ication of the
meeting. It once happened that a certain George C---- grew rather
wearisome in his exhortations, and his prudent brethren, after solemn
consultation, passed the following resolution: "It is the sense of this
meeting that George C.---- be advised to remain silent, until such time
as the Lord shall speak through him _more to our satisfaction and
profit_." A resolution of that kind would not be out of place in some
ecclesiastical assemblies, nor in certain prayer gatherings that I wot
of. After the circle broke up I told him that in addition to the kind
and characteristic letters he had written to me I wanted a scrap of his
poetry to add to those which Bryant and others had contributed to my
collection of autographs. "What shall it be?" he said. I told him that,
while some of his hymns and devoutly spiritual pieces, like "My soul and
I," were very dear to me, and while "Snow Bound" was his acknowledged
masterpiece, yet none of his verses did I oftener quote than this one,
in his poem on Massachusetts, He smiled at the selection, and
accordingly sat down and wrote:

"She heeds no skeptic's puny hands,
While near the school the church-spire stands,
Nor fears the bigot's blinded rule,
While near the church-spire stands the school."

Our walk to his place of sojourn in the moonlight was very delightful.
On the way I told him that not long before, when I quoted a verse of
Bryant's to Horace Greeley, Mr. Greeley replied: "Bryant is all very
well, but by far the greatest poet this country has produced is John
Greenleaf Whittier." "Did our friend Horace say that?" meekly inquired
Whittier, and a smile of satisfaction flowed over his Quaker
countenance. The man is not born yet who does not like an honest
compliment, especially if it comes from a high quarter. In the course of
my life I have received several very pleasant letters from my venerable
friend, the Quaker poet; but immediately after his eightieth birthday he
addressed me the following letter, which, believing it to be his last, I
framed and hung on the walls of my library:

OAK KNOLL,
12th month, 17th, 1887.
_My dear Dr. Cuyler_,

I thank thee for thy loving letter to me on my birthday,
which I would have answered immediately but for illness;
and, my friend, I wish I was more worthy of the kind and
good things said of me. But my prayer is, "God be Merciful
to me." And I think my prayer will be answered, for