University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Three days' staging placed Mr. Beach with his charge in Savannah,
and an eight days' voyage landed him in New York. He proceeded
immediately to Newark, whence he wrote a letter to Mr.
Sanders, concluding as follows: “Report our safe arrival all in good
health, to Mr. Markham. He told me that the boys were raw, untraveled
youths, whom he feared would give me much trouble; but
I assure him that they gave me no trouble at all. So far from it,
they sought every opportunity to relieve me from trouble. They
seemed to contend for the pleasure of serving me. They are four of
the most genteel, well-behaved, clever boys I ever saw. Instead of
giving me trouble, they were a pleasure and delight to me all the
way. As they were from the South, used to be waited on, and not
used to work, (as I supposed.) I did expect to find them all a little
lazy; but they were ready to turn their hands to anything. On board
ship they were all very sick, and as they had all been so kind to me,
I took great pleasure in waiting on them. In two or three days
they were all well, and ever since have been as hearty as bucks.
They are now at my house, quite the delight of my family. To-morrow
and next day I shall take them over to see New York according
to promise, and the day after go with them to Basken Ridge
and Princeton.”

This letter of course went the rounds of the families most interested

in it, and gave unspeakable satisfaction whithersoever it went.
Mr. Beach fulfilled his promise. Markham, Thompson and Brown
entered the Sophomore class without difficulty. It was exceedingly
mortifying to William to find himself under the necessity of going
through a preparatory course in order to enter the Freshman class,
when his old schoolmates were all honorably admitted into the next
higher class; and he determined to make amends for lost time by
assiduity in study. The weather and the place favored his resolution,
at least for several months, for he was kept in-doors from the
cold, and there were few, if any, dissolute youths at Basken Ridge
to tempt him to vice. His first letter to his mother spoke in highest
terms of Mr. Finley and his “charming family;” and the first letter
of Mr. Finley to Mrs. Mitten was not less complimentary to William.
At the end of five months, his teacher pronounced him fully prepared
for the Freshman class, put in his hand a very flattering certificate,
and dispatched him to College. Instead of presenting his
certificate to the President, and making application for admission
into the Freshman class, he excogitated a brilliant scheme, not altogether
original, to be sure, but highly creditable to his ingenuity,
whereby he was to get into the Sophomore class without the needful
preparation for it. Thus thought our hero: “If I apply for the
Junior class, they will have too much respect for my feelings to put
me away down in the Freshman class, if they can possibly avoid it.
Even for the Junior class, they will, in all probability, examine me
upon those studies which I have been over, and here I shall acquit
myself so handsomely, that they will readily compromise matters,
and let me into the Sophomore class.” Accordingly he reported
himself to the President with an air of great self-possession, as a
candidate for the Junior class. The President, after gravely taking
his dimensions with the eye, to the manifest terror of Master Mitten,
said: “The Junior Class, now more than half advanced! How far
have you advanced in Latin and Greek?” William answered. “In
mathematics?” He answered again. “Have you studied Chemistry,
Astronomy, Natural and Moral Philosophy and Logic?” “No,
sir!” “Under whom did you prepare for College?” “Mr. Waddel
and Mr. Finley.” “Mr. Waddel of South Carolina and Mr. Finley
of Basken Ridge?” “Yes, sir.” “We have four students now in
College, from Mr. Waddel's school, and ten from Mr. Finley's, all
of whom entered without difficulty. Did either of your preceptors
advise you to apply for the Junior class?” “No, sir, but I thought
may be I could enter that class.” “Well, Master Mitten, I think,
`may be' you can enter no class in College. I will give you a trial,
however, for the Freshman class, if you can bring down your aspirations
that low.” “Well, sir,” said William, with a spirit of accommodation
truly commendable, “I'll try for that class.” Here
William's usual bad luck attended him, for his ingenuity had exposed
him to agonizing mortification, betrayed him into a falsehood,
and, as he well knew, made the President's first impressions of him
very unfavorable.

He was examined, and admitted without difficulty. The President
was curious to learn what sort of an examination he stood, and
enquired of the examining Professors. “Admirable!” said they,
una voce. The President smiled, but said nothing.

William followed Mr. Markham's advice strictly through the
Freshman year, and for four months of the Sophomore year, and the
consequence was as usual; he stood at the head of the class. His
letters to his mother were in the highest degree gratifying. He
spoke gratefully of Mr. Markham's last counsels to him, and promised
to obey them to the letter; he expressed his admiration of the
Faculty, particularly of those members of it who had charge of his
class, in terms bordering upon the extravagance of praise—rejoiced
that he had been defeated in his attempt to procure a clerkship; and
rejoiced still more that he now saw the error of his ways, and had
radically reformed. One of his epistles he concluded in this language:

William's report of himself was fully confirmed by his fellow-students
of the village. He wrote also an affectionate letter to
Doctor Waddel, thanking him for his many kindnesses, approving of
all his dealings with him, and censuring himself for his rejection of
his counsels, and disobedience to his rules. Before this letter
reached his old Preceptor, William's fame and prospects in College
had reached the school, where all considered themselves interested
in his reputation, and all rejoiced. At his home the rejoicing was
more intense, and all the merchants of the place, and Mr. Sanders
in particular, congratulated themselves that they had offered him
no encouragement to become a merchant. There was one exception,
to be sure, to the general rejoicing, in the person of old Stewey
Anderson; and he only suspended his joy; for he offered “to give
his promissory/note, payable twelve months after date, for double
joy, if Bill Mitten held on that long.”

