 | CHAPTER V.
THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A
CARDINAL. Father Tom and the pope, or, A night in the Vatican |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A
CARDINAL.
Hurroo! my darlings!—didn't I tell you it
'ud never do? Success to bould John Tuam and
the old siminary of Firdramore! Oh, more power
to your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that
has broken their Boord into shivers undher your
feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day for Ireland,
this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether?
Isn't Carlisle and Whately smashed to pieces, and
their whole college ov swaddling teachers knocked
his pasthoral staff in his hand and beathen them
out o' Connaught as fast as ever Pathrick druve the
sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould Mat Kavanagh,
if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the
happy man. “My curse upon their g'ographies and
Bibles,” he used to say; “where's the use ov perplexing
the poor childher wid what we don't undherstand
ourselves?” no use at all, in troth, and so
I said from the first myself. Well, thank God and
his Grace, we'll have no more thrigonomethry nor
scripther in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges
every Saturday night, as we used to do, wid our
chairman behind the masther's desk, and we'll hear
our mass every Sunday morning wid the blessed
priest standing afore the same. I wisht to goodness
I hadn't parted wid my Seven Champions
of Christendom and Freney the Robber; they're
books that'll be in great requist in Leithrim as
soon as the pasthoral gets wind. Glory be to God!
I've done with their lecthirs—they may all go and
be d—d wid their consumption and production.
I'm off to Tullymactaggart before daylight in the
morning, where I'll thry whether a sod or two o'
turf can't consume a cartload ov heresy, and whether
a weekly meeting ov the lodge can't produce a
you, I may as well finish my story about poor Father
Tom that I hear is coming up to whale the
heretics in Adam and Eve during the Lint.
The Pope—and indeed it ill becomes a good
Catholic to say anything agin him—no more would
I, only that his Riv'rence was in it—but you see
that the fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious
as ever he could be at seeing himself sacked right
and left by Father Tom, and bate out o' the face,
the way he was, on every science and subjec' that
was started. So, not to be outdone altogether, he
says to his Riv'rence, “You're a man that's fond
ov the brute crayation, I hear, Misther Maguire?”
“I don't deny it,” says his Riv'rence; “I've
dogs that I'm willing to run agin any man's, ay, or
to match them agin any other dogs in the world
for genteel edication and polite manners,” says he.
“I'll hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that
I've a quadhruped in my possession that's a wiser
baste nor any dog in your kennel.”
“Done,” says his Riv'rence, and they staked the
money.
“What can this larned quadhruped o' yours
do?” says his Riv'rence.
“It's my mule,” says the Pope, “and if you
were to offer her goolden oats and clover off the
meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she'd
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every
Sunday or holiday in the year.”
“Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you
a baste of mine,” says his Riv'rence, “that instead
ov fasting till the first mass is over only,
fasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every
Wednesday and Friday in the week as reg'lar
as a Christian?”
“Oh, be aisy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.
“You don't b'lieve me, don't you?” says his
Riv'rence; “very well, I'll soon show you whether
or no,” and he puts his knuckles in his mouth,
and gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers
in his ears. The aycho, my dear, was hardly
done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish, when
the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The
Pope happened to be sitting next the door, betuxt
him and his Riv'rence, and may I never die if he
did'nt clear him, thriple crown and all, at one
spang. “God's presence be about us!” says the
Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit come to
fly away wid him for the lie that he had
tould in regard ov his mule (for it was nothing
brute's teeth): but, seeing it was only one ov the
greatest beauties ov a greyhound that he'd ever
laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon recovered ov his
fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris
and went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov
pork, a slice ov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice
ov salmon, and put them all on a plate thegither.
“Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the
plate down afore him on the hearthstone, “here's
your supper for you this blessed Friday night.”
Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and,
you may believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth
that the dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and
spitting it out again, lifted his nose out o' the
plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his
tail wagging, looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as
much as to say, “Give me your absolution, till I
hide them temptations out o' my sight.”
“There's a dog that knows his duty,” says his
Riv'rence; “there's a baste that knows how to
conduct himself aither in the parlor or the field.
You think him a good dog, looking at him here;
but I wisht you seen him on the side ov Slievean-Eirin!
