Page:The Works of the Reverend George Whitefield, M.A., late of Pembroke-College, Oxford, and Chaplain to the Rt. Hon. the Countess of Huntingdon (1771 Volume 2).djvu/146

 LETTER DCXXXVI.

To Mr. T A.

Wilmington, Cape-Fear, Oct. 18, 1747.

My very dear brother A,

I Have lately written to you and many other dear English friends. I am now in my way to Georgia, and hope to see my native country some time next year. My sphere of action still increases, and though I hoped this last summer to have taken my flight to the blessed, yet it seems I am to live longer. O that it may be for the Redeemer's glory, and the good of many precious and immortal souls! I know you will say Amen! I could write much, but am fatigued, having preached several times, and rode on horse-back through the woods an hundred and sixty miles. makes the barren wilderness to smile. I want to know how affairs go on among you. I expect letters from some of you at Charles-Town, and I hope to see you, I repeat it again, some time next year. But future things belong to. My schemes are so frequently disconcerted, that I would willingly put a blank into his hands, to be filled up just as he pleases. But this stubborn will would fain avoid swallowing some wholesome bitter-sweets, which the all-gracious physician reaches out unto me. Nevertheless, through grace, the prevailing language of my heart is, "Not my will, but thine be done." The being so long absent from my friends, sometimes a little affects me; but I have been used to so many partings, and heart-breakings from various quarters, that I wonder any thing affects, so as to surprize me. But the mystery of the cross is unsearchable. We shall never fully learn it till we die. We must be beginners in this school every day, hour, and moment. But where am I going? I write as though I was conversing with you. Perhaps such a time may come. In heaven I am sure such a time will have existence. The language of my heart is,, let thy kingdom come! You will remember me to all. I must now say no more. Whilst I am writing, affection works and almost makes me to say, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly away, and see my English and Scotch friends! I salute all most heartily, as does my dear fellow pilgrim.—That