Chapter Six.
New Ideas for Cary.
“O Jesu, Thou art pleading,
In accents meek and low,
I died for you, My children,
And will ye treat Me so?
O Lord, with shame and sorrow,
We open now the door:
Dear Saviour, enter, enter,
And leave us never more!”
Bishop Walsham How.
As we drank our tea, this evening, I said,—
“Uncle, will you please tell me something?”
“Surely, my dear, if I can,” answered my Uncle Drummond kindly, laying down his book.
“Are all the people at Abbotscliff going to Heaven?”
I really meant it, but my Uncle Drummond put on such a droll expression, and Angus laughed so much, that I woke up to see that they thought I had said something very queer. When my uncle spoke, it was not at first to me.
“Flora,” said he, “where have you taken your cousin?”
“Only into the cottages, Father, and to Monksburn,” said Flora, in a diverted tone, as if she were trying not to laugh.
“Either they must all have had their Sabbath manners on,” said my Uncle Drummond, “or else there are strange folks at Brocklebank. No, my dear; I fear not, by any means.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “we must be worse folks at Brocklebank than I thought we were. But these seem to me, Uncle, such a different kind of people—as if they were travelling on another road, and had a different end in view. Nearly all the people I see here seem to think more of what they ought to do, and at Brocklebank we think of what we like to do.”
I did not, somehow, like to say right out what I really meant—to the one set God seemed a Friend, to the other He was a Stranger.
“Do you hear, Angus, what a good character we have?” said my Uncle Drummond, smiling. “We must try to keep it, my boy.”
Of course I could not say that I did not think Angus was included in the “we.” But the momentary trouble in Flora’s eyes, as she glanced at him, made me feel that she saw it, as indeed I could have guessed from what I had heard her say to Mr Keith.
“Well, my lassie,” my Uncle Drummond went on, “while I fear we do not all deserve the compliment you pay us, yet have you ever thought what those two roads are, and what end they have in view?”
“Yes, Uncle, I can see that,” said I. “Heaven is at the end of one, I am sure.”
“And of the other, Cary?”
I felt the tears come into my eyes.
“Uncle, I don’t like to think about that. But do tell me, for that is what I want to know, what is the difference? I do not see how people get from the one road to the other.”
I did not say—but I feel sure that my Uncle Drummond did not need it—that I felt I was on the wrong one.
“Lassie, if you had fallen into a deep tank of water, where the walls were so high that it was not possible you could climb out by yourself, for what would you hope?”
“That somebody should come and help me, I suppose.”
“True. And who is the Somebody that can help you in this matter?”
I thought, and thought, and could not tell. It seems strange that I did not think what he meant. But I had been so used to think of our Lord Jesus Christ as a Person who had a great deal to do with going to church and the Prayer-book, but nothing at all to do with me, that really I did not think what my uncle meant me to say.
“There is but one Man, my child, who can give you any help. And He longed to help you so much, that He came down from Heaven to do it. You know who I mean now, Cary?”
“You mean our Lord Jesus Christ,” I said. “But, Uncle, you say He longed to help? I never knew that, I always thought—”
“You thought He did not wish to help you at all, and that you would have very hard work to persuade Him?”
“Well—something like it,” I said, hesitatingly Flora had left the room a moment before, and now she put her head in at the door and called Angus. My Uncle Drummond and I were left alone.
“My dear lassie,” said he, as tenderly as if I had been his own child, “you would never have wished to be helped if He had not first wished to help you. But remember, Cary, help is not the right word. The true word is save. You are not a few yards out of the path, and able to turn back at any moment. You are lost. Dear Cary, will you let the Lord find you?”
“Can I hinder Him?” I said.
“Yes, my dear,” was the solemn answer. “He allows Himself to be hindered, if you choose the way of death. He will not save you against your will. He demands your joining in that work. Take, again, the emblem of the tank: the man holds out his hands to you; you cannot help yourself out; but you can choose whether you will put your hands in his or not. It will not be his fault if you are drowned; it will be your own.”
“Uncle, how am I to put my hands in His?”
“Hold them out to Him, Cary. Ask Him, with all your heart, to take you, and make you His own. And if He refuse, let me know.”
“I will try, Uncle,” I answered. “But you said—does God never save anybody against his will?”
My Uncle Drummond was silent for a moment.
