was to Halifax, and who should I meet but Father John O’Shaughnessy, a Catholic Priest.  I had met him afore in Cape Breton, and had sold him a clock.  Well, he was a leggin it off hot foot.  Possible! says I, Father John, is that you?  Why, what on airth is the matter of you—­what makes you in such an everlastin hurry, driven away like one ravin distracted mad?  A sick visit, says he; poor Pat Lanigan, him that you mind to Bradore Lake, well he’s near about at the pint of death.  I guess not, said I, for I jist heerd tell he was dead.  Well, that brought him up all standin, and he bouts ship in a jiffy, and walks a little way with me, and we got a talkin about this very subject.  Says he, what are you, Mr. Slick?  Well, I looks up to him and winks, a Clockmaker, says I; well he smiled, and says he, I see; as much as to say I had’nt ought to have axed that are question at all, I guess, for every man’s religion is his own, and nobody else’s business.  Then, says he, you know all about this country, who do folks say has the best of the dispute.  Says I, Father John, its like the battles up to Canada lines last war, each side claims victory; I guess there aint much to brag on nary way, damage done on both sides, and nothin gained, as far as I can learn.  He stopt short, and looked me in the face, and says he, Mr. Slick you are a man that has seed a good deal of the world, and a considerable of an understandin man, and I guess I can talk to you.  Now, says he, for gracious sake do jist look here, and see how you heretics (protestants I mean, says he, for I guess that are word slipt out without leave,) are by the ears, a driven away at each other, the whole blessed time tooth and nail, hip and thigh, hammer and tongs, disputin, revilin, wranglin, and beloutin each other, with all sorts of ugly names that they can lay their tongues to.  Is that the way you love your neighbor as yourself?  We say this is A practical comment on schism, and by the powers of Moll Kelly, said he, but they all ought to be well lambasted together, the whole batch on ’em entirely.  Says I, Father John, give me your hand; there are some things, I guess, you and I don’t agree on, and most likely never will, seein that you are a Popish priest; but in that idee I do opinionate with you, and I wish with all my heart all the world thought with us.  I guess he didn’t half like that are word Popish priest; it seemed to grig him like; his face looked kinder’ ryled, like well water arter a heavy rain; and said he, Mr. Slick, says he, your country is a free country, aint it?  The freest, says I, on the face of the airth—­you can’t “ditto” it nowhere.  We are as free as the air, and when our dander’s up, stronger than any hurricane you ever seed—­tear up all creation most; there aint the beat of it to be found any where.  Do you call this a free country? said he.  Pretty considerable middlin, says I, seein that they are under a king.  Well, says