Alice May, and Bruising Bill
J. H. Ingraham


ALICE MAY
CHAPTER I. 
CHAPTER II. 
CHAPTER III. 
CHAPTER IV. 
CHAPTER V. 
CHAPTER VI. 

BRUISING BILL. 
  CHAPTER II. 
  CHAPTER III. 
  CONCLUSION. 



ALIC MAY
CHAPTER I. 
One cheerful autumnal morning, six years ago, a group of lovely girls was 
assembled in a window of a fashionable boarding school in one of the handsomest 
streets crossing Mount Vernon. One or two of them were seated with embroidery in 
their hands, but the rest were standing and talking, and amusing themselves by 
watching the passers by; for there was yet an idle quarter of an hour to 
recitations.
`Do see that poor old man! how white his hair is, and how he bends beneath his 
years, while that empty bag he carries seems a load for him,' said a pretty 
blue-eyed girl in a tone of deep sympathy, with which the expression of her face 
sweetly harmonized. `Open the window Ann, and let me throw to him a quarter of a 
dollar. I never see an old silver-haired man, but what I think of my dear 
grandfather, and for his sake love and pity him.'
`I can never see any thing romantic in an old ragged beggar,' said a tall, 
grey-eyed girl with a very high forehead, and a look like one of Miss 
Radcliffe's heroines: `if he was an aged minstrel, with a robe and staff, and 
flowing locks of silver, and had a harp in his hand, and sandals on his feet, 
how delightful it would be! I wish I had lived in days of chivalry, these modern 
times are too common place.'
`I am content to live when and where my life will be most a blessing to those 
around me,' said the first speaker with animation. `Do open the window, Aunt, as 
you are near the spring, and let me throw him the money. See, he has stopped and 
lifts up his aged eyes. Did you ever behold such a look of eloquent pleading?'
`How much enthusiasm for a mere every day pauper!' said Miss Letitia, the 
romantic girl, with a toss of her head.
The window was thrown up; and the example set by the benevolent girl being 
followed by the others, the old man received into his torn hat a shower of 
silver pieces. How lovely is charity in the young and beautiful!
The aged beggar lifted up his venerable countenance with a grateful look, bowed 
his bared and hoary head low to the pavement, and saying in a trembling voice, 
`God bless you, young ladies,' went on his way.
While the window was still up, and they were looking after his feeble steps—for 
we all feel an interest in the objects of our charity—a young gentleman, well 
mounted upon a dark bay horse came dashing along. He was handsome, of a manly 
figure, and dressed and rode well.
`Do shut the window down, girls,' said one of the young ladies, laughing and 
retreating; `he will certainly think we have opened it on purpose to look at 
him; and I don't choose to let any young gentleman have such vain thoughts of 
himself—for they are vain enough now. See he is looking this way.'
The young horseman seeing a bevy of pretty girls at an open window, could not 
well help looking at them very earnestly. Suddenly he half reined up, his 
features became animated with a look of surprise and happy recognition, and 
bowing with the deepest reverence while his face crimsoned with embarrassment 
and joy, he continued on his way towards the avenue, at the same pace at which 
he had been before going.
`He bowed to some one of us! who knows him?' said they all.
`Not a soul I believe—he thought we were foolishly admiring him, and so 
impudently acknowledged it,' said another.
`No, he looked as if he recognized one of us. Let us see who looks conscious, as 
no one will speak,' said Auna Linton; `look at Alice May's face. See her blushes 
and confusion. She is the one.'
Instantly every eye was fixed upon a young dark-eyed brunette not more than 
seventeen years of age, whose delicately olive shaded complexion was incardined 
with the richest blood. Her long-fringed eye-lids were cast to the floor, and 
she stood silent, beautiful, conscious— her pretty fingers picking in pieces a 
rose bud. Never was a maiden of seventeen lovelier than she who now stood 
confessed before them, the shrine of the handsome horseman's adoring reverence.— 
The raven hair which the womanly comb had never descrated, flowed darkly 
beautiful in glossy waves about her finely shaped head and throat. Her form was 
singularly graceful, every motion yielding to the eye a new shape of beauty. The 
exquisite finish of her arm and hand would have made Canova an idolater. her 
features were faultless. Her low, gentle brow, with its dark, arching eyebrows, 
`like two delicate feathers plucked from the black breast of the singing 
ummill,' was a throne of serenity and beauty. Never were such eyes as beamed 
beneath; large, languid, gentle, and, but for the purity of the soul within, 
voluptuous. Passion was there, but in the shape of love yet vestal and 
unawakened. The young and happy heart with all its guileless emotions unveiled 
and open, was ever drawing in them, to gladden the hearts of all around her. 
None beheld her but they loved her. She was the idol of the school, and the 
friend of all.
All conscious the lovely girl stood before them, and her downcast eyes and 
attitude told a tale each was dying to get at the mystery of.
`Oh, where did you see him?'
`Where did you know him, Alice?'
`Is he from the south—an old lover?'
`Don't stand there blushing and making yourself look so wickedly lovely. Do tell 
us,' were the questions with which she was over-whelmed. 
Alice, however, laughed and blushed only the deeper, and breaking away from them 
fled to her room.
CHAPTER II. 
Perhaps the curiosity, raillery, and playful interference of others often 
induces a young girl to think seriously of the individual about whom she is 
teased, and to believe she is in love with him, whom perchance she has met but 
once; when, in reality, if he had not been named to her again after the first 
accidental meeting, she would never have given him place in her thoughts. This 
was not, however, the case with lovely Alice May. While she is confidentially 
confessing her meeting with him to her young friend, Auna Linton, who had 
followed her to her chamber and playfully teared her secret out of her, we will 
give it to the reader in language of our own.
About a month previous to the period on which our briefly-sketched story is 
opened, a young gentleman of fortune, recently a graduate of Harvard, whose name 
is Edward Orr, and who was a native of Boston, was one morning riding on 
horseback, as was his favorite custom, in the direction of Mount Auburn, when 
seeing a funeral train coming out of the arched gateway, he was prompted by the 
momentary impulse to alight and enter. Without any definite object in view, save 
to enjoy in the quiet of his soul the solemn repose of the place, he wandered on 
from tomb to tomb, through dell and winding walk, enjoying the romantic 
seelusion and experiencing that calm and intellectual delight, (in which the 
more hallowed feelings always might,) which the solemn loveliness of the place 
inspires in every properly cultivated mind.
