much misrepresented is the so-called labor department. Strictly speaking, there is no such department. A number of students, however, have been employed in various ways by the University, and have been paid at the nusual rates. The delusion was widely spread at one time, that young men without skill could attend the University, and earn their support, or even more. The only feature of an eleemosynary nature is the provision made in the charter, that the University shall ad educate, free of expense, one student from and each Assembly district in the State. This has been construed to mean one student each year, so that the University is liable to have at any one time about five hundred nonpaying students. These free scholarships, however, are not yet all filled. The tuition charge for those who do pay is fifty dollars a E vear. The true statement is briefly this: The University does not engage itself Sto employ any one. If there is work to be done, and a student able to do it offers himself, he will be employed, and d his services paid what they are worth. rule, only such students as were skilled hands have succeeded in covering their expenses, and even with them the tax on their time and energy has been severe. The University is not a charitable, but an educational institution; it was founded with a view to teaching, not to paying young men. All that it can attempt consistently is to dignify labor, and to facilitate honest endeavors at earning an education. But it cannot overlook the end in the means. In the words of the University register, "the University authorities cannot recommend any young man to come relying entirely upon unskilled labor for support. Some few have that peculiar combination of mental and physical strength required thus to entirely support themselves; the great majority have not." Hitherto the self-supporting students have been chiefly printers. The University has for some time past done all its Own printing, besides filling several outside orders.

The students afford the usual variety of mind and character. In one respect, however, they differ decidedly from the or

dinary American collegian. They come mainly from the small towns and villages in the interior of New York and other States, and belong to the rural or semi-rural class. As Cornell itself is still in its infancy, they are not sent to it because their fathers or their grandfathers studied there, but they go to it of their own accord, because it meets their wants. Perhaps they realize more clearly than do the students of other colleges the object of their student-life, and struggle more faithfully in its attainment. They are regular in attendance, and quiet in deportment. They succeed well in scientific and mathematical studies, but are deficient in literary culture. They compensate for the deficiency by their general sober-mindedness and good sense. They will not compare in oratory and composition with the students of New England colleges, but they will average better in solid attainments, and will probably wear

as well in life. In one particular, at least, they have the merit of upsetting the calculations of the authorities not merely of their own college, but of nearly all the others. It has ever been asserted confidently that dormitories were an essential feature of the American system, necessary to the discipline and the protection of the student. Ithaca never having been, prior to 1868, the seat of any institution of learning higher than a town-academy, it was expected, of course, that the reasons which made dormitories a necessity at Yale and Harvard would apply with increased force to Cornell. It was said and believed that the students never would and never could be accommodated in town. Accordingly the Cascadilla and the two University buildings were planned with a view to lodging two or three hundred students. During the fall term of 1868, and the spring term of 1869, the students did reside mainly in those buildings. But ever since the summer of 1869, a marked preference has been shown by the students for rooming in town, until at present three-fourths are thus living by themselves in knots of three and four. The inhabitants of the town, finding by increased contact, that students were neither Turks nor Indians, but good Christians like themselves, and able to pay for what they wished, have built new houses, repaired and enlarged old ones, until now the supply is a trifle in excess of the demand, and landlords are full as willing to accommodate students as students are to be accommodated. The discipline of the University has only gained by the change. The students are better satisfied with their board and lodgings; they seldom congregate in large groups; and they are not tempted to make any public disturbance, which would annoy only themselves and private citizens, and which would, if serious, result in their summary ejectment.

Such is a sketch, a brief and imperfect -a brief and imperfect one, it is admitted, of the University, in itself and in its surroundings. It has its defects,

EZRA CORNELL'S RESIDENCE.

which will suggest themselves to every one familiar with the processes of education. The standard of admission to the scientific course, the popular one, is too low, and the instruction is too fragmentary. The University starts too low down in the scale and attempts to cover too much ground. Hence has arisen an institution sui generis, something that is neither a school of science, nor a college, nor a university, but an odd mixture of the first and second, with some suggestions of the third. The funds, large as they may appear, are not adequate to the thorough carrying-out of the programme. With all its imperfections, however, the University has done a good service to the State. It has placed all students, scientific and classical, rich and poor, on an equal footing, and it has executed its course of instruction with a minimum of discipline. It has given the opportunity of education to many who would otherwise never have been reached. It has disabused the public of many time-honored prejudices, and given new life to older institutions of learning, by rousing them to generous emulation in shaking off from study the fetters of unnecessary routine and ex cathedrd interference.

CHAPTER XIII.

NEW YEAR'S morning dawned bright and cold. "A happy New Year to you!" shouted Livingston from his bed. The call woke me from a heavy slumber into delightful anticipations, and the realization of a great joy in living, such as comes only to youth-an exulting, superabounding sense of vitality that care and age never know.

