, as a baronet with an
immense estate, had lived for those last eighteen years. I told my
reasons most candidly to the jury, and they found me to be the most
sensible man that they had ever heard of, placed in a similar position.

After having thus speedily settled these little matters, as I was fast
approaching my fortieth year, I began to alter my style, and live in a
manner more befitting my rank and revenues; yet I still held much aloof
from all intimacy with my neighbours.

I am now in my forty-first year, and grown corpulent. It is now
twenty-one years since I saw my unfortunate parent interred, and I walk
about my domains Sir Ralphed to my heart's content--or, more properly
speaking, discontent. Old Pigtop is a fixture, for he has now really
become old. I cannot call him my friend, for I must venerate him to
whom I give that title, and veneration, or even esteem, Pigtop was never
born to inspire. My humble companion he is not, for no person in his
deportment towards me can be less humble than he. He is as quarrelsome
as a lady's lapdog, and seems never so happy as when he has effectually
thwarted my intentions. Prince Hal said of the jolly wine-bibber, Jack,
that "he could have better spared a better man!" Of Pigtop I am
compelled to say more--"I could not spare him at all." He has become
necessary to me. He was never very handsome; but now, in his
sixty-second year, he is a perfect fright; so, at least, everybody tells
me, for I don't see it myself.

His duties about my person seem to be continually healthily irritant;
the most important one of which is, to keep me a bachelor, and scare
away all womankind from Rathelin Hall. He controls my servants, and
helps me to spoil them. Such a set of heavy, bloated, good-for-nothing,
impudent, and happy dogs, never before fed upon a baronet's substance,
contradicted him to his very face, and fought for him behind his back.
The females in my establishment bear but a most niggardly proportion to
the males--in the ratio of Falstaff, one pennyworth of bread to his many
gallons of sack: and these few are the most hideous, pox-marked,
blear-eyed damsels that the country could produce--all Pigtop's doing.

Never shall I forget the consternation, the blank dismay of his
countenance, when, one fine, sunshiny morning, I announced to him my
intention of installing in the mansion some respectable middle-aged
gentlewoman as my housekeeper. It was some time before he co