Anecdotes of Keogh

William John Fitzpatrick

(1830-1895.)

“The modern Suetonius,” as the lively writer of ‘Recollections of Dublin Castle,’ calls W. J. Fitzpatrick, “was,” he says,” perpetually groping among old papers, letters, and the like, and discovering awkward secrets. He would tell you in a cozy way, and in his high treble: ‘I have just purchased a number of curious documents, in one of which there is a curious transaction relating to your grandfather. Did you ever know that he had a salary from the Government to act as spy, etc.? I have all the documents.’”

He certainly was an industrious student of his day of the careers of illustrious Irishmen, and one of the best authorities on the social life of the past in Ireland.

He was born Aug. 31, 1830, and was educated at Clongowes Wood College. His first work of any importance was ‘The Life, Times, and Correspondence of Dr. Doyle’ ‘1861). This was followed by a biography of Lord Cloncurry, and a work in defense of Lady Morgan entitled ‘The Friends, Foes, and Adventures of Lady Morgan,’ to which there came a sequel, ‘Lady Morgan, her Career, Literary and Personal.’ ‘Anecdotal Memoirs of Archbishop Whately’ next appeared; and this was followed by ‘Lord Edward Fitzgerald and His Betrayers’ (1869). ‘Ireland before the Union’ appeared in 1870, and was succeeded by a volume of even greater historical value, entitled ‘The Sham Squire and the Informers of 1798.’ The description of this remarkable figure in the history of Ireland is brought out clearly, and the whole story is a striking picture of the state of society at the troubled period immediately before and after the Act of Union.

In 1873 a volume of pleasant gossip under the title of’ Irish Wits and Worthies, including Dr. Lanigan,’ was published; a life of Lever also came from his pen. He wrote ‘Historical Discoveries of the Days of Tone and Emmet,’ and was a frequent contributor to periodical literature. His books make a long list, but one of the most important was ‘The Secret Service under Pitt,’ and the most curious perhaps was a pamphlet claiming for Thomas Scott, the brother of Sir Walter Scott, the chief credit for a large part of the Waverley Novels. He was a member of the Royal Irish Academy and of the Dublin Royal Society. He died in 1895. **

Anecdotes of Keogh, the Irish Massillon.**

From ‘Irish Wits and Worthies.’

That love of hospitable and convivial pleasure characteristic of the old school of Irish priesthood, and which our historian sought to vindicate against the aspersions of Giraldus Cambrensis, was not only illustrated in Lanigan’s own idiosyncracy, but in that of his friend, the Rev. M. B. Keogh, as well. The latter was hospitable to a fault, and would almost coin his heart into gold to give away; while legitimate creditors, as is often the fashion with literary men, were invariably left unpaid.

A merchant to whom Mr. Keogh was indebted, knowing that he would have no chance of settlement if directly applied for, appealed to him with the representation that, as he was in great difficulties a pecuniary loan would be specially acceptable. The preacher replied that he could not give it just then, but if the applicant would come and dine with him on the following Sunday he would try meanwhile to make out the loan for him somehow or another. The money was duly produced, and the merchant, full of expressions of gratitude, reminding him of his old claim, returned the over-plus to Father Keogh, who henceforth regarded him with feelings not altogether paternal.

As a natural consequence of the perverse principle which he cultivated, Father Keogh was constantly in debt and difficulties. One day, when disrobing after delivering a charity sermon in Whitefriar Street Chapel, where a vast crowd had congregated to hear him surpass himself, two bailiffs stalked into the sacristy, and placing him in a covered car drove off in triumph.

Dr. Spratt good-naturedly accompanied his friend, and as they neared the sheriff’s prison one of the officers, pulling out a pistol, said: “Father Keogh, I know your popularity, and in case you appeal to the mob, I draw the trigger.” The idol of the people submitted to his fate with the desperate resignation he had so often inculcated in his sermons, and turning to Dr. Spratt said: “My dear friend, I am arrested at the suit evidently of B—, the coach-maker. Go to him and arrange it.”

The good priest did as requested, and returned to the prison with a receipt in full, which he considered equivalent to an order for the liberation of his friend. But the document proved futile; it turned out that Mr. Keogh was arrested at the suit of an utterly different creditor, and the glee of the coach-maker, who never expected to be paid, was only equaled by Mr. Keogh’s dismay.

