The Project Gutenberg EBook of Castle Rackrent, by Maria Edgeworth

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Title: Castle Rackrent

Author: Maria Edgeworth

Commentator: Anne Thackeray Ritchie

Release Date: February 18, 2006 [EBook #1424]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CASTLE RACKRENT ***

Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger

CASTLE RACKRENT

by Maria Edgeworth

With an Introduction by Anne ThackerayRitchie

[Note: The body of this novel contains a lot of footnotes and many references to the Glossary at the end. The footnotes (which are sometimes quite long) have been inserted in square brackets near to the point where they were referred to by suffix in the original text. The entries in the Glossary have been numbered, instead of being

listed with a page number as they were in the printed book; they are also referenced with a note in square brackets near the point where there was a suffix in the original.

Italics have been replaced by capitals.

The pound sterling symbol has been replaced by 'L'.

This text and the Introduction were taken from an edition published by Macmillan and Co. in 1895.]

Contents

INTRODUCTION

NOTES ON 'CASTLE RACKRENT'

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

CASTLE RACKRENT

MONDAY MORNING

CONTINUATION OF THE MEMOIRS OF THE RACKRENT FAMILY

HISTORY OF SIR CONOLLY RACKRENT

GLOSSARY

GLOSSARY 1. MONDAY MORNING

GLOSSARY 2. LET ALONE THE THREE KINGDOMS ITSELF.

GLOSSARY 3. WHILLALUH.

GLOSSARY 4. THE TENANTS WERE SENT AWAY WITHOUT THEIR WHISKY.

GLOSSARY 5. HE DEMEANED HIMSELF GREATLY

GLOSSARY 6. DUTY FOWLS, DUTY TURKEYS, AND DUTY GEESE.

GLOSSARY 7. ENGLISH TENANTS.

GLOSSARY 8. CANTING

GLOSSARY 9. DUTY WORK.

GLOSSARY 10. OUT OF FORTY-NINE SUITS HE NEVER LOST ONE BUT SEVENTEEN.

GLOSSARY 11. FAIRY MOUNTS

GLOSSARY 12. WEED ASHES.

GLOSSARY 13. SEALING MONEY.

GLOSSARY 14. SIR MURTAGH GREW MAD

GLOSSARY 15. THE WHOLE KITCHEN WAS OUT ON THE STAIRS

GLOSSARY 16. FINING DOWN THE YEAR'S RENT.

GLOSSARY 17. DRIVER.

GLOSSARY 18. I THOUGHT TO MAKE HIM A PRIEST.

GLOSSARY 19. FLAM.

GLOSSARY 20. BARRACK-ROOM.

GLOSSARY 21. AN INNOCENT

GLOSSARY 22. THE CURRAGH

GLOSSARY 23. THE CANT

GLOSSARY 24. AND SO SHOULD CUT HIM OFF FOR EVER BY LEVYING A FINE,

GLOSSARY 25. A RAKING POT OF TEA.

GLOSSARY 26. WE GAINED THE DAY BY THIS PIECE OF HONESTY.

GLOSSARY 27. CARTON AND HALF-CARTON,

GLOSSARY 28. WAKE.

GLOSSARY 29. KILT.

INTRODUCTION

I

The story of the Edgeworth Family, if it wereproperly told, should be as long as the ARABIANNIGHTS themselves; the thousand and onecheerful intelligent members of the circle, theamusing friends and relations, the charmingsurroundings, the cheerful hospitable home, all goto make up an almost unique history of a countyfamily of great parts and no little character. The

Edgeworths were people of good means andposition, and their rental, we are told, amounted tonearly L3000 a year. At one time there was sometalk of a peerage for Mr. Edgeworth, but he wasconsidered too independent for a peerage.

The family tradition seems to have beenunconventional and spirited always. There arerecords still extant in the present Mr. Edgeworth'spossession,papers of most wonderful vitality forparchment,where you may read passionateremonstrances and adjurations from great-grandfathers to great-great-grandfathers, andwhere great-great-grandmothers rush into thediscussion with vehement spelling andremonstrance, and make matters no better by theirinterference. I never read more passionatelyeloquent letters and appeals. There are alsorecords of a pleasanter nature; merrymakings, andfestive preparations, and 12s. 6d. for a pair of silkstockings for Miss Margaret Edgeworth to dancein, carefully entered into the family budget. All the

people whose portraits are hanging up, beruffled,dignified, calm, and periwigged, on the old wallsof Edgeworthstown certainly had extraordinarilystrong impressions, and gave eloquent expressionto them. I don't think people could feel quite sostrongly now about their own affairs as they didthen; there are so many printed emotions, so manypublic events, that private details cannot seemquite as important. Edgeworths of those days werefarther away from the world than they are now,dwelling in the plains of Longford, which as yetwere not crossed by iron rails. The family seems tohave made little of distances, and to have riddenand posted to and fro from Dublin toEdgeworthstown in storm and sunshine.

II

When Messrs. Macmillan asked me to write apreface to this new edition of Miss Edgeworth'sstories I thought I should like to see the placewhere she had lived so long and where she had

written so much, and so it happened that being inIreland early this year, my daughter and I foundourselves driving up to Broadstone Station onemorning in time for the early train toEdgeworthstown. As we got out of our cab weasked the driver what the fare should be. 'Sure thefare is half a crown,' said he, 'and if you wish togive me more, I could keep it for myself!'

The train was starting and we bought ourpapers to beguile the road. 'Will you have a HomeRule paper or one of them others?' said thenewsboy, with such a droll emphasis that wecouldn't help laughing. 'Give me one of each,' saidI; then he laughed, as no English newsboy wouldhave done. . . . We went along in the car with asad couple of people out of a hospital, compatriotsof our own, who had been settled ten years inIreland, and were longing to be away. The poorthings were past consolation, dull, despairing,ingrained English, sick and suffering and yearningfor Brixton, just as other aliens long for their

native hills and moors. We travelled alongtogether all that spring morning by the blossominghedges, and triumphal arches of flowering May;the hills were very far away, but the lovely lightsand scents were all about and made our journeycharming. Maynooth was a fragrant vision as weflew past, of vast gardens wall-enclosed, of statelybuildings. The whole line of railway was sweetwith the May flowers, and with the pungent andrefreshing scent of the turf-bogs. The air was soclear and so limpid that we could see for miles,and short-sighted eyes needed no glasses toadmire with. Here and there a turf cabin, now andthen a lake placidly reflecting the sky. The countryseemed given over to silence, the light spedunheeded across the delicate browns and greens ofthe bog-fields; or lay on the sweet wonderful greenof the meadows. One dazzling field we saw full ofdancing circles of little fairy pigs with curly tails.Everything was homelike but NOT England, therewas something of France, something of Italy in the

sky; in the fanciful tints upon the land and sea, inthe vastness of the picture, in the happy sadnessand calm content which is so difficult to describeor to account for. Finally we reached our journey'send. It gave one a real emotion to seeEDGEWORTHSTOWN written up on the boardbefore us, and to realise that we were following inthe steps of those giants who had passed beforeus. The master of Edgeworthstown kindly met usand drove us to his home through the outlyingvillage, shaded with its sycamores, underneathwhich pretty cows were browsing the grass. Wepassed the Roman Catholic Church, the great ironcrucifix standing in the churchyard. Then thehorses turned in at the gate of the park, and thererose the old home, so exactly like what oneexpected it, that I felt as if I had been there beforein some other phase of existence.

It is certainly a tradition in the family towelcome travellers! I thought of the variousmemoirs I had read, of the travellers arriving from

the North and the South and the West; of Scottand Lockhart, of Pictet, of the Ticknors, of themany visitants who had come up in turn; whetherit is the year 14, or the year 94, the hospitabledoors open kindly to admit them. There were theFrench windows reaching to the ground, throughwhich Maria used to pass on her way to gather herroses; there was the porch where Walter Scott hadstood; there grew the quaint old-fashioned busheswith the great pink peonies in flower, by thoserailings which still divide the park from themeadows beyond; there spread the branches of thecentury-old trees. Only last winter they told us thestorms came and swept away a grove of Beechesthat were known in all the country round, but howmuch of shade, of flower, still remain! The nobleHawthorn of stately growth, the pine-trees (thereshould be NAMES for trees, as there are for rocksor ancient strongholds). Mr. Edgeworth showed usthe oak from Jerusalem, the grove of cypress andsycamore where the beautiful depths of ground ivy

are floating upon the DEBRIS, and soften thegnarled roots, while they flood the rising bankswith green.

Mr. and Mrs. Edgeworth brought us into thehouse. The ways go upstairs and downstairs, bywinding passages and side gates; a pretty domedstaircase starts from the central hall, where standsthat old clock-case which Maria wound up whenshe was over eighty years old. To the right and tothe left along the passages were rooms openingfrom one into another. I could imagine SirWalter's kind eyes looking upon the scene, andWordsworth coming down the stairs, and theirfriendly entertainer making all happy, and allwelcome in turn; and their hostess, the widowedMrs. Edgeworth, responding and sympathisingwith each. We saw the corner by the fire whereMaria wrote; we saw her table with its prettycurves standing in its place in the deep casements.Miss Edgeworth's own room is a tiny little roomabove looking out on the back garden. This little

closet opens from a larger one, and then by anarrow flight of stairs leads to a suite of ground-floor chambers, following one from another, linedwith bookcases and looking on the gardens. Whata strange fellow-feeling with the past it gave oneto stand staring at the old books, with their paperbacks and old-fashioned covers, at the grayboards, which were the liveries of literature inthose early days; at the first editions, with theirinscriptions in the author's handwriting, or inMaria's pretty caligraphy. There was the PIRATEin its original volumes, and Mackintosh'sMEMOIRS, and Mrs. Barbauld's ESSAYS, andDescartes's ESSAYS, that Arthur Hallam liked toread; Hallam's CONSTITUTIONAL HISTORY,and Rogers's POEMS, were there all inscribed anddedicated. Not less interesting were the piles ofMagazines that had been sent from America. Inever knew before how many Magazines existedeven those early days; we took some down athazard and read names, dates, and initials. . . .

