsylvania? Although Franklin never did become an evangelical, Whitefield’s sermon on behalf of the orphanage so bowled him over, he “empty’ed [his] pocket into the collector’s dish, gold and all.”
As he listened to Whitefield preach, Franklin was looking around him. He wasn’t just impressed by Whitefield’s persuasive speaking skills, but by the size and religious diversity of the crowd: He recognized people of every denomination. And he reckoned 25,000 people had come to hear George Whitefield speak. Ka-ching, Franklin thought! He knew a great product when he saw one.
Ben Franklin published Whitefield’s tour plans for his excited readers. One example, from the Pennsylvania Gazette of May 8, 1740:
“Whitefield preaches in Philadelphia every day this week. Then he preaches at Darby and Chester where he plans to collect for the Orphan House [the one Whitefield was planning in Savannah, Georgia]. On Tuesday at precisely 10:00 in the morning he preaches at Wilmington. Then four o’clock in the afternoon at Whiteclay Creek. Wednesday Noon at Nottingham. Then to Newcastle to set sail for Georgia.”
Throughout Whitefield’s tour, even after he left Pennsylvania, Franklin published Seward’s and Whitefield’s press releases about the tour’s impact, the crowd sizes, how thrilled and more religious everyone was. Frankin was helping to craft an image of a preaching superstar with a congregation that stretched from London, the Sun of the transatlantic British-American world, all the way to Georgia, its Neptune. Fun Fact: According to NASA, Neptune is very similar to Uranus. How about that. You learn all sorts of things at NBH.
Going Viral
George Whitefield’s 1739 visit to America crossed colonial boundaries. Before Whitefield, there had been local evangelical revivals, grounded in particular denominations and colonies, like Congregationalism (the new updated Puritanism) in New England, and Presbyterianism in New Jersey. But Whitefield wanted to create an intercolonial, interdenominational revival.
This was ambitious of him: Each American colony had more to do with Britain than with other colonies. There wasn’t even a functioning post office system throughout the colonies.
Whitefield used newspapers to his full advantage. Even in sparsely settled Southern colonies with few towns, Whitefield found people had heard of him, thanks to the colonial newspapers. An old man in North Carolina told Whitefield that he had learned of him from his son—in-law who lived three miles from him, but had read about the minister in the newspaper.
Scottish peddlers, traveling salesmen who crisscrossed the South, carried copies of Whitefield’s Journals and sermons for sale. People who didn’t get a chance to see and hear Whitefield instead used his publications to spread the word, and they formed sort-of book clubs. Whitefield even encouraged peddlers who traded with Indians to sell his texts, and gave one salesman a letter to read to potential converts among the Allegheny Indians. He wrote the letter in plain English, avoiding clergy jargon.
Needless to say, other colonial American newspapers were busily copying Franklin’s Gazette, publishing Whitefield’s sermons, journals, and endorsements from local celebs. Not that everyone was a fan: There was even a long-running dispute in the South, in the pages of the South Carolina Gazette, about whether Whitefield’s “enthusiasm” was appropriate for a minister of the Church of England [Take note, US Episcopal Bishop Michael Curry, who completely threw the British Royals for a loop at Meghan and Harry’s wedding with your enthusiastic sermon!] This controversy didn’t hurt Whitefield at all: He already knew arguments were good for publicity.
News of Whitefield’s success traveled back to London, where the capital’s newspapers eagerly picked up the story.
He now had a marketing triumph on his hands. George Whitefield was the biggest news story of the mid-18th century (or at least shared equal billing with Britain’s war with Spain).
What’s more, Whitefield was focusing even the attention of London, the center of all things British, and all things shopping, on the most backwater areas of the mainland American colonies, stuck out there on the edge of civilization with hardly any shops worth mentioning!
Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, Ben Franklin was making money hand over fist. Franklin had intercolonial dreams himself, and had set up a chain of printshops all the way from Boston in the North, to Charleston, South Carolina in the South. He and Whitefield struck a deal for Franklin to publish Whitefield’s Journals for paid subscribers. And everywhere Whitefield went, he plugged his publications from the pulpit! Franklin was thrilled.
To Franklin’s joy, Seward and Whitefield now staged a controversial news event. Seward rented a Philadelphia ballroom normally used for concerts and dancing by the city’s poshest people, and then locked the place, so nobody could get in. He then wrote a press release, written as if he was a neutral reporter, and published in Franklin’s Gazette, in which he claimed since George Whitefield had arrived, people had lost interest in sinful entertainments.
The annoyed gentlemen who already had a rental agreement on the place forced their way into the ballroom, and complained to William Bolton, the ballroom’s owner.
He wrote a letter to the Gazette, which Franklin published, pointing out that people hadn’t lost interest in dancing, and calling out Seward for this publicity stunt on Whitefield’s behalf.
Seward apologized to Bolton and the renters, even as he was sending his original press release, about Philadelphians having lost interest in sinful entertainment, to newspapers in Boston and New York, the next stops on Whitefield’s tour.
I mean, is that genius or what? Unethical, you say? Nonsense. Seward was doing God’s Work, saving people from sin, and he paid Bolton rent. What’s the problem here?
Seward returned to London to go fundraise, so Whitefield himself took over sending media releases to Franklin, who happily printed these puff pieces, as well as writing his own about Whitefield, promoting his product (Whitefield) for all he was worth, confirming that, since Whitefield’s arrival, ministers were giving better sermons, congregations were more excited to hear them, and that local booksellers found that religious books were far outselling everything else.
As Lambert says, Franklin “could have added that Whitefield was also good for the print business.”
Franklin caught flak from people in Philadelphia who opposed revivals, and accused him of pro-Whitefield bias. He retorted that he printed both sides. In fact, he printed waaaaay more of Whitefield’s words than of his critics.
Franklin continued to report on Whitefield, even when Whitefield reached the less densely-populated South, where it was hard to draw big crowds. Whitefield nonetheless gave provocative, in your face sermons that played out well in print, in the cities, slamming rich ladies and gentlemen for dancing, hunting, and boozing.
And everywhere he went, Whitefield found agents to sell his books, including merchant James Habersham in Savannah, His community of sellers and buyers were all focused on Whitefield’s consistent messaging in his publications.
Ben Franklin sold a lot of subscriptions, likely in the thousands, to Whitefield’s Journals, both retail and wholesale. And his retail customers ranged from lawyers and merchants to shopkeepers, carpenters, and bricklayers. And Whitefield’s huge output of publications promised lots more profit, not only for Franklin, but other colonial printers, especially in the heavy reading city of Boston, who were right behind him, eager to cash in on Whitefield’s success.
Even in the rural South, where there were far fewer readers, and where people had less opportunity to see Whitefield LIVE and IN PERSON, they clamored for every Whitefield publication they could get.
One group of rural Virginians clubbed together and mail-ordered to Scotland for 250 copies of a book of Whitefield’s sermons. When Whitefield returned to Virginia in 1746, more famous than ever, one smart bookseller , hearing of this, took all the Whitefield books he had in stock, and set up a table nearby, selling the equivalent of thousands of dollars in merch.
George Whitefield was indeed, what Frank Lambert called him: A '“hot commodity”.
Whitefield was as successful in print as in person because he was sensitive to his reading audience: He kept his words and publications short.*
*Okay, I’m not so good at this, the short thing, here at NBH, but my posts are a lot shorter than historians’ books, so there’s that! Plus my estimate of your reading ability and attention span is higher than Whitefield’s was of his audience —flatter, flatter. Oh, wait, what’s this red button doing here? Goodness.
George Whitefield, in person, and even more through his publications, which massively extended his reach, helped bring together evangelicals in Britain, America, and across the Atlantic in the mid-18th century, helping creating a common bond, a stronger bond than ever, between Britain and its colonies.
