NEWS FROM GALWAY.

I have but a vague and most imperfect recollection of the events which followed this dreadful scene; for some days my faculties seemed stunned and paralyzed, and my thoughts clung to the minute detail of the ground,—the persons about, the mountain path, and most of all the half-stifled cry that spoke the broken heart,—with a tenacity that verged upon madness.

A court-martial was appointed to inquire into the affair; and although I have been since told that my deportment was calm, and my answers were firm and collected, yet I remember nothing of the proceedings.

The inquiry, through a feeling of delicacy for the friends of him who was no more, was made as brief and as private as possible. Beaufort proved the facts which exonerated me from any imputation in the matter; and upon the same day the court delivered the decision: “That Lieutenant O’Malley was not guilty of the charges preferred against him, and that he should be released from arrest, and join his regiment.”

Nothing could be more kind and considerate than the conduct of my brother officers,—a hundred little plans and devices for making me forget the late unhappy event were suggested and practised,—and I look back to that melancholy period, marked as it was by the saddest circumstance of my life, as one in which I received more of truly friendly companionship than even my palmiest days of prosperity boasted.

While, therefore, I deeply felt the good part my friends were performing towards me, I was still totally unsuited to join in the happy current of their daily pleasures and amusements. The gay and unreflecting character of O’Shaughnessy, the careless merriment of my brother officers, jarred upon my nerves, and rendered me irritable and excited; and I sought in lonely rides and unfrequented walks, the peace of spirit that calm reflection and a firm purpose for the future rarely fail to lead to.

There is in deep sorrow a touch of the prophetic. It is at seasons when the heart is bowed down with grief, and the spirit wasted with suffering, that the veil which conceals the future seems to be removed, and a glance, short and fleeting as the lightning flash, is permitted us into the gloomy valley before us.

Misfortunes, too, come not singly,—the seared heart is not suffered to heal from one affliction ere another succeeds it; and this anticipation of the coming evil is, perhaps, one of the most poignant features of grief,—the ever-watchful apprehension, the ever-rising question, “What next?” is a torture that never sleeps.

This was the frame of my mind for several days after I returned to my duty,—a morbid sense of some threatened danger being my last thought at night and my first on awakening. I had not heard from home since my arrival in the Peninsula; a thousand vague fancies haunted me now that some brooding misfortune awaited me. My poor uncle never left my thoughts. Was he well; was he happy? Was he, as he ever used to be, surrounded by the friends he loved,—the old familiar faces around the hospitable hearth his kindliness had hallowed in my memory as something sacred? Oh, could I but see his manly smile, or hear his voice! Could I but feel his hand upon my head, as he was wont to press it, while words of comfort fell from his lips, and sunk into my heart!

Such were my thoughts one morning as I sauntered, unaccompanied, from my quarters. I had not gone far, when my attention was aroused by the noise of a mule-cart, whose jingling bells and clattering timbers announced its approach by the road I was walking. Another turn of the way brought it into view; and I saw from the gay costume of the driver, as well as a small orange flag which decorated the conveyance, that it was the mail-cart with letters from Lisbon.

Full as my mind was with thoughts of home, I turned hastily back, and retraced my steps towards the camp. When I reached the adjutant-general’s quarters, I found a considerable number of officers assembled; the report that the post had come was a rumor of interest to all, and accordingly, every moment brought fresh arrivals, pouring in from all sides, and eagerly inquiring, “If the bags had been opened?” The scene of riot, confusion, and excitement, when that event did take place, exceeded all belief, each man reading his letter half aloud, as if his private affairs and domestic concerns must interest his neighbors, amidst a volley of exclamations of surprise, pleasure, or occasional anger, as the intelligence severally suggested,—the disappointed expectants cursing their idle correspondents, bemoaning their fate about remittances that never arrived, or drafts never honored; while here and there some public benefactor, with an outspread “Times” or “Chronicle,” was retailing the narrative of our own exploits in the Peninsula or the more novel changes in the world of politics since we left England. A cross-fire of news and London gossip ringing on every side made up a perfect Babel most difficult to form an idea of. The jargon partook of every accent and intonation the empire boasts of; and from the sharp precision of the North Tweeder to the broad doric of Kerry, every portion, almost every county, of Great Britain had its representative. Here was a Scotch paymaster, in a lugubrious tone, detailing to his friend the apparently not over-welcome news that Mistress M’Elwain had just been safely delivered of twins, which, with their mother, were doing as well as possible. Here an eager Irishman, turning over the pages rather than reading his letter, while he exclaimed to his friend,—

“Oh, the devil a rap she’s sent me. The old story about runaway tenants and distress notices,—sorrow else tenants seem to do in Ireland than run away every half-year.”

A little apart some sentimental-looking cockney was devouring a very crossed epistle which he pressed to his lips whenever any one looked at him; while a host of others satisfied themselves by reading in a kind of buzzing undertone, every now and then interrupting themselves with some broken exclamation as commentary,—such as, “Of course she will!” “Never knew him better!” “That’s the girl for my money!” “Fifty per cent, the devil!” and so on. At last I was beginning to weary of the scene, and finding that there appeared to be nothing for me, was turning to leave the place, when I saw a group of two or three endeavoring to spell out the address of a letter.

“That’s an Irish post-mark, I’ll swear,” said one; “but who can make anything of the name? It’s devilish like Otaheite, isn’t it?”

“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:—

[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.

My position was doubly painful: for any advice, had I been calculated to give it, would have seemed an act of indelicate interference from one who was to benefit by his own counsel; and although I had been reared and educated as my uncle’s heir, I had no title nor pretension to succeed him other than his kind feelings respecting me. I could, therefore, only look on in silence, and watch the painful progress of our downfall without power to arrest it.

These were sad thoughts, and came when my heart was already bowed down with its affliction. That my poor uncle might be spared the misery which sooner or later seemed inevitable, was now my only wish; that he might go down to the grave without the embittering feelings which a ruined fortune and a fallen house bring home to the heart, was all my prayer. Let him but close his eyes in the old wainscoted bed-room, beneath the old roof where his fathers and grand-fathers have done so for centuries. Let the faithful followers he has known since his childhood stand round his bed; while his fast-failing sight recognizes each old and well-remembered object, and the same bell which rang its farewell to the spirit of his ancestors toll for him, the last of his race. And as for me, there was the wide world before me, and a narrow resting-place would suffice for a soldier’s sepulchre.

As the mail-cart was returning the next day to Lisbon, I immediately sat down and replied to the worthy Father’s letter, speaking as encouragingly as I could of my own prospects. I dwelt much upon what was nearest my heart, and begged of the good priest to watch over my uncle’s health, to cheer his spirits and support his courage; and that I trusted the day was not far distant when I should be once more among them, with many a story of fray and battle-field to enliven their firesides. Pressing him to write frequently to me, I closed my hurried letter; and having despatched it, sat sorrowfully down to muse over my fortunes.