The next day, of course, was one of festivity; every boy brought, in fact, as much provender as would serve six; but the surplus gave Mat some good dinners for three months to come.  This feast was always held upon St. Gregory’s day, from which circumstance it had its name.  The pupils were at liberty for that day to conduct themselves as they pleased:  and the consequence was, that they became generally intoxicated, and were brought home in that state to their parents.  If the children of two opposite parties, chanced to be at the same school, they usually had a fight, of which the master was compelled to feign ignorance; for if he identified himself with either faction, his residence in the neighborhood would be short.  In other districts, where Protestant schools were in existence, a battle-royal commonly took place between the opposite establishments, in some field lying half-way between them.  This has often occurred.

Every one must necessarily be acquainted with the ceremony of barring out.  This took place at Easter and Christmas.  The master was brought or sent out on some fool’s errand, the door shut and barricaded, and the pedagogue excluded, until a certain term of vacation was extorted.  With this, however, the master never complied until all his efforts at forcing an entrance were found to be ineffectual; because if he succeeded in getting in, they not only had no claim to a long vacation, but were liable to be corrected.  The schoolmaster had also generally the clerkship of the parish; an office, however, which in the country parts of Ireland is without any kind of salary, beyond what results from the patronage of the priest; a matter of serious moment to a teacher, who, should he incur his Reverence’s displeasure, would be immediately driven out of the parish.  The master, therefore, was always tyrannical and insolent to the people, in proportion as he stood high in the estimation of the priest.  He was also a regular attendant at all wakes and funerals, and usually sat among a crowd of the village sages engaged in exhibiting his own learning, and in recounting the number of his religious and literary disputations.

One day, soon after the visit of the gentlemen above mentioned, two strange men came into Mat’s establishment—­rather, as Mat thought, in an unceremonious manner.

“Is your name Matthew Kavanagh?” said one of them.

“That is indeed the name that’s upon me,” said Mat, with rather an infirm voice, whilst his face got as pale as ashes.

“Well,” said the fellow, “we’ll just trouble you to walk with us a bit.”

“How far, with submission, are yez goin’ to bring me?” said Mat.

“Do you know Johnny Short’s hotel?"*