The next Sabbath, Sept. 30, 1770; that memorable day that blessed day to Whitefield that blessed day to me The minister of our town went to Portsmouth to preach at the great meetinghouse, and I went with him. At noon, as I went from the place of worship, I stopped with an acquaintance at Packer's corner; and a man came riding along, and as he rode, he cried, "Mr. Whitefield is dead. He died this morning at Newbury about six o'clock." As soon as his voice reached my ears, an arrow from the quiver of the Almighty struck my heart; and a mental voice sounded through my soul, louder than ever thunder sounded through my ears. The first thoughts that passed my mind were, Whitefield is in heaven and I am in the road to hell. I shall never hear his voice any more.