My especial intimate was a fine, rosy-faced boy, not quite so free of speech as myself, perhaps, but with qualities that promised a noble manhood, and ripened into it in due season.  His name was Phinehas Barnes, and, if he is inquired after in Portland or anywhere in the State of Maine, something will be heard to his advantage from any honest and intelligent citizen of that Commonwealth who answers the question.  This was one of two or three friendships that lasted.  There were other friends and classmates, one of them a natural humorist of the liveliest sort, who would have been quarantined in any Puritan port, his laugh was so potently contagious.

Of the noted men of Andover the one whom I remember best was Professor Moses Stuart.  His house was nearly opposite the one in which I resided and I often met him and listened to him in the chapel of the Seminary.  I have seen few more striking figures in my life than his, as I remember it.  Tall, lean, with strong, bold features, a keen, scholarly, accipitrine nose, thin, expressive lips, great solemnity and impressiveness of voice and manner, he was my early model of a classic orator.  His air was Roman, his neck long and bare like Cicero’s, and his toga,—­that is his broadcloth cloak,—­was carried on his arm, whatever might have been the weather, with such a statue-like rigid grace that he might have been turned into marble as he stood, and looked noble by the side of the antiques of the Vatican.

Dr. Porter was an invalid, with the prophetic handkerchief bundling his throat, and his face “festooned”—­as I heard Hillard say once, speaking of one of our College professors—­in folds and wrinkles.  Ill health gives a certain common character to all faces, as Nature has a fixed course which she follows in dismantling a human countenance:  the noblest and the fairest is but a death’s-head decently covered over for the transient ceremony of life, and the drapery often falls half off before the procession has passed.

Dr. Woods looked his creed more decidedly, perhaps, than any of the Professors.  He had the firm fibre of a theological athlete, and lived to be old without ever mellowing, I think, into a kind of half-heterodoxy, as old ministers of stern creed are said to do now and then,—­just as old doctors grow to be sparing of the more exasperating drugs in their later days.  He had manipulated the mysteries of the Infinite so long and so exhaustively, that he would have seemed more at home among the mediaeval schoolmen than amidst the working clergy of our own time.

All schools have their great men, for whose advent into life the world is waiting in dumb expectancy.  In due time the world seizes upon these wondrous youth, opens the shell of their possibilities like the valves of an oyster, swallows them at a gulp, and they are for the most part heard of no more.  We had two great men, grown up both of them.  Which was the more awful intellectual power to be