Two young men of nearly equal abilities, left college at the same time. Their names were Lawrence Dunbar and Lloyd Hudson. Mr. Dunbar, the father of Lawrence, was a retail grocer in Philadelphia. He had, in early life, received but few educational advantages; and, in consequence thereof, saw many opportunities for rising above his condition, pass unimproved. Fully sensible of the advanced position which a liberal education gives to every man, he determined that no expense, in his power to meet, should be spared, in order to have his son thoroughly furnished in everything required to place him side by side in the race for wealth and distinction with the best in the land. To this end, he used the utmost economy in his family, in order that he might be able to send his son to college. In doing this, he was unjust to the sisters of Lawrence; who were neither taught music nor dancing, nor, in fact, anything for which the father had to pay a single dollar. The advantages afforded by the public schools were deemed ample for them. Upon the son, Mr. Dunbar lavished all that he could spare, as an investment that would pay well at some future day.

Near neighbor to Mr. Dunbar, lived an industrious, intelligent watchmaker, named Hudson, whose family consisted of a son and two daughters. Mr. Hudson saw quite as clearly as did Mr. Dunbar, the great advantage which every young man possesses, who is blessed with a liberal education: and it had been his intention, from the first, to give his son every opportunity in his power for acquiring information. But, in considering the son, he did not disregard his daughters. Lloyd Hudson and Lawrence Dunbar were entered at college, for a four years' course, at the same time. They had grown up together as boys, and were pleased at the prospect of going through their higher studies together.

At college, the characters of the young men began to harden into more permanent forms than they had before assumed, and to show distinctive features. Home influences and precepts, uniting with hereditary tendencies, gave to each its peculiar modification.

During the whole time that they remained at college, the young men, though unlike in disposition, were particular friends, and often conversed together of their future prospects. One of these conversations, held only the day previous to their starting for home, after having completed their course, will give some idea of the difference that existed between them.

"There is no time to be lost now," remarked young Dunbar. "Here we are, twenty years of age, and the study of a profession yet to be entered upon. You, strangely enough, talk of medicine."

"Why do you say, strangely?" asked Hudson. "There must be physicians, as well as lawyers and merchants."

"And so there must be cobblers and tinkers. You have talents and education, Lloyd, and if you properly apply, them, will rise in the world. Every man should look to this."

"What do you mean by rising in the world?"

"Becoming rich and distinguished. At the bar, a man of talents and force of character may rise to eminence in a few years. Eminence in the legal profession brings wealth as a necessary consequence. In mercantile pursuits, the same road to wealth and honor is open. But to what can a physician look forward?"

"There are many eminent physicians."

"Eminent for what? For making pills and plasters?"

"Eminent for usefulness," said Hudson, calmly.

"Usefulness!" Dunbar uttered this word with manifest contempt. "My ambition does not lie in that direction. I am neither a St. Paul nor a Howard."

"To be eminently useful, is the highest distinction attainable. What are great wealth or brilliant talents, if not applied to a good purpose?" replied Hudson. "I will read you a passage in the last letter I received from my father on this very subject, to show you how he thinks, and I must own that I think with him." And the young man drew a letter from his pocket, and read—

"Having completed your collegiate course, your next step, my son, is to decide upon the calling you mean to pursue. In coming to this decision, let me admonish you to look well to the motives that prompt your choice. If you feel a selfish regard to your own advancement in the world, struggle against and repress it; for, though by this you may attain wealth and a name, it will never bring you happiness, and that highest of all honors, the reputation of having accomplished some good for your fellow men. Have, therefore, in choosing a profession, regard to the good you may be able to do, as well as the good to yourself that you wish to obtain. You have spoken of medicine. There are ways in life that lead more certainly to wealth; and there are avenues to distinction more easily trodden But if your mind turns towards the medical profession, with anything like a desire to enter into it, I will not speak a word against your choice. You will find it an arduous calling, but one in which you can do much good; and one in which your own character may be purified and elevated. You will rise into eminence—true eminence—here, as well as in any other pursuit; for I know you have the required ability, and I believe you are not under the dominion of merely selfish purposes."

"All that is very good in the abstract," returned Dunbar; "but few, if any, can carry out in life the unselfish purposes from which your father expects you to act. It is not in us. Now, I think that my father understands human nature, and the springs of human impulses better than your father does, and as you have given me the benefit of your parental suggestions, I will give you the benefit of mine;" and the young man drew a letter from his pocket and read—

"I have been weighing with great deliberation what you say about the choice of a profession, and, like you, am not yet able to decide which is best. At the bar, you will rise in the world, and gain distinction as a man of talents; while in mercantile pursuits, you will attain wealth and the elevation in society that its possession always gives. In either profession, if you are patient, sagacious, and persevering, your talents and education will carry you up to a high place. Now which of the two conditions is most desirable I am hardly able to determine. Wealth gives great advantages and great power; while eminence, in a profession like the law opens a wide field to ambition, at the same time that it ensures ample means, if not extensive wealth. When we meet, we will consider these matters together, and arrive at some certain conclusion. There is no time to be lost."

"Now, all that I can understand," said young Dunbar. "But I must own that what your father says finds no response in my bosom. I suppose a doctor may be very useful to his fellows, but who thanks him for it, or even pays his bills, moderate as they may be, without grumbling? As for me, I don't see any particular pleasure that I should derive from devoting myself to the good of others, and especially in so slavish a calling as that of the physician. And it's my opinion that you will be sick of it before you are ten years older."