“Well, Cary, perhaps at times He does. But it is not His usual way of working. And no man has any right to expect it in his own case, though we may be allowed to hope for it in that of another.”
I wonder very much now, as I write it all down, how I ever came to say all this to my Uncle Drummond. I never meant it at all when I began. I suppose I got led on from one thing to another. When I came to think of it, I was very grateful to Flora for going away and calling Angus after her.
“But, Uncle,” I said, recollecting myself suddenly, “how does anybody know when the Lord has heard him?”
He smiled. “If you were lifted out of the tank and set on dry ground, Cary, do you think you would have much doubt about it?”
“But I could see that, Uncle.”
“Take another emblem, then. You love some people very dearly, and there are others whom you do not like at all. You cannot see love and hate. But have you any doubt whom you love, or whom you dislike?”
“No,” said I,—“at least, not when I really love or dislike them very much. But there are people whom I cannot make up my mind about; I neither like nor dislike them exactly.”
“Those are generally people of whom you have not seen much, I think,” said my Uncle Drummond; “or else they are those colourless men and women of whom you say that they have nothing in them. You could not feel so towards a person of decided character, and one whom you knew well.”
“No, Uncle; I do not think I could.”
“You may rest assured, my dear, that unless He be an utter Stranger, you will never feel so towards the Lord. When you come to know Him, you must either love or hate Him. You cannot help yourself.”
It almost frightened me to hear my Uncle Drummond say that. It must be such a dreadful thing to go wrong on that road!
“Cary,” he added suddenly, but very softly, “would you find it difficult to love a man who was going to die voluntarily instead of you?”
“I do not see how I could help it, Uncle,” cried I.
“Then how is it,” he asked in the same tone, “that you have any difficulty in loving the Man who has died in your stead?”
I thought a minute.
“Uncle,” I said, “it does not seem real. The other would.”
“In other words, Cary—you do not believe it.”
“Do not believe it!” cried I. “Surely, Uncle, I believe in our Lord! Don’t I say the Creed every Sunday?”
“Probably you do, my dear.”
“But I do believe it!” cried I again.
“You do believe—what?” said my Uncle Drummond.
“Why, I believe that Christ came down from Heaven, and was crucified, dead, and buried, and rose again, and ascended into Heaven. Of course I believe it, Uncle—every bit of it.”
“And what has it to do with you, my dear? It all took place a good while ago, did it not?”
I thought again. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that Christ died to save sinners; and I must be a sinner. But somehow, I don’t quite see how it is to be put together. Uncle, it seems like a Chinese puzzle of which I have lost a piece, and none of the others will fit properly. I cannot explain it, and yet I do not quite know why.”
“Listen, Cary, and I will tell you why.”
I did, with both my ears and all my mind.
“Your mistake is a very common one, little lassie. You are trying to believe what, and you have got to believe whom. If you had to cross a raging torrent, and I offered to carry you over, it would signify nothing whether you knew where I was born, or if I were able to speak Latin. But it would signify a great deal to you whether you knew me; whether you believed that I would carry you safe over, or that I would take the opportunity to drop you into the water and run away. Would it not?”
“Of course it would,” I said; “the whole thing would depend on whether I trusted you.”
My Uncle Drummond rose and laid his hand on my head—not as Mr Digby used to do, as though he were condescending to a little child; but as if he were blessing me in God’s name. Then he said, in that low, soft, solemn tone which sounds to me so very high and holy, as if an angel spoke to me:—“Cary, dear child, the whole thing depends—your soul and your eternity depend—on whether you trust the Lord Jesus.” Then he went out of the room, and left me alone, as if he wanted me to think well about that before he said anything more.
I think something is coming to help me. My Uncle Drummond was late for supper last night—a thing which I could see was very unusual. And when he did come, he was particularly silent and meditative. At length, when supper was over, as we turned our chairs round from the table, and were sitting down again to our work, my Uncle Drummond, who generally goes to his study after supper, sat down among us.
“Young people,” said he, with a look on his face which it seemed to me was partly grave and partly diverted, “considering that you are more travelled persons than I, I come to you for information. Have you—any of you—while in England, either seen or heard anything of one Mr George Whitefield, a clergyman of the Church of England, who is commonly reckoned a Methodist?”
Angus made a grimace, and said, “Plenty!”
Flora was doubtful; she thought she had heard his name.
