Of course, Mr. Alderman Gurteen was taken to see Whittier, the poet, who lived in a house with his three cousins and a little niece at Haverhill, where they yet show you the photograph of the cottage in which he was born, and the barn-like school in which he was educated. The poet, he has passed away since this was written, at the ripe age of eighty-two, enjoyed life; took an interest in all that passes, and, tall and thin, certainly did not look his age. He had written for the celebration a poem from which I have quoted above. Haverhill is proud of her shoes—but of her poet more. His way of life is familiar to them all—his early hours, his simple habits, his pet squirrels, who come to be fed, his plain living, and high thinking. He is a Quaker in speech, and talks to Englishmen of Henry Vincent, whom he knew, and George Thompson, with whom he fought for the anti-slavery cause. He is a charming old man, says Mr. Gurteen, and upright as a dart. He was much interested in the address from the English Haverhill. In fact, all whom Mr. Gurteen met with in his international trip acted as friends. They were, he says, a downright good lot of men and women, and what pleased him most was their devotion to the old country. He was delighted with everything he saw, “They are a right noble people, and our sort to a T.” It was the same everywhere. For instance, at Albany Mr. Gurteen and his daughter (who I should have said, accompanied him, and was as much charmed with America as he was) put their heads into a chapel, which happened to be open, and were accosted by a gentleman, with the remark that there was “no service to-night.” He told him in return that he was a stranger, and had only looked in from curiosity. “Where from”? he asked, and when the reply was “England,” the gentleman put out both hands, and said, “Welcome, welcome; I am glad to shake hands with any one from the old country,” and lit up the whole place in the twinkling of an eye.