Here of all places in the world we may best hope to find the peace we seek for.  It seems as if nothing were left undisturbed in New England except here and there an old graveyard, and these dear old College buildings, with the trees in which they are embowered.  The old State House is filled with those that sell oxen and sheep and doves, and the 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 the birthday feast for every one of us whose forehead has been sprinkled from the font inscribed “Christo et Ecclesioe.”  We have no badges but our diplomas, no distinctions but our years of graduation.  This is the republic carried into the university; all of us are born equal into this great fraternity.

Welcome, then, welcome, all of you, dear brothers, to this our joyous meeting!  We must, we will call it joyous, tho it comes with many saddening thoughts.  Our last triennial meeting was a festival in a double sense, for the same day that brought us together at our family gathering gave a new head to our ancient household of the university.  As I look to-day in vain for his stately presence and kindly smile,