“My Lord Cullamore.—­It is now nine months and upwards since I addressed a letter to your son; and I wrote to him in reference to you, because it had been for many years my intention never to have renewed or held any communication whatsoever with you.  It was on this account, therefore, that I opened, or endeavored to open, a correspondence with him rather than with his father.  In this I have been disappointed, and my object, which was not an unfriendly one, frustrated.  I do not regret, however, that I have been treated with contempt.  The fact cancelled the foolish indulgence with which an exhibition of common courtesy and politeness, if not a better feeling, on the part of your son, might have induced me to treat both you and him.  As matters now stand between us, indulgence is out of the question; so is compromise.  I shall now lose little time in urging claims which you will not be able to withstand.  Whether you suspect the nature of these claims or not is more than I know.  Be that, however, as it may, I can assure you that I had resolved not to disturb your last days by prosecuting them during your lifetime.  That resolution I have now rescinded, and all that remains for me to say is; that as little time as possible shall be lost in enforcing the claims I allude to, in justice to my family.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.