University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
HOW FATHER TOM MADE A HARE OF HIS HOLINESS
IN LATIN.

OH! Docther Whately, Docther Whately, I'm
sure I'll never die another death if I don't die
aither of consumption or production! I ever and
always thought that asthronomy was the hardest
science that was till now—and it's no lie I'm telling
you, the same asthronomy is a tough enough
morsel to break a man's fast upon—and geolidgy
is middling and hard too—and hydherastatics is no
joke; but ov all the books ov science that ever was

opened and shut, that book upon Pilitical Econimy
lifts the pins! Well, well, if they wait till they
persuade me that taking a man's rints out ov the
counthry, and spinding them in forrain parts, isn't
doing us out ov the same, they'll wait a long time
in troth. But you're waiting, I see, to hear how
his Riv'rence and his Holiness got on after finishing
the disputation I was telling you ov. Well, you
see, my dear, when the Pope found he couldn't
hould a candle to Father Tom in theology and
logic, he thought he'd take the shine out ov him in
Latin anyhow; so says he, “Misther Maguire,” says
he, “I quite agree wid you that it's not lucky for
us to be spaking on them deep subjects in sich langidges
as the evil spirits is acquainted wid;
and,” says he, “I think it 'ud be no harm for us to
spake from this out in Latin,” says he, “for fraid
the devil 'ud undherstand what we are saying.”

“Not a hair I care,” says Father Tom, “whether
he undherstands what we're saying or not, so long as
we keep off that last pint we wor discussing, and
one or two others. List'ners never hard good ov
themselves,” says he; “and if Belzhebub takes anything
amiss that aither you or me says in regard
ov himself or his faction, let him stand forrid like
a man, and, never fear, I'll give him his answer.

Howandiver, if it's for a taste ov classic conversation
you are, just to put us in mind ov ould Cordarius,”
says he, “here's at you;” and wid that he lets fly at
his Holiness wid his health in Latin.

“Vesthræ Sanctitatis salutem volo!” says he.

“Vesthræ Revirintiæ salubritati bibo!” says the
Pope to him again (faith, it's no joke, I tell you, to
remimber sich a power ov larning). “Here's to you
wid the same,” says the Pope, in the raal Ciceronian.
“Nunc poculum alterhum imple,” says he.

“Cum omni jucunditate in vita,” says his Riv'rence.
“Cum summâ concupiscintiâ et animositate,”
says he; as much as to say: “Wid all the veins ov
my heart, I'll do that same;” and so, wid that, they
mixed their fourth gun apiece.

“Aqua vitæ vesthra sane est liquor admirabilis,”
says the Pope.

“Verum est pro te—it's thrue for you,” says his
Riv'rence, forgetting the idyim ov the Latin phrawseology,
in a manner.

“Prava est tua Latinitas, domine,” says the
Pope, finding fault like wid his etymology.

“Parva culpa mihi,” “small blame to me, that
is,” says his Riv'rence; “nam multum laboro in
partibus interioribus,” says he—the dear man!
that never was at a loss for an excuse!

“Quid tibi incommodi?” says the Pope, axing
him what ailed him.

“Habesne id quod Anglice vocamus, a looking-glass,”
says his Riv'rence.

“Immo, habeo speculum splendidissimum subther
operculum pyxidis hujus starnutatoriæ,” says
the Pope, pulling out a beautiful goold snuff-box,
wid a looking-glass in under the lid; “Subther
operculum pyxidis hujus starnutatorii—no—starnutatoriæ—quam
dono accepi ab Archi-duce Austhriaco
sipthuagisima prætheritâ,” says he; as
much as to say that he got the box in a prisint
from the Queen of Spain last Lint, if I rightly
remimber.

Well, Father Tom laughed like to burst. At last,
says he, “Pather Sancte,” says he, “sub errore jaces.
`Looking-glass' apud nos habet significationem
quamdam peculiarem ex tempore diei dependentem”
—there was a sthring ov accusatives for yez!—
“nam mane speculum sonat,” says he, “post prandium
vero mat—mat—mat”—sorra be in me but I
disremimber the classic appellivation ov the same
article. Howandiver, his Riv'rence went on explaining
himself in such a way as no scholar could
mistake. “Vesica mea,” says he, “ab illo ultimo
eversore distenditur, donec similis est rumpere.

Verbis apertis,” says he, “Vesthræ Sanctitatis
præsentia salvata, aquam facere valde desidhero.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” says the Pope, grabbing up his
box; “si inquinavisses meam pyxidem, excommunicari
debuisses. Hillo, Anthony,” says he to
his head butler, “fetch Misther Maguire a—”

“You spoke first!” says his Riv'rence, jumping
off his sate: “You spoke first in the vernacular. I
take Misther Anthony to witness,” says he.

“What else would you have me to do?” says the
Pope, quite dogged like to see himself bate that-away
at his own waypons. “Sure,” says he, “Anthony
wouldn't understand a B from a bull's foot,
if I spoke to him any other way.”

“Well, then,” says his Riv'rence, “in considheration
ov the needcessity,” says he, “I'll let you off
for this time; but mind, now, afther I say proestho,
the first of us that spakes a word of English is the
hare—proestho!”

