It was doubtful whether the bold lad considered this age of progress as honored by his playing his part in its drama, or whether he claimed a reflected glory, as having been born at the very dawn of that century which promised so much for the thronging millions of our world.
Be that as it may, Joe Robertson the pilot and Margaret his wife rejoiced, in the year 1800, over their first and only child.

Thirteen years had swept by, and the honest couple were now as proud of that brave, strong boy as they had been of their baby, and with better reason.
Troublous times had come upon their native land.

War had been declared with England.

All Fairport was ablaze at the idea of American seamen being forced to serve on English ships, and of decks whose timber grew in the free forests of Maine or North Carolina, being trodden by the unscrupulous feet of British officers with insolent search-warrants in their hands.
Blair Robertson had his own views on these subjects--views which we find him giving forth to his devoted followers one sunny Saturday afternoon.
Blair was mounted on a sugar hogshead which stood in front of one of the warehouses on the wharf.

From this place of eminence he looked down on a constantly increasing crowd of youthful listeners.