"As to that," replied Hudson, "I do not expect to find all plain sailing, let me adopt what pursuit I may. Medicine I incline to as a profession, though not because I can be more useful in it than I can be in any other; for every regular calling in life regards the common good, and in each and all of them men may engage with unselfish motives; but because it suits my temper of mind, and I can see clearly how in the practice of it I can attain the requisite external things I need, at the same time that I can be of great use to my fellows. As for the ambition to rise in the world to a distinguished position, of which you speak, I must own that I do not feel as strongly as you do its impulses. That I shall rise just as high as I deserve, there is not the least doubt, and with this conviction I am content to enter upon the life-toil that is before me, with patient confidence that all will come out right in the future."

"Too quiet a philosophy for me, Lloyd," returned Dunbar. "I feel the spurs of ambition already piercing my sides. I am resolved to rise in the world: I know that I possess the ability, and I mean to tax it to the utmost. As for other men's good, let them take care of that themselves. I shall seek my own, well convinced that if I do not, there will be no one to seek it for me."

"To regard the good of others, while we seek our own, is by no means a difficult thing," replied Hudson. "This is a truth which I have been taught by my father from the first. Indeed, he has ever sought most earnestly to impress it upon my mind."

"He is not anxious to see you rise in the world?" said Dunbar.

"Most anxious; for, he says, the higher I rise, the more extended will be my sphere of usefulness. But he, when he speaks of rising in the world, means something more than the mere attainment of wealth, or honorable distinction in the eyes of men."

"What more can he mean?"

"No man truly rises in the world, he says, who does not overcome and rise above the evil and selfish passions of his nature. There is an internal as well as an external elevation; and the latter without the former, is, in his estimation, more of a curse than a blessing. To rise internally as well as externally, we must regard the good of others as well as our own good, in all the acts of our lives. Can you not see this?"

"Dimly; that is all."

"Even that is something."

"But it is altogether impracticable. A kind of Utopian philosophy—beautiful to look upon, but impossible to introduce into real life."

"Not at all, Lawrence. I believe that my father strictly regards the good of others in every business transaction."

"He has that reputation certainly, and, I will believe, justly. I have heard my father say, that he was the most rigidly honest and unselfish man he had ever known. But, look at the result. Your father has attained neither wealth nor eminence, though a man of good mind."

"The reason is plain. Want of education, and early opportunity. But we have just what he lacked."

"Well, Lloyd," returned Dunbar, "all that I have to say on this subject is, that if you have any fancy for this looking after other people's affairs, I have not. I think I shall find just as much as I can well do in looking after and taking care of my own. My father has set his heart on seeing me rise in the world, and has sacrificed much to that end: he shall not be disappointed, unless the Fates are against me. I mean to rise. If I fail in my purpose, the fault shall not lie at my door."

"And I mean to rise also," said Hudson, in a calm, yet firm voice. "All these severe and prolonged studies which I have entered into and passed through, cannot remain unproductive in my mind. They will give me the power of self-elevation; and that power I intend calling into full requisition. What the particular result will be, I cannot tell, nor am I in any concern about it. That all will come out right, both in regard to myself and others, I do not doubt."

[CHAPTER II.]

BEGINNING TO RISE.

LAW was finally decided upon as the profession for Lawrence Dunbar, and he was placed in the office of an attorney named Harker. At the same time, Hudson commenced the study of medicine. To sustain these young men for two or three years longer, required sacrifices to be made at home. The father of Dunbar had already unjustly deprived his daughters of many advantages, in order to provide for the elevation of the family through the eminence to be acquired by the son; and now he proposed that they should learn trades, in order to support themselves, and relieve him of the burden of their maintenance.

Ellen, who was a year older than Lawrence, and Mary, who was two years younger, accordingly went to learn trades soon after the son entered upon his legal studies. The one became a mantua-maker, and the other a tailoress. Six months of apprenticeship proved sufficient to qualify Ellen and Mary to take care of themselves. After that time, they went out into families to sew, and were rarely at home except on Sundays. Although not fairly dealt by, the two girls did not murmur, nor was their affection for their brother at all diminished. In fact, the common purpose of the family was one in which Ellen and Mary took their appropriate share, and felt their allotted interest. To Lawrence was committed the task of elevating and giving to the family a name, and it was their duty, as well as pleasure, to aid in all ways possible. So they felt, and so they acted. The acquiring of a trade, and the maintenance of themselves, in order that the expense of supporting Lawrence, until able to support himself, might be the more easily borne, were not matters of necessity, so much as they were matters of choice, after the suggestion as to what would be best for them to do, had been made by their father. That is, Mr. Dunbar did not say that they must learn trades and support themselves; but merely suggested it, as a relief to himself, more heavily burdened with expenses than he could well bear. He well knew that a hint would be sufficient. Had he not, a command would have done what a word accomplished.

It did not take more than a year for Lawrence to rise high enough to feel superior to all his family—father, mother, and sisters; and to allude to the former as the "old man" and the "old woman." His fine talents and superior education made him a favorite with his legal preceptor, who took pleasure in introducing him to persons moving in a much higher sphere, and into families where there was a degree of elegance and refinement far beyond what he had been used to seeing. He next began to be ashamed of Ellen and Mary, who were without any polite accomplishments, and degraded to the position of mere sempstresses; and this, too, when they generously supplied him with pocket-money out of their hard earnings!

At twenty-two, Lawrence Dunbar was admitted to practice. The attorney under whom his studies had been conducted, saw what was in him.

