divided between England and America. That the volunteer assassin was an American, there can be no more doubt, than that the bravo was an Englishman. Whitefield could not have mistaken the former. Indeed, it was "out of respect " to the uncle in New York, that he welcomed the nephew without hesitation.

He availed himself adroitly of the notoriety thus given to him in Plymouth, to divide public attention with the bishop of the diocese, who was there at the time confirming. "Could you think it," he says, "I have been preaching a confirmation sermon? Do you ask me where? In a quaker's field. As I saw thousands flocked to the church to have the bishop's hand imposed upon them, I thought it not improper to let them have a word of exhortation suitable to the occasion."

This confirmation sermon produced one good effect, equal at least to any that resulted from the confirmation itself. The late Rev. Henry Tanner, then a young man, and a ship-builder, had just come to Plymouth, in search of employment at the dock. Whitefield's powerful voice from the field arrested his attention, and that of his fellow-workmen. They deemed him mad, and determined to capsize him from his block. Nor was this all they went, not only to throw him down from his stand, but with their pockets full of stones, " to injure the mad parson." Dr. Hawker's Life of Tanner.

Tanner's resolution failed him, when he saw Whitefield with open arms and gushing tears, entreating "poor, lost sinners" to come to Christ. He went home much impressed, and resolved to hear the preacher again next evening. He did. The text was, "Beginning at Jerusalem." Whitefield "depicted the cruel murder of the Lord of life" there. Then, turning to the spot where Tanner stood, he said, "You are reflecting on the cruelty of these inhuman butchers, who imbrued their hands in innocent blood." At this moment his eye fell upon Tanner, and his lips said, "Thou art the man." The convicted sinner was forced to cry, "God be merciful to me." Whitefield saw the effect, and met the emotion with a burst of tenderness which cheered the penitent. Another sermon, on Jacob's vision of the Bethel ladder, led Tanner up to the Lamb slain in the

midst of the throne, and thus gave him both joy and peace in believing.

The advances he made, from this time, in religious knowledge and experience, were great and rapid. They eventually encouraged and enabled him to preach the everlasting gospel to others. This he did with such success, that even Dr. Hawker (that strange compound of spirituality and absurdity) acknowledges, that Tanner seldom preached one sermon in vain.” Tanner's frequent prayer was, that he might die in his Master's work. His petition was granted. He broke down in the pulpit, before he could finish his sermon; and soon fell asleep in Jesus. Life by Hawker.

66

This was not the only good effect of Whitefield's detention at Plymouth. Some of the very persons who opposed him at first, offered him "a piece of ground, surrounded with walls, for a society house." No wonder: for he came from the docks every evening," with great companies, singing and praising God.” Letters. As he was now about to leave for America, he communicated the glad tidings of this new opening to Cennick; and wrote to those who had most influence over him-" Brother Cennick must come to these parts soon." One thing he wrote for his encouragement was, that the ferrymen, who were like Levi at the receipt of custom, would take nothing of the multitude who came to hear him preach. They said, "God forbid that we should sell the word of God." Thus preserved and blessed, he embarked for America with two New England friends.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHITEFIELD ITINERATING IN AMERICA.

1744.

"In the beginning of August, 1744, Whitefield embarked, though in a poor state of health; and after a tedious passage of eleven weeks, arrived at York." Gillies. He sailed from Plymouth, with nearly a hundred and fifty ships, under several convoys. It was, however, "full six weeks" before they reached the Western islands. This was owing to the want of wind. When the wind did spring up, one of the vessels, which missed stays, drove right upon his ship; striking her mainsail into the bowsprit. Whitefield's vessel, being large, sustained little damage; but the other received a blow, which disabled and well nigh sunk her. The cries and groans of her crew, he says, "were awful!"

