In 1831 there were three or four besides Mr. Goddard, who kept small herds of cows, and among them was Lemuel Stephens, who near his residence at the foot of Fremont street, then known as Stephen’s lane, had an abundance of pasturage. In the above year Mr. Stephens had a milk cart, supplying customers, and I remember his son Lemuel calling at our house on the morning of the 21st of November of that year, and telling us that the new Unitarian church had that morning been struck by lightning. The son, Lemuel, must have been either merely assisting the driver of the cart, or driving it temporarily during Thanksgiving vacation, as in that year he entered Harvard College at the age of seventeen, and graduated in 1835. The mention of his name recalls an incident in his life as Professor in later years in Girard College. With many people the memory of Stephen Girard, the founder of the college was held sacred, and one of the articles on exhibition was a suit of clothes which had been worn by him. Professor Stephens told me that during the absence from home one Saturday afternoon of himself and wife, he found on his return that quite a party had visited his house. “What did they want,” asked the Professor of the servant. “Oh, sir, and for sure, they wanted to see Brother Stephens’ old clothes.” “Well Bridget, what did you do?” “Oh, and for certain, I showed them some old clothes of your own hanging on a line in the attic, and sir you ought to have seen what a time they had over them, stroking and kissing them, and almost crying over them.” “Well, Bridget,” said the Professor, “if they call again, you may tell them they may have the lot for five dollars.” As I am getting somewhat garrulous and running away from the main thread of my narrative, I may be excused if I tell another story, which the mention of Girard College suggests. It is well known that Mr. Girard provided in his will that no clergyman should ever be admitted to the grounds and buildings of the college. Some years ago a convention was held in Philadelphia of the Masonic order, of which Dr. Winslow Lewis of Boston, a distinguished physician and surgeon, was a member. One of the entertainments provided for the convention was a visit to Girard College. Dr. Lewis, whom I remember well, always wore a high white clerical cravat, and as the procession marched into the grounds, an official at the gate said to him—“excuse me sir, but you cannot be admitted.” “The hell I can’t” said the Doctor. “Walk in sir,” said the official. It is an interesting commentary on the will of Mr. Girard that profanity could serve as a ticket of admission where the insignia of religion failed.