“Ten times more than in the ‘Flos Sanctorum,’” said I.
The man in black looked at me, but made no answer.
“And what say you to the Massacre of the Albigenses and the Vaudois, ‘whose bones lie scattered on the cold Alp,’ or the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes?”
The man in black made no answer.
“Go to,” said I, “it is because the Church of England is not a persecuting Church, that those whom you call the respectable part are leaving her; it is because they can’t do with the poor Dissenters what Simon de Montfort did with the Albigenses, and the cruel Piedmontese with the Vaudois, that they turn to bloody Rome; the Pope will no doubt welcome them, for the Pope, do you see, being very much in want, will welcome—”
“Hollo!” said the radical, interfering, “what are
you saying about the Pope? I say hurrah for the Pope: I value no religion three halfpence, as I said before, but if I were to adopt any, it should be the Popish, as it’s called, because I conceive the Popish to be the grand enemy of the Church of England, of the beggarly aristocracy, and the borough-monger system, so I won’t hear the Pope abused while I am by. Come, don’t look fierce. You won’t fight, you know, I have proved it; but I will give you another chance: I will fight for the Pope—will you fight against him?”
“O dear me, yes,” said I, getting up and stepping forward. “I am a quiet, peaceable young man, and, being so, am always ready to fight against the Pope—the enemy of all peace and quiet—to refuse fighting for the aristocracy is a widely different thing from refusing to fight against the Pope—so come on, if you are disposed to fight for him. To the Pope broken bells, to Saint James broken shells. No Popish vile oppression, but the Protestant succession. Confusion to the Groyne, hurrah for the Boyne, for the army at Clonmel, and the Protestant young gentlemen who live there as well.”
“An Orangeman,” said the man in black.
“Not a Platitude,” said I.