"We shall hear of that young man yet," he said, in allusion to his student, while conversing with a member of the profession on the day Lawrence was admitted to the bar. "He has got it in him, if ever a young lawyer had. Shrewd, acute, ardent, and ambitious; there is nothing in the way of his rising in the world. Ten years from this, and he will be on the Bench, or in the Halls of Legislation."

"If not too scrupulous about the means necessary to be used."

"I believe him to be perfectly honorable, in the general acceptation of the term. No doubt he will look to his own interests. He would be a fool if he did not."

"Any man is. But, you know, there are some persons who are troubled with very tender consciences, and who are exceedingly nice in stepping along, lest they tread upon somebody's toes. Of course they make but slow progress; if, indeed, two steps backwards are not taken to every one forwards."

"Dunbar, if I understand his character aright, is not troubled with any such tenderness of conscience. He will let people take care of their own toes."

"So I should think, from what little I have seen of him. Would you not do well to associate him with you in your larger practice? You have had his assistance so long, that I should think you could hardly do without him."

"Just what I have been thinking about. It would give him a chance, and really take nothing from me; for I have more practice than I can attend to properly. And, besides I feel a pride in the young man, and want to see him distinguish himself. His talents must not be hidden under a bushel."

In a day or two, the lawyer who had been his preceptor, said to Lawrence—

"Have you found an office to suit you?"

"Not yet," was replied. "I have seen two or three, but do not like the locations."

"You are still determined to commence your profession in this city?"

"Oh, yes. I have no ambition to be a mere country lawyer. I feel that I have talents, and I wish to give them an appropriate sphere."

"You mean to rise in your profession?"

"I do, in spite of all difficulties."

"Your progress will be slow at first."

"I am aware of that. But I have patience, and can 'bide my time.' I shall not be so foolish as to attempt to run before I can walk, and thus incur the risk of stumbling. But I will be content to creep, then walk, and afterwards run."

"Wisely resolved. Above all things, hold fast to the spirit of patience. Impatience clouds the mind, and leads, inevitably, to mistakes. In the profession you have chosen, you will need a cool head and a firm heart. The one you will find as requisite as the other."

"Of that I am convinced. Indispensable to success, especially in law, is a certain sternness as well as firmness of purpose. It will not do to give place to amiable weaknesses, or deferences to the feelings and interests of others. This would be to look back after having once grasped the plough. As for me, I am not made of such yielding stuff. My very life-purpose is to rise, and I mean to make all else bend to that purpose."

"Keep to this, Lawrence, and your success is certain. You have expressed right sentiments. Whoever looks to rising in the world, must lay aside what you have justly called 'amiable weaknesses,' and prepare, with a sternness of purpose, for the attainment of his ends. I have been thinking about you, for a day or two, quite earnestly, and have finally concluded to offer you a share in my business, which you know is large, if you care about accepting it. In fact, I hardly see how I can do well without you. Associated with me, you would have the opportunity of at once coming forward in the argument of causes of lieve importance, and thus gaining public attention. How does my proposition strike you?"

"How else than favorably could it strike me? No hesitation or reflection is needed on my part. Without any statement of the terms of the association, I accept your proposition."

The terms which the lawyer proposed, and which were approved, were a fifth of the proceeds of his practice from the day a joint interest was arranged between him and his former student.

This arrangement made Lawrence at once independent of his family. The fact of independence, the moment it existed, brought the feeling of independence, and with this came a lighter estimation of the sacrifices that had been made for, and the benefits received by him. Some time before this he had grown cold towards his sisters, whose want of gentility and polite accomplishments made them, in his eyes, inferior and beneath him. Instead of devoting a part of his income to their maintenance, and to the completion of their detective education (especially in the case of his youngest sister, who had not yet reached her twentieth year), he thought only of himself, and looked upon the money he was earning as one of the levers he was to use in elevating himself. He gave place in his mind to no "amiable weaknesses." He understood too well what was due to himself.

When Lloyd Hudson came home from college, he had very different feelings towards his sisters. He went with them into company, and was, to some extent, proud of them, for they were good looking, dressed with taste, and had as much intelligence as any of the young ladies with whom they associated. He had not yet seen enough of society to enable him to make the disparaging contrasts that arose in his mind a year subsequently. Among the friends of his sisters was a young girl named Mary Lee, to whom Lloyd was introduced soon after he came home from college. She was an orphan, and lived with an aunt who had a small income. This aunt, who was much attached to Mary, had spared no expense that she could afford in the education of her niece, who was a very beautiful girl, and highly accomplished for one in her condition.

With this lovely and accomplished young creature Lawrence Dunbar was enamored, almost at first sight. She seemed a worthy object of his regard, and one who would grace any social position to which he might attain. No very long time passed before he was so deeply in love with her, that words were scarcely necessary to assure the maiden of the fact. Her heart easily yielded. When he ventured to breathe the sentiment that was in his heart, tears of joy sprang into her eyes as a glad response. Though her lips uttered no sound, the young man read the looked-for answer in her countenance.

There were few purer or better hearts than that which beat in the bosom of Mary Lee. For so selfish and worldly-minded a man as Lawrence Dunbar promised to be, she was too good. Her love could never fix itself upon his moral qualities. It was the appearance of all excellences of character which she saw in him, that she loved, and loved as deeply as if it were real, because she thought it real.

About a week after Mary Lee had heard from the lips of Dunbar the heart-thrilling confession of his love, she sat alone, near the close of a mild evening in June, with Lloyd Hudson, who of late had become more frequent in his visits. For Lloyd she entertained a feeling of respect, amounting almost to deference. There was an air of thought and mien of sobriety about him, that while it did not exactly repel, interposed between her and him a delicate reserve, which made their intercourse more polite than familiar.

