cymbal. And to be a real teacher is a very high achievement.

Bishop Vincent was giving a lecture on "That Boy." He himself was "that
boy," and in the course of describing his school days he fell into
meditation as follows: "That old school master of mine!--He is dead
now--_and I have forgiven him!_--And I am afraid that was the chronology
of the matter; for I never was able to forgive him while he lived." I,
as one of the listeners, smiled at the bitter wit of the speaker, but
was oppressed.

This somber view of the impression sometimes left by teachers on their
pupils received an antidote the following day, however, when a venerable
old man approached my desk bearing in his hands an ancient and dog-eared
copy of a text in grammar. He opened the book and proudly showed me
written across the fly leaf "Grover Cleveland, President." Then he told
me this story:

"I have been a teacher. In one of my first schools I had Grover
Cleveland as a pupil. He came without a textbook in grammar, and I
loaned him mine. Years passed, and Grover Cleveland was President of the
United States. One day I was one of many hundreds passing in line at a
public reception to grasp the President's hand. I carried this book with
me, and when it came my turn to meet the President, I presented the
volume and said, 'Mr. President, do you recognize this book, and do you
remember me?' In an instant the light of recognition had flashed in Mr.
Cleveland's eyes. Calling me by name, he grasped my hand and held it
while the crowd waited and while he recalled old times and thanked me
for what I had meant to him when I was his teacher. Then he took the old
book and autographed it for me."