me the way to heaven, but I regarded it not. O that I could hear his voice again! But ah, never, no, never, shall I again hear it till in the judgment of the great day he shall appear as a swift witness against me. "" This led to the conversion of young Randall. Whitefield, though dead, spake to him in thunder-tones with trumpet tongue. He became a Congregationalist, then a Baptist, and afterward a Baptist minister. He then originated a Free-will Baptist Church in New Durham, Mass., and became the founder of the Free-will Baptists. He had not a classical or theological education, but he had strong common sense, had a good library, was a good student, and preached with great power and success. From his Church others of similar faith sprang up. It is now a large and respectable denomination.

What insignificant causes are at times connected with the grandest and noblest results! Whitefield's eloquence failed to convert young Randall, but he could not resist the voice of the strange horseman, exclaiming, "Whitefield is dead! Whitefield is dead!" To these simple words, thus uttered, may be traced the origin of the Freewill Baptist denomination, with its sixty thousand members, its over a thousand ministers, numerous church edifices, two colleges, one theological seminary, its academies, its religious weekly periodicals, its stately Quarterly Review, and its flourishing mission to India. "Behold how great a matter a little fire kindleth!"*

*New York Observer.

The Old Man and Whitefield's Pulpit.

A gentleman furnishes us with the following interesting account of an old man who had heard Whitefield in his boyhood, which is so life-like that we feel confident it will be read with delight: “I was spending a Sunday in old Ipswich, in September, when by accident I fell in with an old inhabitant of the town who had heard Whitefield preach there. He was a sort of patriarch of the place, and, as he sat on one of the stones which surrounded the ancient orthodox meeting-house, his gray locks streaming from beneath his queerly shaped hat, and attired in his primly cut old-fashioned coat, he appeared no bad representative of the departed Puritans, who in former days had soberly and decently obeyed the call of the Sabbath-bell, and worshiped in the same temple whose steeple now casts its shadow athwart the green sward beneath. As the bell of the old Ipswich Church rang out that bright Sabbath morning, it was a pretty sight to see the village people from different points going to the decaying old church, which was situated, as are most country churches in New England, on a hill-top. While I was enjoying the scene, the old man to whom I have alluded, and who was sitting on a stone, accosted me, and asked me if I were not a stranger in those parts. On my informing him that I was, he pointed out to me the "lions" of the neighborhood, and wound up by asking, 'I suppose, sir, you've heard of Whitefield?' 'Of Whitefield? to

be sure I have.' 'Well, I've seen Whitefield. George Whitefield stood on this very stone, [dropping his stick feebly from his shaking hands,] and I heard him preach here.' And do you remember any thing about him?' I asked. 'Well, I guess I do. I was but a bit of a boy then; but here he stood on this stone, looking like a flying angel, and we call it Whitefield's pulpit to this day..

There were folks here from all parts to hear him, so he was obliged to preach outside; for the church wasn't half big enough for 'em, and no two ways about it. I've heard many parsons since that time, but none on 'em could come nigh him any how they could fix it.' 'Do you remember any thing of his sermon?' I inquired. 'O, I was too young to notice aught, sir, but the preacher hisself and the crowds of people, but I know he had a very sweet voice, and, as I said, when he spread his arms out, with a little Bible in his hand, he looked like a flying angel. There never were so many people afore, nor since, in old Ipswich. I suppose, sir, you'll be going to see his bones? He was buried at Newburyport, and you can see 'em if you like.'”

Whitefield's Bone.

Much has been said and much written concern ing a bone of Whitefield that was carried to England. The British Standard in 1864 was horror-struck at the idea. Mr. Philip says: "It will surprise and grieve not a few on both sides of the

Atlantic when I tell them the bones of Whitefield are not entire. Part of his right arm was sent to this country. I hope it is not here still. If I thought it were not returned I should feel inclined to tell the American embassador where to find it, and urge him to demand it in the name of his country. About two years ago a visitor in London invited me to see a curiosity, feeling sure to gratify me. He mistook my taste. I went, and he placed on the table a long, narrow box, defying me to guess the contents. I said, 'It contains the right arm of George Whitefield, and I could name the thief and the receiver.' I owe it to my friend to add, if the relic be still in England, that it could not be in better hands. Still, I would if I could, give 'commandment concerning his bones? as solemnly and authoritatively as the dying Joseph."* The sequel is this: Mr. Bolton, an Englishman, was a great admirer of Whitefield, and a collector of curiosities. A friend of his being about to visit Newburyport, Mass., where Whitefield was buried, Mr. Bolton requested him, if possible, to obtain some small memento of the great preacher to add to his collection. Some time afterward he received a parcel, which on opening he found, to his horror, to contain the main bone of the right arm of Mr. Whitefield, obtained from the vault in which he was buried. Deeming it a most sacrilegious act, and utterly repugnant to his feelings, Mr. Bolton determined to carefully preserve the bone till he could with certainty restore it to

* Philip's “Life and Times of Whitefield," p. 519.

its proper place. He accordingly, in 1837, sent it to the Rev. Dr. Stearns, then Pastor of the Church in Newburyport. Its return created great interest; a procession of two thousand people followed it to the grave, and it was restored to its original position.* At the hundredth anniversary of his death, leaning over his coffin, we asked the colored sexton if that was the bone concerning which there had been so much noise. He answered, "The very bone, sir."

His remains are now well guarded. None see them unless in the presence of the old colored sexton, who carefully watches every visitor who enters that vault.

Dr. Stevens, the gifted historian of Methodism, suggests that the remains of Whitefield be surrendered to his transatlantic brethren; but they had better remain where they are. He belonged to this country equally with the old, and he loved "dear America" and "dear New England." He is buried in the very place where he himself desired to be in case he died in America. And while John Wesley lies buried in City Road, London, Charles Wesley in another cemetery in the same city, and Dr. Coke in the Indian Ocean, where he has the sea-weed for a winding-sheet and coral rock for a tombstone, let the bones of Whitefield remain in Newburyport until shall come that illustrious morn when the Resurrection and the Life shall say to him, Come forth; and in a

*New York Observer.