"Where Is the Parson?"

In the night there was a vehement storm. Blessed be God that we were safe on shore! Saturday, 31. I determined to wait one week longer and, if we could not sail then, to go and wait for a ship at Bristol. At seven in the evening, just as I was going down to preach, I heard a huge noise and took knowledge of the rabble of gentlemen. They had now strengthened themselves with drink and numbers and placed Captain Gr--- (as they called him) at their head. He soon burst open both the outward and inner door, struck old Robert Griffith, our landlord, several times, kicked his wife, and, with twenty full-mouthed oaths and curses, demanded, "Where is the parson?" Robert Griffith came up and desired me to go into another room, where he locked me in. The captain followed him quickly, broke open one or two doors, and got on a chair to look on the top of a bed: but his foot slipping (as he was not a man made for climbing), he fell down backward all his length. He rose leisurely, turned about, and with his troop, walked away.

I then went down to a small company of the poor people and spent half an hour with them in prayer. About nine, as we were preparing to go to bed, the house was beset again. The captain burst in first. Robert Griffith's daughter was standing in the passage with a pail of water, with which (whether with design or in her fright, I know not) she covered him from head to foot. He cried as well as he could, "M-urder! Murder!" and stood very still for some moments. In the meantime Robert Griffith stepped by him and locked the door. Finding himself alone, he began to change his voice and cry, "Let me out! Let me out!”  Upon his giving his word and honor that none of the rest should come in, they opened the door, and all went away together.