Had I laid him aside on quitting college, as you did, I should perhaps have only remembered such of his epicurean lyrics as recommended themselves to the warns fancy of boyhood.

Ah, Elder Staples, there was a time when the Lyces and Glyceras of the poet were no fiction to us.

They played blindman's buff with us in the farmer's kitchen, sang with us in the meeting-house, and romped and laughed with us at huskings and quilting- parties.

Grandmothers and sober spinsters as they now are, the change in us is perhaps greater than in them." "Too true," replied the Elder, the smile which had just played over his pale face fading into something sadder than its habitual melancholy.
"The living companions of our youth, whom we daily meet, are more strange to us than the dead in yonder graveyard.

They alone remain unchanged!" "Speaking of Horace," continued the Doctor, in a voice slightly husky with feeling, "he gives us glowing descriptions of his winter circles of friends, where mirth and wine, music and beauty, charm away the hours, and of summer-day recreations beneath the vine-wedded elms of the Tiber or on the breezy slopes of Soracte; yet I seldom read them without a feeling of sadness.