"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
"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 mother's sake, I would see what a musket could do, I'd enlist, to a certainty. It is the best thing for fellows like me." Thus musing and "mooning," he lay down, dressed as he was, and fell asleep. And as he lay, there came a noiseless step to his door, and the handle turned, and his mother drew nigh his bed, and bent over him. "Poor Tony!" muttered she, as her tears gushed out. "Poor Tony!" what a story in two words was there!--what tender love, what compassionate sorrow! It was the outburst of a mother's grief for one who was sure to get the worst at the hands of the world,--a cry of anguish for all the sorrows his own warm heart and guileless nature would expose him to,--the deceptions, the wrongs, the treacheries that were before him; and yet, in all the selfishness of her love, she would not have had him other than he was! She never wished him to be crafty or worldly-wise. Ten thousand times was he dearer, in all his weakness, than if he had the cunning of the craftiest that ever outschemed their neighbors. "My poor boy," said she, "what hard lessons there are before you! It is well that you have a brave, big heart, as well as a tender one."