Falconer stood watching his
opportunity. Nor was the eager disputant long in affording him one.
Socratic fashion, Falconer asked him a question, and was answered;
followed it with another, which, after a little hesitation, was
likewise answered; then asked a third, the ready answer to which
involved such a flagrant contradiction of the first, that the poor
sorrowful weaver burst into a laugh of delight at the discomfiture
of his tormentor. After some stammering, and a confused attempt to
recover the line of argument, the would-be partizan of Deity roared
out, 'The fool hath said in his heart there is no God;' and with
this triumphant discharge of his swivel, turned and ran down the
stairs precipitately.
Both laughed while the sound of his footsteps lasted. Then Falconer
said,
'My. De Fleuri, I believe in God with all my heart, and soul, and
strength, and mind; though not in that poor creature's arguments. I
don't know that your unbelief is not better than his faith.'
'I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Falconer. I haven't laughed so
for years. What right has he to come pestering me?'
'None whatever. But you must forgive him, because he is
well-meaning, and because his conceit has made a fool of him.
They're not all like him. But how is your daughter?'
'Very poorly, sir. She's going after the rest. A Spitalfields
weaver ought to be like the cats: they don't mind how many of their
kittens are drowned.
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