 | CHAPTER II.
HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN
THEOLOGY AND LOGIC. Father Tom and the pope, or, A night in the Vatican |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN
THEOLOGY AND LOGIC.
WELL, the lecthir's over, and I'm kilt out and
out. My bitther curse upon the man that invinted
the same Boord! I thought ons't I'd fadomed the
say ov throuble; and that was when I got through
fractions at ould Mat Kavanagh's school, in Firdra-more—God
be good to poor Mat's sowl, though he
did deny the cause the day he suffered! but it's
fluxions itself we're set to bottom now, sink or
shwim! May I never die if my head isn't as
cardinals—and, begob, it's all nothing to the
econimy lecthir that I have got 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 larned discourse.
For, you see, the Pope was curious to find out whether
Father Tom was the great theologinall that
people said; and says he, “Misther 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 should be
no sich passidges I make myself mighty aisy about
them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov
them,” says he, “just repate one ov them,” says he,
“and I'll show you how to catapomphericate it in
two shakes.”
“Why, then,” says the Pope, “myself disremimbers
the particlar passidges they allege out ov them
old 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
is a lie,' or this out of Tartullian or
Plutarch, `the Bishop ov Room 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 folleying 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 betther judgment ov the learned father
that your Holiness has quoted, he'd have been
a thrifle nearer the truth, if he had said that the
Bishop ov Room 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 of 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, at the head ov all
us,)—“that has the gift ov laying on hands. For
sure,” says he, “imposther and imposithir is all one,
so you're only to undherstand manuum, and the job
is done. Awouich!” says he, “if any heretic'ud go
for to cast up sich a passidge as that agin me, I'd
soon give him a lesson in the p'lite art ov cutting a
stick to welt his own back wid.”
“Pon my epostolical word,” says the Pope,
you've cleared up them two pints in a most satisfacthery
manner.”
“You see,” says his Riv'rence—by this time they
wor mixing their third tumbler—“the writings ov
them Fathers is to be thrated wid great veneration;
and it 'ud be the height of presumption in any one
to sit down to interpret them widout providing
himself wid a genteel assortment ov the best figures
ov 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
liberally to a handsome allowance ov thropes and
figures, they'd set up heresy at ons't, so they
would.”
“It's thrue for you,” says the Pope; “the figures
ov spache is the pillars of 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 ov 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.
Divil be in me,” says he, “but I'd prove black
white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a good
stock of superbaton.”
“Faix,” says the Pope, wid a sly look, “you'd
need to have it backed, I judge, wid a small taste
ov assurance.”
“Well now, jist for that word,” says his Riv'rence,
“I'll prove it widout aither one or other.
Black,” says he, “is one thing, and white is another
thing. You don't conthravene that? But every
thing is aither one thing or another thing; I defy
If any thing be one thing, well and good; but if it
be another thing, then it's plain it isn't both things,
and so can't be two things—nobody can deny that.
But what can't be two things must be one thing—
Ergo, whether it's one thing or another thing it's all
one. But black is one thing and white is another
thing—Ergo, black and white is all one. Quod
erat demonsthrandum.”
“Stop a bit,” says the Pope, “I can't althegither
give in to your second minor—no—your second major,”
says he, and he stopped. “Faix, then,” says
he, getting confused, “I don't rightly remimber
where it was exactly that I thought I seen the flaw
in your premises. Howsomdiver,” says he, “I
don't deny that it's a good conclusion, and one that
'ud be ov materi'l service to the Church if it was
dhrawn wid a little more distinctiveness.”
“I'll make it as plain as the nose on your Holiness's
face, by superbaton,” says his Riv'rence.
“My adversary says, black is not another color,
that is, white! Now, that's jist a parallel passidge
wid the one out ov Tartullian that me and Hayes
smashed the heretics on in Clarendon sthreet, `This
is my body—that is, the figure ov my body.' That's
a superbaton, and we showed that it oughtn't to
ov my body is my body.' Jist so wid my adversary's
proposition, it mustn't be undherstood the
way it reads, by no manner ov manes; but it's to
be taken this way: `Black, that is, white, is not
another color;' green, if you like, or orange, by
dad, for anything I care, for my case is proved.
`Black, that is, white,' lave-out the `that,' by sinnalayphy,
and you have the orthodox conclusion,
`Black is white,' or by convarsion, `White is
black.”
“It's as clear as mud,” says the Pope.
“Begad,” says his Riv'rence, “I'm in great humor
for disputin' to-night. I wisht your Holiness was a
heretic jist for two minutes,” says he, “till you'd
see the flaking I'd give you!”
