NOW, WHEN we consider the total absence of all moral and religious principles in these establishments, and the positive presence of all that was wicked, cruel, and immoral, need we be surprised at the character of Ireland at this enlightened day. But her education and herself were neglected, and now behold the consequence. I am sorry to perceive the writings of many respectable persons on Irish topics, imbued with a tinge of spurious liberality, that frequently occasions them to depart from truth. To draw the Irish character as it is, as the model of all that is generous, hospitable, and magnanimous, is in some degree fashionable; but although I am as warm an admirer of all that is really excellent and amiable in my countrymen as any man, yet I cannot, nor will I, extenuate their weak and indefensible points. That they possess the elements of a noble and exalted national character, I grant; nay, that they actually do possess such a character, under limitations, I am ready to maintain: an Irishman, setting aside his religious and political prejudices, is grateful, affectionate, honourable, faithful, generous, and even magnanimous; but, under the stimulus of religious and political feeling, he is treacherous, cruel, and inhuman - will murder, burn, and exterminate, not only without cumpunction [sic], but with a satanic delight, worthy of a savage. Their education, indeed, was truly barbarous; they were trained and habituated to cruelty, revenge, and personal hatred, in their schools. Their knowledge was directed to evil purposes - disloyal principles were industriously insinuated into their minds by their teachers, every one of whom was a leader of some illegal association. The matter placed in their hands was of a most inflammatory and pernicious nature, as regarded politics; and as far as religion and morality were concerned, nothing could be more gross and superstitious than the books which circulated amongst them. Eulogiums on murder, robbery, and theft, were read with delight in the histories of Freney the Robber, and the Irish Rogues and Rapparees; ridicule of the Word of God, and hatred to the Protestant religion, in a book called Ward’s Cantos, written in Hudibrastic verse - the downfall of the Protestant Establishment, and the exaltation of the Romish Church, in Columbkill’s Prophecy, and latterly in that of Pastorini - a belief in every species of religious imposture, in the Lives of the Saints, of St. Patrick, of St. Columbkill, of St. Teresa, St. Francis Xavier, the Holy Scapular, and several other works, disgraceful to human reason. Political and religious ballads of the vilest doggrel, miraculous legends of holy friars persecuted by Protestants, and of signal vengeance inflicted by their divine power on their persecutors, were in the mouths of the young and old, and, of course, firmly fixed in their credulity. Their weapons of controversy were drawn from the Fifty Reasons, the Doleful Fall of Andrew Sail, the Catholic Christian, the Grounds of the Catholic Doctrine, a Net for the Fishers of Men, and several other publications of the same class. The books of amusement read in these schools, including the first-mentioned in this list, were, the Seven Champions of Christendom, the Seven Wise Masters and Mistresses of Rome, Don Belianis of Greece, the Royal Fairy Tales, the Arabian Nights Entertainments, Valentine and Orson, Gesta Romanorum, Dorastus and Faunia, the history of Reynard the Fox, the Chevalier Faublax; to these I may add, the Battle of Aughrim, Seige of Londonderry, History of the Young Ascanius, a name by which the Pretender was designated, and the Renowned History of the Seige of Troy; the Forty Thieves, Robin Hood’s Garland, the Garden of Love and Royal Flower of Fidelity; along with others, the names of which shall not appear on these pages. With this species of education before our eyes, is it at all extraordinary that lreland should be as she is?
 “Thady Bradley, will you come up wid your slate, till I examinate you in your figures? Go out, Sir, and blow your nose first, and don’t be after making a looking-glass out of the sleeve of your jacket. Now that Thady’s out, I’ll hould you, boys, that none of yees knows how to expound his name - eh? do yees? But I needn’t ax - well, ’tis Thadeus: and, maybe, that’s as much as the priest that christened him knew. Boys, you see what it is to have the larnin’ - to lade the life of a gintleman, and to be able to talk deeply wid the clargy: now, I could run down any man in arguin’, except a priest; and if the bishop was afther consecratin’ me, I’d have more larnin.’ than the most of them; but you see I’m not consecrated - and - well, ’tis no matther - I only say that the more’s the pity. Well, Thady, when did you go into subtraction?”
 “The day beyond yestherday, Sir; yarrah musha, sure ’twas yerself, Sir, that shet me the first sum.”
-“Masther, Sir, Thady Bradley stole my cutter - that’s my cutter, Thady Bradley.”
 “No, it’s not”, (in a low voice).
