University of Virginia Library

THE POOR SCHOLAR.

Madame de Stael.

Not intellectually poor, but few however
would be guilty of such a mistake. Most men,
and indeed women too, consider poverty merely
as the lack of worldly goods, chattels and
possessions; poor therefore would never, by
such, be applied to mind.

But I like to define my meaning so clearly
that there shall not be the possibility of mistake;
and accordingly I feel bound to declare that
George Torrey had, from infancy, exhibited an
uncommon aptitude for learning, and that kind
of inquisitiveness concerning the nature and
design of everything he saw, that marks the
reasoning child. These qualities always argue
a tendency of mind that requires only right
cultivation to insure eminence, or at least,
scholarship, to their possessor. `Knowledge
may be acquired by study, but genius is the
gift of God,' is, I believe, a quotation; and had
the writer of the apothegm known George Torrey,

he might have mentioned him as an illustration
of his proverb, since it seemed impossible
his inclination for study should have been
fostered either by example or precept. I shall
relate the childish history of my hero minutely,
that those who feel interested in the subject
may have an opportunity of tracing the operations
of his young mind, and then they can
better decide on the propriety of styling him,
as he often was, the `scholar of nature.' The
father of George died before he was born, and
his mother, when he was eighteen months old;
and then the boy would have been on the pauper
list, but for the benevolence of an aunt, an
old maid, but who was nevertheless such a
good, kind hearted creature, that it was always
a matter of astonishment to the gossips why
aunt Jemima was never married.

When aunt Jemima thus voluntarily burdened
herself with the charge of an infant, she was
rising of forty years of age, very poor, obtaining
her livelihood solely by spinning. She
was, however, as expert in the business of the
distaff, as ever were the ladies of Rome; but
as she never attempted to dignify her employment
by any classical allusions, it is probable
she had never heard the name of `Lucretia.'
Yet she had pride, and it would be no disparagement
to the Roman ladies to say aunt Jemima's
was Roman pride; certainly it was laudable
ambition, for it stimulated her to honest
exertions for her own support and the maintenance
of her little nephew, without appealing to
the cold charity of her prosperous neighbours,

or the colder charity of the law. She kept
George with her till he was eight, and then a
farmer offering to take him and learn him the
`mystery of agriculture,' she deemed it her
duty to place the boy with Mr. White. But
the separation cost her many tears, and she
often declared that `if she had not thought it
best for the child to go, she would have worked
her hands off before she would have parted
with the dear little creature.'

George had never been at school a single
day while with his aunt; she thought she could
not provide books for him, and moreover, she
lived two miles from the school-house, and was
afraid to trust her darling to go so far alone.

But when she read in her Bible, which was
regularly every morning, little George was permitted
to stand close by her chair, and encouraged
to find and tell the large letters. When
he had thus learned them, his curiosity seemed
increased; and his aunt willingly answered his
inquiries, because she really loved him, and
dearly loved to talk, and so he learned the small
letters, and then it was not long before he could
read a verse intelligibly. By the time he was
four years of age he had read through the `Gospel
according to St. John.'

Though aunt Jemima thus fostered the
`young idea,' she was herself as destitute of
those acquirements that confer on a woman the
character of a bas blue, as any of our fastidiously
fashionable young beaux could desire. The
most sensitive of the tribe of dandies might
have conversed with aunt Jemima without the

least dread of being shocked by a Latin quotation,
or bored by a learned phrase, or a reference
to books of which he never before heard
the titles; neither would he have run any hazard
of being urged to write in an `album,' or
tell his opinion of the `last new novel,' or admire
the last `charming poem.' Aunt Jemima
knew no more of novels or albums, than
she did of Greek or Arabic; indeed it is not
probable she had ever read a whole volume of
any kind, (the Bible excepted) during her life.
Her library, besides the `Scriptures,' consisted
of but two books, both of which she inherited
from her grandmother. One was a sermon,
preached somewhere in Connecticut, at the
funeral of an Indian who was hanged for murder.
This sermon, aunt Jemima said, `though
she never had had time to read it all, she thought
very edifying.' Indeed she prized it so highly
that she did not like to trust it in the grasp of a
careless child; but the other book, labelled
`Wonderful accidents and entertaining Stories,'
she permitted George to use as he pleased.
The volume had once contained some interesting
articles, but time, smoke, and the hands of
`unwashed artificers' had made its pages nearly
as dingy and illegible as a Herculaneum
manuscript. The story of `Alnaschar the
Persian Glassman,' being in the middle of the
book, was however tolerably entire, but it was
much abridged, ending with the breaking of the
glass. The plate representing the overturn of
the basket pleased little George, and he soon
learned to read the fable; he read and re-read
it till he could repeat every word, and then he
reasoned with aunt Jemima on the subject till
he made her quite pettish at answering his inquiries
about so silly a story; and then he considered
the matter himself in silence, till he
learned to understand the meaning and the
moral more judiciously than would many a
grown man. Perhaps that story determined
the bias of his mind, for he was, even in early
youth, noted for the directness with which he
sought and comprehended the effect of any
romantic project, always seeming to distrust
everything illusory, and to feel that exertions,
not idle wishes or visions, were necessary to
success.

