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 impugn, as a much high authority has done, the moral character of the moon, how many a scene of blood and rapine has its mild radiance illumined.  Such reflections as these came thronging to my mind, as on the afternoon of Tuesday I neared the little village of our rendezvous.