 “Sir, that’s my cutter - an’ there’s three nicks in id.”
 “Thady, is that his cutter?”
 “There’s your cutter for you - Sir, I found it on the flure, and didn’t know who owe’d it.”
 “You know’d very well who owe’d it; didn’t Dick Martin see you liftin’ it off o’ my slate when I was out?”
 “Well, if Dick Martin saw him, its enough: an’ ’tis Dick that’s the tindher-hearted boy, an’ would knock you down wid a lump of a stone, if he saw you murdherin’ but a fly. “Well, Thady - throth Thady, I fear you’ll undherstand subtraction betther nor your tacher: I doubt you’ll apply it to ‘Practice’ all your life, ma bouchal, and that you’ll be apt to find it ‘the Rule of False’ at last. Well, Thady, from one thousand pounds, no shillings and no pince, how will you subtract one pound? Put it down on your slate - this way,

 “I don’t know how to shet about it, masther.”
 “You don’t! an’ how dare you tell me so, you shingawn you - you Cornelius Agrippa, you - go to your sate and study it, or I’ll - ha! be off, you” -
 “Pierce Mahon, come up wid your multiplication. Pierce, multiply four hundred by two - put it down - that’s it,

 “Twicet nought is one.” (Whack, whack.) “Take that as an illustration - is that one?” “Faith, masther, that’s one an’ one, any how; but, Sir, is not wanst nought, nothin; now, masther, sure there can’t be less than nothin.” “Very good, Sir.” “If wanst nought be nothin’, then twicet nought must be somethin’, for its double what wanst nought is - see how I’m sthruck for nothin’, an’ me knows it - hoo! hoo! hoo!” “Get out, you Esculapian; but I’ll give you somethin’, by-and-by, just to make you remimber that you know nothin’ - off wid you to your sate, you spalpeen you - to tell me that there can’t be less than nothin’, when it’s well known that sporting Squire O’Canter is a thousand pounds worse than nothin’.”
 “Paddy Doran, come up to your’ Inthrest.’ Well, Paddy, what’s the intherest of a hundred pound, at five per cent? Boys, some of you let a fox pass there - manners, you thieves you.”
 “Do you mane, masther, per cent per annum?”
 “To be sure I do - how do you state it?”
 “I’ll say, as a hundher pound is to one year, so is five per cent per annum.”
 “ Hum - why - what’s the number of the sum, Paddy?”
 “’Tis No. 84, Sir.” (The master steals a glance at the Key to Gough.) “I only want to look at it in the Gough, you see, Paddy - an.’ how dare you give me such an answer, you big-headed dunce, you - go off an’ study it, you rascally Lilliputian - off wid you, and don’t let me see your ugly mug till you know it.”
 “Now, gintlemen, for the Classics; and first for the Latinaarians - Larry Cassidy, come up wid your Asop. Larry, you’re a year at Latin, an’ I don’t think you know Latin for frize, what your own coat is made of, Larry. But, in the first place, Larry, do you know what a man that taches classics is called?”
 “A schoolmasther, Sir.” (Whack, whack, whack.)
 “Take that for your ignorance, you wooden-headed goose, you - (whack, whack) - and that to the back of it - ha! that’ll tache you - to call a man that taches classics a schoolmasther, indeed! ’tis a Profissor of Humanity itself, he is - (whack, whack, whack, ) - ha! you ringlader, you; you’re as bad as Dick O’Connell, that no masther in the county could get any good of, in regard that he put the whole school together by the ears, wherever he’d be, though the spalpeen wouldn’t stand fight himself. Hard fortune to you! to go to put such an affront upon me, an’ me a Profissor of Humanity. What’s Latin for breeches?”
 “Fem - fem - femina.”
 “No, it’s not, Sir; that’s Latin for a woman.”
 “Femora -“Can you do it?”
 “Don’t strike me, Sir; don’t strike me, Sir, an’ I will.”
 “I say, can you do it?”
 “Femorali” - (whack, whack, whack, ) - “Ah, Sir! ah, Sir! ’tis fermorall - ah, Sir! ’tis fermorali - ah, Sir!”
 “This thratement to a Profissor of Humanity - (whack, -whack, whack, whack, kick, kick, kick, thump, thurnp, thump, cuff, cuff, cuff - drives him head over heels to his seat.) - Now, Sir, maybe you’ll have Latin for breeches, again, or, by my sowl, if you don’t, you must strip, and l’ll tache you what a Profissor of Humanity is!
