CHAPTER I.

The Collegian—and the Story of Edward Lamb—The Last Day of Term.

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`If this Republic shall escape the catastrophe that terminated the career of
every one of its predecessors in ancient and modern days, it must be by the
prevalence of more just and liberal views in regard to the distinctions assigned
to BIRTH, MONEY, and OCCUPATION. The people must be made to see and to
feel that the LAW OF REPUTATION, as now observed, has a false basis—that there
can be no such thing as personal merit without virtue and usefulness—and
that no branch of industry which contributes to the general comfort is intrinsically
degrading. We have, even among the working classes a scale of merit
graduated by occupation, and that fixes, to some extent, the merit of individuals.
It is a relic of the absurd prejudices of Europe, by which Aristocracy and
Monarchy are upheld, and shows that, although we are as a nation free, the
marks of the old servitude are not yet obliterated.'—Walter Forward.

The false estimate between professions and trades is a subject which we have
twice before treated; once in a Tale called `Edward Betham, or What is
True Respectability?' published in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier, and a
second time in a story called `The Two Apprentices;' also recently contributed
to the same very excellent paper. We now take it up in a new aspect
in the following Tale, and it is our intention not to let the subject here rest until
we have done something to draw public attention to an evil that menaces
the stability of our institutions, and the very existence of our liberties. We
have written full enough about pirates, romantic Castilian maidens, and bearded
and becloaked Spanish Dons, and mean, hereafter, in some degree to atone
for these sanguinary perpetrations by devoting our pen, so long as we can
handle one, to encounter and put to shame this most heartfelt of all errors;
or to speak with more truth, habits of the American people. It is a subject
that calls loudly for the itinerant Lecturer and Societies of Reform and Intemperance;
for this whole system of pseudo-respectability which we combat is
none other than ambitious and wild intoxication of the judgment, and a debasing,
contemptible slavery of the understanding.

In a student's chamber, on the second floor of one of the ancient halls of
Yale, sat a young gentleman having his elbow upon a table piled with books
and several open accounts, moodily supporting his cheek in his hand. It was
late at night. The echoing passages had long since ceased to resound with the
tread of the late returning student, and but few doors had lights gleaming from

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beneath or streaming through the key-hole upon the opposite wall, showing that
the occupants were still up.

In the chamber of the young man there burned upon the table a single lamp,
shedding a flickering and uncertain light upon the surrounding objects. The
room was plainly if not meanly furnished. A broad pine table, unpainted, meagerly
covered with a piece of green cloth, stood in the centre, on which were
the lamp and books; a few common chairs were scattered about without regularity;
and one large one with arms and a leaf fixed to it for writing, and in
which he was seated, stood by the table. A half-opened door exposed a small
closet or bed-room in which was a rude cot-bed, a single chair, and a scanty
wardrobe, hung about on nails driven into the white-washed walls. The room
in which he sat had two windows, with half-calico curtains, and looked out upon
the College green, upon which the clear moon shone like noon-day. A flood
of its light streamed in through the window and fell upon the uncarpeted floor,
as if to display that poverty of the apartment which the dim lamp would have
left in obscurity.

In the silence of midnight the solitary occupant of the chamber sat with his
pale cheek resting in his palm, and his eyes thoughtfully fixed upon the ground.
The faintly beaming lamp dimly exposed his countenance, while the silvery
radiance of the moonlight which seemed to infuse itself into the whole atmosphere
of the chamber, without shining directly upon him, shed over his features
a soft passive glow that harmonized touchingly with their pale, intellectual
expression. He was about twenty-two years of age, and so far as could
be ascertained, through a faded and much too small gingham gown, which he
wore, was of manly height and person. His forehead was high, white, blueveined,
and shaded with short brown hair of silky texture. The hand, the fingers
of which were half hid in it, was delicate, and then, as if from illness, the
cheek that it supported was colorless, save at occasional intervals when a
bright flash would come transiently over it, as if driven hither by some sudden
and painful reflection. The features were regular and strong rather than handsome.
His eyes were large and full of intellect, and the shape and fixedness
of the mouth gave indication of energy, which the pervading softness of the
eye qualified with the promise of great sensibility. The general expression of
his face and the impression it would irresistibly convey to an observer, was
that of a frank and generous, but sensitive and proud spirit. He had been seated
thus since the chapel clock had tolled eleven, and was only roused by its
loud ringing stroke upon twelve.

`Twelve o'clock, and the last day of term has come to an end,' he said, removing
his hand suddenly and clenching the fingers together with a sort of
despair; `term is closed and in a situation that would drive a man to madness
or to suicide. These accoonts! They stare me in the face like grinning demons.
How am I ever to pay one of them and yet I must do it. There is
no alternative but infamy. Oh, my father, my good, noble, noble, but misjudging
father! Would to God your son had died ere he had been brought to
see this heavy hour!'

He rose and paced his chamber with a quick and nervous step, at every turn
pausing a pace before the table and looking as if about to take up one of the accounts
that lay on it, and then with a shrinking gesture and an expression of
pain writhing his fine countenance, he continued his walk. `Yes, I see nothing
before me but disgrace. The finger of scorn! the lip of contempt' the censure
of the good and the severe judgments of those I loved and honored! for
debt is the offence which like lost virtue in a woman, involves in the eyes of the
world all other wrongs and errors, and there is no pity or sympathy extended
towards the victim. Even the best man I love and honor would, were I his
debtor, demand his right, nor accept my plea of poverty. Oh, my father, my
misguided father! what a life of misery and woe has your ambition to make me
a professional man—your prejudices against trades, in store for me! But this
complaining of my lot is useless and weak! I must nerve myself to meet the
evil; for difficulties, they tell me which are faced, are half conquered. I will
examine these dread accounts and know justly the height and depth of my
wretched and painful position.'

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With this good resolution the young student sat down again by his table and
took the accounts up in his hands. There were seven of them, each one unreceipted
and written in as varied styles of chirograpy as the pursuits of the
creditors.

Here is Mr. Twining's for my board in commons, at one dollar and a
half per week; for sixteen weeks up to to-day, - - - - - $24,00,
though I have been ill for three weeks. Here in St. Leger; the Stationers bill—
quills, paper, ink, wafers, and a second hand copy of Eschylus, which I could
not borrow nor beg, $4,87 1-2

This bill must be paid to-morrow, for half of it is of two terms standing, and
one dollar of it of more than a year. He says he needs it, and has indeed been
always very lenient! But what can I do? He is to send in the morning for
it, so says a line on the back. Mr. Twining, the Steward's bill, must be paid
too, as he says, to-morrow! Unhappy morrow! I could wish, were the wish
not wicked, that the time would stand still and never bring the morrow! But
such feelings are unworthy of a man and a Christian! Here is David Mayer's
account! To mending boots, 80 cts.; to heel tapping, 1s.; to sewing up a rip
for the third time, and then patching, 2s.; to a pair of half boots, $1,50; total,
$2,18 cts.—and I have not that sum in the world! Here is Mr. Shears, the
Tailor's account! To mending a coat and sewing on three buttons, 25 cts.; to
patching a vest, 12 1-2 cts.; to cleansing, pressing and patching a pair of pants,
50 cts.; to a new black merino waistcoat, $2,00; total, $2,87 1-2. This man
will give me trouble, I fear' He has been twice to-day for his money, fearing
I shall slip off in the early stage! If I do not pay him he may imprison me!
Good God!—to go prison—the idea of which has almost suffocated me the last
three hours, would be the death blow to all my hopes in this life!' He placed
his hand across his brow for a painful minute, and then lifting his eyes upwards
he said fervently, `I humbly beseech thee, oh! Father, mercifully to look upon
me now in this present time of my trouble and adversity; and graciously be
pleased to deliver me from all those evils which the craft or revenge of man may
work against me, that being hurt by no persecutions, I may evermore gratefully
serve thee in holiness and pureness of living, to thy honor and glory, through
our Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ, our Lord.'