Suddenly he emerged from a narrow path, thickly shaded by larch trees, upon a 
secluded spot in the most lovely and quiet portion of the cemetery. Before him, 
within a few paces, was a young girl arranged in simple white, her straw hat 
fallen back from her head, her hands folded before her, and her eyes directed 
towards a name upon a small, exquisitely sculptured monument of white marble. 
The grace of her fingers, the gentle earnestness of her bending attitude, the 
rich beauty of her face, on which rested an expression of intellectual 
admiration in which much of the heart was visible, charmed, surprised, 
enraptured him. The dark trees were bending over the spot; the white marble rose 
from the verdant sward in strange beauty amid the dark shades cast by them; and 
she, in her white robe bending over it, seemed like an angel watching the tomb 
to receive and bear heavenward the `arisen,' when at length the trump of Gabriel 
should rend it open.
He feared to advance lest he should intrude upon hallowed ground. His eye fell 
upon the inscription, upon which her soft dark eyes were gazing so thoughtfully. 
It was simply.
"To my Wife Mary. 20.
`What beautiful and touching eloquence in those few simple words,' she said in a 
low sweet voice that came from her heart, while he saw that a tear glistened 
from her cheek. `There is a sad story of love aud hope and joy and woe and 
death, couched beneath them. How perfect the taste of the husband who in one 
simple line records the volumes of his love. Thus would I be buried. My memory 
graven on the hearts of those I love, my name simply carved on my tomb.'
At this moment her eyes were uplifted with the consciousness of being intently 
observed, and they met those of the young man, whose earnest admiring gaze, was 
not difficult to be translated by any maiden. She slightly blushed, and instead 
of flying or betraying any foolish weakness, smiled with great sweetness, and 
with a just propriety that charmed him.
`I fear, sir, you have heard some pretty nonsense. But I was not aware I had an 
auditor. Yet what can be conceived more touching than what has brought forth my 
soliloquy,' and casting her eyes upon the inscription, she replaced her bonnet 
and was retiring.
`It is indeed beautiful and touching,' said Edward lifting his hat as he stood 
by the monument. Will you have the kindness to tell me what young bride lies 
buried here?'
The question was put so respectfully, his manner was so pleasing, his face so 
intelligently handsome, his voice so rich and low, his eyes so reverential yet 
so brilliant, that she could not resist a reply:
`I am ignorant, sir.' She then added apologetically, `I have strayed here, away 
from my party, who, calling me till they were tired left me to myself. I must 
hasten to find them.'
`I fear you will not find them easy in this labarynth of walks,' said Edward, 
seeing her retire. `Allow me to escort you.'
`No—' she answered playfully, yet blushing; `I think I shall not get lost;' and 
bounding away he lost sight of her in a bend in the avenue. 
For some moments he stood gazing where she had disappeared, and then with a deep 
drawn sigh, and with a sensation of gentle melancholy stealing over him, the 
first dawning of love, he slowly resumed his ramble. Deep was the impression she 
had made upon his heart, and as he walked he was lost in a brown-study, of which 
she was the mystic volume.
He had wandered how far and how long, whether five minutes or an hour, he did 
not know, when he was aroused by the side of `the terrace of tombs,' by a figure 
crossing his path. He looked up and saw it was the maiden of the monument, whose 
image love was busily graving upon his heart. She was approaching him, and he 
saw that she looked warm, hurried, and a little alarmed.
`I am overjoyed to meet you sir,' she said, coming near him with a hurried step. 
`You will think me a very strange person; but I have, as you predicted, really 
lost myself! I have been wandering the last half hour through a hundred paths, 
and this is the third time I have reappeared before these tombs.'
`Will you do me the honor to accept my guidance,' said Edward. 
`You will think me a very foolish girl. I certainly have been very imprudent. As 
I cannot hope to find my party in this wilderness, you will oblige me by 
conducting me to the entrance where I will wait for them in the carriage.
The young man never felt so happy in his life, as at this moment the lovely 
wanderer frankly placed her hand on his arm, and walked by his side.
Edward was not familiar with the avenues, but, listening and hearing the distant 
roll of wheels along the turnpike, he carefully noted the direction of the 
sound, and struck into the paths that he believed would lead them towards the 
highway.
The birds that twittered and chirped in the branches that over-hung their way, 
have not betrayed to us their conversation as they walked; and we leave our 
readers to imagine what two young, ardent, intellectual, enthusiastic persons, 
thus romantically cast upon each others companionship, discoursed about at such 
a season.
`There is Spurzheim's tomb, and not far distant and visible from it is the 
gateway,' said Edward as they emerged from a shaded avenue which they had been 
sometime slowly traversing. `I must now part from you; but to bear with me the 
recollection of this hour as the happiest of my life.'
His eyes sought hers, but they were downcast, and her blushing face was averted. 
She suddenly withdrew her hand from his arm, for footsteps and voices were 
heard. The next moment several young girls preceded by two elderly ladies 
appeared conducted by one of the party.
They were looking earnest, anxious and hurried.
`Your friends?' asked Edward.
`Yes.'
At this same moment she was discovered; and they all came flying towards her.
Amid the exclamations, embracings, chidings, wonderings, and joy at recovering 
her, Edward retired unperceived. Alice, after being told a hundred times by half 
a dozen dear voices, how much she had been sought for, how they believed she had 
been drowned in `the lake,' or had been spirited away, or had eloped with some 
lover, was triumphantly escorted along the turnpike towards the city.
CHAPTER III. 
A year elapsed and Alice May left the boarding school to return to Louisiana, 
for she was a dark-eyed child of the sunny south. She returned home with her 
father a betrothed bride! During the year that ensued her first interview with 
Edward Orr, in Mount Auburn, and the bow she had from him at the window, he had 
sought her acquaintance, and intimacy grew to love. They parted in the 
drawing-room of the Tremont, where he had called to bid her good-bye the evening 
preceding her departure. He promised in the spring to come out and be 
married—for till then he would not come into possession of his estate. Their 
engagement was known to and approved of by her father, a tall, handsome man, 
with a haughty air, and manners something cold and unprepossessing. Edward did 
not like him from the first; perhaps because his arrival in Boston was the 
signal of his departure from Alice. He was, however, tender and affectionate to 
his child, who seemed to be devotedly attached to him. Of him, Edward had 
learned that he was a wealthy planter who resided near Lauvidais in the vicinity 
of New Orleans, that he was a widower, and that Alice was his only child.
