And the man in black drained the last drop in his glass.
“Never,” said I, “will I become the slave of Rome.”
“She will allow you latitude,” said the man in black; “do but serve her, and she will allow you to call her puta at a decent time and place, her popes occasionally call her puta. A pope has been known to start from his bed at midnight and rush out into the corridor, and call out puta three times in a voice which pierced the Vatican; that pope was—”
“Alexander the Sixth, I dare say,” said I; “the greatest monster that ever existed, though the worthiest head which the popish system ever had—so his conscience was not always still. I thought it had been seared with a brand of iron.”
“I did not allude to him, but to a much more modern pope,” said the man in black; “it is true he brought the word, which is Spanish, from Spain, his native country, to Rome. He was very fond of calling the Church by that name, and other popes have taken it up. She will allow you to call her by it, if you belong to her.”
“I shall call her so,” said I, “without belonging to her, or asking her permission.”
“She will allow you to treat her as such, if you belong to her,” said the man in black; “there is a chapel in Rome, where there is a wondrously fair statue—the son of a cardinal—I mean his nephew—once—Well, she did not cut off his head, but slightly boxed his cheek and bade him go.”
“I have read all about that in Keysler’s Travels,” said I; “do you tell her that I would not touch her with a pair of tongs, unless to seize her nose.”
“She is fond of lucre,” said the man in black; “but does not grudge a faithful priest a little private perquisite,” and he took out a very handsome gold repeater.
“Are you not afraid,” said I, “to flash that watch before the eyes of a poor tinker in a dingle?”
“Not before the eyes of one like you,” said the man in black.
“It is getting late,” said I; “I care not for perquisites.”
“So you will not join us?” said the man in black.
“You have had my answer,” said I.
“If I belong to Rome,” said the man in black, “why should not you?”
“I may be a poor tinker,” said I, “but I may never have undergone what you have. You remember, perhaps, the fable of the fox who had lost his tail?”
The man in black winced, but almost immediately recovering himself, he said: “Well, we can do without you, we are sure of winning.”
“It is not the part of wise people,” said I, “to make sure of the battle before it is fought: there’s the landlord of the public-house, who made sure that his cocks would win, yet the cocks lost the main, and the landlord is little better than a bankrupt.”
“People very different from the landlord,” said the man in black, “both in intellect and station, think we shall surely win; there are clever machinators among us who have no doubt of our success.”
“Well,” said I, “I will set the landlord aside, and will adduce one who was in every point a very different person from the landlord, both in understanding and station; he was very fond of laying schemes, and, indeed, many of them turned out successful. His last and darling one, however, miscarried, notwithstanding that by his calculations he had persuaded himself that there was no possibility of its failing—the person that I allude to was old Fraser—”
“Who?” said the man in black, giving a start, and letting his glass fall.
“Old Fraser of Lovat,” said I; “the prince of all conspirators and machinators; he made sure of placing the Pretender on the throne of these realms. ‘I can bring into the field so many men,’ said he; ‘my son-in-law, Cluny, so many, and likewise my cousin, and my good friend;’ then speaking of those on whom the Government reckoned for support, he would say: ‘So and so are lukewarm, this person is ruled by his wife, who is with us, the clergy are anything but hostile to us, and as for the soldiers and sailors, half are disaffected to King George, and the rest cowards’. Yet when things came to a trial, this person whom he had calculated upon to join the Pretender did not stir from his home, another joined the hostile ranks, the presumed cowards turned out heroes, and those whom he thought heroes ran away like lusty fellows at Culloden; in a word, he found himself utterly mistaken, and in nothing more than in himself; he thought he was a hero, and proved himself nothing more than an old fox; he got up a hollow tree, didn’t he, just like a fox?
L’opere sue non furon leonine, ma di volpe.” [24]
The man in black sat silent for a considerable time, and at length answered in rather a faltering voice: “I was not prepared for this; you have frequently surprised me by your knowledge of things which I should never have expected any person of your appearance to be acquainted with, but that you should be aware of my name is a circumstance utterly incomprehensible to me. I had imagined that no person in England was acquainted with it; indeed, I don’t see how any person should be, I have revealed it to no one, not being particularly proud of it. Yes, I acknowledge that my name is Fraser, and that I am of the blood of that family or clan, of which the rector of our college once said, that he was firmly of opinion that every individual member was either rogue or fool. I was born at Madrid, of pure, oimè, Fraser blood. My parents, at an early age, took me to—, where they shortly died, not, however, before they had placed me in the service of a cardinal, with whom I continued some years, and who, when he had no further occasion for me, sent me to the college, in the left-hand cloister of which, as you enter, rest the bones of Sir John D—; there, in studying logic and humane letters, I lost whatever of humanity I had retained when discarded by the cardinal. Let me not, however, forget two points, I am a Fraser, it is true, but not a Flannagan; I may bear the vilest name of Britain, but not of Ireland; I was bred up at the English house, and there is at—a house for the education of bog-trotters; I was not bred up at that; beneath the lowest gulf, there is one yet lower; whatever my blood may be, it is at least not Irish; whatever my education may have been, I was not bred at the Irish seminary—on those accounts I am thankful—yes, per Dio! I am thankful. After some years at college—but why should I tell you my history? you know it already perfectly well, probably much better than myself. I am now a missionary priest, labouring in heretic England, like Parsons and Garnet of old, save and except that, unlike them, I run no danger, for the times are changed. As I told you before, I shall cleave to Rome—I must; no hay remedio, as they say at Madrid, and I will do my best to further her holy plans—he! he!—but I confess I begin to doubt of their being successful here—you put me out; old Fraser of Lovat! I have heard my father talk of him; he had a gold-headed cane, with which he once knocked my grandfather down—he was an astute one, but, as you say, mistaken, particularly in himself. I have read his life by Arbuthnot, it is in the library of our college. Farewell! I shall come no more to this dingle—to come would be of no utility; I shall go and labour elsewhere, though—how you came to know my name, is a fact quite inexplicable—farewell! to you both.”
He then arose, and without further salutation departed from the dingle, in which I never saw him again. “How, in the name of wonder, came you to know that man’s name?” said Belle, after he had been gone some time.
“I, Belle? I knew nothing of the fellow’s name, I assure