Having given utterance to this humble and trusting prayer, his countenance,
became serener, and with more calmness and repose of mind, the inevitable result
of confidence in God, he examined the remaining accounts, one of which
was for a hat, $2,50, another for medicine, $3,10, and the other and last one for
medical advice and attendance, $6,00

The minuteness of detail into which we have gone, is needful for the moral
of our story. It both shows the economy of the student, and what is equally important,
that he had not gone into debt beyond the actual wants of his existence.
The amount of them he now added up and found the sum total to be $45,53.

He looked at the figures which represented the extent of his pecuniary obligations,
for a few moments, with an expression of hopeless distress. `And how
am I to liquidate all this? how am I to pay the least sum which contributes to
make up this fearful aggregate! I can see no door of relief! no avenue of escape
from this fearful responsibility.'

He rose and walked to the window! The still moon lay on the ground and
trees like blessings shed down upon earth, while man slept. The brightness of
the scene, the far off stars in the calm blue heaven, the silent and peaceful sailing
of the moon away in her own bright home, unruffled by all the changes, and
woes and tears of the earth, she seemed created to serve and beautify, at first
mocked the disturbed and painful nature of his thoughts. But gradually the silence
and softness of the holy hour of night had its soothing influence upon his
spirits; and soon feeling the effect, he took his hat to walk forth and see if the
lonely beauty of the night might not effectually restore calmness to his bosom,
and give him that resolution and strength he so much needed, to enable him to
meet the morrow.

Before going out, he extinguished, with habitual economy, his faint lamp,
and locking his door, descended the stairs and passed through the hall out of

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doors. With a lighter step than his heavy heart gave promise of, he took his
way, the only person moving, across the shining green, the borders of which
were pitchy dark with the shadow of the avenues of elms which surrounded it.
The Colleges, with their long lines of windows and intermediate towers and
spires, rose still and solemn in the moonlight. Here and there a light gleamed
in a window, showing that the occupant was up, either at his studies, or more
probably, preparing his luggage for an early start for the home and friends that
were looking daily for his coming. The young man sighed as he thought of his
own home which he was not able to reach.

His footsteps unguided took him in the direction of the beautiful cemetery
which he entered. How lovely and unearthly beautiful was the scene! Green
willows drooping above snowy marble and waved in gentle night wind. Monuments
rose like the beauteous homes of spirits around him on every side! He
moved slowly and reverently along among these quiet habitations of the dead,
and forgot that he was unhappy. The hour and the scene melted his spirits!
He was all feeling and gentleness and love! Passing by the monumental
mansoleums of the rich and the renowned, he came to an humble grey stone in
a remote corner. Neither the shade of the bending willow nor cypress, nor the
pleasant shadow of flowers lay upon the grave, but green and mound-like it slept
beneath the blue skies in the light of the gentle moon and weeping stars, with a
dew drop glittering upon every spear of grass. The letters carved upon the
humble tombstone at the grave's head, were as follows:

THIS STONE IS ERECTED
To the Memory of
EDWARD LAMB,
OF THE JUNIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE,
WHO FELL A VICTIM TO
A FALSE SYSTEM OF SOCIETY,
IN HIS 20TH YEAR,
By a Friend and Classmate.

The student stood for a few moments, reading the inscription by the clear
light, and then said, with grief modulating tones of his voice—

`Sleep peacefully there where thou liest, dear Lamb! thy day of sorrow is
ended and thou art at rest! I remain, alas, to struggle with the same stern fate
that crushed thy more sensitive and prouder spirit. Sleep on beneath the quiet
stars and holy moon! man cannot reach thee in the grave! the arrows of his
persecutions strike harmlessly against this marble shield that shelters thy head.
Oh, that thy lot were now mine! that beneath this little spot of green sward beside
thy grave I could lie down and take my rest and know no fearful morrow!
But I am of the living and must still bear on through woe and ill, till God in
mercy calls me as he hath called thee, to rest. Oh, thou, who dost not regard
as beneath thy notice the least sparrow that falls wearied to the earth, mercifully
strengthen me against the calamities before me, and give me patience to
endure them, and in due time a happy deliverance from them: for my heart
faileth me for fear? I bless thee that when the evils of this life are ended I can
lie down and rest in the calm repose of the grave.'

Upborne with the hope that the quiet of the grave remained for him at last
when all he then suffered would be as if it had not been, he sought to strengthen
his soul with overlooking the present evils of his condition and contemplate
their sometime, end. `Yes, the time will come, when this same moon shall
shine down at midnight upon my grave as it does upon my happy Edward's,
and my spirit be blest beyond the serene depths where sparkle the stars above
me. The certainty of this shall sustain me through all I have to encounter, and,
with God's good blessing, I will try and meet my condition as becometh one
whose hopes are not here but beyond the grave. Rest peacefully, noble spirit
My heart bled for thee while thou wert struggling with the bitterness of life;
it sympathises with thy undisturbed repose. Sad is thy melancholy tale, noble
victim of the heartless ambition of others. Would that it were poured into the

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ears of all misguided parents who would sacrifice the happiness of their children
to their parental pride.'

Sad indeed is the story of poor Edward Lamb! and while our student is
seeking to soothe his spirit by rambling farther among the sacred homes of the
dead, we will relate it in a few brief words to the reader. The Rev. Henry
Lamb was the pastor of the Presbyterian church of one of the most rural villages
that border the romantic Merrimac. The tower of the church rose serenely
amid a venerable grove upon its banks, and near it stood a neat mansion in
which he resided. Domestic peace seemed to dwell side by side with religion,
in that quiet spot, and the passions of man to find there no admission. Yet the
inmates of the dwelling were human and were governed by like passions with
others, though the influence of the christian religion, of which the head of the
household was a minister, exerted its power over their hearts, and subdued and
tempered, if it did not sanctify, the natural evil of their natures. The one most
governed, both in precept and in life, by peaceful and elevating doctrines of the
Gospel was, as ought to be supposed, the minister himself. He was learned,
sensible, and sound in faith and well grounded in doctrine. His life was blameless
and useful, and his conversation honest in the sight of all men. Temperate,
apt to teach, diligent in his vocation and of mild and pleasing manners,
Mr. Lamb was respected, not to say beloved by all. In him the light and excellency
of Christianity as it affects the social relations was beautifully exhibited,
and a kinder father and husband was never known. He had a sweet Christian
wife, who had in the course of their union, with that generosity peculiar
to poor ministers' ladies, presented him with eight children, one son and seven
daughters. Thus good Mr. Lamb was blessed. His salary, however, was but
nine hundred dollars a year, and the house in which he lived was not a `parsonage'—
that sacred shelter which the church has so nobly provided for its servants.
Often a barrel of flour, or a ham, or a turkey, found its way from some
benevolent hand into the minister's larder, but he found that to get through
the year without debt, required great trusting of Providence. Indeed, the grocers
and mechanics of his own church generally sent him in their accounts receipted
at each year's close, trusting to a reward for such good deeds to faith
in that saying, which saith `He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.'

