As tenants of uncertain stay,
So may we live our little day
That only grateful hearts shall fill
The homes we leave in Haverhill.

Thus writes the poet Whittier, in celebration of the 250th anniversary of the City of Haverhill in America. Most of us know there is a Haverhill in England, where resided Mr. D. Gurteen, who died recently in his eighty-fourth year, one of the grand old men—occasionally met with—who have spent all their lives in promoting the best interests, moral and pecuniary, of the community amongst whom they live. He was born when Haverhill was in a state of decay, its chief manufacture, that of silk, having dwindled all to nothing. He has almost rebuilt the place, and made it one of the most prosperous of our East Anglian towns. Haverhill, in a remote corner of East Anglia, is intimately connected with the American Haverhill. That was founded by the grandson of a well-known Haverhill clergyman—Rev. John Ward—one of the early Puritans who suffered for conscience sake, and against whom Romanising archbishops like Laud—in whose seat the present Archbishop of London tells us he is proud to be placed—made constant war. John Ward, whose monument is still to be seen in Haverhill Church, had a descendant named Nathaniel, who was educated at Cambridge, and went out into the wilderness of New England rather than remain the victim of persecution in the old country. He was a ripe scholar, and a man of great practical ability, a Puritan of the Puritans, who helped to mould the character and make the laws of the people of whom he became the minister. The hardy settlers, who had hitherto toiled in hope, overjoyed at Ward’s coming, insisted on naming their plantation—hitherto called Pentucket, after the Indian tribe who had lived there till bought out by the whites—Haverhill, from the birthplace of their honoured minister. In the recent celebration Haverhill in England was not forgotten. Mr. Alderman Gurteen and the rector were invited. The rector could not go. Mr. Alderman Gurteen could, and he crossed the Atlantic, bearing with him an address, handsomely got up, to the New England Haverhill. He was received with open arms, and on his return was honoured with a dinner in the Town Hall, presided over by his respected father, Mr. D. Gurteen, J.P., and there he delivered himself of his American experiences, and was listened to eagerly by a sympathetic audience, among whom I had the good luck to be one.

New Haverhill stands on the banks of the Merrimack, at a distance of some sixteen miles from the sea. The Merrimack deserves a line as the most noted water-power stream in the world. Haverhill lies on the north edge of Essex county, itself the north-eastern corner of Massachusetts. In the Haverhill of to-day there are over 250 firms engaged in the manufacture of shoes, and giving employment to 18,000 operatives, and distributing annually over 2,225,000 dollars in wages, and shipping 300,000 cases of completed boots and shoes. It is a big city, thirty-three miles off Boston by rail. The situation is picturesque, with an undulating surface, watered by lovely lakes and the glorious river. Haverhill rejoices in a Town Hall, one of the handsomest of its kind in New England, and twenty-four church organisations divided among eleven different denominations. No city in the commonwealth has grown so fast within the last ten years. I learn from a local paper that its population is “energetic, prosperous, and cultivated.” One of the things which seem to have struck Mr. Alderman Gurteen, as indeed it would some of us, was a handsome and commodious building known as the Old Ladies’ Home, intended to provide for such women as need it, a home in their declining years. Again, there is a Children’s Aid Society, formed and managed by women, to furnish a real home for destitute children. Haverhill has also a noble hospital, where almost every religious society in the city supports free beds. Such is the Haverhill of to-day. It has suffered from fire; from Indians, who rushed through it with their murderous tomahawks: (one of the things Mr. Alderman Gurteen was taken to see at the exhibition in connection with the anniversary, was the basket of grass in which Hannah Duston, one of Haverhill’s ancient heroines, carried the scalps of the Indians in the course of an unnatural conflict with the English). It was, too, a little Haverhill girl, saved in a cellar from massacre of the Indians by a negro girl, that was the ancestress of John Lothrop Motley. The whole world owes Haverhill much.

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.

Am I not right in calling such a visit an international one? Such visits are the true peacemakers, and strengthen the bonds of unity between nations better than can be done in any other way. Mr. Alderman Gurteen is a fair representative of what is best in a social and commercial and political and religious life. Old Haverhill could not have sent the new Haverhill a better specimen of the English citizen of to-day. The more we send such men to America on international visits, and the more America sends such men to us—whatever politicians on both sides the Atlantic may say or do to create bad feeling—the stronger and more lasting will be the tie that makes England and America—mother and daughter—one in heart and aim. Haverhill is deeply associated with Puritan History and the Pilgrim Fathers. Its greatest preacher was the Rev. John Ward, who is still commemorated by a tomb in Haverhill Church. One of his sons, Samuel, was a town preacher to the Corporation of Ipswich for thirty years. Another celebrated preacher was the saintly Samuel Fairclough, who was born at Haverhill in 1594, and passed from Cambridge University to become successively Lecturer at Lynn and Clare, which latter post he vacated to become Rector of Kedington, until he was ejected thence in 1692 by the iniquitous Act of Uniformity.

Our Essex Haverhill may be quoted as a remarkable illustration of what a man can do for his native town. The late Mr. Gurteen was often called the King of Haverhill, this title being based upon the fact that he was practically the maker of that flourishing town. The firm of which he was the head employ three thousand hands in the manufacture of drabbets and other fabrics, both linen and cotton, and in the making-up of clothes for the home and export trade. Mr. Gurteen’s liberality was commensurate with his business success. He presented the inhabitants with a Town Hall, costing £5,000, as a thank-offering on the jubilee of his wedding-day; built a Congregational Church at something like the same expenditure, and was the originator and principal supporter of many other improvements for the benefit of his native town.