The parting between the lovers was favored by the voluntary and judicious 
absence of Colonel May from the room, and with the usual protestations of love, 
in this case, painfully sincere, and a promise mutually drawn from each other to 
write once a week. Alice at length received the last lingering kiss—and the next 
moment was left weeping, alone.
It was the evening of the 22d of February. It was to be celebrated by one of the 
most magnificent assemblies that had ever been in the capital of Louisiana. In a 
planters' villa a few miles from the city was one fair inmate preparing for the 
brilliant scene. It was Alice May. Four months had elapsed since she had left 
Edward, and her love burned clear and pure and steady. He was her idol—her heart 
of hearts. She wrote to him oftener than he had stipulated, and was thinking of 
him daily, hourly. Her letters were transcripts of her heart's deep, holy and 
fervent feelings. Her life was wrapped up in his, and she knew from his letters 
that he loved her with the same unwavering devotion.
She had been much courted, caressed and flattered since her return home. In 
every place she was the star of all eyes. But her love for Edward Orr was the 
polar star of all her regard, and the compliments, the flattery and homage she 
received, made no impression upon her. If she had had her own will she would 
have withdrawn from society; for she cared for no pleasure that he did not share 
with her. But her father, proud of her extraordinary beauty, and flattered by 
the attention paid her, carried her to every public place of amusement, with 
which the city was then rife. On the present occasion she had entreated to 
remain at home, as she had felt all day unusually depressed. But he had a motive 
in urging her compliance with his wishes, and she consented to prepare and 
accompany him to town in the carriage.
She was seated at her window which looked out upon a spacious lawn, ornamented 
with noble elms and sycamores, with a glimpse of the river beyond. The moon was 
filling her shield with light as the twilight deepened, and shone broadly down 
between the light trellised columns of the piazza. A mocking bird near by was 
making the air musical with a hundred stolen songs, and at intervals from the 
quartier of the slaves came the low chant of some African air.
Behind Alice was kneeling a young female slave braiding her long raven hair; for 
she had for some months ceased to let it have its freedom. Reclining on a couch 
beside her, lay a beautiful quadroone about thirty eight years of age. She was 
an invalid, and her large black eyes seemed to beam with unearthly beauty. Her 
hand was thin and transparent, and a deep rose seemed opening beneath the olive 
delicacy of her cheek. She was a consumptive, and lay there like a child 
unconscious of her danger, and as interested in the trifles about her, as if 
death had not lifted his finger and beckoned her away.
Her name was Desirée, and she was a slave. Many years before, struck with her 
beauty, while she was yet a child, Colonel May had purchased her for his wife's 
attendant. The lady educated her, and made her rather a friend and companion 
than a slave. When the handsome Desirée had reached her twentieth year her 
mistress died, since which period she had been a housekeeper and overseer of the 
other female domestics. To her, Alice was greatly attached, and the affection of 
the quadroone for her young mistress was like that of a mother to her child.
`Ah, Miss Alice, your hair is already as long as mine,' she said, admiring for 
some time the raven tresses of the maiden; `and I have been said to have the 
most beautiful hair in Louisiana!'
`Was my mother's hair like mine, Desirée?'
`Mistress' hair was fair brown,' answered the slave, with a hesitation in her 
manner, and looking as if she would have avoided replying to the question.
`I wish I could have seen to recollect my mother. She died, alas, when I was 
born! Motherless I have been from my birth, and oh, how have I sighed to lean on 
a dear mother's bosom!'
The quadroone sighed; then her eyes suddenly sparkled with animation; she half 
rose from the couch, and with parted lips eagerly bent towards her young 
mistress as if she would speak! but the words died in her heart as she sank back 
upon her couch and hid her face in her hands.
During the remainder of the toilet she remained silent; and at length Alice 
being richly yet tastefully dressed drove off with her father. 
CHAPTER IV. 
The loud, crashing music of the orchestra, pealed through the gergeous halls of 
the St. Louis, and sounds of mirth and festivity reached their ears as they 
alighted at the thronged door. As they reached the hall the floor was already 
occupied by the dancers, and the noise and glare of chandeliers, and the motion 
of the restless crowd was bewildering.
`Come this way, Alice,' said her father, `I wish to introduce you to the Count 
Bondier, who has expressed a desire to become acquainted with you. He is of a 
distinguished French family, and I wish you to be civil to him. Perhaps I may as 
well tell you that I wish him to make your alliance, and that for so good a 
match your Boston lover had best be no more thought of.'
This was whispered in her ear as the crossed the hall to an alcove where Colonel 
May had discovered the foreigner.
If Alice had not been a girl of a strong mind and independent native character, 
she would have sunk through the floor at this annonncement. As it was she 
trembled like an aspen leaf, and internally resolved to hate him. He was 
presented to her, and coldly yet politely received. He was a good looking 
Frenchman, about thirty with an air of high fashion. He was at once struck with 
the charms of which he had heard so much; and Colonel May taking an opportunity 
to desert his daughter, left her dependant on the Count for a protector in the 
throng. He offered his arm which she knew not how to decline in her unprotected 
state, and accepted. He found her disinclined to converse, and proof against his 
compliments. After trying his best for half an hour to entertain her and get 
into her good graces— for the Count's estates were under mortgage, and the young 
Louisiana belle was an heiress—he began to despair. At length her father 
reappeared, and she flew to his arm in a way that convinced him of the 
difficulty of getting a titled son-in-law. In her presence he invited the Count 
to dine with them the next day; an invitation which he accepted, it seemed to 
her, with great pleasure.
This event so embittered the hours of the assembly that Alice at length 
prevailed on her father, on the plea of ill health, to retire with her. The 
ensuing day the Count came, and Colonel May studied to leave him alone with her. 
But coldness and distance alone characterized her manner in his presence.
Day after day he was a visitor to Lauvidais, and daily pressing his suit by 
every attention and every gentle device in love's armory—but in vain. At length 
he made a bold stroke and addressed her. She refused him civilly but firmly. 
This enraged her father, who threatened, unless she gave her consent to marry 
him within three months, he would deprive her of her inheritance, and shut her 
up in a convent. 
`Give me half that time to decide,' said she with firmness.
`I grant it Alice; and expect at the end of the period that you will be prepared 
to comply with my wishes, and those of Mr. Bondier, who is devoted to you. Your 
alliance with him will place you in the best society in Paris!'
