{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_71203/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_71203","id":"gutenberg_71203","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71203","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Humour","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Catholic Church -- Fiction","Christian fiction","Clergy -- Fiction","Popes -- Fiction"],"text":"Father Tom and the Pope.\n\n\n\n\n Father Tom and the Pope,\n\n OR\n\n A Night in the Vatican.\n\n\n\n\n NEW YORK:\n\n A. SIMPSON & CO.,\n\n 1867.\n\n\n\n\nAgathynian Press, 60 Duane Street, N.Y.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThere are several questions which at this present time remain\nunsettled. One of them is, \"_who invented gunpowder?_\" Another is,\nwhich of them was it, Faust or Guttemberg, \"_that invented printing?_\"\nAnother is, \"_whether the Deity created nature, or nature created\nitself?_\" That is a poser. Another is \"_whether the original egg was\nthe parent of the chicken, or the egg was the original ancestor of\nthat celebrated feathered fowl?_\" \"_De novum ovum_,\" says Xinctillios,\n\"_inseperatum primero, cum possibilitas, et credentia, in meo judicio,\nquam supra calcis phospas, qui est_, in the bones of the chicken.\"\nIn other words, and to make it plain to the reader, he, Xinctillios,\ncannot understand how it is possible for human comprehension to see a\nnew laid egg, without permitting in his judgment the idea of phosphate\nof lime existing in the osseous structure of the bones of the original\nhen. St. Bardolphus entertains a contrary opinion, \"_Anam, aname, mona\nmike_,\" says he, \"_Barcelona bona strike_,\" says he, \"_harum scarum, wy\nfrone whack!_\" (I give you the original Coptic) \"_Harrico barrico, we\nwon frac!_\"\n\nBetween these two contending opinions I have nothing to say. The\ndogmas of the Roman Catholic Church, and the _folatreries_ of the\nphilosophers of the high school of nature, differ so widely, that it is\nimpossible for common sense to adopt either the one or the other--and\nthe Greek Church on these points has given no decided opinion!\n\nSuch a dilemma presents itself when we come to consider the contents of\nthis volume. Who wrote it? Some say, Lord Brougham; and some attribute\nit to the Duke of Wellington, who understood the Irish vernacular to\na dot. I have a shrewd suspicion that Maginn, a high tory, although\na good Roman Catholic, and one of the prominent contributors to\n_Blackwood_, lent his helping hand to it, if he were not the _real_\nauthor of it all? \"Howandiver,\" to use a phrase of the author, let us\nlook into the history of it.\n\nFather Tom Maguire, a prominent Roman Catholic priest in Killeshandra,\nIreland, of the parish of Innismagrath, was one of the most celebrated\nmen of his time. He was a splendid orator, trained at Maynooth; he\nwas a high liver--everything consisting of meat and drink on his\ntable was of the best; his wines were excellent, and he kept the best\nstable and the finest greyhounds in Ireland. He was a bold fox-hunter;\nrode over ditch, hedge and five-barred gate, and when his good Bishop\ninterdicted these sports of the Irish clergy, says he, \"I will give\nup my hunting,\" says he; \"but if I must give up my greyhounds, there\nis a little Protestant parish church hard by waiting for me.\" Whether\nthis threat had the desired effect is not known. It is said that\nhe abjured his church and died a heretic. How much of this we can\nbelieve depends altogether upon the amount of our credulity. It\nmay be true, and, alas! it may not! Father Tom, as the great Roman\nCatholic controversialist, was challenged to decide by argument, the\nsuperiority of the Romish Church over that of the Established Church\nof England, by the Rev. Richard T.P. Pope, a clergyman of the latter\npersuasion. The controversy took place in the Rotunda, at Dublin,\nabout forty years ago.[1] Crowds of spectators assembled to witness\nthe religious contest. Of course the ladies, who always take a great\ninterest in religious disputations, were present in great numbers. The\nbeauty and the fashion, the graceful, the wise and the witty of Dublin\nassembled to hear these knotty points discussed. The Rev. Mr. Pope,\nwho was a very learned scholar, but unfortunately a timid man, based\nhis great argument upon the Bible itself. So long as he stood upon\nthis ground his arguments were unassailable. But Father Tom, by one of\nthose dexterous twists so well known in polemics, managed to get Pope\nto shift his ground from the Bible to the Fathers. The dispute, which\nhad occupied several days, up to this time had been in favor of Pope,\nbut when Father Maguire got him entangled in the Fathers, and hurled\nat him quotation after quotation from St. Austin, St. Chrysostom, and\nothers--poor Pope, who knew very little of the Fathers, became so\ndumb-founderd that he was incapable of making a reply, and the victory\nrested with Father Tom. But after the controversy was over the Rev.\nMr. Pope took up the Fathers, and to his surprise _could not find any\nof the quotations that Father Tom had cited_! Like a true scholar, he\npublished a book, exposing the fallacies of his antagonist. But the\ntime had gone by. Few people cared to read it, fewer still had patience\nto wade through laborious denials of the smart sayings of Father Tom\nin the Rotunda; the sparkle was off--the champagne had ceased to\neffervesce--and Mr. Pope never recovered the ground he had lost.\n\nSome years elapsed, and the Rev. Tresham D. Gregg, of the\nEstablished Church, took up the polemical cudgels to demolish the\nredoubtable champion of the Romish Church. He was just such a man\nas his antagonist, vehement, loud voiced--of the _ad captandum_,\nknock-down-and-drag-out school. Although not acknowledged by the\nChurch of England as the Goliath of its faith, yet there is no doubt\nof the secret exultation of its clergy at his success. The challenge\nwas accepted, and for a fortnight the Rotunda of Dublin rang with the\nverbal blows of these doughty combatants. Victory poised her scales,\nthe contest hung in the balance. At last, one afternoon, after the\nbattle of the day was over, Gregg raised his mighty arm high in the\nair, and said \"that on the next day, the secrets of the confessional\nwould be the subject of the discourse, and warned the ladies, 'that\nno modest woman would appear, or could appear, while he revealed the\nsecrets of that powerful instrument of the Romish Church.'\"\n\nThe consequences may be imagined. The hall was packed to overflowing\nby the gentler sex. Ladies of the Catholic persuasion, conscious of\nthe inability of the orator to make his words good, flocked to hear\nhis discomfiture. Those of the other persuasion were induced to come\nfrom a laudable curiosity. The argument, if argument it might be\ncalled, consisted on Gregg's part of that style which Poe has properly\ndenominated \"the awkward left arm of satire--_invective_.\" He had\ncaught Father Tom at single stick and paid him off in his own way.\nThere was of course no little allusion to indelicate matters. After the\nargument the Rev. Mr. Gregg had to be escorted to his lodgings by a\ntroop of dragoons. But at the close of the debate he announced, that on\nthe morrow the subject would be _continued_. But on the following day\nFather Tom did not appear. The victorious Gregg was cock of the walk;\nthe judgment went by default.\n\nWhether any one among the speakers or listeners became better\nChristians after the controversy, is a question. It is doubtful whether\nGregg or Father Tom made or lost a single convert to either faith.\n\n\"Father Tom and the Pope\" first saw the light in _Blackwood_, ten years\nafter these controversies. It may have been written by Maginn, who was\na good Catholic, but it may truly be said of him, that although he\n\"loved the Church much, he loved fun more.\" As a work of mere wit it\nmust take its place with some of the brightest efforts of Rabelais, of\nMontaigne, or of Pascal.\n\nThe ingenuity with which the conversation between the Pope and\nFather Tom is developed to the reader, forms no little part of its\nfelicitousness. A hedge priest, one Michael Heffernan, of the National\nSchool of Ballymacktaggart, is the interlocutor. This keeper of a\nragged school, under the shadow of an Irish hedge, is the exponent of\ntheological controversies that have shaken the world! Happy satire!