ture of Quakerism," New
York edition of 1806.

The little red chest near the fireplace is an ancient relic of the
family, formerly used for storing linen. The portrait of Whittier over
the fireplace is enlarged from a miniature painted by J. S. Porter
about 1830, and it is the earliest likeness of the poet ever taken. The
original miniature may be seen at the Amesbury home. The large
portrait on the opposite side of the room was painted by Joseph Lindon
Smith, an artist of celebrity, who is a relative of Whittier's.
Portraits of Whittier's brother, his sisters, his mother, and his old
schoolmaster, Joshua Coffin, are shown in this room. The silhouette on
the mantelpiece is of aunt Mercy, his mother's unmarried sister. A
sampler worked by Lydia Aver, the girl commemorated in the poem "In
School Days," is exhibited in this room. She was a member of the family
who were the nearest neighbors of the Whittiers--a family still
represented in their ancient homestead, where her grandniece now lives.
She died at the age of fourteen.

It was the privilege of the writer to accompany Mr. Whittier when he
made his last visit to his birthplace, in late October, 1882. When in
this birth-room, he expressed a wish to see again a fire upon its
hearth, not for warmth, for it was a warm day, but for the sentiment of
it. The elderly woman who had charge of the house said she would have a
fire built, and in the mean time we went down to the brook, intending
to cross by the stepping-stones he had so often used. But the brook was
running full, the stepping-stones were slippery, and Mr. Whittier
reluctantly gave up crossing. Then we visited the little burying-ground
of the family, where lie the remains of his ancestors. When we returned
to the parlor, we found the good woman had brought down a sheet-iron
air-tight stove from the attic, set it in the fireplace, and there was
a crackling fire in it! I suggested that we could easily remove the
stove and have a blaze on the hearth, but Mr. Whittier at once
negatived the proposition, saying we must not let the woman know we
were disappointed. She had taken much pains to please us, and must not
be made aware of her mistake. He was always ready to suffer
inconvenience rather than wound the sensibilities of any one.

From the back entry at the western end of the kitchen ascends the
steep staircase down which Whittier, when an infant, was rolled by his
sister Mary, two years older than he. She thought