“Ho, Mr. Wesley, I had heard that you were returning to us,” he cried. “Is it your thought that at Monday's Assize you will run a better chance if you are found in good company? What, sir, never shake your head in so gloomy a fashion. The Prophet Pritchard may be wrong. I was thinking of him when I came upon a clump of guzzlers reeling along the road an hour ago—reeling along with the buttercups as yellow as gold under their feet, and the sunlight bringing out all the scents of the earth that we love so well—I thought what a pity 'twould be if the world should come to an end when all her creatures are so happy!”
“Pardon me, Reverend sir,” said Wesley. “But I have at heart too much sorrow to enjoy any jest, least of all one made upon a matter that seems to me far too solemn for jesting.”
“Pshaw! Mr. Wesley, what is there serious or solemn in the vapourings of a jackanapes?” cried the other. “What doth a parson of our church—and a learned parson into the bargain—a Fellow of his College—not a dunce like me—what, I say, doth such an one with the maunderings of a vain and unlettered bumpkin whom his very godfathers and godmothers made a mark for ridicule when they had him christened Richard—Richard Pritchard?”
“Ah, sir,” said Wesley, “you witnessed what you did an hour ago on the roadside—you saw what I saw, and yet you can ask me why I should be troubled. Were not you troubled, Mr. Rodney?”
“Troubled? Oh, ay; my horse became uneasy when one of the drunken rascals yelled out a ribald word or two across the hedge—I am very careful of my horse's morals, sir; I never let him hear any bad language. When we are out with the hounds I throw my kerchief over his ears when we chance to be nigh the Master or his huntsmen. That is why I laid over the rascal's shoulders with my crop, though the hedge saved them from much that I intended. Trust me, Mr. Wesley, that is the way such fellows should be treated, and as for this Pritchard—faugh! a horsewhip on his back would bring him to his senses, though as a Justice of the Peace, I would be disposed to let this precious water-finder find what the nature of a horse-pond is like. Why, in Heaven's name, do you trouble yourself about him?”
“It was I who gave him countenance at first, sir. He made profession to me and I trusted him. I fear that the work on behalf of which I am very jealous may suffer through his indiscretion.”
“His indiscretion? your indiscretion, you surely mean, Mr. Wesley.”
“I accept your correction, sir.”
“Look ye here, Mr. Wesley, I have more respect for you, sir, than I have for any man of our cloth—ay, even though he may wear an apron and lawn sleeves. I know that as a clergyman I am not fit to black your shoes, but I am equally sure that as a man of the world, with a good working knowledge of human nature, I am beyond you; and that is why I tell you that this movement of yours has—well, it has too much movement in it to prove a lasting thing. You have never ridden to hounds or you would know that 'tis slow and steady that does it. If you keep up the pace from the start, you will be blown before the first half-hour is over, and where will you be when you have a double ditch to hop over? Why, you'll be up to your neck in the mire of the first. Mr. Wesley, there are a good many ditches to be got over in the life of a beneficed clergyman of your Church and mine; and, my word for it, you would do well to take them slowly, and reserve your strength. You want to go too fast ahead—to rush your hedges—that's how the thorns in the flesh thrive, and this Pritchard is only one of the many thorns that will make your life wearisome to you, and bring your movement to an end. You have never said a hard word about me, Mr. Wesley, though you had good reason to do so; and I have never said aught but what is good about you.”
“I know it, sir. Others have called me a busybody—some a charlatan.”