One cold winter evening, a pull at the bell, and a woman in distress wished to see me.  Her poor son George,—­ George Somerby,—­ ``you remember him, sir; he was a boy in the Alert; he always talks of you,—­ he is dying in my poor house.’’ I went with her, and in a small room, with the most scanty furniture, upon a mattress on the floor,—­ emaciated, ashy pale, with hollow voice and sunken eyes,—­ lay the boy George, whom we took out a small, bright boy of fourteen from a Boston public school, who fought himself into a position on board ship (ante, p. 295), and whom we brought home a tall, athletic youth, that might have been the pride and support of his widowed mother.  There he lay, not over nineteen years of age, ruined by every vice a sailor’s life absorbs.  He took my hand in his wasted feeble fingers, and talked a little with his hollow, death-smitten voice.  I was to leave town the next day for a fortnight’s absence, and whom had they to see to them?  The mother named her landlord,—­ she knew no one else able to do much for them.  It was the name of a physician of wealth and high social position, well known in the city as the owner of many small tenements, and of whom hard things had been said as to his strictness in collecting what he thought his dues.  Be that as it may, my memory associates him only with ready and active beneficence.  His name has since been known the civilized world over, from his having been the victim of one of the most painful tragedies in the records of the criminal law.[3] I tried the experiment of calling upon him; and, having drawn him away from the cheerful fire, sofa, and curtains of a luxurious parlor, I told him this simple tale of woe, of one of his tenants, unknown to him even by name.  He did not hesitate; and I well remember how, in that biting, eager air, and at a late hour, he drew his cloak about his thin and bent form, and walked off with me across the Common, and to the South End, nearly two miles of an exposed walk, to the scene of misery.  He gave his full share, and more, of kindness and material aid; and, as George’s mother told me, on my return, had with medical aid and stores, and a clergyman, made the boy’s end as comfortable and hopeful as possible.

The Alert made two more voyages to the coast of California, successful, and without a mishap, as usual, and was sold by Messrs. Bryant and Sturgis, in 1843, to Mr. Thomas W. Williams, a merchant of New London, Connecticut, who employed her in the whale-trade in the Pacific.  She was as lucky and prosperous there as in the merchant service.  When I was at the Sandwich Islands in 1860, a man was introduced to me as having commanded the Alert on two cruises, and his friends told me that he was as proud of it as if he had commanded a frigate.

I am permitted to publish the following letter from the owner of the Alert, giving her later record and her historic end,—­ captured and burned by the rebel Alabama:—­

New London, March 17, 1868.