“London already begins to disagree with my outward man, but the Lord’s smiling upon my poor labours sweetens all. I have begun to preach at six in the morning. We have large congregations even then. I trust we shall have a warm winter. I have not been at the other end of the town this week; but I find all hold on. However, a leader is wanting. This honour has been put on your ladyship by the great Head of the Church an honour conferred on few. That you may every day add to the splendour of your future crown, by always abounding in the work of the Lord, is the fervent prayer of your unworthy servant,
“George Whitefield.”
Nine days later, he wrote again to Mr. Lunell, of Dublin:—
“London, December 9, 1749.
“My dear Mr. Lunell,—I find by your last kind letter that the king’s business requires haste. I, therefore, immediately dispatched it to good Lady Huntingdon, who, I am persuaded, will think it her highest privilege to serve the dear people of Cork. Whether your account of their sufferings has reached her ladyship, I cannot tell, but you will soon know. However, this we know, they have reached the ears of the blessed Jesus, who sits in heaven, and laughs all His enemies to scorn. He will take care that the bush, though burning, shall not be consumed: nay, He will take care that it shall flourish, even in the midst of fire. It will be melancholy to have any preachers transported; but the thoughts of this do not affect me so much, because I know what a field of action there is for them abroad. It has been my settled opinion for a long time, that Christ’s labourers (at least, some of them) love home too much, and do not care enough for those thousands of precious souls, that are ready to perish for lack of knowledge, in yonder wilderness. We propose having an academy, or college, at the Orphan House in Georgia. Supposing the worst to happen, hundreds may find a sweet retreat there. The house is large; it will hold a hundred. I trust my heart is larger, and will hold ten thousand. Be they who they may, if they belong to Jesus, the language of my heart shall be, ‘Come in, ye blessed of the Lord.’ But, perhaps, this may not be the issue. The threatening storm may blow over. It is always darkest before break of day.”
Whitefield’s heart was large and warm. His life was a wandering one, and he saw but little of his relatives; but his affection for them never failed. In anticipation of his birthday, he wrote to his mother the following:—
“London, December 15, 1749.
“My dear and honoured Mother,—To-morrow it will be thirty-five years since you brought unworthy me into the world. Alas! how little have I done for you, and how much less for Him who formed me. This is my comfort; I hope you want for nothing. Thanks be to God for His goodness to you in your old age! I hope you comfort yourself in Him, who, I trust, will be your portion for ever. After Christmas, I hope to see you. My wife sends you her most dutiful respects. If you would have anything brought more than you have mentioned, pray write to, honoured mother, your ever dutiful, though unworthy son,
“George Whitefield.”
Whitefield and his Tabernacle friends began the New Year, 1750, by reading letters respecting the work of God, in different places; and by singing devout and enthusiasticdoggerel. To one of his distant correspondents, he wrote thus:—