The Reminiscences of an Irish Land Agent | Page 7

who chose to be an army surgeon, died in India, leaving me
without a relation in the world of my own name.
It reminds me of the story in _Charles O'Malley_ about the old family
in which it was hereditary not to have any children. However, I altered
that by having eleven of my own, two sons, John and Maurice, and four
daughters being alive, at the present time. More power to them say I, in
the current phrase of good-will in Kerry.
My sister Mary died at Bath when I was born. It was her health which
prevented me from being by birth what I am at heart, a Kerry man.
Ellen was married to Robert, elder brother of the late Knight of Kerry,
and her grand-daughter is married to Colonel Thorneycroft of Spion
Kop fame.
Ellen's sister, Julia, married Sir Peter FitzGerald, Knight of Kerry. The
two therefore married brothers, and if there had been any more they
might have done the same.
I suppose I ought to give the date of my birth, but despite all the efforts
of those in Ireland, who loved me so much that they became active
agents to convey me to heaven, I cannot yet give you the date of my
death.
My friend, Mr. Townshend Trench, is, I believe, writing a book to
prove the world will come to an end in about thirty years' time, but that
will see me out, and those then alive may discover that the Great
Landlord has given the tenants an extension of the lease of the earth.
I was born on December 17, 1824, and I have none of those infantile
recollections which are such an insult on the general attention when put
in print.
Still my earliest memory is so characteristic of much that was to follow
that I set it down.
The very first thing I remember is being placed on the seat of a trap

beside the local R.M. (Resident Magistrate), and thus going out,
escorted by a party of soldiers, to collect tithes.
I clapped my hands with glee, but an old woman by the road-side said
that it was a shame to take out that innocent babe on such bloodthirsty
work.
I could ride before I could walk, and was always fond of the exercise.
What Irishman is not?
My taste for this was fostered by my father, who had broken his leg
when young, and not only disliked walking, but had a slight limp,
which did not prevent him being in the saddle for many hours each day.
As a child, I led a fresh, natural, out-of-doors, healthy life, exposed to
wind and rain, and all the better for both. There are very few trees
about Dingle, and I quite agree with the remark of an American that it
was the most open country he had ever seen.
I was always bathing, but I never got drowned, not even in liquor,
although I have sat with some of the best in that capacity. I have myself
been pretty temperate in everything, to which I attribute my longevity.
And yet I am not sure that any rule can be laid down in this respect, for
I have known men who saturated themselves in alcohol until they ought
to have been kept out of sight of all decent people live longer than
those that have kept straight in every way.
In proof of this, let me quote the delightful account of a centagenarian
out of Smith's History of Kerry, a book already referred to, and which
can now be finally put back on its shelf, dry as dust, as Carlyle might
say, 'but pregnant with food for thought, ay, and for grim mirth,'--those
are not exactly the words of the Sage of Chelsea, but just have the rub
of his tongue about them.
'Mr. Daniel MacCarty died in February 1751,' as the account said, 'in
the 112th year of his age. He lived during his whole life in the barony
of Iveragh, and buried four wives. He married a fifth in the
eighty-fourth year of his age, and she but a girl of fourteen, by whom

he had several children. He was always a very healthy man, no cold
ever affecting him, and he could not bear the warmth of a shirt at night,
but put it under his pillow. He drank for many of the last years of his
life great quantities of rum and brandy, which he called _the naked
truth_; and if, in compliance to other gentlemen, he drank claret or
punch, he always took an equal quantity of spirits to qualify those
liquors: this he called a wedge. No man ever saw him spit. His custom
was to walk eight or ten miles in a winter's morning over