Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir, haven't read
it. Well, and what do you think--a queer night for the purpose, eh?
you'll say--we had a funeral in the town last night, Sir--some one from
Dublin. It was Tressel's men came out. The turnpike rogue--just round
the corner there--one of the talkingest gossips in the town--and a
confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell you--knows the
driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know--tells me there were two
parsons, no less--hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr.
Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of good--that
is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish--ha! ha! when
we're on the point of getting rid of them--but means well, only he's a
little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid, raw-boned parson,
Gillespie--how the plague did they pick him up?--one of the mutes told
Bob 'twas he. He's from Donegal; I know all about him; the sourest dog I
ever broke bread with--and mason, if you please, by Jove--a prince
pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour, one night--_you're_
not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign--and his face was so pinched, and
so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it into the punch-bowl for a
lemon--ha! ha! hey?'
Mervyn's large eyes expressed a well-bred surprise.
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