Father Tom and the Pope

Title: Father Tom and the Pope

Or, a night in the Vatican

Author: Samuel Ferguson

Release date: July 15, 2023 [eBook #71203]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. Simpson & Co., 1867

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71203

Credits: Tim Lindell, Graeme Mackreth and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

Father Tom and the Pope,

OR

A Night in the Vatican.

NEW YORK:

A. SIMPSON & CO.,

1867.

Agathynian Press, 60 Duane Street, N.Y.

PREFACE.

There are several questions which at this present time remain unsettled. One of them is, "who invented gunpowder?" Another is, which of them was it, Faust or Guttemberg, "that invented printing?" Another is, "whether the Deity created nature, or nature created itself?" That is a poser. Another is "whether the original egg was the parent of the chicken, or the egg was the original ancestor of that celebrated feathered fowl?" "De novum ovum," says Xinctillios, "inseperatum primero, cum possibilitas, et credentia, in meo judicio, quam supra calcis phospas, qui est, in the bones of the chicken." In other words, and to make it plain to the reader, he, Xinctillios, cannot understand how it is possible for human comprehension to see a new laid egg, without permitting in his judgment the idea of phosphate of lime existing in the osseous structure of the bones of the original hen. St. Bardolphus entertains a contrary opinion, "Anam, aname, mona mike," says he, "Barcelona bona strike," says he, "harum scarum, wy frone whack!" (I give you the original Coptic) "Harrico barrico, we won frac!"

Between these two contending opinions I have nothing to say. The dogmas of the Roman Catholic Church, and the folatreries of the philosophers of the high school of nature, differ so widely, that it is impossible for common sense to adopt either the one or the other—and the Greek Church on these points has given no decided opinion!

Such a dilemma presents itself when we come to consider the contents of this volume. Who wrote it? Some say, Lord Brougham; and some attribute it to the Duke of Wellington, who understood the Irish vernacular to a dot. I have a shrewd suspicion that Maginn, a high tory, although a good Roman Catholic, and one of the prominent contributors to Blackwood, lent his helping hand to it, if he were not the real author of it all? "Howandiver," to use a phrase of the author, let us look into the history of it.

Father Tom Maguire, a prominent Roman Catholic priest in Killeshandra, Ireland, of the parish of Innismagrath, was one of the most celebrated men of his time. He was a splendid orator, trained at Maynooth; he was a high liver—everything consisting of meat and drink on his table was of the best; his wines were excellent, and he kept the best stable and the finest greyhounds in Ireland. He was a bold fox-hunter; rode over ditch, hedge and five-barred gate, and when his good Bishop interdicted these sports of the Irish clergy, says he, "I will give up my hunting," says he; "but if I must give up my greyhounds, there is a little Protestant parish church hard by waiting for me." Whether this threat had the desired effect is not known. It is said that he abjured his church and died a heretic. How much of this we can believe depends altogether upon the amount of our credulity. It may be true, and, alas! it may not! Father Tom, as the great Roman Catholic controversialist, was challenged to decide by argument, the superiority of the Romish Church over that of the Established Church

of England, by the Rev. Richard T.P. Pope, a clergyman of the latter persuasion. The controversy took place in the Rotunda, at Dublin, about forty years ago.[1] Crowds of spectators assembled to witness the religious contest. Of course the ladies, who always take a great interest in religious disputations, were present in great numbers. The beauty and the fashion, the graceful, the wise and the witty of Dublin assembled to hear these knotty points discussed. The Rev. Mr. Pope, who was a very learned scholar, but unfortunately a timid man, based his great argument upon the Bible itself. So long as he stood upon this ground his arguments were unassailable. But Father Tom, by one of those dexterous twists so well known in polemics, managed to get Pope to shift his ground from the Bible to the Fathers. The dispute, which had occupied several days, up to this time had been in favor of Pope, but when Father Maguire got him entangled in the Fathers, and hurled at him quotation after quotation from St. Austin, St. Chrysostom, and

others—poor Pope, who knew very little of the Fathers, became so dumb-founderd that he was incapable of making a reply, and the victory rested with Father Tom. But after the controversy was over the Rev. Mr. Pope took up the Fathers, and to his surprise could not find any of the quotations that Father Tom had cited! Like a true scholar, he published a book, exposing the fallacies of his antagonist. But the time had gone by. Few people cared to read it, fewer still had patience to wade through laborious denials of the smart sayings of Father Tom in the Rotunda; the sparkle was off—the champagne had ceased to effervesce—and Mr. Pope never recovered the ground he had lost.