The late Rev. J. Lalor, P.P. of Athy, the former coadjutor of Father Keogh at Baldoyle, used to tell that his curates, as they could never get one farthing from him, were generally most shabbily clad, and tried to console themselves by the reflection that in this respect they resembled our Lord’s disciples, who were sent without scrip or staff. Mr. Lalor, at last losing patience, reefed the knee of his small-clothes, and furnished with this startling argument waited upon the pastor and claimed the price of a new one. “My dear fellow,” was the reply, “I have not a farthing in the world; but if you go into that dressing room yonder you may take your choice of four.”

The late Dr. M—l was in the habit of paying Father Keogh, when in delicate health, a visit every Wednesday, and remaining to dine with him. One evening the doctor drank more than freely, and advised no end of draughts of less palatable flavor. When taking leave, Mr. Keogh placed a crumpled paper in his hand. The doctor’s knock was heard betimes next morning. “I called,” said he, “to represent a slight mistake. Only fancy, you gave me an old permit instead of a note.” The reply was cool: “You cannot carry more than a certain amount of whisky without a permit; I saw that you had exceeded the proper quantum.”

Father Michael Keogh’s powers of sarcasm, often most capriciously and dyspeptically exercised, were withering. A priest who had formerly been a Jesuit was lionized at a dinner where Mr. Keogh was present. “I think, sir,” he exclaimed from the end of the table, “you were a Jesuit, but have since left the order.” A stiff bow was the reply. “Judas was also in the society of Jesus,” proceeded his tormentor, “but he took the cord and died a Franciscan.”

But Father Keogh’s forte, after pulpit oratory, was rare powers of histrionic mimicry. He was once invited by the late good though eccentric pastor of Duleek to preach a charity sermon. After delivering a powerful appeal, which melted many of the audience to tears, Father Keogh proceeded to read aloud some papers, containing parochial announcements, which the parish priest had placed in his hands for that purpose. But the most illiterate member of the assembled flock at once perceived that Mr. Keogh, by his tone and gesture, was mimicking the peculiarities of their primitive pastor. The latter was not slow in recognizing his own portrait, and starting up from a seat of honor which he occupied beneath the pulpit, exclaimed:

“You Dublin jackeen, was it for this I invited you to Duleek?”

How an ecclesiastic, whose brow when engaged in delivering a divine message seemed not unsuited for the mitre, could sometimes suffer the cap and bells to usurp its place can be accounted for in no other way than that vagaries of this sort formed part of the eccentricity of his high genius.

He had a keen eye to detect the weaknesses or absurdities of his neighbor, but was utterly blind to his own. In hearing these anecdotes of this remarkable Irish-man-which are now told publicly for the first time-it is difficult to associate them with one whose prestige was of the most brilliant and exalted character.

Since Dean Kirwan preached, there had not appeared a more irresistible or impressive pulpit orator. Hundreds of Protestants daily attended his controversial sermons; and we have heard them say that it was a rare treat to hear Father Keogh answering in the evening the polemical propositions enunciated from the pulpit by the Rev. Mortimer O’Sullivan in the morning.

He was entitled to the receipts taken at some of these evening sermons. Father Murphy, his prior, handed him on one of these occasions £2 10s. “I viewed the congregation,” said Mr. Keogh, “and there was more than £4 10s. present.” “Granted,” replied his superior, “but you owe me £2 for ten years, and I had no other means of getting paid.”

“Those who know me,” observed Dr. Willis, in a communication to the author, “are aware that I never was given to weeping, especially in my younger days; but I do declare that during a course of Lenten sermons in Church Street, Keogh had every one of the congregation in tears, including myself, whom he had so often previously, in private, convulsed with laughter.”

The old magazine from which an extract has been already culled opens with an elaborate sketch of the Rev.

M. B. Keogh: “The practice of extemporary preaching, so judiciously encouraged or enforced by the Church of Rome,” it states, “is admirably calculated to call forth the powers and the resources of such a mind as Mr. Keogh’s. He is evidently of a quick and ardent temperament, swayed by sudden impulse, and often, in the hurrying moment of excitement, carried beyond himself by a species of inspiration.

“To tie down such a man to his notes would be to extinguish half his enthusiasm; it would be a sort of intellectual sacrilege - an insult to the majesty of genius.” Mr. Keogh’s success as a preacher was not due to commanding appearance, for, like Curran’s, it seems to have been far from prepossessing. He had the same powers of mind and eye as Curran, who was wont to observe that it cost him half-an-hour longer to reach the hearts of the jury than it would have taken a less repulsive-featured man with the same arguments.

