ments generally. The population, from the highest to the lowest, gathered at all the prominent points of his passage. Hundreds of thousands heard the highest evangelical truths uttered with an eloquence probably never equaled. Writ ing from Philadelphia, he says: "All along from Charleston to this place the cry is, 'For Christ's sake, stay and preach to us.

In July, 1765, he again landed in England. He was still broken in health, but as ardent as ever with the devout enthusiasm which had borne him through unflagging labors for nearly thirty years. "O to end life well!" he wrote on his arrival; "methinks I have now but one river to pass over, and we know of One that can carry us over without boing ankle deep." During the ensuing four years he itinerated in England, Scotland, and Wales, repeating his excursions whenever his health rallied sufficiently to allow him to mount his "field-throne," as he called his out-door pulpit. The enthusiasm of the people to hear him increased with the increased fame which years had given him. They gathered by ten thousands and twenty thousands around him, and he speaks of "light and life flying in all directions."

Cornelius Winter, a distinguished Calvinistic Methodist, gives us some glimpses of his more personal life about this period. He was avaricious of time, and his expectations generally went before the ability of his assistants to perform his commands. He was very exact to the time appointed for his meals; a few minutes' delay would be considered a great fault. He was irritable, but soon appeased. Not patient. enough one day to receive a reason for his being disappointed under a particular occurrence, he hurt the mind of one who was studious to please him; he discovered it by the tears it occasioned, and, on reflection, he himself burst into tears, saying, "I shall live to be a poor peevish old man, and everybody will be tired of me." He never indulged parties at his table; a select few might now and then breakfast with him, dine' with him on a Sunday, or sup with him on a Wednesday night. In the latter indulgence he was scru

pulously exact to retire early. In the height of a conversa tion he would abruptly say, "But we forget ourselves,” and rising from his seat, and advancing to the door, add, "Come, gentlemen, it is time for all good folks to be at home." Whether by himself, or having but a second person at his table, it must be spread elegantly, though it presented but a loaf and a cheese. It never presented much variety. A cow-heel was his favorite dish, and he has been known cheerfully to say, "How surprised would the world be, if they were to peep upon Dr. Squintum,1 and see a cow-heel only upon his table." He was fastidiously neat in his person and every thing about him. Not a paper could be out of place or put up irregularly. Every part of the furniture must be in order before he retired to sleep. He said he did not think he should die easy if he thought his gloves were out of their place. There was no rest in the house after four in the morning, nor sitting up after ten in the evening. He never made a purchase without paying the money for it immediately. He was truly generous, and seldom denied relief. He often dined among his friends, when he usually connected a comprehensive prayer with his thanksgiving at the table, noticing particular cases connected with the family: he never protracted his visit long after dinner. He often appeared tired of popularity, and said he envied the man who could take his choice of food at an eating-house, and pass unnoticed. He apprehended he should not glorify God in his death by any remarkable testimony, and was desirous to die suddenly.

.

His wife died in 1768; he writes of her with regret, but suffered scarcely an intermission of his labors by the event. His marriage was not as unfortunate as that of John Wesley, nor as fortunate as that of Charles.11 If it yielded him no great happiness it did not interfere with

10 One of his eyes was defective. See p. 92.

11 Winter, who lived in his family, represents it as unhappy. (Winter's Memoirs, by Jay.) Philip (Life of Whitefield, chap. 11) attempts an elaborate and plausible, if not successful defense of his wife.

the great work to which everything else had to bend. At the death of his only child, his friends united in the request that he should decline preaching till it was buried; but he preached twice the day after its death, and once the following day, and the bell was tolling for the funeral before he left the pulpit; this was zeal, but not a lack of tenderness, for in a few minutes he was on his knees by the side of the corpse, shedding “many tears, though tears of resignation." The next day he was again in the pulpit. Never was there a man so entirely of one work as Whitefield.

