We joined with Ernest Johnston and drove over to Newburyport this morning. We stopped off at Carr’s Ferry, which was the only crossing point until the bridges were built. Beside the crossing is an old house that was an inn at the time of Whitefield. On his last journey he would have stopped here to recover from the crossing. It has been a private home for some time, and greatly neglected. Marianne went and spoke to a nearby neighbour who said that because of the neglect, with crumbling foundations, it was due for demolition. So another landmark is set to disappear for ever.

On into Newburyport and to the Old South Presbyterian Church. Here we met the pastor, Rob John, who’s ministered there since 2003. He finds himself struggling to renovate an ageing building with much needed to be done, and a lot of money still to be found. We were shown round the building, seeing the various bits commemorating Whitefield and the first minister, Jonathan Parsons. To the left of the pulpit as you face it there is a cenotaph to Whitefield. It’s not in the best position to photograph, because of the position of all the pews. We saw various items, such as the box the Whitefield’s forearm was returned in (it was taken to England and offered to Robert Philip, one of his biographers. Philip was horrified and instructed that it should be returned). I discovered on Saturday that that was not the only part of Whitefield that was taken. He is missing a thumb which, it appears, is in the archives of Drew University. It’s about time that the thumb was reunited with the rest of the body.

We went down into the crypt below the pulpit where Whitefield is buried alongside his friends Jonathan Parsons and Joseph Prince. It looks like a large oven (picture above with me, Rob John and Ernest Johnston). The plaque says George Whitefield 1714–1770 ‘I am content to wait till the day of judgement for the clearing up of my character: and after I am dead I desire no other epitaph than this, “here lies G.W., what sort of man he was the great day will discover.”’

We prayed together and gave thanks to God for sending such a man into the world and that he would send many more now and in the future.

We then set off for Exeter in New Hampshire (on the road to Manchester—it gets very confusing). This was the place where Whitefield preached his last sermon on 29 September 1770. He is said to have stood on a plank over two barrels and preached for two hours, in the opinion of some hearers it was his best ever. Looking ill, a bystander said, ‘Sir, you are more fit to go to bed than to preach.’ To this Whitefield replied: ‘True, sir’, and turning aside, clasped his hands together, and looked up and said: ‘Lord Jesus, I am weary in thy work, but not of thy work. If I have not yet finished my course, let me go and speak for thee once more in the fields, seal thy truth, and come home and die.’ He then went and preached to a great multitude from 2 Corinthians 13:5.

Arriving in Exeter, we found Scott Meadows, pastor of Calvary Reformed Baptist Church, waiting for us. I had met Scott on my last visit, and we had visited Newburyport together, and it was good to renew fellowship. The stone marking the spot of Whitefield’s last sermon, outside the former baptist manse, appears to have been pushed over slightly, and the text on the back explaining what it is about is getting difficult to read. It could do with some TLC. Scott Meadows and Rob John had a bit of rivalry as to where the really last sermon of Whitefield was preached. Scott said Exeter, with Whitefield giving an exhortation from the stairs of the Newburyport parsonage. Rob, not surprisingly, took the view that Whitefield preached a sermon from the stairs of the Newburyport parsonage.

We arrived back at Newburyport before 2 o’clock. It was Rob’s 8th wedding anniversary and he had to get off to be with his wife, so Ernest, Marianne and I had a look at the old parsonage. It is now privately owned, having been extensively renovated and sold for over $1 million in 2002. It is a beautiful building, though we were shocked to discover that the stairs that Whitefield preached from were ripped out and thrown away. The bedroom where Whitefield died is the one on the left hand side of the building. It would have been impolite and offensive to have knocked on the door and asked to see it.

Finally we bade our farewells to Newburyport and Ernest, he was staying another night in the hope of seeing a Whitefield portrait in a local social club. Perhaps we will get to see it before we leave.

So we set off westward to Miller’s Falls and the company of Bob Davis and his family, pastor of First Congregational Church there, and distributor of Quinta Press books in the US.