“Misther Corcoran,” said the farmer, presenting Jemmy’s satchel, through which the shapes of the books were quite plain, “thig in thu shinn?” (* Do you understand this) and as he spoke he looked significantly at its owner.

“Ah,” replied the man of letters, “thigum, thigum. (* I understand) God be wid the day when I carried the likes of it.  ’Tis a badge of polite genius, that no boy need be ashamed of.  So my young suckling of litherature, you’re bound for Munster?—­for that counthry where the swallows fly in conic sections—­where the magpies and the turkey’s confab in Latin, and the cows and bullocks will roar you Doric Greek—­bo-a-o—­clamo.  What’s your pathronymic? quo nomine gowdes, Domine doctissime?”

The lad was silent; but the farmer’s wife turned up the whites of her eyes with an expression of wonder and surprise at the erudition of the “masther.”

“I persave you are as yet uninitiated into the elementary principia of the languages; well—­the honor is still before you.  What’s your name?”

“James M’Evoy, sir.”

Just now the farmer’s family began to assemble round the spacious hearth; the young lads, whose instruction the worthy teacher claimed as his own peculiar task, came timidly forward, together with two or three pretty bashful girls with sweet flashing eyes, and countenances full of feeling and intelligence.  Behind on the settles, half-a-dozen servants of both sexes sat in pairs—­each boy placing himself beside his favorite girl.  These appeared to be as strongly interested in the learned conversation which the master held, as if they were masters and mistresses of Munster Latin and Doric Greek themselves; but an occasional thump cautiously bestowed by no slender female hand upon the sturdy shoulder of her companion, or a dry cough from one of the young men, fabricated to drown the coming blow, gave slight indications that they contrived to have a little amusement among themselves, altogether independent of Mr. Corcoran’s erudition.

When the latter came in, Jemmy was taking the tumbler of punch which the farmer’s wife had mixed for him; on this he fixed an expressive glance, which instantly reverted to the vanithee, and from her to the large bottle which stood in a window to the right of the fire.  It is a quick eye, however, that can anticipate Irish hospitality.

“Alley,” said the farmer, ere the wife had time to comply with the hint conveyed by the black, twinkling eye of the schoolmaster; “why, Alley”—­

“Sure, I am,” she replied, “an’ will have it for you in less than no time.”

She accordingly addressed herself to the bottle, and in a few minutes handed a reeking jug of punch to the Farithee, or good man.

“Come, Masther, by the hand o’ my body, I don’t like dhry talk so long as I can get anything to moisten the discoorse.  Here’s your health, Masther,” continued the farmer, winking at the rest, “and a speedy conclusion to what you know!  In throth, she’s the pick of a good girl—­not to mintion what she has for her portion.  I’m a friend to the same family, an’ will put a spoke in your wheel, Masther, that’ll sarve you.”