 “Dan Shiel, you little starved-looking spalpeen, will you come up to your Illocution? - and a purty figure you cut at it, wid a voice like a penny trumpet, Dan! Well, what speeeh have you got now, Dan, ma bouchal? Is it ‘Romans, counthrymin, and lovers?’”
 “No Shir; yarrah, didn’t I spake that speech before? ’tis wan, masther, that I’m afther Pennen’ myself.”
 “No, you didn’t, you fairy; ah, Dan, little as you are, you take credit for more than ever you spoke, Dan, agrah; but, faith, the same thrick will come agin you some time or other, avick! Go, and get that speech bitther; I see, by your face, you haven’t it: off wid you, and get a patch upon your breeches, your little knees are through them, though ’tisn’t by prayin’ you’ve wore them, any how, you little hop-o’-my-thumb you, wid a voice like a rat in a thrap; and yet you’ll be practisin’ Illocution; off wid you, man-alive! You little spitfire you, if you and your school-fellow, Dick, had been wid the Jews whin they wanted to burn down the standin’ corn of the Philistins, the divil a fox they might bother their heads about, for yees both would have carried fire-brands by the hundher for them. Spake the next speech bitther; between you and Dick, you keep the school in perpetual agitation.”
 Sometimes the neighbouring gentry used to cal! into Mat’s establishment, moved probably by a curiosity excited by his character, and the general conduct of the school. On one occasion Squire Johnston and an English gentleman paid him rather an unexpected visit. Mat had that morning got a new scholar, the son of a dancing tailor in the neighbourhood; and as it was reported that the son was nearly equal to the father in that accomplishment, Mat insisted on having a specimen of his skill; and he was the more anxious on this point, as it would contribute to the amusement of a travelling schoolmaster, who had paid him rather a hostile visit, which Mat, who dreaded a literary challenge, feared might occasion him some trouble.
 “Come up here, you little sartor, till we get a dacent view of you. You’re a son of Neal Malone’s, aren’t you?” “Yes, and of Mary Malone, my mother, too, Sir.” “Why thin, that’s not bad, any how - what’s your name?” “Dick, Sir.” “Now, Dick, ma bouchal, isn’t it true that you can dance a horn-pipe?” “Yes, Sir.” “Here, Larry Brady, take the door off of the hinges, an’ lay it down on the flure, till Dick Malone dances the Humours of Glynn: silence, boys, not a word; but jist keep lookin’ an.” “Who’ll sing, Sir? for I can’t be after dancin’ a step widout the music.” “Boys, which of yees ’ill sing for Dick? I say, boys, will none of yees give Dick the harmony? Well, come, Dick, I’ll sing for you myself:
 “Torral lol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lorral, lol - Toldherol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lol”, &c. &c.
 “I say, Misther Kavanagh,” said the strange master, “what angle does Dick’s heel form in the second step of the treble, from the kibe on the left foot to the corner of the door forninst him?”
 To this Mat made no reply, only sang the tune with redoubled loudness and strength, whilst little Dicky pounded the old crazy door with all his skill and alacrity. The “boys.” were delighted. “Bravo, Dick, that’s a man - welt the flure - cut the buckle - murder the clocks - rise upon suggaun and sink upon gad; down the flure flat, foot about; keep one foot on the ground, and t’other never off it”, saluted him from all parts of the house; and sometimes he would receive a sly hint, in a feigned voice, to call for “Devil stick the Fiddler”, alluding to the master. Now a squeaking voice would chime in; by and by another, and so on, until the master’s bass had a hundred and forty trebles, all chorusing to the same tune.
 Just at this moment the two gentlemen entered; and, reader, you may conceive, but I cannot describe the face which Mat (who sat with his back to the door, and did not see them until they were some time in the house, ) exhibited on the occasion. There he sang ore rotundo, throwing forth an astounding tide of voice; whilst little Dick, a thin, pale-faced urchin, with his head, from which the hair stood erect, sunk between his narrow shoulders, was performing prodigious feats of agility.
 “What’s the matter? what’s the matter?” said the gentlemen. “Good morning, Mr. Kavanagh.”
 “ - Tooral lol, lol - Oh, good - oh, good morning - jintlemen, with extrame kindness”, replied Mat, rising suddenly up, but not removing his hat, although the gentlemen instantly uncovered.
