devoted all his leisure time to sailing a little brig on a sheet of water in a meadow, two hundred feet wide. And so we could go on for hours, mentioning the names of those who were the playmates of our later boyhood. Where they are, and what their destiny, we cannot tell. That our own name has long since been forgotten by them we do not doubt. Is it not foolish, then, to cherish their memories in our heart as we do? No, for they are linked with a portion of the past that we would have immortal—the spring of our existence. The power of recalling the sunny hours of life, we would not part with for the world; next to our dreams of heaven, do we value the dreams of our early days. But like a weaver’s shuttle is our life, and it were unwise for us to forget the future in thinking of the past. If we are permitted to live, how soon will our body be like this crumbling edifice, in whose deserted chambers we are now a pilgrim. Years ago we came here to school our mind; now, we are a teacher ourself, and of ourself too, but a very poor one, for we cannot rule the unruly passions of our heart. Our only hope is in the fountain filled with blood. But if we remember rightly, there is a room in this old building that we have not yet visited. Yes, here is the narrow stairway that led to the Exhibition Hall in the second story. Cautiously we enter it; but here also has the spirit of desolation a home. On these mutilated seats once thronged thousands of spectators; and yonder is the platform where the youthful orators were wont to “speak in public on the stage.” The only breathing creature that meets our eye is a little mouse running to his hole, almost frightened to death by our appearance. When last we stood in this place, thousands of human hearts beat happily, for parents listened to the eloquence of their children, and those children gloried in the realization of their long-cherished hopes. How vivid are our recollections of that exhibition day! It concluded an exile of three years from our far distant home in the wilds of Michigan. The period of return our heart panted after continually, for we were away from the home of boyhood, from a mother, a father, and sisters; and though we often visited, and were under the care of kindred, we felt ourself to be alone and companionless. And with that day, too, are associated events that flattered our youthful ambition; and though we know them to be idle as a tale that is told, we cannot but cherish the memory of that day even for them. But with our last day at school are associated some clouds and shadows, the most prominent of which were our leave-takings with our schoolfellows. We parted for our widely separated homes, and where we all are, or what is our present condition are things known only to the Father of the world.—It is well—it is well. “Our sorrow voices itself to the stranger many; and all that in other days were gladdened by our song—if still living—stray scattered through the world.” It is well.