reaved, and predicted a coming holiday. I was looked on as
rather "crazy," but I reflected that I would soon be considered heroic,
and my friends gladly accepted the gifts.

The fatal afternoon came. I displayed the penknife. The chase began. The
bully and his chosen friends threw themselves upon me. The moment had
come; I thrust the knife upward; the big boy uttered a howl, and ran,
still howling. I looked for blood, but there was none visible; I came to
the conclusion, with satisfaction, that he was bleeding internally. I
spent a gloomy evening at home uttering dire predictions which were
incomprehensible to the members of my family, and reread Brutus, in the
"Lives."

The next morning I went to school with lessons unstudied and awaited
events. The mother of the bully appeared, and entered into an excited
colloquy with the very placid and dignified teacher. I announced to the
boy next to me, "My time has come." I was called up to the awful desk.
"Is he dead?" I asked. "Did he bleed internally?" "You little wretch,"
the mother of the tyrant said, "you cut such fearful holes in my son's
coat, that he is afraid to come to school to-day!" Then I said,
regretfully, "Oh, I hoped that I had killed him." There was a sensation;
my character was blackened. I was set down as a victim of total
depravity; I endured it all, but I knew in my heart that it was
"Plutarch." This is the effect that "Plutarch" had on the mind of a good
Christian child.

The effects of "Plutarch" on my character were never discovered at home,
and as I grew older and learned one or two wrestling tricks, the bully
let me alone. Besides, my murderous intention, which had leaked out,
gave me such a reputation that I became a dictator myself, and made
terms for the small boys, in the name of freedom, which were sometimes
rather despotic.

It was also during these days that I remember carrying confusion into
the family when a patronizing, intellectual lady called and said, "I
hope that this dear little boy is reading the Rollo books?" "No," I
answered quickly and indiscreetly, "I am reading 'The New Magdalen,' by
Wilkie Collins." I did not think much of Wilkie Collins until I read
"The Moonstone." It seemed that "The New Magdalen" had been purchased
inadvertently by my father, in a packet of "classics."

My father generally arrived at home late in the afternoon, when he read
the evening paper. After a very high tea, he stretched himself on a long
horsehai