of the Church. In England the elegant James Hervey, the eloquent Augustus Toplady, the gifted Robert Robinson, the poetical Thomas Olivers, Thomas Rankin, Wesley's early missionary to America, and John Nelson, the heroic warrior, together with such flaming heralds of the cross as Andrew Kinsman, Henry Tappen, Captain Scott, Captain Joss, and many others, were either his spiritual sons, or were wonderfully profited by his ministry, so very successful was he in raising up standard-bearers for the army of King Immanuel, who could lead on the sacramental hosts to glory and to victory.

Earth hath no scales with which to weigh, and no arithmetic with which to calculate, the stupendous influence he is still exerting. For "being dead he yet speaketh," and he will speak till the last page in the world's history shall have been written, and the angel shall announce that "Time is no longer!"

Whitefield was ever busily engaged in his Master's work. He heard a voice constantly ringing in his ear the command, "Occupy till I come!" expecting soon to hear the same voice say, "Give an account of thy stewardship, for thou shalt be no longer steward." His motto was, "No nestling on this side eternity." At one time he writes, "Lord, when thou seest me in danger of nestling, in tender pity put a thorn into my nest to prevent my doing it ;" and again, "I am determined to go on till I drop; to die fighting, though it be on my stumps." Here was Christian chivalry, genuine

heroism worthy of Paul. His language seemed to be,

"My soul is not at rest. There comes a strange
And secret whisper to my spirit, like

A dream of night, that tells me I am on
Enchanted ground! Why live I here? The vows
Of God are on me, and I may not stoop
To play with shadows, or pluck earthly flowers,
Till I my work have done, and rendered up
Account."

In September, 1769, Mr. Whitefield started on his last voyage for America, this being his thirteenth trip across the Atlantic. On his arrival he was delighted to find Bethesda (the orphan house) in a state of unparalleled prosperity. "I am happier," he wrote, "than words can express. Bethesda ! my Bethel! my Peniel! my happiness is inconceivable." But he could not long rest there, for "all must give place to Gospel rangingdivine employ," and soon he commenced his northern journey. On the morning of his departure he wrote these memorable words: "This will prove a sacred year for me at the day of judgment. Halleluiah! come, Lord, come!" How prophetic! He was exceeding happy during his final and triumphant tour. He wrote to England, "Hallelu iah ! halleluiah! let chapel, tabernacle, heaven and earth resound with halleluiah! I can no more; my heart is too big to speak or add more." To his early and life-time friend, Charles Wesley, he wrote thus: "I can sit down and cry, 'What hath God wrought!' My bodily health is much im

proved, and my soul is on the wing for another Gospel range. Unutterable love! I am lost in wonder and amazement." Never was he in a happier frame of mind, never did his soul exult more triumphantly, never did his path shine brighter, never did his heart beat warmer, never were his joys greater, or his prospects more brilliant. To him Paradise was regained, Eden's long-lost glories restored. He was in the land of Beulah, where the sun shines day and night, where the birds sing, and flowers perennial bloom.

His last Gospel range was one of great success. His march was like that of an illustrious conqueror. He added victory to victory, triumph to triumph. We have not time to follow him to the

City of Brotherly Love," where he was warmly received, and where thrilling scenes transpired; nor to New York, where his congregations were larger than ever, and where crowds thronged to listen with wonder and delight to his soul-stirring eloquence; nor to Albany, Schenectady, and other places which he visited, and where he was hailed as an angel from God. Delighted in looking at the immense fields already white unto harvest, he wrote, "O, what new scenes of usefulness are opening in various points of this New World!" How true! The scenes have opened. What open doors have been entered! How the wilderness and the solitary place have been made glad, and the desert has rejoiced and blossomed as the rose! What he saw in the future we have realized. What to him was prophecy to us is history.

The last entry he made in his journal relates to this tour: "I heard afterward that the word ran and was glorified. Grace! grace!" He had preached on the coffin of a criminal under the gallows, and he concludes his diary thus: "Solemn! solemn! effectual good I hope was done. Grace! grace!" What a beautiful conclusion! What a sublime climax! The termination is worthy of the immortal Whitefield, who here lays aside the pen forever. His journals are complete, as soon will be his life. We are approaching its termination, and O, how the interest is heightened! At Boston he was received with open arms, and crowds attended his ministry, receiving the word with eagerness. He then went to Portsmouth, preaching there and in the vicinity six times.

In the midst of these enthusiastic labors he had been told that he ought not to preach so often, to which he responded, "I would sooner wear out than rust out; " and now his overtaxed energies were about giving way under the terrible strain to which for years they had been subjected.

His last sermon was delivered in the open air at Exeter, the 29th of September. Before preaching some one said to him, "Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach." "True, sir,” replied Mr. Whitefield; then, turning aside, he clasped his hands together, and, looking up, said, "Lord Jesus, I am weary in thy work, but not of thy work. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go on and speak for thee once more in the fields, seal thy truth, then go home and die."

His last text was from 2 Cor. xiii, 5: "Examine yourselves, whether ye be in the faith; prove your own selves. Know ye not your own selves, how that Jesus Christ is in you, except ye be reprobates?" A reverend old gentleman thus described the impressions made upon his mind by what he saw and heard of this mighty apostle on this his last appearance in public. "The subject of his remarks was 'Faith and Works.' He rose up sluggishly and wearily, as if worn down and exhausted by his stupendous labors. His face seemed bloated, his voice hoarse, his enunciation heavy, as the breaking up of the waters. Sentence after sentence was thrown off in rough, disjointed portions, without much regard to point or beauty; at length his mind kindled over a single idea, and an explosion of his lion-like voice roared to the extremities of the audience. He was speaking of the inefficiency of works to merit salvation, and he suddenly cried out in a tone of thunder, 'Works! works! a man get to heaven by works! I would as soon think of climbing up to the moon on a rope of sand!' But the thunder of that fearful voice could not long be sustained; he soon flagged, and deep, sepulchral hoarseness succeeded. He was an old, worn-out veteran, whose armor had rusted in the war, and the dews of the tented field were heavy and chill upon his brow."

Pale and almost dying, Whitefield then uttered one of the most eloquent and pathetic passages that had ever fallen from his lips even in his palmiest days: "I go," said he, "to my everlasting