Tales and Novels, vol 4 | Page 3

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 Sir Murtagh, deceased, I remember to hear them calling me
"old Thady," and now I'm come to "poor Thady;" for I wear a long
great coat[1] winter and summer, which is very handy, as I never put
my arms into the sleeves; they are as good as new, though come
Holantide next I've had it these seven years; it holds on by a single
button round my neck, cloak fashion. To look at me, you would hardly
think "poor Thady" was the father of attorney Quirk; he is a high
gentleman, and never minds what poor Thady says, and having better
than fifteen hundred a year, landed estate, looks down upon honest
Thady; but I wash my hands of his doings, and as I have lived so will I
die, true and loyal to the family. The family of the Rackrents is, I am
proud to say, one of the most ancient in the kingdom. Every body
knows this is not the old family name, which was O'Shaughlin, related
to the kings of Ireland--but that was before my time. My grandfather
was driver to the great Sir Patrick O'Shaughlin, and I heard him, when I
was a boy, telling how the Castle Rackrent estate came to Sir Patrick;
Sir Tallyhoo Rackrent was cousin-german to him, and had a fine estate
of his own, only never a gate upon it, it being his maxim that a car was
the best gate. Poor gentleman! he lost a fine hunter and his life, at last,
by it, all in one day's hunt. But I ought to bless that day, for the estate
came straight into the family, upon one condition, which Sir Patrick
O'Shaughlin at the time took sadly to heart, they say, but thought better
of it afterwards, seeing how large a stake depended upon it, that he
should, by act of parliament, take and bear the surname and arms of
Rackrent.
Now it was that the world was to see what was in Sir Patrick. On
coming into the estate, he gave the finest entertainment ever was heard
of in the country; not a man could stand after supper but Sir Patrick
himself, who could sit out the best man in Ireland, let alone the three
kingdoms itself.[B] He had his house, from one year's end to another,
as full of company as ever it could hold, and fuller; for rather than be
left out of the parties at Castle Rackrent, many gentlemen, and those
men of the first consequence and landed estates in the country, such as
the O'Neils of Ballynagrotty, and the Moueygawls of Mount Juliet's
Town, and O'Shannons of New Town Tullyhog, made 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 the chicken-house, which Sir Patrick
had fitted up for the purpose of accommodating his friends and the
public in general, who honoured him with their company unexpectedly
at Castle Rackrent; and this went on, I can't tell you how long--the
whole country rang with his praises!--Long life to him! I'm sure I love
to look upon his picture, now opposite to me; though I never saw him,
he must have been a portly gentleman--his neck something short, and
remarkable for the largest pimple on his nose, which, by his particular
desire, is still extant in his picture, said to be a striking likeness, though
taken when young. He is said also to be the inventor of raspberry
whiskey, which is very likely, as nobody has ever appeared to dispute it
with him, and as there still exists a broken punch-bowl at Castle
Rackrent, in the garret, with an inscription to that effect--a great
curiosity. A few days before his death he was very merry; it being his
honour's birth-day, he called my grandfather in, God bless him! to
drink the company's health, and filled a bumper himself, but could not
carry it to his head, on account of the great shake in his hand; on this he
cast his joke, saying, "What would my poor father say to me if he was
to pop out of the grave, and see me now? I remember when I was a
little boy, the first bumper of claret he gave me after dinner, how he
praised me for carrying it so steady to my mouth. Here's my thanks to
him--a bumper toast." Then he fell to singing the favourite song he
learned from his father--for the last time, poor gentleman--he sung it
that night as loud and as hearty as ever with a chorus:
"He that goes to bed,