“The process-servers?”
“No; the pr-priests—the priests,” screamed Purvis.
“Bother!” exclaimed Dalton, with an accent of ineffable disdain. “'T is much you know about Ireland!”
“You don't agree with me then?” sighed Mrs. Ricketts.
“Indeed I do not. Would you take away the little bit of education out of a country where there's nothing but ignorance? Would you extinguish the hopes of heaven amongst them that has nothing but starvation and misery here? Try it,—just try it. I put humanity out of the question; but just try it, for the safety's sake! Pat is n't very orderly now, but, faix! you 'd make a raal devil of him then, entirely!”
“But popery, my dear sir—the confessional—”
“Bother!” said Dalton, with a wave of his hand. “How much you know about it! 'T is just as they used to talk long ago about drunkenness. Sure, I remember well when there was all that hue and cry about Irish gentlemen's habits of dissipation, and the whole time nobody took anything to hurt his constitution. Well, it's just the same with confession,—everybody uses his discretion about it. You have your peccadilloes, and I have my peccadilloes, and that young lady there has her—Well, I did n't mean to make you blush, miss, but 'tis what I'm saying, that nobody, barrin' a fool, would be too hard upon himself!”
“So that it ain't con-confession at all,” exclaimed Purvis.
“Who told you that?” said Peter, sternly. “Is it nothing to pay two-and-sixpence in the pound if you were bankrupt to-morrow? Does n't it show an honest intention, any way?” said he, with a wink.
“Then what are the evils of Ireland?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with an air of inquiring interest.