CHAPTER I. HOW FATHER TOM WENT TO TAKE POT-LUCK AT THE VATICAN.

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WHEN his Riv'rence was in Room, ov coorse
the Pope axed him to take pot-look wid him. More
be token, it was on a Friday; but, for all that, there
was plenty of mate; for the Pope gev himself an
absolution from the fast on account ov the great
company that was in it—at laste so I'm tould.
Howandiver, there's no fast on the dhrink, anyhow—
glory be to God!—and so, as they wor sitting,
afther dinner, taking their sup together, says the

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Pope, says he, “Thomaus”—for the Pope, you
know, spakes that way, all as one as one ov uz—
“Thomaus a lanna,” says he, “I'm tould you welt
them English heretics out ov the face.”

“You may say that,” says his Riv'rence to him
again. “Be my sowl,” says he, “if I put your Holiness
undher the table, you won't be the first Pope I
floored.”

Well, his Holiness laughed like to split; for, you
know, Pope was the great Prodesan that Father
Tom put down upon Purgathory; and ov coorse
they knewn all the ins and outs of the conthravarsy
at Room. “Faix, Thomaus,” says he, smiling
across the table at him mighty agreeable—“it's no
lie what they tell me, that yourself is the pleasant
man over the dhrop ov good liquor.”

“Would you like to thry?” says his Riv'rence.

“Sure, and amn't I thrying all I can?” says the
Pope. “Sorra betther bottle ov wine's betuxt this
and Salamancha, nor's there fornenst you on the
table; its raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh of
it.”

“It's mortial could,” says Father Tom.

“Well, man alive,” says the Pope, “sure and
here's the best of good claret in the cut decanther.”

“Not maning to make little ov the claret, your

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Holiness,” says his Riv'rence, “I would prefir some
hot wather and sugar, wid a glass of spirits through
it, if convanient.”

“Hand me over the bottle ov brandy,” says the
Pope to his head butler, “and fetch up the materi'ls,”
says he.

“Ah, then, your Holiness,” says his Riv'rence
mighty eager, “maybe you'd have a dhrop ov the
native in your cellar? Sure it's all one throuble,”
says he, “and, throth, I dunna how it is, but brandy
always plays the puck wid my inthrails.”

“'Pon my conscience, then,” says the Pope, “it's
very sorry I am, Misther Maguire,” says he, “that
it isn't in my power to plase you; for I'm sure and
certaint that there's not as much whiskey in Room
this blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge.”

“Well, in troth, your Holiness,” says Father
Tom, “I knewn there was no use in axing; only,”
says he, “I didn't know how else to exqueeze the
liberty I tuck,” says he, “ov bringing a small
taste,” says he, “ov the raal stuff,” says he, hauling
out an imperi'l quart bottle out of his coat-pocket,
“that never seen the face ov a gauger,” says he, setting
it down on the table fornenst the Pope: “and
if you'll jist thry the full ov a thimble ov it, and
it doesn't rise the cockles ov your Holiness's

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heart, why, then, my name,” says he, “isn't Tom
Maguire!” and wid that he outs wid the cork.

Well, the Pope at first was going to get vexed at
Father Tom for fetching dhrink thataway in his
pocket, as if there wasn't lashins in the house: so
says he, “Misther Maguire,” says he, “I'd have you
to comprehind the differ betuxt an invitation to
dinner from the succissor of Saint Pether, and
from a common mayur or a Prodesan squireen that
may be hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet
more nor his own heretical whistle. That may be
the way wid them that you visit in Leithrim,” says
he, “and in Roscommon; and I'd let you know the
differ in the prisint case,” says he, “only that
you're a champion of the Church and entitled to
laniency. So,” says he, “as the liquor's come, let
it stay. And in troth I'm curis myself,” says he, getting
mighty soft when he found the delightful smell
ov the putteen, “in invistigating the composition ov
distilled liquors; it's a branch of natural philosophy,”
says he, taking up the bottle and putting it to
his blessed nose. Ah! my dear, the very first snuff
he got ov it, he cried out, the dear man: “Blessed
Vargin, but it has the divine smell!” and crossed
himself and the bottle half-a-dozen times running.

“Well, sure enough, it's the blessed liquor now,”

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says his Riv'rence, “and so there can be no harm
any way in mixing a dandy of punch; and,” says
he, stirring up the materi'ls with his goolden muddler—
for everything at the Pope's table, to the
very schrew for drawing the corks, was ov vergin
goold—“if I might make bould,” says he, “to
spake on so deep a subjic afore your Holiness, I
think it 'ud considherably facilitate the invistigation
ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if you'd
jist thry the laste sup in life ov it inwardly.”

“Well, then, suppose I do make the same expiriment,”
says the Pope, in a much more condescinding
way nor you'd have expected—and wid that he
mixes himself a real stiff facer.

“Now, your Holiness,” says Father Tom, “this
bein' the first time you ever dispinsed them chymicals,”
says he, “I'll just make bould to lay down
one rule of orthography,” says he, “for conwhounding
them, secundum mortem.”

“What's that?” says the Pope.

“Put in the sperits first,” says his Riv'rence;
“and then put in the sugar; and remember, every
dhrop ov wather you put in after that spoils the
punch.”

“Glory be to God!” says the Pope, not minding
a word Father Tom was saying. “Glory be to

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God!” says he, smacking his lips. “I never knewn
what dhrink was afore,” says he. “It bates the
Lachrymalchrystal out ov the face!” says he—“it's
Necthar itself, it is, so it is!” says he, wiping his
epistolical mouth wid the cuff ov his coat.

“'Pon my secret honor,” says his Riv'rence, “I'm
raally glad to see your Holiness set so much to
your satisfaction; especially,” says he, “as, for fear
ov accidents, I tuck the liberty of fetching the fellow
ov that small vesshel,” says he, “in my other
coat pocket. So divil a fear ov our running dhry
till the but-end of the evening, anyhow,” says he.

“Dhraw your stool in to the fire, Misther Maguire,”
says the Pope, “for faix,” says he, “I'm bent
on analyzing the metaphwysics ov this phinomenon.
Come, man alive, clear off,” says he, “you're not
dhrinking at all.”

“Is it dhrink?” says his Riv'rence; “by Gorra,
your Holiness,” says he, “I'd dhrink wid you till
the cows'ud be coming home in the morning.”

