changers of money. The Hancock house, the umbilical scar of the cord
that held our city to the past, is vanishing like a dimple from the
water.

But Massachusetts, venerable old Massachusetts, stands as firm as ever;
Hollis, this very year a centenarian, is waiting with its honest red
face in a glow of cordiality to welcome its hundredth set of inmates;
Holden Chapel, with the skulls of its Doric frieze and the unpunishable
cherub over its portals, looks serenely to the sunsets; Harvard, within
whose ancient walls we are gathered, and whose morning bell has murdered
sleep for so many generations of drowsy adolescents, is at its post,
ready to startle the new-fledged freshmen from their first uneasy
slumbers. All these venerable edifices stand as they did when we were
boys,--when our grandfathers were boys. Let not the rash hand of
innovation violate their sanctities, for the cement that knits these
walls is no vulgar mortar, but is tempered with associations and
memories which are stronger than the parts they bind together!

We meet on this auspicious morning forgetting all our lesser
differences. As we enter these consecrated precincts, the livery of our
special tribe in creed and in politics is taken from us at the door, and
we put on the court dress of our gracious Queen's own ordering, the
academic robe, such as we wore in those bygone years scattered along the
seven last decades. We are not forgetful of the honors which our fellow
students have won since they received their college "parts,"--their
orations, dissertations, disquisitions, colloquies, and Greek dialogs.
But to-day we have no rank; we are all first scholars. The hero in his
laurels sits next to the divine rustling in the dry garlands of his
doctorate. The poet in his crown of bays, the critic, in his wreath of
ivy, clasp each other's hands, members of the same happy family. This is