The admirers of “The Pilot,” one of the most magnificent of Cooper’s novels, have evinced a general feeling of regret, in which we ourselves have deeply participated, that the book, once finished, we altogether lose sight of the mysterious being whom we had followed with such intense interest, through the narrows of the Devil’s Grip, and the Cloisters¹ of St, Ruth. There is in the physiognomy, in the language, and in the actions of this person, introduced in the first place by the name of John, and afterwards under that of Paul, a melancholy² so profound, a grief so bitter, a contempt of life of so intense a nature, that every reader desires to become acquainted with the motives³ which influenced so brave and generous a heart. For ourselves, we acknowledge that we have more than once been tempted⁴, however indiscreet, to say the least of it, it might have been, to write to Cooper himself, and ask him for information regarding the early career and closing years of this adventurous⁵ seaman⁶—information which we have vainly searched for in his narrative⁷. I thought that such a request would be readily forgiven by him to whom it was addressed, for it would have been accompanied by the expression of the most sincere and ardent⁸ admiration⁹ of his work; but I was restrained by the reflection that the author himself, perhaps, knew no more of that career, of which, he had given us but an episode, than that portion of it which had been illuminated¹⁰ by the sun of American Independence: for, in fact, this brilliant meteor had passed from the clouds which environed his birth to the obscurity of his death in such a manner, that it was quite possible the “poet historian,” being far distant from the place where his hero was born, and from the country in which he died, knew no more of him than what he has transmitted to us. The very mystery which surrounded him, may have been the cause of his selecting Paul Jones to play a part in his annals. Urged by these considerations, I resolved upon obtaining, by my own research, those details which I had so often desired to receive from others. I searched through the archives of the Navy; all I found there was a copy of the letters of marque granted to him by Louis XVI. I examined the annals of the Convention; I only found in them the Decree passed at the time of his death. I questioned his contemporaries; they told me that he was buried in the cemetery¹¹ of Père la Chaise. This was all the information I could gather from my first attempts.  
I then consulted our living library—Nodier, the learned—Nodier, the philosopher—Nodier, the poet. After reflecting for a few moments, he mentioned a small book written by Paul Jones himself, containing memoirs¹² of his life, bearing this motto, “Munera sunt Laudi.” I started off to hunt for this precious relic¹³; but it was in vain I searched through libraries, rummaged¹⁴ the old book-stalls—all that I could find was an infamous¹⁵ libel, entitled, “Paul Jones, ou Prophétie sur l’Amérique, l’Angleterre, la France, l’Espagne et la Hollande” which I threw from me with disgust, before I had got through the fourth page, marvelling¹⁶ that poisons should be so enduring, and be perfectly¹⁷ preserved, whilst we search in vain for wholesome¹⁸ and nutritious¹⁹ food—I therefore renounced²⁰ all hope in this quarter.
 
Some time afterwards, while taking a voyage along our coast, having started from Cherbourg, I visited St. Malo, Quimper, and l’Orient. Upon my arrival at the latter place I recollected²¹ having read in a biography of Paul Jones, that this celebrated²² seaman had been three times in that port. This circumstance had struck me—I had noted²³ down the dates, and had only to open my pocket-book to ascertain²⁴ them. I examined the naval²⁵ archives, and in them I actually found entries of the sojourn²⁶ which the two frigates²⁷, the Hanger²⁸, of eighteen guns, and the Indienne, of thirty-two, had made in these roads. As to the reasons for their coming there, whether from ignorance or neglect, the secretary who had kept the register had omitted to assign them. I was just leaving the office without further information, when I thought of inquiring of an old clerk who was sitting there, whether there was no traditional recollection in the country as to the captain of these two ships. The old man told me that in 1784, he being then a boy, and employed in the Quarantine Office at Havre, had seen Paul Jones there. He was at that time a commodore in the fleet of the Count de Vaudreuil. The renowned²⁹ courage of this officer, and his extraordinary exploits, had made such an impression upon him, that upon his, the clerk’s, return to Brittany, he spoke³⁰ of him to his father, who then had charge of the Chateau³¹ d’Auray. Upon hearing the name of Paul Jones, the old man started, and made a sign to him to be silent—the young man obeyed, though not without astonishment³². He frequently afterwards questioned his father upon the subject, but he always refused to satisfy his curiosity. It was not till after the death of the Marchioness d’Auray, the emigration of her son, the Marquis, and the dispersion of the family at the Revolution, that the old man felt himself permitted to reveal, even to his son, the strange and mysterious history, in which that of the object of my inquiries³³ was so singularly blended. Although nearly, forty years had passed away since his father had related that eventful history, it had made so deep an impression upon him that he repeated it to me, as he assured me, nearly word for word.
 
I have treasured up this history in the recesses³⁴ of my memory for nearly seven years: and it would have still remained buried there, with a mass of other recollections, destined³⁵ never to see the light, had I not about six months ago read “The Pilot” for the second time, and even with much greater interest than before; for, thanks to the researches I had made, the hero was no longer to me an unknown being, appearing only for an instant, his face but partially³⁶ visible, and with merely the portion of a name; he had now become a friend, almost a brother, to me—for new sympathies had been awakened³⁷ in my heart besides those which had formerly³⁸ been inspired by the recital³⁹ of the expedition to Whitehaven. These led me to reflect that whatever of interest and disappointment I had experienced on reading’ Cooper’s novel, they must have been entertained alike by others, and that the anxious desire I had felt to know more of the former lover of Alice Dunscombe was not a feeling peculiar⁴⁰ to myself, but would be participated by all those, and their number must be great, who have followed this skilful⁴¹ seaman from the moment of his first meeting Lieutenant⁴² Barnstaple on the English cliffs, until that in which he quitted the Alert to land on the shores of Holland.
 
I have, therefore, gathered up my recollections, and have written this history.