208 A REBUFF 



" You did not write that poem, sir ! " said the Pro- 

 fessor of Modern History/ when he accosted me at the 

 coach, as I was preparing to start. 



" If I did not, perhaps you Avill inform me who did, 

 Mr. Professor," I curtly replied. 



"Where did you receive your education, sir?" he 

 demanded. 



" In the cockpit of a man-of-war, sir." 



The Professor said no more, but bowed and walked 

 away. 



From this gentleman, the author of the " Life of 

 Sheridan," I ever after received a polite recognition. 

 Not so from the successor to the chair of this learned 

 and amiable gentleman ; for I remember — shortly after 

 " Othello's occupation was gone," and I had nothing to 

 subsist on but the sale of my poor productions — calling 

 upon him at his rooms in Trinity Hall, to offer him a 

 copy of my last production, " St. Paul's Vision," which 

 had been more than sanctioned by his equals, if not his 

 superiors," in the University. I had scarcely time to 

 name my business, when first a frown from his lowering 

 brow, then a sneer at my presumption, and last a torrent 

 of invective for daring to intrude or encroach on his 

 privileges or privacy — I scarcely understood which — and 

 he absolutely drove me from his presence. I was not 

 just then armed with that stoic philosophy necessary to 

 set at nought the contumely of my superiors, and I was 

 about to fling back a volume of bitterness, Avhen reason 

 came to my aid, and whispered in my ear that neither 



^ The late Professor Smytbe. 



^ Vide Dr. Whewell's note at the end of this chapter. 



