me, and believe me yours, C. Curzon,
Saturday Evening."

It was late on Monday evening when this letter reached me, and there was
no time to be lost, as I was then about 40 Irish miles from the place
mentioned by Curzon; so after briefly acquainting Lord Callonby that I
was called off by duty, I hurried to my room to pack my clothes, and
again read over this extraordinary epistle.

I confess it did appear something droll, how completely Curzon seemed to
imbibe the passion for fighting from these "blood-thirsty Irishmen."
For by his own showing he was utterly ignorant of my ever having offended
this Mr. Beamish, of whom I recollected nothing whatever. Yet when the
gentleman waxes wrothy, rather than inconvenience him, or perhaps anxious
to get back to the mess, he coolly says, "Oh, my friend shall meet you,"
and then his pleasant jest, "find out the cause of quarrel from his
executors!"

Truly, thought I, there is no equanimity like his who acts as your second
in a duel. The gentlemanlike urbanity with which he waits on the
opposite friend--the conciliating tone with which he proffers implacable
enmity--the killing kindness with which he refuses all accommodation--the
Talleyrand air of his short notes, dated from the "Travellers," or
"Brookes," with the words 3 o'clock or 5 o'clock on the cover, all
indicative of the friendly precipitancy of the negociation. Then, when
all is settled, the social style with which he asks you to take a
"cutlet" with him at the "Clarendon," not to go home--are only to be
equalled by the admirable tact on the ground--the studiously elegant
salute to the adverse party, half a la Napoleon, and half Beau Brummell
--the politely offered snuff-box--the coquetting raillery about 10 paces
or 12--are certainly the beau ideal of the stoicism which preludes
sending your friend out of the world like a gentleman.

How very often is the face of external nature at variance with the
thoughts and actions--"the sayings and doings" we may be most intent upon
at the moment. How many a gay and brilliant bridal party has wended its
way to St. George's, Hanover-square, amid a downpour of rain, one would
suppose sufficient to quench the torch of Hymen, though it burned as
brightly as Capt. Drummond's oxygen light; and on the other hand, how
frequently are the bluest azure of heaven and the most balmy airs shed
upon the heart bursting with affliction, or the head bowed with grief;
and without any desire to