As for the boy himself, he escaped with only a scratch or two and a few bruises, but that he escaped with his life or with sound limbs was almost a miracle; and, as his big-hearted uncle picked him up, he hugged the lad as one snatched from the very jaws of death. Willard was somewhat awed by the narrowness of his escape, and it was observed that his face wore an expression a shade graver than was its wont for several days after the occurrence.

The lesson, however, made no lasting impression. Scarce a week had gone by ere his life was once more imperilled, and this time the danger resulted from his own reckless over-confidence in himself.

It is a singular fact in the boy's history that every danger to which at this period of his life he was exposed, seems to have been twin-brother to some other hazard equally great, and which tripped upon its very heels.

As already stated, Willard was a good horseman for a boy of his age. He possessed considerable nerve, and, having been brought up among horses, knew a good deal about their ways. But his real knowledge upon the subject was nothing to that which he thought he possessed; and, though a stout little fellow, of course he lacked the muscle of steel that is required to master an enraged horse. But he had never hesitated to ride any steed in all that neighborhood, with the single exception of one of a pair of extremely beautiful but vicious mares, which on account of her color was named "Chestnut Bess."

This horse was as wild and untamed as the famous steed of Mazeppa, and even Henry Glazier, master-horseman though he was, seldom attempted to use this one, except in harness with her mate. The knowledge of this fact excited an overweening desire in Willard's breast to show them what he could do in the way of taming the hitherto untamed creature, and never having been unhorsed in his life, he determined, upon the first favorable opportunity, to try his powers upon the vicious animal. That opportunity was not long in coming. One summer morning it was arranged that Willard should go over to his grandfather's and aid in the cultivation of a large corn-field on the Homestead Farm. Willard made up his mind that, if he went, he would go in style on the back of "Chestnut Bess." He wanted to show his Uncle Henry and the others what the "little runt" was capable of accomplishing as an equestrian. Accordingly, he placed a good strong bridle upon the mare's head, gave an extra pull at the saddle-girth to assure himself there was no possibility of that failing him, and, taking a hoe, which he wished to use in his work on the farm, in his right hand, he led the mare quietly down the path, out through the gate, and into the road. Gathering the reins in his left hand, without giving her time to conjecture his object—for mounting her was no easy task—he jumped lightly into the saddle, and screwed his knees into her sides with all his might.

Now, this mare was not one of those ordinary quadrupeds possessing a single vice, which the rider may learn and master. She was an animal of infinite resources. Her modes of attack were innumerable. It is true she rather preferred to settle matters upon the very threshold of the contest in a short, sharp way, by kicking her man before he could mount. But, if baffled in this design, she would vary the proceedings by dashing her head down between her knees, sending her heels up in the air, and, if possible, plunge the rider over her head to the ground; or, she would waltz round on her hind legs in such a way as to render the best balanced brain somewhat dizzy and uncertain; in the event of the failure of these coquettish pleasantries, she had not a single scruple against playing Shylock, and taking her pound of flesh out of his leg with her teeth. Thus, you see, it would not do to go to sleep upon her back; and Master Willard Glazier no sooner found himself firmly seated than he made up his mind that for the time, at least, he had his hands full of business. As the mare had been deprived of an opportunity to kick him, by the suddenness with which he sprang upon her back, she concluded to try her next favorite line of strategy and shake him off. So down went her head and up went her heels, and, had he been less on the alert, he must have gone to earth; but, with his knees dug into her sides as if they were the opposite jaws of a vice, for every jerk of her head down he gave one with the reins up, and at each jerk the hoe-handle gave her a rap over the ears, so that she began to find the fun less agreeable than usual. Changing her tactics, with a bound she proceeded to execute a fine imitation of the "German," and spin round like a Fifth Avenue belle or a humming-top. But the boy's young, clear, temperate brain and well-disciplined nerves were proof even against this style of attack, and still firm in his seat, he belabored the brute with his hoe with such a perfect rain of blows that she gave up her prancing and dashed down the road at a break-neck pace. For perhaps five hundred yards the road led down hill, and then, crossing a stream, ascended again, the ascent being quite steep and by no means smooth.

While upon the descent, it was all Willard could do to hold on, for he was encumbered with the hoe, which at every jump of the mare struck the top of her head, until she absolutely flew. The few pedestrians upon the road that morning stopped in amazement to stare after the mad flight of horse and rider.

