bout,
and that is quite enough. I was told pretty often that I was the most
selfish boy alive. But, then, I am an unusual person, and there are
several names for things.

My father kept a small shop for the sale of legal stationery and the
like, on Fifth street north of Chestnut. But his chief interest in life
lay in the bell-ringing of Christ Church. He was leader, or No. 1, and
the whole business was in the hands of a kind of guild which is nearly
as old as the church. I used to hear more of it than I liked, because my
father talked of nothing else. But I do not mean to bore myself writing
of bells. I heard too much about "back shake," "raising in peal,"
"scales," and "touches," and the Lord knows what.

My earliest remembrance is of sitting on my father's shoulder when he
led off the ringers. He was very strong, as I said, by reason of this
exercise. With one foot caught in a loop of leather nailed to the floor,
he would begin to pull No. 1, and by and by the whole peal would be
swinging, and he going up and down, to my joy; I used to feel as if it
was I that was making the great noise that rang out all over the town.
My familiar acquaintance with the old church and its lumber-rooms, where
were stored the dusty arms of William and Mary and George II., proved of
use in my later days.

My father had a strong belief in my talents, and I do not think he was
mistaken. As he was quite uneducated, he determined that I should not
be. He had saved enough to send me to Princeton College, and when I
was about fifteen I was set free from the public schools. I never liked
them. The last I was at was the high school. As I had to come
down-town to get home, we used to meet on Arch street the boys from the
grammar-school of the university, and there were fights every week. In
winter these were most frequent, because of the snow-balling. A fellow
had to take his share or be marked as a deserter. I never saw any
personal good to be had out of a fight, but it was better to fight
than to be cobbed. That means that two fellows hold you, and the other
fellows kick you with their bent knees. It hurts.

I find just here that I am describing a thing as if I were writing for
some other people to see. I may as well go on that way. After all, a
man never can quite stand off and look at himself as if he was the only
person concerned. He must have an audience, or make believe to have one,
even if it is only himself. Nor, on the whole, should