With all this assistance, Mr. Lamb struggled along with difficulty, and being
no trained economist like the man who gains his livelihood by selling and saving,
he seldom had any money in his pocket, and never knew any of the mysterious
rites that go on in that temple of Mammon, a Bank. We have said that
Mr. Lamb was a sincere Christian, a useful and laborious minister and an honest
man. But one thing—liberality of opinion in reference to trades—we regret
to say he lacked in common with most professional men, even though they
may be ministers of that Gospel which had for its first teachers men who while
they preached, sustained their necessities by `laboring with their hands at some
useful trade.' Some of them were net-menders; others were occupied in finishing
and tanning of hides; and, above all, the sacred founder of our holy religion,
reverently be it spoken, worked daily at the carpenter's trade till called
to enter actively upon his mission of salvation. But modern apostles forget
these things.

Mr. Lamb, in common with others of his position in society, was imbued with
a prejudice against mechanic traders! Not that he did not think them useful—
for by means of them he was sheltered, clothed, and fed; but he had been
educated in the false and erroneous notion that mechanical employment involved
something, he or no one else could tell what, intrinsically degrading! He
thought that a man's occupation fixed, to some extent, his merit! He could
meet and invite to his table, as an acknowledged gentleman, the `merchant,'
though a retailer of rum, oats, gingerbread, and fish-hooks; the lawyer, though
his meat and drink were salted with the tears of the unfortunate; the doctor,
though a legalized murderer! But the man who made his arm-chair, built his
house, and bound his books, never sat at his board! Out upon such false ideas
of things! shame on such absurd prejudices! fie upon such slavish servitude
of the understanding! When will men, when will christian men, learn to

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think and act sensibly in relation to this subject? Generation after generation
is born to trouble enough without having entailed upon it an evil and a sorrow
through the pride of the preceding.

Mr. Lamb, being thus prejudiced did no more contemplate a trade for his son
Edward, when he got to be seventeen, than binding him apprentice to a smuggler.
In taking into view his future pursuits, law, physic, and divinity only
filled the narrow scope of his vision. He was like the sailor who uses the microscope
instead of the far-sweeping spy-glass! taking a limited and exaggerated
view of objects nearest to him, and neglecting the broad and commanding
prospect that invites his observation.

Edward Lamb was therefore destined for a liberal profession, from the force
of illiberal prejudices. He was an intelligent and high spirited boy, and, singularly
enough, had the common sense to think differently from his father on
the subject of trades. If he had been consulted he would have preferred being
a printer; and when it was decided in domestic council that he should `go to
college,' he incurred the censure of vulgar propensities for thus expressing his
wishes.

`But how am I to get through college, sir?' he asked frankly and doubtingly,
well knowing from experience the narrowness of his father's circumstances.

`As a beneficiary,' answered Mr. Lamb.

`That is as a charity-student, sir,' he repeated with a glow of sensitive pride.
`How much more noble it would be for me to become a printer!'

`You have a position in society to earn and maintain, my son, and can only
succeed as a professional man. As a mechanic you would always be in low
society.'

`It seems to me that no one can be lower than a student of charity. But I
submit sir.'

With difficulty, and much straitening of poverty was Edward sent from the
paternal roof to college. Here he soon gained a distinguished name as a scholar;
but being of a high-spirited and sensitive nature, he could ill endure the
dependant situation in which he found himself, which involved in it, beside,
numerous privations that constantly mortified him. He was daily made to feel,
too, his position, by the haughty bearing of the wealthy student, and the sneers
of the unfeeling, whom his higher scholarship filled with envy. Do my readers
know what it is to be a beneficiary in college? The hapless young man
who has his tuition gratuitously, has the refuse choice of a room for which he
is charged no rent; pays for his three meals in Commons by waiting on the
tables of the other students, and sitting down after they have done! His books
of study are loaned him from the library, and his bed and bedding and furnishing
are got as they may be. His clothing, his fire-wood, his stationary, and
other expenses are obtained by `school teaching' in the vacations. If sickness
should at any time render him incapable of keeping school, then hard is his lot
the succeeding term! He must either go in debt hoping to pay the ensuing
vacation, or go without the necessary items above detailed. In addition to this
he is made, both in the society of the college and that of the town, keenly to
feel his poverty and dependant position. If he is a young man of spirit, he
will either quit college or it will sooner or later break him down. This condition
is mostly sought and followed by pious young men, who, that ultimately
they may preach the gospel, are willing to undergo the greatest deprivations.—
As a school for humility none certainly could be more suitable for a christian!
Such was the position in which Edward Lamb found himself after entering
college. The pursuits of science, the delights of literature, the charm of varied
study could not neutralize in his sensitive and proud mind the sense of his dependant
condition. He lost his frankness of manner, his pride of spirit, his
manly boldness in addressing others. He at length reached his Junior year,
when his constitution sunk under study, wounded sensibility and the double
labor of school teaching in vacations, and close application in term time. When
the middle vacation came, he was too ill to take a school, and kept his room,
an invalid.

The next term began and he resumed his studies. Debts of the past term

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existed, and others necessarily accumulated which he had no means from school
money to meet; and at the close of his Junior year, as he was about to leave
college temporarily to take a school in the country, with improved health, hoping
to earn something to pay his debts, he was arrested by a brute for a debt of
$3,00, and thrown into prison! arrested because he was a beneficiary! for the
man's excuse subsequently was that `no charity student ought to go in debt!'
and what was the debt contracted for? To enable himself to appear with decency
at church, he had got a new collar and sleeves and a set of buttons put
to the only coat he had. He incurred it with the understanding that he was to
pay it from his first school money Illness prevented him from keeping school,
and Shears, the college tailor, tired of waiting for his money, and finding he
was going out of town, (to earn the very money to pay him) had a warrant
served upon him.

Edward submitted to his fate without a murmur. His spirit had already been
crushed by the sense of debts and dependence. He went to prison; and within
its stone walls, ere the next sun rose, his proud heart broke, and his noble
and suffering spirit took its free flight! Charles Blackford, our hero, had been
his bosom friend. Kindred circumstances united them by the close bonds of
sympathy. Having heard, not till the next morning of his friends arrest, he
hastened to him. On entering his cell he found that his sympathizing friendship
had been anticipated by the friendly interference of Death. All that remained
of Edward Lamb was kneeling, supported by the wall, the hands clasped
together in the act of prayer!

