Stories of Comedy
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Various >> Stories of Comedy
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"Raaly," says the Pope, "you're making the heretic shoes too hot to
hould me. I wundher 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 Caesar 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.
III.
HOW FATHER TOM MADE A HARE OF HIS HOLINESS IN LATIN.
O Docther Whateley, Docther Whateley, I'm sure I'll never die another
death, if I don't die aither ov 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 brake 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 P'litical 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 truth.
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 of. 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 they undherstand what
we're saying or not, as long as we keep off that last pint we wer
discussing, and one or two others. Listners never hear 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 conwersation you are, jist 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.
"Vesthrae Sanctitatis salutem volo," says he.
"Vesthrae Revirintiae salutritati bibo," says the Pope to him again
(haith, 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 summa
concupiscintia 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 mix'd their
fourth gun apiece.
"Aqua vitae 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 phwraseology 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's," 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
starnutatoriae," says the Pope, pulling out a beautiful goold snuff-box,
wid a looking-glass in undher the lid--"Subther operculum pyxidis hujus
starnutatorii--no--starnutatoriae--quam dono accepi ab Arch-duce
Austhriaco siptuagisima praetherita," says he,--as much as to say that he
got the box in a prisint from the Queen ov 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 yes!--"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, "Vesthrae Sanctitatis
praesentia salvata, aquam facere valde desidhero."
"Ho, ho, ho!" says the Pope, grabbing up his box, "si inquinavisses meam
pyxidem, excimnicari 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 thataway at his own waypons. "Sure," says he, "Anthony
wouldn't undherstand 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 _praestho_, the first ov us that spakes a word ov English is
the hare--_praestho_!"
Neither ov them spoke for near a minit, considering wid themselves how
they were 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, "valce 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 Temperantiae Societatis frigidis fautoribus placet, ab
evertendis ipsis potatoribus." (It's not every masther undher the
Boord, I tell you, could carry sich a car-load 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 facibus immittere solent.
Etiam inter haereticos illos melanostomos" (that was a touch ov Greek).
"Presbyterianos Septentrionales, qui sunt terribiles potatores, Cyathi
dicti sunt _faceres_, et dimidium Cyathi _haef-a-glessus_. Dimidium
Cyathi vero 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 of himself.
"_Dandaeus, dandaeus_ verbum erat," says his Riv'rence,--O, the dear man,
but it's himself that was handy ever and always at getting out ov a
hobble,--"_dandaeus_ 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! _Dandaeus_ 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 offence
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
praedicare?"
"Et, tu, sacrilege nebulo," says the Pope, "quomodo audacitatem habeas,
me Dei in terris vicarium, lathronem conwiciari?"
"Interroga circumcirca," says his Riv'rence.
"Abi ex aedibus meis," says the Pope.
"Abi tu in malam crucem," says his Riv'rence.
"Excimnicabo 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 sich 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? O, 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 offend 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 aren't I ready to go down on my two knees this blessed minit
and beg your apostolical pardon for every word that I said to your
displasement?"
"Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wer?" says the Pope.
"May I never die if I aren'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 maybe you'll provoke me to commit a brache ov the
pace."
"Well, and if I did," says his Riv'rence, "I know a sartan preparation
ov chymicals that's very good for curing a brache either in Latinity or
friendship."
"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 Epistolical 'davy, I think it
'udn't be asy to bate this miraculous mixthir that we've been thrying to
anilize this two hours back," says he, taking a mighty scientifical swig
out ov the bottom ov 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 shuperstructure 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.
IV.
HOW FATHER TOM AND HIS HOLINESS DISPUTED AT METAPHYSICS AND ALGEBRA.
God be wid the time when I went to the classical seminary ov Firdramore!
when I'd bring my sod o' turf undher my arm, and sit down on my shnug
boss o' straw, wid my back to the masther and my shins to the fire, and
score my sum in Dives's denominations ov the double rule o' three, or
play fox and geese wid purty Jane Cruise that sat next me, as plisantly
as the day was long, widout any one so much as saying, "Mikey Hefferman,
what's that you're about?"--for ever since I was in the one lodge wid
poor ould Mat I had my own way in his school as free as ever I had in my
mother's shebeen.
God be wid them days, I say again, for it's althered times wid me, I
judge, since I got undher Carlisle and Whateley. Sich sthrictness! sich
ordher! sich dhrilling, and lecthiring, and tuthoring as they do get on
wid! I wisht to gracious the one half ov their rules and regilations was
sunk in the say. And they're getting so sthrict too about having fair
play for the heretic childer! We've to have no more schools in the
chapels, nor masses in the schools. O, by this and by that, it'll never
do at all!
The ould plan was twenty times betther: and, for my own part, if it
wasn't that the clargy supports them in a manner, and the grant's a
thing not easily done widout these hard times, I'd see if I couldn't get
a sheltered spot nigh hand the chapel, and set up again on the good
ould principle: and faix, I think our metropolitan 'ud stand to me, for
I know that his Grace's motto was ever and always, that, "Ignorance is
the thrue mother ov piety."
