University of Virginia Library

1.  NIX'S MATE .

1. CHAPTER I.

An October morning in New England! They
who appreciate the beauties of Nature in the chill air
of Autumn, when the hoar-frost hangs heavily on
the brown grass, and the forest-foliage has assumed
the diversified robe so peculiar to the northern regions
of the United States; particularly they who
have loitered among the uplands of Massachusetts

and in the vicinity of Boston, have seen the sun rise
from the blue Atlantic, and break the clouds into a
thousand fragments of purple and gold, while his
beams glittered on the ripples of the ocean,—and
this on an October morning,—have seen a vision of
magnificence and beauty perfectly characteristic of
that glorious country which is already developing the
scheme of broad philanthropy, of which the pilgrim
fathers were the first medium of manifestation.

Alas for Trimontain! but one of its lofty eminences
remains;—those beautiful earth-altars which
our fathers saw from the heights of Charlestown,
when, gazing across the intersecting waters, they
marked a resting-place for the infant Liberty, where
they could rock it in security, and worship their Creator
after the promptings of their own unfettered
hearts. Beacon-Hill, where in time flamed the signal-fires
of patriotism, and called together the sturdy
ploughmen of New-England, to pour out their
heart's blood on the consecrated heights that look
down on the sister cities of freedom; where for many
years stood the monument of revolutionary achievements,
and caused the young hearts of a rising generation
to throb with gratitude and pride while they
contemplated the deeds of their fathers,—alas! that
venerable hill has fallen before the avarice of man,
and is now covered by rent-yielding palaces, where,
amidst the dance and the song, the banquet and the
wine, live hundreds who never heard of, or at least

who never saw, that sacred eminence, and who have
no sympathy with its ennobling associations.

Such, however, must be the fate of all things
earthly, and, except that the venerable landmarks of
antiquity are the symbols of better things, it matters
little that some of them are uptorn, if indeed this
intimate and inseparable correspondence be not a
conclusive reason against their disturbance.

Such has been the rapid progress of improvement
in time-honored Boston, that a very few years have
brought about astonishing changes in its appearance.
Were it not for the old State House, the common,
and a few other memorials which remain, it would
be difficult for one who had not seen it for the last
forty years to recognize the place he had formerly visited.
How changed must it then be from the town of
1688, the point of time to which we are now desirous
of directing the reader's attention!

How vague and erroneous an impression have
most of the pilgrim descendants of the character of
their forefathers! How mistaken an opinion as to
their motives in crossing the world of waters, and
establishing their societies in this hemisphere! Such
has been the influence of crown writers, who were
hired to throw ridicule on the noblest race of men
which it has been the privilege of history to remember;
such has been the influence of concentrated
wealth and selfishness, which, time out of mind, luxuriating
on the fat of the earth, wrung thence by the

poor and needy, have ever opposed that spirit of the
great Revelation, which was the declaration of universal
independence. As, long afterward, light from
the Reformation advanced, men began to see things
in their true positions, and, like another sun rising at
noon-day, from the midst of the sacred revelation
streamed forth the everlasting truth that the freedom
of Christian worship, civil rights, and equality,
were inseparable. Even the ravings of Muncer
were not without their value; and though that fanatical
advocate for the equality of man mingled
error in such large disproportion to truth, the doctrine
in its purity has been gaining ground from that
time to this, and will finally, divested of all alloy, be
received throughout the civilized world.

The first settlers of Boston were, for the most part,
men of thoughtful and industrious habits; many
of them from illustrious families, all of them
respectable. Could it be supposed that such men as
John Winthrop, Sir Richard Saltinstall, and Isaac
Johnson, would seek an asylum in a howling wilderness
a thousand leagues from all the delights of civilization,
from no higher motive than the paltry
privilege of “going to meeting,” where the trumpery
of external worship was swept away from their sight?
By no means. The non-conformists, who left their
father-land for America, were impelled by a deeper
motive. As the physical order of man could never
have been known but for a temporary disturbance of

