University of Virginia Library

BRUISING BILL.

1. ---

It was about twilight on a summer's evening of the last year that
Edward Cassidy, a young Cambridge student, found himself in his
rambles near a poor cottage on the banks of the Charles. Its site was
beautiful; for there was a fair prospect of the sunny river gliding by,
of green banks and groves and pleasant farms beyond, and in the distance
the gothic towers and spires of the University. But the exterior
of the hut bore signs that its occupant was too wretchedly poor
to enjoy at leisure the beauties of scenery, or to have time to improve
by taste the natural capabilities of the situation. Yet there were no
signs of that filthy and disgusting poverty which so often offends the
eye. There was an air of neatness about the hut that is never seen
about the abodes of vice. Attracted by the beauty of the spot to which
he had wandered, the student lingered for some time enjoying the
prospect, and did not at first notice, save by a passing glance, the hut
in his foreground. His attention was drawn to it, as he was about to
proceed on his walk, by the sound of a human voice in suffering, that
proceeded from some place near it. He listened a moment; and then
satisfied some one was in need of help, he hastened forward to the
dwelling. As he came near, he found the sounds of pain which he
heard, came from the further side of it, near the water. He went
round the house, and a few steps brought him to the verge of a precipice
elevated fifteen feet above the beach. Looking over it, he saw
an aged woman lying at the bottom and groaning in helpless suffering.
By her side was an unturned water-pail; and, from the appearance
of the low cliff in the side of which rude steps had been cut with

a spade to make a path to the river, it was plain she had fallen either
in ascending or descending it.

Prompted by that generous feeling of sympathy which is one of the
noblest attributes of humanity, young Cassidy hurried down the steep
to her aid.

`Are you much hurt?' he inquired tenderly as he attempted to raise
the aged woman up, who, though poorly, was neatly clad.

`I fear, my good young man,' she answered with difficulty, `that I
have broken my ancle, and otherwise injured myself.'

`Can you get to your dwelling think you, with my assistance?' he
asked, having with great difficulty got her to her feet.

`God bless you, young man! I will try,' she answered gratefully,—
`I am very bad. I must have lain here more than an hour. If it had
not been for you I should have been here all night, and the sun would
have shone on my poor old dead body. Well, God is merciful, and
has a little longer spared my life.'

With great care and the most anxious solicitude to keep her from
suffering by the movement, Cassidy at length succeeded in getting
her up the steep steps in the bank, and conveying her to the cottage.
The interior was scantily furnished, yet wore the air of neat and humble
poverty. He assisted her to a bed, and then telling her he would
soon send a surgeon, hastened from her dwelling on his benevolent
errand.

He shortly returned with Dr. —, who found the old lady had
not only shattered her ancle, but had broken three of her ribs. On
ascertaining from her that she was a widow and dwelt quite alone,
save on Sundays, when her son who was working at a trade in Boston
who always with her, the student suggested that a nurse should be
provided for her, saying he would himself cheerfully incur the expense.
The surgeon said that he knew a woman who no doubt would come;
and he having promised to send her that very evening, Edward said
he would remain by the poor woman until the nurse came to relieve
him.

The surgeon had set her ancle and otherwise ably performed his
duties to the sufferer, and she remained quiet and comparatively free
from pain. She was unbounded in her expressions of grateful feeling
to the young man, and frequently blessed him with such fervent energy
that he could not remain wholly without emotion. To relieve himself
from the weight of her gratitude, he questioned her in reference
to herself. From her he learned that she was the widow of a house

carpenter, who had been dead sixteen years, leaving her a boy three
years old. That she had been struggling with poverty from that time
until William her son had got to be old enough to earn something for
her. Of late, however, he had been out of work, his employers (he
was an apprentice to a printer) having failed, and the difficulty of getting
work was then very great, so that he had been able to bring her
but very little, but just enough to live, for some weeks. `Yet I have
not had to complain,' said the old widow; `I have always had something
to eat, and William is a dutiful son, and loves and honors me,
He always brings me something when he comes out Saturday nights.
and it makes him happy when he can add any little comfort to my
fare. Poor boy! I don't know how he will feel when he hears of my
fall. He will make himself miserable, thinking how he shall get what
he thinks I may be in want of, when he has no money to get it. Poor
boy! God will provide for the widow and the fatherless.'

