University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
CLOUDS.

The time had now arrived when it was necessary
for me to return to New York. It was almost
two months since I had left home, and I was cautioned
by my northern friends not to remain in the
low-country of Virginia longer than until the middle
of August. Hazard endeavoured to persuade me
that the season had all the indications of being unusually
healthy, and that I might therefore remain
without risk. He had manifestly views of his own to
be improved by my delay, which rendered him rather
an interested adviser; and, in truth, we had
grown so intimate by our late associations, that I
felt it somewhat difficult to bring myself to the necessary
resolution of taking leave. But go I must—or
inflict upon my good mother and sisters that feminine
torture which visits the bosoms of this solicitous
sex when once their apprehensions are excited on
any question of health. I therefore announced my
fixed determination on the subject to the family, and
pertinaciously met all the arguments which were directed
to unsettle my resolve, with that hardy denial
of assent which is the only refuge of a man in such a
case. My preparations were made, and the day of
my departure was named.

Unluckily for my plan, the elements made war
against it. The very day before my allotted time,
there came on a soft, drizzling rain, which began soon
after breakfast; and when we met at dinner, Hazard
came to me, rubbing his hands and smiling with
a look of triumph, to tell me that however obstinate
I might be in my purpose, here was a flat interdict
upon it.

“We generally have,” said he, “what we call a
long spell in August. The rain has begun; and you
may consider yourself fortunate if you get away in a
week.” I took it as a jest; but the next morning,
when I went to my chamber-window, I found that
Ned's exultation was not without some reason. It
had rained all night, not in hard showers, but in
that gentle, noiseless outpouring of the heavens,
which showed that they meant to take their own
time to disburthen themselves of their vapour. Far
as my eye could reach, the firmament was clad in
one broad, heavy, gray robe. The light was equally
diffused over this mass, so as entirely to conceal
the position of the sun; and, somewhat nearer to
earth, small detachments of dun clouds floated
across the sky in swift transit, as if hastening to find
their place in the ranks of the sombre army near the
horizon. I came down to breakfast, where the family
were assembled at a much later hour than usual. A
small fire was burning in the hearth: the ladies were
in undress, and something of the complexion of the
sky seemed to have settled upon the countenances
of all around me;—a quiet, unelastic, sober considerateness,
that was not so frequently disturbed as

before with outbreaks of merriment. My cousin
Lucretia poured out our coffee with a more sedate
and careful attention: Prudence looked as if she had
overslept herself:—Meriwether hung longer over the
newspaper than common, and permitted us to take
our seats at table some time before he gave up reading
the news. The little girls had a world of care
upon their shoulders;—and Parson Chub despatched
his meal with unwonted expedition, and then, thrusting
his hands into his pockets, went into the hall, and
walked to and fro thoughtfully. Hazard was the
only one of the party who appeared untouched by
the change of the weather; and he kept his spirits
up by frequent sallies of felicitation directed to me,
on the auspicious prospect I had before me.

After breakfast we went to the door. The rain
pattered industriously from the eaves down upon the
rosebushes. The gravel walk was intersected by little
rivers that also ran along its borders; and the grassplots
were filled with lakes. The old willow, saturated
with rain, wept profuse tears, down every
trickling fibre, upon the ground. The ducks were
gathered at the foot of this venerable monument, and
rested in profound quiet, with their heads under their
wings. Beyond the gate, an old plough-horse spent
his holiday from labour in undisturbed idleness—his
head downcast, his tail close to his rump and his
position motionless, as some inanimate thing, only
giving signs of life by an occasional slow lifting
up of his head—as if to observe the weather—and a
short, horse-like sneeze.

The rain poured on; and now and then some one

would affirm that it grew brighter, and that, perhaps,
at mid-day it would clear up. But mid-day came,
and the same continual dripping fell from leaf, and
roof, and fence. There was neither light nor shade:
all the picturesque had vanished from the landscape:
the foreground was full of falling drops, and the perspective
was mist. The dogs crept beneath the porch,
or intruded, with their shaggy and rain-besprinkled
coats, into the hall, leaving their footsteps marked
upon the floor wherever they walked. The negro
women ran across the yard with their aprons thrown
over their heads. The working men moved leisurely
along, like sable water-gods, dripping from every
point, their hats softened into cloth-like consistence,
and their faces, beneath them, long, sober and trist.
During the day, Rip made frequent excursions out of
doors, and returned into the house with shoes covered
with mud, much to the annoyance of Mistress
Winkle, who kept up a quick and galling fire of reproof
upon the young scapegrace. As for Hazard
and myself, we betook ourselves to the library,
whither Meriwether had gone before us, and there
rambled through the thousand flowery by-paths of
miscellaneous literature; changing our topics of study
every moment, and continually interrupting each
other by reading aloud whatever passages occurred
to provoke a laugh. This grew tedious in turn; and
then we repaired to the drawing-room, where we
found the ladies in a similar unquiet mood, making
the like experiments upon the piano. We were all
nervous.

Thus came and went the day. The next was no

better. When I again looked out in the morning,
there stood the weeping willow, the same vegetable
Niobe as before, and there the meditative ducks;
there the same horse,—or another like him,—looking
into the inscrutable recesses of a fence corner; and
there the dogs, and the muddy-footed Rip. To vary
the scene, we took umbrellas and walked out, holding
our way trippingly over the wet path towards the
bridge. The pigeons, like ourselves, tired of keeping
the house, had ranged themselves upon the top of the
stable, or on the perches before the doors of their own
domicil, dripping images of disconsolateness. A stray
flock of blackbirds sometimes ventured across the
welkin; and the cows, in defiance of the damp earth,
had composedly lain down in the mud. The only
living thing who seemed to feel no inconvenience
from the season was the hog, who pursued his epicurean
ramble in despite of the elements.

The rain poured on; and the soaked field and
drenched forest had no pleasure in our eyes; so, we
returned to the house, and again took refuge in the
library. Despairing of the sun, I at length sat down
to serious study, and soon found myself occupied in
a pursuit that engrossed all my attention.

I have said before that Meriwether had a good collection
of books. These had been brought together
without order in the selection, and they presented a
mass of curious literature in almost every department
of knowledge. My love of the obsolete led me
amongst the heavy folios and quartos that lumbered
the lower shelves of the library, where I pitched upon
a thin, tall folio, that contained the following

pithy title page, which I have copied exactly as I
found it:—“Some account of the Renowned Captayne
John Smith, with his travel and adventures in
the Foure Quarters of the Earthe; showing his gallante
Portaunce in divers perillous Chaunces, both
by Sea and Land: his Feats against the Turke, and
his dolefull Captivitie in Tartaria. Also, what befell
in his Endeavours towards the Planting of the Colonie
of Virginia; and, in especiall, his Marvellous
Prouess and Incredible Escapes amongst the Barbarous
Salvages. Together with Sundrie other Moving
Accidents in his Historie. London. Imprinted
for Edward Blackmore, 162—.”

This title was set out in many varieties of type,
and occupied but a small portion of the page, being
encompassed by a broad margin which was richly
illuminated with a series of heraldic ornaments,
amongst which was conspicuous the shield with
three turbaned heads and the motto “vincere est vivere.”
There were, also, graphic representations
of soldiers, savages and trees, all coloured according
to nature, and, as the legend at the foot imported,
“graven by John Barra.”

The date of the work had been partially obliterated,—three
numerals of the year being only distinguishable;
but from these it was apparent that this
memoir was published somewhere about the end of
the first quarter of the seventeenth century—perhaps
about 1625, or not later than 1629.