`Why did we not hear of this—why did we not know it?' was the fruitless question
hundreds both of students and charitable ladies put to themselves when
this melancholy intelligence was communicated. Yes, when the pecuniary
sufferer by the hand of God or his own self-act gets beyond relief, then the
purse strings fly and the tongue is filled with vain and wicked regrets. `Would
that I had known it?' is the form which pity takes to express itself, and if they
had known it, would the case have been different? No! they must then wait
till the sufferer perishes first before they can believe the case is so desperate.

Charles Blackford laid by a few dollars by depriving himself of actual wants,
and erected the humble stone at the head of his friend's grave, the inscription upon
which we have copied. We have recorded the story of the hapless victim to
a false system of society of society, though we are not in favor of episodes in a
narrative! But as we write to illustrate a moral and expose an error, it matters
little what colors we use to fill up the great outline, so that they harmonize, and
the lights and shadows are given with their just effects.

CHAPTER II.

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The moon was fading into the cold grey sky of the morning, and the first tint
of dawn suffused with a delicate flush the eastern horizon, when Charles Blackford
retraced his steps towards the Colleges. He had rambled from the cemetery
far over the meadow and field; and urged on by the restless spirit in his
bosom, had ascended the craggy summit of East Rock, where in the solemn silence
of the place and hour, with infinite space above him, and the earth and
sea sleeping at his feet, he at length schooled his proud and sensitive heart to
submission.

In his way to the college, on turning a corner of the street, he came suddenly
upon the stage house. The sun was already flashing the whole sky with his
ascending glories, and the sight of stage and busy passengers upon and around
it, recalled him to the consciousness that he had no longer the world all to
himself, and that the day, the dreaded day of pain and responsibility, had at
length began its round. He would have turned back shrinkingly from the
crowd of students and others about the door, but one of his fellow students of the
class below him, and whom he had often assisted in his studies, and from whom
he had received always warm demonstrations of friendship, saw him, and approached
him with an umbrella in his hand and a cloak on his arm.

`Are you off too in this stage, Blackford,' he said in an elated tone, at the
idea of leaving behind the scenes of his long confinement, and in the cheerful
anticipations of home.

`No Preston,' said Blackford, with difficulty returning the smile of his
wealthy college friend. `As you will pass through, and probably stay a day
or two in Haverhill, have the kindness to call on my father, and tell him that
you have seen me.'

`But when do you leave?'

`I cannot tell,' said he, with a slight increase of color.

`You look ill, Blackford! I hope that sickness may not detain you in this
dull place all the vacation.'

`No, I shall try a school soon,' answered Charles, smiling faintly.

`Well, its a pity your father is not rich,' said Preston in an indifferent tone.
`Thank fortune I have money enough! Look here and see what my good
kind old uncle has sent me to pay my expenses to Boston!' and the young Junior
opened his pocket book, which he held in his hand to pay his stage fare,
and displayed to Blackford's eyes a roll of bank notes.

`There seems to be a large sum, and I am glad you are so happily situated in
life,' said Charles.

`There is two hundred dollars! I shall have a little you see, to amuse myself
with on the route; and this the old gentleman kindly and thoughtfully
provided for, remembering he was once young. Well, good by, Blackford,
we'll meet next term!'

With these words the lively young gentleman shook him warmly by the
hand, but though younger in years and classes, with a sort of patronizing air
which money insensibly assumes over poverty.

`Good bye, Preston, I wish you a pleasant journey, and a happy meeting
with your friends.'

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`Thank you,' returned Preston, with a cordial and friendly smile, and hastened
away to pay his passage to the agent, who stood by the door of the Inn,
with the way-bill in his hand.

Blackford remained for a few moments standing where his young friend had
parted from him. His brow was thoughtful, and an expression of mingled
doubt and hope suddenly gave a new aspect to his hitherto sad features. The
idea that the young Bostonian might befriend him in his great strait, had flashed
upon him like a gleam of hope in his despair. But the idea was no sooner
formed, than pride, shame, and keen sensibility rejected it.

`How shall I open my lips with the first word, to unfold my situation!' he
said mentally; `How shall I endure his cold, collected, listening eye, while I
tell my tale of poverty? How can I humble myself, and then subject myself to
the mortification of a refusal? How, more than all, if he should relieve
me by a loan of fifty dollars, can I repay him? I have nothing, I
have no hopes but my school! It would be only transferring my debt, without
lessening it. Yet how much rather would I have one person my creditor, and
that one Preston, than seven of various tempers and dispositions, as I now have!
In justice, too, to them I ought to make an effort to pay them! Truly and honestly,
let me ask myself, what it is that withholds me from adopting the suggestion,
and applying to Preston? I see plainly, it is pride! He may befriend
me, and give time to repay him after I get my profession, and my reputation
would not suffer the infamy my creditors will not fail to heap upon it if they
are not paid before night. They need the money, and my reputation is dear to
me! pride alone predominates in the other scale! But I had better risk the
wounding of it by applying to Preston, who is able, and I doubt not would be
willing to aid me on my representing my situation to him, than run the certain
risk of having it wounded by those whom I am unable to pay! I will, therefore,
in behalf of, and in justice to those I owe, and in protection of my own reputation
and fair name, let no false pride stand in the way of necessity and duty.—
I will ask him!'

Thus reasoned a sensitive and proud young man before borrowing money for
the first time in his life! How humbling is poverty! how it crushes the generous
spirit! how withering to the finer feelings of his heart! Charles Blackford
advanced impulsively a few steps towards his friend, and then checked
himself, with a sinking sensation of his heart! Preston was paying his passage,
and the agent was inquiring of some one to change a bill to pay him back
a quarter of a dollar in change that was coming to him,

`Never mind the quarter,' said the young Bostonian carelessly `give it to
the hostler; and he approached the stage to get in.

The reply of Preston to the agent gave poor Blackford courage, and awakened
his hope, for such indifference to money, he believed promised also generosity.
But he was ignorant of the world, and knew not that a man may be ostentatious
of liberality before others, to cover an avaricious disposition! We
do not predict this, however, of young Preston, leaving the reader to see and
judge for himself, as he watches the effect of Blackford's application. With a
cheek, the moment before wholly colorless, now glowing with the momentary
blood of sensitive embarrassment he advanced and spoke to Preston as he was
getting into the stage, with one foot already upon the step.

`Mr. Preston, will you permit me to say a word to you,' he articulated with a
nervous rapidity, and insensibly addressing his fellow-student with that forma
respect which is the instinctive prompting of humble life—the first lesson of the
poor is dependence!

The young Bostonian removed his foot from the step, and taking his arm in a
friendly way, stepped aside with him, supposing he wanted to send some other
message to his friends, or supposing anything but the truth, doubtless; for men
are not wont to take a man's arm and walk aside with him, whom they suspect
is about to ask of them a pecuniary favor.

`I have taken the liberty of intruding upon your departure,' said Blackford,
with a painful effort, which showed how deeply he felt the humiliation of his

[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]

pride, as Preston stopped and looked him full in the face, waiting his communication;
`to venture to ask a favor of you?'

