John De Wolf was born in Bristol on September 6, 1779. His father, Simon, the third son of Mark Anthony, founder of the Bristol family, was lost at sea with his older brother, Mark, in 1779 or ’80, when his only child was but an infant in arms. He was forced by poverty to begin a seafaring life at the age of thirteen. His great ability quickly manifested itself and at the age of twenty-four he was placed in command of a vessel bound on one of the most fascinating as well as one of the most hazardous voyages known to the commerce of that time, a voyage to the Northwest Coast. The story of his experiences he tells in the pages that follow. For some years after his return to his native town he continued in the Russian-American trade for which the knowledge of the language gained during his stay in Russian territory well qualified him. Having attained the age of forty-eight he retired from the sea and for some years lived, like many retired captains, the life of a farmer, upon the farm occupied for years as a summer home by his relative, the late Bishop Howe of Central Pennsylvania. Thence he moved to a farm at Brighton, Massachusetts, and, leaving that, spent the last years of his life with his daughter, Mrs. Downing, at Dorchester. Very delightful must have been those last years. The daring sailor whose nerves had never failed him in moments of greatest peril on the ocean was a man of tender nature and of a most lovable disposition. Of him his granddaughter penned this beautiful picture:[23] “I never knew a more beautiful old age. Beloved by those of all ages, he had many friends among the young people and was young with them, and his grandchildren were devoted to him. They called him ‘White Grandpa,’ on account of his silvery hair, to distinguish him from my father. They always knew in just what spot in the room to look for candy and fruits which he always had for them, and if there was anything they particularly wanted they were always sure that ‘White Grandpa’ would give it to them. Like so many old people it was hard for him to adapt himself to modern improvements. And especially the new ideas of shipbuilding were not always to his liking. At a window of a room in our summer home, commanding a fine view of Boston harbor, we would often find him holding his spy-glass at arm’s length, and if sometimes we would ask ‘What do you see, Grandpa?’ he would invariably reply, ‘I was looking at those blasted three masted schooners.’”