Mr. Bartlett, when quite a young man, was appointed supercargo on board a ship belonging to Barnabas Hedge, engaged in foreign trade. Such a position, with the responsibilities it imposed, was the best popular training school for a commercial life, and consequently when he projected the whaling industry in 1821, he possessed all the qualifications for its successful management. He occupied for some years the easterly part of the Winslow House on North street, but in 1832 he bought the LeBaron estate on Leyden street, at the corner of LeBaron’s Alley, and built the house now occupied by his grandson, Wm. W. Brewster, where he died July 29, 1845, fifty-nine years of age. With regard to the packet service of Plymouth there were four packets within my lifetime, which are not within my memory, the Belus, Capt. Thomas Atwood; the Falcon, Capt. Samuel Briggs; the Sally Curtis, Capt. Samuel Robbins, and the Betsey, Capt. Isaac Robbins. There was a fifth, the Argo, Capt. Sylvanus Churchill, which I have a hazy recollection of seeing at her berth at the end of Davis’ wharf. Of the eight succeeding packets I have very definite pictures in my mind. These, in the order of their probable ages, were the Polly, Eagle, Splendid, Hector, Harriet, Atalanta, Thetis and Russell. The Polly was a black sloop, a dull sailer, unattractive in appearance, and poorly equipped for passengers. Her captain was Joseph Cooper, who lived in High street at the upper corner of Cooper’s alley, leading to Town Square. At the northerly end of his garden on Church street, then known as Back street, there was a store house which, when he retired from the packet service in 1835, he altered into a grocery store, which he kept until his death, which occurred November 25, 1851, in the 83d year of his age. He was one of the last grocers in town to keep spirituous liquors for sale, and his stock in these was confined to Cicily Madeira wine. In 1835, or thereabouts, one of my mother’s brothers, living in Nova Scotia, arrived unexpectedly one evening on the stage, and finding that she was out of wine to dispense the hospitalities of the occasion, she sent me with one of those square bottles made to fit partitions in the closet of the sideboard, up to Capt. Cooper’s for two quarts of the above mentioned wine. I had nearly performed my errand in safety, when slipping on the icy sidewalk I fell near the doorstep and broke the bottle. Enough wine, however, was saved for immediate purposes, but it was the last wine my mother ever bought.