I said, “I have heard his name too, Uncle; but I do not know much about him, only Father seemed to think it a good joke that anybody should fancy him a wise man.”
“Angus appears to be the best informed of you,” said my uncle. “Speak out, my boy, and tell us what you know.”
“Well, he is a queer sort of fellow, I fancy,” said Angus. “He was one of the Methodists; but they say those folks have had a split, and Whitefield has broken with them. He travels about preaching, though, as they do; and they say that the reason why he took to field-preaching was because no church would hold the enormous congregations which gathered to hear him. He has been several times to the American colonies, where they say he draws larger crowds than John Wesley himself.”
“A good deal of ‘They say’,” observed Uncle Drummond, with a smile. “Do ‘they say’ that the bishops and clergy are friendly to this remarkable preacher, or not?”
“Well, I should rather think not,” answered Angus. “There is one bishop who has stuck to him through thick and thin—the Bishop of Gloucester, who gave him his orders to begin with; but the rest of them look askance at him over their shoulders, I believe. It is irregular, you know, to preach in fields—wholly improper to save anybody’s soul out of church; and these English folks take the horrors at anything irregular. The women like him because he makes them cry so much.”
“Angus!” cried Flora and I together.
“That’s what I was told, I assure you, young ladies,” returned Angus, “I am only repeating what I have heard.”
“Well, that you may shortly have an opportunity of judging,” said my Uncle Drummond; “for this gentleman has come to Selkirk, and has asked leave of the presbytery to preach in certain kirks of this neighbourhood. There was some demur at first to the admission of a Prelatist; but after some converse with him this was withdrawn, and he will preach next Sabbath morning at Selkirk, and in the afternoon at Monks’ Brae. You can go to Monks’ Brae to hear him, if you will; I, of course, shall not be able to accompany you, but I trust to find an opportunity when he preaches in the fields, if there be one. I should like to hear this great English preacher, I confess. What say you?”
“They’ll go, you may be sure, Sir,” said Angus, before we could answer. “Trust a lassie to gad about if she has the chance. Mind you take all the pocket-handkerchiefs you have with you. They say ’tis dreadful the way this man gars you greet. ’Tis true, you English are more given that way than we Scots; but folks say you cannot help yourself,—you must cry, whether you will or no.”
“I should like to go, I think, Uncle,” said I. “Only—I suppose he is a real clergyman?”
“There goes a genuine Englishwoman!” said Angus. “If Paul himself were to preach, she would not go to hear him till she knew what bishop had ordained him.”
“Yes, Cary,” answered my Uncle Drummond, smiling; “he is a real clergyman. More ‘real’ than you think me, I fear.”
“Oh, you are different, Uncle,” said I; “but I am sure Father would not like me to hear any preacher who was not—at least—I don’t know—he did not seem to think this Mr Whitefield all right, somehow. Perhaps he did not know he was a proper person.”
“‘A proper person!’” sighed Angus, casting up his eyes.
“My dear,” said my Uncle Drummond, kindly, “you are a good lassie to think of your father’s wishes. Never mind Angus; he is only making fun, and is a foolish young fellow yet. Of course, not having spoken with your father, I cannot tell so well as yourself what his wishes are; and ’tis quite possible he may think, for I hear many do, that this gentleman is a schismatic, and may disapprove of him on that account only. If so, I can tell you for certain, ’tis a mistake. But as to anything else, you must judge for yourself, and do what you think right.”
“You see no objection to our going, Father?” asked Flora, who had not spoken hitherto.
“Not at all, my dear,” said my Uncle. “Go by all means, if you like it. You may never have another opportunity, and ’tis very natural you should wish it.”
“Thank you,” answered Flora. “Then, if Angus will take me, I will go.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Angus. “I am afraid some of my handkerchiefs are at the wash. I should not like to be quite drowned in my tears. I might wash you away, too; and that would be a national calamity.”
“Don’t jest on serious subjects, my boy,” said Uncle; and Angus grew grave directly. “I am no enemy to honest, rational fun; ’tis human, and natural more especially to the young. But never, never let us make a jest of the things that pertain to God.”
“I beg your pardon, Father,” said Angus, in a low voice. “I’ll take you, Flora. What say you, Cary?”
“Yes, I should like to go,” I said. And I wondered directly whether I had said right or wrong. But I do so want to hear something that would help me.