He had been singing a hymn on deck when the concussion took place. This fact, with the news of the concussion, was communicated to the convoy. It drew out, he says, the remark, "This is your praying, and be damned! with many sayings of the like nature." He adds, "this, I must own, shocked me more than the striking of the ship." It did not, however, stop nor intimidate him. "I called my friends together, and broke out into these words in prayer; God of the sea, and God of the dry land, this is a night of rebuke and blasphemy. Show thyself, O God, and take us under thine own immediate protection. Be thou our Convoy, and make a difference between those who fear thee, and those that fear thee not."

Providence soon made a difference! Next day, a " violent

Euroclydon arose," which "battered and sent away our convoy, so that we saw him no more all the voyage." Letters. Whitefield, at first, thought this "no loss:" but when two strange sail appeared in the distance, and preparation was made for action, by mounting guns, slinging hammocks on the sides of the ship, and encircling the masts with chains, he (being "naturally a coward," as he says) found it " formidable" to have no convoy. The vessels were, however, only part of their own fleet. This was a pleasant discovery to more than the skulking chaplain in the holes of the ship. "The captain, on clearing the cabin, said, After all, this is the best fighting.' You may be sure I concurred, praying that all our conflicts with spiritual enemies might, at last, terminate in a thorough cleansing, and an eternal purification of the defiled cabin of our hearts." Letters.

No other accident occurred during the voyage. Its tediousness overcame his patience, however, when he saw the port. In order to land a few hours sooner than the vessel, he went on board a smack in the bay; but darkness coming on, she missed her course, and was tossed about all night. Unfortunately, too, she had no provisions, and he was so hungry that he "could have gnawed the very boards." Besides this, he was suffering from "nervous cholic." Altogether he was thoroughly mortified, until a man, lying at his elbow in the cabin, began to talk of "one Mr. Whitefield, for whose arrival the new lights in New England" were watching and praying. "This," he says, "made me take courage. I continued undiscovered; and in a few hours, in answer, I trust, to new-light prayers, we arrived safe,"

He was received at York by a physician, once a notorious deist, who had been converted under his ministry. This was a signal providence: for in about half an hour after he entered the doctor's house, he became racked with cholic, and convulsed from the "waist to the toes." A" total convulsion" was apprehended by the physician. He himself dreaded delirium, and implored his weeping wife and friends not to be "surprised if he uttered any thing wrong." Both fears, however, were soon allayed: but he was brought so low, that he could not "bear the sound of the tread of a foot, or the voice of friends." Four

days elapsed before nature could be relieved; and for weeks he had to be carried like a child. The fact is, he had eaten "eagerly" of some potatoes, during his gnawing hunger on board the smack, and they had remained on the stomach undigested. They were not even "discoloured" when they were removed.

When Whitefield recovered, the excellent though eccentric Moody, the minister of York, called upon him, and accosted him thus: "Sir, you are first welcome to America; secondly, to New England; thirdly, to all faithful ministers in New England; fourthly, to all the good people in New England; fifthly, to all the good people of York; and sixthly and lastly, to me, dear Sir, less than the least of all." This welcome was followed by an urgent request for a sermon. Whitefield hesitated for a time; but "good old Mr. Moody " did not give him the benefit of his own favourite maxim, "When you know not what to do, -you must not do you know not what." This, however, he did. He preached, and immediately after went over the ferry to Portsmouth. As might be expected, he caught cold, and was again brought to the gates of death. Three physicians attended him during the night.

With his usual simplicity, he says, "My pains returned; but what gave me most concern was, that notice had been given of my being to preach next evening. I felt a divine life distinct from my animal life, which made me, as it were, laugh at my pains, though every one thought I was taken with death. My dear York physician was then about to administer a medicine. I, on a sudden, cried out, Doctor, my pains are suspended: by the help of God, I'll go and preach,—and then come home and die! With some difficulty I reached the pulpit. All looked quite surprised, as though they saw one risen from the dead. Indeed, I was as pale as death, and told them they must look upon me as a dying man, come to bear my dying testimony to the truths I had formerly preached to them. All seemed melted, and were drowned in tears. The cry after me, when I left the pulpit, was like the cry of sincere mourners when attending the funeral of a dear departed friend. Upon my coming home, I was laid on a bed upon the ground, near the fire, and

Y