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.At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingall’s establishment out walking.Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes by, and laughs to her companion.All is over.The devotion of a life—it seems a life, it is all the same—is at an end; Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal Family know her no more.I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace.I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingall’s young ladies, and shouldn’t dote on any of them, if they were twice as many and twenty times as beautiful.I think the dancing school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can’t dance by themselves and leave us alone.I am growing great in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots.Doctor Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar.Mr.Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by the next post.The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of an armed head in Macbeth.Who is this young butcher? He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury.There is a vague belief abroad that the beef suet with which he anoints his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match for a man.He is a broad-faced, bull-necked young butcher, with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an injurious tongue.His main use of this tongue is to disparage Doctor Strong’s young gentlemen.He says, publicly, that if they want anything hell give it ‘em.He names individuals among them (myself included), whom he could undertake to settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him.He waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads, and calls challenges after me in the open streets.For these sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher.It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the comer of a wall.I meet the butcher by appointment.I am attended by a select body of our boys, the butcher, by two other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep.The preliminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to face.In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow.In another moment, I don’t know where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is.I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we are always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon the trodden grass.Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but confident, sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second’s knee, sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to discompose him at all.At last I awake, very queer about the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes, from which I augur, justly, that the victory is his.I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and find a great white puffy place bursting out on my upper lip, which swells immoderately.For three or four days I remain at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade over my eyes, and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a sister to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and makes the time light and happy.Agnes has my confidence completely, always; I tell her all about the butcher, and the wrongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks I couldn’t have done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and trembles at my having fought him.Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been this many and many a day.Adams has left the school so long that, when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong, there are not many there, besides myself, who know him.Adams is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is to be an advocate, and to wear a wig.I am surprised to find him a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in appearance.He has not staggered the world yet, either, for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same as if he had never joined it.A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end—and what comes next! I am the head-boy, now! I look down on the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself, when I first came there.That little fellow seems to be no part of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the road of life—as something I have passed, rather than have actually been—and almost think of him as of someone else.And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr.Wickfield‘s, where is she? Gone also.In her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house, and Agnes, my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influence, is quite a woman.What other changes have come upon me, besides the changes in my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all this while? I wear a gold watch and chain, a ring upon my little finger, and a long-tailed coat, and I use a great deal of bear’s grease, which, taken in conjunction with the ring, looks bad.Am I in love again? I am.I worship the eldest Miss Larkins.The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl.She is a tall, dark, black-eyed, fine figure of a woman.The eldest Miss Larkins is not a chicken, for the youngest Miss Larkins is not that, and the eldest must be three or four years older.Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be about thirty.My passion for her is beyond all bounds.[If the eldest Miss Larkins would drive a triumphal car down the High Street, and allow me to throw myself under the wheels as an offering to her beauty, I should be proud to be trampled under her horses’ feet.]The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers.It is an awful thing to bear.I see them speaking to her in the street.I see them cross the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement, accompanied by her sister’s bonnet.She laughs and talks, and seems to like it.I spend a good deal of my own spare time in walking up and down to meet her.If I can bow to her once in the day (I know her to bow to, knowing Mr.Larkins), I am happier.I deserve a bow now and then.The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball, where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the military, ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed justice in the world.My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear my newest silk neckerchief continually.I have no relief but in putting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned over and over again.I seem, then, to be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins.Everything that belongs to her, or is connected with her, is precious to me.Mr.Larkins (a gruff old gentleman with a double chin, and one of his eyes immovable in his head) is fraught with interest to me.When I can’t meet his daughter, I go where I am likely to meet him.To say “How do you do, Mr.Larkins? Are the young ladies and all the family quite well?” seems so pointed that I blush.I think continually about my age [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]