In August, 1843, Lyman Beecher, D. D., formerly minister in East-Hampton from 1798 to 1811, visited there with his sons Edward and William, who were born there, as was Catherine E., his daughter.
On the Sabbath of August 27th the three preached in the old historic church built in East-Hampton in 1717. Edward preached in the morning, his father in the afternoon and William in the evening. Forty-five years had gone by since the father first came to minister there, and a generation had passed since he had removed.
Tradition and story had treasured and reiterated events that occurred, sayings he had uttered, traits of character he exhibited, gifts that he possessed, during his early career. It was said he was so small an infant that he was put in a silver tankard, and the top shut down over his head. That he was an enthusiastic lover of fishing, which was confirmed by his fishing then at Alewive Brook for perch, and giving especial care and watchtul attention to cooking the catch. It was said he was fond of hunting, and an ardent pursuer of game. Stories were told of his fishing and hunting with a company, who secured, as a guide, an Indian expert in the then great wilderness of the west, who at first doubted his ability to undergo the toil and hardship of the expedition, but as day after day he exhibited increasing elasticity and power of endurance, extorted from the guide the admiring exclamation, "This little old man all Indian."
John Edwards told me that when a boy he caught a lot of perch in Wainscott pond, stringing them the largest first on a forked stick. Beecher and Dr. Abel Huntington had been unsuccessful, getting nothing there. Beecher said to John: "Boy, how do you sell your fish?" Ans.: "A shilling a dozen if you pick them, and sixpence if you take them as they come." Beecher deliberately took the stick, counted twelve of the largest, beginning at the bottom, cut them off and handed the remainder to John, with a six pence, saying, "Boy, I'll take a dozen as they come." The narrator said, "Huntington looking on with astonishment, exclaimed, 'Lyman, that's a Yankee trick.'" All knew, not the saving of money, but the triumph in wit, was the mark aimed at by Beecher. How he caught sharks in the ocean; how on a time he tied the line to his body and a large shark took him down in the water so that the fishermen rescued him from drowning; how after that he tied the line to the whiffletree, and when he had a shark bite, made his horse haul the shark on the shore; how Beecher could sing with sweet and charming voice; how he could beat all other experts on the violin; how nimble and agile he was and could outrun the boys; how fertile in resource, how keen in perception, how overcoming in argument, how eloquent in discourse; how sympathetic in heart, how simple in manners, how regardless of ceremony. All this from the lips of age to the ears of youth, made this visit the talk and the thought of the town.
When that clear Sabbath afternoon came the old church was packed to the utmost endurable pressure. The Rev. Samuel R. Ely, then minister of the church, and Dr. Beecher with his two sons, occupied the high pulpit. The ntroductory services, invocation, reading and singing of hymns, the prayer before the sermon, (not long) were unmarked by any noticeable impressiveness. The afternoon sun shone on the marked features of the speaker when he rose to address the people. The full, expressive blue eye, the perpendicular forehead, steep as the palisades, the convex nose, the firm under jaw, the projecting under lip, all revealed a man who would maintain to the death "the faith once delivered to the saints." Without preamble he announced as his text Romans 5th chap., 1st verse: "Therefore being justified by faith we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ." In the course of his sermon he referred to his trial on the charge of heresy; he stated that he had never preached any other doctrine of justification than that by faith through Jesus Christ; he appealed to the older people who sat under his preaching during his ministry there, to bear testimony to the truth of his statement, that his doctrine then and his doctrine now were one and the same. That he would live and die in this faith. He spoke of an infidel club existing in East-Hampton in his early ministry, and in view of this doctrine of justification by faith then preached, one of the club sent him word he believed he had as good prospect of getting to heaven as any of his church; for when he sold wheat, every time he struck the half-bushel he put a handful back on the measure. Rising to his utmost height he said, "I sent him back word if he ever expected to get to heaven that way he had better save his wheat."
The sermon was written. The preacher read from manuscript until it seemed some burning thought demanded immediate extemporaneous delivery, when, pushing his spectacles over his forehead, with a rare spontaneous eloquence he expressed and illustrated the thought, again reading and then unexpectedly surprising and electrifying his audience by extemporaneous speaking. It was an occasion and a sermon never to be forgotten. At the close of this magnificent effort--magnificent in directness, in eloquence, in sublime sincerity--exhausted and sitting down, his two sons took him under each arm and gently eased him to the seat. Sweetly, tenderly, they broke the suddenness of the fall, exhibiting their affection, their sympathy, their intelligence and their experience. If listening to the old man eloquent his hearers felt indignation towards his accusers, who could say it was unwarranted? The impression of that sermon was deep and abiding. The electric power of the sermonizer attracted the attention, enlisted the approval, convinced the reason, gained the judgment and won the affection of the audience.
