“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.”