s in the progress of his head form; and, as it soon appeared, was
continually throwing in their teeth the brilliancy of my verses at
twelve, by comparison with theirs at seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen.
I had observed him sometimes pointing to myself; and was perplexed at
seeing the gesture followed by gloomy looks, and what French reporters
call "sensation," in these young men, whom naturally I viewed with awe
as my leaders, boys that were called young men, men that were reading
Sophocles--(a name that carried with it the sound of something seraphic
to my ears)--and who never had vouchsafed to waste a word on such a
child as myself. The day was come, however, when all that would be
changed. One of these leaders strode up to me in the public playgrounds,
and delivering a blow on my shoulder, which was not intended to hurt me,
but as a mere formula of introduction, asked me, "What the d--l I meant
by bolting out of the course, and annoying other people in that manner?
Were other people to have no rest for me and my verses, which, after
all, were horribly bad?" There might have been some difficulty in
returning an answer to this address, but none was required. I was
briefly admonished to see that I wrote worse for the future, or
else----At this _aposiopesis_ I looked enquiringly at the speaker, and
he filled up the chasm by saying, that he would "annihilate" me. Could
any person fail to be aghast at such a demand? I was to write worse than
my own standard, which, by his account of my verses, must be difficult;
and I was to write worse than himself, which might be impossible. My
feelings revolted, it may be supposed, against so arrogant a demand,
unless it had been far otherwise expressed; and on the next occasion for
sending up verses, so far from attending to the orders issued, I
double-shotted my guns; double applause descended on myself; but I
remarked with some awe, though not repenting of what I had done, that
double confusion seemed to agitate the ranks of my enemies. Amongst them
loomed out in the distance my "annihilating" friend, who shook his huge
fist at me, but with something like a grim smile about his eyes. He took
an early opportunity of paying his respects to me--saying, "You little
devil, do you call this writing your worst?" "No," I replied; "I call it
writing my best." The annihilator, as it turned out, was really a
good-natured young man; but he soon went off to Cambridge; and with the
rest, or some of