p344-122 THE CHIVALRIC SAILOR. [6]

“But when the hour of trouble comes to the mind or the body—
and when the hour of death comes, that comes to high and low—Oh,
my leddy, then it is'na what we hae dune for oursells, but what we
hae dune for others, that we think on maist pleasantly.”

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The assertion that a tale is founded on fact, is a
pious fraud of story tellers, too stale to impose on any
but the very young, or very credulous. We hope,
therefore, not to be suspected of resorting to an expedient
that would expose our poverty without relieving
it, when we declare that the leading incidents of the
following tale are true—that they form, in that district
of country where some of the circumstances transpired,
a favourite and well authenticated tradition—and that
our hero boasts with well-earned self-complacency,
that there is no name better known than his from
“Cape May to the Head of Elk.” That name, however
honourable as it is, must be suppressed, and we
here honestly beg the possessor's pardon for compelling
him for the first time in his life, to figure under
false colours.

In the year 1768, an American vessel lying in the
Thames and bound to Oxford, a small sea-port on the
eastern shore of Maryland, was hailed by a boat containing
a youth, who, on presenting himself to the
captain, stated that he had a fancy for a sailor's life,
and offered his services for two years, on the simple

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condition of kind treatment. The captain, though
himself a coarse illiterate man, perceived in the air
and language of the lad indications of good breeding,
and deeming him some disobedient child, or possibly
a runaway apprentice, declined receiving him. But
William Herrion, as he called himself, was so earnest
in his solicitations, and engaging in his manners, and
the captain, withal, in such pressing need of a cabinboy,
that he waved his scruples, quieted his conscience
with the old opiate that it was best not to be more nice
than wise, and without inquiring too curiously into
the boy's right of self-disposal, drew up some indentures,
by which he entitled himself to two years'
service.

The boy was observed for the first day to wear a
troubled countenance. His eye glanced around with
incessant restlessness, as if in eager search of some expected
object. While the ship glided down the
Thames, he gazed on the shore as if he looked for
some signal on which his life depended, and when she
passed Gravesend, the last point of embarcation, he
wept convulsively. The captain believed him to be
disturbed with remorse of conscience; the sailors, that
these heart-breakings were lingerings for his native
land, and all hinted their rude consolations. Soothed
by their friendly efforts, or by his own reflections, or
perhaps following the current of youth that naturally
flows to happiness, William soon became tranquil, and
sometimes even gay. He kept, as the sailors said, on
the fair weather side of the captain, a testy, self-willed
old man, who loved but three things in the world—
his song, his glass, and his own way.

All that has been fabled of the power of music over
stones and brutes, was surpassed by the effect of the
lad's melting voice on the icy heart of the captain,
whom forty years of absolute power had rendered as
despotic as a Turkish Pacha. When their old commander
blew his stiffest gale, as the sailors were wont

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to term his blustering passions. Will could, they said,
sing him into a calm. Will of course became a doting
piece to the whole ship's company. They said he
was a trim built lad, too neat and delicate a piece of
workmanship for the stormy sea. They laughed at
his slender fingers, fitter to manage threads than ropes,
passed many jokes upon his soft blue eyes and fair
round cheeks, and in their rough language expressed
Sir Toby's prayer, that “Jupiter in his next commodity
of hair, would send the boy a beard.” In the
main Will bore their jokes without flinching, and
returned them with even measure, but sometimes
when they verged to rudeness, his rising blush or a
tear stealing from his downcast eye, expressed an instinctive
and unsullied modesty, whose appeal touched
the best feelings of these coarse men.

The ship made a prosperous voyage, and in due
time arrived off the American coast. It is a common
custom with sailors to greet the first sight of land with
a sacrifice to Bacchus. The natural and legalized
revel was as extravagant on this, as it usually is on
similar occasions. The captain with unwonted good
humour, dealt out the liquor most liberally to the crew,
and bade William sing them his best songs. Will
obeyed, and song after song, and glass after glass carried
them, as they said, far above high water mark.
Their language and manners became intolerable to
William, and he endeavoured to steal away with the
intention of hiding himself in the cabin, till the revel
was over. One of the sailors suspecting his design,
caught him rudely and swore he would detain him in
his arms. William struggled, freed himself, and darted
down the companion way, the men following and
shouting.

The captain stood at the entrance of the cabin door.
William sunk down at his feet terrified and exhausted,
and screaming “protect me—oh! for the love of heaven,
protect me.”

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The captain demanded the occasion of the uproar,
and ordered the men to stand back. They, however,
stimulated to reckless courage, and in sight of land
and independence, no longer fearing his authority,
swore that they would not be balked of their frolic.
Poor Will, already feeling their hands upon him,
clung in terror to the captain, and one fear overcoming
another, confessed that his masculine dress
was a disguise, and wringing his hands with shame
and anguish, supplicated protection as a helpless girl.

The sailors touched with remorse and pity, retreated;
but the brutal captain spurned the trembling
supplicant with his foot, swearing a round oath that
it was the first time he had been imposed on, and it
should be the last. Unfortunately the old man, priding
himself on his sagacity, was as confident of his
own infallibility as the most devoted Catholic is of
the Pope's. This was his last voyage, and after playing
Sir Oracle, for forty years—to have been palpably
deceived—incontrovertibly outwitted by a girl of fifteen,
was a mortification that his vanity could not
brook. He swore he would have his revenge, and
most strictly did he perform his vow. He possessed
a plantation in the vicinity of Oxford; thither he conveyed
the unhappy girl, and degraded her to the rank
of a common servant, among the negro slaves in his
kitchen.

The captain's wrath was magnified, by the stranger's
persisting in refusing to disclose the motive of
her deception, to reveal her family, or even to tell her
name. Her new acquaintance were at a loss what to
call her, till the captain's daughter, who had been
on a visit to Philadelphia, and seen the Winter's Tale
performed there, bestowed on her the pretty appellative
of Hermione's lost child, Perdita.

The captain, a common case, was the severest sufferer
by his own passions. His wife complained that
his “venture,” as she provokingly styled poor Perdita,

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was a useless burden on her household—“a fine lady
born and bred, and like feathers, and flowers, and all
French goods, pretty to look at, but fit for no use in the
world.” The captain's daughters, partly instigated by
compassion, and partly by the striking contrast between
the delicate graces of the stranger and their own buxom
beauty, incessantly teased their father to send her
back to her own country; and neighbours and acquaintances
were forever letting fall some observation on
the beauty of the girl, or some allusion to her story,
that was as a spark of fire to the captain's gunpowder
temper.

Weeks and months rolled heavily on without a
dawn of hope to poor Perdita. She was too young
and inexperienced herself, to contrive any mode of
relief, and no one was likely to undertake voluntarily
the difficult enterprise of rescuing her from her thraldom.
Her condition was thus forlorn, when her story
came to the ears of Frank Stuart, a gallant young
sailor on board the Hazard, a vessel lying in the stream
off Oxford, and on the eve of sailing for Cowes in the
Isle of Wight. Frank stood deservedly high in the
confidence of his commander, and on Sunday, the day
preceding that appointed for the departure of the ship,
he obtained leave to go on shore. His youthful imagination
was excited by the story of the oppressed
stranger, and he strolled along the beach in the direction
of her master's plantation, in the hope of gratifying
his curiosity by a glimpse of her. As he approached
the house, he perceived that the front blinds
were closed, and inferring thence that the family were
absent, he ventured within the bounds of the plantation,
and saw at no great distance from him a young female
sitting on a bench beneath a tree. She leaned her head
against its trunk, with an air of dejectedness and abstraction,
that encouraged the young man to hope he
had already attained his object. As he approached
nearer, the girl started from her musings, and would

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have retreated to the house, but suddenly inspired by
her beauty and youth with a resolution to devote himself
to her service, he besought her to stop for one
instant and listen to him. She turned and gazed at
him as if she would have perused his heart. Frankness
and truth were written on his face by the finger
of heaven. She could not fear any impertinence from
him, and farther assured by his respectful manner, when
he added, “I have something particular to say to you—
but we must luff and bear away, for we are in too
plain sight of the look out there,” and he pointed to
the house—she smiled and followed him to a more secluded
part of the grounds. As soon as he was sure
of being beyond observation, “Do you wish,” he
asked with professional directness, “to return to old
England?”

She could not speak, but she clasped her hands,
and the tears gushed like an open fountain from her
eyes—“you need not say any more—you need not
say any more,” he exclaimed, for he felt every tear to
be a word spoken to his heart—“If you will trust
me,” he continued, “I swear, and so God help me as
I speak the truth, I will treat you as if you were my
sister. Our ship sails to-morrow morning at day light,
make a tight bundle of your rigging, and meet me at
twelve o'clock to-night at the gate of the plantation.
Will you trust me?”

“Heaven has sent you to me,” replied the poor girl,
her face brightening with hope, “and I will trust
you.”

They then separated—Perdita to make her few preparations,
and Frank to contrive the means of executing
his romantic enterprize.

