‘While the more advanced scholars were conning their tasks, he taught the younger tyros the alphabet—“Come up here, Pat Geehan,” said he to a red-headed boy, dressed in a grey frieze coat, which came down to his heels, and a pair of old leather breeches, that, only reaching half-way down his thighs, exposed his red measled legs,—“Come, stand up here on the table, and let the boys hear how well you can say your letters.”—Pat mounted with great confidence; but when his phiz, by being raised into the light, became more distinctly seen, “Ubbaboo, tearin’ murder!” exclaimed Phil., “where have you been wid that face? why, man alive, you’ve been kissing the prata pot; and your hair, too, stannin’ up for a price, like the bristles of a fighting pig. Is there no water in the stream? and it would have been no great trouble to draw your fingers through your hair any how.”—Pat very composedly lifted up the tail of his coat, and, spitting upon it, gave his face a wipe that left it streaked like a branded cow—“There now,” said Phil., “blow your nose, and hold up your head like a gentleman. What’s this, avick?” said he, pointing to the first letter of the alphabet—Pat scratched his head—“You don’t know what it is?—small blame to you, for your mother keeps you running after the cows, when you should be at your larnin’; but look up at the couples of the house, and try if you can’t remember it.”—“A,” said Pat.—“Well done! What’s the name of the next one?” Pat hesitated again.—“What do you call the big fly that makes the honey?”—“B.”—“Och you’re a genus, Pat, ready made.” So on he went illustrating in this manner, until he came to the letter O. Having tried Pat’s “genus” with it two or three ways to no purpose, Phil. was getting out of patience—“What would you say if I was to hit you a palthog on the ear?” (suiting the action to the word,)—“O!” cried Pat, clapping his hand upon the afflicted spot, which rung with the blow.—“I knew you would find it,” said Phil.—By the help of this admonition Pat struggled through the rest of the letters,—“Well, you may sit down now, and send up Mick Moriarty.”—Mick was rather farther on than Pat—he was spelling words. After spelling two or three tolerably well, he came to the word “what”—“Well, what does w-h-a-t make?”—Mick was not sure about it—“W-h-a-t,” said Phil., “sounds _fat_; but,” (conscious of his own error in the pronunciation) “when I say fat, don’t you say fat; but do you say fat your own way.”’ ‘Eugene is caricaturing,’ said Mary, ‘Phil. Sullivan was scarcely so bad as he represents; although I must confess his mode of instruction was at times rather ludicrous. Yet it was perhaps better suited to the poor children he had to teach, than that of a more refined instructor; and for all his blundering at the English, there was not one in the county a match for him at Latin or Irish.’