As soon as the bridge was crossed and they commenced the abrupt rise, "Chestnut Bess" began to slacken her pace, but the young gentleman, who by this time considered himself her master, would not agree to this. He proposed to give her a lesson, so he administered a good thrashing with his novel style of whip and compelled her to keep her pace all the way to the top of the hill, where horse and rider at length arrived in safety. From that point to the Old Homestead the mare was perfectly willing to jog along quietly, and when they reached the farm you may be sure that the "spirit" of one "mortal" at least was "proud," as he related to his wondering kinsman how he had taken the mischief out of the chestnut mare.

The boy rose immeasurably in his uncle Henry's estimation by this feat, and all were delighted with his pluck, though Jabez Glazier, his grandfather, with his greater experience, warned him not to trust the beast too far, for, according to his belief, her eye had danger in it yet. When the day of work was ended, Willard once more mounted upon "Chestnut Bess" and rode towards home. For a short time the mare trotted quietly along, and the boy was more than ever convinced that he had broken her of her tricks.

This agreeable belief however was of short duration. The thought had hardly entered his head when she commenced her antics again. Her heels went skyward and her nose went down, and a repetition of the morning's performances succeeded.

There was quite as much vigor and pertinacity in her movements as if she were just starting out for the day. This time Willard had provided himself with a stout beech switch, and used its stinging persuasion with good effect. She danced, she pranced, she waltzed, she made sudden dashes and full stops. She would have rolled in the gravel if the boy's switch had ceased stinging her into motives for action, but she could not shake him off. He clung to her back like a little leech, and it began to look as if human will-power was going to conquer brute stubbornness, when suddenly a new idea seemed to enter the animal's head. Without a moment's warning, and utterly scorning the control of the bit which she had taken in her teeth, she swung round and at full gallop made straight for the Homestead farm from which she had so lately come. The farm-yard gate was wide open and she dashed in, making directly for the wagon-shed at the extreme end of the place, which was now empty. This shed, the top of which was supported by a cross-beam, was only just high enough to permit a wagon to be sheltered there, and if the horse got in, Willard saw at a glance that she would be obliged to lower her head to do so, and that in the course of her entry he must inevitably strike the beam and perhaps be instantly killed or swept off her back upon a pile of rocks that on either side walled the entrance to the shed.

His heart for once failed him, for there seemed no earthly hope of escape. There was no time to spring off, even if the speed at which he was going would have permitted him to do so, for in a shorter time than it has taken to describe the scene, the shed was reached, bang went the mare's head against the opposite end, and at the same instant Willard felt a dull thud against his person, realized the fact that he was being thrown into the air, and then came darkness and unconsciousness. He was dashed violently upon the stones, and when picked up his body was found to be much lacerated and bruised.

Fortunately, however, no bones were broken, though he was obliged to keep his bed for some days afterwards. No doubt while lying there during slow convalescence he mused upon the vicissitudes attendant upon the career of a horse-tamer. At all events from this time he became much steadier and more prudent,—the wild adventures of his earlier boyhood having entirely lost their attraction for him.

CHAPTER IX.
THE YOUNG TRAPPER OF THE OSWEGATCHIE.

In dragging from the hard soil of the Davis place the living which necessity compelled, he performed the work of a man, and the perfect trust which his father reposed in him gave his services additional value.

This fact increased the difficulty of his position; but though he made it a point to husband all his spare time for self-instruction, he was far from satisfied with the existing state of affairs, and pondered long and earnestly over the best means of securing the advantages of regular instruction.

At that time the streams tributary to the St. Lawrence were supplied with such fur-bearing animals as the mink, the musk-rat, the otter, and the more humble rabbit, the skins of all of which were more or less valuable and were sought by professional trappers. These men found the business a reasonably lucrative one, and it commended itself especially to Willard, as health and strength were the only capital required. The grand difficulty was how to supply his place in the work of the farm. His father was a man who always listened with patience and sympathy to any scheme that promised to benefit his children. His son, therefore, had no hesitation in laying the whole matter before him and seeking his advice upon the subject. He felt, of course, that any proposal to withdraw his personal labor from the common stock of exertion by which the cultivation of the farm was rendered a possibility, was a direct pecuniary tax upon his father's resources; but he believed he could to a great extent neutralize the injury by supplying a substitute.

He also felt assured that although the step he proposed to take might be a present loss to the family it would prove an ultimate gain. He was thoroughly determined to make his life a success, and he was just as thoroughly determined that any success which might crown his efforts should be shared by his parents. It is true that the road looked long and the path rough, but he had a "heart for any fate," and his courage never failed. A substitute at the plow he knew he could obtain for a small sum, and the board of such a person would take the place of his own at the home table, and he never doubted that he could earn a sufficient surplus to pay the wages of such an assistant. At all events he made up his mind to try the experiment.

