* * * * * One evening as he sat talking in the garden room, gazing into his open fire, it furnished him an apt illustration of the uselessness of giving people advice contrary to the trend of their own inclinations. He asserted that one’s own experience is of no use as a warning to others. He declared that should one try to warn another against the danger of being burned, the other would question: “You said you put your hand into the fire?” “Yes,” the adviser would respond. “And you got it burned?” “Yes, I did,” the first would answer, still more decidedly. “Very well,” the adventurer would retort. “Now I want to put my hand in and see how it feels.” * * * * * Through all the changing years Whittier was the same dear lover of a jest. In his age he one day handed his photograph to the writer with the comment: “There’s the old rascal!” In the July of 1887 in a letter from Centre Harbor to the writer, whom he had known from her childhood, he wrote: “It is too bad that you [her mother and herself] are in Amesbury and I in Centre Harbor. It is like the case of John Gilpin whose wife dined in Eglinton and he in Ware. I came up here quite ill, but I think I am feeling somewhat better, though I have not found the Fountain of Youth in these rocky hills, and probably should not if I went to Florida, like Ponce de Leon.” * * * * * While he was one day walking in Boston with a gentleman, he met two of his young friends. He not only stopped to speak to them, as of course, but with care he introduced his companion to them. In the roar of the traffic, however, the name of this stranger was lost to them. But concluding from his associate and his own appearance that he was a person of distinction, they scrutinized him as closely as courtesy permitted. And they were right. For, later, at their home, the poet said of his companion in the city, “That was Canon Kingsley.” He knew the pleasure it would be to them to learn that they had exchanged even a word with the great English author; and he had not allowed the noise of the street and his own dislike of talking in it to stand in the way. * * * * * The poet dubbed as “specimen bricks” those innumerable manuscripts which from all parts were sent to him for commendation and criticism--some even to be placed. With his spirit of helpfulness he was much distressed by these, both because they were often “impossible,” and also because in any case, he had not time or strength to attend to them. But where a special claim held him, it was wonderful with what persistency of kind effort he would follow the career of some writer in whose ability he believed. His sympathy, once aroused, never failed. To a person whose literary struggle he had watched with untiring interest, frequently praising work accomplished, he sent the following message of encouragement.