in the course of the day.  In this ring, with his legs stretched in a most lordly manner, sits, upon a deal chair, Mat himself, with his hat on, basking in the enjoyment of unlimited authority.  His dress consists of a black coat, considerably in want of repair, transferred to his shoulders through the means of a clothes-broker in the county-town; a white cravat, round a large stuffing, having that part which comes in contact with the chin somewhat streaked with brown—­a black waistcoat, with one or two “tooth-an’-egg” metal buttons sewed on where the original had fallen off—­black corduroy inexpressibles, twice dyed, and sheep’s-gray stockings.  In his hand is a large, broad ruler, the emblem of his power, the woful instrument of executive justice, and the signal of terror to all within his jurisdiction.  In a corner below is a pile of turf, where on entering, every boy throws his two sods, with a hitch from under his left arm.  He then comes up to the master, catches his forelock with finger and thumb, and bobs down his head, by way of making him a bow, and goes to his seat.  Along the walls on the ground is a series of round stones, some of them capped with a straw collar or hassock, on which the boys sit; others have bosses, and many of them hobs—­a light but compact kind of boggy substance found in the mountains.  On these several of them sit; the greater number of them, however, have no seats whatever, but squat themselves down, without compunction, on the hard floor.  Hung about, on wooden pegs driven into the walls, are the shapeless yellow “caubeens” of such as can boast the luxury of a hat, or caps made of goat or hare’s skin, the latter having the ears of the animal rising ludicrously over the temples, or cocked out at the sides, and the scut either before or behind, according to the taste or the humor of the wearer.  The floor, which is only swept every Saturday, is strewed over with tops of quills, pens, pieces of broken slate, and tattered leaves of “Reading made Easy,” or fragments of old copies.  In one corner is a knot engaged at “Fox and Geese,” or the “Walls of Troy” on their slates; in another, a pair of them are “fighting bottles,” which consists in striking the bottoms together, and he whose bottle breaks first, of course, loses.  Behind the master is a third set, playing “heads and points”—­a game of pins.  Some are more industriously employed in writing their 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.