"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--
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