for two," says his
Riv'rence.

"Clear it ov its coefficient, 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 sperets can't get out on account ov 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 spacies,
as you say; for, you may have observed, we've both been in real good
sperits ever since the cork was dhrawn, and where else would the real
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."

"O, begad," says his Riv'rence, "the accidents is very essential too;
for a man may be in the best ov good sperits, as far as his immaterial
part goes, and yet need the accidental qualities ov good liquor to hunt
the sinsible thirst out ov him." So he dhraws the cork in earnest, and
sets about brewing the other skillet ov _scaltheen_; but, faiz, he had
to get up the ingradients this time by the hands ov ould Moley; though
devil a taste ov her little finger he'd let widin a yard ov the same
coction.

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

V.

THE REASON WHY FATHER TOM WAS NOT MADE A CARDINAL.

_Hurroo_, my darlings!--didn't I tell you it 'ud never do? Success to
bould John Tuam and the ould siminary ov Firdramore! O, 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
Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling
teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his
pasthoral staff in his hand and heathen them out o' Connaught as fast as
ever Pathric druve the sarpints into Clew Bay.

Poor