He had been digging post holes, one day, for a gentleman, and when his task was finished, he began to speak of the books which he saw lying about—it was a printing office—and, as was most natural to him, he spoke of me. He told the printer of his anxieties and his desire that I should have a good education, and finally he spoke of my proposal respecting the money. The printer told Patrick, that it was very good advice, and he had better take it; for if his object was to educate me, there was no other way but this of effecting it, unless he sent me to a charity school. The blood mounted in the poor fellow’s cheeks at this suggestion, and he told me that he had great difficulty in commanding his temper, but his love for me conquered. As soon as he could swallow the affront—an affront, he said, to my father, and to my angel of a mother; for he, too, never separated my feelings from their’s—he begged the printer to let him bring me there and see how far I had advanced in my learning; but the man did not seem disposed to grant this favour. Bring the boy to me one year from this, and then I shall be better able to judge, said he; mean time, do you see that he is placed with a good teacher; one that will keep him to his studies. With a heavy heart, Patrick obeyed him, and I thus obtained a knowledge of reading, writing and arithmetic; but he seemed to be failing fast; every time he came to see me he appeared weaker, and was still more wretchedly clad, and I could devise no plan for his comfort. He never complained of his poverty, but of his laziness; and his constant exhortations were, “Patrick, my boy, be industrious; never allow of an idle moment; give over lying under the trees, and do not saunter about when your lessons are over—look at me; I am in rags and despised by every body because I have been an idler.” At the end of the year, in as good a suit of clothes as my poor godfather could manage to procure for me, I was taken to the printer. He cast a look at me as he stood at his desk writing, and then told us to take a seat. His cold manner struck a chill through my heart, and I crowded myself on Patrick’s chair that I might feel the warmth of his kindness. There we sat, speechless, for half an hour, until the letters were finished and despatched, and then the man turned his head again and gave another look. “Will you be for speaking to the boy touching his learning, your honour?” said honest Patrick, his feelings hurt by this coldness of manner; “or shall we come some other time?” “I have no time to question him now,” said the printer, “but if he can read and write—here, my boy, write your name on this leaf—Patrick Pan! hem—Pan, is it?” “Yes, your honour,” said the indignant Irishman, “and it was an honest man that bore it, and gived it to him, and I trust he’ll never disgrace it.”