ne night, at a late hour, the door-bell
rang, and her brother, on answering it, found a young man in an
officer's uniform standing at the door. 'Is this Mr. Whittier?' he
asked. 'Yes.' 'Well, sir,' was the quick reply, 'I only wanted to have
the pleasure of shaking hands with you.' And with that he seized the
poet's hand, shook it warmly, and rushed away, before Mr. Whittier had
recovered from his surprise.

"In subsequent visits to Mr. Whittier, he was sometimes induced to
talk about his poems, although that was a subject on which he rarely
spoke. On my friend's once warmly praising _Maud Muller_, he said
decidedly that he did not like the poem, because it was too sad; it
ministered to the spirit of unrest and dissatisfaction which was only
too prevalent. With _My Psalm_ he felt much better satisfied, because
it was more hopeful. His favorite poets were Wordsworth and Burns. He
once showed us an autograph letter of Burns, which he prized very
highly, and a number of beautiful photographs of Scotch scenery, the
gift of a sturdy old Scotchman, a neighbor of his and also an ardent,
admirer of Burns.

"Our conversation occasionally touched on the subject of marriage, and
I remember his asking us if we could imagine why there should be so
much unhappiness among married people, even among those who seemed to
have everything calculated to make them happy, and who really loved
each other. He said he had pondered over the subject a good deal, and
had finally concluded that it was because they saw too much of each
other. He did not believe it was well for any two human beings to have
too much of each other's society. We told him that, being a
much-to-be-commiserated bachelor, he was not competent authority on
that subject.

"Among the most intimate of his friends were Mr. and Mrs. James T.
Fields, Colonel Higginson, Charles Sumner, and Bayard Taylor. To the
two latter, and also to Emerson, he has alluded very beautifully in
one of his most characteristic poems, _The Last Walk in Autumn_.

"On visiting the poet after my return from the South, for a vacation,
I found a new inmate of the house, a gray and scarlet parrot, named
Charlie, a great pet of the poet and his sister, and far-famed for his
wit and wisdom. He could say many things with great distinctness, and
although at first refusing rather spitefully to make my acquaintance,
when I invited him to come into the kitchen and get his supper he at
once hopped upon my hand