So wid that they tackled to, to the second fugee
a piece, and fell into larned discourse. But it's
time for me now to be off to the lecthir at the
Boord. Oh my sorra light upon ye, Docther
Whately, wid your pilitical econimy and your hydherastatics!
What the dioul use has a poor

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hedgemaster like me wid such deep larning as is only fit
for the likes ov them two that I left over their
second tumbler? Howandiver, wishing I was like
them, in regard ov the sup of dhrink, anyhow, I
must brake off my norration for the prisint; but
when I see you again, I'll tell you how Father Tom
made a hare ov the Pope that evening, both in
theology and the cube root.

CHAPTER II. HOW FATHER TOM SACKED HIS HOLINESS IN THEOLOGY AND LOGIC.

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WELL, the lecthir's over, and I'm kilt out and
out. My bitther curse upon the man that invinted
the same Boord! I thought ons't I'd fadomed the
say ov throuble; and that was when I got through
fractions at ould Mat Kavanagh's school, in Firdra-more—
God be good to poor Mat's sowl, though he
did deny the cause the day he suffered! but it's
fluxions itself we're set to bottom now, sink or
shwim! May I never die if my head isn't as

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throughother as anything wid their ordinals and
cardinals—and, begob, it's all nothing to the
econimy lecthir that I have got to go to at two
o'clock. Howandiver, I mustn't forget that we left
his Riv'rence and his Holiness sitting fornenst one
another in the parlor ov the Vatican, jist afther
mixing their second tumbler.

When they had got well down into the same,
they fell, as I was telling you, into larned discourse.
For, you see, the Pope was curious to find out whether
Father Tom was the great theologinall that
people said; and says he, “Misther Maguire,” says
he, “what answer do you make to the heretics when
they quote them passidges agin thransubstantiation
out ov the Fathers?” says he.

“Why,” says his Riv'rence, “as there should be
no sich passidges I make myself mighty aisy about
them; but if you want to know how I dispose ov
them,” says he, “just repate one ov them,” says he,
“and I'll show you how to catapomphericate it in
two shakes.”

“Why, then,” says the Pope, “myself disremimbers
the particlar passidges they allege out ov them
old felleys,” says he, “though sure enough they're
more numerous nor edifying; so we'll jist suppose
that a heretic was to find sich a saying as this in

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Austin, `Every sinsible man knows that thransubstantiation
is a lie,' or this out of Tartullian or
Plutarch, `the Bishop ov Room is a common imposther,'
now tell me, could you answer him?”

“As easy as kiss,” says his Riv'rence. “In the
first, we're to understand that the exprission,
`Every sinsible man,' signifies simply, `Every man
that judges by his nath'ral sinses;' and we all know
that nobody folleying them seven deludhers could
ever find out the mysthery that's in it, if somebody
didn't come in to his assistance wid an eighth sinse,
which is the only sinse to be depended on, being the
sinse ov the Church. So that, regarding the first
quotation which your Holiness has supposed, it
makes clane for us, and tee-totally agin the heretics.”

“That's the explanation sure enough,” says his
Holiness; “and now what div you say to my being
a common imposther?”

“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 truth, if he had said that the
Bishop ov Room is the grand imposther and topsawyer
in that line over us all.”

“What do you mane?” says the Pope, getting
quite red in the face.

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“What would I mane,” says his Riv'rence, as
composed as a docther of 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, at the head ov all
us,)—“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 epostolical word,” says the Pope,
you've cleared up them two pints in a most satisfacthery
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 of 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

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highflown 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 of 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 ov 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.
Divil be in me,” says he, “but I'd prove black
white as fast as a horse 'ud throt wid only a good
stock of superbaton.”

“Faix,” says the Pope, wid a sly look, “you'd
need to have it backed, I judge, wid a small taste
ov assurance.”

“Well now, jist for that word,” says his Riv'rence,
“I'll prove it widout aither one or other.
Black,” says he, “is one thing, and white is another
thing. You don't conthravene that? But every
thing is aither one thing or another thing; I defy

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the apostle Paul to get over that dilemma. Well!
If any thing be one thing, well and good; but if it
be another thing, then it's plain it isn't both things,
and so can't be two things—nobody can deny that.
But what can't be two things must be one thing—
Ergo, whether it's one thing or another thing it's all
one. But black is one thing and white is another
thing—Ergo, black and white is all one. Quod
erat demonsthrandum.”

“Stop a bit,” says the Pope, “I can't althegither
give in to your second minor—no—your second major,”
says he, and he stopped. “Faix, then,” says
he, getting confused, “I don't rightly remimber
where it was exactly that I thought I seen the flaw
in your premises. Howsomdiver,” says he, “I
don't deny that it's a good conclusion, and one that'
ud be ov materi'l service to the Church if it was
dhrawn wid a little more distinctiveness.”

“I'll make it as plain as the nose on your Holiness's
face, by superbaton,” says his Riv'rence.
“My adversary says, black is not another color,
that is, white! Now, that's jist a parallel passidge
wid the one out ov Tartullian that me and Hayes
smashed the heretics on in Clarendon sthreet, `This
is my body—that is, the figure ov my body.' That's
a superbaton, and we showed that it oughtn't to

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be read that way at all, but this way, `This figure
ov my body is my body.' Jist so wid my adversary's
proposition, it mustn't be undherstood the
way it reads, by no manner ov manes; but it's to
be taken this way: `Black, that is, white, is not
another color;' green, if you like, or orange, by
dad, for anything I care, for my case is proved.
`Black, that is, white,' lave-out the `that,' by sinnalayphy,
and you have the orthodox conclusion,
`Black is white,' or by convarsion, `White is
black.”

“It's as clear as mud,” says the Pope.

“Begad,” says his Riv'rence, “I'm in great humor
for disputin' to-night. I wisht your Holiness was a
heretic jist for two minutes,” says he, “till you'd
see the flaking I'd give you!”

“Well, then, for the fun o' the thing, suppose me
my namesake, if you like,” says the Pope, laughing,
“though, by Jayminy,” says he, “he's not one that
I take much pride out ov.”

“Very good—divil a betther joke ever I had,”
says his Riv'rence. “Come, then, Misther Pope,”
says he, “hould up that purty face ov yours, and
answer me this question. Which 'ud be the biggest
lie, if I said I seen a turkey-cock lying on the broad
of his back, and picking the stars out ov the sky, or

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if I was to say that I seen a gandher in the same
intherestin' posture, raycreating himself wid similar
asthronomical expiriments? Answer me that, you
ould swaddler!” says he.

