No More Learning

And fait that same
is no wonder at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for
every inch o' the six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff
wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's
been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the
graces. Och! and wouldn't it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye
cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the
Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the illigant big
figgur that I ave, for the rason o' which all the ladies fall in love
wid me. Isn't it my own swate silf now that'll missure the six fut, and
the three inches more nor that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly
will proportioned all over to match? And it is ralelly more than three
fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the little ould furrener
Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a oggling and
a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt-door neighbor, (God bliss her! )
and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little
spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
sling, and it's for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give
you the good rason.

The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first
day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the
strait to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a
gone case althegither with the heart o' the purty Misthress Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
truth. First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she
threw open her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould
spy-glass that she clapped tight to one o' them and divil may burn me
if it didn't spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it,
through the spy-glass: "Och! the tip o' the mornin' to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison, Barronitt, mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye
are, sure enough, and it's mesilf and me forten jist that'll be at yur
sarvice, dear, inny time o' day at all at all for the asking. " And it's
not mesilf ye wud have to be bate in the purliteness; so I made her
a bow that wud ha' broken yur heart altegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both eyes, as much as to say, "True for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog,
if it's not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a
houl bushel o' love to yur leddyship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a
Londonderry purraty. "

And it was the nixt mornin', sure, jist as I was making up me mind
whither it wouldn't be the purlite thing to sind a bit o' writin' to the
widdy by way of a love-litter, when up com'd the delivery servant wid
an illigant card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could
rade the copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all
about Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look--aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and
that the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the
little ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.
And jist wid that in cum'd the little willian himself, and then he made
me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty
of doing me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to
palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud
be afther the tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he
said "pully wou, woolly wou," and tould me, among a bushel o' lies, bad
luck to him, that he was mad for the love o' my widdy Misthress Tracle,
and that my widdy Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.

At the hearin' of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git
the upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the matter and
kipt dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a
while what did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he
wud give me the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.

"Is it there ye are? " said I thin to mesilf, "and it's thrue for you,
Pathrick, that ye're the fortunittest mortal in life. We'll soon see
now whither it's your swate silf, or whither it's little Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love
wid. "

Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's, next door, and ye may well say it
was an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor,
and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew's harp and the divil
knows what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest
thing in all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the
swate little angel, Misthress Tracle.

"The tip o' the mornin' to ye," says I, "Mrs. Tracle," and thin I made
sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered
the brain o' ye.

"Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud," says the little furrenner
Frinchman, "and sure Mrs. Tracle," says he, that he did, "isn't this
gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt,
and isn't he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and
acquaintance that I have in the houl world? "

And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel;
and thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his silf right down by the right side of
her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two eyes o' me wud ha cum'd out of my head
on the spot, I was so dispirate mad! Howiver, "Bait who!