the tenantry around his door, all eagerly seeking to
be included in some new scheme of regeneration, by which they understood
three meals a day and nothing to do.

How to play off these two distinct and very opposite classes, Mr. Sam
Wylie knew to perfection; and while he made it appear that one portion
of the tenantry whose rigid rejection of Sir Marmaduke's doctrines
proceeded from a sturdy spirit of self-confidence and independence,
were a set of wild, irreclaimable savages; he softly insinuated his
compliments on the success in other quarters, while, in his heart he
well knew what results were about to happen.

"They're here now, sir," said Wylie, as he glanced through the window
towards the lawn, where, with rigid punctuality Sir Marmaduke each
morning held his levee; and where, indeed, a very strange and motley
crowd appeared.

The old baronet threw up the sash, and as he did so, a general mar-mur
of blessings and heavenly invocations met his ears--sounds, that if
one were to judge from his brightening eye and beaming countenance, he
relished well. No longer, however, as of old, suppliant, and entreating,
with tremulous voice and shrinking gaze did they make their advances.
These people were now enlisted in his army of "regenerators"; they were
converts to the landlords manifold theories of improved agriculture,
neat cottages, pig-styes, dove-cots, bee-hives, and heaven knows what
other suggestive absurdity, ease and affluence ever devised to plate
over the surface of rude and rugged misery.

"The Lord bless your honour every morning you rise, 'tis the iligant
little place ye gave me to live in. Musha, 'tis happy and comfortable
I do be every night, now, barrin' that the slates does be falling
betimes--bad luck to them for slates, one of them cut little Joe's head
this morning, and I brought him up for a bit of a plaster."

This was the address of a stout, middle-aged woman, with a man's great
coat around her in lieu of a cloak.

"Slates falling--why doesn't your husband fasten them on again? he said
he was a handy fellow, and could do any thing about a house."

"It was no lie then; Thady Morris is a good warrant for a job any day,
and if it was thatch was on it----"

"Thatch--why, woman, I'll have no thatch; I don't want the cabins burned
down, nor will I have them the filthy hovels they used to be."

"Why would your honour?--sure there's rayson and sinse agin it," was the
chorus of all present, while