Storied urn and monumental bust do not bringback the past as do the books which belong to it.Storied urns are in churches and stone niches, farremoved from the lives of which they speak; booksseem a part of our daily life, and are like the soundof a voice just outside the door. Here they were, asthey had been read by her, stored away by herhands, and still safely preserved, bringing backthe past with, as it were, a cheerful encouraginggreeting to the present. Other relics there are ofcourse, but, as I say, none which touch one sovividly. There is her silver ink-stand, the littletable her father left her on which she wrote (it hadbelonged to his mother before him). There is alsoa curious trophya table which was sent to herfrom Edinburgh, ornamented by promiscuousviews of Italy, curiously inappropriate to hergenius; but not so the inscription, which is quotedfrom Sir Walter Scott's Preface to his CollectedEdition, and which may as well be quoted here:'WITHOUT BEING SO PRESUMPTUOUS AS

TO HOPE TO EMULATE THE RICHHUMOUR, THE PATHETIC TENDERNESS,AND ADMIRABLE TRUTH WHICHPERVADE THE WORKS OF MYACCOMPLISHED FRIEND,' Sir Walter wrote, IFELT THAT SOMETHING MIGHT BEATTEMPTED FOR MY OWN COUNTRY OFTHE SAME KIND AS THAT WHICH MISSEDGEWORTH SO FORTUNATELYACHIEVED FOR IRELAND.'

In the MEMOIRS of Miss Edgeworth there is apretty account of her sudden burst of feeling whenthis passage so unexpected, and so deeply felt byher, was read out by one of her sisters, at a timewhen Maria lay weak and recovering from illnessin Edgeworthstown.

Our host took us that day, among other pleasantthings, for a marvellous and delightful flight on ajaunting car, to see something of the country. Wesped through storms and sunshine, by open moors

and fields, and then by villages and little churches,by farms where the pigs were standing at thedoors to be fed, by pretty trim cottages. The lightscame and went; as the mist lifted we could see theexquisite colours, the green, the dazzling sweetlights on the meadows, playing upon the meadow-sweet and elder bushes; at last we came to thelovely glades of Carriglass. It seemed to me thatwe had reached an enchanted forest amid thisgreen sweet tangle of ivy, of flowering summertrees, of immemorial oaks and sycamores.

A squirrel was darting up the branches of abeautiful spreading beech-tree, a whole army ofrabbits were flashing with silver tails into thebrushwood; swallows, blackbirds, peacock-butterflies, dragonflies on the wing, a mightysylvan life was roaming in this lovely orderlywilderness.

The great Irish kitchen garden, belonging to thehouse, with its seven miles of wall, was also not

unlike a part of a fairy tale. Its owner, Mr. Lefroy,told me that Miss Edgeworth had been constantlythere. She was a great friend of Judge Lefroy. As aboy he remembered her driving up to the houseand running up through the great drawing-roomdoors to greet the Judge.

Miss Edgeworth certainly lived in a fairsurrounding, and, with Sophia Western, musthave gone along the way of life heralded bysweetest things, by the song of birds, by the goldradiance of the buttercups, by the varied shadowsof those beautiful trees under which the cowsgently tread the grass. English does not seemexactly the language in which to write of Ireland,with its sylvan wonders of natural beauty.Madame de Sevigne's descriptions of her woodscame to my mind. It is not a place which delightsone by its actual sensual beauty, as Italy does; it isnot as in England, where a thousand associationslink one to every scene and aspectIreland seemsto me to contain some unique and most

impersonal charm, which is quite unwritable.

All that evening we sat talking with our hostsround the fire (for it was cold enough for a fire),and I remembered that in Miss Edgeworth'sMEMOIRS it was described how the snow layupon the ground and upon the land, when thefamily came home in June to take possession ofEdgeworthstown.

As I put out my candle in the spacious guest-chamber I wondered which of its past inhabitantsI should wish to see standing in the middle of theroom. I must confess that the thought of thebeautiful Honora filled me with alarm, and if MissSeward had walked in in her pearls and satin robeI should have fled for my life. As I lay thereexperimentalising upon my own emotions I foundthat after all, natural simple people do not frightenone whether dead or alive. The thought of them isever welcome; it is the artificial people who aresometimes one thing, sometimes another, and who

form themselves on the weaknesses and fancies ofthose among whom they live, who are reallyterrifying.

The shadow of the bird's wing flitted across thewindow of my bedroom, and the sun was shiningnext morning when I awoke. I could see the cows,foot deep in the grass under the hawthorns. Afterbreakfast we went out into the grounds andthrough an arched doorway into the kitchengarden. It might have been some corner of Italy orthe South of France; the square tower of thegranary rose high against the blue, the gray wallswere hung with messy fruit trees, pigeons weredarting and flapping their wings, gardeners wereat work, the very vegetables were growingluxuriant and romantic and edged by thick bordersof violet pansy; crossing the courtyard, we cameinto the village street, also orderly and white-washed. The soft limpid air made all things intopictures, into Turners, into Titians. A Murillo-likeboy, with dark eyes, was leaning against a wall,

with his shadow, watching us go by; strange oldwomen, with draperies round their heads, werecoming out of their houses. We passed the Post-Office, the village shops, with their names, theMonaghans and Gerahtys, such as we find againin Miss Edgeworth's novels. We heard the localpolitics discussed over the counter with a certainaptness and directness which struck me verymuch. We passed the boarding-house, which wasnot without its historya long low buildingerected by Mr. and Miss Edgeworth for a school,where the Sandfords and Mertons of those dayswere to be brought up together: a sort offoreshadowing of the High Schools of the present.Mr. Edgeworth was, as we know, the very spirit ofprogress, though his experiment did not answer atthe time. At the end of the village street, wheretwo roads divide, we noticed a gap in the decentroadwaya pile of ruins in a garden. A tumble-down cottage, and beyond the cottage, a fallingshed, on the thatched roof of which a hen was

clucking and scraping. These cottages Mr.Edgeworth had, after long difficulty, bought upand condemned as unfit for human habitation. Theplans had been considered, the orders given tobuild new cottages in their place, which were to belet to the old tenants at the old rent, but the lastremaining inhabitant absolutely refused to leave;we saw an old woman in a hood slowly crossingthe road, and carrying a pail for water; no threatsor inducements would move her, not even thesight of a neat little house, white-washed andpainted, and all ready for her to step into. Herpresent rent was 10d. a week, Mr. Edgeworth toldme, and she had been letting the tumble-downshed to a large family for 1s. 4d. This sub-let wasforcibly put an end to, but the landlady still stopsthere, and there she will stay until the roof tumblesdown upon her head. The old creature passed onthrough the sunshine, a decrepit, picturesquefigure carrying her pail to the stream, defying allthe laws of progress and political economy and

civilisation in her feebleness and determination.

Most of the women came to their doors to seeus go by. They all looked as old as the hillssome dropt curtseys, others threw up their arms inbenediction. From a cottage farther up the roadissued a strange, shy old creature, looking like abundle of hay, walking on bare legs. She came upwith a pinch of snuff, and a shake of the hand; shewas of the family of the man who had once savedEdgeworthstown from being destroyed by therebels. 'Sure it was not her father,' said old Peggy,'it was her grandfather did it!' So she explained,but it was hard to believe that such an old, oldcreature had ever had a grandfather in the memoryof man.

The glebe lands lie beyond the village. Theyreach as far as the church on its high plateau, fromwhich you can see the Wicklow Hills on a fineday, and the lovely shifting of the lights of thelandscape. The remains of the great pew of the

Edgeworth family, with its carved canopy ofwood, is still a feature in the bare church fromwhich so much has been swept away. The namesof the fathers are written on the chancel walls, anda few medallions of daughters and sisters also. Inthe churchyard, among green elder bushes and tallupspringing grasses, is the square monumenterected to Mr. Edgeworth and his family; and aswe stood there the quiet place was crossed andrecrossed by swallows with their beating crescentwings.

III

Whatever one may think of Mr. Edgeworth'sliterary manipulations and of his influence uponhis daughter's writings, one cannot but respect thesincere and cordial understanding which boundthese two people together, and realise the addedinterest in life, in its machinery and evolutions,which Maria owed to her father's activeintelligence. Her own gift, I think, must have been

one for perceiving through the minds of others,and for realising the value of what they in turnreflected; one is struck again and again by the oddmixture of intuition, and of absolute matter of factwhich one finds in her writings.

It is difficult to realise, when one reads thememoirs of human beings who loved and hated,and laughed and scolded, and wanted things anddid without them, very much as we do ourselves,that though they thought as we do and felt as wedo (only, as I have said, with greater vehemence),they didn't LOOK like us at all; and Mr.Edgeworth, the father of Maria Edgeworth, the'gay gallant,' the impetuous, ingenious, energeticgentleman, sat writing with powdered hair and aqueue, with tights and buckles, bolt upright in astiff chair, while his family, also bequeued andbecurled and bekerchiefed, were gathered roundhim in a group, composedly attentive to hisexplanations, as he points to the roll upon thetable, or reads from his many MSS. and

notebooks, for their edification.

To have four wives and twenty-two children, tohave invented so many machines, engines, andcurricles, steeples and telegraph posts, is morethan commonly falls to the lot of one ordinaryman, but such we know was Mr. Edgeworth'shistory told by his own lips.

