It would do you all the good in the world, and, if you took _enough_, you would feel able to give him _ten_ bags, or, indeed, throw them at his head at a pinch." "Have you got it ?" say I, faintly, to the general, who at this moment joins us.
"Yes, here it is." "But what will you do with it _meanwhile_ ?" cry I, anxiously; "he must not see it _first_." "Sit upon it," suggests Algy, flippantly.
"Hang it round his neck while he is at prayers," bursts out Bobby, with the air of a person who has had an illumination; "you know he always pretends to have his eyes shut." "And at 'Amen,' he would awake to find himself famous," says Algy, pseudo-pompously.
But this suggestion, although I cannot help looking upon it as ingenious, I do not adopt.
Prayers on Sunday are a much _finer_ and larger ceremonial than they are on week-days.

In the first place, instead of a few of the church prayers quickly pattered, which are ended in five minutes, we have a whole long sermon, which lasts twenty.

In the second place, the congregation is so much greater.

On week-days it is only the in-door servants; on Sundays it is the whole staff--coachman, grooms, stablemen.

I think myself that it is more in the nature of a _parade_, to insure that none of the establishment are out _sweethearting_, than of a religious exercise.
Usually I am delighted when the sermon is ended.