His friend's countenance changed from its frank and cordial aspect at this,
and Blackford thought he looked as if he suspected what he wanted. Nevertheless,
urged forward by his truly distressing condition, he continued, seeing
that Preston was silent:

`You are aware that my father is a poor rector of a country church, and that
I support myself through college by my own exertions. Up to this vacation I
have been able, with the narrowest economy, to meet my expenses. Illness,
the last vacation, prevented me from keeping school, and I entered upon the
term just ended without the usual means, earned by school-keeping, to pay my
way through, hoping to get some scholars in a night school. I commenced;
but my health broke down under combined study and unwonted exertion, and
I was compelled to give it up before I could make it a means of pecuniary profit.
The close of the term has now come, and I find my little bills, including
that to the Steward and my physician, has left me debtor to several individuals,
to the amount, in all, of forty dollars. One or two of them may possibly be put
off till the beginning of next term; but the holders of others say they must be
paid this day, and I apprehend, if they are not satisfied, the most fatal consequences
to my reputation. I have not slept the whole night on account of my
distress of mind, and returning from a walk to East Rock, I met you! The
knowledge of your ability and generous disposition, has prompted me to confide
my position to you, believing from my knowledge of you, you had only to
be informed of it to afford me temporary relief.'

Preston listened to Blackford's relation without changing countenance, to
the end. He then said, with the look of one who feels he has been uselessly
annoyed, and in a tone of cold sympathy,

`Your situation is, indeed, disagreeable, Blackford, and I am truly sorry for
you. If your reputation should suffer, it will be a pity you ever came to college,
without the means to go through. I am sorry, upon my soul, and I wish
I could help you. I have money, it is true, but only enough for my own purposes
and uses. I shall need every dollar in my pocket-book. Perhaps Robinson
can assist you!'

`No, no,! never mind, Mr. Preston,' said Blackford, feeling as if he should
sink into the earth with wounded pride and mortification. `I am sorry that I
should have intruded my affairs upon you.'

`Not in the least, Blackford. I should be happy to serve you were it in my
power to do so. Good bye!'

Preston smiled and nodded, but did not shake hands, and leaving him, returned
to the stage, into which he no sooner had got than it drove off. Blackford
stood where Preston had left him, his eyes mechanically following the
carriage till it disappeared around the corner of the next street. He then walked
slowly on a little way, with his head depressed to the pavement and his
whole attitude weighed down and sinking. He reached a retired part of the
street, leaned against a fence, and his full and bursting heart found relief in
tears.

Poor Charles Blackford! thou hadst just been taught thy first bitter lesson
in human nature! Thou hadst learned that when friends are needed they prove
of no use! That men may treat each other with courtesy; grasp the hand
warmly; smile and talk freely and friendly; dine and ride, walk together and
fulfil towards one another all the outward duties of warm personal friendship!
but that when pecuniary assistance is solicited in a sudden emergency, they
disappoint the hopes that are placed in them, and the substance of the gilded
shadow proves not to exist! that to touch the purse strings of a friend, is to
dispel like magic the smile of his friendship and freeze the warm grasp of cordiality.

`Now is the cup of bitterness full,' said Blackford, as he at length grew
calmer. `I needed only this humiliation! and has he listened to the tale that
burned my tongue for shame and mortification as I told it, and treated it with
cold indifference! I did not look for this, at least. Is there no sympathy in

[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]

man's heart for his fellow? He has loaned me books, nay, did once loan me a
cloak, when I was ill, seeing that I had none. I should have thought nothing
of asking him the use of his library, during vacation, nor would he have refused
me. Why is there such a difference between books and money! between
the thing itself and the mere representative of the thing? There seems to be
none to me, though the world thinks differently. Why is it I felt myself inspired
with such awe at naming money to him? Why did the naming of it
seem, as it plainly did, so great an offence? Mysterious, indeed, is this influence
over men's minds. Why should there exist so wide a difference in asking
the loan of a friend's purse. In both cases it is the want, that is the basis
of the request, and the object of need should not in the remotest way effect the
simple premises. But this is idle speculation and administers to me no relief.
I will seek my lonely room and meet this evil day with a firm trust in God, for
vain indeed is the help of man.'

As he was about to proceed, a second stage bound to Hartford, drove up to
the Inn, from which he was not far off, and he paused a moment to see the
passengers, most of whom were students, get in. While thus engaged, he
heard a quick step behind him, and looking round, he beheld approaching, out
of breath, Peter Shears, the tailor, to whom he owed two dollars and eighty-seven
and a half cents.—Blackford felt a pang of he knew not what painful
sensation at seeing him, and somehow conceived himself to be the cause of his
haste and early appearance abroad.

`Good morning, Mr. Blackford,' he said in an ironical and inquisitive manner.
`Up early, I see. Last day of term over; happy time for students. Do
you go off in that stage this morning?'

`I shall not leave New Haven without settling with or notifying you,' quietly
answered Blackford, who saw his creditor had suspected that he was about to
leave clandestinely, and painfully augured from this the worst of consequences,
from inability to pay before night.

`Oh, oh! I thought you might be going, and came down to see you off.—
Always come to see my friends off.'

`I am indebted to your polite attention, Mr. Shears,' said Blackford, coldly,
and walked on towards the college. He had continued on his way some distance
before he perceived that Shears was shuffling by his side.

`I told you, Mr. Shears, I was not going to leave town without paying you,'
said Blackford, angry at the annoyance.

`How then came you sneaking round the Stage office at this hour in the
morning?' retorted Shears, impertinently and incredulously. Shears would
not have presumed to speak to Blackford in this manner under any other circumstances;
but creditors have a peculiar vocabulary of their own in their
intercourse with debtors, in which neither the words of civility nor of politeness
are to be found. Blackford felt like knocking him down for this rude insult
to his feelings; but prudence suggested patience, and he answered calmly,

`I have been only walking.'

`I think you intended marching, though, if I had not seen you,' answered
the fellow with a chuckle at his heartless wit. `Do you think you can settle
my demand to-day, Mr. Blackford?'

`I have no means at present, but if you will call I will tell you what I can
do, answered Charles, hoping against the hope that he could yet in some way
at least pay him. `How much is your demand?' he suddenly asked.

`Two, eighty-seven and a half;' answered Shears promptly.

`Come then to my room this afternoon and I will settle it, sir,' said Charles,
determined to rid himself of this annoyance by paying him the only two dollars
he had in the world which he had hoped to keep to pay his expenses as he travelled
on foot in search of a school. To it he hoped to add eighty-seven and a
half cents by selling a few books—for few indeed he had to sell.

`Well, I'll take your word, Mr. Blackford, and depend on being paid the
money down and no favor. Good morning.'

Blackford made no reply but walked on. As he entered the College green,
he chanced to look back, when he saw Shears watching him from a distant

[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]

street corner, to see if he did not mistake the way and take the road for the
Stage-office, instead of his room.

`Humiliating, indeed, are poverty and debt,' he said bitterly. `That fellow
despises me and suspects me to be a rogue. I cannot help feeling something
like self-contempt myself. Another such interview would make me believe
myself the felon they would make me. How poverty and debt degrade the
mind in its own esteem.'

With a heavy heart Blackford entered his room. On his way up he passed
his fellow students descending the stairs, carrying valises and carpet-bags, and
the halls and passages rung with the preparations for departure.