There was also another circumstance that
contributed to fix an impression on the mind
of George that perseverance would be rewarded,
and that he might, if he took proper methods,
hope to obtain some consequence in the
world. Though aunt Jemima paid little attention
to the story of `Alnaschar,' yet she was
proud of the proficiency her favorite made in
reading the Scriptures. Whenever the clergyman
of the parish called to see her, which
duty he usually performed regularly every
year, she always dilated on the progress her
nephew made in learning, telling how many
chapters he would read in the Bible of a Sunday,
&c. (she never mentioned the story book)
usually concluding with the observation, `that
for her part it seemed to her that the boy was
born to be a minister.'

To please her the good man once requested

to hear the child read, and was himself very
much surprised at his performance, because he
read so understandingly. He called the boy
to him, and laying his hand on the curly hair
of the poor, destitute orphan, gravely said,
`My little fellow you have no father on earth,
but your Father who is in heaven still watches
over you. He will take care of you if you are
good, and you must look to him, and love him,
and serve him. You can learn, I see, and you
may, if you try, be a scholar, and perhaps a
great man. You must always depend on God,
but remember and do all you can for yourself.'

That lesson was never effaced from the
memory of George Torrey. He had never
before received notice or encouragement from
any mortal except his old aunt, and the soothing
expressions of the minister fell on his ear
like a sacred promise from some exalted being.

The farmer to whom George was bound was
a man of some property, and reputed honest
and industrious; but he had no education. Indeed
both he and his wife, (would there were
none other such couples to be found in our
country,) were profoundly ignorant of everything
pertaining to literature, excepting that
they could read, and write their names; and
had not the boy enjoyed the advantage of attending
the district school, he would in no wise
have been mentally benefited by his change
of abode. But it was stipulated in his `Indenture,'
that he should be `sent to school two
months every winter till he could read, write,

and cipher through the rule of Three.' Such
is the vigilance with which our laws watch
over the interests of the poor and destitute;
none here are deprived of the benefit of instruction,
none need be ignorant.

The first winter that George Torrey attended
school, his proficiency astonished his instructer,
and made Mr. White declare `he
did'nt believe the lad would ever be good for
anything at farming.' But a judicious person
who had been acquainted with the operations
of his young mind, and the peculiar train of
ideas he had imbibed, might have calculated
the result. Though aunt Jemima did not expect
it, yet she was highly delighted, and took
much credit to herself for the manner in which
she had instructed the child.

Ten years passed, and George Torrey was
in stature a man; in understanding and learning,
he was far superior to the men among
whom he resided; but his modesty and the
retiring diffidence that usually accompanies
genius when self-taught, prevented him from
assuming those airs of superiority that frequently
bring envy and ill-will to the possessor
of extraordinary abilities. The business in
which he was engaged could not be supposed
congenial to his feelings, yet he labored faithfully
for Mr. White; and that man, destitute
as he was of taste and literature, paid great
respect to the talents of his indented boy, employing
him to keep his accounts, consulting
him in all his bargains, and frequently allowing
him leisure for reading which seemed incompatible

with his own interest, and which would
not have been expected from a person of his
habits. But in a country where there is no
privileged class, genius and industry may attain
the highest honors; and thus a value is stamped
upon talents, which carries a conviction of
their worth to the minds of those who make no
pretension of possessing them.

The winter succeeding the eighteenth birthday
of George was an important one to him, as
it was then he first formed a fixed resolve to
obtain an education. At that time, the clergyman,
who had listened to the Bible lesson of
George, heard his attainments spoken of as
extraordinary for his opportunities; and on inquiry
being satisfied of the truth of popular
report, he proposed the youth as a teacher, in
his, the clergyman's district, for the winter
school. The worthy parson felt glad to assist
George, and he felt a little proud too, that the
prediction he had uttered concerning him,
seemed likely to be fulfilled.

Mr. White was persuaded to allow George
to go, yet he said he `needed him at home, but
as the young fellow seemed so set upon the
business, he could not disappoint him. Learning
he knew was a fine thing, though he never
could get it, for he never loved his book; but
George loved to study better than he did to eat
—he had known him leave his dinner many a
time to read a newspaper, or anything that
had letters on it—and so,' he continued, `it is
for his good I consent to let him go.'

