Thames a week before this delightful 24th, not one of the party, Mr.
Richards himself excepted, would have felt in the slightest degree
concerned; but since, with a common regard to politeness, they could not
explicitly tell him so, they contented themselves with bestowing upon
Mr. Carlo every term of opprobrium, every form of execration, which good
manners will allow,--leaving it to the sagacity of "the life and soul of
the company" to apply them to himself, if so it might be agreeable to
him. Poor fellow! he felt the awkwardness of his situation, and
figuratively, as well as literally speaking, this exploit of his dog
threw a _damp_ upon him, as it had done upon every one else.
For some time the picnickers pursued their way in solemn silence. At
length Bagshaw, perceiving that there would be very little pleasure if
matters were allowed to go on in this way, exclaimed,--
"An intelligent observer, not imbued with the knowledge of our
intentions, would indicate us to be a combination of perturbed spirits,
rowed by Charon across the river Tiber."
In cases of this kind, the essential is to break the ice. Conversation
was now resumed.
"Ah! ha!" said the vice-president, "Sion-house."
"The residuum of the Northumberlands," said Claudius, "one of the most
genealogical and antique families in England."
And here, having put forth so much classical and historical lore, almost
in a breath, he marked his own satisfaction by a short, single cough.
The vice-president _said_ nothing, but he thought to himself, "There is
much more in this Bagshaw than I suspected."
Jack Richards was up again.
"Come, what's done can't be helped; but, upon my soul! I am sorry at
being the innocent cause of throwing cold water on the party."
"Cold water, indeed! look at me, sir," said Miss Snubbleston, with tears
in her eyes, and exhibiting her _ci-devant_ shoulder-of-mutton sleeves,
which, but half an hour before as stiff and stately as starch could make
them, were now hanging loose and flabby about her skinny arms.
"Too bad, Jack," said Uncle John, "to bring that cursed Carlo of yours!"
Carlo, perceiving that he was the subject of conversation, was instantly
on his legs, his eye steadily fixed upon Uncle John, evidently expecting
a signal for a second plunge. The alarm was general, and every tongue
joined in the scream of "Lie down, sir! lie down!"
Uncle John, who had been more than once offended by the odor from his
friend's garlic sausage, and who had on each and every such occasion
vented an exclamation of disgust, to the great amusement of Mr. Richards
(who chuckled with delight to think of the exchange he had secretly
effected) here, in the very middle of the stream, resolved to rid
himself of the annoyance. Unperceived by any one, he gently drew the
parcel from Richards's coat-pocket, and let it drop into the water! Like
King Richard's pierced coffin, once in, it soon found the way to the
bottom. Uncle John could scarcely restrain his inclination to laugh
aloud; however, he contrived to assume an air of indifference, and
whistled part of a tune.
Arrived at Twickenham, the boatmen were ordered to pull up to a
beautiful meadow, sloping down to the water's edge. There was no time to
lose,--they had had no pleasure yet,--so Bagshaw entreated that every
one "would put his shoulder to the wheel, and be on the _qui rala_." In
an instant a large heavy hamper was landed, but as, in compliance with
Bagshaw's request, every one did something to _help_, a scene of
confusion was the consequence, and numerous pieces of crockery were
invalided ere the cloth was properly spread, and the dishes, plates, and
glasses distributed. But for the feast. Mr. Snodgrass's basket was
opened, and out of it were taken four remarkably fine chickens, and a
tongue--uncooked! There was but one mode of accounting for this trifling
omission. Mr. Snodgrass's Betty was a downright matter-of-fact person,
who obeyed orders to the very letter. Having been told, the evening
before, to get four fine chickens for roasting, together with a tongue,
and to pack them, next morning, in a basket, she did so literally and
strictly; but, as she had received no distinct orders to dress them, to
have done so she would have deemed an impertinent departure from her
instructions. Well; since people in a high state of civilization, like
Mr. Claudius Bagshaw and his friends, cannot eat raw chickens, they did
the only thing they could under the circumstances,--they grumbled
exceedingly, and put them back again into the basket. This was a serious
deduction in the important point of quantity, and Uncle John felt a
slight touch of remorse at having thrown, as he thought, his friend's
Italian sausage into the Thames. However, there was still provision in
the garrison. But the run of luck in events, as at a game of whist, may
be against you; and when it is so, be assured that human prudence and
foresight--remarkable as even Mrs. Bagshaw's, who bespoke her pigeons
seven weeks before she wanted them--avail but little. When the packages
were first stowed in the boat, the pigeon-pie was inadvertently placed
at the bottom, and everything else, finishing with the large heavy
hamper of crockery, with Carlo on that, upon it; so that when it was
taken up it appeared a chaotic mass of pie-crust, broken china, pigeons,
brown paper, beefsteak, eggs, and straw!
