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 al