Some years elapsed, and the Rev. Tresham D. Gregg, of the Established Church, took up the polemical cudgels to demolish the redoubtable champion of the Romish Church. He was just such a man as his antagonist, vehement, loud voiced—of the ad captandum, knock-down-and-drag-out school. Although not acknowledged by the Church of England as the Goliath of its faith, yet there is no doubt of the secret exultation of its clergy at his success. The challenge was accepted, and for a fortnight the Rotunda of Dublin rang with the verbal blows of these doughty combatants. Victory poised her scales, the contest hung in the balance. At last, one afternoon, after the battle of the day was over, Gregg raised his mighty arm high in the air, and said "that on the next day, the secrets of the confessional would be the subject of the discourse, and warned the ladies, 'that no modest woman would appear, or could appear, while he revealed the secrets of that powerful instrument of the Romish Church.'"

The consequences may be imagined. The hall was packed to overflowing by the gentler sex. Ladies of the Catholic persuasion, conscious of the inability of the orator to make his words good, flocked to hear his discomfiture. Those of the other persuasion were induced to come from a laudable curiosity. The argument, if argument it might be called, consisted on Gregg's part of that style which Poe has properly denominated "the awkward left arm of satire—invective." He had caught Father Tom at single stick and paid him off in his own way. There was of course no little allusion to indelicate matters. After the argument the Rev. Mr. Gregg had to be escorted to his lodgings by a troop of dragoons. But at the close of the debate he announced, that on the morrow the subject would be continued. But on the following day Father Tom did not appear. The victorious Gregg was cock of the walk; the judgment went by default.

Whether any one among the speakers or listeners became better Christians after the controversy, is a question. It is doubtful whether Gregg or Father Tom made or lost a single convert to either faith.

"Father Tom and the Pope" first saw the light in Blackwood, ten years after these controversies. It may have been written by Maginn, who was a good Catholic, but it may truly be said of him, that although he "loved the Church much, he loved fun more." As a work of mere wit it must take its place with some of the brightest efforts of Rabelais, of Montaigne, or of Pascal.

The ingenuity with which the conversation between the Pope and Father Tom is developed to the reader, forms no little part of its felicitousness. A hedge priest, one Michael Heffernan, of the National School of Ballymacktaggart, is the interlocutor. This keeper of a ragged school, under the shadow of an Irish hedge, is the exponent of theological controversies that have shaken the world! Happy satire! which like summer lightning, clears up the atmosphere, and makes even the skies bright, blue, beautiful and buoyant. To us! poor mortals! to whom a touch of nature shakes the laughter out of us, or brings the tears into our eyes, such books are the treasures of our language.

If out of the sorrow and misery of this world, wit has managed to alleviate one shade of human suffering; if it has lifted up its hand against tyranny; if it has sometimes by the pen of Cervantes lessened the ridiculous power of a so-called chivalry; or in the satires of Swift, destroyed the prestige of hereditary birth; if it has done any good in this world, let so much good be accounted to it.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] In 1827.

[Pg 9]

CHAPTER I.

HOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.

When his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take pot look wid him. More be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that, there was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an absolution from the fast on account ov the great company that was in it—at laste so I'm tould. Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow—glory be to God!—and so, as they wor sitting, afther dinner, taking their sup together, says the Pope, says he, "Thomaus"—for the Pope, you know, spakes that away, all as one as one ov uz—"Thomaus a lanna," says he, "I'm tould you welt them English heretics out ov the face."

"You may say that," says his Riv'rence to him[Pg 10] again. "Be my sowl," says he, "if I put your Holiness undher the table, you won't be the first Pope I floored."

Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you know, Pope was the great Prodesan that Father Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov coorse they knew all the ins and outs ov the conthravarsy at Room. "Faix, Thomaus," says he, smiling across the table at him mighty agreeable—"it's no lie what they tell me, that yourself is the pleasant man over the dhrop ov good liquor."

"Would you like to thry?" says his Riv'rence.

"Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?" says the Pope. "Sorra betther bottle ov wine's betuxt this and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you on the table; its raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it."

"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.

"Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure and here's the best ov good claret in the cut decanther."

"Not maning to make little ov the claret, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, "I would prefir[Pg 11] some hot wather and sugar, wid a glass of spirits through it, if convanient."

"Hand me over the bottle ov brandy," says the Pope to his head butler, "and fetch up the materi'ls," says he.

