That Accursed Drink
An English traveller in Ireland, greedy for information and always fingering the note-book in his breast pocket, got into the same railway carriage with a certain Roman Catholic archbishop. Ignorant of his rank, and only perceiving that he was a divine, he questioned him pretty closely about the state of the country, whisky drinking, etc. At last he said, “You are a parish priest, yourself, of course.” His grace drew himself up. “I was one, sir,” he answered, with icy gravity. “Dear, dear,” was the sympathizing rejoinder. “That accursed drink, I suppose.”