Before Darby arrives at Mr. Lucre’s, however, we must take the liberty of anticipating him a little, in order to be present at a conversation which occurred on this very subject between the worthy Rector and the Rev. Mr. Clement, his curate.  Mr. Clement, like the pious and excellent Father Roche, was one of those clergymen who feel that these unbecoming and useless exhibitions, called religious discussions, instead of promoting a liberal or enlarged view of religion, are only calculated to envenom the feelings, to extinguish charity, and to contract the heart.  Nay, more, there never was a discussion, they said—­and we join them—­since the days of Ussher and the Jesuit, that did not terminate in a tumult of angry and unchristian recrimination, in which all the common courtesies of life, not to mention the professed duties of Christian men, were trampled on, and violated without scruple.  In the preparations for the forthcoming discussion, therefore, neither of these worthy men took any part whatsoever.  The severe duties of so large a parish, the calls of the sick, the poor, and the dying, together with the varied phases of human misery that pressed upon their notice as they toiled through the obscure and neglected paths of life, all in their opinion, and, in ours, too, constituted a sufficiently ample code of duty, without embroiling themselves in these loud and turbulent encounters.

Mr. Clement, who, on this same day, had received a message from Mr. Lucre, found that gentleman in remarkably good spirits.  He had just received a present of a fine haunch of venison from a fox-hunting nobleman in the neighborhood, and was gloating over it, ere its descent into the larder, with the ruddy fire of epicurism blazing in his eyes.  “Clement,” said he, with a grave, subdued grunt of enjoyment, “come this way—­turn up the venison, Francis—­eh, what say you now, Clement?  Look at the depth of the fat!—­what a prime fellow that was!—­see the flank he had!—­six inches on the ribs at, least!  As our countryman, Goldsmith, says, ‘the lean was so white, and the fat was so ruddy.’”

Clement had often before witnessed this hot spirit of luxury, which becomes doubly carnal and gross in a minister of God.  On this occasion he did not even smile, but replied gravely, “I am not a judge of venison, Mr. Lucre; but, I believe you have misquoted the poet, who, I think, says, ‘the fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.’”

“Well, that’s not much, Clement; but, if you were a judge, this would both delight and astonish you.  Now, Francis, I charge you, as you value your place, your reputation, your future welfare, to be cautious in dressing it.  You know how I wish it done, and, besides, Lord Mountmorgage, Sir Harry Beevor, Lord ------, and a few clerical friends, are to dine with me.  Come in Clement—­Francis, you have heard what I said!  If that haunch is spoiled, I shall discharge you without a character most positively, so look to it.”