It was settled, then, that I should go to Phillips Academy, and preparations were made that I might join the school at the beginning of the autumn.

In due time I took my departure in the old carriage, a little modernized from the pattern of my Lady Bountiful’s, and we jogged soberly along,—­kind parents and slightly nostalgic boy,—­towards the seat of learning, some twenty miles away.  Up the old West Cambridge road, now North Avenue; past Davenport’s tavern, with its sheltering tree and swinging sign; past the old powder-house, looking like a colossal conical ball set on end; past the old Tidd House, one of the finest of the ante-Revolutionary mansions; past Miss Swan’s great square boarding-school, where the music of girlish laughter was ringing through the windy corridors; so on to Stoneham, town of the bright lake, then darkened with the recent memory of the barbarous murder done by its lonely shore; through pleasant Reading, with its oddly named village centres, “Trapelo,” “Read’nwoodeend,” as rustic speech had it, and the rest; through Wilmington, then renowned for its hops; so at last into the hallowed borders of the academic town.

It was a shallow, two-story white house before which we stopped, just at the entrance of the central village, the residence of a very worthy professor in the theological seminary,—­learned, amiable, exemplary, but thought by certain experts to be a little questionable in the matter of homoousianism, or some such doctrine.  There was a great rock that showed its round back in the narrow front yard.  It looked cold and hard; but it hinted firmness and indifference to the sentiments fast struggling to get uppermost in my youthful bosom; for I was not too old for home-sickness,—­who is:  The carriage and my fond companions had to leave me at last.  I saw it go down the declivity that sloped southward, then climb the next ascent, then sink gradually until the window in the back of it disappeared like an eye that shuts, and leaves the world dark to some widowed heart.

Sea-sickness and home-sickness are hard to deal with by any remedy but time.  Mine was not a bad case, but it excited sympathy.  There was an ancient, faded old lady in the house, very kindly, but very deaf, rustling about in dark autumnal foliage of silk or other murmurous fabric, somewhat given to snuff, but a very worthy gentlewoman of the poor-relation variety.  She comforted me, I well remember, but not with apples, and stayed me, but not with flagons.  She went in her benevolence, and, taking a blue and white soda-powder, mingled the same in water, and encouraged me to drink the result.  It might be a specific for seasickness, but it was not for home-sickness.  The fiz was a mockery, and the saline refrigerant struck a colder chill to my despondent heart.  I did not disgrace myself, however, and a few days cured me, as a week on the water often cures seasickness.