`Yes, all is life, hope and cheering anticipation! I seem to be the only one
desolate and unhappy,' he said, as he locked his door and threw himself, fatigued
and wretched, into his arm chair. `Now let me contemplate my position
and how I shall meet my creditors. After breakfast (and at that meal I
shall be expected to pay the steward too) I shall be called upon. Shears I have
resolved to give up my last penny to pay, and I do not fear him. What excuse
shall I make? Shall I explain all and throw myself upon the clemency
and indulgence of each? God in mercy endow me with firmness and patience
under my trials.'

He remained awhile seated as we first found him the midnight previous, with
his hand to his cheek, thoughtful and heavy. All at once he started and seized
a pen and placed a sheet of paper before him.

`Yes, I will write to my father and urge the necessity of making some sacrifice
in my behalf. It is through his pride I am here in this situation, and I will
appeal to his pride as well as his affection to do something to rescue me. He
may at least borrow fifty dollars where I could not a penny. He has rich men
in his parish and they would not refuse him. I will write.

With this determination, though on the successful issue he placed but faint
hope, he penned a letter to his father, in which he entered fully into his painful
situation, and eloquently called upon him for immediate relief. In it he appealed
equally to his pride and to his affection. Having ended it he sealed it
and went with it in person to the Post-office. Leaving the letter to the fate of
the Post, we will introduce the reader to the Rev. St. John Blackford, to whom
it was addressed. This gentleman was the son of a poor physician, in one of
the small towns in Massachusetts. He was the youngest of five brothers, all of
whom the sensible doctor put to useful trades as fast as they became of proper
age. St. John, however, disdained a trade, and after being bound to several,
finally entered, and struggled through College, and his inclinations leading
him to the Church, he studied three years in a manual labor Seminary, and
finally took orders. It cannot be denied that he had made himself a sound
scholar, and that he promised fair to become eminent as a Divine. Yet Mr.
Blackford entered the ministry with a debt of five hundred dollars, which had
followed him through the whole course of study, like a ball of snow, increasing
in bulk as it rolls. He hoped to pay this by laying by a portion of his salary;
but he remained three years a missionary with but 300 dollars a year from the
fund and scarcely a hundred from his preaching. Finally he obtained a rectorship
worth seven hundred dollars a year and married. His student's debt still
troubled him, and he solicited scholars to fit for College to enable him to commence
its liquidation. But it so chanced, that the money thus received was always
needed just at the time, and none of it went to its originally intended destination.
By and by Mr. Blackford became a father, and shortly afterwards
changed his parish to one near or in the city of Boston. Here his salary was
larger, but his expenses were larger also, and he gained nothing in a pecuniary
point of view by the exchange. Finally, twelve years after he had taken orders,
he was left a bequest of one thousand dollars, by a deceased bachelor brother,
who was a cabinet-maker, and died rich. With this he paid principal and
interest of his long haunting debt, which consumed all but about one hundred
dollars. But for this providential aid he would doubtless have gone down to
his grave with the debt contracted in College and at the Seminary, unpaid.

With this painful personal experience before his own eyes, he nevertheless

[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]

resolved to entail upon his son the same evil. When Charles, therefore, who
was one of six children, became of a suitable age, he was to be sent to College,
although his two uncles, one a wheelright and the other a machinist, both tried
to persuade their brother of the folly and wickedness of sending a youth to College
without means to support him there; while both offered to teach him their
trade. Mr. Blackford, however, like the Rev. Mr. Lamb, the Presbyterian
minister, had an idea that trades were vulgar, if not degrading. He felt, therefore,
insulted by their proposition.

`Who ever heard of a clergyman's son being put apprentice to a trade, brothers?
' he asked, with the pride of professional position as little becoming a sensible
man as a Christian. `You, yourselves, by being tradesmen, do not move
in the same society in which I do, and I wish my son to keep in the class to
which his father belongs.'

`It is a class of beggars, brother, not to wound your feelings;' said David
Blackford, the wheelwright, bluntly. `But I do not wish to say much to you,
as you are a minister of God, and God, not I, must judge you. But I would
speak in nephew Charles's behalf. Send him to College, poor as you are, and
he will always be a poor and unhappy man. I prophecy it, brother!'

Thus parted the brothers, and Charles Blackford was sent to College, eloquently
pleading to be put to a trade with one of his uncles, as if having a presentiment
of the dark destiny in store for him as a poor student. He went not
as a beneficiary, like poor Edward Lamb, for Mr. St. John Blackford, his father,
had too much pride for this. He went with the understanding that he was
to keep school vacations—the forlorn hope of poor scholars!—and be clothed
from home. The first three years it was with Charles Blackford a continual
struggle to keep out of debt, but it was in some degree, a successful one. The
fourth year, his constitution originally strong and healthy, gave way under too
much work, and illness, privation, debt, and a series of painful mortifications
followed. The last day of the second term of his senior year arrived, and he
found himself involved, as we have shown, beyond his ability to extricate himself.

Returning from the Post Office, he crossed into a bye street, and entering a
low, dark shop, the door of which was garnished with second hand clothing
hung about it, he took from beneath his arm a small bundle wrapped in a newspaper,
and laid it upon the greasy counter. A black man was in attendance behind
it.

`I have some articles I wish to sell,' said Charles; and the black, without
saying a word, took up the bundle and displayed its contents, viz: a vest very
much worn, and three books.

`What gen'leman 'spec' get for dis ol' rag,' said the negro, opening and holding
up the garment to the light, with a look of contempt for it.

`I will sell it for ninety cents.'

`Ninety cent! Marcy dear! I would not get twenty cent for him. See! one
button off, and de pocket worn! I buy it for twenty cent.'

`I must have more,' said Charles, to whom towards paying Shears, twenty
cents was of little use.

`I no gib one cent more,' answered the black, decidedly.

`Will you buy the books, then?' asked Blackford, who had taken them with
him as a sort of forlorn hope, in case, as he much feared, his vest should not
bring the full amount he needed.

`Book! I don't want gen'leman's book,' said the negro, with a grin. `I don't
know him value. But what 'll gen'leman take for de books?'

`Twenty-five cents each?

`I'll gib you ten cent apiece.'

`No. I must have somehow ninety cents from them and the vest.'

`I'll gib you tree quarter dollar for de vest you got on,' said the black, coolly
eyeing the plain satin vest he wore.

`Will you?' exclaimed Blackford, and then directly checked himself, as
he looked at his old vest on the counter, which was hardly decent to resume
again.

[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]

`Three quarters and done! what gen'leman say?'

Blackford hesitated; but the face of Shears rose before his sensitive apprehension,
and he closed the sale. Taking off the vest he resumed the old one
with a sigh. The negro then paid him seventy-five cents for the vest, and thirty
more for the books, and Charles with eighteen cents in his possession over
and above the debt to Shears, quit the shop of the black and took his way back
to his chambers, with his coat close buttoned, to hide his shabby waistcoat.—
But, withal, he felt happy at having it in his power to release himself from the
grasp of the unfeeling Shears.

On entering his room, who should he find there but the tailor himself!