With young Willard, to think was to act, and this project was no sooner conceived than he proceeded to put it into execution. He laid his plans frankly before his father, who, to his great gratification, assented to his proposal. A man was hired for fifteen dollars a month to take Willard's place on the farm, and the latter made his first venture as a trapper.

His initial experiment was to set six traps of the pattern called a "dead-fall" or "figure of four," and this resulted in the capture of two minks worth about eight dollars. With what an exultant heart he drew out his first mink and realized that by his own unaided exertions he had made some money, no boy or man need be told. He at once, however, entered into some rather fallacious calculations and built some extremely airy castles. It occurred to him that if out of six traps he could obtain two skins, out of one hundred he could obtain thirty-three, and so on, in proportion.

This, however, proved to be a miscalculation, it not being so much the number of traps set, as the quantity of game in a given locality which regulates the amount of success for a trapper. Yet his efforts in this new business succeeded to a gratifying degree, and the fact of having exchanged the dull monotony of farm drudgery for the exhilarating excitement of a hunter's life, was in itself a sufficient reward for any amount of exertion. Indeed what mode of life could be happier or more free, for a healthy, strong-limbed youth of fifteen, than to live as he then did, almost entirely in the woods? Then too, his daily route lay in the midst of some of the finest scenery to be found anywhere in New York, even in that grand old county of St. Lawrence.

To a lover of nature nothing could be more alluring than the locality through which Willard, at that period of his life, trapped and hunted. To follow the winding waters of the Oswegatchie is to enjoy a perpetual feast. That river is one of a great family of rivers, among which may be enumerated the Rackett, the Grasse, the Indian, and the Black, all of which take their rise far up in the recesses of the great North Woods. Though not to any extent navigable, it is yet nearly as broad as the lovely and "blue Juniata" of "peaceful Pennsylvania."

At times turbulent and brawling, it is often vexed in its passage to the St. Lawrence by rapids and cataracts varying in height and volume, but which in their infinite variety give a wild and romantic beauty to this poetical stream. At times it glides smoothly along through low meadow lands, and again it plunges into some dense thicket or brawls through some briery dell where the foliage is so thick that one can only see the glint and ripple of its waters at rare intervals, shining between the lapping leaves and tangled vines. Then again it sweeps onward through cleft rocks and jutting banks until, lost at last in the very heart of the primeval forest, its twilight waters reflect the images of giant trees which had their beginning on its banks a century ago.

Willard's life during that autumn passed in persevering work. Day by day he traveled his accustomed routes, while the leaves turned from green to red and from red to russet and brown, and at last fell from the naked branches of the forest trees with a little farewell rustle, to be trodden into the rich soil below.

By the time the first snow came he found himself much more robust physically, and with seventy-five dollars clear profit in his pocket. In addition to these advantages he also acquired the inestimable habit of self-reliance, so that when he entered upon a course of preparation for his academic life, it was with full faith in himself. For four terms, beginning August thirteenth, 1857, and ending the latter part of June, 1859, he remained at the excellent institution of learning which he had selected, and while there gained considerable credit as a hard student.

During the first of these terms a generous rivalry existed between himself and a youth by the name of Albert Burt, as to which should lead the class. As it turned out, however, they kept together and were both marked "perfect." The academy was under the management of the Rev. E. C. Bruce, M. A., Principal; and Andrew Roe, Professor of Mathematics. About a month or six weeks after he entered the school, he arranged to take lessons in elocution under a Professor Bronson, that gentleman having organized a large class at the academy.

In a brief diary kept by him at the time, we find the remark that he was "greatly pleased with the Professor's method of teaching that important branch of study." Willard had advanced to the higher grade of Algebra and Grammar, had added Philosophy to the list of his studies, and having cultivated a natural turn for public speaking, was elected on the eighteenth of December, 1857, a member of the Oratorical Society—an association connected with the institution. His boy experiences were very similar to those which happen to all lads in academic life. He had his chums, among whom were Brayton Abbott and Ozias Johnson; he had his little flirtations with misses of his own age, and he had his fights, as all boys have.

