same state at Newbury Port, owing to the vast quantities of nitre with which the earth abounds there." This is quoted to prove, that the report does not "seem to have originated in any intention to deceive." Thus there was evidently much truth in it in 1734; whereas, in 1796, when Mason saw the body, it might be equally true that "the flesh was totally consumed." The skull is, I understand, very perfect still. It will surprise and grieve not a few on both sides of the Atlantic, when I tell them that 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 ambassador where to find it, and to 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, sure to gratify me." He mistook my taste. I went, and he placed on the table a long narrow box, defying me to guess its contents. I had no need to guess or hesitate. I said, "It contains the right arm of George Whitefield, and I could name both the thief and the receiver. I have known for ten years that it was in your possession: but my organ of veneration is larger than that of my curiosity; and, therefore, I never hinted at my knowledge, although I have often visited you on the banks of the Thames, and seen all your other memorials of Whitefield, and reciprocated all your other feelings towards him." I owe it to my friend to add, if the relic be still in England, that it could not be in better hands than those it was first committed to. Still, I would, if I could, give "commandment concerning the bones," as solemnly and authoritatively as dying Joseph. One thing I promise: I will conceal the name of the spoiler, (for I have read his letter,) if the spoil should be returned. The following inscription was copied by Dr. Reed from the splendid monument erected by Mr. Bartlett, at Newbury Port, to the memory of Whitefield. THIS CENOTAPH Is erected, with affectionate Veneration, The Rev. GEORGE WHITEFIELD, Preferring the Honour of Christ to his own Interest, Repose, As a Christian Orator, his deep Piety, disinterested Zeal, and vivid Imagination, Gave unexampled Energy to his look, utterance, and action. Bold, fervent, pungent, and popular in his Eloquence, No other uninspired man ever preached to so large assemblies, Or enforced the simple Truths of the Gospel, by Motives So persuasive and awful, and with an Influence so powerful, On the Hearts of his Hearers. He died of Asthma, September 30, 1770, Suddenly exchanging his Life of unparalleled Labours Reed and Matheson's Visit. CHAPTER XXXII. WHITEFIELD'S CHARACTERISTICS. I FORESAW, from the commencement of this work, that I was incapable of embodying the character of Whitefield, at the end, in a form which would satisfy myself. I therefore kept back nothing for the sake of final effect; but allowed him, at every step, to appear all he was at the time and place. His characteristics have thus come out like the stars, now one by one, and anon in constellations, and all" in their season." In this form they have kept alive my own interest in both his Life and Times, whilst writing these pages; and therefore I see no necessity, and feel no inclination, to try my hand at a formal portrait. Whitefield paints himself upon every eye that follows him. The only difficulty felt in trying to realize this mighty angel of the everlasting gospel, as he flies in the midst of heaven, arises from the figure he presents in almost all the portraits which have accompanied his works hitherto. Indeed, until I saw the full-length engravings of him, from pictures taken when he was in his prime, I found it impossible to associate with his form (except in the case of his uplifted hands and eyes) just ideas of his spirit. This difficulty is now removed, and by no stratagem. The portrait in this volume is a faithful copy (except in length and scenery) of the original engraving, taken from Russel's pic ture of him, as he appeared in Moorfields in all his glory. I have another reason for not trying to embody the whole character of Whitefield: it would present an inimitable example; and thus defeat one great purpose I had in writing his life. His image as a whole, is not calculated to multiply itself. Happily this is not the fact in regard to some features of it. Some of them, like queen bees, are each capable of producing a whole hive. Indeed, it is impossible that any conscientious minister of the gospel can contemplate Whitefield in this volume, without setting himself to imitate him in something; whereas no one would dream of even try. ing to imitate him in all things. At least, I never saw the man who could be a second Whitefield. Rowland Hill was not that. SPENCER, from all I could learn in Liverpool, during eleven years' occupation of his pulpit, seems to have approached nearest to the pathos and fascination of Whitefield; but