I walked away as I spoke, and, retiring, sat down near the wheel, as if to meditate. I judged that the Padre would soon follow me; nor was I wrong: I was not many minutes seated ere he stood at my side.
“I see,” said he, in a mild voice,—“I see, from the respect of your manner, that you are one of our own people,—a good son of the Church. What is your native country?”
“Ireland, Father,” said I, with a sigh.
“A blessed land indeed!” said he, benignly; “happy in its peaceful inhabitants,—simple-minded and industrious!”
I assented, like a good patriot, but not without misgivings that he might have been just as happy in another selection of our good gifts.
“I have known many of your countrymen,” resumed he, “and they all impressed me with the same esteem. All alike frugal, temperate, and tranquilly disposed.”
“Just so, sir; and the cruelty is, nobody gives them credit for it!”
“Ah, my son, there you are in error. The Old World may be, and indeed I have heard that it is, ungenerous; but its prejudices cannot cross the ocean. Here we estimate men, not by our prejudices, but by their merits. Here we recognize the Irishman as Nature has made him,—docile, confiding, and single-hearted; slow to anger, and ever ready to control his passions!”
“That's exactly his portrait, Father!” said I, enthusiastically. “Without a double of any kind,—a creature that does not know a wile or a stratagem!”
The priest seemed so captivated by my patriotism and my generous warmth that he sat down beside me, and we continued to make Ireland still our theme, each vying with the other who could say most in praise of that country.