"Now this is enough to provoke a saint!" said Bagshaw; and no one
attempting to deny the position, with this salvo for his own character
of philosophic patience, he indulged himself in the full expression of
his vexation and sorrow. After a minute examination, he declared the pie
to be "a complete squash," and that nobody could venture to eat it but
at the imminent risk of being choked. As he was about to throw it over
the hedge, Miss Snubbleston, seized with an unusual fit of generosity,
called out to him,--
"What _are_ you doing? Though it isn't fit for us to eat, it will be
quite a treat to the poor watermen. I dare say, poor souls, they don't
often get pigeon-pie."
But the good genius of Mr. Carlo prevailed; and the truth of the adage,
"'tis an ill wind that blows nobody good," was confirmed in his mind as
he found himself busily employed in the ingenious operation of
separating pigeon from porcelain. It was, doubtless, extremely ill-bred
in one dog not to invite another, and Cupid expressed his sense of the
slight by a long-continued yell, which drew down upon him, from the
equally disappointed bipeds of the company, sundry wishes, the positive
accomplishment of which would not have tended much to his personal
happiness. The next basket was opened. Things were not altogether in a
desperate state. Mr. Wrench's ham was in perfect order, and that, with
Miss Snubbleston's salad, and some bread, and--could it be possible!
After so much preparation, and Mr. Bagshaw's committee of "provender" to
boot, that no one should have thought of so obvious a requisite as
bread! There would not be time to send Mr. Bagshaw to Twickenham town to
procure some, for it was getting late, and if they lost the tide, they
should be on the water till midnight, and they did not like the
appearance of the sky, which was by no means so blue as it had hitherto
been. However, the want of bread did not _much_ signify; they could make
a shift with Miss Snubbleston's biscuits and poundcakes. But Uncle John
did not come out on an excursion of pleasure to make shift; no more did
Bagshaw; no more did any of the others. There was nothing else to be
done; so where is Miss Snubbleston's basket? And where is Master
Charles? gracious! Don't be alarmed, the precious rarity is in no
danger. He was soon discovered behind a tree, whither he had dragged the
fruit and cakes, and was engaged with all his might and main, in an
endeavor, with a piece of stick, to force out an apple. In this attempt,
as it was presently seen, the interesting child had cracked a bottle,
the contents of which--merely a preparation of oil, vinegar, and mustard
for the salad--were quietly dribbling through the poundcakes, biscuits,
and fruit. Similar aspirations to those which had lately been so
cordially expressed for the Dutch pug were now most devoutly formed in
behalf of Master Charles.
"This comes of bringing their plaguy brats with them," said Uncle and
Bagshaw.
Whilst this scene was going on, Jack Richards, perceiving that the
service of the table was incomplete, bethought him of Uncle John's
silver-handled knives and forks and spoons; he felt first in one pocket,
and then in the other, then he ran down to search the boat, then he
rummaged the baskets.
"Jack, my boy," hallooed Uncle John, "don't trouble yourself, you'll
never see _that_ again."
"What, sir?"
"I could not bear the smell of it any longer, so I slyly drew it out of
your pocket, and dexterously let it fall into the deepest part of the
Thames."
And here Uncle John chuckled, and looked about him for applause.
"Bless me, sir! Don't say so--why--bless my heart--you don't
know--before we got into the boat, I put the sausage into your pocket,
and your case of cutlery into my own!"
There was a general burst of laughter against Uncle John. He turned as
pale as--nay, paler than anything that has ever yet been dragged into
the comparison; for an instant he stood stock-still, then thrust his
hand into his pocket, drew forth the unfortunate substitute, and at the
same time exclaiming D----tion! dashed it violently to the ground. He
next buttoned his coat from the bottom to the top, pulled down his
cuffs, whispered to his no longer admired Jack Richards, "You shall hear
from me, Mr.----," and saying aloud to Bagshaw, "This comes of your
confounded party of pleasure, sir," away he went, and returned to town
outside a Twickenham coach; resolving by the way to call out _that_ Mr.
Richards, and to eject the Bagshaws from the snug corner they held in
his last will and testament.