Mr. White thought of his own interest, notwithstanding

these professions; George had
offered, if he might be allowed to keep the
school, to give every cent of his wages to his
legal master—and it would be more than he
could earn by labor. The youth expected only
more leisure, and books, and better society—
that was all he then coveted, to make him blessed.
He boarded with the clergyman, Mr.
Dorr, who was not long in discovering his talents
and thirst for learning. Mr. Dorr, was
one of those really benevolent men, who delight
in doing good, and diffusing happiness;—
yet he was not a visionary. His sound judgment
and acquaintance with the world, served
to correct that enthusiasm, which the warmth
of feeling, necessary to make a philanthropist,
often raises to an effervescence of zeal which
destroys, or renders ridiculous, the cause or
object it is attempting to serve.

Mr. Dorr weighed deliberately the present
prospects, and what might be the future expectations
of the poor scholar. He conversed
with George freely, and faithfully, on the subject;
represented to him the struggles he must
make, the privations he must endure, the mortifications
to which he would be exposed, if he
left the vale of humble life, where he was born,
and had been raised, and aspired to rank with
the rich, and mingle with the gifted.

`I can do it all, I can bear it all,' eagerly
replied George Torrey, `if I may but escape
poverty of mind—this sense of my own ignorance
that oppresses me, whenever I approach
or attempt to converse with an intelligent person;

I have,' continued he, rising and walking
the room with quickness, `I have frequently
laid down the book I was reading, and wept
to think I should never be qualified to write
one.'

`Onward, then, must be your motto,' said
Mr. Dorr. `Onward; the path will sometimes
be rugged, but a prize cannot be won without
labor. Industry is, in our land, the grand lever
that exalts to eminence. I will cheerfully
give you all the aid I can. If you succeed,
your own pleasure and the praises of the world
will be enhanced by reflecting on the obstacles
you have surmounted; should you fail, you
can comfort yourself, that your object was
praiseworthy. It is motives, not triumphs,
that make the merit of our character.'

George Torrey immediately commenced the
study of the Latin; and when his school was
finished, had read six books in Virgil.

`You must now return to your labor, to the
plough,' said Mr. Dorr, to George, as he extended
his hand to him. `I am not able to assist
you in purchasing your time, neither do I
think it best to attempt it. Young men are
prone to be restless and impatient of restraint,
and genius is peculiarly restive under fetters;
but lessons of self-denial are rarely injurious to
a mind like yours. The dull require the spur,
the ardent need the rein. I advise you to
serve out your time as the law directs—but
there will be intervals when you may, without
wronging your master by eyeservice, pursue
your studies. Improve such moments, and

come to me, as freely as a son to a father, for
instruction whenever you wish.'

There is nothing on earth so valued by the
young, ingenuous mind as kindness, as those
expressions that seem dictated by a sympathy
for our feelings and situation. The eyes of
George were full of tears, and his heart throbbed
with emotions of gratitude, as he turned
from the door of the man whom he considered
his friend. He felt for him a love, a veneration,
which no pecuniary gift could have excited;
and the first effort he ever made to scribble
poetry, was to celebrate the virtues of his
benefactor, which he did in a long ode.

Mr. White made George a present of five
dollars out of the money he had earned, and the
youth was quite thankful, because he was enabled
to purchase some books he sadly needed;
but he never bestowed on Mr. White so much
as a distich in praise of the deed.

The success of George is doubtless anticipated;
and to detail all the particulars, the
carefulness with which he improved every moment,
the shifts he made to obtain books, the
distances he would walk to his recitations, and
the joy he felt when the law pronounced him
free, and Mr. Dorr pronounced him fitted for
college, would make my story too long. Any
young man, let his station be ever so lowly,
who feels the same ardor in the pursuit of
knowledge that kindled the mind of my hero,
may satisfy himself, if he will only make the
experiment, that success is possible. When a
name and a praise may here be obtained by

talents and industry, who that feels the `God
within him' will be contented in ignorance
and obscurity?

But though George Torrey was fitted to enter
college, he had not the means of supporting
himself there a single day. All that his
master was bound to give him, when he was
twenty-one, was two suits of clothes and a Bible.
Mr. Dorr again volunteered to assist him.
`I will,' said the good man, `advance you a
sum sufficient to defray the expense of your
first term, and wait these ten years, if necessary,
for payment. But that is all the pecuniary
aid I can promise you—you must thenceforth
provide for yourself. I am acquainted
with the President, and one of the tutors is
my intimate friend. I will write to them, and
make such representations as will, I think, induce
them to deal favorably by you, and grant
you periods of absence, which you must employ
in keeping school. If you are industrious—no,
that is not enough, you must be
laborious, you can pursue your studies and retain
your station in your class, though absent
six months in the year. Depend on yourself.
Never solicit charity if you can possibly avoid
it though when kindly offered, I would not advise
you to reject it. But the spirit of our
government, of our people, is independence;
and the mind of an American, that will cringe
and fawn to obtain patronage, or indeed that
will eagerly accept pecuniary aid, I always
mark as grovelling, as deficient in that delicacy
of pride, that nice sense of honor which always

accompanies true genius. Never, my young
friend, forfeit your own self-respect; for your
heart will not be satisfied with the applause of
the world, unless you feel it is deserved.'

