prehind the differ betuxt an inwitation to dinner from the succissor
of Saint Pether, and from a common nagur ov a Prodesan squireen that
maybe hasn't liquor enough in his cupboard to wet more nor his own
heretical whistle. That may be the way wid them that you wisit 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 ov the
Church and entitled to laniency. So," says he, "as the liquor's come,
let it stay. And in throth I'm curis myself," says he, getting mighty
soft when he found the delightful smell ov the _putteen_, "in
inwestigating the composition ov distilled liquors; it's a branch ov
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 wid his goolden muddler--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very shcrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vargin goold--"if I might make bould," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjec afore your Holiness, I think it 'ud considherably
whacilitate the inwestigation ov its chemisthry and phwarmaceutics, if
you'd jist thry the laste sup in life ov it in wardly."

"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 ov 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 honour," says his Riv