Ah! Mr. Blackford, I beg pardon, but I called to see if—if' and the lying
rogue hesitated and stuttered, for he well knew, as did Charles, also, that he
came there to assure himself that his prey had not eluded him.

`Don't make any apologies at all, Mr. Shears,' said Blackford, ironically; `I
am happy to see you, inasmuch as I have the money ready for you and, as I
shall take great pleasure after paying you the last farthing I owe you, to show
you a new way out.'

Shears turned pale, glanced at the open window, and retreated a step, and
laid his hand on the latch of the door! Charles paid no attention to him, but
selecting his account, counted out the money, and laid it beside it upon the table.
The tailor's eye glowed at the sight of the money, but he was afraid to
leave his position at the door, as he felt that the attitude in which he had lately
stood to his debtor, was now changed, and that he had no security (except his
insignificance) against a just retribution for his insults.

`Mr. Shears, there is your money! I will trouble you to receipt this account,
' said Blackford, sternly, feeling as forcibly as Shears himself, the change
the small sum of money had made in their relative position to each other.

Shears advanced with evident suspicious of danger, bowing and smirking his
mean cocked up features; `You need'nt have troubled yourself about paying
it just now, Mr. Blackford—this afternoon, or even to-morrow would have answered
my purpose just as well.'

`My receipt if you please.'

Shears put his hat humbly down upon the floor, and taking a pen, stood up,
though a chair was convenient, and receipted the account without looking at
the amount of money.

`You see, Mr. Blackford, I don't count the sum. I trusted to your honor
that it is all right.'

`I insist on your counting it, every penny. The sum of your account is $2,
87 1-2. See if I have paid that sum.'

`Yes, sir—all right,' said Shears, obeying him and taking up his hat. `I am
exceedingly obliged to you, Mr. Blackford. I wish you a pleasant vacation,
sir,' and as he was speaking, he was all the while edging towards the door.—
Charles enjoyed his apprehensions, but the object of his indignation was too
contemptible for him to inflict upon him the chastisement he so richly merited.

`Go, Mr. Shears,' he said, opening the door wide for him to pass; `it only
wanted the exhibition of this craven fear of just punishment, so strongly contrasting
to your impudence to me this morning, to complete my contempt for
you. Go, and learn from my forbearance, to be merciful to the unfortunate
debtor circumstances may place you in relation with. Go! I would not spurn
you with my foot!'

Shears who had cautiously retreated so as to avoid coming in proximity with
Blackford, from whom he felt he deserved chastisement, made no delay in taking
advantage of his permission to depart, and darting through the door way,
instinctively shrinking in, as if to evade the kick he seemed still to expect, he
descended the stairs three steps at a time.

`Oh, poverty, poverty! that makes the proud and generous spirit such a man's
bond slave! Alas, my father, to what degredation has your ambition and wicked
pride brought me! But it is useless to reflect upon him. I have dismissed
one of my creditors, and the most troublesome, as I believe; but I cannot tell
this till the others have been told they cannot be paid. How unfortunate that

[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]

this should happen to me so near the end of my College course. One term more
and I should graduate! But how am I to live another term when I don't see
how to live another day! I shall, after all my father's desire to give me a profession,
have to throw up my connexions with the College, and if I obtain a
a degree at all, get it only by the courtesy of the Faculty. But if I do not pay
these demands, the rumor of my defalcation will bring my name before them
with a blot that will defeat even this hope! My situation is indeed deplorable.
Ah, there is a step approaching. My palpitating and coward heart tells me beforehand,
that it is a creditor's! It is the Steward's clerk.

`Good morning, Mr. Blackford,' said a saturnine looking young man, a beneficiary
acting clerk. `Mr. Twining, not seeing you at breakfast, desired me
to call for the amount of your board bill.'

`I really forgot breakfast in my other engagements,' said Charles. `Be so
kind, Disbrow, to say to Mr. Twining I will call and see him in the course of
the day about it.'

`This account was presented, and should have been paid according to usage,
on the last day of term. Mr. Blackford, I must have it settled without longer
delay.'

`I will settle it then with the Steward.'

`He has left it wholly with me, Mr. Blackford.'

`Oh, then I can obtain your indulgence, till I hear from my father, to whom
I have written for money,' said Charles, who well knew the cold and turgid
character of Disbrow, who was a hypocrite in religion, a sycophant in manners,
a tyrant in feeling; who, dependant himself, and often made to feel it, when
power was in his hands, delighted to exercise. He disliked, particularly, poor
students who were not, like himself, beneficiaries.

`You can get nothing from that source, for we all know you depend on yourself,
' he said doggedly in reply.

`Then if you are aware I depend on myself you should admit this as a plea
and not press me too closely, Disbrow,' said Charles, calmly. `Ah me!' he
added to himself as he heard another step advancing along the passage; `here
is another! God strengthen me! Good morning Mr. Lapstone, you have come
I suppose for the amount of your little bill?'

`Yes, sir,' said the shoemaker looking very serious on seeing Disbrow standing
with his steward's account which he had taken from the table in his hand
and with a look of dissatisfaction on his homely vissage.

`It is a small amount to be sure, Mr. Lapstone, but I regret to tell you I am
unable to meet it to-day. I have written to my father and hope soon to get
money.'

`He will have to hope, I guess,' said Disbrow, sneeringly.

`I want my money, Mr. Blackford; I have waited a long time and I can't
afford to lose it. It is a small amount as you say, only $2.18, and I hope you
will settle it and let me go to my work.'

`Indeed, sir, I am sorry you are so warm about it,' said poor Charles hardly
knowing how to manage him, as he saw he was quick tempered and promised
to be violent; `if you will wait for me till I can get a letter from Haverhill—'

`I shall have to wait till Haverhill comes to New Haven! No, no, I must
have my money. `Aint he paid Mr. Twining yet, Mr. Disbrow, that you are
standing there waiting?' he asked sullenly.

`No, but he will, I rayther think,' drawled the other with a dogged look.

`Here comes another!' cried the victim of parental pride and poverty as he
heard a person advancing rapidly towards his room.

`Oh, you are here,' said a little sharp faced, pale man with a long frame,
stepping quickly into the room and smiling as he discovered the occupant was
present. `I am glad to find you have not left town. My apprentice told me
he was sure he saw you at the stage office, but I was sure it must have
been a mistake and told him so. Indeed I did, Mr. Blackford, I assure you.—
Because a man owes me a little money and don't pay the very day due, it is no
reason I should think he may runaway. No, no, I knew I should find you safe

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

here. So, you have visitors! Very well, I have no secrets, I will just receipt
that little account if convenient, and go back to my pestle and mortar.'

`Really, Mr. Bluepill,' said the embarrassed and confused young man, `I
must request your kind indulgence for a few days.'

`Till he hears from his father,' said Disbrow, sneeringly.

`I should be happy to oblige you, Mr. Blackford,' said the little apothecary
with a fallen countenance; `but really in these times one needs all the money
owing to him. It is but $3.10—a mere trifle.'

