University of Virginia Library

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

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

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

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

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,”

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

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 hedge-master

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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.