to Williams, spite of the many weaknesses in the college appointments, is the power which belongs to it of inducing independent, vigorous thought. Culture, in its ordinary sense, there is none; men leave the college frequently with as little grace as they entered; of acquaintance with general literature there is scarcely anything; the libraries are scantily supplied; thorough scholarship in the classics is quite unknown, (I speak of the days when my brothers and I were there,) but after all there remains a substantial success, of which the college may justly be proud, in the ability which has been given to the graduates to use themselves.

The same immaturity which previously had prevented David from getting the full value of the college curriculum existed still to much greater disadvantage, yet he grew rapidly, although far from comprehending the studies in which he was engaged. His previous vague and uncertain intellections were fast giving way to more careful and definite reasonings. In his reading he grew more methodical and judicious. He enjoyed most heartily the life he led. He could feel the satisfaction of being employed upon studies most valuable to him, which were daily setting in order his willing mind; the abundant leisure was grateful, as it afforded such opportunity for carrying out his prolific schemes. His friends were fast, and two brothers, in different classes, gave him companionship beside. My first year at college was David's last, and I cannot forget the manner of his life so full to overflowing: his days flying by under the pressure of occupation, and even his nights contributing to his draught of life; for there was a passage from his room in the upper story of East College to the flat roof of the building; there on starlight

nights he would carry up his blankets, and rolling himself up in them, fall asleep with thoughts of India, and of the more distant land unseen by mortal eyes. Such nights had their surprises too, when his dreams would become grotesque, and his waking consciousness would be puzzled at the quick drops of rain which at last drove him headlong through the trap-door, dragging his blankets after him.

In August, 1855, when lacking a few months of completing his twentieth year, he graduated with his class, taking a creditable position, and carrying away at any rate the entire respect of officers and students; more, bearing with him the personal affection of many, and the genial remembrances of all who had been associated with him. Surely he had no enemy, notwithstanding his strong prejudices and the difficulty he found in concealing his opinion of whatever was mean and dishonorable. With great charity for the weak and ignorant, always glad if he could favorably interpret ambiguous incidents or characteristics, he could not bear what was mean, or indeed what was unnatural. It was amusing to see the vehemence with which he would express his disgust at the ridiculous affectation of a child that crossed his path very often, as if his whole nature revolted at such a twist of childhood. In his class there was one for whom he had an almost ungovernable distaste, on account of a silly arrogance, poorly borne out by the person's position and attainments. But when Commencement Day came, he did not like to part with any of his class except on the kindest terms; he was aware that he had failed to conceal his contempt for this person, so, swallowing the disagreeable sensations that arose, he sought him out,

and said in his cheerful, hearty way, "Come,

we must part friends,” and held out the hand of reconciliation. All that he got in return, he told me with amusement, was two fingers, by which he was to cling to this man's good-will.

It was with unfeigned reluctance that he left his four years' home. His last letter from Williamstown, written when the bustle of Commencement was over, ends thus: "All over, David C. Scudder, A. B.! Oh, how I shall long to come back here again. C. M. has just come to bid me good-bye, and soon the last goodbye will be said, and I shall be left to myself, lonesome enough. I did and do love my classmates, and these noble old hills, and college-life. But I've got to be a man like all the rest." The mountains to which he bade good-bye with sorrowful feeling, giving them each a personal farewell, had witnessed a great change from the headlong, unthinking boy, who scoured them with all the eagerness of a wild nature. They had seen his awaking to thought, his hard struggle with an unruly spirit, his gropings after clearer light and more peaceful air; they had been his friends when, to his mind, all others seemed in vain, and he had fled to them, wearied with labor. His ardent purposes and strong resolves had gained in firmness as he climbed the rugged hills, and his eye, looking off from the heights of Greylock, had been outrun by his vision of more distant lands which he longed to reach. He associated with them his inner life, and they were almost a part of himself. Once, at midnight, at the beginning of a new year, he entered the town in company with a brother, who was making his first visit. The moon was shining, giving a wonderful character to the silent hills. To any one

it was a scene of bewitching beauty, but for David it was illumined by

"The light that never was, on sea or land,

The consecration."

"This," said he, turning to his brother, "this is my home. Here I was born." So did he ever regard the place; and if the mountains had known him as he knew them, they would have seen him leaving this spiritual home, not soiled by college associations, but ennobled, and rising to the estate of manhood; all that was generous and right in his character confirmed, and a power obtained over evil which gained in strength at each conflict.

CHAPTER IV.

A YEAR IN THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY AT ANDOVER.

[1855-1856.]

It is the wont of many American collegians to intermit systematic study for a year or more after graduation, occupying themselves with teaching or travel, before beginning the special study which prepares for professional life. David had expected to observe such an intermission, from a consciousness of immaturity, although his eagerness to conquer time, as well as other obstacles, made him impatient of delay. He finally decided to pass directly from college to the Theological Seminary, and take the first year of the course before interrupting regular study. In September, 1855, he entered the seminary at Andover, Massachusetts, with an older brother who had graduated from college a year previous; others whom he knew had been in the seminary a year or more; some of his own college class entered with him, and while pursuing the course, he welcomed friends from classes succeeding his. In fact, when transplanted to Andover, he carried with him a good deal of the Williams soil; it never was easy for him to detach himself from friendly associations, and he retained the liveliest interest in all the concerns of his Alma Mater. But he was quite differently situated Instead of being in the seclusion of Williamstown, a day's journey from home, he was but an hour's ride by rail from Boston, living in a town which, from

now.