“Well, I thought the first was difficult: but the second was Masoretic to it—something about drawbacks, excisemen, and a long custom-house list, that would puzzle Publius Virgilius Maro, if he was set to translate it. However, I went through wid it as well as I could; where I couldn't find Latin, I laid in the Greek, and where the Greek failed me, I gave the Irish, which, to tell the truth, in consequence of its vernacularity, I found to be the most convanient. Och, och many a larned scrimmage I have signalized myself in, during my time. Sure my name's as common as a mail-coach in Thrinity College; and 'tis well known there isn't a fellow in it but I could sack, except may be, the prowost. That's their own opinion. 'Corcoran,' says the prowost, 'is the most larned man in Ireland; an' I'm not ashamed,' says he, 'to acknowledge that I'd rather decline meeting him upon deep points.' Ginteels, all your healths—hem! But among ourselves I could bog him in a very short time; though I'd scorn to deprive the gintleman of his reputaytion or his place, even if he sent me a challenge of larnin' to-morrow, although he's too cute to venture on doing that—hem, hem!”
To hear an obscure creature, whose name was but faintly known in the remote parts even of the parish in which he lived, draw the long-bow at such a rate, was highly amusing. The credulous character of his auditory, however, was no slight temptation to him; for he knew that next to the legends of their saints, or the Gospel itself, his fictions ranked in authenticity; and he was determined that it should not be his fault if their opinion of his learning and talents were not raised to the highest point. The feeling experienced by the poor scholar, when he awoke the next morning, was one both of satisfaction and sorrow. He thought once more of his home and kindred, and reflected that it might be possible he had I seen the last of his beloved relations. His grief, however, was checked when he remembered the warm and paternal affection with which he was received on the preceding night by his hospitable countryman. He offered up his prayers to God; humbly besought his grace and protection; nor did he forget to implore a blessing upon those who I had thus soothed his early sorrows, and afforded him, though a stranger and friendless, I shelter, comfort, and sympathy.
“I hope,” thought he, “that I will meet many such, till I overcome my difficulties, an' find myself able to assist my poor father an' mother!”
And he did meet many such among the humble, and despised, and neglected of his countrymen; for—and we say it with pride—the character of this excellent farmer is thoroughly that of our peasantry within the range of domestic life.
When he had eaten a comfortable breakfast, and seen his satchel stuffed with provision for his journey, the farmer brought him up to his own room, in which were also his wife and children.
“God,” said he, “has been good to me; blessed be his holy name!—betther it appears in one sinse, than he has been to you, dear, though maybe I don't desarve it as well. But no matther, acushla; I have it, an' you want it; so here's a thrifle to help your forrid in your larnin'; an' all I ax from you is to offer up a bit of a prayer for me, of an odd time, an' if ever you live to be a priest, to say, if it wouldn't be throublesome, one Mass for me an' those that you see about me. It's not much, James agra—only two guineas. They may stand your friend, whin friends will be scarce wid you; though, I hope, that won't be the case aither.”
The tears were already streaming down. Jemmy's cheeks. “Oh,” said the artless boy, “God forever reward you! but sure I have a great dale of money in the—in the—cuff o' my coat. Indeed I have, an' I won't want it!”
The farmer, affected by the utter simplicity of the lad, looked at his wife and smiled, although a tear stood in his eye at the time. She wiped her eyes with her apron, and backed the kind offer of her husband.
“Take it, asthore,” she added, “in your cuff! Musha, God help you! sure it's not much you or the likes of you can have in your cuff, avourneen! Don't be ashamed, but take it; we can well afford it, glory be to God for it! It's not, agra, bekase you're goin' the way you are—though that same's an honor to you—but bekase our hearts warmed to you, that we offered it, an' bekase we would wish you to be thinkin' of us now an' thin, when you're in a strange part of the country. Let me open your pocket an' put them into it. That's a good, boy, thank you, an' God bless an' prosper you! I'm sure you were always biddable.”
“Now childre,” said the farmer, addressing his sons and daughters, “never see the sthranger widout a friend, nor wantin' a bed or a dinner, when you grow up to be men an' women. There's many a turn in this world; we may be strangers ourselves; an' think of what I would feel if any of you was far from me, widout money or friends, when I'd hear that you met a father in a strange counthry that lightened your hearts by his kindness. Now, dear, the carts 'll be ready in no time—eh? Why there they are at the gate waitin' for you. Get into one of them, an' they'll lave you in the next town. Come, roan, budan' age, be stout-hearted, an' don't cry; sure we did nothin' for you to spake of.”