have so often gathered and sent the echoes 

 of their songs flying heavenward ; here are 

 the rooms which will never lose the sense 

 of home because of those who have lived in 

 them. The chapel bell tolls as of old, and 

 the crowd comes hurrying along like the 

 generations before them, but the eye sees 

 no familiar faces among them. It is a 

 place of intense and rich living, and yet 

 to-day, and for me, it is a place of memory. 

 The life once lived here is as truly finished 

 as if eternity had placed the impassable 

 gulf between it and this quiet hour. These 

 are the shores through which the river once 

 passed, these the green fields which encir- 

 cled it, these the mountains which flung 

 their shadows over it, but the river itself 

 has swept leagues onward. 



Mr. Higginson has written charmingly 

 about " An Old Latin Text-Book," and 

 there is surely something magical in the 

 power with which these well-worn volumes 

 lay their spell upon us, and carry us back 

 to other scenes and men. I have a copy of 

 Virgil from which all manner of old-time 

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