The Romany Rye. Borrow George
which has of late got wonderfully into fashion in Scotland, because, forsooth, some of the long-haired gentry of the novels were said to belong to it, such as Montrose and Dundee; and to this the Presbyterians are going over in throngs, traducing and vilifying their own forefathers, or denying them altogether, and calling themselves descendants of—ho! ho! ho!—Scottish Cavaliers!!! I have heard them myself repeating snatches of Jacobite ditties about “Bonnie Dundee,” and—
‘ “Come, fill up my cup, and fill up my can,
And saddle my horse, and call up my man.”
There’s stuff for you! Not that I object to the first part of the ditty. It is natural enough that a Scotchman should cry, “Come, fill up my cup!” more especially if he’s drinking at another person’s expense—all Scotchmen being fond of liquor at free cost: but “Saddle his horse!!!”—for what purpose I would ask? Where is the use of saddling a horse, unless you can ride him? and where was there ever a Scotchman who could ride?’
‘Of course you have not a drop of Scotch blood in your veins,’ said I, ‘otherwise you would never have uttered that last sentence.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said the man in black; ‘you know little of Popery if you imagine that it cannot extinguish love of country, even in a Scotchman. A thorough-going Papist—and who more thorough-going than myself—cares nothing for his country; and why should he? he belongs to a system, and not to a country.’
‘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 [21]—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.’
‘Clearly,’ said the man in black; ‘that’s what they ought to have done; but they were fools without a single resource.’ Here he took a sip at his glass.
‘But they did not believe in the miracle?’ said I.
‘And what did their not believing avail them?’ said the man in black. ‘Austin remained master of the field, and they went away holding their heads down, and muttering to themselves. What a fine subject for a painting would be Austin’s opening the eyes of the Saxon barbarian, and the discomfiture of the British clergy! I wonder it has not been painted!—he! he!’
‘I suppose your Church still performs miracles occasionally?’ said I.
‘It does,’ said the man in black. ‘The Rev. --- has lately been performing miracles in Ireland, destroying devils that had got possession of people; he has been eminently successful. In two instances he not only destroyed the devils, but the lives of the people possessed—he! he! Oh! there is so much energy in our system; we are always at work, whilst Protestantism is supine.’
‘You must not imagine,’ said I, ‘that all Protestants are supine; some of them appear to be filled with unbounded zeal. They deal, it is true, not in lying miracles, but they propagate God’s Word. I remember only a few months ago, having occasion for a Bible, going to an establishment, [23] the object of which was to send Bibles all over the world. The supporters of that establishment could have no self-interested views; for I was supplied by them with a noble-sized Bible at a price so small as to preclude the idea that it could bring any profit to the vendors.’
The countenance of the man in black slightly fell. ‘I know the people to whom you allude,’ said he; ‘indeed, unknown to them, I have frequently been to see them, and observed their ways. I tell you frankly that there is not a set of people in this kingdom who have caused our Church so much trouble and uneasiness. I should rather say that they alone cause us any; for as for the rest, what with their drowsiness, their plethora, their folly, and their vanity, they are doing us anything but mischief. These fellows are a pestilent set of heretics, whom we would gladly see burnt; they are, with the most untiring perseverance, and in spite of divers minatory declarations of the holy father, scattering their books abroad through all Europe, and have caused many people in Catholic countries to think that hitherto their priesthood have endeavoured, as much as possible, to keep them blinded. There is one fellow amongst them for whom we entertain a particular aversion; a big, burly parson, with the face of a lion, the voice of a buffalo, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. The last time I was there, I observed that his eye was upon me, and I did not like the glance he gave me at all; I observed him clench his fist, and I took my departure as fast as I conveniently could. Whether he suspected who I was, I know not; but I did not like his look at all, and do not intend to go again.’
‘Well, then,’ said I, ‘you confess that you have redoubtable enemies to your plans in these regions, and that even amongst the ecclesiastics there are some widely different from those of the plethoric and Platitude schools.’
‘It is but too true,’ said the man in black; ‘and if the rest of your Church were like them we should quickly bid adieu to all hope of converting these regions, but we are thankful to be able to say that such folks are not numerous; there are, moreover, causes at work quite sufficient to undermine even their zeal. Their sons return at the vacations, from Oxford and Cambridge, puppies, full of the nonsense which they have imbibed from Platitude professors; and this nonsense they retail at home, where it fails not to make some impression, whilst the daughters scream—I beg their pardons—warble about Scotland’s Montrose, and Bonny Dundee, and all the Jacobs; so we have no doubt that their papas’ zeal about the propagation of such a vulgar book as the Bible