“How durst you call me a swaddler, sir?” says
the Pope, forgetting, the dear man, the part that he
was acting.

“Don't think for to bully me!” says his Riv'rence,
“I always daar to spake the truth, and it's well
known that you're nothing but a swaddling ould
sinner of a saint,” says he, never letting on to persave
that his Holiness had forgot what they were
agreed on.

“By all that's good,” says the Pope, “I often
hard ov the imperance ov you Irish afore,” says he
“but I never expected to be called a saint in my
own house either by Irishman or Hottentot. I'll
till you what, Misther Maguire,” says he, “if you
can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you had betther
be walking off wid yourself; for I beg lave to
give you to undherstand, that it won't be for the
good ov your health if you call me by sich an outprobrious
epithet again,” says he.

“Oh, indeed! then things is come to a purty
pass,” says his Riv'rence (the dear funny soul that
he ever was!) “when the likes of you compares one

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of the Maguires ov Tempo wid a wild Ingine!
Why, man alive, the Maguires was kings of Fermanagh
three thousand years afore your grandfather,
that was the first of your breed that ever
wore shoes and stockings,” (I'm bound to say, in
justice to the poor Prodesan, that this was all
spoken by his Riv'rence by way ov a figure ov
spache,) “was sint his Majesty's arrand to cultivate
the friendship of Prince Lee Boo in Botteney Bay!
Oh Bryan dear,” says he, letting on to cry, “if you
were alive to hear a boddagh Sassenagh like this
casting up his counthry to one ov the name ov Maguire!”

“In the name ov God,” says the Pope, very
solemniously, “what is the maning of all this at
all at all?” says he.

“Sure,” says his Riv'rence, whispering to him
across the table, “sure you know we're acting a conthravarsy,
and you tuck the part of the Prodesan
champion. You wouldn't be angry wid me, I'm
sure, for sarving out the heretic to the best ov my
ability.”

“Oh begad, I had forgot,” says the Pope, the
good-natured ould crethur; “sure enough you were
only taking your part, as a good Milesian Catholic
ought, agin the heretic Sassenagh. Well,” says

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he, “fire away now, and I'll put up wid as many
conthrovarsial compliments as you plase to pay
me.”

“Well, then, answer me my question, you sanctimonious
ould dandy,” says his Riv'rence.

“In troth, then,” says the Pope, “I dunna which'
ud be the biggest lie: to my mind,” says he, “the
one appears to be about as big a bounce as the
other.”

“Why, then, you poor simpleton,” says his Riv'rence,
“don't you persave that, forbye the advantage
the gandher 'ud have in the length ov his
neck, it 'ud be next to onpossible for the turkey-cock
lying thataway to see what he was about, by
rason ov his djollars and other accouthrements
hanging back over his eyes? The one about as big
a bounce as the other! Oh, you misforthunate
crethur! if you had ever larned your A B C in
theology, you'd have known that there's a differ
betuxt them two lies so great, that, begad, I
would'nt wondher if it 'ud make a balance ov five
years in purgathory to the sowl that 'ud be in it.
Ay, and if it wasn't that the Church is too liberal
entirely, so she is, it 'ud cost his heirs and succissors
betther nor ten pounds to have him out as
soon as the other. Get along, man, and take half a

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year at dogmatical theology: go and read your
Dens, you poor dunce, you!”

“Raaly,” says the Pope, “you're making the
heretic's shoes too hot to hold me. I wondher how
the Prodesans can stand afore you at all.”

“Don't think to delude me,” says his Riv'rence,
“don't think to back out ov your challenge now,”
says he, “but come to the scratch like a man, if you
are a man, and answer me my question. What's
the rason, now, that Julius Cæsar and the Vargin
Mary was born upon the one day?—answer me
that, if you wouldn't be hissed off the platform!”

Well, my dear, the Pope couldn't answer it, and
he had to acknowledge himself sacked. Then he
axed his Riv'rence to tell him the rason himself;
and Father Tom communicated it to him in Latin.
But as that is a very deep question, I never hard
what the answer was, except that I'm tould it was
so mysterious, it made the Pope's hair stand on
end.

But there's two o'clock, and I'll be late for the
lecthir.

CHAPTER III. HOW FATHER TOM MADE A HARE OF HIS HOLINESS IN LATIN.

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OH! Docther Whately, Docther Whately, I'm
sure I'll never die another death if I don't die
aither of consumption or production! I ever and
always thought that asthronomy was the hardest
science that was till now—and it's no lie I'm telling
you, the same asthronomy is a tough enough
morsel to break a man's fast upon—and geolidgy
is middling and hard too—and hydherastatics is no
joke; but ov all the books ov science that ever was

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opened and shut, that book upon Pilitical Econimy
lifts the pins! Well, well, if they wait till they
persuade me that taking a man's rints out ov the
counthry, and spinding them in forrain parts, isn't
doing us out ov the same, they'll wait a long time
in troth. But you're waiting, I see, to hear how
his Riv'rence and his Holiness got on after finishing
the disputation I was telling you ov. Well, you
see, my dear, when the Pope found he couldn't
hould a candle to Father Tom in theology and
logic, he thought he'd take the shine out ov him in
Latin anyhow; so says he, “Misther Maguire,” says
he, “I quite agree wid you that it's not lucky for
us to be spaking on them deep subjects in sich langidges
as the evil spirits is acquainted wid;
and,” says he, “I think it 'ud be no harm for us to
spake from this out in Latin,” says he, “for fraid
the devil 'ud undherstand what we are saying.”

“Not a hair I care,” says Father Tom, “whether
he undherstands what we're saying or not, so long as
we keep off that last pint we wor discussing, and
one or two others. List'ners never hard good ov
themselves,” says he; “and if Belzhebub takes anything
amiss that aither you or me says in regard
ov himself or his faction, let him stand forrid like
a man, and, never fear, I'll give him his answer.

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Howandiver, if it's for a taste ov classic conversation
you are, just to put us in mind ov ould Cordarius,”
says he, “here's at you;” and wid that he lets fly at
his Holiness wid his health in Latin.

“Vesthræ Sanctitatis salutem volo!” says he.

“Vesthræ Revirintiæ salubritati bibo!” says the
Pope to him again (faith, it's no joke, I tell you, to
remimber sich a power ov larning). “Here's to you
wid the same,” says the Pope, in the raal Ciceronian.
“Nunc poculum alterhum imple,” says he.