But I'm running away from my narrative entirely, so I am. "You'll plase
to ordher up the housekeeper, then," says Father Tom to the Pope, "wid a
pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov her fist ov butther,
along wid a dust ov soft sugar in a saucer, and I'll show you the way of
producing a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the thirst out ov
every nook and corner in your Holiness's blessed carcidge."
The Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they were brought in by the
head butler.
"That'll not do at all," says his Riv'rence, "the ingredients won't
combine in due proportion unless ye do as I bid yes. Send up the
housekeeper," says he, "for a faymale hand is ondispinsably necessary to
produce the adaption of the particles and the concurrence of the
corpus'cles, widout which you might boil till morning and never fetch
the cruds off ov it."
Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler, and by and by up there
comes an ould faggot ov a _Cuillean_, that was enough to frighten a
horse from his oats.
"Don't thry for to desave me," says his Riv'rence, "for it's no use, I
tell yes. Send up the housekeeper, I bid yes: I seen her presarving
gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has eyes as black as a
sloe," says he, "and cheeks like the rose in June; and sorra taste ov
this celestial mixthir shall crass the lips ov man or morteal this
blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own delicate little
finger."
"Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "it's very unproper ov you to spake
that way ov my housekeeper: I won't allow it, sir."
"Honor bright, your Holiness," says his Riv'rence, laying his hand on
his heart.
"O, by this and by that, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "I'll have
none of your insinivations; I don't care who sees my whole household,"
says he; "I don't care if all the faymales undher my roof was paraded
down the High Street of Room," says he.
"O, it's plain to be seen how little you care who sees them," says his
Riv'rence. "You're afeard, now, if I was to see your housekeeper, that
I'd say she was too handsome."
"No, I'm not!" says the Pope, "I don't care who sees her," says he.
"Anthony," says he to the head butler, "bid Eliza throw her apron over
her head, and come up here." Wasn't that stout in the blessed man? Well,
my dear, up she came, stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like
the brake o' day: for though her apron was thrown over her head as she
came forrid, till you could barely see the tip ov her chin,--more be
token there was a lovely dimple in it, as I've been tould,--yet she let
it shlip abit to one side, by chance like, jist as she got fornenst the
fire, and if she wouldn't have given his Riv'rence a shot if he hadn't
been a priest, it's no matther.
"Now, my dear," says he, "you must take that skillet, and hould it over
the fire till the milk comes to a blood hate; and the way you'll know
that will be by stirring it onc't or twice wid the little finger ov your
right hand, afore you put in the butther: not that I misdoubt," says he,
"but that the same finger's fairer nor the whitest milk that ever came
from the tit."
"None of your deludhering talk to the young woman, sir," says the Pope,
mighty stern. "Stir the posset as he bids you, Eliza, and then be off
wid yourself," says he.
"I beg your Holiness's pardon ten thousand times," says his Riv'rence,
"I'm sure I meant nothing onproper; I hope I'm uncapable ov any sich
dirilection of my duty," says he. "But, marciful Saver!" he cried out,
jumping up on a suddent, "look behind you, your Holiness,--I'm blest but
the room's on fire!"
Sure enough the candle fell down that minit, and was near setting fire
to the windy-curtains, and there was some bustle, as you may suppose,
getting things put to rights. And now I have to tell you ov a really
onpleasant occurrence. If I was a Prodesan that was in it, I'd say that
while the Pope's back was turned, Father Tom made free wid the two lips
of Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I believe it was a mere mistake
that his Holiness fell into on account of his being an ould man and not
having aither his eyesight or his hearing very parfect. At any rate, it
can't be denied but that he had a sthrong imprission that sich was the
case; for he wheeled about as quick as thought, jist as his Riv'rence
was sitting down, and charged him wid the offince plain and plump. "Is
it kissing my housekeeper before my face you are, you villain!" says he.
"Go down out o' this," says he, to Miss Eliza, "and do you be packing
off wid you," he says to Father Tom, "for it's not safe, so it isn't, to
have the likes ov you in a house where there's temptation in your way."
"Is it me?" says his Riv'rence; "why what would your Holiness be at, at
all? Sure I wasn't doing no such thing."
"Would you have me doubt the evidence ov my sinses?" says the Pope;
"would you have me doubt the testimony of my eyes and ears?" says he.
"Indeed I would so," says his Riv'rence, "if they pretend to have
informed your Holiness ov any sich foolishness."
"Why," says the Pope, "I've seen you afther kissing Eliza as plain as I
see the nose on your face; I heard the smack you gave her as plain as
ever I heard thundher."
"And how do you know whether you see the nose on my face or not?" says
his Riv'rence, "and how do you know whether what you thought was
thundher, was thundher at all? Them operations on the sinses," says he,
"comprises only particular corporal emotions, connected wid sartain
confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn't to be depended upon at
all. If we were to follow them blind guides we might jist as well turn
heretics at onc't. 'Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it's neither
charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your eyes and
ears agin the characther ov a clergyman. And now, see how aisy it is to
explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went over
beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to help
her to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the noise you
heard, my dear man, it was neither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the
cork out ov this blissid bottle."
