of the Supreme Court of the United States; for the very able chief justice of Massachusetts, George Tyler Bigelow; and for that famous wit and electric centre of social life, George T. Davis.  At the last annual dinner every effort was made to bring all the survivors of the class together.  Six of the ten living members were there, six old men in the place of the thirty or forty classmates who surrounded the long, oval table in 1859, when I asked, “Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?”—­11 boys whose tongues were as the vibrating leaves of the forest; whose talk was like the voice of many waters; whose laugh was as the breaking of mighty waves upon the seashore.  Among the six at our late dinner was our first scholar, the thorough-bred and accomplished engineer who held the city of Lawrence in his brain before it spread itself out along the banks of the Merrimac.  There, too, was the poet whose National Hymn, “My Country, ’t is of thee,” is known to more millions, and dearer to many of them, than all the other songs written since the Psalms of David.  Four of our six were clergymen; the engineer and the present writer completed the list.  Were we melancholy?  Did we talk of graveyards and epitaphs?  No,—­we remembered our dead tenderly, serenely, feeling deeply what we had lost in those who but a little while ago were with us.  How could we forget James Freeman Clarke, that man of noble thought and vigorous action, who pervaded this community with his spirit, and was felt through all its channels as are the light and the strength that radiate through the wires which stretch above us?  It was a pride and a happiness to have such classmates as he was to remember.  We were not the moping, complaining graybeards that many might suppose we must have been.  We had been favored with the blessing of long life.  We had seen the drama well into its fifth act.  The sun still warmed us, the air was still grateful and life-giving.  But there was another underlying source of our cheerful equanimity, which we could not conceal from ourselves if we had wished to do it.  Nature’s kindly anodyne is telling upon us more and more with every year.  Our old doctors used to give an opiate which they called “the black drop.”  It was stronger than laudanum, and, in fact, a dangerously powerful narcotic.  Something like this is that potent drug in Nature’s pharmacopoeia which she reserves for the time of need,—­the later stages of life.  She commonly begins administering it at about the time of the “grand climacteric,” the ninth septennial period, the sixty-third year.  More and more freely she gives it, as the years go on, to her grey-haired children, until, if they last long enough, every faculty is benumbed, and they drop off quietly into sleep under its benign influence.