There is no other instance of a preacher who was so equally at home and equally impressive and commanding in the most various and dissimilar circles and scenes; it is significant of the notice he excited that his name occurs so frequently in the correspondence of that cold and heartless man and flippant sneerer, Horace Walpole, whose allusions to him are usually disgraceful; but so it was, he was equally commanding in the polished and select circles of the drawing-room, surrounded by dukes and duchesses, great statesmen and philosophers, or in the large old tabernacle or parish church, surrounded by more orderly and saintly worshippers, or in nature’s vast and grand cathedrals, with twenty or thirty thousand people around him. From the day when he went to Kingswood, we may run a rapid eye along the perspective of his career—in fields, on heaths, and on commons, it was the same everywhere; from his intense life we might find many scenes for description: take one or two. On the breast of the mountain, the trees and hedges full of people, hushed to profound silence, the open firmament above him, the prospect of adjacent fields—the sight of thousands on thousands of people; some in coaches, some on horseback, and all affected, or drenched in tears. Sometimes evening approaches, and then he says, “Beneath the twilight it was too much for me, and quite overcame me.” There was one night never to be forgotten. While he was preaching it lightened exceedingly; his spirit rose on the tempest; his voice tolled out the doom and decay hanging over all nature; he preached the warnings and the consolations of the coming of the Son of man. The thunder broke over his head, the lightning shone along the preacher’s path, it ran along the ground in wild glares from one part of heaven to the other; the whole audience shook like the leaves of a forest in the wind, whilst high amidst the thunders and the lightnings, the preacher’s voice rose, exclaiming, “Oh; my friends, the wrath of God! the wrath of God!” Then his spirit seemed to pass serenely right through the tempest, and he talked of Christ, who swept the wrath away; and then he told how he longed for the time when Christ should be revealed, amidst the flaming fire, consuming all natural things. “Oh,” exclaimed he, “that my soul may be in a like flame when He shall come to call me!” Can we realize what his soul must have been who could burn with such seraphic ardours in the midst of such scenes? [Illustration: WHITEFIELD PREACHING IN LONDON. ]