\nwhich like summer lightning, clears up the atmosphere, and makes even\nthe skies bright, blue, beautiful and buoyant. To us! poor mortals! to\nwhom a touch of nature shakes the laughter out of us, or brings the\ntears into our eyes, such books are the treasures of our language.\n\nIf out of the sorrow and misery of this world, wit has managed to\nalleviate one shade of human suffering; if it has lifted up its hand\nagainst tyranny; if it has sometimes by the pen of Cervantes lessened\nthe ridiculous power of a so-called chivalry; or in the satires of\nSwift, destroyed the prestige of hereditary birth; if it has done any\ngood in this world, let so much good be accounted to it.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[Footnote 1: In 1827.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nHOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.\n\n\nWhen his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take pot\nlook wid him. More be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that,\nthere was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an absolution from\nthe fast on account ov the great company that was in it--at laste so\nI'm tould. Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow--glory be\nto God!--and so, as they wor sitting, afther dinner, taking their sup\ntogether, says the Pope, says he, \"Thomaus\"--for the Pope, you know,\nspakes that away, all as one as one ov uz--\"Thomaus _a lanna_,\" says\nhe, \"I'm tould you welt them English heretics out ov the face.\"\n\n\"You may say that,\" says his Riv'rence to him again. \"Be my sowl,\"\nsays he, \"if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the\nfirst Pope I floored.\"\n\nWell, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you know, Pope was\nthe great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov\ncoorse they knew all the ins and outs ov the conthravarsy at Room.\n\"Faix, Thomaus,\" says he, smiling across the table at him mighty\nagreeable--\"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the\npleasant man over the dhrop ov good liquor.\"\n\n\"Would you like to thry?\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?\" says the Pope. \"Sorra betther\nbottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you\non the table; its raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it.\"\n\n\"It's mortial could,\" says Father Tom.\n\n\"Well, man alive,\" says the Pope, \"sure and here's the best ov good\nclaret in the cut decanther.\"\n\n\"Not maning to make little ov the claret, your Holiness,\" says his\nRiv'rence, \"I would prefir some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass of\nspirits through it, if convanient.\"\n\n\"Hand me over the bottle ov brandy,\" says the Pope to his head butler,\n\"and fetch up the materi'ls,\" says he.\n\n\"Ah, then, your Holiness,\" says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, \"maybe\nyou'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure it's all one\nthrouble,\" says he, \"and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always\nplays the puck wid my inthrails.\"\n\n\"'Pon my conscience, then,\" says the Pope, \"it's very sorry I am,\nMisther Maguire,\" says he, \"that it isn't in my power to plase you;\nfor I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whisky in Room this\nblessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge.\"\n\n\"Well, in troth, your Holiness,\" says Father Tom, \"I knewn there was no\nuse in axing; only,\" says he, \"I didn't know how else to exqueeze the\nliberty I tuck,\" says he, \"ov bringing a small taste,\" says he, \"ov the\nraal stuff,\" says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his\ncoat-pocket; \"that never seen the face ov a gauger,\" says he, setting\nit down on the table fornenst the Pope: \"and if you'll jist thry the\nfull ov a thimble ov it, and if it doesn't rise the cockles ov your\nHoliness's heart, why, then, my name,\" says he, \"isn't Tom Maguire!\"\nand wid that he outs wid the cork.\n\nWell, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for\nfetching dhrink thataway in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins\nin the house: so says he, \"Misther Maguire,\" says he, \"I'd have you\nto comprehind the differ betuxt an invitation to dinner from the\nsuccissor ov Saint Pether, and from a common mayur or a Prodesan\nsquireen that maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more\nnor his own heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you\nvisit in Leithrim,\" says he, \"and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know\nthe differ in the prisint case,\" says he, \"only that you're a champion\nof the Church and entitled to laniency. So,\" says he, \"as the liquor's\ncome, let it stay. And in troth I'm curis myself,\" says he, getting\nmighty soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, \"in\ninvistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch of\nnatural philosophy,\" says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to\nhis blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he\ncried out, the dear man: \"Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!\"\nand crossed himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.\n\n\"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now,\" says his Riv'rence,\n\"and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy ov punch; and,\"\nsays he, stirring up the materi'ls with his goolden muddler--for\neverything at the Pope's table, to the very schrew for drawing the\ncorks, was ov vergin goold--\"if I might make bould,\" says he, \"to spake\non so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably\nfacilitate the invistigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if\nyou'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly.\"\n\n\"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment,\" says the Pope, in\na much more condiscinding way nor you'd have expected--and wid that he\nmixes himself a real stiff facer.\n\n\"Now, your Holiness,\" says Father Tom, \"this bein' the first time you\never dispinsed them chymicals,\" says he, \"I'll just make bould to\nlay down one rule of orthography,\" says he, \"for conwhounding them,\n_secundem mortem_.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Put in the sperits first,\" says his Riv'rence; \"and then put in the\nsugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils\nthe punch.\"\n\n\"Glory be to God!\" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was\nsaying. \"Glory be to God!\" says he, smacking his lips. \"I never knewn\nwhat dhrink was afore,\" says he. \"It bates the Lachrymalchrystal out of\nthe face!\" says he--\"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!\" says he,\nwiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.\n\n\"'Pon my secret honor,\" says his Riv'rence, \"I'm raally glad to see\nyour Holiness set so much to your satisfaction; especially,\" says he,\n\"as, for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty ov fetching the fellow\nov that small vesshel,\" says he, \"in my other coat pocket. So divil a\nfear ov our running dhry till the but-end ov the evening, anyhow,\" says\nhe.\n\n\"Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire,\" says the Pope,\n\"for faix,\" says he, \"I'm bent on analysing the metaphwysics ov this\nphinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off,\" says he, \"you're not dhrinking\nat all.\"\n\n\"Is it dhrink?\" says his Riv'rence; \"by Gorra, your Holiness,\" says he,\n\"I'd dhrink wid you till the cows'ud be coming home in the morning.\"\n\nSo wid that they tackled to, to the second fugee a piece, and fell into\nlarned discourse. But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir\nat the Boord. Oh my sorra light upon ye, Docther Whately, wid your\npilitical econimy and your hydherastatics! What the _dioul_ use has a\npoor hedge-master like me wid such deep larning as is only fit for the\nlikes of them two that I left over their second tumbler? Howandiver,\nwishing I was like them, in regard ov the sup of dhrink, anyhow, I must\nbreak off my norration for the prisint; but when I see you again, I'll\ntell you how Father Tom made a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in\ntheology and the cube root.