You are then admitted into a large hall, accommodated with shelves for the convenience of the scholars, and as we pass through this and enter the school-room, we feel almost a child again.  But we see at a glance that our dear old teacher does not occupy the desk, and it is a stranger’s voice that strikes upon the ear.  As we glance at the well-filled seats, we readily perceive there is not one of all the group, no, not one, that occupied those seats when we were scholars there.  But we will sit calmly down upon the teacher’s desk and recall the dim shadowy forms of the past, the by-gone past.  The breeze that passes through the open window and fans the brow, might be mistaken for the same playful zephyr that sported with our own silken locks in childhood, as we stood before this same open window.  The monotonous hum of the school-room seems the same and the drowsy buzz of the summer fly as it floats on azure wings brings to the ear a well remembered sound, and we press our hand tightly upon our eyes and try to think we are living over again years that are passed.  It will not do, there is a change—­we must acknowledge that change.  The teacher who so long presided in this place, was a stern man, of commanding figure, with a high, broad forehead and piercing black eyes, coal black hair and beard, with rather a handsome countenance, although nothing could ever provoke a smile upon it in school hours, and he governed his pupils more by fear than love.  But the lesson must be perfectly committed and correctly recited, or the offending culprit must fall under his severe displeasure, and this was a situation that few in the school were willing to be placed in.  I have heard of this man’s death, but in what manner or where I know not; but many are the lessons I have heard fall from his lips which still live in my heart—­have had their impress upon the life, and will continue to exist through the boundless ages of eternity.  And now that the thoughtlessness of youth has passed away, here, upon this spot, would I offer a grateful tribute to his memory.  Many others, too, occupied this place, of whose destiny I am entirely ignorant, but yet remember them with much affection.

One female teacher in particular, under whose instruction I sat six summers in succession.  Then she was young and healthful, and happy in the bosom of her family; but now all have passed away save this one surviving branch.  She alone remains of her family, in feeble health, and with that depression of spirits incident upon her situation.

On the low seat next to the desk, used to sit rather a fragile child, with bright red hair and deep blue eyes that had a depth of meaning in their earnest gaze.  Her seat was vacant, and we heard, that Elizabeth Ann was sick with typhus fever.  We visited her in her chamber.  She lay tossing from side to side, upon her bed, even gnawing her fingers for very pain.  I gazed upon her with pity, and they told me she must die.  I had seen the aged pass away, but never the young.  And musing long and sadly upon this event, I sought my home, and spent a restless night, repeating often the childish hymn, commencing,