“The Pope, is it?” “No; the po-potatoes is the cause of everything.” “They might as well hould their prate, then,” broke in Peter, whose dialect always grew broader when he was excited. “Why don't they tell me that if I was too poor to buy broadcloth, it would be better for me to go naked than wear corduroy breeches? Not that I'd mind them, miss!” said be, turning to Martha, who already was blushing at his illustration. “I fear that the evil lies deeper,” sighed Mrs. Ricketts. “You mean the bogs?” asked Dal ton. “Not exactly, sir; but I allude to those drearier swamps of superstition and ignorance that overlay the land.” Peter was puzzled, and scratched his ear like a man at a nonplus. “My sister means the pr-pr-pr--” “The process-servers?” “No; the pr-priests--the priests,” screamed Purvis. “Bother!” exclaimed Dalton, with an accent of ineffable disdain. “'T is much you know about Ireland!” “You don't agree with me then?” sighed Mrs. Ricketts. “Indeed I do not. Would you take away the little bit of education out of a country where there's nothing but ignorance? Would you extinguish the hopes of heaven amongst them that has nothing but starvation and misery here? Try it,--just try it. I put humanity out of the question; but just try it, for the safety's sake! Pat is n't very orderly now, but, faix! you 'd make a raal devil of him then, entirely!” “But popery, my dear sir--the confessional--” “Bother!” said Dalton, with a wave of his hand. “How much you know about it! 'T is just as they used to talk long ago about drunkenness. Sure, I remember well when there was all that hue and cry about Irish gentlemen's habits of dissipation, and the whole time nobody took anything to hurt his constitution. Well, it's just the same with confession,--everybody uses his discretion about it. _You_ have your peccadilloes, and _I_ have my peccadilloes, and that young lady there has her--Well, I did n't mean to make you blush, miss, but 'tis what I'm saying, that nobody, barrin' a fool, would be too hard upon himself!” “So that it ain't con-confession at all,” exclaimed Purvis. “Who told you that?” said Peter, sternly. “Is it nothing to pay two-and-sixpence in the pound if you were bankrupt to-morrow? Does n't it show an honest intention, any way?” said he, with a wink. “Then what are the evils of Ireland?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with an air of inquiring interest.