“Billy,” said Stewey, “is a Belair colt; he beats everything for
a quarter, but he can't stand a long run, I'm afraid; he's entered
now for the four mile heats, and I think he'll break down about the
second or third mile, sure.” There was something, too, that chilled
the ardor of Dr. Hull's delight, though no one knew what it was.
But that he partook of the general feeling to some extent, was
manifest; for he never took a chew of tobacco and grunted when
William was praised.

Up to the close of the fourth month of Master Mitten's Sophomore
year, he had almost entirely neglected Mr. Markham's advice
touching his recreation hours; indeed, he hardly allowed himself
any recreation hours: but occasional visits to a beautiful little
Princeton lassie, by the name of Amanda Ward, reminded him
forcibly of his remissness in this particular, and he resolved forthwith
to amend his ways. Miss Amanda was not pious, but she was
sprightly, witty and graceful; and for her age (for she had hardly
“entered her teens,”) she was not wanting in intellectual culture.
William's interest in her increased with every visit to her, and his
“recreation hours” began to increase with his interest. The necessary
consequence was, that his study hours became more arduous.
Still he maintained his reputation and his place in his class, with
only a hardly perceptible change, in the promptness and fluency
with which he disposed of his recitations. Soon after his first visit
to Miss Amanda, William's talents were made known to her, as well
as his fortune, which was represented to be something under the
square of what it really was. She was quite too young and too romantic

to have anything venal in her composition, and, as his handsome
person, brilliant talents and interesting conversation began to
win upon her affections, she became touchingly pensive. By as
much as she lost her vivacity, by so much did William's interest in
her increase. He loved her before, and now he sympathized with
her deeply and tenderly. It was a floating sympathy, to be sure,
seeking, like Noah's dove, a resting place and finding none; but it
was none the less sincere on that account, and none the less appreciated
by the lovely object over which it hovered, and diffused its
grateful incense. Often from the gloom which overshadowed the
dear Amanda, would she send forth mellow twinklings, like those
which sport upon the bosom of an evening cloud, and which would
irradiate the countenance of her anxious friend for a moment; but
he could not persuade her to reveal the cause of her depression.

Under the combined force of love, sympathy, anxiety and suspense,
William's spirits forsook him, he became sad and gloomy, and
study became irksome to him. Late sittings with Miss Amanda,
and then much later sittings to make up the lost time, began to
make inroads upon William's health, and all his fair prospects would
probably have been blighted before the close of the term, had he
not determined to act upon conjecture as to Miss Ward's anguish of
mind. He judged, not without good reason, that it proceeded from
love to him, and that she was wasting away under the consuming
passion, because she supposed that it was not reciprocated. He resolved,
therefore, with becoming frankness to unbosom himself to
her and offer her his hand. Accordingly, at their next interview,
he thus addressed her:

“Miss Ward, you know that I am not blind to your despondency,
and, by a thousand proofs, you know that I am not indifferent to it.
Believe me, that my oft repeated enquiries into the cause of it were
prompted by a purer and holier motive than mere idle curiosity. No,
Miss Ward, that heart which is not touched with the griefs of the
gentler sex, must be insensible indeed; such an one, I am sure was
never reared in the genial clime of the sunny South. He who could
obtrude a selfish curiosity into the hallowed sanctuary of woman's
sorrows, never breathed the balmy zephyrs which waft the odors of
the magnolia and the orange. 'Twas sympathy, Miss Ward, which
prompted my questions—an honest desire to share your griefs, if I
could not relieve them. Your generous nature will appreciate my
motives, and pardon one more question—the last, if answered negatively:
Am I in any way, directly or indirectly, connected with your
mental perturbations?”

Torrents of tears from the eyes of the fair Amanda relieved her
gallant suitor's suspense, while she struggles for utterance with her
irrepressible emotions. At length she spoke:

“Mister Mitten, your noble nature assures me that I may trust the
dearest secret of my heart to you, without fear that you will ever
betray the trust, under any changes of feeling, time or place. I
frankly own that I am and have long been most ardently attached to
you—I have sometimes thought—hoped—that our attachment was
mutual. Yet, why did I hope it? when I knew that we never could
be united?”

“Knew that we could never be united, my dearest Amanda?”