Fortified by such advice, and furnished with
a little cash, George departed; and perhaps
when it is considered that his most ardent wishes
seemed likely to be fulfilled, it may be imagined
he went joyfully. But it was not so.
When a person has been accustomed to a large
society and frequent changes of his acquaintance,
his feelings become, in a manner, generalized,
and he contemplates, without much
emotion, a separation from his old friends or an
introduction to new. But the warm-hearted
youth who has, whether from diffidence or necessity,
confined his thoughts and affections to
one set of objects, feels, on quitting them, as
though the world were a desert; as if all, beyond
the little paradise of his love, were a wilderness;
and he should meet, instead of the
flowers, which, humble as they were, had still
blessed his path, beasts of prey at every step.

Much of this melancholy dread of the world
mingled with the triumph of being enabled to
pursue his studies, in the heart of George Torrey,
when he bade farewell to the man whom
he esteemed above every other person on earth,
and loved the best—aunt Jemima excepted.
None of his ambitious hopes had effaced from
his memory the kindness and affection of her
whom he considered his mother, and those
hours that young men usually devote to the
society of young ladies, or clubs of their own

sex, he had passed in the lonely and lowly
apartment of his poor old aunt, telling her his
progress and his plans, or perhaps reciting
some of his lessons which, though said in whatever
language they might be, were still `Greek
to her,' she yet liked to hear, `because,' she
observed, `he could say his lesson so fast.' And
she was constantly boasting to every person
she could make listen to her, of the marvellous
acquirements of her nephew, declaring she
`did not believe there would be a scholar in college
who could read faster.'

Neither was her admiration of learning an
inactive principle; all the assistance she could
render her own boy, as she called George, was
eagerly done. This however only amounted
to the giving him a few articles of clothing,
(her own manufacturing of course, and in her
opinion much the better for that,) and a vast
deal of good advice; in particular, she charged
him not to waste any time in vain company, for
she knew the evil of it, having been, when very
young, too fond of dancing;—and then he must
always rise early, she found it the best for her
own health; and above all, not sit up too late
at night, it was very bad for the eyes. `I find,'
continued she, with a half sigh, `I have set up
too late myself; not studying to be sure, but
working for you, George, and my eyes begin
to fail a little already.'

She was past sixty; but when did a single
woman ever willingly think herself old?
Though the sensitiveness which is sometimes
betrayed on this delicate subject is certainly a

weakness, yet if we examine the principle which
causes that susceptibility, we shall, at least,
acknowledge it an amiable weakness. There
have been,—the sentiment is fast losing advocates,—but
there have been opinions industriously
propagated, that those ladies who lived
to a certain age without worshipping in the
temple of Hymen, were not always as women
should be—`soft, mild, pitiful and flexible.'
In short, old maids have been considered unlovely
and unloving, and what true woman but
recoils with instinctive horror from such a conclusion?
and deems the denial of her age venial
when she would otherwise be subjected to
the imputation of being fastidious, malicious,
envious, ill-natured? It is an intuitive sense
of the worth and beauty of goodness, and an
abhorrence of the qualities which unfeeling satire
or stupid misapprehension have stamped
upon the name of old maid, that make the term
one of reproach and dread.

These remarks, considering the relation in
which aunt Jemima stood to the poor scholar,
can hardly be called a digression. Had he
known his character was to have been sketched,
he would have insisted his kind relative
should have occupied at least half the space
allotted for his portrait. He loved her sincerely,
and always, during his life, vindicated the
neglected, yet useful order of spinsters, from
the unmerited calumnies with which they are
too often assailed.

A few weeks after George had departed,
Mr. Dorr received from his friend, the tutor,

a letter, which will better delineate the appearance
of the youth and the impression he made
on the minds of his new associates, than any
description I could myself give. I have therefore
obtained leave to transcribe what related
to him. It is somewhat long, but will not, I
hope, be found uninteresting.

`Your young friend is quite an original; and
were there not one here to `divide the crown'
with him, we should consider him a prodigy.
As it is, he excites much interest with us tutors,
and some envy, I fear, among the students.
But our opinions appear to have little effect upon
him; he goes forward, without asking admiration
or heeding ridicule, seemingly determined
to master every science, and feeling the
acquisition of knowledge a sufficient reward
for all his pains. This I think to be the effect
of the solitary manner in which he has hitherto
pursued his studies. His mind has thus acquired
an aim, and the habit of depending on itself,
on its own resources and reflections for those
sensations of pleasure, that it is usually thought
can never be enjoyed except in communication
and participation, that is, in social intercourse.
His reserve, which the young wits in
the class are, I find, quite disposed to ridicule,
is, in my opinion, as much the effect of his mental
independence, as of that diffidence which
you say he always exhibited. His fine talents
are disciplined, not discouraged by adversity,
and his judgment so cool and regulated, that
did not an occasional flash of spirit betray that
warmth of temperament which circumstances

have made it necessary for him to suppress, I
should think him born a Quaker. But he is
now an excellent specimen of the Puritan
character, in which shrewdness and simplicity,
ambition and humility, patience and activity,
fervor in spirit and prudence in action, were so
blended or so admirably balanced, that the
minds thus actuated possessed a decision which
rendered them invincible. It is this regulation
of the passions which constitutes that self-control
so necessary to freemen, to those who
govern themselves; yet it is only a strong
mind that is ever endowed, in an eminent degree,
with this decision; and it is only a cultivated
mind that makes it appear amiable.

