a love-letter to his sweetheart, it was still Timothy Fagan--or whatever
the name might be--Philomath; and this was always written in legible and
distinct copy-hand, sufficiently large to attract the observation of the
reader.

It was also usual for a man who had been a preeminent and extraordinary
scholar, to have the epithet Great prefixed to his name. I remember one
of this description, who was called the Great O'Brien par excellence. In
the latter years of his life he gave up teaching, and led a circulating
life, going round from school to school, and remaining a week or a month
alternately among his brethren. His visits were considered an honor,
and raised considerably the literary character of those with whom he
resided; for he spoke of dunces with the most dignified contempt, and
the general impression was, that he would scorn even to avail himself of
their hospitality. Like most of his brethren, he could not live without
the poteen; and his custom was, to drink a pint of it in its native
purity before he entered into any literary contest, or made any display
of his learning at wakes or other Irish festivities; and most certainly,
however blamable the practice, and injurious to health and morals, it
threw out his talents and his powers in a most surprising manner.

It was highly amusing to observe the peculiarity which the consciousness
of superior knowledge impressed upon the conversation and personal
appearance of this decaying race. Whatever might have been the original
conformation of their physical structure, it was sure, by the force of
acquired habit, to transform itself into a stiff, erect, consequential,
and unbending manner, ludicrously characteristic of an inflated sense of
their extraordinary knowledge, and a proud and commiserating contempt
of the dark ignorance by which, in despite of their own light, they were
surrounded. Their conversation, like their own _crambos_, was dark and