I received by chance an old newspaper the otherday, dated the 23rd July 1779. It is called theLONDON PACKET, and its news, told with longs's and pretty curly italics, thrills one even now asone looks over the four short pages. The leadingarticle is entitled 'Striking Instance of thePERFIDY of France.' It is true the grievance goesback to Louis XIV., but the leader is written withplenty of spirit and present indignation. Thencomes news from America and the lists of NewCouncillors elected:

'Artemus Ward, Francis Dana, Oliver Prescott,

Samuel Baker, while a very suitable sermon on theoccasion is preached by the Rev. Mr. Stillman ofBoston.' How familiar the names all sound! Thenthe thanks of the Members of Congress are givento 'General Lee, Colonel Moultrie, and the officersand soldiers under their command who on the28th of June last Repulsed with so much Valourthe attack that was made that day on the State ofSouth Carolina by the fleet and army of hisBritannic Majesty.'

There is an irresistible spirit of old-world pigtaildecorum and dash about it all. We read of our'grand fleet' waiting at Corunna for the Spanish; of80,000 men on the coast of Brittany supposed tobe ready for an invasion of England; of the Princeof Conde playing at cards, with NorthumberlandHouse itself for stakes (Northumberland Housewhich he is INTENDING to take). We read thelist of Lottery Prizes, of the L1000 and L500tickets; of the pressing want of seamen for HisMajesty's Navy, and how the gentlemen of Ireland

are subscribers to a bounty fund. Then comes thenarrative of James Caton of Bristol, who writes tocomplain that while transacting his business onthe Bristol Exchange he is violently seized by apressgang, with oaths and imprecations. Mr. Farr,attempting to speak to him, is told by theLieutenant that if he does not keep off he will beshot with a pistol. Mr. Caton is violently carriedoff, locked up in a horrible stinking room,prevented from seeing his friends; after a day ortwo he is forced on board a tender, where Mr.Tripp, a midshipman, behaves with humanity, butthe Captain and Lieutenant outvie each other inbrutality; Captain Hamilton behaving as an'enraged partisan.' Poor Mr. Caton is released atlast by the exertions of Mr. Edmund Burke, of Mr.Farr, and another devoted friend, who travel post-haste to London to obtain a Habeas Corpus, sothat he is able to write indignantly and safe fromhis own home to the LONDON PACKET todescribe his providential escape. The little sheet

gives one a vivid impression of that daily life in1779, when Miss Edgeworth must have been alittle girl of twelve years old, at school at Mrs.Lataffiere's, and learning to write in her beautifulhandwriting. It was a time of great events. Theworld is fighting, armies marching and counter-marching, and countries rapidly changing hands.Miss Seward is inditing her elegant descriptionsfor the use of her admiring circle. But already thecircle is dwindling! Mr. Day has parted fromSabrina. The well-known episodes of Lichfieldgaieties and love-makings are over. Poor MajorAndre has been exiled from England and rejectedby Honora. The beautiful Honora, whose"blending charms of mind and person" arecelebrated by one adoring lover after another, hasmarried Mr. Edgeworth. She has knownhappiness, and the devoted affection of an adoringhusband, and the admiring love of her little step-daughter, all this had been hers; and now all thisis coming to an end, and the poor lady lying on her

death-bed imploring her husband to marry hersister Elizabeth. Accordingly Mr. Edgeworthmarried Elizabeth Sneyd in 1780, which was alsothe year of poor Andre's death.

There is a little oval picture at the NationalGallery in Dublin, the photograph of a sketch atEdgeworthstown House, which gives one a verygood impression of the family as it must haveappeared in the reigns of King George and thethird Mrs. Edgeworth. The father in his powderand frills sits at the table with intelligent, well-informed finger showing some place upon a map.He is an agreeable-looking youngish man; Mrs.Edgeworth, his third wife, is looking over hisshoulder; she has marked features, beautiful eyes,she holds a child upon her knee, and one can seethe likeness in her to her step-daughter Honora,who stands just behind her and leans against thechair. A large globe appropriately stands in thebackground. The grown-up ladies alternate withsmall children. Miss Edgeworth herself, sitting

opposite to her father, is the most prominent figurein the group. She wears a broad leghorn hat, afrizzed coiffure, and folded kerchief; she has asprightly, somewhat French appearance, with amarked nose of the RETROUSSE order. I had sooften heard that she was plain that to see thisfashionable and agreeable figure was a pleasantsurprise.

Miss Edgeworth seems to be about four-and-twenty in the sketch; she was born in 1767; shemust have been eleven in 1778, when Mr.Edgeworth finally came over to Ireland to settle onhis own estate, and among his own people. He hadbeen obliged some years before to leaveEdgeworthstown on account of Mrs. HonoraEdgeworth's health; he now returned in patriarchalfashion with Mrs. Elizabeth Edgeworth, his thirdwife, with his children by his first, second, andthird marriages, and with two sisters-in-law whohad made their home in his family. For thirty-fiveyears he continued to live on in the pretty old

home which he now adapted to his large family,and which, notwithstanding Miss Edgeworth'sobjections, would have seemed so well fitted forits various requirements. The daughter'sdescription of his life there, of his work among histenants, of his paternal and spirited rule, is vividand interesting. When the present owner ofEdgeworthstown talked to us of his grandfather,one felt that, with all his eccentricities, he musthave been a man of a far-seeing mind andobservation. Mr. Erroles Edgeworth said that hewas himself still reaping the benefit of hisgrandfather's admirable organisation andarrangements on the estate, and that when peopleall around met with endless difficulties andcomplications, he had scarcely known any. Wouldthat there had been more Mr. Edgeworths inIreland!

Whatever business he had to do, his daughtertells us, was done in the midst of his family.Maria copied his letters of business and helped

him to receive his rents. 'On most Irish estates,'says Miss Edgeworth, 'there is, or there was, apersonage commonly called a driver,a personwho drives and impounds cattle for rent andarrears.' The drivers are, alas! from time to timetoo necessary in collecting Irish rents. Mr.Edgeworth desired that none of his tenants shouldpay rent to any one but himself; thus taking awaysubordinate interference, he became individuallyacquainted with his tenantry. He also madehimself acquainted with the different value of landon his estate. In every case where the tenant hadimproved the land his claim to preference overevery new proposer was admitted. The mere plea,'I have been on your Honour's estate so manyyears,' was disregarded. 'Nor was it advantageousthat each son,' says Miss Edgeworth, 'of theoriginal tenant should live on his subdivided littlepotato garden without further exertion of mind orbody.' Further on she continues: 'Not being inwant of ready money, my father was not obliged to

let his land to the highest bidder. He could affordto have good tenants.' In the old leases claims ofduty-fowl, of duty-work, of man or beast had beeninserted. Mr. Edgeworth was one of the first toabolish them. The only clause he continued inevery lease was the alienation fine, which was toprotect the landlord and to prevent a set ofmiddlemen from taking land at a reasonable rent,and letting it immediately at the highest possibleprice. His indulgence as to the time he allowed forthe payment of rent was unusually great, butbeyond the half year the tenants knew hisstrictness so well, that they rarely ventured to gointo arrears, and never did so with impunity. 'Tohis character as a good landlord,' she continues,'was added that he was a real gentleman; thisphrase comprises a good deal in the opinion of thelower Irish.' There is one very curious paragraphin which Miss Edgeworth describes how herfather knew how to make use of the tenants'prejudices, putting forward his wishes rather than

his convictions. 'It would be impossible for me,'says his daughter, 'without ostentation to give anyof the proofs I might record of my father'sliberality. Long after they were forgotten byhimself, they were remembered by the warm-hearted people among whom he lived.'

Mr. Edgeworth was one of those people born toget their own way. Every one seems to have feltthe influence of his strong character. It was notonly with his family and his friends that he heldhis ownthe tenants and the poor people ralliedto his command. To be sure, it sounds like someold Irish legend to be told that Mr. Edgeworth hadso loud a voice that it could be heard a mile off,and that his steward, who lived in a lodge at thatdistance from the house, could hear him callingfrom the drawing-room window, and would comeup for orders.

In 1778, says Miss Edgeworth retrospectively,when England was despatching her armies all

over the world, she had no troops to spare for thedefence of Ireland then threatened with a Frenchinvasion; and the principal nobility and gentryembodied themselves volunteers for the defence ofthe country. The Duke of Leinster and LordCharlemont were at the head of the 'corps whichin perfect order and good discipline rendered theircountry respectable.' The friends of Ireland,profiting by England's growing consideration forthe sister country, now obtained for her greatbenefits for which they had long been striving, andMr. Grattan moved an address to the throneasserting the legislative independence of Ireland.The address passed the House, and, as hisdaughter tells us, Mr. Edgeworth immediatelypublished a pamphlet. Miss Edgeworth continuesas follows, describing his excellent course ofaction: 'My father honestly and unostentatiouslyused his utmost endeavours to obliterate all thatcould tend to perpetuate ill-will in the country.Among the lower classes in his neighbourhood he

endeavoured to discourage that spirit ofrecrimination and retaliation which the lower Irishare too prone to cherish. They are such acuteobservers that there is no deceiving them as to thestate of the real feeling of their superiors. Theyknow the signs of what passes within with morecertainty than any physiognomist, and it was soonseen by all those who had any connection withhim that my father was sincere in his disdain ofvengeance.' Further on, describing his politicalfeelings, she says that on the subject of the Unionin parliamentary phrase he had not then been ableto make up his mind. She describes with somepride his first speech in the Irish House at twoo'clock in the morning, when the weariedmembers were scarcely awake to hear it, andwhen some of the outstretched members werearoused by their neighbours to listen to him!'When people perceived that it was not a setspeech,' says Miss Edgeworth, 'they becameinterested.' He stated his doubts just as they had

occurred as he threw them by turn into each scale.After giving many reasons in favour of whatappeared to be the advantages of the Union, heunexpectedly gave his vote against it, because hesaid he had been convinced by what he had heardone night, that the Union was decidedly againstthe wishes of the majority of men of sense andproperty in the nation. He added (and surely Mr.Edgeworth's opinion should go for something still)that if he should be convinced that the opinions ofthe country changed, his vote would be in itsfavour.