`Do not be uneasy on his account, dear madam,' said Edward;
`you shall want nothing that can contribute to your comfort during
your illness. Were you bringing water from the river when you
fell?'

`No, I was just going down for it, when, my sight being poor, I
made a misstep and fell to the bottom. I caught by the way once, or
I should have been killed.'

`It is a dangerous path for one of your age to attempt,' said Edward
but I trust when you recover, you will be assisted in some other way
to obtain what water you need, and not thus risk your life again.'

`You are, truly, a charitable young person, and God will reward
you. How grateful William will be to you! This is Friday, and to-morrow
he will come home.'

The nurse whom the doctor had despatched to the wounded woman
now made her appearance, and the kind-hearted Cassidy resigned his
charge to her care.

Edward Cassidy was the son of wealthy parents, and, united to the
ample means with which his father supplied him, had a benevolent
and generous disposition, and sympathies ever alive to the appeal of
the less fortunate of his fellow beings. Though wild and buoyant in
spirits, and a votary of gaiety and fashion, these had not touched the
generous impulses of his bosom, or rendered his heart less open to the
calls of sensibility. Benevolence in him exhibited herself in her simplest
and most pleasing aspects. Though he was the most richly
dressed young gentleman in the university, and had certain aristocratic

feelings that made him exclusive in his associations, he was not
ashamed, unlike too many hollow-hearted fools of fashion, to be seen
engaged in an office of the humblest charity—seated in a wretched
hut, by the side of the sick bed of a poor widow. He did not do charitable
deeds to other people's eyes. In the walks of charity he was not
ashamed to administer in the humblest manner to the wants of the poor,
He was not one of those who refuse giving money to a beggar “lest
they be seen speaking to him.' Uncertain and unstable indeed, must
be the social position which such contact menaces!

The following evening a young man nineteen years old, clad in a
plain suit of clothes, was seated by the bedside of the widow, her hand
held in his. His person was robust and manly; but the healthy hue
of his cheek was paled by sympathy with his mother's suffering; his
features wore a sad look; his eyes were tearful, and his manner indicated
affection and anxious solicitude. His mother had just been telling
him of the good deeds of her preserver.

`He was a noble fellow,' the apprentice answered warmly. `I would
be glad to see him and thank him. I suppose, however, if he is a student,
he would be too proud to shake my hand.'

`He was as humble as a child,' said the invalid with grateful
warmth. `But I don't know whether he belonged to Cambridge or
not.

`And he sent you this money?'

`No—he left a ten dollar bill with this good lady whom he hired to
nurse me, telling her to get for me with it whatever I might be in want
of.'

`Whoever he is, he has a generous and noble disposition,' answered
the son, `and I hope he will have his reward. I can never repay
him.'

He released his mother's hand, rose, and paced the floor of the narrow
cottage with a restless step. At intervals could be heard from
his lips, bitterly uttered,

`Oh poverty, poverty! Must my mother be indebted to the charity
of a stranger in her sickness when I have hands to work! But what
use are hands when there is no one to employ me—no work, no wages.
So soon as she recovers, I will go to New York and there get something
to do. I am now working and earning only my living when I
ought to be, in good times, making journeyman's wages. Did you
speak, mother,' he asked, turning kindly toward the bed.

`I said, Willy dear, do not fear for me. I know you are troubled

about me. But God will take care of me. I shall soon be better
and be able to be about. You ought to be thankful that God has put
it into the heart of the good young man to help us.'

`I do, mother, and I hope God will bless him. I could go down
on my knees and thank him,' answered William with grateful energy.
`But I cannot suffer you to be dependent on him! Oh that I could
earn something for you. Even we are indebted to him for the needful
medicines you require. I do not see what you or I could have done
without him. I shall honor him while I have life, for this kindness to
you, my dear mother.'

