e Mystic after colonial times was baptized in the blood of this New Hampshire boy, and as one of the results of his tragic and untimely fate I am sitting here and talking to you tonight.
When I left my New Hampshire home fifty years later to seek, as my uncle did, my fortune, my mother exacted a promise from me that I sometime would visit Medford, find the grave, and mark it with a stone, no matter how humble.
It was a year or two before the opportunity came.
One beautiful day in early October, in 1853, I started out from my Boston boarding-house on my long delayed mission.
It was a day to be remembered.
The sky was clear, the air bracing, and my lightheartedness was altogether unbefitting the solemnity of my errand.
After leaving Charlestown Neck it was a plunge into the real country.
Winter Hill was bare of buildings, save here and there a farmhouse, and on either side were fields of corn and spacious gardens, pastures, and green trees where are now paved streets and rows