“I sha’n’t quarrel with you,” he said,—­“you know that very well; but you mustn’t quarrel with me, if I talk honestly with you; it isn’t everybody that will take the trouble.  You flatter yourself that you will make a good many enemies by leaving your old communion.  Not so many as you think.  This is the way the common sort of people will talk:—­’You have got your ticket to the feast of life, as much as any other man that ever lived.  Protestantism says,—­’Help yourself; here’s a clean plate, and a knife and fork of your own, and plenty of fresh dishes to choose from.’  The Old Mother says,—­’Give me your ticket, my dear, and I’ll feed you with my gold spoon off these beautiful old wooden trenchers.  Such nice bits as those good old gentlemen have left for you!’ There is no quarrelling with a man who prefers broken victuals.’  That’s what the rougher sort will say; and then, where one scolds, ten will laugh.  But, mind you, I don’t either scold or laugh.  I don’t feel sure that you could very well have helped doing what you will soon do.  You know you were never easy without some medicine to take when you felt ill in body.  I’m afraid I’ve given you trashy stuff sometimes, just to keep you quiet.  Now, let me tell you, there is just the same difference in spiritual patients that there is in bodily ones.  One set believes in wholesome ways of living, and another must have a great list of specifics for all the soul’s complaints.  You belong with the last, and got accidentally shuffled in with the others.”

The minister smiled faintly, but did not reply.  Of course, he considered that way of talking as the result of the Doctor’s professional training.  It would not have been worth while to take offence at his plain speech, if he had been so disposed; for he might wish to consult him the next day as to “what he should take” for his dyspepsia or his neuralgia.

He left the Doctor with a hollow feeling at the bottom of his soul, as if a good piece of his manhood had been scooped out of him.  His hollow aching did not explain itself in words, but it grumbled and worried down among the unshaped thoughts which lie beneath them.  He knew that he had been trying to reason himself out of his birthright of reason.  He knew that the inspiration which gave him understanding was losing its throne in his intelligence, and the almighty Majority-Vote was proclaiming itself in its stead.  He knew that the great primal truths, which each successive revelation only confirmed, were fast becoming hidden beneath the mechanical forms of thought, which, as with all new converts, engrossed so large a share of his attention.  The “peace,” the “rest,” which he had purchased, were dearly bought to one who had been trained to the arms of thought, and whose noble privilege it might have been to live in perpetual warfare for the advancing truth which the next generation will claim as the legacy of the present.

The Reverend Mr. Fairweather was getting careless about his sermons.  He must wait the fitting moment to declare himself; and in the mean time he was preaching to heretics.  It did not matter much what he preached, under such circumstances.  He pulled out two old yellow sermons from a heap of such, and began looking over that for the forenoon.  Naturally enough, he fell asleep over it, and, sleeping, he began to dream.