Here we are in the vestibule, where we scholars used to hang our caps and coats, and which we remember as the scene of many a scrape and scuffle between hot-headed and unfledged lawyers, doctors and divines! Oh, how real does everything appear! We could almost believe that not even a week had elapsed since our own loud laugh resounded here, when our heart knew not the burden of a care. There is the same old rent in the ceiling, which was made by a stroke of lightning, during a severe storm, when the whole school were pale and breathless with mortal fear; and yonder is the identical peg which Billy Langdon, “the bully,” tried to usurp from us, and whom it was our good luck to punish with a flogging, thereby securing to ourself a reputation for possessing genuine courage. Since then, we have been a dweller in the wilderness and pent-up city, and have ever found courage to be a valuable quality in our intercourse with men. But a man may have a stout heart and yet be poor, unloved and unknown. With timid footsteps we move along, peering into each nook and corner with curious eye. The threshold of another door is passed and we are in the large general school-room, with its rows of desks for the boys, and the platform with the large old-fashioned chair in the centre for the master. There, upon the floor, lies a tattered copy of Virgil, another of Euclid, a few leaves out of the National Preceptor, and a chapter or two of Murray’s Grammar. Having fulfilled their office, they have been thrown aside as of no farther avail, even as some of the _noble-hearted_ in the world are wont to treat their most faithful friends. Here, at our side, resting upon its shattered frame, stands the identical globe over which we once pondered with a wondering heart. It is covered with dust, through which we can just discover that the uppermost country is England. True, England is indeed without a rival in her glory, but is there not a stain of something resting upon her domain? Look at the condition of her people, who are sorely oppressed by the mean ambition of her aristocracy.—But to return. How neglected and lonely is this place! The dust upon the floor is so thick that our footsteps are as distinctly visible as when we walk upon the snow. A sunbeam stealing through a western window points us to the wall where hangs the old forsaken clock. Its song of “Passing away” is ended, and has been for many a year; but the language of its familiar countenance seems to be, “They are all gone, the pleasant, old familiar faces!” Yes, they are gone—but where? We know not the destiny of a single one. The hour-hand is resting upon the figure four, the hour of all others which we boys loved. Stop, did we not see the waving hand of our master, and hear the bustle of dismission? Yes, we have caught our cap—we are the first one out. Now listen to the loud, clear, hearty shout of half a hundred boys.—’Tis only the vision of a heated brain, and we are sitting once