FATHER PROUT.
Those who have perused that polyglot of wisdom and wit, learning andfun, wild eccentricity and plain sense, 'yclept "THE PROUT PAPERS,"which originally appeared in _Fraser's Magazine_, during the editorshipof Dr. Maginn, may feel some curiosity respecting the individual whosename has thus been preserved (not unlike the fly in amber) through allliterary time. They would naturally think, after admiring the rarefacility of versification, the playfulness, the fancy, the wit, theimpetuous frolic, the deep erudition which distinguishes the said"Papers," that Father Prout must have been a wonderful man, gifted in anextraordinary manner.
What is there in the language more spirited than the Prout translationsfrom Beranger? As was said of Goethe's Faust, translated by Anster, thefact was _transfused_ into our vernacular. What wondrous flexibility isgiven to the old Latin tongue, by the versions of Moore into thatlanguage! What charming mastery of learning, as exhibited in thetranslations of "The Groves of Blarney" into a variety of tongues! Whatgrave humour in treating that original song as if it were only atranslation! Two wits--who not only belonged to Cork, but had seen agreat many _drawings_ of it in their time--were the perpetrators of thisliterary mystification. Frank Mahony and Frank Murphy--a priest and alawyer. On their own hook, to use a common phrase, they have donenothing worth particular mention; but some plants, we know, produceflowers, while others yield fruit.
For a long time, in England, the full credit of the Fraserian articleswas given to Father Prout. Then set in a spring-tide of disbelief, andthe very existence of such a man was doubted. Erroneous doubt! for Ihave seen him--spoken to him--dined with him. The Father Prout, however,of real life was very different from him of the Prout Papers. He wasparish-priest of Watergrass-hill, midway between the city of Cork andthe town of Fermoy--a locality known as the highest arable land inIreland. Prout was one of the old priests who, when it was penal for aCatholic clergyman to exist in Ireland, picked up the elements of hiseducation how he could, completed it at a foreign university, and cameback to Ireland, a priest, to administer the consolations of religion tothe peasantry of his native land. Sometimes, the Catholic priestevidenced to the last, in conduct and manners, that his youth had beenpassed in countries in which social civilization had extended furtherthan in Ireland. Sometimes, the learning and the polish which had beenacquired abroad were forgotten at home--as the sword loses itsbrightness from disuse--and, living much among the peasantry, the priestlost a part of the finer courtesy of the gentleman, and assumed theroughness of the bulk of his parishioners. Wherever there was a residentProtestant landowner, the Priest of the olden time instinctively formedfriendly relations with him--for, at that time, the priestly order wasnot invariably supplied from the peasantry, and tolerance was moredeclared and practiced by members of all persuasions, in Ireland, atthat time than it is now. Prout was literally a "round, fat, oily man ofGod." He had a hand small as a woman's, and was very proud of it. He hadan unconquerable spirit of good-humour, and it was utterly impossiblefor any one to be in his company for ten minutes without feeling andbasking in the sunshine of his buoyant and genial good-nature. Oflearning he had very little. I do not know what his share might havebeen half a century before, when he was fresh from Douay or theSorbonne, but few traces were left in his latter years. In the societyof his equals or his superiors, Prout could keep up the shuttlecock ofconversation as well as any one, and in the fashion of the place andclass, but he was equally at home amid the festivities of a countrywedding, or the genialities of the hospitable entertainment whichfollowed the holding of a country Station at a rich farmer's domicile.
What the world has received as "The Reliques of Father Prout," owesnothing to the little _padrone_. He had a strong sense of the humourous,and, when the fancy seized him, was not very particular how or where heindulged it.
Prout, residing only nine miles from Cork, frequently visited that city,where he had a great many acquaintances, at all times glad to see him.In one Protestant family with which he was intimate, there were severalvery handsome daughters, full of life and high spirits, who especiallydelighted in drawing out the rotund priest. He had repeatedly urged themto "drop in" upon him, some day; and when the spirit of fun was strong,early on a Sunday morning in June, they ordered out the carriage, anddirected their Jehu to drive them to Watergrass-hill.
Now, though that terminus was only nine (Irish[11]) miles distant, thegreater part of the way--certainly all from Glanmire--was terriblyup-hill. The result was that, instead of reaching Father Prout's aboutten o'clock, as they had anticipated, they did not draw up at his dooruntil an hour and a half later, and were there informed that "hisReverence had be off to last mass." They determined to followhim, partly from curiosity to see in what manner divine worship wasperformed in a Catholic chapel.
[11] Irish miles are longer than English, in the proportion of 11 to 14. A traveller complained to the chaise-driver of the narrowness of the way. "Oh, then," said the man, "why need you be angry with the roads? Sure, we make up in the length for the scanty measure we get in the width."
The chapel in which Father Prout officiated was by no means a buildingof pretension. At that time the roof was out of repair, and, in wetweather, acted as a gigantic shower-bath. The floor, then, consisted ofbeaten earth, which was somewhat of a puddle whenever the rainsdescended and the winds blew. The Cork ladies soon found the chapel,entered it, and (accustomed to the rich churches of their ownpersuasion) gazed in wonder on the humble, unadorned place of worship inwhich they stood. It may literally be said "in which they stood," forthere were no pews, no chairs, not even a solitary stool.
