manner would you provide for my companion?’ said I.
‘We would place her at once,’ said the man in black, ‘in the house of two highly-respectable Catholic ladies in this neighbourhood, where she would be treated with every care and consideration till her conversion should be accomplished in a regular manner; we would then remove her to a female monastic establishment, where, after undergoing a year’s probation, during which time she would be instructed in every elegant accomplishment, she should take the veil. Her advancement would speedily follow, for, with such a face and figure, she would make a capital lady abbess, especially in Italy, to which country she would probably be sent; ladies of her hair and complexion—to say nothing of her height—being a curiosity in the south. With a little care and management she could soon obtain a vast reputation for sanctity; and who knows but after her death she might become a glorified saint—he! he! Sister Maria Theresa, for that is the name I propose you should bear. Holy Mother Maria Theresa—glorified and celestial saint, I have the honour of drinking to your health,’ and the man in black drank.
‘Well, Belle,’ said I, ‘what have you to say to the gentleman’s proposal?’
‘That if he goes on in this way I will break his glass against his mouth.’
‘You have heard the lady’s answer,’ said I.
‘I have,’ said the man in black, ‘and shall not press the matter. I can’t help, however, repeating that she would make a capital lady abbess: she would keep the nuns in order, I warrant her; no easy matter! Break the glass against my mouth—he! he! How she would send the holy utensils flying at the nuns’ heads occasionally, and just the person to wring the nose of Satan should he venture to appear one night in her cell in the shape of a handsome black man. No offence, madam, no offence, pray retain your seat,’ said he, observing that Belle had started up; ‘I mean no offence. Well, if you will not consent to be an abbess, perhaps you will consent to follow this young Zingaro, and to co-operate with him and us. I am a priest, madam, and can join you both in an instant, connubio stabili, as I suppose the knot has not been tied already.’
‘Hold your mumping gibberish,’ said Belle, ‘and leave the dingle this moment, for though ’t is free to every one, you have no right to insult me in it.’
‘Pray be pacified,’ said I to Belle, getting up, and placing myself between her and the man in black, ‘he will presently leave, take my word for it—there, sit down again,’ said I, as I led her to her seat; then, resuming my own, I said to the man in black: ‘I advise you to leave the dingle as soon as possible.’
‘I should wish to have your answer to my proposal first,’ said he.
‘Well, then, here you shall have it: I will not entertain your proposal; I detest your schemes: they are both wicked and foolish.’
‘Wicked,’ said the man in black, ‘have they not—he! he!—the furtherance of religion in view?’
‘A religion,’ said I, ‘in which you yourself do not believe, and which you contemn.’
‘Whether I believe in it or not,’ said the man in black, ‘it is adapted for the generality of the human race; so I will forward it, and advise you to do the same. It was nearly extirpated in these regions, but it is springing up again, owing to circumstances. Radicalism is a good friend to us; all the liberals laud up our system out of hatred to the Established Church, though our system is ten times less liberal than the Church of England. Some of them have really come over to us. I myself confess a baronet who presided over the first radical meeting ever held in England—he was an atheist when he came over to us, in the hope of mortifying his own Church—but he is now—ho! ho!—a real Catholic devotee—quite afraid of my threats; I make him frequently scourge himself before me. Well, Radicalism does us good service, especially amongst the lower classes, for Radicalism chiefly flourishes amongst them; for though a baronet or two may be found amongst the radicals, and perhaps as many lords—fellows who have been discarded by their own order for clownishness, or something they have done—it incontestably flourishes best among the lower orders. Then the love of what is foreign is a great friend to us; this love is chiefly confined to the middle and upper classes. Some admire the French, and imitate them; others must needs be Spaniards, dress themselves up in a zamarra, stick a cigar in their mouths, and say, “Carajo.” Others would pass for Germans; he! he! the idea of any one wishing to pass for a German! but what has done us more service than anything else in these regions—I mean amidst the middle classes—has been the novel, the Scotch novel. The good folks, since they have read the novels, have become Jacobites; and, because all the Jacobs were Papists, the good folks must become Papists also, or, at least, papistically inclined. The very Scotch Presbyterians, since they have read the novels, are become all but Papists; I speak advisedly, having lately been amongst them. There’s a trumpery bit of a half papist sect, called the Scotch Episcopalian Church, which lay dormant and nearly forgotten for upwards of a hundred years, 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.’
