his Bethesda college, and his dear family there; for the Tabernacle and chapel congregations, and all connections on the other side of the water; and then laid himself down to sleep again. This was nigh three o'clook. At a quarter past four he waked, and said, my asthma, my asthma is coming on; I wish I had not given out word to preach at Haverhill, on Monday; I don't think I shall be able; but I shall see what to-day will bring forth. If I am no better to-morrow, I will take two or three days' ride!' He then desired me to warm him a little gruel; and, in breaking the fire wood, I waked Mr. Parsons, who, thinking I knocked for him, rose and came in. He went to Whitefield's bed-side, and asked him how he felt himself. He answered, 'I am almost suffocated. I can scarce breathe, my asthma quite chokes me.' I was then not a little surprised, to hear how quick, and with what difficulty he drew his breath. He got out of bed, and went to the open window for air. This was exactly at five o'clock. I went to him, and for about the space of five minutes saw no danger, only that he had a great difficulty in breathing, as I had often seen before. Soon afterwards he turned himself to me, and said, 'I am dying. I said, 'I hope not, sir.' He ran to the other window, panting for breath, but could get no relief. It was agreed that I should go for Dr. Sawyer; and on my coming back, I saw death on his face; and he again said, 'I am dying.' His eyes were fixed, his under lip drawing inward every time he drew breath; he went towards the window, and we offered him some warm wine, with lavender drops, which he refused. I persuaded him to sit down in the chair, and have his cloak on; he consented by a sign, but could not speak. I then offered him the glass of warm wine; he took half of it, but it seemed as if it would have stopped his breath entirely. In a little time he brought up a considerable quantity of phlegm and wind. I then began to have some small hopes. Mr. Parsons said, he thought Whitefield breathed more freely than he did, and would recover. I said, 'no sir, he is certainly dying.' I was continually employed in taking the phlegm out of his mouth with a handkerchief, and bathing his temples with drops, rubbing his wrists, &c., to give him relief, if possible, but all in vain; his hands and feet were as cold as clay. When the doctor came in, and saw him in the chair leaning upon my breast, he felt his pulse, and said, 'he is a dead man.' Mr. Parsons said, 'I do not believe it; you must do something, doctor!' He said, 'I cannot; he is now near his last breath. And indeed, so it was; for he fetched but one grasp, and stretched out his feet, and breathed no more. This was exactly at six o'clock. We continued rubbing his legs, hands, and feet with warm cloths, and bathed

him with spirits for some time, but all in vain. I then put him into a warm bed, the doctor standing by, and often raised him upright, continued rubbing him and putting spirits to his nose for an hour, till all hopes were gone. The people came in crowds to see him; I begged the doctor to shut the door.*

"The Rev. Mr. Parsons, at whose house my dear master died, sent for Captain Fetcomb, and Mr. Boadman, and others of his elders and deacons, and they took the whole of the burial upon themselves; prepared the vault, and sent and invited the bearers. Many ministers, of all persuasions, came to the house of the Rev. Mr. Parsons, where several of them gave a very particular account of their first awakenings under his ministry, several years ago, and also of many in their congregations, that to their knowledge, under God, owed their conversion wholly to his coming among them, often repeating the blessed seasons they had enjoyed under his preaching: and all said, that his last visit was attended with more power than any other; and that all opposition fell before him. Then one and another of them would pity and pray for his dear Tabernacle and chapel congregations, and it was truly affecting to hear them bemoan the calamity of America and England. Thus they continued for two hours conversing about his great usefulness, and praying that God would scatter his gifts and drop his mantle among them. When the corpse was placed at the foot of the pulpit, close to the vault, the Rev. Daniel Rogers made a very affecting prayer, and openly confessed, that under God, he owed his conversion to the labors of that dear man of God, whose precious remains now lay before them. Then he cried out, O my father, my father! then stopped and wept, as though his heart would break, and the people weeping all through the place. Then he recovered, and finished his prayer, and sat down and wept. Then one of the deacons gave out that hymn

'Why do we mourn departing friends ?' &c.

In the last visit but one which Whitefield paid to America, he spent a day or two at Princeton, under the roof of the Rev. Dr. Finley, then president of the college at that place. At dinner, the doctor said, "Mr. Whitefield, I hope it will be very long before you will be called home, but when that event shall arrive, I should be glad to hear the noble testimony you will bear for God." You would be disappointed, doctor," said Whitefield, " I shall die silent. It has pleased God to enable me to bear so many testimonies for him during my life, that he will require none from me when I die. No, no, it is your dumb christians, that have walked in fear and darkness, and thereby been unable to bear a testimony for God during their lives, that he compels to speak out for him on their death beds." This anecdote was communicated to the writer of it, by a gentleman now living, who was then a student at the college, and a boarder in Dr. Finley's family. The manner of Whitefield's death verified his prediction.

some of the people weeping, some singing, and so on alternately. The Rev. Mr. Jewel preached a funeral discourse, and made an affectionate address to his brethren, to lay to heart the death of that useful man of God; begging that he and they might be upon their watch-tower, and endeavor to follow his blessed example. The corpse was then put into the vault, and all concluded with a short prayer, and dismission of the people, who went weeping through the streets to their respective places of abode."

The melancholy news of Whitefield's decease, arrived in London on Monday, November 5, 1770, by the Boston Gazette, and also by several letters from different correspondents at Boston, to his worthy friend, Mr R. Keen; who received likewise, by the same post, two letters written with his own hand, when in good health, one seven and the other five days before his death. Mr. Keen caused the mournful tidings to be published the same night at the Tabernacle, and the following evening at Tottenham court chapel. His next step was to select some proper person to deliver a funeral discourse, when it occurred to his mind, that he had many times said to Whitefield, “ If you should die abroad, who shall we get to preach your funeral sermon ? Must it be your old friend, the Rev. John Wesley?" And his answer constantly was, "He is the man." Mr. Keen therefore waited on Mr. Wesley, on the Saturday following, and he promised to preach it on the Lord's day, November 18, which he did, to an extraordinarily crowded and mournful auditory; many hundreds being obliged to go away, who could not possibly get within the doors.

In both the chapel and Tabernacle, the pulpits were hung with black cloth, and the galleries with fine black baize. Escutcheons were affixed to the fronts of the pulpits; and on each of the adjoining houses, hatchments were put up: the motto of which was " Mea vita-salus et gloria Christus." At the expiration of six months, the mourning in each place of worship, and the escutcheons in the vestries, were taken down. The hatchments remained twelve months, when one was taken down, and placed in the Tabernacle, and the other over a neat marble monument, erected by Whitefield for his wife in Tottenham court chapel, with a space left for an inscription respecting himself after his decease, as he wished to be interred in the same vault had he died in England. The Rev. Titus Knight,*

*The Rev. Titus Knight, was a native of Halifax, a town in which he exercised his ministry, and in which, indeed he may be said to have spent his whole life. He was born December 17, 1719. During his childhood, he had a particular veneration for sacred things, took a delight in attending the church, and used frequently to weep. At the same early period he learned