"Don't offer to thrape that upon me!" says the Pope; "here's the cork in
the bottle still, as tight as a wedge."
"I beg your pardon," says his Riv'rence, "that's not the cork at all,"
says he; "I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it's very purtily
spitted on the end ov this blessed corkshcrew at this prisint moment;
howandiver you can't see it, because it's only its real prisince that's
in it. But that appearance that you call a cork," says he, "is nothing
but the outward spacies and external qualities of the cortical nathur.
Them's nothing but the accidents of the cork that you're looking at and
handling; but, as I tould you afore, the real cork's dhrew and is here
prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise
I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound
ov the _pogue_."
You know there was no conthravening what he said; and the Pope couldn't
openly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.
"Granting," says he, "that there is the differ you say betwixt the
reality ov the cork and these cortical accidents; and that it's quite
possible, as you allidge, that the thrue cork is really prisint on the
end ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth ov the bottle
stopped--still," says he, "I can't undherstand, though willing to acquit
you, how the dhrawing ov the real cork, that's onpalpable and widout
accidents, could produce the accident of that sinsible explosion I heard
jist now."
"All I can say," says his Riv'rence, "is that it was a rale accident,
anyhow."
"Ay," says the Pope, "the kiss you gev Eliza, you mane."
"No," says his Riv'rence, "but the report I made."
"I don't doubt you," says the Pope.
"No cork could be dhrew with less noise," says his Riv'rence.
"It would be hard for anything to be less nor nothing, barring algebra,"
says the Pope.
"I can prove to the conthrary," says his Riv'rence. "This glass ov
whiskey is less nor that tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler ov punch is
nothing to this jug ov _scaltheen_."
"Do you judge by superficial misure or by the liquid contents?" says the
Pope.
"Don't stop me, betwixt my premises and my conclusion," says his
Riv'rence: "_Ergo_, this glass ov whiskey is less nor nothing; and for
that raison I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov the
same jug, just by way ov a frost-nail."
"Adding what's less nor nothing," says the Pope, "is subtraction
according to algebra, so here goes to make the rule good," says he,
filling his tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down again at the
table, for the anger didn't stay two minits on him, the good-hearted
ould sowl.
"Two minuses make one plus," says his Riv'rence, as ready as you plase,
"and that'll account for the increased daycrement I mane to take the
liberty of producing in the same mixed quantity," says he, follying his
Holiness's epistolical example.
"By all that's good," says the Pope, "that's the best stuff I ever
tasted; you call it a mix'd quantity, but I say it's prime."
"Since it's ov the first ordher, then," says his Riv'rence, "we'll have
the less deffeequilty in reducing it to a simple equation."
"You'll have no fractions at my side anyhow," says the Pope. "Faix, I'm
afeared," says he, "it's only too aisy ov solution our sum is like to
be."
"Never fear for that," says his Riv'rence, "I've a good stick ov surds
here in the bottle; for I tell you it will take us a long time to
exthract the root ov it, at the rate we're going on."
"What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational quantity?" says the
Pope.
"Because it's too much for one and too little for two," says his
Riv'rence.
"Clear it ov its coefficient, and we'll thry," says the Pope.
"Hand me over the exponent then," says his Riv'rence.
"What's that?" says the Pope.
"The shcrew, to be sure," says his Riv'rence.
"What for?" says the Pope.
"To dhraw the cork," says his Riv'rence.
"Sure, the cork's dhrew," says the Pope.
"But the sperets can't get out on account ov the accidents that's stuck
in the neck ov the bottle," says his Riv'rence.
"Accident ought to be passable to sperit," says the Pope, "and that
makes me suspect that the reality ov the cork's in it afther all."
"That's a barony-masia," says his Riv'rence, "and I'm not bound to
answer it. But the fact is, that it's the accidents ov the sperits too
that's in it, and the reality's passed out through the cortical spacies,
as you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in real good
sperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and where else would the real
sperits come from if they wouldn't come out ov the bottle?"
"Well, then," says the Pope, "since we've got the reality, there's no
use throubling ourselves wid the accidents."
"O, begad," says his Riv'rence, "the accidents is very essential too;
for a man may be in the best ov good sperits, as far as his immaterial
part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt
the sinsible thirst out ov him." So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and
sets about brewing the other skillet ov _scaltheen_; but, faiz, he had
to get up the ingradients this time by the hands ov ould Moley; though
devil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same
coction.
But, my dear, here's the "Freeman's Journal," and we'll see what's the
news afore we finish the residuary proceedings of their two Holinesses.
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 ould siminary ov Firdramore! O, 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
Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling
teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his
pasthoral staff in his hand and heathen them out o' Connaught as fast as
ever Pathric druve the sarpints into Clew Bay.
Poor ould Mat Kevanagh, 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 childre wid what we don't
undherstand ourselves?" No use at all, in troth, and so I said from the
first myself.
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