`But it sits amiably on George Torrey, because
he has so much modesty that you would
not, without close investigation, imagine him
such a determined character; and thus his extraordinary
progress is attributed more to his
superior industry (which excites, you know,
but little envy) than to his superior genius.

`It is gladdening to see how talents will
surmount difficulties, but it rejoices me more to
behold their triumph over temptations. The
youth whom I mentioned as likely to prove a
formidable rival to George in the classical race,
is a fine example of this triumph. He is from
Virginia; his father, as I understand, is a very
rich man, one of the proud aristocracy of that
proud State. Robert Simonds has, therefore,
been from infancy accustomed to every indulgence
and elegance that wealth can purchase,
and all that adulation that follows prosperity

and high rank. But this flattery has not enervated
his mind; it has only modified his manners.
He has all that boldness of imagination,
that brilliancy of genius, that is elicited by culture
and commendation. I do not think he has
more confidence in his own powers, more of
what we will call pride, than George Torrey
has; and yet his display of himself is so very
different, that a stranger would call one haughty,
the other humble. The original constitution
of the minds of these young men was doubtless
very similar; had the children been changed
in their cradles, as fairy stories have whilom
related possible, they would probably with their
names have completely changed characters.
There is, however, always a sympathy between
such spirits, unless jealousy of each other's attainments
should keep them aloof,—but this
jealousy Robert is too noble to indulge towards
one, who, like George Torrey, (I have related
to Robert the whole history of his rival,) is
struggling for an education as the means of
support; and on the other hand, the principles
of George are too well regulated to permit him
to harbor jealousy or envy against any person.
So these youths are already warm friends, and
I encourage the intimacy, because I think they
will reap a mutual advantage from the intercourse.
I admire to see them sitting side by
side, at their recitations, or walking arm in arm
to their recreations,—there has been such a
contrast in their brief histories, and yet there is
such a similarity in their feelings, that it affords
much food for my philosophy, to trace the causes
which have thus brought the mind of one
nursed in the lap of luxury, and that of a poor
parish child on a perfect level. These causes
must be sought in our free institutions, in that
perfect equality of birth which our laws declare
to be fixed in the nature of things, and therefore
unchangeable. While our constitution
remains inviolate in this article, neither the
corruptions of luxury, nor the debasements of
poverty, will ever degrade the minds of our
countrymen to an extent that shall have much
perceptible effect on public morals, or render
precarious the preservation of our freedom; because
there will be a redeeming influence in
the talents and virtue, that our impartial institutions
will call forth from both extremes of our
population—the rich and the poor. Equality
of birth, and the necessity of universal education,
are principles never before recognised or
acted upon by any government; till these are
relinquished, our republic is safe. They may
tell of the corruption of statesmen and the violence
of party, but the majority will, after all,
go right; and though vice and ignorance may
sometimes be exalted, yet open admiration and
unhesitating suffrage will not be given except
to intelligence and virtue. These thoughts
have been forced upon me while reflecting upon
the favorable influence which the principle of
equality has had on my two favorite pupils.

`It has stimulated them both to exertion, and
will probably be the means of making them ornaments
to their country. It taught Robert Simonds
that his father's rank and wealth could

never be his passport to high consideration,—
he must himself deserve the fame he coveted.
It encouraged the destitute orphan, while toiling
for his bread, to cultivate those talents he
felt he possessed, by showing that the prize
was within his reach. It has thus directed
and impelled two minds of uncommon powers
to the attainment of knowledge and the love of
excellence, that appear likely to qualify them for
extensive usefulness; and thus, if we do not
subscribe to the opinion that ignorance is bliss,
we must believe the sum of human happiness
is proportionably increased.

