There is nothing that happens, you know, which must not inevitably, and which does not actually, photograph itself in every conceivable aspect and in all dimensions.  The infinite galleries of the Past await but one brief process and all their pictures will be called out and fixed forever.  We had a curious illustration of the great fact on a very humble scale.  When a certain bookcase, long standing in one place, for which it was built, was removed, there was the exact image on the wall of the whole, and of many of its portions.  But in the midst of this picture was another,—­the precise outline of a map which had hung on the wall before the bookcase was built.  We had all forgotten everything about the map until we saw its photograph on the wall.  Then we remembered it, as some day or other we may remember a sin which has been built over and covered up, when this lower universe is pulled away from before the wall of Infinity, where the wrong-doing stands self-recorded.

The Professor lived in that house a long time,—­not twenty years, but pretty near it.  When he entered that door, two shadows glided over the threshold; five lingered in the doorway when he passed through it for the last time,—­and one of the shadows was claimed by its owner to be longer than his own.  What changes he saw in that quiet place!  Death rained through every roof but his; children came into life, grew to maturity, wedded, faded away, threw themselves away; the whole drama of life was played in that stock-company’s theatre of a dozen houses, one of which was his, and no deep sorrow or severe calamity ever entered his dwelling.  Peace be to those walls, forever,—­the Professor said,—­for the many pleasant years he has passed within them!

The Professor has a friend, now living at a distance, who has been with him in many of his changes of place, and who follows him in imagination with tender interest wherever he goes.—­In that little court, where he lived in gay loneliness so long,—­

—­in his autumnal sojourn by the Connecticut, where it comes loitering down from its mountain fastnesses like a great lord, swallowing up the small proprietary rivulets very quietly as it goes, until it gets proud and swollen and wantons in huge luxurious oxbows about the fair Northampton meadows, and at last overflows the oldest inhabitant’s memory in profligate freshets at Hartford and all along its lower shores,—­up in that caravansary on the banks of the stream where Ledyard launched his log canoe, and the jovial old Colonel used to lead the Commencement processions, —­where blue Ascutney looked down from the far distance, and the hills of Beulah, as the Professor always called them, rolled up the opposite horizon in soft climbing masses, so suggestive of the Pilgrim’s Heavenward Path that he used to look through his old “Dollond” to see if the Shining Ones were not within range of sight,—­sweet visions, sweetest in those Sunday walks which carried them by the peaceful common, through the solemn village lying in cataleptic stillness under the shadow of the rod of Moses, to the terminus of their harmless stroll,—­the patulous fage, in the Professor’s classic dialect,—­the spreading beech, in more familiar phrase,—­[stop and breathe here a moment, for the sentence is not done yet, and we have another long journey before us,]—­