But if we remember rightly, there is a room in this old building that we have not yet visited. Yes, here is the narrow stairway that led to the Exhibition Hall in the second story. Cautiously we enter it; but here also has the spirit of desolation a home. On these mutilated seats once thronged thousands of spectators; and yonder is the platform where the youthful orators were wont to “speak in public on the stage.” The only breathing creature that meets our eye is a little mouse running to his hole, almost frightened to death by our appearance. When last we stood in this place, thousands of human hearts beat happily, for parents listened to the eloquence of their children, and those children gloried in the realization of their long-cherished hopes. How vivid are our recollections of that exhibition day! It concluded an exile of three years from our far distant home in the wilds of Michigan. The period of return our heart panted after continually, for we were away from the home of boyhood, from a mother, a father, and sisters; and though we often visited, and were under the care of kindred, we felt ourself to be alone and companionless. And with that day, too, are associated events that flattered our youthful ambition; and though we know them to be idle as a tale that is told, we cannot but cherish the memory of that day even for them. But with our last day at school are associated some clouds and shadows, the most prominent of which were our leave-takings with our schoolfellows. We parted for our widely separated homes, and where we all are, or what is our present condition are things known only to the Father of the world.—It is well—it is well. “Our sorrow voices itself to the stranger many; and all that in other days were gladdened by our song—if still living—stray scattered through the world.” It is well.
But the hours of day are almost numbered, and it is time for us to be gone; and besides the glow upon yonder window tells us that “the sun hath made a glorious set,” and that we should improve the hour to the gratification of our passion for the poetry of the sky. A few moments more, and we are on the green in front of the Old Academy. Forgetful of the unnumbered feelings it has inspired and the pictures it has recalled, we are wending our way to the home of a kind friend, wholly absorbed with the gorgeous appearance of the western sky and the solemn twilight by which we are surrounded. The hour is one that we have ever dearly loved, for it is the sabbath of the day, when a solemn stillness is around, and an unutterable joy is wont to take possession of the soul.