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In spite of my uncle's oration, I went on with
the preparation. The day came, the actors were
assembled, and we determined to perform. I
went to my aunt Fortitude with an invitation,
but she repulsed me with horror. I then hunted
high and low for my uncle. I was near giving
him up, when I heard him sneeze in his dressing-room.
I pushed open the door, and there he
was, surrounded by all the maid-servants and
sempstresses of the house, engaged in making
what I immediately recognized to be a royal
costume for Polonius. He looked marvellously
ashamed of himself as I came in, and tried to
shuffle into his pocket a roll of written paper
which was lying near. I caught it, however, and
found it was neither more nor less than a prologue
for our play, written by himself; and all
this after his oration to me on the pernicious
effects of stage playing! I was used to such inconsistencies,
and ran down stairs in high glee, and
my uncle soon sneaked down after me, rallied

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himself, and then proceeded in great state to the
theatre, where he took his place in a dignity
chair which I had provided for him, in the first
row of the audience seats. He had given up all
idea of acting, and I promised to spout the prologue.

I have no intention of detailing the events of
the performance, and in fact I recollect almost
nothing about it. The play I remember was
Hamlet, and in a fit of unusual modesty, I believe
I contended myself,—besides the principal
character which was mine of course,—with only
the characters of Ophelia and the grave-digger
in addition. Hamlet was dressed in boots and a
red military coat, and Ophelia in an old morning
gown of my aunt's, with a garland of dried apples
on her head. The only good acting was that of
Polonius, which was represented by a fat, foolish
boy, who made grimaces and squinted naturally,
and thus embodied in his own person all the comic
talent of the company.

I should not even have mentioned the whole
affair, except for the purpose of introducing Vassal
Deane, and early friend of mine. This was a
boy whom I always respected, and of whom for
many years I was almost in awe: yet he was
not a boy of brilliant talents, at least according
to the general acceptation of the phrase. Nobody
ever called him a genius; he never wrote plays,

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nor poetry, and yet he contrived always, without
any apparent effort, to obtain a complete ascendancy
over the mind of every body about him.
Of mine, he very soon obtained the mastery. He
was a boy some four years older than myself,
rather short, but compactly built, with no pretensions
to beauty, inexpressive features, light
coloured eyes, and flakes of cotton-coloured hair.

He was remarkable at this early age for great
bodily strength, and a phlegmatic and composed
demeanour. At moments when others were excited,
his countenance and manner were composed
and inscrutable.

He had taken no part in the play, but was
there by my particular request, as auditor and
critic.

While the rest of the boys were squabbling
and boxing each other's ears, as they hunted
through the confused green-room for their every
day's clothes, I approached Deane, full of elation
at my success. He was standing quietly whistling,
with his hands in his pockets.

“Well, Deane,” said I, rubbing my hands conceitedly,
“don't you think it went off pretty well?”

“Not I,” said he gravely, without taking his
hands from his pockets.

“Why,” said I, a little mortified, “don't you
think we all acted pretty well?”

“No, I don't,” he replied.

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“But,” said I, pushing the point, “don't you
think it was a remarkably brilliant way of amusing
ourselves?”

“If you ask my advice, I think it was all
damn'd nonsense.”

“You are envious,” said I; “if you acted as
well as my uncle Joshua thinks I do, you would
think differently.”

“You know no more of acting than I do, and
your uncle Joshua is an ass.”

“You lie!”

Hereupon Deane took one of his hands out of
his pocket, and calmly knocked me down.

He was a great deal bigger and stronger than
I, but I picked myself up, and tried to show
fight;—so he knocked me down again.

“I suppose you will listen to reason now,” he
continued, composedly, after I had got on my legs
again, and given up the point. “So I will tell
you that all I do and say is for your good. I
like you very well (he was pleased to add;) but
the fact is, you are getting to be an ignorant
and conceited little jackanapes; and instead of
having been brilliant, as you call it, you have
been making an ass of yourself this afternoon.”

The plain-spoken truths of my friend (for he
was my friend) began to carry conviction to my
mind. With the quick revulsion of a childish
temper, I felt convinced that I had not only not

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acted well, but that I had acted ill. I believed
that I had been making a fool of myself—that
they had been laughing at me instead of applauding—
that I was a laughing-stock—a butt—a
dolt—an ass—an idiot. My checks grew hot—
I clenched my fists—I glared about me like a
maniac—I stamped in a frenzy. Seeking something
to vent my rage upon, my eyes lighted
on the squinting buffo; I sprang upon him most
gratuitously, and floored him in a twinkling. He
scrambled out of my way, and I then sprang
like a tiger upon the inanimate monuments of
my folly. I kicked over the scenes, smashed
the lamps, demolished the palace, trampled on
the dried apples, and tore the ghost's windingsheet
to pieces. After nearly exhausting myself
in this manner, I threw myself on the floor,
roaring and kicking like a madman.

After a moment or two, the busy fiend again
urged me to my feet. I danced about for an
instant, and then swept down stairs like a simoon,
at the imminent peril of my neck, and to the
total discomfiture and overthrow of a house-maid,
who was trudging up with a pail of water.
Thence I rushed out of the house, and never
stopped till I had thrown myself upon the ground,
sobbing and panting with mortification and rage
in the very thickest thicket of the forest.

The young philosopher remained talking composedly
to himself in the dark.

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