 “Why, thin, jintlemen”, he continued, “you have caught us in our little relaxations to-day; but - hem! - I mane to give the boys a holiday for the sake of this honest and respectable jintleman in the frize jock, who is not entirely ignorant, you persave, of litherature; and we hed a small taste, jintlemen, among ourselves, of Sathurnalian licentiousness, ut ita dicam, in regard of - hem! - in regard of this lad here, who was dancing a horn-pipe upon the door, and we, in absence of betther musick, had to supply him with the harmony; but, as your honours know, jintlemen, the greatest men have bent themselves on espacial occasions.”
 “Make no apology, Mr. Kavanagh; it’s very commendable in you to bend yourself by. condescending to amuse your pupils.”
 “I beg your pardon, Squire, I can take freedoms with you; but perhaps the concomitant jintleman, your friend here, would be plased to take my stool. Indeed I always use a chair; but the back of it, if I may be permitted the use of a small portion of jocularity, was as frail as the fair sect: it went home yesterday to be minded. Do, Sir, condescind to be sated. Upon my reputation, Squire, I am sorry that I have not accommodation for you too, Sir; except one of these hassocks, which, in joint consitheration with the length of your honour’s legs, would be, I anticipate, rather low; but you, Sir, will honour me by taking the stool.”
 By considerable importunity he forced the gentleman to comply with his courtesy; but no sooner had he fixed himself upon the seat, than it overturned, and stretched him, black coat and all, across a wide concavity in the floor, nearly filled up with white ashes produced from mountain turf. In a moment he was completely white on one side, and exhibited a most laughable appearance; his hat, too, was scorched and nearly burned on the turf coals. Squire Johnston laughed heartily, as did the other schoolmaster, whilst the Englishman completely lost his temper; swearing that so uncivilized an establishment was not between the poles.
 “I solemnly supplicate upwards of fifty pardons”, said Mat; “bad manners to it for a stool! but, your honour, it was my own defect of speculation; bekase, you see, it’s minus a leg, a circumstance of which you warn’t in a proper capacity to take cognation, as not bein.’ personally acquainted with it. I humbly supplicate upwards of fifty pardons.”
 The Englishman was now nettled, and determined to wreak his ill temper on Mat, by turning him and his establisment into ridicule.
 “Isn’t this, Mister - I forget your name, Sir.”
 “Mat Kavanagh, at your sarvice.”
 “Very well, my learned friend, Mr. Mat Kavanagh, isn’t this precisely what is called a hedge school?” “A hedge-school!” replied Mat, highly offended; “My siminary a hedge school! No, Sir; I scorn the cognomen, in toto. This, Sir, is a Classical and Mathematical Siminary, undher the personal superintindance of your humble sarvant.”
 “Sir”, replied the other master, who till then was silent, wishing, perhaps, to sack Mat in presence of the gentlemen, “it is a hedge school; and he is no scholar, but an ignoramus, whom l’d sack in three minutes, that would be ashamed of a hedge school.”
 “Ay”, says Mat”, changing his tone, and taking the cue from his friend, whose learning he dreaded, “it’s just, for argument’s sake, a hedge school; and, what is more, I scorn to be ashamed of it.”
 “And do you not teach occasionally under the hedge behind the house here?”
 “Granted”, replied Mat; “and now, where’s your vis consequentiae?”
 “ Yes,” subjoined the other, “where’s your vis consequentiae?”
 The Englishman himself was rather at a loss for the vis consequentiae, and replied, “Why the devil don’t you live, and learn, and teach like civilized beings, and not assemble like wild asses - pardon me, my friend, for the simile - at least, like wild colts, in such clusters behind the ditches?”
 “A clusther of wild coults!” said Mat; “that shows what you are; no man of classical larnin’ would use such a word.”
 “Permit me, Sir”, replied the strange master, “to ax your honour one question - did you receive a classical education? Are you college-bred?”
 “Yes”, replied the Englishman: “I can reply to both in the affirmative. I’m a Cantabrigian.”
 “You’re a what?” asked Mat.
 “I am a Cantabrigian.”
 “Come, Sir, you must explain yourself, if you plase. I’ll take my oath that’s neither a classical nor a mathematical tarrn.”
 The gentleman smiled. “I was educated in the English College of Cambridge.”
 “Well”, says Mat, “and maybe you would be as well off, if you had picked up your larnin’ in our own Thrinity; there’s good picking in Thrinity.”
 “You talk with contempt of a hedge school”, replied the other master. “Did you never hear, for all so long as you war in Cambridge, of a nate little spot in Greece, called the Groves of Academus?

[END]