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nHOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN THEOLOGY AND LOGIC.\n\n\nWell, the lecthir's over, and I'm kilt out and out. My bitther curse\nupon the man that invinted the same Boord! I thought ons't I'd fadomed\nthe say ov throuble; and that was when I got through fractions at Ould\nMat Kavanagh's school, in Firdramore--God be good to poor Mat's sowl,\nthough he did deny the cause the day he suffered! but it's fluxions\nitself we're set to bottom now, sink or shwim! May I never die if\nmy head isn't as throughother as anything wid their ordinals and\ncardinals--and, begob, its all nothing to the econimy lecthir that I\nhave got to go to at two o'clock. Howandiver, I mustn't forget that we\nleft his Riv'rence and his Holiness sitting fornenst one another in the\nparlor ov the Vatican, jist afther mixing their second tumbler.\n\nWhen they had got well down into the same, they fell, as I was telling\nyou, into larned discourse. For, you see, the Pope was curious to find\nout whether Father Tom was the great theologinall that people said; and\nsays he, \"Misther Maguire,\" says he, \"what answer do you make to the\nheretics when they quote them passidges agin thransubstantiation out ov\nthe Fathers?\" says he.\n\n\"Why,\" says his Riv'rence, \"as there should be no sich passidges I make\nmyself mighty aisy about them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov\nthem,\" says he, \"just repate one ov them,\" says he, \"and I'll show you\nhow to catapomphericate it in two shakes.\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" says the Pope, \"myself disremimbers the particlar\npassidges they alledge out of them old felleys,\" says he, \"though sure\nenough they're more numerous nor edifying--so we'll jist suppose that\na heretic was to find sich a saying as this in Austin, 'Every sinsible\nman knows that thransubstantiation is a lie'--or this out of Tertullian\nor Plutarch, 'the Bishop ov Room is a common imposther,' now tell me,\ncould you answer him?\"\n\n\"As easy as kiss,\" says his Riv'rence. \"In the first, we're to\nunderstand that the exprission, 'Every sinsible man,' signifies simply,\n'Every man that judges by his nath'ral sinses;' and we all know that\nnobody folleying them seven deludhers could ever find out the mysthery\nthat's in it, if somebody didn't come in to his assistance wid an\neighth sinse, which is the only sinse to be depended on, being the\nsinse ov the Church. So that, regarding the first quotation which your\nHoliness has supposed, it makes clane for us, and tee-totally agin the\nheretics.\"\n\n\"That's the explanation sure enough,\" says his Holiness; \"and now what\ndiv you say to my being a common imposther?\"\n\n\"Faix, I think,\" says his Riv'rence, \"wid all submission to the better\njudgment ov the learned father that your Holiness has quoted, he'd have\nbeen a thrifle nearer the truth, if he had said that the Bishop ov Room\nis the grand imposther and top-sawyer in that line over us all.\"\n\n\"What do you mane?\" says the Pope, getting quite red in the face.\n\n\"What would I mane,\" says his Riv'rence, as composed as a docther ov\nphysic, \"but that your Holiness is at the head ov all them--troth I had\na'most forgot I wasn't a bishop myself,\" says he, (the deludher was\ngoing to say, as the head ov all _us_)--\"that has the gift ov laying\non hands. For sure,\" says he, \"imposther and _imposithir_ is all one,\nso you're only to undherstand _manuum_, and the job is done. Awouich!\"\nsays he, \"if any heretic 'ud go for to cast up sich a passidge as that\nagin me, I'd soon give him a lesson in the p'lite art ov cutting a\nstick to welt his own back wid.\"\n\n\"'Pon my epostolical word,\" says the Pope, \"you've cleared up them two\npints in a most satisfactory manner.\"\n\n\"You see,\" says his Riv'rence--by this time they wor mixing their\nthird tumbler--\"the writings ov them Fathers is to be thrated wid\ngreat veneration; and it 'ud be the height of presumption in any one\nto sit down to interpret them widout providing himself wid a genteel\nassortment ov the best figures ov rhetoric, sich as mettonymy,\nhyperbol, cattychraysis, prolipsis, mettylipsis, superbaton,\npollysyndreton, hustheronprotheron, prosodypeia and the like, in ordher\nthat he may never be at a loss for shuitable sintiments when he comes\nto their high-flown passidges. For unless we thrate them Fathers\nliberally to a handsome allowance ov thropes and figures, they'd set up\nheresy at ons't, so they would.\"\n\n\"It's thrue for you,\" says the Pope; \"the figures ov spache is the\npillars ov the Church.\"\n\n\"Bedad,\" says his Riv'rence, \"I dunna what we'd do widout them at all.\"\n\n\"Which one do you prefir?\" says the Pope; \"that is,\" says he, \"which\nfigure ov spache do you find most usefullest when you're hard set?\"\n\n\"Metaphour's very good,\" says his Riv'rence, \"and so's mettonymy--and\nI've known prosodypeia stand to me at a pinch mighty well--but for a\nconstancy, superbaton's the figure for my money. Divil be in me,\" says\nhe, \"but I'd prove black white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a\ngood stock ov superbaton.\"\n\n\"Faix,\" says the Pope, wid a sly look, \"you'd need to have it backed, I\njudge, wid a small taste ov assurance.\"\n\n\"Well now, jist for that word,\" says his Riv'rence, \"I'll prove it\nwidout aither one or other. Black,\" says he, \"is one thing and white\nis another thing. You don't conthravene that? But every thing is aither\none thing or another thing; I defy the apostle Paul to get over that\ndilemma. Well! If any thing be one thing, well and good; but if it be\nanother thing, then it's plain it isn't both things, and so can't be\ntwo things--nobody can deny that. But what can't be two things must be\none thing--_Ergo_, whether it's one thing or another thing it's all\none. But black is one thing and white is another thing--_Ergo_, black\nand white is all one. _Quod erat demonsthrandum._\"\n\n\"Stop a bit,\" says the Pope, \"I can't althegither give in to your\nsecond minor--no--your second major,\" says he, and he stopped. \"Faix,\nthen,\" says he, getting confused, \"I don't rightly remimber where\nit was exactly that I thought I seen the flaw in your premises.\nHowsomdiver,\" says he, \"I don't deny that it's a good conclusion, and\none that 'ud be ov materi'l service to the Church if it was dhrawn wid\na little more distinctiveness.\"\n\n\"I'll make it as plain as the nose on your Holiness's face, by\nsuperbaton,\" says his Riv'rence. \"My adversary says black is not\nanother color, that is, white! Now, that's jist a parallel passidge\nwid the one out ov Tartullian that me and Hayes smashed the heretics\non in Clarendon sthreet, 'This is my body--that is, the figure ov my\nbody.' That's a superbaton, and we showed that it oughtn't to be read\nthat way at all, but this way, 'This figure ov my body _is_ my body.'\nJist so wid my adversary's proposition, it mustn't be undherstood\nthe way it reads, by no manner ov manes; but it's to be taken this\nway--'Black--that is, white, is not another color'--green, if you like,\nor orange, by dad, for anything I care, for my case is proved. 'Black,'\nthat is, 'white,' lave out the 'that,' by sinnalayphy, and you have\nthe orthodox conclusion, 'Black is white,' or by convarsion, 'White is\nblack.'\"\n\n\"It's as clear as mud,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Begad,\" says his Riv'rence, \"I'm in great humor for disputin'\nto-night. I wisht your Holiness was a heretic jist for two minutes,\"\nsays he, \"till you'd see the flaking I'd give you!\"\n\n\"Well, then, for the fun o' the thing, suppose me my namesake, if you\nlike,\" says the Pope, laughing, \"though, by Jayminy,\" says he, \"he's\nnot one that I take much pride out ov.\"\n\n\"Very good--divil a betther joke ever I had,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\"Come, then, Misther Pope,\" says he, \"hould up that purty face ov\nyours, and answer me this question. Which 'ud be the biggest lie, if I\nsaid I seen a turkey-cock lying on the broad ov his back, and picking\nthe stars out ov the sky, or if I was to say that I seen a gandher\nin the same interestin' posture, raycreating himself wid similar\nasthronomical expiriments? Answer me that, you ould swaddler?