This explosion seemed to have banished pleasure for that day. They were
all, more or less, out of humor; and instead of making the best of
things, as they had hitherto done, they now made the worst of them. Sir
Thomas's hamper of _his choice wine_ (which, by the by, he purchased at
a cheap shop for the occasion) was opened; and slices of ham were cut
with the only knife and fork. Jack Richards tried to be facetious, but
it would not do. He gave Bagshaw a poke in the ribs, which was received
with a very formal, "Sir, I must beg--" To Mr. Wrench, junior, he
said,--
"You have not spoken much to-day--but you have made amends for your
silence--d' ye take?--Your _ham_ is good, though your _tongue_ is not
worth much!"
Instead of laughing, Mr. Wrench simpered something about impertinent
liberties and satisfaction. On being invited by Sir Thomas to a second
glass of his old East India, he said that one was a dose--had rather not
double the _Cape_; and at the first glass of champagne, he inquired
whether there had been a plentiful supply of gooseberries that year. In
short, whether it were that the company knew not how to appreciate his
style of wit and pleasantry, or that he was in reality a very
disagreeable person, the fact is that--but hold! let us say nothing ill
of him; he died last week, at Folkestone, of a surfeit of goose, in the
forty-ninth year of his age. For the consolation of such as were amused
by him, and regret his loss, be it remembered that there are still to be
found many Jack Richards in this world.
As we have said, they now resolved to make the worst of everything; the
grass was damp, the gnats were troublesome, Carlo's nose was in
everybody's face, Cupid's teeth at everybody's calves, and Master
Charles was ill of the many sour apples; it was growing late, and no
good could come of sitting longer in the open air. They re-embarked. By
the time they reached Putney it was pitch dark, and the tide was setting
against them. They moved on in mute impatience, for there was a slight
sprinkling of rain. It now fell in torrents. Master Charles grew
frightened and screamed. Cupid yelped, and Carlo howled. Accompanied the
rest of the way by these pleasing sounds, at one in the morning (two
hours and a half later than they intended) they arrived at Westminster
stairs, dull, dreary, drowsy, discontented, and drenched.
FATHER TOM AND THE POPE,
As related by Mr. Michael Heffernan, Master of the National
School at Tallymactaggart, in the County Leitrim, to a friend,
during his official visit to Dublin for the purpose of studying
political economy, in the spring of 1838.
BY SAMUEL FERGUSON.
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 of 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, and all as one as 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 soul," 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 of 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 Salamanca, nor there's fornenst you on
the table; it's raal Lachrymachrystal, 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 maining to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his
Riv'rence, "I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass ov
spirits through it, if convanient."
"Hand me over the bottle of 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 whiskey 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, "of bringing a small taste," says he, "of the
real stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his
coat-pocket; "that never seen the face ov a guager," 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 it doesn't rise the cockles ov your Holiness's
heart, why then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!" and with that
he out's 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 inwitation to dinner from the succissor
of Saint Pether, and from a common nagur of a Prodesan squirean 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 wisit 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 ov the
Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come,
let it stay. And, in troth, I'm curi's myself," says he, getting mighty
soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, "in
inwistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch ov
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 of punch; and,"
says he, stirring up the materi'ls wid his goolden meeddlar,--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very shcrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vergin goold,--"if I might make boold," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably
whacilitate the inwestigation 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 condescinding 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 jist make bould to lay
doun one rule ov orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them,
_secundum 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 Lachymalchrystal out ov
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 satiswhaction; especially," says he, "as,
for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty of fetching the fellow ov that
small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat-pocket. So devil a fear of
our running dhry till the but-end of the evening, anyhow," says he.
"Dhraw your stool into the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for
faix," says he, "I'm bent on anilizing 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 fugil apiece, and fell into a
larned discourse.
But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir at the Boord. O, my
sorra light upon you, Docther Whately, wid your plitical econimy and
your hydherastatics! What the _divul_ use has a poor hedge-masther like
me wid sich deep larning as is only fit for the likes ov them two I left
over their second tumbler? Howandiver, wishing I was like them, in
regard ov the sup ov dhrink, anyhow, I must brake 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.
II.
HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN THEOLOGY AND LOGIC.
