copies, which they perform seated on the
ground, with their paper on a copy-board--a piece of planed deal, the
size of the copy, an appendage now nearly exploded--their cheek-bones
laid within half an inch of the left side of the copy, and the eye set
to guide the motion of the hand across, and to regulate the straightness
of the lines and the forms of the letters. Others, again, of the more
grown boys, are working their sums with becoming industry. In a dark
corner are a pair of urchins thumping each other, their eyes steadily
fixed on the master, lest he might happen to glance in that direction.
Near the master himself are the larger boys, from twenty-two to
fifteen--shaggy-headed slips, with loose-breasted shirts lying open
about their bare chests; ragged colts, with white, dry, bristling beards
upon them, that never knew a razor; strong stockings on their legs;
heavy brogues, with broad, nail-paved soles; and breeches open at the
knees. Nor is the establishment without a competent number of females.
These were, for the most part, the daughters of wealthy farmers, who
considered it necessary to their respectability, that they should not
be altogether illiterate; such a circumstance being a considerable
drawback, in the opinion of an admirer, from the character of a young
woman for whom he was about to propose--a drawback, too, which was
always weighty in proportion to her wealth or respectability.

Having given our readers an imperfect sketch of the interior of Mat's
establishment, we will now proceed, however feebly, to represent him at
work--with all the machinery of the system in full operation.

"Come, boys, rehearse--(buz, buz, buz)--I'll soon be after calling
up the first spelling lesson--(buz, buz, buz)--then the
mathematicians--book-keepers--Latinists and Grecians, successfully.
(Buz, buz, buz)--Silence there below!--your pens! Tim Casey, isn't this
a purty hour o' the day for you to come into school at; arraix, and what
kept you, Tim? Walk up wid yourself here, till we have a confabulation
together; you see I love to be talking to you.

"Sir, Larry Branagen, here; he's throwing spits at me out of his
pen."--(Buz, buz, buz.)

"By my sowl, Larry, there's a rod in steep for you."

"Fly away, Jack--fly away, Jill; come again, Jack--"

"I had to go to Paddy Nowlan's for to-baccy, sir, for my
father." (Weeping with his hand knowingly across his face--one eye
laughing at his comrades.)--

"You lie, it wasn'