“Cum omni jucunditate in vita,” says his Riv'rence.
“Cum summâ concupiscintiâ et animositate,”
says he; as much as to say: “Wid all the veins ov
my heart, I'll do that same;” and so, wid that, they
mixed their fourth gun apiece.

“Aqua vitæ vesthra sane est liquor admirabilis,”
says the Pope.

“Verum est pro te—it's thrue for you,” says his
Riv'rence, forgetting the idyim ov the Latin phrawseology,
in a manner.

“Prava est tua Latinitas, domine,” says the
Pope, finding fault like wid his etymology.

“Parva culpa mihi,” “small blame to me, that
is,” says his Riv'rence; “nam multum laboro in
partibus interioribus,” says he—the dear man!
that never was at a loss for an excuse!

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“Quid tibi incommodi?” says the Pope, axing
him what ailed him.

“Habesne id quod Anglice vocamus, a looking-glass,”
says his Riv'rence.

“Immo, habeo speculum splendidissimum subther
operculum pyxidis hujus starnutatoriæ,” says
the Pope, pulling out a beautiful goold snuff-box,
wid a looking-glass in under the lid; “Subther
operculum pyxidis hujus starnutatorii—no—starnutatori
æ—quam dono accepi ab Archi-duce Austhriaco
sipthuagisima prætheritâ,” says he; as
much as to say that he got the box in a prisint
from the Queen of Spain last Lint, if I rightly
remimber.

Well, Father Tom laughed like to burst. At last,
says he, “Pather Sancte,” says he, “sub errore jaces.
`Looking-glass' apud nos habet significationem
quamdam peculiarem ex tempore diei dependentem”—
there was a sthring ov accusatives for yez!—
“nam mane speculum sonat,” says he, “post prandium
vero mat—mat—mat”—sorra be in me but I
disremimber the classic appellivation ov the same
article. Howandiver, his Riv'rence went on explaining
himself in such a way as no scholar could
mistake. “Vesica mea,” says he, “ab illo ultimo
eversore distenditur, donec similis est rumpere.

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Verbis apertis,” says he, “Vesthræ Sanctitatis
præsentia salvata, aquam facere valde desidhero.”

“Ho, ho, ho!” says the Pope, grabbing up his
box; “si inquinavisses meam pyxidem, excommunicari
debuisses. Hillo, Anthony,” says he to
his head butler, “fetch Misther Maguire a—”

“You spoke first!” says his Riv'rence, jumping
off his sate: “You spoke first in the vernacular. I
take Misther Anthony to witness,” says he.

“What else would you have me to do?” says the
Pope, quite dogged like to see himself bate that-away
at his own waypons. “Sure,” says he, “Anthony
wouldn't understand a B from a bull's foot,
if I spoke to him any other way.”

“Well, then,” says his Riv'rence, “in considheration
ov the needcessity,” says he, “I'll let you off
for this time; but mind, now, afther I say proestho,
the first of us that spakes a word of English is the
hare—proestho!”

Neither ov them spoke for near a minit, considhering
wid themselves how they wor to begin sich a
great thrial ov shkill. At last says the Pope—the
blessed man! only think how 'cute it was ov him!—
“Domine Maguire,” says he, “valde desidhero,
certiorem fieri de significatione istius verbi eversor

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

quo jam jam usus es”—(well, surely I am the boy
for the Latin!)

“Eversor, id est cyathus,” says his Riv'rence,
“nam apud nos tumbleri, seu eversores, dicti sunt ab
evertendo ceremoniam inter amicos; non, ut Temperanti
æ Societatis frigidis fautoribus placet, ab evertendis
ipsis potatoribus.” (It's not every masther
undher the Boord, I tell you, could carry such a carload
ov the dead langidges.) “In agro vero Louthiano
et Midensi,” says he, “nomine gaudent quodam
secundum linguam Anglicanam significante
bombardam seu tormentum; quia ex eis tanquam
ex telis jaculatoriis liquorem faucibus immitere solent.
Etiam inter hæreticos illos melanostomos”
(that was a touch of Greek) “Presbyterianos Septentrionales,
qui sunt terribiles potatores, Cyathi
dicti sunt faceres, et dimidium Cyathi hæf-a-glessus.
Dimidium Cyathi verò apud Metropolitanos Hibernicos
dicitur dandy—”

“En verbum Anglicanum!” says the Pope, clapping
his hands; “leporem te fecisti;” as much as
to say that he had made a hare ov himself.

“Dandoeus, dandoeus verbum erat,” says his Riv'rence—
oh, the dear man, but it's himself that was
handy ever and always at getting out ov a hobble—
“dandoeus verbum erat,” says he, “quod dicturus
eram, cum me intherpillavisti.”

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

“Ast ego dico,” says the Pope, very sharp, “quod
verbum erat dandy.”

“Per tibicinem qui coram Mose modulatus est,”
says his Riv'rence, “id flagellat mundum! Dan
dœus dixi, et tu dicis dandy; ergo tu es lepus, non
ego—Ah, ha! Saccavi vesthram Sanctitatem!”

“Mendacium est!” says the Pope, quite forgetting
himself, he was so mad at being sacked before the
sarvints.

Well, if it hadn't been that his Holiness was in it,
Father Tom 'ud have given him the contints of his
tumbler betuxt the two eyes, for calling him a liar;
and, in troth, it's very well it was in Latin the offince
was conveyed, for if it had been in the vernacular,
there's no saying what 'ud ha' been the consequence.
His Riv'rence was mighty angry anyhow.

“Tu senex lathro,” says he, “quomodo audes me
mendacem prædicare!”

“Et tu, sacrilege nebulo,” says the Pope, “quomodo
audacitatem habeas, me Dei in terris vicarium,
lathronem conviciari?”

“Interroga circumcirca,” says his Riv'rence.

“Abi ex ædibus meis,” says the Pope.

“Abi tu in malem crucem,” says his Riv'rence.

“Excommunicabo te,” says the Pope.

“Diabolus curat,” says his Riv'rence.

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“Anathema sis,” says the Pope.

“Oscula meum pod—” says his Riv'rence—but,
my dear, afore he could finish what he was going to
say, the Pope broke out into the vernacular, “Get
out o'my house, you reprobate!” says he, in such a
rage that he could contain himself widin the Latin
no longer.

“Ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!” says his Riv'rence.
“Who's the hare now, your Holiness? Oh, by this
and by that, I've sacked you clane! Clane and clever
I've done it, and no mistake! You see what a
bit of desate will do wid the wisest, your Holiness—
sure it was joking I was, on purpose to aggravate
you—all's fair, you know, in love, law, and conthravarsy.
In troth if I'd thought you'd have taken it
so much to heart, I'd have put my head into the fire
afore I'd have said a word to offind you,” says he, for
he seen that the Pope was very vexed. “Sure God
forbid that I'd say anything agin your Holiness,
barring it was in fun: for aren't you the father ov
the faithful, and the thrue vicar ov God upon earth?
And amn't I ready to go down on my two knees
this blessed minit and beg your epostolical pardon
for every word that I said to your displasement?”

“Are you in arnest that it is in fun you wor?”
says the Pope.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

“May I never die if I amn't,” says his Riv'rence.
“It was all to provoke your Holiness to commit a
brache ov the Latin that I tuck the small liberties I
did,” says he.

“I'd have you to take care,” says the Pope, “how
you take sich small liberties again, or may be you'll
provoke me to commit a brache ov the pace.”

“Well, and if I did,” said his Riv'rence, “I know
a sartan preparation ov chymicals that's very good
for curing a brache either in Latinity or frindship.”

“What's that?” says the Pope, quite mollified,
and sitting down again at the table that he had ris
from in the first pluff of his indignation. “What's
that?” says he, “for, 'pon my Epostolical 'davy, I
think it 'udn't be asy to bate this miraclous mixthir
that we've been thrying to anilize this two
hours back,” says he, taking a mighty scientifical
swig out ov the bottom of his tumbler.

“It's good for a beginning,” says his Riv'rence:
“it lays a very nate foundation for more sarious
operation; but we're now arrived at a pariod ov the
evening when it's time to proceed wid our shuperstructhure
by compass and square, like free and excipted
masons as we both are.”

My time's up for the present; but I'll tell you the
rest in the evening at home.

CHAPTER IV. HOW FATHER TOM AND HIS HOLINESS DISPUTED IN METAPHYSICS AND ALGEBRA.

[figure description] [Page 042]. Head-piece that is a diptych; the left side shows monks and knights gathered around the bed of an ill man who holds a large crucifix. The right side shows a church scholar reading a book that is on a book-stand. He is also holding a rolled-up parchment.[end figure description]

God be wid the time when I went to the classical
seminary of Firdramore! when I'd bring my sod
o'turf undher my arm, and sit down on my shnug
boss o'straw, wid my back to the masther and my
shins to the fire, and score my sum in Dives's denominations
or the double rule o'three, or play foxand-geese
wid purty Jane Cruise that sat next me,
as plisantly as the day was long, widout anyone so
much as saying “Mikey Heffernan, what's that

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

you're about?”—for ever since I was in the one
lodge wid poor ould Mat I had my own way in his
school as free as ever I had in my mother's shebeen.
God be wid them days, I say again, for it's althered
times wid me, I judge, since I got under Carlisle
and Whately. Sich sthrictness! sich ordher! sich
dhrilling, and lecthiring, and tuthoring as they do
get on wid! I wisht to gracious the one half ov
their rules and rigilations was sunk in the say.
And they're getting so sthrict, too, about having
fair play for the heretic childher! We've to have
no more schools in the chapels, nor masses in the
schools. Oh, by this and by that it'll never do at
all! The ould plan was twenty times betther; and,
for my own part, if it wasn't that the clargy supports
them in a manner, and the grant's a thing not
easily done widout these hard times, I'd see if I
couldn't get a sheltered spot nigh-hand the chapel,
and set up again on the good ould principle: and
faix, I think our Metropolitan 'ud stand to me, for
I know that his Grace's motto was ever and always,
that “Ignorance is the thrue mother of piety.”

But I'm running away from my norration entirely,
so I am. “You'll plase to ordher up the housekeeper,
then,” says Father Tom to the Pope, “wid
a pint ov sweet milk in a skillet, and the bulk ov

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

her fist ov butter, along wid a dust ov soft sugar
in a saucer, and I'll show you the way ov producing
a decoction that, I'll be bound, will hunt the
thirst out ov every nook and corner in your Holiness's
blessed carcidge.”

The Pope ordhered up the ingredients, and they
were brought in by the head butler.

“That'll not do at all,” says his Riv'rence,
“the ingredients won't combine in due proportion
unless ye do as I bid yez. Send up the housekeeper,”
says he, “for a faymale hand is ondispinsably
necessary to produce the adaptation ov
the particles and the concurrence ov the corpuscles,
widout which you might boil till morning, and
never fetch the cruds off ov it.”

Well, the Pope whispered to his head butler,
and by-and-by up there comes an ould faggot ov a
Caillean, that was enough to frighten a horse from
his oats.

“Don't thry for to desave me,” says his Riv'rence,
“for it's no use, I tell yez. Send up the
housekeeper, I bid yez: I seen her presarving
gooseberries in the panthry as I came up: she has
eyes as black as a sloe,” says he, “and cheeks like
the rose in June; and sorra taste ov this celestial
mixthir shall crass the lips of man or mortial this

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

blessed night till she stirs the same up wid her own
delicate little finger.”

“Misther Maguire,” says the Pope, “it's very
unproper ov you to spake that way ov my housekeeper:
I won't allow it, sir.”

“Honor bright, your Holiness,” says his Riv'rence,
laying his hand on his heart.

“Oh, by this and by that, Misther Maguire,”
says the Pope, “I'll have none ov your insinivations:
I don't care who sees my whole household,”
says he; “I don't care if all the faymales undher
my roof was paraded down the High Street ov
Room,” says he.

“Oh, it's plain to be seen how little you care
who sees them,” says his Riv'rence. “You're
afeared, now, if I was to see your housekeper,
that I'd say she was too handsome.”

“No, I'm not!” says the Pope; “I don't care
who sees her,” says he. “Anthony,” says he to
the head butler, “bid Eliza throw her apron over
her head, and come up here.” Wasn't that stout
in the blessed man? Well, my dear, up she
came, stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing
like the brake o' day: for though her apron
was thrown over her head as she came forrid,
till you could barely see the tip ov her chin—

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

more be token there was a lovely dimple in it,
as I've been tould—yet she let it shlip a bit
to one side, by chance like, jist as she got forninst
the fire, and if she would'nt have given his
Riv'rence a shot, if he had'nt been a priest, it's no
matther.

