“George, my love,” exclaimed the lady of the mansion, “he is like most Irishmen of his class that I have seen; indeed, scarcely so intelligent, for he does appear quite a simpleton, except, perhaps, a lurking kind of expression, which is a sign of their humor, I suppose.  Don’t you think so, my love?”

“No, my dear; I think him a bad specimen of the Irishman.  Whether it is that he talks our language but imperfectly, or that he is a stupid creature, I cannot say; but in selling the pig just now, he actually told me that he would let me have it for more than it was worth.”

“Oh, that was so laughable!  We will speak to him, though.”

The degree of estimation in which these civilized English held Phil was so low, that this conversation took place within a few yards of him, precisely as if he had been an animal of an inferior species, or one of the aborigines of New Zealand.

“Pray what is your name?” inquired the matron.

“Phadhrumshagh Corfuffle, plase yer haner:  my fadher carried the same name upon him.  We’re av the Corfuflies av Leatherum Laghy, my lady; but my grandmudher was a Dornyeen, an’ my own mudher, plase yer haner, was o’ the Shudhurthagans o’ Ballymadoghy, my ladyship, Sladh anish, amuck bradagh!*—­be asy, can’t you, an’ me in conwersation wit the beauty o’ the world that I’m spakin’ to.”

     * Be quiet now, you wicked pig.

“That’s the Negus language,” observed,one of the young ladies, who affected to be a wit and a blue-stocking; “it’s Irish and English mixed.”

“Thrath, an’ but that the handsome young lady’s so purty,” observed Phil, “I’d be sayin’ myself that that’s a quare remark upon a poor unlarned man; but, Gad bless her, she is so purty what can one say for lookin’ an her!”

“The poor man, Adelaide, speaks as well as he can,” replied the lady, rather reprovingly:  “he is by no means so wild as one would have expected.”

“Candidly speaking, much tamer than I expected,” rejoined the wit.  Indeed, I meant the poor Irishman no offence.”

“Where did you get the pig, friend? and how came you to have it for sale so far from home?”

“Fwhy it isn’t whor sale, my lady,” replied Phil, evading the former question; “the masther here, Gad bless him an’ spare him to you, ma’am!—­thrath, an’ it’s his four quarthers that knew how to pick out a wife, any how, whor beauty an’ all hanerable whormations o’ grandheur—­so he did; an’ well he desarves you, my lady:  faix, it’s a fine houseful o’ thim you’ll have, plase Gad—­an’ fwhy not? whin it’s all in the coorse o’ Providence, bein’ both so handsome:—­he gev me a pound note whor her my ladyship, an’ his own plisure aftherwards; an’ I’m now waitin’ to be ped.”

“What kind of a country is Ireland, as I understand you are an Irishman?”

“Thrath, my lady, it’s like fwhat maybe you never seen—­a fool’s purse, ten guineas goin’ out whor one that goes in.”