of strain and effort may be imagined from the swelling of the veins in
his forehead, and the crimson patches that formed on his cheeks. "What
would I give now," muttered he, "for just ten minutes of ready tact, to
express myself suitably,--to keep down my own temper, and at the same
time make _his_ boil over! If I have ten years of life before me, I 'd
give five of them to be able to do this; but I cannot,--I cannot! To say
all that I want, and not be a braggart or something worse, requires mind
and judgment and tact, and twenty other gifts that I have not got; and I
have only to picture him going about with my letter in his hand, showing
it to every one, with a sheer at my mode of expression,--possibly of my
spelling! Here goes; my very writing shames me:--

"Sir,--The manner I left your father's house last night
would require an apology [I wonder if there are two p's in
'apology'] from me, if I had not a graver one to ask from
you. [He read this over fully a dozen times, varying the
emphasis, and trying if the meaning it bore, or that he
meant it to bear, could be changed by the reading. 'All
right,' said he, 'no mistake there.'] There is, however, so
much of excuse for your conduct that you did not know how I
was treated by your family,--regarded as a friend, and not
the Cad you wanted to make me! ['Cad' reads wrong--vulgar;
I suppose it is vulgar, but it means what I intend, and so
let it go.] I cannot _make_ a quarrel with your father's
son. [I 'll dash _make_, to show that I could accept one of
another's making.] But to avoid the risk, I must avoid the
society where I shall meet you [no; that's not right;
'father's son' ought to have _him_ after it]--avoid the
society where I shall meet him. From this day, therefore, I
will not return to the Abbey without I receive that
reparation from you which is the right of

"Your faithful servant,

"T. Butler.

"I could not write myself 'Anthony,' if I got five pounds for it"

Ten miles across a stiff country, straight as the crow flies would not
have "taken as much out" of poor Tony as the composition of this elegant
epistle; and though he felt a sincere satisfaction at its completion,
he was not by any means satisfied that he had achieved a success. "No,"
muttered he, as he sealed it, "my pen will not be my livelihood; that's
certain. If it wasn't for the dear mo