Howie--both the bravest of the brave in Snowball or
Stone bicker--in street, lane, or muir fight--hand to hand,
single-pitched with Black King Carey of the Gypsies--or in irregular
high-road row--two to twelve--with a gang of Irish horse-coupers from
the fair of Glasgow returning by Portpatrick to Donaghadee. 'Tis a
strange thing so distinctly to see One's Self as he looked of yore--to
lose one's present frail personal identity in that of the powerful past.
Or rather to admire One's Self as he _was_, without consciousness of the
mean vice of egotism, because of the pity almost bordering on contempt
with which One regards One's Self as he _is_, shrivelled up into a sort
of shrimp of a man--or blown out into a flounder.

The Snowball bicker owns an armistice--and Kit North--that is, we of the
olden and the golden time--advance into the debatable ground between the
two armies, with a frozen branch in our hand as a flag of truce. The Mad
Dominie loved us, because then-a-days--bating and barring the cock and
the squint of his eye--we were like himself a poet, and while a goose
might continue standing on one leg, could have composed one jolly act of
a tragedy, or book of an epic, while Bob--God bless him!--to guard us
from scathe would have risked his life against a whole craal of tinkers.
With open arms they come forward to receive us; but our blood is up--and
we are jealous of the honour of the School, which has received a stain
which must be wiped out in blood. From what mixed motives act boys and
men in the deeds deemed most heroic, and worthy of the meed of
everlasting fame! Even so is it now with us--when sternly eyeing the
other Six, and then respectfully the Mad Dominie, we challenge--not at
long bowls--but toe to toe, at the scratch on the snow, with the naked
mawlies, the brawny boy with the red shock-head, the villain with the
carrots, who, by moonlight nights,

"Round the stacks with the lasses at bogles to play,"

had dared to stand between us and the ladye of our love. Off fly our
jackets and stocks--it is not a day for buff--and at it like bull-dogs.
Twice before had we fought him--at our own option--over the bonnet; for
'twas a sturdy villain, and famous for the cross-buttock. But now, after
the first close, in which we lose the fall--with straight right-handers
we keep him at off-fighting--and that was a gush of blood from his
smeller. "How do you like that, Ben?" Giving his head, with a mad rush,
he m