The exploits of Captain Smith had a wonderful
charm for that period of my life when the American
Nepos supplied the whole amount of my reading;

but I have never, since that boyish day, taken the
trouble to inquire whether I was indebted for the
captivation of the story to the events it recorded, or
to my own pleasant credulity,—that natural stomach
for the marvellous, which, in early youth, will digest
agate and steel. This little chronicle, therefore,
came most opportunely in my way; and I gave myself
up to the perusal of it with an eager appetite.

I was now on the spot where Smith had achieved
some of his most gallant wonders. The narrative
was no longer the mere fable that delighted my
childhood; but here I had it in its most authentic
form, with the identical print, paper and binding in
which the story was first given to the world by its
narrator—for aught that I knew, the Captain himself
—perhaps the Captain's good friend, old Sam Purchas,
who had such a laudable thirst for the wonderful.
This was published, too, when thousands were
living to confute the author if he falsified in any
point.

And here, on a conspicuous page, was “An Exact
Portraictuer of Captayne Iohn Smith, Admiral of
all New England,” taken to the life; with his lofty
brow that imported absolute verity on the face of it,
and his piercing eye, and fine phrenological head,
with a beard of the ancient spade cut; arrayed in
his proper doublet, with gorget and ruff; one arm
a-kimbo, the other resting on his sword. Below the
picture were some fair lines inferring that he “was
brass without, and gold within.” Throughout the
volume, moreover, were sundry cuts showing the
Captain in his most imminent hazards, of a flattering

fancy, but in total disregard of all perspective.
And here, in view of the window, was the broad
James River, upon which he and his faithful Mosco,
(otherwise called by the more euphonious name of
Uttasantasough), two hundred years gone by, had
sailed, in defiance of twenty kings whose very names
I am afraid to write. History is never so charming
as under the spell of such associations; the narrative
avouched by present monuments, and fact sufficiently
dim by distance, for the imagination to make what
it pleases out of it, without impugning the veracity
of the story.

I have sometimes marvelled why our countrymen,
and especially those of Virginia, have not taken
more pains to exalt the memory of Smith. With
the exception of the little summary of the schools,
that I have before noticed,—and which is unfortunately
falling into disuse,—some general references
to his exploits as they are connected with the history
of our states, and an almost forgotten memoir by
Stith, we have nothing to record the early adventures
and chivalric virtues of the good soldier, unless
it be some such obsolete and quaint chronicle as this
of Swallow Barn, that no one sees. He deserves
to be popularly known for his high public spirit, and
to have his life illustrated in some well told tale that
should travel with Robinson Crusoe and the Almanack—at
least through the Old Dominion:—and in
the Council Chamber at Richmond, or in the Hall
of Delegates, the doughty champion should be exhibited
on canvass in some of his most picturesque
conjunctures: And then, he should be lifted to that

highest of all glorifications,—the truest touchstone of
renown,—the signposts.

Smith's character was moulded in the richest
fashion of ancient chivalry; and, without losing any
thing of romance, was dedicated, in his maturer
years, to the useful purposes of life. It was marked
by great devotion to his purpose, a generous estimate
of the public good, and an utter contempt of danger.
In the age in which he lived, nobleness of birth was
an essential condition to fame. This, unfortunately
for the renown of Smith, he did not possess; otherwise,
he would have been as distinguished in history
as Bayard, Gaston de Foix, Sir Walter Manny,
or any other of the mirrors of knighthood whose exploits
have found a historian. Smith, however, was
poor, and was obliged to carve his way to fame without
the aid of chroniclers; and there is, consequently,
a great obscurity resting upon the meagre details
which now exist of his wonderful adventures. These
rude records show a perplexing ignorance of geography,
which defies all attempts at elucidation. Muniments,
however, of unquestionable authenticity,
still exist to confirm the most remarkable prodigies of
his story. The patent of knighthood conferred upon
him by Sigismund Bathor, in 1603, is of this character.
It recites some of the leading events of his life,
and was admitted to record by the Garter King-at-Arms
of Great Britain, twenty-two years afterwards,
when Smith's services in the establishment of the
American colonies attracted a share of the public
attention.

He possessed many of the points of a true knight.

He was ambitious of honour, yet humble in his own
praise,—tempering his valour with modesty, and the
reckless gallantry of the cavalier with irreproachable
manners. A simple testimony to this effect, but a
sincere one, is given by an old soldier who had followed
him through many dangers, and who shared
with him the disasters of the defeat at Rothenturn.
It is appended, by the author of it, to Smith's account
of New England. His name was Carlton, and he
had served as Smith's ensign in the wars of Transylvania.
The reader may be gratified to peruse some
of these lines, addressed to the “honest Captaine.”

THO. CARLTON.”

The uncouthness of the verse accords with the station
of the writer, and gives a greater relish of honesty
to the compliment.

It may be pleasing to the fairer portion of my readers,
to learn something of his devotion to dames and
lady-love, of which we have good proof. He was so
courteous and gentle, that he might be taken for a
knight sworn to the sex's service. He was a bachelor
too, by 'r lady!—and an honour to his calling;
mingling the refinement of Sir Walter Raleigh, his

prototype, with the noble daring of Essex and Howard.
Hear with what suavity and knightly zeal he
commends his gratitude to the sex, in recounting his
various fortunes “to the illustrious and most noble
Princesse, The Lady Francis, Duchesse of Richmond
and Lenox;” and with what winning phrase,
like a modest cavalier, he consigns his History of
Virginia to her protection!—

“I confesse my hand, though able to wield a weapon
among the Barbarous, yet well may tremble in
handling a pen among so many judicious: especially,
when I am so bold as to call so piercing and so glorious
an Eye, as your Grace, to view these poore
ragged lines. Yet my comfort is, that heretofore,
honorable and vertuous Ladies, and comparable but
amongst themselves, have offered me rescue and protection
in my greatest dangers: even in forraine
parts, I have felt relief from that sex. The beauteous
Lady Tragabizanda, when I was a slave to the
Turkes, did all she could to secure me. When I overcame
the Bashaw of Nalbritz in Tartaria, the charitable
Lady Callamata supplyed my necessities. In
the utmost of many extremities, that blessed Pokahontas,
the great King's daughter of Virginia, oft saved
my life. When I escaped the crueltie of Pirats
and most furious stormes, a long time alone, in a
small boat at Sea, and driven ashore in France, the
good Lady, Madam Chanoyes, bountifully assisted
me.

“And so verily, these adventures have tasted the
same influence from your Gratious hand, which hath
given birth to the publication of this narration.” And,

thereupon, he prays that his “poore booke,” which
had “no helpe but the Shrine of her glorious name to
be sheltered from censorious condemnation,” might
be taken under her protection; and “that she would
vouchsafe some glimpse of her honorable aspect to
accept his labours,” that they might be presented “to
the King's Royall Majestie, the most admired Prince
Charles, and the Queene of Bohemia.”

He tells her that “her sweet Recommendations
would make it worthier their good countenances,”
and concludes by assuring her, “that this page should
record to Posteritie that his service should be to pray
to God that she might still continue the Renowned
of her Sexe, the most honored of Men, and The
Highly Blessed of God.”

How much does all this flavour of the perfect
knight of romance! But, to revert to our Legend.
—The authorship of this memoir is left in mystery.
There was no preface nor explanation of the circumstances
in which it was written. I rather incline to
ascribe it to George Piercie, brother of the Earl of
Northumberland, who was Smith's lieutenant in
Virginia, and, like himself, richly tinctured with the
spirit of the age. It is certain that Piercie furnished
some portions of Smith's History of Virginia, and
was always a gallant comrade in danger. I think
there is something in this nameless story that shows
the hand of one fond of the wars; and it is most likely
that Smith, in their long intercourse, had often relieved
the tediousness of their solitary watches by
these narratives, so grateful to the ear of a soldier.

