“I believe my particular province is to go about and preach the gospel to all. My being obliged to keep up a large correspondence in America, and the necessity I am under of going thither myself, entirely prevent my taking care of any Societies. Whether it will ever be my lot to come to Ireland, I cannot say. I have some thought of being there next spring; but I would not intrude on any one’s labours. The world is large, and there is sufficient work for all. I profess to be of a catholic spirit: I am a debtor to all. I have no party to be the head of, and I will have none; but, as much as in me lies, will strengthen the hands of all, of every denomination, who preach Jesus Christ in sincerity. “Pray how are the poor people at Cork? Lady Huntingdon writes concerning them,――‘I hope the poor persecuted people in Cork will be helped. I should be glad, if you could write in my name to any of them, and inform them that I would have written myself, but I know not how to direct. You may give them my assurance of serving them upon any occasion, and a hint that I believe they will meet with no more of the like rough usage.’ Thus far my good lady. I am persuaded you will, in a prudent manner, communicate this to all concerned.” Whitefield’s health was generally best when he was on his gospel rambles. In London, it almost invariably suffered. Well or ill, however, when he could, Whitefield must be allowed to work. Writing to Lady Huntingdon, he says:―― “LONDON, _November 30, 1749_. “London already begins to disagree with my outward man, but the Lord’s smiling upon my poor labours sweetens all. I have begun to preach at six in the morning. We have large congregations even then. I trust we shall have a warm winter. I have not been at the other end of the town this week; but I find all hold on. However, a leader is wanting. This honour has been put on your ladyship by the great Head of the Church an honour conferred on few. That you may every day add to the splendour of your future crown, by always abounding in the work of the Lord, is the fervent prayer of your unworthy servant, “GEORGE WHITEFIELD.” Nine days later, he wrote again to Mr. Lunell, of Dublin:―― “LONDON, _December 9, 1749_.