It would have been strange indeed if Whitefield had allowed a letter closing in this manner to pass without a remark; hence we are prepared to find that, in his own handwriting, at the foot of the autograph letter, he wrote, "_Uncomfortable_ indeed! and, blessed be God, _unscriptural_; for we are fully assured that 'the Lord reigneth,' and are directed to cast _all_ our own care on him, because he careth for us." Could Dr. Franklin have seen the splendid results of that management which he thought indicated the absence of a particular providence--could he have beheld the vast Republic, the abode of liberty, commerce, literature, and religion, which in less than a century has grown out of the insurgent colonies--he would surely have exclaimed, in the language of the prophet, "Verily there is a God in the earth!" In July, Whitefield was called by Lady Huntingdon to visit Tunbridge Wells, a popular watering place in Kent, some twenty or thirty miles from London, to dedicate a new and beautiful house to the service of God. The congregation was far too large to be accommodated within the walls; he therefore preached out of doors from a mount in the court before the house. His text was, "This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." Gen. 28:17. This sermon is said to have been one of his most eloquent and thrilling efforts; the lofty energy of his tones, the utter forgetfulness of himself in the all-absorbing interest of his subject, the very impersonation of the truths which he uttered as he stretched forth his hand, "Look yonder; what is that I see? It is my agonizing Lord! Hark, hark! do you not hear? O earth, earth, earth, hear the word of the Lord!" thrilled the vast congregation, riveting the eye, piercing the conscience, and holding strong men breathless before the resistless might of his inspired eloquence. After the service he delivered an exhortation, and on the next day again preached and administered the Lord's supper. He now began to prepare for his _seventh_, and as it proved, his _last_ voyage to America, especially to visit his beloved orphans and friends in Georgia. The only thing which seems to have grieved him, was the pain of parting for a time from his London friends. This was nothing new, but his feelings were even less reconciled to the event than formerly. "Oh," he says, "these partings! without a divine support they would be intolerable. Talk not of taking _personal_ leave; you know my _make_. Paul could stand a whipping, but not a weeping farewell."