A hedge schoolmaster was the general scribe of the parish, to whom all who wanted letters or petitions written, uniformly applied—­and these were glorious opportunities for the pompous display of pedantry; the remuneration usually consisted of a bottle of whiskey.

A poor woman, for instance, informs Mat that she wishes to have a letter written to her son, who is a soldier abroad.  “An’ how long is he gone, ma’am?”

“Och, thin, masther, he’s from me goin’ an fifteen year; an’ a comrade of his was spakin’ to Jim Dwyer, an’ says his ridgiment’s lyin’ in the Island of Budanages, somewhere in the back parts of Africa.”

“An’ is it a lotther of petition you’d be afther havin’ me to indite for you, ma’am?”

“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.”