Precisely at the appointed hour the parties met at
the place of rendezvous. Perdita was better furnished
for her voyage than could have been anticipated, from
the durance she had suffered. A short notice and a
scant wardrobe, were never known to oppose an

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obstacle to a heroine's compassing sea and land; but as
we have dispensed with the facilities of fiction, we
are bound to account for Perdita's being in possession
of the necessaries of life, and it is due to the
captain's daughter to state, that her feminine sympa
thy had moved her from time to time to grant generous
supplies to Perdita, which our heroine acknowledged
on going away, by a letter enclosing a valuable
ring.

A few whispered sentences of caution, assurance,
and gratitude, were reciprocated by Frank and Perdita,
as they bent their hasty steps to the landing-place
where he had left his boat; and when he had
handed her into it, and pushed from the shore on to
his own element, he felt the value of the trust which
this beautiful young creature had reposed in him.
Never in the days of knightly deeds was there a sentiment
of purer chivalry, than that which inspired
the determined resolution and romantic devotion of
the young sailor. He was scarcely twenty, the age
of fearless project, and self-confidence. How soon
is the one checked by disappointments—the other
humbled by experience of the infirmity of human
virtue!

Stuart had not confided his designs to any of his
shipmates. He was therefore obliged warily to approach
the ship, and to get on board with the least
possible noise. He had just time to secrete Perdita
amidst bales of tobacco, in the darkest place in the
hold of the vessel, when a call of “all hands on deck,”
summoned him to duty. He was foremost at his
post, and all was stir and bustle to get the vessel
under way. The sails were hoisted—the anchor
weighed, and all in readiness, when a signal was heard
from the shore, and presently a boat filled with men
was seen approaching. The men proved to be Perdita's
master, with a sheriff, and his attendants. They
produced a warrant empowering them to search the

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vessel. The old captain affirmed that the girl had
been seen on the preceding day, talking with a young
spark, who was known to have come on shore from
the Hazard. In his fury he foamed at the mouth,
swore he would have the runaway dead or alive, and
that her aider and abettor should be given over to condign
punishment. The master of the Hazard declared,
that if any of his men were found guilty, he would
resign them to the dealings of land law, and to prove
that if there were a plot, he was quite innocent, he
not only freely abandoned his vessel to the search,
but himself was most diligent in the inquest. The
men were called up, confronted and examined; not
one appeared more cool and unconcerned than Frank
Stuart, and after every inquiry, after ransacking, as they
believed, every possible place of concealment, the pursuers
were compelled to withdraw, baffled and disappointed.

The vessel proceeded on her voyage.—Frank requested
the captain's permission to swing a hammock
alongside his birth, on the pretence that the birth was
rendered damp and unwholesome by a leak in the deck
above it. This reasonable petition was of course granted,
and when night had closed watchful eyes, and
dropped her friendly veil, so essential to the clandestine
enterprises of the most ingenious, Frank rescued
Perdita from a position, in which she had suffered
not only the inconveniences, but the terrors of an
African slave; and wrapping her in his own dreadnought,
and drawing his watchcap over her bright
luxuriant hair, he conducted her past the open door
of the captain's state-room, and past his sleeping companions,
to his own birth; then whispering to her,
“that she was as safe as a ship in harbour,” he gave
her some bread and a glass of wine, for which he had
bartered his allowance of spirits, and laid himself down
in his own hammock, to the companionship of such

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thoughts as are ministering angels about the pillow of
the virtuous.

The following day a storm arose—a storm still remembered,
as the most terrible and disastrous that
ever occurred in Chesapeake Bay. There were several
passengers of consequence on board the Hazard,
among others two deacons who were going to the
mother country to receive orders—for then, we of the
colonies, who have since taken all rights into our
own hands, dared not exercise the rights God had
given us, without the assent of the Lords Bishops.
Night came on, the storm increased, and then, when
the ship was in extremity, when death howled in
every blast, when “the timid shrieked and the brave
stood still”—then was the unwearied activity, the exhaustless
invention, and the unconquerable resolution
of Frank Stuart, the last human support and help of
the unhappy crew. The master of the Hazard was
advanced in life, and unnerved by the usual feebleness
and timidity of age. He had but just enough presence
of mind left, to estimate the masterly conduct of
young Stuart, and he abandoned the command of
the vessel to him, and retired to what is too often
only a last resource—to prayers with the churchmen.

Once or twice Stuart disappeared from the deck,
ran to whisper a word of encouragement to his trembling
charge, and then returned with renewed vigour
to his duty. Owing, under Providence, to his exertions,
the Hazard rode out a storm which filled the
seaman's annals with many a tale of terror. Gratitude
is too apt to rest in second causes, in the visible
means of deliverance, and perhaps an undue portion
was now felt towards the intrepid youth. The passengers
lavished their favours on him—they supplied
his meals with the most delicate wines and fruits, and
the choicest viands from their own stores; he, with

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the superstition characteristic of his profession, firmly
believed that heaven had sent the storm to unlock
their hearts to him, and thus afford him the means of
furnishing Perdita with dainties suited to her delicate
appetite so that she fared, as he afterwards boasted,
like the daughter of a king in her father's palace.

Stuart was kept in a state of perpetual alarm by the
mate of the vessel. He knew that this fellow, one of
those imbeciles that bend like a reed before a strong
blast, had been hostile to him ever since the storm,
when the accidental superiority of his station had been
compelled to bow to Frank's superior genius. He
was aware that the mate had, by malicious insinuations,
estranged the captain from him, and he was but too
certain that he should have nothing to hope, if his
secret were discovered by this base man. Perhaps
this apprehension gave him an air of unwonted constraint
in the presence of his enemy; certain it is,
the mate's eye often rested on him with an expression
of eager watchfulness and suspicion, and Stuart,
perceiving it, would contract his brow and compress
his lips, in a way that betrayed how hard he strove
with his rising passion. The difficulty of concealment
was daily increasing, as one after another of his messmates,
either from some inevitable accident, or from
a communication becoming necessary on his part, obtained
possession of his secret. But his ascendency
over them was complete, and by threats or persuasions,
he induced them all to promise inviolable secresy,
There is an authority in a determined spirit,
to which men naturally do homage. It is heaven's
own charter of a power, to which none can refuse submission.

Frank never permitted his comrades to approach
Perdita, or to speak a word to her; but in the depths
of the night, when the mate's and the old captain's
senses were locked in sleep, he would bring her forth
to breathe the fresh air. Seated on the gunwale, she

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would bestow on him the only reward in her gift—
the treasures of her sweet voice; and Frank said the
winds sat still in the sails to listen. There were times
when not a human sound was heard in the ship,
when these two beings, borne gently on by the
tides in mid ocean, felt as if they were alone in the
universe.

It was at such times that Frank felt an irrepressible
curiosity to know something more of the mysterious
history of Perdita, whose destiny heaven, he
believed, had committed to his honour; and once he
ventured to introduce the topic nearest his heart, by
saying, “you bade me call you Perdita, but I do not
like the name; it puts me too much in mind of those
rodomontade novels that turn the girls' heads and set
them a sailing, as it were, without chart or compass,
in quest of unknown worlds”—He hesitated; it was
evident he had betaken himself to a figure, to avoid
an explicit declaration of his wishes—after a moment's
pause he added—“it suits me best to be
plain-spoken—it is not the name that I object to so
much, but—but hang it—I think you know Frank
Stuart now, well enough to trust him with your real
name.”

The unhappy girl cast down her eyes, and said “that
Perdita suited her better than any other name.”

“Then you will not trust me?”

“Say not so, my noble, generous friend,” she exclaimed—
“trust you!—have I not trusted you!—you
know that I would trust you with any thing that was
my own—but my name—my father's name, I have
forfeited by my folly.”

“Oh no—that you shall not say—a brave ship is
not run down with a light breeze, and a single folly
of a young girl cannot sink a good name—a folly!”
he continued, thus indirectly pushing his inquiries,
“if it is a folly, it's a common one—there's many a
stouter heart than your's, that's tried to face a gale of

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love, and been obliged to bear about and scud before
the wind.”

“Who told you?—how did you discover?” demanded
Perdita, in a hurried, alarmed manner.

Frank's generous temper disdained to surprise the
unwary girl into confidence, and he immediately surrendered
the advantage he had gained. “Nobody has
told me,” he said, “I have discovered nothing—I
only guessed, as the yankees say; now wipe away
your tears—the sea wants no more salt water, and believe
me, Frank Stuart has not such a woman's spirit
in him, that he cannot rest content without knowing a
secret.”

In spite of Frank's manly resolution, he did afterwards
repeatedly intimate the longings of his curiosity,
but they were always met with such unaffected distress
on the part of Perdita, that he said he had not the heart
to press them.

As the termination of the voyage approached, Stuart
became more intensely anxious lest his secret should be
discovered. The mildest consequence would be, that
he should forfeit his wages. That he cared not for—
like Goldsmith's poor soldier, he could lie on a bare
board, and thank God he was so well off. “While
he had youth and health,” he said, “and there was
a ship afloat on the wide sea, he was provided for.”
But his companions who had been true to him might
forfeit their pay; for, by their fidelity to him, they had
in some measure become his accessories. But he
found consolation even under this apprehension;
“the honest lads,” he said, “would soon make a
full purse empty, but the memory of a good action
was a treasure gold could not buy—a treasure that
would stick by them forever—a treasure for the
port of heaven.” There was, however, one apprehended
evil, for which his philosophy offered no
antidote.

