And still the quick thought comes,
--A day so bright, so full of fun,
Never again on us shall rise."--CARL BAGGER.

It was in October of the year 1829. Examen artium had been passed
through. Several young students were assembled in the evening at
the abode of one of their comrades, a young Copenhagener of
eighteen, whose parents were giving him and his new friends a
banquet in honor of the examination. The mother and sister had
arranged everything in the nicest manner, the father had given
excellent wine out of the cellar, and the student himself, here the
rex convivii, had provided tobacco, genuine Oronoko-canaster. With
regard to Latin, the invitation--which was, of course, composed in
Latin--informed the guests that each should bring his own.

The company, consisting of one and twenty persons--and these were
only the most intimate friends--was already assembled. About one
third of the friends were from the provinces, the remainder out of
Copenhagen.

"Old Father Homer shall stand in the middle of the table!" said one
of the liveliest guests, whilst he took down from the stove a
plaster bust and placed it upon the covered table.

"Yes, certainly, he will have drunk as much as the other poets!"
said an older one. "Give me one of thy exercise-books, Ludwig! I
will cut him out a wreath of vine-leaves, since we have no roses
and since I cannot cut out any."

"I have no libation!" cried a third,--"Favete linguis." And he