I found that Monks’ Brae was on the Monksburn road, but nearly two miles further on. ’Tis the high road from Selkirk to Galashiels, after you leave Monksburn, and pretty well frequented; so that Angus was deemed guard enough. But last night the whole road was so full of people going to hear Mr Whitefield, that it was like walking in a crowd all the way. The kirk was crammed to the very doors, and outside people stood looking in and listening through the doors and the open windows. Mr Lundie, the minister of Monks’ Brae, led the worship (as they say here); and when the sermon came, I looked with some curiosity at the great preacher who did such unusual things, and whom some people seemed to think it so wrong to like. Mr Whitefield is not anything particular to look at: just a young man in a fair wig, with a round face and rosy cheeks. He has a most musical voice, and he knows how to put it to the best advantage. Every word is as distinct as can be, and his voice rings out clear and strong, like a well-toned bell. But he had not preached ten minutes before I forgot his voice and himself altogether, and could think of nothing but what he was preaching about. And I never heard such a sermon in my life. My Uncle Drummond’s are the only ones I have heard which even approach it, and he does not lift you up and carry you away, as Mr Whitefield does.
All the other preachers I ever heard, except those two, are always telling you to do something. Come to church, and say your prayers, and take the Sacrament; but particularly, do your duty. Now it always seems to me that there are two grand difficulties in the way of doing one’s duty. The first is, to find out what is one’s duty. Of course there is the Bible; but, if I may say it with reverence, the Bible has never seemed to have much to do with me. It is all about people who lived ever so long ago, and what they did; and what has that to do with me, Cary Courtenay, and what I am doing? Then suppose I do know what my duty is—and certainly I do in some respects—I am not sure that I can express it properly, but I feel as if I wanted something to come and make me do it. I am like a watch, with all the wheels and springs there, ready to go, but I want somebody to come and wind me up. And I do not know how that is to be done. But Mr Whitefield made me wish, oh so much! that that unknown somebody would come and do it. I never thought much about it before, until that talk with my Uncle Drummond, and now it feels to be what I want more than anything else.
I cannot write the sermon down: not a page of it. I think you never can write down on paper the things that stir your very soul. It is the things which just tickle your brains that you can put down in elegant language on paper. When a thing comes close to you, into your real self, and grapples with you, and leaves a mark on you for ever hereafter, whether for good or evil, you cannot write or talk about that,—you can only feel it.
The text was, “What think ye of Christ?”
Mr Whitefield saith any man that will may have his sins forgiven, and may know it. I have heard Mr Bagnall speak of this doctrine, which he said was shocking and wicked, for it gave men licence to live in sin. Mr Whitefield named this very thing (whereby I saw it had been brought as a charge against him), and showed plainly that it did not tend to destroy good works, but only built them up on a safer and surer foundation. We work, saith he, not for that we would be saved by our works, but out of gratitude that we have been saved by Christ, who commands these works to such as would follow Him. And he quoted an Article of the Church, (Note 4) saying that he desired men to see that he was no schismatic preaching his own fancies, but that the Church whereof he was a minister held the same doctrine. I wonder if Mr Bagnall knows that, and if he ever reads the Articles.
He spoke much, also, of the new birth, or conversion. I never heard any other preacher, except Uncle, mention that at all. I know Mr Digby thought it a fanatical notion only fit for enthusiasts. But certainly there are texts in the Bible that speak plainly of it. And Mr Whitefield saith that we do not truly believe in Christ, unless we so believe as to have Him dwelling in us, and to receive life and nourishment from Him as the branch does from the vine. And Saint John says the same thing. How can it be enthusiasm to say what the Bible says?
People seem so dreadfully frightened of what they call enthusiasm (Note 1). Grandmamma used to say there was nothing more vulgar. But the queer thing is that many of these very people will let you get as enthusiastic as ever you like about a game of cards, or one horse coming in before another in a race, or about politics, or poaching, and things of that sort that have to do with this world. It is about the things of real consequence—things which have to do with your soul and the next world—that you must not get enthusiastic!
May one not have too little enthusiasm, I wonder, as well as too much? Would it not be reasonable to be enthusiastic about things that really signify, and cool about the things that do not?
I want to write down a few sentences which Mr Whitefield said, that I may not forget them. I do not know how they came in among the rest. They stuck to me just as they are. (Note 2). He says:—
“Our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual enemies.”