"Ah, then, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, mighty eager, "maybe you'd have a dhrop ov the native in your cellar? Sure it's all one throuble," says he, "and, troth, I dunna how it is, but brandy always plays the puck wid my inthrails."

"'Pon my conscience, then," says the Pope, "it's very sorry I am, Misther Maguire," says he, "that it isn't in my power to plase you; for I'm sure and certaint that there's not as much whisky in Room this blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."

"Well, in troth, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "I knewn there was no use in axing; only," says he, "I didn't know how else to exqueeze the liberty I tuck," says he, "ov bringing a small taste," says he, "ov the raal stuff," says he, hauling out an imperi'l quart bottle out ov his coat-pocket; "that never seen the face ov a gauger," says he, setting it down on the table[Pg 12] fornenst the Pope: "and if you'll jist thry the full ov a thimble ov it, and if it doesn't rise the cockles ov your Holiness's heart, why, then, my name," says he, "isn't Tom Maguire!" and wid that he outs wid the cork.

Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at Father Tom for fetching dhrink thataway in his pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in the house: so says he, "Misther Maguire," says he, "I'd have you to comprehind the differ betuxt an invitation to dinner from the succissor ov Saint Pether, and from a common mayur or a Prodesan squireen that maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more nor his own heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you visit in Leithrim," says he, "and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know the differ in the prisint case," says he, "only that you're a champion of the Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come, let it stay. And in troth I'm curis myself," says he, getting mighty soft when he found the delightful smell ov the putteen, "in invistigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch of natural philos[Pg 13]ophy," says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to his blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff he got ov it, he cried out, the dear man: "Blessed Vargin, but it has the divine smell!"

and crossed himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.

"Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now," says his Riv'rence, "and so there can be no harm any way in mixing a dandy ov punch; and," says he, stirring up the materi'ls with his goolden muddler—for everything at the Pope's table, to the very schrew for drawing the corks, was ov vergin goold—"if I might make bould," says he, "to spake on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably facilitate the invistigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly."

"Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment," says the Pope, in a much more condiscinding way nor you'd have expected—and wid that he mixes himself a real stiff facer.

"Now, your Holiness," says Father Tom, "this bein' the first time you ever dispinsed them[Pg 14] chymicals," says he, "I'll just make bould to lay down one rule of orthography," says he, "for conwhounding them, secundem mortem."

"What's that?" says the Pope.

"Put in the sperits first," says his Riv'rence; "and then put in the sugar; and remember, every dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils the punch."

"Glory be to God!" says the Pope, not minding a word Father Tom was saying. "Glory be to God!" says he, smacking his lips. "I never knewn what dhrink was afore," says he. "It bates the Lachrymalchrystal out of the face!" says he—"it's Necthar itself, it is, so it is!" says he, wiping his epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.

"'Pon my secret honor," says his Riv'rence, "I'm raally glad to see your Holiness set so much to your satisfaction; especially," says he, "as, for fear ov accidents, I tuck the liberty ov fetching the fellow ov that small vesshel," says he, "in my other coat pocket. So divil a fear ov our running dhry till the but-end ov the evening, anyhow," says he.

[Pg 15]

"Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for faix," says he, "I'm bent on analysing the metaphwysics ov this phinomenon. Come, man alive, clear off," says he, "you're not dhrinking at all."

"Is it dhrink?" says his Riv'rence; "by Gorra, your Holiness," says he, "I'd dhrink wid you till the cows'ud be coming home in the morning."

So wid that they tackled to, to the second fugee a piece, and fell into larned discourse. But it's time for me now to be off to the lecthir at the Boord. Oh my sorra light upon ye, Docther Whately, wid your pilitical econimy and your hydherastatics! What the dioul use has a poor hedge-master like me wid such deep larning as is only fit for the likes of them two that I left over their second tumbler? Howandiver, wishing I was like them, in regard ov the sup of dhrink, anyhow, I must break off my norration for the prisint; but when I see you again, I'll tell you how Father Tom made a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in theology and the cube root.

[Pg 16]

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 Firdramore—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 throughother as anything wid their ordinals and cardinals—and, begob, its 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.

[Pg 17]

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 alledge out of 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 Austin, 'Every sinsible man knows that thransubstantiation is a lie'—or this out of Tertullian or Plutarch, 'the Bishop ov Room is a common imposther,' now tell me, could you answer him?"

[Pg 18]

"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 better 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[Pg 19] composed as a docther ov 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, as 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 satisfactory manner."