In the morning of this memorable day Edward Beecher preached from Deuteronomy 8th chapter, 2d verse: "And thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in the wilderness to humble thee and to prove thee, to know what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments or no." The scholarly air, the pale expanded forehead, the wealth of expression, the abounding flash of illustration marked him as the student of the family. He looked as if he could study all day and wake up at midnight to commence again. The intellectual temperament so predominated that it seemed as if to wrestle with the deepest problems of our faith and being was play for him. If man could sound the deeps of Theology, could read the mind of God and speak God's thoughts and word and will to his fellowman, that high prerogative if in the range of human learning or human thought must be the mission of Edward Beecher. The exposition of the training of a human mind, of the hosts of Israel from the deep debasement of soul and body to the light and joy and freedom of Righteousness, was a masterpiece of learning and eloquence. In the progress of his sermon the difficulty of interpreting correctly the book of Ecclesiastes was noticed except as viewed from the stand. point of a man disappointed by experience of the anticipated enjoyment of worldly pleasure and finding emptiness where he had anticipated satisfaction.
Moved to the inmost being by the deliverance of these two, father and son, who would dare follow to say for the Most High what they had not said? What weak hand would hold and try to sound the bugle note that their mighty voice had blown.
The third meeting during the summer months was then held at 5 o'clock, called the "5 o'clock meeting." At that season a Sabbath evening meeting after sundown was unknown. William Beecher took his text in Isaiah, 3d chap. 10th and 11th vs.: "Say ye to the righteous that it shall be well with him: for they shall eat the fruit of their doings. Woe unto the wicked; it shall be ill with him for the reward of his hands shall be given him." He pictured the life of the righteous progressing in knowledge, in virtue, in grace, in joy here and hereafter, partaking of the tree "whose leaves are for the healing of the nations;" an unending ascent to capacities of enjoyment ever rising to higher and still higher attainments as a law of his being and a consequence of his doing. This was the immortal life. He pictured the descending course of the wicked resulting from his own choice, his own conduct, sin heaped upon sin, penalty incurring still more punishment until the abysmal deeps of the submerged soul outmeasured the human conception in unsounded darkness.
And all this by a law of our being, by the act of the transgressor, by a series of movements in a downward career that disabled and were continually disabling the wrong doer. Thus "the reward of his hands was given him."
The shades of evening began to fall, but the speaker went on and on. At times the music of the Angelic choir, at times the wail of the lost, now the song of the seraph, now the discord of the self-destroyed burst upon the ear.
In power of imagination William Beecher was like Whitfield. In that gift he seemed pre-eminent. In learning acquired from books, ancient or modern, Edward surpassed the others. In the harmony of well balanced power, in the endowment of strong common sense, in the quick intuition that caught the points of relation and dependence of thought and winnowed the chaff from the wheat, the father excelled. Looking back through the mists of more than half a century, it now seems as if each one selected the subject wherein he excelled, and that his power to impress others resulted largely from the accuracy and wisdom of such choice.


The author of "Sweet Home" is entitled to remembrance. He often visited relatives and friends in East-Hampton. I can see him now as I saw him then; short, some five feet and a half high, compactly built, well set, active, sprightly, of sanguine, nervous temperament, blue eyed, fair and florid in countenance, nose large with Romanic curve, hair dark, forehead high and white, features strongly marked but mobile, expression intellectual, rapid in conception and thought, elastic in step, imitative in capacity, in penetration far-seeing, a reader of human nature, genial, impulsive, sympathetic, humorous, kind-hearted, social, in some practical affairs a child, in the world of imagination a genius, in the sphere of wit and humor exhaustless, missing no mark for the first, no twinkle of light for the last.
His mother was sister of Samuel Isaacs, of East-Hampton, whom in person he resembled, and where he, his sisters and his aunt Esther, (his mother's sister) often visited. His father, William Payne, was for many years a teacher in Clinton Academy, and probably while so engaged formed
the acquaintance which resulted in his marriage.
