The Poor Scholar: Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of; William Carleton, Volume ThreeCarleton, William
General
The Poor Scholar: Traits And Stories Of The Irish Peasantry, The Works of; William Carleton, Volume Three
Carleton, William
Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
“An' what might the message be, Masther; Pat Roach? To dine to-day wid
your worthy father, abouchal?”
“No, sir; it's from one o' Mr. Lanigan's boys--him that belongs to the
carts, sir; he wants to spake to you, sir, i' you plase.”
“An' do you give that by way of an apologetical oration for your absence
from the advantages of my tuition until this hour? However, non constat
Patrici; I'll pluck the crow wid you on my return. If you don't find
yourself a well-flogged youth for your 'mitchin,' never say that this
right hand can administer condign punishment to that part of your
physical theory which constitutes the antithesis to your vacuum caput.
En et ewe, you villain,” he added, pointing to the birch, “it's newly
cut and trimmed, and pregnant wid alacrity for the operation. I correct,
Patricius, on fundamental principles, which you'll soon feel to your
cost.”
“Masther, sir,” replied the lad, in a friendly, conciliating tone, “my
father 'ud be oblaged to you, if you'd take share of a fat goose wid him
to-morrow.”
“Go to your sate, Paddy, avourneen; devil a dacent boy in the seminary I
joke--so much wid, as I do wid yourself; an' all out of respect for your
worthy parents. Faith, I've a great regard for them, all out, an' tell
them so.”
He then proceeded to the carts, and approaching Jemmy, gave him such
advice touching his conduct in Munster, as he considered to be most
serviceable to an inexperienced lad of his years.
“Here,” said the kind-hearted soul--“here, James, is my mite; it's but
bare ten shillings; but if I could make it a pound for you, it would
give me a degree of delectability which I have not enjoyed for a long
time. The truth is, there's something like the _nodus matrimonii_, or
what they facetiously term the priest's gallows, dangling over my head,
so that any little thrifle I may get must be kept together for that
crisis, James, abouchal; so that must be my apology for not giving
you more, joined to the naked fact, that I never was remarkable for a
superfluity of cash under any circumstances. Remember what I told you
last night. Don't let a shilling of your money into the hands of the
masther you settle wid. Give it to the parish priest, and dhraw it from
him when you want it. Don't join the parties or the factions of the
school. Above all, spake ill of nobody; and if the; masther is harsh
upon you, either bear it patiently, or mintion it to the priest, or
to some other person of respectability in the parish, and you'll be
protected. You'll be apt to meet cruelty enough, my good boy: for there
are larned Neros in Munster, who'd flog if the province was in flames.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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