These are thrown together in such loose manner

as might beseem a warrior who had given more time
to his sword than to his pen. A part of the narrative
is avowedly furnished by Francisco Ferneza, a learned
Italian, who was secretary to Sigismund, and who
was, probably, personally acquainted with Smith.
This person wrote an account of the wars of Transylvania,
and corroborates the facts which led the unfortunate
Sigismund to confer the order of knighthood
upon our brave captain.

It is my purpose to amuse my reader with a cursory
compilation from the gay and careless narrative
of my late discovered Legend.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE LIFE OF JOHN
SMITH.

When John Smith began the world, your soldier
was your only gentleman. Henry the Fourth had
set France on fire with his gallant fancies, and
“win and wear” was the true practick of the day.
The Low Countries furnished a fair harvest to the
English reapers; and the glories of “brave Lord
Willoughby” and of Captains Norris and Turner,
on the fields of Flanders, formed the theme of household
ballads, that had been sung in Smith's ear until
he grew frantic with ambition. So, like a young
Varlet of chivalry, with the heart of a lion, a stalwart
arm, a good sword, and withal a slender purse,
in the year of grace 1594, with scant fifteen years
upon his poll, he took his leave of the town of Lynn,
in Norfolk,—where he had been bound apprentice
to a merchant,—to seek his fortune wherever honour,
throughout the wide world, was most surely to be
won. He first went to France; but as that nation
had just made a truce to take breath, he was not
long in finding his way to that fruitful land of sieges,
the Low Countries, whither he went under the banner
of Captain Joseph Duxbury.

His education was none of the best, for youths of
his temperament do not take very kindly to book
and candle; but his disposition was cheery and
venturous, and fit to make the best of whatever

might fall out; his person graceful, and his manners
modest; and his face, if the “portraictuer” tell truth,
was not unhandsome. At least, so I figure him to
my mind from what I glean of his history.

The Low Countries were overstocked with gallants.
And therefore, after a brief service in the
field, our Varlet, having studied what he might of
the art of war, began to look further about him. If
it were only his “cue to fight,” there was no lack of
the trade for such a cockerel. But he was tender of
conscience, and did not like to abet the quarrel between
Christian nations; especially while there was
a Turk to be hacked upon the Danube. In fact, he
was a lover of the picturesque, and yearned for outlandish
adventures.

The Sultan had gained great renown by his recent
wars, and he was then in the field with that most
gorgeous of all creations, a Moslem army. Smith,
therefore, proposed to himself some fortune with the
Arch-duke Ferdinand. He travelled slowly, and
looked about him as he went; and, being of a trusting
temper, soon slipped into one of those pit-falls
which this world always contrives for the unwary.
It chanced that he fell into the company of four
worthies of a stamp very common in unquiet times,
“for all of them were knaves.” They had the address
to persuade him that one was a Lord, and
the others his retainers. Like many before them,
they had just

and having embarked with him in Flanders to sail
to St. Vallery in Picardy, they contrived, on landing,
to rob him of his trunks, and with them, of all his
worldly gear. So entirely did they strip him, that he
was obliged to sell his cloak, though it was in deep
winter, to pay his passage. So much for the first
lesson of experience to the “Admiral of New England.”

It is, doubtless, a hard thing to be set down in a
strange country without money. But this was a
common mishap in those days, amongst soldiers;
and one of that profession might wisely trust to fortune.
She did not now abandon Smith, but threw
him in the way of a fellow soldier who was bound
to Caen in Normandy. This good man, seeing that
he had a blithe lad beside him, was touched with
pity for his poverty, and not only supplied his present
wants, but gave him convoy and welcome to a
goodly circle of friends. Amongst the rest, the Lady
Columber, at Caen, took a fancy to him, and brought
him amongst many persons of worship, who amply
reimbursed his losses, and tempted him with so much
fair entertainment, that he had well nigh forgotten
his purpose against the Turk. From all which I
conclude that he was a comely youth, of pleasant
demeanour.

Here, lest his noble ardour should evaporate
amongst the blandishments of a life of idleness, he
took up the resolution expressed in the ballad;—

And, accordingly, after a short delay, he set out
again upon his travels. In this second wandering he
visited many cities in France, being principally led
to the seaports, in the hope of finding a ship of war
bound up the Mediterranean. This circuit was not
without some rough adventures; for he again felt
the pinch of poverty, from which he was relieved by
charity; and he also did a deed of some note, in punishing
Cursell, one of the four thieves who had robbed
him of his trunks. He met this freebooter in a
wood, alone; and, as a Varlet of chivalry was an extremely
pugnacious animal, he did not fail to bring
his spoiler to his weapon: the result was, that Cursell,
as my Legend says, “no more, from that time
forward, cozened honest men;” from whence we derive
a significant conclusion. This feat happened in
the neighbourhood of the residence of a nobleman
with whom Smith had enjoyed a former acquaintance,
the Lord Ployer, to whom he immediately betook
himself, and received from him prompt and
needful aid; which favours were long and gratefully
remembered by our hero, as I find by “The History
of Virginia,” where Anas Todkil writes,—“this
place (Accomack) we called Point Ployer, in honour
of that most honourable house of Mounsey in
Britaine, that, in an extream extremitie, once relieved
our Captayne.”

From Brittany, the young adventurer went to
Marseilles, where he took shipping for Italy. The
ship in which he embarked was filled with pilgrims,
under vows to St. Peter's at Rome. There were
many misadventures attending their sailing: first,

they were driven by foul weather into Toulon; and
then, they were compelled to come to anchor under
the little Isle of St. Marguerite, on the coast of Savoy.
The winds increased in violence, the waves
tossed more angrily, and the heavens grew blacker,
the longer Smith remained on board. A vote was
accordingly taken by the passengers, who, gravely
judging him to be a Huguenot, readily discovered
the cause of impediment to the voyage. So they
made a Jonah of him, and flung him into the sea,—
not so far from shore, however, but that he was able
to reach St. Marguerite's kindly beach.

The next day, a Captain Laroche, with a French
ship from Brittany, a near friend of Lord Ployer, took
him off the island; and, being set upon a cruise,
found in the bachelor Smith a ready comrade. The
Captain Laroche was a gallant sailor, and as full of
adventure as our hero could wish. Moreover, he
drew kindly to his recruit, as well for the love he
bore their common friend, as for the congeniality of
their tempers. They stood across to Cape Bona,
thence to the isle of Lampidosa, and, shortly afterwards,
they made Alexandria in Egypt, where they
staid long enough to deliver a cargo. Thence, cruising
round Candia, Rhodes, and through the Archipelago,
and back again, doubling Cape Matapan,
and occasionally touching where their necessities
or convenience required, they reached the island of
Corfu.

Every thing that walked, in these quarrelsome
days, and every thing that swam, went armed in
proof; and Laroche, like a true knight, “wooed

danger as a bride.” He and Smith both longed
for work in the way of their trade. It was near at
hand. They left Corfu, bound for Otranto,—

A Venetian argosy, richly freighted, and homeward
bound, hove in sight. The two belligerents
were well manned, but the advantage in size was
greatly in favour of the enemy. It was a fine sight
to look upon! There was no idle parade, in those
days, between merchantmen of different nations,
speaking each other out of courtesy, to hear the news,
or get the longitude, or a supply of pork and biscuit.
He that wanted a fight could not go wrong; for the
world was made up of war, and “play or pay” was
the rule of the game. They both stood to quarters,
and a fierce engagement ensued, in which victory
long hung hovering over either banner. At last, the
Venetian vailed his top, and gave up to the conquerors
as much of his store of “piled velvets,
cloth of gold, piastres, sequins and sultanies” as they
thought fit to take. After this, each prosecuted his
voyage; the vanquished home, and the victor to Antibes
in Piedmont, whither he went to repair. Here,
Smith, having taken his first degree in nautical life,
by which he became afterwards so famous, and having
won a thousand sequins in honourable battle,
went ashore to woo dame Fortune on another
strand.