We rose and dressed ourselves with scrupulous pains-taking, for calls. On descending to the breakfast-room, we found the young ladies quite as excited as ourselves. They had prepared a little book in which to keep a record

of the calls they expected to receive during the day, for, according to the universal custom, they were to keep open house. The carriage was to be at the disposal of my friend and myself, and we were as ambitious concerning the amount of courtesy to be shown as the young ladies were touching the amount to be received. We intended, before bedtime, to pre sent our New Year's greetings to every lady we had met during the week.

Before we left the house, I saw what preparations had been made for the hospitable reception of visitors. Among them stood a row of wine-bottles and decanters. The view saddened me. Although I had not tasted wine

ince "the special occasion," my conscience ad not ceased to remind me, though with veakened sting, that I had sacrificed a concientious scruple and broken a promise. I could in no way rid myself of the sense of having been wounded, stained, impoverished. I had ceased to be what I had been. I had engaged in no debauch, I had developed no appetite, I was not in love with my sin. I could have heartily wished that wine were out of the world. Yet I had consented to have my defenses broken into, and there had been neither time nor practical disposition to repair the breach. Not one prayer had I offered, or dared to offer, during the week. My foolish act had shut out God and extinguished the sense of his loving favor, and I had blindly rushed through my pleasures from day to day, refusing to listen to the upbraidings of that faithful monitor which He had placed within me.

At last, it was declared not too early to begin our visits. Already several young gentlemen had shown themselves at the Livingstons, and my friend and I sallied forth. The coachman, waiting at the door, and thrashing his hands to keep then warm, wished us "a happy New Year" as we appeared.

"The same to you," responded Livingston, "and there'll be another one to-night, if you serve us well to-day."

"Thankee, sir," said the coachman, smiling in anticipation of the promised fee.

The footman took the list of calls to be made that Livingston had prepared, mounted to his seat, the ladies waved their hands to us from the window, and we drove rapidly away. "Bonnicastle, my boy," said Livingston, throwing his arm around me as we rattled up the avenue, "this is new business to you. Now don't do anything to-day that you will be sorry for. Do you know, I cannot like what has happened? You have not been brought up like the rest of us, and you're all right. Have your own way. It's nobody's busi

ness."

I knew, of course, exactly what he meant, but I do not know what devil stirred within me the spirit of resentment. To be cautioned and counseled by one who had never professed or manifested any sense of religious obligation-by one above whose moral plane I had fancied that I stood-made me half angry. I had consciously fallen, and I felt miserably enough about it, when I permitted myself to feel at all, but to be reminded of it by others vexed me to the quick, and rasped my wretched pride.

"Take care of yourself," I responded,

VOL. VI.-14

sharply, "and don't worry about me. I shall do as I please."

"It's the last time, old boy," said Livingston, biting his lip, which quivered with pain and mortification. "It's the last time. When I kiss a fellow and he spits in my face I never do it again. Make yourself perfectly easy on that score."

Impulsively I grasped his hand and exclaimed: "Oh! don't say that. I beg your pardon. Let's not quarrel: I was a fool and a great deal worse, to answer as I did."

"All right," said he; "but if you get into trouble, don't blame me; that's all."

At this, we drew up to a house to make our first call. It was a grand establishment. The ladies were beautifully dressed, and very cordial, for Livingston was a favorite, and any young man whom he introduced was sure of a welcome. I was flattered and excited by the attention I received, and charmed by the graceful manners of those who rendered it. House after house we visited in the same way, uniformly declining all the hospitalities of the table, on the ground that it was too early to think of eating or drinking.

At last we began to grow hungry for our lunch, and at a bountifully-loaded table accepted an invitation to eat. Several young fellows were standing around it, nibbling their sandwiches, and sipping their wine. A glass was poured and handed to me by a young lady with the toilet and manner of a princess. I took it without looking at Livingston, held it for awhile, then tasted it, for I was thirsty; then tasted again and again, until my glass was empty. I was as unused to the stimulant as a child; and when I emerged into the open air my face was aflame with its exciting poison. There was a troubled look on Livingston's face, and I could not resist the feeling that he was either angry or alarmed. My first experience was that of depression. This was partly moral, I suppose; but the sharp air soon reduced the feverish sensation about my head and eyes, and then a strange thrill of exhilaration passed through me. It was different from anything I had ever known, and I was conscious, for the first time, of the charm of alcohol.

Then came the longing to taste again. I saw that I was in no way disabled. On the contrary, I knew I had never been so buoyant in spirits, or so brilliant in conversation. My imagination was excited. Everything presented to me its comical aspects, and