oner or later.

Let me not forget to recall the interesting visit to Haverhill with my
room-mate, and how he led me to the mighty bridge over the Merrimack
which defied the ice-rafts of the river; and to the old meetinghouse,
where, in its porch, I saw the door of the ancient parsonage, with the
bullet-hole in it through which Benjamin Rolfe, the minister, was shot by
the Indians on the 29th of August, 1708. What a vision it was when I
awoke in the morning to see the fog on the river seeming as if it wrapped
the towers and spires of a great city!--for such was my fancy, and
whether it was a mirage of youth or a fantastic natural effect I hate to
inquire too nicely.

My literary performances at Andover, if any reader who may have survived
so far cares to know, included a translation from Virgil, out of which I
remember this couplet, which had the inevitable cockney rhyme of
beginners:

"Thus by the power of Jove's imperial arm
The boiling ocean trembled into calm."

Also a discussion with Master Phinehas Barnes on the case of Mary, Queen
of Scots, which he treated argumentatively and I rhetorically and
sentimentally. My sentences were praised and his conclusions adopted.
Also an Essay, spoken at the great final exhibition, held in the large
hall up-stairs, which hangs oddly enough from the roof, suspended by iron
rods. Subject, Fancy. Treatment, brief but comprehensive, illustrating
the magic power of that brilliant faculty in charming life into
forgetfulness of all the ills that flesh is heir to,--the gift of Heaven
to every condition and every clime, from the captive in his dungeon to
the monarch on his throne; from the burning sands of the desert to the
frozen icebergs of the poles, from--but I forget myself.

This was the last of my coruscations at Andover. I went from the Academy
to Harvard College, and did not visit the sacred hill again for a long
time.

On the last day of August, 1867, not having been at Andover, for many
years, I took the cars at noon, and in an hour or a little more found
myself at the station,--just at the foot of the hill. My first
pilgrimage was to the old elm, which I remembered so well as standing by
the tavern, and of which they used to tell the story that it held, buried
in it by growth, the iron rings put round it in the old time to keep the
Indians from chopping it with their tomahawks. I then began the once
familiar toil of ascending the long declivity. Academic