\" says he.\n\n\"How durst you call me a swaddler, sir,\" says the Pope, forgetting, the\ndear man, the part that he was acting.\n\n\"Don't think for to bully me!\" says his Riv'rence, \"I always daar\nto spake the truth, and it's well known that you're nothing but a\nswaddling ould sinner of a saint,\" says he, never letting on to persave\nthat his Holiness had forgot what they were agreed on.\n\n\"By all that's good,\" says the Pope, \"I often hard ov the imperance ov\nyou Irish afore,\" says he, \"but I never expected to be called a saint\nin my own house either by Irishman or Hottentot. I'll till you what,\nMisther Maguire,\" says he, \"if you can't keep a civil tongue in your\nhead, you had betther be walking off wid yourself; for I beg lave to\ngive you to undherstand, that it won't be for the good ov your health\nif you call me by sich an outprobrious epithet again,\" says he.\n\n\"Oh, indeed! then things is come to a purty pass,\" says his Riv'rence\n(the dear funny soul that he ever was!) \"when the likes of you compares\none of the Maguires ov Tempo wid a wild Ingine! Why, man alive, the\nMaguires was kings ov Fermanagh three thousand years afore your\ngrandfather, that was the first of your breed that ever wore shoes and\nstockings\" (I'm bound to say, in justice to the poor Prodesan, that\nthis was all spoken by his Riv'rence by way ov a figure ov spache),\n\"was sint his Majesty's arrand to cultivate the friendship of Prince\nLee Boo in Botteney Bay! Oh Bryan, dear,\" says he, letting on to cry,\n\"if you were alive to hear a _boddagh Sassenagh_ like this casting up\nhis counthry to one ov the name ov Maguire!\"\n\n\"In the name ov God,\" says the Pope, very solemniously, \"what _is_ the\nmeaning ov all this at all at all?\" says he.\n\n\"Sure,\" says his Riv'rence, whispering to him across the table, \"sure\nyou know we're acting a conthravarsy, and you tuck the part of the\nProdesan champion. You wouldn't be angry wid me, I'm sure, for sarving\nout the heretic to the best ov my ability.\"\n\n\"Oh begad, I had forgot,\" says the Pope, the good-natured ould crethur;\n\"sure enough you were only taking your part, as a good Milesian\nCatholic ought, agin the heretic Sassenagh. Well,\" says he, \"fire away\nnow, and I'll put up wid as many conthrovarsial compliments as you\nplase to pay me.\"\n\n\"Well, then, answer me my question, you sanctimonious ould dandy,\" says\nhis Riv'rence.\n\n\"In troth, then,\" says the Pope, \"I dunna which 'ud be the biggest lie:\nto my mind,\" says he, \"the one appears to be about as big a bounce as\nthe other.\"\n\n\"Why, then, you poor simpleton,\" says his Riv'rence, \"don't you\npersave that, forbye the advantage the gandher 'ud have in the length\nov his neck, it 'ud be next to onpossible for the turkey-cock lying\nthataway to see what he was about, by rason ov his djollars and other\naccouthrements hanging back over his eyes? The one about as big a\nbounce as the other! Oh, you misforthunate crethur! if you had ever\nlarned your A B C in theology, you'd have known that there's a differ\nbetuxt them two lies so great, that, begad, I wouldn't wondher if it\n'ud make a balance ov five years in purgathory to the sowl that ud be\nin it. Ay, and if it wasn't that the Church is too liberal entirely, so\nshe is, it 'ud cost his heirs and succissors betther nor ten pounds to\nhave him out as soon as the other. Get along, man, and take half-a-year\nat dogmatical theology: go and read your Dens, you poor dunce, you!\"\n\n\"Raaly,\" says the Pope, \"you're making the heretic's shoes too hot to\nhould me. I wondher how the Prodesans can stand afore you at all.\"\n\n\"Don't think to delude me,\" says his Riv'rence, \"don't think to back\nout ov your challenge now,\" says he, \"but come to the scratch like a\nman, if you are a man, and answer me my question. What's the rason,\nnow, that Julius C\u00e6sar and the Vargin Mary was born upon the one\nday?--answer me that, if you wouldn't be hissed off the platform!\"\n\nWell, my dear, the Pope couldn't answer it, and he had to acknowledge\nhimself sacked. Then he axed his Riv'rence to tell him the rason\nhimself; and Father Tom communicated it to him in Latin. But as that is\na very deep question, I never hard what the answer was, except that I'm\ntould it was so mysterious, it made the Pope's hair stand on end.\n\nBut there's two o'clock, and I'll be late for the lecthir.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nHOW FATHER TOM MADE A HARE OF HIS HOLINESS IN LATIN.\n\n\nOh, Dochter Whately, Docther Whately, I'm sure I'll never die another\ndeath if I don't die aither of consumption or production! I ever and\nalways thought that asthronomy was the hardest science that was till\nnow--and it's no lie I'm telling you, the same asthronomy is a tough\nenough morsel to break a man's fast upon--and geolidgy is middling\nand hard too--and hydherastatics is no joke; but ov all the books ov\nscience that ever was opened and shut, that book upon Pilitical Econimy\nlifts the pins! Well, well, if they wait till they persuade me that\ntaking a man's rints out ov the counthry, and spinding them in forrain\nparts isn't doing us out ov the same, they'll wait a long time in\ntroth. But you're waiting, I see, to hear how his Riv'rence and his\nHoliness got on after finishing the disputation I was telling you ov.\nWell, you see, my dear, when the Pope found he couldn't hould a candle\nto Father Tom in theology and logic, he thought he'd take the shine\nout ov him in Latin anyhow; so says he, \"Misther Maguire,\" says he, \"I\nquite agree wid you that it's not lucky for us to be spaking on them\ndeep subjects in sich langidges as the evil spirits is acquainted wid;\nand,\" says he, \"I think it 'ud be no harm for us to spake from this out\nin Latin,\" says he, \"for fraid the devil 'ud undherstand what we are\nsaying.\"\n\n\"Not a hair I care,\" says Father Tom, \"whether he undherstands what\nwe're saying or not, so long as we keep off that last pint we wor\ndiscussing, and one or two others. List'ners never heard good ov\nthemselves,\" says he; \"and if Belzhebub takes anything amiss that\naither you or me says in regard ov himself or his faction, let him\nstand forrid like a man, and, never fear, I'll give him his answer.\nHowandiver, if it's for a taste ov classic conversation you are, just\nto put us in mind ov ould Cordarius,\" says he, \"here's at you;\" and\nwid that he lets fly at his Holiness wid his health in Latin.\n\n\"Vesthr\u00e6 Sanctitatis salutem volo!\" says he.\n\n\"Vesthr\u00e6 Revirinti\u00e6 salubritati bibo!\" says the Pope to him again\n(faith, it's no joke, I tell you, to remimber sich a power ov larning).\n\"Here's to you wid the same,\" says the Pope, in the raal Ciceronian.\n\"Nunc poculum alterhum imple,\" says he.\n\n\"Cum omni jucunditate in vita,\" says his Riv'rence. \"Cum summ\u00e2\nconcupiscinti\u00e2 et animositate,\" says he; as much as to say: \"Wid all\nthe veins ov my heart, I'll do that same;\" and so, wid that, they mixed\ntheir fourth gun a piece.\n\n\"Aqua vit\u00e6 vesthra sane est liquor admirabilis,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Verum est pro te--it's thrue for you,\" says his Riv'rence, forgetting\nthe idyim ov the Latin phrawseology, in a manner.\n\n\"Prava est tua Latinitas, domine,\" says the Pope, finding fault like\nwid his etymology.\n\n\"Parva culpa mihi,\" \"small blame to me, that is,\" says his Riv'rence;\n\"nam multum laboro in partibus interioribus,\" says he--the dear man!\nthat never was at a loss for an excuse!\n\n\"Quid tibi incommodi?\" says the Pope, axing him what ailed him.\n\n\"Habesne id quod Anglice vocamus, a looking-glass,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Immo, habeo speculum splendidissimum subther operculum pyxidis hujus\nstarnutatori\u00e6,\" says the Pope, pulling out a beautiful goold snuff-box,\nwid a looking-glass in under the lid; \"Subther operculum pyxidis hujus\nstarnutatorii--no--starnutatori\u00e6--quam dono accepi ab Archi-duce\nAusthriaco siptuagisima pr\u00e6therit\u00e2,\" says he; as much as to say that\nhe got the box in a prisint from the Queen of Spain last Lint, if I\nrightly remimber.