_As related by Mr Michael Heffernan, Master of the National School at Tallymactaggart, in the County of Leitrim, to a friend, during his official visit to Dublin, for the purpose of studying Political Economy, in the Spring of 1838._ [_MAGA._ MAY 1838.] 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 away, 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; it's raal Lachrymalchrystal, every spudh ov it." "It's mortial could," says Father Tom. "Well, man alive," says the Pope, "sure and here's the best ov 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 ov spirits through it, if convanient." "Hand me over the bottle of 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, troth, 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 whisky in Room this blessed minit as 'ud blind the eye ov a midge."