Presently the chapel began to fill, and "the pressure from without"gradually drove the ladies nearer and yet nearer to the altar. At lengthFather Prout entered in his clerical attire, and commenced the service.In Catholic churches the priest officiates, during the early part of theservice, with his face to the altar, and his back to the congregation.Thus, it happened that Prout never saw his Cork friends until the timewhen he turned round to the congregation. Then he beheld them,handsomely and fashionably attired, standing up (for the floor was toopuddled to allow them to soil their vesture by kneeling, as every oneelse did), the gazed-at by all beholders, looking and feeling thereverse of comfortable.
Father Prout immediately looked at his clerk, Pat Murphy,--an originalin his way,--caught his eye and his attention, and gently incliningtowards him, whispered, "send for three chairs for the ladies." Pat, whowas a little deaf, imperfectly caught his master's words, and turnedround to the congregation and roared out, "Boys! his Reverence says,'Three cheers for the ladies.'" The congregation, obedient and gallant,gave three tremendous shouts, to the surprise of the ladies and thehorror of the priest. There was a good deal of merriment when themistake was explained, but to his dying day Father Prout was reminded,whenever he visited Cork, of the "Three cheers for the ladies."
Pat Murphy, his clerk, was quite a character. He affected big words, andwas mortally offended whenever any one called him _clerk_ or _sexton_."I pity the weakness of your intellectual organization," he wouldcontemptuously exclaim. "If you had only brains enough to distinguish Bfrom a bull's foot, you would appreciate my peculiar and appropriateofficial designation. The words 'clerk' and 'sexton' are appellationswhich distinctify the menial avocations of persons employed in hereticalplaces of worship. My situation is that of Sacristan and my responsibleduty is to act as custodian of the sacred utensils and vestments ofthe chapel."
Murphy had an exaggerated idea of the abilities of his principal, andstoutly maintained that if the Pope knew what was good for the Church,he would long since have elevated Father Prout to the episcopal dignity.His chief regret, when dying, was, that he did not survive to see _this_consummation.
Sometimes Pat Murphy would condescend to enter into a _viva voce_controversy with one of the "heretics," (as he invariably designated theProtestants,) on the comparative merits of the rival churches. Hisinvariable wind-up, delivered gravely and
authoritatively, as aclincher, to which he would permit no reply, was as follows:--"Icommiserate your condition, which is the result of your miserableignorance. Unfortunate individual! out of the New Testament itself I canprove that your religion is but a thing of yesterday. With youProtestants the Apostle Paul had not the most distant acquaintance,whereas he corresponded with us of the Holy Roman Church. You doubt it?Know you not that, from Corinth, he wrote an Epistle to the _Romans_,and if the Protestants were in existence then, and known to him, why didhe not as well send an Epistle unto _them_?"
Father Prout was short and rotund. His Sacristan was tall and thin.Immemorial usage permits the clerical cast-off garments to descend, likeheirlooms, to the parish clerk. Pat Murphy, in the threadbaregarments which erst had clothed the rotundity of Father Prout, was aludicrous looking object. The doctrine of compensation used to becarried out, on such occasions, with more truth than beauty. The waistof the priest's coat would find itself under Murphy's arms, thewristbands would barely cover his elbows, and the pantaloons, sharingthe fate of the other garments, would end at his knees, leaving a wideinterval of calf visible to public gaze. On the other hand, by way ofequivalent, the garments would voluminously wrap around him, in folds,as if they were intended to envelope not one Pat Murphy, but three suchexamples of the mathematical definition, "length without breadth." Onone occasion I had the double satisfaction of seeing Father Prout, likeSolomon, in all his glory, with Pat Murphy in full costume. It happenedin this wise:
There was pretty good shooting about Watergrass-hill, and the officersof an infantry regiment, who were quartered at Fermoy, at the period towhich I refer, had made Prout's acquaintance, while peppering away atthe birds, and had partaken of a capital impromptu luncheon which he gotup on the moment. Prout, it may be added, was in the habit of receivingpresents of game, fish and poultry from his friends in Cork, (themail-coaches and other public conveyances passing his door several timesevery day,) and as long as Dan Meagher, of Patrick-street, was in thewine-trade, be sure that his friend, Father Prout, did not want goodsamples of the generous juice of the grape. Of course, he also had asupply of real _potheen_. Cellar and larder thus provided for, Prout wasfond of playing the host.
A great intimacy speedily sprung up between Prout and his militaryfriends, and he partook of numerous dinners at their mess in FermoyBarracks. At last, determined to return the compliment, he invited themall to dine with him at Watergrass-hill. One of my own cousins, whohappened to be one of the guests, took me with him--on the Roman plan, Ipresume, which permitted an invited guest to bring _his shade_. I was ayoungster at the time, but remember the affair as if it were ofyesterday.
