Dear Canon C. much loved, much plundered! Was it not told of him, how his flock took it in turns to trade on his loving credulity? In the early morning there would come a violent ring at the bell, and the Canon would stare out into wet darkness:
“Who is there?”
“It’s me, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, God help me, yer Rivirence.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s me husband that’s had a shtroke, an’ he’s dyin’ this minute.”
“Well, I can’t come, but here’s half-a-crown.”
And so on da capo till the purse was empty.
Why do they stand it? The answer was given me, indirectly, by a contemplative priest:
He: “There can be no doubt that for the working-man the Church of Rome is the best in the world.”
I: “Why specially for the working-man?”