William Martin was naturally a warm-hearted young man, and being
fond of the society of those of his own age, would have been dissipated,
and perhaps lost, but for his devoted love for his mother,
which like a holy leaven sanctified his heart, and saved him from many
a fall. Nevertheless, he was a bold and reckless youth, and having
by nature a fearless and adventurous spirit, he had often got into
`scrapes' which left him with a broken head. There was, however,
not a spark of malice in his temper; yet he was found in the midst
of all broils among apprentices in town, and in the frequent contests
between rival firemen, he (for he was attached to the Neptune engine)
often distinguished himself above his companions. He usually went
by the soubriquet of `Bruising Bill,' a name sufficiently significant of
his exploits; yet as we have said, a more generous, frank-souled,
cheerful young man, or one more ready to do a comrade a service,
could not be found among the Boston apprentices. Like most of his
class and age, he was a great `republican' after his own definition of
this term; that is, he believed the world would be happier if all mankind
wore homespun and went afoot. He had a hearty, apprentice
like contempt for broadcloth and for all young gentlemen of his own
age who wore it and got, (or expected to get) a living by the sweat of
their brows. Students were therefore particularly obnoxious to him;
and he never passed them in his walks to and from Boston without feeling
a disposition to insult them and bring about a `fight.' In derision
he usually carried, in imitation of their foppish walking-canes, a
stout cudgel festooned with tassels of oakum, which he loved ostentatiously
to display when meeting them on the bridge.

This morbid feeling originated in ignorance and in a misconception
of the true character of those whom he supposed above him. He believed
every one of them felt himself his superior because he wore a
fine coat and did no manful work. He had, probably, from silly pop

injays been made insolently to feel this. If he had known that among
students and young gentlemen of leisure and fortune, those only feel
a superiority over others, (because they may happen to be mechanics,)
are those alone who in truth do not possess what they claim, he
would have felt and acted differently. True superiority originates in
the soul and shines forth in the character, and neither broadcloth can
add to its brightness, nor linsey-woolsy obscure it. He only, is superior
who is better; he only inferior who is the worst. Character and
not the coat, is the true basis of respect and respectability. If William
Martin had reflected upon these truths he would have been happier
and wiser; prejudice would have disappeared before the influence
of reason, and man whether above or below him, conventionally,
would have been judged by him with just appreciation of his character
and deserts.

The ensuing Monday when William Martin returned to the city, he
was met in Court street by a fellow-apprentice, whose first salutation
was,

`Ah, Bill, where were you Saturday afternoon? We had a regular
row, and only wish you had been with us. Every body was crying for
`Bruising Bill.'

To his eager inquiries he leaned that on Saturday afternoon, several
of the students of Harvard University had made their appearance in
town in a new cloth cap,[1] with a large square top and silk tassels.—
`Snub Sam, our devil,' continued Martin's fellow apprentice, `mounted
one, made of paper, three feet across the top, and paraded along
Washington street behind two of them, till one of the chaps got mad
and turned round and knocked it off. Snub picked it up, put it on,
and again strutted after them, every body looking and laughing. By
and bye, the student turned back again, and instead of hitting the cap,
hit Snub in the eye and knocked him cap and all into the gutter.—
With that, several of us boys that were following on to see the sport,
set upon them, and after they had fought us bravely for half a dozen
rounds, they were forced to take refuge in a store.

`They deserved to be well thrashed,' said Bill; `these upstarts, because
their fathers have got a little money, must be putting on airs
and making themselves above common folks. If I should see one of
the chaps with one of them caps on, I would'nt hesitate to knock it off.
What right have they to be wearing a peculiar style of cap, as if to
make more apparent their assumed superiority. I am not going to
succumb to any marks of aristocracy, not I.'

`Nor none of us,' answered Dick Dempster; `we have pledged
ourselves to fight `the square caps' wherever we see them. But there
was a regular set-to after this. A parcel of us, who knew there was a
good many of the `Harvies' in town, mustered near the bridge-end;
about dark a dozen of them came along in a body; for they feared to
separate. We set upon them and for about ten minutes had the prettiest
row you was ever in, Bill, in your life. The Harvies fought well
to do them justice, and succeeded in getting on the bridge, when the
toll-keeper closed the gates between us. But some of their square
tops were smashed a bit, and more than a dozen of us found blood on
our fists after it was over.'