He was sure the captain would deem it his duty or

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make it his will, (even Frank's slight knowledge of
human nature told him that will and duty were too
often convertible terms,) to return the fugitive to her
self-styled master in Maryland. Nothing could exceed
the vigilance with which he watched every movement
and turn that threatened a detection, or the ingenuity
with which he evaded every circumstance
that tended to it—but alas! the race is not always to
the swift, nor the battle to the strong.

One night when it was blowing a gale, a particular
rope was wanted, which the mate remembered to have
stowed away in the steerage. Frank eagerly offered
to search for it, but the mate was certain that no one
but himself could find it, and taking a lantern he went
in quest of it. Frank followed him with fear and
trembling. He has since been in many a desperate
sea-fight, but he declares he never felt so much like a
coward as at that moment. The mate's irritable
humour had been somewhat stirred by Frank's persisting
in his offer to go for the rope, and when he
turned and saw him at his heels, he asked him angrily,
“what he was dogging him for?” “The ship rolls so
heavily,” replied Frank, in a subdued tone, “that I
thought you might want me to hold the lantern for
you.” Frank's unwonted meekness conciliated the
mate, and though he rejoined, “I think I have been
used to the rolling of a ship a little longer than you,
young man,” he spoke good-naturedly, and Frank
ventured to proceed.

Most fortunately, as Frank thought, the mate directed
his steps to the side of the ship opposite Perdita,
but making a little circuit in his return, he passed
between Frank's hammock and Perdita's birth. At
this moment the poor lad's heart, as he afterwards
averred, stopped beating. The ship rolled on that
side, and the mate catching hold of the birth to save
himself from falling, exclaimed, “What lazy devil is
here, when every hand is wanted on deck;” and

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raising his lantern to identify the supposed delinquent
sailor, he discovered the beautiful girl. For a moment
he was dumb with amazement, but soon recalling the
search at Oxford, the whole truth flashed upon him:
he turned to Frank, and shaking his fist in his face,
“Ah, this is you, Stuart!” he said, and enforced his
gesture with a horrible oath.

“Yes,” retorted Frank, now standing boldly forth,
“it is me, thank God”—and then drawing a curtain
that he had arranged before Perdita's birth, he bade
her fear nothing.

“Oh, Frank,” she exclaimed, “I cannot fear where
you are.” This involuntary expression of confidence
went to her protector's heart. There is no man so dead
to sentiment, as not to be touched by the trust of
woman, especially if she be young and beautiful.
Frank was at the age when sentiment is absolute, and
he was resolved to secure his treasure at every hazard.
Perdita's declaration, while it stimulated his zeal,
awakened the mean jealousies of the mate.

“And so, my pretty miss,” he said, “you fear nothing
where this fellow is—I can tell you, for all that
he may boast, and you may believe, he is neither
master nor mate yet, and please the Lord I'll prove
as much to him this very night.”

“And how will you prove it?” asked Stuart, in a
voice which, though as calm as he could make it, resembled
the low growl of a bull dog before he springs
on his victim.

“I'll prove it, my lad, by telling the whole story
of your smuggled goods to the captain. A pretty
piece of work this, to be carried on under the nose of
your officers. It's no better than a mutiny, for I'll
warrant it the whole ship's crew are leagued with
you.”

Stuart reined in his passions, and condescended to
expostulate. He represented to the mate that he could
gain nothing by giving information to the captain.

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He described, with his simple eloquence, the oppression
the poor girl had already suffered; the cruelty of
disappointing her present hopes, just as they were on
the point of being realized, for the ship was not more
than twenty-four hours' sail from Cowes; he appealed
to his compassion, his generosity, his manliness, but
in vain, he found no accessible point. The mean pride
of having discovered the secret, and the pleasure of
humbling Stuart, mastered every good feeling of the
mate, if indeed he possessed any, and he turned away,
saying, with a sort of chuckling exultation, “that he
should go and do his duty.”

“Stop,” cried Frank, grasping his arm with a gripe
that threatened to crush it. “Stop, and hear me; I
swear by Him that made me, if you dare so much as
to hint by word, look or movement, the secret you
have discovered here, you shall not cumber the earth
another day—day—said I—no not an hour—I'll send
you to the devil as swift as a canon ball ever went to
the mark—Look,” he continued, tearing away the
curtain he had just drawn before Perdita—“could any
thing short of the malice of Satan himself contrive to
harm such helpless innocence as that—do you hear
me”—he added, in a voice that outroared the storm—
“in God's name look at me, and see I am in earnest.”

The mate had no doubt to satisfy, he trembled like
an aspen leaf—in vain he essayed to raise his eyes; the
passion that glared in Frank's face, and dilated his
whole figure, affected the trembling wretch like a
stroke of the sun. He reeled like a drunken man.
His abject fear changed Stuart's wrath to contempt,
and giving him an impulse that sent him quite out
of the door, he returned to soothe Perdita with the
assurance that they had nothing to fear from the
“cowardly dog.” She was confounded with terror,
but much more frightened by the vehemence of Stuart's
passion than by the threats of the mate. She had

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always seen her protector move like an unobstructed
stream along its course, in calm and silent power.
Now he was the torrent, that no human force could
oppose or direct.

She saw before her calamities far worse than any
she had endured. She believed that the mate, as soon
as he was recovered from his paroxysm of terror, would
communicate his discovery. She apprehended the
most fatal issue from Frank's threats and determined
resolution, and the possibility that his generous zeal
for her might involve him in crime, was intolerable to
her. Such thoughts do not become less terrible by
solitary meditation—in the solemnity of night and
amidst the howlings of a storm. Every blast spoke
reproach and warning to Perdita, and tortured by
those harpies remorse and fear, she took a sudden resolution
to reveal herself to the captain, feeling at the
moment that if she warded off evil from her protector,
she could patiently abide the worst consequences to
herself. She sprang from her birth as if afraid of
being checked by a second thought, and rushed from
the steerage to the cabin. All was perfect stillness
there—the passengers had retired to their beds. The
captain was sitting by the table, he had been reading,
but his book had fallen to the floor, his head had sunk
on his breast, and he was in a profound sleep. The
light shone full on his weather-beaten face—on large
uncouth features—on lines deepened to furrows—and
muscles stiffened by time. Never was there an aspect
more discouraging to one who needed mercy, and
poor Perdita stood trembling before him and close to
him, and dared not, could not speak. She heard a
footstep-approaching, still her tongue was glued to the
roof of her mouth. Then she heard her name pronounced
in a low whisper at the cabin door, and turning,
she saw Stuart there beckoning most earnestly to
her. She shook her head, signed to him to withdraw,
and laid her hand on the captain's shoulder. There

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was but one way to thwart her intentions, and Frank's
was not a hesitating spirit, he sprang forward, caught
her in his arms, and before the old man had rubbed
his eyes fairly open, Perdita was again safe in the
steerage.

Stuart's threats produced the intended effect on the
mate; he was completely intimidated. He scarcely
ventured out of Frank's sight lest he should incur his
dangerous suspicions, and the next day the vessel, accelerated
by the gale of the preceding evening, arrived
at Cowes. The captain and mate immediately landed,
and Stuart, no longer embarrassed by their presence,
was able to take the necessary measures for Perdita.
She assured him that if once conveyed to the main
land, to Portsmonth or Southampton, she could herself
take the coach for London, and there, she said happiness
or misery awaited her which her noble protector
could neither promote or avert.

A wherry was procured. Before Perdita was transferred
to it, she took leave of all the sailors, shook
hands with each of them, and expressed to them, individually,
her gratitude and good wishes. Her words
conveyed nothing but a sense of obligation, but there
was something of condescension in her manner, and
much of the grace of high station that contrasted strikingly
with the abased, fearful, and shrinking air of
the girl who had, till then, only been seen gliding like
a spectre along the deck, attended by Stuart, and
veiled by the shadows of night. As the wherry parted
from the ship, she bowed her head and waved her
handkerchief to Frank's shipmates, and they returned
her salutation with three loud cheers.

Stuart attended her to an inn at Portsmouth, engaged
for her a seat in the London coach, and then
followed her to a private apartment which he had
secured, to bid her farewell.

Perdita, from the moment she had felt her emancipation
from a degrading condition, and the joy of

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

setting her foot again on her native land, had manifested,
perhaps, an undue elation of spirits, an elation
so opposite to Frank's feelings, that to him it was a
grating discord; but when she saw him for the last
time, every other emotion gave place to unfeigned
sorrow and inexpressible gratitude.

Stuart laid a purse on the table beside her. “My
shipmates,” he said, “receive their wages to-morrow,
so they have been right glad to make their pockets
clear of the little trash that was in them, which
may be of service to you, though it is of no use to
them.”

“Oh Frank!” she exclaimed, “if I should ever
have any thing in my gift—if I could but reward you
for all you have done for me!”