\n\nWell, Father Tom laughed like to burst. At last says he, \"Pather\nSancte,\" says he, \"sub errore jaces. 'Looking-glass' apud nos habet\nsignificationem quamdam peculiarem ex tempore diei dependentem\"--there\nwas a sthring ov accusatives for yez!--\"nam mane speculum sonat,\"\nsays he, \"post prandium vero mat--mat--mat\"--sorra be in me but I\ndisremimber the classic appellivation ov the same article. Howandiver,\nhis Riv'rence went on explaining himself in such a way as no scholar\ncould mistake. \"Vesica mea,\" says he, \"ab illo ultimo eversore\ndistenditur, donec similis est rumpere. Verbis apertis,\" says he,\n\"Vesthr\u00e6 Sanctitatis pr\u00e6sentia salvata, aquam facere valde desidhero.\"\n\n\"Ho, ho, ho!\" says the Pope, grabbing up his box; \"si inquinavisses\nmeam pyxidem, excimnicari debuisses. Hillo, Anthony,\" says he to his\nhead butler, \"fetch Misther Maguire a----\"\n\n\"You spoke first!\" says his Riv'rence, jumping off his sate: \"You spoke\nfirst in the vernacular. I take Misther Anthony to witness,\" says he.\n\n\"What else would you have me to do?\" says the Pope, quite dogged like\nto see himself bate thataway at his own waypons. \"Sure,\" says he,\n\"Anthony wouldn't undherstand a B from a bull's foot, if I spoke to him\nany other way.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" says his Riv'rence, in considheration ov the needcessity,\nsays he, \"I'll let you off for this time; but mind, now, afther I\nsay _pr\u00e6stho_, the first of us that spakes a word of English is the\nhare--_pr\u00e6stho_!\"\n\nNeither ov them spoke for near a minit, considhering wid themselves\nhow they wor to begin sich a great thrial ov shkill. At last says the\nPope--the blessed man! only think how 'cute it was ov him!--\"Domine\nMaguire,\" says he, \"valde desidhero, certiorem fieri de significatione\nistius verbi _eversor_ quo jam jam usus es\"--(well, surely I _am_ the\nboy for the Latin!)\n\n\"_Eversor_, id est cyathus,\" says his Riv'rence, \"nam apud nos\n_tumbleri_, seu eversores, dicti sunt ab evertendo ceremonian inter\namicos; non, ut Temperanti\u00e6 Societatis frigidis fautoribus placet,\nab evertendis ipsis potatoribus.\" (It's not every masther unher the\nBoord, I tell you, could carry such a car-load ov the dead langidges.)\n\"In agro vero Louthiano et Midensi,\" says he, \"nomine gaudent quodam\nsecundum linguam Anglicanam significante bombardam seu tormentum; quia\nex eis tanquam ex telis jaculatoriis liquorem faucibus immitere solent.\nEtiam inter h\u00e6reticos illos melanostomos\" (that was a touch of Greek),\n\"Presbyterianos Septentrionales, qui sunt terribiles potatores, Cyathi\ndicti sunt _faceres_, et dimidium Cyathi _h\u00e6f-a-glessus_. Dimidium\nCyathi vero apud Metropolitanos Hibernicos dicitur _dandy_.\"--\n\n\"En verbum Anglicanum!\" says the Pope, clapping his hands--\"leporem te\nfecisti;\" as much as to say that he had made a hare ov himself.\n\n\"_Dand\u00e6us, dand\u00e6us_, verbum erat,\" says his Riv'rence--oh, the dear\nman, but it's himself that was handy ever and always at getting out ov\na hobble--\"_dand\u00e6us_ verbum erat,\" says he, \"quod dicturus eram, cum me\nintherpillavisti.\"\n\n\"Ast ego dico,\" says the Pope, very sharp, \"quod verbum erat _dandy_.\"\n\n\"Per tibicinem qui coram Mose modulatus est,\" says his Riv'rence, \"id\nflagellat mundum! _Dand\u00e6us_ dixi, et tu dicis _dandy_; ergo tu es\nlepus, non ego--Ah, ha! Saccavi vesthram Sanctitatem!\"\n\n\"Mendacium est!\" says the Pope, quite forgetting himself, he was so mad\nat being sacked before the sarvints.\n\nWell, if it hadn't been that his Holiness was in it, Father Tom 'ud\nhave given him the contints of his tumbler betuxt the two eyes for\ncalling him a liar; and, in troth, it's very well it was in Latin the\noffince was conveyed, for, if it had been in the vernacular, there's\nno saying what 'ud ha' been the consequence. His Riv'rence was mighty\nangry anyhow.--\"Tu senex lathro,\" says he, \"quomodo audes me mendacem\npr\u00e6dicare?\"\n\n\"Et tu, sacrilege nebulo,\" says the Pope, \"quomodo audacitatem habeas,\nme Dei in terris vicarium, lathronem conviciari?\"\n\n\"Interroga circumcirca,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Abi ex \u00e6dibus meis,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Abi tu in malem crucem,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Excomunicabo te,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Diabolus curat,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Anathema sis,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Oscula meum pod,\" says his Riv'rence--but, my dear, afore he\ncould finish what he was going to say, the Pope broke out into the\nvernacular, \"Get out o' my house, you reprobate!\" says he, in sich a\nrage that he could contain himself widin the Latin no longer.\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!--ho, ho, ho!\" says his Riv'rence. \"Who's the hare now,\nyour Holiness? Oh, by this and by that, I've sacked you clane! Clane\nand clever I've done it, and no mistake! You see what a bit ov desate\nwill do wid the wisest, your Holiness--sure it was joking I was, on\npurpose to aggravate you--all's fair, you know, in love, law, and\nconthravarsy. In troth if I'd thought you'd have taken it so much to\nheart, I'd have put my head into the fire afore I'd have said a word to\noffind you,\" says he, for he seen that the Pope was very vexed. \"Sure,\nGod forbid that I'd say anything agin your Holiness, barring it was\nin fun: for arn't you the father ov the faithful, and the thrue vicar\nov God upon earth? And amn't I ready to go down on my two knees this\nblessed minit and beg your epostolical pardon for every word that I\nsaid to your displasement?\"\n\n\"Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wor?\" says the Pope.\n\n\"May I never die if I amn't,\" says his Riv'rence. \"It was all to\nprovoke your Holiness to commit a brache ov the Latin that I tuck the\nsmall liberties I did,\" says he.\n\n\"I'd have you to take care,\" says the Pope, \"how you take sich small\nliberties again, or maybe you'll provoke me to commit a brache ov the\npace.\"\n\n\"Well, and if I did,\" said his Riv'rence, \"I know a sartan preparation\nov chymicals that's very good for curing a brache either in Latinity or\nfrindship.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" says the Pope, quite mollified, and sitting down\nagain at the table that he had ris from in the first pluff ov his\nindignation. \"What's that?\" says he, \"for, 'pon my Epistolical 'davy,\nI think it 'udn't be asy to bate this miraclous mixthir that we've\nbeen thrying to anilize this two hours back,\" says he, taking a mighty\nscientifical swig out ov the bottom ov his tumbler.\n\n\"It's good for a beginning,\" says his Riv'rence: \"it lays a very nate\nfoundation for more sarious operation: but we're now arrived at a\npariod ov the evening when its time to proceed wid our shuperstructhure\nby compass and square, like free and excipted masons as we both are.\"\n\nMy time's up for the present; but I'll tell you the rest in the evening\nat home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nHOW FATHER TOM AND HIS HOLINESS DISPUTED IN METAPHYSICS AND ALGEBRA.\n\n\nGod be wid the time when I went to the classical seminary ov\nFirdramore! when I'd bring my sod o' turf undher my arm, and sit down\non my shnug boss o' straw, wid my back to the masther and my shins\nto the fire, and score my sum in Dives's denominations or the double\nrule o' three, or play fox-and-geese wid purty Jane Cruise that sat\nnext me, as plisantly as the day was long, widout any one so much as\nsaying, \"Mikey Heffernan, what's that you're about?\"--for ever since I\nwas in the one lodge wid poor ould Mat I had my own way in his school\nas free as ever I had in my mother's shebeen. God be wid them days, I\nsay again, for its althered times wid me, I judge, since I got under\nCarlisle and Whately. Sich sthrictness! sich ordher! sich dhrilling,\nand lecthiring, and tuthoring as they do get on wid! I wisht to\ngracious the one-half ov their rules and rigilations was sunk in the\nsay. And they're getting so sthrict, too, about having fair play for\nthe heretic childher! We've to have no more schools in the chapels,\nnor masses in the schools. Oh, by this and by that it'll never do at\nall! The ould plan was twenty times betther; and, for my own part, if\nit wasn't that the clargy supports them in a manner, and the grant's a\nthing not easily done widout these hard times, I'd see if I couldn't\nget a sheltered spot nigh-hand the chapel, and set up again on the good\nould principle: and faix, I think our Metropolitan 'ud stand to me, for\nI know that his Grace's motto was ever and always, that \"Ignorance is\nthe thrue mother of piety.