When first sent to school I had been frequently taken at advantage

by a bigger boy. He had twice my strength--he took a strong dislike

for me--perhaps, because I was unwilling to pay him that deference,

which, as school-bully, he extorted from all others;--and he drubbed

me accordingly, whenever an opportunity occurred. My resistance

was vain, and only stimulated him to increased brutality. One day

he was lying upon the grass, beneath an oak which stood in the

centre of a common on which we usually played. It happened that I

drew near him unperceived. In approaching him I had no purpose of

assault or violence. But the circumstance of my nearing him without

being seen, suggested to my mind a sudden thought of revenging

all my previous injuries. I felt bitterness and hate enough, had I

possessed the strength, to have slain a dozen. I do not know that

I had any design to slay him--to revenge myself was certainly my

wish. Of death probably I had no idea. I looked about me for the

agent of my vengeance. A pile of old brick which had formed the

foundations of a dwelling which had stood on the spot, and which had

been burned, conveniently presented itself to my eye. I possessed

myself of as large a fragment as my little hand could grasp; I

secured a second as a dernier resort. Slowly and slily--I may add,

basely--I approached him from behind, levelled the brick at his

head, and saw the blood fly an instant after the contact. He was

stunned by the blow, staggered up, however, with his eyes blinded

by blood, and moved after me like a drunken man. I receded slowly,

lifting the remaining fragment which I held, intending, if he

approached me, to repeat the blow.

On a sudden he fell forward sprawling. Then I thought him dead,

and for the first time the dreadful consciousness of my crime in

its true character, came to my mind. I can not describe the agony

of fear and horror which filled my soul. He did not die, but he

was severely hurt.

The recollection of that event--of what I then suffered--came to

me involuntarily, as I was about to perform a second similar crime.

I shuddered with the recollection of the past, and shrunk, under

the equal force of shame and conscience, from the performance of a

deed which, otherwise, I should probably have committed in the brief

time which I employed for reflection. With a feeling of nervous

horror I put the weapon aside, and sinking once more into the chair

beside the window I bore with what fortitude I might, the renewal

of the accursed but touching strains that vexed me.

William Edgerton was a master of the flute. Often before, when

we were the best friends, had I listened with delight, while he

compelled it into discourse of music wild and somewhat incoherent

still: his present performance had now attained more continuousness

and character. It was still mournful, but its sorrows rose and

fell naturally, in compliance with the laws of art. I listened till

I could listen no longer. Human patience must have its limits. My

wife still slept. I descended the stairs, opened the door with as

much cautiousness as possible, and prepared to grapple the musician

and haul him into the light.




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