His biographer tells us that Mr. Edgeworth wasmuch complimented on his speech by BOTHsides, by those for whom he voted, and also bythose who found that the best arguments on theother side of the question had been undoubtedlymade by him. It is a somewhat complicatedstatement and state of feeling to follow; to thefaithful daughter nothing is impossible where herfather is concerned. This vote, I believe, cost Mr.

Edgeworth his peerage. 'When it was known thathe had voted against the Union he becamesuddenly the idol of those who would previouslyhave stoned him,' says his devoted biographer. Itmust not, however, be forgotten that Mr.Edgeworth had refused an offer of L3000 for hisseat for two or three weeks, during thatmomentous period when every vote was ofimportance. Mr. Pitt, they say, spent overL2,000,000 in carrying the measure which hedeemed so necessary.

IV

As a rule people's books appeal first to one'simagination, and then after a time, if the books aregood books and alive, not stuffed dummies andreproductions, one begins to divine the writersthemselves, hidden away in their pages, andwrapped up in their hot-press sheets of paper; andso it happened by chance that a printed letter oncewritten by Maria Edgeworth to Mrs. Barbauld set

the present reader wondering about these twofamiliar names, and trying to realise the humanbeings which they each represented. Since thosedays Miss Edgeworth has become a personagemore vivid and interesting than any of hercharacters, more familiar even than 'Simple Susan'or 'Rosamond of the Purple Jar.' She has seemedlittle by little to grow into a friend, as the writerhas learnt to know her more and more intimately,has visited the home of that home-loving woman,has held in her hands the delightful FamilyMemoirs, has seen the horizons, so to speak, ofMaria Edgeworth's long life. [Now published andedited by Mr. Hare (Nov. 1894).] Several historiesof Miss Edgeworth have been lately published inEngland. Miss Zimmern and Miss Oliver inAmerica have each written, and the present writerhas written, and various memoirs and letters haveappeared in different magazines and papers withallusions and descriptions all more or lessinteresting. One can but admire the spirit which

animated that whole existence; the cheerful,kindly, multiplied interest Maria Edgeworth tookin the world outside, as well as in the wellbeing ofall those around her. Generations, changes, newfamilies, new experiences, none of theseoverwhelmed her. She seemed to move in a crowd,a cheerful, orderly crowd, keeping in tune andheart with its thousand claims; with strength andcalmness of mind to bear multiplied sorrows and avariety of care with courage, and an ever-revivinggift of spirited interest. Her history is almostunique in its curious relationships; its changes ofstep-mothers, its warm family ties, its grasp ofcertain facts which belong to all time rather thanto the hour itself. Miss Edgeworth lived for overeighty years, busy, beneficent, modest, andintelligent to the last. When she died she wasmourned as unmarried women of eighty are notoften mourned.

The present owner of Edgeworthstown told usthat he could just remember her, lying dead upon

her bed, and her face upon the pillow, and thesorrowful tears of the household; and how he andthe other little children were carried off by aweeping aunt into the woods, to comfort anddistract them on the funeral day. He also told us ofan incident prior to this event which should not beoverlooked. How he himself, being caught red-handed, at the age of four or thereabouts, with hishands in a box of sugar-plums, had immediatelyconfessed the awful fact that he had been about toeat them, and he was brought then and therebefore his Aunt Maria for sentence. She at oncedecided that he had behaved Nobly in speakingthe truth, and that he must be rewarded in kind forhis praiseworthy conduct, and be allowed to keepthe sugar-plums!

This little story after half a century certainlygives one pleasure still to recall, and proves, Ithink, that cakes may be enjoyed long after theyhave been eaten, and also that there is a great dealto be said for justice with lollipops in the scale.

But what would Rosamond's parents have thoughtof such a decision? One shudders to think of theirdisapproval, or of that of dear impossible Mr.Thomas Day, with his trials and experiments ofmelted sealing-wax upon little girls' bare arms,and his glasses of tar-water so inflexiblyadministered. Miss Edgeworth, who suffered fromher eyes, recalls how Mr. Day used to bring thedose, the horrible tar-water, every morning with a'Drink this, Miss Maria!' and how she dared notresist, though she thought she saw something ofkindness and pity beneath all his apparentseverity.

Severity was the order of those times. The reignof sugar-plums had scarcely begun. It was not, asnow, only ignorance and fanaticism thatencouraged the giving of pain, it was the universalcustom. People were still hanged for stealing,women were still burntso we have been assuredin St. Stephen's Green; though, it is true, theywere considerately strangled first. Children were

bullied and tortured with the kindest intentions;even Maria Edgeworth at her fashionable schoolwas stretched in a sort of machine to make hergrow; Mr. Day, as we know, to please the lady ofhis affections, passed eight hours a day in thestocks in order to turn out his knock-knees. Onefeels that a generation of ladies and gentlemenwho submitted to such inflictions surely belongedto a race of heroes and heroines, and that, if thetimes were difficult and trying, the people alsowere stronger to endure them, and must have beenmuch better fitted with nerves than we are.

Miss Edgeworth's life has been so often toldthat I will not attempt to recapitulate the story atany length. She well deserved her reputation. Herthoughts were good, her English was good, herstories had the charm of sincerity, and heraudience of children was a genuine audience, lesslikely to be carried away by fashion than moreadvanced critics might be. There is a curiousmatter-of-fact element in all she wrote, combined

with extraordinary quickness and cleverness; andit must be remembered, in trying to measure herplace in literature, that in her day the whole greatschool of English philosophical romance was inits cradle; George Eliot was not in existence; myfather was born in the year in which THEABSENTEE was published. Sir Walter Scott hastold us that it was Miss Edgeworth's writingwhich first suggested to him the idea of writingabout Scotland and its national life. Tourgenieff inthe same way says that it was after reading herbooks on Ireland that he began to write of his owncountry and of Russian peasants as he did. MissEdgeworth was the creator of her own specialworld of fiction, though the active Mr. Edgeworthcrossed the t's and dotted the i's, interpolated,expurgated, to his own and Maria's satisfaction.She was essentially a modest woman; shegratefully accepted his criticism and emendations.Mr. Clark Russell quotes Sydney Smith, whodeclared that Mr. Edgeworth must have written or

burst. 'A discharge of ink was an evacuationabsolutely necessary to avoid fatal and plethoriccongestion.' The only wonder is that, consideringall they went through, his daughter's storiessurvived to tell their tale, and to tell it so well,with directness and conviction, that best of salt inany literary work. A letter Maria wrote to hercousin will be remembered. 'I beg, dear Sophy,'she says, 'that you will not call my stories by thesublime name of my works; I shall else beashamed when the little mouse comes forth.'

Maria's correspondence is delightful, andconveys us right away into that bygone age. Thefigures rapidly move across her scene, talking andunconsciously describing themselves as they go;you see them all through the eyes of the observantlittle lady. She did not go very deep; she seems tome to have made kindly acquaintance with some,to have admired others with artless enthusiasm. Idon't think she troubled herself much aboutcomplication of feeling; she liked people to make

repartees, or to invent machines, to pay their bills,and to do their duty in a commonplace andcheerfully stoical fashion. But then MariaEdgeworth certainly did not belong to our modernschools, sipping the emetic goblet to give flavourto daily events, nor to that still more alarming andspreading clique of DEGENERES who insistupon administering such doses to others to relievethe tedium of the road of life.

Perhaps we in our time scarcely do justice toMiss Edgeworth's extraordinary cleverness andbrightness of apprehension. There is more funthan humour in her work, and those were the daysof good rollicking jokes and laughter. Detailschange so quickly that it is almost impossible tograsp entirely the aims and intentions of a wholeset of people just a little different from ourselvesin every single thing; who held their headsdifferently, who pointed their toes differently, whoaddressed each other in a language just a littleunlike our own. The very meanings of the words

shift from one generation to another, and we areperhaps more really in harmony with our great-great-grandfathers than with the more immediategenerations.

Her society was charming, so every one agrees;and her acquaintance with all the most remarkablemen of her time must not be forgotten, nor thegenuine regard with which she inspired all whocame across her path.

'In external appearance she is quite the fairy ofour nursery tale, the WHIPPETY STOURIE, ifyou remember such a sprite, who came flyingthrough the window to work all sorts of marvels,'writes Sir Walter. 'I will never believe but whatshe has a wand in her pocket, and pulls it out toconjure a little before she begins those verystriking pictures of manners.'

Among others Sir William Hamilton has left apleasing description of Miss Edgeworth. 'If you

would study and admire her as she deserves, youmust see her at home,' says he, 'and hear her talk.She knows an infinite number of anecdotes aboutinteresting places and persons, which she tellsextremely well, and never except when they arisenaturally out of the subject. . . . To crown hermerits, she seemed to take a prodigious fancy tome, and promised to be at home, and made mepromise to be at Edgeworthstown for a fortnightsome time next vacation.' We owe to him also anamusing sketch of some other collateral membersof the family; the fine animated old lady, whoimmediately gets him to explain the reason why aconcave mirror inverts while a convex mirrorleaves them erect; the young ladies, one of whomwas particularly anxious to persuade him that theroundness of the planets was produced by friction,perhaps by their being shaken together likemarbles in a bag.