\"\n\nBut I'm running away from my norration entirely, so I am. \"You'll plase\nto ordher up the housekeeper, then,\" says Father Tom to the Pope, \"wid\na pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov her fist ov butther,\nalong wid a dust ov soft sugar in a saucer, and I'll show you the way\nov producing a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the thirst out\nov every nook and corner in your Holiness's blessed carcidge.\"\n\nThe Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they were brought in by the\nhead butler.\n\n\"That'll not do at all,\" says his Riv'rence, \"the ingredients won't\ncombine in due proportion unless ye do as I bid yez. Send up the\nhousekeeper,\" says he, \"for a faymale hand is ondispinsably necessary\nto produce the adaptation ov the particles and the concurrence ov the\ncorpuscles, without which you might boil till morning, and never fetch\nthe cruds off ov it.\"\n\nWell, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by-and-by up there\ncomes an ould faggot ov a _Caillean_, that was enough to frighten a\nhorse from his oats.\n\n\"Don't thry for to desave me,\" says his Riv'rence, \"for it's no use,\nI tell yez. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yez: I seen her presarving\ngooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a\nsloe,\" says he, \"and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste ov\nthis celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or mortial this\nblessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little\nfinger.\"\n\n\"Misther Maguire,\" says the Pope, \"it's very unproper ov you to spake\nthat way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir.\"\n\n\"Honor bright, your Holiness,\" says his Riv'rence, laying his hand on\nhis heart.\n\n\"Oh, by this and by that, Misther Maguire,\" says the Pope, \"I'll have\nnone ov your insinivations: I don't care who sees my whole household,\"\nsays he; \"I don't care if all the faymales undher my roof was paraded\ndown the High Street ov Room,\" says he.\n\n\"Oh, it's plain to be seen how little you care who sees them,\" says his\nRiv'rence. \"You're afeared, now, if I was to see your housekeeper, that\nI'd say she was too handsome.\"\n\n\"No, I'm not!\" says the Pope; \"I don't care who sees her,\" says he.\n\"Anthony,\" says he to the head butler, \"bid Eliza throw her apron\nover her head, and come up here.\" Wasn't that stout in the blessed\nman? Well, my dear, up she came, stepping like a three-year-old, and\nblushing like the break o' day: for though her apron was thrown over\nher head as she came forrid, till you could barely see the tip ov her\nchin--more be token there was a lovely dimple in it, as I've been\ntould--yet she let it shlip a bit to one side, by chance like, jist as\nshe got forninst the fire, and if she wouldn't have given his Riv'rence\na shot if he hadn't been a priest, it's no matther.\n\n\"Now, my dear,\" says he, \"you must take that skillet, and hould it over\nthe fire till the milk comes to a blood-hate; and the way you'll know\nthat will be by stirring it ons't or twice wid the little finger ov\nyour right hand, afore you put in the butther: not that I misdoubt,\"\nsays he, \"but that the same finger's fairer nor the whitest milk that\never came from the tit.\"\n\n\"None ov your deludhering talk to the young woman, sir,\" says the Pope,\nmighty stern. \"Stir the posset as he bids you, Eliza, and then be off\nwid yourself,\" says he.\n\n\"I beg your Holiness's pardon ten thousand times,\" says his Riv'rence;\n\"I'm sure I meant nothing onproper; I hope I'm uncapable ov any sich\ndirilection ov my duty,\" says he. \"But, marciful Saver!\" he cried out,\njumping up on a suddent, \"look behind you, your Holiness--I'm blest but\nthe room's on fire!\"\n\nSure enough the candle fell down that minit, and was near setting fire\nto the windy-curtains, and there was some bustle, as you may suppose,\ngetting things put to rights. And now I have to tell you ov a raally\nonpleasant occurrence. If I was a Prodesan that was in it, I'd say that\nwhile the Pope's back was turned, Father Tom made free wid the two\nlips ov Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I believe it was a mere\nmistake that his Holiness fell into on account of his being an ould\nman, and not having aither his eyesight or his hearing very parfect. At\nany rate it can't be denied but that he had a sthrong imprission that\nsich was the case; for he wheeled about as quick as thought, jist as\nhis Riv'rence was sitting down, and charged him wid the offince plain\nand plump. \"Is it kissing my housekeeper before my face you are, you\nvillain?\" says he. \"Go down out o' this,\" says he to Miss Eliza; \"and\ndo you be packing off wid you,\" he says to Father Tom, \"for it's not\nsafe, so it isn't, to have the likes ov you in a house where there's\ntemptation in your way.\"\n\n\"Is it me?\" says his Riv'rence; \"why, what would your Holiness be at,\nat all? Sure I wasn't doing no sich thing.\"\n\n\"Would you have me doubt the evidence ov my sinses?\" says the Pope;\n\"would you have me doubt the testimony ov my eyes and ears?\" says he.\n\n\"Indeed I would so,\" says his Riv'rence, \"if they pretind to have\ninformed your Holiness of any sich foolishness.\"\n\n\"Why,\" says the Pope, \"I seen you afther kissing Eliza as plain as I\nsee the nose on your face; I heard the smack you gave her as plain as\never I heard thundher.\"\n\n\"And how do you know whether you see the nose on my face or not?\"\nsays his Riv'rence; \"and how do you know whether what you thought was\nthundher, was thundher at all? Them operations of the sinses,\" says\nhe, \"comprises only particular corporayal emotions, connected wid\nsartin confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn't to be depended\nupon at all. If we were to follow them blind guides, we might jist as\nwell turn heretics at ons't. 'Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it's\nnaither charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your\neyes and ears agin the character ov a clergyman. And now, see how aisy\nit is to explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went\nover beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to\nhelp her to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the\nnoise you heard, my dear man, it was neither more nor less nor myself\ndhrawing the cork out ov this blissid bottle.\"\n\n\"Don't offer to thrape that upon me!\" says the Pope; \"here's the cork\nin the bottle still, as tight as a wedge.\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon,\" says his Riv'rence, \"that's not the cork at all,\"\nsays he; \"I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it's very purtily\nspitted on the end ov this blessed cork-shcrew at this prisint moment;\nhowandiver you can't see it, because it's only its raal prisence that's\nin it. But that appearance that you call a cork,\" says he, \"is nothing\nbut the outward spacies and external qualities ov the cortical nathur.\nThem's nothing but the accidents ov the cork that you're looking at and\nhandling; but, as I tould you afore, the real cork's dhrew, and is\nhere prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the\nnoise I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the\nsound ov the _pogue_.\"\n\nYou know there was no conthravening what he said; and the Pope couldn't\nopenly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.\n\"Granting,\" says he, \"that there is the differ you say betuxt the\nreality ov the cork and them cortical accidents, and that it's quite\npossible, as you allidge, that the thrue cork is really prisint on the\nend ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth ov the bottle\nstopped--still,\" says he, \"I can't undherstand, though willing to\nacquit you, how the dhrawing ov the real cork, that's onpalpable and\nwidout accidents, could produce the accident ov that sinsible explosion\nI heard jist now.