the vital functions, so the great idea of human liberty
could never have been understood but from the
inculcation of its opposite. There must be some
new and sudden encroachment on the rights of man,
before the people can comprehend their true condition.
The Hierarchy of England effected this, and
opened to the Independents a view of human relations
which they had never before contemplated.
Surrounded, as they were, with causes of human
suffering, so deeply ingrained in the body politic as
to make their removal hopeless, and recognizing, as
they did with the vision of seers, the progress and
exaltation of man in the great future, they turned
their eyes towards America, and in the sublime spirit
of Renunciation, resolved to co-operate with the
Divine Will in establishing universal freedom.

The great principle of action, then, which stimulated
our fathers in America, was renunciation of self.
This was the foundation of their greatness. It was
this that enabled them to see wherein all men are
born free and equal; it was this which made them
love their neighbor as themselves; it was this that
induced them to forego all the allurements of kindred
and of home, seek out a dwelling-place for
the expansion of Philanthropy and the consummation
of the greatest good with which mankind were
ever blessed. When our fathers planted their feet
on the soil of America, the voice of God spake
through them in one great prophecy,—that here the

true character of man would ultimately be developed;
and that, though temptations and trials might
for ages intercept the progress of righteousness, it
would finally be here established in the happiness of
the human family. Civil liberty is the ultimate form
of religious truth. Let us, the children of the pilgrim
fathers, watch and encourage its progress. The
grand struggle, forevermore, will be between Renunciation
and Assumption. The reconciliation
of these opposites will be the solution of the great
problem of social existence. This will be accomplished,
not by the poor levelling the rich, but by the
moral elevation of both rich and poor; not by the
principle of agrarianism, but by the spiritual principle
of Sympathy, which must be cherished in
the sanctuary of affliction. Pride already equalizes
both rich and poor on the bad elevation of selfishness.
A new order of things has now appeared; a new offspring
has descended from heaven.

The morning-star had faded in the frosty atmosphere,
and was now hardly visible above the eastern
horizon, when the tramp of two Bostonians, shod in
the heavy shoes worn in the year 1688, was heard
on the hard-beaten sidewalk of Green's-lane, in that
ancient metropolis, the City of the Three Hills. The
early risers, who were pacing the streets at this unusual
hour, to the pleasant half-disturbance of sundry
sleepy citizens, who, seeing no reason for bestirring
themselves otherwise, were turning over in their

comfortable beds to take a morning's nap, were an
old patriarchal-looking gentleman and a young
man of eighteen. They were dressed according to
the costume of the time, and alike; except that the
garments of the younger had a more youthful cut,
better adapted to his years. The old man seemed to
be past seventy years of age, and his white locks, parted
above his forehead, fell in profusion over his shoulders
in curls. The expression of his countenance was
dignified and serene. His eyes were of dark blue, and
were full of gentleness; and his nose and mouth were
remarkably symmetrical. His neck was adorned with
a white cravat without any collar, the long ends of
the same falling on his bosom. He wore a crimson
velvet waistcoat, and a coat of the same, which were
none the fresher for time; breeches of similar fabric,
and yarn stockings of blue and white mixed; these
terminated with square-toed shoes of heavy make,
fastened with large buckles of Bristol stone. His
whole appearance was that of a very respectable
man, who was enjoying a morning walk in undress.
The younger person presented a striking appearance.
He was a little above the middle height, and
was elegantly formed. His limbs were built with
that roundness which is indicative of great strength,
and his step combined firmness with elasticity. His
features were of the Grecian mould, regular and
rather massive; and his light grey eyes beamed with
peculiar intelligence; add to this, dark brown, glossy
hair, which was worn after the manner of his senior,
and the sketch of the young companion may for the
present suffice. He was walking by the side of the
other, and he carried on his left shoulder two fishing-rods
of jointed cane, and in his right hand a tin
kettle. Each of the two had a fish-basket swung
over his shoulder at the left side; and, thus equipped,
they were wending their way in silence, till the elder
began to end his meditations, as follows:

“The smelts will bite smartly this morning, Horace,
or there is no reliance to be had in a nor'wester.
Let us try Bull's Wharf this time,—what say
you?”

