"Why, good God,
gentlemen!--if you'll excuse me--but I'm the parish clerk of
Axminster!"
My father recovered himself with a bow. "In Devon?" he asked
gravely, after a pause in which our silence paid tribute to the
announcement.
"In Devon, sir; a county remarkable for its attachment to the
principles of the Church of England. And that I should have lived to
be mistaken for a Methodist!"
"But, surely, John Wesley himself is a Clerk in Holy Orders? and, I
have heard, a great stickler for the Church's authority."
"He may say so, sir," answered the little man, darkly. "He may say
so. But, if he means it, why does he go about encouraging such a
low class of people? A man, sir, is known by the company he keeps."
"Is that in the Bible?" my father inquired. "I seem to remember, on
the contrary, that in the matter of consorting with publicans and
sinners--"
"It won't work, sir. It has been tried in Axminster before now, and
you may take my word for it that it won't work. You mustn't suppose,
gentlemen," he went on, including us all in the argument, "you
mustn't take me for one of those parrot-Christians who just echo what
they hear in the pulpits on Sundays.
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