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 meeddlar,--for
everything at the Pope's table, to the very shcrew for drawing the
corks, was ov vergin goold,--"if I might make boold," says he, "to spake
on so deep a subjic 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 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 jist make bould to lay
doun 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 Lachymalchrystal 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 satiswhaction; 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 devil a fear of
our running dhry till the but-end of the evening, anyhow," says he.

"Dhraw your stool into the fire, Misther Maguire," says the Pope, "for
faix," says he, "I'm bent on anilizing 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 fugil apiece, and fell into a
larned discourse.