“Now, my dear,” says he, “you must take that
skillet, and hould it over the fire till the milk
comes to a blood-hate; and the way you'll know
that will be by stirring it ons't or twice wid the
little finger ov your right hand, afore you put in
the butther: not that I misdoubt,” says he, “but
that the same finger's fairer nor the whitest milk
that ever came from the tit.”

“None ov your deludhering talk to the young
woman, sir,” says the Pope, mighty stren. “Stir
the posset as he bids you, Eliza, and then be off
wid yourself,” says he.

“I beg your Holiness's pardon ten thousand
times,” says his Riv'rence; “I'm sure I meant
nothing onproper; I hope I'm uncapable ov any
sich dereliction ov my duty,” says he. “But,
marciful Saver!” he cried out, jumping up on a
suddent, “look behind you, your Holiness—I'm
blest but the room's on fire!”

Sure enough the candle fell down that minit, and

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

was near setting fire to the windy-curtains, and
there was some bustle, as you may suppose, getting
things put to rights. And now I have to tell you
ov a raaly onpleasant occurrence. If it was a Prodesan
that was in it, I'd say that while the Pope's
back was turned, Father Tom made free wid the
two lips ov Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I
believe it was a mere mistake that his Holiness fell
into on account of his being an ould man, and not
having aither his eyesight or his hearing very
parfect. At any rate it can't be denied but that he
had a sthrong imprission that sich was the case; for
he wheeled about as quick as thought, jist as his
Riv'rence was sitting down, and charged him wid
the offince plain and plump. “Is it kissing my
housekeeper before my face you are, you villain?”
says he. “Go down out o' this,” says he to Miss
Eliza; “and do you be packing off wid you,” he
says to Father Tom, “for it's not safe, so it isn't,
to have the likes ov you in a house where there's
temptation in your way.”

“Is it me?” says his Riv'rence; “why, what
would your Holiness be at, at all? Sure I wasn't
doing no sich thing.”

“Would you have me doubt the evidence ov
my sinses?” says the Pope; “would you have me

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

doubt the testimony ov my eyes and ears?” says
he.

Indeed I would so,” says his Riv'rence, “if they
pretind to have informed your Holiness of any sich
foolishness.”

“Why,” says the Pope; “I seen you afther kissing
Eliza as plain as I see the nose on your face;
I heard the smack you gave her as plain as ever I
heard thundher.”

“And how do you know whether you see the nose
on my face or not?” says his Riv'rence; “and how
do you know whether what you thought was thundher,
was thundher at all? Them operations of the
sinses,” says he, “comprises only particular corporayal
emotions, connected wid sartin confused
perciptions called sinsations, and isn't to be depended
upon at all. If we were to follow them blind
guides, we might jist as well turn heretics at ons't.'
Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it's naither
charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony
ov your eyes and ears agin the character ov
a clergyman. And now, see how aisy it is to explain
all them phwenomena that perplexed you.
I ris and went over beside the young woman because
the skillet was boiling over, to help her
to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

as for the noise you heard, my dear man, it was
neither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the cork
out ov this blessed bottle.”

“Don't offer to thrape that upon me!” says
the Pope; “here's the cork in the bottle still, as
tight as a wedge.”

“I beg your pardon,” says his Riv'rence,
“that's not the cork at all,” says he; “I dhrew
the cork a good two minits ago, and it's very
purtily spitted on the end of this blessed corkshcrew
at this prisint moment; howandiver you
can't see it, because it's only its raal prisence that's
in it. But that appearance that you call a cork,”
says he, “is nothing but the outward spacies and
external qualities of the cortical nathur. Them's
nothing but the accidents ov the cork that you're
looking at and handling; but, as I tould you
afore, the real cork's dhrew, and is here prisint on
the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was
the noise I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else,
that you mistook for the sound ov the pogue.”

You know there was no conthravening what he
said; and the Pope couldn't openly deny it.
Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this
way. “Granting,” says he, “that there is the differ
you say betuxt the reality ov the cork and them

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

cortical accidents, and that it's quite possible, as
you allidge, that the thrue cork is really prisint
on the end of the shcrew, while the accidents
keep the mouth of the bottle stopped—still,”
says he, “I can't undherstand, though willing to
acquit you, how the dhrawing of the real cork,
that's onpalpable and widout accidents, could produce
the accident ov that sinsible explosion I
heard jist now.”

“All I can say,” says his Riv'rence, “is, that
I'm sinsible it was a raal accident, anyhow.”

“Ay,” says the Pope, “the kiss you gev Eliza,
you mane.”

“No,” says his Riv'rence, “but the report I
made.”

“I don't doubt you,” says the Pope.

“No cork could be dhrew with less noise,” says
his Riv'rence.

“It would be hard for anything to be less nor
nothing, barring algebra,” says the Pope.

“I can prove to the conthrary,” says his Riv'rence.
“This glass ov whiskey is less nor that
tumbler ov punch, and that tumbler ov punch is
nothing to this jug ov scaltheen.”

“Do you judge by superficial misure or by the
liquid contents?” says the Pope.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

“Don't stop me betuxt my premisses and my
conclusion,” says his Riv'rence; “Ergo, this glass
ov whiskey is less nor nothing; and for that raison
I see no harm in life in adding it to the contents ov
the same jug, just by way ov a frost-nail.”

“Adding what's less nor nothing,” says the
Pope, “is subthraction according to algebra; so
here goes to make the rule good,” says he, filling his
tumbler wid the blessed stuff, and sitting down
again at the table, for the anger didn't stay two
minits on him, the good-hearted ould sowl.

“Two minuses makes one plus,” says his Riv'rence,
as ready as you plase, “and that'll account
for the increased daycrement I mane to take the
liberty ov producing in the same mixed quantity,”
says he, follying his Holiness's epistolical example.

“By all that's good,” says the Pope, “that's
the best stuff I ever tasted; you call it a mixed
quantity, but I say it's prime.”

“Since it's ov the first ordher, then,” says his
Riv'rence, “we'll have the less deffeequilty in reducing
it to a simple equation.”

“You'll have no fractions at my side, anyhow,”
says the Pope. “Faix, I'm afeard,” says he, “it's
only too aisy ov solution our sum is like to be.”

