Memory loves to go back to the past. I well recollect a summer evening of 1820. The day had declined, and the curtains of night were drawn around the green earth. While twilight still lingered in the west, gently fading into darkness, the moon rose in full orbed splendour. I was returning, with a friend from a walk. Our course lay along on the margin of the lake. Never did I see a sweeter or lovelier scene, than was exhibited on the bosom of that lake, lit up with a flood of splendour streaming down from the bright orb of night. That beautifully-expanded sheet of water lay in unruffled smoothness. The lake seemed like a sea of glass. If a ripple run over that transparent surface, it was so gentle, that it seemed only the rocking of the moon-beams to sleep that played there. The air was bland and balmy, and full of the fragrance which the verdant and flowery earth gave forth. But with myself and my friend, life then looked thus bright and fresh and fair. Our walk terminated at the threshhold of my own paternal mansion. We went in and sat down. Three other persons joined us. We looked out upon the moonlight scene, and talked of future days. There was not one sad or clouded brow there. I can remember every countenance in that happy group as though it were but yesterday night. But now of the five that sat there and enjoyed the delightful converse of that sweet night, I alone am the only survivor. All the rest have for these nine years slept within the precincts of the burial-ground.