Parson Rodney laughed.
“I will give you another year of riding to and fro and telling the peasantry that they have souls,” he said. “You will not make us a nation of spiritual hypochondriacs, Mr. Wesley. For a while people will fancy that there is something the matter with them, and you'll hear a deal of groaning and moaning at your services; but when the novelty of the thing is gone, they will cease to talk of their complaints. Englishmen are stronger in their bodies than in their souls, and the weaker element will go to the wall, and your legs will be crushed against that same wall by the asses you are riding. Why, already I know that you have suffered a bruise or two, through the shambling of that ass whose name is Pritchard. The unprofitable prophet Pritchard. A prophet? Well, 'tis not the first time that an ass thought himself a prophet, and began to talk insolently to his master. But Balaam's animal was a hand or two higher than his brother Pritchard; when he began to talk he proved himself no ass, but the moment the other opens his mouth, he stands condemned. Lay on him with your staff, Mr. Wesley; he has sought to make a fool of you without the excuse that there is an angel in your way. I have half a mind to give his hide a trouncing myself to-morrow, only I could not do so without giving a cut at you, who are, just now, holding on by his tail, hoping to hold him back in his fallow, and, believe me, sir, I respect you with all my heart, and envy your zeal. Good-day to you, Mr. Wesley; I hope I may live to see you in good living yet; if you worry to a sufficient degree the powers that be, they will assuredly make you a Dean, hoping that in a Cathedral Close, where everything slumbers, you will fold your hands and sleep comfortably like the rest. I doubt if you would, sir. But meantime if you will come to my humble rectory this evening, I can promise you a Tubber with a good partner, and a bottle of Bordeaux that the King of France might envy, but that has paid no duty to the King of England.”
“I thank you for your invitation, sir; but you know that I cannot accept it.”
“I feared as much, sir. But never mind, I hope that I shall live until you are compelled to accept my offer of hospitality to you as my Bishop.”
He waved his hand, and gave his horse, who had never heard his master talk for so long a time at a stretch and whose impatience had for some time given way to astonishment, a touch with the spur. Wesley watched him make a beautiful jump over the gate that led into the park, beyond which the rectory nestled on the side of a hill among its orchards.
He turned with a sigh to the cliff path leading beyond the village to where Mr. Hartwell's house stood, separated from the beach only by a wall of crags, and a few rows of weather-beaten trees, all stretching rather emaciated arms inland.
CHAPTER XVI
Wesley had preached under varying conditions in different parts of England, but never under such as prevailed on this Sunday, when he set out in the early morning with his friend, Mr. Hartwell, for the pulpit among the crags which he had occupied several times during his previous stay at Porthawn.