“Never, never, never!” exclaimed Amanda, burying her face in
her handkerchief, and sobbing convulsively.

“Then I am doomed to wretchedness for life!” ejaculated Mister
Mitten. “Amanda, you are my first love—”

“And you are mine, William. My first, my last, my only love.
When you return to the land of birds and of flowers, object of my
adoration, send back a thought to your poor, unfortunate, heart-broken
Amanda!”

“Amanda,” said William, in tears, “you said you would entrust
the dearest secret of your heart to me: tell me then what insuperable
obstacle there is to our union?”

“I never violate my promise, dearest William, I am told that you
are very, very rich; and never can I consent to marry a man with
whom I cannot be upon an equality,—a man who must ever feel that
he stopped to take his partner's hand; and who may suppose that
the poor trash of earth, called wealth, had some influence upon her
choice. I should be the most miserable wretch upon earth, to discover
in the being I adore, anything going to show that he considered
me his inferior, or capable of loving him for anything but himself.”

“These noble sentiments,” responded Mister Mitten, “exalt you
higher, if possible, in my estimation, than ever. Know, then, thou
sweetest, purest, noblest of thy sex, that I am not rich—”

“Not rich! Don't trifle with my feelings, William!”

“I assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman, that I am worth
nothing. My mother owns a very pretty estate, which, when divided
between her three children, will only give a comfortable living to
each of them.”

“Oh, happiest moment of my life!” exclaimed Amanda. “William,
there is my hand, and with it a heart that idolizes you, if you
choose to take them.”

“I receive them,” said William, “and exchange for them a hand
and heart equally warm and unwavering.”

Their vows were plighted, and they separated in ecstacies.

Fortunately for William this interview occurred on Friday night;
or it would have played the mischief with his next day's recitation.

The next day William visited Miss Amanda to arrange for the
nuptials; and however indiscreet and rash we may consider the engagement,
everybody must accord to them the highest prudence in
settling the preliminaries of the nuptials.

The arrangement was that Mister Mitten (so we must now call him,
as he is engaged to be married) should go on and complete his education,
return to Georgia and spend two or three months with his
family, then go to Litchfield, Connecticut, and attend Judge Reeves'
Law Lectures for one year, revisit Georgia, get admitted to the bar
as soon as possible, return to Princeton, and consummate the marriage.
Could old Parr himself, and a lady his equal in years, have ordered
things more wisely! As soon as matters were thus happily arranged,
Mr. Mitten said:

“I have reflected a great deal, my Amanda, upon matrimonial engagements,
and I have brought my mind to the conclusion long ago,
that there is a radical error in regard to them, too common in the
world. Let us reform it—at least as far as we can. I allude to the
secrecy with which such engagements are kept by the parties to
them—”

Miss Amanda started—“ Why, if the parties are sincere and
mean to be constant to each other, should they object to the world's
knowing of their engagement? Were it generally known how few
matches would be broken off! What man of honor would pay his addresses
to a lady whom he knew to be pledged to another! What woman
of honor would receive the addresses of a man whom she knew
to be engaged! For my part, I shall make no secret of our engagement,
and then if any man dare to pay you particular attentions, I
shall hold him personally responsible—”

“Oh, William, my dearest William, do not think of such a thing!
Our engagement must not be breathed to a human being—not even
to father, mother, sister or brother. If our parents knew of it, they
would certainly break it off if they could, on the ground of our age—
Break it off! No, that can never be. Sooner will the moon cease
to shed her placid beams upon the earth, sooner will this heart cease to
beat, than your Amanda forget her vows, or human power make her
break them. But think of the troubles that may follow the disclosure!

Oh, William, I cannot bear a frown, I cannot bear even a cold look
from my dear, sweet parents; and how would it rend my heart to see
them frown on you or receive you distantly—”

“And does Miss Ward suppose that her parents would object to
our alliance?—”

“No, no, William: I'm sure they will be delighted with it, at the
proper time; but think how young we are! I have heard my father
say that the man who has grown daughters in Princeton occupies
a very delicate position. To forbid them to receive the visits of students,
would be to forbid them from receiving in the main, the very
best society that they could have, and to violate the laws of hospitality;
but to encourage students in making love to their daughters,
was injustice to the students, and treason to their distant parents.
Now, if he knew that we were engaged, he would be almost certain
to send me away to some boarding school—and what pain would that
give us! And suppose another should address me; does my William
think that there is another in this wide world who can make the
least impression on his Amanda's heart? Can you doubt your Amanda's
constancy? Can you fear that anything on earth could chill
her first, her only love, in a few short years? No, William, whether
you remain true or false, never, never, can I love another. The very
thought startles me like an electric shock. The keenest pang I ever
felt, was at hearing my mother say that my father was not her first
love—I ought not to have mentioned it—I have never breathed it to
another; but to you I may entrust it, for we are soon to be one—
From you I can conceal nothing. But what agony did the disclosure
give me—you'll never mention it, William?”

