Look here.  Here are some human lies laid down against the periods of its growth, to which they corresponded.  This is Shakspeare’s.  The tree was seven inches in diameter when he was born; ten inches when he died.  A little less than ten inches when Milton was born; seventeen when he died.  Then comes a long interval, and this thread marks out Johnson’s life, during which the tree increased from twenty-two to twenty-nine inches in diameter.  Here is the span of Napoleon’s career;—­the tree doesn’t seem to have minded it.

I never saw the man yet who was not startled at looking on this section.  I have seen many wooden preachers,—­never one like this.  How much more striking would be the calendar counted on the rings of one of those awful trees which were standing when Christ was on earth, and where that brief mortal life is chronicled with the stolid apathy of vegetable being, which remembers all human history as a thing of yesterday in its own dateless existence!

I have something more to say about elms.  A relative tells me there is one of great glory in Andover, near Bradford.  I have some recollections of the former place, pleasant and other. [I wonder if the old Seminary clock strikes as slowly as it used to.  My room-mate thought, when he first came, it was the bell tolling deaths, and people’s ages, as they do in the country.  He swore—­(ministers’ sons get so familiar with good words that they are apt to handle them carelessly)—­that the children were dying by the dozen, of all ages, from one to twelve, and ran off next day in recess, when it began to strike eleven, but was caught before the clock got through striking.] At the foot of “the hill,” down in town, is, or was, a tidy old elm, which was said to have been hooped with iron to protect it from Indian tomahawks, (Credat Hahnemannus,) and to have grown round its hoops and buried them in its wood.  Of course, this is not the tree my relative means.

Also, I have a very pretty letter from Norwich, in Connecticut, telling me of two noble elms which are to be seen in that town.  One hundred and twenty-seven feet from bough-end to bough-end!  What do you say to that?  And gentle ladies beneath it, that love it and celebrate its praises!  And that in a town of such supreme, audacious, Alpine loveliness as Norwich!—­Only the dear people there must learn to call it Norridge, and not be misled by the mere accident of spelling.

  Nor_wich_. 
  Por_ch_mouth. 
  Cincinnat_ah_.

What a sad picture of our civilization!

I did not speak to you of the great tree on what used to be the Colman farm, in Deerfield, simply because I had not seen it for many years, and did not like to trust my recollection.  But I had it in memory, and even noted down, as one of the finest trees in symmetry and beauty I had ever seen.  I have received a document, signed by two citizens of a neighboring town, certified by the postmaster and a selectman,