(FATHER PROUT)
1805-1866
[Sidenote: The works of Father Prout.]
“Stooping his short and spare but thick-set figure as he walked,
wearing his ill-brushed hat upon the extreme back of his head, clothed
in the slovenliest way in a semi-clerical dress of the shabbiest
character, he sauntered by with his right arm habitually clasped behind
him in his left hand,--altogether presenting to view so distinctly
the appearance of a member of one of the mendicant orders, that upon
one occasion, in the Rue de Rivoli, an intimate friend of his found
it impossible to resist the impulse of slipping a sou into the open
palm of his right hand, with the apologetic remark, ‘You _do_ look so
like a beggar.’ Apart, however, from his threadbare garb and shambling
gait, there were personal traits of character about him which caught
the attention almost at a glance, and piqued the curiosity of even the
least observant wayfarer. The ‘roguish Hibernian mouth,’ noted in his
regard by Mr. Gruneisen, and the gray piercing eyes, that looked up at
you so keenly over his spectacles, won your interest in him even upon a
first introduction. From the mocking lips soon afterwards, if you fell
into conversation with him, came the ‘loud snappish laugh,’ with which,
as Mr. Blanchard Jerrold remarks, the Father so frequently evinced
his appreciation of a casual witticism--uproarious fits of merriment
signalising at other moments one of his own ironical successes,
outbursts of fun followed during his later years by the racking cough
with which he was too often then tormented.”
[Sidenote: Blanchard Jerrold’s _Final Reliques of Father Prout_.]
“The Rev. Francis Mahony, or Father Prout, trudging along the
Boulevards with his arms clasped behind him, his nose in the air,
his hat worn as French caricaturists insist all Englishmen wear hat
or cap; his quick, clear, deep-seeking eye wandering sharply to the
right or left, and sarcasm--not of the sourest kind--playing like
Jack-o’-lantern in the corners of his mouth, Father Prout was as much a
character of the French capital as the learned Armenian of the Imperial
Library only a few years ago.... It was difficult to meet Father Prout.
He was an odd, uncomfortable, uncertain man. His moods changed like
April skies. Light little thoughts were busy in his brain, lively and
frisking as ‘troutlets in a pool.’ He was impatient of interruption,
and shambled forward talking in an undertone to himself, with now and
then a bubble or two of laughter, or one short sharp laugh almost
like a bark, like that of the marksman when the arrow quivers in the
bull’s-eye. He would pass you with a nod that meant ‘Hold off--not
to-day!’... He was very impatient if any injudicious friend or passing
acquaintance (who took him to be usually as accessible as any _flâneur_
on the macadam), thrust himself forward and would have his hand and
agree with him that it was a fine day, but would possibly rain shortly.
A sharp answer, and an unceremonious plunge forward without bow or
good-day, would put an end to the interruption. Of course the Father
was called a bear by shallow-pates who could not see that there was
something extra in the little man talking to himself and shuffling,
with his hands behind him, through the _fines fleurs_ and _grandes
dames_ of the Italian Boulevard.”
[Sidenote: A personal friend.]
“In recalling the Rev. Francis Mahony, I am forcibly reminded of a
few lines at the beginning of old Burton’s _Anatomy of Melancholy_:
‘Democritus, as he is described by Hippocrates, and Laërtius, was
a little wearish old man, very melancholy by nature, averse from
company in his latter dayes, and much given to solitariness, a famous
philosopher in his age, ... wholly addicted to his studies at the last,
and to a private life; writ many excellent workes.’ Substituting Father
Prout’s name for that of Democritus, the words are equally descriptive
of the quaint little Irishman. He was a small spare man, with a pale
deeply-lined face; badly dressed; with gray unkempt whiskers, and
a certain waspish expression on his thin face which was utterly at
variance, not only with the good Father’s writings,--which for ‘real
larky fun,’ as James Hannay expressed it, are unsurpassed,--but also
with the really kind nature of the man. His eyes were by far the
best feature of his face. Keen, bright, and piercing, they were eyes
that held you. Their glance was very rapid and eager, and instantly
prepossessed you in his favour.”