On cooling his burning blood with the “hydraulics,” he again lay down with the intention of composing himself for another sleep; but his eye having noticed the novelty of his situation, he once more called Nancy.

“Nancy avourneen,” he inquired, “will you be afther resolving me one single proposition.—­Where am I at the present spaking?  Is it in the Siminary at home, Nancy?” Nancy, in the mean time, had been desired to answer in the affirmative, hoping that if his mind was made easy on that point, he might refresh himself by another hour or two’s sleep, as he appeared to be not at all free from the effects of his previous intoxication.

“Why, Mat, jewel, where else could you be, alannah, but at home?  Sure isn’t here Jack, an’ Biddy, an’ myself, Mat, agra, along wid me.  Your head isn’t well, but all you want is a good rousin’ sleep.”

“Very well, Nancy; very well, that’s enough—­quite satisfactory—­quod erat demonstrandum.  May all kinds of bad luck rest upon the Findramore boys, any way!  The unlucky vagabonds—­I’m the third they’ve done up.  Nancy, off wid ye, like quicksilver for the priest.”

“The priest!  Why, Mat, jewel, what puts that into your head?  Sure, there’s nothing wrong wid ye, only the sup o’ drink you tuck yesterday.”

“Go, woman,” said Mat; “did you ever know me to make a wrong calculation—­I tell you I’m non compos mentis from head to heel.  Head! by my sowl, Nancy, it’ll soon be a capui mortuum wid me—­I’m far gone in a disease they call an opthical delusion—­the devil a thing less it is—­me bein’ in my own place, an’ to think I’m lyin’ in a settle bed; that there is a large dresser, covered wid pewter dishes and plates; and to crown all, the door on the wrong side of the house!  Off wid ye, and tell his Reverence that I want to be anointed, and to die in pace and charity wid all men.  May the most especial kind of bad luck light down upon you, Findramore, and all that’s in you, both man and baste—­you have given me my gruel along wid the rest; but, thank God, you won’t hang me, any how!  Off, Nancy, for the priest, till I die like a Christhan, in pace and forgiveness wid the world;—­all kinds of hard fortune to them!  Make haste, woman, if you expect me to die like a Christhan.  If they had let me alone till I’d publish to the world my Treatise upon Conic Sections—­but to be cut off on my march to fame! another draught of the hydraulics, Nancy, an’ then for the priest—­But see, bring Father Connell, the curate, for he understands something about Matthew-maticks; an’ never heed Father Roger, for divil a thing he knows about them, not even the difference between a right line and a curve—­in the page of histhory, to his everlasting disgrace, be the same recorded!”

“Mat,” replied Nancy, scarcely preserving her gravity, “keep yourself from talkin’, an’ fall asleep, then you’ll be well enough.”

“Is there e’er a sup at all in the house?” said Mat; “if there is, let me get it; for there’s an ould proverb, though it’s a most unmathematical axiom as ever was invinted—­’try a hair of the same dog that bit you;’ give me a glass, Nancy, an’ you can go for Father Connell after.  Oh, by the sowl of Isaac, that invented fluxions, what’s this for?”