One of these tears peeped over the edge of the lid until it lost its balance,—slid an inch and waited for reinforcements,—swelled again,—rolled down a little further,—stopped,—moved on,—and at last fell on the back of the Professor’s hand. He held it up for me to look at, and lifted his eyes, brimful, till they met mine. I couldn’t stand it,—I always break down when folks cry in my face,—so I hugged him, and said he was a dear old boy, and asked him kindly what was the matter with him, and what made him smell so dreadfully strong of spirits. Upset his alcohol lamp,—he said,—and spilt the alcohol on his legs. That was it.—But what had he been doing to get his head into such a state?—had he really committed an excess? What was the matter?—Then it came out that he had been taking chloroform to have a tooth out, which had left him in a very queer state, in which he had written the “Prelude” given above, and under the influence of which he evidently was still. I took the manuscript from his hands and read the following continuation of the lines he had begun to read me, while he made up for two or three nights’ lost sleep as he best might. PARSON TURELL’S LEGACY: OR THE PRESIDENT’S OLD ARM-CHAIR. A MATHEMATICAL STORY. FACTS respecting an old arm-chair. At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there. Seems but little the worse for wear. That’s remarkable when I say It was old in President Holyoke’s day. (One of his boys, perhaps you know, Died, _at one hundred_, years ago.) _He_ took lodging for rain or shine Under green bed-clothes in ’69. Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.— Born there? Don’t say so! I was, too. (Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,— Standing still, if you must have proof.— “Gambrel?—Gambrel?”—Let me beg You’ll look at a horse’s hinder leg,— First great angle above the hoof,— That’s the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.) —Nicest place that ever was seen,— Colleges red and Common green, Sidewalks brownish with trees between. Sweetest spot beneath the skies When the canker-worms don’t rise,— When the dust, that sometimes flies Into your mouth and ears and eyes. In a quiet slumber lies, _Not_ in the shape of unbaked pies Such as barefoot children prize.