In Dublin, though, the raging torrent against him was worse than any he had known. As he made his way from his pulpit, “vollies of hard stones came from all quarters, and every step I took a fresh stone struck, and made me reel backwards and forwards.” These missiles came from “hundreds and hundreds of papists,” he recalled. Soon he was “almost breathless, and all over a gore of blood . . . I received many blows and wounds; one was particularly large and near my temples . . . for a while I continued speechless, panting for and expecting every breath to be my last.” Finally, Whitefield was
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