ying to myself, I drew closer to the fire, and began the
following epistle:--

O'MALLEY CASTLE, November 3.

Dear Charley,--Here we sit in the little parlor with your last
letter, the "Times," and a big map before us, drinking your health,
and wishing you a long career of the same glorious success you have
hitherto enjoyed. Old as I am--eighty-two or eighty-three (I forget
which) in June--I envy you with all my heart. Luck has stood
to you, my boy; and if a French sabre or a bayonet finish you now,
you've at least had a splendid burst of it. I was right in my opinion
of you, and Godfrey himself owns it now,--a lawyer, indeed! Bad
luck to them! we've had enough of lawyers. There's old Hennesy,--honest
Jack, as they used to call him,--that your uncle trusted
for the last forty years, has raised eighteen thousand pounds on the
title-deeds, and gone off to America. The old scoundrel! But it's
no use talking; the blow is a sore one to Godfrey, and the gout
more troublesome than ever. Drumgold is making a motion in
Chancery about it, to break the sale, and the tenants are in open
rebellion and swear they'll murther a receiver, if one is sent down
among them. Indeed, they came in such force into Galway during
the assizes, and did so much mischief, that the cases for trial were
adjourned, and the judges left with a military escort to protect them.
This, of course, is gratifying to our feelings; for, thank Providence,
there is some good in the world yet. Kilmurry was sold last week
for twelve thousand. Andy Blake would foreclose the mortgage,
although we offered him every kind of satisfaction. This has done
Godfrey a deal of harm; and some pitiful economy--taking only
two bottles of claret after his dinner--has driven the gout to his
head. They've been telling him he'd lengthen his days by this, and
I tried it myself, and, faith, it was the longest day I ever spent in
my life. I hope and trust you take your liquor like a gentleman and
an Irish gentleman.

Kinshela, we hear, has issued an execution against the house and
furniture; but the attempt to sell the demesne nearly killed your
uncle. It was advertised in a London paper, and an offer made for it
by an old general whom you may remember when down here. Indeed,
if I mistake not, he was rather kind to you in the beginning. It
would