There is also an interesting letter from Sir W.Hamilton at Edgeworthstown on 23rd September

1829. Wordsworth is also staying there. 'Aftersome persuasion Francis and I succeed inengaging Mr. Wordsworth in many veryinteresting conversations. Miss Edgeworth hashad for some time a very serious illness, but shewas able to join us for dinner the day that Iarrived, and she exhibited in her conversationswith Mr. Wordsworth a good deal of her usualbrilliancy; she also engaged Mr. Marshall in somelong conversations upon Ireland, and even Mr.Marshall's son, whose talent for silence seems tobe so very profound, was thawed a little onMonday evening, and discussed after tea theformation of the solar system. Miss Edgeworthtells me that she is at last employed in writing forthe public after a long interval, but does not expectto have her work soon ready for publication.'[There is a curious criticism of Miss Edgeworth byRobert Hall, the great preacher, which should notbe passed over. 'As to her style,' he says, 'she issimple and elegant, content to convey her thoughts

in their most plain and natural form, that is indeedthe perfection of style. . . . In point of tendency,' hecontinues, 'I should class her books among themost irreligious I ever read. . . . She does notattack religion nor inveigh against it, but makes itappear unnecessary by exhibiting perfect virtuewithout it. . . . No works ever produced so bad aneffect on my own mind as hers.']

Besides Wordsworth and Sir William Hamiltonand Mr. Marshall, we presently come to Sir JohnHerschell. 'I saw your admirable friend MissEdgeworth lately in town,' he writes to Hamilton;'she is a most warm admirer of yours, and praisesuch as hers is what any man might be proud of.'Later on Miss Edgeworth, corresponding with SirW. Hamilton, tells him she is ill and forbidden towrite, or even to think. This is what she thinks ofTHINKING: 'I am glad to see that the severesciences do not destroy the energy and grace of theimagination, but only chasten it and impart theirphilosophical influence.'

VCertain events are remembered and mourned forgenerations, so there are others, happy andinteresting in themselves, which must continue togive satisfaction long after they are over, and longafter those concerned in them have passed away.And certainly among things pleasant to rememberis the story of Sir Walter Scott's visit to Ireland inJuly 1825, when he received so warm a greetingfrom the country and spent those happy hours withMiss Edgeworth at Edgeworthstown. Fortunatelyfor us, Lockhart was one of the party. Anne Scott,and Walter the soldier, and Jane Scott the bride,were also travelling in Sir Walter's train. Thereception which Ireland gave Sir Walter was awarm-hearted ovation. 'It would be endless toenumerate the distinguished persons who,morning after morning, crowded to his levee in St.Stephen's Green,' says Lockhart, and he quotes anold saying of Sir Robert Peel's, 'that Sir Walter'sreception in the High Street of Edinburgh is 1822

was the first thing that gave him (Peel) a notion ofthe electric shock of a nation's gratitude.' 'I doubtif even that scene surpassed what I myselfwitnessed,' continues the biographer, 'when SirWalter returned down Dame Street afterinspecting the Castle of Dublin.'

From ovations to friendship it was Sir Walter'sinclination to turn. On the 1st August he came toEdgeworthstown, accompanied by his family. 'Weremained there for several days, makingexcursions to Loch Oel, etc. Mr. Lovell Edgeworthhad his classical mansion filled every eveningwith a succession of distinguished friends. Here,above all, we had the opportunity of seeing inwhat universal respect and comfort a gentleman'sfamily may live in that country, provided only theylive there habitually and do their duty. . . . Here wefound neither mud hovels nor naked peasantry, butsnug cottages and smiling faces all about. . . .Here too we pleased ourselves with recognisingsome of the sweetest features in Goldsmith's

picture of "Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of theplain."' Oliver Goldsmith received his education atthis very school of Edgeworthstown, and PallasMore, the little hamlet where the author of THEVICAR OF WAKEFIELD first saw the light, isstill, as it was then, the property of theEdgeworths.

So Scott came to visit his little friend, and thegiant was cheered and made welcome by hercharming hospitality. It was a last gleam ofsunshine in that noble life. We instinctively feelhow happy they all were in each other's goodcompany. We can almost overhear some of theirtalk, as they walk together under the shade of thetrees of the park. One can imagine him laughingin his delightful hearty way, half joking, halfcaressing. Lockhart had used some phrase (it isLockhart who tells us the story) which conveyedthe impression that he suspects poets and novelistsof looking at life and at the world chiefly asmaterials for art. 'A soft and pensive shade came

over Scott's face. "I fear you have some very youngideas in your head," he says. "God help us, what apoor world this would be if that were the truedoctrine! I have read books enough, and observedand conversed with enough eminent minds in mytime, but I assure you I have heard highersentiments from the lips of poor uneducated menand women, exerting the spirit of severe yet gentleheroism, or speaking their simple thoughts, than Iever met with out of the pages of the Bible. Weshall never learn to feel and respect our realcalling unless we have taught ourselves toconsider everything as moonshine compared withthe education of the heart,"' said the great teacher.'Maria did not listen to this without some water inher eyes,her tears are always ready when agenerous string is touched,but she brushed themgaily aside, and said, "You see how it is: DeanSwift said he had written his books in order thatpeople should learn to treat him like a great lord;Sir Walter writes his in order that he might be

able to treat his people as a great lord ought todo."'

Years and years afterwards Edward Fitzgeraldstayed at Edgeworthstown, and he also carries usthere in one of his letters. He had been at collegewith Mr. Frank Edgeworth, who had succeeded tothe estate, and had now in 1828 come to stay withhim. The host had been called away, but the guestdescribes his many hostesses: 'Edgeworth'smother, aged seventy-four; his sister, the greatMaria, aged seventy-two; and another cousin orsomething. All these people were pleasant andkind, the house pleasant, the grounds ditto, a goodlibrary, so here I am quite at home, but surelymust go to England soon.' One can imagineFitzgerald sitting in the library with his back tothe window and writing his letters and reading histhirty-two sets of novels, while the rain is steadilypouring outside, and the Great Authoress (so hewrites her down) as busy as a bee sitting bychattering and making a catalogue of her books.

'We talk about Walter Scott, whom she adores,and are merry all day long,' he says. 'When Ibegan this letter I thought I had something to say,but I believe the truth was I had nothing to do.'

Two years later Mr. Fitzgerald is again thereand writing to Frederick Tennyson: 'I set sail fromDublin to-morrow night, bearing the heartfeltregrets of all the people of Ireland with me.' Thencomes a flash of his kind searching lantern: 'I hada pleasant week with Edgeworth. He farms and isa justice, and goes to sleep on the sofa ofevenings. At odd moments he looks into Spinozaand Petrarch. People respect him very much inthese parts.' Edward Fitzgerald seems to have hada great regard for his host; the more he knows himthe more he cares for him; he describes him 'firingaway about the odes of Pindar.' They fired noblebroadsides those men of the early Victorian times,and when we listen we still seem to hear theirechoes rolling into the far distance. Mr. Fitzgeraldends his letter with a foreboding too soon to be

realised: 'Old Miss Edgeworth is wearing away.She has a capital bright soul, which even nowshines quite youthfully through her faded carcase.'It was in May 1849 that Maria Edgeworth went toher rest. She died almost suddenly, with no longsuffering, in the arms of her faithful friend andstep-mother.

NOTES ON 'CASTLE RACKRENT'

In 1799, When Maria was in London, she andher father went to call upon Mr. Johnson, thebookseller, who was then imprisoned in the King'sBench for a publication which was considered tobe treasonable, and they probably then and therearranged with him for the publication of CASTLERACKRENT, for in January 1800, writing to hercousin, Miss Ruxton, Maria says, 'Will you tell

me what means you have of getting parcels fromLondon to Arundel, because I wish to send myaunt a few popular tales. . . . We have beggedJohnson to send CASTLE RACKRENT, and hopeit has reached you. DO NOT MENTION THATIT IS OURS.'

The second edition of CASTLE RACKRENTcame out with Miss Edgeworth's name to it in1811. 'Its success was so triumphant,' Mrs.Edgeworth writes,'that some oneI heard hisname at the time, but do not now remember itnot only asserted that he was the author, butactually took the trouble to copy out severalchapters with corrections and erasions as if it washis original manuscript.'

It was when Miss Edgeworth first came toIreland,so she tells one of her correspondents,that she met the original Thady of CASTLERACKRENT. His character struck her very much,and the story came into her mind. She purposely

added to the agent's age so as to give time for theevents to happen.

Honest Thady tells the story; you can almosthear his voice, and see him as he stands: 'I wear along greatcoat winter and summer, which is veryhandy, as I never put my arms into the sleeves;they are as good as new, though come Holantidenext I've had it these seven years: it holds on by asingle button round my neck, cloak fashion. Tolook at me, you would hardly think "Poor Thady"was the father of Attorney Quirk; he is a highgentleman, and never minds what poor Thadysays, and having better than fifteen hundred a yearlanded estate, looks down upon honest Thady; butI wash my hands of his doings, and as I havelived, so will I die, true and loyal to the family.The family of Rackrents is, I am proud to say, oneof the most ancient in the kingdom.' And then hegives the history of the Rackrents, beginning withSir Patrick, who could sit out the best man inIreland, let alone the three kingdoms itself, and

who fitted up the chicken-house to accommodatehis friends when they honoured him unexpectedlywith their company. There was 'such a finewhillaluh at Sir Patrick's funeral, you might haveheard it to the farthest end of the county, andhappy the man who could get but a sight of thehearse.' Then came Sir Murtagh, who used toboast that he had a law-suit for every letter in thealphabet. 'He dug up a fairy-mount against myadvice,' says Thady, 'and had no luck afterwards. .. . Sir Murtagh in his passion broke a blood-vessel, and all the law in the land could donothing in that case. . . . My lady had a finejointure settled upon her, and took herself away, tothe great joy of the tenantry. I never said anythingone way or the other,' says Thady, 'whilst she waspart of the family, but got up to see her go at threeo'clock in the morning. "It's a fine morning, honestThady," says she; "good-bye to ye," and into thecarriage she stepped, without a word more, goodor bad, or even half-a-crown, but I made my bow,

and stood to see her safe out of sight for the sakeof the family.'