“As you please, Mr. Temple,” replied the young
man, his face beaming as he turned to the old gentlemen;
“there is no better place for fishing about
Boston, than Bull's Wharf, that I know of.”

Conversing after that manner, they crossed in the
direction indicated, emerging from a cluster of low,
irregularly-built wooden houses, and coming in full
view of the harbor glittering in the struggling radiance
of day, the old man took off his hat, the conical
crown and broad brim of which gave such a
picturesque expression to his figure; and heaving a
sigh, not of sorrow but of gratitude, bent his eyes
upward for a moment, as if in acknowledgment of
the sweet influences of morning: then turning to
his young companion, whose thoughts for the time

seemed equally absorbed in the pure and lovely, he
exclaimed,

“I guess you were early at the rope-walk this
morning! Those are fine minnows, truly; ah, ha!
you have some young bass there too! Highty—
tighty, man, you have bait enough to catch all the
fish in the harbor!”

The young man playfully nodded assent to this
conjecture, and the conversation continued on the
subject of bait and fishing-tackle, till the pedestrians
found themselves at the foot of the wharf afterward
so well known as the one where the celebrated
Tea-Party performed their prodigy of patriotism.
The place alluded to stretches out from the eastern
part of the city into the harbor, and just reaches the
channel where at high tide a ship of-the-line may
ride safely at her moorings. It commands one of
the most beautiful prospects imaginable. Across a
two-mile expanse of water, Dorchester Heights,bosoming
to the skies with luxuriant verdure, was at that
time undisturbed by any habitation of man, save one
small, rude building, where dwelt a fisherman and
his wife, to whom we shall more particularly refer
hereafter. As the eye turns to the left, the harbor
widens, till, at a short distance from Dorchester
Point, Fort Independence, then Castle Island, presents
itself to the vision; and but a half gunshot farther
to the left, the now-called Fort Warren frowns
on the scene, while far in the distance, ten miles off,

Boston Light-house shows itself half buried behind
the waters of the outer harbor. Midway between the
city and the light may be seen a stone beacon-mark,
placed there to warn mariners from a sunken ledge
called  Nix's Mate , all that now remains of a beautiful
island, where fruit trees once abounded, and
where singing birds were listened to by the rough
sailor as he glided by on his way “from the girl he
left behind him,” or on his return to her fond endearments.
But we pass now from a more minute desscription
of this place, and turn to our piscatorial adventures.

In the meantime the young man had rigged the
veteran's fishing-tackle, having adjusted the cork-float
to the silken line, and fixed the gimp snood
with six hooks appended, a minnow quivering on
each. As for his own, he had no chance of arranging
it; for scarcely had the old man's line touched the
water, when the cork was dragged under, and he
drew with a bending rod four large silvery smelts,
glittering, quivering, and flashing in the rays of the
rising sun, and making mist enough for a rainbow in
the spray which they scattered around them.

“Here they come, my boy, here they come!”
shouted the excited veteran; “did you ever see finer
fellows in your life? Fresh bait—my lad, fresh
bait;—here, I will take the smelts off;—don't give
us that dead fellow,—give us a lively one—there—
that's your sort;” and so saying the old man's eyes

sparkled with delight, and his line was soon in readiness
and cast again into the water.

In ten seconds more the old sportsman pulled up
three others, measuring from six to nine inches each;
and this he continued to do for some time, hardly
ever hauling in less than two at once,—so that the
junior, whose patience was almost exhausted, seemed
likely to have a small chance at participation in the
sport of the morning, till at length the half-sated
gentleman bade him take care of himself, and leave
him a while to bait his own hooks.

“You have been very obliging, Horace,” said the
old man, “and you must overlook my eagerness this
morning; but I never enjoyed fishing so much in
my life. My old fingers are hardly fit for this business:
but I can't help being attached to fishing—it is
a primitive pursuit, and has a good correspondence.”

