oken, when the tree of Hope puts forth its buds and the sun of Freedom
shines, falls with us, as is well known, in the month of October, just
when Nature loses her foliage, when the evenings begin to grow darker,
and when heavy winter-clouds draw together, as though they would say
to youth,--"Your spring, the birth of the examination, is only a dream!
even now does your life become earnest!" But our happy youths think not
of these things, neither will we be joyous with the gay, and pay a visit
to their circle. In such a one our story takes its commencement.

CHAPTER II

"At last we separate:
To Jutland one, to Fuenen others go;
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 sprinkled
a small quantity of salt, from the point of a knife, upon the bust, at
the same time raising his glass to moisten it with a few drops of wine.

"Do not use my Homer as you would an ox!" cried the host. "Homer shall
have the place of honor, between the bowl and the garland-cake! He is
especially my poet! It was he who in Greek assisted