of Hanover and Court streets, and his drinks were of two prices, those like Deacon Grant and Dr. Pierpont, named after distinguished temperance men, were nine pence, and all other common drinks were six and a quarter cents or four pence half penny. They marched into Brigham’s as if they were rolling in riches, and as they came to the counter, Minns said, “Spooner what are you going to have.” Spooner answered, “I think I will have a Deacon Grant, what are you going to have?” “Well, I don’t feel very dry, I guess I won’t take anything.” Mr. Spooner was sought as a guest on many public occasions, where he was sure to entertain his audience by either a graceful speech, a bit of humor, or an appropriate poem. I remember that on one occasion he was invited to join the Boston underwriters in their annual excursion down Boston harbor. A little while before, Capt. Jas. Murdock, commanding the packet ship Ocean Monarch, had run his ship ashore at Cohasset or Scituate in a fog, though fortunate enough to get her off. At the lunch of the party on board the excursion steamer, Mr. Spooner assumed the position of toastmaster, and calling up the guests one after another, answered the toasts himself, adopting the personality of each. Among others he toasted Capt. Murdock, who was present, and kept the company in a roar by claiming a discovery in the science of navigation by which he had found that the use of the lead was an obsolete practice, only persisted in by those who had not yet learned that ships were constructed to navigate the ocean and not the land. Capt. Murdock, I believe, was a cabin window Captain, a fine looking man, jolly good fellow, popular with his passengers, but not a sailor in the truest sense of the word. Afterwards in coming down the English channel, his ship was destroyed by fire off Holy head, and a passenger whom I knew by the name of Southworth, told me that Murdock was the first of the ship’s company to reach Liverpool with news of the disaster. About the year 1845 Mr. Spooner went to England, a passenger in the packet ship Devonshire, Capt. Luce, the same Captain Luce who commanded the Collin’s steamship Arctic, which was run into by the Brig Vesta, near Cape Race, Sept. 24, 1854, and sunk with the loss of three hundred and fifty lives. Capt. Luce, whom I afterwards met, told me that when the ship went down he stood on the paddle box holding his little boy by the hand and that he thought he would never stop going down. He had no sooner reached the surface, still holding his little boy by the hand, than a spar loosened from the wreck, came up with great force, and striking his son, killed him instantly. He succeeded in reaching a fragment of the wreck, and was picked up by one of the brig’s boats.