Among the latter was one with Johnson, who was his room-mate, and who, being four years older than himself, undertook, for fun, to rub his face with a newly-purchased hair-brush. This kind of fun did not suit Willard, however, and he resented it by giving Johnson a "dig" in the ribs. Whereupon a fight ensued in earnest, and as Willard was too young and light to keep up the contest at close quarters, he dodged his adversary and covered his retreat by dropping chairs in front of Johnson's legs, which brought that young gentleman to the floor more than once, to his own intense disgust and Willard's great gratification. At length Johnson managed to corner his opponent, and then rubbed his face so thoroughly with the bristles that his comrades that morning thought he had caught the scarlet-fever, or as Dickens says, that he was the "walking ghost of a kitchen fire."

As generally happens, however, between two manly fellows, their combat inspired a feeling of mutual respect, and from being mere acquaintances they grew to be fast friends.

Study and sedentary habits at length so much impaired Willard's health that, in the latter part of the month of August, 1858, he was compelled to cease his attendance at school and go home. The thirtieth of September following, however, found him at the Teachers' Institute of St. Lawrence County, with the proceedings of which body he appears to have been highly gratified, for in the diary to which we have already referred, he speaks of it in these words:—

"I am now attending the Teachers' Institute of this county, which is in session at Gouverneur, it having opened upon the twenty-seventh instant. The School Commissioners are Mr. C. C. Church and Allen Wight. I am highly pleased with the proceedings and the method of conducting the exercises of this apparently indispensable part of a Teacher's instruction,"—adding that it was his "intention to become a teacher the coming winter." Indeed, to be a teacher seems to have been his favorite scheme of life, and his highest ambition was ultimately to fill the chair of Mathematics in one of the great institutions of learning. That most exact of sciences was his favorite branch of study, and the intellectual stimulus which it imparts had for him a peculiar fascination.

In pursuance of his object, and in order, by teaching during one part of the year, to raise means to enable him to attend school during another portion, he set about procuring for himself a school. Fortunately for the accomplishment of his object, it was suggested to him to apply to the School Commissioner of his own Assembly district, and he did so. The examination which followed his application, owing to some local rivalry, was extremely rigid; but he passed through it with great credit and received the appointment he desired, being assigned forthwith to duty in the town of Edwards, St. Lawrence County. He commenced teaching in the bleak month of November, 1858, and was very earnest in fulfilling the duties of his position, taking every opportunity not only of instilling knowledge into the minds of his pupils, but also striving to imbue them with a love of self-culture. He labored hard in his efforts to earn means with which to support himself during the coming summer at the Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary, and discovered while thus working that teaching was as much of a discipline for himself as for his pupils.

The time does not seem to have passed unpleasantly to him at this period of his career, for in an entry made in his diary on the twenty-eighth of November, 1858, he says:

"I am spending the evening with Mr. Hiram Harris and family, having come into the district this afternoon. My mission here is to teach school for a term of three months in fulfilment of the contract existing between the trustees and myself. In compliance with a custom that prevails, I am expected to 'board around,' as it is styled, and Mr. Harris, being one of the Trustees, has invited me to spend my first week at his house.

"The School Commissioner of this Assembly district is Mr. C. C. Church, of Potsdam, from whom I received a certificate based upon the recommendation of Commissioner Allen Wight of the first district. The School Trustees are E. L. Beardsley, Hiram Harris, and Jeptha Clark. The present term will be my first experience in the profession I have adopted. I do hope it will prove a useful one, for I am of opinion that a teacher's first experience is apt to give color to his whole future career." The day after this entry he adds that "only a small attendance greeted me upon opening my school," and after consoling himself with the reflection that this will leave him plenty of time for study, he adopted a single rule—"Do right;" and an additional motto, "A time and place for everything and everything in its time and place."

It will thus be seen that he had already acquired a clear idea of the importance of order in every pursuit, and knew that method gives to an ordinary mortal Briærean arms with which to accomplish whatever he may desire to do. How few attain to this knowledge until it is too late!