All the blood in Frank's heart rushed to his face,
and he said in a voice almost inarticulate with offended
pride, “there are services that money cannot
buy, and thank God, there are feelings in a poor man's
breast worth more than all the gold in the king's coffers.”

“What have I said,” exclaimed Perdita, “I would
rather die—rather return to the depth of misery
from which you rescued me—yes, ten times told, than
to speak one word that should offend you—you to
whom I owe every thing—my life—and more than
life. I did not say—I did not think, that money could
reward you.”

“Do not speak that word again,” said Frank, half
ashamed of his pride, and half glorifying in it. “Reward!
I want none but your safety and the blessed
memory of having done my duty. Money—ho! I care
no more for it, than for the dust I tread upon.”

I know it—I am sure of it,” cried Perdita, humbled
for the moment by a sense of an elevation of soul in
Frank, that exalted him far above any accidents of birth
or education. “Frank, you are rich in every thing
that is good and noble—and what am I, to talk of

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

reward—poor—poor in every thing but gratitude to you,
Frank—I am not poor in that—you must not then
despise me, and you will not forget me—and you will
keep this ring for my sake.”

Frank took the ring, and the lily hand she extended
to him—his tears fell fast upon it—he struggled
for a moment with his feelings, then dashed away his
tears, and half-articulating “God bless you!” he hurried
out of the apartment. Thus separating himself
from the beautiful young creature, for whom he had
performed a most difficult service with religious fidelity;
and of whose name even, he was forever to remain
in ignorance.

The enterprising talent of Stuart ensured its appropriate
reward. In one year from the memorable voyage
above related, he commanded a vessel; and on
the breaking out of the revolutionary war, he devoted
himself to his country's cause, with the fervent zeal
which characterised and consecrated that cause—which
made the common interest a matter of feeling—a
family affair to each individual.

Stuart commanded an armed merchantman, and disputes
with the noted Paul Jones the honour of having
first struck down the British flag. However this may
be, he was distinguished for his skill and intrepidity—
and above all, (and this distinction endures when
the most brilliant achievements have become insignificant,)
for his humanity to those whom the fortune
of war cast in his power.

While on a cruise off the West Indies, Stuart intercepted
an enemy's ship bound to Antigua. His adversary
was far superior to him in men and guns, but
as it did not comport with Stuart's bold spirit to make
any very nice calculations of an enemy's superiority,
he prepared without hesitation for action. The contest
was a very severe one, and the victory long doubtful;
but at last the British captain struck his colours.
Though we certainly are disposed to render all honour

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

to the skill of our hero, yet we dare not claim for him
the whole merit of his success, but rather solve the
mystery of victory at such odds, by quoting the expression
of a patriotic English boy, who said on a
similar occasion—“Ah, but the Americans would not
have beaten, if the Lord had not been on their side.”

After the fight the English commander requested
an interview with captain Stuart; he informed him
that the wife and mother of the governor of Antigua
were on board his vessel, and that they were almost
distracted with terror; he entreated therefore that
they might be received with the humanity which
their sex demanded, and the deference always due to
high station. Stuart replied, “that as to high station,
he held that all God's creatures, who feared their
Creator and did their duty, were on a dead level—and
as to the duties of humanity, he trusted no American
captain need go further than his own heart for instructions
how to perform them.” The British captain,
ignorant of the spirit of the times, and arguing nothing
favourable from Stuart's republican reply, returned
with a heavy heart to the ladies to conduct them on
board the captor's ship. The elder lady, the mother,
was a woman of rank, with all the pride and prejudice
of high birth. The Americans she deemed all of that
then much despised order—the common people; rebels
and robbers were the best names she bestowed on
them, and in the honesty of her ignorance she sincerely
believed that she had fallen into the hands of pirates.
The younger lady, though deeply affected by their
disastrous situation, endeavoured to calm her mother's
apprehensions, and assured her that she had heard
there were men of distinguished humanity among the
American sailors. The old lady shook her head incredulously.
“Oh heaven help us,” she groaned, “what
can we expect from such horrid fellows, when they
know they have lady Strangford and the right honourable
Mrs. Liston in their power—and your beauty,

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

Selina! your beauty, child! it is a fatal treasure to fall
among thieves with—depend on't—arrange your veil
so that it will hang in thick folds over your face—I
will draw my hood close.” The precauton on her
part seemed quite superfluous, but the young lady's impervious
veil concealed a treasure of beauty which
time had perfected but not impaired.

The servants were ordered to deliver the ladies'
baggage to the American captain, with a request that
some necessaries might be reserved. Stuart answered
that he interfered with no private property, and that
all the baggage of the ladies remained at their disposal.

Lady Strangford was somewhat reassured by this
generosity, and attended by her captain and followed
by her daughter and servants, she proceeded to Stuart's
ship. Stuart advanced to meet them and offered
her his hand—she proudly declined it and passed
silently on. A gust of wind blew back her hood—
“Faith!” exclaimed one of the sailors who observed
the scrupulosity with which she replaced it, “the old
lady had best show her face, for I'm sure we'll all give
a good berth to such an iron-bound coast as that.”
But as the same breeze blew aside the young lady's
veil, there was a general murmur of admiration. She
had at the moment graciously accepted the tender of
Stuart's hand, in the hope of counteracting the impression
of her mother's rudeness, and when her veil was
removed he had a full view of her face; conscious that
many were gazing on her, she blushed deeply, and
hastily readjusted it without raising her eyes. Stuart
dropped her hand—smothered an exclamation, and
retreated a few paces, leaving her to follow her mother
alone.

One of his officers observing his emotion, said,
“How is this, captain? yot don't wink at a broadside,
and yet you start at one flash from a lady's bright
face.”

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

“I got a scratch on my right arm in the engagement,”
returned Stuart, evading the raillery, “and I
felt a devil of a twinge just then.” It was not a trifle
that made honest Stuart thus “falter in a double
sense.”

He then retired to his state-room, and wrote the
following note, which he directed to be delivered to
the young lady. “Captain Stuart's compliments to
the ladies under his protection—he incloses a ring, once
bestowed on him in acknowledgment of honourable
conduct, as a pledge to them that the hand that has
worn such a badge shall never be sullied by a bad
deed. Captain Stuart will proceed immediately to
Antigua, conveying the ladies with the least possible
delay to their destined port.” Such a communication
to prisoners of war, might naturally excite emotion in
a generous bosom, but it did not account for the excess
of it manifested by the young lady. She became
pale and faint, and when her mother, alarmed at such
a demonstration of feeling, took up the note, she caught
it from her, and then, after a second thought, relinquished
it.

“I see nothing in this, Selina,” said the old lady,
after perusing and reperusing it, “to throw you into
such a flurry, but you are young, and are thinking
no doubt of getting home to your husband and children;
young people's feelings, are, like soft wax, easily
melted.”

“There is a warmth in some kindness,” rejoined
the daughter earnestly, “that ought to melt the hardest
substance.”

“Really, I do not see any thing so very striking
in this man's civility. It would be, of course, you
know in the British navy; politeness, and all that
sort of thing being inborn in an Englishman, but it
may be, indeed I fancy it is, quite unheard of in an
American.”

“Shall I write our acknowledgments, madam, to

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

captain Stuart?” asked the young lady, with evident
solicitude to drop the conversation.

“Certainly—certainly, my dear Selina, always be
ceremoniously polite with your inferiors.”

“Madam, I think this noble captain,” she would
have added, “has no superiors,” but afraid of further
discussion, she concluded her sentence with the tame
addition, “richly deserves our thanks.”

She then wrote the following note. “Mrs. Liston,
in behalf of her mother in law, lady Strangford, and on
her own part, offers her warmest thanks to captain
Stuart—the ladies esteem it heaven's peculiar mercy
that captain Stuart is their captor. They have already
had such experience of his magnanimity, as to render
them perfectly tranquil in reposing their safety and
happiness on his honour.” The ring, without any
allusion to it, was reinclosed.

When captain Stuart had perused the note, he
inquired if the lady had not requested to speak with
him. He was answered that so far from intimating
such a wish, she had said to her mother that she
would remain in her state-room, till she was summoned
to leave captain Stuart's vessel. The captain
looked extremely chagrined, he knit his brows, and
bit his lips, and gave his orders hastily, with the
usual sea expletives appended to them—“a sure sign,”
his men said, “that something went wrong with
their captain,” but these signs of repressed emotion
were all the expression he allowed to his offended
pride, or perhaps his better feelings. The ladies were
scrupulously served, and every deferential attention
paid to them that lady Strangford would have anticipated
in the best disciplined ship in his majesty's
service.

A few day's sail brought the schooner to the port
of Antigua. She entered the harbour under a flag of
truce, and remained there just time enough for the

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

disembarcation of the ladies and their suite. During
this ceremony the captain remained in his berth, under
pretext of a violent head-ache; but it was obseved
that they were no sooner fairly off than he was on
deck again, moving about with an activity and even
impetuosity that seemed quite incompatible with a
debilitating malady.