“Never, Amanda.”

“I felt for days, weeks and months, as if I were an orphan. Oh,
how my heart sympathized with my dear, sweet father! He knew
it when he married mother. They live happily together. But it
seems to me, the cruel, bitter thought must sometimes present itself,
`this heart was once another's—this heart was not always mine,' and
oh, what pain it must give! And what is married life, if there be
anything in it to interrupt, even for a moment, the constant stream
of heavenly bliss which it promises to hearts united in the silken
cords of pure, ecstatic, first-born love! There, William, you are entrusted
with every secret of my heart.”

Mr. Mitten was so charmed with Miss Amanda's sentiments, and
enraptured with her eloquence, that he entirely forgot the text. He
soon recovered it, however, and after thanking Miss Ward for her
confidence, and promising to keep it sacred, he said:

“Under all the peculiar circumstances of the case, my Amanda, I
will consent to keep our engagement a secret; but, as a general rule,
I think there should be no secrecy in such matters.”

Mr. Mitten's mind being now disburdened, he resumed his studies
with alacrity, and maintained his place to the close of the Sophomore
year. The vacation ensued, and the first five weeks of it Mr.
Mitten devoted to Miss Amanda. He took her out almost daily on
pleasure-rides, lavished presents upon her, of the most costly jewelry,
books, engravings, and love-tokens innumerable; and strange to tell,
Miss Amanda received them without rebuking this ill-advised waste
of his humble patrimony. Nor was Mr. Mitten less attentive to the
decoration of his own person, than of Miss Amanda's. He laid in a
profusion of coats, vests, pants, gloves, stockings, boots, shoes, pumps
and under garments, all at the highest prices, and in the most fashionable
style. To his other purchases he added an elegant watch,
chain, seals and key, and a handsome diamong breast pin. Many of
these things were purchased upon a short credit, to be paid for as
soon as he could get remittances from home. With all his accomplishments
there was one wanting to make him perfect in Miss
Amanda's eye, and that was, “the poetry of motion.” Herein Miss
Amanda excelled, and she urged him to put himself under Monsieur
Coupee, to add this to his many graces. She said that she was very
fond of cotillon parties, but that they had lost all interest to her since
she learned that he did not dance. He took her advice. As “the
poetry of motion,” cotillon measure, consists entirely of anapœsts and
dactyls, performed with alternate feet, Mr. Mitten soon mastered this
accomplishment. Thus went off the first month and a quarter of the
vacation.

With all his expenditures he had taken care to reserve money
enough, as he supposed, to spend a few days in Morristown, a week
in Newark, and a week in New York, without exhausting his funds.
At the commencement of his sixth week of the vacation, he set out
for Morristown. Here lived a class-mate of his, who insisted upon
his spending a week with him. Mitten consented. A round of parties
ensued, all of which he attended, and at all of which he played
havoc with the hearts of the girls of Morristown. From his class-mate
the report soon spread through the village, that he was the
first scholar in his class, and immensely rich. These things conspiring
with his fine person, graceful manners, and agreeable conversation,
made him absolutely irresistible. Now there happened to be
in Morristown at this time, a young lady from South Carolina, of the

Bethlehem School, who was spending her vacation with a relative of
the village, or rather making Morristown her headquarters for the
vacation. Her name was Louisa Green, she was behind Miss Ward
in nothing, and one hundred thousand dollars ahead of her in point
of fortune. Miss Green and Mr. Mitten being both from the South,
naturally formed a strong partiality for each other; of course it did
not amount to love on William's part, but it amounted to love palpably,
on Louisa's part. As she was from the South, William felt himself
bound to pay her particular attentions. Accordingly he did all that
he could to make her time pass agreeably during his stay in Morristown.
He could but observe the tokens of her favor, and they awakened
in him a tender compassion. She had appointed to visit a
school-mate in Elizabethtown, five days after the time when he was
to leave for Newark. He offered to wait and accompany her. This
threw him five days longer on his friend's hospitality, than he contracted
for, but he was welcome. She accepted his offer thankfully.
They went—he was introduced to her young friend, who prevailed
upon him to spend two or three days in Elizabethtown. He consented—parties
commenced on the second day after his arrival, and
were kept up with but short intervals for nine days. The scenes of
Morristown were renewed. He had set every day for the last six,
for leaving Elizabethtown, but something or other always delayed his
departure. The school-mates of Elizabethtown planned a visit to a
third, in New York, for a few days. As this jumped with William's
plaus exactly, and promised to make his visit to New York pleasurable
infinitely beyond his anticipations, he proposed to accompany
the young ladies. They accepted his proposition with pleasure. It
required three days to prepare the young ladies for their contemplated
trip, and these embraced the opening of the college term. Time
had run off so merrily that he had not kept count of it, and he was
thunderstruck when a question put to him about the college, reminded
him that the term opened on the day before he was to leave with
his fair companions for New York. What was he to do? Violate
his pledge to the young ladies? That would never do.

