“I wish my tailor wrote as illegibly,” said another; “I’d keep up a most animated correspondence with him.”
“Here, O’Shaughnessy, you know something of savage life,—spell us this word here.”
“Show it here. What nonsense, it’s as plain as the nose on my face: ‘Master Charles O’Malley, in foreign parts!’”
A roar of laughter followed this announcement, which, at any other time, perhaps, I should have joined in, but which now grated sadly on my ruffled feelings.
“Here, Charley, this is for you,” said the major; and added in a whisper,—“and upon my conscience, between ourselves, your friend, whoever he is, has a strong action against his writing-master,—devil such a fist ever I looked at!”
One glance satisfied me as to my correspondent. It was from Father Rush, my old tutor. I hurried eagerly from the spot, and regaining my quarters, locked the door, and with a beating heart broke the seal and began, as well as I was able, to decipher his letter. The hand was cramped and stiffened with age, and the bold, upright letters were gnarled and twisted like a rustic fence, and demanded great patience and much time in unravelling. It ran thus:—
THE PRIORY, Lady-day, 1809.
MY DEAR MASTER CHARLES,—Your uncle’s feet are so big and
so uneasy that he can’t write, and I am obliged to take up the pen
myself, to tell you how we are doing here since you left us. And,
first of all, the master lost the lawsuit in Dublin, all for the want
of a Galway jury,—but they don’t go up to town for strong reasons
they had; and the Curranolick property is gone to Ned M’Manus,
and may the devil do him good with it! Peggy Maher left this on
Tuesday; she was complaining of a weakness; she’s gone to consult
the doctors. I’m sorry for poor Peggy.
Owen M’Neil beat the Slatterys out of Portunma on Saturday,
and Jem, they say, is fractured. I trust it’s true, for he never was
good, root nor branch, and we’ve strong reasons to suspect him for
drawing the river with a net at night. Sir Harry Boyle sprained his
wrist, breaking open his bed-room, that he locked when he was inside.
The count and the master were laughing all the evening at
him. Matters are going very hard in the country,—the people paying
their rents regularly, and not caring half as much as they used
about the real gentry and the old families.
We kept your birthday at the Castle in great style,—had the
militia band from the town, and all the tenants. Mr. James Daly
danced with your old friend Mary Green, and sang a beautiful song,
and was going to raise the devil, but I interfered; he burned down
half the blue drawing-room the last night with his tricks,—not that
your uncle cares, God preserve him to us! it’s little anything like
that would fret him. The count quarrelled with a young gentleman
in the course of the evening, but found out he was only an attorney
from Dublin, so he didn’t shoot him; but he was ducked in the pond
by the people, and your uncle says he hopes they have a true copy of
him at home, as they’ll never know the original.
Peter died soon after you went away, but Tim hunts the dogs
just as well. They had a beautiful run last Wednesday, and the
Lord [2] sent for him and gave him a five-pound note; but he says
he’d rather see yourself back again than twice as much. They
killed near the big turnip-field, and all went down to see where you
leaped Badger over the sunk fence,—they call it “Hammersley’s
Nose” ever since. Bodkin was at Ballinasloe the last fair, limping
about with a stick; he’s twice as quiet as he used to be, and never
beat any one since that morning.
Nellie Guire, at the cross-roads, wants to send you four pair of
stockings she knitted for you, and I have a keg of potteen of Barney’s
own making this two months, not knowing how to send it. May be
Sir Arthur himself would like a taste,—he’s an Irishman himself,
and one we’re proud of, too! The Maynooth chaps are flying all
about the country, and making us all uncomfortable,—God’s will be
done, but we used to think ourselves good enough! Your foster-sister,
Kitty Doolan, had a fine boy; it’s to be called after you, and
your uncle’s to give a christening. He bids me tell you to draw
on him when you want money, and that there’s £400 ready for you
now somewhere in Dublin,—I forget the name, and as he’s asleep, I
don’t like asking him. There was a droll devil down here in the
summer that knew you well,—a Mr. Webber. The master treated
him like the Lord Lieutenant, had dinner parties for him, and
gave him Oliver Cromwell to ride over to Meelish. He is expected
again for the cock-shooting, for the master likes him greatly. I’m
done at last, for my paper is finished and the candle just out; so with
every good wish and every good thought, remember your own old
friend,—
PETER RUSH.
P.S. It’s Smart and Sykes, Fleet Street, has the money.
Father O’Shaughnessey, of Ennis, bids me ask if you ever met his
nephew. If you do, make him sing “Larry M’Hale.” I hear it’s a
treat.
How is Mickey Free going on? There are three decent young
women in the parish he promised to marry, and I suppose he’s pursuing
the same game with the Portuguese. But he was never
remarkable for minding his duties. Tell him I am keeping my eye
on him.
P. R.
[Footnote:2 To excuse Father Rush for any apparent impiety, I must add that, by “the Lord,” he means “Lord Clanricarde.”]
Here concluded this long epistle; and though there were many parts I could not help smiling at, yet upon the whole I felt sad and dispirited. What I had long foreseen and anticipated was gradually accomplishing,—the wreck of an old and honored house, the fall of a name once the watch-word for all that was benevolent and hospitable in the land. The termination of the lawsuit I knew must have been a heavy blow to my poor uncle, who, every consideration of money apart, felt in a legal combat all the enthusiasm and excitement of a personal conflict. With him there was less a question of to whom the broad acres reverted, so much as whether that “scoundrel Tom Basset, the attorney at Athlone, should triumph over us;” or “M’Manus live in the house as master where his father had officiated as butler.” It was at this his Irish pride took offence; and straitened circumstances and narrowed fortunes bore little upon him in comparison with this feeling.
I could see, too, that with breaking fortunes, bad health was making heavy inroads upon him; and while, with the reckless desperation of ruin, he still kept open house, I could picture to myself his cheerful eye and handsome smile but ill concealing the slow but certain march of a broken heart.