“Well, then, for the fun o' the thing, suppose me
my namesake, if you like,” says the Pope, laughing,
“though, by Jayminy,” says he, “he's not one that
I take much pride out ov.”
“Very good—divil a betther joke ever I had,”
says his Riv'rence. “Come, then, Misther Pope,”
says he, “hould up that purty face ov yours, and
answer me this question. Which 'ud be the biggest
lie, if I said I seen a turkey-cock lying on the broad
of his back, and picking the stars out ov the sky, or
intherestin' posture, raycreating himself wid similar
asthronomical expiriments? Answer me that, you
ould swaddler!” says he.
“How durst you call me a swaddler, sir?” says
the Pope, forgetting, the dear man, the part that he
was acting.
“Don't think for to bully me!” says his Riv'rence,
“I always daar to spake the truth, and it's well
known that you're nothing but a swaddling ould
sinner of a saint,” says he, never letting on to persave
that his Holiness had forgot what they were
agreed on.
“By all that's good,” says the Pope, “I often
hard ov the imperance ov you Irish afore,” says he
“but I never expected to be called a saint in my
own house either by Irishman or Hottentot. I'll
till you what, Misther Maguire,” says he, “if you
can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you had betther
be walking off wid yourself; for I beg lave to
give you to undherstand, that it won't be for the
good ov your health if you call me by sich an out-probrious
epithet again,” says he.
“Oh, indeed! then things is come to a purty
pass,” says his Riv'rence (the dear funny soul that
he ever was!) “when the likes of you compares one
Why, man alive, the Maguires was kings of Fermanagh
three thousand years afore your grandfather,
that was the first of your breed that ever
wore shoes and stockings,” (I'm bound to say, in
justice to the poor Prodesan, that this was all
spoken by his Riv'rence by way ov a figure ov
spache,) “was sint his Majesty's arrand to cultivate
the friendship of Prince Lee Boo in Botteney Bay!
Oh Bryan dear,” says he, letting on to cry, “if you
were alive to hear a boddagh Sassenagh like this
casting up his counthry to one ov the name ov Maguire!”
“In the name ov God,” says the Pope, very
solemniously, “what is the maning of all this at
all at all?” says he.
“Sure,” says his Riv'rence, whispering to him
across the table, “sure you know we're acting a conthravarsy,
and you tuck the part of the Prodesan
champion. You wouldn't be angry wid me, I'm
sure, for sarving out the heretic to the best ov my
ability.”
“Oh begad, I had forgot,” says the Pope, the
good-natured ould crethur; “sure enough you were
only taking your part, as a good Milesian Catholic
ought, agin the heretic Sassenagh. Well,” says
conthrovarsial compliments as you plase to pay
me.”
“Well, then, answer me my question, you sanctimonious
ould dandy,” says his Riv'rence.
“In troth, then,” says the Pope, “I dunna which
'ud be the biggest lie: to my mind,” says he, “the
one appears to be about as big a bounce as the
other.”
“Why, then, you poor simpleton,” says his Riv'rence,
“don't you persave that, forbye the advantage
the gandher 'ud have in the length ov his
neck, it 'ud be next to onpossible for the turkey-cock
lying thataway to see what he was about, by
rason ov his djollars and other accouthrements
hanging back over his eyes? The one about as big
a bounce as the other! Oh, you misforthunate
crethur! if you had ever larned your A B C in
theology, you'd have known that there's a differ
betuxt them two lies so great, that, begad, I
would'nt wondher if it 'ud make a balance ov five
years in purgathory to the sowl that 'ud be in it.
Ay, and if it wasn't that the Church is too liberal
entirely, so she is, it 'ud cost his heirs and succissors
betther nor ten pounds to have him out as
soon as the other. Get along, man, and take half a
Dens, you poor dunce, you!”
“Raaly,” says the Pope, “you're making the
heretic's shoes too hot to hold me. I wondher how
the Prodesans can stand afore you at all.”
“Don't think to delude me,” says his Riv'rence,
“don't think to back out ov your challenge now,”
says he, “but come to the scratch like a man, if you
are a man, and answer me my question. What's
the rason, now, that Julius Cæsar and the Vargin
Mary was born upon the one day?—answer me
that, if you wouldn't be hissed off the platform!”
Well, my dear, the Pope couldn't answer it, and
he had to acknowledge himself sacked. Then he
axed his Riv'rence to tell him the rason himself;
and Father Tom communicated it to him in Latin.
But as that is a very deep question, I never hard
what the answer was, except that I'm tould it was
so mysterious, it made the Pope's hair stand on
end.
But there's two o'clock, and I'll be late for the
lecthir.
| CHAPTER II.
HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN
THEOLOGY AND LOGIC. Father Tom and the pope, or, A night in the Vatican | |