"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."

"I suppose so, Mr. Thaddeus; but this is the penalty of celebrity. If I
weren't so celebrated a man for classics as I am, I would have none of
this work. I tell you, Thady, if I had fifty sons I wouldn't make one o'
them celebrated."

"Wait till you have one first, sir, and you may make him as great a
numskull as you plase, Master."

"But in the meantime, Thady, I'll have no dictation from you, as to
whether I have one or fifty; or as to whether he'll be an ass or a
Newton. I say that a dearth of larnin' is like a year of famine in
Ireland. When the people are hard pushed, they bleed the fattest
bullocks, an' live on their blood; an' so it is wid us Academicians.
It's always he that has the most larned blood in his veins, and the
greatest quantity of it that such hungry leeches fasten on."

"Thrue for you, sir," said the youth with a smile; "but they say the
bullocks always fatten the betther for it. I hope you'll bleed well now,
sir."

"Thady, I don't like, the curl of your nose; an', moreover, I have
always found you prone to sedition. You remember your conduct at the
'Barring out.' I tell you it's well that your worthy father is a dacent
wealthy man, or I'd be apt to give you a _memoria technica_ on the
_subtratum_, Thady."