How can it be enthusiasm to say what the Bible
says?

People seem so dreadfully frightened of what they call enthusiasm [Note
1]. Grandmamma used to say there was nothing more vulgar. But the
queer thing is that many of these very people will let you get as
enthusiastic as ever you like about a game of cards, or one horse coming
in before another in a race, or about politics, or poaching, and things
of that sort that have to do with this world. It is about the things of
real consequence--things which have to do with your soul and the next
world--that you must not get enthusiastic!

May one not have too little enthusiasm, I wonder, as well as too much?
Would it not be reasonable to be enthusiastic about things that really
signify, and cool about the things that do not?

I want to write down a few sentences which Mr Whitefield said, that I
may not forget them. I do not know how they came in among the rest.
They stuck to me just as they are. [Note 2]. He says:--

"Our senses are the landing-ports of our spiritual enemies."

"We must take care of healing before we see sinners wounded."

"The King of the Church has all its adversaries in a chain."

"If other sins have slain their thousands of professing Christians,
worldly-mindedness has slain its ten thousands."

"How can any say, `Lead us not into temptation,' in the morning, when
they are resolved to run into it at night?"

"How many are kept from seeing Christ in glory, by reason of the press!"
(That is, he explained, that people are ashamed of being singularly
good [Note 3], unless their acquaintances are on the same side.)

"Christ will thank you for coming to His feast."

When Mr Whitefield came near the end of his sermon, I thought I could
see why people said he made them cry so much. His voice sank into a
soft, pleading, tender accent, as if he yearned over the souls before
him. His hands were held out as if he were just holding out Jesus
Christ to us, and we must take Him or turn away and be lost. And he
begged us all so pitifully not to turn away. I saw tears running down
the cheeks of many hard-looking men and women. Flora cried, and so did
I. But Angus did not. He did not look as though he felt at all
inclined to do it.

This is one of the last sermons, we hear, that Mr Whitefield will
preach on this side the sea. He sails for the American colonies next
month. He is said to be very fond of his American friends, and very
much liked by