The proprietors of the Academy voted December 28th, 1784, "that Mr. Jabez Peck be elected master of the classic school and Mr. William Payne master of the English and writing school." In Thompson's History of Long Island John Howard Payne is mentioned as "familiarly known in early life as the American Roscius and since as a distinguished writer, author of the tragedy of 'Brutus' and other dramatic compositions of high merit." I think Payne was a precocious genius in youth, intellectually above his cotemporaries, higher than in after life. If so it would account for the laudatory notice of his early writings, which have failed to live in the after ages, while his song of home has survived and echoed wherever the sweets of social life are known or harmony is heard.
John Howard Payne was born June 9th, 1792 and died in Tunis April 12th, 1852. About the year 1839 he contributed to the Democratic Review or National Magazine, a characteristic account of East-Hampton, which was republished in the Sag-Harbor Corrector of March 10th, 1838. The rustic manners of its social, religious and business life its fishing and whaling, were facetiously described, not altogether to the acceptance of the good people of the town. The pleasantry and humor of the portrayal of the character of the old town was thought to be beneath its merits. Col. Hunt commented editorially upon it in the Corrector of that date. The Republican Watchman of March 17th, 1838, contained a criticism of it signed "An Auld Acquaintance."
For the time being the people of East-Hampton regarded Payne's account of their manners, ways and habits as so far exaggerated as to subject them to the undeserved ridicule if not derision, of the world. As time passed their resentment faded away. With the welcome the nations gave to his immortal song, the approving voice of East-Hampton joined. His renown impelled Boston and New-York and East-Hampton to claim the honor of being his birthplace. I should delight to advocate the claims of East-Hampton; but the historian who worships at an altar lower than Truth dishonors his cause and himself. John Howard Payne was probably born in New-York city, as appears by the letter following:

BEDFORD, N. Y., Aug. 15, 1895.
As you write to me for authentic information about the date and place of birth of John Howard Payne, I will make the following statement: My wife, Eloise E., was the niece of John H. Payne, and had in her possession all the papers relating to the Payne family. She died in 1892. In 1875 Mr. Harrison, of Brooklyn, wrote a biography of J. H. Payne, and had frequent interviews with Mrs. Luquer, in regard to date, and facts connected with his life. In 1884 Mr. Brainard, of Washington, wrote another memoir, which was dedicated to W. W. Corcoran of that city. Before publication this had been submitted to Mrs. Luquer, for inspection and correction. This later publication was considered by her, in all its statements, to be entirely reliable. In both these biographies it is asserted that John H. Payne was born in the city of New-York, June 9th, 1791.
In support of this statement I find among my wife's papers a momorandum, signed: "A true statement, attest, Wm. Osb. Payne," giving June 9th, 1791, as the birth of the poet; and also in another genealogical table, apparently in the same handwriting, giving New-York city as his birth place. I find also a "History of the Family," dated March 16, 1861, and written by Mrs. Luquer's aunt, Mrs. Lucy Osborne, John H. Payne's sister-in-law. In this the writer says: "My father and mother took with them (from East-Hampton) to New-York five children, my brother William the only son."
The statement in Brainard's life of the poet, that "he
was born at No. 33 Pearl St., near corner of Broad Street, (New-York city), on the 9th of June, 1791," was made after close investigation of authentic record and family tradition, and should be considered a settled fact of history.
Yours Truly,


Miss Cornelia Huntington, daughter of Abel Huntington and Frances Lee his wife, was born in East-Hampton, June 24th, 1803, and died there April 15th, 1890. Descended from that famous Connecticut family of Huntingtons who shone in the sphere of statesmanship, finance, jurisprudence, and all the professions of scholarship and learning, she early gave tokens of a brilliant intellect. In her youth the atmosphere of East-Hampton sparkled with learning and genius. Clinton Academy then flourished as an educational institution inferior to none in the land. Lyman Beecher filled the pulpit; Senators, Congressmen, Assemblymen and Judges were neighbors and friends. Other stars shone in the hemisphere of her childhood and youth. Her father was endowed with great mental power. He was in the State Senate, in Congress, and a life-long skilful medical practitioner. In this social constellation no light flashed more conspicuous in surprising wit, more penetrating with the intuitions of genius, more profound in the depths of sentiment, more varied in creations of the ideal, than that of the school girl, Cornelia Huntington; out-reaching, out-shining, out-witting all competitors. She mastered the elements of education with a celerity and ease that seemed, even in the classic halls of Clinton Academy where she was instructed, a marvel. Her modesty forbid the collection and publication of her poems until after her body was laid in the burial ground which her own lines had consecrated and hallowed.
In 1891, her nephew, Abel Huntington, M. D., of Brooklyn, N. Y., collected and published her poems, including the lines on the title page of this book, and the odes composed for the celebration of the 200th anniversary of the settlement of the town of East-Hampton.