Be my soul, you'd say the hill was running
away from undher him. Oh I wisht you had
dog at all, “one day, last Lint, that I was coming
from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile
behind me, for the childher was delaying him wid
bread and butther at the chapel door; when a
lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov
Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev
the whilloo, and knowing that she'd take the rise ov
the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping
her in view, but afore I had gone a perch, Spring
seen her, and away the two went like the wind, up
Drumrewey, and down Clooneen, and over the
river, widout his being able ons't to turn her.
Well, I run on till I come to the Diffagher, and
through it I went, for the wather was low and I
didn't mind being wet shod, and out on the other
side, where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a
coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen afore
or since. If Spring turned that hare ons't that
day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back
and for'ard, throughout and about. At last he run
her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn,
and when I went up to look for her fud, there I
found him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a
foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore his
tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn't that thrue?”
says he. Jist at that minit the clock sthruck
twelve, and, before you could say thrap-sticks,
Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,”
says his Riv'rence, “hand me over my pound, for
I've won my bate fairly.”
“You'll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing his
money, “for we put the clock half an hour back,
out ov compliment to your Riv'rence,” says he,
“and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up
at all.”
“Well, it's no matther,” says his Riv'rence, putting
back his pound-note in his pocket-book,
“only,” says he, “it's hardly fair to expect a brute
baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology.”
In troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the
same bate, for he won it clever; and, indeed, I'm
afeard the shabby way he was thrated had some
effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did.
“Will your Holiness take a blast ov the pipe?”
says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.
“I never smoke,” says the Pope, “but I haven't
the laste objection to the smell ov the tobaccay.”
“Oh, you had better take a dhraw,” says his
luscious entirely, widout something to flavor it.”
“I had thoughts,” said the Pope, wid the laste
sign ov a hiccup on him, “of getting up a broiled
bone for the same purpose.”
“Well,” says his Riv'rence, “a broiled bone 'ud
do no manner ov harm at this present time; but a
smoke,” says he, “'ud flavor both the devil and the
dhrink.”
“What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?” says
the Pope.
“Raal nagur-head,” says his Riv'rence; “a very
mild and salubrious spacies ov the philosophic
weed.”
“Then I don't care if I do take a dhraw,” says
the Pope. Then Father Tom held the coal himself
till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they sat
widout saying anything worth mentioning for about
five minutes.
At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, “I dunna
what gev me this plaguy hiccup,” says he.
“Dhrink about,” says he; “Begorra,” he says, “I
think I'm getting merrier nor's good for me. Sing
us a song, your Riv'rence,” says he.
Father Tom then sung him Mortagrenoge and
the Bunch o' Rushes, and he was mighty well
joining in in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let
him. At last, my dear, he opens the lower buttons
ov his waistcoat, and the top one ov his waistband,
and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the
windys. “I dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at
all,” says he, “I'm mortial sick.”
“I thrust,” says his Riv'rence, “the pasthry that
you ate at dinner hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's
stomach.”
“Oh my! oh!” says the Pope, “what's this at
all?” gasping for breath, and as pale as a sheet,
wid a could swate bursting out over his forehead,
and the palms ov his hands spread out to catch the
air. “Oh my!—oh my!” says he, “fetch me a
basin!—Don't spake to me! Oh!—oh!—blood
alive!—Oh, my head, my head, hould my head!—
oh!—ubh!—I'm poisoned!—ach!”
“It was them plaguy pasthries,” says his Riv'-rence.
“Hould his head hard,” says he, “and
clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness,
it 'ud set you to rights in no time.”
“Carry me to bed,” says the Pope, “and never
let me see that wild Irish priest again. I'm poisoned
by his manes—upblsch!—ach!—ach!—He dined
he's bribed him to take me off. Send for a confissor,”
says he, “for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split—so it is!—Oh my! oh my!
—upblsch!—ach!
Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his
while to make him an answer; but, when he seen
how ungratefully he was used, afther all his throuble
in making the evening agreeable to the ould
man, he called Spring, and put the but-end ov the
second bottle into his pocket, and left the house
widout once wishing “Good-night, an' plaisant
dhrames to you;” and in troth, not one of them
axed him to lave them a lock ov his hair.
That's the story as I heard it tould; but myself
doesn't b'lieve over one half ov it. Howandiver,
when all's done, it's a shame, so it is, that he's not
a bishop this blessed day and hour; for, next to
the goiant ov St. Jarlath's, he's out and out the
cleverest fellow ov the whole jing-bang.
| CHAPTER V.
THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A
CARDINAL. Father Tom and the pope, or, A night in the Vatican | |