`Trifle as it is, it is out of my power to pay it to you to-day,' said Charles
with more firmness than he would have believed he could have commanded at
such a moment of humiliating trial. Oh, the anguish and bitter mortification,
and even self-contempt that rung his sensitive bosom through that scene! He
stood by his table with his hand resting upon it, pale but outwardly calm.

Scarcely had he replied to Mr. Bluepill, who looked very fierce and very determined,
when Dr. Pulsefer entered. He was a mild, soft spoken gentleman,
and had an air of candor and kindness that invited confidence. He stared on
seeing who were his late patient's visitors, and said,

`I was passing, Mr. Blackford, and called to receive that little amount for
visit and prescription. It is a small matter, or I wouldn't trouble you,' said the
Doctor, courteously.

`I am unable to settle it now, Doctor,' said Blackford.

`Ah, very well, another time,' was the careless reply, and the Doctor was
going out when Disbrow shouted in a loud rough tone, `will you settle this or
not, Mr. Blackford?'

`And will you pay mine, sir?' demanded the shoemaker, taking up the key.

`And mine too, if you please?' cried Mr. Bluepill, looking blue with anger.

`Do you owe all these men, Mr. Blackford?' asked the Doctor, gravely.

`Yes, and one more who I see is approaching, Mr. Otterskin the hatter,' answered
Charles with forced composure.

`Then, sir, if you are so reckless of getting into debt and have so many creditors,
I must insist on the immediate settlement of my account,' said the physician,
who, though naturally courteous and gentlemanly, was instantly prejudiced
against his debtor by this array of damning proof of his reckless extravagance.
Thus by the greatness of Charles Blackford's misfortune did the world
measure his supposed guilt! The words of his friend the doctor, whom he
really esteemed, cut him to the heart, and he would have wept for grief, but
that the injustice of the reproof sustained him. He felt his cup was full!—
Another footstep approached and he looked up expecting to see the face of his
stationer, but to his surprise a stage driver entered, and asking him if his name
was Blackford, handed him a letter.

`I was ordered by the young gentleman to give it to you in person as there is
money in it,' said the coachman.

At the word `money' there was manifested a general sympathetic movement
among Charles's creditors in the room. Blackford who had just then anticipated
the issue of his levee of angry creditors would be half-a-dozen writs
served upon him, and was weighing in his mind how he should act, hastily tore
the seal. To his surprise it contained a bank note of fifty dollars, which, slipping
through his trembling fingers, fell fluttering to the floor. The little apothecary
sprung forward and caught it and politely returned it to his hand. With
an incredulous vision he glanced for explanation at the signature. It was that
of Grayham Preston! Hurriedly and with a joyful heart he read as follows,
written with a pencil.

`The Ox Head Breakfast Inn,
12 miles from New Haven, 9, A. M.

Dear Blackford:—I have been thinking of you and your request and unpleasant
situation, every turn of the coach-wheel to this place. Your case has
undergone my thorough mental survey, and I am convinced I treated your
confidence and trust in me very unhandsomely. I have no wish to excuse myself,
though I might do so. The truth is I have been very often applied to by

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students to lend money and seldom refusing, I have been sometimes trifled with
and imposed upon, not that I could suspect any such thing of you! Twice before
your application this morning I had two fellows ask me for money, which
for certain reasons I declined lending; your request was, therefore, unhappily
timed and in the hurry of departure I did not give it that consideration,
which your own character and my respect for you, should have challenged
for it. Pardon me, if I gave you offence, or by my refusal added to your mortifying
position. I would now, in some degree, atone for my indifference to
your request, and beg leave to enclose you a bank note for $50, assuring you I
shall not need it; and I pray you will oblige me by never bringing it to my recollection
again. Wishing you a happy deliverance from all your difficulties, I
beg leave hastily to subscribe myself,

The tears rushed to Blackford's eyes but pride in the presence of those around
him, restrained their grateful flow. He felt like kneeling down and thanking
God for this happy issue out of all his afflictions. But the present was not the
time! The moment called for different kind of action. Assuming a composed
countenance, and stilling his glad heart as well as he could, he locked his joy
up in his bosom, from the inquiring eye of those before him, and turning to
Disbrow he asked him with dignified severity to receipt the account he held
and return him twenty-six dollars. The clerk obeyed and tendered him the receipted
bill.

`Now, sir, leave my room,' said Charles, commandingly, pointing to the door.

Disbrow would have hesitated, but Blackford took him quickly by the collar
and put him out.

`Mr. Lapstone, here is the money I owe you. Receipt your bill. Now, sir,
I respect your favors too much to turn you out of my chamber, though taking
advantage of my need, you have rudely insulted me. I have nothing farther
to say to you.

`Mr. Bluepill, you are now paid your demand,' he added, after settling with
that worthy, who looked all the while as if he expected his nose or ears pulled,
or some kind of assault upon his anatomical person; `now as you are beneath
my notice, I shall not trouble myself to escort you down stairs, but I would recommend
you to make no delay in getting well down to the bottom yourself,
without my assistance.'

Mr. Bluepill took the hint and vanished. Mr. Otterskin, the hatter, who had
come in too late, to have his human charity towards a debtor tested, was next
paid and took his departure, doubtless saving his credit and learning a cautionary
lesson in courtesy, from the treatment which he had seen his fellow creditors
receive, at the hands of the indignant Blackford, who had now become
(such is the magic of money!) the judge of his tyrants and masters!

`Now, Dr Pulsefeeler,' said Charles, fixing his calm and penetrating gaze upon
this gentleman, who colored and looked exceedingly embarrassed, and as if he
felt altogether self-condemned and ashamed of his unjust opinion and conduct,
`I take no little pleasure in paying your bill. There are six dollars, the price of
your self respect!'

`Pardon me, Mr. Blackford, I was deceived by appearances, and—

`No apologies are necessary, sir,' answered Charles, quietly; `I trust you
have just the amount of your bill!'

`Yes sir.'

`And I have your receipt. Good morning, sir!'

`I would atone, my dear Mr. Blackford, for my injustice to you,' said the physician.

`Then, sir,' said Charles, less severely, let it be by charity of opinion towards
debtors; nor believe a young man, because you discover he is in debt, in need,
and surrounded by insulting and heartless creditors, to be unworthy of confidence
and respect, unentitled to civility, and open and amenable to uncharitable
judgment, unjust suspicion, and the persecutions of the unfeeling; but believe
rather that debt is the eloquent sign of want and of misfortune, challenging the

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sympathies of the benevolent and opulent, and enlisting the sweet influence of
gentle pity in its behalf.'

Once more alone in his chamber, the full heart of our poor and now happy
student found vent in tears. He knelt down to thank God for his mercies, and
prayed in the same voice for blessings on the head of his young and generous
benefactor.

The following day Charles Blackford left and took a school in the country.
At the opening of the next and his last term he had earned enough money to
pay his way through, and finally he graduated with an honor as high as one, a
third of whose time was taken up in school teaching, could hope to obtain.—
With his dearly-bought diploma in his pocket, and just money enough to reach
Haverhill, he left the classic shades of Yale, where he had experienced so
much privation and sorrow, and sought his home for a few weeks' repose, before
launching his bark upon the broad, rough billows of life, to sink or swim
with the current.