He now accounted himself a proper man, and,
thereupon, cocking his beaver, and trolling the old
stave—“St. George he was for England—St. Denis
was for France,” he took to the road, like a free
companion, and travelled all the way to Naples,
having seen some strange sights at Rome on his
journey. Thence, he came back, by another route,
to Florence, to Mantua, to Padua, and to Venice;
visiting gay cities; consorting with cavaliers and
choice spirits; romping with rustic lasses; outfacing
bluff bandits; and tuning himself up to the key of
that wayward, disorderly time, in the best humour of
a bon-camarado who wore silken doublet and trusty
Toledo. Right joyously, I ween, did he look upon
the delightful fields of sunny Italy! And, since the
days of the admirable Creichton, never strode across
them a more elastic foot! For he was now about
twenty years of age, with a plentiful pocket, a thirst
for fame, and a robust constitution,—all three conducing
to the hey-day current of his blood.

Boundless as was his love of travel, it was inferior
to his love of feats of arms. The Emperor, Rodolph
the Second was at that time in the height of his
quarrel with the Sultan Mahomet the Third, who
had just commenced his reign by strangling his nineteen
brothers, and drowning ten of his father's wives;
and all Europe was armed to the teeth. Smith looked
with an affectionate interest to these broils; and
hither tended his steps. But resolving, before he
took service, to see something of the Turk in his own
strongholds, he crossed from Venice to Dalmatia,
and forthwith set out for Albania. Here, defying

Musselman and mountain, private treachery and
open challenge, he threaded the defiles of these tangled
regions alone; became a renegade for the nonce;
put on the capote and turban; walked into their
camp; ate pillau and drank sherbet; lodged in their
fastnesses and towers of strength; and surveyed every
thing with a practised and wily judgment. Then,
turning north, he crossed Mount Hæmus, and traversing
Bosnia and Sclavonia, he reached Gratz in
Stiria, where the Archduke held his head-quarters.

A man of mettle was not to be lost in a crowd
where blows fell thicker than there were heads to bear
them; and Smith, accordingly, soon won favour with
Lord Ebersbaught, and Baron Kisell, and, through
them, with Voldo, Earl of Meldritch; all three of
them officers of note in the Austrian army.

The Turks had just taken Caniza, and were now
besieging Olimpach. Ebersbaught commanded in
the place, and Kisell, at the head of the Archduke's
artillery, vexed the besiegers from without. Smith
entered with the latter as a volunteer, and did good
service. He invented a night telegraph, by which
the two armies were enabled to communicate, and
thus to concert a scheme which, “in a most cunninglie
devised stratageme,” by our young volunteer,
drove the Turk from his lines, and compelled him to
raise the siege. He was immediately complimented
for this exploit with a company of two hundred and
fifty men, in the regiment of Count Meldritch.

Thus ended Smith's first campaign. The Emperor
now began to make himself ready for further operations.
He raised three armies, of which the first

was put under the command of his brother, the Arch-duke
Mathias, and the Duke Mercury,—who took
the principal charge in the field. This army was directed
to the defence of Lower Hungary; and with
a part of it, amounting to thirty thousand men, Duke
Mercury marched to the leaguer of Stuhl-Weissemburg.
The regiment of Meldritch was with this detachment;
and, with his gallant colonel, Smith
shared, says the chronicle, “in many a bloudy sallie,
strange stratajeme, and valiant exploit;—but,
chiefly, was he commended for the invention of a
hand-grenade, that “wrought wondrous detriment
to the enemie.”

After much trouble and many blows, Stuhl-Weissemburg
was taken by the Duke. But the Turks,
having reinforced their army, marched forward with
a purpose to regain their city. They met the Duke
on the plains of Girke, where a most desperate battle
ensued, in which Meldritch performed prodigies of
valour, and where Smith had his horse shot, and was
himself badly wounded. The Duke, however, won
the day, and put an end to the campaign in that
quarter.

This occasioned a separation of the forces. There
was now a triangular war going on in Transylvania.
The native Prince, Sigismund Bathor, was contending
for his crown against the Emperor; and of the
three armies above mentioned, one was sent by the
Emperor, under the famous George Basta, against
Sigismund. The Turk, on the other hand, was vexing
the same Prince from the Wallachian frontier;
and both Basta and Sigismund had abundance of ill

will against the Turk. Here was a pretty Gordian
knot to be cut by the sword!

After the defeat of the Turks at Girke, Meldritch
was ordered to join his troops with Basta's. Now,
Meldritch was himself a Transylvanian, and much
beloved. Whereupon he resolved,—having nothing
more to his liking,—rather to help the Prince against
the Turk, than Basta against the Prince. A soldier
of fortune might in this age, without prejudice to the
honour of his calling, change his colours as often as
he pleased,—only preserving good faith in his contracts.
Besides, the Emperor was somewhat of a
sluggish paymaster; and as to booty,—there was not
so much of that as there were buffets! For all which
reasons, Count Meldritch, and his follower Smith,
found no great difficulty in taking their soldiers into
the Transylvanian service. Sigismund received
them, as all men in straits are apt to receive a friend,
—with open arms and fair promises. “And straitway,”
affirms the legend, “they were despatched to
trie conclusions against their old enemy the Turkes.”

Transylvania was diversely mastered. The Prince
kept his footing in some parts of the territory, the
Emperor had possession of others, and the Turks had
garrisons in some of the southern mountainous defiles.
It was in this latter district that the estates of
the father of Count Meldritch lay, and he hoped to
rescue them from the enemy. Here he accordingly,
with Sigismund's permission, carried on a desultory
war.

When the spring opened, Meldritch sat down before
Regall, a strong fortification and town in the

Zarkam country of Wallachia, encompassed with
mountains, and well garrisoned with a motley band
of Turks, Tartars, Robbers and Renegades. His
army was eight thousand strong; the Turks greatly
exceeded that force; but the Zekler Prince Moyses,
with an army of nine thousand soldiers, came and
added his forces to those of Meldritch, and assumed
command of the whole.

This city of Regall was hitherto deemed an impregnable
spot, and the Turks were vain-glorious in
their boasts of defence. The siege was long and obstinate,
and some bloody skirmishes ensued between
the out posts. Several months were spent; till, at
last, matters began to grow tedious to the impatient
besiegers. The country around them was rich in
picturesque beauty; the season delicious; and all
things contributed to warm the blood into a mettlesome
gallop. Our gallants were high in heart; but
none so high as the young Captain Smith. And the
Turks were proud and scornful, as in those days,
when the Sultan's banner floated in Buda, they had
good right to be.

There was within the walls a belted knight, of a
laudable ambition to do something worthy of his
spurs; the Lord Turbashaw by name. This warrior
was the very pink of Eastern chivalry, and burned
to signalize himself in presence of his mistress.
So, merely to amuse the gentle dames of Regall, he
caused a defiance to be carried to the Christian host,
to any Captain of their army to meet him in single
fight, at such time and place as should be agreed on.
The Christian cavaliers were overjoyed at this proposal.

Their answer was prompt and courteous;
“they were right glad to certifie to the Lord
Turbashaw how well they approved his challenge.”

The champion was yet unnamed, and many
sought the honour. It was resolved, therefore, to
choose him by lot. On whom might it fall but upon
our bachelor!