In 1857 was published her romance entitled "Sea Spray." The house wherein she lived and died was the residence of Capt. Thos. Wickham, a member of the Colonial Congress and a commander of a Privateer out of Stonington, Ct., in the Revolution. Probably the assumed name "Martha Wickham" of the writer was thereby suggested. Mrs. Mary D. Rockwell, who obtained the copywright of the book, was a friend of Miss Cornelia Huntington, and the publication thereof resulted from her friendship and abounding activity. The scene and all the characters are located in East-Hampton, except as otherwise indicated:
Lena Hesselton, p. 11, is Cornelia Huntington.
Alice Hesselton, p. 11, is Abby, her sister.
Col. Hesselton, p. 14, is Dr. Abel Huntington, their father.
Milly, p. 11, is Mehetable Hedges.
Drury, p. 13, is Montauk squaw servant of Dr. Huntington.
Capt. Hull, p. 17, is Capt. Ezekiel Howes.
Capt. Melton, p. 18, is Capt. Jeremiah Mulford.
Capt. Hardy, p. 18, is Capt. George Hand.
Mr. Alden, p. 19, is Rev. Samuel R. Ely.
Lester Bennett, pp. 25, 279 and 454, is Lester Bennett.
Shumway, p. 28, is Hiram Sherrill.
Allen Hesselton, p. 29, is Abel Huntington, now M. D. in Brooklyn, N. Y:
Sam Grey, p. 38 is Samuel G. Mulford.
Miss Osgood, p. 39, is Mrs. Charles Osborne.
Mrs. Melton, p, 40, is wife of Capt. Jeremiah Mulford.
Gosport, p. 67, is Sag-Harbor.
Lummux, p. 72, is Ezekiel Miller.
Mrs. Godrich, p. 89, is Miss Ruth Hand, an aunt of Capt. George Hand.
Thos. and Geo. Fuller, p. 149, is Thos. and Geo. Filer.
Chas. and Eddy Osgood, p. 153, are sons of Chas. Osborn.
Col. Preston, p. 240, is Col. W. D. Parsons, of Fire Place.
Sam Lister, p. 257, is Sam. Lester.
Talkhouse, p. 295, is Indian servant of Col. W. D. Parsons.
Caroline, p. 300, is Caroline Parsons. daughter of Ambrose Parsons.
Dr. Huntington was a widower, and it is singular that no mention seems to be made of his wife previous to the solitary notice given on page 403, and none thereafter. So hard it is to make fiction deny facts. By the references to the Montauk contest and law suit I know the manuscript was not written until 1851, and by the election (Presidential) not finished before 1852. See pages 162, 248, 455.
Martin VanBuren and Miss Warner, author of the "Wide Wide World," visited East-Hampton about 1851 or '52--page 332. All the poetry in "Sea Spray" I think is original, and is largely or wholly included in the poems of Miss Cornelia Huntington, published in 1891, after her death, by her nephew, Abel Huntington, M. D., of Brooklyn, N. Y., the Allen of "Sea Spray."


Exercise in arms dates from the first settlement of the Colonies. Confronted by hostile Indians, threatened by the French in the Canadas, by the Dutch in New-York, by the Spaniard in Florida, by pirates in every harbor and involved in all the wars of Great Britain, military necessity called for practical action. The war of the Revolution and that of 1812 kept alive the martial spirit of the states that resented the wrongs wreaked upon them by the mother country. Hence the training of the militia, sometimes by companies and thence called "Company Training," sometimes by regiments and thence called "General Training." The inherited wrath of generations kindled in these two wars against Great Britain burned seventy years ago with an intensity now unfelt. This impelling force added to the attraction of training days. The notes of martial music, the display of banners, the vestured uniform, the mounted officers, the array of numbers, the exhibition of armor, "the pomp and circumstance of war" attract attention, crowds go to see the General Training. They luxuriate on oranges and peanuts and ginger snaps and molasses candy and boiled eggs, cider, beer and ginger pop. What a place for bargains and pedlars and auctions. My first sight of "General Training" in the main street of East-Hampton dates some seventy years back. Of that training I write. Apart from the array of movements of the militia, so often described as to be a worn out theme, I then saw an auction and an auctioneer that has survived "the oblivious years," and seems now as he seemed then, a living wonder. New England is precise and angular, unceasingly asking for a definition and a reason. We think of her genius as grinding out dictionaries rather than expressing impressive utterances. But New England is capable of concentration and elasticity. Her genius is varied. At that General Training she was represented by an auctioneer that excelled all I ever saw before or since. He was the most rapid, musical, sonorous talker conceivable. He opened his mouth and words streamed in endless and unceasing vollies. Lips, features, face, hands, head, feet and body all moved together, all talked together, and all kept time. A live Yankee auctioneer unrivalled and outdone and outtalked never. The manufacture of wooden combs just then attained such excellence as to supply the market at a price thought to be incredibly small. He would hold up the wooden combs and cry "combs! combs! here's two dozen wooden combs; what'll you give for 'em? Ah! sixpence; sixpence happeny; going for sixpence happeny! Combs! combs enough for the whole neighborhood! Combs enough to shingle a meeting house! All going for sixpence happeny! Who'll give any more?" Perhaps the next thing offered would be suspenders, and the cry, "Suspenders! here's suspenders! suspenders long enough for any man, short enough for any girl; let out and taken in like an old woman's conscience! How much will you give for this pair of suspenders? Oh, dear! If my grandfather knew I was selling goods at this rate he would get down on his knees and cry like a child!"