“Never fear for that,” says his Riv'rence, “I've

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

a good stock ov surds here in the bottle; for I tell
you it will take us a long time to exthract the root
ov it, at the rate we're going on.”

“What makes you call the blessed quart an irrational
quantity?” says the Pope.

“Becase it's too much for one, and too little for
two,” says his Riv'rence.

“Clear it ov its co-efficient, and we'll thry,” says
the Pope.

“Hand me over the exponent, then,” says his
Riv'rence.

“What's that?” says the Pope.

“The shcrew, to be sure,” says his Riv'rence.

“What for?” says the Pope.

“To dhraw the cork,” says his Riv'rence.

“Sure the cork's dhrew,” says the Pope.

“But the sperits can't get out on account of the
accidents that's stuck in the neck ov the bottle,”
says his Riv'rence.

“Accident ought to be passable to sperit,” says
the Pope, “and that makes me suspect that the
reality ov the cork's in it afther all.”

“That's a barony-masia,” says his Riv'rence,
“and I'm not bound to answer it. But the fact is,
that it's the accidents ov the sperits too that's in it,
and the reality's passed out through the cortical

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

spacies as you say; for, you may have observed,
we've both been in raal good sperits ever since the
cork was dhrawn, and where else would the raal
sperits come from if they wouldn't come out ov the
bottle?”

“Well, then,” says the Pope, “since we've got
the reality, there's no use throubling ourselves wid
the accidents.”

“Oh, begad,” says his Riv'rence, “the accidents
is very essential too; for a man may be in
the best of good sperits, as far as his immaterial
part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov
good liquor to hunt the sinsible thrist out ov him.”
So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and sets about
brewing the other skillet ov scaltheen; but, faix,
he had to get up the ingredients this time by the
hands ov ould Molly; though devil a taste ov her
little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same decoction.

But, my dear, here's the Freeman's Journal, and
we'll see what's the news afore we finish the residuary
proceedings ov their two Holinesses.

CHAPTER V. THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.

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Hurroo! my darlings!—didn't I tell you it'
ud never do? Success to bould John Tuam and
the old siminary of Firdramore! Oh, more power
to your Grace every day you rise, 'tis you that
has broken their Boord into shivers undher your
feet! Sure, and isn't it a proud day for Ireland,
this blessed feast ov the chair ov Saint Pether?
Isn't Carlisle and Whately smashed to pieces, and
their whole college ov swaddling teachers knocked

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

into smidhereens? John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck
his pasthoral staff in his hand and beathen them
out o' Connaught as fast as ever Pathrick druve the
sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould Mat Kavanagh,
if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the
happy man. “My curse upon their g'ographies and
Bibles,” he used to say; “where's the use ov perplexing
the poor childher wid what we don't undherstand
ourselves?” no use at all, in troth, and so
I said from the first myself. Well, thank God and
his Grace, we'll have no more thrigonomethry nor
scripther in Connaught. We'll hould our lodges
every Saturday night, as we used to do, wid our
chairman behind the masther's desk, and we'll hear
our mass every Sunday morning wid the blessed
priest standing afore the same. I wisht to goodness
I hadn't parted wid my Seven Champions
of Christendom and Freney the Robber; they're
books that'll be in great requist in Leithrim as
soon as the pasthoral gets wind. Glory be to God!
I've done with their lecthirs—they may all go and
be d—d wid their consumption and production.
I'm off to Tullymactaggart before daylight in the
morning, where I'll thry whether a sod or two o'
turf can't consume a cartload ov heresy, and whether
a weekly meeting ov the lodge can't produce a

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

new thayory ov rints. But afore I take my lave ov
you, I may as well finish my story about poor Father
Tom that I hear is coming up to whale the
heretics in Adam and Eve during the Lint.

The Pope—and indeed it ill becomes a good
Catholic to say anything agin him—no more would
I, only that his Riv'rence was in it—but you see
that the fact ov it is, that the Pope was as envious
as ever he could be at seeing himself sacked right
and left by Father Tom, and bate out o' the face,
the way he was, on every science and subjec' that
was started. So, not to be outdone altogether, he
says to his Riv'rence, “You're a man that's fond
ov the brute crayation, I hear, Misther Maguire?”

“I don't deny it,” says his Riv'rence; “I've
dogs that I'm willing to run agin any man's, ay, or
to match them agin any other dogs in the world
for genteel edication and polite manners,” says he.

“I'll hould you a pound,” says the Pope, “that
I've a quadhruped in my possession that's a wiser
baste nor any dog in your kennel.”

“Done,” says his Riv'rence, and they staked the
money.

“What can this larned quadhruped o' yours
do?” says his Riv'rence.

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

“It's my mule,” says the Pope, “and if you
were to offer her goolden oats and clover off the
meadows o' Paradise, sorra taste ov aither she'd
let pass her teeth till the first mass is over every
Sunday or holiday in the year.”

“Well, and what 'ud you say if I showed you
a baste of mine,” says his Riv'rence, “that instead
ov fasting till the first mass is over only,
fasts out the whole four-and-twenty hours ov every
Wednesday and Friday in the week as reg'lar
as a Christian?”

“Oh, be aisy, Misther Maguire,” says the Pope.

“You don't b'lieve me, don't you?” says his
Riv'rence; “very well, I'll soon show you whether
or no,” and he puts his knuckles in his mouth,
and gev a whistle that made the Pope stop his fingers
in his ears. The aycho, my dear, was hardly
done playing wid the cobwebs in the cornish, when
the door flies open, and in jumps Spring. The
Pope happened to be sitting next the door, betuxt
him and his Riv'rence, and may I never die if he
did'nt clear him, thriple crown and all, at one
spang. “God's presence be about us!” says the
Pope, thinking it was an evil spirit come to
fly away wid him for the lie that he had
tould in regard ov his mule (for it was nothing

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

more nor a thrick that consisted in grasing the
brute's teeth): but, seeing it was only one ov the
greatest beauties ov a greyhound that he'd ever
laid his epistolical eyes on, he soon recovered ov his
fright, and began to pat him, while Father Tom ris
and went to the sideboord, where he cut a slice ov
pork, a slice ov beef, a slice ov mutton, and a slice
ov salmon, and put them all on a plate thegither.
“Here, Spring, my man,” says he, setting the
plate down afore him on the hearthstone, “here's
your supper for you this blessed Friday night.”
Not a word more he said nor what I tell you; and,
you may believe it or not, but it's the blessed truth
that the dog, afther jist tasting the salmon, and
spitting it out again, lifted his nose out o' the
plate, and stood wid his jaws wathering, and his
tail wagging, looking up in his Riv'rence's face, as
much as to say, “Give me your absolution, till I
hide them temptations out o' my sight.”