As a writer, whose words we think worthy of remembrance, has said:

"This is an era of doing things scientifically. People make scientific calculations of the weather, and the average number of murders for the next year. They measure the stars and they measure the affections, both scientifically. The only thing they fail to do scientifically is, to manage themselves. As a rule, they drift, and then find fault with fate and Providence because they don't drift into the right port. They drift into life with a multiplicity of vague dreams, which are somehow to be realized; but they have a very dim idea of ways and means. They drift through it, carelessly, with an inadequate knowledge of their own resources, and a still more inadequate notion of using them to the best advantage; they drift out of it with a melancholy sense of failure, both absolutely as to themselves and relatively as to the world. Of all their splendid possibilities, none are realized. Nothing is completed. They start wrong or they make one fatal step, and everything goes wrong all the way through. It seems as if most lives were only experiments. Now and then one is turned out which fits in its niche and is tolerably symmetrical. The rest are all awry, unfinished, misplaced, and merely faint suggestions of what might have been. Much of this is doubtless beyond mortal control, but a far greater portion is due to the lack of a nice direction of forces. The human mechanism is complicated, and a very slight flaw sets it all wrong. There may be too much steam or too much friction, or too little power or too little balance. But clearly the first step is to strengthen the weak points, to gauge its capabilities, to set it running smoothly, and to give it a definite aim. If existence were simply passive and the mission of man was to be instead of to do, he might perhaps be left to develop as the trees do, according to his own will or fancy or according to certain natural laws. But as it is the universal wish wherever one is, to be somewhere else, a little higher in the scale, it seems to be a part of wisdom, as well as humanity, to fit one for climbing. But many an aspirant finds his wings clipped in the beginning of his career, through the ignorance or carelessness of his friends, who never took the trouble of measuring his capabilities. He is treated as a receptacle into which a certain amount of ideas are to be poured, no matter whether they may answer to anything within him or not. He is turned out of an educational mill with five hundred others, and with plenty of loose knowledge, but without the remotest idea of what to do with it, or what nature intended him for, and with no especial fitness for any one thing. He can think, probably, if he has the requisite amount of brains, but how to establish a relation between thought and bread and butter is the problem. He has the requisite motive power, but it is not attached to anything. He does not know how to attach it, so he revolves in a circle, or makes a series of floundering experiments, that bear meagre fruit, perhaps when the better part of his life is gone. He knows books, but he does not know men. He is a master of theories, but cannot apply them. If he has a small amount of brains, his case is still more hopeless. To be sure, a proper amount of knowledge has been poured in, but it has all slipped through. He might have assimilated some other kind of knowledge, but that particular kind has left him with mental dyspepsia, and a vague feeling of hopelessness which is likely to prove fatal to all useful effort. Or perhaps he has talent, but is destitute of the requisite tact to make it tell upon the world. His success depends largely on his power to move others, but he has no lever and is forced to rely upon main strength, which involves a serious expenditure of vitality, with only doubtful results. He works all his life against perpetual friction, because no one had the foresight or insight to discern that this was the flaw in his machinery.

"Another fatal point is in the choice of a vocation. Having drifted through an education, he next drifts into his business or profession. He rarely stops to take an inventory of his capital, or, at best, he takes a very partial one. Chance or circumstance decides him. His grandfather sits on the judge's bench. He thinks the judge's bench a desirable place, so he takes to the law. He puts on his grandfather's coat without the slightest reference to whether it will fit or not. Perhaps he intends to grow to it, but a willow sapling cannot grow into an oak. It may grow into a very respectable willow, but if it aspires to the higher dignity, it will most likely get crushed or blown over. It may be that he has a grand vision of commercial splendor, and plunges into business life with a very good idea of Sophocles and Horace and no idea whatever of trade; with a very good talent for theories, but none whatever for facts; with some insight into metaphysics, but none at all into people. Instead of trying his strength in shallow waters, he starts to cross the Atlantic in a very small skiff. By the time he has reached mid-ocean he discovers his error, but it is too late to turn back; so he is buffeted about by winds and waves until he, too, goes down and counts among the failures.

"Another of the few points upon which life hinges is marriage, and people drift into that as they do into everything else. It is one of the things to be done in order to complete the circle of human experience. A man is caught by a pretty face and a winning smile. He takes no thought of the new element he is adding to his life, either with reference to his outward career or his inward needs. Caprice governs his choice, or perhaps a hard form of self-interest. Having committed one or two of the grand errors of life, he settles down to its serious business, and speedily discovers that he has a dead weight to carry. He has mistaken his vocation, whatever it may be.

"He is conscious now that it is too late to change; that he might have attained supreme excellence in some other calling. He toils with heavy heart and sinking spirit at the plodding pace of dull mediocrity. His work is drudgery and wearies him body and soul. Those who once smiled upon him pass him by. Men of far inferior capabilities distance him in the race. Perhaps too he has made another misstep, and has a wife who sympathizes neither with his tastes nor his trials: who has no comprehension of him whatever, save that he is a being whose business it is to love her and furnish her with spending money. The beauty which fascinated him has grown faded and insipid. The pretty coquetries that won him pall upon him; he is absolutely alone with the burden of life pressing heavily upon him. Is it strange that he is mastered in the battle and finally falls beneath the world's pitiless tread? This is a sad little picture, but it is an every-day one, and the world goes on its way as before.

