"Ah," replied the man of letters, "thigum, thigum. (* I understand) God
be wid the day when I carried the likes of it. 'Tis a badge of polite
genius, that no boy need be ashamed of. So my young suckling of
litherature, you're bound for Munster?--for that counthry where the
swallows fly in conic sections--where the magpies and the turkey's
confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric
Greek--bo-a-o--clamo. What's your pathronymic? _quo nomine gowdes,
Domine doctissime?_"
The lad was silent; but the farmer's wife turned up the whites of her
eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of the
"masther."
"I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia of
the languages; well--the honor is still before you. What's your name?"
"James M'Evoy, sir."
Just now the farmer's family began to assemble round the spacious
hearth; the young lads, whose instruction the worthy teacher claimed as
his own peculiar task, came timidly forward, together with two or three
pretty bashful girls with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances full of
feeling and intelligence. Behind on the settles, half-a-dozen servants
of both sexes sat in pairs--each boy placing himself beside his favorite
girl. These appeared to be as strongly interested in the learned
conversation which the master held, as if they were masters and
mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek themselves; but an
occasional thump cautiously bestowed by no slender female hand upon the
sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough from one of the young
men, fabricated to drown the coming blow, gave slight indications that
they contrived to have a little amusement among themselves, altogether
independent of Mr.
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