You are then admitted into a large hall, accommodated with shelves for
the convenience of the scholars, and as we pass through this and enter
the school-room, we feel almost a child again. But we see at a glance
that our dear old teacher does not occupy the desk, and it is a
stranger's voice that strikes upon the ear. As we glance at the
well-filled seats, we readily perceive there is not one of all the
group, no, not one, that occupied those seats when we were scholars
there. But we will sit calmly down upon the teacher's desk and recall
the dim shadowy forms of the past, the by-gone past. The breeze that
passes through the open window and fans the brow, might be mistaken
for the same playful zephyr that sported with our own silken locks in
childhood, as we stood before this same open window. The monotonous
hum of the school-room seems the same and the drowsy buzz of the
summer fly as it floats on azure wings brings to the ear a well
remembered sound, and we press our hand tightly upon our eyes and try
to think we are living over again years that are passed. It will not
do, there is a change--we must acknowledge that change. The teacher
who so long presided in this place, was a stern man, of commanding
figure, with a high, broad forehead and piercing black eyes, coal
black hair and beard, with rather a handsome countenance, although
nothing could ever provoke a smile upon it in school hours, and he
governed his pupils more by fear than love.
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