On her father's departure, Alice fastened her chamber door, and setting down to 
her escritoire, wrote the following letter;
`Lauvidais, - March 20. Dearest Edward,— 
I write to avail myself of my privilege and duty as your betrothed wife, to 
throw myself, at a crisis which has just occured in my life, upon your love! A 
certain Count Bondier is persecuting me with his attentions, and althogh I have 
in every way, not absolutely to insult him, shown him my repugnance to his suit, 
and also distinctly and firmly declined his addresses, yet he pursues them 
encouraged by my father, who is warmly in favor of an alliance with his powerful 
family through me. My father has just left me with the menace that unless I will 
consent to marry him at the end of three months, that he will immure me in a 
convent, which God knows is to be prefered. I have asked and obtained six weeks 
to decide. This letter will reach you in two. It will take three for you to 
reach here. I need not ask you to fly—for my love tells me you will soon be here 
to claim your own lover's bride.
Alice.'
This letter was received by Edward Orr in less than two weeks after it was 
penned, and its perusal gave him intense agony. He made instant preparations to 
proceed South, to rescue her from her fate but before his departure he received 
another letter—it was but a single line.
`Lauvidais, - March 21 
I have just heard something that has frozen my blood! I write, I know not what! 
Do not come! I am lost to you forever!
Alice May.'
Edward gazed at the words with a glazed eye. What fearful mystery was this! What 
had happened? `I will know the worst.— Lost to me forever! No! she cannot be 
false! I will fly to her— for assuredly some dreadful evil hath befallen her. 
How wild and large the writing! so unlike her usual hand—yet it is hers! Alice, 
I heed not your command! I fly to you!'
With this determination the almost phrenzied lover sprang into the carriage and 
drove to the depot, his mind tortured with the mystery, his heart bleeding with 
the agony of suspense.
CHAPTER V. 
The fifteenth day after entering the cars at Boston, Edward Orr was landed from 
the Pontchartrain line at the New Orleans depot.— During the whole journey he 
had been in the greatest fever of excitement and suspense. That some fearful 
evil hung over Alice he knew; and he feared that he might hear on his arrival 
the most fatal results. Driving to the St. Charles—the most magnificent hotel in 
the world—he alighted, and, after taking a room, sent for the gentlemanly 
proprietor, Mr. Mudge, whom, very fortunately, he had known in the north. To him 
he communicated only so much of his urgent business there as was necessary; and 
what he most wished, learned from him the direction to Colonel May's plantation, 
and obtained from him fleet horses. Mr. M. had heard nothing of his daughter, 
though he had seen Colonel May in the hotel only the week before in company with 
a Count Bondier, who had lately lodged there.
At this name Edward started to his feet.
`Is he here now?'
`No.'
`He is—he is—that is, is he married?'
`No,' answered the proprietor, witnessing his agitation with surprise. `He had 
bachelor rooms. He has left for New York.'
`Alone?'
`Yes.'
This reply was a great relief to the agitated lover. As soon as the horses were 
at the door, he sprang into the carriage, and soon left the city behind him. His 
horses flew as if winged along the level causeway by the river side. The scenery 
of villas, gardens and lawns was beautiful and novel; but buried in his own 
thoughts he heeded nothing. At length after they had been driving about an hour 
the coachman drew up at a spacious gathway, and said,
`This is the gate to Colonel May's villa, sir.'
Aroused by his voice, Edward looked around him. It was already sunset, yet a 
soft twilight made every object beautiful and distinct.— Through the avenue he 
caught a glimpse of the dwelling. His heart wildly palpitated with the 
consciousness of being near Alice. He waited a moment to collect his thoughts 
and deliberate on what course to take. He had left the St. Charles hotel without 
any decided plan, and driven forward without reflection. As the coachman was 
about to drive into the grounds he bade him stop.
`I will walk to the house. Remain in the highway ready to receive me at a 
moment's warning. Probably I shall bring a young lady with me!'
Thus speaking he entered the avenue, and took his way by a cross path to the 
house. All was calm and serene. The birds that had sought their boughs, 
twittered as he disturbed their repose, and hopped higher in the tree; a 
nightingale, startled by his step, would utter a shrill note of alarm, and fly 
into the depths of the grove. The heavens were of a mellow roseate hue, and the 
golden atmosphere fused by the lingering sun-glow, was like transparent 
amethyst. He rapidly walked forward until he came out of the path near the 
southern wing of the mansion. He surveyed the piazza and portico, but no one was 
visible but an old African smoking his pipe beneath a pomegranate tree that grew 
before a Venetian window. All around wore the air of luxury, taste and wealth. 
It was the beau ideal of the villas and grounds of a Louisiana planter. He could 
not help being attracted by the beauty of all that met his eye. But he was too 
intent upon his object to heed anything that had not a direct bearing upon that.
He now reflected that it would be fatal to his hopes if he should meet Colonel 
May. Yet how he should avoid him and see Alice he could not tell. It became him 
to be secret, cautious and bold. He therefore remained sometime in the covert of 
the path until the shades of evening deepened, and then stole across the lawn to 
a ground window which was open. The negro was asleep beneath it, his pipe gone 
out and still held in his lips. All was still. Encouraged by the silence he 
looked into the drawing room, and through the opposite door a faint light 
glimmered. He stepped into the room and traversed the carpet with a noiseless 
step. He crossed another apartment, and came to the door which led into the 
lighted room. As he came near he heard a faint moaning, and looking in he beheld 
lying upon a now French couch, Colonel May. His face was distorted with mental 
rather than physical suffering; and he was turning from side to side restless, 
and betraying great agony of spirit. A high fever burned his cheek. He looked 
also haggard and worn, and at once excited Edward's pity. By his side knelt two 
slaves, one of whom, an old man, was soothing him with many kind words, and the 
other was bathing his hands.
`Where could Alice be?' was Edward's mental inquiry. That she was in some way 
the cause of this mental suffering, he was assured. But how—in what way? What 
should keep her from her father's bedside if she were—'
He dared not carry out his fearful and agonizing foreboding. His first impulse 
was to enter the chamber and demand of the prostrate father his daughter—his 
betrothed bride! But the majesty of the poor man's suffering awed him; and he 
remained gazing upon him uncertain how to proceed. Suddenly Colonel May sprung 
from the couch to his feet.