On the occasion to which we refer, Lloyd was even more thoughtful and sober than usual. Something seemed to oppress him, and take away his ability to converse with even his accustomed freedom. At last, he took, suddenly, the maiden's hand in his, and before she had time to recover from the surprise occasioned by the unexpected movement, said—

"Mary, answer me frankly one question. Is this hand free?"

"It is not, Mr. Hudson," she replied, withdrawing it from his.

"Not free!" he ejaculated with surprise, while the blood rushed to his face. "Can I have heard you aright?"

Mary Lee did not insult the young man by haughty and half-triumphant scorn. She was too generous, too kind in her nature, and felt too deep a respect for him to do that. Hers was not even coldness in manner, but a gentle, yet firm avowal that another had sought and won her love.

For days and weeks, for months and it might be said for years, did Mary remember at times, and with strange feelings, the look which the young man cast upon her, as snatching her hand and imprinting a kiss upon it, he turned suddenly away and fled from her presence.

[CHAPTER III.]

MORAL DECLENSION.

ALONE—amid books, mortars, vials, and the more startling appendages of a doctor's office—sat the young student, whose suit had been rejected. The volumes over which he had been poring were closed; the anatomical preparations laid aside; the theory and practice of medicine alike forgotten. He sat with his head bowed down; his whole attitude one of deep dejection.

"It is folly to give way thus," he said, arousing himself. "Her heart and her hand are already pledged to another, and can, therefore, never be mine. How little did I dream of this! Sweet girl! How can I give up the dear hope of one day calling her my own! But it must be done. Who can be my fortunate rival?"

As this last sentence was uttered almost aloud, the door of the office opened, and his friend Lawrence Dunbar came in.

"What has come over you, Lloyd?" he said, as soon as he had looked into Hudson's face. "One would think you hadn't a friend in the world."

"I am not so badly off as that comes to, I hope; though I cannot say that I feel very bright. But you look as if you were in the best possible humor with yourself and everybody else."

"And so I am; and I have cause to be, Lloyd! I have something to tell you, as a friend, which I think will gratify you exceedingly."

"Ah! What is it?"

"I have wooed and won the sweetest maiden in the city."

"You have?"

"Yes, young as I am—too young, as nine out of ten of our greybeards would say—I have settled that most important matter, and infinitely to my satisfaction. Now, who do you think the maiden is? You know her. Guess! You will approve my choice, I'll wager a sixpence."

"I cannot guess," replied Hudson, a sudden suspicion of the truth flashing over his mind, and causing his pulses to throb more quickly.

"It is Mary Lee!"

The utmost effort of Hudson was required to keep from betraying undue disturbance at this communication.

"Now don't you approve of my choice?" asked the friend, gaily. "Have I not shown taste?"

"I think you have."

"You think I have! Why don't you go into heroics about it, and say what you really believe. If you had come with a similar communication, I would have wrung your hand half off. She's a charming girl, isn't she?"

"Yes; charming."

"Don't talk like a parrot! Can't you invent some expression of admiration?"

"She needs no praise from me, Lawrence," replied Hudson, speaking with gravity. "I have always looked upon her as the pride of her sex."

"Well, but gravely said. You are as phlegmatic as a Greenlander. I think she will grace any circle into which she may be thrown: don't you?"

"I certainly do."

"Of course, I mean to rise in the world far above my present position. That, you know, I have settled long ago; and my wife must be one who can rise with me. It would not do to have a wife who felt more at home in the kitchen than in the parlor, or who would not be a fit associate for ladies of any rank. I am much mistaken in Mary if she will not grace any circle into which I may be able to introduce her."

There was a something in the way this was uttered by Dunbar that caused an indignant emotion to rise in the breast of Hudson. He did not make a reply, and his friend went on.

"Of course, I must look to this. No matter how much I might have loved Mary, if I had perceived in her anything that led me to doubt her being able to support the dignity and character of a refined lady, I would have passed her aside."

"You are quite cool about the matter," remarked Hudson, with a slight manifestation of disturbance in his voice. He felt impatient, and could not entirely control himself.

"A cool head and a warm heart: that is my motto."

"Parrot!" was the indignant, though mental ejaculation of Hudson.

"Your head is cool, certainly," he said aloud.

"And do you doubt the warmth of my heart?"

"I didn't say so."

"But am I not to infer that from what you do say?"

"I would not like to say that your heart was not warm, Lawrence; but I will remark, that your very cool heads are apt to chill the blood so much that the heart cannot restore it to a healthy temperature."

"As to that, I prefer a cool head, rather than a heart so warm as to soften the brains," replied Dunbar. "I go for cool heads, you know."

"And I for warm hearts," replied Hudson.

"Which makes the difference between us. A few years will show which is best. I will just say, however, in passing, as we happen to be on the subject and speaking a little freely, that I think your defect lies just where you have indicated it. Your feelings are too generous. Your heart is too warm. You think too much of others and too little of yourself. This will not do, if you expect to rise in the world. All these amiable weaknesses must be laid aside as hindrances."

"If that is the price of elevation in this world, I do not wish to rise," said Hudson.

"It is, you may depend upon it," his friend replied.

"A position that I must doubt."

"If you continue to doubt it, you will remain where you are."

"And I shall be content, if elevation is to be purchased at the price you name."

"You're a foolish fellow, Lloyd!"

"Time will show that. I expect to rise upon my system, as much as you expect to rise upon yours."

"As high?"

"Higher, perhaps."

"Time, as you say, will show."

"I am willing to trust in time."

"And so am I."