`I wish I had only been there,' said Bill with vehemence.

`Next Saturday, they say they are coming in town in force, and
mean to defy us,' answered Dick with a menacing gesture.

`Then we shall have a glorious chance for a row,' replied Martin,
his eyes sparkling in anticipation of a regular `knock-down.'

`You'll be here?' inquired Dick.

`Yes,' firmly answered Bill; and the two apprentices parted.

2. CHAPTER II.

The remainder of the week, the apprentice Will Martin, passed the
most of his time with his mother, over whose recovery he watched with
the most honorable filial tenderness. He anticipated every wish which
a glance of her eye expressed, and with his own hands, rejecting the
aid of the nurse, supplied every want; for, thanks to the donation of
the youthful stranger, there was nothing she could ask for that they
had not the money wherewithal to purchase.

Twice Edward had been to inquire after the invalid, but both times
it chanced to be in the absence of the widow's son, greatly to her disappointment.
On each occasion he brought with him, tied up in a
handkerchief, oranges, dried fruit, or some little delicacies which he
thought would tempt the old lady's palate.

`My son is so wanting to see you, sir,' said she as he was leaving
her on his second visit. `He says he shall never forget your kindness

to his poor old widowed mother. He asked me if you were a
student of the College, sir, and also your name. But I told him I did
not feel bound to take the liberty of asking you. If I mought not be
too bold sir—'

`It is of no consequence,' replied Cassidy, smiling, and not caring
to have his charities blazoned abroad by either the old lady's gratitude
or her son's. `I shall come and see you again on Sunday morning,
and will bring some interesting book to read to you. On Monday, if
it is a warm fine day, I will take you out to ride a little way, if you
should find yourself strong enough. Dr. — says he thinks you will
be. As I have gone so far in behalf of your misfortune, I shall feel a
pleasure in seeing you well again; and I shall take care that you don't
relapse by any improvidence. Now, my good woman, if you keep up
your spirits and soon get up, I think I can promise you will live more
comfortably hereafter than you have done, even without your son's assistance;
who will need all his earnings for his own use.'

With these words the kind-hearted young man bade her good evening
and left her followed by her grateful blessings. When William
came from town and learned his mother's benefactor had been there
during his absence, he expressed his regret that he had not seen him;
and when she showed him what he had left for her, and repeated his
words to her, he felt tears come into his eyes; and if Cassidy had entered
at that moment he would have cast himself upon him and wept
forth his gratitude.

`I should like to know him that I may not any longer neglect to go
and thank him. What must he think of me—your son—so seemingly
indifferent to all he has done and is doing for you. Do you know
him, Mrs Firth?' he inquired of the nurse.

`I think the doctor called him Mr. Cassidy; but I wont be certain,'
she said. `He did not employ me, but I was sent by the doctor.'

`Yet he pays you?'

`Yes. He has given me already twenty dollars, and I should't ask
no more if I should stay a month. I am certain he is a colleger.'

`No—he is no student. There is not so much charity and benevolence
as he has shown mother, in the breasts of all the upstarts in the
university, if it was all compressed and bestowed on one of their number.
You will find your student at the tavern, at the scrub-race, at
the gambling-table; you will find him prowling about the workingman's
windows to lure forth poor innocent girls to their ruin, but you
will never see him visiting the sick bed of the aged and indigent, You

will see him spending his money in harlotry and rioting, but never in
charity and good deeds. No, mother Firth, he is no student, you may
mark that, whoever he may be.'

`I have seen a good many charitable young gentlemen in the college,'
said Mistress Firth, `and I have known them to do a deal of
good with their money, some of the richer ones.'

The apprentice made no reply, and the subject was dropped.

The ensuing day was Saturday. In one of the chambers at Cambridge
College was assembled a group of young men. Several of them
had in their hands stout clubs which in courtesy we will name `walking-sticks,'
and all of them had mounted the `trencher-cap.' They
were in noisy conversation and appeared a good deal excited. Their
number was momentarily increasing. At length a young gentleman
entered, in a round hat. Instantly a dozen voices exclaimed,

`Where is your trencher, Cassidy?'

