"That's good, docthor--indeed, that's good. 'She was caught in bed,' says I; and 'It's the diocese of _Down_,' says _you_: 'faith, that's good. I wish the diocese was your own; for you're funny enough to be a bishop, docthor, you lay howld of everything." "That's a great qualification for a mitre, ma'am," said the doctor. "And the poor young man that has got her is not worth a farthing, I hear, docthor." "Then _he_ must be the curate, ma'am; though I don't think it's a chapel of ease he has got into." "Oh! what a tongue you have, docthor," said she, laughing; "'faith you'll kill me." "That's my profession, ma'am. I am a licentiate of the Royal College; but, unfortunately for me, my humanity is an overmatch for my science. Phrenologically speaking, my benevolence is large, and my destructiveness and acquisitiveness small." "Ah, there you go off on another tack; and what a funny new thing that is you talk of!--that free knowledge or crow-knowledge, or whatever sort of knowledge you call it. And there's one thing I want to ask you about: there's a bump the ladies have, the gentlemen always laugh at, I remark." "That's very rude of them, ma'am," said the doctor drily. "Is it in the anterior region, or the----" "Docthor, don't talk queer." "I'm only speaking scientifically, ma'am." "Well, I think your scientific discourse is only an excuse for saying impudent things; I mean the back of their heads." "I thought so, ma'am." "They call it--dear me, I forget--something--motive--motive--it's Latin--but I am no _scholard_, docthor." "That's manifest, ma'am." "But a lady is not bound to know Latin, docthor." "Certainly not, ma'am--nor any other language except that of the eyes." Now, this was a wicked hit of the doctor's, for Mrs. Gubbins squinted frightfully; but Mrs. Gubbins did not know that, so she went on. "The bump I mean, docthor, is motive something--motive--motive--I have it!--motive-_ness_." "Now, I know what you mean," said the doctor; "amativeness." "That's it," said Mrs. Gubbins; "they call it number one, sometimes; I suppose amativeness is Latin for number one. Now, what does that bump mean?" "Ah, madam," said the doctor, puzzled for a moment to give an explanation; but in a few seconds he answered, "That's a beautiful provision of nature. That, ma'am, is the organ which makes your sex take compassion on ours."[28] [28] This very ingenious answer was really given by an Irish professor to an over-inquisitive lady. "Wonderful!" said Mrs. Gubbins; "but how good nature is in giving us provision! and I don't think there is a finer provision county in Ireland than this." "Certainly not, ma'am," said the doctor;--but the moment Mrs. Gubbins began to speak of provisions, he was sure she would get into a very solid discourse about her own farms; so he left his seat beside her and went over to Mrs. Riley, to see what fun could be had in that quarter.