And finally, to his dear friend Mr. Keen of London, he wrote from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, September 23, just one week before his death, "By this time I thought to be moving southward. But never was greater importunity used to detain me longer in these northern parts. Poor New England is much to be pitied; Boston people most of all. How grossly misrepresented! What a mercy that our Christian charter cannot be dissolved! Blessed be God for an unchangeable Jesus! You will see, by the many invitations, what a door is opened for preaching the everlasting gospel. I was so ill on Friday that I could not preach, though thousands were waiting to hear. Well, the day of release will shortly come, but it does not seem yet; for by riding sixty miles I am better, and hope to preach here to-morrow. I trust my blessed Master will accept these poor efforts to serve him. O for a warm heart! O to stand fast in the faith, to acquit ourselves like men, and be strong! May this be the happy experience of you and yours. I suppose your letters are gone for me in the Anderson to Georgia. If spared so long, I expect to see them about Christmas. Still pray and praise. I am so poorly, and so engaged when able to preach, that this must apologize for not writing to more friends: it is quite impracticable."
Whitefield's hope to "preach here to-morrow" was fully realized. In the "Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser," we find a letter from Portsmouth, dated Sept. 28, 1770, which says, "Last Sunday morning came to town from Boston, the Rev. George Whitefield, and in the afternoon he preached at the Rev. Dr. Haven's meeting-house; Monday morning he preached again at the same place, to a very large and crowded audience. Tuesday morning a most numerous assembly met at the Rev. Dr. Langdon's meeting-house, which it is said will hold nearly six thousand people, and was well filled, even the aisles. Evening he preached at the Rev. Mr. John Rodgers' meeting-house in Kittery, and yesterday at the Rev. Mr. Lyman's in York, to which place a number of ladies and gentlemen from town accompanied him. This morning [Friday] he will preach at the Rev. Dr. Langdon's meeting-house in this town."
We are now approaching the closing scene, and are invited to hear Whitefield's last sermon. On his way to Newburyport, where he had engaged to preach on Sunday morning, September 30, he was entreated to preach at Exeter. This had been the scene of some of his former triumphs. He was once preaching here, when a man was present who had loaded his pocket with stones to throw at the preacher. He heard his prayer with patience, but as soon as he had read his text, the man took a stone out of his pocket and held it in his hand, waiting for an opportunity to throw it. But God sent a word to his heart, and the stone dropped from his hand. After the sermon, the poor fellow went to Mr. Whitefield, and said, "Sir, I came here to-day with the intention of breaking your head, but God has given me a broken heart." This man was converted to God, and lived an ornament to the gospel.
As though it had been felt by the public that this might be our preacher's last sermon, inconvenient as Saturday noon must be for the assembling of a congregation for worship, such a multitude was collected that no house could contain them, and Whitefield, for nearly two hours, discoursed to an attentive crowd in the open air. Of this last sermon at Exeter, a gentleman who was present has given a deeply interesting and affecting account. The relator was then in his eighty-sixth year, but he retained a strong remembrance of the most trivial incidents connected with that extraordinary man. He says:
"It was usual for Mr. Whitefield to be attended by Mr. Smith, who preached when he was unable on account of sudden attacks of asthma. At the time referred to, after Mr. Smith had delivered a short discourse, Mr. Whitefield seemed desirous of speaking; but from the weak state in which he then was, it was thought almost impossible. He rose from the seat in the pulpit, and stood erect, and his appearance alone was a powerful sermon. The thinness of his visage, the paleness of his countenance, the evident struggling of the heavenly spark in a decayed body for utterance, were all deeply interesting; the spirit was willing, but the flesh was dying. In this situation he remained several minutes, unable to speak; he then said, 'I will wait for the gracious assistance of God, for he will, I am certain, assist me once more to speak in his name.' He then delivered perhaps one of his best sermons, for the light generally burns most splendidly when about to expire. The subject was a contrast of the present with the future; a part of this sermon I read to a popular and learned clergyman in New York, who could not refrain from weeping when I repeated the following: 'I go, I go to rest prepared; my sun has arisen, and by aid from heaven, given light to many; 't is now about to set for—no, it cannot be! 't is to rise to the zenith of immortal glory; I have outlived many on earth, but they cannot outlive me in heaven. Many shall live when this body is no more, but then—Oh, thought divine!—I shall be in a world where time, age, pain, and sorrow are unknown. My body fails, my spirit expands; how willingly would I live for ever to preach Christ! but I die to be with him. How brief, comparatively brief, has been my life, compared with the vast labors I see before me yet to be accomplished; but if I leave now, while so few care about heavenly things, the God of peace will surely visit you.' These, and many other things he said, which, though simple, were rendered important by circumstances; for death had let fly his arrow, and the shaft was deeply enfixed when utterance was given to them: his countenance, his tremulous voice, his debilitated frame, all gave convincing evidence that the eye which saw him should shortly see him no more for ever. When I visited the place where he is entombed, Newburyport, I could not help saying, 'The memory of the just is blessed,' Few are there like George Whitefield; however zealous, they do not possess the masterly power, and those who do, too often turn it to a purpose that does not glorify God."
