Kilsyth, a small town, about twelve miles from Glasgow, was another place graciously visited by God’s good Spirit. Its minister, the Rev. James Robe, began a series of sermons on the new birth, as early as the year 1740; but nothing remarkable occurred until May, 1742, the month when Whitefield set out on his second visit to Scotland. At the beginning of the month, “societies for prayer were erected in the parish;” and, almost immediately, great numbers began to cry aloud for mercy. On May 16, after dismissing his congregation, Mr. Robe invited the penitents into his barn; but the numbers were so great, that the barn could not contain them: and, _nolens volens_, he was obliged to convene them in his kirk. He says, “I sung a psalm, and prayed with them; but, when I essayed to speak to them, I could not be heard, such were their bitter cries and groans. After this, I ordered that they should be brought to me in my closet, one by one; and, in the meantime, I appointed psalms to be sung with those in the kirk, and that the precentor and two or three of the elders should pray with the distressed.” Before the month ended,――that is, before Whitefield had arrived in Scotland,――the penitents at Kilsyth numbered nearly a hundred; and a similar work was begun, and was spreading in several neighbouring parishes, as Kirkintilloch, Auchinloch, Campsie, and Cumbernauld.[3] Such was the state of things, in this part of Scotland, when Whitefield and his wife reached Edinburgh, on Thursday, June 3, 1742. One of his first letters, at Edinburgh, was addressed to Lord Rae, the death of whose wife had recently occurred. An extract from it will help to shew the spirit in which Whitefield began his work in Scotland. “EDINBURGH, _June 4, 1742_. “MY LORD,――Your lordship’s kind letter was put into my hands yesterday. I heartily sympathise with you; but could not help rejoicing on your honoured lady’s account, knowing she is now entered into her blessed Master’s joy. Among Christians, death has not only lost its sting, but its name. I never was so joyful as I am now at the death of those who die in the Lord; and never was so reconciled to living myself. Lately, in London, we had a sister in Christ, whose last words were, ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ She could say no more here; but our Saviour sent for her to finish her song in heaven. I preached over her corpse; our Society attended; and surely never did any triumph over death more than we did that night. But your lordship may ask, ‘Why are you reconciled to life?’ Because I can do that for Jesus on earth, which I cannot do in heaven: I mean, be made instrumental in bringing weary, heavy-laden sinners to find rest in His blood and righteousness. If our Saviour were to offer either to take me now, or to let me stay only to take one sinner more, I would desire to stay to take the sinner with me.