How marvellously vivid it all is! every wordtells as the generations pass before us. The veryspirit of romantic Irish fidelity is incarnate inThady. Jason Quirk represents the feline element,which also belongs to our extraordinary Celticrace. The little volume contains the history of anation. It is a masterpiece which Miss Edgeworthhas never surpassed. It is almost provoking tohave so many details of other and less interestingstories, such as EARLY LESSONS, AKNAPSACK, THE PRUSSIAN VASE, etc., andto hear so little of these two books by which shewill be best remembered.

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

The Prevailing taste of the public for anecdotehas been censured and ridiculed by critics whoaspire to the character of superior wisdom; but ifwe consider it in a proper point of view, this tasteis an incontestable proof of the good sense andprofoundly philosophic temper of the presenttimes. Of the numbers who study, or at least whoread history, how few derive any advantage fromtheir labours! The heroes of history are so deckedout by the fine fancy of the professed historian;they talk in such measured prose, and act fromsuch sublime or such diabolical motives, that fewhave sufficient taste, wickedness, or heroism, tosympathise in their fate. Besides, there is muchuncertainty even in the best authenticated ancientor modern histories; and that love of truth, whichin some minds is innate and immutable,necessarily leads to a love of secret memoirs andprivate anecdotes. We cannot judge either of thefeelings or of the characters of men with perfectaccuracy, from their actions or their appearance in

public; it is from their careless conversations, theirhalf-finished sentences, that we may hope with thegreatest probability of success to discover theirreal characters. The life of a great or of a little manwritten by himself, the familiar letters, the diary ofany individual published by his friends or by hisenemies, after his decease, are esteemed importantliterary curiosities. We are surely justified, in thiseager desire, to collect the most minute factsrelative to the domestic lives, not only of the greatand good, but even of the worthless andinsignificant, since it is only by a comparison oftheir actual happiness or misery in the privacy ofdomestic life that we can form a just estimate ofthe real reward of virtue, or the real punishment ofvice. That the great are not as happy as they seem,that the external circumstances of fortune and rankdo not constitute felicity, is asserted by everymoralist: the historian can seldom, consistentlywith his dignity, pause to illustrate this truth; it istherefore to the biographer we must have recourse.

After we have beheld splendid characters playingtheir parts on the great theatre of the world, withall the advantages of stage effect and decoration,we anxiously beg to be admitted behind thescenes, that we may take a nearer view of theactors and actresses.

Some may perhaps imagine that the value ofbiography depends upon the judgment and taste ofthe biographer; but on the contrary it may bemaintained, that the merits of a biographer areinversely as the extent of his intellectual powersand of his literary talents. A plain unvarnished taleis preferable to the most highly ornamentednarrative. Where we see that a man has the power,we may naturally suspect that he has the will todeceive us; and those who are used to literarymanufacture know how much is often sacrificed tothe rounding of a period, or the pointing of anantithesis.

That the ignorant may have their prejudices as

well as the learned cannot be disputed; but we seeand despise vulgar errors: we never bow to theauthority of him who has no great name tosanction his absurdities. The partiality whichblinds a biographer to the defects of his hero, inproportion as it is gross, ceases to be dangerous;but if it be concealed by the appearance ofcandour, which men of great abilities best knowhow to assume, it endangers our judgmentsometimes, and sometimes our morals. If herGrace the Duchess of Newcastle, instead ofpenning her lord's elaborate eulogium, hadundertaken to write the life of Savage, we shouldnot have been in any danger of mistaking an idle,ungrateful libertine for a man of genius and virtue.The talents of a biographer are often fatal to hisreader. For these reasons the public oftenjudiciously countenance those who, withoutsagacity to discriminate character, withoutelegance of style to relieve the tediousness ofnarrative, without enlargement of mind to draw

any conclusions from the facts they relate, simplypour forth anecdotes, and retail conversations,with all the minute prolixity of a gossip in acountry town.

The author of the following Memoirs has uponthese grounds fair claims to the public favour andattention; he was an illiterate old steward, whosepartiality to THE FAMILY, in which he was bredand born, must be obvious to the reader. He tellsthe history of the Rackrent family in his vernacularidiom, and in the full confidence that Sir Patrick,Sir Murtagh, Sir Kit, and Sir Condy Rackrent'saffairs will be as interesting to all the world asthey were to himself. Those who were acquaintedwith the manners of a certain class of the gentry ofIreland some years ago, will want no evidence ofthe truth of honest Thady's narrative; to those whoare totally unacquainted with Ireland, thefollowing Memoirs will perhaps be scarcelyintelligible, or probably they may appear perfectlyincredible. For the information of the IGNORANT

English reader, a few notes have been subjoinedby the editor, and he had it once in contemplationto translate the language of Thady into plainEnglish; but Thady's idiom is incapable oftranslation, and, besides, the authenticity of hisstory would have been more exposed to doubt if itwere not told in his own characteristic manner.Several years ago he related to the editor thehistory of the Rackrent family, and it was withsome difficulty that he was persuaded to have itcommitted to writing; however, his feelings for'THE HONOUR OF THE FAMILY,' as heexpressed himself, prevailed over his habituallaziness, and he at length completed the narrativewhich is now laid before the public.

The editor hopes his readers will observe thatthese are 'tales of other times;' that the mannersdepicted in the following pages are not those ofthe present age; the race of the Rackrents has longsince been extinct in Ireland; and the drunken SirPatrick, the litigious Sir Murtagh, the fighting Sir

Kit, and the slovenly Sir Condy, are characterswhich could no more be met with at present inIreland, than Squire Western or Parson Trulliberin England. There is a time when individuals canbear to be rallied for their past follies andabsurdities, after they have acquired new habitsand a new consciousness. Nations, as well asindividuals, gradually lose attachment to theiridentity, and the present generation is amused,rather than offended, by the ridicule that is thrownupon its ancestors.

Probably we shall soon have it in our power, ina hundred instances, to verify the truth of theseobservations.

When Ireland loses her identity by an unionwith Great Britain, she will look back, with asmile of good-humoured complacency, on the SirKits and Sir Condys of her former existence.

1800.

CASTLE RACKRENT

MONDAY MORNING

[See GLOSSARY 1].

Having, out of friendship for the family, uponwhose estate, praised be Heaven! I and mine havelived rent-free time out of mind, voluntarilyundertaken to publish the MEMOIRS OF THERACKRENT FAMILY, I think it my duty to say afew words, in the first place, concerning myself.My real name is Thady Quirk, though in the

family I have always been known by no other than'Honest Thady,' afterward, in the time of SirMurtagh, deceased, I remember to hear themcalling me 'Old. Thady,' and now I've come to'Poor Thady'; for I wear a long greatcoat winterand summer, which is very handy, as I never putmy arms into the sleeves; they are as good as new,though come Holantide next I've had it these sevenyears: it holds on by a single button round myneck, cloak fashion.

[The cloak, or mantle, as described by Thady, isof high antiquity. Spenser, in his VIEW OF THESTATE OF IRELAND, proves that it is not, assome have imagined, peculiarly derived from theScythians, but that 'most nations of the worldanciently used the mantle; for the Jews used it, asyou may read of Elias's mantle, etc.; the Chaldeesalso used it, as you may read in Diodorus; theEgyptians likewise used it, as you may read inHerodotus, and may be gathered by the descriptionof Berenice in the Greek Commentary upon

Callimachus; the Greeks also used it anciently, asappeared by Venus's mantle lined with stars,though afterward they changed the form thereofinto their cloaks, called Pallai, as some of the Irishalso use; and the ancient Latins and Romans usedit, as you may read in Virgil, who was a greatantiquary, that Evander, when AEneas came tohim at his feast, did entertain and feast him sittingon the ground, and lying on mantles: insomuchthat he useth the very word mantile for a mantle

"Humi mantilia sternunt:"

so that it seemeth that the mantle was a generalhabit to most nations, and not proper to theScythians only.

Spenser knew the convenience of the saidmantle, as housing, bedding, and clothing: 'IREN.Because the commodity doth not countervail thediscommodity; for the inconveniences whichthereby do arise are much more many; for it is a fit

house for an outlaw, a meet bed for a rebel, and anapt cloak for a thief. First, the outlaw being, forhis many crimes and villanies, banished from thetowns and houses of honest men, and wanderingin waste places, far from danger of law, makethhis mantle his house, and under it coverethhimself from the wrath of Heaven, from theoffence of the earth, and from the sight of men.When it raineth, it is his penthouse; when itbloweth, it is his tent; when it freezeth, it is histabernacle. In summer he can wear it loose; inwinter he can wrap it close; at all times he can useit; never heavy, never cumbersome. Likewise for arebel it is as serviceable; for in this war that hemaketh (if at least it deserves the name of war),when he still flieth from his foe, and lurketh in theTHICK WOODS (this should be BLACK BOGS)and straight passages, waiting for advantages, it ishis bed, yea, and almost his household stuff.']

