A Witty Archbishop
An industrious student, a deep thinker, an acute reasoner, a learned mind, a correct and at times elegant writer—these are titles of honour which the mere out-side-world, travelling in its flying railway-carriage, will gladly award to the late Archbishop of Dublin (Dr. Whately). Not so familiar are certain minor and more curious gifts, which he kept by him for his own and his friends’ entertainment, which broke out at times on more public occasions. He delighted in the oddities of thought, in queer quaint distinctions; and if an object had by any possibility some strange distorted side or corner, or even point, which was undermost, he would gladly stoop down his mind to get that precise view of it, nay, would draw it in that odd light for the amusement of the company.
Thus he struck Guizot, who described him as “startling and ingenious, strangely absent, familiar, confused, eccentric, amiable, and engaging, no matter what unpoliteness he might commit, or what propriety he might forget.” In short, a mind with a little of the Sydney Smith’s leaven, whose brilliancy lay in precisely these odd analogies. It was his recreation to take up some intellectual hobby, and make a toy of it. Just as, years ago, he was said to have taken up that strange instrument the boomerang, and was to be seen on the sands casting it from him, and watching it return. It was said, too, that at the dull intervals of a visitation, when ecclesiastical business languished, he would cut out little miniature boomerangs of card, and amuse himself by illustrating the principle of the larger toy by shooting them from his finger.
The even, and sometimes drowsy, current of Dublin society was almost always enlivened by some little witty boomerang of his, fluttering from mouth to mouth, and from club to club. The Archbishop’s last was eagerly looked for. Some were indifferent, some were trifling; but it was conceded that all had an odd extravagance, which marked them as original, quaint, queer. In this respect he was the Sydney Smith of the Irish capital, with this difference—that Sydney Smith’s king announced that he would never make the lively Canon of St. Paul’s a Bishop.
Homœopathy was a medical paradox, and was therefore welcome. Yet in this he travelled out of the realms of mere fanciful speculation, and clung to it with a stern and consistent earnestness faithfully adhered to through his last illness. Mesmerism, too, he delighted to play with. He had, in fact, innumerable dadas, as the French call them, or hobby-horses, upon which he was continually astride.
This led him into a pleasant affection of being able to discourse de omnibus rebus, &c., and the more recondite or less known the subject, the more eager was he to speak. It has been supposed that the figure of the “Dean,” in Mr. Lever’s pleasant novel of Roland Cashel, was sketched from him. Indeed, there can be no question but that it is an unacknowledged portrait.
“What is the difference,” he asked of a young clergyman he was examining, “between a form and a ceremony? The meaning seems nearly the same; yet there is a very nice distinction.” Various answers were given. “Well,” he said, “it lies in this: you sit upon a form, but you stand upon ceremony.”
“Morrow’s Library” is the Mudie of Dublin; and the Rev. Mr. Day, a popular preacher. “How inconsistent,” said the archbishop, “is the piety of certain ladies here. They go to Day for a sermon, and to Morrow for a novel!”
At a dinner-party he called out suddenly to the host, “Mr. ——!” There was silence. “Mr. ——, what is the proper female companion of this John Dory?” After the usual number of guesses an answer came, “Anne Chovy.” [This has been attributed to Quin, the actor and epicure.]
Another Riddle.—“The laziest letter in the alphabet? The letther G!” (lethargy).
The Wicklow Line.—The most unmusical in the world—having a Dun-Drum, Still-Organ, and a Bray for stations.
Doctor Gregg.—The new bishop and he at dinner. Archbishop: “Come, though you are John Cork, you musn’t stop the bottle here.” The answer was not inapt: “I see your lordship is determined to draw me out.”
On Dr. K——x’s promotion to the bishopric of Down, an appointment in some quarters unpopular: “The Irish government will not be able to stand many more such Knocks Down as this!”
The merits of the same bishop being canvassed before him, and it being mentioned that he had compiled a most useful Ecclesiastical Directory, with the Values of Livings, &c., “If that be so,” said the archbishop, “I hope the next time the claims of our friend Thom will not be overlooked.” (Thom, the author of the well known Almanack.)
A clergyman, who had to preach before him, begged to be let off, saying, “I hope your grace will excuse my preaching next Sunday.” “Certainly,” said the other indulgently. Sunday came, and the archbishop said to him, “Well! Mr. ——, what became of you! we expected you to preach to-day.” “Oh, your grace said you would excuse my preaching to-day.” “Exactly; but I did not say I would excuse you from preaching.”
At a lord lieutenant’s banquet a grace was given of unusual length. “My lord,” said the archbishop, “did you ever hear the story of Lord Mulgrave’s chaplain?” “No,” said the lord lieutenant. “A young chaplain had preached a sermon of great length. ‘Sir,’ said Lord Mulgrave, bowing to him, ‘there were some things in your sermon of to-day I never heard before.’ ‘Oh, my lord,’ said the flattered chaplain, ‘it is a common text, and I could not have hoped to have said anything new on the subject.’ ‘I heard the clock strike twice,’ said Lord Mulgrave.”
At some religious ceremony at which he was to officiate in the country, a young curate who attended him grew very nervous as to their being late. “My good young friend,” said the archbishop, “I can only say to you what the criminal going to be hanged said to those around, who were hurrying him, ‘Let us take our time, they can’t begin without us.’”—(Yorick Junior.—Notes and Queries. Third Series.)
The following charade, said to be one of the last by Dr. Whatley, has puzzled many wise heads:—
“Man cannot live without my first,
By day and night it’s used;
My second is by all accursed,
By day and night abused.
My whole is never seen by day,
And never used by night;
Is dear to friends when far away,
But hated when in sight.”
A Correspondent of Notes and Queries suggests the following solution:—
“Ignis, or fire, all men will own
Essential to the life of man;
Fatuus, a fool, has been, ’tis known,
Cursed and abused since time began.
Some Ignis Fatuus, Will-o’-wisp.
Not seen by day, nor used by night,
Men love, and for their phantom list,
When ’tis unseen, but hate its sight.”