\"\n\n\"All I can say,\" says his Riv'rence, \"is, that I'm sinsible it was a\nraal accident, anyhow.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" says the Pope, \"The kiss you gev Eliza, you mane.\"\n\n\"No,\" says his Riv'rence, \"but the report I made.\"\n\n\"I don't doubt you,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"No cork could be dhrew with less noise,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"It would be hard for anything to be less nor nothing, barring\nalgebra,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"I can prove to the conthrary,\" says his Riv'rence. \"This glass ov\nwhisky is less nor that tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler ov punch is\nnothing to this jug of _scaltheen_.\"\n\n\"Do you judge by superficial misure or by the liquid contents?\" says\nthe Pope.\n\n\"Don't stop me betuxt my premisses and my conclusion,\" says his\nRiv'rence; \"_Ergo_, this glass ov whisky is less nor nothing; and for\nthat raison I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov the\nsame jug, just by way ov a frost-nail.\"\n\n\"Adding what's less nor nothing,\" says the Pope, \"is subthraction\naccording to algebra; so here goes to make the rule good,\" says he,\nfilling his tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down again\nat the table, for the anger didn't stay two minutes on him, the\ngood-hearted ould sowl.\n\n\"Two minuses makes one plus,\" says his Riv'rence, as ready as you\nplase, \"and that'll account for the increased daycrement I mane to\ntake the liberty ov producing in the same mixed quantity,\" says he,\nfollying his Holiness's epistolical example.\n\n\"By all that's good,\" says the Pope, \"that's the best stuff I ever\ntasted; you call it a mixed quantity, but I say it's prime.\"\n\n\"Since it's ov the first ordher, then,\" says his Riv'rence, \"we'll have\nthe less deffeequilty in reducing it to a simple equation.\"\n\n\"You'll have no fractions at my side, anyhow,\" says the Pope. \"Faix,\nI'm afeard,\" says he, \"it's only too aisy ov solution our sum is like\nto be.\"\n\n\"Never fear for that,\" says his Riv'rence, \"I've a good stock ov surds\nhere in the bottle; for I tell you it will take us a long time to\nexthract the root ov it, at the rate we're going on.\"\n\n\"What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational quantity?\" says\nthe Pope.\n\n\"Becase it's too much for one, and too little for two,\" says his\nRiv'rence.\n\n\"Clear it ov its co-efficient, and we'll thry,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Hand me over the exponent, then,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"What's that?\" says the Pope.\n\n\"The schrew, to be sure,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Sure the cork's dhrew,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"But the sperits can't get out on account of the accidents that's stuck\nin the neck ov the bottle,\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"Accident ought to be passable to sperit,\" says the Pope, \"and that\nmakes me suspect that the reality ov the cork's in it afther all.\"\n\n\"That's a barony-masia,\" says his Riv'rence, \"and I'm not bound to\nanswer it. But the fact is, that it's the accidents ov the sperits too\nthat's in it, and the reality's passed out through the cortical spacies\nas you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in raal good\nsperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and where else would the raal\nsperits come from if they would't come out ov the bottle?\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" says the Pope, \"since we've got the reality, there's no\nuse throubling ourselves wid the accidents.\"\n\n\"Oh, begad,\" says his Riv'rence, \"the accidents is very essential too;\nfor a man may be in the best of good sperits, as far as his immaterial\npart goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt\nthe sinsible thirst out ov him.\" So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and\nsets about brewing the other skillet ov _scaltheen_; but, faix, he had\nto get up the ingredients this time by the hands ov ould Molly; though\ndevil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same\ndecoction.\n\nBut, my dear, here's the _Freeman's Journal_, and we'll see what's the\nnews afore we finish the residuary proceedings ov their two Holinesses.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nTHE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.\n\n\nHurroo, my darlings!--didn't I tell you it 'ud never do? Success to\nbould John Tuam and the old siminary of Firdramore! Oh, more power\nto your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that has broken their\nBoord into shivers undher your feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day\nfor Ireland, this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether? Isn't\nCarlisle and Whately smashed to pieces, and their whole college ov\nswaddling teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has\ntuck his pasthoral staff in his hand and beathen them out o' Connaught\nas fast ever Pathrick druve the sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould\nMat Kavanagh, if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the happy\nman. \"My curse upon their g'ographies and Bibles,\" he used to say;\n\"where's the use ov perplexing the poor childer wid what we don't\nundherstand ourselves?\" no use at all, in troth, and so I said from\nthe first myself. Well, thank God and his Grace, we'll have no more\nthrigonomethry nor scripther in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges every\nSaturday night, as we used to do, wid our chairman behind the masther's\ndesk, and we'll hear our mass every Sunday morning wid the blessed\npriest standing afore the same. I wisht to goodness I hadn't parted\nwid my Seven Champions ov Christendom and Freney the Robber; they're\nbooks that'll be in great requist in Leithrim as soon as the pasthoral\ngets wind. Glory be to God! I've done wid their lecthirs--they may\nall go and be d----d wid their consumption and production. I'm off to\nTullymactaggart before daylight in the morning, where I'll thry whether\na sod or two o' turf can't consume a cartload ov heresy, and whether a\nweekly meeting ov the lodge can't produce a new thayory ov rints. But\nafore I take my lave ov you, I may as well finish my story about poor\nFather Tom that I hear is coming up to whale the heretics in Adam and\nEve during the Lint.\n\nThe Pope--and indeed it ill becomes a good Catholic to say anything\nagin him--no more would I, only that his Riv'rence was in it--but you\nsee that the fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious as ever he\ncould be, at seeing himself sacked right and left by Father Tom, and\nbate out o' the face, the way he was, on every science and subjec'\nthat was started. So, not to be outdone altogether, he says to his\nRiv'rence, \"You're a man that's fond ov the brute crayation, I hear,\nMisther Maguire?\"\n\n\"I don't deny it,\" says his Riv'rence; \"I've dogs that I'm willing to\nrun agin any man's, ay, or to match them agin any other dogs in the\nworld for genteel edication and polite manners,\" says he.\n\n\"I'll hould you a pound,\" says the Pope, \"that I've a quadhruped in my\npossession that's a wiser baste nor any dog in your kennel.\"\n\n\"Done,\" says his Riv'rence, and they staked the money.\n\n\"What can this larned quadhruped o' yours do?\" says his Riv'rence.\n\n\"It's my mule,\" says the Pope, \"and if you were to offer her goolden\noats and clover off the meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither\nshe'd let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every Sunday or\nholiday in the year.\"\n\n\"Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you a baste of mine,\" says his\nRiv'rence, \"that, instead ov fasting till first mass is over only,\nfasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every Wednesday and Friday\nin the week as reg'lar as a Christian?\"\n\n\"Oh, be aisy, Misther Maguire,\" says the Pope.\n\n\"You don't b'lieve me, don't you?