To look at me, you would hardly think 'PoorThady' was the father of Attorney Quirk; he is a

high gentleman, and never minds what poorThady says, and having better than fifteen hundreda year, landed estate, looks down upon honestThady; but I wash my hands of his doings, and asI have lived so will I die, true and loyal to thefamily. The family of the Rackrents is, I am proudto say, one of the most ancient in the kingdom.Everybody knows this is not the old family name,which was O'Shaughlin, related to the kings ofIrelandbut that was before my time. Mygrandfather was driver to the great Sir PatrickO'Shaughlin, and I heard him, when I was a boy,telling how the Castle Rackrent estate came to SirPatrick; Sir Tallyhoo Rackrent was cousin-germanto him, and had a fine estate of his own, onlynever a gate upon it, it being his maxim that a carwas the best gate. Poor gentleman! he lost a finehunter and his life, at last, by it, all in one day'shunt. But I ought to bless that day, for the estatecame straight into THE family, upon onecondition, which Sir Patrick O'Shaughlin at the

time took sadly to heart, they say, but thoughtbetter of it afterwards, seeing how large a stakedepended upon it: that he should, by Act ofParliament, take and bear the surname and armsof Rackrent.

Now it was that the world was to see what wasIN Sir Patrick. On coming into the estate he gavethe finest entertainment ever was heard of in thecountry; not a man could stand after supper but SirPatrick himself who could sit out the best man inIreland, let alone the three kingdoms itself [SeeGLOSSARY 2]. He had his house, from oneyear's end to another, as full of company as ever itcould hold, and fuller; for rather than be left out ofthe parties at Castle Rackrent, many gentlemen,and those men of the first consequence and landedestates in the countrysuch as the O'Neills ofBallynagrotty, and the Moneygawls of MountJuliet's Town, and O'Shannons of New TownTullyhogmade it their choice, often and often,when there was no room to be had for love nor

money, in long winter nights, to sleep in thechicken-house, which Sir Patrick had fitted up forthe purpose of accommodating his friends and thepublic in general, who honoured him with theircompany unexpectedly at Castle Rackrent; andthis went on I can't tell you how long. The wholecountry rang with his praises!long life to him!I'm sure I love to look upon his picture, nowopposite to me; though I never saw him, he musthave been a portly gentlemanhis necksomething short, and remarkable for the largestpimple on his nose, which, by his particulardesire, is still extant in his picture, said to be astriking likeness, though taken when young. He issaid also to be the inventor of raspberry whisky,which is very likely, as nobody has ever appearedto dispute it with him, and as there still exists abroken punch-bowl at Castle Rackrent, in thegarret, with an inscription to that effecta greatcuriosity. A few days before his death he was verymerry; it being his honour's birthday, he called my

grandfather inGod bless him!to drink thecompany's health, and filled a bumper himself, butcould not carry it to his head, on account of thegreat shake in his hand; on this he cast his joke,saying, 'What would my poor father say to me ifhe was to pop out of the grave, and see me now? Iremember when I was a little boy, the first bumperof claret he gave me after dinner, how he praisedme for carrying it so steady to my mouth. Here'smy thanks to hima bumper toast.' Then he fellto singing the favourite song he learned from hisfatherfor the last time, poor gentlemanhesung it that night as loud and as hearty as ever,with a chorus:

He that goes to bed, and goes to bed sober, Falls as the leaves do, falls as the leaves do, and dies in October; 'But he that goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow, Lives as he ought to do, lives as he ought to do, and dies an honest fellow.

Sir Patrick died that night: just as the company

rose to drink his health with three cheers, he felldown in a sort of fit, and was carried off; they satit out, and were surprised, on inquiry in themorning, to find that it was all over with poor SirPatrick. Never did any gentleman live and diemore beloved in the country by rich and poor. Hisfuneral was such a one as was never known beforeor since in the county! All the gentlemen in thethree counties were at it; far and near, how theyflocked! my great-grandfather said, that to see allthe women, even in their red cloaks, you wouldhave taken them for the army drawn out. Thensuch a fine whillaluh! [See GLOSSARY 3] youmight have heard it to the farthest end of thecounty, and happy the man who could get but asight of the hearse! But who'd have thought it?Just as all was going on right, through his owntown they were passing, when the body wasseized for debta rescue was apprehended fromthe mob; but the heir, who attended the funeral,was against that, for fear of consequences, seeing

that those villains who came to serve acted underthe disguise of the law: so, to be sure, the lawmust take its course, and little gain had thecreditors for their pains. First and foremost, theyhad the curses of the country: and Sir MurtaghRackrent, the new heir, in the next place, onaccount of this affront to the body, refused to pay ashilling of the debts, in which he wascountenanced by all the best gentlemen ofproperty, and others of his acquaintance; SirMurtagh alleging in all companies that he allalong meant to pay his father's debts of honour,but the moment the law was taken of him, therewas an end of honour to be sure. It was whispered(but none but the enemies of the family believe it)that this was all a sham seizure to get quit of thedebts which he had bound himself to pay inhonour.

It's a long time ago, there's no saying how itwas, but this for certain, the new man did not takeat all after the old gentleman; the cellars were

never filled after his death, and no open house, oranything as it used to be; the tenants even weresent away without their whisky [See GLOSSARY4]. I was ashamed myself, and knew not what tosay for the honour of the family; but I made thebest of a bad case, and laid it all at my lady's door,for I did not like her anyhow, nor anybody else;she was of the family of the Skinflints, and awidow; it was a strange match for Sir Murtagh;the people in the country thought he demeanedhimself greatly [See GLOSSARY 5], but I saidnothing; I knew how it was. Sir Murtagh was agreat lawyer, and looked to the great Skinflintestate; there, however, he overshot himself; forthough one of the co-heiresses, he was never thebetter for her, for she outlived him many's the longdayhe could not see that to be sure when hemarried her. I must say for her, she made him thebest of wives, being a very notable, stirringwoman, and looking close to everything. But Ialways suspected she had Scotch blood in her

veins; anything else I could have looked over inher, from a regard to the family. She was a strictobserver, for self and servants, of Lent, and allfast-days, but not holidays. One of the maidshaving fainted three times the last day of Lent, tokeep soul and body together, we put a morsel ofroast beef into her mouth, which came from SirMurtagh's dinner, who never fasted, not he; butsomehow or other it unfortunately reached mylady's ears, and the priest of the parish had acomplaint made of it the next day, and the poorgirl was forced, as soon as she could walk, to dopenance for it, before she could get any peace orabsolution, in the house or out of it. However, mylady was very charitable in her own way. She hada charity school for poor children, where they weretaught to read and write gratis, and where theywere kept well to spinning gratis for my lady inreturn; for she had always heaps of duty yarn fromthe tenants, and got all her household linen out ofthe estate from first to last; for after the spinning,

the weavers on the estate took it in hand fornothing, because of the looms my lady's interestcould get from the Linen Board to distributegratis. Then there was a bleach-yard near us, andthe tenant dare refuse my lady nothing, for fear ofa lawsuit Sir Murtagh kept hanging over himabout the watercourse. With these ways ofmanaging, 'tis surprising how cheap my lady gotthings done, and how proud she was of it. Hertable the same way, kept for next to nothing [SeeGLOSSARY 6]; duty fowls, and duty turkeys, andduty geese, came as fast as we could eat 'em, formy lady kept a sharp lookout, and knew to a tub ofbutter everything the tenants had, all round. Theyknew her way, and what with fear of driving forrent and Sir Murtagh's lawsuits, they were kept insuch good order, they never thought of comingnear Castle Rackrent without a present ofsomething or othernothing too much or too littlefor my ladyeggs, honey, butter, meal, fish,game, grouse, and herrings, fresh or salt, all went

for something. As for their young pigs, we hadthem, and the best bacon and hams they couldmake up, with all young chickens in spring; butthey were a set of poor wretches, and we hadnothing but misfortunes with them, alwaysbreaking and running away. This, Sir Murtaghand my lady said, was all their former landlord SirPatrick's fault, who let 'em all get the half-year'srent into arrear; there was something in that to besure. But Sir Murtagh was as much the contraryway; for let alone making English tenants [SeeGLOSSARY 7] of them, every soul, he wasalways driving and driving, and pounding andpounding, and canting and canting [SeeGLOSSARY 8], and replevying and replevying,and he made a good living of trespassing cattle;there was always some tenant's pig, or horse, orcow, or calf, or goose, trespassing, which was sogreat a gain to Sir Murtagh, that he did not like tohear me talk of repairing fences. Then his heriotsand duty-work [See GLOSSARY 9] brought him

in something, his turf was cut, his potatoes set anddug, his hay brought home, and, in short, all thework about his house done for nothing; for in allour leases there were strict clauses heavy withpenalties, which Sir Murtagh knew well how toenforce; so many days' duty-work of man andhorse, from every tenant, he was to have, and had,every year; and when a man vexed him, why, thefinest day he could pitch on, when the cratur wasgetting in his own harvest, or thatching his cabin,Sir Murtagh made it a principle to call upon himand his horse; so he taught 'em all, as he said, toknow the law of landlord and tenant. As for law, Ibelieve no man, dead or alive, ever loved it so wellas Sir Murtagh. He had once sixteen suits pendingat a time, and I never saw him so much himself:roads, lanes, bogs, wells, ponds, eel-wires,orchards, trees, tithes, vagrants, gravelpits,sandpits, dunghills, and nuisances, everythingupon the face of the earth furnished him goodmatter for a suit. He used to boast that he had a

lawsuit for every letter in the alphabet. How I usedto wonder to see Sir Murtagh in the midst of thepapers in his office! Why, he could hardly turnabout for them. I made bold to shrug my shouldersonce in his presence, and thanked my stars I wasnot born a gentleman to so much toil and trouble;but Sir Murtagh took me up short with his oldproverb, 'learning is better than house or land.' Outof forty-nine suits which he had, he never lost onebut seventeen [See GLOSSARY 10]; the rest hegained with costs, double costs, treble costssometimes; but even that did not pay. He was avery learned man in the law, and had the characterof it; but how it was I can't tell, these suits that hecarried cost him a power of money: in the end hesold some hundreds a year of the family estate; buthe was a very learned man in the law, and I knownothing of the matter, except having a great regardfor the family; and I could not help grieving whenhe sent me to post up notices of the sale of the feesimple of the lands and appurtenances of

Timoleague.

