m the most homesick man who ever lived," he responded sadly. "If I
only pass a night in a sleeping-car, I hate to leave my berth."

"You must have cultivated society in Andover," an eminent Cambridge
writer once said to me, with more sincerity of tone than was to be
expected of the Cambridge accent as addressed to the Andover fact. I
was young then, and I remember to have answered, honestly enough,
but with what must have struck this superior man as unpardonable
flippancy:

"Oh, but one gets tired of seeing only cultivated people!"

I have thought of it sometimes since, when, in other surroundings, the
memory of that peaceful, scholarly life has returned poignantly to me.

When one can "run in" any day to homes like those on that quiet
and conscientious Hill, one may not do it; but when one cannot, one
appreciates their high and gentle influence.

One of the historic figures of my day in Andover was Professor Park.
Equally eminent both as a preacher and as a theologian, his fame was
great in Zion; and "the world" itself had knowledge of him, and did
him honor.

He was a striking figure in the days which were the best of Andover.
He was unquestionably a genius; the fact that it was a kind of genius
for which the temper of our times is soon likely to find declining
uses gives some especial interest to his name.

The appearances are that he will be the last of his type, once so
powerful and still so venerable in New England history. He wears (for
he is yet living) the dignity of a closing cycle; there is something
sad and grand about his individualism, as there is about the last
great chief of a tribe, or the last king of a dynasty.

In his youth he was the progressive of Evangelical theology. In his
age he stands the proud and reticent conservative, the now silent
representative of a departed glory, a departed severity--and, we must
admit, of a departed strength--from which the theology of our times
has melted away. Like other men in such positions, he has had battles
to fight, and he has fought them; enemies to make, and he has made
them. How can he keep them? He is growing old so gently and so kindly!
Ardent friends and worshipping admirers he has always had, and kept,
and deserved.

A lady well known among the writers of our day, herself a professor's
daughter from a New England college town, happened once to be talking
with me in a lonely hour and in a mood of confidence.

"Oh," she cried, "it seems some o