elled, but I may be wrong. He had been a Unitarian clergyman, but
was an ungenial, formal, rather harsh man--the very opposite of Mr. Hunt.
My schoolmates soon found that though so tall, I was physically very
weak, and many of them continually bullied and annoyed me. Once I was
driven into a formal stand-up fight with one younger by a year, but much
stronger. I did my best, but was beaten. I offered to fight him then in
Indian fashion with a hug, but this he scornfully declined. After this
he never met me without insulting me, for he had a base nature, as his
after-life proved. These humiliations had a bad effect upon me, for I
was proud and nervous, and, like many such boys, often very foolish.

But I had a few very good friends. Among these was Charles Macalester.
One day when I had been bullied shamefully by the knot of boys who always
treated me badly, he ran after me up Walnut Street, and, almost with
tears in his eyes, assured me of his sympathy. There were two other
intimates. George Patrullo, of Spanish parentage, and Richard Seldener,
son of the Swedish Consul. They read a great deal. One day it chanced
that Seldener had in his bosom a very large old-fashioned flint-lock
horse-pistol loaded with shot. By him and me stood Patrullo and William
Henry Hurlbut, who has since become a very well-known character. Thinking
that Seldener's pistol was unloaded, Patrullo, to frighten young Hurlbut,
pulled the weapon suddenly from Seldener's breast, put it between
Hurlbut's eyes and fired. The latter naturally started to one side, so
it happened that he only received one shot in his ear. The charge went
into the wall, where it made a mark like a bullet's, which was long
visible. George Patrullo was drowned not long after while swimming in
the Schuylkill river, and Richard Seldener perished on an Atlantic
steamer, which was never heard of.

On the other hand, something took place which cast a marvellous light
into this darkened life of mine. For one day my father bought and
presented to me a share in the Philadelphia Library. This was a
collection which even then consisted of more than 60,000 well-chosen
volumes. And then began such a life of reading as was, I sincerely
believe, unusual in such youth. My first book was "Arthur of Little
Britaine," which I finished in a week; then "Newes from New Englande,
1636," and the "Historie of Clodoaldus." Before long I discovered that
there were in the Loganian se