Father Tom and the Pope.
Father Tom and the Pope,
OR
A Night in the Vatican.
NEW YORK:
A. SIMPSON & CO.,
1867.
Agathynian Press, 60 Duane Street, N.Y.
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
There are several questions which at this present time remain
unsettled. One of them is, "_who invented gunpowder?_" Another is,
which of them was it, Faust or Guttemberg, "_that invented printing?_"
Another is, "_whether the Deity created nature, or nature created
itself?_" That is a poser. Another is "_whether the original egg was
the parent of the chicken, or the egg was the original ancestor of
that celebrated feathered fowl?_" "_De novum ovum_," says Xinctillios,
"_inseperatum primero, cum possibilitas, et credentia, in meo judicio,
quam supra calcis phospas, qui est_, in the bones of the chicken."
In other words, and to make it plain to the reader, he, Xinctillios,
cannot understand how it is possible for human comprehension to see a
new laid egg, without permitting in his judgment the idea of phosphate
of lime existing in the osseous structure of the bones of the original
hen. St. Bardolphus entertains a contrary opinion, "_Anam, aname, mona
mike_," says he, "_Barcelona bona strike_," says he, "_harum scarum, wy
frone whack!_" (I give you the original Coptic) "_Harrico barrico, we
won frac!_"
Between these two contending opinions I have nothing to say. The
dogmas of the Roman Catholic Church, and the _folatreries_ of the
philosophers of the high school of nature, differ so widely, that it is
impossible for common sense to adopt either the one or the other--and
the Greek Church on these points has given no decided opinion!
Such a dilemma presents itself when we come to consider the contents of
this volume. Who wrote it? Some say, Lord Brougham; and some attribute
it to the Duke of Wellington, who understood the Irish vernacular to
a dot. I have a shrewd suspicion that Maginn, a high tory, although
a good Roman Catholic, and one of the prominent contributors to
_Blackwood_, lent his helping hand to it, if he were not the _real_
author of it all? "Howandiver," to use a phrase of the author, let us
look into the history of it.
Father Tom Maguire, a prominent Roman Catholic priest in Killeshandra,
Ireland, of the parish of Innismagrath, was one of the most celebrated
men of his time. He was a splendid orator, trained at Maynooth; he
was a high liver--everything consisting of meat and drink on his
table was of the best; his wines were excellent, and he kept the best
stable and the finest greyhounds in Ireland. He was a bold fox-hunter;
rode over ditch, hedge and five-barred gate, and when his good Bishop
interdicted these sports of the Irish clergy, says he, "I will give
up my hunting," says he; "but if I must give up my greyhounds, there
is a little Protestant parish church hard by waiting for me." Whether
this threat had the desired effect is not known. It is said that
he abjured his church and died a heretic. How much of this we can
believe depends altogether upon the amount of our credulity. It
may be true, and, alas! it may not! Father Tom, as the great Roman
Catholic controversialist, was challenged to decide by argument, the
superiority of the Romish Church over that of the Established Church
of England, by the Rev. Richard T.P. Pope, a clergyman of the latter
persuasion. The controversy took place in the Rotunda, at Dublin,
about forty years ago.[1] Crowds of spectators assembled to witness
the religious contest. Of course the ladies, who always take a great
interest in religious disputations, were present in great numbers. The
beauty and the fashion, the graceful, the wise and the witty of Dublin
assembled to hear these knotty points discussed. The Rev. Mr. Pope,
who was a very learned scholar, but unfortunately a timid man, based
his great argument upon the Bible itself. So long as he stood upon
this ground his arguments were unassailable. But Father Tom, by one of
those dexterous twists so well known in polemics, managed to get Pope
to shift his ground from the Bible to the Fathers. The dispute, which
had occupied several days, up to this time had been in favor of Pope,
but when Father Maguire got him entangled in the Fathers, and hurled
at him quotation after quotation from St. Austin, St. Chrysostom, and
others--poor Pope, who knew very little of the Fathers, became so
dumb-founderd that he was incapable of making a reply, and the victory
rested with Father Tom. But after the controversy was over the Rev.
