George-Whitefield-Field-Preacher

THE LAST NIGHT 339
words of grace and truth from his lips; but he felt himself un-
equal to the task of addressing them, and said to another
clergyman, ' Brother, you must speak to these dear people ; I
cannot say a word.' To his friend and companion, Mr.
Richard Smith, who slept in the same room with him, he said,
' I will sit and read till you come to me.' But there were the
waiting people to be passed, as, with candle in hand, he went
to his bedroom ; and his heart strove with him to say some-
thing. He halted on the staircase, turned towards them, and
began an exhortation. Tearful eyes were lifted up to him,
while his words flowed on and ceased not ' until the candle,
which he still held, burned away, and went out in its socket.'
When his friend entered his room, Whitefield was found
reading the Bible, with Watts' psalms lying open before him.
After committing himself into the hands of God, he went to
rest, and slept, with the window half-open, till two in the
morning, when an attack of asthma seized him. Yet he talked
of his work as if many days more were left to him ; he must
have two or three days' riding without preaching, and then he
would be all right, or, he thought, his preaching the next day
would make him better—his old remedy, a ' pulpit-sweat '—he
used to sweat through and through—would relieve him ; he
would rather wear out than rust out. It had long been his
habit to rise in the night and pray ; and this night, weary and
panting, he sat up in bed and prayed God to bless his preach-
ing on the past day, and his forthcoming services on the
Sunday ; to bring more souls to Christ ; to give him the
direction in the way he should take, whether he should winter
at Boston, or hasten to the south ;
to remember Bethesda and
his dear family ; to smile on the congregations at the Taber-
nacle and Tottenham Court Chapel, and on all his English
friends. He lay down again to sleep ; but in an hour he called
his friend for help. ' My asthma—my asthma is coming on,'
S