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The Aged Elm.

But a few days ago we were in Cambridge, Mass., under a magnificent elm-tree, that has taken deep root, enlarged its trunk, risen high, and extended its branches wide. It has defied the storms of hundreds of winters. It is a curiosity not only on account of its antiquity, but also for the historical incidents which cluster around it. Under its branches Washington first drew his sword and took command of the armies of the Revolution. Hence it is called the "Washington Elm." But it is also the Whitefield Elm, Whitefield having on one occasion when on a visit to Cambridge preached under its shade a sermon of uncommon brilliancy and power to the multitudes who had gathered to hear the man who was the wonder of those times.

When the late Dr. Holyoke, of Salem- then nearly a hundred years old — visited Cambridge for the last time, he, while passing this tree with a friend, remarked that he had, when a student in Harvard College, heard the sermon Whitefield delivered under that tree.

Washington and his army and Whitefield and his audience have long since passed away, but the old tree still stands in all its original grandeur, a living monument to true patriotism and genuine eloquence.

Whitefield and the Poor Woman.

The following will show the kind of heart that beat in the bosom of Whitefield. It shows the

sympathies of his nature. A young minister, who afterward became very popular and useful, was once visiting Whitefield, when he was called away to visit a poor woman who had been most dreadfully burned, and who could not long survive. Whitefield at once went to her house and prayed with her; immediately after his departure she called out, "O, where is Mr. Whitefield!" Such was her entreaty, that her friends called and requested him to visit her the second time. He did so, and again prayed with her. The poor suffering, dying woman continued still to desire his presence. "When her friends came for him the third time," says the young clergyman, "I begged of him not to go, for he could scarcely expect to do any good. Your nerves, said I, are too weak, your feelings too acute, to endure such scenes. I shall never forget his mild reproof: 'Leave me; my Master can save to the uttermost, to the very uttermost."

Whitefield, the Ignorant Man, and his Wife.

While Whitefield was preaching one day at 'Blackheath, there passed along the road at some distance an old man, and "Mary," his wife, who, with their loaded ass, were returning from London to their home in Kent. Attracted alike by the crowd and the preacher's voice, the old man and his wife turned a little out of their way to hear "what the man was talking about." Whitefield spoke of Christ's suffering death without the gate

over seventeen hundred years ago. After listening awhile the man addressed himself to his beast, and said, "Go, Robin, it was a long time ago; I hope it is not true.” His wife, however, whose attention had been arrested, and her feelings enlisted, was inclined to stay a little longer. But the old man said, "Mary, come along, it is only what happened a long time ago." They remained a little longer, and, while listening to Whitefield's further appeals, they were both melted into tears, and felt the necessity of salvation. While they were on their way home they talked over what they had heard, and the old man recollected his neglected Bible, and asked, "Why, Mary, does not our old book at home say something about these things?" They went home and examined the old book, and were astonished at its revelations. Why, Mary," asked the old man, "is this indeed our old book? Why, every thing in it appears quite new!" Light was shed upon their character, conduct, and destiny. Mary soon chose the good part that was not taken away from her, and the old man found the old story of redemption new, and he came by the new and living way by which we have access to the Father. He became a new man in Christ Jesus, and no doubt they both are now singing the new song before the throne.

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Whitefield and the Traveler.

"I remember," says Whitefield, "that, when travelling from Bristol some twenty-five years ago,

I met with a man on the road, and, being desirous to know whether he was serious or not, I began to put in a word for Christ-and God forbid that 1 should ever travel with any body a quarter of an hour without speaking of Christ to them. He told me what a wicked creature he had been; 'But, sir,' said he, 'in the midst of my wickedness people used to tell me, "You have got a good many prayers on file for you; your godly father and mother have prayed very often for you." Those prayers that were on file for him-registered in heaven-were answered in his conversion, and he became a new creature in Christ Jesus."

The application that Mr. Whitefield makes of this story is this: "Lay in a good stock for your children; get a good many prayers on file for them; they may be answered when you are dead and gone."

The Biter Bit.

While Whitefield was preaching at the Bristol glass-houses in the early part of his ministry he says, "I heard many people behind me hallooing and making a noise; and, as I supposed, were set on by somebody to disturb me. I was not the least moved, but rather increased more in strength. When I was done I inquired the cause of the noise. I found a gentleman, (?) being drunk, had taken the liberty to call me a dog, and say that I ought to be whipped at a cart's tail, and had offered money to any who would pelt me. Instead of that,

the boys and people near began to cast stones and dirt at him." Whitefield publicly disapproved of this course of action on their part toward him notwithstanding he had been so vile. He, however, ingeniously reminded them of the "sorry wages the devil gives his servants." Whitefield some days after visited his ungentlemanly disturber, and condoled with him on the punishment he had received. The man was glad to see him; the interview was pleasant, and they parted friends.

Whitefield and the Theater-goer.

Some people are very fond of attending theatres. This was the case with a gentleman in Lond on by the name of Crane. The theatre had for him a peculiar charm. He delighted in witnessing the performance of tragedies and comedies. He went one evening to Drury Lane, but it being full he passed on to Covent Garden, which he found so crowded that he could not get in. Twice disappointed that evening, he said to himself, "I will go and hear Dr. Whitefield." He wanted entertainment, and he was determined to find it some where. Such an actor he had never before seen, such tragedies never beheld. Calvary with all its thrilling scenes was exhibited before him; the darkened heavens, the trembling earth, the rending rocks, and the rising dead coming forth with their sepulchral forms to sympathize with the dying Redeemer of the world. His hard heart was

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