We have already spoken of the Rev. Daniel Rodgers, a descendant of the martyr of that name, and pastor of the second congregational church at Exeter. It was this old friend of Whitefield who had importuned him to preach at Exeter. The "Almanack Journal" of this excellent man contains the following items of the activity of our "eloquent orator" in his closing days: "September 10, 1770, dear Mr. Whitefield preached here, A. M., ten o'clock. 11th, Mr. Whitefield preached again in Mr. Parsons' meeting-house. 12th, I rode over to Rowley, Mr. Whitefield preached there. 14th, a storm of rain. 15th, the rain continues. Mr. Whitefield went to Boston, not well. 25th, I heard dear Mr. Whitefield preach. 26th, he went to Kittery, and preached for brother John; P. M. I rode to York. 27th, Mr. Whitefield preached at York; P. M. we returned to Portsmouth. 28th, Mr. Whitefield preached his farewell sermon; I returned home. 29th, dear Mr. Whitefield preached for me the last sermon he ever preached."
Mr. Smith's account of the closing scene will not be considered too minute in its details. "Before he commenced his journey of fifteen miles from Portsmouth to Exeter, Mr. Clarkson, senior, observing him more uneasy than usual, said to him, 'Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach.' Whitefield's reply was, 'True, sir;' but 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 and speak for thee once more in the fields, seal thy truth, and come home and die.' His last sermon was from 2 Cor. 13:5, 'Examine yourselves, whether ye be in the faith. Know ye not your own selves, how that Jesus Christ is in you, except ye be reprobates?' He dined at Captain Gillman's. After dinner, Mr. Whitefield and Mr. Parsons rode to Newbury. I did not get there till two hours after them. I found them at supper. I asked Mr. Whitefield how he felt after his journey. He said he was tired, therefore he supped early, and went to bed. He ate a very little supper, talked but little, asked Mr. Parsons to discharge the table, and perform family duty, and then retired up stairs."
The Rev. Dr. Hallock tells us, that, in 1822, he visited Newburyport and the tomb of Whitefield. He was then told by persons whom he considered reliable, that when Whitefield was retiring to his chamber on this last evening of his life, many were so desirous to see and hear him, that he stood on the stairs with a lamp in his hand, and there gave them a tender spiritual address.
We resume Mr. Smith's account: "He said he would sit and read till I came to him, which I did as soon as possible; and found him reading the Bible, with Dr. Watts' Psalms lying open before him. He asked me for some water-gruel, and took about half his usual quantity; and kneeling down by his bedside, closed the evening with prayer. After a little conversation, he went to rest, and slept till two in the morning, when he awoke, and asked for a little cider; he drank about a wine-glass full. I asked him how he felt, for he seemed to pant for breath. He said to me, 'My asthma is coming on again; I must have two or three days' rest. Two or three days' riding, without preaching, would set me up again.' Soon afterwards, he asked me to put the window up a little higher, though it was half up all night. 'For,' said he, 'I cannot breathe; but I hope I shall be better by and by: a good pulpit sweat to-day may give me relief; I shall be better after preaching.' I said to him, 'I wish you would not preach so often.' He replied, 'I had rather wear out than rust out.' I then told him, I was afraid he took cold in preaching yesterday. He said he believed he had; and then sat up in bed, and prayed that God would be pleased to bless his preaching where he had been, and also bless his preaching that day, that more souls might be brought to Christ. He prayed for direction whether he should winter in Boston, or hasten to the southward; and he prayed for a blessing on 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 he laid himself down to sleep again.
"This was near three o'clock. At a quarter past four he awoke, 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 Mr. Whitefield's bedside, and asked him how he felt. He answered, 'I am almost suffocated. I can scarcely breathe, my asthma quite chokes me.' I was then not a little surprised to hear how quickly, 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 underlip drawing inward every time he drew breath. 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 a glass of warm wine; he took half of it, but it seemed as if it would have stopped his breath entirely. He went towards the window, and we offered him some warm wine, with lavender drops, which he refused.