University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It was a week before “class day,” — that eventful day
which was virtually to close the college career of Morton and
his contemporaries. The little janitor, commonly called
Paddy O'Flinn, was ringing the evening prayer bell from the
cupola of Harvard Hall, — its tone was dull and muffled,
some graceless sophomore having lately painted it white, inside
and out, — and the students were mustering at the
summons. The sedate and the gay, the tender freshman and
the venerable senior, the prosperous city beau and the awkward
country bumpkin, one and all were filing from their
respective quarters towards the chapel in University Hall.
The bell ceased; the loiterers quickened their steps; the last
belated freshman, with the dread of the proctor before his
eyes, bounded frantically up the steps; and for a brief space
all was silence and solitude. Then there was a murmuring,
rushing sound, as of a coming tempest, and University Hall
disgorged its contents, casting forth the freshmen and juniors
at one door, and the sophomores and seniors at the other.

Of these last was Morton, who, with three or four of his
class, walked across the college yard, towards the great gateway.

By his side was a young man named Rosny, carelessly
dressed, but with a lively, dare-devil face, and the look of a
good-natured game cock.

“I shall be sorry to leave this place,” said Morton; “I like
it. I like the elms, and the gravel walks, and the scurvy old
brick and mortar buildings.”

“Then I am not of your mind,” said Rosny; “gravel or
mud, brickbats or paving stones, they are the same to me, the
world over. Halloo, Wren,” to a mustachioed youth who
just then joined them; “we are bound to your room.”

“That's as it should be. But where are the rest?”

“Coming — all in good time; here's one of them.”

A dapper little person approached, with a shining beaver,
yellow kid gloves, a switch cane, and a very stiff but somewhat
dashing cravat, surmounted by a round and rubicund
face.

“Ah, Chester!” exclaimed Wren; “the very man we
were looking for. Come and take a glass of punch at my
room.”

“Punch, indeed!” replied Chester, whose face had changed
from a prim expression to one of great hilarity the moment
he saw his friends — “no, no, gentlemen, I renounce punch
and all its works. The pure unmixed, the pure juice of the
grape for me.”

“But, Chester,” urged Wren, “won't the pure mountain
dew be a sufficient inducement?”

“The good company will be a sufficient inducement,” said
Chester, waving his hand, — “the good company, gentlemen,
— and the good liquor. But what have we here? Meredith

and Vinal walking side by side. Good Heavens, what a conjunction!”

The objects of Chester's astonishment, on a flattering invitation
from Wren, joined the party, which, however, was
weakened by the temporary secession of Rosny, who, pleading
an errand in the village, left them with a promise to rejoin
them soon. His place was in a few moments more than
supplied by a new party of recruits, among whom was Stubb.
Arrived at Wren's room, the desk and other appliances of
study were banished from the table; bottles and glasses
usurped their place, and the company composed themselves
for conversation, most of them permitting their chairs to
stand quietly on all fours, though one or two, like heathen
Yankees from the backwoods, forced them to rear rampant on
the hind legs, the occupant's feet resting on the ledge over
the fireplace.

A few minutes passed, when a quick, firm step came up the
stairs, and Rosny entered.

“How are you again, Dick?” said Meredith.

“Good evening, Mr. Rosny,” echoed Stubb, who sat
alone on the window seat.

“Eh? what's that?” demanded Rosny, turning sharp
round upon the last speaker, with a face divided between indignation
and laughter.

“I said, `Good evening,'” replied Stubb, much disconcerted.

“And why didn't you say, `Good morning,' yesterday, eh?
— when I met you in Boston, eh? He gave me the cut direct,”
turning to the company. “Mr. Benjamin Stubb, here,

gave me the cut direct! It was the pepper-and-salt coat and
the thunder-and-lightning breeches that Stubb couldn't think
of bowing to when he was walking in — Street, with a
lady. Look here, Stubb,” — again facing the victim, —
“what do you take me for? and what the devil do you take
yourself for? I know your dirty family history. Your
grandfather was a bricklayer, and the Lord knows who your
great grandfather was. The best Huguenot blood of France
runs in my veins! My ancestors were fighting at Ivry and
Jarnac, while yours were peddling coal and potatoes about
London streets, or digging mud in a ditch, for any thing you
or I know to the contrary.” Stubb gasped. “Your father
has a crest painted on his carriage; but where did he get it?
Why, Cribb, the engraver, stole it for him out of the British
peerage.”

Stubb, who was weak and timorous, here rose in great confusion,
muttered something about conduct unbecoming to a
gentleman, and meaning to require an explanation, and abruptly
left the room.

“That job is finished,” said Rosny, composedly seating
himself. “His bill is settled for him.”

“But, Dick,” said Morton, who had been laughing in his
sleeve during the scene, “do you want to be considered as a
Frenchman or an American?”

“I'm an American,” answered Rosny — “an American
and a democrat, every inch.”

