That there is no mistake, in regard to the general impression of life produced by the view of this group, is proved by the following anecdote, of the literal truth of which there can be no doubt. A citizen invited his lady, as they were passing the place of exhibition, to enter and see it. She declined, alleging that such shows were generally worthless deceptions. But the door being open, the lady looking in, observed that there must be something striking in it, or else the party of quakers on the opposite side of the room would not show so much delight in witnessing it. The group, seen at this distance, has the appearance of quakers in a frolic; and the lady had mistaken those figures for life.

With one incident more, associated with graver thoughts, I close a journal, which, I perceive, is growing beyond my first purpose. No meetings, I believe, from their circumstances and recollections are more generally interesting, than those of fellow students after a lapse of years, who have been severed by time and the stern avocations of life. Alas! the joys of life are chiefly to be sought in the stores of memory, or from anticipations as often renewed as disappointed, in the future. They are too frail and unsubstantial to bear the scrutiny and analysis of the actual present. The long remembered frolics and witticisms, the reckless cheeriness of heart, the plans and dreams of youth in minds as yet untainted with ambition and unscathed with care and disappointment, come over the memory like the flying clouds and spring breezes after the dreariness of a long winter. I had already and by courtesy been invited, though a sort of alien, to be present at a class meeting of the class graduating two years subsequent to mine. It was at the house of the Rev. Dr. C. of Dorchester. The luxury of a sumptuous dinner was the least part of the enjoyment of this pleasant interview. I ought not to forget a moral association connected with the meeting of this respectable class, which constitutes a sort of organized sodality. It is a fund for the relief of the widows of members of the class, who have deceased in decayed condition and indigent circumstances. Such an appropriation is in admirable keeping with the feelings which such a meeting is calculated to elicit.

The last evening which I spent in Boston will never be forgotten, at least by me, as long as memory shall retain her seat. It was passed at the house of our class mate chief justice S. who kindly undertook to invite such of our class in Boston and its vicinity, as could be assembled on so short a notice as a day. Some of us had not met for thirty-three years; and in that long interval the stern king of the scythe and hour glass had scathed our numbers with a deadlier mortality, than the issue of the severest battle. Five had fallen during the last year. They had made their exit, some by flood, some by field, and some by slow

decay. Some of the survivors were in distant climes, and most of them widely severed from each other. How changed from the union of the chapel and recitation room, when we were all together in the frolic freshness and sanguine inexperience of boyhood, before as yet a single passage of life had been disenchanted! The oddities and eccentricities, even the gait and the tones of voice of the officers of the government were all so vividly remembered, that more than one could evoke them, without calling their name, by a gesture or a tone. Not an anecdote, or bon mot, not a trick played upon the government or each other was forgotten. No class, I suspect, has so many, and so strongly remembered treasured anecdotes. The scroll of the class was called, and the biography of the members, living or dead, summarily given in a charitable and good natured strain. Those of us, who survived, had here the advantage of hearing our posthumous estimate; and we found, as may be expected, no small cause for gratulation, and magnifying the fortunate era that sent forth such a diversity of talents and merit, into a thankless and unappreciating world; though it appeared, that a fair proportion had mounted to the high places of society, or had found the secret of transmuting their industry and good fortune to gold. Our heroes and sages, upon our showing, only wanted their Homers and Pindars, to have figured with the best. One of the departed had prematurely reached the highest honours and the freshest and most imperishable fame of the sacred profession. A living member was justly awarded, by the concurrent voice of artists, on both shores of the Atlantic, with the first honours of the pencil. Another, stood at the head of the engineering department. Our host filled to the highest acceptation, the most responsible office in his native state, so that some of our numbers were found not unhonoured, if unsung. None, but those who heard, could realize how many sayings and doings, alternately grave, witty, or ridiculous, were remembered. From fruitful A, to unproductive Z, we had had our wits, poets, wags, and queer ones, as well as our great great men and artists. Again, the venerable Willard; the contemplative and seldom smiling Webber; the stern and microscopic analyzer of words, Dr. Pearson; the witty and eccentric Baron; the tall, erect, and well powdered Shapleigh, came forth from the past, and took us back to the days when our acquisitions of Greek, Mathematics, and Logic, were dearly purchased at the expense of many a sorrow, and when the most popular officer was he, who most frequently omitted recitations; again we shivered before the January dawn, at the long chapter and prayers in the unwarmed chapel; again we stumbled over the poor dead barber, Gallia, who found his fate in a winter's night, in the dark entry of the chapel, a little overcome with alcohol. Alas! most of our numbers, it was sad to reflect, had ceased

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown.
Connecticut hath wreath'd it

Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breath'd it hoarse, Through all her ancient caves.

Wachusett hides their lingering voice
Within his rocky heart,
And Alleghany graves its tone
Throughout his lofty chart.
Monadnock on his forehead hoar
Doth seal the sacred trust,
Your mountains build their monument,
Though ye give the winds their dust.

Ye deem those red-brow'd brethren
The insects of an hour,

Forgotten and despis'd, amid

The regions of their power.

Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, Ye break of faith the seal.

But can ye from the Court of Heaven Exclude their last appeal?

INDIAN NAMES.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

"How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories rivers and lakes, are designated by their names?"

Ye say they all have past away
That noble race and brave,

That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave,

That 'mid the forests where they roam'd

There rings no hunter's shout;

But their name is on your waters,
Ye may not wash it out.

Yes, where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curl'd,

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,

Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the west,

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps

On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their conelike cabins

That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd as wither'd leaves
Before the Autumn gale:
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,

Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

They use a thousand meaning words
Thou could'st not utter or define,
Of which, to tell the truth, three thirds,
Were gravel, in a mouth like thine.

They hold me out an empty skull,
To show the powers of living brains;
'Tis just like feeling of the hull

To tell what goods the ship contains.

And whether nature or mishap

Have raised the bump, 'tis all the same;

The sage's crown or dunce's cap

Must be awarded as its claim.