These consolatory considerations softened my chagrin at the contemplation of my height.  “Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man?  Give me the spirit, Master Shallow,—­the spirit!”

And so my gymnastic ardor, after a brief blaze, flickered, fell, was ashes.  But it was destined to be soon revived by an incident, trifling in itself, though of a character to assume exaggerated proportions in the mind of a sensitive boy.  A youth, who had considerably the advantage of me both in inches and in years, and whose overflow of animal spirits required some object to vent itself upon, selected me as the victim of his ebullient vivacity.  He began by tossing my book down stairs.  This seemed to me rather rough play, especially from one with whom I was not, at the time, on terms of intimacy; but, making allowance for the hilarity of classmates just let loose from recitation, I picked up, without a thought of resentment, the abused volume, and took no further notice of the matter.  I subsequently found that it was merely the commencement of a series of similar annoyances.  This lively classmate would even play tricks on me at the dinner table.

What was to be done?  I mentioned the grievance to a friend, and he remonstrated with my lively classmate, threatening him with my serious displeasure.  “Pooh! how can he help himself?” was the reply which came duly to my ears.

Sure enough!  How could I help myself?  The aggressor was my superior in weight and size.  It was a plain case that I should get badly and ridiculously whipped, if I attempted to cope with him in any pugilistic encounter.  But how would it do to demand of him the satisfaction of a gentleman?  True, I knew nothing of pistol-shooting, and had never handled a small-sword.  No matter for that!

But another consideration speedily drove this scheme of vengeance a l’outrance out of my head.  Not many years before, a peppery little Freshman had been insulted, as he thought, by a Sophomore.  The Soph, I believe, had knocked the young one’s hat over his eyes, as they were kicking foot-ball in the Delta.  Freshman sent a challenge, the effect of which was to excite inextinguishable laughter among the Sophs convened over their cigars in the aggressor’s room.  Amid roars, one of the conspirators penned an acceptance, fixing as the weapon, hair triggers,—­time, five o’clock in the morning,—­place, the Delta,—­second, the bearer, Mr. M——­, the writer of this reply.

It was a cruel business.  A sham second was imposed on poor little Fresh.  Brave as Julius Caesar, he sat up all night writing letters and preparing his will.  Prompt to the moment, he was on the chosen ground.  An unusually large delegation for such a delicate affair seemed to be present.  One rascal who wore enormous green goggles was pointed out to the innocent as Dr. Von Guldenstubbe, a celebrated German surgeon, just from Leipsic.  Little Fresh shook hands with him gravely, amid the smothered laughter of the conspirators.  The distance was to be five paces; for it was whispered so as to reach the ear of Fresh, that Soph was thirsting for his heart’s blood.  They take their places,—­the signal is given,—­they fire,—­and with a hideous groan and a wild pirouette, the Soph falls to the ground.