He determined to conduct them to New York, and hasten on to
College. When he came to settle up his bills in Elizabethtown, he
was thunderstruck again; they were four times as large as he anticipated,
and in counting up his cash, he found that he had barely
enough left to take him to New York and back to Princeton. The
ladies were delayed a day beyond the appointed time by some accident.
Mr. Mitten was in torments. It was certain that his funds

would give out before he reached Princeton; and here in a land of
strangers, what was he to do? In this emergency, it had just occurred
to him that he had been very remiss in not paying his respects to
Mr. Beach, and he concluded to spend a part of the spare day with
this kind friend. Mr. Beach hardly knew him when he presented
himself at his door, so changed was he in every thing. After a visit
of an hour, “Mr. Beach,” said William, “I have been out spending
the vacation, and my expenses have been so much heavier than I
expected, that I have got out of money; could you favor me so far
as to loan me thirty dollars, and I will give you an order on Mr. Sanders
for the amount, or I will send it to you as soon as I get back to
college.” “Certainly, William,” said Mr. Beach, “I will take the
order, and if you pay it when you get to college, I will send it to
you. The money was loaned, and William returned to Elizabethtown
rejoicing. On their way to New York he suggested to Miss
Green that the college term had opened and that on the day after
their arrival in New York, he would be compelled to return to college.
She expressed her regrets that they must part, probably never
to meet again, but hoped that they would renew their acquaintance,
after their return home. William proposed a friendly correspondence
ad interim. She said she could not promise that, as the pupils of
her school were forbidden to correspond with young gentlemen; but
if he chose to write to her she had no objections. On their arrival
in New York, the news greeted them, that on the evening of the
next day two of the greatest tragedians of the age were to appear in
the principal parts of Shakspeare's Othello. William had never
seen a play acted by professed performers, and “as he had overstayed
his time any how, and one day more could not make much difference,”
he determined to prolong his visit that far, and take the ladies to the
theatre. He procured tickets for the three young ladies, but as the
father of the one whom the others were visiting, chose to accompany
them all to the theatre, and furnish tickets himself, William had two
on hand either to use or throw away at his option. He was transported
with the performance. Hamlet was announced for the next night;
but as the ladies declined going to the theatre two nights in succession,
he went alone. Macbeth was announced for the next night;
and as all the girls must see this play, they went as before; William
accompanying. The day following he left for Princeton, and reached
there with just seventy-five cents in his pocket.

His class-mate of Morristown (Johnson by name) brought down
his history to his departure from that village. “He went off,” said

Johnson, “after a beautiful accomplished South Carolina heiress,
worth a cool hundred thousand in cash, with kinky-heads according;
and he has only to stretch out his hand to her and she'll snatch at it;
for everybody sees that she is over head and ears in love with him,
as indeed all the girls in Morristown are; for Bill is death among the
pullets.” This report mitigated the anxiety of his Georgian companions
concerning him, but did not entirely relieve them; for they
feared the consequences of William's change of habits, not only upon
his stand in College, but upon his future life.

We have said that he had four competitors for the first honor,
but there was only one of them that he had cause to dread, for
though the five were equal in mathematics, there was but one who
approached him in the other studies. This one was Taliaferro (pronounced
Toliver) of Virginia. When at the opening of the term,
the class appeared to recite in mathematics, and Taliaferro found
Mitten absent, his countenance kindled with delight. His delight
increased with every recitation in this study, until it came to the
fifth. As he retired from this he said triumphantly, “I've got him
safe—I've got this brilliant young Georgian just as the owl had the
hen, so that he can neither back nor squall. With his head full of
girls and fortune, if ever he keeps up with the class, and makes up
five lost lessons, he is a smarter man than I think he is, and I think
he is the smartest I ever saw.” Taliaferro thus spoke because he
well knew that a lost recitation in mathematics is almost as fatal to
farther progress in the science, as the loss of one of the nine digits
would be to enumeration. And yet if William had determined to
do it, he could have made up his deficiencies before the end of the
Junior year, and thrown Taliaferro far in his rear in the Senior year.
Why he did not, we shall see. When called to account for his absences
he said “he was necessarily detained.”

Having followed Mitten's movements during the vacation, let us
now unveil some of his thoughts and reflections accompanying these
movements. “Here it is now,” mused he on the fifth day of his
acquaintance with Miss Green. “If Amanda had not made me
promise to keep our engagement secret, I could now tell Louisa of it,
and let her understand the true ground of my attentions to her; but
as it is, I must either be distant to her—which would be unpardonable
in me as she is from the South—or I must encourage her attachment
which is plainly visible and growing. Amanda will hear
of my attentions through Johnson, and suppose I am after Louisa's
fortune. No, dear girl, fortune shall never make me sacrifice my
word and my honor.”