The young man went to work immediately, and
made the most of the time left for the diversion; but
though he was actively engaged on his own account,
he kept a sharp look-out for the wants of the old
gentleman, and it was a sight that would have made
the hearts of the mother-side anglers dance with delight,
when, in rapid succession, and sometimes simultaneously,
they broke the blue surface of the Atlantic,
and spangled the atmosphere with five or six smelts
at a haul, till both their baskets in two hours were
full to overflowing.

The sun was now well up, and our sportsmen

were just thinking of leaving, when the younger
cried out in irrepressible ecstasy, “Look there! Mr.
Temple, look there! do you see the shad?”

Mr. Temple turned in the direction pointed to, at
the corner of the pier where the tide was rapidly
setting in, slightly colored with the effects of a late
storm; when an effect like a flash of lightning through
the water convinced him that the signal had been
well given. The old man's eyes now sparkled
brighter than ever—“Off with the smelt hooks,”
he exclaimed, “off with them, Horace, and rig the
shad snood as quickly as possible. Let me get a
shad this morning, and hey for breakfast in earnest!”

The smelt-hooks were soon disengaged, and their
place supplied by another about four times the size,
with a much longer shaft in proportion fastened to a
piece of strong gimp. To this there was no lead
attached. For bait, he chose one of the largest minnow,
exactly resembling the bass or rock, and passing
the hook under the dorsal fin, left the bait at liberty
to swim with the line on the surface of the water.

The old man eagerly cast off as soon as all was
ready. The live bait gently touched the water as
he trolled it backward and forward to tempt the wary
but impetuous victim. Presently a shad shot by
like a thunderbolt—another—another and another,—
when suddenly, quicker than thought, one hungry
fellow struck the bait, and the sportsman's winch
sprang like a watchman's rattle. The old man had

nothing now to do, but, as the sailors say, to keep his
line taut; for if he had given the furious fish an opportunity,
he would have risen, as is his habit, and
shaken the hook out of his mouth, with his head
above the surface of the water. Mr. Temple was,
however, too true a Bostonian to be taken in that
way. He kept his victim steadily in his feel; at
times, when it struggled hard, he eased out the line,
but on the least relaxation, he drew it tight again; till,
after full fifteen minutes of intense interest, he brought
the exhausted fish to the surface of the water, and
after drowning it, drew it safely to the shore.

In the excitement of landing the fish, the young
man unfortunately stepped back over the capstan of
the wharf, and was in an instant precipitated into
the water. Being an expert swimmer, the accident
would have been in no way alarming had he not
fallen sideways as he did. The concussion almost
deprived him of his senses, and he sank to the bottom,
perfectly unable to help himself. When the
old man saw this, he screamed in an agony of terror.
Not a moment was to be lost;—yet what could he
do, old and infirm as he was? Despair, with presence
of mind, gave new life and energy to his
actions. His will to accomplish a beneficent object
enabled him to use the means of effecting it. He
threw himself over the capstan of the wharf, and
holding the fishing-rod between his teeth, he caught
hold of the timbers, and by placing his feet between

the large stones with which the pier had been built,
lowered himself down to the water's edge. He now
passed his left arm behind one of the timbers, and
taking his rod in his right hand, reached it towards
the suffering young man, who had now risen to the
surface of the water. Alas! he had not power thus
far to help himself, and he was about sinking a second
time, when the generous and disinterested old
man sprang instantly to his assistance.

It now seemed as if the necessity of the occasion
had inspired him with fresh youth and activity;—
with newly-derived vigor he dashed the waves
aside, and reached the drowning man in time to save
him. With his left hand he held him by the shoulder,
while with the other he helped to keep himself
with his burden above the water.