`It is no use struggling with this feeling!' he said in tones of deepest human 
emotion. It is hell here—it can be no worse! I will end it! Alec bring me my 
pistols!'
`Massa—oh good Massa!' implored the slave casting himself at his feet and 
clinging to his knees.
`Slave! obey me!' he cried in a voice that made the African release his hold and 
rise to his feet.
The pistols were brought and placed on a table by his hand. He opened the ease 
and took one out and examined it.
`Yes, it is in order. Alec, my faithful servant, see me decenfly buried; and I 
know you will shed a tear for your master when he is gone. I am weary of the 
madness in my brain, and must end it. My Alice! thus will I atone to thee for 
the wrong I have done thee!'
The slaves cast themselves on their knees by him, and covered their faces. He 
raised his hand, cocked the pistol and presented it to his heart, when his hand 
was caught by Edward Orr.
`Hold, take not the life that is not thine own!'
`Ha, ha, ha! Thou art come too late for thy bride, sir,' said the suicide; and 
forcibly disengaging his arm, he placed the muzzle of his pistol against his 
temples, and discharged its contents into his brain. He fell instantly dead at 
Edward's feet!
After the horror and intense excitement of the moment had passed, and his slaves 
had laid him, by Edward's order, upon the couch, he inquired of Alec the cause 
of the dreadful scene he had just witnessed. 
`It is Miss Alice, massa,' said the sobbing African.
`And she—oh, tell me where she is?' he asked with eagerness; for in his horror 
at the deed he had witnessed, he forgot the object which had brought him there.
`Miss Alice went off to some conven', Massa, and left behind a letter dat make 
Massa crazy when he read it, and he never had his sense since, but keep all de 
time walk up and down de house or lay down groanin' and takin' on most pitiful.'
`Alice fled to the convent! Where? What convent?' he asked, feeling relieved; 
for he had rather a convent's walls should hold her than the chateau of Count 
Bondier.
Finding that nothing more was known either by the African, or any of the other 
slaves who now flocked into the room, save that `Miss Alice had fled to a 
convent,' he shortly after left and reaching his carriage drove to town. He was 
now in a state of most intense solicitude. All was mystery inscrutable! She had 
not been united to Count Bondier, this at least was a relief. But why should she 
have fled to a convent, when three weeks yet remained for her to make up her 
decision? What could have led her to pen such a letter to him? The more he 
reflected upon the affair, the more perplexing it became. His determination, 
however, was to ascertain what convent had become her asylum.
He learned on reaching his hotel that the only two convents in the state was the 
one a league from the city, called the Convent d'Ursuline, and another in the 
interior, on Red River, known as the Convent of del Sacre Coeur.
By means not necessary to detail here, be learned that she was not at the former 
convent; and while the whole capital was astir with the news of Colonel May's 
suicide, and his daughter's disappearance, he proceeded to the latter with a 
letter of introduction he had obtained to the superior of the convent. On 
reaching Alexandria, he secured a guide and galloped across the nine leagues of 
beautiful prairie to the convent. It stood in the bosom of a lovely country, and 
with natural woodland, copse, and lawn. Its walls rose to his eye above a group 
of majestic oaks and were reflected in a lake. Herds of wild cattle were grazing 
on the plain, and squadrons of hurses of the prairie, startled by his approach, 
lified their proud beads, shook their arching manes, and with a cry like the 
clanging of the bugles of an armed host, galloped thundering across the plain.
The sun was an hour high when he reached the convent gate, and rung for 
admittance. An aged portress opened a lattice in the gate and gravely inquired 
his business.
`I bear a letter to the superior, and desire to present it in person.'
She retired, and in a few moments returned, unbarred the gate, and admitted him 
into the outer corridor of the convent. A tall and majestic female approached 
him, and announced herself as the Lady Superior. 
`I am the bearer of a letter to you from the Rev. Pierre Du—, a Roman Catholic 
priest of New Orleans, and have visited the convent of the Sacred Heart, to 
learn if a certain young lady, named Alice May, has sought asylum here.'
Edward watched the grave countenance of the Lady Superior, as her cold eye moved 
along the lines; but her features, schooled to conceal expression, betrayed 
nothing upon which he could base hope or fears.
`Follow me, young man!' she said in a low, deep voice, that he thought trembled 
with emotion. She led the way along the corridor, and as he walked the solemn 
sound of a dirge fell fitfully upon his ear and sunk to his heart. He followed 
her across the court to a door that opened into the vestibule of the convent 
chapel. As he approached, the deep, solemn strain rose and swelled—now loud and 
startling like a human wail, now low and painfully plaintive. With a full heart, 
and his spirits weighed down by a gloom that he could not throw aside, he 
entered the vestibule.
The superior now stopped, threw open the door of the chapel, and placing one 
hand upon her bosom with a look of woe and pity, pointed in silence with the 
other towards a bier which stood before the altar!
`What means this? Speak!' he cried, half the truth rushing upon his brain.
`There lies the Sister Martha, she whom you named Alice May!'
He rushed past her—broke from her—heedless of her warning that no man ever 
entered there save God's priests, and making his way through the group of nuns 
that surrounded the snowy bier, stood before it. The face of the dead was 
uncovered, and a single look told him that it was Alice May's. Calm, peaceful, 
lovely still in death she lay there, while he who loved her dearer than life, 
was kneeling in agony unsupportable under her.
She was borne to her grave in a beautiful and secluded cemetery of the convent. 
The lover was permitted to follow her remains—for by all he was regarded as a 
brother. There was a mystery to all the sisterhood about the dead, and they knew 
not her living ties.
The grave was closed over her remains—the funeral procession returned to the 
convent, and yet Edward kneeled beside the fresh sod, which enclosed all he 
loved. Night at length came on in her solemn silence and starry beauty. Its 
influence calmed his troubled spirit, and he arose and slowly left the spot. He 
sought the convent, and solicited audience of the Lady Superior. To her he 
revealed his passion—all her history as interwoven with his own—and then 
besought her to tell him what had brought her to that sudden death.
The Lady Superior was deeply affected by his narrative and his intense grief; 
but she replied that she would give him no information. That two weeks before, 
she had arrived at the convent with only a single black servant, who had 
instantly turned from the gate and returned to Alexandria. That she applied for 
admission in the name of charity, and the portress opened to her.