Well, the lecther's over, and I'm kilt out and out. My bitther curse be
upon the man that invinted the same Boord! I thought onc't I'd fadomed
the say ov throuble; and that was when I got through fractions at ould
Mat Kavanagh's school, in Firdramore,--God be good to poor Mat's sowl,
though he did deny the cause the day he suffered! but its fluxions
itself we're set to bottom now, sink or shwim! May I never die if my
head isn't as throughother, as anything wid their ordinals and
cardinals,--and, begad, it's all nothing to the econimy lecthir that I
have to go to at two o'clock. Howandiver, I mustn't forget that we left
his Riv'rence and his Holiness sitting fornenst one another in the
parlor ov the Vatican, jist afther mixing their second tumbler.
When they had got well down into the same, they fell, as I was telling
you, into learned discourse. For you see, the Pope was curious to find
out whether Father Tom was the great theologinall that people said; and
says he "Mister Maguire," says he, "What answer do you make to the
heretics when they quote them passidges agin thransubstantiation out ov
the Fathers?" says he.
"Why," says his Riv'rence, "as there is no sich passidges I make myself
mighty asy about them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov them,"
says he, "just repate one ov them, and I'll show you how to
catapomphericate it in two shakes."
"Why then," says the Pope, "myself disremimbers the particlar passidges
they allidge out ov them ould felleys," says he, "though sure enough
they're more numerous nor edifying,--so we'll jist suppose that a
heretic was to find sich a saying as this in Austin, 'Every sensible man
knows that thransubstantiation is a lie,'--or this out of Tertullian or
Plutarch, 'the bishop ov Rome is a common imposther,'--now tell me,
could you answer him?"
"As easy as kiss," says his Riv'rence. "In the first, we're to
understand that the exprission, 'Every sinsible man,' signifies simply,
'every man that judges by his nath'ral sinses'; and we all know that
nobody follying them seven deludhers could ever find out the mysthery
that's in it, if somebody didn't come in to his assistance wid an eighth
sinse, which is the only sinse to be depended on, being the sinse ov the
Church. So that, regarding the first quotation which your Holiness has
supposed, it makes clane for us, and tee-totally agin the heretics."
"That's the explanation sure enough," says his Holiness; "and now what
div you say to my being a common imposther?"
"Faix, I think," says his Riv'rence, "wid all submission to the better
judgment ov the learned father that your Holiness has quoted, he'd have
been a thrifle nearer the thruth, if he had said that the bishop ov
Rome is the grand imposther and top-sawyer in that line over us all."
"What do you mane?" says the Pope, getting quite red in the face.
"What would I mane," says his Riv'rence, as composed as a docther ov
physic, "but that your Holiness is at the head ov all them,--troth I had
a'most forgot I wasn't a bishop myself," says he, the deludher was going
to say, as the head of all _uz_, "that has the gift ov laving on hands.
For sure," says he, "imposther and _imposithir_ is all one, so you're
only to undherstand _manuum_, and the job is done. Auvuich!" says he,
"if any heretic 'ud go for to cast up sich a passidge as that agin me,
I'd soon give him a p'lite art ov cutting a stick to welt his own back
wid."
"'Pon my apostolical word," says the Pope, "you've cleared up them two
pints in a most satiswhactery manner."
"You see," says his Riv'rence,--by this time they wor mixing their third
tumbler,--"the writings of them Fathers is to be thrated wid great
veneration; and it 'ud be the height ov presumption in any one to sit
down to interpret them widout providing himself wid a genteel assortment
ov the best figures of rhetoric, sich as mettonymy, hyperbol,
cattychraysis, prolipsis, mettylipsis, superbaton, pollysyndreton,
hustheronprotheron, prosodypeia and the like, in ordher that he may
never be at a loss for shuitable sintiments when he comes to their
high-flown passidges. For unless we thrate them Fathers liberally to a
handsome allowance ov thropes and figures they'd set up heresy at onc't,
so they would."
"It's thru for you," says the Pope; "the figures ov spache is the
pillars ov the Church."
"Bedad," says his Riv'rence, "I dunna what we'd do widout them at all."
"Which one do you prefir?" says the Pope; "that is," says he, "which
figure of spache do you find most usefullest when you're hard set?"
"Metaphour's very good," says his Riv'rence, "and so's mettonymy,--and
I've known prosodypeia stand to me at a pinch mighty well,--but for a
constancy, superbaton's the figure for my money. Devil be in me," says
he, "but I'd prove black white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a
good stick ov superbaton."
"Faix," says the Pope, wid a sly look, "you'd need to have it backed, I
judge, wid a small piece of assurance."