The sober mood in which Dunbar found his friend was in no way congenial to his feelings, and he did not long oppress the young student with his presence.

"And it is upon him that Mary—sweet Mary Lee! has thrown herself away," murmured Hudson, when he was again alone. "He does not love her as I love her—he cannot! Ah, me! So the world goes." And he bent his head again down upon the table from which he had raised it when Dunbar came in.

It was some days before the young student could sufficiently compose his mind to resume, with anything like his former ardor, the study of his profession. That a change had passed over him was noticed by all his friends, but no one knew the cause. His secret was locked in his own bosom.

After he had parted from Mary Lee, the maiden retired to her chamber, and sitting down with a sigh, fell into a deep reverie. As to what she thought and felt, we cannot say; but her face was not so bright and happy as it had been for many days before.

The fact of the engagement of Dunbar with Mary Lee soon transpired, and reached the young man's family before he had thought it proper to acquaint them with what he had done. To his surprise, he found that his father was by no means pleased with this step. He had no particular objection to the young lady, so far as matters personal to herself were concerned; but to her condition he had a very decided objection.

"You have committed a most egregious mistake," he said, manifesting strong displeasure, "and have marred your future prospects more than you dream. A young man of any ambition is a fool to think of marriage before he is twenty-eight or thirty. He establishes his position first; he writes his name so high that all can read it, and then makes his selection of a wife from the hundreds whose hands are ready to grasp the one he outstretches. Six or seven years from this time, wealth and high connexions may easily be secured by marriage. Lawrence! I thought better of you. What is Mary Lee! How will a marriage with her advance your interests in the world, or help to place you higher?"

Dunbar had never thought of this. For once the warm heart had gained an advantage over the cool head. It was his first error of this kind, and it was the last. He did not argue the matter with his father, nor attempt to palliate what he had done. The mistake he had committed was too palpable at the first glance. A few words had made this clear as daylight. Mary was poor; she could not, therefore, aid him in his upward struggle by the strong elevating power of wealth. She was humble and unknown, and could not advance his interests by connecting him with an influential family, or introducing him into a higher circle than the one in which he was moving.

After the interview with his father, for whose opinions he always had great respect, Dunbar felt sober. He acknowledged that he had indeed fallen into an error, even while the maiden's image impressed itself warmly upon his heart. That she was worthy to rise with him he had been fully satisfied; but he had not yet advanced far enough in the world's selfish wisdom to understand that there was a higher truth to be learned on this subject. His father's words revealed this to his approving reason.

"But it is now too late," he said to himself, as he sat dreaming over the subject some hours afterwards, with his law books open, but unread, before him. "The engagement has been entered into, and cannot be broken. All I can do is to make the best of it. Mary is a lovely girl, and worthy to be loved. I might get a rich wife, but none so good, none so pure, none so truthful. I must only struggle the harder. They shall see that I can rise, even in spite of this drawback."

These were his first thoughts and purposes. But the reflection of what he had lost kept haunting him; and the involuntary contrast between Mary, portionless and unknown, and some beautiful heiress, highly accomplished and highly connected, kept arising and dimming the maiden's image that had been stamped upon his heart.

No very long time passed before Mary Lee perceived something in her lover that inwardly disturbed her. There was a change of some kind in him. He came as often, stayed as long, and uttered as many tender words, but still there was a change. He appeared the same, and yet her heart had an instinct that he was not the same.

The manner of old Mr. Dunbar, after the discovery of his son's folly, as he called it, was colder and more reserved than before. He was disappointed, and had lost, to some extent, confidence in his son. If, in the outset, he could commit such a fatal mistake, what surety was there for the future? "None at all," he said to himself. "He will start aside at every false allurement."

About twelve months after Lawrence Dunbar had entered upon the study of law, his preceptor, who took a fancy to him from the first, paid him the compliment of inviting him to his house to spend an evening on the occasion of his having company. A little to his surprise, for he had not expected that, the young man found himself in a brilliant party, with beauty, fashion, and the evidences of wealth all around him. Mr. Harker, his patron, took pains to introduce him pretty freely, of which favor the young mart judiciously availed himself. Among the ladies, there was an air of self-possession, elegance, and refinement, such as he had never before met. He regarded them with scarcely concealed admiration; and not without drawing contrasts between them and the unimposing, gentle, yet beautiful Mary Lee. The contrast was not favorable to his betrothed. He felt that she was inferior to the brilliant women who flashed around him; and that a marriage with her must retard rather than accelerate his upward movement.

From this party, Dunbar went home feeling both elated and depressed. He had taken a step upward, and this elated him; but the upward movement made him painfully conscious that there was a cord around his neck and a weight attached to it.

"Why did I act with such haste? Why did I commit this folly?" he said, scarcely reflecting upon the import of his words. His true feelings had clothed themselves in true thoughts in a moment when he was off his guard.

Shame reddened his cheek, but did not silence the utterance within him. As yet, the thought of violating his marriage contract had found no place in his mind. That was a baseness still to be developed. He could regret the folly that had united him, by an honorable pledge, to one now considered below him, but the thought of violating that pledge had not presented itself.

From this time, Mary was conscious of a change. The evidences were too palpable to be mistaken. Dunbar spoke to her of the party, and of the brilliant ladies whose presence graced it, with an admiration that caused, she hardly at first knew why, a feeling of soberness. To her he was changed from that time; and with a consciousness of change, came a suspicion of the cause; for, in conversation, he sometimes betrayed enough of his real aspirations to reveal to her quick instincts more than the truth.