`In my room.'

`Are'nt you going to town?'

`Yes,' he answered, laughing at their earnestness.

`Then, Ned, you must wear your trencher for the honor of the university.
For every blackguard will say you left it off for fear of being
mobbed.'

`Oh, well, then, I'll wear it,' answered Cassidy. `How many
trencher-men are we in all?'

`At least forty.'

`If we go through Boston in such a gang we shall not only provoke
attack, but make ourselves ridiculous. I will wear my trencher, but I
beg to walk my own way,' he said, smiling.

That day the strects of Boston were quite in shadow with the trencher
caps. The students paraded the town in groups of four and six,
and save that their novel costume attracted much attention and drew
after them crowds of saucy boys, many of whom rejoiced in paper
`trenchers' of enormous dimensions, there was until late in the afternoon
no open demonstration of hostility. The police had had intimation
that a riot was in embryo, and their frequent faces seen in the
streets restrained the belligerents. About four o'clock in the afternoon,
William Martin, Dick Dempster, and three others, were standing
near the doors of the Tremont Theatre waiting for some occasion
for opening the war with the `trencher-caps,' several of whom were
on the steps of the Tremont House opposite, when two of them crosdes
the street and entered the box-office. As they came out again,

William Martin purposely thrust out his foot so that Edward Cassidy,
who was one of the two, stumbled over it. The indignant young man
instantly turned round and struck him in the face. Martin returned
the blow, and Dick and his friends then set upon them; the `caps'
from the opposite side of the street came over and joined the melée;
and for a few moments there was a fierce engagement in which for a
while the trenchers held the better hand. The apprentices, however,
were soon supported by increasing numbers, and the `trenchers,' after
maintaining a vigorous defence, were compelled to retire and seek,
from the overwhelming numbers that assailed them, a shelter in the
hall of the hotel. The police at length made their appearance and dispersed
the rioters now that the riot was over. `Bruising Bill' had
maintained in the fight his sobriquet, and had also the satisfaction of
getting a black eye from Cassidy at its outset. He retired with Dick
and others to the engine house—the usual rendezvous of such `boys'
at such times. Here it was resolved that the war should be carried
into the enemies' camp. The same night, therefore, about fifty young
fellows, all apprentices, and most of them about Martin's age, met
near the Cambridge bridge just after dark. They were headed by
`Bruising Bill,' and led on by him, carried the toll-gate and by force
pushed their way in a body across the bridge. In a compact mass
they pursued their course along the road to the colleges, three miles
distant. They marched at a rapid rate, for they had intelligence that
a party of about a score of students had crossed the bridge before
them and were not far in advance. With these they hoped to come
up before they should reach the college grounds. Half a mile from
the colleges they saw them ahead and rushed upon them with shouts.
The students, taken by surprise, fled a short distance until they came
to a style where they made a stand and shouted their cry of `clubs'
and `Cambridge,' to bring their fellow-students to reinforce them.—
The cry reached the college buildings, and in a moment the courts of
old Harvard rung with it from a hundred voices, Inspired by the answering
sound which promised succor, the handful of students stood
their ground and gave battle.

`On, fellows, on!' shouted Bruising Bill, springing upon the style
and dealing around blows with a massive club. `Down with the aristocrats.'

`Stand your ground, Trenchers. Let the villains have the full
weight of your sticks!' cried the clear voice of Edward Cassidy above
the noise of he conflict.'

`Let me reach that square cap!' yelled Bruising Bill, springing towards
Cassidy. `He is the hardest chap! Get him down and we'll
drive them like sheep.'

At this instant he and Edward met. Martin grappled him by the
throat, but a blow from the club of a trencher-cap caused him to release
his hold with a curse. The green in the rear was now alive with
students running towards the scene of conflict and shouting, `To the
rescue! to the rescue!'

