are the memories of that rich, clear, prodigal August of '67!

We would rest on the hillsides, in the swaying golden shadows,
watching together the Titanic masses of snow-white clouds
which floated slowly and vaguely through the sky, suggesting by their form,
whiteness, and serene motion, despite the season, flotillas of icebergs
upon Arctic seas. Like Lazzaroni we basked in the quiet noons,
sunk into the depths of reverie, or perhaps of yet more "charmed sleep".
Or we smoked, conversing lazily between the puffs,

"Next to some pine whose antique roots just peeped
From out the crumbling bases of the sand."

But the evenings, with their gorgeous sunsets "rolling down like a chorus"
and the "gray-eyed melancholy gloaming", were the favorite
hours of the day with him. He would often apostrophize twilight
in the language of Wordsworth's sonnet: --

"Hail, twilight! sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art thou as undiscerning night;
But only studious to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions."

"Yes," said he, "she is indeed sovereign of ONE PEACEFUL HOUR!
In the hardest, busiest time one feels the calm, merciful-minded queen
stealing upon one in the fading light, and `whispering', as Ford has it
(or is it Fletcher?), -- `WHISPERING tranquillity'."

When in-doors and disposed to read, he took much pleasure
in perusing the poems of Robert Buchanan and Miss Ingelow.