`When I beheld her,' said the Superior, `as she was conducted before me, I was 
struck with her beauty, and also with a look of intense suffering. She simply 
asked me to give her asylum from the world, and to conceal from it her refuge. 
She said she wished to take the veil and never more to be seen, but pass her 
life in prayer and preparation for heaven. She then placed jewels in my hands to 
a large amount, which she said had been hers, but which she now gave to the 
church. We received her as sister Martha; and from that day I became deeply 
interested in her. But she communicated to me nothing of her history, save her 
name. I watched her closely, for I feared, so deep and silent was her secret 
sorrow, that she might lose her reason and take her life. She spent nearly all 
her time in the chapel before the altar, and was always seen in tears. Day after 
day I observed her wilt and fade like a flower, till at length a fever seized 
her, and three days since she died like an infant falling asleep, in my arms. 
Earth has lost a child but Heaven has gained an angel.
The feelings with which poor Edward listened to this simple narrative cannot be 
described. After he had become somewhat composed he asked if she had left 
nothing to lead to the cause which drove her to the convent. The superior said 
that she had not, and that all to her was wrapped in mystery.
`All is, indeed, mystery inscrutable,' said Edward, as he mentally recurred to 
the dreadful end of her father, of her strange letter to him, and of her 
extraordinary flight and sudden death.
CHAPTER VI. 
The mystery that involved the death of Alice May seemed to Edward impenetrable. 
He could obtain no clue to the motives which led to her strange flight from her 
father's roof, or her seclusion in the remote convent of Sacre Coeur. The cause 
of her father's suicidal end was equally inscrutable. Lost in mystery and 
burdened with grief, he left New Orleans, and after traversing the rivers and 
lakes of the west, at length reached Boston. A settled gloom was upon his mind, 
and with his clouded brow and grave and sad countenance he seemed ten years 
older than when he left three months before. The mystery in which Alice's fate 
remained wrapped had preyed deeply upon him, and kept him in a state of feverish 
anxiety and nervous expectation. His health was suffering, and his mind 
wandering and unsettled—for night nor day did it rest; but was ever active, ever 
seeking some clue to unfold her destiny.
It was night when he reached his native city. The carriage which bore him to his 
lodgings was whirled rapidly along through lighted and thronged streets, and at 
length drew up at his door. He alighted, and scarce returning the 
congratulations of his family, he hastened to his rooms'. Every thing seemed as 
he left it. He cast himself into a chair, and for a few moments remained with 
his head buried in his hands. Suddenly he recovered himself as his servant 
entered with his baggage.
`Thomas!'
`Sir.'
`Has any letter—has any package arrived for me, since I left?'
`Yes sir—a dozen nearly. I have kept them locked up here.' As the servant spoke, 
he deposited his master's valise upon the floor, and unlocking a draw in his 
secretary, handed him several letters and parcels. With a trembling, hurried 
hand, Edward turned them over, glancing at their addresses, and throwing each 
successively aside with a gesture of impatience. He looked at the last, and then 
with a look of painful disappointment, cried:
`What did I hope for? She wrote me no more after that letter which led me to fly 
to her! Why should I hope to find another from her? No, no! the cause which led 
to her flight and death, must forever remain in mystery—a mystery, that like an 
internal fire, will feed upon my brain till reason perish! It will make me so 
mad! I have had since the hour of her death but one thought—one burning, 
overwhelming thought! and that is to find the key to these fearful events.'
`Here, sir,' exclaimed Thomas, who had returned to close the drawer, `here, I 
have found another letter; perhaps it is the one you want. It was edge-wise up, 
and I did not discover it before.'
Edward sprang to snatch it from him; and the instant his eye rested upon the 
superscription, he uttered a cry of mingled joy and anguish, and sunk almost 
insensible into his chair. Thomas flew to assist him.
`No—I need it not! Go—go, Thomas; I am better now. Leave me, I wish to be 
alone—all alone—with my heart and her!' He waved his hand faintly yet 
resolutely, and his servant, after casting upon him a look of pity and wonder, 
quitted the chamber.
For several minutes the lover remained seated with the sealed letter grasped in 
his hand. He seemed to want energy to break it open. At length he raised it to 
his eyes, and read the address with evident anguish.
`Yes, dear Alice—those grateful characters were traced by thy own fair fingers. 
And you did not forget me at the last moment of your flight! How shall I read 
this?' he cried, starting up. `Here is evidently the key of all that I would 
learn—of all that ignorance of which has been driving me melancholy mad! And yet 
my hand trembles to open it and read! my heart shrinks! I feel that I have not 
the courage to come to the knowledge of all I would most learn. It is a double 
sheet, and perhaps contains a narrative of all, to read which may fire my brain 
with I know not what terrible passions! I will put an end to this suspense, and 
thus relieve my mind from the load of uncertainty which has so long borne it 
down!'
As he spoke he tore the seal and unfolded the letter. A lock of dark hair fell 
from it, which he caught and pressed to his lips and heart with a passionate 
exclamation. He again seated himself, but again and again he had pressed the 
dear signature of `Alice May' to his lips, and many was the hot tear that fell 
upon it, ere he commenced reading; and often did he interrupt himself, and rise 
and pace the room, now in tears, now in resentment, before he came to the close.