'I know, honest Thady,' says he, to comfort me,'what I'm about better than you do; I'm onlyselling to get the ready money wanting to carry onmy suit with spirit with the Nugents ofCarrickashaughlin.'

He was very sanguine about that suit with theNugents of Carrickashaughlin. He could havegained it, they say, for certain, had it pleasedHeaven to have spared him to us, and it wouldhave been at the least a plump two thousand ayear in his way; but things were ordered otherwisefor the best to be sure. He dug up a fairy-mountagainst my advice, and had no luck afterwards.[These fairy-mounts are called ant-hills inEngland. They are held in high reverence by thecommon people in Ireland. A gentleman, who inlaying out his lawn had occasion to level one ofthese hillocks, could not prevail upon any of hislabourers to begin the ominous work. He was

obliged to take a LOY from one of their reluctanthands, and began the attack himself. Thelabourers agreed that the vengeance of the fairieswould fall upon the head of the presumptuousmortal who first disturbed them in their retreat[See GLOSSARY 11].] Though a learned man inthe law, he was a little too incredulous in othermatters. I warned him that I heard the veryBanshee that my grandfather heard under SirPatrick's window a few days before his death.[The Banshee is a species of aristocratic fairy,who, in the shape of a little hideous old woman,has been known to appear, and heard to sing in amournful supernatural voice under the windows ofgreat houses, to warn the family that some of themare soon to die. In the last century every greatfamily in Ireland had a Banshee, who attendedregularly; but latterly their visits and songs havebeen discontinued.] But Sir Murtagh thoughtnothing of the Banshee, nor of his cough, with aspitting of blood, brought on, I understand, by

catching cold in attending the courts, andoverstraining his chest with making himself heardin one of his favourite causes. He was a greatspeaker with a powerful voice; but his last speechwas not in the courts at all. He and my lady,though both of the same way of thinking in somethings, and though she was as good a wife andgreat economist as you could see, and he the bestof husbands, as to looking into his affairs, andmaking money for his family; yet I don't knowhow it was, they had a great deal of sparring andjarring between them. My lady had her privypurse; and she had her weed ashes [SeeGLOSSARY 12], and her sealing money [SeeGLOSSARY 13] upon the signing of all theleases, with something to buy gloves besides; and,besides, again often took money from the tenants,if offered properly, to speak for them to SirMurtagh about abatements and renewals. Now theweed ashes and the glove money he allowed herclear perquisites; though once when he saw her in

a new gown saved out of the weed ashes, he toldher to my face (for he could say a sharp thing) thatshe should not put on her weeds before herhusband's death. But in a dispute about anabatement my lady would have the last word, andSir Murtagh grew mad [See GLOSSARY 14]; Iwas within hearing of the door, and now I wish Ihad made bold to step in. He spoke so loud, thewhole kitchen was out on the stairs [SeeGLOSSARY 15]. All on a sudden he stopped, andmy lady too. Something has surely happened,thought I; and so it was, for Sir Murtagh in hispassion broke a blood-vessel, and all the law inthe land could do nothing in that case. My ladysent for five physicians, but Sir Murtagh died, andwas buried. She had a fine jointure settled uponher, and took herself away, to the great joy of thetenantry. I never said anything one way or theother whilst she was part of the family, but got upto see her go at three o'clock in the morning.

'It's a fine morning, honest Thady,' says she;

'good-bye to ye.' And into the carriage shestepped, without a word more, good or bad, oreven half-a-crown; but I made my bow, and stoodto see her safe out of sight for the sake of thefamily.

Then we were all bustle in the house, whichmade me keep out of the way, for I walk slow andhate a bustle; but the house was all hurry-skurry,preparing for my new master. Sir Murtagh, Iforgot to notice, had no childer [CHILDER: this isthe manner in which many of Thady's rank, andothers in Ireland, formerly pronounced the wordCHILDREN]; so the Rackrent estate went to hisyounger brother, a young dashing officer, whocame amongst us before I knew for the life of mewhereabouts I was, in a gig or some of themthings, with another spark along with him, and ledhorses, and servants, and dogs, and scarce a placeto put any Christian of them into; for my late ladyhad sent all the feather-beds off before her, andblankets and household linen, down to the very

knife-cloths, on the cars to Dublin, which were allher own, lawfully paid for out of her own money.So the house was quite bare, and my youngmaster, the moment ever he set foot in it out of hisgig, thought all those things must come ofthemselves, I believe, for he never looked afteranything at all, but harum-scarum called foreverything as if we were conjurors, or he in apublic-house. For my part, I could not bestirmyself anyhow; I had been so much used to mylate master and mistress, all was upside downwith me, and the new servants in the servants' hallwere quite out of my way; I had nobody to talk to,and if it had not been for my pipe and tobacco,should, I verily believe, have broke my heart forpoor Sir Murtagh.

But one morning my new master caught aglimpse of me as I was looking at his horse'sheels, in hopes of a word from him. 'And is thatold Thady?' says he, as he got into his gig: I lovedhim from that day to this, his voice was so like the

family; and he threw me a guinea out of hiswaistcoat-pocket, as he drew up the reins with theother hand, his horse rearing too; I thought I neverset my eyes on a finer figure of a man, quiteanother sort from Sir Murtagh, though withal, TOME, a family likeness. A fine life we should haveled, had he stayed amongst us, God bless him! Hevalued a guinea as little as any man: money to himwas no more than dirt, and his gentleman andgroom, and all belonging to him, the same; but thesporting season over, he grew tired of the place,and having got down a great architect for thehouse, and an improver for the grounds, and seentheir plans and elevations, he fixed a day forsettling with the tenants, but went off in awhirlwind to town, just as some of them came intothe yard in the morning. A circular letter camenext post from the new agent, with news that themaster was sailed for England, and he must remitL500 to Bath for his use before a fortnight was atan end; bad news still for the poor tenants, no

change still for the better with them. Sir KitRackrent, my young master, left all to the agent;and though he had the spirit of a prince, and livedaway to the honour of his country abroad, which Iwas proud to hear of, what were we the better forthat at home? The agent was one of yourmiddlemen, who grind the face of the poor, andcan never bear a man with a hat upon his head: heferreted the tenants out of their lives; not a weekwithout a call for money, drafts upon drafts fromSir Kit; but I laid it all to the fault of the agent; for,says I, what can Sir Kit do with so much cash, andhe a single man?

[MIDDLEMEN.There was a class of men,termed middlemen, in Ireland, who took largefarms on long leases from gentlemen of landedproperty, and let the land again in small portionsto the poor, as under-tenants, at exorbitant rents.The HEAD LANDLORD, as he was called,seldom saw his UNDER-TENANTS; but if hecould not get the MIDDLEMAN to pay him his

rent punctually, he WENT TO HIS LAND, ANDDROVE THE LAND FOR HIS RENT; that is tosay, he sent his steward, or bailiff, or driver, to theland to seize the cattle, hay, corn, flax, oats, orpotatoes, belonging to the under-tenants, andproceeded to sell these for his rents. It sometimeshappened that these unfortunate tenants paid theirrent twice over, once to the MIDDLEMAN, andonce to the HEAD LANDLORD.

The characteristics of a middleman wereservility to his superiors and tyranny towards hisinferiors: the poor detested this race of beings. Inspeaking to them, however, they always used themost abject language, and the most humble toneand posture'PLEASE YOUR HONOUR; ANDPLEASE YOUR HONOUR'S HONOUR,' theyknew must be repeated as a charm at thebeginning and end of every equivocating,exculpatory, or supplicatory sentence; and theywere much more alert in doffing their caps tothose new men than to those of what they call

GOOD OLD FAMILIES. A witty carpenter oncetermed these middlemen JOURNEYMENGENTLEMEN.]

But still it went. Rents must be all paid up tothe day, and afore; no allowance for improvingtenants, no consideration for those who had builtupon their farms: no sooner was a lease out, butthe land was advertised to the highest bidder; allthe old tenants turned out, when they spent theirsubstance in the hope and trust of a renewal fromthe landlord. All was now let at the highest pennyto a parcel of poor wretches, who meant to runaway, and did so, after taking two crops out of theground. Then fining down the year's rent cameinto fashion [See GLOSSARY 16]anything forthe ready penny; and with all this and presents tothe agent and the driver [See GLOSSARY 17],there was no such thing as standing it. I saidnothing, for I had a regard for the family; but Iwalked about thinking if his honour Sir Kit knewall this, it would go hard with him but he'd see us

righted; not that I had anything for my own shareto complain of, for the agent was always very civilto me when he came down into the country, andtook a great deal of notice of my son Jason. JasonQuirk, though he be my son, I must say was agood scholar from his birth, and a very 'cute lad: Ithought to make him a priest [See GLOSSARY18], but he did better for himself; seeing how hewas as good a clerk as any in the county, the agentgave him his rent accounts to copy, which he didfirst of all for the pleasure of obliging thegentleman, and would take nothing at all for histrouble, but was always proud to serve the family.By and by a good farm bounding us to the east fellinto his honour's hands, and my son put in aproposal for it: why shouldn't he, as well asanother? The proposals all went over to the masterat the Bath, who knowing no more of the landthan the child unborn, only having once been outa-grousing on it before he went to England; andthe value of lands, as t