"Oh, walk in, Mr. Jones, walk in; a minister's time isn't of much account. He ought to expect to be always ready to see his parishioners. What's the use of having a minister, if you can't use him? Never mind scattering his thoughts to the four winds, just as he gets them glowingly concentrated on some sublime subject; that's a trifle. He's been through college, hasn't he? Then he ought to know a thing or two; and be able to take up the thread of his argument where he laid it down; else where's the almighty difference between him and a layman? If he can't make a practical use of his Greek and Latin and Theology, he had better strip off his black coat, unshake his 'right hand of fellowship,' and throw up his commission. Take a seat, Mr. Jones; talk to him about your crops; make him plough over a dozen imaginary fields with you; he ought to be able to make a quick transit from 'predestination' to potatoes. Why, just think of the man's salary—and you helping to pay it! Nebuchadnezzar! haven't you hired him, soul and body? He don't belong to himself at all, except when he's asleep. Mind and give him a little wholesome advice before you leave; inquire how many pounds of tea he uses per week, and ask him how he came to be so unclerical as to take a ride on horseback the other day; and how much the hostler charged him for the animal, and whether he went on a gallop, or a canter, or an orthodox trot? Let him know, very decidedly, that ministers are not expected to have nerves, or head-aches, or side-aches, or heart aches. If they get weary writing (which they've no business to,) let them go down cellar and chop some wood. As to relaxation suggestive of beautiful thoughts, which a gallop on a fleet horse through the country might furnish, where the sweet air fans the aching temples caressingly, where fields of golden grain wave in the glad sunlight, where the blended beauty of sky and sea, and rock and river, and hill and valley, send a thrill of pleasure through every inlet of the soul—pshaw! that's all transcendental nonsense, fit only for green boarding-school girls and silly scribbling women,—a minister ought to be above such things, and have a heart as tough as the doctrine of election. He ought to be a regular theological sledge-hammer, always sharpened up, and ready to do execution without any unnecessary glitter. That's it!

"Fact is, Mr. Jones, (between you and I and the vestry door,) it is lucky there are some philanthropic laymen like yourself who are willing to look after these ministers. It's the more generous in you because we are all aware it's a thing you don't take the slightest pleasure in doing(?) You may not get your reward for it in this world, but if you don't in the next, I shall make up my mind, that Lucifer is remiss in his duty."