as possible shall be lost in enforcing the claims I allude
to, in justice to my family.

"I am, my Lord Cullamore,

"Your obedient servant,

"RICHARD STAPLETON."

This strange and startling communication caused the good old man much
uneasiness, even although its object and purpose were altogether beyond
his comprehension. The only solution that occurred to him of the mystery
which ran through it, was that it must have been written under some
misconception or delusion for which he could not account. Another key
to the difficulty--one equally replete with distress and alarm--was
that his brother's reason had probably become unsettled, and that the
communication in question was merely the emanation of mental alienation.
And, indeed, on this point only could he account for the miscarriage of
the letter to his son, which probably had never been written at all and
existed only in the disturbed imagination of his unfortunate brother.

At all events, the contents of this document, like those mysterious
presentiments of evil which sometimes are said to precede calamity, hung
like a weight upon his mind, view them as he might. He became nervous,
depressed, and gloomy, pleaded illness as an apology for not dining
abroad; remained alone and at home during the whole evening, but arose
the next morning in better spirits, and when our friend Tom Norton
presented himself, he had regained sufficient equanimity and composure
to pay proper attention to that faithful and friendly gentleman.

Now Tom, who resolved to make an impression, as it is termed, was
dressed in the newest and most fashionable morning visit costume, drove
up to the hall-door at that kind of breakneck pace with which your
celebrated whips delight to astonish the multitude, and throwing the
reins to a servant, desired, if he knew how to pace the horse up and
down, to do so; otherwise to remember that he had a neck.

The servant in question, a stout, compact fellow, with a rich Milesian
face and a mellow brogue, looked at him with a steady but smiling eye.

"Have a neck, is it?" he exclaimed; "by my sowl, an' it's sometimes an
inconvenience to have that same. My own opinion is, sir, that the neck
now is jist one of the tenderest joints in the body."

Norton looked at him for a moment with an offended and haughty stare.

"If you are incapable of driving the landau, sir," he replied, "call
some one who can; and don't be impertinent."

"Incapable," replied the