Captain Stuart continued for some months a fortunate
cruise about the West India islands. His was
not the prudent maxim that “discretion is the better
part of valour,” but when valour would have been
bootless he knew how to employ the alternative, and
his little schooner was celebrated as the most desperate
fighter and the swiftest sailor in those seas,
and her captain became so formidable, that the English
admiral off that station gave orders that the
schooner should be followed and destroyed at all hazards.

Soon after this he was pursued by a ship of the line,
and compelled to take refuge in the harbour of St.
Kitts, a French, and of course a friendly port to the
American flag. Here he anchored his vessel, and
deeming himself perfectly secure, and wearied with
hard duty, he retired to his berth after setting a watch,
and dismissing his crew to repose. In the middle of
the night he was alarmed by an attack from the pursuing
frigate, which had contrived to elude the vigilance
of the fort that guarded the entrance of the
harbour, and was already in such a position in relation
to him as to cut off every possibility of escape. His
spirit, far from quailing, was exasperated by the surprise.
He fought as the most courageous animals
fight at bay. To increase the horror of his situation,
the commander of the fort, from some fatal mistake,
opened a fire upon him. He was boarded on all sides
by boats manned with eighty-four men. We are too
ignorant of such matters, to give any interest to the
particulars of a sea-fight. Suffice it to say, that our

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

hero did not surrender till he was himself disabled by
wounds, his little band cut down, and his schooner a
wreck. When the British commander ascertained the
actual force with which he had contended, his pride
was stung with the consciousness that a victory so
dearly bought, had all of defeat but the disgraceful
name; and, incapable of that sympathy which a magnanimous
spirit always feels with a noble captive, he
arraigned captain Stuart before him as a criminal, and
demanded of him how he dared against the law of nations,
to defend an indefensible vessel.

“Did you think,” retorted Stuart with cold contempt,
“that I had gunpowder and would not burn it?
do you talk to me of the law of nations! I fight after
the law of nature, that teaches me to spend the last
kernel of powder and the last drop of blood, in my
country's service.” His conqueror's temper, heated
before, was inflamed by Stuart's reply. He ordered
him to be manacled and put into close confinement.
This conduct may appear extraordinary in the commander
of a British frigate, but the English, in their
contest with the colonies were not always governed
by those generous principles, by which they have
themselves so much alleviated the miseries of war. A
defeated American was treated as a lawful enemy, or
a rebel, as suited the temper of the individual who
vanquished him.

The frigate was so much injured in the fight as to
render a refit necessary, and her commander sailed
with his prize for Antigua.

Stuart well knew that his fidelity to his country
rendered him obnoxious to the severest judgment from
the admiralty court, and though he might plead the
services he had rendered the ladies of the governor's
family in mitigation of his sentence, he proudly resolved
never to advert to favours, which he had reason
to believe had been lightly estimated.

Spirits most magnanimous in prosperity are often

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

most lofty in adversity. Frank Stuart, mutilated by
wounds, dejected by the fatal calamities of his faithful
crew, irritated by the indignities heaped on him by his
unworthy captor, and stung by secret thoughts of some
real or fancied injury—chafed and overburthened with
many griefs, received, and sullenly obeyed a summons
to the presence of the governor. It cannot be
denied, that reluctantly as he appeared before the
governor, he surveyed him at his introduction with
a look of keen curiosity. He was surprised to see
a man rather past his prime, though not yet declined
into the vale of years. With generous allowance for
the effect of a tropical climate, he might not have
been more than forty-five. His physiognomy was
agreeable, and his deportment gentlemanly. He
received captain Stuart with far more courtesy than
was often vouchsafed from an officer of the crown, to
one who fought under the rebel banner, and remarking
that he looked pale and sick, he begged him to be
seated.

Stuart declined the civility, and continued resting
on a crutch, which a severe wound in his leg rendered
necessary.

“You are the commander of the schooner Betsy?”
said the governor.

“What's left of her,” returned Stuart.

“You appear to be severely wounded,” continued
the governor.

“Hacked to pieces,” rejoined Stuart, in a manner
suited to the brevity of his reply.

“Your name, I believe, is Frank Stuart?”

“I have no reason to deny the name, thank God.”

“And, thank God, I have reason to bless and honour
it,” exclaimed the governor, advancing and grasping
Frank's hand heartily. “What metal did you deem
me of, my noble friend, that I should forget such favours
as you conferred on me, in the persons of my
wife and mother.”

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

“I have known greater favours than those forgotten,”
said Frank, and the sudden illumination of his
pale face showed how deeply he felt what he uttered.

“Say you so?” exclaimed the governor with good
humoured warmth; “well, but that I am too poor to
pay my own debts to you, I should count it a pleasure
to assume those of all my species—but heaven grant,
my friend, that you do not allude to my wife and mother.
I blamed them much for not bringing you on
shore with them—but my mother is somewhat over
punctilious, and my wife, poor soul! her nerves were
so shattered by that sea-fight, that she is but now herself
again. On my word, so far from wanting gratitude
to you, she never hears an allusion to you without
tears, the language women deal in when words are too
cold for them. But come,” concluded the governor,
for he found that all his efforts did but add to Stuart's
evident distress, “come, follow me to the drawing-room,
the ladies will themselves convince you how impatient
they have been to welcome you?”

“Are they apprised,” asked Stuart, still hesitating
and holding back, “whom they are to see?”

“That are they—my mother is as much delighted as
if his majesty were in waiting, and my wife is weeping
with joy.”

“Perhaps,” said Stuart, still hesitating, “she would
rather not see me now.”

“Nonsense, my good friend, come along. It is not
for a brave fellow like you to shrink from a few friendly
tears from a woman's eye.”

Nothing more could be urged, and Stuart followed
governor Liston to the presence of the ladies. Lady
Strangford rose and offered him her hand with the most
condescending kindness. Mrs. Liston rose too, but
did not advance till her husband said, “Come, Selina,
speak your welcome to our benefactor—he may misinterpret
this expression of your feelings.”

“Oh no,” she said, now advancing eagerly, and

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

fixing her eye on Stuart, while her cheeks, neck, and
brow were suffused with crimson, “Oh no, captain
Stuart knows how deeply I must feel benefits, which
none but he that bestowed them could forget or undervalue.”

“It was a rule my mother taught me,” replied Frank
with bluntness, softened however by a sudden gleam
of pleasure, “that givers should not have better memories
than receivers.” There was a meaning in his
honest phrase hidden from two of his auditors, but
quite intelligible to her for whom it was designed, and
to our readers, who have doubtless already anticipated
that the honourable Mrs. Liston was none other than
the fugitive Perdita. A sudden change of colour
showed that she felt acutely Stuart's keen though veiled
reproach.

“A benefit,” she replied, still speaking in a double
sense, “such as I have received from you, captain
Stuart, may be too deeply felt to be acknowledged
by words—now heaven has given us the opportunity
of deeds, and you shall find that my gratitude
is only inferior to your merit.” Stuart was more accustomed
to embody his feelings in action than speech,
and he remained silent. He felt as if he were the
sport of a dream, when he looked on the transformed
Perdita. He knew not why, but invested as she now
was, with all the power of wealth and the elegance of
fashion, he felt not half the awe of her, as when in her
helplessness and dependence, “he had fenced her
rounde with many a spelle,” wrought by youthful and
chivalric feeling.

He perceived, in spite of Mrs. Liston's efforts, that
his presence was embarrassing to her, and he would
have taken leave, but the governor insisted peremptorily
on his remaining to dine with him. Then saying
that he had indispensable business to transact, and
must be absent for a half hour, he would, he said,

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

“leave the ladies to the free expression of their feelings.”

When he was gone, Mrs. Liston said to her mother,
“I do not think your little favourite, Francis, is quite
well to-day—will you have the goodness to look in
upon him and give nurse some advice.” The old
lady went without reluctance, as most people do to
give advice, and Mrs. Liston turned to Stuart, and
said, “I gave my boy your name, with a prayer that
God would give him your spirit. Do not, oh do not
think me,” she continued, her lip quivering with
emotion, “the ungrateful wretch I have appeared. I
am condemned to silence by the pride of another.
My heart rebels, but I am bound to keep that a secret,
which my feelings prompt me to publish to the world.”
Stuart would have spoken, but she anticipated him:
“Listen to me without interruption,” she said, “my
story is my only apology, and I have but brief space
to tell it in. It was love, as you once guessed, that
led me to that mad voyage to America. I had a silly
passion for a young Virginian, who had been sent to
England for his education—he was nineteen, I fifteen,
when we promised to meet on board the ship which
conveyed me to America. His purpose, but not
his concert with me was discovered, and he was detained
in England. You know all the events of my
enterprise. I left a letter for my father, informing
him that I had determined to abandon England, but I
gave him not the slightest clue to my real designs. I
was an only, and as you will readily believe, a spoiled
child. My mother was not living, and my father
hoping that I should soon return, and wishing to veil
my folly, gave out that he had sent me to a boarding-school
on the continent, and himself retired to Switzerland.
When I arrived in London, I obtained his
address and followed him. He immediately received
me to apparent favour, but never restored me to his

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

confidence. His heart was hardened by my childish
folly, and though I recounted to him all my sufferings,
I never drew a tear from him; but when I spoke of
you, and dwelt on the particulars of your goodness
to me, his eye would moisten, and he would exclaim,
`God bless the lad.' I must be brief,” she continued,
casting her eye apprehensively at the door; “Mr. Liston
came with his mother to Geneva, where we resided;
he addressed me—my father favoured his suit, and
though he is, as you perceive, much older than myself,
I consented to marry him, but not, as I told my father,
till I had unfolded my history to him. My father
was incensed at what he called my folly—he treated
me harshly—I was subdued, and our contest ended in
my solemnly swearing never to divulge the secret, on
the preservation of which he fancied the honour of his
proud name to depend.”