This, his last sojourn in England, was of incalculable advantage to Methodism. He consecrated new chapels, provided by the Countess of Huntingdon; he promoted the success of the college at Trevecca; he stimulated his fellowlaborers, Romaine, Venn, Berridge, Madan, and their associates; he called out Scott, Joss, Rowland Hill, and other extraordinary laborers into his London pulpits, and spread renewed interest through most of the land. Meanwhile his generous spirit, fast ripening for heaven, sought every opportunity of promoting the catholicity of the great revival. He not only attended, and drew his most eminent associates to Wesley's Conferences, but met him often in private interviews. Wesley's equally charitable heart was touched by these Christian courtesies, and by the reminiscences of their long and common labors and sufferings. He saw that his eloquent friend was hastening to his rest, and that the opportunities for such brotherly amenities should be prized as soon to be had no more. In 1769 he records in his Journal that he spent "a comfortable and profitable hour" with Whitefield in "calling to mind the former times" and the manner in which God had prepared them for

a work which it had not entered into their hearts to conceive." Whitefield was at this time sinking fast. Two years earlier Wesley speaks of breakfasting with him, and of his appearing to be "an old, old man, fairly worn out in his Master's service." In February, 1769, he says: "I had one more agreeable conversation with my old friend and

fellow-laborer, George Whitefield. His soul appeared to be vigorous still, but his body was sinking apace."

In September, 1769, the mighty apostle was again on the deck for America. He took affectionate leave of Wesley in a farewell letter as he embarked. After a tedious and

perilous voyage, he was cheered to find Bethesda in unprecedented prosperity. For about thirty-two years he had cherished it as one of the fondest objects of his life. It was almost clear of debt, with two new wings, each nearly one hundred and fifty feet in length, and smaller buildings in much forwardness, and the whole executed “with taste and in a masterly manner." The governor and council of the colony received him with public ceremonies, and adopted his plans for the re-organization of the institution as a college. He seemed never more contented. "I am happier," he wrote, "than words can express." "" "O Bethesda ! my Bethel! my Peniel! my happiness is inconceivable!" This year he was to die, and it was well that his last days were not to be clouded by an anticipation of the fate which awaited this his favorite project.12 He felt a momentary temptation to repose in its tranquil retirement, "but all must give way to Gospel ranging, divine employ !" and soon he was again moving northward. Early in the morning on which he started he wrote the prophetic words: "This will prove a sacred year for me at the day of judgment. Hallelujah! Come, Lord, come!"

This last tour befitted his whole religious history. He was in improved health; never did his spirit soar more loftily; never did such frequent ejaculations of zeal and rapture appear in his correspondence. "Hallelujah! hallelujah!" he wrote to England; "let Chapel, Tabernacle, heaven, and earth resound with hallelujah! I can no more; my heart is too big to speak or add more!" To Charles Wesley he wrote: "I can only sit down and cry, What hath God wrought!' My bodily health is much improved, and

12 It was destroyed by fire two or three years later, and scarcely a trace of its ruins remains.

my soul is on the wing for another Gospel range. Unutter able love! I am lost in wonder and amazement !"

In May he appeared again among the enthusiastic crowds of Philadelphia, preaching twice on Sunday, besides three or four times during the rest of the week. All ranks flocked to hear him, and now even the Episcopal churches were all open to him. The salutary effects of his former labors were everywhere obvious. He made an excursion from the city over a circuit of a hundred and fifty miles, preaching every day. So many doors were open, he wrote, that he knew not which way to turn. He turned finally to New York, where he preached "to congregations larger than ever."

He passed up the Hudson River, and made a tour of more than five hundred miles, preaching at Albany, Schenectady, Great Barrington, and many other places. He reached the New York frontier of that day; for as late as the Revolution the white population west of the Hudson scarcely extended back sixty miles to Cherry Valley, Johnstown, and some scattered settlements in Otsego, Montgomery, and Herkimer counties; and such was still the power of the Indian tribes, that during the war Schenectady itself was likely at one time to become the prominent point of the Western boundary of the state. "O what new scenes of usefulness are opening in various points of this world," wrote Whitefield, as he returned. He saw the gates of the Northwest opening, those mighty gates through which the nations have since been passing, as in grand procession, but he was not to enter there; the everlasting gates were, opening for him, and he was hastening toward them. The last entry in his memoranda relates to his labors on this tour up the Hudson: "I heard afterward that the word ran and was glorified. Grace! grace!" He had preached with his usual zeal, and at every possible point, in churches, in streets, in fields, and at one time on the coffin of a criminal, beneath the gallows, to thousands of hearers; "Solemn! solemn!" he wrote; "effectual good, I hope, was done, Grace! grace!"

VOL, L-30