"What matters it that a lonely, dissipated man has lain down in sorrow to rise no more! The world cannot stop to weep over the remains of the departed one it has trampled upon. Those whose business it is can take them on one side, lay them away under the green sod out of sight, shed a tear perhaps, and pass on until their turn comes to lay down wearily, go to sleep, and be laid away. The world chides, the world laughs, but it takes no cognizance of the grief—

"Yet there is but the difference of a point in the game between the victim and the hero. The cards are the same, or the victim, perhaps, may hold the best trumps, but he plays recklessly, loses his point, loses his game, loses all! On such slight things does human destiny hinge. The hero has all his resources at command—his game dimly outlined. He knows his winning cards, and he plays them skilfully.

"Every point tells. Nothing is left to chance that can be accomplished by foresight. He wins the game. He wins the prizes. He has the mastery of life. The world takes off its hat to him. Fortune and people smile upon him. Not that he is better than others—very likely he is not so good. But the world counts results. Becky Sharp is not a model, but Becky Sharp is a power. The world does not like her in the abstract, but it likes her dinners, it courts her smiles, it fawns upon her, it showers its good things upon her, all because she has mastered it. Becky Sharp is not a model. Her aims are unworthy, and her means unscrupulous; but she reads us a lesson in fact, in foresight, in energy, in the subtle art of making the most of limited resources. So long as life is a game, it is worth studying. The difference between playing it well and playing it ill is the difference between light and darkness, between joy and desolation, between life and death."

Even at that early and immature time of his life, Willard Glazier had thought much upon this subject—examples of the disjointed successes of all unplanned and unmethodical careers having been brought too frequently into close proximity to his own door, not to have made an impression upon his inquiring mind.

Hence, at the very threshold of his life as a teacher, he resolved to have plan and purpose clearly defined in everything he did.

CHAPTER X.
THE SOLDIER SCHOOL-MASTER.

Upon the fifth of February, 1857, the dull routine of a teacher's duty was varied by a visit made to Edwards by Willard's uncle Joseph, and his sisters; and, after closing his school, the former went home with his visitors, and thence to a Lyceum which had been established in the Herrick School District, where a debate was in progress as to the relative importance, in a humanitarian point of view, of the bondage of the African race in the Southern States, or the decadence of the Indian tribes under the encroachments of the Whites. The "question" assumed that the Aborigines were most worthy of sympathy; and young Glazier, being invited to participate in the discussion, accepted, and spoke upon the negative side of the question.

He little dreamed upon that winter's night, when, in the small arena of a village debating-club, he stood up as the champion of the slave, that the day was not far distant when he would ride rowel-deep in carnage upon battle-fields which war's sad havoc had made sickening, fighting for the same cause in whose behalf he now so eloquently spoke.

No prophetic vision of what fate held in store for him appeared to the ardent boy, speaking for those who could not rise from the darkness of their bondage to speak for themselves. No glimpse of weary months dragged out in Confederate prisons—of hair-breadth escapes from dangers dread and manifold—of hiding in newly-dug graves made to assist the flight of the living, not to entomb the dead—of lying in jungles and cypress-swamps while fierce men and baffled hounds were panting for his blood—of vicissitudes and perils more like the wild creations of some fevered dream than the plain and unvarnished reality: nothing of all this came before him to trouble his young hopes or cloud his bright anticipations of the future.

He spoke of freedom, and had never seen a slave. He pictured the cruelty of the lash used in a Christian land on Christian woman, be she black or white. He spoke of the deeper wrong of tearing the new-born babe from its mother's breast to sell it by the pound—of dragging the woman herself from the father of her child and compelling her to mate with other men—of the fact that such wrongs were not alone the offspring of cruel hearts, nor of brutal owners, but arose from the mere operation of barbarous laws where masters, if left to themselves, would have been most kind. He spoke of such things as these, and yet he never dreamed that his words were but the precursors of deeds that would make mere words seem spiritless and tame.

Young Glazier spoke well. The little magnates of the place,—the older men, after this, talked of him as of one likely to rise, to become a man of note, and their manner grew more respectful towards the young school-master. His occupations and amusements at this period of his existence, though simple in their character, were considerably varied.