“We must take care of healing before we see sinners wounded.”
“The King of the Church has all its adversaries in a chain.”
“If other sins have slain their thousands of professing Christians, worldly-mindedness has slain its ten thousands.”
“How can any say, ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ in the morning, when they are resolved to run into it at night?”
“How many are kept from seeing Christ in glory, by reason of the press!” (That is, he explained, that people are ashamed of being singularly good (Note 3), unless their acquaintances are on the same side.)
“Christ will thank you for coming to His feast.”
When Mr Whitefield came near the end of his sermon, I thought I could see why people said he made them cry so much. His voice sank into a soft, pleading, tender accent, as if he yearned over the souls before him. His hands were held out as if he were just holding out Jesus Christ to us, and we must take Him or turn away and be lost. And he begged us all so pitifully not to turn away. I saw tears running down the cheeks of many hard-looking men and women. Flora cried, and so did I. But Angus did not. He did not look as though he felt at all inclined to do it.
This is one of the last sermons, we hear, that Mr Whitefield will preach on this side the sea. He sails for the American colonies next month. He is said to be very fond of his American friends, and very much liked by them. (Note 5).
As we were coming away, we came upon our friends from Monksburn, whom we had not seen before.
“This is preaching!” said Annas, as she clasped our hands.
“Eh, puir laddie, he’ll just wear himself out,” said the Laird. “I hope he has a gude wife, for sic men are rare, and they should be well taken care of while they are here.”
“He has a wife, Sir,” observed Angus, “and the men of his own kidney think he would be rather better off if he had none.”
“Hoots, but I’m sorry to hear it,” said the Laird. “What ails her, ken ye, laddie?”
“As I understood, Sir, she had three grave drawbacks. In the first place, she is a widow with a rich jointure.”
“That’s a queer thing to call a drawback!” said the Laird.
“In the second place, she is a widow with a temper, and a good deal of it.”
“Dinna name it!” cried the Laird, lifting up his hands. “Dinna name it! Eh, puir laddie, but I’m wae for him, gin he’s fashed wi’ ane o’ that sort.”
“And in the third place,” continued Angus, “I have been told that he may well preach against worldly-mindedness, for he gets enough of it at home. Mrs Whitefield knows what are trumps, considerably better than she knows where to look in the Bible for her husband’s text.”
“Dear, dear!” cried Lady Monksburn in her soft voice. “What could the good man be thinking of, to bind such a burden as that upon his life?”
“He thought he had converted her, I believe,” said Angus, “but she came undone.”
“I should think,” remarked Mr Keith, “that he acted as Joshua did with the Gibeonites.”
“How was that?” said Angus.
“It won’t hurt you to look for it,” was the answer.
I don’t know whether Angus looked for it, but I did as soon as I got in, and I saw that Mr Keith thought there had been too much hastiness, and perhaps a little worldly-mindedness in Mr Whitefield himself. That may be why he preaches so earnestly against it. We know so well where the slippery places are, when we have been down ourselves. And when we have been down once, we are generally very, very careful to keep off that slide for the future.
Mr Whitefield said last night that it was not true to say, as some do, “that a man may be in Christ to-day, and go to the Devil to-morrow.” Then if anybody is converted, how can he, as Angus said, “come undone”? I only see one explanation, and it is rather a terrible one: namely, that the conversion was not real, but only looked like it. And I am afraid that must be the truth. But what a pity it is that Mr Whitefield did not find it out sooner!
“Well, Helen, and how did you like the great English preacher?” I said to Flora’s nurse.
“Atweel, Miss Cary, the discourse was no that ill for a Prelatist,” was the answer.
And that was as much admiration as I could get from Helen.
There was more talk about Mr Whitefield this morning at breakfast. I cannot tell what has come to Angus. Going to hear Mr Whitefield preach at Monks’ Brae seems to have made him worse instead of better. Flora and I both liked it so much; but Angus talks of it with a kind of bitter hardness in his voice, and as if it pleased him to let us know all the bad things which had been said about the preacher. He told us that they said—(I wish they would give over saying!)—that Mr Whitefield had got his money matters into some tangle, in the business of building his Orphan House in Georgia; and “they said” he had acted fraudulently in the matter. My Uncle Drummond put this down at once, with—
“My son, never repeat a calumny against a good man. You may not know it, but you do Satan’s very work for him.”