`I am told that there are some, even in our
republican land, who attach great importance
to a pedigree, and imagine a kind of refinement
of blood is imparted to the individual whose
ancestors have, for two, or three generations,
laid by their working dresses. I should like to
have such title-loving people look upon my
specimen of nobility and of peasantry. They
would feel proud of both. Robert Simonds
commands attention, and George Torrey engages
it. No person can behold either with
indifference. They positively are the finest
looking young men I ever saw. I often examine
their features to decide which of the two is
the handsomest, but I never yet could. Still
there is no resemblance between them, except
that their height is the same. The figure of
George, though perfectly proportioned, shows
the strength of bones and sinews that have
been `strung by toil.' Robert is more slender
in form, and the richness and nicety of his apparel,

combine to give him an air of effeminacy,
especially if you regard his hand, which a
lady might envy; it is so small, taper-fingered
and delicate. George, on the contrary, is always
plainly arrayed, and his hand, you know,
is enlarged by exercise, and hardened by the
plough. But the moment you look in his face,
you forget that labor has any effect but to
beautify. His active employment has strengthened
his constitution, and imparted such a fine,
healthy glow to his complexion, that it really
makes one feel younger and happier to gaze
upon him; even his midnight vigils cannot destroy
his bloom. But Robert will do to enact
the `pale student,' except when his spirit is
kindled, and then the blood rushes to his face
till his cheeks are died like scarlet. Whenever
I see Robert alone, I always think black
is much the most beautiful color for the eye,—
that such have the most expression—the most
soul. But the moment George enters, his bright
blue eyes, flashing with the consciousness of
ideas, or animated with eagerness to gain
them, I alter my opinion,—or at least, I think
the color of the eye is of no consequence. In
short I am, as you have doubtless discovered,
enthusiastic in my admiration and my expectations
from both these young men.'

It is not my purpose to describe minutely
the progress of George Torrey, and the exertions
he used while obtaining his education.
The four years passed,—he had struggled
with many discouragements, and spent many
melancholy hours, but, aided by the counsels

of his old friend Mr. Dorr, and, whenever he
would accept it, by more tangible tokens of
regard from his young friend Robert Simonds,
and always exerting his own abilities to the utmost
to help himself, George had succeeded.
The `poor scholar,' had won the highest honors
of the college. The `Valedictory' was the
part assigned him in the exercises of the day;
he would willingly have relinquished it in favor
of his friend; indeed, he declared that of
right Robert Simonds should have had it; but
that generous young man replied;—`I do not
pretend, George, to disclaim all ambition to
have that appointment; it would have gratified
my vanity, but it is not essential to my interest.
If I have, as you kindly intimate, the
learning that would entitle me to it, all I need
is obtained; but to you, my friend, it may be
of more benefit. Honor may be profit,' continued
he smiling, `and though your independence
of spirit has given me trouble enough, yet I
admire it, and hope that the time is not far distant
when you will bask in the smiles of fortune.'

`Yes, but then I must lose those of my
friend,' replied George. `O, this is a sad
world I think, since the saddest of all poets so
often expresses my feelings,

That is now precisely applicable to my mind;
I have often thought, that could I reach the
station in my class, which I may at this moment
call mine, I should be perfectly blessed. But
after this pageant of vain glory, this commencement
is over, then will come the real sorrow,
the parting with you.'

`Why need we part?' asked Robert. `Why
will you not conclude to accompany me to the
South; my father—ah, I see the haughty curl
on your lip, giving its veto against dependence.
You must earn your own livelihood. You may
do that in Virginia as conveniently as here.
Nothing will be easier than to find employment
as an instructer. I will write and recommend
you to some of the first families; after they are
acquainted with you, no recommendation will
be necessary. My parents will make the companion
of their son as welcome as a relative.
We have warm hearts for our friends, George,
and some lovely girls too, that will, I hope,
make your heart warm.

`I always understood that bloom and brilliancy
of complexion, were on the side of our
northern beauties,' said George.

`But you will find, according to the quotation
I have just made, and indeed from the whole
speech of the old Numidian Chief, that such a
conclusion must be erroneous. You are an
excellent critic on facts, and if you think Addison
committed a blunder in placing his “glowing
dames” beneath a vertical sun, you ought
to expose him. This you may have an opportunity
of doing if you will only go with me.

Virginia is sufficiently far to the southward to
commence your observations. Will you go?'

`In the course of a year, perhaps;—if you
still desire it,' replied George.

Robert did continue to desire it, and in less
than a twelvemonth, George Torrey found himself
domesticated in the family of Judge Simonds,
one of the most distinguished men of
Virginia. George had anticipated much pleasure
as well as improvement from the conversation
of the old Judge, whom his son had represented
as very eloquent, and intelligent, and
communicative. His mother too, in the opinion
of Robert, was the very best woman in the
world. He had said but little of his sister—very
little,—never had shown George any of her letters,
nor endeavoured to excite his curiosity
about her. George knew, to be sure, that Robter
had a sister Delia, and he thought she had a
very pretty name for a pastoral poem, and that
was all he had thought of her till he was introduced
to her. But he soon had many other
thoughts. If there is a young man who has loved,
tenderly and truly, and loved too, one who he
fancied would think herself above his sphere—
loved in doubt and almost in despair, he will
very easily divine the meditations of my hero.
He will know why George trembled to meet
Delia, and sighed to leave her; why his pulse
quickened at her name, and why his heart and
his brain throbbed when any other man approached
her. Why he watched for her smile
as though it were a law to guide him; and why

every word she spoke he considered important,
and worth treasuring.

