for the love of St. Januarius they would help us off with a little
money; all the arts of Machiavel were resorted to to persuade Europe
to borrow; troops were sent off in all directions to save the
Catholic and Protestant world; the Pope himself was guarded by a
regiment of English dragoons; if the Grand Lama had been at hand, he
would have had another; every Catholic clergyman who had the good
fortune to be neither English nor Irish was immediately provided
with lodging, soap, crucifix, missal, chapel-beads, relics, and holy
water; if Turks had landed, Turks would have received an order from
the Treasury for coffee, opium, korans, and seraglios. In the midst
of all this fury of saving and defending this crusade for conscience
and Christianity, there was a universal agreement among all
descriptions of people to continue every species of internal
persecution, to deny at home every just right that had been denied
before, to pummel poor Dr. Abraham Rees and his Dissenters, and to
treat the unhappy Catholics of Ireland as if their tongues were
mute, their heels cloven, their nature brutal, and designedly
subjected by Providence to their Orange masters.

How would my admirable brother, the Rev. Abraham Plymley, like to be
marched to a Catholic chapel, to be sprinkled with the sanctified
contents of a pump, to hear a number of false quantities in the
Latin tongue, and to see a number of persons occupied in making
right angles upon the breast and forehead? And if all this would
give you so much pain, what right have you to march Catholic
soldiers to a place of worship, where there is no aspersion, no
rectangular gestures, and where they understand every word they
hear, having first, in order to get him to enlist, made a solemn
promise to the contrary? Can you wonder, after this, that the
Catholic priest stops the recruiting in Ireland, as he is now doing