Neither ov them spoke for near a minit, considhering
wid themselves how they wor to begin sich a
great thrial ov shkill. At last says the Pope—the
blessed man! only think how 'cute it was ov him!
—“Domine Maguire,” says he, “valde desidhero,
certiorem fieri de significatione istius verbi eversor

quo jam jam usus es”—(well, surely I am the boy
for the Latin!)

“Eversor, id est cyathus,” says his Riv'rence,
“nam apud nos tumbleri, seu eversores, dicti sunt ab
evertendo ceremoniam inter amicos; non, ut Temperantiæ
Societatis frigidis fautoribus placet, ab evertendis
ipsis potatoribus.” (It's not every masther
undher the Boord, I tell you, could carry such a carload
ov the dead langidges.) “In agro vero Louthiano
et Midensi,” says he, “nomine gaudent quodam
secundum linguam Anglicanam significante
bombardam seu tormentum; quia ex eis tanquam
ex telis jaculatoriis liquorem faucibus immitere solent.
Etiam inter hæreticos illos melanostomos”
(that was a touch of Greek) “Presbyterianos Septentrionales,
qui sunt terribiles potatores, Cyathi
dicti sunt faceres, et dimidium Cyathi hæf-a-glessus.
Dimidium Cyathi verò apud Metropolitanos Hibernicos
dicitur dandy—”

“En verbum Anglicanum!” says the Pope, clapping
his hands; “leporem te fecisti;” as much as
to say that he had made a hare ov himself.

“Dandoeus, dandoeus verbum erat,” says his Riv'rence—oh,
the dear man, but it's himself that was
handy ever and always at getting out ov a hobble—
“dandoeus verbum erat,” says he, “quod dicturus
eram, cum me intherpillavisti.”

“Ast ego dico,” says the Pope, very sharp, “quod
verbum erat dandy.”

“Per tibicinem qui coram Mose modulatus est,”
says his Riv'rence, “id flagellat mundum! Dan
dœus dixi, et tu dicis dandy; ergo tu es lepus, non
ego—Ah, ha! Saccavi vesthram Sanctitatem!”

“Mendacium est!” says the Pope, quite forgetting
himself, he was so mad at being sacked before the
sarvints.

Well, if it hadn't been that his Holiness was in it,
Father Tom 'ud have given him the contints of his
tumbler betuxt the two eyes, for calling him a liar;
and, in troth, it's very well it was in Latin the offince
was conveyed, for if it had been in the vernacular,
there's no saying what 'ud ha' been the consequence.
His Riv'rence was mighty angry anyhow.

“Tu senex lathro,” says he, “quomodo audes me
mendacem prædicare!”

“Et tu, sacrilege nebulo,” says the Pope, “quomodo
audacitatem habeas, me Dei in terris vicarium,
lathronem conviciari?”

“Interroga circumcirca,” says his Riv'rence.

“Abi ex ædibus meis,” says the Pope.

“Abi tu in malem crucem,” says his Riv'rence.

“Excommunicabo te,” says the Pope.

“Diabolus curat,” says his Riv'rence.

“Anathema sis,” says the Pope.

“Oscula meum pod—” says his Riv'rence—but,
my dear, afore he could finish what he was going to
say, the Pope broke out into the vernacular, “Get
out o'my house, you reprobate!” says he, in such a
rage that he could contain himself widin the Latin
no longer.

“Ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!” says his Riv'rence.
“Who's the hare now, your Holiness? Oh, by this
and by that, I've sacked you clane! Clane and clever
I've done it, and no mistake! You see what a
bit of desate will do wid the wisest, your Holiness—
sure it was joking I was, on purpose to aggravate
you—all's fair, you know, in love, law, and conthravarsy.
In troth if I'd thought you'd have taken it
so much to heart, I'd have put my head into the fire
afore I'd have said a word to offind you,” says he, for
he seen that the Pope was very vexed. “Sure God
forbid that I'd say anything agin your Holiness,
barring it was in fun: for aren't you the father ov
the faithful, and the thrue vicar ov God upon earth?
And amn't I ready to go down on my two knees
this blessed minit and beg your epostolical pardon
for every word that I said to your displasement?”

“Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wor?”
says the Pope.

“May I never die if I amn't,” says his Riv'rence.
“It was all to provoke your Holiness to commit a
brache ov the Latin that I tuck the small liberties I
did,” says he.

“I'd have you to take care,” says the Pope, “how
you take sich small liberties again, or may be you'll
provoke me to commit a brache ov the pace.”

“Well, and if I did,” said his Riv'rence, “I know
a sartan preparation ov chymicals that's very good
for curing a brache either in Latinity or frindship.”

“What's that?” says the Pope, quite mollified,
and sitting down again at the table that he had ris
from in the first pluff of his indignation. “What's
that?” says he, “for, 'pon my Epostolical 'davy, I
think it 'udn't be asy to bate this miraclous mixthir
that we've been thrying to anilize this two
hours back,” says he, taking a mighty scientifical
swig out ov the bottom of his tumbler.

“It's good for a beginning,” says his Riv'rence:
“it lays a very nate foundation for more sarious
operation; but we're now arrived at a pariod ov the
evening when it's time to proceed wid our shuperstructhure
by compass and square, like free and excipted
masons as we both are.”

My time's up for the present; but I'll tell you the
rest in the evening at home.