“One thing,” said I, “connected with you, I cannot understand; you call yourself a thorough-going Papist, yet are continually saying the most pungent things against Popery, and turning to unbounded ridicule those who show any inclination to embrace it.”

“Rome is a very sensible old body,” said the man in black, “and little cares what her children say, provided they do her bidding.  She knows several things, and amongst others, that no servants work so hard and faithfully as those who curse their masters at every stroke they do.  She was not fool enough to be angry with the Miquelets of Alba, who renounced her, and called her ‘puta’ all the time they were cutting the throats of the Netherlanders.  Now, if she allowed her faithful soldiers the latitude of renouncing her, and calling her ‘puta’ in the market-place, think not she is so unreasonable as to object to her faithful priests occasionally calling her ‘puta’ in the dingle.”

“But,” said I, “suppose some one were to tell the world some of the disorderly things which her priests say in the dingle.”

“He would have the fate of Cassandra,” said the man in black; “no one would believe him—­yes, the priests would:  but they would make no sign of belief.  They believe in the Alcoran des Cordeliers {230}—­that is, those who have read it; but they make no sign.”

“A pretty system,” said I, “which extinguishes love of country and of everything noble, and brings the minds of its ministers to a parity with those of devils, who delight in nothing but mischief.”

“The system,” said the man in black, “is a grand one, with unbounded vitality.  Compare it with your Protestantism, and you will see the difference.  Popery is ever at work, whilst Protestantism is supine.  A pretty church, indeed, the Protestant!  Why, it can’t even work a miracle.”

“Can your church work miracles?” I demanded.

“That was the very question,” said the man in black, “which the ancient British clergy asked of Austin Monk, after they had been fools enough to acknowledge their own inability.  ’We don’t pretend to work miracles; do you?’ ‘Oh! dear me, yes,’ said Austin; ’we find no difficulty in the matter.  We can raise the dead, we can make the blind see; and to convince you I will give sight to the blind.  Here is this blind Saxon, whom you cannot cure, but on whose eyes I will manifest my power, in order to show the difference between the true and the false church;’ and forthwith, with the assistance of a handkerchief and a little hot water, he opened the eyes of the barbarian.  So we manage matters!  A pretty church, that old British church, which could not work miracles—­quite as helpless as the modern one.  The fools! was birdlime so scarce a thing amongst them?—­and were the properties of warm water so unknown to them, that they could not close a pair of eyes and open them?”

“It’s a pity,” said I, “that the British clergy, at that interview with Austin, did not bring forward a blind Welshman, and ask the monk to operate upon him.”