I suppose that few of my readers know that Jonathan Walker, the man with the branded hand, ever lived in Plymouth. About fifty years ago, or perhaps a little earlier, he lived in the house now standing in what is called the Nook at the head waters of Hobb’s Hole brook. I do not remember to have ever seen him, but I recall the time when he was complained of for shingling his house on the Sabbath. He was born in Harvard, Mass., March 22, 1799, and at the age of seventeen went to sea. When quite young he assisted Benjamin Lundy in colonizing slaves in Mexico, and for a time lived with his family in Florida. In 1844 he assisted four slaves to escape by water, but was overtaken and captured with his companions by a Revenue Cutter, which was sent in pursuit. He was carried to Pensacola, and after trial for his offense was sentenced to stand one hour in the pillory, to pay a fine of one hundred and fifty dollars, and be branded on the hand with the letters S. S., signifying slave stealer. It is creditable to Southern humanity that a blacksmith refused to heat the instrument of torture. He remained in prison eleven months in default of payment of the fine, and was then by the aid of Northern friends released. After his release he delivered lectures in various Northern towns, and then settled down in Plymouth. In 1863 he bought a farm in Lake Harbor, Michigan, and carried on the business of raising fruit until his death, April 30, 1875. He left behind him in Plymouth a son John, whom I knew very well, and whom it fell to me once to aid during a pecuniary embarrassment. His father had neglected his education, but he was a noble fellow in whose presence I always felt that I was in the presence of a man. I think he was one of not more than twenty men whose personality during my long life has impressed me. He always called me William, and I always called him John. I would have trusted to him my life in any emergency, for I knew that he would have risked his own to save the life of a fellow man. He held a commission as pilot for some years, and in appearance an ideal pilot he was. With his broad Scotch face, almost buried in hair and whiskers, it was easy to imagine him in his tarpaulin and oil clothes beating his pilot lugger up channel in a heavy sea. About eight years ago he went to Michigan to live with a sister on a farm which his father had occupied, and a few months ago I heard of his death.