Their numbers momentarily increased, and the apprentices were at
length driven back from the style which they had twice carried, and
pursued across the highway. Here they rallied and once more became
assailants. On all sides clubs fell with merciless fury, brick
bats flew, and oaths, shouts and yells filled the air as if a mortal combat
were going forward. The roar only of fire-arms was wanting to
make it a mortal battle in earnest. As it was, many an apprentice,
many a `trencher-cap,' fell, severely beaten and wounded. In the
hottest of the fight Martin, who, in the bright moonlight that shone
upon the scene, had sought out Cassidy whose voice was heard constantly
cheering on his party, and to the weight of whose club many
a broken head could that night testify, at length met him. Edward
was almost the only one who had retained his cap in the contest, the
ground being strewn with those of his party.

`I'll smash your infernal cap for you!' cried Martin as he swung his
club in the air; `I'll make you sick of putting yourself above your
betters?'

Edward made an effort to catch the blow upon his own club, but
was unsuccessful, and the whole force of the apprentice's loaded weapon
came upon his temples. He sank to the ground with a groan and
lay insensible.

`You've killed him, Bill, said Dick, `we had best be out of this.'

The fall of Cassidy infuriated the students, and while some of them
raised him and bore him from the field, the others rushed upon the apprentices
with such fury that after making a brief stand, they retreated,
Martin advising it, saying,

`We have done enough for to-night, fellows, let us for Boston.'

The retreat was made in good order, to the interception of the turnpike
where a small body of police making an effort to arrest the leaders
were driven before them and severely beaten. It was near midnight
when they re-entered the town, through the streets of which,
confident in their numbers, they marched in a body awaking and

startling with their heavy tramp many a sleeper from his bed, and from
his post many a wondering watchman withal.'

`I wish I knowed whether I did for that square-cap I knocked down,'
said Martin to his friend Dick as they walked together to their lodgings
after the gang had dispersed.

`If you have, Boston will be too hot to hold us,' was the reply.—
`As it is, I expect the police will take hold of it.'

`Not if there is no life lost. It will be looked upon by them as only
an a 'prentice's row, and so let it go. But if I have done for
that chap, I shall feel sorry. For a young fellow so dandyish he
fought like a lion. I didn't know these upstart collegers had so much
pluck in 'em. But I see they can fight about as well as 'prentices.'

`Where do you go to-morrow, Bill?' asked Dick as they were about
to separate for the night.

`To see my mother. She expected me to-night, and I shall start
out early. You know she is sick.'

`Seems to me you think a good deal of your mother, Bill. I never
thought so much of mine.'

`Because she is not a widow, and you are not her only child. I
love my mother better than any thing on earth. He who injures her,
injures me twice, and he who does her a kindness does it to me seven
times over. She has always been a kind mother to me, and I will take
care of her and make her comfortable as long as she lives. Good
night Dick.'

`Good night, Bill,' and the two apprentices separated, each seeking
his own lodging in little rooms in the loft of his own printing office.

3. CHAPTER III.

The following morning was the Sabbath. William Martin awoke
in pain from sundry bruises which now began to make themselves
felt. He spent half an hour bathing a swelled eye, and patching up
with court-plaster sundry bruises. At length he took his way out of
town in the direction of his mother's abode, on the banks of the river
Charles.

The sun which had risen without a cloud, shone cheerfully into the
cottage window of the invalid widow. The air was still; not a leaf
stirred on the branches; the river glided by peacefully; the fields
on the opposite shore were clothed with brilliant green; a robin-red
breast was singing in a tree near the widow's door. All was harmonious,
peaceful and serene. It was such a morning as the convalescent
loves.

`Open the door, good Mrs. Firth,' said the widow, `I think I
should be better to breathe the pure air of out-doors, and look upon
the pleasant fields and skies. Besides I can see William as he comes
up the road.'

The nurse complied with her wish, and the widow propped up in
her bed, sat gazing with peaceful joy out upon the quiet scene before
her cottage. Her eye was fixed upon the distant turn in the road,
and its constant searching glance that way, showed she was thinking
of her absent son, and was momentarily expecting him to appear. At
length a person was seen hastening along the road.