And if there be a beautiful young lady, who
has seen she was beloved by a man of worth,
of mind, intelligence and refinement,—one
whom she was satisfied would ever be to her
that kind, constant, judicious friend, which woman
so much needs to guide and support her
through `this world's rough wilderness;' if she
has felt gratitude for her lover's preference of
her, and esteem for his character, increasing
with every interview; if she has blushed to
name him, trembled lest her partiality should be
suspected,—watched for his coming, and yet
faltered while attempting to welcome him, she
may be sure her sensations have been very similar
to those felt by Delia Simonds, after a few
months acquaintance with George Torrey.

Why cannot reason and education free the
mind from the dominion of prejudice? Robert
Simonds knew the worth and talents of
George Torrey, and he loved him like a brother.
To have him marry Delia, had long been
his favorite wish. He saw their mutual affection,
therefore, with joy, and his favorable representations
had induced Judge Simonds to
treat the young New-Englander with a partiality
that was, at least, flattering.

George had been permitted to hope, and but
one circumstance prevented Robert from acknowledging,
with pride, the favored of his sister.
Some of the young Southern gentlemen
had doubted the courage of the Yankee, doubted
whether he would have the spirit to resent

an insult like a gentleman, to accept a challenge
if sent him, and these doubts had reached
the ears of Robert. He did not mention them
to George; he knew his principles on the subject,
and he perfectly agreed with him that to
fight a duel, when not to fight was considered
a disgrace, was no test of courage, but rather
a proof of moral cowardice. But reasoning
and feeling are very different things. Robert
did feel sensitive on this point; he did wish to
have the fame of George established, have
him deemed a man of honor,—(That honor
which may be claimed by the veriest villain on
earth, if he only is a good shot and has killed
his adversary.)

There was in the neighbourhood a gentleman,
so styled, who had offered himself to Delia Simonds,
and been rejected. This circumstance
created no surprise with those who were acquainted
with the parties, for Arnold Dixon was
very ugly in person, and disagreeable in manners,
such a being as no lady could love, and
Miss Simonds would never marry for riches.
But riches, especially if joined with a certain
assurance, will often keep a man in a station
to which neither his mind or morals entitle him.

Arnold Dixon was thus by sufferance allowed
to mingle in good society; yet he knew he
was disliked, indeed, detested by the ladies,
and he grew cross, and envious of every gentleman
younger, or handsomer than himself.
George Torrey especially he hated, and it was
from him that the insinuations against the
character of the Yankee mostly originated.

Robert Simonds despised Dixon, and intended
to have no communication with him;
but they happened to meet one day at a dinner
party, and Dixon, when warmed with wine,
threw out reflections against the northern people,
mingled with such innuendoes against
George Torrey, that Robert's blood was up in
a moment, and he repelled the charges with
such terms of scorn, as provoked his adversary
to fresh accusations, till finally the company
interposed, and insisted that the affair
should be postponed to a more fitting time and
place.

Burning with indignation against Dixon, and
yet angry with himself for suffering the low
malice of such a man to disturb him, Robert
Simonds retired from the party. He knew
that, according to the code of honor, some expressions
Dixon had used, must be considered
too offensive to be borne by an honorable man;
that a challenge was expected to ensue; and
since the affair must proceed, he thought he
would turn it to the best account possible.
He argued that if George Torrey would consent
to be his second, it would in a great measure
establish his reputation, because he would
be found to act with decision and spirit, as he
always did in the prosecution of any plan he
thought sanctioned by principle. In short, he
knew George was possessed of that daring, determined
courage, that would, at the call of
his country, or in defence of freedom, have
prompted him to solicit the post of danger, to
stand in the `imminent, deadly breach,' or lead

the forlorn hope. But he knew, also, that
George regarded duelling and its laws with
abhorrence and contempt; that he thought it
degrading to a civilized man, and horrible for a
Christian, to engage or be concerned in an
affair of—murder.

`And yet,' said Robert to himself, `he cannot,
under all the circumstances, refuse to be my
second in this affair, and that will satisfy the
world of his courage. O, if his firmness of
mind was only known, his courage would never
be doubted.'

`You intend to challenge Dixon?' said
George Torrey, after he had listened to his
friend's story.

`I do—I must. You smile, and I know
your opinion, and I know it is right,—but we
must, while we live in the world, be guided by
the customs of society. Who can endure the
“dread laugh” of derision, that among us follows
the man, who is pointed at as a coward?
I cannot, I will not, let the consequences be
what they may, I shall challenge Dixon. I
know he is a mean villain,—I despise him;
and yet I shall give him a chance to acquire
honor to himself by killing me. I shall do
this in obedience to custom,—to a custom that
I condemn, and wish was annihilated,—But I
shall follow it notwithstanding. Will you,
George, be my second?'

The discussion that followed cannot be given
at length, but the conclusion was, that
George Torrey, finding he could not reason
his friend out of the belief that there existed

no necessity for the duel, determined to take
the quarrel and the danger on himself.

