‘Not a bit of it. No one has been more friendly to the Irish than the Liberal Party, of which I am a member, and yet we are called infamous, and bloodthirsty, and base, and brutal. You know yourself here in England you live in perfect peace and security; you are allowed to go in and out amongst the people to make converts if you are so disposed. In Ireland, if I attempted to do anything of the kind, I should stand a good chance of a broken head.’
‘Well, sir, we are a warm-hearted, impulsive people, attached very strongly to the old religion—the religion of our forefathers.’
‘There is no doubt of that, sir,’ continued Wentworth; ‘wherever you go in Ireland, in the midst of all its dirt, and starvation, and wretchedness, and poverty, you see one man well dressed and well fed.’
‘And who may he be, sir?’
‘The parish priest.’
‘And why should he not be? Is not he the guide and shepherd of his flock? I suppose you will blame him next,’ said Father O’Bourke, reddening.
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What for?’
‘For his desertion of the people.’
‘Really, Mr. Wentworth, you are amusing. You make me laugh,’ said the reverend father, looking uncommonly angry. ‘Should the priest not take the part of the people?’