FATHER PROUT.
I had, during my residence in Paris, the supreme gratification of being
honored with the intimacy of the Rev. Francis Mahony, whose _nom de
plume_ of "Father Prout" is suggestive of a complete union of learning,
wit, and poetic power, without the slightest alloy of pedantry,
acerbity, or vanity. I was a very frequent visitor at his apartments in
the Rue de Moulin, and was never denied admission. If he was writing, I
did not accost him, but sat down, taking up a newspaper or book, and
remaining silent until he found himself at leisure either to chat at
home, or to saunter out through the parks or gardens, museums or
libraries, I repeatedly thanked him for the unrestricted access thus
granted, and his invariable reply was, "Come whenever you please, you
never interrupt me." He was the correspondent of a London evening paper,
_The Globe and Traveller_, and I do not think that he relished the
occupation, for his conversation scarcely ever indicated a political
tendency, and I never knew him to introduce a topic involving political
or religious differences. At the time to which I refer, the war was
raging between the northern and southern states of America; and the only
opinion that I ever heard Father Mahony express on the subject was not
favorable to the cause of either side as regarded its merits, but to the
effect, that whatever might be the issue of the contest, the belligerent
states would never become again united in firm and enduring friendship.
He formed this conclusion from the deadly hatred and vengeful
denunciations evinced by great numbers of Americans of both parties who
were then in Paris, and amongst whom the females were the most
uncompromising and persistently truculent in their expressions. It
remains for time to confirm or confute his prediction; I pass to one or
two anecdotes of this gifted and amiable individual, which I hope my
readers will consider interesting. I had made an appointment with him to
have a ramble in the French capital, or its environs, and twelve o'clock
was the hour fixed for its commencement. Some unforeseen circumstances,
however, delayed my arrival at his residence until another hour had
nearly elapsed. When I apologised for my failure in punctuality, Father
Mahony said that he had employed the interval in jotting down
suggestions as to the direction which our proposed saunter might take,
for my consideration and decision. They are as follow:--
To the Bois de Boulogne shall we wander to-day,
Or visit the tomb where Napoleon reposes,
Or ascend Notre Dame, from its tow'rs to survey
The scene unsurpass'd which that prospect discloses?
From Boulevards crowded our steps may diverge,
If we wish at the Bourse[23] to see bright or long faces,
As some bubbles rise, or as others may merge
In the vortex where Hope vainly looks for their traces.
Shall we seek the Pantheon's vast edifice, where
An echo to thunder converts every sound,
From vaults[24] in whose precincts the bones of Voltaire
Were so carefully stow'd that they cannot be found?
Or the Luxemburg Palace, with gardens, where grow
The roses so varied, throughout the whole year;
And you see on each side stained queens in a row,
Their costumes antique looking cold and severe?
To the Louvre's magnificent halls shall we hie,
Where art's choicest gems require days to explore them;
Where dynasties past seem around us to lie,
Whilst emblems Imperial are triumphing o'er them?
Shall we visit St. Cloud, and continue our course
To Versailles, where a palace exemplifies all
That monarchical pride from its serfs could enforce,
Till their patience exhausted accomplish'd its fall?
If at Sevres we pause to admire for awhile
Its plastic productions of classical taste,
We shall see the sole work that the Pompadour's smile
Ever sanction'd that was not impure and debased.
We should not forget St. Germain, and its claims
On a stranger's attention * * *
The last place mentioned in this unfinished production was chosen; and
after viewing the tomb of James the Second of England, the church, to
the vaults of which the mortal remains of many French monarchs had been
consigned, the old palace, and the exquisitely beautiful scenery of its
vicinity, I prevailed on my estimable friend to become my only guest at
the Prince of Wales' (_Le Prince de Galles_) Hotel and Tavern, where we
had what he designated "a sumptuous dinner," the entire charge for which
was defrayed by seven francs (5s. 10d.). How sumptuous!
During another stroll I happened to express very great admiration of the
poetic productions of Gray; and in reference to his "Elegy written in a
country churchyard," ventured to term it the finest composition of the
elegiac class in the English language. Father Mahony praised it highly,
but disagreed as to its merits being superior to every other production
of the kind. He then stated that about the middle of the last century, a
native of Dublin, named John Cunningham, who was a comic actor,
published a volume of poems, and dedicated them to David Garrick. They
were chiefly pastoral, but amongst them was "An Elegy on a pile of
Ruins," composed, he believed, on Rosslyn Abbey and Rosslyn Castle; and
he then repeated several verses which he considered very beautiful, and
which he declared to be equal, in his estimation, to the poetic merits
of Gray's Elegy. I asked if he could lend me the work, and he replied
that he had never seen it except at a public library in Cork. Soon after
my return to Dublin I saw on a bookstand at Aston's Quay, a copy, which
I purchased for a shilling, and thus became enabled to quote the verses
to which my very learned friend ascribed such excellence. They are
extremely alliterative--
In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er barren heaths and cultivated plains;
The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,
Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.
Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, there, descends in dust
From the rent roof, and portico sublime.
Where rev'rend shrines in Gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle, or the noxious night-shade, spreads;
And ashlings, wafted from the neighbouring wood,
Through the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.
There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude composed, and aspect sweet!
Sits musing on a monumental stone,
And points to the MEMENTO at her feet.
Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade, in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,
Pensive, the mould'ring monuments I view'd.
Inexorably calm, with silent pace
Here TIME has pass'd--What ruin marks his way!
This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.
Religion raised her supplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody, her song sublime;
In vain, Philosophy with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of TIME.
Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not moved to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted Ivy tied.
The eight verses which I have quoted from "An Elegy on a Pile of Ruins,"
are not consecutive in that production. It may appear extraordinary that
Father Mahony should make such long quotations with perfect correctness,
but to those who knew him a misquotation or deficiency of recollection
on his part would seem far more surprising.
FOOTNOTES:
[23] The Parisian Stock Exchange.
[24] The door of this vault, when clapped, produces a noise fully equal
to the report of a heavy cannon. The general opinion is, that the bones
of Voltaire were abstracted and burnt, soon after the restoration of
Louis the Eighteenth.