“There's a dog that knows his duty,” says his
Riv'rence; “there's a baste that knows how to
conduct himself aither in the parlor or the field.
You think him a good dog, looking at him here;
but I wisht you seen him on the side ov Slievean-Eirin!
Be my soul, you'd say the hill was running
away from undher him. Oh I wisht you had

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

been wid me,” says he, never letting on to see the
dog at all, “one day, last Lint, that I was coming
from mass. Spring was near a quarther ov a mile
behind me, for the childher was delaying him wid
bread and butther at the chapel door; when a
lump ov a hare jumped out ov the plantations ov
Grouse Lodge and ran acrass the road; so I gev
the whilloo, and knowing that she'd take the rise ov
the hill, I made over the ditch, and up through
Mullaghcashel as hard as I could pelt, still keeping
her in view, but afore I had gone a perch, Spring
seen her, and away the two went like the wind, up
Drumrewey, and down Clooneen, and over the
river, widout his being able ons't to turn her.
Well, I run on till I come to the Diffagher, and
through it I went, for the wather was low and I
didn't mind being wet shod, and out on the other
side, where I got up on a ditch, and seen sich a
coorse as I'll be bound to say was never seen afore
or since. If Spring turned that hare ons't that
day, he turned her fifty times, up and down, back
and for'ard, throughout and about. At last he run
her right into the big quarryhole in Mullaghbawn,
and when I went up to look for her fud, there I
found him sthretched on his side, not able to stir a
foot, and the hare lying about an inch afore his

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

nose as dead as a door-nail, and divil a mark ov a
tooth upon her. Eh, Spring, isn't that thrue?”
says he. Jist at that minit the clock sthruck
twelve, and, before you could say thrap-sticks,
Spring had the plateful ov mate consaled. “Now,”
says his Riv'rence, “hand me over my pound, for
I've won my bate fairly.”

“You'll excuse me,” says the Pope, pocketing his
money, “for we put the clock half an hour back,
out ov compliment to your Riv'rence,” says he,
“and it was Sathurday morning afore he came up
at all.”

“Well, it's no matther,” says his Riv'rence, putting
back his pound-note in his pocket-book,
“only,” says he, “it's hardly fair to expect a brute
baste to be so well skilled in the science ov chronology.”

In troth his Riv'rence was badly used in the
same bate, for he won it clever; and, indeed, I'm
afeard the shabby way he was thrated had some
effect in putting it into his mind to do what he did.
“Will your Holiness take a blast ov the pipe?”
says he, dhrawing out his dhudeen.

“I never smoke,” says the Pope, “but I haven't
the laste objection to the smell ov the tobaccay.”

“Oh, you had better take a dhraw,” says his

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

Riv'rence, “it'll relish the dhrink, that 'ud be too
luscious entirely, widout something to flavor it.”

“I had thoughts,” said the Pope, wid the laste
sign ov a hiccup on him, “of getting up a broiled
bone for the same purpose.”

“Well,” says his Riv'rence, “a broiled bone 'ud
do no manner ov harm at this present time; but a
smoke,” says he, “'ud flavor both the devil and the
dhrink.”

“What sort o' tobaccay is it that's in it?” says
the Pope.

“Raal nagur-head,” says his Riv'rence; “a very
mild and salubrious spacies ov the philosophic
weed.”

“Then I don't care if I do take a dhraw,” says
the Pope. Then Father Tom held the coal himself
till his Holiness had the pipe lit; and they sat
widout saying anything worth mentioning for about
five minutes.

At last the Pope says to his Riv'rence, “I dunna
what gev me this plaguy hiccup,” says he.
“Dhrink about,” says he; “Begorra,” he says, “I
think I'm getting merrier nor's good for me. Sing
us a song, your Riv'rence,” says he.

Father Tom then sung him Mortagrenoge and
the Bunch o' Rushes, and he was mighty well

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

pleased wid both, keeping time wid his hands, and
joining in in the choruses, when his hiccup 'ud let
him. At last, my dear, he opens the lower buttons
ov his waistcoat, and the top one ov his waistband,
and calls to Masther Anthony to lift up one ov the
windys. “I dunna what's wrong wid me, at all at
all,” says he, “I'm mortial sick.”

“I thrust,” says his Riv'rence, “the pasthry that
you ate at dinner hasn't disagreed wid your Holiness's
stomach.”

“Oh my! oh!” says the Pope, “what's this at
all?” gasping for breath, and as pale as a sheet,
wid a could swate bursting out over his forehead,
and the palms ov his hands spread out to catch the
air. “Oh my!—oh my!” says he, “fetch me a
basin!—Don't spake to me! Oh!—oh!—blood
alive!—Oh, my head, my head, hould my head!—
oh!—ubh!—I'm poisoned!—ach!”

“It was them plaguy pasthries,” says his Riv'-rence.
“Hould his head hard,” says he, “and
clap a wet cloth over his timples. If you could
only thry another dhraw o' the pipe, your Holiness,
it 'ud set you to rights in no time.”

“Carry me to bed,” says the Pope, “and never
let me see that wild Irish priest again. I'm poisoned
by his manes—upblsch!—ach!—ach!—He dined

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with Cardinal Wayld yesterday,” says he, “and
he's bribed him to take me off. Send for a confissor,”
says he, “for my latther end's approaching.
My head's like to split—so it is!—Oh my! oh my!—
upblsch!—ach!

Well, his Riv'rence never thought it worth his
while to make him an answer; but, when he seen
how ungratefully he was used, afther all his throuble
in making the evening agreeable to the ould
man, he called Spring, and put the but-end ov the
second bottle into his pocket, and left the house
widout once wishing “Good-night, an' plaisant
dhrames to you;” and in troth, not one of them
axed him to lave them a lock ov his hair.

That's the story as I heard it tould; but myself
doesn't b'lieve over one half ov it. Howandiver,
when all's done, it's a shame, so it is, that he's not
a bishop this blessed day and hour; for, next to
the goiant ov St. Jarlath's, he's out and out the
cleverest fellow ov the whole jing-bang.