“Save him! save him!” cried the benevolent old
man, entirely forgetful of his own perilous situation.
The petition was not in vain. Just then, a sailor,
who had crossed the channel, and was making rapid
headway, by rowing cross-handed, emerged from
behind a merchant vessel which was moored at the
wharf. The cry of distress met his ear, and he redoubled
his exertion. At the utmost need of Mr.
Temple, the boat rounded to his assistance. With
one hand the sailor sustained the silver-headed philanthropist,
while with herculean strength he drew
the other into the boat. The old man was then relieved,
and he bowed himself down, and sent up audible

thanksgiving to the Almighty for his providential
deliverance.

Horace Seymour now lay exhausted on the bottom
of the boat, while Mr. Temple supported his
head on his knees. “Ah me!” thought the latter,
“how sudden, how unexpected is misfortune! A
few moments ago we were too happy, my young
friend; and now—who knows but that you are dying!”
And the old man shuddered with the cold.

The boat was soon brought to the landing stairs,
and the old man procured a carriage. Public coaches
were then unknown, but the kindness of a neighboring
friend supplied the deficiency. Placed with
care in the vehicle, and accompanied by himself and
the sailor, under the direction of Mr. Temple the
driver stopped in the court-yard of an elegant house,
which occupied the site of the late Washington Gardens.

The family of Wilmer was one of the most ancient
in the metropolis, though they had lately emigrated
from England. Mr. Wilmer was a lawyer of
eminence, middle-aged and highly accomplished.
His wife was the youngest daughter of a Scottish
marquis. He had met her in his travels, had woed
and won her, and now brought her over with him to
America. The fruit of this union was an only
daughter; let us introduce the reader to her.

Grace Wilmer, at the time of the unhappy accident
we have narrated, was enjoying the freshness

of the young October morning in the spacious and
well-ordered garden of the mansion house. She
was seventeen years old, saving two months; and she
was now looking forward to the extraordinary festivities
of her anniversary natal day, which happening
on Christmas, enabled her mother to gratify her
daughter's innocent inclination to hilarity, while the
ordinary observances of the occasion were regarded
in course.

Mr. Wilmer was one of the earliest Catholic settlers;
but as he did not obtrude his religions tenets on
the people about him, he was thus far inoffensive to the
community in which he resided. Few, indeed, were
aware of his religious bias; his wife and family regularly
attended the Congregational meetings, and
his occasional levity on those subjects which were of
importance to his neighbors, was regarded with a
charity and forbearance which we are not in the habit
of attributing to the New England colonists of that
period. The truth is, that, at the time of our narrative,
the strict forms of Congregational observances
were a good deal broken in upon by influences which
could not be controlled; and some of the most liberal
in the church ministry looked into the future
with sad forebodings, and entertained too well-founded
apprehensions that the purity of their worship
would be soon contaminated, if not destroyed. They
did not, however, cling to any bigoted belief, that
they had already attained to a perfect understanding

of the whole Christian revelation; for they looked forward,
in the midst of their temporary despondency,
to times of still greater illumination, when their posterity
would enjoy a far higher degree of gospel
exaltation than was permitted to their own understanding.

Grace's figure was exceedingly fine, yet not more
so than that of some who are descended from her family
and now adorn the circles of fashion and retired
life in that elegant city. Her neck and shoulders
were perfect models for sculpture, and her head was
as fine as the imagination of a young and enthusiastic
painter dreams of in his reveries of Elysium. Her
features had not that common regularity which is generally
preferred by statuaries, and which is always
given to the Venuses and to the daughter of Latona;
but there was a harmonious beauty pervading them,
which may in vain be sought for among the marbles
of old Greece. Her forehead was rather too high
for a woman; but its perfect regularity and whiteness,
shaded by the brown tresses which partly fell
on each side, and, fastened by a blue ribbon, dropped
luxuriantly over her shoulders, elicited admiration
rather than fault-finding; while her large and lustrous
blue eyes, with their long, dark shining lashes,
seemed to pierce the very skies, and drink in from
their purest depths the dewy freshness of their coloring.
Her nose was not perfectly straight, but it
seemed so, except in profile; and her mouth, which

was faultlessly formed, with the underlip dimpled in
the centre, was in constant action with her eyes; as
if some glad and happy thought, or some humorous
suggestion of her fancy were struggling for utterance.
The color came and fled, hovered and trembled
on her cheeks, like the flashes of light on the
clouds of morning; and her eyes would sometimes
glisten with emotion, till she turned aside to dash the
bright intruder from their lids, if but a flower chanced
to awaken an association of deeper joy, or the
thoughts of her young imagination were bewildered
with unwonted luxuriance.