Hey, Laing, what about the American Revolution?
Yes, isn’t that odd? When the relationship between Britain and its American colonies fell apart, it happened at a time when it had never been stronger, in part because of the Great Awakening, and George Whitefield. How about that? History, eh? Honest historians admit we’re rubbish at predicting the future: We never can tell when things will take an unexpected turn.
Okay, But Was Whitefield a Conman?
In 1739, James Whitefield, George Whitefield’s brother in Bristol, opened an American branch of his booze shop in Charleston, South Carolina, the same year his brother was wowing crowds throughout the colonies. James advertised in the South Carolina Gazette that he had “a choice parcel of bottled Port wine” on special offer for just £4 a dozen, as well as great deals on cider and rum. To make clear: He ran the shop from Bristol.
James did well. By the mid-1760s, his shop had relocated to Savannah, Georgia, and his son, James, Jr., had moved from England to take over the Whitefields’ booming Stateside liquor business.
During all this time, George Whitefield, of course, having absorbed loads of training in business from his entrepreneurial family, had moved on to an even more successful kind of life, one that was very different, as a man of God rather than trade. Very different, you would think.
Strangely enough, Whitefield’s Booze R Us had moved from Charleston to Savannah in part because of the family business connections through George, who had become great mates with mover and shaker James Habersham, the president of Georgia’s provincial council.
James, Jr. definitely benefited from his famous uncle’s connections. He quickly developed all sorts of crony transatlantic trade deals through Habersham and his friends.
James, Jr.’s business boomed, and he made enough money not only to build a house in Savannah, but to buy a five hundred acre estate twelve miles away.
So, in the end, this is the usual story of preacher family grifting then? Figures.
Whoa, hang on! Snap judgments are not how we roll at NBH. Historians are very suspicious of those. And look, if one of your family made a connection like that, they would use it, right? Nothing to do with George.
I suggest to you it’s like blaming President Jimmy Carter for his notorious younger brother Billy Carter cashing in on his relative’s fame by selling cans of Billy Beer.
At NBH, we’re about making jigsaw puzzles of context around our subject. So before you cancel George Whitefield himself, let me tell you something important:
Bethesda, George Whitefield’s orphanage for boys, opened near Savannah, Georgia, in 1740, and promptly received its first residents. He really did use the money he collected to build an orphanage.
And it’s been in Georgia, on the same site, ever since, more or less, in one form or another.
Of course, it’s never that simple. I’ll tell you more about Bethesda another day. But for now, it’s fair to say that George Whitefield had a huge impact on the rise of concern for children’s welfare on both sides of the Atlantic (along with Thomas Coram, whose orphanage was being founded in London at roughly the same time), on religious belief and practice, and on a shared feeling of British-American identity.
Oh, and he also helped the rise of marketing, PR, and shopping. although that definitely wasn’t what he had wanted.
George Whitefield wasn’t keen on using all the modern tools of the age in which he lived. But he used them all the same, to criticize the same modern world of excessive consumption that he helped create. And all without any evidence of scandal.
Find Out More
If you enjoyed my riff on Frank Lambert’s ‘Pedlar in Divinity’: George Whitefield and the Transatlantic Revivals, read the book! By the standards of academic work, it’s short, and it’s well written. It’s not too hard to understand if this is a subject you’re keen to learn about
If you’re Frank Lambert, or another early American historian who studies popular religious culture, and think I screwed up the book’s argument royally, please message the Historian Relations Gnome, rather than sending a drone to drop a boulder on Non-Boring House. Cheers.
That’s one lengthy read, Annette! A great one though. The story is fascinating and how often do we see that something people rave about now as “new” and “innovative” has been done before?
Keep up the good work at NBH and don’t forget to let the gnomes have a vacation.
Wonderfully wide-ranging - like JW himself, it seems. That Hogarth picture is a smasher, isn't it ..?