The day for the encounter was appointed; the
lists were prepared, and all the ordinances of chivalry
were duly observed. A truce of twelve days
for the enjoyment of the pastime was proclaimed,
and every thing in either camp assumed the cheerful
bustle that of yore belonged to a passage at
arms. It was strange to see hostile men, whom no
purpose of charity nor thought of good could seduce
from the fell pursuit of war, suddenly pile their arms,
and meet in brotherhood and amity, to revel in the
sight of private carnage, and to look upon the flowing
of the blood of their best companions. Yet such
was the delight of chivalry!

When the day arrived, the lists were surrounded
with whatever beauty dwelt in Regall. Idlers
crowded up to the palisades; and the motley rabble
of the country, beggars, ballad-singers and bandits,
Gypsies, Greeks and Jews, thronged to see the sport.
Nobles and knights took their seats of worship;
and the promiscuous soldiery mingled in the crowd
without fear of treachery or thought of feud. “The
men at arms were drawn up in battalia at each extremity
of the lists; pennons flaunted in the breeze;
and bold and sturdie warriors rode to and fro in the

menie with joyous looks.” The Cross and the Crescent
fluttered from opposite ends of the barriers;
and one or two knights stood in full armour, the supporters
and guardians of each.

After the heralds had proclaimed the defiance and
the answer, the trumpet sounded for the onset.
“And thereupon,”—according to my author—“the
Lord Turbashaw, all bedecked in bright and dazzling
armoure, such as that wont to be borne by
Infidels, shining with gold and silver and precious
stones, and on his shoulders the semblance of rich
and glittering winges, came stately forth upon the
field; the voice of hoboyes and other martial musicke
governed the order of his step; and beside him two
Janisaries, whereof one bore his lance, and the
other led his horse. And now, on the other side,
Smith, clad all in mail, with but a single page bearing
his lance, and no other musicke but a flourish of
trumpets, and with his horse led behind him, advanced
to the centre of the lists. And here the two
combatants exchanged salutes, with knightly courtesy,—such
as beseemeth gallant cavaliers:—and,
being readie dight, each did mount in saddle.” At
the sound of the charge, the lances were thrown,
and the Turk was wounded; but this so enraged
his valour, that they speedily closed in more desperate
battle, and, as a verse of an ancient date says—

“Then,” saith the Legend, “did ill success be

tide the Pagan Lord; for Smith, making his vantage
good, pierced him thorow the bars of his helmet,
with such a mortal thrust that he fell dead to the
ground; whereupon, the conqueror quicklie got
down from his horse, and took off his adversarie's
head from his body; and presented it to the Lord
Moyses, who received it with great joy in the presence
of the whole armie.”

The death of Turbashaw so wrought upon his
friend Grualgo, that, in a paroxysm of rage, he defied
the conquerer to do battle with him; and, as
Smith was now pledged, by the laws of the duello,
to stand against all comers, he did not delay to answer
the challenge; and accordingly, the next day,
before the same goodly company, with all the pomp
of this sad pastime, they met in the same lists. The
rash Grualgo had a ready swordsman to deal with;
and his head, too, soon became a victor's prize, with
forfeiture of his horse and costly armour.

Smith, no longer a Varlet, had now won his rank,
according to the ancient laws of chivalry, as a Chevalier
tres hardie; and was looked upon, in all
men's eyes, as a warrior tried. He was loth to let
his courage sleep. The siege waxed dull; the place
was strong, and the beleagured enemy, taught by experience,
had grown wary. The flame of glory
blazed brighter than ever in our young soldier's heart;
and he employed his time in martial sports, relieving
the unprofitable hours of his delay by practice with
the sword and lance.

At length, coveting some new adventure, “By my
troth!” said he, “I will teach the saucie Turke to

amuse his dame with somewhat beside his sakre and
falcon!” “And straightway,” continues the narrative,
“he hied him to the Prince Moyses, to whom,
with much winning speech, and reasons well set
forth in soldierly termes, he urged the delight he
might afford if his behest should be granted; which
was no other than that, for relief of the tediousness
of the leaguer, he should be permitted to despatch
to the citie a trusty messenger, to pay back the presumptuous
challenge of the Turke, by telling him
that there were yet some christian heads to be won,
if the fayre ladies of Regall would deign to send out
some warrior of ranke to undertake the hazard.”

The Lord Moyses consenting to this reasonable
request, an envoy was sent to bear the message. The
Turks were not to be frightened by bravado; for
they had abundance of valiant men; and this insolent
taunt brought forth a chosen and sturdy champion,
one Bony Molgro. The appointments were all
made with the same ceremonies as before, and a
bloody conflict ensued, which brought our springald
into extreme peril. They fought first with pistols,
then with battle axes, with which some lusty blows
were given, that had nearly unhorsed the challenger.
In the course of the fight, Smith was wounded; and
a shout of triumph rent the air from the Turkish army.
The chances were against his life; but his consummate
skill as a horseman “stood him in excellent
stead; for, fetching a circuit round his antagonist,
and so featly bending his body as thereby to
avoid the blows aimed at him, he presentlie found
his advantage so open, that, with one quicke leap,

he skilfully struck down his foe with his sword,
piercing him clean through to the back.” This
brought Bony Molgro from his horse; and, in little
time, his head was added to the spoils of our notable
warrior. Truly, the ladies of Regall had a dainty
entertainment in these broils!

After these victories, Smith was received by the
army with great pomp; and, as an acknowledgment
of his valour and knightly bearing, Moyses conferred
upon him some presents of great price; a richly caparisoned
steed, namely, and a scimetar and baldrick
worth three hundred ducats: and Count Meldritch
promoted him to a rank of honourable trust in
his regiment.

Regall at length capitulated; and Smith's name
was trumpeted abroad with worthy praise. The report
of his valour reaching Sigismund, our hero received
from the prince's hand the honours of knighthood,
with a permission to wear three Turks' heads
in his shield, and on his colours. To this boon the
prince added a yearly pension of three hundred ducats,
and presented the young knight, also, his picture
set in gold. These honours were conferred in
1603, when Smith was but twenty-four years old.

History tells how speedily the Emperor, by the
help of the trusty George Basta, put an end to the
pretensions of Sigismund as an independent sovereign
in Transylvania, and reduced him to the rank of a
Baron of Bohemia; in which character he subsequently
lived at Prague.

Upon the happening of these events, the army was
disbanded, and Basta found himself surrounded with

the malecontent soldiery of Sigismund, whom therefore,
to keep in good humour, he sought every opportunity
to employ on distant service. Opportunely
for this design, a new quarrel now arose.

The Waywode of Wallachia had just died, and.
the Sultan had sent Jeremy Mohila to take possession
of that province; who having followed that fashion
of despots common since the days of Nimrod,
namely, of oppressing his people beyond all human
endurance, was obliged to take to flight, by reason
of some popular tumults. This circumstance suggested
to Basta a profitable method of employing his
idle soldiers; and, thereupon, Earl Meldritch, with
some other officers of note, among whom was our
hero Smith, was sent into Wallachia to assist in establishing,
in the name of the Emperor, Stephen Rudul
as Waywode of the province. Jeremy, in the
mean time, had gathered an army of forty thousand
men, Tartars, Moldavians and Turks, by which
means he contrived to turn the tables on Rudul before
the arrival of Meldritch and his friends. These,
however, reached Wallachia with thirty thousand
men in their train, and affairs soon became to assume
a pleasant belligerent aspect. A bloody battle
was fought near Rebrinke, in which Jeremy was
completely routed; and, it is said, five-and-twenty
thousand men were left “rotting in the sun;”—a trifle,
considering how cheaply men are hired for such
a game! News now came to Rudul, that “certain
raskaile Tartars” were committing depredations on
the borders of Moldavia. Whereupon, Meldritch
was detached with thirteen thousand men to keep