he had evidently none of his commanding majesty. : I studied Whitefield until I understood him; and therefore, I have instinctively recognised whatever resembled him, in all the popular preachers of my time. James, of Birmingham, has occasionally reminded me of his alternate bursts of tenderness and terror, in all but their rapidity; Rowland Hill of his off-hand strokes of power; and Spring, of New-York, his off-heart unction, when it fell, like dew, copiously and calmly. Baptist Noel also has reminded me of this. Robert Newton has some of Whitefield's oratory, but none of his high passion. Irving had nothing of him but his voice. Cooper, of Dublin, when in his prime, and preaching in the open air, has enabled me to conceive how Whitefield commanded the multitude in Moorfields. I must add,—although I shall not be generally understood,-that Williams of the Wern, and my friend Christmas Evans, of Wales, and Billy Dawson of Yorkshire, have oftener realized Whitefield to me, than any other preachers of my time and yet these three men do not resemble him, nor each other, in mind or body; but they can lose themselves entirely, as he did, in tender and intense love to souls. This is what is wanted; and it will tell by any voice or style, and from any eye or stature. Rowland Hill knew and loved one minister in Scotland—the late Cowie, of Huntly-for his resemblance to Whitefield. I do not wonder at this. It was Whitefield's likeness to Cowie, that first won my heart. I saw in the busts, and read in the books of George Whitefield, the express image of George Cowie, the pastor of my boyhood. I was not twelve years old when he died: but the majestic music of his voice is yet in my ear, and the angelic benevolence of his countenance yet before my eye. I could weep yet, as I wept when I did not understand him. I wept often then because he was bathed in tears of love. I loved him, because he loved me for my father's sake, when my father died. He then became a father unto me. Whether he bequeathed me to Dr. Philip I do not know: but I can never forget that in his house, Dr. Philip adopted me. This he did in the true spirit of adoption! I owe every thing in early life, to this. Even in mature life, I feel the benefit of it every day. 66 I must not dismiss this reference to Cowie yet. It will help not a few to realize Whitefield. I have often roused the venerable Rowland Hill, in his old age, from absence and depression, when he was not likely to be himself in the pulpit, or on the platform, by a timely reference to our old friend, Mr. Cowie." This never failed to quicken him. I was, to him, so associated with Huntly, that he often called me Mr. Huntly! The public are thus indebted to me for not a few of Rowland Hill's last and best eulogiums on Whitefield. He had seen him personified in Cowie, and I kept the image before the good old man, whenever I met him in public or private. The secret was this. The chief cause of Mr. Cowie's excommunication from the anti-burghers, was his co-operation with Mr. Hill, and itinerants of his stamp: and I had been Mr. Cowie's little servant on the day he defended himself before the synod. It was a high day to me, until I found him condemned. I had carried from his library to the top of his pulpit stairs, the books he intended to quote from; and handed them to him as he required them. It was a long defence: but I felt no weariness, although I did not understand a word of its real merits. There was Latin in it—and he had begun to teach me Latin; and thus I expected to understand the speech some day. And then it was a perfect stream of eloquence, flowing, now softly as the Boggie, and anon impetuously as the Dovern; the rivers which encircle Huntly. I was sure that nobody could answer him; and so vexed when they tried, that I could have thrown a book at the head of the moderator, and even two or three at some other heads of the synod. True; this was worse than foolish in a boy: but still, it was not more foolish than old men flinging censures at the head of a champion, who was the Whitefield of the north. At this moment, I do not feel that I was the greatest sinner in that assembly. I thus allow my recollections of Cowie to revel in their own vividness, because they will explain what I have ventured to call my "knowledge of Whitefield." I mean that I met in the sermons and vein of Whitefield, the image of my first friend and pastor; and Rowland Hill, who knew both parties, attested the likeness. This fact must be my apology for the many instances in this volume, in which I gossip about Whitefield, as if I had been brought up at his knee. There is no affectation in this, whatever flippancy it may have betrayed me into. I have been all along at home, because in company with |