All was not yet complete.  A walk down Bond Street was interrupted by a sudden cry, “That’s him—­take care of him!” I turned by instinct, and was arrested at the suit of a scoundrel whose fortune I had made, and who in gratitude had thus pointed me out to the myrmidon of the Middlesex sheriff.  I was located in a lock-up house, and thence conveyed to jail.  In both instances the last words I heard in reference to myself were “Take care of him.”  I sacrificed almost my all, and once more regained my liberty.  Fate seemed to turn!  A friend lent me fifty pounds.  I pledged my honour for its repayment.  He promised to use his interest for my future welfare.  I kept my word gratefully; returned the money on the day appointed.  I did so before one who knew me by report only, and looked upon me as a ruined, dissipated, worthless Extravagant.  I returned to an adjoining room to wait my friend’s coming.  While there, I could not avoid hearing the following colloquy—­

“Good Heaven! has that fellow actually returned your fifty?”

“Yes.  Didn’t you see him?”

“Of course I did; but I can scarcely believe my eyes.  Oh! he’s a deep one.”

“He’s a most honourable young man.”

“How can you be so green?  He has a motive in it.”

“What motive?”

“I don’t know that.  But, old fellow, listen to me.  I’m a man of the world, and have seen something of life; and I’ll stake my honour and experience that that fellow means to do you; so be advised, and—­’Take care of him!’”

This was too much.  I rushed out almost mad, and demanded an apology, or satisfaction—­the latter alternative was chosen.  Oh, how my blood boiled!  I should either fall, or, at length, by thus chastising the impertinent, put an end to the many meaning and hateful words.

We met; the ground was measured.  I thought for a moment of the sin of shedding human blood, and compressed my lips.  A moment I wavered; but the voice of my opponent’s second whispering, “Take care of him,” once more nerved my heart and arm.  My adversary’s bullet whistled past my ear:  he fell—­hit through the shoulder.  He was carried to his carriage.  I left the ground, glad that I had chastised him, but released to find the wound was not mortal.  I felt as if in Heaven this act would free me from the worldly ban.  A week after, I met one of my old friends; he introduced me by name to his father.  The old gentleman started for a moment, then exclaimed—­“You know my feeling, Sir—­you are a duellist!  Tom, ’Take care of him!’”

* * * * *

PUNCHLIED. SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

(VON SCHILLER.) (FROM SCHILLER.)