them quiet on that frontier. As ill luck would have
it, this was a most pernicious stratagem practised by
Jeremy; for the cunning Turk had prepared an ambush,
and lay in wait with a large army. Meldritch
fell into the snare, and soon found himself surrounded
by a fierce and bloody-minded multitude.
He retreated, as well as he was able, into the valley
of Veristhorne, upon the river Altus, in that straitened
country known as the Rotherturn Pass. On all sides
of him were high mountains; and nothing remained
for him but to trust to his valour in a desperate effort
to fight his way through “the hellish numbers” of his
enemy. It was a bold sally that they made! but it
cost them fully as much as it was worth. Basta is
accused of having betrayed this gallant army into this
difficulty, with the wicked purpose of having them
destroyed. He certainly, if this be true, had much
reason to rejoice in his success; for not above fourteen
hundred escaped, which they did by swimming
the river; and all the rest were slain, “or left for no
better than dead men” upon the field. Thus died
many noblemen of renown, and many gallant gentlemen.
Count Meldritch was amongst the survivors,
as also two Englishmen of Smith's company,—
ensign Carlton and sergeant Robinson; whilst our
hero himself was most grievously wounded, and lay
amongst the dead bodies. Luckily for him, however,
his armour being somewhat costly, the ruffians,
in the hope of ransom, made him a prisoner, and
used some care for his recovery. He got well just in
time to be taken to Axiopolis, where he was set up
for sale in the market place, and bought by the Pasha
Bogal,—a Turkish Falstaff,—who, boasting of
his prowess, sent him to Constantinople to be laid at
the feet of the young Charatza Tragabizanda, as
a Bohemian nobleman taken by the pasha's own
hand in battle.

The affair of Rothenturn Pass was a sad draw-back
to our hero. There is nothing so apt to disconcert
the schemes of a young and aspiring cavalier,
who has taken off three Turks' heads, and filled
his own with notions of glory, as death. The next
thing to this, is being sold for a slave. Both of them,
it will be allowed, are sufficiently disagreeable to a
mettlesome gallant who has won the honours of
knighthood, a shield, and a yearly pension of three
hundred ducats. Smith, however, was an imp of
fame, and his present difficulties only served to introduce
him to a more strange and eventful fortune;
for, being restored to health, he was decked out in a
lowly habit and sent off to Constantinople, and set
to work amongst the roses and orange trees in the
garden of the unmatchable Lady Tragabizanda.
This lady was a prime beauty, with all the susceptibility
of a sentimental coquette, who had nothing
to do all day but sit by a sparkling fountain, hear
the tales of interminable story-tellers, and be fanned
by a troop of little slaves, with fans of peacock feathers.
Whilst her lover, the Pasha Bogal, was playing
the braggart on the frontier, and capturing giants,
the gentle dame softly sighed, as her eye fell upon
the unfortunate Bohemian prince, in his menial
dress, digging at the roots of her rose-bushes.

She had, as was common amongst Turkish belles,

a smattering of Italian;—and one day, when the
dragon that guarded her was asleep, she contrived to
throw out a few sifting interrogatories in that language
to our hero, who, in the same tongue, gave
her to understand that her amorous lord was a preposterous
braggadocio, and a liar to boot, and he himself
an English gentleman, purchased at half price
in the slave market at Axiopolis. But Smith, as I
said in the beginning, was a handsome fellow, with
a brave, insinuating way about him; and he began
to work wonders in the heart of the dame. In
truth, she fell plainly in love with him; and he, not
to be ungrateful, began to incline as violently to her.
And this is the first and only love affair of our gallant
captain, whereof I find any record in history.

As often as opportunity favoured, the Charatza
took means to mitigate the severity of her captive's
fortune by such little assiduities a pretty woman
only knows how to offer, and an enthralled bachelor
how to value. One day she sent him a clove, a rose,
and a piece of cloth; which device he had grown
practised enough in Turkish love-making to understand
according to the liturgy: the clove signified,
“I have long loved you, although you are ignorant
of it;” the rose, “I condole with your misfortunes,
and would make you happy;” and the cloth “to
me you are above price.” His reply was that of a
Chevalier tres hardie: it was conveyed by returning
a spear of straw, with the words appropriate to the
symbol written on the envelope, “Oliim sana yazir,”
“receive me as your slave.”

Affairs had well nigh come to a critical pass; for,

shortly after this, the lovers had a stealthy meeting
at moonlight; and our hero, who had a stomach for
any hazard, whispered in her ear how excellent it
would be to climb over the garden wall, by the help
of a cypress, whilst he would undertake to strangle
her keepers; and then, after clearing the confines of
their prison, he said, they might make their way
over sea to England. And there, upon the spot,
like an impassioned galliard, he dropped on one
knee, seized her hand, kissed it, and swore to be her
own true knight. The beautiful girl hesitated, faltered
and wept:
The lover pressed his suit, and pressed her hand;
protested that all dangers of earth, air or sea were
very bagatelles to the all-conquering energy of his
passion; and again gently besought her consent.
Whereupon—

There is no telling how this matter might have
ended, if it had not been for an old woman,—no less
a crone than the Lady Tragabizanda's own mother,
—who happened to be listening to the nightingale under
the covert of a fig-tree, whence, in the moonlight,
she perceived the gallant slave upon his knees before
her daughter. Here followed a direful explosion!
The assignation was broken up in a storm of Turkish
objurgation; the lady was ordered off to her

bower, and the lover to his cell, to be chained to the
wall, and to dream of the bowstring. The next day,
however, Smith was shipped off in a chaloupe, on a
voyage up the Black Sea; the purpose of which sudden
removal he afterwards discovered to be, to prevent
his being sold, and that the Lady Tragabizanda,
to avoid this mishap, had been compelled to send him
to her brother Timour, Pasha of Nalbritz, among the
Nogai Tartars.

The voyage was long, but not without interest to
Smith, as it gave him a sight of new countries. He
coasted along, on the northern shore, beyond the
Crimea, and was at last conducted into the country
lying between Caucasus and the Don, in which
region was this pleasant site of Nalbritz. Timour,
although the brother of the lovely Charatza, was nothing
better than a hard-headed savage, surrounded
by hard-hearted barbarians. The Pasha, having received
some intelligence of what had transpired in
the garden, straightway stripped the unlucky captain
of his habiliments, and substituted for them a rough
tunic of wool, and an iron collar, and then set him to
wait upon his ruffians, “in the meanest place of
all.”

If there be ever a time when a gay and ambitious
spirit may be excused for sinking into despondency,
it is when a young soldier, who has won a crest, and
almost won a princess, is installed in the lowest office
of a Tartar's household; with a sturdy sheep-skin
savage to flourish a whip over his back, and, just
as the whim prompts, to lay it upon his shoulders.
It made Smith very dogged; but, it did not subdue

his temper. For, one day, the Pasha had him threshing
corn, and, in order to see how the work was
getting on, rode out to his grange, and was somewhat
rude in his demeanour. Smith flourished his threshing
bat with his usual address, and as soon as the
Pasha happened to come within his reach, he contrived
to give the implement a lively gesticulation in
the air, and brought it down, with excellent effect,
upon his lord's cranium. And instantly there was
an end of Timour the Tartar!

There was no time to be lost; so, stripping the
body of its foppery, he indued himself with the spoil;
thrust the brutal carcass under a heap of straw;
mounted the fine Arabian charger that champed his
bit hard by; and, with scimetar by his side, and pistols
in his belt, betook himself to the desert, an unquestioned
Tartar knight; with the speed of an uncaged
pigeon, leaving the towers of Nalbritz behind
him.