`If,' said George, `this affair cannot be
overlooked without incurring disgrace, I will
send the challenge. The matter properly belongs
to me. It was my section of the country
that was vilified; it was me he intended to
insult. You generously defended me at the
table when I was absent; but that is no reason
why you should fight for me when I am present.
I repeat it,—if there must be a challenge
I will send it, and you may act as my second.'

This arrangement was finally adopted. Robert
felt some compunctious visitings of conscience
while the challenge was penning; but
he was so anxious to have his friend, his future
brother, considered a man of honor, that
he felt glad the affair was to be so decided.
He knew George was an excellent marksman,
and cool in spirit, and had the perfect command
of his muscles. Dixon too, was expert
at shooting, but he was often intoxicated either
with passion or liquor, and—who can answer
for the thoughts of his heart when under the
dominion of violent prejudice? thousands have
been as culpable as was Robert Simonds, when
he eagerly anticipated seeing Arnold Dixon
weltering in his blood, slain by the hand of
George Torrey.

What did George Torrey anticipate? He
did not dare reflect on all the consequences
that might be the result of this rash affair. He
thought it his duty to send the challenge and
meet the foe, rather than permit Robert to

fight. But he hoped the matter would be accommodated;
that Dixon would decline, as he
might, without the imputation of cowardice, by
alleging that he had not intended to insult the
party who challenged. And then George flattered
himself a little discussion would satisfy
all parties.

But George was disappointed; for Dixon
not only accepted his invitation to `meet him,
&c. on the ensuing morning,' but he exultingly
added, that he wished to have the affair decided
immediately; that he had a friend with
him, and they would be on the spot in half an
hour, where `all preliminaries, &c. might be
easily settled.'

`He is drunk,' said Robert, his eyes flashing
with joy; `your victory is secure.'

`My escape may be more probable,' replied
George. `I will meet him, and stand his shot
as your code of honor directs; but I will not
return his fire. I risk my own life to satisfy
what I consider a wicked prejudice; but I will
not risk having the blood of a human being
upon my conscience.'

The two friends proceeded, arm in arm, towards
the place of appointment. They walked
in silence, both wrapped in different, but
painful reflections. They had nearly reached
the spot, when George, pressing the arm of
his friend, said in a low, but distinct tone—
`Robert, if I fall, say to Delia—'

`You will not fall, you shall not,' interrupted
the other, impetuously. `George, I fear I
have done wrong in this business—I have been

too sensitive, too hasty. If you are injured,
I shall never forgive myself. But you shall
stand only one shot; if, when Dixon finds you
are determined not to return his fire, he does
not then feel satisfied, I will fight him, and I
will return his fire. Do not give me any farewell
messages, I cannot hear such melancholy
things.'

They reached the spot; an accommodation
was proposed to Dixon, if he would disclaim
the intention of insulting George; but this he
would not do, and he ended with some sneering
remarks about the Yankees that made
Robert's blood boil, but which, had it not been
for the feelings of his friend, George would no
more have heeded than the idle wind.

The ground was measured, and they took
their stations.

`You can kill him George,' whispered Robert
Simonds.

`I shall not attempt it,' replied George. `I
am not seeking revenge.'

`But you ought to endeavour to preserve
your own life.'

`Then I ought not to have come here. But
this is idle now. Give the word.'

The word was given—Dixon fired—and
George Torrey fell. Robert sprung to him,
raised him—a stream of blood gushed from his
right side. `It is all over,' said George faintly,
as he recovered a little from the first shock.
`I am dying. I must leave the world just as it
begins to smile upon me. I must leave Delia
and you. O! I have lately dreamed of great

things—I have thought that, blessed with Delia's
love and your friendship, I should use such
exertions—I should be so indefatigable, that
success would be mine. But it is all over—I
must die before I have done anything—I must
die and be forgotten—Die as the fool dieth.'

`O! George, George,' said Robert, with
tears flowing fast down his cheeks—`What
shall I do? How shall I comfort Delia? Why
did I allow you to send the challenge?'

George attempted to reply, but the effort
overcame him, and they thought him dying.
But he revived again, and was conveyed to
the house of Judge Simonds. He lingered
twelve hours, and during most of the time, was
able to converse.

George Torrey was laid in the family vault
of Judge Simonds, and before the year had expired,
Delia slept beside her lover. Robert
Simonds, agitated with grief for the loss of his
friend, and indignation against Dixon, could
hardly be said to be in possession of his reason,
when, three days after the burial of George,
he challenged his murderer to meet him. Dixon
was so elated with his success over poor
George, that he exultingly accepted the challenge
of Robert. They met; and at the first
discharge, Dixon was shot through the heart.

Robert Simonds still lives, but he is a melancholy,
misanthropic being. Alone in the
world, and continually brooding over the memory
of those dear friends he accuses himself
of destroying.