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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'
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