“Thank God,” then exclaimed Frank, with a burst
of honest feeling, “it was not your pride, cursed pride;
and I may still think on Perdita as a true, tender-hearted
girl. It was a pleasant spot in my memory,” he continued,
dashing away a tear, “and I hated to have it
crossed with a black line.”

Mrs. Liston improved all that remained of her mother's
absence in detailing some particulars, not necessary
to relate, by which it appeared that notwithstanding
she had dispensed with the article of love in
her marriage, (we crave mercy of our fair young
readers,) her husband's virtue and indulgence had matured
a sentiment of affection, if not as romantic, yet
quite as safe and enduring as youthful passion. She
assured Stuart that she regarded him as the means of
all her happiness. “Not a day passes,” she said, raising
her beautiful eyes to heaven, “that I do not remember
my generous deliverer, where alone I am permitted
to speak of him.” The old lady now rejoined them,
bringing her grandchild in her arms. Frank threw
down his crutch, forgot his wounds, and permitted his

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

full heart to flow out, in the caresses he lavished on
his little namesake.

The governor redeemed Stuart's schooner, and made
such representations before the admiralty court of
Stuart's merits, and of the ill treatment he had received
from the commander of the frigate, that the court
ordered the schooner to be refitted and equipped, and
permitted to proceed to sea at the pleasure of captain
Stuart. He remained for several days domesticated
in the governor's family, and treated by every member
of it with a frank cordiality suited to his temper and
merits. Every look, word, and action of Mrs. Liston
expressed to him, that his singular service was engraven
on her heart. He forebore even to allude to it, and
with his characteristic magnanimity never inquired,
directly or indirectly, her family name. He observed
a timidity and apprehensiveness in her manner that
resulted from a consciousness that she had, however
reluctantly, practised a fraud on her husband, and he
said “that having felt how burdensome it was to keep
a secret from his commander for a short voyage, he
thought it was quite too heavy a lading for the voyage
of life.”

The demonstrations of gratitude which Stuart received
from governor Liston and his family, he deemed
out of all proportion to his services, and being more
accustomed to bestow than to receive, he became
restless, and as soon as his schooner was ready for sea,
he announced his departure, and bade his friends
farewell. He said the tears that Perdita, (he always
called her Perdita,) shed at parting, were far more
precious to him than all the rich gifts she had bestowed
on him.

At the moment Stuart set his foot on the deck of
his vessel, the American colours, at the governor's
command, were hoisted. The generous sympathies
of the multitude were moved, and huzzas from a thousand
voices rent the air. Governor Liston and his suite

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

and most of the merchant vessels, then in port, escorted
the schooner out of the harbour. Even the stern
usages of war cannot extinguish that sentiment in the
bosom of man, implanted by God, which leads him to
do homage to a brave and generous foe.

Captain Stuart continued to the end of the war, to
serve his country with unabated zeal, and, when
peace was restored, the same hardy spirit that had
distinguished him in perilous times, made him foremost
in bold adventure.

He commanded the second American trading vessel
that arrived at Canton after the peace; and this vessel
with which he sailed over half the globe, was a sloop
of eighty tons, little more than half the size of the
largest now used for the trade of Hudson river. This
adventure will be highly estimated by those who have
been so fortunate as to read the merry tale of Dolph
Heilegher, and who remember the prudence manifested,
at that period, by the wary Dutchmen in navigating
these small vessels: how they were fain to
shelter themselves at night in the friendly harbours
with which the river abounds, and, we believe, to
avoid adventuring through Haverstraw bay or the
Tappan sea, in a high wind.

When Stuart's little sloop rode into the port of Canton,
it was mistaken for a tender from a large ship,
and the bold mariner was afterwards familiarly called
by the great Hong merchants, “the one-mast captain.”

Fifty-seven years have gone by since the Hazard
sailed from Oxford, and our hero is now enjoying in
the winter of his life, the fruits of a summer of activity
and integrity. Time, which he has well used, has
used him gently—his hair is a little thinned and mottled,
but is still a sufficient shelter to his honoured
head. His eye when he talks of the past, (all good old

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

men love to talk of the past,) rekindles with the fire
of youth, his healthful complexion speaks his temperance,
and a double row of unimpared ivory, justifies
the pleasant vanity of his boast, that he can still show
his teeth to an enemy.

Professional carelessness or generosity has left him
little of the world's “gear,” but he is rich—for he
is independent of riches. He says he would recommend
honest dealings and an open hand, to all who
would lay up stores of pleasant thoughts for their old
age; and he avers—and who will gainsay him? that in
the silent watches of the night, the memory of money
well bestowed is better than a pocket full of guineas.
He loves to recount his boyish pranks, and
recal his childish feelings—how he rattled down the
chincapins on the devoted heads of a troop of little
girls; and how he was whipped for crying to go with
Braddock and be a soldier! but above all, he loves to
dwell on some of the particulars we have related, and
in the sincerity of religious feeling to ascribe praise to
that Being, who kept his youth within the narrow
bound of strict virtue.

I saw him last week surrounded by his grandchildren,
recounting his imminent dangers and hair breadth
'scapes to a favourite boy, while the nimble fingers of
rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed little girls were employed
in making sails for a miniature ship, which the old
man has just completed. Long may he enjoy the talisman
that recalls to his imagination, labour without
its hardship, and enterprise without its failure—and
God grant gentle breezes and a clear sky to the close
of his voyage of life!

eaf344.n6

[6] The original title of this story was “Modern Chivalry.” After
its publication, the author discovered she had unwarily adopted a title
already appropriated.

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

p344-156 MARY DYRE.

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

The subject of the following sketch, a Quaker
Martyr, may appear to the fair holiday readers of
souvenirs, a very unfit personage to be introduced
into the romantic and glorious company of lords and
ladye loves; of doomed brides; and all-achieving
heroines; chivalric soldiers; suffering outlaws; and
Ossianic sons of the forest. But of such, it is not now
“our hint to speak.” Neither have we selected the
most romantic heroine that might have been found in
the annals of the sober-suited sect. A startling tale
might be wrought from the perilous adventures of
Mary Fisher, the maiden missionary, who, after being
cast into prison, for saying “thee” instead of “you,” was
examined before a judicial tribunal, and “nothing found
but innocence;” who, released from durance, travelled
over the continent of Europe, to communicate her faith;
visited the court of Mahomet the Fourth, then held at
Adrianople; was presented by the Grand Vizier to
the Sultan, who listened to her with deference, and was,
or affected to be, persuaded of her truth. A guard to
Constantinople was gallantly offered her by Mahomet,
which she refused; and safe and unmolested, in
her armous of innocence, she proceeded to that city,
receiving everywhere from the Turks the gentle usage
that was denied her by those professing a more generous
faith.

A tale of horrors, of cowled monks, and instruments
of torture, might be framed from the “hair breadth

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

scapes” of Catharine Evans and Sarah Chevers, the
Quaker heroines who suffered with constancy, in the
Inquisition at Malta. We have passed by these tempting
themes, to tell a briefer story, and present a character
in its true and natural light, as it stands on the
historic page, without the graces of fiction, or any of
those aids, by which the romance writer composes his
picture—exaggerating beauties, placing them in bright
lights, and omitting or gracefully shading defects.
There are manifestations of moral beauty so perfect
that they do not require the aids of fiction, as there are
scenes in the material world, that no illusion of the
imagination can improve.

Mary Dyre belonged to the religious society of
“Friends;” a society, that, after having long resisted
the tempest of intolerance and persecution, is melting
away under the genial sun of universal toleration, and
the ignoble, but no less resistless influence, of the
tailor's shears, and the milliner's craft. As Voltaire
predicted, some sixty years since, “Les enfans enrichis
par l'industrie de leurs peres veulent jouir avoir des
honneurs, des boutons, et des manchettes.”

Mary Dyre was among those, who, in 1657, sought
in New England an asylum from the oppression of
the mother country. But the persecuted had become
persecutors; and, instead of an asylum, these harmless
people found a prison, and were destined, for their
glory and our shame, to suffer as martyrs in the cause
of liberty of conscience.

Sewal, the historian “of the people called Quakers,”
to whom we are indebted for most of the following
particulars, has given very slight notice of Mary Dyre's
private history. “She was,” he says, “of a comely and
grave countenance, of a good family and estate, and
the mother of several children; but her husband, it
seems, was of another persuasion.” From another
document, which we have been so fortunate as to obtain,
it appears that this defect of religious sympathy,

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

had, in no degree, abated the affection and confidence
of her husband.

