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Updated: May 17, 2025
"Hand me down that cudgel, Jack Brady, till I show the gintleman the 'Snail' and the 'Maypole," said Mat. "Never mind, my lad; never mind, Mr a Kevanagh. I give up the contest; I resign you the palm, gentlemen. The hedge school has beaten Cambridge hollow." "One poser more before you go, sir," said Mat "Can you give me Latin for a game-egg in two words?" "Eh, a game egg?
"It will, I am convinced," replied the gentleman, eyeing the herculean frame of the strange teacher and the substantial cudgel in Mat's hand; "it will, undoubtedly. But who is this most miserable naked lad here, Mr. Kevanagh?" "Why, sir," replied Mat, with his broad Milesian face, expanded by a forthcoming joke, "he is, sir, in a sartin and especial particularity, a namesake of your own."
The Englishman was now nettled, and determined to wreak his ill-temper on Mat, by turning him and his establishment into ridicule. "Isn't this, Mister I forget your name, sir." "Mat Kavanagh, at your sarvice." "Very well, my learned friend, Mr. Mat Kevanagh, isn't this precisely what is called a hedge-school?" "A hedge-school!" replied Mat, highly offended; "my seminary a hedge-school!
"How is that, Mr. Kevanagh?" "My name's not Kevanagh," replied Mat, "but Kavanagh; the Irish A for ever!" "Well, but how is the lad a namesake of mine?" said the Englishman. "Bekase, you see, he's a, poor scholar, sir," replied Mat: "an' I hope your honor will pardon me for the facetiousness 'Quid vetat ridentem dicere verum! as Horace says to Maecenas, in the first of the Sathirs." "There, Mr.
Isn't Carlisle and Whateley smashed to pieces, and their whole college of swaddling teachers knocked into smidhereens. John Tuam, your sowl, has tuck his pasthoral staff in his hand and heathen them out o' Connaught as fast as ever Pathric druve the sarpints into Clew Bay. Poor ould Mat Kevanagh, if he was alive this day, 'tis he would be the happy man.
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