Still, his visits were as constant as before, and his heart, when left to its own better impulses, was true to its first love. Months passed, and the young man's circle of new acquaintances grew wider and wider. Through the partial kindness of Mr. Harker who omitted no opportunity for introducing his student to people of standing in society, he found himself gradually making friends and associates of an entirely different class to those he had been in the habit of meeting. Attractive as he had at first deemed Mary Lee, he was fated to see her attractions waning before more brilliant young ladies of a fashionable education, and fashionable habits and manners. Thus the sun of his love grew dimmer and dimmer, until it ceased to shine upon his heart with the radiant warmth of earlier days. Mary appeared to change. He asked himself, sometimes, what there was about her that could have won his admiration. Her beauty was tame to what he saw almost every day, and in mind, manners, and accomplishments, she was incomparably below dozens of young ladies of whose acquaintance he could boast.

At last, from being cold and reserved towards Mary, he began to neglect her. Weeks would sometimes be allowed to intervene between his visits. The thought of breaking his engagement with her, at first repulsed, was now seriously entertained; and as soon as entertained, reasons fully sufficient to justify the step were discovered.

There were, of course, difficulties in the way, and he felt troubled. But there was too much at stake to give place to long continued irresolution. Before a year after his introduction into a higher circle of acquaintance had expired, his mind was fully made up to cast aside the loving heart that would have been true to him through life.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE FIRST GREAT ERROR.

THE youngest sister of Lawrence was much attached to Mary Lee, and met her frequently. It did not escape her eyes, that there was a change in her brother, and that Mary was unhappy. But the cause of that change had not occurred to her. That both her father and mother disapproved the selection which Lawrence had made, she was too well aware; but she approved it with all her heart, for she knew better than they did, and could better appreciate the virtues of his betrothed.

One evening Mary Dunbar called upon Mary Lee, and surprised her in tears. Drawing her arm about her neck, she tenderly inquired the cause of her affliction. Mary Lee tried to evade the question, but the sister of Lawrence, connecting the unhappiness of Mary with her brother, pleaded so strongly for her confidence, that she could not resist the earnest desire she had to utter what was in her mind.

"Lawrence is not what he was," she said, her tears flowing afresh.

"He is changed, but not to you, I hope," returned the sister.

"Yes, to me," replied Mary, after she had recovered herself enough to speak in a quivering voice. "I fear that he has ceased to love me. Weeks have passed since he was here."

"Weeks!"

"Yes, weeks. And when he does come, he is so cold and reserved that his presence chills me."

"Cold and reserved to you!" Mary spoke with surprise.

"And now, Mary," the maiden said, forcing down her feelings and speaking calmly, "have you any suspicion of the cause?"

"As I live, none," was the earnest reply.

"But I have."

"Then tell me, freely, what you think," said the sister.

"Either he is won by another, or—"

"Won by another! Mary! He is not so base as that. You wrong my brother."

"God grant that I do! But he is changed to me, that I know. He has ceased to love me as he did; that, too, I know. As to the cause, it matters not, perhaps. Enough that I am no longer loved."

The face of the unhappy girl was pale, her eyes full of tears, and hear lips quivering. Mary Dunbar did not reply for some time; for she did not know what to say. At last she looked up from the floor, and was about speaking, when a servant came to the door of the chamber in which they were sitting, and said that Mr. Dunbar was in the parlor.

"Know the cause this night, Mary," said the sister, rising. "Do not let him go without the fullest explanation of his changed manner towards you. I will retire; you need not mention that I was here."

The two friends parted, one to go home to her father's house and there await her brother's return, to whom she meant to speak freely as soon as she could see him, and the other to meet her estranged lover.

After parting with Mary Dunbar, Mary Lee spent nearly ten minutes in the effort to school her feelings so as to meet Dunbar without betraying the deep disturbance under which she was laboring. She then descended to the parlor.

"How do you do, Mary?" the young man said, as she entered the room, rising, and advancing to meet her. He smiled and extended his hand; but his smile was cold, and his manner constrained. Mary was equally cold and restrained. She allowed him to take her hand, but without returning the slight pressure he gave. Dunbar made no allusion to the fact of his not having visited her for an unusually long space of time.

"Have you been well, Mary?" he asked, in such a marked tone of indifference as caused a spot on the maiden's cheek suddenly to burn.

"Well, I thank you," she said, formally. Their eyes met, and remained fixed for a moment, then both fell to the floor.

"You do not look very well," remarked Dunbar, speaking with evident embarrassment.

Mary uttered no reply. There was a silence of some moments; then she said, with some firmness of tone—

"It is some time since you were here, Mr. Dunbar."

"Yes," he replied, "it is. About four weeks I think."

"A few months ago you did not allow so long a time to pass without seeing me." Mary's eyes were full upon him, and their glance firm and penetrating.

"True," he replied. "I had more leisure on my hands then. But—"

The fixed look of the maiden, that seemed as if reading his very thoughts, disturbed him. He paused, stammered, and let his eyes fall to the floor.

"Lawrence Dunbar!" said Mary, in a quick, emphatic voice, "speak out plainly! There is, of course, a reason for your prolonged absence, and your present coldness. That reason I have a right to know, and I claim an avowal of it now."

Lawrence still exhibited embarrassment, and made one or two ineffectual attempts to speak.

"You have ceased to love me," said Mary.

"I—I—Mary. No. I—I can never cease to lo—love you. But—"

"But what?" The maiden's voice was quick and sharp, while her eyes, usually so mild in their expression, flashed with an indignant light.

