tate at Oak Knoll a restful
and congenial home. Many souvenirs of the poet are here treasured, and
the historical associations of the place are worthy of note. Here lived
the Rev. George Burroughs, who suffered death as a wizard more than two
centuries ago. He was a man of immense strength of muscle, and his
astonishing athletic feats were cited at his trial as evidence of his
dealings with the Evil One. The well of his homestead is shown under
the boughs of an immense elm, and the canopy now over it was the
sounding-board of the pulpit of an ancient church of the parish so
unenviably identified with the witchcraft delusion.

Inquiries are sometimes made in regard to the places in Boston
associated with the memory of Whittier. His first visit to the city was
in his boyhood, when he came as the guest of Nathaniel Greene, a
distant kinsman of his, who was editor of the "Statesman" and
postmaster of Boston. Many of his earliest poems were published in the
"Statesman" under assumed names, and until lately never recognized as
his. Not one of these juvenile productions, of which I have happened
upon many specimens, was ever collected. When he was editing the
"Manufacturer," he boarded with the publisher of that paper, Rev. Mr.
Collier, at No. 30 Federal Street. When visiting Boston in middle life,
he felt most at home in the old Marlboro Hotel on Washington Street. He
would often leave the hotel for a morning walk, and find a hearty
welcome at the breakfast hour from his dear friends, Mr. and Mrs. James
T. Fields, at No. 148 Charles Street. In later life, at the home of
Governor Claflin, at No. 63 Mount Vernon Street, he was frequently an
honored guest. It was here he first met Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, who
gives this account of their meeting: "On this morning he came in across
the thick carpet with that nervous but soft step which every one who
ever saw him remembers. Straight as his own pine tree, high of stature,
and lofty of mien, he moved like a flash of light or thought. The first
impression which one received was of such eagerness to see his friends
that his heart outran his feet. He seemed to suppose that he was
receiving, not extending the benediction; and he offered the delicate
tribute to his friend of allowing him to perceive the sense of debt. It
would have been the subtlest flattery, had he not been the most honest
and straightforward of men. We talked--how can I say of what? Or of
what not? We talked till our he