that it told.  I recall a discussion of German lyrics, the criticism interspersed with many readings from the poets noted, which was deeply impressive.  At one time he quoted the “Shepherd’s Song” from Faust, “Der Schaefer putzte sich zum Tanz.”  This he gave with exquisite modulation, dwelling upon the refrain at the end of each stanza, “Juchhe, Juchhe, Juchheise, heise, he, so ging der Fiedelbogen!” This he recited with such effect that one imagined he heard the touch of the bow upon the strings of the ’cello with the mellow, long-drawn cadence.  He read to us, too, with great feeling, the simple lyric, Die wandelnde Glocke; upon me at least this made so deep an impression that soon after having the class poem to write, I based upon it my composition, devoting to it far too assiduously the best part of my last college term.  I have always felt that I was near the incubation of Longfellow’s best-known poem, perhaps his masterpiece, the all-pervading Hiawatha.  The college chapel of those days was in University Hall and is now the Faculty Room, a beautiful little chamber which sufficed sixty years ago for the small company which then composed the student body.  At either end above the floor-space was a gallery.  One fronted the pulpit, curving widely and arranged with pews for the accommodation of the professors and their families.  Opposite this was the choir loft over the preacher’s head, a smaller gallery containing the strident old-fashioned reed organ, and seats for the dozen or so who made up the college choir.  Places in the choir were much sought after, for a student could stretch his legs and indulge in a comfortable yawn unmolested by the scrutiny of the proctors who kept a sharp watch on their brethren on the settees below.  The professors brought their families, and the daughters were sometimes pretty.  Behind the green curtains of the choir loft one could scan to his heart’s content quite unobserved the beauties at their devotions.  The college choir of my time contained sometimes boys who had interesting careers.  The organist who, while he manipulated the keys, growled at the same time an abysmal bass, afterward became a zealous Catholic, dying in Rome as Chamberlain in the Vatican of Pope Leo XIII.  Horace Howard Furness was the principal stay of the treble, his clear, strong voice carrying far; my function was to afford to him a rather uncertain support.  My voice was not of the best nor was my ear quite sure.  I ventured once to criticise a fellow-singer as being off the pitch; he retorted that I was tarred from the same stick and he proved it true, but there we sang together above the heads of venerable men who preached.  They were good men, sometimes great scholars, but the ears they addressed were not always willing.  A somewhat machine-like sermoniser who, it was irreverently declared, ran as if wound up but sometimes slipped a cog, had been known to pray “that the intemperate might become temperate, the intolerant tolerant, the industrious