The following lines were written by the departed and amiable William B. Tappan, on visiting this spot in September, 1837.
"And this was Whitefield!—this, the dust now blending
With kindred dust, that wrapt his soul of fire—
Which, from the mantle freed, is still ascending
Through regions of far glory, holier, higher.
Oh, as I gaze here with a solemn joy
And awful reverence, in which shares Decay,
Who, this fair frame reluctant to destroy,
Yields it not yet to doom which all obey—
How follows thought his flight, at Love's command,
From hemisphere in sin, to hemisphere,
Warning uncounted multitudes with tears—
Preaching the risen Christ on sea and land—
And now those angel journeyings above!
Souls, his companions, saved by such unwearied love!"
In December, 1845, one of the London daily papers, "The Sun," contained a somewhat extended account of Whitefield in New England, and especially his death, funeral, and tomb, from which we borrow mementos that in both hemispheres may be interesting "for generations to come."
"I was spending Sunday at Old Ipswich, in the latter part of last September, when by accident I fell in with an old inhabitant of the town who had heard Whitefield preach there. He was a sort of patriarch of the place, and as he sat on one of the stones which surrounded the ancient orthodox meeting-house, his grey locks streaming from beneath his queerly shaped hat, and attired in his primly cut old-fashioned coat, he appeared no bad representative of the departed Puritans who, in former days, had soberly and decently obeyed the call of the Sabbath bell, and worshipped in the same temple whose steeple now casts its shadow athwart the green sward beneath.... As the bell of Old Ipswich church swung out that bright Sabbath morning, it was a pretty sight to see the village people coming from different points to the decaying old church, which was situated, as most country churches in New England are, on a hill-top. While I was enjoying the scene, the old man to whom I have alluded, and who was sitting on a stone, accosted me, and asked me if I was not a stranger 'in these parts.' On my informing him that I was, he pointed out to me the 'lions' of the neighborhood, and wound up by asking, 'I suppose, sir, you've heard of Whitefield?'
"'Of Whitefield? to be sure I have.'
"'Well, I've seen Whitefield, George Whitefield stood on this very stone,' (dropping his stick feebly from his shaking hands,) 'and I heard him preach here.'
"'And do you remember any thing about him?' I asked.
"'Well, I guess I do. I was but a bit of a boy then; but here he stood on this stone, looking like a flying angel, and we call this Whitefield's pulpit to this day.... There was folks here from all parts to hear him; so he was obliged to preach outside, for the church wasn't half big enough for 'em, and no two ways about it. I've heard many parsons sin' that time, but none on 'em could come nigh him, any how they could fix it.'