“See him in the season of Lent,” observes a contemporary critic, “for, probably, the fortieth time, standing unrobed before the unornamented altar, without text, form, or genuflexion, starting solemnly but abruptly upon his subject. Mark the extending of his arm, the penetrating glance of his kindled eye; hear his deep, mellow, and impressive tones; listen to his rich, impassioned, spirit-stirring diction, and then say, if you can, that you feel the absence of fine features, courtly manners, or commanding stature.”

And yet we are not aware that the sermons of this great orator exist in any accessible form. Nor is the loss, perhaps, as great as might at first sight be supposed. As in the case of Dean Kirwan-whose printed sermons are unworthy of his high reputation-the great effect of Father Keogh’s pulpit oratory seems, on *post mortem *examination, due rather to the manner than the matter. Dr. Spratt, having got a discourse of his reported, presented him with the proof-sheets for correction; but, although accurately taken down, Mr. Keogh would not believe that he had delivered it in that form, and, filled with disgust, tore up the sheets and irrevocably canceled the sermon.

Mr. Keogh, during his hours of relaxation, exhibited all the exuberance of a liberated school-boy on the playground. A gentleman, who we fear played cards rather for profit than pleasure, having one evening at Raheny pocketed pool after pool with complacent rapacity, at last, having secured an unusually large “haul,” suddenly stood up and declared it was time to leave. Keogh, with the utmost good humor, replied that it was too early to break up, and that he should give his host and friends an opportunity of retrieving their losses.

But the man of lucre, with pleasant banter, extricated himself from the playful “collaring of his friends; and just as he had reached the hall, Fr. Keogh caught him in his muscular grip, and, turning him upside down, the entire contents of his pockets fell in a loud avalanche to the ground. The money was gathered up, the gamester returned, and the play continued with varying success until a later hour. This anecdote was told by the butler of the house, who at least was a considerable gainer by the incident.

“An idle brain is the devil’s workshop,” was an apothegm of his own concoction, which his audience heard him utter more than once. Two other favorite expressions of his were, “tinseled vanity” and “feathered foppery,” and he declared inextinguishable war against both. Like Curran, Moore, and other great contemporaries, Mr. Keogh’s origin was humble. He never shrank from avowing it manfully, and, we rather think, used those avowals as physic to purge the pride engendered by public adulation.

The father of the Irish Massillon was a coffin-maker in Cook Street. [Mr. Keogh worked at the trade for a time himself. He used to say that when people faulted coffins, because of unsightly knots in the wood, he would reply: ‘Oh, I can hide them with an angel or two.” Father Keogh inherited his talent from his mother, who kept a school. He wag such an apt scholar that the usual period for theological study was considerably abridged in his favor.] A friend asked him one day, “How is your father?” “Oh,” replied Keogh with a very long visage, “I left him working for death!”

Nevertheless, the sire saw the son down; and his death occurred under the following circumstances. In attempting to attain an almost celestial degree of perfection as deliverer of divine messages, he sank from Scylla into the jaws of Charybdis. Somewhat erroneously supposing that his articulation was not quite as distinct as formerly, he desired a dentist to pull out all his front teeth, and to insert a false set in their room. Dental science was not then in its prime - the cure proved far worse than the disease. The clumsy tusks which had been substituted for nature’s teeth obstructed rather than facilitated the flow of his oratory; but, still worse, they refused to perform the office of mastication. Dyspepsia, with a hundred other ills, were fostered in this way, and Mr. Keogh rapidly sank beneath their sapping influence. One of his last letters, written from his father’s house in Cook Street, where he died, was addressed to Dr. Spratt, begging his prayers.

But Keogh also had his joke at that solemn hour. A priest, famous for following the fox-hounds, having paid him a visit, Keogh in a voice hardly audible muttered, “Ah, Father John, you were always in at the death.” Mr. Keogh did not long survive his friend Dr. Lanigan. He died 9th September, 1831, aged forty-three years. A tablet to his memory, inscribed with a very eulogistic epitaph, is erected in the Roman Catholic Church, Baldoyle; but his remains repose in the vaults of SS. Michael and John, Exchange Street, Dublin.

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