on foot, were seen wending their way toward the meeting-house on the green, in the ancient town of Norwich—mine own old meeting-house. The body of the edifice was exclusively reserved for those in whose veins flowed the Huntington blood; the galleries and outskirts were for aliens. Every thing—the welcome from the pulpit, the poem pronounced there, the hymns, the music composed for them, the choir that rendered it sweetly vocal—all were from the lips of Huntingtons. Verily they were as the chosen people, the sons of Aaron, in that temple. The genealogical address, happily blending research with enthusiasm, was written and delivered by the Rev. E. B. Huntington, of Stamford, and is already multiplied through the press. After the public exercises, an elegant collation spread in the State House, with beautiful and profuse embellishment of flowers, was enjoyed by the chosen people. The afternoon exercises were finely varied by miscellaneous speaking. Goodly elements had they for such an entertainment—divines, statesmen, civilians, representing the professions and occupations of our widespread land. Among them, the tact and eloquence of Professor Huntington, of Harvard University, were conspicuous. There was a goodly sprinkling of grace and beauty among the feminine portion of this noble house and its collateral branches. Yet I saw no one who, in manly symmetry and bearing, was a better exponent of its ancient dignity and courteousness than Wolcott Hun-
