James Garfield had reached the mature age of twenty-two years when he
made his first entrance into Williamstown. He did not come quite
empty-handed. He had paid his expenses while at Hiram, and earned three
hundred and fifty dollars besides, which he estimated would carry him
through the Junior year. He was tall and slender, with a great shock of
light hair, rising nearly erect from a broad, high forehead. His face
was open, kindly, and thoughtful, and it did not require keen perception
of character to discern something above the common in the awkward
Western youth, in his decidedly shabby raiment.

Young Garfield would probably have enjoyed the novel sensation of being
well dressed, but he had never had the opportunity of knowing how it
seemed. That ease and polish of manner which come from mingling in
society he entirely lacked. He was as yet a rough diamond, but a diamond
for all that.

Among his classmates were men from the cities, who stared in undisguised
amazement at the tall, lanky young man who knocked at the doors of the
college for admission.

"Who is that rough-looking fellow?" asked a member of a lower class,
pointing out Garfield, as he was crossing the college campus.

"Oh, that is Garfield; he comes from the Western Reserve."

"I suppose his clothes were made by a Western Reserve tailor."

"Probably," answered his classmate, smiling.