University of Virginia Library

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.