She has dressed herself
in brighter colors than she has hitherto worn, so they tell me, within
the last few days. She has modernized her aspects in several ways; she
has rubbed bright the glasses through which she looks at the Common and
the Colleges; and as the sunsets shine upon her through the flickering
leaves or the wiry spray of the elms I remember from my childhood, they
will glorify her into the aspect she wore when President Holyoke, father
of our long since dead centenarian, looked upon her in her youthful
comeliness.
The quiet corner formed by this and the neighboring residences has
changed less than any place I can remember. Our kindly, polite, shrewd,
and humorous old neighbor, who in former days has served the town as
constable and auctioneer, and who bids fair to become the oldest
inhabitant of the city, was there when I was born, and is living there
to-day. By and by the stony foot of the great University will plant
itself on this whole territory, and the private recollections which clung
so tenaciously and fondly to the place and its habitations will have died
with those who cherished them.
Shall they ever live again in the memory of those who loved them here
below? What is this life without the poor accidents which made it our
own, and by which we identify ourselves? Ah me! I might like to be a
winged chorister, but still it seems to me I should hardly be quite happy
if I could not recall at will the Old House with the Long Entry, and the
White Chamber (where I wrote the first verses that made me known, with a
pencil, stans pede in uno, pretty, nearly), and the Little Parlor, and
the Study, and the old books in uniforms as varied as those of the
Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company used to be, if my memory serves
me right, and the front yard with the Star-of-Bethlehems growing,
flowerless, among the grass, and the dear faces to be seen no more there
or anywhere on this earthly place of farewells.
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