Master
Charles was ill of the many sour apples; it was growing late, and no
good could come of sitting longer in the open air. They re-embarked. By
the time they reached Putney it was pitch dark, and the tide was setting
against them. They moved on in mute impatience, for there was a slight
sprinkling of rain. It now fell in torrents. Master Charles grew
frightened and screamed. Cupid yelped, and Carlo howled. Accompanied the
rest of the way by these pleasing sounds, at one in the morning (two
hours and a half later than they intended) they arrived at Westminster
stairs, dull, dreary, drowsy, discontented, and drenched.

FATHER TOM AND THE POPE,

As related by Mr. Michael Heffernan, Master of the National
School at Tallymactaggart, in the County Leitrim, to a friend,
during his official visit to Dublin for the purpose of studying
political economy, in the spring of 1838.

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON.

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 of 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 away, and all as one as 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 soul," 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 knew 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 Salamanca, nor there's fornenst you on
the table; it's raal Lachrymachrystal, every spudh ov it."

"It's mortial could," says Father Tom.

"Well, ma