“Faix, I think,” says his Riv’rence, “wid all submission to the betther judgment ov the learned father that your Holiness has quoted, he’d have been a thrifle nearer the thruth, 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 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 of all uz)—“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 apostolical word,” says the Pope, “you’ve cleared up them two pints in a most satiswhacthery manner.”
“You see,” says his Riv’rence—by this time they wor mixing their third tumbler—“the writings ov them Fathers is to be thrated wid great veneration; and it ’ud be the height ov presumption in any one to sit down to interpret them widout providing himself wid a genteel assortment ov the best figures ov rhetoric, sich as mettonymy, hyperbol, cattychraysis, prolipsis, mettylipsis, superbaton, pollysyndreton, hustheronprotheron, prosodypeia and the like, in ordher that he may never be at a loss for shuitable sintiments when he comes to their high-flown passidges. For unless we thrate them Fathers liberally to a handsome allowance ov thropes and figures, they’d set up heresy at ons’t, so they would.”
“It’s thrue for you,” says the Pope; “the figures ov spache is the pillars ov the Church.”
“Bedad,” says his Riv’rence, “I dunna what we’d do widout them at all.”
“Which one do you prefir?” says the Pope; “that is,” says he, “which figure of spache do you find most usefullest when you’re hard set?”
“Metaphour’s very good,” says his Riv’rence, “and so’s mettonymy—and I’ve known prosodypeia stand to me at a pinch mighty well—but for a constancy, superbaton’s the figure for my money. Devil be in me,” says he, “but I’d prove black white as fast as a horse ’ud throt wid only a good stock ov superbaton.”
“Faix,” says the Pope, wid a sly look, “you’d need to have it backed, I judge, wid a small taste of assurance.”