“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 His Mercy and His Justice are one.  May the Lord bless thee.  Thy friend sincerely,

   JOHN G. WHITTIER

This note, so redolent of humility, was written a few days after he had received a most superb birthday ovation from the public men of Massachusetts, and from the most eminent literary men in all parts of the nation.