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.