`There he comes! Look, Dame Frith! my eyes are not very clear;
Is that William?'

`No—It is a student in one of the new-fangled square caps they
wear now.'

`It is my benefactor! He promised to visit me this morning. Oh,
that William would come home!'

`No—it is not Mr. Cassidy; it is another person.'

As the student came near, they saw that his arm was in a sling
and that his face was bruised. He approached the cottage door, and
asked if Mrs. Martin lived there. On being answered in the affirmative,
he said that he had been sent by Mr. Cassidy to say to her that
he had met with an accident and should not be able to visit her, perhaps

for some days to come, as he was now confined to his bed; but
that if she was in need of any thing, to send to Dr. —, who was
instructed to furnish her with whatever her convalesence required.

`Mr. Cassidy—my noble benefactor, ill—hurt!' exclaimed the widow,
sinking back upon her bed. `Oh, that I could fly to him and
do something now to show him my gratitude! But my son—Wiliam
—shall go to him—shall nurse him. He will not rest till he can
show him how deeply he feels what he has done for his mother!'

In reply to his anxious inquiries the student informed her that he
had been severely injured in a broil by the leader of a gang of apprentices,
who had assailed a party of the students; that his skull indeed
was severely fractured; and weeks might elapse before he got
abroad again.

The widow was overwhelmed with grief at this intelligence, and
incapable herself of doing any thing, she only prayed for the return
of her son, that she might, through his attention, in some measure
repay his kindness to her. Replying in the negative to the students
inquiry if she needed any thing, she suffered him to depart after
making him promise to let her hear every day from her benefactor.

William Martin was approaching his home by a path across the
fields, when he saw the student come up the road and enter. The
anger that rose in his bosom at seeing a `trencher cap,' was immediately
subdued by the suspicion that he was his mother's benefactor!
The idea was unpleasant to him—for he felt in his heart that he would
not for the world he should prove to be a hated square-cap. To be
sure he crept round by the rear of the cottage, and approached unseen
and unheard to the back window which looked in upon his
mother's bed. Several panes were out, and he heard all that was
said. His heart smote him, and he felt as if he would sink through
the ground when he heard what evil he had done; for his conscience
told him that he was the `leader' of the gang, who had dealt the
blow. Yet his mother's benefactor might not have been he whom he
struck! This was one ray of hope! There were many a hard blow
—many a broken head in the fearful combat. But this hope was
faint! While he was agitated by these emotions, the student quitted
the cottage. Martin made a circuit by the field and met him beyond
the turning in the road. He came up to him with such a hurried
manner, and looked so wild and disturbed, that the student, who instantly

recognized him as the leader of the mob, drew back a step
and threw himself into a defensive attitude.

`No—I am not going to fight you,' said Martin in a humbled tone.
`I came sir, to ask you—for I am the son of the widow there, and
overheard your conversation in the cottage—to inquire of you, if the
young man you spoke of as being hurt was the leader of the trencher-caps?'

`Yes.'

`Was he the last one struck down?'

`Yes, and I saw you do it with your own hand, villain!'

`And he is the same person,' continued Martin eagerly, `that has
been taking care of my poor mother?'

`Yes.'

`Then I am a villain! any thing and every thing that is bad! Yes
sir, I did strike him down! I confess it. I am willing to undergo any
punishment—I deliver myself up! He may throw me into prison, if
he will. I deserve death!'

Martin's last words were choked with tears of shame, remorse and
penitence. The student watched him in silence and wonder. The
apprentice stood before him, his arm covering his face, humbled and
weeping like a child.

`I did not know he was my mother's benefactor. I did not know
it was even a student, or I should never have lifted hand against them.
Will you lead me to him, sir?'

`It would be dangerous, my good fellow,' said Harry Powers, the
student, feeling for him and sympathizing with him. `It would be
as much as your life is worth, to be seen in the College grounds.'

`I care not! I will see him! I wish to acknowledge my fault!
I wish to do something by which I can atone for what I have
done.'

`This evening he will be removed from the college to a private
house. If you insist upon it, I will get his permission for you to come
there and see him.'