For sixteen days he sped across the wilderness,
challenging all wayfarers, and exacting such scant
hospitality as his good sword or fair words might win
him. All his confident gaiety of heart revived within
him, and he travelled his forlorn path as merrily
as ever bridegroom travelled to his mistress.

His first halt in Christendom was at a petty Russian
fortress upon the Don, where “the charitable
Lady Callamata” relieved his wants with many
kindnesses. Pursuing his journey, he arrived at Her
manstadt. Thence he went to Leipsic, where he
met Prince Sigismund, who received him with much
affection, and gave him, with other tokens of regard,

fifteen hundred ducats. Here he also found his bluff
old friend Count Meldritch. He now travelled
through Germany and France, and came to Paris;
thence he went into Spain, visiting Burgos, Valladolid,
Madrid, Cordova, Cadiz, and other cities.

Not yet satisfied with his banquet of adventures,
and having a new crop of chivalric fancies sprouting
up in his heart, he began to look around for more employment.
And where, of all the places on this fretful
and pugnacious globe, does my reader suppose
that this insatiate follower of a fray now turned himself
to pick up a quarrel?

He betook himself to the Barbary coast, to visit
the famous cities of Fez and Morocco. The occasion
of this voyage was as follows: The Emperor
Muley Hamet, amongst his innumerable children,
had two sons who disputed the succession. Their
names were Muley Shah and Muley Sidan. This
bred a coolness in the family, which presently turned
into a heat; and the affairs of the household came to
be sadly involved.

It now came into our good knight's head that this
was a marvellous proper debate, and was likely to
afford many soldierly gratifications. “I will turn my
Tartar scimetar to some wholesome account with
these dog-headed Muleys: A nimble witte doth
craftilie devise cunning fortunes,” said he, as he cast
up his computation of fame, and slid his hand along
the blade of Timour's sabre, and then glanced his
eye over his wardrobe. Accordingly, with his head
stuffed full of the romance of the Alhambra, and his
portmanteau filled with good store of new trunkhose,

jerkin and doublet, he set forward for the dominions
of Muley Hamet. But, before his arrival
on the coast, lo! an accident happened in the family.
It fell out in this way. Muley Hamet's principal
wife had taken it into her head to help her son
Muley Sidan to the throne. And as a woman, in
her own house, is apt to manage adroitly whatever
belongs to the domestic department, in this instance
the Empress's tactics were very successful. She
poisoned her husband, and Muley Shah, his son by
another wife; and for fear there might be some disturbance
from two of the young princesses, who
were acquainted with the transaction, she poisoned
them likewise, although one was her own daughter,
and the other her step-daughter. After this, her favourite
Muley Sidan, like a dutiful son, stepped into
his father's vacant seat, where he sat cross-legged,
—one of the most composed and magnificent of
monarchs. This little incident completely restored the
peace of the empire, and hushed up the family scandal.
It, at the same time, put an extinguisher upon
the flame of Moorish glory that burnt in the bosom
of our hero. There was nothing left for him to do
but to travel about for his amusement, which he did
through the fair cities of Mauritania, for some
months; until, growing tired of this innocent pastime,
he was obliged, in his own despite, to hie him
home to that luckless land of comfort, where the
wager of battle was growing unfashionable, and
where he had nothing to do but to be happy. So,
biting a peevish lip, he e'en turned on his heel, and
slowly wended his way to “merry England.”
There he arrived with an addition, since he last saw
it, of ten years' manhood on his brow, a tawny
cheek, some honourable scratches, a light heart, and
a thousand golden ducats in his pouch.

He had now gone through his probation; and
from this time forward, his character exhibited the
most serviceable qualities. From the ranting, easy,
gay comrade, he suddenly became a thoughtful and
stately patriot, and turned his attention to schemes
of grave import, with an earnest desire to promote
his country's good, and leave a name behind him
that posterity might honour.

Some twenty years before this time, “the valiant
Grenville,” under the auspices of Sir Walter Raleigh,
had made an ineffectual effort to plant a colony in
Wingandacoa—afterwards called Virginia. The
failure was sad;—the planters had all perished. In
the year 1606, “certain of the nobility, gentry and
merchants,” who held a patent for the government
of Virginia, prevailed on Captain Gosnell, and some
others, to attempt a new settlement; and Smith,
struck with the grandeur of the idea of founding a
new empire, became a ready and zealous friend of
the enterprise. The more he thought of it, the more
it fired his imagination, and jumped with that brave,
adventurous humour which was so prevalent in his
character.

“Who can desire,” says he, with great earnestness,
in speaking of this career, “more content, that
hath small meanes, or but onely his own merit to advance
his fortunes, then to tread and plant that
ground he has purchased by the hazard of his life?

If he hath any graine of Faith or zeale in Religion,
what can he do less hurtful to any, or more agreeable
to God, then to seeke to convert those poore
Salvages to know Christ and humanity? What so
truly sures with honour and honesty, as the discovering
things unknowne, erecting Townes, peopling
Countries, informing the ignorant, reforming
things unjust, teaching vertue and gaine to our native
Mother Country?” It was with such sentiments
that he entered upon that splendid emprise which
has given the chief renown to his name. And
he pursued it with a singleness of design that never
was excelled.

After an earnest devotion to the cause of the colonies
for nineteen years, and an expenditure from his
own purse (by no means a plentiful one) of more
than a thousand pounds; and after three years of
the severest personal exposure and privation, he has
occasion to say,—rather in the way of exultation
than complaint,—“in neither of those countries have
I one foot of land, nor the very house I builded, nor
the ground I digged with my owne hands, nor ever
any content (remuneration) or satisfaction at all.”
His whole purpose was to rear up his beloved Virginia
into a thriving and happy commonwealth;
and with that aim, he valued no sacrifice at too high
a price. “I have not been so ill bred,” said he,
“but I have tasted of plenty and pleasure, as well
as want and misery; nor doth necessitie yet, or occasion
of discontent, force me to these endeavours;
nor am I so ignorant what small thankes I shall
have for my paines, or that manie would have the

world imagine them to be of great judgment, that
can but blemish these my designs by their witty objections
or detractions.” In truth, he was guided
by the most enlightened spirit: his valour, prudence,
and temperate counsel accomplishing more towards
the planting of the colony, than those of any other
person of his day.

He remained in Virginia until the close of the
year 1609, being for the first two years a member of
the council, and for the last year the president.
His history during that period is a narrative of noble
daring, wise expedients, imminent perils, and all
the chances of savage warfare, in which were signally
displayed the virtues of a brave captain and of
a skilful councillor. These adventures are full of
deep interest, and they throw about the character
of Smith a rich hue of romance, that, since the days
of Froissart, scarcely belongs to any actor in the annals
of men. When it is also recollected that the
testimony upon these details is clear and indubitable,
and that the hero of them was, during the passage
of these events, only between twenty-seven
and thirty years of age, we cannot but regard it as
one of the most surprising exhibitions of history.
For the story I must be content to refer my reader
to Smith's own “History of Virginia,” as it is not
my purpose to pursue the chronicle into much of this
portion of his life; seeing that the circumstances it
relates, being largely connected with our national
annals, are more commonly known than what I
have given of his previous wanderings.

The colony had been sadly mismanaged by the

company in England. Instead of the sturdy natures,
fit to contend with the rough spirit of the wilderness,
it became the resort of “poore gentlemen, tradesmen,
servingmen, libertines, and such like, ten times
more fit to spoyle a commonwealth then maintaine
one,” and “unruly gallants, packed thither by their
friends to escape ill destinies.” This wretchedly
assorted community found Smith's discipline but little
tolerant of their lazy humours; whereupon, violent
factions and seditions arose, which at last compelled
him to throw up his commission, and to return
to England. He did so, at the period above mentioned;
having during the short space of his administration
humbled the power of Powhatan, and explored
the Chesapeake up to the country of the
“Sasquesahanoughs.”

