thing, on looking back, appears
incomparably reckless and absurd; I no better than a madman for offering
to advance on Dudgeon, and he no better than a fool for not shooting me
while I was about it. But all's well that ends well; or, as the people
in these days kept singing and whistling on the streets:--

"There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft
And looks out for the life of poor Jack."

"There!" said I, releasing him a little, but still keeping my hands on
his shoulders, "_je vous ai bel et bien embrasse_--and, as you would
say, there is another French word." With his wig over one eye, he looked
incredibly rueful and put out. "Cheer up, Dudgeon; the ordeal is over,
you shall be embraced no more. But do, first of all, for God's sake, put
away your pistol; you handle it as if you were a cockatrice; some time
or other, depend upon it, it will certainly go off. Here is your hat.
No, let me put it on square, and the wig before it. Never suffer any
stress of circumstances to come between you and the duty you owe to
yourself. If you have nobody else to dress for, dress for God!

"Put your wig straight
On your bald pate,
Keep your chin scraped,
And your figure draped.

Can you match me that? The whole duty of man in a quatrain! And remark,
I do not set up to be a professional bard; these are the outpourings of
a _dilettante_."

"But, my dear sir!" he exclaimed.

"But, my dear sir!" I echoed, "I will allow no man to interrupt the flow
of my ideas. Give me your opinion on my quatrain, or I vow we shall have
a quarrel of it."

"Certainly you are quite an original," he said.

"Quite," said I; "and I believe I have my counterpart before me."

"Well, for a choice," says he, smiling, "and whether for sense or
poetry, give me

"'Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The rest is all but leather and prunello.'"

"Oh, but that's not fair--that's Pope! It's not original, Dudgeon.
Understand me," said I, wringing his breast-button, "the first duty of
all poetry is to be mine, sir--mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom,
because--to tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style--I
am devilish relieved at the turn things have taken. So, I dare say, are
you yourself, Dudgeon, if you would only allow it. And _a propos_, let
me ask you a home question. Between friends, have you ever fired that
pistol?"

"Why, yes, sir," he replied. "Twice--at hedge-sparrows."

"And you wou