In the preceding chapters to this story, the reader has seen Alice May the 
loveliest among the beautiful of her school companions, and winning all hearts 
equally by the attractions of her person, and the excellencies of her heart and 
mind. He has seen her the betrothed of a young gentleman worthy of her, and 
beheld her on her return to the `sunny south,' the idol of a doting father, and 
surrounded with every luxury that wealth and taste could contribute. He has seen 
her there, in the midst of those means of enjoyment happy only in the love of 
her betrothed; living only in him; and looking forward to the spring when he was 
to come and claim her as his bride. The reader has also seen how happy Edward 
was in her correspondence, and how hopefully he looked forward to his meeting 
and union with the lovely Louisianian. He has witnessed the sudden termination 
of this happiness by his reception of her two letters, filled with mysterious 
words, and imploring him to forget her—`that she was unworthy of his love or of 
his thoughts.' He has seen that, tortured by suspense, and apprehending every 
evil, he had immediately started south, and after finding her father's house 
deserted, Colonel May dead by his own hand upon the floor, and Alice flown, he 
at length discovered her in a convent laid upon a bier, and ready to be borne by 
virgins to her grave; that to this moment all concerning her from the time he 
had got her letter was wrapt in the most impenetrable mystery. To find, 
therefore, a letter dated, as he now saw it was, on the day of her flight, which 
promised to unravel these strange things, was an event calculated to rouse the 
most painful curiosity in Edward's mind. The letter was as follows:
`I know not how to address you. `Dear Edward,' was flowing from my pen—but I am 
unworthy to give you any endearing title. In my last letter—it was a 
wild—strange one—but I was nearly mad when I wrote it—I told you that events had 
transpired that rendered it necessary for your honor and happiness that you 
should forget me! I left all in mystery. But reflection has come to my 
aid—reason has returned, and after hours of terrible insanity I can think and 
write calmly. I did intend, Edward, to keep the dreadful secret forever locked 
up in my own bosom. But this is pride; and with pride I have no more to do. It 
would be cruel to you, whom my soul loves! Oh, if I could forget—but no! I must 
live and remember. How shall I relate my shame. I have sat down to do it that I 
might relieve your mind from suspense, and show you I have not lightly trifled 
with your love for me; for too well I know how fondly you love me. Alas, that 
your noble heart had not been bestowed upon a worthier object. But I will no 
longer avoid the painful subject. In three hours—tonight at midnight I fly from 
my home, leaving no trace of my flight. Before I take this step I wish you, 
Edward, to do me justice. Therefore do I now write to you. You saw me first at 
the boarding schools and knew me as the daughter of an opulent southern planter. 
You offered me your noble love, and in return I gave you my heart. Oh, the 
happiness of that hour when I first learned that you regarded me with favor—that 
you loved me! But I cannot dwell upon these days of happiness fled forever. 
Alas, why has heaven made me to be accursed! Let me speak of more recent events. 
Let me explain to you the meaning of the dark language of my last letter. I told 
you that the only alternative of my union with the Count was to be immured in a 
convent for life. I entreated you to fly to my rescue, ere the time given me by 
my father for deciding between the two, elapsed. This letter was followed in two 
days by another recalling my request, and telling you that an event had occurred 
which rendered it necessary that we should meet no more, that I was going to fly 
and hide from the world, for I was unworthy your love or slightest regard. It is 
this letter which now I am on the eve of flight I feel it my duty to explain; 
then farewell forever, and forget that I have ever lived. Oh, how can I relate 
my shame to him whose approbation and love I regard next to Heaven's? But I must 
to my painful duty.
The evening of the day on which I wrote you that if you wished to save me from 
the persecuting attentions of the Count, you must fly to me, Desiree, the 
beautiful and affectionate Quadroone nurse, of whom I have spoken to you, as 
having been with my mother when she died, and who had been my nurse through 
childhood, was taken suddenly ill. I flew to her with affectionate anxiety, for 
I had loved her us a mother, and she had always shown me the most affectionate 
attachment. I found her suffering under a severe attack of typhus fever; and as 
my father was absent with the Count in town, I prescribed what I thought would 
relieve, and was about sending for the family physician, when she called me to 
the side of her couch, and said:
`No, Alice, it's no use! I feel that I am death-struck; I am dying! Come near, I 
have something to say to you.'
I threw myself upon my knees by her bedside, in tears, and kissing her hands 
bade her live for my sake.
`You are the only mother I have ever known! If you die, I shall be wretched 
indeed!' I cried, and bathed her burning hands with tears.
`Miss Alice,' she said, placing her hand upon my forehead, and putting back my 
hair, while she looked into my eyes with the fondest affection, `I have but a 
short time to live! Yet before I die, I would give utterance to the tide of 
maternal affection which for years has been pent up in my breast. Yes, Alice, 
for seventeen years I have kept locked in my breast the secret which is a 
mother's life and joy to utter in each hour in kisses and caresses upon her 
child. But I have been denied this! Fear and love—fear of your father and love 
for you, for I knew it would make you unhappy, has kept me from it. But death 
has now come, and is stronger than your father's threats— and stronger than 
death is a mother's love! Alice, you are my own child! Bend over me and let me 
fold you to a mother's heart, that for years has yearned to empty itself upon 
your bosom. You are my child, my long cherished, fondly loved child!'
I listened to her without power to stir. I did not doubt—for a hundred things of 
the past, never understood before, now rushed upon my mind to corroborate her 
assertion; and while I listened I believed. She ended and would have clasped me 
to her heart. I shrunk from her with a cry of mingled leathing and anguish, and 
should have fallen but for the support of the couch by which I knelt. I remained 
for several minutes in a state of stupor, with only one sensation, and that one 
of misery unutterable and scarce comprehended.
`You refuse to embrace me!' said Desiree—nay, I will call her what she was—my 
mother. `I knew this would he so—and therefore that I might not have your hate 
has been one of my motives in keeping so secretly your birth from you. But it 
matters little now, Alice, whether you hate or detest me! I have relieved my 
heart; I have eased my conscience; and death will come less heavily upon my 
soul! Will you kiss me but once, my child?'
`Oh, tell me—tell me,' I cried, shrinking from her embrace, and burying my face 
in the curtain, `tell me the whole fearful tale!— Who was she, then, whose 
memory I have been taught to reverence as my mother's?'
`She was the lawful wife of your father. When she was a bride, I was purchased 
to be her attendant. But I have few words to give to the story, Alice!' she 
said, suppressing a cry which her physical suffering wrung from her; `a year 
after your father's marriage with her she gave birth to a daughter, and in 
giving it life gave up her own. The infant lived but a week, and the morning of 
its death I gave birth to a daughter. The two children, I need not say, had but 
one father.'
`And I was that child?' I asked eagerly.
`Yes, you were a lovely babe, and your father proposed to me to let the dead 
babe pass as mine, and to raise you as his own. Tempted by the offer he made me, 
and ambitious to have you placed in such a position in society as would be the 
lot of a daughter of Colonel May, I promised it. Seventeen years have I kept the 
secret, daily yearning to give you a mother's love. Death has now approached, 
and my breast would hold the secret no longer. The mother's love would find its 
channel ere the fountain of her heart dried up forever. You will hate me—you 
will curse my memory. But we are alone no ear but thine has heard, and beyond 
this death-bed the secret never need reach. My desire is gratified in 
acknowledging you as my child, and my conscience lightened of a load it has too 
long borne.— Nay, will you not give the mother one of the kisses you were ever 
ready to bestow upon the supposed nurse Desiree?'
I remained motionless. My bosom was agitated by a hundred conflicting emotions. 
