on to London, where his old-time friends gave him a joyous welcome.

In spite of perils and hardships Whitefield thoroughly enjoyed the ocean. From the time he was at Oxford he was never robust, and during much of his life he was almost constantly on the verge of physical collapse. The change of scene, the sea air and the relaxation did him immense good, and often in his letters, when feeling unusually worn, he expresses his longing for another voyage. Ordinarily, his sea experiences were more commonplace than when he came to America and returned the first time. He made full use of his leisure in study and meditation. He was always gathering new thoughts and illustrations for sermons. For example, he writes in his Journal: "To-day we were entertained with a most agreeable sight. It was a shark about the length of a man, which followed our ship, attended with five little fishes, called the pilotfish, much like a mackerel but larger. These, I am told, always keep the shark company. And what is most surprising, though the shark is so ravenous a creature, yet let it be never so hungry, it never touches one of them. Nor are they less faithful to him. For, as I was informed, if the shark is hooked, very often these little creatures will not forsake him, but cleave close to his fins, and are often taken up with him. Go to the Pilot-fish, thou that forsakest a friend in adversity, consider his ways and be ashamed."

He was also an indefatigable correspondent, especially for an age when letter-writing was by no means as common as it is now. On his way to America the second time he wrote more than sixty letters, which were ready for the post when he reached Philadelphia. It was a rather expensive luxury for an itinerant missionary. A mail went from Philadelphia to England once a month. It cost a shilling to send a single sheet, and four shillings to send an ounce.

Reference has already been made to the fact that the longest time Whitefield was ever at sea was eleven weeks, when he made his third visit to America, in 1744. He was now married and his wife was with him. He had planned to leave in June, but at the last minute word came from the captain of the vessel in which he was to embark, that, as Whitefield put it, "he would not take me, for fear of my spoiling his sailors." Evidently, the news was out in maritime circles that whenever Whitefield boarded a ship a revival followed, and it made some captains extremely uneasy. But finally, in August, the evangelist and his wife set sail.

It was a time of great danger. England was at war with France, and as a measure of precaution, one hundred and fifty merchantmen started out together, convoyed by a number of war vessels. In a short time the fleet began to break up, some going in one direction and some in another, while Whitefield, on board the Wilmington, and still under

convoy, made direct for New England. As was his invariable custom, on embarking he had begun holding "regular public prayer morning and evening, frequent communion, and days of humiliation and fasting." All this was within his province, for he was chaplain of the ship, but most chaplains were hopelessly remiss. One day the Wilmington collided with a smaller boat and nearly sank her. "A little while after," writes Whitefield, "“we came up with the convoy, and our captain informed them of what had happened. The answer was, "This is your praying, and be damned to ye!' This, I must own, shocked me more than the striking of the ship."

Again and again the alarm was sounded that the enemy was in sight. On one occasion two ships were seen approaching under full head of canvas, and the captain was sure they were French men-ofwar. Whitefield afterward wrote to a friend: "The preparations for an engagement were formidable. Guns mounting, chains put about the masts, everything taken out of the great cabin, hammocks put about the sides of the ship. . . . My wife, after having dressed herself to prepare for all events, set about making cartridges." At first Whitefield went below decks, being told that was the usual place for the chaplain, presumably to help in caring for the wounded. "But not liking my situation, I crept up on deck, and for the first time of my life beat up to arms by a warm exhorta

tion." It was a false alarm, however, the ships proving to be friends. But though this danger was escaped, one storm followed another, and the voyage as a whole was one of the most trying Whitefield ever made. The memory of it lingered with him all through life.