"I'll drive 'ee to plaize 'ee, but I'd rather not," said a good-tempered landlord, one Sunday, when we wished to pay respects to an ancient monument.
"Why would you rather not?"
"People talk so, and say nasty things to the children."
"But some one has just driven past, and every one smiled and how-de-doo'd him."
"That's oal right. He's goin' to praich."
"But the pony looked tired."
"I shud zay so. Six mile and stiffish hills, and not wance ded ee git out ov th' trap."
"Do you mean that a preacher of the Gospel over-drives his horse?"
"I mane that ef a hill is as stiff as a house a praicher won't never walk on a Zunday—not wan inch of th' way."
Now the vent-peg was out, our host's eloquence ran freely, and much he said of the over-driving and under-feeding of hired horses by lay preachers on Sundays, and of the reluctance which people had to take on the "horse hire" contracts for the Sunday work, because the men who walked the hills fast enough in their weekday clothes would not walk an inch in their Sunday clothes when "planned" for preaching. A false standard of dignity this, which made men cruel. And then the under-feeding? There is no excuse for this. The lay brother is served with all the luxuries of the season at the tables of the brethren on whom he is billeted as a soldier of the cross, and should not forget the hard-working little animal which has dragged him the whole distance, and will have to drag him back again, and the worse the weather the quicker the pace.