Among other entries in his journal about this date, is one that so commends itself by its brevity and comprehensiveness that I quote it verbatim.

"Having," he says, "received an invitation upon the twenty-fourth of December, I attended a party at the residence of Jeptha Clark, whose excellent wife received me very kindly; upon Christmas day I visited T. L. Turnbull's school at Fullerville; upon Monday last called at Mr. Austin's school in the Herrick District; Tuesday, dropped down for a moment upon the students at Gouverneur; on Wednesday, returned home; and on Thursday, for the greater part of the day, assisted uncle Joseph in hauling wood from the swamps on the Davis Place."

Thus the time slipped rapidly by and his first term of teaching drew to a close. In the spring of 1859 he again became a member of the Gouverneur Wesleyan Seminary, and in May of that year, made the following characteristic entry in his diary:

"'Order is Heaven's first law.' A time and place for everything, and everything in its time and place, was the rule of conduct I adopted some time ago. In accordance with this determination I have laid out the following routine of occupation for each day. I intend to abide by it during the present term. I will retire at ten o'clock p. m., rise each morning at five o'clock, walk and exercise until six, then return to my room, breakfast and read history until eight, then repeat what the English call a 'constitutional,' viz.: another walk until prayers, devoting the time intervening between prayers and recitation, to Algebra. After recitation, I will study Geometry for three-quarters of an hour, Latin for half an hour, and be ready for recitation again at two o'clock. This will complete my regular course of study, and, by carrying out this routine, I can dine at noon, and also have a considerable amount of time for miscellaneous reading and writing, to say nothing of my Saturdays, upon which I can review the studies of the week."

To this plan young Glazier adhered conscientiously, and hence made rapid progress and very soon found himself in a condition to take another forward step in the pathway of learning. That step was the entrance to the State Normal School at Albany. To go to West Point and receive the military training which our government benevolently bestows upon her sons at that institution, had been his pet ambition for years—the scheme towards which all his energies were bent. But failing in this, his next choice was the Normal School. Accordingly, on a certain September afternoon in 1859, he found himself in the capital city of the Empire State, knocking for admission at the doors of the Normal School. He was alone and among strangers in a great city, with a purse containing the sum of eight dollars! For a course of seven or eight months instruction this was certainly a modest estimate of expenses! In fact, young Glazier had based his financial arrangements on a miscalculation of the amount furnished by the State. He did not then know that the only provision made by the body politic was for mileage, tuition and text-books. But on Monday morning, September seventeenth, 1859, he signed his name to the Normal pledge, and at the conclusion of the examination—which continued until September twenty-third—was assigned to the Junior Class—there being at that time four classes: the Senior and sub-Senior, Junior and sub-Junior.

The next step was to find lodgings at a weekly or monthly price more suited to his means than those which he had temporarily taken at the Adams House on his arrival there the previous evening. Always frugal in regard to his personal expenditures, he knew that, in order to eke out the full term with his scanty resources, he must carry his habitual thrift to its fullest extent. He therefore scoured the town for apartments, aided by references from Professor Cochran, principal of the Normal, and finally obtained a room on Lydius street, almost within shadow of the Cathedral, and at the certainly reasonable rate of "six shillings per week." This room he shared with Alexander S. Hunter, from Schoharie County, and a member of the sub-Senior Class. For several weeks the young students boarded at this place, buying what food they required, which the landlady cooked for them free of charge. Seventy-five cents a week paid for their cooking and rent!

But even this small outlay soon exhausted the meagre resources of young Glazier and, at the end of the time mentioned, he went over into Rensselaer County, to look up a school, in order to replenish his well-nigh empty purse, and to enable him to continue in his efforts to acquire an education. It was a bright clear morning in November when he left his boarding-place on Lydius street in quest of his self-appointed work, and, crossing the Hudson on a ferry-boat, walked all the way to Nassau by the Bloomingdale Road—a distance of sixteen miles. His object was to find Allen Barringer, School Commissioner for Rensselaer County, who, as he had been told, lived somewhere near Nassau. On the way to that village he passed two or three schools, concerning which he made inquiries, with a view to engaging some one of them on his return to Albany should he be so successful as to obtain a certificate from Mr. Barringer. At about two o'clock in the afternoon of this, to him, eventful day, young Glazier had arrived at the residence of Harmon Payne, near East Schodack, or "Scott's Corners," as it was sometimes called. He had been referred to this gentleman as one likely to assist him in his endeavors to obtain a school. He had eaten nothing since morning, and, having walked a distance of nearly sixteen miles, as may be imagined, was somewhat faint and hungry. But the good wife of Mr. Payne showed herself not lacking in the kindly courtesy belonging to a gentlewoman, and, with true hospitality, placed before the young Normal student a delicious repast of bread and honey.

