“True, my lady, he did,” said Mr O’Joscelyn; “but you’ll find, if you inquire, that Leary hadn’t paid the priest his dues, nor yet his brother. How a Protestant government can reconcile it to their conscience—how they can sleep at night, after pandering to the priests as they daily do, I cannot conceive. How many Protestants did you say you have, Mr Armstrong?”
“We’re not very strong down in the West, Mr O’Joscelyn,” said the other parson. “There are usually two or three in the Kelly’s Court pew. The vicarage pew musters pretty well, for Mrs Armstrong and five of the children are always there. Then there are usually two policemen, and the clerk; though, by the bye, he doesn’t belong to the parish. I borrowed him from Claremorris.”
Mr O’Joscelyn gave a look of horror and astonishment.
“I can, however, make a boast, which perhaps you cannot, Mr Joscelyn: all my parishioners are usually to be seen in church, and if one is absent I’m able to miss him.”
“It must paralyse your efforts, preaching to such a congregation,” said the other.
“Do not disparage my congregation,” said Mr Armstrong, laughing; “they are friendly and neighbourly, if not important in point of numbers; and, if I wanted to fill my church, the Roman Catholics think so well of me, that they’d flock in crowds there if I asked them; and the priest would show them the way—for any special occasion, I mean; if the bishop came to see me, or anything of that kind.”
Mr O’Joscelyn was struck dumb; and, indeed, he would have had no time to answer if the power of speech had been left to him, for the servant announced dinner.
The conversation was a little more general during dinner-time, but after dinner the parish clergyman returned to another branch of his favourite subject. Perhaps, he thought that Mr Armstrong was himself not very orthodox; or, perhaps, that it was useless to enlarge on the abominations of Babylon to a Protestant peer and a Protestant parson; but, on this occasion, he occupied himself with the temporal iniquities of the Roman Catholics. The trial of O’Connell and his fellow-prisoners had come to an end, and he and they, with one exception, had just. commenced their period of imprisonment. The one exception was a clergyman, who had been acquitted. He had in some way been connected with Mr O’Joscelyn’s parish; and, as the parish priest and most of his flock were hot Repealers, there was a good deal of excitement on the occasion,—rejoicings at the priest’s acquittal, and howlings, yellings, and murmurings at the condemnation of the others.
“We’ve fallen on frightful days, Mr Armstrong,” said Mr O’Joscelyn: “frightful, lawless, dangerous days.”
“We must take them as we find them, Mr O’Joscelyn.”