On the seventh day: “It was very indiscreet in Amanda to exact
that promise from me, I don't know how to act under it.”

Ninth day: “Haug that silly promise! I'll keep it, but I fear I
shall never feel towards Amanda as I should have felt if she had not
extorted it from me. I was too hasty in making it—in fact I was
too hasty in the whole matter. Well, whatever may come of it, I shall
not forego duty to a Southern friend, far from home, because I happen
to be engaged.”

On the day he visited Mr. Beach: “What a botheration it is to
want money—I doubt whether Amanda will ever be satisfied to live
in Georgia. I wish she was not quite so romantic. It was very imprudent
in her to speak of her father and mother as she did to me—
I don't believe one can love truly but once; I believe I could love
Louisa just as ardently as I love her, if I would allow myself to do
so.”

On the day he left New York: “One hundred thousand dollars!
I wish I had fifty of it now. What a sum it is! Enough to last a
man's life time, and satisfy every desire of his heart. One hundred
thousand dollars, and a beautiful intelligent lovely Southern girl
to boot! Amanda ought to adore me for resisting such a temptation
for her sake.”

On reaching Princeton, he went immediately to see Amanda and
found her in deep distress. She said “she had been meditating
suicide, but she could not leave the world without one more last,
longing, lingering look upon her William.” Upon his assuring her,
however, that he was not engaged to Miss Green, that he had not
proposed himself to her, and that he would have informed her of
his engagement, if he had not been forbidden to do so, Miss Amanda
was greatly comforted, insomuch that she concluded to postpone
the suicide to a more suitable season. She entertained him with a
melting narrative of her soliloquics and tears over breastpins, lockets
and the like, which, as it came just at the time when he was terribly
pinched for money, produced a double sympathy—or rather an oscillating
sympathy, which played so equally bet ween himself and Miss
Amanda, that she could not understand it, and took it for coldness.
They parted, however, with renewed professions of love.

Markham, Thompson and Brown, had together paid a short visit
to Philadelphia, Trenton and Monmouth, early in the vacation, and

returned to Princeton. On their return, Brown enclosed a fifty dollar
bill[1] in a letter to Mr. Markham, saying: “I have saved this
much out of my allowance without stinting myself in the least. If
you think it would not be wrong to appropriate it to my mother's
necessities, please deal it out to her as she needs. Apply all of it
but what is absolutely necessary to keep my mother above want, to
the schooling of my two little sisters. But if you think that I have
no right to use the money in this way, please return it to the kind
gentlemen who raised it for me; and tell them that it is more than
I need, and I think in justice it ought to be returned to them.” We
need hardly say that this letter made John's patrons feel much more
like doubling than reducing their contributions to him.

From New York William had written a letter to his mother, setting
forth that he had greatly miscalculated, in saying that five hundred
dollars per annum would be amply sufficient to pay his College
expenses. Traveling expenses, he said, far exceeded his expectations—that
he had set out from Princeton on a vacation ramble, with
money enough in hand, he thought, to pay his expenses three times
over, and after visiting only three places, he was in New York with
hardly money enough to pay his reckoning, and get him back to
Princeton; and there his board and tuition would have to be paid
in advance. He concluded by begging her to send him on two hundred
dollars as speedily as possible. Here was the very place for
him to have informed his mother that he had borrowed money from
Mr. Beach, and to have informed Mr. Sanders through her, how he
came to draw on him. But he knew that it would mortify his mother
exceedingly, to learn that he was repaying Mr. Beach's kindness
by taxing his purse; and he intended to stop the draft from going
to the drawee, by payment of it. Brown's letter had a fortnight or
more the start of William's, and its contents were known to everybody
in the village in three days after it had reached Mr. Markham.
When William's letter therefore reached home, it alarmed and distressed
his mother exceedingly. She gathered the money as soon
as she possibly could, (borrowing a part of it) and dispatched it to
William, with a letter eloquently expressive of her feelings. “How
is it, my dear boy,” said she, “that John Brown, with his limited
resources, can visit Philadelphia, Trenton and Monmouth, and yet
send hither fifty dollars out of his income, to assist his poor mother,
and school his little sisters; and you cannot visit as many places
without exhausting your funds and requiring two hundred dollars
over?” The whole letter would fill every reader's eyes with tears;

but we have not time and space for it here. By the shortest possible
course of mail, William could not receive an answer to his letter
in less than a month from its date. In the meantime he must he
shut out of College, if he could not raise the tuition fees at least.
His only course was to borrow. He went to his cousin David, who
loaned him fifteen dollars, all “he had over,” as the merchants say.
He went to Markham, and he loaned him twenty, saying “this is all
I have, but go to Brown, I know he has over fifty dollars, for we
compared notes when we got back to College.” He went to Brown
and asked the loan of fifteen dollars. “William,” said Brown, “I
would loan it to you with a great deal of pleasure, but I have it not
—here are three dollars, all I've got, which you are welcome to, if it
will be of any service to you.” William looked on him furiously and
said—“Brown, if I don't raise fifteen dollars, I can't get back into
College, and I know you have that much, and three times that
much.” “William, I give you my word and honor I have but three
dollars in the world. How can you suppose that I would not loan it
to you if I had it? If there's anything I have, by sale of which
you can raise the amount, go take it and sell it, with all my heart
—”

