CHAPTER XXXIV. FATHER PROUT.
I had, during my residence in Paris, the supreme gratification of being honored with the intimacy of the Rev. Francis Mahony, whose nom de plume of "Father Prout" is suggestive of a complete union of learning, wit, and poetic power, without the slightest alloy of pedantry, acerbity, or vanity. I was a very frequent visitor at his apartments in the Rue de Moulin, and was never denied admission. If he was writing, I did not accost him, but sat down, taking up a newspaper or book, and remaining silent until he found himself at leisure either to chat at home, or to saunter out through the parks or gardens, museums or libraries, I repeatedly thanked him for the unrestricted access thus granted, and his invariable reply was, "Come whenever you please, you never interrupt me." He was the correspondent of a London evening paper, The Globe and Traveller, and I do not think that he relished the occupation, for his conversation scarcely ever indicated a political tendency, and I never knew him to introduce a topic involving political or religious differences. At the time to which I refer, the war was raging between the northern and southern states of America; and the only opinion that I ever heard Father Mahony express on the subject was not favorable to the cause of either side as regarded its merits, but to the effect, that whatever might be the issue of the contest, the belligerent states would never become again united in firm and enduring friendship. He formed this conclusion from the deadly hatred and vengeful denunciations evinced by great numbers of Americans of both parties who were then in Paris, and amongst whom the females were the most uncompromising and persistently truculent in their expressions. It remains for time to confirm or confute his prediction; I pass to one or two anecdotes of this gifted and amiable individual, which I hope my readers will consider interesting. I had made an appointment with him to have a ramble in the French capital, or its environs, and twelve o'clock was the hour fixed for its commencement. Some unforeseen circumstances, however, delayed my arrival at his residence until another hour had nearly elapsed. When I apologised for my failure in punctuality, Father Mahony said that he had employed the interval in jotting down suggestions as to the direction which our proposed saunter might take, for my consideration and decision. They are as follow:—
To the Bois de Boulogne shall we wander to-day,
Or visit the tomb where Napoleon reposes,
Or ascend Notre Dame, from its tow'rs to survey
The scene unsurpass'd which that prospect discloses?
From Boulevards crowded our steps may diverge,
If we wish at the Bourse[23] to see bright or long faces,
As some bubbles rise, or as others may merge
In the vortex where Hope vainly looks for their traces.
Shall we seek the Pantheon's vast edifice, where
An echo to thunder converts every sound,
From vaults[24] in whose precincts the bones of Voltaire
Were so carefully stow'd that they cannot be found?
Or the Luxemburg Palace, with gardens, where grow
The roses so varied, throughout the whole year;
And you see on each side stained queens in a row,
Their costumes antique looking cold and severe?
To the Louvre's magnificent halls shall we hie,
Where art's choicest gems require days to explore them;
Where dynasties past seem around us to lie,
Whilst emblems Imperial are triumphing o'er them?
Shall we visit St. Cloud, and continue our course
To Versailles, where a palace exemplifies all
That monarchical pride from its serfs could enforce,
Till their patience exhausted accomplish'd its fall?
If at Sevres we pause to admire for awhile
Its plastic productions of classical taste,
We shall see the sole work that the Pompadour's smile
Ever sanction'd that was not impure and debased.
We should not forget St. Germain, and its claims
On a stranger's attention * * *
The last place mentioned in this unfinished production was chosen; and after viewing the tomb of James the Second of England, the church, to the vaults of which the mortal remains of many French monarchs had been consigned, the old palace, and the exquisitely beautiful scenery of its vicinity, I prevailed on my estimable friend to become my only guest at the Prince of Wales' (Le Prince de Galles) Hotel and Tavern, where we had what he designated "a sumptuous dinner," the entire charge for which was defrayed by seven francs (5s. 10d.). How sumptuous!
During another stroll I happened to express very great admiration of the poetic productions of Gray; and in reference to his "Elegy written in a country churchyard," ventured to term it the finest composition of the elegiac class in the English language. Father Mahony praised it highly, but disagreed as to its merits being superior to every other production of the kind. He then stated that about the middle of the last century, a native of Dublin, named John Cunningham, who was a comic actor, published a volume of poems, and dedicated them to David Garrick. They were chiefly pastoral, but amongst them was "An Elegy on a pile of Ruins," composed, he believed, on Rosslyn Abbey and Rosslyn Castle; and he then repeated several verses which he considered very beautiful, and which he declared to be equal, in his estimation, to the poetic merits of Gray's Elegy. I asked if he could lend me the work, and he replied that he had never seen it except at a public library in Cork. Soon after my return to Dublin I saw on a bookstand at Aston's Quay, a copy, which I purchased for a shilling, and thus became enabled to quote the verses to which my very learned friend ascribed such excellence. They are extremely alliterative—
In the full prospect yonder hill commands,
O'er barren heaths and cultivated plains;
The vestige of an ancient abbey stands,
Close by a ruin'd castle's rude remains.
Half buried, there, lie many a broken bust,
And obelisk, and urn, o'erthrown by Time;
And many a cherub, there, descends in dust
From the rent roof, and portico sublime.
Where rev'rend shrines in Gothic grandeur stood,
The nettle, or the noxious night-shade, spreads;
And ashlings, wafted from the neighbouring wood,
Through the worn turrets wave their trembling heads.
There Contemplation, to the crowd unknown,
Her attitude composed, and aspect sweet!
Sits musing on a monumental stone,
And points to the MEMENTO at her feet.
Soon as sage ev'ning check'd day's sunny pride,
I left the mantling shade, in moral mood;
And seated by the maid's sequester'd side,
Pensive, the mould'ring monuments I view'd.
Inexorably calm, with silent pace
Here Time has pass'd—What ruin marks his way!
This pile, now crumbling o'er its hallow'd base,
Turn'd not his step, nor could his course delay.
Religion raised her supplicating eyes
In vain; and Melody, her song sublime;
In vain, Philosophy with maxims wise,
Would touch the cold unfeeling heart of Time.
Yet the hoar tyrant, tho' not moved to spare,
Relented when he struck its finish'd pride;
And partly the rude ravage to repair,
The tott'ring tow'rs with twisted Ivy tied.
The eight verses which I have quoted from "An Elegy on a Pile of Ruins," are not consecutive in that production. It may appear extraordinary that Father Mahony should make such long quotations with perfect correctness, but to those who knew him a misquotation or deficiency of recollection on his part would seem far more surprising.