You think of the delight and astonishment, it would give your mother and father, and most of all, little Nelly, if you were winning such honors, as now escape you. You measure your capacities by those about you, and watch their habit of study; you gaze for a half hour together, upon some successful man, who has won his prizes; and wonder by what secret action he has done it. And when, in time, you come to be a competitor yourself, your anxiety is immense. You spend hours upon hours at your theme. You write and re-write; and when it is at length complete, and out of your hands, you are harassed by a thousand doubts. At times, as you recal your hours of toil, you question if so much has been spent upon any other; you feel almost certain of success. You repeat to yourself, some passages of special eloquence, at night. You fancy the admiration of the Professors at meeting with such wonderful performance. You have a slight fear that its superior goodness may awaken the suspicion that some one out of the college—some superior man, may have written it. But this fear dies away. The eventful day is a great one in your calendar; you hardly sleep the night previous. You tremble as the chapel-bell is rung; you profess to be very indifferent, as the reading, and the prayer close; you even stoop to take up your hat—as if you had entirely overlooked the fact, that the old president was in the desk, for the express purpose of declaring the successful names. You listen dreamily to his tremulous, yet fearfully distinct enunciation. Your head swims strangely. They all pass out with a harsh murmur, along the aisles, and through the door-ways. It would be well if there were no disappointments in life more terrible than this. It is consoling to express very depreciating opinions of the Faculty in general;—and very contemptuous ones of that particular officer who decided upon the merit of the prize themes. An evening or two at Dalton’s room go still further toward healing the disappointment; and—if it must be said—toward moderating the heat of your ambition. You grow up however, unfortunately, as the college years fly by, into a very exaggerated sense of your own capacities. Even the good, old, white-haired squire, for whom you had once entertained so much respect, seems to your crazy, classic fancy, a very hum-drum sort of personage. Frank, although as noble a fellow as ever sat a horse, is yet—you cannot help thinking—very ignorant of Euripides; even the English master at Dr. Bidlow’s school, you feel sure would balk at a dozen problems you could give him.