that district, who circulated, like a newspaper, from one farmer's house
to another, in order to expound for his kind entertainers the news
of the day, his own learning, and the very evident extent of their
ignorance.

The moment he came in, the farmer and his wife rose with an air of much
deference, and placed a chair for him exactly opposite the fire, leaving
a respectful distance on each side, within which no illiterate mortal
durst presume to sit.

"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?"