Not often does it fall to the lot of a college professor to be held by his pupils in such universal esteem and affection as was the late Dr. Martin, of the University of the City of New York. During all his career in that institution he probably never had an enemy, nor ever was for an hour the object of ill will. And yet the boys had lots of innocent fun at the expense of "Betty," as they called him. The appearance of his smiling, boyish face and gray curls, and his slight figure draped in the inevitable cloak, in Chancellor Crosby's place at the chapel desk, was always the signal for an outburst of applause. While he was reading the morning lesson, the students marked every emphasized word with a universal and simultaneous stamp of the feet, and they applied the same realistic ictus to every accented syllable in the hymn that he read. He couldn't stop them, and, indeed, seldom tried; and whenever he did try, his "Now, gentlemen, please don't do that any more," was accompanied with a merry smile, and only evoked a louder burst of applause. On one occasion, when fifty of the students were writhing and tumbling about in the agonies of a "canerush" in the great hall of the university, he came out of the chancellor's room, his face beaming with smiles, and holding his eye-glasses in one hand, with the other he patted the shoulder of a brawny sophomore, and exclaimed in his soft, sweet tones, "Why, gentlemen, you mustn't do this! Gentlemen, you must stop this at once!" Tradition says that the sophomore took the professor up in his arms, as tenderly as a baby, carried him back to the chancellor's room, placed him inside and shut the door, while the fushers kept on rushing.