Our readers may recollect that Darby in his pleasant dialogue with Father M'Cabe, alluded to a man named Bob Beatty, as a person afflicted with epilepsy. It was then reported that the priest had miraculously cured him of that complaint; but, whether he had or not, one thing, at least, was certain, that he became a Roman Catholic, and went regularly to mass. He had been, in fact, exceedingly notorious for his violence as an Orangeman, and was what the people then termed a blood-hound, and the son of a man who had earned an unenviable reputation as a Tory hunter; which means a person who devoted the whole energies of his life, and brought all the rancour of a religious hatred to the task of pursuing and capturing such unfortunate Catholics as came within grasp of penal laws. Beatty, like all converts, the moment he embraced the Roman Catholic creed, became a most outrageous opponent to the principles of Protestantism. Every Orangeman and Protestant must be damned, and it stood to reason they should, for didn't they oppose the Pope? Bob, then, was an especial protege of Father M'Cabe's, who, on his part, had very little to complain of his convert, unless it might be the difficulty of overcoming a habit of strong swearing which had brought itself so closely into his conversation, that he must either remain altogether silent, or let fly the oaths. Another slight weakness, which was rather annoying to the priest too, consisted in a habit Bob had, when any way affected with liquor, of drinking in the very fervor of his new-born zeal, that celebrated old toast, “to hell with the Pope!” These, however, were but mere specks, and would be removed in time, by inducing better habits. Now, it so happened, that on the day in question, Bob was wending his way to Father M'Cabe's, to communicate some matter connected with his religious feelings, and to ask his advice and opinion.
“How confoundedly blind the world is,” thought Bob, “not to see that Popery—” he never called it anything else—“is the true faith! Curse me but Priest M'Cabe is a famous fellow!—Zounds, what an Orangeman he would make!—he's just the cut for it, an' it's a thousand pities he's not one—but!—what the hell am I sayin?' They say he's cross and ill-tempered, but I deny it—isn't he patient, except when in a passion? and never in a passion unless when provoked; what the d—l more would they have? I know I let fly an oath myself of an odd time (every third word, good reader), but, then, sure the faith is never injured by the vessel that contains it. Begad, but I'm sorry for my father, though, for, as there's no salvation out o' Popery, the devil of it is, that he's lost beyond purchase.”
In such eccentric speculations did Bob amuse himself, until, in consequence of the rapid pace at which he went, he overtook a fellow-traveller, who turned out to be no other than our friend Darby O'Drive. There was, in fact, considering the peculiar character of these two converts, something irresistibly comic in this encounter. Bob knew little or nothing of the Roman Catholic creed; and, as for Darby, we need not say that he was thoroughly ignorant of Protestantism. Yet, nothing could be more certain—if one could judge by the fierce controversial cock of Bob's hat, and the sneering contemptuous expression of Darby's face, that a hard battle, touching the safest way of salvation, was about to be fought between them.
Bob, indeed, had of late been anxious to meet Darby, in order, as he said, to make him “show the cloven foot, the rascal;” but Darby's ire against the priest was now up; and besides, he reflected that a display of some kind would recommend him to the Reformationists, especially, he hoped, to Mr. Lucre, who, he was resolved, should hear it. The two converts looked at each other with no charitable aspect. Darby was about to speak, but Bob, who thought there was not a moment to be lost, gave him a controversial facer before he had time to utter a word:—“How many articles in your church?”
“How many articles in my church! There's one bad one in your church more than ought to be in it, since they got you:—but can you tell me how many sins cry to heaven for vengeance on you, you poor lost hathen?”
“Don't hathen me, you had betther; but answer my question, you rascally heretic.”
“Heretic inagh! oh, thin, is it from a barefaced idolather like you that we hear heretic called to us! Faith, it's come to a purty time o' day wid us!”
“You're a blessed convart not to know the Forty-nine articles of your fat establishment!”