That all she said was true I believed. I did not for an instant doubt that I was 
her child. I felt the most intense resentment toward my father, which then was 
transferred to her, for suffering me so long to remain ignorant of my degraded 
birth. For I was not only a Quadroone, but a slave—for such Desiree still was to 
my father! Horror filled my mind and rendered me almost insensible! For an 
instant—only an instant, and once, the idea of concealing my birth as she had 
suggested, occurred to me; but I immediately banished the temptation. Your love 
was to me at that moment the anchor of my integrity. I could not deceive you, 
Edward! Under other circumstances—that is, if I had not loved, and been loved by 
you—that instinctive fear of the world, that innate love of the world's good and 
honorable opinion, might have made me hesitate. But I rejected the suggestion! I 
resolved that, however great the sacrifice, I would willingly be the victim 
rather than you should be deceived. My mother seemed to be reading my thoughts 
as she fixed her large lustrous dying eyes upon me.
`Alice, breathe not the secret, or you will perish. Live and be happy! Only by 
secresy can you hold your present position.'
`I will perish, then!' I said firmly. `Mother, if such I must now call you—you 
have poisened my existence! Nay, I do not blame you. I loved you as my nurse—I 
love you as my mother! I will embrace you! There, I acknowledge you to be my 
mother! I will acknowledge it to the world!'
She seized my hand, and weeping implored me to preserve the fatal secret. At 
length I promised to conceal it from all but my father and you, and then fly to 
a convent. She spent her last breath in endeavoring to prevail upon me to lock 
it in my own breast; and finding all her tears and entreaties ineffectual, began 
bitterly to reflect upon herself for making the disclosure. But these regrets 
were now unavailing either for herself or me, and she shortly after expired, 
imploring in her last appealing look my forgiveness. I could only cast myself 
upon her body and weep.
It was near sunset she died, and an hour after my father came home I heard his 
step on the portico. He was alone, and seemed from the tone in which he spoke to 
his servant, to be in a cheerful mood. I was kneeling weeping by my mother's 
couch, but instantly rose on his entrance, as some one told him that Desiree was 
dead!
He merely glanced at me, and approaching the bedside fixed a few moments upon 
the face of the once beautifol, and then sinking upon his knees bent over it, 
laid his head upon the pillow and wept. The sound of his manly sobs in an 
instant suppressed the fierce purpose in my breast with which on hearing his 
step I had impulsively determined to meet him, charging him with my shame. I 
stood by in silence till he rose up, kissed the lips of the dead, and walked to 
the window. I knew then that he had loved—loved her more (as she had told me) 
than his wife. Yes, or he would never have taken her child, and thus assumed her 
as his own. At length he approached me and asked me why I wept? Instantly my 
spirit awoke within me, and I answered:
`I weep my mother's death! Doth it not become a daughter to show respect for a 
mother dead!'
He started, less I suppose, at the unusual tones of my voice, than at the 
expression of my face! He gazed on me an instant with a look of suspicion, and 
then said fiercely, while he pointed sternly towards the body,
`How—has she dared to confess—'
`Nay, father, words and rage are useless,' I said in as firm a tone as I could 
command. `I know the whole truth! It is graven with a pen of fire upon my soul! 
I am the daughter of that woman, and my father's slave!'
He cast himself at my feet and implored my forgiveness—implored me to keep the 
secret and save him and myself from ignominy and contempt. I was resolute to 
divulge it, and that I would do so to the Count and to you! He menaced and 
entreated me by turns, when finding me determined, he said in a low deep voice 
that sunk to my soul,
`Then since you will be my slave, you shall know the power of a master!'
He took me by the arm. I followed him unresisting; and he locked me up in a 
strong room, and there left me. The next morning he came to me early, and 
entering cast himself on his knees, implored me to regard my own happiness and 
keep the dreadful secret of my birth. At length I told him I would not divulge 
it (which he most feared,) to the Count—nor but to one person in the world. Who 
that person was (yourself) I declined telling him. With this he was better 
satisfied, and releasing me desired me to breakfast with him. After breakfast he 
wrote two notes, and despatched them hurriedly by two slaves in opposite 
directions. While he was at the door sending off the servants, I secretly 
despatched an intelligent slave on foot to meet them at the gate of the avenue, 
and learn where they were going. He returned and said one was to Father de L—, 
the priest, the other to Count—. I suspected this, and knew my father's object 
to be to unite me to the Count at once. I pleaded illness, and shortly retired 
to my chamber. In a few minutes afterwards I had packed all my jewels and 
secreted them about my person, and escaping from my window upon the gallery. 
gained the stables and saddled my own riding horse. I mounted; several paths led 
in various directions from the stables, and taking one of them that led by the 
river, I galloped along its banks until I came to a woodman's cabin, where I had 
frequently been before. I knew steam-boats almost daily stopped there for wood, 
and I intended to go on board the first. One was in sight as I came near the 
hut, and soon approached. I told the woodman I wished to go on board, and that 
he must accompany me and take my passage. The boat was bound—I may not say in 
what direction, lest you will hope to discover my retreat. In two hours after 
leaving my father's roof I was on board, and in the state room, from which I now 
write you. This letter will be mailed to you from the first town.
I have now written you all, dear Edward. I feel you will, while you acquit me of 
rudely trifling with your honorable affection, do me the justice my painful 
position challenges. In sacrificing your love I have sacrificed myself. Do dot 
hope to find my retreat! I am going to bury myself in a convent, where I shall 
at least have serenity of mind. Happy I never expect to be in this world! 
Farewell. dear Edward! We shall meet again in Heaven!
Alice May.'
Singular and unusual as the foregoing incidents seem, they are taken from the 
life of one, who, not less hapless than she was lovely, now rests in a 
flower-adorned grave in the little cemetry of the Convent of the Sacred Heart.


BRUISING BILL. 
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, 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.
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.
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:
Cambridge University, - Oct. 1, 1842 Dear William, 
I learn from your mother that you are out of employnent, and from your late 
employer that you are an excellent printer. I have a relative who is the editor 
and publisher of a literary paper in New York who wants a partner who is a 
practical printer. But little capital is required, with which if you would like 
the situation (which is a profitable one and for which I think you are 
calculated) I herewith make the offer of it. Pray let me hear from you tonight 
that I may write to my relative.
Yours faithfully, 
Edward Cassidy.
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.
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.