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Updated: June 20, 2025
Whether our Sir Ferdinando was of the Longford Castle stock or not I must leave to my associates of the Massachusetts Historical Society to determine. We lived very quietly at our temporary home in Salisbury Close.
Fowler's, Salisbury, and stayed till today after breakfast; our four days deliciously spent. We have seen Salisbury Cathedral, and Wilton, pictures, and statues, and Lady Pembroke and her children, worth them all. We were at Longford Castle yesterday; the strangest castle in the world.
It is oftentimes itself a record, like that old farmhouse my friend John Bellows wrote to me about, which chronicled half a dozen reigns by various architectural marks as exactly as if it had been an official register. "The stately homes of England," as we see them at Wilton and Longford Castle, are not more admirable in their splendors than "the blessed homes of England" in their modest beauty.
My eyes were drawn to the first of these two pictures when I was here before; now they turned naturally to the landscape with the setting sun. I have read my St. Ruskin with due reverence, but I have never given up my allegiance to Claude Lorraine. But of all the fine paintings at Longford Castle, no one so much impressed me at my recent visit as the portrait of Erasmus by Hans Holbein.
Sir Morton Pippitt, the Duke of Lumpton, and Lord Mawdenham hovered before him like three dull puppets in a cheap show; and he was inclined to look up the name of Marius Longford in one of the handy guides to contemporary biography, in order to see if that flaccid and fish-like personage had really done anything In the world to merit his position as a shining luminary of the 'Savage and Savile. Accustomed as he was to watch the ebb and flow of modern literature, he had not yet sighted either the Longford straw or the Adderley cork, among the flotsam and jetsam of that murky tide.
I don't think people could feel quite so strongly now about their own affairs as they did then; there are so many printed emotions, so many public events, that private details cannot seem quite as important. Edgeworths of those days were farther away from the world than they are now, dwelling in the plains of Longford, which as yet were not crossed by iron rails.
Roxmouth, reluctantly yielding to the earnest persuasions of Longford, walked with him into the village of St. Rest, and made enquiries at the post-office as to whether Miss Vancourt's sudden departure was known there, or whether any instructions had been left as to the forwarding of her letters. But the postmistress, Mrs.
Marius Longford looked up sharply and Miss Tabitha laid down her knife and fork with the regular old maid's triumphant air of 'I told you so! "God bless my soul!" said Sir Morton again "Was ever such a bit of damned cheek! beg pardon, my lord! " "Don't apologise!" said Roxmouth, with courteous languor, "At least, not to ME! To Miss Tabitha!" and he waved his hand expressively.
This was sent by Erasmus to Sir Thomas More, at Chelsea, with a letter recommending Holbein to his care, and as it is still in this country in the collection of the Earl of Radnor at Longford Castle it is not perhaps too much to hope that it may one of these days find its way into the National Gallery perhaps when the alterations to the front entrance are completed.
This conjuror, whose name was Broadstreet, was a native of the county of Longford, in Ireland: he by this hit pocketed 200l., and proved himself to be more knave than fool. A gripe or fast hold. An oak stick, supposed to be cut from the famous wood of Shilala. This is nearly verbatim from a late Irish complainant.
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