That square foot over against this chair, where his paper lay, is the focus, the point of incidence and reflection, of thoughts that pencilled outward, like sun-rays, until their illumination reached the antipodes,--thoughts that brought a pleasant shining to the sun- burnt face of the Australian shepherd as he watched his flock at noon from under the shadow of a stunted tree; thoughts which made a cheery fellowship at night for the Hudson Bay hunter, in his snow- buried cabin on the Saskatchiwine.

The books of this little inner library were the body-guard of his genius, chosen to be nearest him in the outsallyings of his imagination.

Here is a little conversational closet, with a window in it to let in the leaf-sifted light and air--a small recess large enough for a couple of chairs or so, which he called a "Speak-a-bit." Here is something so near his personality that it almost startles you like a sudden apparition of himself.

It is a glass case containing the clothes he last wore on earth,--the large-buttoned, blue coat, the plaid trousers, the broad-brimmed hat, and heavy, thick-soled shoes which he had on when he came in from his last walk to lay himself down and die.
On signing my name in the register, I was affected at a coincidence which conveyed a tribute of respect to the memory of the great author of striking significance, while it recorded the painful catastrophe which has broken over upon the American Republic.

It was a sad sight to me to see the profane and suicidal antagonisms which have rent it in twain brought to the shrine of this great memory and graven upon its sacred tablet as it were with the murdering dagger's point.