The education of Grace had been carefully attended
to. The common branches of English tuition were
familiar to her, and she had acquired enough of the
higher to place her at ease in any company where
accident might throw her. She had a slight knowledge
of Latin and of Greek,—not enough to make
her pedantic, had she been so inclined; but sufficient
to enable her accurately to discriminate in the use
of her mother tongue, and to allow her to get the
sense of such chance passages as she met with in
books. More than this her father did not care for
her to acquire, but her knowledge of the French and
Italian languages was exact and critical.

Such was Grace Wilmer, who was now rambling
through the diversified walks of her father's garden,
where the frosts of a New England autumn had already
paid many a rude visit, and left the foliage

tinted with those beauties so peculiar to the North
American forests. She had gathered a bunch of
the China-Aster, which she intended for her mother
when they should meet in the breakfast-room; and
she had fastened one, which was now glittering with
sunshine and frost-work over her beautiful forehead
beneath the band that cinctured her curl-clusters,
and she was bounding buoyantly toward the house
with her ribboned locks streaming to the breeze,
and holding out the bundle of flowers to her mother,
whom she had just discovered at the window, when
her attention was arrested by the sound of the carriage
wheels at this unusual hour in the court-yard.
She immediately retired within the house; but
hardly had she reached the parlor, when the shrieks
of her mother, and the hurried cries of the servants,
brought the most terrible revulsion on her feelings.
Grace flew immediately to the scene of distress,
where she found her exhausted cousin supported by
two men, one of whom, Mr. Temple, she recognized
but regarded not, and her mother fainting in their
presence. Mr. Wilmer had not returned from his
morning walk.

“Horace! Horace!” sobbed the heart-stricken
girl, “how has this happened? my poor, dear cousin!”
and she threw herself on his neck, and wept
such tears as come scalding from the brain suddenly
overtaken by unlooked-for, overwhelming desolation.
So violent was her anguish, that her grief became

hysterical, while her eyes dropped tears fearfully
fast, and her bosom heaved with the convulsions of a
galvanized subject. She supposed her cousin to be
dead. Such a sudden transition from the free breathing
of undisturbed delight to the choking obstructions
of inexpressible suffering, was too much for
Grace Wilmer; and as the paroxysm of passion subsided,
she fainted in the arms of those who were
standing by. Horace Seymour was conveyed to his
bed, and medical aid was immediately sent for. He
was copiously bled, and, on his reviving, it was
found that there was a probable chance of his recovery.

Amidst the confusion attendant on bringing Horace
Seymour home, no one heeded the stranger to whom
they had been so deeply indebted. At the time Grace
fainted, it was not thought strange that the unknown
mariner received the sinking beauty, for in the tumult
of the occasion the hand of friendship could
not be regarded as improperly exercised in ministering
to the common distress; but the kindness and
delicacy of his attentions could not be overlooked.
He chafed her hands and temples, and sprinkled her
forehead with water, till she opened her eyes upon
him; but before consciousness was restored to her,
he had vanished from the company, and was not to
be found. Many hours passed before the afflicted
girl recovered sufficient energy to assist in the cares
of her family, and then what was her surprise to discover

that a valuable ruby ring had been abstracted
from her finger; a ring which had belonged to
her lordly ancestors, and which her mother had presented
to her on her last birth-day. She did not dare
to inform her parents of the loss; and she prudently
judged, that if it had been stolen from her, her best
chance of regaining it lay in present secrecy.

Little did she then dream who possessed that lost
treasure: little did she think of him who, in the
first delirium of love, had borne away that memorial
of one whose looks were burnt in upon his very memory,
the idolater of Grace Wilmer!