To this youthful wayfarer, with a purse reduced to a cypher, and struggling over the first rough places in the pathway of life, the simple meal was like manna in the wilderness. After chatting pleasantly with the family for an hour or more, he started again on his journey. But this time not alone; for Mr. Payne very kindly sent his niece with the boy teacher, in whom he had become so much interested, to show him a shorter route "across lots" to East Schodack. This village, two miles farther on, by the traveled highway, was only three-quarters of a mile distant by a pathway leading across the pasture lands of some adjoining farms. In the fading November afternoon the young lady and her protégé walked together to East Schodack—a walk which young Willard never forgot, and out of which afterwards grew a fairy fabric of romantic regard glittering with all the rainbow hues of boyish sentiment, and falling collapsed in the after-crash of life, like many another soap-bubble experience of first young days.

But he did not succeed, at that time, in securing the East Schodack School, as he had hoped to do. Nothing daunted, however, he trod reverses under foot and pushed on towards the residence of the School Commissioner whose ipse dixit was to award him success or failure.

Allen Barringer lived one mile from the village of Nassau, in Rensselaer County, and it was nearly nightfall when, with an anxious heart and weary with the day's journey, he knocked at the door of the comfortable country residence which had been pointed out to him as the one belonging to the School Commissioner. That gentleman himself came to the door in answer to his knock, and upon Willard's inquiry for Mr. Barringer replied:

"I am Mr. Barringer, sir; what can I do for you?"

His manner was so pleasant and his face so genial that young Glazier, at once reassured, had no difficulty in making known his business.

"I have come out here from Albany," said he, "to see if I could pass examination for a certificate, to teach in your district."

"Well, come in, come in," said Mr. Barringer, cordially, "and I will see what I can do for you. You are not going back to Albany to-night?" he asked.

"No, I shall not be able to do so," replied Willard.

"Have you friends or relatives here with whom you intend to stay?"

"No, sir."

"Then I shall be glad to have you stop with us to-night. I am a young man like yourself, living at home here with my parents, as you see; I am fond of company, and will be happy to place my room at your disposal. And as there will be no hurry about the examination, we will talk more about it after supper."

Young Glazier thanked his host for the kind proffer of entertainment, and of course acquiesced in the arrangement.

Accordingly, after the physical man had been refreshed at a well-spread supper-table, Mr. Barringer conducted his young guest to his own apartments, where they drew their easy-chairs before a comfortable fire, and entered into conversation.

"I am considerably interested in politics just now," said Mr. Barringer, and then he asked abruptly, "what is your opinion of John Brown?"

At this time the first red flash of the war that swiftly followed, had glowered athwart the political horizon, in the John Brown raid at Harper's Ferry, and against this lurid background the figure of the stern old man stood out in strong relief. It was at the period when, shut up in prison, he was writing those heroic words to his wife, those loving words of farewell to his children; when petitions poured in pleading for his life—though they were petitions all in vain—and when, naturally, partisan feeling on the subject was at its height. Willard felt that in expressing his candid convictions he might be treading on dangerous ground, and perhaps endangering his chances for success, yet he held principle so high, and honest sentiment so far above bribe, that if his certificate had depended on it he would not have hesitated to express his admiration for the brave old man who laid down his life for the slave, and whose name has since been crowned with the immortelles of fame. Therefore Willard replied with a frankness worthy of emulation that he looked upon John Brown as a conscientious, earnest, devoted man—a man whose face was firmly set in the path of duty though that path led to imprisonment and the gallows; a man much in advance of his time—one of the pioneers of free thought, suffering for the sacred cause, as pioneers in all great movements always suffer. He spoke with a modest fearlessness known sometimes to youth and to few men. Mr. Barringer replied that, though he held different views, he could not but admire Willard's frankness in avowing his own political convictions, and that this independence in principle would in nowise detract from his previously formed good opinion of him. Afterwards, Mr. Barringer examined him in the common English branches of study, besides astronomy, philosophy and algebra—studies usually taught in the public schools of Rensselaer County. In this way, with much pleasant talk dropped at intervals through the official business of examination, interspersed with politics and concluded with social chat, an agreeable evening passed.