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"Will I say it now? No, you plockit, no; and I will write your mother word you have proke Priscian's head four times this tay, since her letter came. You Irish plockit!" continued the relentless grammarian, "will you never learn the tifference between shall and will? Will I hear the letter, and will I see her once more? What Enclish is this, plockit?"
"There is nothing appears so clearly an object of the mind or intellect only as the future does, since we can find no place for its existence any where else: not but the same, if we consider, is equally true of the past " "Well, co on What stops the plockit? Can't you reat Enclish now?" "Yes, sir; but I was trying to understand it.
"There's no tanger of that," said Mr. Owen ap Jones; "for your mother, like a wise ooman, writes me here, that py the atvice of your cardian, to oom she is coing to be married, she will not pring you home to Ireland till I send her word you are perfect in your Enclish crammer at least." "I have my lesson perfect, sir," said Dominick, taking his grammar up from the floor; "will I say it now?"
When Mr Craham no, not Mr Craham, ta coot man; it was ta new Minister he speak an' say to her: 'Mr MacPhail, you ought to make your prayers in Enclish, I was fery wrathful, and I answered and said: 'Mr Downey, do you tare to suppose tat God doesn't prefer ta Gaelic to ta Sassenach tongue! 'Mr MacPhail, says he, 'it'll pe for your poy I mean it How's ta lad to learn ta way of salvation if you speak to your God in his presence in a strange tongue?
This may be exaggerated, but it is certain that our hero sometimes ventured with sly Irish humour to revenge himself upon his most powerful tyrant by mimicking the Welsh accent, in which Mr. Owen ap Jones said to him, "Cot pless me, you plockit, and shall I never learn you Enclish crammer?"
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