Thus she possessed whatever comes within the aspiration
of a woman's ambition or affections;—beauty,
for this is no violent paraphrase of the Quaker historian's
stinted courtesy, rank, fortune, conjugal and
maternal happiness; yet she counted all these but loss,
believing that her obedience to the inspirations of God
required their sacrifice.

The Pilgrims, finding the penalties of fine, imprisonment,
scourging with the “three-corded whip,” cutting
off the ears, and boring the tongue with a red-hot
iron, ineffectual in extirpating the “cursed heresy of
the Quakers,” or “preventing their pestilent errors and
practices,” proceeded to banish them from their jurisdiction,
on pain of death.

This violence was done under a statute enacted in
1658. Mary Dyre, with many others, sought a refuge
from the storm in Rhode-Island. Christian liberty, in
its most generous sense, was the noble distinction of
that Province; and there Mary might have enjoyed
her inoffensive faith, and all the temporal distinctions
it permitted, for her husband filled one of the highest
offices in the Province. But she could not forget her
suffering brethren in the Massachusetts Colony. She
meditated on their wrongs till she “felt a call” to return
to Boston. Two persons, distinguished for zeal
and integrity, accompanied her; William Robinson,
and Marmaduke Stevenson. Their intention and
hope was, to obtain a repeal or mitigation of the laws
against their sect. Their return was in the autumn of
1659. On their appearance in Boston, they were immediately
seized, and committed to prison, and a few days
subsequent, after a summary and informal examination
before Governor Endicot, and the associate Magistrates,
they were sentenced to suffer the penalty of
death, which had been already decreed to such as, after
being banished, should return.

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

Mary's companions replied to the annunciation of
their sentence, in terms that savoured strongly of human
resentment, which, alas for human weakness! is
often betrayed in the anticipation of the judgments of
Heaven. “Give ear, ye magistrates,” said Stevenson,
“and all ye who are guilty, for this the Lord hath
said concerning you, and will perform his word upon
you, that the same day ye put his servants to death,
shall the day of your visitation pass over you, and ye
shall be cursed forevermore.” The passions of our
infirm nature are sometimes confounded with the
religion that accompanies them, as the cloud is, to an
ignorant eye, identified with the prismatic rays it
reflects.

Mary's pure and gentle spirit dwelt in eternal sunshine;
its elements were at peace. When the fearful
words were pronounced, “Mary Dyre, you shall go to
the prison whence you came, thence to the place of
execution, and be hanged there till you are dead,” she
folded her hands, and replied, with a serene aspect,
“The will of the Lord be done.”

Her friends have described her demeanour at this
moment, as almost supernatural, as if the outward
temple were brightened by the communications of the
Spirit within. They say, the world seemed to have
vanished from her sight; her eyes were raised, and
fixed in the rapture of devotion; her lips were moved
by the ecstasy of her soul, though they uttered no articulate
sound.

Governor Endicot seems to have felt an irritation
at her tranquillity, not more dignified than a child's
when he vents his wrath in blows on an insensible
substance.

“Take her away, Marshal,” he said harshly.

“I return joyfully to my prison,” she replied; and
then turning to the Marshal, she added, “You may
leave me, Marshal, I will return alone.”

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

“I believe you, Mrs. Dyre,” replied the Marshal;
“but I must do as I am commanded.”

The prisoners were condemned on the twentieth of
October. The twenty-seventh was the day appointed
for the execution of the sentence. With a self-command
and equinimity of mind rare in such circumstances,
Mary employed the interval in writing an
“Appeal to the Rulers of Boston;” an appeal, not in
her own behalf, not for pardon, nor life, but for a redress
of the wrongs of her persecuted brethren. “I
have no self-ends, the Lord knoweth,” she says, “for
if life were freely granted by you, it would not avail
me, so long as I should daily see or hear of the sufferings
of my people, my dear brethren, and the seed
with whom my life is bound up. Let my counsel
and request be accepted with you to repeal all such
laws, that the truth and servants of the Lord may have
free passage among you, and you kept from shedding
innocent blood, which I know there be many among
you would not do, if they knew it so to be.”—“In
love and in the spirit of meekness, for I have no enmity
to the persons of any, I again beseech you.”
There is not, throughout this magnanimous appeal the
slightest intimation of a wish that her sentence should
be remitted, no craven nor natural shrinking from
death, no apologies for past offences, but the courage
of an apostle contending for the truth, and the tenderness
of a woman feeling for the sufferings of her
people. Could it matter to so noble a creature,
where, according to the quaint phrase of her sect, her
“outward being dwelt,” or how soon it should be dissolved?

On the evening of the twenty-sixth, William Dyre,
Mary's eldest son, arrived in Boston, and was admitted
to her prison. He came in the hope of persuading
his mother to make such concessions in regard to her
faith, as to conciliate her judges, and procure a reprieve.
All night he remained with her. The particulars of

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

this interview have not been preserved. Mary's enemies
have not been scrupulous in the record of her
virtues, and her friends appear to have considered the
affections of her nature scarcely worth a memorial,
amidst the triumphs of her faith. We know the temper
of woman, the tenderness and depth of a mother's
love. We may imagine the intense feelings of the
son, on the eve of his mother's threatened execution,
pleading for the boon of her life; we may imagine the
conflict between the yearnings of the mother, and the
resistance of the saint; and we may be sure that we
cannot exaggerate its violence, nor its suffering. The
saint was triumphant, and on the following morning,
Mary was led forth, between her two friends to the
place of execution. A strong guard escorted the prisoners,
and, as if to infuse the last drop of bitterness
in their cup, Mr. Wilson, “the minister of Boston,”
attended them. There were coarse and malignant
spirits among the spectators. “Are you not ashamed,”
said one of them tauntingly to Mary, “are you not
ashamed to walk thus hand in hand between two young
men?”

“No,” she replied, “this is to me an hour of the
greatest joy I could have in the world. No eye can
see, nor ear hear, nor tongue utter, nor heart understand
the sweet incomes and refreshings of the spirit
of the Lord, which I now feel.” Death could not appal
a mind so lofty and serene. Man could not disturb
a peace so profound. Her companions evinced a like
composure. They all tenderly embraced at the foot
of the scaffold. Robinson first mounted it, and called
on the spectators to witness for him that he died, not
as a malefactor, but for testifying to the light of Christ.
Stevenson, the moment before the hangman performed
the last act, said, “This day we shall be at rest with
the Lord.”

Mary was of a temper, like the intrepid Madame
Roland, to have inspired a faltering spirit by her

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

example; far more difficult she must have found it, to
behold the last quiverings and strugglings of mortality,
in the persons of her friends. But even after this, she
was steadfast, and ascended the scaffold with an unblenching
step. Her dress was scrupulously adjusted
about her feet, her face covered with a handkerchief,
and the halter put around her neck.

The deep silence of this awful moment was broken
by a piercing cry. “Stop! she is reprieved!” was
sent from mouth to mouth, till one glad shout announced
the feeling of the gazing multitude. Was
there one of all those gathered to this fearful spectacle,
whose heart did not leap with joy?—Yes—the
sufferer and victim, she, to whom the gates of death
had been opened. “Her mind,” says her historian,
“was already in heaven, and when they loosed her
feet and bade her come down, she stood still, and said
she was willing to suffer as her brethren had, unless
the magistrates would annul their cruel law.”

Her declaration was disregarded, she was forced
from the scaffold, and reconducted to prison. There
she was received in the arms of her son, and she
learnt from him that she owed her life to his prolonged
intercession.

Fortitude, the merit of superior endurance, has often
been conceded to woman. One of our most celebrated
surgeons had the magnanimity to say to a patient on
whom he had just performed an excruciating operation,
“Sir you have borne it like a man, you have done
better than that, you have borne it like a woman.”
But the most devoted champions of the weaker and
timid sex, must concede, that they are inferior to man
in courage to brave circumstances, and encounter
danger; yet among all the valiant hearts in manly
frames, that have illustrated our race, we know not
where we shall find a more indomitable spirit, than
Mary Dyre's. The tribunal of her determined enemies;
the prison; the scaffold; the actual presence of

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

death; the joy of recovered life; and, more potent
than all, the meltings of maternal love, did not abate
one jot of her purpose. On the morning after her
reprieve, she dispatched from her prison a letter to
her judges, beginning in the following bold, and, if
the circumstances are considered, sublime strain;—

“Once more to the General Court assembled in
Boston, speaks Mary Dyre, even as before. My life
is not accepted, neither availeth me, in comparison of
the lives and liberty of the truth, and servants of the
living God, for which, in the bowels of meekness and
love I sought you.” She proceeds to charge them,
most justly, with having neglected the measure of light
that was in them, and thus concludes; “When I heard
your last order read, it was a disturbance unto me,
that was freely offering up my life to Him that gave
it me, and sent me hither so to do; which obedience
being his own work, he gloriously accompanied with
his presence, and peace, and love in me, in which I
rested from my labour.”