"A marriage contract is a serious matter, and should not be entered into, except after the maturest deliberation. I see now that in the ardency of youth I mistook mere passion for—"

"Lawrence Dunbar! Say no more. You are free, if that is what you want."

"I—I, Mary! Do not doubt that I loved you sincerely. But a wide intercourse with the world, and—"

"Say no more! Say no more, in Heaven's name! I have told you that you were free."

"But I would not part in anger, Mary. If I erred it was from weakness. Your beauty, your grace, your loveliness of charac—"

"Silence!" And the maiden, erst so gentle and loving, stamped her foot imperiously. "Silence! I will hear no more. Enough that you wish to be free. Go!—" her voice softened—"Go! And may you never feel—"

The maiden lost the self-control which, by a powerful effort, she had thus far been enabled to maintain. Her utterance was choked, and the tears came gushing from her eyes. Quickly turning away, she left her false lover alone in the room where their exciting interview had been held. Dunbar hurried from the house in no very happy frame of mind, yet feeling that a weight had been taken from his bosom. He was no longer betrothed in marriage to one who would have hindered his upward movement. He was free, and, even in his shame, rejoiced in his freedom.

When Mary Lee entered her own chamber, her face was ashy pale, her eyes almost fixed, and her frame quivering with agitation. She had just sufficient strength to reach her bed, and sink down upon it with a moan of anguish. It was after midnight before she arose from her prostrate position, and then it was merely to lay aside her outer garments, and sink back again upon the bed in helpless abandonment of feeling.

Instead of returning to the family with whom she was engaged as sempstress, Mary Dunbar, when she left her friend, went to her father's house, and there waited until her brother came home, which he did not long after. Her mind was made up to speak to him freely on the subject of Mary Lee.

"Can I say a few words to you alone, Lawrence?" she asked. And they withdrew from the rest of the family.

"On what subject?" the young man asked, as soon as they were alone.

"Mary Lee is the subject," she said, fixing her eyes steadily upon him.

The color mounted to his face as he replied—

"What of her, pray?"

"You have not visited Mary for some time."

"You are mistaken; I saw her to-night."

"Though for the first time in several weeks. I saw Mary this evening also, and found her greatly distressed at your neglect and coldness."

"She will complain of it no more."

"Why?" quickly asked the sister.

"Because she no longer has a right to complain."

"Lawrence! What do you mean?"

"I don't know, Mary, that I ever gave you authority to interrogate me in regard to my actions."

"Though, by virtue of the love I bear you as your sister, I claim the right to do so in the present case." Mary spoke firmly. "It is no light thing, Lawrence," she continued, "to trifle with a young heart. Mary did not seek you. It was you that sought her; you that—"

"Mary," said the young man, interrupting her, "though I deny your right to question me in regard to my conduct, I will explain to you, although I have little hope of making you hear reason. My love for Mary Lee was a mere boyish fancy. She was bright and beautiful to my inexperienced eyes; and, in a moment of weakness, I committed the folly of asking her hand in marriage. Our father was justly displeased at this; and no very long time passed before I saw clearly enough that I had done wrong, that a marriage with her would mar all my worldly prospects."

"How?" inquired Mary.

"To plod along in the humble sphere in which I was born is not my intention. I mean to rise in the world as high, if possible, as the highest. Already I can perceive the upward movement. When I marry, therefore, I must choose one who can aid in my elevation. Wealth, high connexions, superior education, and accomplishments, are indispensable. These Mary Lee cannot bring me, and, therefore, she can never become my wife. This is settled."

"Have you not entered into a solemn contract? Is not your honor pledged?" Said Mary, in a deep, earnest voice.

"No contract exists, no pledges remain. I am free."

"And my brother has done this!" said Mary. "Lawrence, the day will come when, for this baseness—I can call it by no better name—when, for this baseness, you will repent. And this is your rising in the world! Oh! what a price to pay for elevation! Love, truth, honor, all trampled under foot. Faith broken—hearts crushed—hopes blighted. If this is the bud and blossom, what will be the fruit!"

The young man was much disturbed. But, in his "upward movement," he had already begun to feel contempt for his humble, unaccomplished sisters, who had suffered wrong for his sake, and his spirit could ill brook a reproof from one of them.

"From this moment, Mary," he said, speaking with a contracted brow, and in an offended tone, "let your lips be sealed in silence on this subject. What I have done is done, and I do not repent. It was a strong trial, and I suffered in it. But the trial is past. The separation, good for both of us, has taken place. We shall not meet again, I think, for our ways are diverging; if we do meet, it will be as strangers. Good night!"

And the young man turned suddenly from his sister and left the room.

[CHAPTER V.]

RIGHT AND WRONG PRINCIPLES.

EVEN before Hudson succeeded in getting his diploma, Dunbar had come before the court in a case of great importance, and made quite an impression on the public mind. His argument was reported. On the day this report appeared in the newspapers, something brought to his mind his old friend and college companion, whom he had not met for nearly a year. He did not analyse very carefully the feeling that induced him to look in upon Hudson; if he had, he would have discovered something like a desire to exhibit his rising greatness, and cause him to appreciate the contrast between them. He found Hudson engaged in preparing his thesis to be submitted to the professors of the Medical College at an approaching examination of students.

"Ah! How are you, my old friend?" he said, in a gay, off-hand manner, as he met Hudson. "I was passing, and thought I would just look in and see if you were yet alive. What are you about? Hav'n't you graduated yet?"

"Not yet; but if fortunate, I shall have my diploma in a week or two," returned Hudson.

"And then—"

"And then I shall see what can be done in the way of making a beginning in the world."

"Do you expect to remain in the city?"

