On my arrival in Berkshire County, I found both of my employers were
off on a spree, and that I was ordered to do the work of receiving and
organizing. One day, a princely equipage with liveried coachman and
outrider halted at the schoolroom door, a "bloated bondholder" and his
wife, arrayed in purple, fine linen, and diamonds, pulled a flashily
appareled, humpbacked boy up to me, every lineament of whose face
showed depravity and cunning. "There," said the father, "is my d----
d son, he drinks, swears, and breaks all the commandments every day.
Take him, and send the bill to me." He handed me his card and away
they went.

This was not an isolated case. I did my best for them; but they were
satiated with luxury, hated books, and seemed to care for nothing
but debauchery. The very next day several of these scamps obtained
permission to visit the cave in "Bear Mountain," where ice could be
found throughout the year. As they did not return on time, I went
in search and found them all drunk. They had no appreciation of the
sun-kissed mountains, waving forests, or verdure-clad valleys; the
grand scenery awakened no responsive smiles, no ennobling aspirations;
they were intent upon nothing but drowning their ignoble souls in the
noxious fumes of tobacco and alcohol. I tumbled them into the wagon,
drove them to their dormitory and put them to bed, lower than the
beasts they seemed to be in their depravity; not all to be sure, for
there were a few choice spirits like Julian Hawthorn, who followed to
some extent the example of his illustrious father, and has won his
spurs in literature.

I found to my disgust that bad eggs would ruin the good ones; but that
many good ones could not take the rottenness from even one of the bad.