Angus made a grimace behind his hand, which I fancy he did not mean his father to see. Then, he went on, “‘They say’ that Mr Whitefield is so fanatical and extravagant in preaching against worldliness, that he counts it sinful to smell to a rose, or to eat anything relishing.”
“Did he say so?” asked my Uncle: “or did ‘they’ say it for him?”
“Well, Sir,” answered Angus with a laugh, “I heard Mr Whitefield had said that he would give his people leave to smell to a rose and a pink also, so long as they would avoid the appearance of sin: and, quoth he, ‘if you can find any diversion which you would be willing to be found at by our Lord in His coming, I give you free licence to go to it and welcome.’”
“Then we have disposed of that charge,” saith my Uncle. “What next?”
“Well, they say he hath given infinite displeasure to the English gentry by one of his favourite sayings—that ‘Man is half a beast and half a devil.’ He will not allow them to talk of ‘passing the time’—how dare they waste the time, saith he, when they have the devil and the beast to get out of their souls? Folks don’t like, you see, to be painted in those colours.”
“No, we rarely admire a portrait that is exactly like us,” saith my Uncle Drummond.
“Pray, Sir, think you that is a likeness?” said Angus.
“More like, my son, than you and I think. Some of us have more of the one, and some of the other: but in truth I cannot contradict Mr Whitefield. ’Tis a just portrait of what man is by nature.”
“But, Sir!” cried Angus, “do you allow nothing for a man’s natural virtues?”
“What are they?” asked my Uncle. “I allow that ‘there is none that doeth good, no, not one.’ You were not taught, Angus, that a man had virtues natural to him, except as the Spirit of God implanted them in him.”
“No, Sir; but when I go forth into the world, I cannot help seeing that it is so.”
“I wish I could see it!” said my Uncle. “It would be a much more agreeable sight than many things I do see.”
“Well, Sir, take generosity and good temper,” urged Angus. “Do you not see much of these in men who, as Mr Whitefield would say, are worldly and ungodly?”
“I often see the Lord’s restraining grace,” answered my Uncle, quietly; “but am I to give the credit of it to those whom He restrains?”
“But think you, Sir, that it is wise—” Angus paused.
“Go on, my boy,” said my Uncle. “I like you to speak out, like an honest man. By all means have courage to own your convictions. If they be right ones, you may so have them confirmed; and if they be wrong, you stand in better case to have them put right.”
I did not think Angus looked quite comfortable. He hesitated a moment, and then, I suppose, came out with what he had meant to say.
“Think you not, Sir, that it is wise to leave unsaid such things as offend people, and make them turn away from preaching? Should we not be careful to avoid offence?”
“Unnecessary offence,” saith my Uncle. “But the offence of the cross is precisely that which we are warned not to avoid. ‘Not with wisdom of words,’ saith the Apostle, ‘lest the cross of Christ should be made of none effect.’ In his eyes, ‘then is the offence of the cross ceased,’ was sufficient to condemn the preaching whereof he spoke. And that policy of keeping back truth is the Devil’s policy; ’tis Jesuitical. ‘Will ye speak wickedly for God, and talk deceitfully for Him?’ ‘Shall the throne of iniquity have fellowship with Thee?’ Never, Angus: never!”
“But our Lord Himself seems to have kept things back from His disciples,” pleaded Angus, uneasily.
“Yes, what they were not ready for and could not yet understand. But never that which offended them. He offended them terribly when He told them that the Son of Man was about to be crucified. So did the Jesuits to the Chinese: and when they found the offence, they altered their policy, and said the story of the crucifixion was an invention of Christ’s enemies. Did He?”
Angus made no answer: and breakfast being over, we separated to our several work.
Note 1. “Enthusiasm” was the term then usually applied to the doctrines of grace, when the word was used in a religious sense.
Note 2. These sentences are not taken from any one of Whitefield’s sermons exclusively, but are gathered from the gems of thought scattered through his works.
Note 3. Singular still meant alone in Whitefield’s day.
Note 4. Articles twelve and thirteen. All the members of the Church of England ought to be perfectly familiar with the Articles and Homilies, as the Reformers intended them to be. How else can they know what they profess to hold, when they call themselves members of the Church? If they do not share her opinions, they have no right to use her name.
Note 5. He died at Newbury Port, in New England, in September 1770. America has no nobler possession than the grave of George Whitefield.