The simple Quaker hymn told of a great home of rest far away, yet very
near.
The tumult had attracted the frequenters of the Red Lion, and some of
these had stepped out on to the causeway. Two or three of them were
already drunk. Among them was Garth, the blacksmith. He laughed
frantically, and shrieked and crowed at every address and every hymn.
When the preachers shouted "Hallelujah," he shouted "Hallelujah" also;
shouted again and again, in season and out of season; shouted until he
was hoarse, and the perspiration poured down his crimsoning face. His
tipsy companions at first assisted him with noisy cheers. When one of
the men in the ring lifted up his voice in the ardor of prayer, Garth
yelled out yet louder to ask if he thought God Almighty was deaf.
The people began to tremble at the blacksmith's blasphemies. The
tipsiest of his fellows slunk away from his side.
The preacher spoke at one moment of the numbers of their following.
"You carry a bottle of liquor somewhere," cried Garth; "that's why
they follow you.
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