His return is feelingly deplored by George Piercie
who has made it the occasion, with two of his company,
to pay a grateful and eloquent compliment to
his leader, in language which imputes to him the
highest virtues of a “true knight.” “What shall I
say of him but this, that in all his proceedings he
made justice his first guide, and experience his second;
even hating basenesse, sloath, pride and indignitie
more then any dangers: that never allowed more
for himselfe then his souldiers with him: that upon no
danger would send them where he would not lead them
himselfe: that would never see us want what he either
had or could, by any meanes, get us: that would rather
want then borrow, or starve then not pay: that loved
action more then words, and hated falshood and covetousness
worse then death: whose adventures were
our lives, and whose losse our deaths.”

In England, after his return, he was chiefly employed
in stirring up the public mind to the assistance
of the plantations, communicating useful knowledge,
and devising schemes for their success. In the year
1614 he visited New England, and the next year
was furnished with two ships, for the establishment
of a colony in that quarter, with the title of Admiral.
But, not many days after leaving Plymouth, his own
vessel proved unseaworthy, and he was obliged to
put back, leaving his consort to proceed on her voyage.
Being now furnished with nothing better than
a small pinnace, he made a second attempt to cross
the Atlantic, but was captured by pirates of his own
nation. Escaping from these, he fell into the hands
of a French cruiser, who compelled him to assist in
several naval actions against the Spaniards; but being
favoured, whilst off the Isle of Re, on the coast of
France, with an opportunity of flight, he took a small
boat, on a stormy night, and made for the shore.
The violence of the tempest drove him out to sea,
where he was tossed about for three days, alone, and
without provisions. He succeeded however, after
excessive toil, in reaching the shore at the mouth of
the Garonne, whence he found his way to Rochelle,
and again had reason to do homage to that sex who
had never used him but with kindness, for the soothing
attentions of “the excellent Madame Chanoyes.”

Upon regaining his country, he found Pocahontas,
who three years before had been married to John
Rolfe. The story of his interview with her is told by
himself in a letter to the queen, and, taken along
with their former acquaintance, their romantic adventures,

her passionate love for him, her heroism and singular
fortunes, constitutes one of the most touching
episodes of personal history. The whole of this adventure
shows our hero in the most attractive light, and
has given him a renown that has long made his name
a pleasant sound to a lady's ear. He never recurs to
the “blessed Pocahontas” but with a tender remembrance,
and in a strain of the softest and gentlest
gratitude.

She was but a child of twelve or thirteen when
she saved his life at Werowocomoco;—King Powhatan's
most precious daughter—and she loved Smith
with that instinctive love that nature kindles in the
breast of unsophisticated woman for a noble and valiant
cavalier. The hazards she encountered in his
behalf were such as nothing but fervent affection
could have endured. Some of these are told, by an
eye-witness, with a touch of exquisite simplicity.

On one occasion, Smith and sixteen of his followers
were in great straits at Pamaunkee, whither they
had been beguiled by the address of Powhatan, who
had prepared seven hundred warriors to way-lay
them. But the bravery of the captain had baffled
their scheme. The king at last, with a refined
treachery under a seeming friendly guise, provided
them a plentiful banquet at his own court, where he
hoped to surprise them at supper, get possession of
their arms, and put them to death. The narrative
relates the event with scriptural plainness: “The
Indians,” says Piercie, or whoever be the narrator,
“with all the merrie sports they could devise, spent
the time till night. Then they all returned to Powhatan,

who all this time was making ready to surprise
the house and him at supper. Notwithstanding,
the eternal all-seeing God did prevent him, and by
a strange meanes. For Pocahontas, his dearest
jewell and daughter, in that darke night, came
through the irksome woods, and told our captaine
great cheere should be sent us by and by, but Powhatan,
and all the power he could make, would after
come kill us all,—if they that brought it could not
kill us with our own weapons, when we were at supper:
Therefore, if we would live, she wished us presentlie
bee gone! such things as shee delighted in, hee
would have given her; but with the teares running
downe her cheekes, shee said shee durst not be seene
to have any; for if Powhatan should know it, shee
were but dead. And so shee ranne away by herselfe,
as shee came.”

Pocahontas had grown up to woman's estate after
Smith had quitted the country, and, being persuaded
that he was dead, had consented to become the wife
of Rolfe; was converted to the christian faith, and
now bore the title of the Lady Rebecca. “Hearing,”
says Smith, “that she was at Branford, with
divers of my friends I went to see her. After a modest
salutation, without any word she turned about,
obscured her face, as not seeming well contented.
But, not long after, she began to talke, and remembered
mee well what courtesies shee had done, saying,
you did promise Powhatan what was yours should
bee his, and he the like to you: you called him father,—being
in his land a stranger, and by the same
reason, so must I doe you!”

Smith's loyalty revolted, in those days of the divine
right, at this familiarity in the daughter of a king,
and he told her so; but she, not comprehending so
refined a scruple, and reading his embarrassment in
his looks, “with a well set countenance, she said,
Were you not afraid to come into my father's countrie,
and caused feare to him and all his people—but
me; and feare you here I should call you father? I
tell you I will, and you shall call me childe; and so
I will bee for ever and ever your countrie-woman.
They did tell us alwaies you were dead, and I knew
no other till I came to Plimoth.”

This amiable princess longed to return to her native
wilds; and for this purpose, soon after the meeting
above mentioned, repaired to Gravesend with her
husband, to embark, but unhappily fell a prey to
sickness before she got on ship-board. She left an
only child, Thomas Rolfe, who was adopted and
educated by Sir Lewis Stukely, and afterwards inherited
a good estate in the realms of his royal grandfather.

The chronicle does not record the death of Smith;
but, from another source, I learn that it happened in
Cheshire in England, on the twenty-first of June,
1631, he being then fifty-two years of age. Many a
coward has wondered how it comes to pass that so
many men, with the most judicious forethought to
avoid disaster, should be struck down in their first
fray, whilst such danger-seeking wights as John
Smith, who have worn out their shoes to find new
perils to life and limb, should nevertheless run the
whole gantlet of fate unscathed, and in the end die

soberly in their beds. Whereto I reply, that these
gallants are the decoy-ducks of destiny, and live to
tell of their escapes, that dubious men may be persuaded
to great undertakings, and that the difficult
passages of human affairs may be achieved even by
the necessary loss of thousands of over-venturesome
fools. If this be no answer, then I tell my querist
that there is an old saw that settles the point;
“Every bullet has its billet.”

I closed the Chronicle, and restored it to its shelf in
the library with a renewed admiration for the hero
of the Old Dominion; in whom I found so much of
plain sense, mingled with the glory of manhood; so
much homely thought and wise precept sustaining
dauntless bravery; so much gay and chivalrous adventure
set off with such sturdy honesty, that I
thought I could not better entertain my reader than
by giving him a running sketch of the contents of the
Chronicle, which I have endeavoured to do in the
vein which the perusal excited in my own mind. Perhaps,
the cavalier and lightsome tone in which the
story is told by the author of the Chronicle, and his
manifest leaning to invest his friend with the interest
of a galliard and pleasant knight, may have thrown
my thoughts into this channel. I desire my reader
to get the history and read for himself, wherein I wish
him grace to profit both in wisdom and delight. The

character seems to be summed up in the following
passage from Chaucer, which, in opposition to the
custom of all other writers, I append at the end of
my story, as a motto,—instead of the beginning.