Mr. Pope took up the Fathers, and to his surprise _could not find any
of the quotations that Father Tom had cited_! Like a true scholar, he
published a book, exposing the fallacies of his antagonist. But the
time had gone by. Few people cared to read it, fewer still had patience
to wade through laborious denials of the smart sayings of Father Tom
in the Rotunda; the sparkle was off--the champagne had ceased to
effervesce--and Mr. Pope never recovered the ground he had lost.
Some years elapsed, and the Rev. Tresham D. Gregg, of the
Established Church, took up the polemical cudgels to demolish the
redoubtable champion of the Romish Church. He was just such a man
as his antagonist, vehement, loud voiced--of the _ad captandum_,
knock-down-and-drag-out school. Although not acknowledged by the
Church of England as the Goliath of its faith, yet there is no doubt
of the secret exultation of its clergy at his success. The challenge
was accepted, and for a fortnight the Rotunda of Dublin rang with the
verbal blows of these doughty combatants. Victory poised her scales,
the contest hung in the balance. At last, one afternoon, after the
battle of the day was over, Gregg raised his mighty arm high in the
air, and said "that on the next day, the secrets of the confessional
would be the subject of the discourse, and warned the ladies, 'that
no modest woman would appear, or could appear, while he revealed the
secrets of that powerful instrument of the Romish Church.'"
The consequences may be imagined. The hall was packed to overflowing
by the gentler sex. Ladies of the Catholic persuasion, conscious of
the inability of the orator to make his words good, flocked to hear
his discomfiture. Those of the other persuasion were induced to come
from a laudable curiosity. The argument, if argument it might be
called, consisted on Gregg's part of that style which Poe has properly
denominated "the awkward left arm of satire--_invective_." He had
caught Father Tom at single stick and paid him off in his own way.
There was of course no little allusion to indelicate matters. After the
argument the Rev. Mr. Gregg had to be escorted to his lodgings by a
troop of dragoons. But at the close of the debate he announced, that on
the morrow the subject would be _continued_. But on the following day
Father Tom did not appear. The victorious Gregg was cock of the walk;
the judgment went by default.
Whether any one among the speakers or listeners became better
Christians after the controversy, is a question. It is doubtful whether
Gregg or Father Tom made or lost a single convert to either faith.
"Father Tom and the Pope" first saw the light in _Blackwood_, ten years
after these controversies. It may have been written by Maginn, who was
a good Catholic, but it may truly be said of him, that although he
"loved the Church much, he loved fun more." As a work of mere wit it
must take its place with some of the brightest efforts of Rabelais, of
Montaigne, or of Pascal.
The ingenuity with which the conversation between the Pope and
Father Tom is developed to the reader, forms no little part of its
felicitousness. A hedge priest, one Michael Heffernan, of the National
School of Ballymacktaggart, is the interlocutor. This keeper of a
ragged school, under the shadow of an Irish hedge, is the exponent of
theological controversies that have shaken the world! Happy satire!
which like summer lightning, clears up the atmosphere, and makes even
the skies bright, blue, beautiful and buoyant. To us! poor mortals! to
whom a touch of nature shakes the laughter out of us, or brings the
tears into our eyes, such books are the treasures of our language.
If out of the sorrow and misery of this world, wit has managed to
alleviate one shade of human suffering; if it has lifted up its hand
against tyranny; if it has sometimes by the pen of Cervantes lessened
the ridiculous power of a so-called chivalry; or in the satires of
Swift, destroyed the prestige of hereditary birth; if it has done any
good in this world, let so much good be accounted to it.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: In 1827.]
CHAPTER I.
HOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.
When his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take pot
look wid him. More be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that,
there was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an absolution from
the fast on account ov the great company that was in it--at laste so
I'm tould. Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow--glory be
to God!--and so, as they wor sitting, afther dinner, taking their sup
together, says the Pope, says he, "Thomaus"--for the Pope, you know,
spakes that away, all as one as one ov uz--"Thomaus _a lanna_," says
he, "I'm tould you welt them English heretics out ov the face."