William wheeled off in a rage, and hastened to Thompson and
Markham, saying “Who could believe it possible, that John Brown
would see me shut out of college, rather than loan me fifteen dollars!
He says he has but three dollars in the world—” “John Brown
says so!” exclaimed the two. “Come,” said Thompson, “let's go
and bring him face to face.”

Away they went and Brown seeing them coming turned pale as a
sheet. “Look at his countenance,” whispered William. “John
Brown,” said Thompson, “did you tell cousin William that you hadn't
fifteen dollars in the world?”

“Yes, and I told him the truth—”

“Didn't you tell George Markham and myself that you brought
back from your travels money enough to pay tuition and board, and
leave you over fifty dollars in hand?”

“Yes I did; but I have disposed of fifty dollars of it.”

“How did you dispose of it?”

“I do not wish to tell, but in a way that all of you would approve
off if I were to tell you—indeed I do not know myself as yet, how it
went—”

“Did you ever hear such chat,” said William, “from anybody but

an idiot since you were born! Disposed of it as we all would approve,
and does'nt know himself how he disposed of it!”

The boys wheeled off indignantly.

“Stop, boys,” said Brown, with streaming eyes, “and I will explain—”

“We want no explanations, sir,” said William. “Dig a mole out
of the dirt and stick him on a steeple, and he'll be a mole still.”

No pen can describe John's agony. He saw himself deserted
by the sons of his benefactors—he knew that they all believed that
he had lied, and he knew that before the morrow's sun, it would be
trumpeted all through the College that the bright Mitten was kept
from his class by his meanness. In the midst of his horrors, the
bell summoned him to recitation. The class was arranged alphabetically,
and his name was the first on the list. The Professor called
on him; he rose tried to suppress his emotions, but could not; and
he resumed his seat, his bosom heaving, and his eyes streaming as
though his heart would break. The class stood aghast, and the
Professor looked sad; for Brown had not been remiss in a single
College duty. Keen as was his anguish, it would have been aggravated
heavily, but for George Markham's prudence.

“Boys” said he, “it isn't worth while to spread this thing
through the College—at least let us wait awhile before we do it. Remember
that he is a Georgian, has been our intimate friend, and it
will be flung up to us upon all occasions. And after all, I never
knew John Brown to tell a lie in my life, and he may be enabled to
explain the matter.”

After some debate they agreed to keep the matter to themselves.
That very day John received tidings of his father's death, and as no
body thought of enquiring as to the precise time when he received
the intelligence, it was regarded by the class as the cause of his
emotion in the recitation room, and by his three friends as an additional
inducement to deal tenderly with him. Thompson borrowed
the fifteen dollars for William, and he joined his class.

Thus stood matters when Mrs. Mitten's letter was received. As
soon as William read it, he hastened to Thompson and Markham's
room with it, handed it to his cousin, flung himself into a seat,
dropped his forehead, hands-covered on his knees, and wept bitterly.
Thompson read it, and passed it in sobs to Markham. He was not so
much affected, and spoke first:

“The Lord be praised that we kept our notions of John's conduct
from the college. Why this, and our coldness, and his father's death

all coming upon him at once, would have killed the poor fellow. He's
almost heart-broken, any-how. What a warning is this to us against
acting hastily in such matters! Let us send for him, and relieve
both him and ourselves immediately.” He was sent for, and as soon
as he entered the room, they all rushed to him and embraced him
together. “Oh, John,” continued Markham, “we know what you
did with your fifty dollars, and we are all ashamed of ourselves.”

“John,” said William, “I beg your pardon ten thousand times—”

“And I.”

“And I.”

“John,” said William,” “how could you say, you didn't know as
yet how your money went?”

“Because I didn't know that it would be right in me to take money
raised for my education, and apply it to the use of my mother and
sisters; so I sent it to Mr. Markham and told him, if he thought I
had no right to use it in this way, to return it to the gentlemen who
raised it for me, and I don't know which way it went, even now, for
Mr. Markham said nothing to me about it in the letter reporting my
father's death.”

“John,” continued William, “I never shall forgive myself for my
treatment of you. I had some apology for suspecting you of insincerity,
but I had none for that vile, unfeeling, brutal remark of
mine—”

“What remark, William?”

“About the mole.”

“I didn't hear that.”

“You didn't! Thank heaven, that you did not, but it's none the
less mean on that account.”

