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’t.”

“If you call me a liar agin, I’ll give you a dig in the mug.”

“It’s not in your jacket.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Behave yourself; ha! there’s the masther looking at you—­ye’ll get it now.”—­

“None at all, Tim?  And she’s not after sinding an excuse wid you?  What’s that undher your arm?”

“My Grough, sir.”—­(Buz, buz, buz.)

“Silence, boys.  And, you blackguard Lilliputian, you, what kept you away till this?”

“One bird pickin’, two men thrashin’; one bird pickin’, two men thrashin’; one bird pickin’—­”

“Sir, they’re stickn’ pins in me, here.”

“Who is, Briney?”

“I don’t know, sir, they’re all at it.”

“Boys, I’ll go down to yez.”

“I can’t carry him, sir, he’d be too heavy for me:  let Larry Toole do it, he’s stronger nor me; any way, there, he’s putting a corker pin in his mouth."*—­(Buz, buz, buz.)