Rosny had adopted democratic principles and habits partly
out of spite against the class to which Stubb belonged, and
which he was pleased to designate as the “codfish aristocracy,”

and partly because he thought that he could thus most
effectually gain the ends of his impatient, hankering ambition.
His ancestor, the head of an eminent Huguenot race, had
been driven to America by the persecutions which followed
the revocation of the edict of Nantes. The family had lived
ever since in poverty and obscurity; yet this fiery young democrat
nourished an inordinate pride of birth, and never forgot
that he was descended from a line of warlike nobles.

“No, no,” said Rosny, as Morton pushed a glass towards
him, “drinking is against my rule — Well, as it's about the
last time,” — filling the glass, — “here's to you all.”

“The last time!” said Morton; “that's a dismal word.
If my next four years are as pleasant as these last have been,
I will never complain of them.”

“I tell you, boys,” said Meredith, who was tranquilly puffing
at his cigar, “the cream of our lives is skimmed already.
Rough and tumble, hurry and worry — that will be the story
with most of us, more or less, to the end of our days.”

“Rough and tumble!” exclaimed Rosny; “so much the
better. `Scots play best at the roughest game' — that's just
my case. Who wants to be always paddling about on smooth
water? Close reefed topsails, a gale astern, and breakers all
round — that's the game.”

“Every one to his taste,” said Chester, shrugging his
shoulders. “I suppose a salamander loves the fire, but I
don't. `The race of ambition' — `the unconquerable will'
— pshaw! Cui bono? One chases after his object, and
when he has got it, he turns from it, and chases another. I
profess the philosophy of Horace — enjoy the hour as it flies.

Ah! he was a model man, a man after my own heart, a gentleman
and a man of the world. He could drink his Falernian,
and thank the gods for their gifts.”

Rosny whispered in Morton's ear, “Chester ought to
have been born a century ago, among the John Bulls, up in
the cockloft of Brazen Nose College, or some such antediluvian
hole.”

In spite of these derogatory remarks, Chester, besides
being one of the best scholars in the class, was noted for a
social, jovial disposition, which, though, like Fluellen's valor,
a little out of fashion, made him a general favorite.

“Speaking of the next four years,” said Wren, “I wonder
what plans each of us has made for that time. For my part, I
have no plan at all, and should be glad to profit by the suggestions
of the rest. Come, Chester, what do you mean to do?”

“Expatiate,” said Chester, expanding his hands, and thereby
revealing an odd little antique ring which he wore; “take
mine ease, roaming, like the bee, from blossom to blossom.
I will leave the earnest men — bah! — the men with a mission
— to grub on in their vocation. I will renounce this
land of cotton mills and universal suffrage. First for Paris,
to walk the Boulevards, and go to the masked balls and the
opera; — vive la bagatelle! — then for Rome, to saunter
through the Vatican and the picture galleries, — but not to
moralize with a long face over fallen grandeur, and the mutability
of human affairs. No, no, gentlemen, I belong to another
school of philosophy. I will sit among the ruins of the
Forum, and laugh, like Democritus, at the image of Death.
Then I will recreate myself at Capri, like the Cæsars before

me; then enjoy the dolce far niente at Florence, and read the
Tuscan poets in the shades of Vallombrosa.”

“But, Chester,” interposed Wren, “don't you ever mean
to marry and settle down?”

“I object to that phrase, `settle down.' It calls up disagreeable
images. It reminds one of the backwoods, log cabins,
men in shirt sleeves, and piles of pine boards and lumber.
Yes, certainly, I mean to marry. What man of taste would
leave matrimony out of his scheme of life? One likes to
gather his treasures round him, his pictures, his vases, and
statues; and how can he adorn his rooms with an ornament
more exquisite — where can he find a piece of furniture more
charmingly moulded — than a beautiful woman?”

This flourish, between jest and earnest, he pronounced
with a graceful wave of his hand.

“If, when you have married your beautiful woman,” said
Morton, “you find you have caught a Tartar, it will serve you
right.”

“Hear him,” said Chester; “hear the barbarian. He will
always be conjuring up some image of disquiet. `Rest, rest,
perturbed spirit.'”

“He could not rest, if he tried,” said Horace Vinal.

“No, he is one of those unfortunates who lie under a sentence
of endless activity. It is a disease, with which men
are afflicted for the sins of their ancestors; and for the sins
of mine I was born among a whole nation of such. Perpetual
motion, bustle and whirl, — I grow dizzy to think of it.
They cannot rest themselves, and will not let any one else
rest. Always pursuing, always doing, never enjoying. A

true American cannot enjoy. He would build a steam saw
mill in Arcadia, and dam up the four rivers of Paradise for
cotton factories.”

“But, Chester,” said Wren, “that is not at all like Morton;
you know he hates utilitarianism.”

“Yes, but still he cannot rest. He would not build saw
mills and dams; but he would be sure to fire his rifle at some
of Adam's live stock, and set all Eden by the ears. Come,
Morton, I have told the company my plans. Let us hear
what yours are.”

“My guardian wishes me to enter the law school.”

“You are twenty-one now,” said Vinal, “and can do as
you please.”

Vinal was a very tall and slender young man, with a
strongly marked face, though thin and pale; a grave, thoughtful
eye, and compressed lips, expressing a kind of nervous
self-control. His dress was very elaborate and scrupulous,
though without the smallest trace of foppery. He was less
popular in the class than Morton, but had the reputation of
greater talents. This he owed, perhaps, to his habitual reserve;
for every one thought that he understood Morton
thoroughly, while few pretended to fathom the silent and self-contained
Vinal.