William paid the sums borrowed and his board; and now the merchants,
tailors, shoe-makers and jewelers began to press him. They
always press at the opening and close of terms, because students are
then commonly full-handed; but they had other reasons for pressing
in this instance. The balance of his two hundred dollars, save fifteen
reserved went in less than a fortnight, without paying more than
fifty cents on the dollar of his debts. Youth-like, he thought more
of the annoyances of creditors than of their respective claims upon
his honor, and Mr. Beach was postponed to the most ravenous. Some
of these, all of whom understand well the art of milking students,
said “that they were not in the habit of crediting students, but that
everybody represented Mr. Mitten as such a brilliant, high-minded,
rich and honorable young man, that they would have trusted him for

half their goods.” Others said, “that relying certainly upon payment
at this time, they had contracted debts on the faith of it, and
if disappointed, they did not know what was to become of them.”
Another said, “If Mr. Mitten couldn't pay him all, he would be very
glad to get half the amount due, to keep his wife and children from
suffering.” Thus they went on with every variety of experiment
upon his feelings, until he began to think that his own character, the
character of the South, and all Princeton, were likely to sink together
in one common grave of indiscriminate ruin. Most of Mr. Mitten's
debts had been contracted within the past three months, and
many of the students, well posted in such matters, testified with becoming
indignation, that such a thing was unheard of in the history
of Princeton, as dunning students for debts but three months old;
and two or three proposed, in vindication of the time-honored usages
of the place, to stone the windows of the importunate creditors; but
Mr. Mitten, partly from the lights of Mr. Markham's counsels, and
partly from his own good sense, opposed all violent measures, as he
could not see how these would sustain his credit or cancel his debts.
But there were two specialties, which hurried the creditors; the one
was, that Mr. Mitten had promised to pay them at the opening of the
term, and the other was, that Miss Amanda, either from love of truth,
or the truth of love, had corrected the popular opinion of Mr. Mitten's
vast wealth, and represented him, upon his own authority, as
not only not very rich, but very poor. The torments of creditors
abated considerably the rapture with which Mr. Mitten was wont to
view the ornaments of Miss Ward's person, interfered with his studies,
and set his thoughts to running upon filthy lucre. He commenced
his friendly correspondence with Miss Green. His first letter was
exceedingly friendly. He waited the proper time for an answer, but
received none. He wrote another, still more friendly, but received no
answer. He wrote another in the very agony of friendship. To this
he received the following answer:

Thenceforward Mr. Mitten could hardly do anything but write letters.
The two friends soon became so much attached to each other,
that they interchanged pledges of perpetual union. The “hundred

thousand dollars” were now safe, and college honors sank to insignificance
in the estimation of Mr. Mitten. He studied only to graduate,
and in the short space of four months, dropped from the head
below the middle of his class. The “hundred thousand” were a
good way off, and his demands for money were immediate and pressing.
To meet the exigencies of the time present, he concluded to
try his skill at cards with the “Regular Panel” of Princeton. He
was very successful, but still he forgot Mr. Beach. The club, of
course, had refreshments, to counteract the effect of sedentary habits
and constant watchings. They met at Mr. Mitten's room, and as he
had been very successful, he was very liberal in his supplies of good
cheer. The young gentlemen enjoyed themselves quietly until
about one o'clock A. M., when they became rather troublesome to a
Professor in an adjoining dormitory. The Professor rose, dressed
himself, and went to Mitten's room door—listened awhile and knocked.
“Walk in,” said Mitten. The Professor attempted to open the
door, but it was locked. A shuffling of feet, a moving of chairs, a
rattling of glasses were heard, and the door was opened. The Professor
stepped in, found a table set out in the middle of the room,
with two candles on it, burnt down nearly to the socket—two fellows
on Mitten's bed with all their clothes on, fast asleep—two more in
his room-mate's bed, covered over with a counterpane, except as to
the heel of one boot—another just undressing to go to bed under
same counterpane (at least he was near that bed)—another seated at
the table studying the Greek Lexicon—while Mr. Mitten, who opened
the door, was pacing the room in manifest indignation. Though
not exactly intoxicated, he had stimulated his nervous system up to
an unwonted degree of independence—while the Professor was very
coolly making his observations, (for he was a man of nerve.) “Well,
sir,” said Mitten, “I hope you have nosed about a dormitory in which
you have no business, to your satisfaction.” (Here one of the sleepers,
whose face was to lights, turned abruptly over with a sleepy
snort: and the Greek student saw a funny word in the Lexicon at
which he gave a little chuckle. “Not quite,” said the Professor,
calmly.

“Well, sir,” continued Mitten, “I think I can convince the Faculty,
and if not the Faculty, the Trustees, that you have no right to
be poking about another Professor's dormitory of nights.”

“May-be so,” said the Professor coolly, still “poking about.”

This was the Professor of Mathematics, who had repeatedly provoked
Mr. Mitten, by pressing questions upon him at recitation which
he could not answer. This is considered very impolite in all Colleges.