"The chronicles of East-Hampton," with rare fidelity, record the events, the occupation, the manners and modes of thought connected with the history of our forefathers, not omitting the whale chase. Published by the New-York State Historical Society, it is accessible to the antiquarian but not to the masses.
Therefrom we learn that canoes were first used in offshore whaling. The sharp ends of the canoe, so well adapted for moving "fore and aft," may have suggested the like form for the whale boat, which probably soon succeeded and superceeded it. So soon that we read not of canoes but of boats as used in this enterprise. Seemingly contradictory conditions are conjoined in the whale boat. It is of light draft yet without much drift. It sits on the smooth surface and rides the rough sea like a duck. It sails like the wind. The American whaleboat came to perfection two centuries ago and has yet known no superior. With the earliest recollections of my childhood is the wigwam that sheltered the whalemen at Wainscott, constructed of oak saplings sharpened and forced down in the sand with an elliptical curve toward the narrow open top, free for the exit of smoke, tied together by twigs interwoven at right angles with these, sapling ribs, and all thatched with rye straw, except the door south. The wigwam was a structure invested with romantic charms to the eye of childhood, and no small cl??arm of comfort and content to the more mature onlooker. Three score and ten years by gone this was the home of the whaling watch and whaling men. Hard by was the high stage pole--a tree twenty-five to thirty-five feet high--set deep in the sand. The projecting branches left untrimmed some foot or more to facilitate climbing, and at intervals pins driven in holes bored, projected both sides to further aid the climber. To the eyes of youth how grand, how lofty, seemed the "stage pole." The boats near by, in a sheltered nook, rested top side down (with all the whaling gear in) on poles which were laid in crutches driven in the sand. In good whale weather, the surf not being too rough, the watch set a signal on the pole that told all far and near of good weather and warned the whalemen to be ready for a call. When a whale was seen near enough to warrant the hope of catching, the watch waved his coat on the stage pole and this was "making a weft." If the whale came ?? earer, he waved the more vigorously and faster. "He wefted harder." Then horns blew. Then the frantic yell "a whale off," rent the air. Men ran wild to gain the beach in time. Boys shouted with delight. For once our little world woke up. The whale boats, borne on the shoulders of the crew are deposited near the incoming wave. Each oar is a-peak and each man opposite his oar. The experienced eye of the boat header watches the surf. At the favorable moment his word "now" is seconded by a pull all together towards the
incoming wave, and if the time is auspicious, into it, the men tumbling in and rowlng on the receding wave into the jaws of that inexorable sea that has ingulphed so oft the hopes of human life. Now for the leviathan of the deep. "Now for a long pull" and "a strong pull" and "a pull all together." Now steadily the men strain at the oar. Every nerve, every muscle, every sinew is tauht with toil. The steersman's eye is searching the "sea's do ??ain." He sees and cries "there she blows." With one strong sweep of the steering oar he heads for his mighty game. His intensity is magnetism to the crew. His "pull, boys, pull," means something. And now he seconds their movements, swinging his powerful right arm and swaying his body to and fro, keeping time with the sweep of their motion as if all were parts of one harmonious whole, he heaves at the leading oar and the whale boat trembles. The gliding boat, the hissing waters, the heaving steersman, the straining c??ew; these are sights and sounds and this a scene worthy a painter's excellence, a sculptor's skill, a poet's genius. The Gladiatorial conflicts of imperial and brutal Rome exhibit no scene more worthy of enduring record. They near the whale. The steersman calls on the harpooner who peaks his oar, rises, poises the harpoon and darts with all his concentrated power. He has fastened; "starn all!" cries the Captain, and the backward movement of the oars sends the boat at the earliest possible moment from the centre of danger. The sweep of the broad flukes in an instant might mean destruction to the boat and all therein. The surge of mighty waters, the huge proportions of the monster of the deep, the presence of a power appaling in its strength, the glistening "black skin" terrific to the eye, the conscious impotence of human power--All this with lightning flash quickens the imagination. Hardy and self-possessed is he who is not overwhelmed with fear and horror. In my childhood, some seventy years gone by, from the beach banks on the borders of my father's farm, I saw a sight like this: Two crews in whaleboats, close in shore, fast to a right whale, and Capt. Jonathan Osborn, successful and veteran whaleman that he was, (captain and chief. ??Twere vain to attempt the picture of the scene. Whenever a boat neared the whale, as if apprehensive of impending danger and conscious of a power resistless, she reared in mid air her mighty flukes, shook them in tremulous wrath, struck them on the water with a shock that resounded and re-echoed over the breakers far from shore like the thunder of cannon. Time and again the crew pulled the Captain near enough to dart his whale spade into the sinews where the flukes are set on the small of the back, as a human hand is set on the joint of the wrist, in the hope that by cutting them the whale would be disabled. With unabated fury hour after hour the whale fought back. The shock of her flukes resounded for miles on and off the shore. Some stray chance made and the captain darted his keen two-edged lance into the vitals, in sailor words, "the life of the whale." And she "spouted blood," sure premonition of the coming end. A conflict rarely seen, never to be forgotten, lasting from 7 o'clock A. M. until 2 P. M. I see them "towing" the whale to shore, the joyful faces of the crew, the tall and stalwart form of the Captain, clad in his red flannel shirt, his face and hands almost equally red. He looked the incarnation of the whale fighter that fame had reported him to be. He had sailed from Sag-Harbor on voyages in command of a ship from thence, owned by J. Fenimore Cooper, the novelist. His creation of "long Tom Coffin" out of Capt. Jonathan Osborn would be a slight dilation on the reality. Ah me! no mortal eye of all the living but mine has seen the sight of that April morn. No tongue but mine remains to tell the tale.
In December, 1838, in East-Hampton, there was a "weft for whale," "an alarm" of the boys, "a rally" of the crews, and two boats put off in chase of the whale. Fearful to relate, they made fast. More fearful for the writer, he was one of the crew. Just graduated from Yale he had not taken his degree of A. B. in what our earnest forefathers in their records termed "whale design." Space is wanting to express but in briefest words the picture indelibly impressed upon my memory. The skill and experience of Lewis Gann, who commanded our boat, was far overbalanced by the inexperience of the crew who had never been "fast to a whale." That he was a consummate master of the situation all believed. The event justified our faith. 'Twas he that ruled the crew, guided their efforts, shielded them from danger. I see the whale side to us; fin just under the water. I see him standing in the bow of the boat with the lance in his grasp. He hurls it with the force of an avalanche. It hisses on the water and enters the whale. He says in exultant cry, "that whale is dead!" Within an hour the whale is "turned up." A hole is cut in the under jaw and a line made fast from our boat, next the whale, the post of honor, and extended to the other boat, and the monotonous, slow pull for towing begins.
How the multitude gathers on the shore! How impressible the young life and pranks of boyhood break out! How lithe and sweet and winsome seems the form and charm of the maiden! Admiration lights up and glorifies the face of man and woman. The eye of age kindles at the recollection of past conflicts and gratification at the success achieved. Curiosity may rule, wonder may control; the victim may attract the regard of the crowd, but not to the exclusion of the victors. Crowned with the applause, sharing the wonder, objects of regard, Captains and crew for the time are invested with a halo of glory that ato??es for past misfortune, for unmerited neglect, for unjustified scorn. The beheld of all beholders. If the victor in the Olympic games received the crown as his reward, in attestation of his triumph, the combatants in a mightier game and grander contest were not unworthy the Attic crown so awarded to perilous achievement. One hundred and fifty years before the heathen Indian might have appeared and claimed a piece of the fin and tail as an acceptable offering to propitiate his God. The Indian has vanished.
Of those twelve men who in 1838 were successful in their "whale design," Hiram Sherrill and Edward Dayton, with the writer, only survive. Lingering on the shores of time they can attest the fidelity of the writer in this narrative of the age that is past.

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