A Horrible Proposition

They filled the house at once and proposed setting it on fire. But one of them, happening to remember that his own house was next, with much ado persuaded them not to do it.  Hearing one of them cry out, “They are gone over the grounds,” I thought the advice was good; so we went over the grounds to the farther end of the town where Abraham Jenkins waited and undertook to guide us to Oakhill.

I was riding on in Shepton Lane, it being now quite dark, when he cried out, “Come down: come down from the bank.” I did as I was bidden; but the bank being high, and the side very nearly perpendicular, I came down all at once, my horse and I tumbling one over another. But we both rose unhurt.

Saturday, April 9.—I preached in Connaught, a few miles from Athlone. Many heard; but, I doubt, felt nothing.

The Shannon comes within a mile of the house where I preached. I think there is not such another river in Europe: it is here ten or twelve miles over, though scarcely thirty miles from its fountain-head. There are many islands in it, once well inhabited, but now mostly desolate. In almost every one is the ruins of a church: in one, the remains of no less than seven. I fear God hath still a controversy with this land, because it is defiled with blood.