`If you will, sir, you will make me grateful to you all the days I
live!' he cried, taking Harry's hand.

`But what set you against him and the students so fiercely?'

`We apprentices always feel a sort of dislike to students and all
rich and well-dressed young men. With us, we are too apt to consider
roughness, independance and manliness; and refinement, effeminacy.
I see now we are wrong. We looked upon your square cap
as assumed to show your superiority—to mark you as gentlemanly
students, and so distinguish you from the vulgar herd, as we supposed
you termed us. We therefore made war against it. Now that I find
Mr. Cassidy was a student, and that I have done him an injury, I
feel mortified that I should ever have had such feelings, and assure
you I shall never be so foolish again. Do you think he is dangerously
hurt?' asked the repentant Martin with anxiety.

`It is uncertain how it will terminate at present. He is very
ill.'

`You will let me see him?'

`If he will, on knowing the facts, suffer it,' answered Powers.—
`Come at seven this evening, to Mrs.—, on H— street, and if
he will admit you, I will there receive you. I hope you have had a
lesson never to declare hostility against a man for the fineness of his
coat, or the cut of his cap.'

`I certainly have, sir. I hope my poor mother will not hear that
I hurt Mr. Cassidy. It would be the death of her.'

`She shall not from me; and I am sure, Edward will not tell
her.'

After again expressing his regret at his folly, Martin left him and
sought his mother's cottage. There, every word she uttered in praise
of her wounded benefactor, cut him to the heart; and, to save his
own feelings, he had to go out from her presence.

To end our tale. When Edward learned from his friend, Harry
Powers who it was that had wounded him, and how penitent the widow's

son was, he said he freely forgave him, and would see him when
he came. The interview between the two we will pass over. From
that hour William Martin was a changed man! Day by day he called
and passed hours by Edward's bedside, and watched over him with
the affectionate tenderness of a brother till he recovered. The humbled,
grateful apprentice thought he could not do too much for him!
At length, Edward was fully restored to health, and resumed his studies.
William now had no further excuse for pressing his services upon
him, and returned to remain with his mother, who had also got
entirely well. He now wished to go to work, but such a healthy moral
change had taken place in his heart, that he trembled to be once
more thrown among his former rude companions, and shrunk at the
idea of again being saluted as `Bruising Bill,' a name, which he now
as cordially hated as he had once taken pride in it. While he was
indulging in these reflections, and thinking what he should do, he received
the following note:

After perusing this note, the young man laid his face upon the table
and burst into tears. He handed it to his mother in explanation

of his emotion. We need not say that he hastened to his friend and
expressed from an overflowing heart his grateful sense of his kindness.
He accepted the offer, and with his mother shortly left for New
York. He is now junior partner in one of the most respectable printing
offices in that city, respected by his co-partner, and making friends
of all whom he has intercourse with. No one who knew him as
`Bruising Bill,' could now recognize in Mr. William Martin that
leader in the war of the `Trencher Caps.' Having learned by painful
experience that a man's attire is but a cover to his nakedness, and
that the character is the man, he judges rightly of all men, and neither
honors nor despises any one for the fineness or coarseness of his garment,
nor make war upon any man for the cut of his cap.

4. CONCLUSION.

The hostility existing between students and apprentices, is well
known to all who have lived in a city or town where there is a college.
This feeling of dislike on the part of young mechanics towards those
whom they esteem more favored by fortune than themselves, probably
has its foundation in envy. Whatever be its basis, it is a prejudice
that is foolish and most degrading to the intelligent young apprentices
who suffer themselves to be influenced by it. In the foregoing story
we have attempted to show the folly of such feelings. If but one of
these misguided young men whose eye it is meant to reach, will take
a lesson from William Martin without enduring his painful experience,
we shall be fully repaid for our efforts to combat a prejudice as pernicious
as it is absurd and mischievous. Next in folly to that feeling
which leads a well-dressed young man to despise one that is meanly
clad, is that which prompts the poor young man to despise the other
because he is better clad. The writer who could do most to effect a
mutual reconciliation of opinion between the two, would do a service
which would exert no light influence upon the well-being of society as
it is at present organized.