“Och, a letthur, sir--a letthur, master; an' may the Lord grant you all kinds of luck, good, bad, an' indifferent, both to you and yours: an' well it's known, by the same token, that it's yourself has the nice hand at the pen entirely, an' can indite a letter or petition, that the priest of the parish mightn't be ashamed to own to it.” “Why, thin, 'tis I that 'ud scorn to deteriorate upon the superiminence of my own execution at inditin' wid a pen in my hand; but would you feel a delectability in my supersoriptionizin' the epistolary correspondency, ma'am, that I'm about to adopt?” “Eagh? och, what am I sayin'!--sir--masther--sir?--the noise of the crathurs, you see, is got into my ears; and, besides, I'm a bit bothered on both sides of my head, ever since I heard that weary _weid_.” “Silence, boys; bad manners to yez, will ye be asy, you Lilliputian Boeotians--by my hem--upon my credit, if I go down to that corner, I'll castigate yez in dozens: I can't spake to this dacent woman, with your insuperable turbulentiality.” “Ah, avourneen, masther, but the larnin's a fine thing, any how; an' maybe 'tis yourself that hasn't the tongue in your head, an' can spake the tall, high-flown English; a wurrah, but your tongue hangs well, any how--the Lord increase it!” “Lanty Cassidy, are you gettin' on wid your Stereometry? _festina, mi discipuli; vocabo Homerum, mox atque mox_. You see, ma'am, I must tache thim to spake an' effectuate a translation of the larned languages sometimes.” “Arrah, masther dear, how did you get it all into your head, at all at all?” “Silence, boys--_tace--' conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant_.' Silence, I say agin.” “You could slip over, maybe, to Doran's, masther, do you see? You'd do it betther there, I'll engage: sure and you'd want a dhrop to steady your hand, any how.” “Now, boys, I am goin' to indite a small taste of literal correspondency over at the public-house here; you _literati_ will hear the lessons for me, boys, till afther I'm back agin; but mind, boys, _absente domino strepuunt servi_--meditate on the philosophy of that; and, Mick Mahon, take your slate and put down all the names; and, upon my soul--hem--credit, I'll castigate any boy guilty of _misty mannes_ on my retrogadation thither;--_ergo momentote, cave ne titubes mandataque frangas_.” “Blood alive, masther, but that's great spakin'--begar, a judge couldn't come up to you; but in throth, sir, I'd be long sarry to throuble you; only he's away fifteen year, and I wouldn't thrust it to another; and the corplar that commands the ridgment would regard your handwrite and your inditin'.” “Don't, ma'am, plade the smallest taste of apology.” “Eagh?” “I'm happy that I can sarve you, ma'am.” “Musha, long life to you, masther, for that same, any how--but it's yourself that's deep in the larnin' and the langridges; the Lord incrase yer knowledge--sure, an' we all want his blessin', you know.”