"I have not yet determined that question. It is probable that I may go South."

"More chance there for you, I should think. It is too healthy here. I verily believe there are as many doctors as sick people in this goodly city."

"Though not so many lawyers as rogues and scoundrels," returned Dunbar, with a smile; "therefore the more chance for you."

"Just it. The fact is, Lloyd," and Dunbar slapped the student upon the shoulder, "if it was not for the sins and iniquities of the people, I don't know what you or I would do. We should make great allowance for them, don't you think so?"

"We should do all in our power to lessen the amount of evil and suffering in the world," replied Hudson.

"And starve for our pains. If there were no cheating and roguery in the world, what would become of all the lawyers? and if there were no sickness, what would become of the doctors?"

"They would find some better employment, I hope. I am not afraid but that I should get along quite as well, if not better, than under the present system of things."

"I am very well satisfied as it is. By the way, did you see the report of my argument before the court, in the case of Holton vs. Nix?"

"I did."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"It was ingenious."

"Nothing more?"

"Yes, ingenious in making the worse appear the better reason."

"The highest compliment you could pay me. We had the worst side of the case."

"So I perceived."

"And, in spite of it, succeeded in gaining for our client."

"And doing a great wrong."

"I have nothing to do with that. My duty was to my client. I was bound to gain his cause for him, and I did so."

"At the expense of truth, justice, and integrity."

"If you please to say so. That comes under the head of abstract morals. But with such abstractions lawyers have nothing to do. We are bound in conscience to take care of our client's interests. He commits them to our hands, and honor and honesty demand that we should protect them by every means in our power."

"Not by unfair means," said Hudson.

"If your client's cause is not sound, how can you sustain it by sound arguments? You must divert the attention of the court from the true point at issue, and take advantage of every defect or error of your opponent to make his good cause appear a bad one. Here lies the test of a truly good lawyer. I see no great credit that a man deserves for gaining a perfectly plain case. Anybody ought to do that. It is in the bad cause that the lawyer shows his real power."

"And this is legal integrity!" said the student. "No, Lawrence Dunbar, I will not credit it! The lawyer may be the guardian of rights, and yet remain true to himself. You have mistaken the true character of the profession."

"There can be but two sides to a question. A right side and a wrong side. And one of these a lawyer has to argue. If he is on the wrong side, pray how is he to do justice to his client and not violate what you would call legal integrity?"

"True," said the student, "there is, to every question in dispute, a right side and a wrong side; but where the right and where the wrong lies, is not so easily determined. What the lawyer has to do is to advocate or defend his client's rights, nothing more. This is his use in the community; and when he goes beyond it, he goes beyond what his client has a right to demand or he a right to give. Depend upon it, Lawrence—and you must pardon my plain utterance of what is in my mind—the lawyer who permits himself to use unfair means to gain a client's cause, will not find it a hard task to continue his client's cause year after year, in order, if possible, to swell the amount of his fees."

"I don't know that you are far out of the way," was the young man's unblushing avowal. "In fact, that is done every day. I know a young lawyer who has yet had but two cases of importance, and he nurses them well, I assure you. They afford him a very comfortable support. Now would not he be a fool to close up these cases in a week, when it is the easiest thing in the world to continue them for a year or eighteen months? Do you blame him?"

"I do, for he is not an honest man."

"He's not a saint, I will admit. But, as to honesty, there are different opinions about that. I, for one, don't blame him. If people are the fools to go to law, they must expect to lose some of their surplus feathers."

"Would you do so?"

"Certainly I would; and am doing it. Mr. Harker, with whom I am now professionally connected, as you are no doubt aware, has a large business. He is a good lawyer, but never possessed the tact which some other men have of making the most of his cases. It will be my business to reform this, and I have already commenced it."

"Does he not object?"

"He! No indeed. He is pleased at it Why not? It will put money into his pocket as well as mine. My interest in his business is worth now at the rate of two thousand dollars a year, but before a twelvemonth passes I will make it equal to three thousand dollars."

"By nursing cases?"

"Yes, by that; and also by infusing more energy into all our business. I am bound to go up, you know. That is my ambition. If anybody is fool enough to bend his head for me to place my feet upon his shoulders, you will not find me hesitating about making good use of the opportunity. Do you blame me!"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because the means of rising that you propose to yourself I do not believe to be just."

"It's the custom in our profession, and he who neglects to fall into it, will be apt to remain in status quo."

"I must still doubt that. Had I chosen law for a profession, instead of medicine, I would have tried the honest course."

"And remained a poor devil of a lawyer all your life," said Dunbar, a little rudely. The plain words of his old friend had touched him a little, indifferently as he treated them.

"As to the result, I never think of that," returned Hudson. "I ask myself, 'Is it right?' and trustfully await the issue. I feel that I have talents, and I believe that if we possess ability and use it faithfully for the good of others, we shall have our reward,—if in nothing else, an approving conscience."

Dunbar tossed his head with a slight air of contempt, as he said—

"How soon do you expect your profession, conducted on your principles, to give you an income of two thousand dollars a year?"

"I don't know that it ever will."

"And can you be content with that, or less than that?"

Rising in the world

RISING IN THE WORLD;

A Tale for the Rich and Poor.

BY T. S. ARTHUR,

AUTHOR OF "KEEPING UP APPEARANCES,"

"RICHES HAVE WINGS," ETC., ETC.

NEW EDITION.

NEW YORK:

HUBBARD & BURGESS,

133 WILLIAM STREET.

1859.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847,

BY BAKER & SCRIBNER,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States

for the Southern District of New York.

CONTENTS.