"You may say that," says his Riv'rence to him again. "Be my sowl,"
says he, "if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the
first Pope I floored."
Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you know, Pope was
the great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov
coorse they knew all the ins and outs ov the conthravarsy at Room.
"Faix, Thomaus," says he, smiling across the table at him mighty
agreeable--"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the
pleasant man over the dhrop ov good liquor."
"Would you like to thry?" says his Riv'rence.
"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?" says the Pope. "Sorra betther
bottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you
on the table; its raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it."
"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.
"Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure and here's the best ov good
claret in the cut decanther."
"Not maning to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his
Riv'rence, "I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass of
spirits through it, if convanient."
"Hand me over the bottle ov brandy," says the Pope to his head butler,
"and fetch up the materi'ls," says he.
"Ah, then, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, "maybe
you'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure it's all one
throuble," says he, "and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always
plays the puck wid my inthrails."
"'Pon my conscience, then," says the Pope, "it's very sorry I am,
Misther Maguire," says he, "that it isn't in my power to plase you;
for I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whisky in Room this
blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."
"Well, in troth, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "I knewn there was no
use in axing; only," says he, "I didn't know how else to exqueeze the
liberty I tuck," says he, "ov bringing a small taste," says he, "ov the
raal stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his
coat-pocket; "that never seen the face ov a gauger," says he, setting
it down on the table fornenst the Pope: "and if you'll jist thry the
full ov a thimble ov it, and if it doesn't rise the cockles ov your
Holiness's heart, why, then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!"
and wid that he outs wid the cork.
Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for
fetching dhrink thataway in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins
in the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you
to comprehind the differ betuxt an invitation to dinner from the
succissor ov Saint Pether, and from a common mayur or a Prodesan
squireen that maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more
nor his own heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you
visit in Leithrim," says he, "and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know
the differ in the prisint case," says he, "only that you're a champion
of the Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's
come, let it stay. And in troth I'm curis myself," says he, getting
mighty soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, "in
invistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch of
natural philosophy," says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to
his blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he
cried out, the dear man: "Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!"
and crossed himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.
"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now," says his Riv'rence,
"and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy ov punch; and,"
says he, stirring up the materi'ls with his goolden muddler--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very schrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vergin goold--"if I might make bould," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably
facilitate the invistigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if
you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly."
"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment," says the Pope, in
a much more condiscinding way nor you'd have expected--and wid that he
mixes himself a real stiff facer.
"Now, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "this bein' the first time you
ever dispinsed them chymicals," says he, "I'll just make bould to
lay down one rule of orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them,
_secundem mortem_."
"What's that?" says the Pope.
"Put in the sperits first," says his Riv'rence; "and then put in the
sugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils
the punch."
"Glory be to God!" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was
saying. "Glory be to God!" says he, smacking his lips. "I never knewn
what dhrink was afore," says he. "It bates the Lachrymalchrystal out of
the face!" says he--"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!" says he,
wiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.
"'Pon my secret honor," says his Riv'rence, "I'm raally glad to see
your Holiness set so much to your satisfaction; especially," says he,
"as, for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty ov fetching the fellow
ov that small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat pocket. So divil a
fear ov our running dhry till the but-end ov the evening, anyhow," says
he.
"Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope,
"for faix," says he, "I'm bent on analysing the metaphwysics ov this
phinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off," says he, "you're not dhrinking
at all."
"Is it dhrink?" says his Riv'rence; "by Gorra, your Holiness," says he,
"I'd dhrink wid you till the cows'ud be coming home in the morning."
So wid that they tackled to, to the second fugee a piece, and fell into
larned discourse. But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir
at the Boord. Oh my sorra light upon ye, Docther Whately, wid your
pilitical econimy and your hydherastatics! What the _dioul_ use has a
poor hedge-master like me wid such deep larning as is only fit for the
likes of them two that I left over their second tumbler? Howandiver,
wishing I was like them, in regard ov the sup of dhrink, anyhow, I must
break off my norration for the prisint; but when I see you again, I'll
tell you how Father Tom made a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in
theology and the cube root.