"Philip," observed Finigan, addressing the elder Hogan,--"Philip,
the Macedonian--monarch of Macedon, I say, is not that performance
a beautiful specimen of the saltatory art? There is manly beauty, O
Philip! and modest carriage.
"'With aquil beauty formed, and aquil grace,
Hers the soft blushes of the opening morn,
And his the radiance of the risen day.'"
"It's night now, misther, if you plaise," returned Hogan, gruffly;
"but we don't want your opinion here--stick to your pothooks and
hangers--keep to your trade."
"The _pot-hooks_ and _hangers_ are more _tui generis_, you misbegotten
satyr," replied the schoolmaster; "that is, more appropriately
concatenated with your own trade than wid mine. I have no trade, sirra,
but a profession, and neither have you. You stand in the same degraded
ratio to a tradesman that a rascally quack does to a regular surgeon."
"You had better keep a civil tongue in jour head," replied Hogan,
nettled at the laughter which the schoolmaster raised at his expense.
"What! a civil tongue for you! Polite language for a rascally
sotherer of ould skillets and other anonymous utensils. Why, what
are you?--firstly, a general violation of the ten commandments; and,
secondly, a misshapen but faithful impersonation of the seven deadly
sins. Take my word for it, my worthy Macedonian, you will die any death
but a horizontal one--it's veracity I'm telling you.
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