If you want to know a real pirate--a true terror of the seas--meet Mr. Blackbeard; called, in what could scarcely have been an innocent childhood, Edward Thatch, or Teach. Little Edward must have been suckled on brass filings and have cut his teeth on iron nails, for he grew up to be consistently and completely evil. Perhaps he fell when an infant and injured his head, or more probably was born with a twist to the bad; for no sane, normal man could have been so wild and wicked. He, not Kidd, is the fellow you have in mind when you think of a pirate. He was the genuine, plank-walking, marooning, swashbuckling boy of the seven seas; Bill Kidd and Jack Quelch, so far from being in his class, would barely have been tolerated by him as ordinary seamen under the “black flagg with a humane skelleton” which terrified the old-time mariners. To win his yellow-fanged grin of approval one would have to be absolutely, unreservedly inhuman. Blackbeard! Folks got along with him best who addressed him with that pretty name. He had no use at all for “Mister Thatch.” Plain Blackbeard to high and low, fore and aft; for his pride, his pleasure, his life were in his beard; an enormous bush, unusually, weirdly, wonderfully black; a huge mat of hair, really beginning at his ears, arching across his nose, and ending with his knees,--a regular jungle from behind which his veined and boozy eyes peeped like those of a beast spotting its prey, the while the long, leathery lips slavered with the thirst for blood. Nice-looking chap--very. He might not take time to wash his nose--the only island of skin in that sea of hair--but no hour was too long or too tedious which was spent in curling, preening, pulling and twisting that beard into the most fantastic shapes and effects. One day he would swagger out on deck with his chin the axle for a half-dozen spokes of tightly rolled whiskers; another, it might be one great spike, thrust outward and upward in a unicorn symbol. Practically he had a fashion for every mood, especially for the belligerent. People had to keep out of his cabin when the skipper was trimming up his beard for a fight. Really he was the first patentee of frightfulness. That was his specialty. When action threatened, those whiskers were wrought into an appearance of ferocity beyond depicting. Nor was that all; he had other artistic touches in the nightmare line. For instance, there were those long, thin, slow-burning matches which he stuck all around his head, beneath his hat--alight they looked as if the inferno had vomited forth a demon; there were the three braces of pistols over his shoulders; the two dirks in his brilliant Caribbean sash, and the cutlass that never stammered. A gulp of raw Jamaica rum and he was ready to eat ’em alive.