al result, I could not avoid feeling ashamed of myself for my total
ignorance about the whole matter; not only, as I have said, had I never
seen a duel, but I never had fired a pistol twice in my life. I was
naturally a nervous fellow, and the very idea of firing at a word,
would, I knew, render me more so. My dread that the peculiarity of
my constitution might be construed into want of courage, increased my
irritability; while I felt that my endeavour to acquit myself with all
the etiquette and punctilio of the occasion would inevitably lead me to
the commission of some mistake or blunder.

And then, as to my friends at home, what would my father say? His
notions on the subject I knew were very rigid, and only admitted the
necessity of an appeal to arms as the very last resort. What account
could I give him, sufficiently satisfactory, of my reasons for going
out? How would my mother feel, with all her aristocratic prejudices,
when she heard of the society where the affair originated, when some
glowing description of the Rooneys should reach her? and this some kind
friend or other was certain to undertake. And, worse than all, Lady
Julia, my high-born cousin, whose beauty and sarcasm had inspired me
with a mixture of admiration and dread--how should I ever bear the
satirical turn she would give the whole affair? Her malice would be
increased by the fact that a young and pretty girl was mixed up in
it; for somehow, I must confess, a kind of half-flirtation had always
subsisted between my cousin and me. Her beauty, her wit, her fascinating
manner, rendered me at times over head and ears in love with her; while,
at others, the indifference of her manner towards me, or, still
worse, the ridicule to which she exposed me, would break the spell and
dissipate the enchantment.

Thoughts like these were far from assuring me, and contributed but
little towards that confidence in myself I stood so much in need of.
And, again, what if I were to fall? As this thought settled on my mind,
I resolved to write home. Not to my father, however: I felt a kind of
constraint about unburdening myself to him at such a moment. My mother
was equally out of the question; in fact, a letter to her could only be
an apologetic narrative of my life in Ireland--softening down what
she would call the atrocities of my associates, and giving a kind
of Rembrandt tint to the Rooneys, which might conceal the more vivid
colouring of their vulgarity. At such a