ios in a dusty cupboard.
Nobody, he said, had ever before asked for it during his administration.
Strange!said Dr. Channing, turning over the leaves.
This was in my time the show-book of the collection; people came here purposely to see it.
He closed it with a sigh, and it was replaced in its crypt.
Dr. Channing is dead, the librarian who unearthed the book is since dead, and I have forgotten its very title.
In all coming time, probably, its repose will be as undisturbed as that of Hans Andersen's forgotten Christmas-tree in the garret.
Did, then, the authorship of that book give to its author so very substantial a hold on immortality?
But there is in literary fame such a thing as recurrence—a swing of the pendulum which at first brings despair to the young author, yet yields him at last his only consolation.
L‘éternite est une pendule, wrote Jacques Bridaine, that else forgotten Frenchman whose phrase gave Longfellow the hint of his Old Clock on the Stair.
When our profe