May 31.  I rode to Rathcormuck.  There being a great burying in the afternoon, to which people came from all parts, I preached after Mr. Lloyd had read the service.  I was exceedingly shocked at (what I had only heard of before) the Irish howl which followed.  It was not a song, as I supposed, but a dismal, inarticulate yell, set up at the grave by four shrill-voiced women, hired for the purpose.  But I saw not one that shed a tear; for that, it seems, was not in their bargain.

Clothing French Prisoners

1759.  Oct. 1.  At Bristol.  I had ridden in about seven months not less than 2,400 miles.  On Monday, Oct. 15, I went to Knowle, a mile from Bristol, to see the French prisoners.  About 1,100 were there confined, with only a little dirty straw to lie on, so that they died like rotten sheep.  I was much affected, and after I had preached the sum of L18 was contributed immediately, which next day we made up to L24.  With this we bought linen and woollen cloth, and this was made up into clothing for the prisoners.  Presently after, the Corporation of Bristol sent a large quantity of mattresses and blankets.  And it was not long before contributions were set on foot in London, and other parts of the country; so that I believe that from this time they were pretty well provided with the necessaries of life.

Gwennap’s Famous Amphitheatre

1766.  Sept. 14.  I preached in the natural amphitheatre at Gwennap; far the finest I know in the kingdom.  It is a round, green hollow, gently shelving down, about 50 feet deep; but I suppose it is 200 feet across one way, and nearly 300 the other.  I believe there were full 20,000 people; and, the evening being calm, all could hear.

1770.  April 21.  I rode slowly on this and the following days through Staffordshire and Cheshire to Manchester.  In this journey, as well as in many others, I observed a mistake that almost universally prevails; and I desire all travellers to take good notice of it, which may save them from both trouble and danger.  Near 30 years ago I was thinking, “How is it that no horse ever stumbles while I am reading?” (History, poetry, and philosophy I commonly read on horseback, having other employment at other times.) No account can possibly be given but this:  because then I throw the reins on his neck.  I then set myself to observe; and I aver, that in riding above 100,000 miles I scarce ever remember my horse (except two, that would fall head over heels anyway) to fall, or make a considerable stumble, while I rode with a slack rein.  To fancy, therefore, that a tight rein prevents stumbling, is a capital blunder.

1771.  Jan. 23.  For what cause I know not to this day, my wife set out for Newcastle, purposing “never to return.” Non eam reliqui:  non dimisi:  non revocabo. (I did not desert her:  I did not send her away:  I will not recall her.)

The American War

1775.  In November I published the following letter in Lloyd’s “Evening Post”: