During the course of the next day, the benevolent curate introduced him to the parish priest, who from the frequent claims urged by poor scholars upon his patronage, felt no particular interest in his case. He wrote a short letter, however, to the master with whom Jemmy intended to become a pupil, stating that “he was an honest boy, the son of legitimate parents, and worthy of consideration.” The curate, who saw further into the boy's character than the parish priest, accompanied him on the following day to the school; introduced him to the master in the most favorable manner, and recommended him in general to the hospitable care of all the pupils. This introduction did not serve the boy so much as might have been expected; there was nothing particular in the letter of the parish priest, and the curate was but a curate--no formidable personage in any church where the good-will of the rector has not been already secured. Jemmy returned that day to his lodgings, and the next morning, with his Latin Grammar under his arm, he went to school to taste the first bitter fruits of the tree of knowledge. On entering it, which he did with a beating heart, he found the despot of a hundred subjects sitting behind a desk, with his hat on, a brow superciliously severe, and his nose crimped into a most cutting and vinegar curl. The truth was, the master knew the character of the curate, and felt that because he had taken Jemmy under his protection, no opportunity remained for him of fleecing the boy, under the pretence of securing his money, and that consequently the arrival of the poor scholar would be no windfall, as he had expected. When Jemmy entered, he looked first at the master for his welcome; but the master, who verified the proverb, that there are none so blind as those who will not see, took no notice whatsoever of him. The boy then looked timidly about the school in quest of a friendly face, and indeed few faces except friendly ones were turned upon him. Several of the scholars rose up simultaneously to speak to him; but the pedagogue angrily inquired why they had left their seats and their business. “Why, sir,” said a young Munsterman, with a fine Milesian face--“be gorra, sir, I believe if we don't welcome the poor scholar, I think you won't. This is the boy, sir, that Mr. O'Brien came along wid yistherday, an' spoke so well of.” “I know that, Thady; and Misther O'Brien thinks, because he himself first passed through that overgrown hedge-school wid slates upon the roof of it, called Thrinity College, and matriculated in Maynooth afther, that he has legal authority to recommend every young vagrant to the gratuitous benefits of legitimate classicality. An' I suppose, that you are acting the Pathrun, too, Thady, and intind to take this young wild-goose under your protection?” “Why, sir, isn't he a poor scholar? Sure he mustn't want his bit an' sup, nor his night's lodgin', anyhow. You're to give him his larnin' only, sir.”