“I should like well enough to study law,” was Morton's
non-committal answer.

“I thought, Morton, that you were more of a philosopher.
Here you are, a young fellow, full of blood, and worth half
a million, and yet you speak of buckling down to the law.
That is all well enough for poor dogs like me, who go into

the mill from necessity. We drudge on for twenty years or
more, till we have scraped together a competency, or something
better, perhaps, and then we find that we have forgotten
how to enjoy it. We have grown so used to harness
that we are good for nothing out of it, and sacrifice body and
soul to our profession. You have reached already the point
that we are straining for. The world is all before you, man;
launch out and enjoy yourself.”

“Didn't you just say,” asked Rosny, “that Morton couldn't
rest, if he tried?”

“I said he could not rest, but I did not say he could not
enjoy himself. Look at him: his cheek is ruddier and
browner than any of us. Nobody would believe that a fellow
like that was not made to enjoy life. I know Morton. He
could roam from blossom to blossom, as Chester says, with as
good a will as any body. He has an eye for the fair sex, correct
as he is at present. He knows a pretty face from a plain
one. The devil will catch him yet with a black eye and a
rosy cheek.”

“Then,” said Morton, “he will show his good opinion of
my taste.”

Rosny, who had his own reasons for disliking Vinal, here
broke in without ceremony, —

“Be gad, Vinal, he will bait his hook differently when he
fishes for you.”

“How will that be, Dick?” said Meredith.

“With a five dollar bank note, and a lying puff in a newspaper;
and Vinal will jump at it like a mackerel at a red rag.”

Vinal laughed, but with a bad grace.

“Riches and fame!” said Chester, anxious to smooth
away all traces of irritation — “riches and fame! I call those
legitimate objects of pursuit; and the black eye is positively
praiseworthy. Come, Morton, let us hear your plan. You
have not told it yet.”

“I defer to Rosny — he is my senior. Dick, some ten or
twelve years from this, I suppose I shall vote against you for
the presidency.”

“Thank you. By that time you will have no whig party
left to vote with. The democrats will have it all their own
way.”

“I have often wondered what could have induced a driving
man of the world like you to come to college at all. You
have been here more than a year; and in the same time,
with your previous knowledge, you might have learned as
much any where else at half the cost. You are not the fellow
to regard a degree of A. M. with superstitious veneration.”

“You are right there, colonel. I am of no kith nor kin to
some of your New England old fogies, who would give their
souls for a D. D. or an LL. D. — and get it, too, though
they know no more Greek or Hebrew than I know of Choctaw,
and can barely manage to stumble along through the
Latin Testament. What's a piece of sheep's skin to me?
Humbug is the current coin all the world over, and just
as much in this free and enlightened country as any where
else. I have schemes on foot, — not political, — no matter
what they are, — out in the western country; and I happen
to know that a degree from Harvard University is the medicine

that suits my case; with that for my credentials, I shall
carry it over all competitors. Yes, boys, gammon is the
word; and the man who would rise in the world must use
the stepping stones.”

“You're a victim of the national disease, Rosny,” said
Chester. “Rising in the world! — that's the idea that ruins
us. It's that that makes us lean, starveling, nervous, restless,
dyspeptic, hypochondriac, — the most prosperous and
most uncomfortable people on earth. Sit down, man, and
take your ease. What garden will thrive if every plant in it
must be dug up every day, and set out in a better place?”

“Ah, that's good doctrine for you. You have got nothing
to gain, and a good deal to lose. Stand up for the status quo,
old boy; I would, in your place. Look at me, though. I
was cut adrift at fourteen, — parents dead, — not a cent in
my pocket, — and since then I have tumbled along through
the world as I could. You can't kill me. I have more lives
than a cat. I have been thrown on my back a dozen times;
but the harder I was flung down, the higher I bounced up
again. Why, I have known the time when I was glad to
earn a shilling by shovelling snow off a sidewalk. I have
tried my hand at every thing, — printer's work, lecturing,
politics, editing, keeping school, — and do you suppose I
shall be content to rest in the mud all my days? Not a bit
of it. I know my cue better. The time will come when
you'll see me shooting up like a rocket.”

Here a broad glare against the window interrupted him,
and, looking out, his auditors saw a bonfire blazing with peculiar
splendor under the windows of the chamber where the

Faculty were at that moment in solemn session. Three proctors
and a tutor were hastening towards the scene of outrage,
when a stentorian voice from the adjacent darkness roared
forth a warning that there was a canister of gunpowder in
the fire expected every moment to explode. The prudent
officers therefore kept their distance, busying themselves with
noting down the names of several innocent spectators, while
the bonfire subsided to a natural death, the gunpowder hoax
having perfectly succeeded.

Mr. Wren's guests resumed their seats, mingling with
graver matters the usual badinage of a college gathering;
and when at length they separated, only a lonely light or two
glimmered from among the many windows of the academic
barracks which overlook the college green.