\" says his Riv'rence; \"very well, I'll\nsoon show you whether or no,\" and he puts his knuckles in his mouth,\nand gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers in his ears. The\naycho, my dear, was hardly done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish,\nwhen the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The Pope happened to be\nsitting next the door, betuxt him and his Riv'rence, and, may I never\ndie, if he didn't clear him, thriple crown and all, at one spang.\n\"God's presence be about us!\" says the Pope, thinking it was an evil\nspirit come to fly away wid him for the lie that he had tould in\nregard ov his mule (for it was nothing more nor a thrick that consisted\nin grasing the brute's teeth): but, seeing it was one ov the greatest\nbeauties ov a grayhound that he'd ever laid his epistolical eyes on, he\nsoon recovered ov his fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom\nris and went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov pork, a slice\nov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice ov salmon, and put them all on\na plate thegither. \"Here, Spring, my man,\" says he, setting the plate\ndown afore him on the hearthstone, \"here's your supper for you this\nblessed Friday night.\" Not a word more he said nor what I tell you;\nand, you may believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth that the\ndog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and spitting it out again, lifted\nhis nose out o' the plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his\ntail wagging, looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as much as to say,\n\"Give me your absolution, till I hide them temptations out o' my sight.\"\n\n\"There's a dog that knows his duty,\" says his Riv'rence; \"there's a\nbaste that knows how to conduct himself aither in the parlor or the\nfield. You think him a good dog, looking at him here; but I wisht you\nseen him on the side ov Slieve-an-Eirin! Be my soul, you'd say the hill\nwas running away from undher him. Oh I wisht you had been wid me,\" says\nhe, never letting on to see the dog at all, \"one day, last Lint, that I\nwas coming from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile behind me,\nfor the childher was delaying him wid bread and butther at the chapel\ndoor; when a lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov Grouse\nLodge and ran acrass the road; so I gave the whilloo, and knowing that\nshe'd take the rise ov the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through\nMullagheashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping her in view, but\nafore I had gone a perch, Spring seen her, and away the two went like\nthe wind, up Drumrewry, and down Clooneen, and over the river, widout\nhis being able ons't to turn her. Well, I run on till I came to the\nDiffagher, and through it I went, for the wather was low and I didn't\nmind being wet shod, and out on the other side, where I got up on a\nditch, and seen sich a coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen\nafore or since. If Spring turned that hare ons't that day, he turned\nher fifty times, up and down, back and for'ard throughout and about.\nAt last he run her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn, and\nwhen I went up to look for her fud, there I found him sthretched on his\nside, not able to stir a foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore\nhis nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark ov a tooth upon her.\nEh, Spring, isn't that thrue?\" says he. Jist at that minit the clock\nsthruck twelve, and, before you could say thrap-sticks, Spring had the\nplateful ov mate consaled. \"Now,\" says his Riv'rence, \"hand me over my\npound, for I've won my bate fairly.\"\n\n\"You'll excuse me,\" says the Pope, pocketing his money, \"for we put the\nclock half an hour back, out ov compliment to your Riv'rence,\" says he,\n\"and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up at all.\"\n\n\"Well, it's no matther,\" says his Riv'rence, putting back his\npound-note in his pocket-book, \"only,\" says he, \"it's hardly fair\nto expect a brute baste to be so well skilled in the science ov\nchronology.\"\n\nIn troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the same bate, for he won\nit clever; and, indeed, I'm afraid the shabby way he was thrated had\nsome effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did. \"Will your\nHoliness take a blast ov the pipe?\" says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.\n\n\"I never smoke,\" says the Pope, \"but I haven't the laste objection to\nthe smell ov the tobaccay.\"\n\n\"Oh, you had better take a dhraw,\" says his Riv'rence, \"it'll relish\nthe dhrink, that 'ud be too luscious entirely, widout something to\nflavor it.\"\n\n\"I had thoughts,\" said the Pope, wid the laste sign ov a hiccup on him,\n\"ov getting up a broiled bone for the same purpose.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says his Riv'rence, \"a broiled bone 'ud do no manner ov harm at\nthis present time; but a smoke,\" says he, \"'ud flavor both the divil\nand the dhrink.\"\n\n\"What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?\" says the Pope.\n\n\"Raal nagur-head,\" says his Riv'rence; \"a very mild and salubrious\nspacies ov the philosophic weed.\"\n\n\"Then, I don't care if I do take a dhraw,\" says the Pope. Then Father\nTom held the coal himself till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they\nsat widout saying anything worth mentioning for about five minutes.\n\nAt last the Pope says to his Riv'rence: \"I dunna what gev me this\nplaguy hiccup,\" says he. \"Dhrink about,\" says he--\"Begorra,\" he says,\n\"I think I'm getting merrier nor's good for me. Sing us a song, your\nRiv'rence,\" says he.\n\nFather Tom then sung him Monatagrenoge and the Bunch o' Rushes, and\nhe was mighty well pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and\njoining in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let him. At last, my dear,\nhe opens the lower buttons ov his waistcoat, and the top one ov his\nwaistband, and calls to Master Anthony to lift up one ov the windys. \"I\ndunna what's wrong wid me, at all at all,\" says he, \"I'm mortial sick.\"\n\n\"I thrust,\" says his Riv'rence, \"the pasthry that you ate at dinner\nhasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's stomach.\"\n\n\"Oh my! oh!\" says the Pope, \"what's this at all?\" gasping for\nbreath, and as pale as a sheet, wid a could swate bursting out over\nhis forehead, and the palms ov his hands spread out to catch the\nair. \"Oh my!--oh my!\" says he, \"fetch me a basin!--Don't spake\nto me. Oh!--oh!--blood alive!--Oh, my head, my head, hould my\nhead!--oh!--ubh!--I'm poisoned!--ach!\"\n\n\"It was them plaguy pasthries,\" says his Riv'rence. \"Hould his head\nhard,\" says he, \"and clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could\nonly thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness, it 'ud set you to\nrights in no time.\"\n\n\"Carry me to bed,\" says the Pope, \"and never let me see that wild Irish\npriest again. I'm poisoned by his manes--ubplsch!--ach!--ach!--He dined\nwid Cardinal Wayld yesterday,\" says he, \"and he's bribed him to take me\noff. Send for a confissor,\" says he, \"for my latther end's approaching.\nMy head's like to split--so it is!--Oh my! oh my!--ubplsch!--ach!\"\n\nWell, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his while to make him an\nanswer; but, when he seen how ungratefully he was used, afther all his\nthrouble in making the evening agreeable to the ould man, he called\nSpring, and put the but-end ov the second bottle into his pocket, and\nleft the house widout once wishing \"Good-night, an' plaisant dhrames\nto you;\" and, in troth, not one of _them_ axed him to lave them a lock\nov his hair.\n\nThat's the story as I heard it tould; but myself doesn't b'lieve over\none-half ov it. Howandiver, when all's done, it's a shame, so it is,\nthat he's not a bishop this blessed day and hour: for, next to the\ngoiant ov St. Jarlath's, he's out and out the cleverest fellow ov the\nwhole jing-bang.","title":"Father Tom and the Pope : $b Or, a night in the Vatican","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":11185}