a pamphlet against them: and by "leisure" I
mean all such days as were either too inclement for fishing, or
thunderous so that the trout would not rise.

"My dear friend, while you have been sharpening the sword of Saint
Athanasius against 'em, the rabble has been beforehand with you and
given 'em bloody noses. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of
heresy--if you call the Wesleyans heretics--as well as of the
Church."

The Vicar sighed. "I have been slack of pace and feeble of will.
Yes, yes, I deserve the reproach."

My father laid a hand on his shoulder. "Tut, tut! Cannot you see
that I was not reproaching, but rather daring to commend you for an
exemplar? There is a slackness which comes of weak will; but there
is another and a very noble slackness which proceeds from the two
strongest things on earth, confidence and charity; charity, which
naturally inclines to be long-suffering, and confidence which, having
assurance in its cause, dares to trust that natural inclination.
Dissent in the first generation is usually admirable and almost
always respectable: men don't leave the Church for fun, but because
they have thought and discovered, as they believe, something amiss in
her--something which in nine cases out of ten she would be the better
for considering. But dissent in the second and third generation
usually rests on bad temper, which is not admirable at all, though
often excusable because the Church's persecution has produced it.
Believe me, my dear Vicar, that if all the bishops followed your
example and slept on their wrath against heresy, they would wake up
and find nine-tenths of the heretics back in the fold. Indeed I wish
your good lady would let you pack your nightcap and come with us.
You could hire a curate over from Falmouth."

"Could I write my pamphlet at sea?"

"No: but, better still, by the time you returned the necessity for it
would be over."

The Vicar smiled. "_You_ counsel lethargy?--you, who in an hour or
two start for Corsica, and with no more to-do than if bound on a
picnic!"

"Ay, but for love," answered my father. "In love no man can be too
prompt."

"I believe you, sir," hiccuped Mr. Fett, who had been drinking more
than was good for him. "And so, begad, does your man Priske.
Did any one mark, just now, how like a shooting star he glided in the
night from Venus' eye? Love, sir?" he turned to me. "The tender
passion? Is that our little game? Is _that_ the face t