If there was any anticipation of a spoiled dinner, it was vain. Prout,who was on intimate terms with all his neighbours for half a dozen milesround, had been wise enough to invoke the aid of the Protestant rectorof Watergrass-hill, who not only lent him plate, china, and all othertable necessaries, but--what was of more importance--also spared him theexcellent cook who, it was said, could compose a dinner, in fullvariety, out of any one article of food. Each of the officers wasattended at table by his own servant, and Pat Murphy, in full dress,officiated as servitor, at the particular disposal of Father Prouthimself.
The dinner was excellent,--well-cooked, well-served, and worthy ofpraise for the abundance, variety, and excellence of the viands. Therewas everything to be pleased with--nothing to smile at.
I beg to withdraw the last four words. There was Pat Murphy, in anex-suit of Prout's, looking such a figure of fun, that, on recalling thescene now, I wonder how, one and all, we did not burst into a shout oflaughter when he first was presented to view. He looked taller, andscraggier, and leaner than usual--his clothes appearing greater misfitsthan ever! Prout, who kept his countenance remarkably well, evidentlysaw and enjoyed the ludicrous appearance of his man. On the other hand,the man, taking on himself the duties of Major Domo, ordered the otherattendants about in all directions, muttering curses between his teethwhenever they did not do exactly as he commanded. But everything wentoff gaily, and Prout's rubicund face became redder and more radiantunder the influence of this success.
In the course of the entertainment, Father Prout, addressing hisattendant, said, "Pat, a glass of porter, if you please." The liquor waspoured, and, as it frothed in the glass, Prout raised it to his lipswith the words, "Thank you, Pat." Waiting until he had completed thedraught, Pat, in a tone of earnest remonstrance, said, "Ah, then, yourReverence, why should _you_ thank me for what's your own? It would bedecent for these genteels who are dining here, to thank me for the gooddrink, but you've no right to do anything of the sort, seeing that theliquor is your own. It is my supplication that you will not do so again;there is an incongruity in it which I disrelish." We had some difficultyin not laughing, but contrived to keep serious faces during thiscolloquy.
The liberality of the little Padre had provided us with three courses,and just as Pat Murphy was in the act of relieving a noble roastedhaunch of mutton, before his master, by a dish of snipe, he happened tolook out of the window and see one of his own familiar associatespassing along the street. Hastily flinging down the dish, he threw upthe window, and, kneeling down, with his long arms resting on the sill,loudly hailed his friend, "Where are ye going, Tom?" The answer was thata dance was expected in the neighbourhood, and at which, of course, Patwould be "to the fore." Now, the said Pat, very much like Ichabod Cranein figure, had a sort of sneaking desire, like him, to be whereverpretty women were to be seen. "No," said Pat, "I do not anticipate to berelieved in any thing like proper time from attendance here thisevening. His Reverence, who has been ating and drinking, with remarkableavidity, on the military officers down in Fermoy, is hospitable to-day,and entertains the whole squad of them at dinner. To see them _ate_,you'd think they had just got out of a hard Lent. 'Tisn't often, I daresay, that they get such a feast. There's the mutton sent by Chetwood ofGlanmire; and the poultry by Cooper Penrose of Wood-hill; and thelashings of game by Devonshire of Kilshanneck; and the fruit by LordRiversdale of Lisnegar--that is, by his steward, for 'tis little hisLordship sees of the place that gives him a good six thousand ayear;--and the barrel of porter from Tommy Walker of Fermoy; and thewine from red-faced Dan Meagher of Cork; and everything of the best.Depend on it, the officers won't stir until they have made fools of allthe provender. By-and-bye, that the poor mightn't have a chance of theleavings, they will be calling for grilled bones, and devilled legs andgizzards. No, Tom, my mind misgives me that I can't go to the dance thisevening. Here's the officers, bad 'cess to them, that are sedentaryfixtures until midnight."
This oration delivered,--and every one had been silent while Pat Murphywas thus unburthening his mind,--he arose from his knees, closed thewindow, and resumed his place behind Father Prout, with "a countenancemore of sorrow than of anger," calm and unconcerned as if nothing hadoccurred out of the ordinary routine. At that moment, Prout threwhimself back on his chair, and laughed until the tears rolled down hischeeks, and thus encouraged, the company followed his example, andlaughed also. When the mirth had subsided, it was almost renewed by thesolemn countenance of Pat Murphy, grave rather than severe--a sort ofdomestic Marius sitting, in sad contemplation, amid the ruins ofCarthage.
Father Prout had rather a rough set of parishioners to deal with. Hecould be, and was, very much of the gentleman, but it pleased him toappear plain and unpolished to those among whom his lot was cast. Attimes, when nothing else would do, he would address them, in anexhortation, very much in the spirit of Swift's "if you like theconditions, down with the dust!" At such times, Rabelais, "in his easychair," would have smiled, and Swift himself would have hailed Prout asa congenial spirit.
I have a memorandum of one of these sermons. The object was to collectsome arrears of "dues" from certain non-paying parishioners,(constituting rather a large portion of his congregation,) and I havebeen told that the discourse was much to this effect: