Another Plymouth man, of whom I must speak, was Winslow Marston Watson, of whom few of my readers ever heard. The son of Winslow Watson he was born I think on Clark’s Island in 1812, and graduated at Harvard in 1833. His mother, Mrs. Harriet Lothrop Watson, was a close observer of persons and families, their traits of character and their relations to each other, and was the first genealogist whom I ever saw. Her son, Winslow, inherited her powers of observation, and her remarkable memory, which in a broader sphere of life made him a reconteur of wide reputation. He early entered the profession of journalism, and in 1842 I found him, while on a visit to Troy, the editor of the Troy _Whig_. He later removed to Washington, where for some years he rendered valuable service as correspondent of leading newspapers in New England and New York. His artistic taste and literary ability attracted the attention of Mr. Corcoran, the wealthy banker and patron of art, and in his service he performed appreciative work. I doubt whether any man ever lived in Washington who came in contact with more persons of distinction, and could portray their characters and habits more thoroughly, than Mr. Watson. For nearly forty years I never failed to see him when visiting Washington, and if he had followed my advice to publish a book of reminiscences he would have made a valuable contribution to the literature of Washington life. His personality was striking, of medium height and weight, with a fair complexion and large protuberant blue eyes, with that sad, patient, placid, yet protesting expression which Homer recognized who called the celestial queen the ox-eyed Juno. He married in 1852 Louisa Gibbons, and died in Washington in 1889. He was a cousin of the late Benjamin Marston Watson, of whom I have already spoken, and to whom it occurs to me to refer again by inserting the following lines, which I inscribed in a book presented to him on his last birthday, and which better than my earlier reference to him, illustrate the beauty of his character and life: A placid stream, with flowers on either hand, And meads beyond, tempting the eye of art; With here and there a ripple as it runs Against opposing winds, or flows triumphant Over hidden shoals, with lips upturned And smiling in the noonday sun. Such, my dear friend, has been thy life. ’Twere vain to wish it ever thus to be, For every stream must some time reach the sea.