The minds of the magistrates must have been wonderfully
puffed up, and clouded with an imagined infallibility,
and their hearts indurated by dogmatical
controversy, or they would at once have perceived,
that Mary Dyre was maintaining a righteous claim to
the same privilege for which they had made their
boasted efforts and sacrifices;—the privilege of private
judgment.

Whatever intimations they may have received from
their conscience, they were not made public; no answer
was returned to Mary's letters, and no concessions
made to her sect; but it was thought prudent to
commute Mary's sentence into banishment, with penalty
of death in case of her return, and she was accordingly
sent, with a guard, to Rhode Island.

The sympathies of the good people of Boston had
been awakened by the firmness of the prisoners in
their extremity. The tide of feeling was setting in

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

favour of their cause, murmurs of dissatisfaction with
the proceedings of the magistrates were running
through the little community, and it was thought best
to allay the ferment, by a manifesto, which is throughout
a lame defence, and which concludes in a manner
worthy of the style of Cromwell and the school of the
Jesuits. “The consideration of our gradual proceedings,”
say they, “will vindicate us from the clamorous
accusations of severity; our own just and necessary
defence calling upon us, other means failing, to offer
the point which these persons have violently and wilfully
rushed upon, and thereby become felones de se,
which, might it have been prevented, and the sovereign
law, salus populi, been preserved, our former proceedings,
as well as the sparing Mary Dyre upon an
inconsiderable intercession, will evidently evince we
desire their lives absent, rather than their deaths
present.”

Would the tragedy had ended here! But the last
and saddest scene was yet to be enacted. We who
believe that woman's duty as well as happiness lies
in the obscure, safe, and not very limited sphere of
domestic life, may regret that Mary did not forego the
glory of the champion, and the martyr, for the meek
honours of the wife and mother. Still we must venerate
the courage and energy of her soul, when, as she
said, “moved by the spirit of God so to do,” she again
returned to finish, in her own words, “her sad and
heavy experience, in the bloody town of Boston.”

She arrived there on the twenty-first of May, 1660,
and appears to have remained unmolested, till the
thirty-first, when she was summoned before the General
Court, which had cognizance of all civil and
criminal offences. In this court, Governor Endicot
was the presiding officer. He began her examination
by asking her, if she were the same Mary Dyre that
was there before.

It appears that another Mary Dyre had made some

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

disturbance in the Colony, and the Governor, probably
pitying the rashness of our heroine, was willing
to allow her an opportunity of evasion, but she replied
unhesitatingly, “I am the same Mary Dyre that was
here at the last General Court.”

“Then you own yourself a Quaker, do you not?”

“I own myself to be reproachfully called so.”

“I must then repeat the sentence once before pronounced
upon you.”

After he had spoken the words of doom, “This is
no more,” replied Mary calmly, “than thou saidst before.”

“But now it is to be executed; therefore prepare
yourself for nine o'clock to-morrow.”

Still steadfast in what she believed her divinely
authorised mission, she replied, “I came in obedience
to the will of God, to the last General Court, praying
you to repeal your unrighteous sentence of banishment,
on pain of death, and that same is my work now, and
earnest request, although I told you, that if you refused
to repeal them, the Lord would send others of his servants
to witness against them.”

“Are you a prophetess?” asked Endicot.

“I spoke the words which the Lord spoke to me;
and now the thing is come to pass.”

“Away with her!” cried the Governor; and Mary
was reconducted to prison. We lament the imperfection
of human intelligence, and the infirmity of
human virtue, for “perfection easily bears with the
imperfections of others;” but we rejoice, that, in the
providence of God, the vice of one party elicits the
virtue of another; that bigotry and persecution bring
forth the faith and heroic self-sacrifice of the martyr.
The fire is kindled and burns fiercely, but the Phœenix
rises; the furnace, heated with seven-fold heat, does
not consume, but purifies.

Mary Dyre's family was plunged into deep distress,
by her again putting her life in jeopardy. As her

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

husband's religious faith did not accord with her own,
he could not of course perfectly sympathize with her
zeal in behalf of her persecuted sect, but the following
letter, addressed to the Governor, which has not,
we believe, before been published, bears ample testimony,
that his conjugal affection had borne the hard
test of religious disagreement.

“Honoured Sir—It is with no little grief of mind
and sadness of heart, that I am necessitated to be so
bould as to supplicate your honoured self, with the
honourable assembly of your General Court, to extend
your mercy and favour once again, to me, and my
children. Little did I dream, that I should have occasion
to petition in a matter of this nature; but so it
is, that through the divine providence and your benignity,
my sonn obtayned so much pity and mercy at
your hands, to enjoy the life of his mother. Now my
supplication to your honours is, to begg affectionately
the life of my dear wife. 'Tis true, I have not seen
her above this half yeare, and cannot tell how, in the
frame of her spirit, she was moved thus againe to run
so great a hazard to herself, and perplexity to me and
mine, and all her friends and wellwishers.

“So it is, from Shelter Island, about by Peynod,
Narragansett, &c., to the town of Providence, she secretly
and speedily journeyed, and as secretly from
thence came to your jurisdiction. Unhappy journey,
may I say, and woe to that generation, say I, that
gives occasion thus of grief (to those that desire to be
quiett), by helping one another to hazard their lives
to, I know not what end, nor for what purpose.

“If her zeal be so great, as thus to adventure, oh!
let your pitty and favour surmount it, and save her
life. Let not your love and wonted compassion be
conquered by her inconsiderate maddness, and how
greatly will your renoune be spread, if by so conquering,
you become victorious. What shall I say more!
I know you are all sensible of my condition—you

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

see what my petition is, and what will give me and
mine peace.

“Oh! let Mercy's wings soar over Justice's ballance,
and then whilst I live, I shall exalt your goodness;
but otherways't will be a languishing sorrow — yea,
so great, that I should gladly suffer the blow at once,
much rather. I shall forbear to trouble you with
words, neither am I in a capacity to expatiate myself
at present. I only say this, yourselves have been,
and are, or may be husbands to wives; so am I, yea
to one most dearly beloved. Oh! do not deprive me
of her, but I pray give her me once again. I shall be
so much obliged forever that I shall endeavour continually
to utter my thanks and render you love and
honour most renouned. Pitty me! I beg it with tears,
and rest your humble suppliant,

It does not appear what answer, or that any answer
was vouchsafed to this touching appeal. It is enough
to know that it was unavailing, and that on the very
next day after her condemnation, the first of June,
Mary Dyre was led forth to execution.

Some apprehensions seem to have been entertained
that the mob might give inconvenient demonstrations
of their pity for the prisoner, for she was strongly
guarded, and during her whole progress from her
prison to the place of execution, a mile's distance,
drums were beaten before and behind her.

The seaffold was erected on Boston Common.
When she had mounted it, she was asked if she would
have the Elders to pray for her?

“I know never an Elder here,” she replied.

“Will you have none of the people to pray for you?”
persisted her attendant.

“I would have all the people of God to pray for
me,” she replied.

“Mary Dyre! O repent! O repent!” cried out Mr.
Wilson the minister; “be not so deluded and carried
away by the deceits of the devil.”

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

“Nay, man,” she answered, “I am not now to
repent.”

She was reproached with having said she had
already been in paradise.

To this she replied, “I have been in paradise many
days.”

She spoke truly. Her mind was the paradise of
God. The executioner did his office. He could kill
the body, demolish the temple, but the pure and glorious
spirit of the martyr passed unharmed, untouched,
into the visible presence of its Creator.

The scene of this tragedy was the Boston Common;
that spot, so affluent in beauty, so graced by the peace,
and teeming with the loveliness of nature, was desecrated
by a scaffold! stained with innocent blood! We
would not dishonour this magnificent scene by connecting
with it, in a single mind, one painful association.
But let those send back one thought to the Quaker
Martyr, who delight to watch the morning light and
the evening shadows stealing over it; to walk under
the bountiful shadow of its elms; to see the herds of
cattle banqueting there; the birds daintily gleaning
their food; the boys driving their hoops, flying their
kites, and launching their mimic vessels on the mimic
lake; whilst the little faineants, perhaps the busiest
in thought among them, are idly stretched on the
grass, seemingly satisfied with the bare consciousness
of existence. The Boston Common, as it is, preserved
and embellished, but not spoiled by art, still retaining
its natural and graceful undulations, shaded by trees of
a century's growth, with its ample extent of uncovered
surface, affording in the heart of a populous city, that
first of luxuries, space; trodden by herds of its natural
and chartered proprietors; encompassed by magnificent
edifices, the homes of the gifted, cultivated, and
liberal; with its beautiful view of water (Heaven forgive
those who abated it!) and of the surrounding,

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

cultured, and enjoyed country; crowned by Dorchester
Heights, and the Blue Hills;—Boston Common,
has always appeared to us one of the choicest of
nature's temples. The memory of the good is worthy
such a temple; and we trust we shall be forgiven, for
having attempted to fix there this slight monument to a
noble sufferer in that great cause, that has stimulated
the highest minds to the sublimest actions; that calls
its devotees from the gifted, its martyrs from the moral
heroes of mankind; the best cause, the fountain of all
liberty — liberty of conscience!